Beowulf (Ars Alt)

[Deleted]

Hunt or Be Hunted

Name: Beowulf

Class: Berserker

Age: 25

Born in: Western Isles

Appearance: A monster of a man, standing at around 6'5 with a great deal of muscle. He wears a tunic and slack altered to accommodate his imposing stature as well as some light armor and fur pelts. Between his armor, pelts, and his tattoos Beowulf intentionally stylizes himself in a certain manner. The aim is to appear like a beast, to inspire fear and anxiety in his foes. Long dark hair, red eyes with sharp pupils.

Personality: A boisterous, social individual often bearing a wide smile and an open mind. His personality in the average social situation seems to run completely against his otherwise fearsome appearance. Tends to enjoy hearing tall tales, even if he knows they are embellished or false, and surprisingly enjoys reading such tales as well. Beo isn't as big a fan of non-fiction literature, though.

For someone so clearly from the wilderness he's more familiar with towns and cities than one would expect, though despite his love for taverns he's otherwise uncomfortable in them all the same. If he's stuck in a town for long he'll usually wind up getting antsy and is more likely to throw coin away at drink and food he didn't otherwise need. He may also become more aggressive towards people, despite his usual cheery nature. Though not nearly as aggressive as he becomes in combat.

Part of his anxiety stems from the sins of his past. Near every night Beowulf is haunted by the screams and cries of innocents he'd harmed, robbed, or killed. By innocents he allowed to die at the hands of his old war band. Some faces in particular return to haunt him, faces of children ripped asunder by steel or reduced to ash by flame. Staying on the move, keeping his focus fixed on his goal, it all helps him. Being in the wilderness, where he feels most at home, helps him as well.

Lacking any sort of philosophy, Beowulf is more likely to pitch his loyalty to individuals he comes to respect. Bravery, combat prowess, and intelligence are all prized attributes to him. More-so than kindness or even morality. If one has his loyalty, though, he will gladly fight to the death to protect them.

Possesses a deep distaste for ships, even having a light touch of sea-sickness at times.

Story: Beowulf was not his birth name. He was born Rickard Lenster, son of a well-off sailor who often ferried wealthy merchants from the Isles to Etruria and back. Home life was fairly rowdy, as Rickard had several siblings, but they were happy as well. When Rickard's father was home he'd often regale his children with embellished tales of his voyages, and would read them books he picked up from various port town shops. Outside of such instances Rickard's father was distant, in fact his gaze seemed most distant when he told his children these various tales. Still, it was clear he loved his children and his first day home from a trip he always smiled towards them.

One day, when Rickard was about 12 years old, his father never returned. Only one of his crew, looking like death warmed over, came knocking on the family's door. He told the Lenster family that their ship had been overtaken by pirates, and that he had been the only one to escape with his life. The Lenster family was wracked with grief over the loss. Their friends, neighbors, and extended family did what they could to help the family through trying times, but things were difficult. Rickard's mother now had to work odd jobs throughout the village and depend on help from friends and family financially, but also to help raise her children in her absence.

Rickard, being the eldest child, was tasked with babysitting his younger siblings. As the months went by they seemed to go hungry more often, with their friends/family less willing to continue supporting them for various reasons. It hit a point that became unbearable for Rickard, and so he began to go about thieving from the village market. Unfortunately he was quite tall for his age, making it awkward and difficult for him to sneak about. He was caught and heavily reprimanded a couple of times, but he would not be deterred – he'd provide for his family regardless of the cost. Using his large stature for a boy his age, he instead began to ambush children and teens sent to grab groceries for their family. He'd threaten them so they didn't tattle on him or sell him out, and then slip away to return home.

While some of his siblings were overjoyed, others noticed the bruising on Rickard's knuckles. Concerned they would eventually tell their mother, and those Rickard had robbed and threatened would eventually tattle on him. Between being temporarily incarcerated by the town guard and the growing spats between Rickard and his mother, a breaking point had finally been hit. Rickard was kicked out of his home at the age of 14.

Though he had mixed emotions towards his mother he still held pity for the impoverished and increasingly mal-nourished state of his siblings. Of course he first had to learn to survive in the wilderness, just barely scraping by with what little knowledge he'd gathered from the hunters in the village and his father's old tales. It wasn't long before he found himself stumbling across the camp of some wildmen. Raiders who pillaged villages for food and necessities, selling what they couldn't eat or drink.

They threatened him, but found nothing on him save the clothes on his back. Desperate, scared, and driven to send food back to his home, Rickard pleaded to throw his lot in with the group. So long as he could help feed his siblings, and so long as his family remained untouched, he would do whatever it took to prove his worth to the group. He was given an axe, and was promptly brought onto the next raid. The war-band hit a small fishing village on the southern coast of their island and...it was more than Rickard had expected. The slaughter was hard to stomach, and with no proper training Rickard could only swing his axe.

He nearly found himself overwhelmed several times by full grown men, larger and stronger than he was, but they were unarmed. Distracted by the thought of their families in danger. Rickard was driven by a similar fear, but his family was far away. Safe at his home village. The first kill was the hardest, but each one after that got a little bit easier. Not much...but enough. The axe felt lighter and easier in his hands, and unlike the rest of the warband he soon took to training secretly at night.

Having secured a ship to head to the other islands, Rickard first had to carry crates of food from the village they'd hit. Salted fish, vegetables, and fruit alike. He brought them to his home and simply dropped them off by the door. He knocked on the door, and his mother answered. Before Rickard could speak she snapped on him, warning him to never again come to the house. Her words stung...but he accepted it. Just knowing he'd delivered food to his family, provided for them as his father once did, gave Rickard a sense that the violence was worth it.

This life continued for years. Pillaging small villages for what little they had wasn't too common, and instead the war-band mostly hit travelers and merchants. Between raids and battles they hunted the wild beasts that roamed free across the wilderness. It was a risky life, one during which there was no time to settle down.

Rickard saw many of his fellow raiders die. Sometimes from battle, sometimes from disease or infection, and a couple from drinking too much pilfered rum and ale. He couldn't exactly say he was content with such a life, but as he'd grown far larger than most of the warband and became one of their best warriors, he felt a small sense of pride. His status among the warband was high, and he received the title “Beowulf”. “The ferocity of a bear, the loyalty of a wolf!”

And indeed, Beowulf was loyal. It was difficult for him to say he had any love for the warband. Members came and went, some dying after their first raid. Others leaving because they've grown tired of the life. But he knew they were an asset he could not yet afford to lose. Without them he couldn't secure food for his family, after all.

This sense of pride did not last long.

By the time Beowulf had hit his 20s he continued to send food back to his home. Sometimes he considered waiting nearby, hidden, to see his family open the crates he delivered...but he couldn't bear to do it. If he had just one time, he may have been surprised to see that strangers had since occupied his old home. He may have become aware that his family had moved.

When the warband struck a large village in Caledonia, there were some heavy casualties on their side. Still they were successful, slaughtering nearly every villager who didn't successfully escape. As they dragged the bodies to burn, lest disease be left in the wake of the slaughter, potentially reaching the warband, Beowulf surveyed some of the corpses...and for the first time, he found more than strangers amongst the faces. Instead he saw his mother, and his siblings, the faces locked in twisted horror...he couldn't even recall if HE had been the one to do it, failing to recognize them during the bloodbath.

The sight shook him to his core, near enough for him to vomit. Everything he had done, every atrocity he had comitted, had been justified by his offerings to his family. Everything had been for THEIR sake...yet, whether direct or indirectly, he had aided in their deaths. To Beowulf it was only fitting that, the next night, the warband was set upon by mercenaries. Sellswords who'd come for the bounty on their heads.

Beowulf fought back against them out of pure instinct. Whatever love or loyalty for the men who fought with him had dulled in the wake of their last raid, but his axe still tore through three of the bounty hunters. One though, clad in armor and a cape finer than most, took Beowulf in a one on one duel. Both men were large, Beowulf with his battleax and the mercenary with a greatsword. The two exchanged blows, but the man was not put off by Beowulf's ferocious, near animalistic battle-style. He did not show any fear or hesitation as he disarmed Beowulf and knocked him onto his back with a blow from his shield.

No, no hesitation at all...until the tip of his blade rested above Beowulf's neck. By that point, Beowulf's will was gone. The roaring fire had been put out, the fuel that fed it snuffed out the day before. He stared up at the man, clad in an iron helmet, and waited for death to come. But the void never swallowed him. Death never came. Through the rising sun Beowulf could barely make out the eyes of his opponent through the helmet, and the expression that set down on them was...disappointment.

Declaring all the raiders dead the mercenary drove an armored boot into the side of Beowulf's head, knocking him unconscious for hours to come. When Beowulf woke the ravens had already come, pecking away at his dead war-band. Indeed, he was the last of his blood family AND the last of his war-band. One...certainly stung more than the other.

Beowulf wandered the wilderness, living off of hunting and foraging, while he pondered what his purpose was. He had no family to feed, and no brethren to fight for. If he were to start raiding again no doubt he would die swiftly – hunted again by those powerful mercenaries. Yes...the mercenary...the way he had looked down upon him. Beowulf couldn't shake it from his memory. It stood out even more than the faces of his dead family, or the screams of the innocent lives he'd reaped from the world.

...His taste for banditry, what little of it he ever had, was gone. Instead Beowulf set for the mainland. The Western Isles held nothing for him now, save a bounty on his head should he ever be recognized somehow. There was only so much work on the Isles for mercenaries, though, and Beowulf wanted to find the group who had found him. Find the men who should have killed him. The mainland had plenty of work for those willing to kill.

But not people. No...beasts. Monsters. The undead. Gruesome things only before heard of in children's tales, as far as Beowulf was concerned.

Notes: While one of his greatest strengths is...brute strength, Beowulf applies a low cunning and animalistic tactics in combat, combined with instincts honed from combating all manner of foe. He works himself up into a sort of trance. He widens his eyes, increases his breathing to amp up his heart rate, coercing his body to produce more and more adrenaline. Though his swings and attacks may seem wild, there's far more calculation to them than meets the eye. If he cannot simply overwhelm his foe with force and ferocity, he does his best to zone them and force them into an disadvantageous situation, or dangerous terrain he can then abuse. A furious bear on the surface, but a calm wolf within. He's also a loud fighter, grunting and roaring to instill fear and anxiety in his opponents.

Also, would request the pre-promo loan.

[Nayru Al-Saiduq]

Accepted.