Vile Inklings
04-20-08, 06:12 PM
{This one goes out to all the hopeless sinners...and Dirks.}
Name: Julian Summers
Age: 16
Race: Human
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Blue
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 122 lbs
Occupation: Student
Personality: Introverted, yet curious. Julian is an observer. Loyal to his teachings, and devout in his worship, he stubbornly does his duties.
Appearance: Pale skin with the dark hair of the North, Julian hails from frozen Berevar. He doesn't like heat much, and goes around his homeland quite underdressed for the cold. In fact, he usually only wears a single set of woolen undergarments, thick canvas pants, two pairs of wool socks under his leather boots, a long-sleeved black cotton shirt and a wool-lined cap. Between his shoulder blades, there is a tattoo of a white winter flower, blooming to reveal a black crescent moon.
History: Taken from the personal journals of Julian Summers
As far back as I can remember, I never knew a father. Mother and I lived in a small village in Eastern Berevar. There were perhaps seven or eight other homes, all on sprawling acreages. Money knew no home here. Gold and silver were nothing to us. Everyone had a duty, and a ware they provided, and we bartered. Mother could turn any stone, water, and meager offering of vegetables, too ripe from their long trip from Alerar or Southern Salvar, into a hearty stew, and while the pots were bubbling, she wove the heavy blankets that kept the village warm at night. We traded blankets away for wool and meat and bread, and sometimes some bright colored sweet from Knife's Edge for me. It worked, somehow. We traded the thick stews for firewood, books and repairs for the roof and the windows to the woodcutter who had no wife. He was a good friend of my mother's, and often when he would come to visit, I would be sent to church to light a candle for my dear grandmere who had been gone for thirteen winters yet.
I am old enough now to understand men and women and how my mother would want to be alone with him to quell the loneliness. Back then, I was ignorant of sex, and I was ignorant of death and violence. But even knowledge doesn't help. My poor dear mother knew nothing of the madness that sat in wait within the wretched woodcutter's mind. I had been sent to church and I lit the white candle for Grandmere Ingrid, saying my prayers as I had been taught to. It was summer, the snow melted from all but the deepest shadows under the trees. My breath was no longer fogging before me, and though it was the shortest season, it was my favorite. It was this time of year that Mother would let open the windows, the light curtains fluttering in the breeze, and sunlight would fill our home. But as I came up the bend to our house, the little garden by the walkway seemed more foreboding to me. All was silent, the shutters on the windows pulled tight still. By now the woodcutter was usually gone, my mother, glowing and all smiles should be waiting at the door for my return from the church. The doorstep was empty save for the closed door. Why did our meager vegetable vines seem to twist and thorn like brightly colored warning signs? Why did my front door seem to be as impenetrable as a fortress gate? I pushed open the door and gazed in astonishment at what I saw.
Our entire kitchen had been splattered with paint. It seemed as if someone had been dancing with open cans of black and red and rusty brown. I tried not to step in it as I entered, calling for my mother. Confusion was the only thing I could register; after all, it was the first time I'd ever really seen blood in my ten years of life. I don't think anything really clicked in my mind until I came upon that first part of her. My mother's forearm, the hand gently cupped, was laying in the middle of the den. I could see the tattoo on her wrist that she would never explain to me. It was beautiful, a winter flower opened delicately to reveal a moon within, and it looked so strange against the pale, mottled flesh of her disembodied arm. As I searched the house, I remember exactly all the places I found her in. Her head, in the pantry. Her legs, crossed over the fire pit. Her breasts were in the stew pot.
I'm sure I didn't find all of her, but what I could, I placed on her bed, and sat next to it. I don't remember much of what happened over the next day, nor do I care too. I remember feeling something cold, as if I were falling away from myself. If I cried, I cannot recall, but I stayed by her side until the Baron of our township and the lands on which we lived came. The woodcutter had run to church not long after I had left it, confessing his sins before the priest. My few meager possessions, mostly my clothes, were packed and I was taken away from that house.
The trip to Knife's Edge was long, and it was explained to me on the way that I would have eventually been taken into the Baron's care. Everyone in the township had been paid to live there and create children for the Baron. He bought the children, not in gold. As I have said, gold has no place among those people. Instead, they and their family live on the land, and everything that they cannot create and barter amongst each other is given them. I had been sold before my birth by my mother to the Baron in exchange for the easy life we had in the not so caring land of Berevar. Once I had heard of her choice and thought back to our life, and how the winters could have gone, even as a child it had made perfect sense. So now, with my beautiful mother dead, I was going to be enrolled in the Baron's private school several years earlier than I would have. Mother was gone, and yet it changed nothing. That concept in itself was a revelation to my young mind. No matter when death came, things continued. It made no difference. That attitude was perhaps the greatest catalyst for my education.
Within the great Salvarian capitol, I had come to a boarding school. A mere child of ten, I was thrust into classes with children three years my elders. The true purpose of the school - to breed tacticians and assassins - was always hinted at but never divulged in full at first. In fact, most students were under the impression that we were training to be doctors, for our studies in anatomy and the properties of plants and chemicals were quite extensive. When I was fifteen, light grappling and hand to hand combat classes were added to the curriculum, and we were shown how to properly wield different small blades. That when the ranks of my peers began to thin. Those who showed an aversion to causing harm, even in elf defense, were the first to disappear. The speculations were as vast and fantastic as ghost stories and legends. Somehow, I knew that I would remain. Death was as paltry as a child's song to me, far less than my duty. I had been sold into this school by my poor mother, who had always known what was best. What else could I do by her but fulfill my duty to the Epperson Boys Home Institute? Any other decision would have been cold, even by Berevarian standards.
Skills:
Uncanny Aim - Has above average aim with projectile weapons on non-moving targets, average aim on moving targets.
Map Minded - Julian has a visual memory, allowing him to memorize maps more easily. The following maps have been memorized:
- The location of arteries in the human circulatory system.
Equipment:
2 steel throwing daggers
yew blowgun
5 iron darts
Familiars: Milton - A small lemming that has been trained by Julian.
Skills: Lockpicking - Milton can pick a simple lock at below average profficiency.
Name: Julian Summers
Age: 16
Race: Human
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Blue
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 122 lbs
Occupation: Student
Personality: Introverted, yet curious. Julian is an observer. Loyal to his teachings, and devout in his worship, he stubbornly does his duties.
Appearance: Pale skin with the dark hair of the North, Julian hails from frozen Berevar. He doesn't like heat much, and goes around his homeland quite underdressed for the cold. In fact, he usually only wears a single set of woolen undergarments, thick canvas pants, two pairs of wool socks under his leather boots, a long-sleeved black cotton shirt and a wool-lined cap. Between his shoulder blades, there is a tattoo of a white winter flower, blooming to reveal a black crescent moon.
History: Taken from the personal journals of Julian Summers
As far back as I can remember, I never knew a father. Mother and I lived in a small village in Eastern Berevar. There were perhaps seven or eight other homes, all on sprawling acreages. Money knew no home here. Gold and silver were nothing to us. Everyone had a duty, and a ware they provided, and we bartered. Mother could turn any stone, water, and meager offering of vegetables, too ripe from their long trip from Alerar or Southern Salvar, into a hearty stew, and while the pots were bubbling, she wove the heavy blankets that kept the village warm at night. We traded blankets away for wool and meat and bread, and sometimes some bright colored sweet from Knife's Edge for me. It worked, somehow. We traded the thick stews for firewood, books and repairs for the roof and the windows to the woodcutter who had no wife. He was a good friend of my mother's, and often when he would come to visit, I would be sent to church to light a candle for my dear grandmere who had been gone for thirteen winters yet.
I am old enough now to understand men and women and how my mother would want to be alone with him to quell the loneliness. Back then, I was ignorant of sex, and I was ignorant of death and violence. But even knowledge doesn't help. My poor dear mother knew nothing of the madness that sat in wait within the wretched woodcutter's mind. I had been sent to church and I lit the white candle for Grandmere Ingrid, saying my prayers as I had been taught to. It was summer, the snow melted from all but the deepest shadows under the trees. My breath was no longer fogging before me, and though it was the shortest season, it was my favorite. It was this time of year that Mother would let open the windows, the light curtains fluttering in the breeze, and sunlight would fill our home. But as I came up the bend to our house, the little garden by the walkway seemed more foreboding to me. All was silent, the shutters on the windows pulled tight still. By now the woodcutter was usually gone, my mother, glowing and all smiles should be waiting at the door for my return from the church. The doorstep was empty save for the closed door. Why did our meager vegetable vines seem to twist and thorn like brightly colored warning signs? Why did my front door seem to be as impenetrable as a fortress gate? I pushed open the door and gazed in astonishment at what I saw.
Our entire kitchen had been splattered with paint. It seemed as if someone had been dancing with open cans of black and red and rusty brown. I tried not to step in it as I entered, calling for my mother. Confusion was the only thing I could register; after all, it was the first time I'd ever really seen blood in my ten years of life. I don't think anything really clicked in my mind until I came upon that first part of her. My mother's forearm, the hand gently cupped, was laying in the middle of the den. I could see the tattoo on her wrist that she would never explain to me. It was beautiful, a winter flower opened delicately to reveal a moon within, and it looked so strange against the pale, mottled flesh of her disembodied arm. As I searched the house, I remember exactly all the places I found her in. Her head, in the pantry. Her legs, crossed over the fire pit. Her breasts were in the stew pot.
I'm sure I didn't find all of her, but what I could, I placed on her bed, and sat next to it. I don't remember much of what happened over the next day, nor do I care too. I remember feeling something cold, as if I were falling away from myself. If I cried, I cannot recall, but I stayed by her side until the Baron of our township and the lands on which we lived came. The woodcutter had run to church not long after I had left it, confessing his sins before the priest. My few meager possessions, mostly my clothes, were packed and I was taken away from that house.
The trip to Knife's Edge was long, and it was explained to me on the way that I would have eventually been taken into the Baron's care. Everyone in the township had been paid to live there and create children for the Baron. He bought the children, not in gold. As I have said, gold has no place among those people. Instead, they and their family live on the land, and everything that they cannot create and barter amongst each other is given them. I had been sold before my birth by my mother to the Baron in exchange for the easy life we had in the not so caring land of Berevar. Once I had heard of her choice and thought back to our life, and how the winters could have gone, even as a child it had made perfect sense. So now, with my beautiful mother dead, I was going to be enrolled in the Baron's private school several years earlier than I would have. Mother was gone, and yet it changed nothing. That concept in itself was a revelation to my young mind. No matter when death came, things continued. It made no difference. That attitude was perhaps the greatest catalyst for my education.
Within the great Salvarian capitol, I had come to a boarding school. A mere child of ten, I was thrust into classes with children three years my elders. The true purpose of the school - to breed tacticians and assassins - was always hinted at but never divulged in full at first. In fact, most students were under the impression that we were training to be doctors, for our studies in anatomy and the properties of plants and chemicals were quite extensive. When I was fifteen, light grappling and hand to hand combat classes were added to the curriculum, and we were shown how to properly wield different small blades. That when the ranks of my peers began to thin. Those who showed an aversion to causing harm, even in elf defense, were the first to disappear. The speculations were as vast and fantastic as ghost stories and legends. Somehow, I knew that I would remain. Death was as paltry as a child's song to me, far less than my duty. I had been sold into this school by my poor mother, who had always known what was best. What else could I do by her but fulfill my duty to the Epperson Boys Home Institute? Any other decision would have been cold, even by Berevarian standards.
Skills:
Uncanny Aim - Has above average aim with projectile weapons on non-moving targets, average aim on moving targets.
Map Minded - Julian has a visual memory, allowing him to memorize maps more easily. The following maps have been memorized:
- The location of arteries in the human circulatory system.
Equipment:
2 steel throwing daggers
yew blowgun
5 iron darts
Familiars: Milton - A small lemming that has been trained by Julian.
Skills: Lockpicking - Milton can pick a simple lock at below average profficiency.