This profile is based off my main character, but at a much younger age when he was less powerful. Due to the nature of this character, I will be placing restrictions on what he can do.
Name: Nyadir D'Var (Ebivoulya)
Age: 30
Race: Half Elven, Half Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Dark Blue
Height: 6'3
Weight: 220lbs
Occupation: Adventurer/Rogue
Personality:
He has a split-personality. Read the history to understand why. Otherwise, he is wary of anyone he does not know. He speaks only when he has a viable point to make, and is otherwise quiet. When he loses concentration through anger his personality completely changes to that of a wanton killer with a thirst for death. The only physical change is his eyes; they change from dark blue to blood filled. The main effect of this change is a numbing of pain, which allows him to push himself closer to his physical limits. Malnmre also tends to surface when Nyadir is close to loosing conciousness due to injury, as a survival mechanism.
Appearance:
When typically clothed he wears a simple brown vest and matching brown pants. He wears armored leather boots, and armored leather gloves. The armor of them consists of a steel toe and heel, and metal knuckles/back of the hand underneath a layer of leather. Due to consistently being attacked, he tends to wear a black cloak and go by the moniker Ebivoulya. Around his neck hangs a brilliant blue sapphire given to him by his mother. There is a solid leather strap crossing his chest, with the hilt of his Greatsword sticking out of a hole in his cloak. At his waist rests a dagger held close to him by his thick leather belt.
History:
Nyadir was the son of a human blacksmith and an elven merchant. His father was a barbarian from the rigid mountains of Salvar. He took to the ocean soon after leaving his clansmen, his mind set on adventure beyond their snowy borders. He traveled to Corone, where he met his wife. They settled in a small village on the east coast, where they had their sons, Nyadir and Locke. One evening a group of riders, tattered and beaten, rode into the village. They asked for a place to rest, and the village accepted them with a small dash of doubt. There were six of them in total. In the middle of the night, these six men managed to destroy the entire town. Their leader was a man named Brothlien; a barbarian himself by trade, slaughter and wanton ravaging came easily to him. His five cohorts were the best he had met, and their choice was to either fight by his side, or die by his sword.
Nyadir’s brother, Locke, was away from the village on this night due to a dispute between him and his brother. He returned the next morning to a village full of corpses and the smell of burnt flesh. Shocked into silence, he was eventually picked up by a group of traveling monks. Nyadir was not so fortunate. He had the displeasure of watching as his father was murdered and his mother ravished. Eventually even his hiding place was found. As was their custom, Brothlien brought the children back to his mountain fortress to work the mines. He was not one to waste the strength of youth. For seven years, Nyadir worked in the mines, constantly getting into skirmishes with the guards. His will would not be broken.
Despite the many women taken into Brothlien’s chambers, he could not bear a child. He was infuriated at the thought that all he had built would be left to crumble in his absence. In desperation, he stormed into the mines looking for a suitable heir. One lad caught his eye. The largest of the boys was taken to him. The haughty barbarian gave Nyadir a choice; train under him as his heir, or be the dog’s dinner that night. The young man was wise enough to accept his captor’s offer
Patience was all Nyadir could have of his own in such a situation. He was treated like a prince outside of his training, but he often fell to unconsciousness during his sessions. Two years passed and Brothlien was ready to bring his newfound heir on a run with him. Through all the obedient destruction, Nyadir gritted his teeth. He knew his time would come soon enough.
Karma would grant him his wish in a twisted way. One evening a guard reported a strange gem. It reacted to the world around it, but any living flesh could pass right through it. One of Brothlien’s wizards referred to him a book mentioning such godly gemstones. He inquired as to how a mortal could come to possess the power of the gem. The wizard said he knew of a ritual that could rip a demonic soul from Hell into the real world, as a revenant. He also knew of a spell to bind two souls together. By combining these dark spells, he could reach into the realm of the immortal and grasp the emerald.
Brothlien ordered it done to himself and Nyadir. Until then the gem was laying on the floor of a sectioned off portion of the mines. As the ritual and spell were completed on Brothlien, the gem flew through stone and flesh to rest in the now capable grip of Brothlien the Barbarian. He held it to him like it was his very life source. Nyadir was screaming not to have the ritual done to him after seeing Brothlien writhe and shriek in pain. The steel clasps were all that was keeping him held to the stone tablet. Several wizards and sorcerers began chanting in unison, and the dimly lit cavern grew even darker. His mind recoiled in horror as he felt himself being pulled down with such painful gravity he felt his lungs would collapse of screaming. His mind went blank.
Nyadir awoke in his own bed, clothed in his normal underclothes. His first sensation was that of fighting of a long-awaited sleep. He found consciousness difficult to maintain. With time he grew more accustomed to it and found himself able to move about. Every action seemed infinitely easier. The sword he normally wielded felt terribly light. He asked for the biggest sword they had. What he was brought felt more at home in his hands than the foolish imitation of a blade he was training with before. His sheer strength amazed him. He did find that he tired more easily, though. He feared sleep, however. Unconsciousness brought him horrible nightmares of rape, torture, pain, and death. He fell into a deep depression, but found that even his feeble attempts of self-mutilation were quickly healed. It seemed he was doomed to this horrifying existence, and he had but one man to blame; Brothlien.I was in a dark room. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been there. ‘There’ had no meaning at all. Time was a figment of boredom and patience my only option. The dull, constant sound of chains being dragged across a stone floor was the only requiem to the stillness. The air smelt of cinders and ash. My arms and legs felt heavy, and I soon came to find I was shackled. I tried following the chains for a while but as soon as I turned back it was as if I hadn’t moved a foot. There was no breadcrumb trail of chains behind me to mark my progress. I quickly gave up on that idea.
After some indeterminable eternity, two dots appeared on the horizon. Soon they split into four and the sound of dragging chains grew louder. Suddenly my shackles grew tight and I fell to the floor. I was dragged toward the source of the lights. Struggle did not avail me. It grew hotter and brighter as I neared the lights. I thought I couldn’t withstand the heat any longer. Surely, I must be burning to ashes by now. The four lights condensed into one and I splashed into a pool of icy, endless whiteness.
I felt like I was drowning, there was no air to enter my lungs but something kept filling my every pore. Memories, thoughts, vague happenings entered my being in a way that made them completely and wholly mine. I experiences a thousand lives in the time I spent there. The need to breath became pointless. When I realized this, I was suddenly flung into intense pain and heat. My ears burst inward as the pressure rose, sending so much air into my lungs they exploded. The air retreated and blood filled my throat. I spent an eternity floating in that endless void, feeling my blood pour out of me.
The pain was indescribable. I soon began to thrive on it. It empowered me, became me. I was the pain. It no longer was a sensation. It was a sense; something that was always there…and then it was taken away from me.
I was angry. I felt such rage that this thing had been taken from me. I looked up and saw a face covered in folds of cloth. My first reaction was to reach up and tear its jaw off. I saw this action frame by frame, my heartbeat a constant reminder that I WAS. I saw the chains flying up, broken. The shackles dug into my skin. I felt the skin break, my muscle fibers following suit soon after. It was delightful. I couldn’t help but smile. I felt my gum tissue tearing, ripping. I could hear them clearly. I tasted the sweet, sweet metallic wine. I bathed my tongue in it. The ecstasy was overwhelming. I looked around. The grunge on the cold stone walls was distasteful. I craved that searing, tearing pain. I saw movement in the corner of my eye. My arm flew outward, and I heard the satisfying snap of a virgin forearm. The sound was intoxicating. I stood and took two steps toward the pitiful, cowering, one-armed figure before me. Then my vision started to waver, and I heard a far off sound. Darkness closed in on me.
Weeks after his traumatizing experience, he made a decision. He wouldn’t let Brothlien control the emerald he held so dear. Such power should not be given to men with his intentions. In the night he snuck into his guardian’s chamber, moving so slowly not even an elf could detect him. Such stealth was needed. He reached the bed, gently lifting the emerald from the heaving chest of Brothlien. With a quick swipe of his dagger, he left with the sacred gem.
Before he left the compound, he acquired the scrolls detailing the ceremony performed on him. He slew all guards in his path with quiet desperation, his face growing grimmer with every swing of his blade. Finally he tasted the fresh air of freedom, and traveled at speed to distance himself from Brothlien.
In his travels, he met up with his brother, now a hardened mercenary. He entrusted him with the scrolls, telling him to hide them in a place Brothlien would never find. He entrusted the Emerald to an elder martial arts master he met who lived the life of a hermit in the mountains. Ever since that night he has been forced into the life of a nomad by Brothlien’s forces, who were always one step behind him.
Skills:
Half-Elven Senses: Though he appears a human, he is a half-elf, and as such has enhanced hearing, sight, and dexterity. This has aided him as a part-time rogue.
Alpha: Alpha is the name used for an ability granted to Ebivoulya once he became a half-immortal. It is essentially a realization of the matrix of reality. Specifically it is similar to alchemy, higher levels being able to rearrange the wood of a tree into a finely carved staff, or create a solid, well-made blade from a pile of scrap metal. (This IS a restricted element, and I will NOT be using its higher-level abilities) Through concentration, he can heal mild wounds (Either non-lethal stabs, or broken bones (Must be first time used that day, and can't use until the next day) or any non-lethal muscle-deep slash wounds), and can speed up his own metabolism to push his body further. This essentially gives him no offensive magic, but exceptional physical skill. He can only use his healing/empowering abilities three times a day. It takes that much time to regenerate his ‘Alpha’ energy.
Average Swordplay: He has been adventuring with this Greatsword for the better part of ten years, and has grown used to its size and weight. His dagger he is far less accurate with. He can handle the average foe without letting the weight of his blade slow him down.
Equipment:
Greatsword: The blade is approximately 5 feet including the hilt and is made of steel.
Dagger: This is an iron dagger with a serrated back edge. It is 8 inches in length.
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