Jericho
Mar 31, 2017 6:18:24 GMT -6
Post by Jericho on Mar 31, 2017 6:18:24 GMT -6
Name: Jericho
Class: Myrmidon
Age: 28
Born in: Ilia
Appearance: Of average height, he could quite easily blend in with crowds were it not for his stark, white hair, which contrasts to his dark brown eyes. Along his left cheek, he bears a short scar. His left arm is heavily bandaged from the wrist to just below the shoulder. He wears a forest green tunic, keeping the strings loose in case of emergency shirt-removal contests. When not partaking in said activity, he wears a vest of timber wolf fur over said tunic. Along his right wrist, he bears a leather bracer that has seen better years, the same to be said for his boots. And who would be complete without pants? Jericho wears plain, dark cloth trousers.
Personality: On the surface, Jericho comes across as an almost class clown sort of figure. Able to brush aside mostly anything thrown his way (at least in words), he tends to not focus too greatly on harmful words exchanged between himself and others, nor does he hold grudges. He claims to want to just relax and enjoy life, claiming that the world would be at a loss without him. The typical 'I love myself' mentality. However, prying would reveal that he fears death, having somehow avoided it up until now.
He has a love of women that he swears has gotten better now, as he is able to actually speak to them beyond cheesy pick-up lines. Doing so has does wonders for his self esteem, though he does still get juvenile levels of flustered around those that he fancies.
History: As a child in a small village, Jericho would partake in the most usual of games with other children, with mock sword fighting being his favorite past time by far. However, his far too rough treatment towards the others would soon earn him the ire of parents, who would ban their children from playing with the rougher boy. Jericho would not be deterred by the absence of his friends in this situation, taking to practicing against an unlucky tree. This would go on for years, making the boy claim that he was 'the strongest' in the village.
In typical 'somehow rubbing people the wrong way', Jericho got the attention of several men who challenged the boy to the most basic of competitions. They took to seeing just who could smash through the most plates in a row. It was then that the boy would learn that raw strength wasn't everything. A certain amount of skill was needed to accomplish such feats. Thoroughly embarrassed, he fled into the woods as though seeking some kind of comfort from the trees. Being unable to talk it out with his friends (untrue, he was overreacting) made the boy feel even more lonely and he wandered aimlessly until stumbling upon a small offset of the nearby lake.
Such clumsy walking would disturb the current occupant, a woman who had been bathing in what was meant to be privacy. Needless to say, Jericho was stunned upon viewing her, and she was far less than pleased with her sudden audience, promptly chasing the perceived pervert away. And yet, the event had stuck with Jericho, and for the longest time, he had issues with speaking to women without running through every single negative outcome in his head.
'The Bad Decision'
During the siege on City of Heroes, Jericho's blind and demented heroism caught up with him. Thinking to be some sort of savior, he had managed to sneak into the camp of the enemy, Hargus. Whether this was by sheer luck, enemy stupidity, or a cleverly laid trap, he would never know. Biding his time, Jericho had positioned to ambush the demon lord and even managed to embed his sword into the lord's kidneys. But he paid the price in an almost comcally quick speed. As a retaliation for stabbing, Hargus had crushed Jericho's arm in multiple places and discarded him like a 1 use Vulnerary in late game.
When Jericho had come to, the battle was long since over, and he was counted among the 'dead' of the battle. Not wanting to show his face, the man endured several days worth of agony from his broken arm as he made his way away from the battlefield which should have been his demise. He would eventually find treatment to mend his broken arm by way of a travelling merchant caravan. His taste for storytelling would emerge as he would spin a wondrous lie about seeing the remainder of the battle which he had power-napped through. Why should they care if it was made up? Were they going to check?
Following his treatment and a repayment in the form of some manual labor, Jericho once again fled from anything familiar, only taking a sword with him. The next years would be spent travelling, spinning tales and fighting bandits in exchange for lodging and food. Those he met would tell of a bright man who told stories of great heroes, as though to spread hope among the people. Those with more insight would be able to tell that the stories were more for himself than for others, as Jericho desperately clung to the idea of heroes despite his own, personal experience with heroes usually being the ones who died.
'Hah, I bet you were expecting me to say that my arm is cursed by a Demon Lord! Well I just fell! I'm pretty clumsy, you know!' was his most used lie. Sure, maybe he wasn't directly cursed, but the arm would never fully heal from the punishment delivered upon it, still bearing darkened bruises where he had been grabbed, and blackened scarring where bone had gone through the skin after being broken.
Relevant Link!
NPC fight:
Finding Jericho was a mixture of ridiculously easy, and an absolute pain. Tracking a person who had no place they called home was difficult for those who wished him harm. But once locating his current residence, it was only a matter of minutes before finding the man telling tales in the local tavern. And that's where the hopeful assassins would locate him, currently occupied with chatting up one of the barmaids. Yes! A skill that had improved over the years!
The assassins made their presence known via blunt objects introduced directly to the back of Jericho's head, bashing him across the room and sending him through at least 2 tables. As he lay on his side, Jericho could only lament that the cost of the tables, as well as the healing that he would invariably need, would not leave him with any spare coinage for dates. Ah, but this batch wasn't the stupid type to believe that he was dead after the one attack. They weren't exactly the quiet type though, their advance easily heard even over the low din of panic set in among the patrons.
He slid to his back to look at the ceiling a moment and catch his breath while waiting for the pair to get closer. "Can't you give a guy a break? I was in the middle of something." He half pants out at them, a slight snark to his tone. And just what did these guys want anyways? Giving them a sideways glance, he couldn't recall ever encountering them before. Maybe a sister? Wife? Nah, he wasn't THAT lucky with the ladies.
"That stupid tongue keeps flapping! I'll cut it off!" The larger of the men snarled, bringing his axe down towards Jericho's neck. But I need that! was Jericho's immediate thought as he rolled in the opposite direction. Just in time too, the axe embedding in the floor where said neck had been just precious moments before. The next part was difficult as the white-haired man moved to his feet and almost immediately fell back over. The earlier bash had left him disoriented still, not to mention the usual 'you got up too fast' rush hit him like a sack of rocks. As he steadied himself, his eyes would once again flicker over to his assailants, seeing double as he regained his composure.
"Heeey, there's 4 of you this time? If this is a bounty hunt, I think you've got me confused for someone a lot cooler than me." He says with a dry smile. This only irritated the attackers further, causing the axeman to rush him in a fury. With talking out of the window, Jericho did what any logical person would do in this situation. Or so he would tell the story. The story would go that he, being himself, would flee. A passing paladin and their squire would have heroically moved in to save the day. They'd protect the villagers, save the fool of a storyteller. Decline any form of compensation, because they were just 'the good guys', right? Yeah, that's how the story would go.
In reality, things were much different. From beneath his cloak, Jericho would draw his sword with his good arm. Now he wanted to be cool and do that thing where he could cut a guy in half then take a moment to sheath his sword before the enemy would bleed out. But such fairy tale nonsense doesn't work in the real world. Even still, a quick backstep from the swung axe would afford him the opening he needed and the sword would plunge into the axeman's chest, impaling through cloth and sinew.
"You really should just watch your step. You go running around inside and you're gonna get hurt." He almost whispers. He wasn't being sarcastic, and his demeanor almost seemed grim. This is not how he wanted his stay here to go. He was enjoying himself and being on his best behavior. And now there was blood on his cloak as well because he didn't plan ahead enough to remember to NOT get this close to the people he stabbed. Another step back, this time, pulling his sword along to let the freshly dead fall to the floor before him. It was... almost sad. Why did this person attack him? Surely he wasn't nearly that significant to warrant a chance at dying.
"So how about we call it a draw? I really could use a lay down right now, and this whole floating business you're doing is out of my league." Jericho stammered while shifting to his right foot and nearly falling in the process. The remaining assailant had enough of the attitude and would rush forward as well. And unlike his axe friend, the sword was far more accurate in its strike, drawing a line of blood across Jericho's good arm. And there went the healer payment for his head. He could deal with a migraine, but cuts were a different issue. He did seem stunned a moment as the sobering feeling of adrenaline took over before returning the favor with a strong kick to the attacker's chest to send him to the ground.
The advantage was... enough. With an oddly powerful thrust from his covered arm, Jericho buried his sword into the man's shin in some twisted way of keeping him in place. Using the attacker's own sword against him, he drove this second sword into the man's chest with that considerable force again. With a weary expression, he would reclaim his sword before staggering to the counter and placing down gold to pay for the tables. "Sorry..." He would finally manage to mumble out before staggering out of the tavern and seeking medical aid.
PC fight:
"Everybody's a critic nowadays. Can't a guy tell a story without one of you coming out of the woodwork?" Jericho mused as this new enemy made itself known. Who knew, maybe this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, though the man was quite quick to doubt such thoughts. In any matter, his mind would begin to spin a tale of this encounter, wondering just how much would be truth and how much would need... 'embellishment'.
Class: Myrmidon
Age: 28
Born in: Ilia
Appearance: Of average height, he could quite easily blend in with crowds were it not for his stark, white hair, which contrasts to his dark brown eyes. Along his left cheek, he bears a short scar. His left arm is heavily bandaged from the wrist to just below the shoulder. He wears a forest green tunic, keeping the strings loose in case of emergency shirt-removal contests. When not partaking in said activity, he wears a vest of timber wolf fur over said tunic. Along his right wrist, he bears a leather bracer that has seen better years, the same to be said for his boots. And who would be complete without pants? Jericho wears plain, dark cloth trousers.
Personality: On the surface, Jericho comes across as an almost class clown sort of figure. Able to brush aside mostly anything thrown his way (at least in words), he tends to not focus too greatly on harmful words exchanged between himself and others, nor does he hold grudges. He claims to want to just relax and enjoy life, claiming that the world would be at a loss without him. The typical 'I love myself' mentality. However, prying would reveal that he fears death, having somehow avoided it up until now.
He has a love of women that he swears has gotten better now, as he is able to actually speak to them beyond cheesy pick-up lines. Doing so has does wonders for his self esteem, though he does still get juvenile levels of flustered around those that he fancies.
History: As a child in a small village, Jericho would partake in the most usual of games with other children, with mock sword fighting being his favorite past time by far. However, his far too rough treatment towards the others would soon earn him the ire of parents, who would ban their children from playing with the rougher boy. Jericho would not be deterred by the absence of his friends in this situation, taking to practicing against an unlucky tree. This would go on for years, making the boy claim that he was 'the strongest' in the village.
In typical 'somehow rubbing people the wrong way', Jericho got the attention of several men who challenged the boy to the most basic of competitions. They took to seeing just who could smash through the most plates in a row. It was then that the boy would learn that raw strength wasn't everything. A certain amount of skill was needed to accomplish such feats. Thoroughly embarrassed, he fled into the woods as though seeking some kind of comfort from the trees. Being unable to talk it out with his friends (untrue, he was overreacting) made the boy feel even more lonely and he wandered aimlessly until stumbling upon a small offset of the nearby lake.
Such clumsy walking would disturb the current occupant, a woman who had been bathing in what was meant to be privacy. Needless to say, Jericho was stunned upon viewing her, and she was far less than pleased with her sudden audience, promptly chasing the perceived pervert away. And yet, the event had stuck with Jericho, and for the longest time, he had issues with speaking to women without running through every single negative outcome in his head.
'The Bad Decision'
During the siege on City of Heroes, Jericho's blind and demented heroism caught up with him. Thinking to be some sort of savior, he had managed to sneak into the camp of the enemy, Hargus. Whether this was by sheer luck, enemy stupidity, or a cleverly laid trap, he would never know. Biding his time, Jericho had positioned to ambush the demon lord and even managed to embed his sword into the lord's kidneys. But he paid the price in an almost comcally quick speed. As a retaliation for stabbing, Hargus had crushed Jericho's arm in multiple places and discarded him like a 1 use Vulnerary in late game.
When Jericho had come to, the battle was long since over, and he was counted among the 'dead' of the battle. Not wanting to show his face, the man endured several days worth of agony from his broken arm as he made his way away from the battlefield which should have been his demise. He would eventually find treatment to mend his broken arm by way of a travelling merchant caravan. His taste for storytelling would emerge as he would spin a wondrous lie about seeing the remainder of the battle which he had power-napped through. Why should they care if it was made up? Were they going to check?
Following his treatment and a repayment in the form of some manual labor, Jericho once again fled from anything familiar, only taking a sword with him. The next years would be spent travelling, spinning tales and fighting bandits in exchange for lodging and food. Those he met would tell of a bright man who told stories of great heroes, as though to spread hope among the people. Those with more insight would be able to tell that the stories were more for himself than for others, as Jericho desperately clung to the idea of heroes despite his own, personal experience with heroes usually being the ones who died.
'Hah, I bet you were expecting me to say that my arm is cursed by a Demon Lord! Well I just fell! I'm pretty clumsy, you know!' was his most used lie. Sure, maybe he wasn't directly cursed, but the arm would never fully heal from the punishment delivered upon it, still bearing darkened bruises where he had been grabbed, and blackened scarring where bone had gone through the skin after being broken.
Relevant Link!
NPC fight:
Finding Jericho was a mixture of ridiculously easy, and an absolute pain. Tracking a person who had no place they called home was difficult for those who wished him harm. But once locating his current residence, it was only a matter of minutes before finding the man telling tales in the local tavern. And that's where the hopeful assassins would locate him, currently occupied with chatting up one of the barmaids. Yes! A skill that had improved over the years!
The assassins made their presence known via blunt objects introduced directly to the back of Jericho's head, bashing him across the room and sending him through at least 2 tables. As he lay on his side, Jericho could only lament that the cost of the tables, as well as the healing that he would invariably need, would not leave him with any spare coinage for dates. Ah, but this batch wasn't the stupid type to believe that he was dead after the one attack. They weren't exactly the quiet type though, their advance easily heard even over the low din of panic set in among the patrons.
He slid to his back to look at the ceiling a moment and catch his breath while waiting for the pair to get closer. "Can't you give a guy a break? I was in the middle of something." He half pants out at them, a slight snark to his tone. And just what did these guys want anyways? Giving them a sideways glance, he couldn't recall ever encountering them before. Maybe a sister? Wife? Nah, he wasn't THAT lucky with the ladies.
"That stupid tongue keeps flapping! I'll cut it off!" The larger of the men snarled, bringing his axe down towards Jericho's neck. But I need that! was Jericho's immediate thought as he rolled in the opposite direction. Just in time too, the axe embedding in the floor where said neck had been just precious moments before. The next part was difficult as the white-haired man moved to his feet and almost immediately fell back over. The earlier bash had left him disoriented still, not to mention the usual 'you got up too fast' rush hit him like a sack of rocks. As he steadied himself, his eyes would once again flicker over to his assailants, seeing double as he regained his composure.
"Heeey, there's 4 of you this time? If this is a bounty hunt, I think you've got me confused for someone a lot cooler than me." He says with a dry smile. This only irritated the attackers further, causing the axeman to rush him in a fury. With talking out of the window, Jericho did what any logical person would do in this situation. Or so he would tell the story. The story would go that he, being himself, would flee. A passing paladin and their squire would have heroically moved in to save the day. They'd protect the villagers, save the fool of a storyteller. Decline any form of compensation, because they were just 'the good guys', right? Yeah, that's how the story would go.
In reality, things were much different. From beneath his cloak, Jericho would draw his sword with his good arm. Now he wanted to be cool and do that thing where he could cut a guy in half then take a moment to sheath his sword before the enemy would bleed out. But such fairy tale nonsense doesn't work in the real world. Even still, a quick backstep from the swung axe would afford him the opening he needed and the sword would plunge into the axeman's chest, impaling through cloth and sinew.
"You really should just watch your step. You go running around inside and you're gonna get hurt." He almost whispers. He wasn't being sarcastic, and his demeanor almost seemed grim. This is not how he wanted his stay here to go. He was enjoying himself and being on his best behavior. And now there was blood on his cloak as well because he didn't plan ahead enough to remember to NOT get this close to the people he stabbed. Another step back, this time, pulling his sword along to let the freshly dead fall to the floor before him. It was... almost sad. Why did this person attack him? Surely he wasn't nearly that significant to warrant a chance at dying.
"So how about we call it a draw? I really could use a lay down right now, and this whole floating business you're doing is out of my league." Jericho stammered while shifting to his right foot and nearly falling in the process. The remaining assailant had enough of the attitude and would rush forward as well. And unlike his axe friend, the sword was far more accurate in its strike, drawing a line of blood across Jericho's good arm. And there went the healer payment for his head. He could deal with a migraine, but cuts were a different issue. He did seem stunned a moment as the sobering feeling of adrenaline took over before returning the favor with a strong kick to the attacker's chest to send him to the ground.
The advantage was... enough. With an oddly powerful thrust from his covered arm, Jericho buried his sword into the man's shin in some twisted way of keeping him in place. Using the attacker's own sword against him, he drove this second sword into the man's chest with that considerable force again. With a weary expression, he would reclaim his sword before staggering to the counter and placing down gold to pay for the tables. "Sorry..." He would finally manage to mumble out before staggering out of the tavern and seeking medical aid.
PC fight:
"Everybody's a critic nowadays. Can't a guy tell a story without one of you coming out of the woodwork?" Jericho mused as this new enemy made itself known. Who knew, maybe this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, though the man was quite quick to doubt such thoughts. In any matter, his mind would begin to spin a tale of this encounter, wondering just how much would be truth and how much would need... 'embellishment'.