Nevermore
08-04-09, 12:48 PM
“Great men are not always wise.”
- The Bible
Or so I’ve heard them say…
Name: Arimov “That Elf” Isan [Are-eee-ma (like mama)-f, Eee-zan]
Age: 2,147
Race: Silvan Elf
Hair Color: A pallid golden sheen, twinkling with dusty stars.
Eye Color: A blue much like the sky, glorious and open… and perhaps just a tad bit speculative and shimmering with the rare gift of intelligence.
Height: Standing at roughly six foot, three inches, Arimov is tall, but not monstrously so.
Weight: 169 lbs. Extremely lightweight, but most of those pounds are packed with sinewy muscle.
*Occupation: In the past, various. He has had work as a medical assistant for the longest duration, as well as a mercenary, a bodyguard, a gardener and even a prophet. Although his past has been quite speckled, this particular elf has resolved to wander the lands until time claims him; that is, of course, he has no intention of dying by anyone’s hand.
*Personality: Arimov has been seen as both a maverick and a gentle creature. He speaks only to those he finds trustworthy, rarely saying more than a word or two of warning to anyone else. The Silvan is stalwart but not excessively so, resulting in a combination of both placid cunning and what some describe as Herculean strength. Attuned highly with nature, its destruction sets off a violent chain reaction in such a temperate creature, and let fury sunder the offender as quick as mercy may. Arimov is most certainly not a druid, but his kin are innately protective of flora and fauna. To those who manage to earn a place in Arimov’s small inner circle, the handful of people he actively converses with, the elf is deeply rooted to his people’s religious beliefs but is open-minded to those of others.
Observant and processing, he scans any given location he stops at for more than an hour or two for strategic advantages, such as places where his particular style of combat might be more effective, and when speaking to someone or watching them, he gathers information and scrutinizes it for flaws. Arimov is fairly humble, but goes out of his way in combat to add a certain finesse and grace to his movements, even if it prolongs the skirmish for awhile. However, if he deems it dangerous, such elegance will be discarded in favor of a more direct approach. Curiously, he can often be seen citing ancient historians and quoting long-forgotten heroes in the sporadic instances that he talks: a notable detail.
Appearance: A child of the light, Arimov is of the same coloration as its shades of pale. Fair-haired and lithe, his features are a combination of childlike, a peculiar characteristic of his subspecies as a whole, and stern. For a moment his brow could be furrowed in thought and the next he could be smiling, projecting the persona of a jovial teen – albeit, he can sometimes be underestimated for such things. Constantly lost in contemplation, some would believe such absent-mindedness is not an excellent trait for a mercenary. The rugged criminals he often encountered whispered in hushed, sharp gasps when they thought he couldn’t hear about how they should mug him when he was in such a meditative state. The last time that had happened, the men had met grisly deaths at the hands of that very same absent-minded mercenary and taken their stupidity to death. Besides this, some have reported seeing his eerie eyes staring from afar, always thinking and always wondering.
Perhaps he is an outcast, estranged from Silvan society as a whole? They generally wander in pairs, at least, so it would make sense. He’s only got that blasted dwarven companion, generally lagging behind… Bother.
History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.
- Winston Churchill
History: Born in a realm where lamplight was driven by fireflies: a forest of Dheathain. Raised by family and friend alike, Arimov began to learn. Years – days, as they seemed, to his people – seemed to fast-forward, and in what seemed like hours after emergence from Mother’s womb, the Trial had come. It was the one test that varied from elf to elf, a test of both one’s wit and might intertwined in a situation of peril. Arimov was selected along with brethren Hastur and Allistair to eliminate the Butcher of Plague, a rogue who had besmirched the Silvan name by eviscerating two elves in their prime youth. Such a crime was unholy blasphemy and of the highest sacrileges, not only a sin against life but against death, as well. They ventured deep into the land that surrounded them, passing mystical waterfalls and murky lakes filled with poison-breathing toads and other things of that ilk. And there they found him, snug in the hollow of a broken tree that was crooked, as if it had been a mother tending to its child. How ironic… and fitting. Their quarry arose, the personification of both thunder and lightning as one, looking over the three that dared challenge him and with a contemptuous snort began what he deemed a slaughter:
A yawn of scorn as he stood, massive axe gripped in equally as massive hand. It gleamed with the malice of a corrupt perversion of what had once been righteous – with the malice of a butcher. With a reflexive twitch of anticipation, Hastur began. The younger elf’s sword moved like clockwork and with a natural talent, moving to end the duel before it had the chance to start; he inclined the tip to sink into the fallen creature’s heart, to feel the bite and sting of justified murder with the wicked dirge of death and doom… but there was no such song. It seemed as though the Butcher had only nudged the mithril blade as it came to reap his soul, but the kinetic flow reversed itself and instead of flesh the edge met bark, and with a feisty quarrel the wood splintered. Moving with speed much too fast for any of them to counter with weaponry, Hastur had no choice but to duck before he was beheaded in an instant. The subtle machinations of a powerful psalm began to materialize in Hastur’s palm without even a minor gesticulation or semantic command word, triggered by a scroll that Arimov had been holding. The parchment disintegrated and energy released itself, burying its heated head in the Butcher’s torso. Everyone anticipated the squelch of burning flesh and crispy odor of burnt skin, but that never arrived, either. Having decided that such a maneuver would be taken, various enchantments wound around their foe like wrapping paper prevented their secret blow from penetrating.
Cocoon of protective barriers surrounding him, the monstrosity easily reversed his strike so that it carried downward in an oblique slice. Without chance to dodge, Hastur grimly accepted his fate while he turned in his own attack, having torn the sword from the tree. The shield protected the Butcher from spells, but in the physical plane he was still vulnerable – ancient ore taken from a lode deep within the mines of the cave behind their homeland dug into the sinner’s hamstring, releasing a spurt of blood as it cut through a tendon. However, the minor victory had come at cost as the axe tore deep into Hastur, digging further until even his spine was not safe. A minor incision would’ve been enough, but the Butcher nearly tore all the way through the poor Silvan! He was dead before the tool came back out in time to deflect Allistair’s spear and one of Arimov’s curses. “I will enjoy this,” the Butcher said with a corrupt drawl forged from the events that had recently transpired. It didn’t look as if the hit to the leg hadn’t done much at all, except lower their number to two. The ultimatum: “I’ll spare one of you, but you’ll have to kill each other.” Not a particularly good one, Arimov acknowledged, confident that Allistair wouldn’t betray him. However, he did give it a moment of consideration…
But he had been wrong. His companion whirled instinctively, spear taking Arimov in the shoulder, but it just grazed him. No problem there. The elf revealed twin blades of his own, shaped more like scimitars than anything for a special sort of impact as it sheared off hunks of flesh. Their names were Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth, Judge Star and Master Doom respectively. He caught Allistair’s spear with ease, and knew he could beat the other elf. Rather than speak, Arimov moved to the side and with a bleak, decisive swing decapitated Allistair. It had been too fluid, too easy… There was, of course, the matter of the Butcher’s axe still embedded in his other flank and the metallic stench of black, black blood dripping down it. Bubbly foam gathered at his mouth, and Arimov prepared to engage in lone combat against a behemoth. He turned, and…
I cannot tell you much more. It goes against both my principles and general attitude… I have not even assessed the threat you might pose yet, which is always bolstered when you know things about my past. It just is. I can, however, alert you to my dwarven companion, and the tale of how we met. His name? Raizan Kruch’Fulkint:
Dusk and dawn mingled together at the apex of the night. Predators lurked in unseen darkness, ethereal and giddy as they waited for us – the prey – to fall into their trap. There were a handful of men protecting the convoy as it went along its path, oxen trudging slowly through the mud. The owners were expecting trouble tonight from a local gang of thugs who had set their sights on the jewels and other merchandise they ferried to the city. We were the lamb and they embodied the lion, or perhaps they were encroaching on an antelope that had begun to lag behind its pack… The troops began their invasion, raining down upon us beleaguered guardsmen. However, we were strong: they broke like water upon rock as they came against us. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth intercepted blow after blow and wove themselves a wiry pattern through their foes; thus began the brutal ballet, a stricken symphony of harmonic hells as raging rhythms engraved themselves in the opposing sides’ ranks, denting them to and fro. Stained in alien ichor, the song continued and so did Arimov, an instrument in the sibilance that determined his background noise. Mind you, it was not elevator music that played in the elf’s mind, but more along the lines of a carnal ballad, feeding him through its pulsating, throbbing notes… And then came a strike from behind, the pommel of a sword slamming into the back of his silken skull with devastating momentum and power behind it. Sensing death but defying its gravitating allegiance, Arimov desperately forced himself into a turn so he could at least lay eyes upon his murderer, but all he saw was a bloody stub and a spurt of bodily fluid. Behind the maimed corpse there was a dwarf, looking at him squarely. It had been one of those bouts of vertigo the elf seemed to suffer from, tripping him up and perhaps costing him his life. He inwardly cursed himself as an ocean eclipse took over, stripping the land from underfoot into chilly water…
The world went into a cold hibernation, shut off from Arimov. When he awoke he could feel the sticky sensation of dried liquid on his scalp and over him there was a small man – for a moment, he mistook the figure for a cadaver whose legs had been… misplaced. But no, it was that dwarven fellow who seemed to have saved him before. “What is your name?” he asked, and he felt feeble as he tried to rise. It seemed a million decades had been placed upon his shoulders to weather them like incorrigible stone, a debilitating thing that he could not shake… Intriguing. He hadn’t ever felt this way, not even after his vicious confrontation with the Butcher of Plague. The response was “Raizan the dwarf,” and a hearty laugh from a stout figure. It seemed that these little folk were just as deep-voiced as they were often called. And thus, the Silvan elf met his good friend and traveling companion (besides, of course, his familiar), Raizan. The men who they’d been guarding had been annihilated by the opposing force, which had been much higher in numbers than had been expected. Raizan told Arimov that shortly after his unfortunate concussion the rest of the men who had fought alongside the duo were routed, not to mention their employers He wasn’t pleased, of course, but such things happen in life. After a few days’ worth of conversation whilst the elf recuperated, it was decided that they would journey together. Arimov had been spared a trip to Elysium by this dwarf, and he seemed an agreeable enough fellow. Thereafter began a journey of two colleagues – they bested more than one remarkable enemy in their time together: Harris the Gardener, with his druid-like manipulation of the undergrowth in a jungle, Faust the Forester, the lumberjack with a vengeance, and several other vicarious villains who were most definitely meticulously crafted by their creator and not at all pulled up as a stock names.
’Mental note,’ I thought to myself, having finished my tale, ’this one has a very low threat level. Almost non-existent, in fact.’ A commotion started over by the bartender, and when one of the local militia stepped in (he had fancied himself a mug of ale or two) to see what the ruckus was, Raizan was tossed out of the building. I turned to the listener, smiling apologetically, “Ah, well, you see… I have to go now. That was Raizan. I should probably head out so that he doesn’t let his temper get the best of him. Oh, and… I suppose this drink is on you. Thanks.” Stepping up from the table, I dodged through the conglomerating crowd to get outside. He was a feisty one, that dwarf.
“Destruction cometh; and they shall seek peace, and there shall be none.”
- The Bible
Skills: The following is subject to change as time progresses and more skills are allowed, or as per mod discretion –
Swordsmanship, mostly dual-bladed. [Suffers from occasional dizziness spells, but he doesn’t know why.] Although more proficient in general dueling against single opponents and, if at all, is relatively well known for his signature phrase of "never failing to parry in the first exchange." Apparently, he is almost always able to intercept the first blow. Of course, this needs a good correction, lest our elven hero fall from grace into conceited avarice...
1.5x speed augmentation
Minor control over water. For example, able to focus it into a steady stream from the ground or in the form of rain to drink from; able to turn it into slush. Of course, because of his rather low experience level, Arimov is vulnerable to concentration breaks and curses that might interrupt his incantations. At the moment, he is unable to use either gesticulation or a somatic command word alone, and has to use a handful of both to properly activate a spell.
Fairly flexible and agile, as per human standards (in coordination with his advanced speed).
Currently in fledgling or moderate stages, though occasionally rising alarmingly and steadily progressing, Arimov is insane. The shatterpoint that most likely started it all was during his brief spar with the Butcher of Plague, in which he was forced to behead a member of his species, Allistair. Such a sacrilege is quite disliked in his native culture, while also forcing him to emulate the same act that had blacklisted the Butcher. Besides this, multiple psychological conditions (not the least of which is his partnership with a dwarf, generally considered to be the banes, or at least opposites, of elven society) also effect his generally calm temperament and can result in brief tantrums or even full-out bouts of that dreaded pathological fear.
Equipment: Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth (rendered in <insert human language> as Judge Star and Master Doom), two vaguely scimitar-like elven blades. The weapons are not open to enchantment. In the future, several levels higher, most likely, I have plans for another weapon. Also in the future, I think I'd like to upgrade them to mithril. At the moment they are made of standard steel.
Also keeps standard traveling supplies: rations, minor first-aid kit to help mend broken bones and the like, etc. The basics things, like rope and a tent to pitch in the wilderness, or at least a cot. Most of such things would be kept on his steed, Eon, but because of the injury his steed sustained, Arimov has been staying at local inns.
During a minor confrontation between Arimov and a handful of drunken bandits who had tried to take advantage of his gentle-looking features, Eon was wounded. He is currently stabled and recovering. Confident in his skills, this particular elf wears little to no armor, thereby not hindering his mobility. If necessary, he will purchase light armor (leather, spidersilk, etc. [expect this in the very near future]) to protect himself from enemies, but thus far the only extreme wounds he has undertaken have been during the Butcher of Plague conflict and during the tussle with those blasted mercenary thugs who thumped him on the head.
*Familiars: Besides his horse, Eon, who Arimov encountered as a mustang and successfully tamed, the Silvan elf keeps a pet parrot. It seems to chatter both in the standard language and the occasional elven phrase, although it has a few pronunciation problems. It doesn’t really participate in combat, except maybe a peck or two to the skull, I’d think.
[Note: * denotes something that was listed as not necessary]
[Note 2: Arimov is an IC ally of Raizan Kruch’Fulkint, the soon-to-come character of Law, my OOC friend. He is aware that of our method of meeting, that our characters are going to know each other in character, etc. I must say, it probably stems from the Legolas-Gimli relationship of Lord of the Rings. Yes, I remarked on his surname as well. Also, the names of his swords are actually from real Tolkien Elvish.]
[Note 3: Weight confuses me a bit, so if 169 pounds is unhealthily light or if it’s a bit too much towards the medium/average, please tell me.]
[Note 4: Hopefully the last note. I’m not a religious person at all, and could probably be classified as an atheist or agnostic, but my character is… hence the biblical quotes. If you think they’d offend anyone, I’ll remove them.]
[Note 5: The history will grow while I advance through levels as a sort of interaction with the reader type of thing. I don’t know, some random idea I had.]
I know, it's a bit wordy... I tend to go into those pedantic thingies a bit too much, so apologies for that. :x And the metaphors, oh dear.
- The Bible
Or so I’ve heard them say…
Name: Arimov “That Elf” Isan [Are-eee-ma (like mama)-f, Eee-zan]
Age: 2,147
Race: Silvan Elf
Hair Color: A pallid golden sheen, twinkling with dusty stars.
Eye Color: A blue much like the sky, glorious and open… and perhaps just a tad bit speculative and shimmering with the rare gift of intelligence.
Height: Standing at roughly six foot, three inches, Arimov is tall, but not monstrously so.
Weight: 169 lbs. Extremely lightweight, but most of those pounds are packed with sinewy muscle.
*Occupation: In the past, various. He has had work as a medical assistant for the longest duration, as well as a mercenary, a bodyguard, a gardener and even a prophet. Although his past has been quite speckled, this particular elf has resolved to wander the lands until time claims him; that is, of course, he has no intention of dying by anyone’s hand.
*Personality: Arimov has been seen as both a maverick and a gentle creature. He speaks only to those he finds trustworthy, rarely saying more than a word or two of warning to anyone else. The Silvan is stalwart but not excessively so, resulting in a combination of both placid cunning and what some describe as Herculean strength. Attuned highly with nature, its destruction sets off a violent chain reaction in such a temperate creature, and let fury sunder the offender as quick as mercy may. Arimov is most certainly not a druid, but his kin are innately protective of flora and fauna. To those who manage to earn a place in Arimov’s small inner circle, the handful of people he actively converses with, the elf is deeply rooted to his people’s religious beliefs but is open-minded to those of others.
Observant and processing, he scans any given location he stops at for more than an hour or two for strategic advantages, such as places where his particular style of combat might be more effective, and when speaking to someone or watching them, he gathers information and scrutinizes it for flaws. Arimov is fairly humble, but goes out of his way in combat to add a certain finesse and grace to his movements, even if it prolongs the skirmish for awhile. However, if he deems it dangerous, such elegance will be discarded in favor of a more direct approach. Curiously, he can often be seen citing ancient historians and quoting long-forgotten heroes in the sporadic instances that he talks: a notable detail.
Appearance: A child of the light, Arimov is of the same coloration as its shades of pale. Fair-haired and lithe, his features are a combination of childlike, a peculiar characteristic of his subspecies as a whole, and stern. For a moment his brow could be furrowed in thought and the next he could be smiling, projecting the persona of a jovial teen – albeit, he can sometimes be underestimated for such things. Constantly lost in contemplation, some would believe such absent-mindedness is not an excellent trait for a mercenary. The rugged criminals he often encountered whispered in hushed, sharp gasps when they thought he couldn’t hear about how they should mug him when he was in such a meditative state. The last time that had happened, the men had met grisly deaths at the hands of that very same absent-minded mercenary and taken their stupidity to death. Besides this, some have reported seeing his eerie eyes staring from afar, always thinking and always wondering.
Perhaps he is an outcast, estranged from Silvan society as a whole? They generally wander in pairs, at least, so it would make sense. He’s only got that blasted dwarven companion, generally lagging behind… Bother.
History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.
- Winston Churchill
History: Born in a realm where lamplight was driven by fireflies: a forest of Dheathain. Raised by family and friend alike, Arimov began to learn. Years – days, as they seemed, to his people – seemed to fast-forward, and in what seemed like hours after emergence from Mother’s womb, the Trial had come. It was the one test that varied from elf to elf, a test of both one’s wit and might intertwined in a situation of peril. Arimov was selected along with brethren Hastur and Allistair to eliminate the Butcher of Plague, a rogue who had besmirched the Silvan name by eviscerating two elves in their prime youth. Such a crime was unholy blasphemy and of the highest sacrileges, not only a sin against life but against death, as well. They ventured deep into the land that surrounded them, passing mystical waterfalls and murky lakes filled with poison-breathing toads and other things of that ilk. And there they found him, snug in the hollow of a broken tree that was crooked, as if it had been a mother tending to its child. How ironic… and fitting. Their quarry arose, the personification of both thunder and lightning as one, looking over the three that dared challenge him and with a contemptuous snort began what he deemed a slaughter:
A yawn of scorn as he stood, massive axe gripped in equally as massive hand. It gleamed with the malice of a corrupt perversion of what had once been righteous – with the malice of a butcher. With a reflexive twitch of anticipation, Hastur began. The younger elf’s sword moved like clockwork and with a natural talent, moving to end the duel before it had the chance to start; he inclined the tip to sink into the fallen creature’s heart, to feel the bite and sting of justified murder with the wicked dirge of death and doom… but there was no such song. It seemed as though the Butcher had only nudged the mithril blade as it came to reap his soul, but the kinetic flow reversed itself and instead of flesh the edge met bark, and with a feisty quarrel the wood splintered. Moving with speed much too fast for any of them to counter with weaponry, Hastur had no choice but to duck before he was beheaded in an instant. The subtle machinations of a powerful psalm began to materialize in Hastur’s palm without even a minor gesticulation or semantic command word, triggered by a scroll that Arimov had been holding. The parchment disintegrated and energy released itself, burying its heated head in the Butcher’s torso. Everyone anticipated the squelch of burning flesh and crispy odor of burnt skin, but that never arrived, either. Having decided that such a maneuver would be taken, various enchantments wound around their foe like wrapping paper prevented their secret blow from penetrating.
Cocoon of protective barriers surrounding him, the monstrosity easily reversed his strike so that it carried downward in an oblique slice. Without chance to dodge, Hastur grimly accepted his fate while he turned in his own attack, having torn the sword from the tree. The shield protected the Butcher from spells, but in the physical plane he was still vulnerable – ancient ore taken from a lode deep within the mines of the cave behind their homeland dug into the sinner’s hamstring, releasing a spurt of blood as it cut through a tendon. However, the minor victory had come at cost as the axe tore deep into Hastur, digging further until even his spine was not safe. A minor incision would’ve been enough, but the Butcher nearly tore all the way through the poor Silvan! He was dead before the tool came back out in time to deflect Allistair’s spear and one of Arimov’s curses. “I will enjoy this,” the Butcher said with a corrupt drawl forged from the events that had recently transpired. It didn’t look as if the hit to the leg hadn’t done much at all, except lower their number to two. The ultimatum: “I’ll spare one of you, but you’ll have to kill each other.” Not a particularly good one, Arimov acknowledged, confident that Allistair wouldn’t betray him. However, he did give it a moment of consideration…
But he had been wrong. His companion whirled instinctively, spear taking Arimov in the shoulder, but it just grazed him. No problem there. The elf revealed twin blades of his own, shaped more like scimitars than anything for a special sort of impact as it sheared off hunks of flesh. Their names were Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth, Judge Star and Master Doom respectively. He caught Allistair’s spear with ease, and knew he could beat the other elf. Rather than speak, Arimov moved to the side and with a bleak, decisive swing decapitated Allistair. It had been too fluid, too easy… There was, of course, the matter of the Butcher’s axe still embedded in his other flank and the metallic stench of black, black blood dripping down it. Bubbly foam gathered at his mouth, and Arimov prepared to engage in lone combat against a behemoth. He turned, and…
I cannot tell you much more. It goes against both my principles and general attitude… I have not even assessed the threat you might pose yet, which is always bolstered when you know things about my past. It just is. I can, however, alert you to my dwarven companion, and the tale of how we met. His name? Raizan Kruch’Fulkint:
Dusk and dawn mingled together at the apex of the night. Predators lurked in unseen darkness, ethereal and giddy as they waited for us – the prey – to fall into their trap. There were a handful of men protecting the convoy as it went along its path, oxen trudging slowly through the mud. The owners were expecting trouble tonight from a local gang of thugs who had set their sights on the jewels and other merchandise they ferried to the city. We were the lamb and they embodied the lion, or perhaps they were encroaching on an antelope that had begun to lag behind its pack… The troops began their invasion, raining down upon us beleaguered guardsmen. However, we were strong: they broke like water upon rock as they came against us. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth intercepted blow after blow and wove themselves a wiry pattern through their foes; thus began the brutal ballet, a stricken symphony of harmonic hells as raging rhythms engraved themselves in the opposing sides’ ranks, denting them to and fro. Stained in alien ichor, the song continued and so did Arimov, an instrument in the sibilance that determined his background noise. Mind you, it was not elevator music that played in the elf’s mind, but more along the lines of a carnal ballad, feeding him through its pulsating, throbbing notes… And then came a strike from behind, the pommel of a sword slamming into the back of his silken skull with devastating momentum and power behind it. Sensing death but defying its gravitating allegiance, Arimov desperately forced himself into a turn so he could at least lay eyes upon his murderer, but all he saw was a bloody stub and a spurt of bodily fluid. Behind the maimed corpse there was a dwarf, looking at him squarely. It had been one of those bouts of vertigo the elf seemed to suffer from, tripping him up and perhaps costing him his life. He inwardly cursed himself as an ocean eclipse took over, stripping the land from underfoot into chilly water…
The world went into a cold hibernation, shut off from Arimov. When he awoke he could feel the sticky sensation of dried liquid on his scalp and over him there was a small man – for a moment, he mistook the figure for a cadaver whose legs had been… misplaced. But no, it was that dwarven fellow who seemed to have saved him before. “What is your name?” he asked, and he felt feeble as he tried to rise. It seemed a million decades had been placed upon his shoulders to weather them like incorrigible stone, a debilitating thing that he could not shake… Intriguing. He hadn’t ever felt this way, not even after his vicious confrontation with the Butcher of Plague. The response was “Raizan the dwarf,” and a hearty laugh from a stout figure. It seemed that these little folk were just as deep-voiced as they were often called. And thus, the Silvan elf met his good friend and traveling companion (besides, of course, his familiar), Raizan. The men who they’d been guarding had been annihilated by the opposing force, which had been much higher in numbers than had been expected. Raizan told Arimov that shortly after his unfortunate concussion the rest of the men who had fought alongside the duo were routed, not to mention their employers He wasn’t pleased, of course, but such things happen in life. After a few days’ worth of conversation whilst the elf recuperated, it was decided that they would journey together. Arimov had been spared a trip to Elysium by this dwarf, and he seemed an agreeable enough fellow. Thereafter began a journey of two colleagues – they bested more than one remarkable enemy in their time together: Harris the Gardener, with his druid-like manipulation of the undergrowth in a jungle, Faust the Forester, the lumberjack with a vengeance, and several other vicarious villains who were most definitely meticulously crafted by their creator and not at all pulled up as a stock names.
’Mental note,’ I thought to myself, having finished my tale, ’this one has a very low threat level. Almost non-existent, in fact.’ A commotion started over by the bartender, and when one of the local militia stepped in (he had fancied himself a mug of ale or two) to see what the ruckus was, Raizan was tossed out of the building. I turned to the listener, smiling apologetically, “Ah, well, you see… I have to go now. That was Raizan. I should probably head out so that he doesn’t let his temper get the best of him. Oh, and… I suppose this drink is on you. Thanks.” Stepping up from the table, I dodged through the conglomerating crowd to get outside. He was a feisty one, that dwarf.
“Destruction cometh; and they shall seek peace, and there shall be none.”
- The Bible
Skills: The following is subject to change as time progresses and more skills are allowed, or as per mod discretion –
Swordsmanship, mostly dual-bladed. [Suffers from occasional dizziness spells, but he doesn’t know why.] Although more proficient in general dueling against single opponents and, if at all, is relatively well known for his signature phrase of "never failing to parry in the first exchange." Apparently, he is almost always able to intercept the first blow. Of course, this needs a good correction, lest our elven hero fall from grace into conceited avarice...
1.5x speed augmentation
Minor control over water. For example, able to focus it into a steady stream from the ground or in the form of rain to drink from; able to turn it into slush. Of course, because of his rather low experience level, Arimov is vulnerable to concentration breaks and curses that might interrupt his incantations. At the moment, he is unable to use either gesticulation or a somatic command word alone, and has to use a handful of both to properly activate a spell.
Fairly flexible and agile, as per human standards (in coordination with his advanced speed).
Currently in fledgling or moderate stages, though occasionally rising alarmingly and steadily progressing, Arimov is insane. The shatterpoint that most likely started it all was during his brief spar with the Butcher of Plague, in which he was forced to behead a member of his species, Allistair. Such a sacrilege is quite disliked in his native culture, while also forcing him to emulate the same act that had blacklisted the Butcher. Besides this, multiple psychological conditions (not the least of which is his partnership with a dwarf, generally considered to be the banes, or at least opposites, of elven society) also effect his generally calm temperament and can result in brief tantrums or even full-out bouts of that dreaded pathological fear.
Equipment: Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth (rendered in <insert human language> as Judge Star and Master Doom), two vaguely scimitar-like elven blades. The weapons are not open to enchantment. In the future, several levels higher, most likely, I have plans for another weapon. Also in the future, I think I'd like to upgrade them to mithril. At the moment they are made of standard steel.
Also keeps standard traveling supplies: rations, minor first-aid kit to help mend broken bones and the like, etc. The basics things, like rope and a tent to pitch in the wilderness, or at least a cot. Most of such things would be kept on his steed, Eon, but because of the injury his steed sustained, Arimov has been staying at local inns.
During a minor confrontation between Arimov and a handful of drunken bandits who had tried to take advantage of his gentle-looking features, Eon was wounded. He is currently stabled and recovering. Confident in his skills, this particular elf wears little to no armor, thereby not hindering his mobility. If necessary, he will purchase light armor (leather, spidersilk, etc. [expect this in the very near future]) to protect himself from enemies, but thus far the only extreme wounds he has undertaken have been during the Butcher of Plague conflict and during the tussle with those blasted mercenary thugs who thumped him on the head.
*Familiars: Besides his horse, Eon, who Arimov encountered as a mustang and successfully tamed, the Silvan elf keeps a pet parrot. It seems to chatter both in the standard language and the occasional elven phrase, although it has a few pronunciation problems. It doesn’t really participate in combat, except maybe a peck or two to the skull, I’d think.
[Note: * denotes something that was listed as not necessary]
[Note 2: Arimov is an IC ally of Raizan Kruch’Fulkint, the soon-to-come character of Law, my OOC friend. He is aware that of our method of meeting, that our characters are going to know each other in character, etc. I must say, it probably stems from the Legolas-Gimli relationship of Lord of the Rings. Yes, I remarked on his surname as well. Also, the names of his swords are actually from real Tolkien Elvish.]
[Note 3: Weight confuses me a bit, so if 169 pounds is unhealthily light or if it’s a bit too much towards the medium/average, please tell me.]
[Note 4: Hopefully the last note. I’m not a religious person at all, and could probably be classified as an atheist or agnostic, but my character is… hence the biblical quotes. If you think they’d offend anyone, I’ll remove them.]
[Note 5: The history will grow while I advance through levels as a sort of interaction with the reader type of thing. I don’t know, some random idea I had.]
I know, it's a bit wordy... I tend to go into those pedantic thingies a bit too much, so apologies for that. :x And the metaphors, oh dear.