ABRAM KONSTANTIN ZIMA
Old man (endearing)
Red king (somewhat archaic)
PLACE OF BIRTH
The Reach, Rodina
New Order Priest
Bandit lord (formerly)
This is the story of a man known as the Red king, one of the worst criminals the reach had ever seen in quite some time. Some say he was born of darkness, others, that he was simply brought into being through pure hatred and wickedness. He was a man who supposedly knew nothing of the words mercy, compassion, or humanity, only power and survival of the fittest. He was a prince, born to the the then bandit king of the reach; Maksimilian Zima. He taught his son of power and fear, savagely cruel brutality, but his mother.... his mother, Alisa, taught him temperance and integrity, honor and kinship. That when he became the new king, everyone he ruled, the young and old, that they were family, sons and daughters, uncles. She ingrained this into him, the one saving grace that kept him away from the lip of the abyss his father had fell into long ago.
But he was still a bad person, he did bad things. He stole, he lied, cheated, murdered forcibly coerced people to do things his way. But it was all for a reason; survival. Not just for himself, but his family, the people he ruled over when it was his turn to become the new red king. He fought and bled for his men and they in turn, fought harder, not out of fear but respect and adoration. The people of the reach, they saw him as a scourge, a demon, a pox upon their lands and no one could touch him. The man was powerful, his men were powerful they were an army in their own right. The only thing that really stopped them from causing damage, carnage and chaos on a wide scale was the combined force of the seven stars of Rodina, the threat they posed and that of Abram's only singular need to keep his family alive and well. The need to take what only needed to be taken, maybe a little more.
Sometimes someone was stupid enough to attack him, they'd kill his men, injure the creatures, the wyverns he raised and trained and this would enrage him. A man like Abram enraged, was a literal sight to behold, he was as fearsome as a volcanic eruption and as cruel as a frozen wasteland. Many people died, none peacefully, at his hands, at the hands of a man once known as a walking disaster.
A walking disaster that was brought down by an old man. A man that was the direct opposite of Abram. If Abram was an all-consuming raging inferno, this man was a deep ocean of water, vast and endless. Nothing he could do had any affect, blows were turned, blasts were dissolved, seething frustration and hatred gripped Abram as he shouted, cursed and screamed at a man who regarded him in much the same way a parent would of a child throwing a tantrum. He was at his wits end as he demanded to know why he put his nose in where it wasn't wanted, where he came from. Why, why, why!?
The answer he got was simple and succinct that in his rage, he took no consideration in the damage he caused around him. That while he killed the focal point of his aggression, an unfortunate man who had attacked and killed several of Abram's men in a bid for glory and heroism. He had hurt a child. The man's grandchild and as he lay there exhausted and beaten, the dread set in not of the potential retribution but...that he had hurt someone that rightfully didn't deserve it and his thoughts turned towards....how many more he had hurt in the past through his terrible rages.
The realization of it hit him hard, like a bag of wet cement to the sternum. He wasn't as much a monster as some initially thought, seeing him on his knees, arms too weak to hold up, tears running across his face, all because he had hurt someones grandchild. All because he had hurt so many more people, their children and their grandchildren, mothers and fathers. People who were in the wrong place at the worst possible time and it was all his fault.
All around him, Abram could see his own family, hurt, dead or dying and it struck a somber chord within him. He was getting old, weathered and grey, the life of a bandit was... it had lost some of it's luster, the excitement of fighting for survival to ensure his family had food on their plates, blankets for their beds, the red king had lost, not just the battle, but the war. He was old, he knew it and this man, as old as he was, showed him kindness, patience and integrity where most would have simply killed him, claimed the bad guy was dead and moved on with their lives.
But he was given a second chance, a shot at righting some of his own wrongs, not as a man of fists but a man of the cloth as odd as that sounds. The old man found out Abram had a knack for words of encouragement, little spurts of wisdom. So he helped get him situated into the role of a priest in Rodina's New Religion, to offer guidance and wisdom to those that require it and a helping hand to those on their last thread.
Here he is 30 years later, a grouchy old man and the now current head of Kostra's temple, dispensing words of the wise with the occasional bit of sass and cantankerous grumbling on the side.
Abran Konstantin Zima is not what most people would think of when they consider a man of the cloth. He's a grouchy, irritable, ball of spite that couldn't give two squirts of piss about his position, or his place in the hierarchy of things, but his obligation to an old...acquaintance, a debt if you will, a favor even, sees him placed in this position of responsibility much to his chagrin but he grins and bears it as best he can. He's well-adjusted. scarily intelligent and wise, maybe a bit of a chip on the shoulder and he most certainly wouldn't miss a chance to mouth off at some uppity little shits that got on his nerves. But he's a good man at heart, even if he acts like a world class asshole ninety percent of the time.
He treats his close friends like family, like the sons and daughters he never in his life had the pleasure of having. His virtues are loyalty and integrity. Through thick and thin, he'll have your back, he'll die for, or with you - it is a matter of principles, he would never abandon someone, anyone, for any reason what so ever. He has few friends now. He's an old man, coarse as sandpaper, rough and doesn't interact with people much these days, preferring his own company and a bottle of screech. But anyone that treats him like an equal, that doesn't see him as some dusty bag of bones. They'll have a gruff, old, father-like figure to look up to weather they like it or not.
Abram is not an easy person to get mad, grouchy, maybe, but well and truly pissed off at someone? It takes a lot of prodding. The man is a lot like a grouchy iceberg, slow, plodding, deliberate and of course, rude. But when he's angry, well and truly furious with someone, he's like a volcano - loud, intense, absolutely terrifying, but mostly harmless as he sees intimidation as a way to stop a fight before it begins. But when someone hurts his friends....his family? a cruel side emerges, the red king emerges. This side of Abram is something of a monster, cruel and clinical, he teaches the object of his hatred a lesson in what a messy, terrible, thing it is to kill a man, and then show them that he, this kind, if highly grouchy old man, relishes in it. But it's a display like a lions roar, or a gorilla thumping at his chest, a display taken to horrifying extremes in an attempt to get the point across that he will go to any means necessary to keep his family safe, even if it means diving into the abyss
Red with swirling motes of black in the middle.
Bang (One Punch Man)
An old man, weathered and wrinkled with age, this is what people see and think of when they meet Abram Konstantin Zima, a venerable man in his early seventies possessed of pale, ice blue eyes a bushy mustache and stark white hair. His features are sharp, angular and hard, yet supremely expressive while his frame is wiry and tough, leathery and scarred, the body of a man who's quite frankly seen and done some shit in the past. Abram's has less body fat than normal, as well as being slightly taller than the average, especially for someone his age, but he attributes that to exercise and healthy eating.
He's somewhat tall, an inch above six foot two, making him look just a little bit lean, with a physique that could be best described as wizened and serene. Abram's hands are rough and leathery, hardened with ages of use and thick knobby callouses, yet possesses a surprising gentleness to them, a certain subtleness that almost seems out of place. His choice of clothing is a relatively plain, black long sleeved shirt, slightly baggy on his frame with no discernible markings; nothing special that would make it stand out and a pair of off the rack, white sweat pants, also baggy upon his frame, with a simple pair of white and black slip on martial artists shoes. He has a traditional outfit of the new order's priesthood but prefers his simpler garb to it and only rarely wears it when prodded to do so.
Nothing special here, just a hipflask with some very potent moonshine quality alcohol in it. Could strip the scales off a stumpthumper!
Martial arts master
Abram's has studied and practiced martial arts since the day he could walk and talk. The range of his knowledge doesn't extend that far past a few styles of kung fu, karate, Jeet kune do and Rodinian martial arts, of which he's mastered. While he doesn't always show the full scope of his knowledge all the time, he's surprisingly proficient in their usage, if not utterly brilliant in that he can still go head to head with the so-called best of them.
It may come as a bit of a surprise but Abram's knows a thing or two about medicine. Being who he was in the past, he learned all he could and more about herbal treatments and natural medicines, both human and arcuul to keep himself and others in fit form and top fighting condition.
Abram's is actually good at leading people, a professional with words and...other, forms of coercion to get people to do what needs to be done. Weather it be for his own gain or the gain of others around him, he knows what to say, what buttons to poke or which eyes to dot to get the appropriate reaction out of people. After all, you didn't get to lead one of the largest groups of bandits in the reach by being polite and offering cake each chance you got.
Muddy palms style
Operating on similar principles to the stone hands form AND Neshny put, yet taking none of either into it's own form, this style, new in it's own right, is characterized by it's ability to embrace, catch and turn attacks away; be they at range or in melee. He doesn't stop at diffusing an attack, he captures it, harmonizing and suffusing his own ki and energy with that of the attack while hardening his own body to endure, before turning it away harmlessly or back at his aggressor, effectively utilizing their own force against them. The style is characterized by slow deliberate movement, almost sluggish in it's nature, yet patient, with sudden bursts of speed and power.
Weight of the world
Heavy and thick, weight of the world is a rather unconventional ki attack. Projected as a blast, like a simple bolt of ki, the attack itself does no damage, being rather harmless in respect to physically harming a target what it does do however is weigh you down. Each hit doubles the targets weight, slowing them down, making them feel the weight of their own world grow with each strike. Heavier and heavier, until they can't move under their own power anymore. It's simple, effective and in the right hands absolutely capable of incapacitating someone without physically harming them.
the gentle way. A peaceful martial arts style emphasizing pressure points, holds, and a pacifistic philosophy. Abram is a master of the art, with an impressive understanding of the style itself, allowing him to non-lethally disable a person in a myriad of ways. His favorite being the complete, albeit temporary shut down of nerve and muscle impulses to the arms and legs.
The Stygian fang is Abram's signature attack and generally, it looks like a simple finger beam shot from the index and forefinger of either hand and therein lies the trap. The Stygian fang is an absolutely powerful attack that Abram can alter in how the beam is focused, allowing it to either hit like a laser, piercing through the target with expert precision, or a slightly wider beam that batters and slams with brute force, blowing the target along with it.
The old man is insanely fast despite his apparent old age. Having long ago attained a great understanding and, subsequent mastery of the ability to move with inhuman bursts of speed. The speed of his movement and the frequency of how many times he moves leaves after-images in his wake, numerous visual impressions so vidid and tangible, that it almost seems like he's cloned himself. He's a fast one and proves without a shadow of a doubt, that looks can he incredibly deceiving.
Reihado-ken stone hands
Abram's version of stone hands is referred to by some, and foolishly at that, as perfection. The literal tip of what one can achieve. But Abram is always refining and advancing it, little by little improving and bettering it each day.
Abram's skill and mastery is such that he can manipulate his own cells, rejuvenating and refreshing them to the point where he was at the prime point of his power.
As such, he gains a massive boost in strenth and overall power, his body glistening a faint metallic red, with streaks of obsidian black as his body becomes impossibly hard, harder than what a normal practitioner could accomplish. He can brush off basic forms of attack, barely noticing them and even advanced forms of attack have an incredibly difficult time making a dent. He's a literal monster when he's pumped up to this point, as he, the old man, exerts his full force against someone or something that deserves the sound beating they're about to recieve.
The form itself however is tiring to maintain, forcing his body to return to the prime point. Meaning he can maintain it for half an hour, an hour, if he really pushes and squeezes out those little droplets of power.