Yuritz has died! The immunity bacteria in his body were given a holiday in Turquinian Jamaica after working overtime (to be precise, since Yuritz took immortality pills that made him the Eternal King way back when), at just the time that Yuritz's heart decided to have an attack. When I feel like it (fat chance) I will complete his realm info and his biography. Due to his death, everyone involved in the cabbage crisis has mysteriously died, so too has the idea of inter-universal war, and the idea of a united Turquinia (so it has now split into more defined countries that are the same - give or take the usual Turquinian bizarreness - as their real world counterparts. News on Turquinia soon to come...

Seeing as Turquinia is no longer united, countries within Turquinia can now be at war with each other. T. Australia took advantage of that and have attacked T. Indonesia, which defended itself by trowing cabbages left over from the cabbage crisis.

True

Birth Name: Henry Rothko Sinclair
Current name: Sir Henry SInclair

Nationality: British

Current Age:32

Current family: None

Birth Family :
Mother: Olive, Lady Sinclair
Father: The Rt Hon Sir Lord Tobias Sinclair, BSc, SSc
Siblings: 1, Sister, 10 years older, Lucy

Life Purpouse: To seek out and destroy paranormal activity

Percy’s eyes travelled from the grand old mahogany desk adorned with the kind of items that take years to collect, items of a supernatural nature, to the gold-plated name plate written in bold: SIR HENRY SINCLAIR, to the face which the name belonged. It was not an unhandsome face, with skin like soft Italian leather and high cheekbones. Pointed, but full, with a long nose, rounded at the end, and an attractive mouth. Not too hard, not too soft, possibly too thin, and always curled into that mocking half-smile.
Finally, Percy gathered the courage to speak
“S-sir Henry Sinclair?”
Sinclair’s hypnotic round blue eyes moved onto the name plate which beared his name, then back up to the nervous young man in front of him. He gave Percy a ‘look’
“Right, er, yes, of course. The paranormal investigator?”
Again, Sinclair’s eyes began a considerable journey. Over his desk, tracing patterns through the silver bullets, wooden stakes, crucifixes, and pentagrams, then up to the wall on Sinclair’s left, his trophy wall. The deep royal blue-no, purple- eyes, eyes like two small amethysts, the eyes that
said nothing but heard all scanned the memorabilia. Newspaper clippings, a Vampire Lord’s claw (preserved), the stuffed head of the Werewolf of Aldwych, and Dracula, Vlad the Impaler himself’s left fang. Finally, his eyes came to rest on a stack of business cards on which was beautifully inscribed Sir Henry Sinclair- Vampire Hunter and Paranormal Investigator.
He looked back at Percy.
Percy opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent as Sinclair swivelled his grand velvet chair to the right and clasped his left hand over his diamond-tipped ebony cane, like a surgeon would hold a scalpel. He got to his feet.
He stood strongly - clearly not needing the cane – like an immovable mountain.
He wore a long, violet, fur-lined trenchcoat and a purple top hat. Military surplus slacks and a Parisian silk shirt could be seen underneath, and the whole effect was topped off with knee-high black colonial combat boots, the kind which widen out at the knee and have copious amounts of straps buts still manage to look refined. In all, a very odd picture, like a cross between an eccentric prince, toughened mercenary, and an ex-wrestler. It seemed right for his profession.
Moving like a military officer, he strode to the window and looked out on to the city. London. Knightsbridge, to be exact. He briefly marvelled at the smoky city, and how its repetitive uncleanliness managed to look so beautiful.
He turned back to Percy and gestured for him to continue.
“Right, er, Lady Stockwell asked me to give this to you”
He apprehensively stepped forward and handed the man a battered but official-looking letter.
Sinclair finally spoke. His accent was posh but unusual, like all the accents that made up the archetypical British one were taken apart, then combined in a different way. He commanded respect.
“What’s your name, son?”
“S-sludge, m’lord. Percival Sludge”
Sinclair reached into his coat and tossed Percy a guinea. Percy lost what small composure he had as his eyes lit up, and as Sinclair gestured for him to leave, he ran out excitedly, adding as hasty “Thank you, sir”
Sinclair smiled to himself. Perhaps he had been too patronising, but it didn’t matter. The boy would be ecstatic; he would live like a king among his friends for a week. He sat down at his desk and began to read.

-Caleb "Hottie Funbags" Wells
--Then Ares strode out, with shield and spear,
--A mighty warrior to strike fear into our hearts.
--But we just shot him, just like in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
--And all the rest fled.