Ouranos Gaius Fairweather
FFAF00
Kin
Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen, pull up a chair or a stool or an oriental rug made of the gathered sheddings of Persian cats and listen to a story. A story of none other than Ouranos Gaius Fairweather. This pistol wielding hunter of woe and torment is a young man of seven and twenty with quite a few quarter centuries to look forward to. Or not to. With guns like his –of both the shooting and flexing variety- he is quite the fearsome, fearless chap that everyone wants to be. Now a young man of his boisterous age should not be in a high position within the courts of the deviously devilish Venantium, but he got there. Got there with chutes and ladders made of broken dreams and a whole lot of dead people. While some people swim in a tub of hundred dollar bills, he probably bathes in… red Koolaid. Wait, that’s not Koolaid. AND SO we go back in time to a time long ago, a decent minus seven minus twenty-one plus one years ago when this little lad was born. He was born to the Fairweather family. That’s how he got his name, see. The Fairweather family were very tough people. They could trace their family trees back along the lines and squiggles and weirdly shaped brackets all the way through the centuries, and wherever they looked, they saw Venantium upon Venantium upon Venantium. Oh hey, a dairy farmer. That’s right. This particular career is a family tradition. The Venantium bit that is. No on else was ever a dairy farmer. Passed down through the generations were the skills, abilities, and traits necessary to make him the perfect search and destroy weapon against a foul plague that sweeps the Earth: the Theias. Killing was not their middle name, but if they had to pick a new one, that would probably be it. And just as the Fairweathers had all been in the business of killing upper powerful people, so Ouranos was destined to do so too. Through brutal training, long nights lying under open sky waiting for death to claim him, and hard days of endless turmoil, he has finally become the skilled hunter he is today. This is a big deal. Ouranos can now proudly stand among the ranks of the other hunters and prove his worth to them. They said he wouldn't amount to much, but he has surpassed many in determination and perseverance. Handsomeness alone does not a badass make. And suffice to say, he has plenty of that. Ouranos carries the striking resemblance of the Fairweather family. His shaggy hair is pure, snowy white. His cruel, angry eyes are a silvery purple. He has a lean, fair skinned body, contoured with compact muscle. He wears the telltale blue-black robe of the hunters, along with the shoulder length, leather gloves. But it would be awful if his most worn thing ever was never mentioned. It would be disastrous! This thing is like his homeboy! His Siamese twin! His tumor! His second head! It is his pistol. Gaia is her name, for just as Uranus, the sky, was eternal companion to Gaia the earth, in love, so Ouranos and Gaia are companions in battle. Made of gold, silver, and consecrated iron, she is one of the most deadly and durable weapons known to hunters. It was passed down through his family for many years, and it is still a valuable, treasured, and well used weapon. He guards it, respects it, and carries it with him everywhere he goes. It has felled many a foe, and he is more than willing to carry on its role.
FFAF00
Kin
Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen, pull up a chair or a stool or an oriental rug made of the gathered sheddings of Persian cats and listen to a story. A story of none other than Ouranos Gaius Fairweather. This pistol wielding hunter of woe and torment is a young man of seven and twenty with quite a few quarter centuries to look forward to. Or not to. With guns like his –of both the shooting and flexing variety- he is quite the fearsome, fearless chap that everyone wants to be. Now a young man of his boisterous age should not be in a high position within the courts of the deviously devilish Venantium, but he got there. Got there with chutes and ladders made of broken dreams and a whole lot of dead people. While some people swim in a tub of hundred dollar bills, he probably bathes in… red Koolaid. Wait, that’s not Koolaid. AND SO we go back in time to a time long ago, a decent minus seven minus twenty-one plus one years ago when this little lad was born. He was born to the Fairweather family. That’s how he got his name, see. The Fairweather family were very tough people. They could trace their family trees back along the lines and squiggles and weirdly shaped brackets all the way through the centuries, and wherever they looked, they saw Venantium upon Venantium upon Venantium. Oh hey, a dairy farmer. That’s right. This particular career is a family tradition. The Venantium bit that is. No on else was ever a dairy farmer. Passed down through the generations were the skills, abilities, and traits necessary to make him the perfect search and destroy weapon against a foul plague that sweeps the Earth: the Theias. Killing was not their middle name, but if they had to pick a new one, that would probably be it. And just as the Fairweathers had all been in the business of killing upper powerful people, so Ouranos was destined to do so too. Through brutal training, long nights lying under open sky waiting for death to claim him, and hard days of endless turmoil, he has finally become the skilled hunter he is today. This is a big deal. Ouranos can now proudly stand among the ranks of the other hunters and prove his worth to them. They said he wouldn't amount to much, but he has surpassed many in determination and perseverance. Handsomeness alone does not a badass make. And suffice to say, he has plenty of that. Ouranos carries the striking resemblance of the Fairweather family. His shaggy hair is pure, snowy white. His cruel, angry eyes are a silvery purple. He has a lean, fair skinned body, contoured with compact muscle. He wears the telltale blue-black robe of the hunters, along with the shoulder length, leather gloves. But it would be awful if his most worn thing ever was never mentioned. It would be disastrous! This thing is like his homeboy! His Siamese twin! His tumor! His second head! It is his pistol. Gaia is her name, for just as Uranus, the sky, was eternal companion to Gaia the earth, in love, so Ouranos and Gaia are companions in battle. Made of gold, silver, and consecrated iron, she is one of the most deadly and durable weapons known to hunters. It was passed down through his family for many years, and it is still a valuable, treasured, and well used weapon. He guards it, respects it, and carries it with him everywhere he goes. It has felled many a foe, and he is more than willing to carry on its role.
Sixty Varen
Aura Code: 933E43, dull mauve
Aura Scent: bitter coffee beans
Age: 27
Kin: n/a
Ability: traveling through mirrors
Tattoo: skull surrounded by roses
His original name was Slade Varen, but when he was brought into the Venantium, he was numbered as Sixty. That's right. This one used to be a Bloodhound, and a very reputable Bloodhound at that. He had the power to travel through mirrors, a skill the hunters used to no end. But then, somehow, somewhere along the way, Number 60 had his powers taken away by a Void. They wound up killing that Void, so they could never find out if it was a reversible thing or if they could perhaps figure out a way to use that power for their own benefit. Useless now as a Bloodhound, or so he felt, Number 60 begged the Venantium to let him become one of them. Figuring him now to be relatively human again, they accepted. He was always kept under watch and guard for the majority of his time as a hunter, but with the Fall of Storm Hall, he's on his own. He rescued two Bloodhounds from the ruins and fled with the retreat. When the three of them were separated from the main force, they went into hiding where they nursed their wounds and assessed their plight. Now they do what the hunters do best: fight. Only, like the assassins, they strike from the shadows and vanish all the same. The fall of Storm Hall was a blessing more than a curse. Despite not having their facilities anymore, they are better at fighting the Theias. Sixty is proud of this, in more ways than he can say. They rose from the ashes as an even darker force than the Theias had ever witnessed. They just made a monster, and Sixty gets to be a part of it.
Aura Code: 933E43, dull mauve
Aura Scent: bitter coffee beans
Age: 27
Kin: n/a
Ability: traveling through mirrors
Tattoo: skull surrounded by roses
His original name was Slade Varen, but when he was brought into the Venantium, he was numbered as Sixty. That's right. This one used to be a Bloodhound, and a very reputable Bloodhound at that. He had the power to travel through mirrors, a skill the hunters used to no end. But then, somehow, somewhere along the way, Number 60 had his powers taken away by a Void. They wound up killing that Void, so they could never find out if it was a reversible thing or if they could perhaps figure out a way to use that power for their own benefit. Useless now as a Bloodhound, or so he felt, Number 60 begged the Venantium to let him become one of them. Figuring him now to be relatively human again, they accepted. He was always kept under watch and guard for the majority of his time as a hunter, but with the Fall of Storm Hall, he's on his own. He rescued two Bloodhounds from the ruins and fled with the retreat. When the three of them were separated from the main force, they went into hiding where they nursed their wounds and assessed their plight. Now they do what the hunters do best: fight. Only, like the assassins, they strike from the shadows and vanish all the same. The fall of Storm Hall was a blessing more than a curse. Despite not having their facilities anymore, they are better at fighting the Theias. Sixty is proud of this, in more ways than he can say. They rose from the ashes as an even darker force than the Theias had ever witnessed. They just made a monster, and Sixty gets to be a part of it.