Olivan
02-11-09, 11:32 PM
Name: Olivan St. Donomar
Age: 15
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 150 lbs
Occupation: Serf
Personality:
To the onlooker possessing some level of knowledge regarding Olivan’s personality, one would most likely be inclined to state that the youngster is relatively quiet, hardworking and quite well mannered, often staying out of trouble of any sorts. Pearly whites shine between parted lips when greeted, and a kind, albeit brief gesture of respect is always demonstrated in the presence of elders, nobles, and other individuals worthy to be held in high esteem. Such mannerisms however, also reveal in him a well of deep-rooted diffidence, of which the aforementioned character qualities mask very well. Because of this, Olivan is not a risk taker by any means and prefers to seize the “low hanging fruit” if you will, rather than struggling to ascend higher branches to obtain a higher reward. He is aware of this problem and knows that he has to change, but so long as he gazes down fearfully, he will never climb any further.
Appearance:
A simple an unassuming presence describes this teenager. No defining muscle can be found on this boy’s sand colored frame. While some might suggest the cause of this to be attributed to his young age, Althanian evidence disproves this fallacious conclusion, seeing how many other youths his age have acquired the early fruits of a male adolescent figure. The truth behind this lies in the fact that serf children do not receive the sustenance that regular children do. Aside from his stature though, Olivan does have good looks, although they are somewhat hidden by unkempt and disheveled locks that hang slightly passed jaw length.
Squalid chocolate colored denim shorts don the lower half of his body in a pitiful attempt to provide warmth during the harsh winters of the Salvic kingdom. Yet due to them only reaching down to the ends of his knees, he has been forced to work with the resources available to him and wears off-white “long johns” underneath. In addition to this, simple brown leather boots cover his feet to handle all terrains, while his torso is clothed with a plain emerald hued short sleeve shirt and a heavy beige winter coat with fur outlining the hood.
History:
Everyone one seems to have a sad story, but Olivan just might be that one exception.
Born into a world of unimaginable wealth and political power of a ruling Salvarian fief family, to carry the weight of the name St. Donomar meant that the majority of lesser rational minded life was expected to step aside and bow as one of such nobility passed by. Not an eyelash was to be beaten in their presence or such an action, especially if noticed by a St. Donomar daughter, could cost one their very life. Indeed this influential Salvarian family dwelled in the upper echelon of society, but certainly not every member.
Unfortunately, Olivan was such a member. Being the youngest of ten, and by far the strangest at least, as far as his siblings were concerned, his interests resided in history, but specifically in the realm of Althanian heroism. The tales of many Althanian greats captivated his attention and imagination. Whether it was the Red Halo of Scara Brae or one of the many legendary elves of the magical kingdom, young Olivan loved it all. Yet such strong affection and admiration stemmed from his curiosity regarding not only their awe-inspiring accomplishments, but also the character makeup that propelled them to take on and overcome the many challenges that they were faced with. “How did all of these guys get to be so strong?” He would often wonder, but drew nothing more than blanks. Questions like these had been brought before his parents for contemplation on several occasions, but each time he was met with fiery indignation that many a time quelled his enthusiasm and turned his internal joy to dissipating vapors. But the love for these stories never died and would always return. In fact, it proliferated to the point where the more Olivan delved into historical tomes, the greater his parents’ fury increased. Shockingly, such fury transformed into outright hate for the child.
It wasn’t so much that what Olivan was doing actually upset them, but more so that what he was doing drew him away from falling in line with the culture of the family. The spirit of arrogance and entitlement that took up residence in his kinfolk stood clear of the boy’s fleshly temple, seeing as the messages he gleaned from the accounts of Althanian heroes introduced a more righteous, more humane way to behave. These seeds of knowledge, after being nourished in the fertile ground of a young and open mind begun to take root in public alongside the rest of the St. Donomar family. Mere commoners that dared to lock eyes with the youngest of Claire and Markus’ children were met with smiles and pleasant greetings. The publicity from such stunts was astounding. With several repeat offenses, Olivan had single handedly manage to weaken the posture of the St. Donomar family. To some ordinary denizens, this newfound display of consideration and acknowledgment from this commanding family was refreshing. But every influential entity that harbored deep resentment toward the St. Donomar family took advantage of this fresh “wound”.
Among the ruling elite of the Salvarian fiefdoms, Overlords always concocted schemes to destabilize the governance of their serious competitors. Weaker competition meant less thinning of resources, especially those that were exported in. The St. Donomar family seemed to obtain what was required for their fiefdom long before many other ruling families did. Much speculation swirled around this conspiracy, leaving some to truly believe that in some way, the St. Donomar’s were offering their services entirely to the the King. Such rumors greatly attributed to the fact that invasion and crime were lower on St. Donomar land than in many other fiefdoms. Yet with the recent developments, St. Donomar turf quickly witnessed an increase in crime of all kinds.
Ruffians sent by other fiefdoms only fueled this growing conflagration of conflict. The violence and bloodshed had reached such a level that the Church of Ethereal Sway, with consent from the King, dispatched a force of aeromancers and guardsmen to stamp out the barbaric battles and establish temporary martial law. If there were any souls at this point that still may have doubted the Rathaxea/St. Donomar connection, this fresh event acted as the eye salve that’d cleared away their visual obscurity. No Crier of course linked the two, but an official proclamation was far from necessary.
The St. Donomar family though, knew that something had to be done. Brief relief might’ve been what they were afforded with the intervention of the Salvarian monarchical government, but the respect, albeit shallow, shown toward the noble family in times passed had reached its wretched end. More attacks would soon come if proper and swift action were not taken. And of course, the sword of judgment fell upon the head of young Olivan.
Having been blamed for this political unraveling, Markus and Claire St. Donomoar seized their tenth child with the arm of their personal guardsmen and had him ousted not only out of the fiefdom, but out of the family as well. Banishment of the highest degree was and undeniable blemish on any noble son or daughter. A sentence that’d in times prior led many to commit suicide. However, even as Olivan was dragged out of his home and land in chain and shackle, the shock due to such an experience overrode any feelings of forfeiting his young life. It was at this moment that his thoughts retreated to the Althanian heroes that he’d admired so much. Faint optimism broke through the earth of a gloomy and dire situation. “Heroes always save innocent people,” The valiant warriors that’d partook in the War of the Tap came to mind, seeing how such individuals provided hope and a sense of new life when the Forgotten Ones were defeated. “And I know that I too will be saved!” But admission into Tyraxen Ein’s fiefdom cast a dark cloud over that ray of hope.
Of all the Salvic Lords, Ein was by far one of the cruelest. Though indeed a powerful Lord, he established not a single alliance with any of the other Lords. His allegiance was to the King out of law, but he saw Rathaxea as well as all other fief rulers as nothing more than possible arms and legs to strengthen his dark kingdom.
Tyraxen’s fiefdom endured frigid climates mostly all year round with the exception of summer months, where the wintry temperature would fall to autumn levels. This was to be expected however, since Tyraxen’s fief was in Skavia. Had it not been for the sheer size and population of the fiefdom, Olivan would’ve felt more of the brunt of Lord Ein’s draconian ruling style. Ein’s forces were indeed numerous, yet there weren’t enough knights to oversee every single individual serf, although in the past they’d come astonishingly close.
Such slight deficiencies in manpower however, allowed Olivan to satisfy his hunger for historical knowledge during long breaks. But over time, his interest dwindled for one simple reason.
A hero had not yet come to save him.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this as far as he was concerned. At the darkest time in the darkest hour, a hero was supposed to part charcoal colored skies and wreak righteous havoc on an evil empire. Raw yet controlled power was supposed to be demonstrated, freeing the oppressed innocent while bringing dictatorial tyrants and their respective regimes to their knees. Soon, Olivan began to lose faith and confidence in the concept of a hero. Perhaps history had skewed its story, painting a more beautified portrait than what reality might’ve suggested. Further thoughts related to this idea placed the child on a path of despondency. The tomes that he held dear remained still and unexplored, as the young historical excavator had set aside his tools of curiosity and wonder. Instead, he embraced the tools of his newfound craft of serfdom. The scythe and the shovel became cornerstones on which he would rebuild his disheartened soul, hoping that if he worked hard enough and displayed good citizenry, then maybe even in this twisted system the powers that be would find favor in him and set him free. All that mattered was the job and task at hand.
“There is no such thing as a hero. So just do what you are told because that is all that you can do” is what a dejected mind void of buoyancy rehearsed to Olivan. Yet as if on cue, at the apex of yet another cold typical day, the sound a loud humming engine was heard, breaking the monotony of iron striking dirt and stone. The utilities of hard labor ceased for a moment so curious eyes could scan around to see where this noise was coming from. Even the fief officials that’d supervised the work of the serfs gazed inquisitively. But when nothing out of the ordinary had revealed itself, the whips proceeded in cracking the backs of the laborers to resume. But out of nowhere, an enigmatic being clad in machine-like armor immediately descended from the gray sky. This invader wasted no time as the odd mechanized blade that was strapped to his back hacked through the plate mail of the guardsmen. Olivan, having been a close witness to the bloodshed, hit the ground, crawling across the stiff terrain to find asylum amidst the swinging of unmerciful blades.
The mysterious machine knight had not gotten far before Ein’s forces greatly out numbered him and brought the warrior to his death. Many were horrified at what they’d witnessed, but sympathy did not reside with the fiefdom soldiers. Barking orders to recommence work was all that was said before the relationship between, pick, shovel, stone, and soil was mended. However, young Olivan couldn’t help but feel joyous. The efforts of the unknown machine soldier fell in direct line with the mannerisms and character traits of the Althanian legends that he admired so much. Death sometimes came to heroes, but the deeds that they imprinted into the memories of their people would be forever, living eternally through subsequent generations.
Hope had been restored in young St. Donomar. The childlike faith that he once had in heroes invigorated him all over again to the point where he now desired to know just where the machine knight had come from. Why did he come to Tyraxen Ein’s fiefdom? Why did he touch down on the same estate that held the young boy captive? Just what was his purpose overall?
At some point, Olivan would receive the answers to these questions. But as far as he was concerned, it mattered not when he obtained closure on his inquiries. He had just seen a real live hero. One that sought to go up against the tyrannical rule of Ein’s fiefdom fueled by his own convictions whatever they might’ve been, despite the unforgiving pressure generated ultimately by Salvic law.
Everyone seemed to have a sad story, but Olivan St. Donomar was indeed the exception. Though abandoned by his family and cast into a life of slavery by them due to him not fitting the family mold, what he longed to experience while caged in his prison of abject wealth and excess, he’d experienced on the cold hard fields of servitude. The stories that he’d read for so long had finally come to life. Heroes really existed then, and they certainly exist now.
Therefore, count not Olivan’s story as a sad one, quite the contrary actually. His tale couldn’t have been a happier one.
Skills:
Though he is not gifted physically, Olivan does have some level of athleticism, considering the laboring activity he’s done as a serf in Lord Tyraxen Ein’s fief. He has decent speed and agility for his age, although it pails in comparison to his contemporaries. Though mediocre in physicality, he does have an above average intellect. In no way is he a genius, but due to his diligence in historical study, he is able to carry adult conversations with those well north of his age. He is crafty when he needs to be, and also has a knack for solving problems that a normal 15 year old child would have difficulty with.
Equipment:
History Books - Olivan carries his books in a burlap knapsack. These literary possessions are the only things that he took with him when he was banished by his family.
Iron Shovel – A tool that Olivan uses to do agricultural work with.
Iron Scythe – A tool that Olivan uses to do agricultural work with
Age: 15
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 150 lbs
Occupation: Serf
Personality:
To the onlooker possessing some level of knowledge regarding Olivan’s personality, one would most likely be inclined to state that the youngster is relatively quiet, hardworking and quite well mannered, often staying out of trouble of any sorts. Pearly whites shine between parted lips when greeted, and a kind, albeit brief gesture of respect is always demonstrated in the presence of elders, nobles, and other individuals worthy to be held in high esteem. Such mannerisms however, also reveal in him a well of deep-rooted diffidence, of which the aforementioned character qualities mask very well. Because of this, Olivan is not a risk taker by any means and prefers to seize the “low hanging fruit” if you will, rather than struggling to ascend higher branches to obtain a higher reward. He is aware of this problem and knows that he has to change, but so long as he gazes down fearfully, he will never climb any further.
Appearance:
A simple an unassuming presence describes this teenager. No defining muscle can be found on this boy’s sand colored frame. While some might suggest the cause of this to be attributed to his young age, Althanian evidence disproves this fallacious conclusion, seeing how many other youths his age have acquired the early fruits of a male adolescent figure. The truth behind this lies in the fact that serf children do not receive the sustenance that regular children do. Aside from his stature though, Olivan does have good looks, although they are somewhat hidden by unkempt and disheveled locks that hang slightly passed jaw length.
Squalid chocolate colored denim shorts don the lower half of his body in a pitiful attempt to provide warmth during the harsh winters of the Salvic kingdom. Yet due to them only reaching down to the ends of his knees, he has been forced to work with the resources available to him and wears off-white “long johns” underneath. In addition to this, simple brown leather boots cover his feet to handle all terrains, while his torso is clothed with a plain emerald hued short sleeve shirt and a heavy beige winter coat with fur outlining the hood.
History:
Everyone one seems to have a sad story, but Olivan just might be that one exception.
Born into a world of unimaginable wealth and political power of a ruling Salvarian fief family, to carry the weight of the name St. Donomar meant that the majority of lesser rational minded life was expected to step aside and bow as one of such nobility passed by. Not an eyelash was to be beaten in their presence or such an action, especially if noticed by a St. Donomar daughter, could cost one their very life. Indeed this influential Salvarian family dwelled in the upper echelon of society, but certainly not every member.
Unfortunately, Olivan was such a member. Being the youngest of ten, and by far the strangest at least, as far as his siblings were concerned, his interests resided in history, but specifically in the realm of Althanian heroism. The tales of many Althanian greats captivated his attention and imagination. Whether it was the Red Halo of Scara Brae or one of the many legendary elves of the magical kingdom, young Olivan loved it all. Yet such strong affection and admiration stemmed from his curiosity regarding not only their awe-inspiring accomplishments, but also the character makeup that propelled them to take on and overcome the many challenges that they were faced with. “How did all of these guys get to be so strong?” He would often wonder, but drew nothing more than blanks. Questions like these had been brought before his parents for contemplation on several occasions, but each time he was met with fiery indignation that many a time quelled his enthusiasm and turned his internal joy to dissipating vapors. But the love for these stories never died and would always return. In fact, it proliferated to the point where the more Olivan delved into historical tomes, the greater his parents’ fury increased. Shockingly, such fury transformed into outright hate for the child.
It wasn’t so much that what Olivan was doing actually upset them, but more so that what he was doing drew him away from falling in line with the culture of the family. The spirit of arrogance and entitlement that took up residence in his kinfolk stood clear of the boy’s fleshly temple, seeing as the messages he gleaned from the accounts of Althanian heroes introduced a more righteous, more humane way to behave. These seeds of knowledge, after being nourished in the fertile ground of a young and open mind begun to take root in public alongside the rest of the St. Donomar family. Mere commoners that dared to lock eyes with the youngest of Claire and Markus’ children were met with smiles and pleasant greetings. The publicity from such stunts was astounding. With several repeat offenses, Olivan had single handedly manage to weaken the posture of the St. Donomar family. To some ordinary denizens, this newfound display of consideration and acknowledgment from this commanding family was refreshing. But every influential entity that harbored deep resentment toward the St. Donomar family took advantage of this fresh “wound”.
Among the ruling elite of the Salvarian fiefdoms, Overlords always concocted schemes to destabilize the governance of their serious competitors. Weaker competition meant less thinning of resources, especially those that were exported in. The St. Donomar family seemed to obtain what was required for their fiefdom long before many other ruling families did. Much speculation swirled around this conspiracy, leaving some to truly believe that in some way, the St. Donomar’s were offering their services entirely to the the King. Such rumors greatly attributed to the fact that invasion and crime were lower on St. Donomar land than in many other fiefdoms. Yet with the recent developments, St. Donomar turf quickly witnessed an increase in crime of all kinds.
Ruffians sent by other fiefdoms only fueled this growing conflagration of conflict. The violence and bloodshed had reached such a level that the Church of Ethereal Sway, with consent from the King, dispatched a force of aeromancers and guardsmen to stamp out the barbaric battles and establish temporary martial law. If there were any souls at this point that still may have doubted the Rathaxea/St. Donomar connection, this fresh event acted as the eye salve that’d cleared away their visual obscurity. No Crier of course linked the two, but an official proclamation was far from necessary.
The St. Donomar family though, knew that something had to be done. Brief relief might’ve been what they were afforded with the intervention of the Salvarian monarchical government, but the respect, albeit shallow, shown toward the noble family in times passed had reached its wretched end. More attacks would soon come if proper and swift action were not taken. And of course, the sword of judgment fell upon the head of young Olivan.
Having been blamed for this political unraveling, Markus and Claire St. Donomoar seized their tenth child with the arm of their personal guardsmen and had him ousted not only out of the fiefdom, but out of the family as well. Banishment of the highest degree was and undeniable blemish on any noble son or daughter. A sentence that’d in times prior led many to commit suicide. However, even as Olivan was dragged out of his home and land in chain and shackle, the shock due to such an experience overrode any feelings of forfeiting his young life. It was at this moment that his thoughts retreated to the Althanian heroes that he’d admired so much. Faint optimism broke through the earth of a gloomy and dire situation. “Heroes always save innocent people,” The valiant warriors that’d partook in the War of the Tap came to mind, seeing how such individuals provided hope and a sense of new life when the Forgotten Ones were defeated. “And I know that I too will be saved!” But admission into Tyraxen Ein’s fiefdom cast a dark cloud over that ray of hope.
Of all the Salvic Lords, Ein was by far one of the cruelest. Though indeed a powerful Lord, he established not a single alliance with any of the other Lords. His allegiance was to the King out of law, but he saw Rathaxea as well as all other fief rulers as nothing more than possible arms and legs to strengthen his dark kingdom.
Tyraxen’s fiefdom endured frigid climates mostly all year round with the exception of summer months, where the wintry temperature would fall to autumn levels. This was to be expected however, since Tyraxen’s fief was in Skavia. Had it not been for the sheer size and population of the fiefdom, Olivan would’ve felt more of the brunt of Lord Ein’s draconian ruling style. Ein’s forces were indeed numerous, yet there weren’t enough knights to oversee every single individual serf, although in the past they’d come astonishingly close.
Such slight deficiencies in manpower however, allowed Olivan to satisfy his hunger for historical knowledge during long breaks. But over time, his interest dwindled for one simple reason.
A hero had not yet come to save him.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this as far as he was concerned. At the darkest time in the darkest hour, a hero was supposed to part charcoal colored skies and wreak righteous havoc on an evil empire. Raw yet controlled power was supposed to be demonstrated, freeing the oppressed innocent while bringing dictatorial tyrants and their respective regimes to their knees. Soon, Olivan began to lose faith and confidence in the concept of a hero. Perhaps history had skewed its story, painting a more beautified portrait than what reality might’ve suggested. Further thoughts related to this idea placed the child on a path of despondency. The tomes that he held dear remained still and unexplored, as the young historical excavator had set aside his tools of curiosity and wonder. Instead, he embraced the tools of his newfound craft of serfdom. The scythe and the shovel became cornerstones on which he would rebuild his disheartened soul, hoping that if he worked hard enough and displayed good citizenry, then maybe even in this twisted system the powers that be would find favor in him and set him free. All that mattered was the job and task at hand.
“There is no such thing as a hero. So just do what you are told because that is all that you can do” is what a dejected mind void of buoyancy rehearsed to Olivan. Yet as if on cue, at the apex of yet another cold typical day, the sound a loud humming engine was heard, breaking the monotony of iron striking dirt and stone. The utilities of hard labor ceased for a moment so curious eyes could scan around to see where this noise was coming from. Even the fief officials that’d supervised the work of the serfs gazed inquisitively. But when nothing out of the ordinary had revealed itself, the whips proceeded in cracking the backs of the laborers to resume. But out of nowhere, an enigmatic being clad in machine-like armor immediately descended from the gray sky. This invader wasted no time as the odd mechanized blade that was strapped to his back hacked through the plate mail of the guardsmen. Olivan, having been a close witness to the bloodshed, hit the ground, crawling across the stiff terrain to find asylum amidst the swinging of unmerciful blades.
The mysterious machine knight had not gotten far before Ein’s forces greatly out numbered him and brought the warrior to his death. Many were horrified at what they’d witnessed, but sympathy did not reside with the fiefdom soldiers. Barking orders to recommence work was all that was said before the relationship between, pick, shovel, stone, and soil was mended. However, young Olivan couldn’t help but feel joyous. The efforts of the unknown machine soldier fell in direct line with the mannerisms and character traits of the Althanian legends that he admired so much. Death sometimes came to heroes, but the deeds that they imprinted into the memories of their people would be forever, living eternally through subsequent generations.
Hope had been restored in young St. Donomar. The childlike faith that he once had in heroes invigorated him all over again to the point where he now desired to know just where the machine knight had come from. Why did he come to Tyraxen Ein’s fiefdom? Why did he touch down on the same estate that held the young boy captive? Just what was his purpose overall?
At some point, Olivan would receive the answers to these questions. But as far as he was concerned, it mattered not when he obtained closure on his inquiries. He had just seen a real live hero. One that sought to go up against the tyrannical rule of Ein’s fiefdom fueled by his own convictions whatever they might’ve been, despite the unforgiving pressure generated ultimately by Salvic law.
Everyone seemed to have a sad story, but Olivan St. Donomar was indeed the exception. Though abandoned by his family and cast into a life of slavery by them due to him not fitting the family mold, what he longed to experience while caged in his prison of abject wealth and excess, he’d experienced on the cold hard fields of servitude. The stories that he’d read for so long had finally come to life. Heroes really existed then, and they certainly exist now.
Therefore, count not Olivan’s story as a sad one, quite the contrary actually. His tale couldn’t have been a happier one.
Skills:
Though he is not gifted physically, Olivan does have some level of athleticism, considering the laboring activity he’s done as a serf in Lord Tyraxen Ein’s fief. He has decent speed and agility for his age, although it pails in comparison to his contemporaries. Though mediocre in physicality, he does have an above average intellect. In no way is he a genius, but due to his diligence in historical study, he is able to carry adult conversations with those well north of his age. He is crafty when he needs to be, and also has a knack for solving problems that a normal 15 year old child would have difficulty with.
Equipment:
History Books - Olivan carries his books in a burlap knapsack. These literary possessions are the only things that he took with him when he was banished by his family.
Iron Shovel – A tool that Olivan uses to do agricultural work with.
Iron Scythe – A tool that Olivan uses to do agricultural work with