Post by shroudb on Oct 15, 2014 12:56:10 GMT -7
Name:
Aran Ivae'ess
Notes:
Despite starting out as an inspired blade, Aran is to be made an investigator (empyrisist) from lvl2 and onwards. Trying to make him a complete skillmonkey-support (although support will require a few levels first till he gets his extracts rolling), but still not completly useless in combat.
Description:
Aran is a thin elf, usually dressed in bulky earthen-colored clothes. He has his hood pulled up, covering his brown hair and non-distictive face. An acidic alchemical smell is usually embeded deep within his garments, but his rapier, and it's waist sheath, are kept in pristine condition. He speaks slowly, and usually on point, trying to his best to his capabilities to not add embelisments to his words. When he considers himself to be among friends, he speaks the truth, as he sees it, blantly and harshly, but he is no stranger to manipulate those he deems unworthy, usually using their own lies against them.
Background:
Once gain, this came out rather long, I do enjoy writing long passages for my characters.
If you need a TL;DR for him instead, just say the word and i will write one.
Aran Ivae'ess
Notes:
Despite starting out as an inspired blade, Aran is to be made an investigator (empyrisist) from lvl2 and onwards. Trying to make him a complete skillmonkey-support (although support will require a few levels first till he gets his extracts rolling), but still not completly useless in combat.
Description:
Aran is a thin elf, usually dressed in bulky earthen-colored clothes. He has his hood pulled up, covering his brown hair and non-distictive face. An acidic alchemical smell is usually embeded deep within his garments, but his rapier, and it's waist sheath, are kept in pristine condition. He speaks slowly, and usually on point, trying to his best to his capabilities to not add embelisments to his words. When he considers himself to be among friends, he speaks the truth, as he sees it, blantly and harshly, but he is no stranger to manipulate those he deems unworthy, usually using their own lies against them.
Background:
Once gain, this came out rather long, I do enjoy writing long passages for my characters.
If you need a TL;DR for him instead, just say the word and i will write one.
The drab-clothed elf's right hand never stopped moving, writing, as his left one grabbed the tin cup that was laying on the desk, swiftly bringing it to his soar throat, gulping down hungily a swig of water and letting it back on it's resting place. He quickly returned his attention back to his report and the pile of discarded papers that were sprawled on top his desk. All of their annotations, proving that he was close to finishing it. With a sigh, Aran monographed the paper and stood up.
The noise from the bar downstairs, like a constant buzzing etched deep inside his mind, was getting to him, distracting him. He gulped another swig from his cup and spat on the ground, trying to get the bitter taste of Allnighter out of his mouth, but to no avail. How many days has it been since he started working on this damn case he wondered, how many days has he been taking the damn medicine, allowing him to keep awake sure, but it felt like it was eating his brain from the inside. He spat again, this time cursing the tenants of the sloppy tavern for their noise, for their part in his misery.
He looked at the plain, rusted piece of metal that served as a makeshift mirror. “Aran Ivae'ess” he barked at his reflection. “Lightbringer. Heh, if only my family would see the state of their prized son, one of the Light, now spending his days inside a moldy room with stale air. Wasting his years by doing the exact same thing day after day, night after night.” There was no light to be found in the end of the tunnel, and the irony wasn't lost to him.
With a swift motion he unsheathed his rapier, a single flick of the wrist and it stabbed right in the heart of the wooden training dummy, as he backflipped, light shone in his right hand, as if directed towards the eyes of his imaginary enemy. A dagger appeared instantly on his other hand, and flew right into the forehead of the dummy. Precision, studied movements, practiced techniques, all embedded in the young elf's motions. “Precision” He muttered, “Precision and Truth, that's what threw me into this mudhole, into this decadent life...”
His mind went back. Back to the woods, to his village, to the sun. Back when things were simpler, and smiles abudant. Back when family and teachers together praised him for his intellect, for his preceptive mind, for his quick wit. He never was one completely devoted to their principles, to the Sun and to the Light. Always inquiring, always probbing, always searching for the reason behind, and for the clues within. Trying to figure out both how, and why things worked. He was sent to Rook, for him to learn about equality, and for him to study the arts of magic and alchemy in the renowned University. And so he did. He was drawn more to philosophy than to the Arts, into the science of 'Why' rather into the arcane workings. Philosophy was a useful tool, a way to understand and a weapon to be wielded against the foggy generalizations of 'Because'. Those too, were good days. His mind sharp as his blade, cutting through the teachings, questioning authorities, learning by experience rather than word of mouth. Alchemy too, a precise science, a science that spoke within him with it's subtle nuissances and formulas, something beautiful, something that if you tampered with even a bit, it could drive a man insane. Beautiful calculations flowing one behind another till they would reach a conclusion. There was the messy part of alchemy too, bombs and grenades, ugly things of noise and not-precision. Those he disdained, those marred his beautiful art and so he chose to ignore.
But in the Rook he also learned of other things. He also learned about the slums, about people that shared the same sun, but not the same fate and treatment. About lies and dishonesty in every single sentence of people. Philosophy taught him to question everything, and when he did, his life shattered. The ideal world that his parents were talking to him about, the bright sun, the joyful smiles, all proven to be lies within the sour reality of poverty and unequality. And so he chose to remain here, to remain back into the pit of the abyss. To learn the truth behind it, and the reason. And to craft a blade strong enough to sent it back, if such a thing would be possible. Those last years, have taught him how foolish this endeavor is, even within the so called city of equality, even in the cradle of Voting, truth would never be allowed to exist.
His thoughts returned to the case in hand. Another missing person case, another desperate cry for help from a poor woman searching for her husband. He usually found them, stabbed in the back in some backalley of the slums, or sprawled in filthy mattresses, like lifeless living dead, their eyes wandering in the horizon, lost from the drug abuse. Sometimes it was even easier, a simple question pointing him towards the nearest brothel, and there was the husband, usually alive, always pennyless. But this time, and the recent times before it, it was always the same. A fate much worse than drugs and hookers, a fate even worse than death itself. “Lost in the Mist”. How could he possibly bring such news to a poor family without him being a hundred, a million, percent certain. Certain, that something worse than death has punched them in the teeth.
He slowly walked out of the inn and towards the poor widow's house, for as a widow she was to be known from this day forward. He gave her his sealed report without speaking a word. Her dead eyes telling him that she knew what was inside it without even opening the letter. His feet took him upon the walls, his gaze drifting into the horizon as the sun slowly disappeared. In the distance, miles away, his sharp eyes could barely perceive the Mist slowly descending. His lips went white as he clenched his jaw. Slowly, he picked up a peddle from the ground, focusing all of his born talent into it, making it shine brighter than ever, as he flung it towards the coming darkness his voice was but a whisper “There shall be Light, this I, a son of Ivae'ess, of the Lightbringers, I swear”
His eyes drifted to the road beneath, a group of riders were leaving the city, armed to the teeth, riding towards the Mist. He knew what had to be done. He backtracked the path of the mercenaries back to their starting point, towards a loud tavern known as The Golden Plow. “First we need to find the beginning, then we procceed” lessons from his university days pouring into his thoughts as he ordered a tankard of beer. Sword in sheath, mind in the ready, eyes darting around, searching for the starting point to end the darkness.
The noise from the bar downstairs, like a constant buzzing etched deep inside his mind, was getting to him, distracting him. He gulped another swig from his cup and spat on the ground, trying to get the bitter taste of Allnighter out of his mouth, but to no avail. How many days has it been since he started working on this damn case he wondered, how many days has he been taking the damn medicine, allowing him to keep awake sure, but it felt like it was eating his brain from the inside. He spat again, this time cursing the tenants of the sloppy tavern for their noise, for their part in his misery.
He looked at the plain, rusted piece of metal that served as a makeshift mirror. “Aran Ivae'ess” he barked at his reflection. “Lightbringer. Heh, if only my family would see the state of their prized son, one of the Light, now spending his days inside a moldy room with stale air. Wasting his years by doing the exact same thing day after day, night after night.” There was no light to be found in the end of the tunnel, and the irony wasn't lost to him.
With a swift motion he unsheathed his rapier, a single flick of the wrist and it stabbed right in the heart of the wooden training dummy, as he backflipped, light shone in his right hand, as if directed towards the eyes of his imaginary enemy. A dagger appeared instantly on his other hand, and flew right into the forehead of the dummy. Precision, studied movements, practiced techniques, all embedded in the young elf's motions. “Precision” He muttered, “Precision and Truth, that's what threw me into this mudhole, into this decadent life...”
His mind went back. Back to the woods, to his village, to the sun. Back when things were simpler, and smiles abudant. Back when family and teachers together praised him for his intellect, for his preceptive mind, for his quick wit. He never was one completely devoted to their principles, to the Sun and to the Light. Always inquiring, always probbing, always searching for the reason behind, and for the clues within. Trying to figure out both how, and why things worked. He was sent to Rook, for him to learn about equality, and for him to study the arts of magic and alchemy in the renowned University. And so he did. He was drawn more to philosophy than to the Arts, into the science of 'Why' rather into the arcane workings. Philosophy was a useful tool, a way to understand and a weapon to be wielded against the foggy generalizations of 'Because'. Those too, were good days. His mind sharp as his blade, cutting through the teachings, questioning authorities, learning by experience rather than word of mouth. Alchemy too, a precise science, a science that spoke within him with it's subtle nuissances and formulas, something beautiful, something that if you tampered with even a bit, it could drive a man insane. Beautiful calculations flowing one behind another till they would reach a conclusion. There was the messy part of alchemy too, bombs and grenades, ugly things of noise and not-precision. Those he disdained, those marred his beautiful art and so he chose to ignore.
But in the Rook he also learned of other things. He also learned about the slums, about people that shared the same sun, but not the same fate and treatment. About lies and dishonesty in every single sentence of people. Philosophy taught him to question everything, and when he did, his life shattered. The ideal world that his parents were talking to him about, the bright sun, the joyful smiles, all proven to be lies within the sour reality of poverty and unequality. And so he chose to remain here, to remain back into the pit of the abyss. To learn the truth behind it, and the reason. And to craft a blade strong enough to sent it back, if such a thing would be possible. Those last years, have taught him how foolish this endeavor is, even within the so called city of equality, even in the cradle of Voting, truth would never be allowed to exist.
His thoughts returned to the case in hand. Another missing person case, another desperate cry for help from a poor woman searching for her husband. He usually found them, stabbed in the back in some backalley of the slums, or sprawled in filthy mattresses, like lifeless living dead, their eyes wandering in the horizon, lost from the drug abuse. Sometimes it was even easier, a simple question pointing him towards the nearest brothel, and there was the husband, usually alive, always pennyless. But this time, and the recent times before it, it was always the same. A fate much worse than drugs and hookers, a fate even worse than death itself. “Lost in the Mist”. How could he possibly bring such news to a poor family without him being a hundred, a million, percent certain. Certain, that something worse than death has punched them in the teeth.
He slowly walked out of the inn and towards the poor widow's house, for as a widow she was to be known from this day forward. He gave her his sealed report without speaking a word. Her dead eyes telling him that she knew what was inside it without even opening the letter. His feet took him upon the walls, his gaze drifting into the horizon as the sun slowly disappeared. In the distance, miles away, his sharp eyes could barely perceive the Mist slowly descending. His lips went white as he clenched his jaw. Slowly, he picked up a peddle from the ground, focusing all of his born talent into it, making it shine brighter than ever, as he flung it towards the coming darkness his voice was but a whisper “There shall be Light, this I, a son of Ivae'ess, of the Lightbringers, I swear”
His eyes drifted to the road beneath, a group of riders were leaving the city, armed to the teeth, riding towards the Mist. He knew what had to be done. He backtracked the path of the mercenaries back to their starting point, towards a loud tavern known as The Golden Plow. “First we need to find the beginning, then we procceed” lessons from his university days pouring into his thoughts as he ordered a tankard of beer. Sword in sheath, mind in the ready, eyes darting around, searching for the starting point to end the darkness.
