Darion Ragnar
08-14-09, 08:23 PM
I tried this once a while back. Let's see if I can't do it right, this time. For reference's sake, I am also the writer behind the character Mavek.
“Grampa, who’s that?” A small child, tugging on his grandfather’s sleeve, pleaded with the elder. They stood in the market, basking in the heat of the local blacksmith’s shop – the aforementioned shop’s owner, hammering out some work or other, being the object of the boy’s inquiry. The older man smiled.
“My son, that man is Darion; Darion the Redblade. He’s a blacksmith… these days.”
“Grampa, he looks… he looks different.” The grandson frowned, his visage torn with childish confusion, the inability to express himself with the correct vocabulary. His grandfather chuckled, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and spoke.
“He is different, my child. He’s a warrior.”
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Fate, by nature, is a fickle mistress – she begins most stories one way, and then changes their course a thousand times before they end. This tendency can produce one of two things: a broken tragedy, or a tale so epic that it rocked the foundations of history. Most people belong to the former category. This story, however, is of the latter’s ilk.
In the outlying lands of some unknown state, near the shore, once laid a peaceable, rural village – the village of Durhn. Not more than five hundred people lived in Durhn, making it exceptionally small, as well as reliably serene. The people of Durhn farmed, raised their families, and occasionally traded with the larger towns and cities that seemed so far away. Nothing ever changed, and they liked it that way.
Of all the inhabitants of Durhn, only two were truly notable: Aaron Ragnar, a blacksmith, farmer, and retired soldier, and Darion, his son. Aaron’s wife had died giving birth to Darion, and as such the man had raised his son alone. Darion was an intelligent, strong-willed child, and even at a young age helped his father with all of his labor. By the time the boy was ten years of age he was an apprentice blacksmith and an experienced farmhand.
Darion’s childhood is in no way extraordinary. He played with the other children of Durhn, often going on “adventures” throughout the farmlands, and often told his father of the fabricated tales he had partaken in once he returned home. His father always laughed, nodded, and told him he had been a “brave, brave warrior.” Darion loved his father, and obeyed him always, because Aaron had raised him to be strong, loyal, honest, and all things a man should be.
Fate, as it has been said, it fickle. She may begin a story as a peaceful, happy one, and not half way in reverse the tides. This tale is one of those instances. One year, on the first day of summer, the pirate vessel Blooded Rapscallion landed upon the shores of Durhn. The ten-score men who crewed the ship left the boat, and using the cover of night, took the village by surprise. They ransacked the town, burning, breaking, murdering, and raping, no mercy within their agendas. Only one man stood in their way: Aaron Ragnar, the simple blacksmith, fifty years of age, a freshly forged broadsword in one hand, and his old militia shield in the other.
One would think that a single man, upwards in his years, would have fallen quickly to two hundred vicious pirates. Aaron Ragnar, however, had been an expert swordsman in his younger years, and more importantly, had something worth fighting for. Darion, his son, was hidden away inside a smithing oven. The father fought valiantly, sending some thirty men to Hell before he himself fell. Darion spent the night crying, cold and alone, inside an iron box.
Darion awoke the next morning to an unearthly quiet, the normal lowing of cows, bleating of sheep, and pounding of a smith’s hammer removed from his ears. Not even the birds sang. The boy climbed from his sanctuary, covered in soot, and looked upon the carnage that had been wrought. Everyone he had grown up with – the women who fussed at him for never being clean, the boys he had wrestled and played with, all of them were dead, their corpses burnt and strewn across the village streets like bales of hay in a field. Darion didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He had cried all night, and his eyes simply would not allow him… but deep down, he had wished he could.
Aaron’s son found his father atop the forge’s roof, where he had taken his last stand. The man’s body was broken, covered in lacerations from head to boots, arrows protruding from his chest, shoulders, legs, and sides. For the longest time Darion simply stood there atop the thatch roof, staring at his father; his teacher, his mentor, his confidant, his best friend. It may have been hours. It may have been days. Whatever was the case, at some point in time Darion stooped over his father’s lifeless form, took hold of the battle-worn broadsword, and left Durhn.
From there the story is vague, and it is suspected that much of the young Darion’s adventures have been riddled with myths and fabrications, making them more legends than they are history. However, what is known is that Darion eventually found the Blooded Rapscallion, and he sent every last one of its crew to Hell – and the ship itself to the bottom of the ocean. He has many titles under his belt – Master Craftsman, Mercenary, Retired General, Dragonslayer, Anti-Mage, and even husband. To this date he will tell most people who ask that his fame is undeserved, and those titles are of a past life; but it is obvious upon seeing the man: He’s still the man he was. He’s still a hero.
Name: Darion Ragnar; Darion the Redblade; Darion Redblade
Race: Paragon [Human]
Age: 42
Personality:
To truly describe Darion’s persona, one must know the Code by which he lives. Upon seeing the warrior, one would conclude that the man is both cold and stern, his visage normally expressing little or no emotion at all. Those that do know him, however, know that he is simply reserved, level-headed, and speaks only when necessary. Darion is slow to anger, but quick to act, and his level of morality and sense of justice would lead one to believe he would be good knight material. This is not the case. Darion’s code is not one of holiness, righteousness, or goodness. It is one of justice, honor, and discipline. To be simple, Darion’s world is perceived as a constant battle, but not one being fought between good and evil. Instead, the world is a consistent war between justice and injustice, honesty and lies, valor and cowardice, compassion and mercilessness. Darion is extremely judgmental, but only of one’s actions – never of their appearance or creed. People tend to follow Darion, sensing his strength of character.
Appearance:
Standing six feet and four inches tall and weighing a solid two hundred and sixty-six pounds, Darion Redblade is the embodiment of the word “powerful” – his body is much like that of a modern-day bodybuilder, yet appearing more “naturally” crafted. His shoulders are impressively wide, as well as containing the correct height and depth to frame his torso (and proportionally fit his tree-trunk arms). “Barrel-chested” doesn’t quite cut it when describing the blacksmith, his chest having the perfectly symmetrical, flat shape; his chest has the nice “ledge” at the bottom, hanging over a set of exquisitely chiseled abdominals. The tendons between his pectorals are semi-visible, reminiscent of steel cables beneath silk. His arms are large, but proportional to the rest of his form, biceps and triceps exceptional in shape and form, as well as being constantly discernable – even while he is at rest. A back that is used to heavy lifting, farming, and combat training is clearly going to be well-muscled, and Darion’s is, his laterals having a rather heavy, defined look to them. The body of a true athlete (or warrior) is a balanced one, and Darion is no exception: his legs are just as impressive as his upper body. His thighs are vaguely similar to stone pillars, and his calves are complimentary to those “pillars” in their size and definition. Atop the warrior’s astonishing physique is pulled a coppery, sun-kissed layer of flesh.
Darion’s face is rugged, yet handsome, his jaw square, his cheekbones high, and his brow level. His hair is kept shoulder length, the dark, reddish-brown locks usually pulled behind his head in a crisp ponytail. A set of peridot-green eyes are set below his solid brow, resting at the apex of a straight nose. His lips are colored and healthy in appearance, and normally surrounded by the dark shadow of stubble that the rest of his face wears. A set of straight, pearlescent-white teeth are set within his mouth.
On the average day the blacksmith is seen dressed as just that – a blacksmith. A simple, tan-colored tunic, brown trousers, and a black leather apron, all duly covered in soot (as well as his face). On occasion, he is seen wearing a partial suit of armor and carrying a peculiarly large blade, trading his blacksmith's apron for the uniform of a different trade altogether.
Equipment:
Most notable of Darion’s equipment, excluding his personal effects, are his arms and armor.
Armor: Darion's armor is not complex in any manner of the word, limited in its design but extremely efficient. It is comprised of four major parts:
-Chestplate- As the name would suggest, the armor that covers Darion's torso is essentially an iron breastplate that lacks the abdominal portion. It is of a traditional clamshell design, the front half designed as a muscular human's chest would appear and connected to the rear half by short, albeit hefty, leather belts.
-Pauldron- A single, large, ovuloid iron pauldron shields Darion's left shoulder. It is connected to his person foremost by a leather strap traveling between it and his chestplate; and, secondly, by an extremely heavy-duty leather sword belt that crosses his chest and loops beneath his right arm. The buckle that keeps both the shoulder guard and scabbard in place is made of iron, bulky in design, and rests directly atop the center of his chestplate.
-Gauntlets and Boots- A pair of hearty gloves and shoes - an amalgamation of soft hide for flexibility and hardened, cured leather for protection - adorn his calloused hands. A single stripe of iron crosses his knuckles, woven into the gloves' material (this is mimicked by his boots, similar protection bent into a quarter-sphere over the toes). The two sets of articles are similar in aesthetic, as well, both reaching all the way to their nearest joint - elbow and knee respectively.
Zweihänder: Eighty-four inches of forged steel, weighing in at a solid twenty pounds, the blacksmith's two-handed sword is a true greatsword. The blade is five and a half feet in length (being five inches wide) , with a one and a half foot long handle. The crossguard is a simple bar, fourteen inches across, and the pommel an equally simplistic sphere. This weapon in general lacks any real decoration, the only addition to the base metal of the tool is a thick leather wrapping about the handle.
Knife: Slid into Darion’s right boot is a simple, single-edged steel short sword that the man uses as a dirk. The weapon is sturdy, of Darion’s own craftsmanship, and of excellent proportion. The handle is a simple oaken design, wrapped in leather, and approximately seven inches in length. The blade is flat, nondescript, and about a foot in length. It is not enchanted, but a great tool and useful in close quarters, when a larger weapon is not appropriate.
Abilities:
Paragon: Although not a true 'power' of any sort, Darion's existence as not a mere human but a very paragon of his race allows him certain advantages in comparison to the rest of his kindred. Most notable of all of these is an overtly extended lifespan. Darion's forty-some years on this earth have literally no effect upon his physical ability, the warrior just barely entering the true prime of his life. He has, undoubtedly, at least another hundred and fifty years of fight left in him. At least.
Cuthac: If any one attribute was to be personafied by the Redblade, it would most definately be strength - something the warrior-tradesman does not lack in the least. Darion is easily one and a half (1.5) times as physically powerful as a man of his size and stature should be.
War as an Art: What good would a maker of swords be if he did not know how to use them? Darion's skill with a weapon - specifically, the larger breed of sword - is considerably greater than that of the average soldier. Unable to brag true 'mastery' as of yet, he continues to practice the artform with fervor and discipline.
Metalwork: The Ragnar family has always been a family of blacksmiths. As his father was before him, Darion is at home with the soot of a hard day's labor darkening his brow, apron on and hammer in his hand. When the fire is stoked and the anvil is ready, Darion is able to produce nearly any fashion of weapon or armor from iron - and do so with confidence in its quality. He is not yet skilled enough, however, to work with any manner of enchanted ores (adamantite, prevalida, mithril).
“Grampa, who’s that?” A small child, tugging on his grandfather’s sleeve, pleaded with the elder. They stood in the market, basking in the heat of the local blacksmith’s shop – the aforementioned shop’s owner, hammering out some work or other, being the object of the boy’s inquiry. The older man smiled.
“My son, that man is Darion; Darion the Redblade. He’s a blacksmith… these days.”
“Grampa, he looks… he looks different.” The grandson frowned, his visage torn with childish confusion, the inability to express himself with the correct vocabulary. His grandfather chuckled, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and spoke.
“He is different, my child. He’s a warrior.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fate, by nature, is a fickle mistress – she begins most stories one way, and then changes their course a thousand times before they end. This tendency can produce one of two things: a broken tragedy, or a tale so epic that it rocked the foundations of history. Most people belong to the former category. This story, however, is of the latter’s ilk.
In the outlying lands of some unknown state, near the shore, once laid a peaceable, rural village – the village of Durhn. Not more than five hundred people lived in Durhn, making it exceptionally small, as well as reliably serene. The people of Durhn farmed, raised their families, and occasionally traded with the larger towns and cities that seemed so far away. Nothing ever changed, and they liked it that way.
Of all the inhabitants of Durhn, only two were truly notable: Aaron Ragnar, a blacksmith, farmer, and retired soldier, and Darion, his son. Aaron’s wife had died giving birth to Darion, and as such the man had raised his son alone. Darion was an intelligent, strong-willed child, and even at a young age helped his father with all of his labor. By the time the boy was ten years of age he was an apprentice blacksmith and an experienced farmhand.
Darion’s childhood is in no way extraordinary. He played with the other children of Durhn, often going on “adventures” throughout the farmlands, and often told his father of the fabricated tales he had partaken in once he returned home. His father always laughed, nodded, and told him he had been a “brave, brave warrior.” Darion loved his father, and obeyed him always, because Aaron had raised him to be strong, loyal, honest, and all things a man should be.
Fate, as it has been said, it fickle. She may begin a story as a peaceful, happy one, and not half way in reverse the tides. This tale is one of those instances. One year, on the first day of summer, the pirate vessel Blooded Rapscallion landed upon the shores of Durhn. The ten-score men who crewed the ship left the boat, and using the cover of night, took the village by surprise. They ransacked the town, burning, breaking, murdering, and raping, no mercy within their agendas. Only one man stood in their way: Aaron Ragnar, the simple blacksmith, fifty years of age, a freshly forged broadsword in one hand, and his old militia shield in the other.
One would think that a single man, upwards in his years, would have fallen quickly to two hundred vicious pirates. Aaron Ragnar, however, had been an expert swordsman in his younger years, and more importantly, had something worth fighting for. Darion, his son, was hidden away inside a smithing oven. The father fought valiantly, sending some thirty men to Hell before he himself fell. Darion spent the night crying, cold and alone, inside an iron box.
Darion awoke the next morning to an unearthly quiet, the normal lowing of cows, bleating of sheep, and pounding of a smith’s hammer removed from his ears. Not even the birds sang. The boy climbed from his sanctuary, covered in soot, and looked upon the carnage that had been wrought. Everyone he had grown up with – the women who fussed at him for never being clean, the boys he had wrestled and played with, all of them were dead, their corpses burnt and strewn across the village streets like bales of hay in a field. Darion didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He had cried all night, and his eyes simply would not allow him… but deep down, he had wished he could.
Aaron’s son found his father atop the forge’s roof, where he had taken his last stand. The man’s body was broken, covered in lacerations from head to boots, arrows protruding from his chest, shoulders, legs, and sides. For the longest time Darion simply stood there atop the thatch roof, staring at his father; his teacher, his mentor, his confidant, his best friend. It may have been hours. It may have been days. Whatever was the case, at some point in time Darion stooped over his father’s lifeless form, took hold of the battle-worn broadsword, and left Durhn.
From there the story is vague, and it is suspected that much of the young Darion’s adventures have been riddled with myths and fabrications, making them more legends than they are history. However, what is known is that Darion eventually found the Blooded Rapscallion, and he sent every last one of its crew to Hell – and the ship itself to the bottom of the ocean. He has many titles under his belt – Master Craftsman, Mercenary, Retired General, Dragonslayer, Anti-Mage, and even husband. To this date he will tell most people who ask that his fame is undeserved, and those titles are of a past life; but it is obvious upon seeing the man: He’s still the man he was. He’s still a hero.
Name: Darion Ragnar; Darion the Redblade; Darion Redblade
Race: Paragon [Human]
Age: 42
Personality:
To truly describe Darion’s persona, one must know the Code by which he lives. Upon seeing the warrior, one would conclude that the man is both cold and stern, his visage normally expressing little or no emotion at all. Those that do know him, however, know that he is simply reserved, level-headed, and speaks only when necessary. Darion is slow to anger, but quick to act, and his level of morality and sense of justice would lead one to believe he would be good knight material. This is not the case. Darion’s code is not one of holiness, righteousness, or goodness. It is one of justice, honor, and discipline. To be simple, Darion’s world is perceived as a constant battle, but not one being fought between good and evil. Instead, the world is a consistent war between justice and injustice, honesty and lies, valor and cowardice, compassion and mercilessness. Darion is extremely judgmental, but only of one’s actions – never of their appearance or creed. People tend to follow Darion, sensing his strength of character.
Appearance:
Standing six feet and four inches tall and weighing a solid two hundred and sixty-six pounds, Darion Redblade is the embodiment of the word “powerful” – his body is much like that of a modern-day bodybuilder, yet appearing more “naturally” crafted. His shoulders are impressively wide, as well as containing the correct height and depth to frame his torso (and proportionally fit his tree-trunk arms). “Barrel-chested” doesn’t quite cut it when describing the blacksmith, his chest having the perfectly symmetrical, flat shape; his chest has the nice “ledge” at the bottom, hanging over a set of exquisitely chiseled abdominals. The tendons between his pectorals are semi-visible, reminiscent of steel cables beneath silk. His arms are large, but proportional to the rest of his form, biceps and triceps exceptional in shape and form, as well as being constantly discernable – even while he is at rest. A back that is used to heavy lifting, farming, and combat training is clearly going to be well-muscled, and Darion’s is, his laterals having a rather heavy, defined look to them. The body of a true athlete (or warrior) is a balanced one, and Darion is no exception: his legs are just as impressive as his upper body. His thighs are vaguely similar to stone pillars, and his calves are complimentary to those “pillars” in their size and definition. Atop the warrior’s astonishing physique is pulled a coppery, sun-kissed layer of flesh.
Darion’s face is rugged, yet handsome, his jaw square, his cheekbones high, and his brow level. His hair is kept shoulder length, the dark, reddish-brown locks usually pulled behind his head in a crisp ponytail. A set of peridot-green eyes are set below his solid brow, resting at the apex of a straight nose. His lips are colored and healthy in appearance, and normally surrounded by the dark shadow of stubble that the rest of his face wears. A set of straight, pearlescent-white teeth are set within his mouth.
On the average day the blacksmith is seen dressed as just that – a blacksmith. A simple, tan-colored tunic, brown trousers, and a black leather apron, all duly covered in soot (as well as his face). On occasion, he is seen wearing a partial suit of armor and carrying a peculiarly large blade, trading his blacksmith's apron for the uniform of a different trade altogether.
Equipment:
Most notable of Darion’s equipment, excluding his personal effects, are his arms and armor.
Armor: Darion's armor is not complex in any manner of the word, limited in its design but extremely efficient. It is comprised of four major parts:
-Chestplate- As the name would suggest, the armor that covers Darion's torso is essentially an iron breastplate that lacks the abdominal portion. It is of a traditional clamshell design, the front half designed as a muscular human's chest would appear and connected to the rear half by short, albeit hefty, leather belts.
-Pauldron- A single, large, ovuloid iron pauldron shields Darion's left shoulder. It is connected to his person foremost by a leather strap traveling between it and his chestplate; and, secondly, by an extremely heavy-duty leather sword belt that crosses his chest and loops beneath his right arm. The buckle that keeps both the shoulder guard and scabbard in place is made of iron, bulky in design, and rests directly atop the center of his chestplate.
-Gauntlets and Boots- A pair of hearty gloves and shoes - an amalgamation of soft hide for flexibility and hardened, cured leather for protection - adorn his calloused hands. A single stripe of iron crosses his knuckles, woven into the gloves' material (this is mimicked by his boots, similar protection bent into a quarter-sphere over the toes). The two sets of articles are similar in aesthetic, as well, both reaching all the way to their nearest joint - elbow and knee respectively.
Zweihänder: Eighty-four inches of forged steel, weighing in at a solid twenty pounds, the blacksmith's two-handed sword is a true greatsword. The blade is five and a half feet in length (being five inches wide) , with a one and a half foot long handle. The crossguard is a simple bar, fourteen inches across, and the pommel an equally simplistic sphere. This weapon in general lacks any real decoration, the only addition to the base metal of the tool is a thick leather wrapping about the handle.
Knife: Slid into Darion’s right boot is a simple, single-edged steel short sword that the man uses as a dirk. The weapon is sturdy, of Darion’s own craftsmanship, and of excellent proportion. The handle is a simple oaken design, wrapped in leather, and approximately seven inches in length. The blade is flat, nondescript, and about a foot in length. It is not enchanted, but a great tool and useful in close quarters, when a larger weapon is not appropriate.
Abilities:
Paragon: Although not a true 'power' of any sort, Darion's existence as not a mere human but a very paragon of his race allows him certain advantages in comparison to the rest of his kindred. Most notable of all of these is an overtly extended lifespan. Darion's forty-some years on this earth have literally no effect upon his physical ability, the warrior just barely entering the true prime of his life. He has, undoubtedly, at least another hundred and fifty years of fight left in him. At least.
Cuthac: If any one attribute was to be personafied by the Redblade, it would most definately be strength - something the warrior-tradesman does not lack in the least. Darion is easily one and a half (1.5) times as physically powerful as a man of his size and stature should be.
War as an Art: What good would a maker of swords be if he did not know how to use them? Darion's skill with a weapon - specifically, the larger breed of sword - is considerably greater than that of the average soldier. Unable to brag true 'mastery' as of yet, he continues to practice the artform with fervor and discipline.
Metalwork: The Ragnar family has always been a family of blacksmiths. As his father was before him, Darion is at home with the soot of a hard day's labor darkening his brow, apron on and hammer in his hand. When the fire is stoked and the anvil is ready, Darion is able to produce nearly any fashion of weapon or armor from iron - and do so with confidence in its quality. He is not yet skilled enough, however, to work with any manner of enchanted ores (adamantite, prevalida, mithril).