Adalfrid Van Deifhen

Personality:

BIOGRAPHY

Rain taps against a window… the light sound that ruffles against the glass. The smell of wet stone and light wet dirt fill the air. No sound escapes, no whispers. Nothing but a still silence. Nothing but a lone boy against the rocky walls of a room. A boy of utter sadness. His eyes fight back tears he chooses not to cry, his own personal battle. There he sits, and no sound escapes but the falling of rain…


Days pass. The rain falls ever still. The boy holds his own once more alone. Wet rain drenches his modest rags. His hair drapes his face, uncut and untended, hiding his features, the look of utter devastation that marks his face. His eyes fill with rain-drops, not differentiating between tears and rain… but he does not care. He does not care for the feeling of icy cold against his skin. He does not care about his exhaustion, and how he can barely walk against the wet cobble-stones of the public streets. He does not care of all the eyes glaring down at him from warm comfortable windows. All he wants to do is sleep. He stumbles, and falls to the ground, too tired to stand. No one helps him up…


Years pass. He has grow. Yet he is the same. His face is pale, and worn. He does not smile. His eyes seem to have died, for no hope shines in them. None has shone there for a long time. He walks among the streets of the village, in the open market. People sneer as he walks by. He feels hated. No one loves him. No one ever has…
A passer by trips the boy, as he lands hard, bruising his face. He tries to rise, but he is stepped on and sneered at. Laughs rise from the crowds nearby. He gazes up at the row of laughing fangs, and fine clothes. He rises to his knees, his rags dirtier then before. He breaths in and tries to stand. Someone kicks him in the ribs. He falls once more…
He remains on the ground hungry and afraid. He gives in, gazing without hope at the dirty stone road… he does not matter….he is only a monster…



The night comes. He is tired, and his muscles ache. He can barely walk, but he rises none the less. He can no longer feel anything. Feelings are something of a past far away from memory. A past that fades from existence. He shifts and stumbles, making his way home. He lays down on the small bundle of hay in the ally-way. He was hoping to find some food today, but no such luck. He wheezes and shivers in hunger. He cannot remember when he last ate. He falls back in the hay and pulls an old blanket over himself. He falls asleep, but does not dream. Dreams only make him pity reality…


The days pass. It is his birthday today…He has just turned eight. He says nothing, but merely trembles in cold. Winter is approaching, and snow already begins to fall. He draws his rags among him… he needs food, and warm clothing, or he will not survive the cold of the Vienna winter. A bell rings in the distance. It is a town meeting… perhaps ... he could beg… He limps away, at little more then a crawl…

People gather among the hall’s main center. Dozens of well dressed, wealthy patrons. All wonderful, beautiful and magnificent. He crawls though the crowd. His mouth and throat ache… too much for him to talk… he had not drank in as much time as he had eaten… he merely prays that some one will take pity on him… because his voice died the same time his hope did…

No one pays him heed. He is pushed though the crowd, occasionally hit. Remarks of “garbage” and “useless monger” pass though his ears, but he is too hungry and thirsty to hear them. He merely walks on paying no heed to his new found bruises. He has been hit more then enough to learn pain… he merely walks on…

Off in the distance a voice sounds out as a meeting begins among the crowd. The boy glances in the direction of the voice. His eyes widen at a familiar face… blue hair…red eyes… a man from long ago… the one memory that had not died with him all these years…

He pushes though the crowd with what force he has left… and falls to his knees at the feet of the man, gripping tight at his leg. He glares up, barely conscious.

“f-fa-father…”

Is all that he is capable to say. The man glares down at him emotionlessly. A wisp sounds though the air as the back of the hand hits the boy broadly in the jaw, throwing him to the ground against the rocks and cold snow.

“I have never met you before”

Is the only reply that arrives. Laughter rises among the crowd. The boy crawls, barely left with enough energy to survive… he grasp his hands in the direction of the man he had met only once all those years… but he is pulled away… men are dragging him away… but it’s in the wrong direction! He wants his father!

“father!” he calls one last time, glaring at the man, too exhausted, and cold to say anything else. With too many tears in his eyes to think of anything else…

“Take this mongrel to the jail… I have no son…”


All lights fade out. Cold and hunger overtake the boy. Life fades from him, and he falls back, no longer conscious, dragged away by the men. All he can hear as all sounds fade out are the hooting of the crowd. Their laughter.

Days pass. He is released from the jail. A punishment he was blessed with. A room, bread and water…this he had not had in a while. He had been out for days, waking only to eat… he was too lost to think of anything else…

He left the jail square, and glared off in the distance. The welcoming sound of meat and fish carried over the air. The feel of bright grasping flames. The sound of harps and violins and sweet sweet music. He glares in it’s direction, his eyes glazed over, barely looking at the world around him. Without thought…he stumbles in the direction of the noise…


The gala sounds clearly across the villages. All the vampires gather for the event. The place is an ocean of bright colors, of laughter, and of wealth. The band lets loose waves of classical music, allowing them to flow over the room. The world is perfect, without a flaw, without a worry… without a need for anything or anyone else…

Suddenly the glass shatters. The world fades. The music dies… someone dies… a row of gasps rise from among the crowd as they all fix their gaze upon one spot. The heat of the room seems to die away…

A boy… no more then eight years old, stands in the center of the gazes, his eyes transfixed upon the ground in front of him. Warm blood runs down his face and hands, glistening on a sharp edged knife that he holds in his hands… but he gives no interest to these thing. He merely glares at the ground in front of him… the corpse of his father at his feet… he speaks…

“Useless disgusting filth… I will kill you… I’ll kill every single last once of you…”

His words are but whispers, but they reach every ear. His voice is lacking all tone, yet filled with such pure hatred that it echoes like a judgment. His eyes rise slightly, and for the first time in a long many years, he gazes them all in the eyes.



Clothes ruffle as the boy juts down the long winding corridors. Behind him arguments and screams can be heard. He turns the corner and continues to run. His eyes gaze ahead of him, not looking back to see if his pursuers are gaining.

Behind him, several meters, a score of men follow him in pursuit. They will catch him, and they will kill him. That is all that fills their minds.

They turn right, then left, turning down the corridors. As they pass, a dead patron marks the ground, cut at the neck or head. The number of the grows ever still as they run on, but barely see the boy among all the turns he is taking.

A wisp of ruffled rags sounds. A trail of dirtied white and brown right around the next corner. They run as fast as they can. They turn the corner to catch the child, and make him amend for his crimes.

An open window… the ruffle of silk curtains… and dawn rises… he is never seen again…

Adolescence

The boy sat alone on the dark street. He glared up at the stars, the hard stoic clouds the covered the sky and a yawning silver moon. It was nearing winter, and like that winter 3 years ago, it was without feeling. Every snowflake was a mirror, a remained of a past that was long gone, yet so close. He hated every flake.

The boy shivered in his make-shift clothes and glanced down the narrow corridor that was his resting place. On the far ends of the narrow road the sounds of footsteps and conversation rose up to his ears. He growled slightly and ignored them, taking attention away from his own endless gnawing hunger. The unfamiliarity of this new town haunted him.

He returned back to what he hated most, he thought about his past. To the father that had abandoned him. To the blood on his hands that same day. He thought of whether or not the man that raised him was dead… but the though was minor, for he knew he was. His fingers pressed hard into his knees, clutching at them until his nails drew blood. But the boy did not care. He continues to press on them still, his eyes shooting ahead into the darkness. He tried to stop it. The feeling of being alone. The feeling of being unwanted.

He sat back, angry tears filling his eyes. He tried to think back. To think of his mother. Nothing came. She had died long ago. A victim of the same birth the boy shared. His thoughts trailed back to father once more. He was all alone. He began to cry …


The winter came and passed. Along with the spring, the summer and fall. Another year came and left. And yet, the boy was still alone. Very little had changed. He was still alone, starving and cold. He lived in a world where he was frowned upon, looked down on and despised. He was, as always considered filth.

The boy walked down the main street of the village. He walked by others like him, ragged people, no homes and no family. They sat on the streets begging for change. He looked at them sadly and prayed they would be better. Perhaps one of them would live on, and then the young boy would be happy. If not him, then at least one should escape this life of perseverance.

His thoughts broke. Yelling filled the air as he glanced ahead of him. Not far ahead, a beggar lay on the ground. His gray hair ruffled, his skin dirty and his clothes nothing but mere blankets, was waving his arms frantically and yelling as he was being beaten upon. Two older men of higher statues, likely nobles, stood over him. One kicked at him furiously, where as the other struck him with a cane. Behind him, several people mumbled and laughed at the display, seeming glad some one was dealing with the beggars.

The boy’s hands moved to fists, he ran towards the men, his mind consumed by rage. He tried to pounce on the back of one, but was shook off. They soon turned, and struck at him the lad instead. He was once more helpless, as they beat down on the young child. His sight faded. He grow sore. He felt warmth ooze from his head, and from his face. Then the beating stopped…

Too hurt to get up, the boy gave a pathetic glance upwards. The aristocrat sat over him, a sneer of joy on his malicious face. His beard long black and trim, his gray eyes scowling down at the boy. He roses his cane and struck the boy one more. All light faded. As it did, the sound of the beggars leaving could be made out, a rough scuffing of shoes on pavement. None stood to help him in return…

The years came and went. What was once a young boy was now a young man. His years more then doubled, and the boy reached the age of 14. The innocence was gone. The passion was gone. His face was marked in a permanent scowl. An ever present scar marked his left cheek from a long forgotten strike. His gaze was filled with distaste and distrust. He frowned as he walked down the pathway, and his eyes furrowed. It had once again been a long time since he had eaten or drank. He growled and sighed.

He moved down the street towards the bakery. He looked around, as the smell of ever-sweet bread, and cakes, and endless things he had never tasted wafted around him. He smiled for a moment, letting himself be happy for just that second. His joy soon faded though, in realization of reality. He did not have the money to afford these things. He could not afford any of it at all.

The thought irritated him. It seemed to mock and scowl him that he once again should suffer. That he shouldn’t even be given the possibility to even live. That either hunger or cold should claim his life, after he had struggled to move on. The very thought consumed him as it did those years before.

He shifted his gaze, looking at the bakers. It was crowded in the store, and they were all occupied. He smiled slightly to himself. Grabbing a small loaf from a nearby shelf, he bolted out of the door. The yelling did not bother him. Nor would they ever catch him. What did it matter when he was hungry? All that mattered were his own need. Things that no one but he would be able to solve…


Another year passed. And the boy was much different. He no longer cried. He no longer pondered or thought. He only did. He no longer cared for himself, nor pitied himself. He did not care for the troubles of others, nor for the wills of others. He was alone, and so he would survive.

The young man sighed slightly on the summer day. He was hot and drizzled in sweat. His meagre clothes clung to his skin as he leaned against the wall. No wind blew, and the town well was too under watch for him to gain any water. He growled slightly. Every day his hunger and thirst seemed to grow. If he ate, it remained. If he drank it remained. It was ever constant, defining.

He moved forward, removing himself from the wall. Breathing heavily in the humid heat, he stepped forwards and moved towards the well near the center of town. He would merely have to take some from someone leaving. Weather they liked it or not.

He frowned slightly as he reached the well. Glaring at the several dozen people moving in and out for water, many of them common people, or the servants of nobles. He spotted a particular younger child. Some 15 year old girl more or less his age. Judging from her clothes she was some noble families’ servant girl. A light mocking snarl left his lips as he shifted around the streets. He was well aware of the grotto now, of every street and pathway in the black labyrinth of rotten walkways.

As the girl moved on home, a light touch smiled her lips as she sung a gentle song. The strike knocked her out before the shock could fill her young face. A rock the size of a fist came out of the barely notable crevice that was a corner pathway. The boy walked out after a moment, gazing for anyone nearby. A few people noticed and began to come over, notifying the police.

They were too far to bother him. The boy moved over to the girl’s unconscious body, and picked up the bucket of water she was carrying home. Placing it over his shoulder, he casually began to walk back into the pathway from whence he came, leaving the girl to bleed in the street. He made no effort to run or to hide. He had grown so tired of running … the girl did not survive…



Two more years came and went. The year of being a young man began to change to that of an adolescent. He was 17 now.

The young man moved patiently though the streets. His hair ruffled but somewhat well-kept, his moderate clothing consisting of a shirt, pants, suspenders and dress shoes. His clothes and skin were clean, and altogether well rounded.

He had stolen enough to money to afford daily bread and water, not that it ceased his ever present hunger. His thoughts drifted back to the girl on some days, then to his father and his mother. Those moments lasted merely seconds now, as he cast the ideas away casually. Their existence was not his problem.

He smiled comfortably at this idea, almost casually, as he gazed about the crowd. But he stopped suddenly, and glanced ahead. Some 60 feet foreword he saw a recognizable face. A hawk-nosed nobleman, with a trimmed graying beard and stoic gray eyes. His mind wreathed in hatred. A smile pressed his lips however. A little smile that he shared between himself, a dagger in the pant of his leg. A gift he had acquired from someone, who like the girl, was a … convenience to him…



The young man walked casually among the large house. He smiled at all the commodities and riches that filled the noble’s house. He had always seen these people as a child, seen their homes, but he had never entered one before. His joy faded for a moment, as his past shone back at him. He gripped at his head, seeming to try and physically push the thoughts out of his mind. It did not work, they continued to haunt him.

He snarled out of anxiety and began to rummage the house. He moved up and down the house at a comfortable pace. He looted all money and valuables he could, placing them in a sac. Granted, he was still a low class man, without home and family, so all he could manage was a meagre grain sack, but it was better storage then nought. That did not bother him however, as it slowly filled with valuables, coins and riches.

Finished with the home, he hoisted it up on his back, and returned downstairs. Opening the front door, he turned around and gave a large mocking bow to the empty house. He chuckled slightly and turned, shutting the door behind him as he laughed comfortably, walking down the garden pathway. Why would they ever bow back to the likes of him? A better question: How could they bow back, when they were dead…?



The years came and passed once more. The fall and rise of the 4 seasons passed 3 times. The lad was now a full grown man. In his early twenties, his pallid blue eyes, well groomed hair and fine clothes were a marvel compared to what he once was.

As so many people must have thought, as he came riding thought town on a horse-drawn carriage, several baggages clinging tightly to the back. He gazed out the carriage among the crowds of commoners who looked back in puzzlement and mistrust.

He was new to this city. He had moved once more. The spoils of that day 3 years back had earned him much keep. He had left that very day to a nearby town, where he sold what he could, and kept the rest. His money staggered. He bought fine clothes, fine food, and fine grooming. Now he rode to a new town. A large city this time, to spend that money he had left on a home.

He smiled once more at this thought, a casual, superior smile that seemed to radiate both threat and interest from him. Yet it subsided, as he retrained himself. It was replaced by a calm, casual and polite smile, as he nodded and greeted passers by on his way to his new home. One must act the part…

Yet more years passed. The young man took many new interests and new customs. Now he ate daily, he learned to read and write, and he took an interest into learning music.

The man sat in the library one particular day. He glanced over the many books and texts that he had gathered over the several years. He had a collection of several hundred, but he never quite taken the time to read every last one of them. This did not bother him much, thought he would rather be able to read them all.

That night however, one particularly interesting book caught his eyes. He took it and moved comfortably to a nearby cushioned chair, where he sat down and began to read the particularly old and different context of the book.

He did not leave that spot for two days. He sat and read that book, then re-read it, then once more. He glanced it backward and forward. Finally finished, the man sat back in his chair, and glanced up into space. He ran his fingers over the German writing stenciled on the front of the ancient text. Sighing slightly and staring hard ahead, he nodded profoundly.

He was… “bount”…



The night was dark, the moon pallid and white, casting its even-present shadow on the cold marble of the balcony, chilling the white stone to the color of bone. The man’s form clung to the side of this stoic bone platform, as he gazed out across the minor field that was his garden.

It sickened him. He thought that if he would over-come them, and become them, then he would be able to grows stronger. To show them his worth. But that was not it. It was never anything to do with his specific birth, or his heritage. It was him. It was who he was. What he was.

He gazed at the ground for a moment. He sat unmoving, unchanging. His hands rested comfortably yet tightly against the railway. He raised his gaze for a moment. The blue of his eyes seemed to mix with a murky red that traversed their depths like blood in water. His face moved into an arrogant grin of sadistic glee and smug superiority.

“What stupidity… to think that I should change… and be them… I am bount. I will never be them. I am… superior…”

He chuckled slightly, his look a mix of hysteria and unchain-able glee. He glared off in the distance at the vision of the town.

“What an irrelevant fate… to wish to be like them…yet to be born…superior” he chuckled slightly and turned, striding back formally to his library. There was particular part of the text he wished to read and experiment.



The pallid mood shone against his back. No one quite saw that figure arrive that night. A scythe hung against his shoulder, a large cross shape, preaching a holy revelation in death. The glaive in his other hand, larger then most weapons ever seen, torn though them with ease…

It was a night that was never explained. Of a how a village of one point seven thousand burned to the ground. How almost half of those villagers were found torn and bloody. All that was remembered was a tall man with silver hair, and the most hungering red eyes ever seen. That was the last time those eyes were seen for a very long time.

RP Sample:

The footsteps echoed evenly across the cold stone floor, an even patter of hard leather tapping evenly against chiseled granite. Damp wet granite, freshly glistened with the fall of new spring rain, the kind of endless rainfall that came and went like the passing of the day.

Yet with every moment as the rain grew, the steps kept their even monotonous tone, an even sound tapping at every second, keeping in beat with every pump of the heart. There seemed something almost pensive about the steps, out in the middle of the rainfall, as others clattered as they ran by for shelter, shattering but not stopping the rhythmic clicking of the man’s footsteps.

On occasional passer by might catch the smells of the cigarette smoke, or the light smell of imported cologne. But those that did were too far lost into their own worlds to pay it much mind, other then a sidewards glance of curiosity.

But these things never did bother the man. No he found that such ignorance was rather wonderful, in the way that it kept the world spinning, the mind working, and the even balance among reality and fiction…

The latter brought a comforting smile to his mild and care-less seeming face. His ever blue eyes gleamed across the faces of men and women that ran by, and at the occasional driver that shot by, the cars piercing through the rain. He seemed to be watching out for something, or some one more likely. Of course it was a discomfort, but not a bother. He was aware they were not too far away, but the idea of walking in the middle of a storm to meet them, well, that was not all to fun.

He sighed slightly, the smile still on his young and auspiciously wise face. He turned the corner, his wet hair and clothes whipping as he came about, sending a splatter of water against the ground, and making what damp-free spots remained as wet as the surrounding. He was in thought, and the rain was far too insignificant to shatter the haven that was his mind. There were too many matters to deal with, and stopping over small matters would merely get in the way.

But then…the footsteps stopped. The man glanced up, the many strands of hair on his head cascading down and clinging to his skin with a dead chill. He lifted his hand casually, and removed the cigarette from his mouth, throwing it mildly to the floor as it hissed to silence in the rain. Shifting it a sideways glance, his eyes moved once more ahead.

He had finally found her. Some 16 feet head, in the midst of the dark evening and the palavering rain, there stood the person he was looking for. She was a woman, something he did not expect, but was not altogether bothered by. She trembled slightly from the cold and damp weather, pulling her coat close waiting patiently for the stop light to turn.

“ah…. How convenient…”

The man’s eyes focus, the pupil glaring animalistic glaring in her direction.

“I hate it when the ones with the good souls visit at the most inopportune times…”

The casual smile and gentles nature that once remained was lost. A look of intense determination and arrogance took its place, chaining hinted signs of hatred, hidden behind his mocking, smiling facade. The footsteps began once more in the direction of the stoplight…

Doll Names:
Glaive- Schmerz. (Pain)
Scythe- Das Leiden (Suffering)

Mediums:
Rings, one on each hand on the middle fingers. The rings are a black-smoky metallic looking color, seeming neither like iron, nor like silver. Despite their coloring they seem smooth and new, just simply strange in ting.

Release: “Let them suffer, Schmerz, Das Leiden”

Description:
The rings easily slide from the fingers, where the throws them in the air momentarily. There they grow and bend. Das Leiden becomes a large, double ended scythe, a spear point jutting from its end.
Schmerz is a large 4 blade weapons, similar in a form to a large throwing glaive or a shuriken. It’s length from tip to tip is approximately 1.20 meters. It can be both spun and thrown at a distance.
A long chain bond around both the scythe and the glaive spans their length, reaching up to 20 feet. This allows easy manipulation of both Schmerz and Das Leiden. It allows for multiple movements, bends and retractions of the weapons, as well as the ability to easily throw and retract the weapons.
Being part of the original weapons, the chain cannot be merely snapped, though it can be damaged.

Effect: While in this form, Adalfrid gains two specific trait abilities.
The first is that Schmerz, pain, feeds of the misfortunes of other. For every 5% health stolen from an enemy while in this form, all his statistics (strength, speed, attack speed, reatsu, etc) increase by 50%. The most they can increase to is an additional 500%. This bonus lasts for the duration of the battle.
The second ability is that das Leiden, suffering, protects his master. This allows Adalfrid to block 1 incoming enemy offensive ability every 5 posts. This block is passive, and he does not choose what he blocks, it is merely the first ability that hits him. This ability does not block ultimate abilities, or regular attacks done from weapons. It also cannot block passive abilities, or negate “effects” (techniques that do not do damage, but have some other sort of effect on the target).


Fusion: Hass (“Pain and suffering lead to hatred… it is the workings of this world…”)

Description: Les Laiden the scythe molds into his being. Several sharp blades jut from the shoulder, elbows, knees, and tenors. These blades can extend like swords to a length of 45 centimeters (approximately 18 inches) at the will of the user, Adalfrid.
The one large glaive, Schmerz also molds into his body. Two smaller glaives, each approximately 80 cm (approximately 32 inches) from tip to tip, appear in each of his hands. These are bound to indefinitely long chains that seem to appeared out of his palms. He can throws and spin these shuriken-glaives to a staggering effect, and can physically control their movement and the movement of the chains at will, making them seem almost life-like.

Effect: The damage Adalfrid deals to a target is based on how much health he has stolen from the target. He deals an increased by 50% damage for every 5% health that Adalfrid has/had stolen for that opponent. This has a maximum of 950% bonus damage per 1 target. Adalfrieds movement speed, attack speed, and endurance are also raised in this form by 300%. These bonuses stack with those of his first release.

ABILITIES

Name: 3 marks of death (“let suffering and hate drive you onwards to death”)
State: Release
Effect: An enemy is marked for death by Adalfrid. Any time that enemy uses a technique or ability, 5% of his health is drained from the caster, and passed to Adalfrid. When the marker reaches zero, the effected user becomes unable to use techniques for 3 posts (all techniques, including class techniques, personal abilities, or ultimate abilities/forms). The application of this technique cannot be blocked or evaded. Only one opponent can be marked for death at a time.
Description: To mark an opponent, the user must merely indicate who he wants to be bound to the ability. Das Leiden, also known as “suffering” absorbs and temporarily moulds Adalfrid’s reatsu, sending it out across the field and repressing that of the chosen target, marking them for death.
The affected has a series of tattoos, thorn like black vines in appearance, that spread out across the body and limbs. The tattoos originate at the heart and move out from there. When a marker is removed the vines physically move on the skin, retracting closer to the heart. Those who have survived have stated that the sensation of the retracting tattoos felt like “knives running across your body”. Ultimately the tattoo recedes to the heart, where it seems to suffocate the reatsu of the enemy, making them unable to use techniques for a considerate period of time.
Duration: “marks” last until count reaches zero, or the ability is removed and/or transferred to another target. The inability to use techniques lasts for 3 posts
Cooldown: This ability has a 6 post cooldown, initiated the post a target is marked.


Name: Strike of death (“Pain augments suffering. Suffering augments death… now die…”)
State: Release
Effect: The strike of death is initiated with Schmerz, the glaive-scythe weapon used by Adalfrid. Charging it with energy, he aims to strike at his enemy by either throwing schmerz or striking in close quarters. If the attack hits the enemy, then all remaining “marks of death” on the enemy are removed. These marks being removed initiate the same effect as if the enemy used a skill, transferring health and denying the enemy the ability to use skills. (read above for more details).
Description: Schmerz, also known as “pain” lives of the suffering of others. Using its own power amplified by the user’s reatsu, the weapon reacts with the marks of death, allowing them to move ahead of their pre-emptive period, as they would when an ability is used. This removes these supposed “marks of pain”, increasing the rate at which the enemy’s soul is drained.
Cooldown: 6 post cooldown.


Name: Sanctuary of pain
State: Fusion
Effect: The battle-field becomes a sanctuary, a living testament to the suffering that the bountos had to endure. Each turn that the ability is active, all enemies in the battle automatically lose 5% of their maximum health and reatsu that turn. All people in the battlefield cannot use techniues (this includes both Adalfrid, his allies and his enemies). This is a massive field effect, and thus cannot be adverted or blocked.
Description: Adalfrid releases his own spiritual pressure, and binds it with his intense hunger for souls. The reatsu physically manifests into the environment. The battle-field slowly begins to wilt and decay. The grass and leaves crack and wither, losing their color and eventually turning to a dark stifling black, carried off by the wind.
At first the feeling is almost un-noticed. The air grows slightly chilled. Soon it grows difficult to breath. The chest begins to hurt. The pain grows and eventually becomes a throbbing pain. Dizziness and weakness soon ensues. It soon feels as if their very soul is being torn out through their throat in a suffocating pain.
Duration: Entire battle duration after point of activation, or when cancelled willingly.
Cooldown: 10 posts.[b][b]

APPROVED ! This is perfect , Die Kaiser