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Cyrus C. Kincaid
Sun Nov 14, 2021 8:42 pmCyrus C. Kincaid
Basic Character Information
First Name: Cyrus
Middle Name/Initial: C
Last Name: Kincaid
Epithet: Cloudstrider; Rags
Birthdate: May 6th, 1804
Gender: Male
Species/Race/Tribe: Human
Faction: Revolutionary
Profession: Navigator/Entertainer
Physical Appearance
Height: 6'1
Weight: 170lbs
Hair Style: Unkempt (see picture)
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Blue
Scars: Nothing noteworthy
Clothing and Accessories: Cyrus is a rags man, meaning he can often be found in a myriad of various cloaks, coats, jackets or robes. Each are usually stained or in some state of disrepair. These clothes are often loose fitting and provide him with a range of movement that makes him comfortable in almost any situation. His usual attire consists of a long, light-weight, off-white robe that stretches to his ankles. Over that he'll wear a blue tunic with the arms cut out and tied closed with a black, or charcoal grey sash. Then, depending on the climate, he'll wear a shorter, rough-spun brown cloak over his shoulders that reaches to around his knees. This particular cloak is usually reserved for the colder climates as its thick wool material keeps him cold in most temperatures near freezing.
In the warmer areas of the world however, Cyrus gets the chance to break out his favorite piece of clothing, that being his deep purple tassel cloak. This cloak is longer, stretching nearly the same length as his robes, but as it nears the bottom, it begins to split apart into layered tassels or strips that rustle as he runs through the air on his clouds. The sleeves cover his arms and there is a hood that he often wears over his head, though it depends on where he is and just how suspicious he wants to look. Finally, to complete his look are two accessories. The first are the corded sandals he wears on his feet, providing flexibility nearly equal to simply being shoeless, and his leather flute strap, which holds his flute near his waist at all times.
Description: In the world of One Piece, Cyrus is considered short for a human. His frock of messy white hair is striking, but also helps complete his look of a roadside beggar. His entire appearance, from his clothes to the way he carries himself exudes a sense of a man down on his luck and just looking for his next meal; which is exactly how Cyrus wants to appear. In passing, people have mentioned that he is a man with hawkish features, straight and bony. His limbs show some slight athletic muscle definition, but nothing about him would strike a person as imposing. Though his sky blue eyes show several years of worn in smile lines, it's the predatory gaze that he defaults to which people remember most. It seems even when he's telling a tale or laughing over a pint, there's always a sense of being watched, studied and examined by the strange bard.
The Past
Main Traits: Studious; Mischievous; Unassuming, Calculating
Likes: Music; Being outdoors; Discovering new stories; Telling stories
Dislikes: Confined spaces; Bullies; Being interrupted; Cats
Unique laugh: Oji-ji-ji-ji
Hometown: Spider Miles
Personality: Cyrus is a strange, eccentric sort who does as he pleases mostly on a whim. He puts on different facades, or faces as he calls them, depending on what his task at hand calls for. Truth be told, there are times that there's no task involved and he simply feels like being a nobleman for the day. Then again, maybe it's raining so today he'll be a beggar. Perhaps it's the third Wednesday of the month, which means he obviously has to be a second hand line cook, recently laid off and homeless because his mother threw him out after finding him in an awkward position with her body pillow the night before. The fact of the matter is, Cyrus Kincaid is a man who wears many hats, but there is one hat that he keeps on at all times and that is the hat of a performer and master storyteller. Cyrus lives to tell stories and gets a true thrill from collecting new ones.
The roll of a performer allows him to play the entire cast of a call that only he has the list for. Many people find him strange, energetic and sometimes simply draining. They never know exactly what they're going to get when they meet up with the man, but often they inexplicably find themselves drawn into conversing with him. No matter if he reeks of gutter runoff, or just insulted their heffer of a mother, people frequently leave an encounter with Cyrus wondering just why they let him talk to them for so long. Even more dangerous than that, sometimes they wonder what it was about the strange traveling man in rags that made them want to sit and chat for hours. Sometimes it makes them feel free, unburdened by whatever grief, regret or issue they laid before the beggar's feet. Other times it sends a chill down their spine, remembering those hungry, predatory eyes that watched their every twitch and movement as they spoke with him.
Though Cyrus does what he can to avoid confrontation, it seems to always find him one way or another. In those moments, when a fight is inevitable and he simply cannot talk his way out of it, he instead usually leans into it. Meaning that as he deals with whatever burly brute has hunted him down, he'll often sling insults and mockery all the while dancing and trying to avoid any real harm. He works light on his toes, acting more as a nuisance, to both wear his opponent down physically and emotionally, than an actual fighter or combatant. Cyrus is not one to stick around when the getting is good and has no problem leaving a situation if the opportunity presents itself and his goal has been accomplished. Regardless of his goal or mission, he always has one objective in life and that is simply to survive.
- History:
Cyrus was born on the island of Spider Miles to a family of factory workers, not unlike most of the inhabitants. He came from nothing and for much of his life he was nothing. School in Spider Miles was learning the family trade. The only people his own age that he interacted with were the sons and daughters of other workers who he'd see in the factory when his father brought him in to learn or simply help with his own work. He constantly longed for something else, knowing there had to be more to life than just working the line until your body gave out and you were replaced by another eager, young worker hungry for opportunity, but really just hungry in general. He found solace in music and storytelling, picking up the flute, for it was the one instrument his father could roughly hue from driftwood and sound at least mildly similar to the real thing. As for storytelling, so long as the workers continued their work, their overseers didn't care much if they talked to one another. So Cyrus began collecting stories as he toiled away in the factories, he'd trade fables for real life accounts of better days.
He enjoyed telling stories just as much as he did collecting them. The joy it brought, the burden it lessened from an old, tired man's shoulders was something that brought him immense pleasure. As his pleasure for storytelling grew though, so too did his disdain for the people that oversaw their work. They treated the workers no better than animals. Words cut as deep as the whips and barbed prods they used when someone fell behind or dared to take a momentary pause to massage their aching wrists. There was no love in the hearts of their superiors and so Cyrus returned the feeling. He sought a better life, an escape from this material hell that had become his day to day. When his parents passed, one year apart, their bodies broken and bent from years of manual labor he decided that he had had enough. Cyrus resolved to not end up like them, to see this world and travel it, collecting all the stories that were rife for the picking.
His opportunity for escape presented itself sooner than he had expected. He hadn't intended to knock over the factory, it had simply happened. The boss of the factory, a man named Deluth, was a cruel barrel of a man and the center of all the hate and abuse that had been inflicted on Cyrus and his coworkers for decades. Cyrus had started to learn the schedule of the factory, when shipments of materials were delivered, when product was picked up and most importantly, when Deluth's cut was delivered. Once the man was done taking a lion's share for himself, he'd pay his cronies and then, whatever few notes trickled down the cracks would be wadded up and stuffed into the hands of the line workers on payday. On one particular day, Deluth's cold, foolish heart got the better of him and, to "teach the underlings a lesson" he withheld pay for the day. Normally, pushing payday one day back wouldn't be the end of the world, but these people lived paycheck to paycheck. Their lives were well oiled machines of dividing the few scraps of money they received and making it last, paying bills at precisely the right time to keep everything running as best they could.
What this change in the timetable meant however, was that the money would be kept in Deluth's office under lock and key in the small wall safe he had installed. The easy part of Cyrus's plan had been getting into the office itself. A quick jump across the roofs and shimmy up the decaying brickwork had been little more than an adrenaline rush. Once inside the office however, the real problem presented itself. That being just how a factory worker with no experience in lock picking was going to break into a safe. Luckily for Cyrus, Deluth was as frugal as he was cruel and a few hard raps on the hinge of the safe with a hand-dandy rock popped the door right open. Cyrus had been genuinely surprise how easily that worked, but didn't waste time thanking whatever powers that be. Instead, he stuffed the fifty-million belli into an old sack and headed back out into the night.
Knowing that if he was still on the island by dawn, his head would be mounted on a pike outside the factory, he made his way to the docks in the cover of night. The only ship not docked and bedded down belonged to the Revolutionary army, a fact he wouldn't find out until he had already paid for his voyage. After some haggling, he booked a spot on their vessel and set sail without a single tear for the smog covered island that had raised him. It was only once he boarded the ship that his true troubles began.
The members of the NRA who had so graciously agreed to give him passage out into the open North Blue, not only grew a fondness for Cyrus and his eccentric stories, but also revealed to him that they had been on Spider Miles searching for a Devil Fruit. Their intel had led them to the island and though they wouldn't confirm whether or not they had discovered the fruit, a little late night sleuthing had all but confirmed for Cyrus that the fruit was not only on the ship but sitting on the captain's desk simply waiting to be tried. Weighing the pros and cons of stealing from armed criminals who could very easily execute him out in the middle of the ocean without a second thought with the possibility of not only having successfully stolen fifty million belli and now potentially a Devil Fruit as well, Cyrus did what any sane, rational person would do in this moment...he flipped a coin.
One tails side later and he found himself with his feet propped up on the captain's desk, Devil Fruit in hand. He inspected the strange thing, curious before taking a greedy bite just as the captain and his first mate entered the chambers. The damage was done, there was nothing they could do to stop him as the chunk of mealy fruit flesh slid down the man's throat. Instead, they offered him a choice, his life or his service. They'd execute him there and then, sinking his body to the bottom of the North Blue, or he could pledge his allegiance to the NRA and serve their objectives with his ill gotten gains. Finding a sudden allergy to death, Cyrus threw his lot in with the NRA and the rest is, as they say, history.
Gray
[tracker=/t131-tracker-gray-starks#504]
Name : Gray
Epithet : "The Conqueror"; "Black Fist"
Age : 49
Height : 10'2" (310 cm)
Weight : 1043 lbs (473 kg)
Species : Cyborg Human
Faction : Pirate
World Position : Lurking Legend (Former Yonkou)
Crew : Black Fist Pirates (Destroyed)
Ship : Sangria's Vane (Destroyed)
Crew Role : Captain (Former)
Devil Fruit : Pressure-Pressure Fruit
Bounty : [ber=r] 5,000,000,000
EXP Bonus : +0.20 (to all allies)
Income Bonus : +0.20
Shop Discount : -30%
Balance : [bel] 25,000,000,000
[[strollingdeath]][[baneoftheweak]][[riseandshine]][[childofdestiny]][[freakofnature]]
[[punchoutguru]][[dulcetvirtuoso]]
[[improviseadaptovercome]]
Posts : 3907
Re: Cyrus C. Kincaid
Wed Nov 17, 2021 8:18 pmYour life or your service - the most difficult easy choice one could make.
Cyrus' love for stories is much like Gray's. Maybe they'll get to trade stories one day.
Approved!
Cyrus' love for stories is much like Gray's. Maybe they'll get to trade stories one day.
Approved!
Kincaid wrote:Cyrus C. Kincaid
Basic Character Information
First Name: Cyrus
Middle Name/Initial: C
Last Name: Kincaid
Epithet: Cloudstrider; Rags
Birthdate: May 6th, 1804
Gender: Male
Species/Race/Tribe: Human
Faction: Revolutionary
Profession: Navigator/Entertainer
Physical Appearance
Height: 6'1
Weight: 170lbs
Hair Style: Unkempt (see picture)
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Blue
Scars: Nothing noteworthy
Clothing and Accessories: Cyrus is a rags man, meaning he can often be found in a myriad of various cloaks, coats, jackets or robes. Each are usually stained or in some state of disrepair. These clothes are often loose fitting and provide him with a range of movement that makes him comfortable in almost any situation. His usual attire consists of a long, light-weight, off-white robe that stretches to his ankles. Over that he'll wear a blue tunic with the arms cut out and tied closed with a black, or charcoal grey sash. Then, depending on the climate, he'll wear a shorter, rough-spun brown cloak over his shoulders that reaches to around his knees. This particular cloak is usually reserved for the colder climates as its thick wool material keeps him cold in most temperatures near freezing.
In the warmer areas of the world however, Cyrus gets the chance to break out his favorite piece of clothing, that being his deep purple tassel cloak. This cloak is longer, stretching nearly the same length as his robes, but as it nears the bottom, it begins to split apart into layered tassels or strips that rustle as he runs through the air on his clouds. The sleeves cover his arms and there is a hood that he often wears over his head, though it depends on where he is and just how suspicious he wants to look. Finally, to complete his look are two accessories. The first are the corded sandals he wears on his feet, providing flexibility nearly equal to simply being shoeless, and his leather flute strap, which holds his flute near his waist at all times.
Description: In the world of One Piece, Cyrus is considered short for a human. His frock of messy white hair is striking, but also helps complete his look of a roadside beggar. His entire appearance, from his clothes to the way he carries himself exudes a sense of a man down on his luck and just looking for his next meal; which is exactly how Cyrus wants to appear. In passing, people have mentioned that he is a man with hawkish features, straight and bony. His limbs show some slight athletic muscle definition, but nothing about him would strike a person as imposing. Though his sky blue eyes show several years of worn in smile lines, it's the predatory gaze that he defaults to which people remember most. It seems even when he's telling a tale or laughing over a pint, there's always a sense of being watched, studied and examined by the strange bard.
The Past
Main Traits: Studious; Mischievous; Unassuming, Calculating
Likes: Music; Being outdoors; Discovering new stories; Telling stories
Dislikes: Confined spaces; Bullies; Being interrupted; Cats
Unique laugh: Oji-ji-ji-ji
Hometown: Spider Miles
Personality: Cyrus is a strange, eccentric sort who does as he pleases mostly on a whim. He puts on different facades, or faces as he calls them, depending on what his task at hand calls for. Truth be told, there are times that there's no task involved and he simply feels like being a nobleman for the day. Then again, maybe it's raining so today he'll be a beggar. Perhaps it's the third Wednesday of the month, which means he obviously has to be a second hand line cook, recently laid off and homeless because his mother threw him out after finding him in an awkward position with her body pillow the night before. The fact of the matter is, Cyrus Kincaid is a man who wears many hats, but there is one hat that he keeps on at all times and that is the hat of a performer and master storyteller. Cyrus lives to tell stories and gets a true thrill from collecting new ones.
The roll of a performer allows him to play the entire cast of a call that only he has the list for. Many people find him strange, energetic and sometimes simply draining. They never know exactly what they're going to get when they meet up with the man, but often they inexplicably find themselves drawn into conversing with him. No matter if he reeks of gutter runoff, or just insulted their heffer of a mother, people frequently leave an encounter with Cyrus wondering just why they let him talk to them for so long. Even more dangerous than that, sometimes they wonder what it was about the strange traveling man in rags that made them want to sit and chat for hours. Sometimes it makes them feel free, unburdened by whatever grief, regret or issue they laid before the beggar's feet. Other times it sends a chill down their spine, remembering those hungry, predatory eyes that watched their every twitch and movement as they spoke with him.
Though Cyrus does what he can to avoid confrontation, it seems to always find him one way or another. In those moments, when a fight is inevitable and he simply cannot talk his way out of it, he instead usually leans into it. Meaning that as he deals with whatever burly brute has hunted him down, he'll often sling insults and mockery all the while dancing and trying to avoid any real harm. He works light on his toes, acting more as a nuisance, to both wear his opponent down physically and emotionally, than an actual fighter or combatant. Cyrus is not one to stick around when the getting is good and has no problem leaving a situation if the opportunity presents itself and his goal has been accomplished. Regardless of his goal or mission, he always has one objective in life and that is simply to survive.
- History:
Cyrus was born on the island of Spider Miles to a family of factory workers, not unlike most of the inhabitants. He came from nothing and for much of his life he was nothing. School in Spider Miles was learning the family trade. The only people his own age that he interacted with were the sons and daughters of other workers who he'd see in the factory when his father brought him in to learn or simply help with his own work. He constantly longed for something else, knowing there had to be more to life than just working the line until your body gave out and you were replaced by another eager, young worker hungry for opportunity, but really just hungry in general. He found solace in music and storytelling, picking up the flute, for it was the one instrument his father could roughly hue from driftwood and sound at least mildly similar to the real thing. As for storytelling, so long as the workers continued their work, their overseers didn't care much if they talked to one another. So Cyrus began collecting stories as he toiled away in the factories, he'd trade fables for real life accounts of better days.
He enjoyed telling stories just as much as he did collecting them. The joy it brought, the burden it lessened from an old, tired man's shoulders was something that brought him immense pleasure. As his pleasure for storytelling grew though, so too did his disdain for the people that oversaw their work. They treated the workers no better than animals. Words cut as deep as the whips and barbed prods they used when someone fell behind or dared to take a momentary pause to massage their aching wrists. There was no love in the hearts of their superiors and so Cyrus returned the feeling. He sought a better life, an escape from this material hell that had become his day to day. When his parents passed, one year apart, their bodies broken and bent from years of manual labor he decided that he had had enough. Cyrus resolved to not end up like them, to see this world and travel it, collecting all the stories that were rife for the picking.
His opportunity for escape presented itself sooner than he had expected. He hadn't intended to knock over the factory, it had simply happened. The boss of the factory, a man named Deluth, was a cruel barrel of a man and the center of all the hate and abuse that had been inflicted on Cyrus and his coworkers for decades. Cyrus had started to learn the schedule of the factory, when shipments of materials were delivered, when product was picked up and most importantly, when Deluth's cut was delivered. Once the man was done taking a lion's share for himself, he'd pay his cronies and then, whatever few notes trickled down the cracks would be wadded up and stuffed into the hands of the line workers on payday. On one particular day, Deluth's cold, foolish heart got the better of him and, to "teach the underlings a lesson" he withheld pay for the day. Normally, pushing payday one day back wouldn't be the end of the world, but these people lived paycheck to paycheck. Their lives were well oiled machines of dividing the few scraps of money they received and making it last, paying bills at precisely the right time to keep everything running as best they could.
What this change in the timetable meant however, was that the money would be kept in Deluth's office under lock and key in the small wall safe he had installed. The easy part of Cyrus's plan had been getting into the office itself. A quick jump across the roofs and shimmy up the decaying brickwork had been little more than an adrenaline rush. Once inside the office however, the real problem presented itself. That being just how a factory worker with no experience in lock picking was going to break into a safe. Luckily for Cyrus, Deluth was as frugal as he was cruel and a few hard raps on the hinge of the safe with a hand-dandy rock popped the door right open. Cyrus had been genuinely surprise how easily that worked, but didn't waste time thanking whatever powers that be. Instead, he stuffed the fifty-million belli into an old sack and headed back out into the night.
Knowing that if he was still on the island by dawn, his head would be mounted on a pike outside the factory, he made his way to the docks in the cover of night. The only ship not docked and bedded down belonged to the Revolutionary army, a fact he wouldn't find out until he had already paid for his voyage. After some haggling, he booked a spot on their vessel and set sail without a single tear for the smog covered island that had raised him. It was only once he boarded the ship that his true troubles began.
The members of the NRA who had so graciously agreed to give him passage out into the open North Blue, not only grew a fondness for Cyrus and his eccentric stories, but also revealed to him that they had been on Spider Miles searching for a Devil Fruit. Their intel had led them to the island and though they wouldn't confirm whether or not they had discovered the fruit, a little late night sleuthing had all but confirmed for Cyrus that the fruit was not only on the ship but sitting on the captain's desk simply waiting to be tried. Weighing the pros and cons of stealing from armed criminals who could very easily execute him out in the middle of the ocean without a second thought with the possibility of not only having successfully stolen fifty million belli and now potentially a Devil Fruit as well, Cyrus did what any sane, rational person would do in this moment...he flipped a coin.
One tails side later and he found himself with his feet propped up on the captain's desk, Devil Fruit in hand. He inspected the strange thing, curious before taking a greedy bite just as the captain and his first mate entered the chambers. The damage was done, there was nothing they could do to stop him as the chunk of mealy fruit flesh slid down the man's throat. Instead, they offered him a choice, his life or his service. They'd execute him there and then, sinking his body to the bottom of the North Blue, or he could pledge his allegiance to the NRA and serve their objectives with his ill gotten gains. Finding a sudden allergy to death, Cyrus threw his lot in with the NRA and the rest is, as they say, history.
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