Markathis, Jean

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Alkahestrist {Cael Crucem}

I KICK ASS FOR THE LORD!
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FULL NAME:
→ Jean Richard Markathis

AGE:
→ 35

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ The Forest of Carraig

RACE:
→ 1/2 Creig/ 1/2 Amestrian

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ January 1, 1977

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HEIGHT:
→ 6' 0"

WEIGHT:
→ 168 lb.

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Jean's first feature usually noticed is his satin purple and golden tunic, the gold taking up intricate designs. Under the tunic is a white undershirt that goes down to his wrists and under that are a pair of white loose pants feel like flannel with flat soled white shoes and under it all his muscles nothing but rippling with a grand physique. His skin is rather pale and a bit pasty, but still giving off a healthy glow. His ears are very close to his skull, and his left ear is pierced with a dangling cross earring made of quartz. This is usually covered up by his shaggy, golden blonde hair that usually covers his blue eyes that often look angry.

Across his right arm is a predominant tattoo that resembles a cross, the bar on the top half looping around his arm and just barely touching together. At first glance, it just looks like it's full of intricate designs, but upon closer examination, it's nothing but full to bursting with notes in Tiberian on a very strange script on Alkahestry, known to him and those that know as the 'God Hand', with a pair of bracers with a 'hidden surprise', along with several other weapons on his person, hidden in various parts of his outfit. He often moves around rather lightly with a great sense of presence, almost gliding around with his light footsteps, his fists usually balled up at his sides, ready for action at a moment's notice.

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PERSONALITY:
→ First and foremost, Jean is a brick of seriousness, as his job and teachings dictate. He has little to no sympathy for those who cannot keep up with his pace or his ideals, for he believes that those dedicated to a cause, whatever it may be, and just quit out of a utterly unjustified reason are weak, and must be broken until they become strong, if they survive the breaking that is. He respects only those that gain it, and those are the few people that follow Cael's way or shows a personality in great contrast to most of the human race, which to him is to say, 'a person that would give anything and everything to benefit the entire human race or just one person down on their luck, for that is the wish of Cael'. For as cold and unfeeling as Jean can seem, he's only this way in the public and enemy's eye. With those close to him, like those of his church and ones he's known since his early childhood, he would take a sword, an explosion, a bullet, and in many cases, a speeding car for them, as well as his own shirt to function as bandages for their wounds.

In many ways, Jean gives off the air of a war veteran: very reserved, rather quiet about his past exploits, proud or disgusted in them as he may be. Even then, he doesn't talk often unless necessary, or unless he feels like having a conversation. Whenever his mind is clouded with thoughts he could never divulge, he goes through the motions of his martial art, hoping that with the melding of mind and body will allow a greater connection with Cael to give him insight on courses of action, though he will often meditate in hopes to gain the same result. Though he knows he's not devoid of sin, he sees it as a means to an end, though murder may be a sin, he thinks, it will eventually lead to a greater end, which is all he works towards so that the church may prosper along with human kind.

LOVE:
→ Cael
→ Meditation
→ People with righteous purposes
→ Helping children
→ His job

HATE:
→ Heathens (especially armed heathens)
→ Disrespectful people
→ Dirty fighters
→ The state of morality that the world has
→ Snakes

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ Has a soft spot for cats

IDOL:
→ Cael (were you expecting any different?)

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HISTORY:
→ Jean was brought into the world under crags of rocky mountains and darkness stained with only a few hints of flashing light from outside the mouth of the cave, the constant beating of rain atop stone his first sound he ever heard, darkness he was born into only lit by the smiling face of his mother, a clergyman clasping her shoulders with a smile of pride, golden locks covering the tears falling from his eyes like the heavy rain outside the dank cave. The woman looked up to him, tears overflowing her eyes as well, her lids drooping as she began to exhale slower...and slower...until the last cloud of mist rolled off her lips in the coldness of the cave. Jean was silent in his father's arm, clasping his robes with his minute hands as his expressionless eyes loomed over his mother's quickening freezing corpse as his father's sobs pervaded the thunder resonating in their chamber. A freak occurance on a pilgrimage towards La Cerise and the Sanctum Gloria within, an unplanned birth in the crags of Carraig. Born and christened Jean Richard Markathis, son of Kathyrin and Johnathan Markathis.

After this, Johnathan turned to his fellow clergymen, lifting his son to them. His greatest friend, Richard, took Jean in his arms as Johnathan struggled to stand with his wife's lifeless body in his arm, his holy robes draping her in darkness to aid her spirit to rest as the group left their cave in the middle of the soaked night down the mountain path towards the harbor, miles and miles of mountain passes traversed in the hours of darkness. Jean had experienced so much but had yet to see light, and his small infant face displayed no emotion besides that of him sleeping through the storms and howling wind and the close-by words spoken between friends.

"Johnathan, this is suicide...we should just bury Kathyrin in the forest, she'll only slow us down now, and she should be put to rest." Johnathan's bare back turned from his friend as he faced him, anger flashing onto his face as lightning illuminated his enraged features. "AND LEAVE MY KATHYRIN IN AN UNMARKED GRAVE!? She's come too far and done too much for both me, you, and the others to deserve that. Richard, I would've thought you'd let her make it to Sanctum Gloria. She wanted to make it she wouldn't even let her bearing a child stop her. I'm going to get her there even if it kills me. She was told to bring the scroll and I intend to see that through!" He boomed amongst the thunder, turning back with his wife in his arms, continuing to walk, not waiting for a word from Richard, who followed close behind, Jean still asleep in his father's friend's arm. Though, even though he wouldn't remember those words, they would forever engrain a deep impression into Jean's heart for a great respect for his father. The travel remained non-existent in his mind as he grew within the safe walls of the church, ornate and bold.

As he grew, he was recognized as a violent child, his more uneducated peers constantly castigated him, which by itself he could take. But when they would bring up his mother, he'd give them the worst bruises he could deliever, pulled away by arms in robes, snarlling at them like a beast. He'd constantly be brought into Father Richard's office within the church, a small, stained wood room with two grand stain glass windows framing his desk. He sat in a lone stool in front of him, staring at the ground like he could punch it in and escape. Richard always spoke in a kind way, but the way he carried himself, he walked around like he was better than him. Only Dad was better than Jean, he though. Only Dad. He wished he could just run to him, let his father protect him...but Jean knew what Richard had done for Dad, for Mother, but it didn't stop his voice from being coarse to his superior.

"Jean..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slightly in a bit of exasperation, "This is the seventh time this month...so why, Jean? Why did you do it? You could be excommunicated for this, you understand this, don't you?" Jean's locks of hair blocked out his incredibly sad and furious eyes, the only thing his mother had given him, his only reminder of her. He didn't even raise his head when he spoke, his voice low as he gripped his small knees in his hands as his knuckles turned white. "They spoke ill of me, but that didn't bother me...they...t-they spoke ill of Mother. I wouldn't stand for it. How dare they mock the dead..." But it wasn't just that. He was tired of being made fun of for a mother he didn't have. There was no one to comfort him besides his father, who he saw very sparcely, like something was missing, like a giant part of his life was stripped away. His father always told him how brave he was his first day of life, not making a sound through the journey, not a cry, not a whimper. But it was not courage, it was deadening silence. A sign of mourning, a sign of sadness.

"You could do great things if you put as much effort you put in brawling to the church..." Richard stroke his black bristles of chin hair as he peered at the child. Seriously considering this new option laid in front of him, the potential, the strength...NO, he couldn't. Not after all Johnathan had gone through to bring him here, to raise him away from that hovel that was attacked daily they called a church. He still remembered the fire, how it torched the cross like some hellish sign as the pews, the walls, everything began to be cloaked in fire and smoke. Kathyrin...she couldn't stop coughing, she couldn't stay longer, even if there were still so many inside...Johnathan had still kept some stain glass shards from the church in his breast pocket, as did Richard. Kathryin was unfortunate enough to have them lodged in her arms, their path was dotted here and there with her blood. Was it the bleeding or the smoke that killed her, Richard always asked as he peered at a small framed photograph on his desk; himself, John, and 'Kat' all sitting together on a park bench, Jean still growing what he remembered as the 7th month of growth.

But what would she say if she saw what he was even considering...she always said he'd do great things for the church, that he wouldn't take Johnathan's place, but Richard's, but did she mean as an adviser or...she must've been delirious from the blood loss, just delirious nothing more. That's what he wanted to believe, but he just sighed and stood, pushing his chair back as he sauntered over to Jean, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Then Jean spoke, "Why can't I?". His eyes were wondering, curious, staring up at this family friend. Johnathan just smiled and ushered him out of the office without a word, leading him through many old and decrepit hallways to a small cellar of the church, lined in weapons and training equipment. He patted a hand to the flat of Jean's small back, smiling, pushing him into the room as he walked toward a small dagger in the wall, plucked it from its housing, then flung it into the hanging punching bag. "You can, Jean, you can. I'm going to show you how."

Years of physical pain, psychological torture and condition, along with the mastery of several fighting styles turned Jean from a common brawler to a warrior of Cael, a small league in the Cael Crucem, but a want to be more useful to Cael, to be able to fight longer and harder is what he wanted, for it was his purpose in life. He went throughout years of research in the libraries, climbing up bookshelves to some of the more decaying tomes that lied in the Sanctum's extensive library, and within the top-most shelf, behind an extremely old copy of 'The History of the Cael Crucem' was a small, locked compartment. Jean took no time to learn to open the lock, it was rusted from years of neglect, most likely forgot, so for his toughened hands it was an easy task to simply break the lock and retract from it a golden tube, a stopper on one of its ends. It was small enough to fit in his mouth, so he descended the shelves with a cylinder of gold lodged firmly into his teeth. He dropped 5 feet from the ground to get to earth faster, and popped open the scroll. It was an extensive diagram of some strange sort of magic, he though, notes to inscribe on a part of the body. He could read them, for the most part as he was fluent in Tiberian, an all but dead language that all Cael Crucem younglings were taught. It was confusing to say the least, but all Jean understood was how it would 'increase strength to that of Cael'. He took a copy to a tattoo artist he had heard of, and the inscribing started. Jean had not a clue how it was to work, but he had seen alkahestrists and alchemists that were in part of his organization, and it looked more of an array than anything, so he started searching more local libraries for journals, encyclopedias, ANYTHING to help him understand how even basic alkahestry worked, going in further depth as to all the schools, narrowing down which ones that the array would be as to know what to study.

Three days it took to get all of it down, and it took several weeks for the pain to douse within his skin. His mind was mixed with information on this alkahestry, on what it could do. It seemed to him that it channeled his emotional state, though which one he was not yet sure. He focused into the writing. Nothing happened. His temper began to rise as he stared at his arm, waiting for this 'almighty power' that was described. Then he began to grit his teeth, almost ready to give up on it, but then it began to make his muscles contract and expand, the writing glowing and sparking white and he placed a hand onto his punching bag, and it moved slightly. He then brought back his hand and punched as hard as he could, bringing down the bag and his door in the process. Then, as years passed, so did Richard, passing along the position of 'Father' to Jean, along with his advisory position. He has stood to the Pia Pium's right hand for years, his own right hand ready to defend his cause and everything he and his comrades stand for.

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TRIVIA:
→ He is ambidextrous
→ Jean is an expert in a fighting style that lies in a combination of Cretan Boxing, Xingese Shaolin Hung Gar, and Drachman Wrestling
→ His favorite flowers are baby's breath and lavender
→ Enjoys classical music, especially string compositions
→ Is talented with small blades as well as expert acrobatics
→ Has a very light, wispy step
→ Fluent in Tiberian, Creig, Cretan, and Amestrian.

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ALIAS:
→ Kume

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Kit Estenial, Kumero Ayashizu, Nevski Petrenko

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ THE CRUSADER IS UPON YOU, FEAR THE COMING APOCALYPSE!

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]Hunter X Hunter/ARTIST[/b]/[i]Kurapika[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ The Father

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ God Hand

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[Reila Tsukino]

18th is your archive date.

[Guest]

He is finished. Have at it.

[Iris]

REVISE

1. Race: Please put amount of both races. Example 1/2 Creig 1/2 Amestrian, 3/4 Creig 1/4 Amestrian

2. Age: If he was born in 1990, he can't be 35. Remember, the site takes place in the current year and 1990 makes him 22

3. History: I believe that a person needs more knowledge on alkaherestry in order to use it. It's not something that just comes to you (as it seems to sound in your history). Just elaborate a little more on studying the alkahestry and how it works.

Looking good, though~

[Guest]

Fixed what was asked.

[Iris]

APPROVED

I see nothing else wrong here. Pm me which account you want the points deducted from.

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