[Exit Void] APPLICATION

[djinnandtonic]

player.
NAME/HANDLE: Nemo.
PERSONAL JOURNAL: pwnyo
ARE YOU 16 OR OVER?: Yes.
CONTACT: AIM: turretfodder | pwnyo
OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A


character.
CHARACTER NAME: Bartimaeus of Uruk, Sakhr al-Jinni, N'gorso the Mighty, and the Serpent of Silver Plumes.
SERIES: The Bartimaeus Sequence. A specific history can be found here, but it is nothing worth tackling. Important bits occur around 950 BC, 126 BC, and 2000 AD.
CANON POINT: Post-Amulet of Samarkand events.
AGE: 5,010, give or take.
APPEARANCE: He prefers the guise of a 12-year-old Greco-Egyptian boy: tan, thin and scholarly, dark of hair and wide of eye. He is usually dressed in only a simple loincloth, but occasionally clothed to better mesh with his environment. See Abilities.

PREVIOUS GAME HISTORY: N/A

PERSONALITY:
Where does one begin with a creature that has witnessed the dawn of civilization? Lain the foundation of the Library of Alexandria and later watched it burn to the ground? Built the walls of Uruk, Karnak, and Prague? Beheld and participated in the rise and fall of countless nations? Been held responsible in part for five of the seven wonders of the world? Spoken with Solomon, Gilgamesh, and Faust? Endured the wrath of Khaba the Cruel, tongue still in cheek?

You might begin by saying that they are a bit of an overachiever.
More likely an overexaggerator.

Everything about Bartimaeus is big. He walks big, he talks big, he spits in the face of adversity and burns all its hankerchiefs. He has the gall to crow his achievements and the guns with which to stick to his claims... For the most part.

Well. In all honesty, he is a spirit of average strength and inflated ego. Far more noteworthy for his razor wit and obstinate duplicity: it is these qualities, not his raw power, that have kept him alive and kicking since the Macedonians were still figuring out their favorite style of pottery. This is not to say he has not been part of plenty of important events and met several important figures throughout human history, he simply tends to err toward the fantastic and almost pathologically dishonest. If he had ten allies, he defeated the enemy with three. If he took five years to build a tower, he only took two. It is difficult to draw the exact line between fact and fiction, but there is no denying that even for a fourth-level djinni of moderate note, Bartimaeus of Uruk has a rich, character-shaping past.

Pasts such as his tend to shape characters of a certain ilk, and it is never a very good one. Five thousand years of slavery, subjugation, punishment, and combat will begin to jade even the most resolute of creatures. Bartimaeus, like all spirits, remains incredibly cynical and untrustworthy of magiciankind, the, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, harbingers of his eternal suffering. He regards them with contempt, disdain, and sheer impudence. Non-magicians on the other hand, have much more leeway. There is nothing in particular he holds against commonfolk, unlike most spirits that would, should their leash be loose enough, taunt and destroy them on a whim. It shows a slight sympathy towards humans that his kind does not often possess, and a capability to mingle and even befriend them under the right circumstances. In spite of this apparent softness, he remains wry and sarcastic on the surface even in imminent danger, and carries a raucous adolescent streak: all rude noises and ruder gestures. He downplays the achievements of others and backsasses til the cows come home whether the recipients are stronger than him or not (Though there are some spirits he will readily admit are far above him. He is fanciful, but not stupid enough to step on toes. Too big of toes, anyway.)

After boasting, Bartimaeus is a bit of a whiner, with a bit being fairly relative. Magicians and figures of authority giving him orders and charges will never hear the end of his utter misery. He is incredibly lazy--his life normally consisting of simply being in the Other Place. All he claims to wish to do is exist in peace. On Earth, if he is not under stress, he will perform his duties in a quick and efficient manner of his own devising (ie. the bare minimum requiring the least amount of effort) so that he may return home. Worn down or set to menial tasks, he will begin to drag his feet like a petulant child and start outright dawdling if only to irk his masters. Despite all his pining to return home, Bartimaeus, in actuality, truly relishes his time on Earth shaping the course of history. It is the only thing that defines him. As a creature of servitude, freedom renders him incoherently joyful, though it tends to take him aback at first. He is quite enthralled with traveling, keen on seeing new wonders and experiencing what the world has to offer, nevermind all he does is moan about reality when chained.

This and many other things paint Bartimaeus to be very hypocritical and contradictory--it is in his nature to lie and scheme, make allies one job and enemies the next. His allegiances remain superficial at best; he knows those he enjoys the company of, and he knows those he detests, and countless times he has been turned against one and stationed beside the other. In essence, he is a slightly begrudging gun, able to be fired by whoever wields it. There are those he will form ties with, but no matter how close he seems to become, thousands of years of self preservation under his belt puts his own well being above that of his allies. It takes tremendous respect to garner it in return from Bartimaeus, let alone friendship, but that isn't to say it's impossible. He makes numerous references to those he has been fond of, spirits and humans alike, even a magician who treated him as an equal (and ironically developed the closest relationship with him to this day that no doubt provided him with his fleeting faith in humanity). He is not closed off to the concept, he is simply guarded, hesitant, and pessimistic, almost violently rejecting, for very good reason.

All in all, Bartimaeus has a relatively good-natured core, judiciously wrapped in an immortal's outlook, wrapped in a teenager's rebelliousness, wrapped in a scholar's intelligence, wrapped in a street rat's wisdom, all stuffed into a gift box papered in a king's pride, strung in a politician's guile, bowed with a child's impertinence, and tagged to the most unfortunate obviously blessed soul it could ever possibly come across.

ABILITIES: Aw hamburgers.
Being a spirit from the Other Place and therefore composed of Essence (a thick, oily mass that is neither liquid nor gas; or "not unlike dishwater") Bartimaeus has no corporeal form. Forced to assume one on the material plane, he takes a myriad of different forms and shapeshifts at will, into anything he can possibly fathom within reasons of size and strength, from the mundane to the fantastical. Inconspicuous flies and whisps of smoke, or bellowing minotaurs and roaring tigers; humans and imps of any size and shape, whether in impersonation of one he has seen before or on whims of his own design. He can add and subtract features as he sees fit.

Creatures of Essence do not require sleep or sustinence of a physical nature. They consume other creatures of Essence to replenish their own, but it is not necessary to their survival.

His guises all possess a certain strength and nimbleness no matter their form, allowing him to lift greater weights and leap much further than, say, the average human when he uses their shape. He can also sustain much more damage than the average earth creature, such as being crushed beneath tons of stone for extended periods of time, or being set ablaze or drowned. Essence is a tenacious substance.

As a rule, he is capable of seeing and operating on all seven planes of existence. This offers him excellent night vision, and the ability to see auras and magic effects invisible to the human eye. His guises extend through the first six planes, though on the higher planes and to those who can observe them, the illusion becomes weaker. His "true form" is revealed on the seventh (though not by any means a true true form {which would be the dishwater}, more of a signature that remains constant on the seventh plane by which other spirits can identify him. It is implied that true forms often take the appearance of Eldritch-esque creatures: all strange colors, slime, and tentacles, too many things here, too few there.)

Names hold a very powerful connection to spirits. They can only be summoned to Earth if their true name is known. However, this power works both ways. If a spirit knows the birth name of a Magician, it can negate his or her powers against it, potentially even turning those powers back upon their owner for devastating results.

In addition, Bartimaeus also wields a range of offensive and defensive spells. They are usually right what they say on the tin.
Detonation: Balls of blue-green fire that explode violently on impact, enough to smash through walls and vaporize human beings.
Plasm: A bolt of force, slightly less flashy than a Detonation, though still as deadly.
Inferno: A ball of fire that simply engulfs as opposed to exploding.
Spasm: A blast that rattles its target, causing it to tear apart.
Compression: A spell that causes its target to implode into a tiny, dense sphere.
Void: A spell that creates a void, sucking its target into nothingness.
(The nature of these spells against physical creatures is fairly 1hitKO, so they will be dialed down. A full-on hit would probably cause a severe burn, whiplash, or paralysis at most.)

Shield: A protective spell to block physical and magical attacks.
Seal: Not unlike a Shield, optimized for doors and other ports of entry.
Flux: An area of effect spell that negates most magical effects.
Pulse: A small sphere sent to roam an area to 'sniff out' magic.
Concealment: A nexus of whispy dark threads that cover its target, hiding it from view.

The Evasive Cartwheel™: I'm sure you can figure out what this is.

WEAKNESSES:
The first and foremost issue about being composed of Essence is that by only Essence can it be healed. Conventional methods such as bandaging and stitching do nothing, the only way spirits are rejuvenated properly is by returning to the Other Place. The most respite that could be achieved on Earth would be a long, trance-like rest.

There are a number of substances that spirits are weakened or injured by. Silver is extremely caustic to their Essence, iron not far off. (Being a spirit of Air and Fire on a ship surrounded by Earth {Metal} and Water will grate on him significantly. Going to tone down his sensitivity to iron, since, well, I don't want him playing Hot Potato with himself 24/7. He won't be by any means comfortable, he just won't be perpetually frying either.) Certain plants have a similar effect, such as rosemary, garlic, and rowan, among other herbs.

A loss of consciousness causes a spirit's concentration to break and their form to return to the dishwatery substance of which they are composed, which tends to be inopportune and embarrassing for most parties involved.

Prolonged service on earth will continually wear down on a spirit's strength, leading to a perpetual ache. Changing forms will temporarily relieve this pain, but it cannot be fully extinguished without returning to the Other Place.

A spirit, no matter how resilient, cannot resist a summoning by a magician: a process involving the construction of complex pentacles with runes and spoken incantations that take years of practice to perfect. Once summoned, a spirit is bound to do its master's bidding or risk punishment or death, and will not be released until its task is complete. Being a fairly challenging and universe-specific weakness, it should not be an issue unless a castmate is present.

Magicians normally have an arsenal of spells to rend Essence and destroy spirits with, in such flavors as the Systematic Vice, the Punitive Jab, the Inverted Skin, and the Shrivelling Fire. Lacking castmates, any sort of magical bolt of energy or fire would be dangerous to his Essence.


POSSESSIONS: Absolutely nothing.


samples.
JOURNAL ENTRY SAMPLE:
[the feed kicks on rather disorientingly, halfway through a wild clatter across the floor, video blurring and flashing, compass clanging, chain tinkling, before skidding to a halt beside a crate. what it catches now is a young, shirtless boy smoothing the shock of black hair from his eyes with one hand, massaging his chest with the other. he seethes in mild discomfort, and a twist of the shoulder as he approaches it once more displays a roughly compass-sized burn nestled beneath a collarbone.]

Collared right out of the gate! What is the world coming to? Rude is nothing, this is just unbelievable! How did you even--

[the voice is indignant, outright upset, and far deeper than the frame would suggest. the boy comes closer, still keeping a healthy distance, furrowing his brow in contempt for the small disc and wrinkling his nose as if it smelled of eggs. crouching, he extends a careful toe to catch the broken necklace chain and drag it close, leaning over the screen.]

Pity the imp trapped in this thing.

[a flick of the sharp black eyes over the compass face before a prod with a pinkie finger that abruptly ends the feed.]

THIRD-PERSON SAMPLE:
The telltale tug of the summons had not been felt, the hook beneath his would-be breastbone so inconspicuous, his transfer from the Other Place went nearly unnoticed. There was neither a force to resist nor succumb to, no sensation of being drawn through a drinking straw from behind and shot down a plughole into the sewers of the material world.
He simply was.
And he was simply indecent.
Coalescing his Essence quick as you'd like, he ratcheted through his list of rapidfire guises. The summons was weak and fleeting, but so utterly commanding, it was difficult to judge whether it was the work of a struggling child or a subtle master of his craft. And there were two different guises to the ends of that sliding scale. In the end, he decided to go for the respectable, yet intimidating. A resounding clap of thunder and a plume of smoke, a touch of bravado, the snarling head of a lioness¹ manifested itself upon a tall, broad expanse of shoulder, swathed in hides and cloths and jangling bits of teeth and bone ground to a shine. Claws gripped at the floor, muscles rippled as he sank to his haunches in the center of the pentacle to gaze upon his unfortunate master through piercing, slitted eyes and--
Now hold on.
He slid out a nail, a tentative, tendony hand ran along the heady steel; as uncomfortable as it was to be perched on a deck of iron alloy, it wasn't nearly as unsettling as the lack of pentacle beneath his feet. They skittered along it, clicking, digging in, bearing down, scraping along with the horrid sound of a thousand violated blackboards in the vague curiosity that it may have somehow been beneath a coat of paint. Such investigations yielded nothing but an Essence slightly jellied by the shriek of claw on metal.
Bartimaeus paused.
An experimental step.
An experimental reach...
And with no boundary to speak of, he bounded forward with a mighty roar, eyes swiveling for the source of his summons. They hadn't have gone far--Magicians rarely could--and after explaining exactly how he'd managed to summon a djinni without the use of a pentacle or summoning device², he would swiftly learn exactly how stupid the decision had been, and then cease to make any sort of decision ever again shortly after...
But there was no one.
Pouncing upon the nearest pile of ropes to stop him from swapping cooling feet on the iron like a desert lizard, he turned, surveying what appeared to be the deck of a massive metal ship, sloshing in the middle of the open sea. A shiver at the mere sight, a touch of dread beginning to ball in the pit of his stomach.
No one to summon him meant no one to send him home.
No one to summon meant no one to command him.

This was bound to be interesting...
―
¹ Manes, no matter how impressive, have proven consistently overrated and problematic.
² Any sort of magical artifact with that kind of kick tended to leave traces. Mostly the stench. And the lingering heebie-jeebies.