NDX
07-11-06, 02:00 AM
Name: Lord Viktor Serfaret
Age: 27
Race: Human/Risen Undead
Hair Color: Blue
Eye Color: White
Height: 6'7"
Weight: 359lbs.
Occupation: Berserker Knight
Personality:
Viktor was once a man of positive outlook, perhaps the naive younger Serfaret brother, perhaps just the optimistic and boisterous man who wanted to help make sure his brother attained the greatness that House Serfaret represented.
However, the trying ordeal of death took its toll on the strong-spirited, hearty Viktor. Throughout the countless years, his persona had faded and dimmed to a pale darkness, leaving him grim and angry. A short fuse now leads to the explosive temper of this strong-willed man, and a deep rumble now echoes the sparse words that come from his throat. Shining through that veil of death and resurrection is the unfallable will of Viktor, a never-ending flame. Nowadays, that flame burns in the form of vengeance. One does not readily escape the wrath of the brothers Serfaret.
Emotionally, Viktor is almost dead. Only rage, sorrow, and the love for his brother work readily beneath his grim visage.
Appearance:
A mountain of a man, Viktor Serfaret stands a massive six feet, seven inches tall and weighs in at 359 pounds. Built of solid and unforgiving muscle, this man is a war machine to be reckoned with. Beneath a thin blanket of rough, pale skin lay his corded and immense muscles, rippling with each and every movement.
His rough look expands to his face, square of jaw and firm of visage. Steely, blue eyes gaze forth from beneath furrowed brow. All about his mouth and jaw sprouts facial hair in the form of short, white stubble, only complimenting his ghastly appearance. From the top of his head sprouts shoulder-length, white hair, bleached through the experience of reawakening. The stark tresses drift about his shoulders in choppy layers, looking somewhat uncared-for and ragged.
Bulky, full-body armor encases this warrior from neck to toe. Viktor was, indeed, hard-pressed to find a suit in the remains of the Serfaret estate that would fit his gargantuan frame, but a bit of digging uncovered this rather mundane suit. Rusting in tiny, inconsequential nooks and crannies, this armor is something that his taste for martial efficiency would normally not accept. However, when one's armor is stolen from his corpse, beggars can't be choosers. Adding to the fact that he was murdered as he was, his killers also confiscated his armor, a brilliant full suit that held a power quite vast. Revenge is, indeed, on his mind. From the shoulder plates of his armor drapes the tattered, crimson remains of his very own cape. Found, still pinned beneath the portcullis that he had torn his own body from, Viktor ripped it free and fastened the ragged piece of cloth to his armor. Faded, but still viewable is the family crest of the House Serfaret, now a memory to even the most learned of scholars and historians.
History:
The House of Serfaret...a minor family in the grand scheme of things, but on which has an unfortunate tendancy to align themselves with justice. Giving birth to any number of fine swordsmen and jacks-of-blades, the close ties and trust of its family saw it through purges and strikes by greater groups who would move against such a stinging thorn. Drawing their riches from mining and timber, the Serfereti also maintained a fairly tenacious position as a noteworthy supplyer to mercantile organizations over a wide area.
Their good lot, unfortunately, came to an end with the death of the Lord Baron Gishmael Serfaret, officially by illness; unofficially by poison.
As leadership changed hands to Viktor's elder brother, Coin, with the death of Baron Gishmael, things began to fall apart. The heir to the Serfaret family, Coin had much to learn about how the business was run; unfortunately, he had to learn such things the hard way. Viktor was always there to support his brother, reinforcing his sibling with positive and, some might say, naive thoughts. Few in the clan blamed the young heir, though, for these failures...he would have ample time to learn from his mistakes, they imagined, and become stronger because of them. The idea that their opponents would stoop so low as to resort to outright murder was, at the time, unthinkable; even between enemies, there were supposed to be rules.
How tragically wrong they proved to be.
In an act of unpredicted brutality, a shadowy alliance of clans struck against Viktor and his elder brother, Coin, in the early summer. The more venerable and powerful members of both the guard and the family were spread across the network of the group's interests, leaving their manse nearly without defenses. The two-dozen soldiers stationed at the grounds fought like bloody tigers, but fell almost to a man against the odds. Perhaps six escaped from the fray with their lives, if that, and none have been heard from since.
Viktor died at the gates, brought low by the portcullis and the sharp blades of the assassins. Selflessly and without thought for his own life, he dragged himself, torn and bleeding, through the halls of the mansion to warn his brother of the coming death, but was too late by far.
Coin, cut and wounded from dozens of slashes, breathed his last in the throne room of the house, as the sword of the lithe hunter Hector Velius pierced his throat, pinning him to the wall beside the great chair. The fact that he had killed better than fifteen men was for nothing...all was for nothing.
The brothers were dead; the Serferet were falling.
Unable to rest after their violent deaths, both for the pain of the end and for the shame of their failure, the two rose as ghosts, to haunt the halls of their decaying manse as it became broken and wasted before their very eyes. Powerful as his demise had made him, though, he little more than a whisper in the world of the living...and what power did a whisper have to give rise to revenge?
And so they made a plan...and made a pact.
A pact most vile.
Shedding their strength, Coin and Viktor gave rise to new life in their corpses; used their bitter lamentation to pierce the veil. Although imperfect and only a shadow of what they had been in either world, the brothers had returned, years later, to reclaim what had been stolen from them.
Skills:
A typical, brutish war-machine, Viktor charges into battle with no fear. After all, what could be more frightening that encountering death face-to-face? He wields his twin axes with decent proficiencty, both with a cool head and with temper flaring, bringing up the next of his skills. His temper is a deadly weapon, empowering the behemoth of a man to higher levels of physical prowess as his rage increases. Until he learns to further capitalize on his own flaring emotion, however, the increase of his power is slight. Roughly one-and-a-half times normal.
A haunted man lurks beneath the fiery temper. Emotionally, Viktor is almost completely numb, not feeling any remorse, guilt, or longing. He has little room for anything other than rage and sorrow, and his affection for his brother. These are the only things that can peek from behind that veil of emotional death.
Equipment:
Aside from the mundane, spiked armor he wears, Viktor wields two axes that remain in pristine condition. However, these weapons merely serve the purpose of melee tools, for now. The twin axes, Mikhail and Vincent, were named after Viktor's great-great-great-grandfather and uncle of the same generation. Each of these ancestors wielded one of the axes, then handing them down through the years after their deaths in battle. The weapons hold vast powers that were unrealized, until they met Viktor's more-than-capable hands. His battle-ready spirit unlocked the secrets of these weapons, making Viktor an extremely potent force on the battlefield.
However, as his gruesome end was realized, the secrets of these weapons were lost from his mind. Viktor still wields the axes with surprising prowess, but cannot create that link to them that unlocks the power held therein. As time goes on, perhaps he will be able to uncover some of those secrets?
Age: 27
Race: Human/Risen Undead
Hair Color: Blue
Eye Color: White
Height: 6'7"
Weight: 359lbs.
Occupation: Berserker Knight
Personality:
Viktor was once a man of positive outlook, perhaps the naive younger Serfaret brother, perhaps just the optimistic and boisterous man who wanted to help make sure his brother attained the greatness that House Serfaret represented.
However, the trying ordeal of death took its toll on the strong-spirited, hearty Viktor. Throughout the countless years, his persona had faded and dimmed to a pale darkness, leaving him grim and angry. A short fuse now leads to the explosive temper of this strong-willed man, and a deep rumble now echoes the sparse words that come from his throat. Shining through that veil of death and resurrection is the unfallable will of Viktor, a never-ending flame. Nowadays, that flame burns in the form of vengeance. One does not readily escape the wrath of the brothers Serfaret.
Emotionally, Viktor is almost dead. Only rage, sorrow, and the love for his brother work readily beneath his grim visage.
Appearance:
A mountain of a man, Viktor Serfaret stands a massive six feet, seven inches tall and weighs in at 359 pounds. Built of solid and unforgiving muscle, this man is a war machine to be reckoned with. Beneath a thin blanket of rough, pale skin lay his corded and immense muscles, rippling with each and every movement.
His rough look expands to his face, square of jaw and firm of visage. Steely, blue eyes gaze forth from beneath furrowed brow. All about his mouth and jaw sprouts facial hair in the form of short, white stubble, only complimenting his ghastly appearance. From the top of his head sprouts shoulder-length, white hair, bleached through the experience of reawakening. The stark tresses drift about his shoulders in choppy layers, looking somewhat uncared-for and ragged.
Bulky, full-body armor encases this warrior from neck to toe. Viktor was, indeed, hard-pressed to find a suit in the remains of the Serfaret estate that would fit his gargantuan frame, but a bit of digging uncovered this rather mundane suit. Rusting in tiny, inconsequential nooks and crannies, this armor is something that his taste for martial efficiency would normally not accept. However, when one's armor is stolen from his corpse, beggars can't be choosers. Adding to the fact that he was murdered as he was, his killers also confiscated his armor, a brilliant full suit that held a power quite vast. Revenge is, indeed, on his mind. From the shoulder plates of his armor drapes the tattered, crimson remains of his very own cape. Found, still pinned beneath the portcullis that he had torn his own body from, Viktor ripped it free and fastened the ragged piece of cloth to his armor. Faded, but still viewable is the family crest of the House Serfaret, now a memory to even the most learned of scholars and historians.
History:
The House of Serfaret...a minor family in the grand scheme of things, but on which has an unfortunate tendancy to align themselves with justice. Giving birth to any number of fine swordsmen and jacks-of-blades, the close ties and trust of its family saw it through purges and strikes by greater groups who would move against such a stinging thorn. Drawing their riches from mining and timber, the Serfereti also maintained a fairly tenacious position as a noteworthy supplyer to mercantile organizations over a wide area.
Their good lot, unfortunately, came to an end with the death of the Lord Baron Gishmael Serfaret, officially by illness; unofficially by poison.
As leadership changed hands to Viktor's elder brother, Coin, with the death of Baron Gishmael, things began to fall apart. The heir to the Serfaret family, Coin had much to learn about how the business was run; unfortunately, he had to learn such things the hard way. Viktor was always there to support his brother, reinforcing his sibling with positive and, some might say, naive thoughts. Few in the clan blamed the young heir, though, for these failures...he would have ample time to learn from his mistakes, they imagined, and become stronger because of them. The idea that their opponents would stoop so low as to resort to outright murder was, at the time, unthinkable; even between enemies, there were supposed to be rules.
How tragically wrong they proved to be.
In an act of unpredicted brutality, a shadowy alliance of clans struck against Viktor and his elder brother, Coin, in the early summer. The more venerable and powerful members of both the guard and the family were spread across the network of the group's interests, leaving their manse nearly without defenses. The two-dozen soldiers stationed at the grounds fought like bloody tigers, but fell almost to a man against the odds. Perhaps six escaped from the fray with their lives, if that, and none have been heard from since.
Viktor died at the gates, brought low by the portcullis and the sharp blades of the assassins. Selflessly and without thought for his own life, he dragged himself, torn and bleeding, through the halls of the mansion to warn his brother of the coming death, but was too late by far.
Coin, cut and wounded from dozens of slashes, breathed his last in the throne room of the house, as the sword of the lithe hunter Hector Velius pierced his throat, pinning him to the wall beside the great chair. The fact that he had killed better than fifteen men was for nothing...all was for nothing.
The brothers were dead; the Serferet were falling.
Unable to rest after their violent deaths, both for the pain of the end and for the shame of their failure, the two rose as ghosts, to haunt the halls of their decaying manse as it became broken and wasted before their very eyes. Powerful as his demise had made him, though, he little more than a whisper in the world of the living...and what power did a whisper have to give rise to revenge?
And so they made a plan...and made a pact.
A pact most vile.
Shedding their strength, Coin and Viktor gave rise to new life in their corpses; used their bitter lamentation to pierce the veil. Although imperfect and only a shadow of what they had been in either world, the brothers had returned, years later, to reclaim what had been stolen from them.
Skills:
A typical, brutish war-machine, Viktor charges into battle with no fear. After all, what could be more frightening that encountering death face-to-face? He wields his twin axes with decent proficiencty, both with a cool head and with temper flaring, bringing up the next of his skills. His temper is a deadly weapon, empowering the behemoth of a man to higher levels of physical prowess as his rage increases. Until he learns to further capitalize on his own flaring emotion, however, the increase of his power is slight. Roughly one-and-a-half times normal.
A haunted man lurks beneath the fiery temper. Emotionally, Viktor is almost completely numb, not feeling any remorse, guilt, or longing. He has little room for anything other than rage and sorrow, and his affection for his brother. These are the only things that can peek from behind that veil of emotional death.
Equipment:
Aside from the mundane, spiked armor he wears, Viktor wields two axes that remain in pristine condition. However, these weapons merely serve the purpose of melee tools, for now. The twin axes, Mikhail and Vincent, were named after Viktor's great-great-great-grandfather and uncle of the same generation. Each of these ancestors wielded one of the axes, then handing them down through the years after their deaths in battle. The weapons hold vast powers that were unrealized, until they met Viktor's more-than-capable hands. His battle-ready spirit unlocked the secrets of these weapons, making Viktor an extremely potent force on the battlefield.
However, as his gruesome end was realized, the secrets of these weapons were lost from his mind. Viktor still wields the axes with surprising prowess, but cannot create that link to them that unlocks the power held therein. As time goes on, perhaps he will be able to uncover some of those secrets?