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Discussion in 'Citizens' started by Ozma, Nov 19, 2018.

  1. Ozma

    Ozma RWBY

    Crystal Vales
    Human V1.0
    Neutral Good
    I once told you I made more mistakes than any man, woman or child on this planet. I wasn't exaggerating.

    Played by Jack

    Fandom: RWBY
    Age: Appears in his mid-20's. Actually at least 1000 - perhaps even older.
    Species: An "original" human from before Remnant was Remnant
    Gender: Male
    Canon Point: Volume 3, Episode 12. Mid-battle with Cinder, but before his death.
    Also has pertinent recent memories from his original life as Ozma​
    NPC Companions: He considers his immortality a very unwanted, but persistent companion


    • Ozma's most glaring ability, and the one he hates most of all, is his cursed immortality. For as long as humanity is flawed and corrupt, he is destined to continue reincarnating after his deaths, invading the body of a stranger with a similar mind to his own and essentially melding with their psyche to form a new, slightly altered version of himself. This process is not immediate, and can take months or years depending on the individual he takes over, but in the end, Oz always fuses with their being and becomes the dominant soul of their body.

    IN PANDORA Ozma's immortality has taken on a new quality more reminiscent to that of Salem, in that he is no longer able to die at all. When fatal damage is dealt to his body, Oz will regenerate just enough to continue living but, unlike Salem, his injuries are not healed fully. As a result, while he cannot be killed, he can certainly be incapacitated or severely hurt by attacks.

    AS OF SEPTEMBER, YEAR 109 the exact state of Oz's immortality is unknown, but all indications suggest that it no longer applies.​


    • Unlike the humans of Remnant, who must rely on artificial means such as Dust to perform magic, to Ozma, it is an innate talent. In his present form, his power was intense enough to raise him to the status of living legend even as a relatively young man.
      • Oz has substantial control over the basic elements of the world. He can summon and wield fire, water, air or earth with relative ease, though this isn't necessarily the most natural state of his magic.
      • Oz can manipulate space on a dimensional level. He can create his own gateways that serve as doors into other dimensions or, in Pandora, other parts of the world. This is not an easy power for him to use, and he's quite reserved about it. If Oz wants to travel rapidly between areas, he's much more likely to simply teleport.
    • FLIGHT
      • He can fly. It's a bit hard to make it much clearer than that. It's not always graceful and it can be hard to keep his balance, so Oz typically only uses this as a show of force, or for increased maneuverability during battle.
      • Oz can generate extremely powerful shields with his magic. These are not foolproof, but they are extremely difficult to break through for the average individual. He's extremely talented on this front, and has spent many centuries perfecting it.
      • With mere force of will, Oz can manipulate the world around him. He can lift and move objects easily, and can even catch and crush large enemies with a wave of his hand. For the most part, his use of this power is demure and reserved for drawing objects towards or away from him. The only time he will use it offensively is if someone else insists.
      • In some ways he's ashamed of this, but the truth is that Oz's most natural state of magic is extremely volatile. He's inclined to destructiveness, and it is this aspect of his magic that comes most easily to him. Generally speaking, his magic in this natural form takes on a green hue and often resembles little more than a flash of light. It is with this power specifically that Oz can quite easily bring a kingdom down on his own head, or fight insurmountable odds alone.
    • Although he's not quick to be reduced to such things, Ozma is a remarkable fighter. He has centuries of experience under his belt, fighting in a wide variety of bodies, with a wide variety of styles. In general, he tries to avoid physical altercations, but the worst mistake one can make is to assume he does so because he can't.


    • Ozma is old. Older than old. He has lived through and forgotten more than most people will ever see in their lives. As a result, it is extremely difficult to present him with a situation that he has never had to handle before. Part of what makes him appear as wise and saintly as he does is the very simply reality that Ozma has seen it all already.


    • Even as a generic human being, Ozma was a renowned warrior, and also an incredibly clever man. Over the many centuries he has been alive, this cleverness has blossomed into an unquestionable intellect. There are few subjects that Oz has not studied at one point or another, and although he does not have an eidetic memory, he does tend to recall more than enough to get himself by in a tough spot.

    • Approximately four feet tall, with a green gem fixed to its top, Ozma uses his staff as a conduit for his magic. A bit like how a modern-era wizard might use a wand. The staff allows him to concentrate and focus his power into action, and although he's capable of casting without it, it's definitely much easier to use the staff. He's also quite skilled at using it as a melee weapon. The staff is much better at containing and directing his magic than his cane - which was never designed to withstand Ozma's full magical ability.
    • As of November, Year 109 the staff was irreparably damaged during Ozma's conflict with Salem. Though he has kept the pieces, repairing it is still a long, long ways off (if it's possible at all)
    Long Memory
    • With his staff out of commission, Ozma's weapon of choice is his cane. Aside from being collapsible, it presents itself as an altogether demure weapon, especially when compared to those used by the huntsmen and huntresses he associates with. However, it is extraordinarily resistant to damage, and may contain additional tricks that he chooses not to use in anything less than the most dire of circumstances. It is much less efficient as a conduit for his magic when compared to his staff, however, Oz is more comfortable wielding Long Memory after so long. He's just... working on channeling his magic through it without wreaking havoc.
    The Relic of Knowledge
    • Given by Yang Xiao Long to Qrow Branwen, who then gave it to Ozma, this is his most precious possession in Pandora. Contained within the ornate lamp is the Spirit of Jinn, a being of endless knowledge, who is obliged to answer three questions every century. One of these questions has already been used by Oz in the last hundred years, and it is his worst fear that someone will seize the Relic and ask Jinn about him, as she is the only creature alive who has the truth to all the lies he's told for the last thousand years. Luckily (or unfortunately), Jinn's knowledge is limited to Remnant and its inhabitants. As a result, she would be unable to answer any questions pertaining to Pandora or it's current residents.
    • It is worth noting that Oz will kill to keep Jinn's existence a secret, and to keep the Relic in his possession, though not without exhausting every other avenue first. Stealing the Relic is a very good way to push him to lash out at almost anyone.

    • While he no longer will reincarnate while he dwells in Pandora, Ozma is still plagued by immortality that is, in his opinion, even worse than the curse he's lived with until now. Namely because, while he cannot suffer fatal wounds, Oz can still be severely injured - the only damage that will heal immediately would be anything immediately fatal. If he is stabbed through the heart, for example, the damage to his heart will be healed immediately in order to keep him alive, but the damage to the tissue and flesh around his heart will remain. Similarly, he cannot regrow limbs or heal permanent wounds that are non-life threatening. AS OF SEPTEMBER Y109, Oz does not even know if he is still immortal, which will add a new layer of weakness to him.
    • Ozma may be an extraordinarily powerful mage, but he is not without his pitfalls. His magic is not conducive to traditional spell-casting. He tends to blame this on simply being too powerful for most spells, which is partially true, but Oz also has no real talent for incantations.
    • Unlike many magic users of formidable power, Ozma never received a formal education. Though such schooling was common in the world before Remnant, he was never privileged enough to partake. As a result, there are gaping holes in Oz's magical knowledge that he's filled primarily through trial and error, rendering his magic often a bit more roughshod than another mage's. His go-to when wielding magic is essentially to brute-force it until it works.
    • Although he dislikes it and is rather embarrassed by it, the truth is that Oz's magic is extraordinarily aggressive by nature. His is a destructive force, and despite the immensity of his power, he truly cannot heal worth a damn. At the best of times, Oz may be able to provide very ungraceful, painful half-healing - enough to keep someone alive - but at worst, he is just as likely to accidentally kill someone while trying to save them.
    • Though by personality, Ozma is a relatively placid man who is slow to anger and quick to calm, the same cannot be said for his natural magic. At any given time, Oz compares himself to a bit of a timebomb waiting to go off. Due to how long he has gone without actually using his magic extensively, and how long he's been working with a very, very small fraction of it, he has lost a lot of his natural ability to contain his power. As a result, if he's upset, or startled, or even just too emotional, his magic has the potential to lash out at the world around him... to potentially devastating effect. This is especially damning when combined with the poor ability of Long Memory to fully channel his magic, causing Oz's powers to be all the more unpredictable, even in battle.
    • Whereas, when possessing an incarnation of himself, Ozma is capable of producing and maintaining a powerful aura (the manifestation of one's soul, able to be utilized defensively and offensively), in his natural form he lacks this ability. His magic acts as an aura in its own way, similar but inherently different. Having grown accustomed to using a traditional aura for centuries, not having it has created quite a weak point in Oz's armor, as he still reacts instinctively to danger by calling upon an ability he no longer possesses. His use of magic is not so fine-tuned and automatic.


    • While Ozpin may have been known for his world weary caution, Ozma is quite the opposite. His magic power gives him an often-detrimental sense of self-assurance that can lead to Oz taking stupid, stupid risks with his life. He's still very careful to keep others safe - he just doesn't extend that courtesy to himself.
    • Not necessarily with his enemies, or people he doesn't know, but Ozma is extremely slow to challenge those who he loves. He's more likely to stand aside and bite his tongue if they do something he doesn't like, and depending on just how much he loves them, he's been known to turn a blind eye to genuinely horrific acts. He is not, to put it bluntly, the one wearing the pants in his relationships, and it can lead to chaos depending on who he is with.


    You have a friend who believes that you are an eternal optimist.

    This is a lie, in part.

    You are certainly, regrettably eternal.

    But you are not an optimist.

    Optimism and pessimism are things that you considered for a good few centuries. They are concepts that you have dissected in private and in debate. You have addressed them to the finest minds Remnant has ever seen - men and women who have been dead for so long you can no longer uphold their memories. What did they look like? What did they sound like? How did they stand? What were their beliefs? Why did you ever allow yourself to care for them, knowing what would happen?

    Knowing what always happens.

    You forget these friends, but you carry a part of their legacy forward in your own thoughts and the reshaping of your most fundamental beliefs. Among them, the conviction that optimism and pessimism are fleeting things. To be able to walk forward tirelessly through the centuries, you must ground yourself in stark reality, and reality is not an optimistic place.

    Reality is your mistake. Reality is your unending life. Reality is your unending battle against the one person you do not wish to fight.

    Reality is the implacable knowledge that she cannot be destroyed.

    Reality is that you were not given a gift of immortality.

    Reality is this curse of yours.


    It is that humanity is inherently flawed, and your mission is a farce. For all the good, there will always be ill. As much as you have risen them up at the best of times, so have you watched in horror as humanity has torn themselves back down to their barest bones. And when they do, you cannot turn away, though you suppose you could. It would not be wrong, and you do not believe you would be judged so harshly for it. After all, you've tried. Everything and anything within your power - which used to be as blazing as a contained star - to keep them on the right path. All for naught.

    If you turned away, who could truly say that you were wrong? Is it wrong to become tired? Yours is a wearisome task, and a thankless one.

    But you do not. You cannot. You look away, from time to time. You spend a life now and then, doing something restful and pretending to be little more than a man. You had a fine life of ninety years, once upon a time, pretending to be an artist in the woods. You befriended woodland creatures, and a herd of deer enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed theirs. Then, of course, Salem burned the forest to the ground, and things went back to normal.

    If you had an address, you'd send her a thank-you card for the reminder. Like an ever-present alarm clock.

    Ring-ring, damnation awaits.

    You are not as bitter as you have been in the past. Nor as impatient and reckless. You have learned to take your time. To think. To plan. You have your scouts, and you use them efficiently, and, much to your dismay, callously at times. You send them to do those things that you cannot, but you cannot tell them the whole, heartbreaking truth.

    Humanity, you see, has hope. They need hope, and you... for some reason, even in your darkest hours, you are what they look to in their need. Is it so wrong, to let them believe that they are fighting towards an achievable end? Their lives are little more than tea candles in a window. You give them hope - a little, cheerful fire - and that gets them through.

    When they die, they die with feelings of such accomplishment. Like they have fought the good fight, and they have bettered the cause. They all, whether they die young in Salem's grip, or whether they grow old and weak and they die on a cot with you at their side to ease the way, believe that victory was just around the corner.

    You... how evil are you, really, to keep the truth to yourself? That there is no victory?

    The world is fleeting, and the only constant in your existence is the macabre dance you and Salem perform, year in and year out. Century after century. She breaks your toys and you break hers.

    Squabbling children.

    Change, of course, does come now and then. The roles reverse. The polarities between you change. Sometimes, you are winning. Sometimes, you are losing. Now and then, you end up in each other's grip, and those are the least pleasant deaths of all, but even that.

    Well, Salem can only get so creative, try as she might. How many possible ways is there to torture one person to death?

    You are at four hundred and seventeen. By her hand directly, mind you. And it's getting stale.

    You do not want to have a callous outlook on things. With every new generation of scouts and spies and soldiers, you try to give them precious hope, but you find your reserves are finally getting low. From year to year, you sleep more. Sometimes you sleep less. You disconnect for decades, and then reconnect with searing intensity. You stop consulting Djinn, because you no longer have questions. You no longer want to hear the same, old, sour answers.

    You wish you could ask Salem if she feels the same. Evil, destructive thing that she's become... surely she can't enjoy the soul sucking apathy of eternity? There is no destruction in what you both are. Just the opposite. She, like you, is eternal and enduring. She is everything that she hates, but you don't suppose she sees it that way. You have no way to know anymore.

    Perhaps you could get yourself captured again, just to ask.

    But that's cruel to your side of this endless war. They are always devastated by your so-called defeats. They know that it is never permanent, but humanity... they are fleeting, yes. And every defeat is a terribly bitter thing to them. So perhaps you will not allow yourself to be captured. You'll just stew on the question for a few more centuries. For their sake.

    Children have drawn your attention for a long, long time. You have had your own, here and there throughout the centuries, but that... that is a degree of pain that you will never be masochistic to invite upon yourself ever again. You do not want to look down upon some precious little soul and think, 'I am going to watch you live, and watch you die, and you'll never know the truth of what your father is', and you do not want to allow them to fall to Salem. You hate that worst, you think, because it is when children are introduced that you truly understand how far she has fallen... how impossible it is to ever let her be with the false hope that she, like you, might grow tired of it all and stop.

    Because that is all you want. You just want her to stop. You don't want her to die. You should, and in some ways, some days, you do... but not really. You don't have that kind of hatred in you anymore. It's a tiresome emotion that does not hold up well against the powers of time. You want, at this point, nothing more than a reprieve that is not merely a lull in the never-ending violence between the two of you.

    The children, though. The future great minds. Those fantastic, young, enthusiastic beings who have the most hope of all are what fuels you now. You admire the way they persistently look forward, which you now struggle to do. You love them for their commitment to improving the world around them, and, damn you, you see how easily manipulated they are to join in your hapless, hopeless war.

    That is, after all, what the academies are for. That is why you planted those seeds, almost a century ago, when humanity was done fighting amongst themselves. Again. You whispered in ears and you pushed your pieces into formation, and you are very proud to say, the results were exactly what you were hoping for. Four schools to fortify young minds. Four collections of the strongest huntsmen and huntresses in the known world. Four...


    Four places to hide your secrets.

    Four more lies to tell.

    Four more...

    You wonder, at times, what might await you if you ever do die. Because you doubt, with every passing decision, that you will ever find a paradise. With every flock of fresh-faced warriors you release into the world, watching dispassionately as half of them are cut down in the span of five years, you reflect on what it means to be a monster.

    Salem, for all her evil and her destruction, is at least very open with her pawns about what, exactly, they are to her. She doesn't listen to their woes, or dry their tears, or pretend to be any more than some disconnected, frigid leader. Goddess, she would prefer, you are sure.

    Are you better or worse, for the love you cannot help but have for the children you kill?

    You kill.

    You don't tell them the full truth, but you send them into the thick of it anyway. You tell them half-truths and fill them with false promises that this will all be over soon, if they do what you ask and they do it well. When they are slaughtered doing your will, it hurts. It always hurts, and you know what you'll be on the day that it does not, but you are terrified by the way...

    It hurts, yes, but not very much, and not for very long. Not anymore.

    So. Are you a monster?

    You mull over it to yourself, mostly. You keep up appearances with whoever is closest to you at any given point in time. Even... no. Especially with those with whom you have shared some of your many secrets, because their perception of you is most damning of all. You watch, each and every time you tell your story of half-truths, as their expressions twist into shock. Then amusement, waiting for the punchline of your elaborate joke.

    Then, something curious always happens.

    There is a fork in the road to accepting your strange story. Some veer towards the realm of subdued (or not subdued) hero worship, as they eagerly accept you as some kind of Messiah - destined to magically mend a broken world.

    Others are frightened. Horrified. Angry, at times. They see you as a monstrous, inhuman thing, and you wonder if they are wrong.

    That question used to bloom in your mind only once or twice every century or so, but now it lingers, and with every needless death, it is louder and more pressing. Are you a monster? Are you evil?

    What do those words even mean?

    How many times can one man die, before something vital is stripped away?

    You muse on these things as you continue moving your pieces and playing your game. You muse on these things when you are in the middle of heated arguments, or the fondest moments. You muse on these things when you are, yet again, fighting an unwinnable battle against an enemy you have no hope of killing. Who you desperately do not want to kill.

    An enemy that has been deluded, like every other one, into Salem's vicious service. Who, you know from your own experience, has no option but servitude or death. You always hate her at moments such as these...

    And you continue to muse to yourself as you amass damage. As you slow down. As you realize you are losing, and gratefully wait for the finishing blow to rob you of your senses and your pain for a few glorious moments.

    #1 Ozma, Nov 19, 2018
    Last edited: Oct 25, 2019
    Luciel, Nic and Qrow Branwen like this.
  2. Nic

    Nic Coordinator
    Application Division

    Small Child Wrangler
    Coffee Addict
    your application is

    This most beautiful, tragic human being is good to go.

    You know what to do, Jack!