Sorrow
Feb 6, 2017 19:34:47 GMT -6
Post by Sorrow on Feb 6, 2017 19:34:47 GMT -6
General Information
Name: Sorrow
Class: Yeoman
Age: 1,324 years
Race: Human
Birthday: Unknown
Gender: Male
Nationality: Unknown; Presumably the pre-Lycia region of Elibe
Physical Description
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 170lbs
Build: Athletic
Eye Color: Sky Blue
Hair Color: Ginger/Blonde
Hair Style: Unkempt
Complexion: Fair
Clothing/Armor: Sorrow wears a blue tunic, with white accents. Underneath he wears a long-sleeved white shirt as well as a chainmail tunic of the same length as his blue one, with some leather wrappings on his forearms marked with orange accents. He wears beige pants and brown leather boots that go up to mid-calf. His sword’s sheath is on his back, held in place by several leather straps that are also used to secure his targe (shield) and bow. On his right forearm is a hard leather vambrace and over both hands are black fingerless gloves. A single, silver ring is worn on his right hand - a wedding ring, with no memory of the beloved he was married to.
Personality
Sorrow, in all the experience he had in his previous life, acts almost solely on impulse. While most would use the term ‘impulsive’ in a manner that means he acts instantaneously when presented with a choice, Sorrow takes time, going at a pace that suits the situation in a careful manner. Waking in a tomb with no memory of who he was, what he did, and who his family was forces him into a new life. He has to discover life again, in the truest sense of ‘Nature-vs-Nurture.’ Without memories, he has no basis for choices, his inability to remember the past leaves him without the wisdom that one of his age and experience would usually have. For Sorrow, choices rely solely on nature. He holds very strongly to his emotions, which are the only real thing he can remember. Every experience he has he keeps close to his heart, valuing them highly. He possesses a very strong sense of good and evil, which does allow him a moral standing despite no remembrance of being taught such things. For Sorrow, it is all just instinct.
Battle Scenarios
NPC: [ALT] Sorrow stood silently, watching as the axe-wielding bandit towered over the cowering young lady. “Where’s my payment, sweetie? You know it doesn’t cost much for my protection,” said the brute as Sorrow quietly drew back his bowstring, “but you do know what it costs.” The villain stepped forward, reaching out to grab the woman, when the shaft of an arrow appeared in his hand. Shrieking, the bandit nearly jumped as he stumbled back in pain and held his hand, head turning from side-to-side as he searched for the archer that dare interfere on the woman’s behalf. Sorrow, sword and shield in hand, stood from his crouched position in the tall grasses of the plains. He raised his shield and readied himself as the bandit initiated a rage-induced, adrenaline filled charge.
PC: [ALT] Sorrow and the myrmidon were at an impasse, it seemed. In response to the other man drawing his sword, Sorrow had drawn his own while quickly securing the shield on his left arm. Raising his shield, Sorrow made eye contact with the man, watching and waiting for the myrmidon’s move. If the myrmidon were to attack, he’d use his shield to block and counterattack, carefully watching for an opening to deliver a killing blow. Or, at least, to cause an injury detrimental enough to cause the myrmidon to retreat.
History
Theme of the Man.
Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now, it looks as though they’re here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be.
There’s a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.
Before the war between Man and Dragon was a time of peace. Lost to history, like many others, was a small kingdom. Not significant enough to have more than a small book, but on the fringes of civilization. During that peace, a boy was born in that small kingdom. His family was nothing special in their hierarchy, but the king was generous, schooling all of the children based on the profession they chose. This boy chose the path of a warrior, wielding bow and blade. As he grew, his proficiency in the weapons did too. During his teenage years, he fell in favor with the king’s only daughter, a precious thing interested in the draconic culture and the study of magic. This favor slowly became a friendship, which developed into a bond unbroken by even time.
The boy was a man now, an experienced hunter and fighter, his best friend at his side wherever he went. The Scouring, as it would later be called, robbed the pair of any dreams they had of a future. The man in his service to the king, whom he now called father, was dragged into a war he did not start, forced to leave his love behind. This war would mark the end of his kingdom, his home.
The war ravaged his homeland, the small army of the kingdom barely holding it’s own. The man was often seen along the front lines, bravely wielding the sword gifted to him by the king. It was said that the sword could destroy magic, slicing it to pieces before it could take the lives of men. Other rumors existed, ranging from tales of his skill blown wildly out of proportion to stories of his escapades being greatly exaggerated from their standard militaristic experiences.
Eventually, tension built within the ranks. The man was humble, but on his own he couldn’t fight the tales. Jealousy grew, despite the man wishing credit be given to the soldiers under his command.
Mutiny was coming.
One would lead the charge against the man. His cousin, a paladin of great power that held much influence with the soldiers. In the night they prepared, planning insurrection never before seen in the small kingdom, making pacts with dark forces never seen by the armies before and recruiting the services of demons and monstrous creatures.
The man led his troops through a ravine, the end of which would bring them to the kingdom’s center, the location of its castle. Nearly to the end, the man’s cousin intercepted the group, with a large following of evil creatures. Those soldiers loyal to the paladin had gathered in the back of the group, breaking off to put the man and his soldiers between the two forces. Surrounded on all sides, the man prepared himself, knocking an arrow and drawing it back.
They say it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become a master of your craft. If you practice for ten hours every day, it totals to around ten or fifteen years required. He’d practiced for nearly twenty.
The armies were at a standstill, each waiting for the other to strike. The man, seeing his opportunity, aimed carefully at the paladin’s horse. Releasing the bowstring, his arrow flew fast, and flew true. The horse was struck down, and the surrounding forces charged to the middle to crush those soldiers loyal to the man, and to the king.
Swapping bow for sword and shield, the man led his own charge; a forward push aimed to break through the enemy line and put themselves between the kingdom and those wishing to stage a coup. All those in the man’s army understood that they were on their own, and they fought like there was no tomorrow. The warring forces went back and forth, pushing and being pushed. Against the monsters, the man and his men fought with the ferocity of demons. The rearguard fought like lions, moving with the group while doing their best to hold back the insurrectionists (one larger man actually turned into a lion).
The man and his soldiers were nearly there, each side suffering casualties very heavily. The paladin, despite losing his mount, had somehow survived for a long time, and in an effort to boost the morale of his soldiers for a victory, he challenged the man in the hopes of killing him.
Shield up, feet apart, sword ready. Constant motion is the key, never stopping to be predicted. Stay on your toes, they’ll stay on theirs.
The two squared off, and as warriors from both sides began to stop fighting it was understood that whoever won this fight would win the battle for their side. The ravine fell silent as the noise of combat fell with the dust, the attention of each being focused on the center of the battlefield.
The man circled the paladin, when suddenly the paladin threw his javelin. The man hadn’t stopped moving, but the javelin caught an edge on his shield and dragged the man’s guard to his left side. The paladin saw an opening as his javelin stuck in the shield, and charged forward with his own sword raised high. The man dropped his shield, grabbing the hilt of his own blade with two hands and swinging up to parry the towering paladin’s second strike. The man swung parallel to his parry, blocked by the paladin’s armored gauntlets. The man and the paladin traded blows, but the man was being worn down. The paladin stood taller, had stronger armor, and was more strategically experienced than the man. The man was fading in strength, in resilience, in hope.
The man and the paladin had separated momentarily, with quite a distance between them. The man resumed circling, it was all he could do for now.
Then he spotted it: his shield.
The man’s hybrid style of offensive strikes that followed a defensive blow couldn’t be fully utilized without his shield. The paladin must’ve known, hence the early javelin throw. Still circling, the man kicked the javelin, the tip coming clean from the shield that he scooped up as he rolled away from another of the paladin’s attacks. Securing it on his left forearm, the man ran forward, taking an aggressive approach to his original tactics. The paladin, surprised by this sudden change in the man, swung in a horizontal arc to try and dissuade the man from attacking. The man met the horizontal blow with his shield, angling the paladin’s blade over his head and out of the way. Now behind the paladin, the man thrust his sword forward, the unbreakable blade’s tip meeting a seam in the armor and piercing through. In a quick burst of the need to survive, the man twisted his blade and widened the opening, before pulling an arrow from his quiver and sticking it in the hole until it stopped going.
Had it been recorded, it would’ve been an ironic loss; the backstabber met his end by being stabbed in the back.
The paladin fell forward, the man retrieved his blade. Cheering, those loyal to the man triumphantly made prisoners of the insurgents. The paladin’s death brought an end to the pact with the monsters, who swiftly took to the shadows for a journey back to the hell they came from. The man had won, but as he stepped forward he fell, dropping his sword in defeat to the limitations of a physical body.
In the clearing lay a swordsman, a fighter by his trade. He carries the reminder of ev’ry blow that laid him down, or cut him ‘til he cried out in his anger and his shame, “I am losing, I am losing,” but the fighter still remains.
The fighter still remains.
Several of his men hurried to his side, when suddenly the unthinkable happened - dragons attacked. In wartime, not even the survivors of a mutiny would be given mercy by the enemy. The dragons had seen the uprising occur, and had waited for the end to execute those members of mankind present.
They say that history is written by the victors. There were no victors among men that day. We’d fought the dragons, we fought ourselves, and then the dragons fought us. Not a soul was spared among us, save for the Champion, who was presumed dead after he fell to the earth. Not one among the soldiers, loyal or mutinous, lived through the battle in that ravine. The worst part? We were the kingdom’s only military force. The kingdom had poured decades into researching the different uses of magic, but none of it was focused on combat. Never in any of our lives had the idea of an interspecies war come up, so we never prepared for one. Then, when the rest of humankind was ready for it, we were dragged into the mess to defend ourselves. We weren’t fighting for gains, or for the extermination of such mystical and wise creatures, we were fighting for our freedoms, our homes, our families.
We lost that fight.
After the dragons had laid waste to the remainder of the men and retreated with a victory against the small kingdom, a patrol from the king’s personal guard happened upon the graveyard. A battlefield lay still in the ravine, littered with the bodies of men. Every individual they sound was ruthlessly massacred, except for one individual. The small patrol recognized him by the blue tunic he wore, a mark of great power bestowed by the king. They took him back to the castle, but the dragons had made it there first.
The outer wall was barely being held, and they patrol took the man straight to the king, and to the man’s wife. The two were heartbroken, but had time to put one final plan into action.
They took the man to a hidden tomb, the location of which was one of the kingdom’s best-kept secrets from the populace. Gathered there were the kingdom’s finest mages and spellcasters, their best necromancers and users of light. The king ordered his finest healers to restore the man’s health, and the man regained consciousness as they did. Placing the man into an open, coffin-like resting place, the man and his wife said their goodbyes, and the king tasked him with one final mission: carry on the bloodline. Sorrowful, the man accepted the task.
It would be the last task he knew. The mages set to work preparing his sleep. This was the culmination of their research in each of the magics, their greatest work. Each magician poured their soul into their spells, in the effort to preserve his. Thoron to keep his heart going, Volcanon to keep his insides from freezing. Excalibur to give him breath, and Fimbulvetr to preserve him from nature. Strength to preserve his body, Luce to rally his spirit. Barrier to close the tomb, Ruin to defend it. Never among men was such a complex ritual performed among men, and the secret of its process died with those who performed it, because the ritual was so demanding that it wiped each of the spellcasters from the physical plane of existence. The king and his daughter had left the tomb, returning to the castle for a final stand against the dragons.
They would not survive, along with the rest of the kingdom.
The man would wake with no memory of his past experiences. The preservation of his body and spirit was successful for over one thousand years, but the mages had forgotten the third piece of a being: the mind.
Without his memory, the man would be unable to complete his task. Any written record of the kingdom was destroyed with it. He would be unable to remember his people, his beloved. An amnesiac now, the man had to start life over. His instinct recalled all of his physical training, his spirit retained the ability to think and communicate, but lost was his memory, the essence of life, the only thing unable to be preserved by magic.
There was one thing he remembered, however. An emotion so natural, so powerful, that not even the constraints of time could hold it in the past.
Sorrow.
Name: Sorrow
Class: Yeoman
Age: 1,324 years
Race: Human
Birthday: Unknown
Gender: Male
Nationality: Unknown; Presumably the pre-Lycia region of Elibe
Physical Description
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 170lbs
Build: Athletic
Eye Color: Sky Blue
Hair Color: Ginger/Blonde
Hair Style: Unkempt
Complexion: Fair
Clothing/Armor: Sorrow wears a blue tunic, with white accents. Underneath he wears a long-sleeved white shirt as well as a chainmail tunic of the same length as his blue one, with some leather wrappings on his forearms marked with orange accents. He wears beige pants and brown leather boots that go up to mid-calf. His sword’s sheath is on his back, held in place by several leather straps that are also used to secure his targe (shield) and bow. On his right forearm is a hard leather vambrace and over both hands are black fingerless gloves. A single, silver ring is worn on his right hand - a wedding ring, with no memory of the beloved he was married to.
Personality
Sorrow, in all the experience he had in his previous life, acts almost solely on impulse. While most would use the term ‘impulsive’ in a manner that means he acts instantaneously when presented with a choice, Sorrow takes time, going at a pace that suits the situation in a careful manner. Waking in a tomb with no memory of who he was, what he did, and who his family was forces him into a new life. He has to discover life again, in the truest sense of ‘Nature-vs-Nurture.’ Without memories, he has no basis for choices, his inability to remember the past leaves him without the wisdom that one of his age and experience would usually have. For Sorrow, choices rely solely on nature. He holds very strongly to his emotions, which are the only real thing he can remember. Every experience he has he keeps close to his heart, valuing them highly. He possesses a very strong sense of good and evil, which does allow him a moral standing despite no remembrance of being taught such things. For Sorrow, it is all just instinct.
Battle Scenarios
NPC: [ALT] Sorrow stood silently, watching as the axe-wielding bandit towered over the cowering young lady. “Where’s my payment, sweetie? You know it doesn’t cost much for my protection,” said the brute as Sorrow quietly drew back his bowstring, “but you do know what it costs.” The villain stepped forward, reaching out to grab the woman, when the shaft of an arrow appeared in his hand. Shrieking, the bandit nearly jumped as he stumbled back in pain and held his hand, head turning from side-to-side as he searched for the archer that dare interfere on the woman’s behalf. Sorrow, sword and shield in hand, stood from his crouched position in the tall grasses of the plains. He raised his shield and readied himself as the bandit initiated a rage-induced, adrenaline filled charge.
PC: [ALT] Sorrow and the myrmidon were at an impasse, it seemed. In response to the other man drawing his sword, Sorrow had drawn his own while quickly securing the shield on his left arm. Raising his shield, Sorrow made eye contact with the man, watching and waiting for the myrmidon’s move. If the myrmidon were to attack, he’d use his shield to block and counterattack, carefully watching for an opening to deliver a killing blow. Or, at least, to cause an injury detrimental enough to cause the myrmidon to retreat.
History
Theme of the Man.
Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now, it looks as though they’re here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be.
There’s a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.
Before the war between Man and Dragon was a time of peace. Lost to history, like many others, was a small kingdom. Not significant enough to have more than a small book, but on the fringes of civilization. During that peace, a boy was born in that small kingdom. His family was nothing special in their hierarchy, but the king was generous, schooling all of the children based on the profession they chose. This boy chose the path of a warrior, wielding bow and blade. As he grew, his proficiency in the weapons did too. During his teenage years, he fell in favor with the king’s only daughter, a precious thing interested in the draconic culture and the study of magic. This favor slowly became a friendship, which developed into a bond unbroken by even time.
The boy was a man now, an experienced hunter and fighter, his best friend at his side wherever he went. The Scouring, as it would later be called, robbed the pair of any dreams they had of a future. The man in his service to the king, whom he now called father, was dragged into a war he did not start, forced to leave his love behind. This war would mark the end of his kingdom, his home.
The war ravaged his homeland, the small army of the kingdom barely holding it’s own. The man was often seen along the front lines, bravely wielding the sword gifted to him by the king. It was said that the sword could destroy magic, slicing it to pieces before it could take the lives of men. Other rumors existed, ranging from tales of his skill blown wildly out of proportion to stories of his escapades being greatly exaggerated from their standard militaristic experiences.
Eventually, tension built within the ranks. The man was humble, but on his own he couldn’t fight the tales. Jealousy grew, despite the man wishing credit be given to the soldiers under his command.
Mutiny was coming.
One would lead the charge against the man. His cousin, a paladin of great power that held much influence with the soldiers. In the night they prepared, planning insurrection never before seen in the small kingdom, making pacts with dark forces never seen by the armies before and recruiting the services of demons and monstrous creatures.
The man led his troops through a ravine, the end of which would bring them to the kingdom’s center, the location of its castle. Nearly to the end, the man’s cousin intercepted the group, with a large following of evil creatures. Those soldiers loyal to the paladin had gathered in the back of the group, breaking off to put the man and his soldiers between the two forces. Surrounded on all sides, the man prepared himself, knocking an arrow and drawing it back.
They say it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become a master of your craft. If you practice for ten hours every day, it totals to around ten or fifteen years required. He’d practiced for nearly twenty.
The armies were at a standstill, each waiting for the other to strike. The man, seeing his opportunity, aimed carefully at the paladin’s horse. Releasing the bowstring, his arrow flew fast, and flew true. The horse was struck down, and the surrounding forces charged to the middle to crush those soldiers loyal to the man, and to the king.
Swapping bow for sword and shield, the man led his own charge; a forward push aimed to break through the enemy line and put themselves between the kingdom and those wishing to stage a coup. All those in the man’s army understood that they were on their own, and they fought like there was no tomorrow. The warring forces went back and forth, pushing and being pushed. Against the monsters, the man and his men fought with the ferocity of demons. The rearguard fought like lions, moving with the group while doing their best to hold back the insurrectionists (one larger man actually turned into a lion).
The man and his soldiers were nearly there, each side suffering casualties very heavily. The paladin, despite losing his mount, had somehow survived for a long time, and in an effort to boost the morale of his soldiers for a victory, he challenged the man in the hopes of killing him.
Shield up, feet apart, sword ready. Constant motion is the key, never stopping to be predicted. Stay on your toes, they’ll stay on theirs.
The two squared off, and as warriors from both sides began to stop fighting it was understood that whoever won this fight would win the battle for their side. The ravine fell silent as the noise of combat fell with the dust, the attention of each being focused on the center of the battlefield.
The man circled the paladin, when suddenly the paladin threw his javelin. The man hadn’t stopped moving, but the javelin caught an edge on his shield and dragged the man’s guard to his left side. The paladin saw an opening as his javelin stuck in the shield, and charged forward with his own sword raised high. The man dropped his shield, grabbing the hilt of his own blade with two hands and swinging up to parry the towering paladin’s second strike. The man swung parallel to his parry, blocked by the paladin’s armored gauntlets. The man and the paladin traded blows, but the man was being worn down. The paladin stood taller, had stronger armor, and was more strategically experienced than the man. The man was fading in strength, in resilience, in hope.
The man and the paladin had separated momentarily, with quite a distance between them. The man resumed circling, it was all he could do for now.
Then he spotted it: his shield.
The man’s hybrid style of offensive strikes that followed a defensive blow couldn’t be fully utilized without his shield. The paladin must’ve known, hence the early javelin throw. Still circling, the man kicked the javelin, the tip coming clean from the shield that he scooped up as he rolled away from another of the paladin’s attacks. Securing it on his left forearm, the man ran forward, taking an aggressive approach to his original tactics. The paladin, surprised by this sudden change in the man, swung in a horizontal arc to try and dissuade the man from attacking. The man met the horizontal blow with his shield, angling the paladin’s blade over his head and out of the way. Now behind the paladin, the man thrust his sword forward, the unbreakable blade’s tip meeting a seam in the armor and piercing through. In a quick burst of the need to survive, the man twisted his blade and widened the opening, before pulling an arrow from his quiver and sticking it in the hole until it stopped going.
Had it been recorded, it would’ve been an ironic loss; the backstabber met his end by being stabbed in the back.
The paladin fell forward, the man retrieved his blade. Cheering, those loyal to the man triumphantly made prisoners of the insurgents. The paladin’s death brought an end to the pact with the monsters, who swiftly took to the shadows for a journey back to the hell they came from. The man had won, but as he stepped forward he fell, dropping his sword in defeat to the limitations of a physical body.
In the clearing lay a swordsman, a fighter by his trade. He carries the reminder of ev’ry blow that laid him down, or cut him ‘til he cried out in his anger and his shame, “I am losing, I am losing,” but the fighter still remains.
The fighter still remains.
Several of his men hurried to his side, when suddenly the unthinkable happened - dragons attacked. In wartime, not even the survivors of a mutiny would be given mercy by the enemy. The dragons had seen the uprising occur, and had waited for the end to execute those members of mankind present.
They say that history is written by the victors. There were no victors among men that day. We’d fought the dragons, we fought ourselves, and then the dragons fought us. Not a soul was spared among us, save for the Champion, who was presumed dead after he fell to the earth. Not one among the soldiers, loyal or mutinous, lived through the battle in that ravine. The worst part? We were the kingdom’s only military force. The kingdom had poured decades into researching the different uses of magic, but none of it was focused on combat. Never in any of our lives had the idea of an interspecies war come up, so we never prepared for one. Then, when the rest of humankind was ready for it, we were dragged into the mess to defend ourselves. We weren’t fighting for gains, or for the extermination of such mystical and wise creatures, we were fighting for our freedoms, our homes, our families.
We lost that fight.
After the dragons had laid waste to the remainder of the men and retreated with a victory against the small kingdom, a patrol from the king’s personal guard happened upon the graveyard. A battlefield lay still in the ravine, littered with the bodies of men. Every individual they sound was ruthlessly massacred, except for one individual. The small patrol recognized him by the blue tunic he wore, a mark of great power bestowed by the king. They took him back to the castle, but the dragons had made it there first.
The outer wall was barely being held, and they patrol took the man straight to the king, and to the man’s wife. The two were heartbroken, but had time to put one final plan into action.
They took the man to a hidden tomb, the location of which was one of the kingdom’s best-kept secrets from the populace. Gathered there were the kingdom’s finest mages and spellcasters, their best necromancers and users of light. The king ordered his finest healers to restore the man’s health, and the man regained consciousness as they did. Placing the man into an open, coffin-like resting place, the man and his wife said their goodbyes, and the king tasked him with one final mission: carry on the bloodline. Sorrowful, the man accepted the task.
It would be the last task he knew. The mages set to work preparing his sleep. This was the culmination of their research in each of the magics, their greatest work. Each magician poured their soul into their spells, in the effort to preserve his. Thoron to keep his heart going, Volcanon to keep his insides from freezing. Excalibur to give him breath, and Fimbulvetr to preserve him from nature. Strength to preserve his body, Luce to rally his spirit. Barrier to close the tomb, Ruin to defend it. Never among men was such a complex ritual performed among men, and the secret of its process died with those who performed it, because the ritual was so demanding that it wiped each of the spellcasters from the physical plane of existence. The king and his daughter had left the tomb, returning to the castle for a final stand against the dragons.
They would not survive, along with the rest of the kingdom.
The man would wake with no memory of his past experiences. The preservation of his body and spirit was successful for over one thousand years, but the mages had forgotten the third piece of a being: the mind.
Without his memory, the man would be unable to complete his task. Any written record of the kingdom was destroyed with it. He would be unable to remember his people, his beloved. An amnesiac now, the man had to start life over. His instinct recalled all of his physical training, his spirit retained the ability to think and communicate, but lost was his memory, the essence of life, the only thing unable to be preserved by magic.
There was one thing he remembered, however. An emotion so natural, so powerful, that not even the constraints of time could hold it in the past.
Sorrow.