Lysander Finestra
Mar 31, 2017 20:56:41 GMT -6
Post by Lysander on Mar 31, 2017 20:56:41 GMT -6
Name: Lysander Finestra
Class: Mage
Age: 22
Born in: Bern, capital district
Appearance: Tall and imposing, Lysander stands at precisely six feet with a pale, almost eerie complexion. His build, though athletic enough to warrant sustained running, is wiry, gangly even. He has since given up hope of ever taming his unruly mop of crimson hair, and, despite his age, is still self-conscious about the misshapenness of his nose (the origin of which will be described in his biography). Many who have seen him claim that his chartreuse eyes often shimmer, though the intensity of his gaze is exacerbated by his nervous habit of furrowing his brow, even when he isn’t agitated.
One look at Lysander’s choice of attire might lead to the inference that he dislikes standing out. This prediction is correct – nothing is flashy or garish about the black knee-length robe he wears, though the silver trim gives it a vaguely elegant touch. It is loose-fitting enough to provide ample movement, and it billows in the breeze. He wears a set of matching breeches over his dark blue leggings, with cherry crimson boots completing the ensemble. In lieu of a traditional waist satchel, Lysander opts for a compact shoulder sack with a buckled strap, which facilitates carrying tomes and other essential items.
Personality: Lysander is intelligent, earnest, and curious – the prime factors of a fledgling scholar. He is generally kind to those he meets, even if he appears aloof or disinterested at first. Gaining his trust is an arduous process, but once one manages such a feat, he or she is likely to have it for a long time. He is a loyal friend and a trustworthy individual overall.
However, Lysander is not without his faults. He maintains a streak of bitter sarcasm as a sort of shtick, often interjecting with puns and deadpan humor even during unideal situations. He is prone to bouts of anger, bossiness, and loves to show off, especially when questioned about his arcane prowess.
A few quirks of his: he loves poetry, cheese, and wine, dislikes axes and those who wield them (he finds the weapon clumsy and inefficient in its handling), is afraid of spiders, and often mumbles to himself.
History: Born to Nestor and Wilhelmina Finestra in Bern’s capital city, Lysander had a troubled inception despite being financially well-off. His father was a respected captain of a small battalion in the fearsome Bernese military (of the Warrior class), whereas his mother worked as a metalwork decorator (specifically using a technique akin to cloisonné). Shortly after he was born, Wilhelmina passed away after a brief illness, leaving the toddler Lysander in the care of his scholarly uncle, since his father was often occupied by raids and defense mission.
Lysander’s uncle encouraged him to read from a young age, often accompanying him to the capital’s library whenever time permitted. This phase of his childhood was regarded as a happy one, mainly due to his uncle’s leniency and encouragement. Regardless, Lysander’s erudite mind began early on in his life. He had a roof over his head, a small band of childhood friends (whom he often played “mages and mercenaries” with), and good companionship.
This continued for some time, until Lysander was eleven years of age. While his father was visiting during a short sabbatical (and sufficiently inebriated), Lysander began to show the first true indications of inborn magical ability by making small sparks dance along his fingertips. His uncle was moved by and proud of the theatrics. Nestor, in stark contrast, abhorred the very notion, instead bound by his commitment to martial skill and law. Additionally, he had high hopes for Lysander to join the Bernese military. This prompted an argument to erupt between the latter and the former. It escalated in fervor gradually, eventually culminating in Nestor brandishing his axe and giving Lysander’s uncle to the count of three to rescind his pride. When the uncle, stubborn as ever, persisted, Nestor impulsively decapitated him.
Grief-stricken and horrified, Lysander attempted to flee. As the drunken Nestor pursued him, Lysander shouted that Nestor had never been a father to him, having been absent and indifferent to his talents and proclivity for gathering knowledge. The prepubescent Lysander’s legs eventually gave out, and the pursuit ended when Nestor slammed the hilt of his axe handle into Lysander’s face, breaking his nose in the process and giving it its trademark curved appearance. Battered and bleeding, Lysander begged for Nestor to stop. The latter nearly raised the axe again, though this time, he simply staggered from his drunkenness and passed out on the street.
Thus began Lysander’s life as a street performer, entertaining the common-folk with his amateur arcane theatrics. He made sparks dance and twirl, akin to proto-fireworks minus the explosions. While this enabled him to barely scrape by with the meager donations he received, he more often than not was forced to poach bread from stalls. He slept on hay bales and in alleyways, even in the most torrential of downpours and the strongest of gales.
Few took notice of his plight. He waved away those who did, stating that he bore distrust for anyone but himself. After all, who could he turn to? The war piled corpses like cordwood on Bern’s doorstep, and hardship turned even the most righteous and pious folk into cold-hearted miscreants. Nobody would care because nobody could.
It was on his fourteenth birthday that Lysander was discovered by the circus troupe. The ringleader, impressed by the adolescent’s perceptive grasp of magical light displays, offered him a tentative position on the traveling band. In due time, temporary became permanent, and Lysander was tutored in the art of magic by the ringleader himself, a veteran anima mage.
Though a quick study, Lysander was not content with the sluggish pace of his training, and he set out to obtain as much knowledge on the subject as possible whenever he found free time. He remained with the troupe for five years before becoming separated from them in a bandit raid (which elicited more of a “flight” than “fight” response; in other words, he fled). Ever since, he has fashioned himself as a magical mercenary, lending his mind to those who will fork over enough funds.
Currently, Lysander is meandering Bern as an amateur mage, thirsting after literature, gold, and the betterment of his craft. Someday, he seeks to be reunited with his circus troupe, if only for a little while.
NPC fight: Hump-backed, the lumbering bandit advanced on Lysander surprisingly quickly.
“Fancy robes, lad! ‘Til be a shame to see ‘em in tatters when I’m done wiv ya!” the thug taunted. “Robes like that, ya gotta be stinkin’ rich!” Then the bandit held his axe aloft and brought it asunder.
Lysander had little time to react. He jumped clear, though the very tip of the weapon nicked his right cheek, coaxing a few drops of blood that dripped onto the outer hem of his robe. He swore breathlessly at the graze, his heart beginning to accelerate in his chest. “It never fails… I just rinsed this garment,” he muttered.
As the bandit strode over to administer the coup de grace, Lysander swiftly plucked a wind tome from his satchel. Familiar enough with the spell, he imagined he could cast it fast enough, lest he be cut to ribbons. He drew himself up, the bandit’s hot breath gaining on the small of his neck, waved his fingers…
It worked. The blast of wind came careening, lodging itself squarely into the large axeman’s abdomen and promptly fanning on impact. Before long, the bandit was consumed by the gale, his first outcry a rueful laugh, the second an unexpectedly effeminate scream. Then he crumpled to the cobble, his axe clanging beside its fallen wielder.
PC fight: The mercenary’s provoking gaze was a flicker, a candle held in the window of determination. He raised his blade, though he was still some paces away. Before the duelist could close the gap, Lysander raised his right hand, his stance rigid, the other hand gripping his tome with enough tenacity to render his knuckles white. Inhaling sharply, he sent a blast of wind from his fingertips and watched it dart towards its opponent.
Class: Mage
Age: 22
Born in: Bern, capital district
Appearance: Tall and imposing, Lysander stands at precisely six feet with a pale, almost eerie complexion. His build, though athletic enough to warrant sustained running, is wiry, gangly even. He has since given up hope of ever taming his unruly mop of crimson hair, and, despite his age, is still self-conscious about the misshapenness of his nose (the origin of which will be described in his biography). Many who have seen him claim that his chartreuse eyes often shimmer, though the intensity of his gaze is exacerbated by his nervous habit of furrowing his brow, even when he isn’t agitated.
One look at Lysander’s choice of attire might lead to the inference that he dislikes standing out. This prediction is correct – nothing is flashy or garish about the black knee-length robe he wears, though the silver trim gives it a vaguely elegant touch. It is loose-fitting enough to provide ample movement, and it billows in the breeze. He wears a set of matching breeches over his dark blue leggings, with cherry crimson boots completing the ensemble. In lieu of a traditional waist satchel, Lysander opts for a compact shoulder sack with a buckled strap, which facilitates carrying tomes and other essential items.
Personality: Lysander is intelligent, earnest, and curious – the prime factors of a fledgling scholar. He is generally kind to those he meets, even if he appears aloof or disinterested at first. Gaining his trust is an arduous process, but once one manages such a feat, he or she is likely to have it for a long time. He is a loyal friend and a trustworthy individual overall.
However, Lysander is not without his faults. He maintains a streak of bitter sarcasm as a sort of shtick, often interjecting with puns and deadpan humor even during unideal situations. He is prone to bouts of anger, bossiness, and loves to show off, especially when questioned about his arcane prowess.
A few quirks of his: he loves poetry, cheese, and wine, dislikes axes and those who wield them (he finds the weapon clumsy and inefficient in its handling), is afraid of spiders, and often mumbles to himself.
History: Born to Nestor and Wilhelmina Finestra in Bern’s capital city, Lysander had a troubled inception despite being financially well-off. His father was a respected captain of a small battalion in the fearsome Bernese military (of the Warrior class), whereas his mother worked as a metalwork decorator (specifically using a technique akin to cloisonné). Shortly after he was born, Wilhelmina passed away after a brief illness, leaving the toddler Lysander in the care of his scholarly uncle, since his father was often occupied by raids and defense mission.
Lysander’s uncle encouraged him to read from a young age, often accompanying him to the capital’s library whenever time permitted. This phase of his childhood was regarded as a happy one, mainly due to his uncle’s leniency and encouragement. Regardless, Lysander’s erudite mind began early on in his life. He had a roof over his head, a small band of childhood friends (whom he often played “mages and mercenaries” with), and good companionship.
This continued for some time, until Lysander was eleven years of age. While his father was visiting during a short sabbatical (and sufficiently inebriated), Lysander began to show the first true indications of inborn magical ability by making small sparks dance along his fingertips. His uncle was moved by and proud of the theatrics. Nestor, in stark contrast, abhorred the very notion, instead bound by his commitment to martial skill and law. Additionally, he had high hopes for Lysander to join the Bernese military. This prompted an argument to erupt between the latter and the former. It escalated in fervor gradually, eventually culminating in Nestor brandishing his axe and giving Lysander’s uncle to the count of three to rescind his pride. When the uncle, stubborn as ever, persisted, Nestor impulsively decapitated him.
Grief-stricken and horrified, Lysander attempted to flee. As the drunken Nestor pursued him, Lysander shouted that Nestor had never been a father to him, having been absent and indifferent to his talents and proclivity for gathering knowledge. The prepubescent Lysander’s legs eventually gave out, and the pursuit ended when Nestor slammed the hilt of his axe handle into Lysander’s face, breaking his nose in the process and giving it its trademark curved appearance. Battered and bleeding, Lysander begged for Nestor to stop. The latter nearly raised the axe again, though this time, he simply staggered from his drunkenness and passed out on the street.
Thus began Lysander’s life as a street performer, entertaining the common-folk with his amateur arcane theatrics. He made sparks dance and twirl, akin to proto-fireworks minus the explosions. While this enabled him to barely scrape by with the meager donations he received, he more often than not was forced to poach bread from stalls. He slept on hay bales and in alleyways, even in the most torrential of downpours and the strongest of gales.
Few took notice of his plight. He waved away those who did, stating that he bore distrust for anyone but himself. After all, who could he turn to? The war piled corpses like cordwood on Bern’s doorstep, and hardship turned even the most righteous and pious folk into cold-hearted miscreants. Nobody would care because nobody could.
It was on his fourteenth birthday that Lysander was discovered by the circus troupe. The ringleader, impressed by the adolescent’s perceptive grasp of magical light displays, offered him a tentative position on the traveling band. In due time, temporary became permanent, and Lysander was tutored in the art of magic by the ringleader himself, a veteran anima mage.
Though a quick study, Lysander was not content with the sluggish pace of his training, and he set out to obtain as much knowledge on the subject as possible whenever he found free time. He remained with the troupe for five years before becoming separated from them in a bandit raid (which elicited more of a “flight” than “fight” response; in other words, he fled). Ever since, he has fashioned himself as a magical mercenary, lending his mind to those who will fork over enough funds.
Currently, Lysander is meandering Bern as an amateur mage, thirsting after literature, gold, and the betterment of his craft. Someday, he seeks to be reunited with his circus troupe, if only for a little while.
NPC fight: Hump-backed, the lumbering bandit advanced on Lysander surprisingly quickly.
“Fancy robes, lad! ‘Til be a shame to see ‘em in tatters when I’m done wiv ya!” the thug taunted. “Robes like that, ya gotta be stinkin’ rich!” Then the bandit held his axe aloft and brought it asunder.
Lysander had little time to react. He jumped clear, though the very tip of the weapon nicked his right cheek, coaxing a few drops of blood that dripped onto the outer hem of his robe. He swore breathlessly at the graze, his heart beginning to accelerate in his chest. “It never fails… I just rinsed this garment,” he muttered.
As the bandit strode over to administer the coup de grace, Lysander swiftly plucked a wind tome from his satchel. Familiar enough with the spell, he imagined he could cast it fast enough, lest he be cut to ribbons. He drew himself up, the bandit’s hot breath gaining on the small of his neck, waved his fingers…
It worked. The blast of wind came careening, lodging itself squarely into the large axeman’s abdomen and promptly fanning on impact. Before long, the bandit was consumed by the gale, his first outcry a rueful laugh, the second an unexpectedly effeminate scream. Then he crumpled to the cobble, his axe clanging beside its fallen wielder.
PC fight: The mercenary’s provoking gaze was a flicker, a candle held in the window of determination. He raised his blade, though he was still some paces away. Before the duelist could close the gap, Lysander raised his right hand, his stance rigid, the other hand gripping his tome with enough tenacity to render his knuckles white. Inhaling sharply, he sent a blast of wind from his fingertips and watched it dart towards its opponent.
Kirala-Daughter