Baldur
09-10-09, 11:48 PM
Name: Donovan, Sean Patrick
Codename: Baldur
Age: Perpetually 26 (No longer ages)
Race: Human (AEsir) , Caucasian
Hair Color: Dirty Blonde
Hair Style: Buzz Cut
Eye Color: Emerald Green, almost Black
Height: 6' 0"
Weight: 195 lbs, nearly all muscle
Occupation: Protector, novice gunsmith.
*Personality: Very quiet, thoughtful. Not fond of people. Patient, and slow to anger. Strong sense of morality, steadfast of opinion. Not quick to make friends, uncomfortable with crowds.
Appearance: Handsome, strong jaw. small scar above left eyebrow, stubble of a goatee. Very muscular, but lean. Very lightly tanned skin. One tattoo: Right chest, Norse rune Tiwaz within a circle at 45* angle. "Lure With Bait/ Strike With Chaos" written next to it in plain script.
History: Born in a small township removed from the known regions of Althanas, Sean was raised the son of Stephen, a skilled blacksmith, and Katherine, a respected healer. He was the youngest of three with two sisters, Colleen and Marciella. His father's father, Merick, and mother, Judith, were very close throughout his childhood, and very active in his life.
Sean was well educated, and was born with a thirst for knowledge. From the age of four he was an avid reader, and became enamoured with his father's craft. His grandfather, a former Elite Guardsmen and skilled hunter, began instructing him in fieldcraft from a very young age. Sean always demonstrated an advanced sense of perception and worked hard to learn the skills of his father and grandfather, as well as some basic medical skills from his mother, and cooking from his grandmother.
At the age of nine Sean was parted from his grandfather, the victim of a home invasion. The would-be thief was struck down with a .44 through the left eye socket after managing to critically wound Merick. The loss struck Sean hard, and he never quite came to terms with it.
Several years later, at the age of seventeen, he lost his grandmother to old age. He was far more capable of finding peace with this loss, though he missed her terribly.
Three years later, Sean enlisted in the Guard. The region was in the early stages of a civil war against a force of rebels calling for a regime change. Sean's father, a Guard Sergeant himself, was called to war. In his ninth week of basic combat training, Sean recieved the news that his father had been slain while fighting in the capitol. He felt no bitterness or resentment, only pride in his father for risking everything for his beliefs, and a renewed determination to stand up himself. Four weeks later he graduated from basic and was made a corporal in a scout platoon.
Armed with a revolving cylinder rifle, his father's Damascus-bladed trench knife, and his grandfather's blackpowder .44, Cpl. Donovan made quite the reputation for himself amongst his fellow Guardsmen. Within his own squad he became known as The Reaper, for his tendency to silently slit the throats of enemy patrolmen while fighting a campaign in densely forested marshlands. At the end of the war, which came around his twenty-sixth birthday, Sean was relieved from active duty, promoted to Sergeant, and granted an honorary position among the Elite Guard.
Sean returned home to find much had changed. His eldest sister, Colleen, was a horse trainer for the Guard. Marciella was a well-known seamstress. His mother was still in good health and practicing medicine, and so he took over his father's workshop and began producing firearms and blades of fine quality, though he had far to go before he could compare with his father's craftsmanship.
Only a few months later, while walking home from visiting with a few old squadmates at a tavern in a nearby city, Sean stumbled upon three men attempting to take advantage of a young woman . . .
His footsteps fell inaudible against the muffled shouts of the young woman and the vulgarity spouted by her three assailants as Sean slowly approached from within the shadows. He took one more step out of the darkness, his right hand resting on the butt of his grandfather's Guardsmen .44. "Hey!" He shouted, his voice booming within the confines of the small alley out behind the tavern. The men turned with a start to face the stranger who had dared to interrupt them.
"What the hell do you want, prick? Can't you see this ain't your business?" The largest one said, taking a step towars him. In a blur of motion the .44 was drawn, cocked, and leveled at the man's left eye. "I just made it my business." The large man stumbled back a half-step, and his two comrades drew their knives. Attempting to regain his composure, the large one barked, "Fur against one, whad'you think you're gonna do, mister...?" Four? Sean thought, but he replied, "Sergeant Donovan, Elite Guard, and I think I'm going to kill you, then him," he motioned behind himself with a twitch of his head at the thug standing at the entrance to the alley, "then twitchy," he indicated the thug to his left, "then shrimp over there." He indicated the last man.
"Get-" The back of the man's head exploded out before he could complete his order. Still, his cronies rushed forward. Sean spun on his heel and fired a round into the chest of the rogue behind him. Before he could turn his attention back to the last two, he felt the stinging spasm of a knife blade piercing his back. He let out a gurgled cry of pain, rage, and indignation as he dropped his .44 back into his belt and drew his own knife. He felt the blade in his back retract and seized the oppertunity to face his attacker.
As he turned he saw a flaash of steel and felt another sting just above his left eye. Blood spattered from the wound, but he hardly noticed as he drove his knife down to the hilt into twitchy's throat. As he drew back he felt another twist of a blade in his gut. With a flick of his wrist he spun his knife into an underhanded grip and slashed open shrimp's cheek. The shorter man drew back, dropping his blade and gripping the side of his face as he screamed in agony. Sean sheathed his own knife and stepped towards his final opponent. Loss of blood was beginning to take effect, and the world blurred around him. Still, the only thought which fueled him was the cold determination to kill this last man before he succumbed to death, himself.
With a vengeful fury burning behind his eyes, Sean reached out and grabbed the man's jaw with one hand and looped his other arm around the back of the thug's head. With one final act of defiant rage, and a gruesome crack, he snapped the bastard's neck. The limp wreck of a body dropped to the cobblestone. Sean took one last look around at the four dead bodies and the screaming young woman pressing herself against a wall in fear before he fell to his knees. He stared into the eyes of the poor lass he had rescued. She could read the message behind his eyes and his weak smile as she reached forward to catch his crumpling body.
I died for you, never forget why.
This is only the first time you shall die.
The voice was deep and soothing, like a father speaking to his son of the pride he has for him. Sean's eyes fluttered open, greeting him with the sight of a beautiful valley spread out before him as he stood on a glass walkway high above a roaring river. He felt no pain, only a blossoming relief and a heavenly serenity. He heard a light flapping of wings and felt a tight caress on his shoulder. He turned his head to stare into the coal-like eyes of a Raven. Though the voice echoed only within his head, he felt as though this bird were its source. "But where-?" He began, but the voice cut him off. Silence, my champion. It whispered. You have been graanted a vision of Asgard for your heroism. Yet, there is still more I must ask of you.
The Raven cocked its head and continued to pierce his soul with its glare. Your world, the ephemeral world, is in a grave state. Blood is shed by evil men every day, and fewer and fewer rise to defy them. You must join my AEsir, my guardians, and show these wretches what it means to stand for yourself and others. My son, you have earned your place amongst us here, but I must ask this act of honor of you, for the sake of the many.
Sean struggled to find his voice again. "... Odin." He finally managed to choke out. He felt a warmth emmanate from the shoulder atop which perched the Raven. He watched a single drop of blood spread from his bare skin and slowly drip down his chest. A gold spark shot through the sanguine and pierced his wound. He felt strength growing within his heart. The voice returned. You, Baldur, Guardsman of Tiw, are my final AEsir. Now you must return to Althanas. I grant you my blessing, with which you may learn to control life itself. Live, and die, well my son.
The Raven spread its wing and shot from its perch on his shoulder. Baldur's eyes followed it as it flew high above the valley, disappearing into the distant sunset. He shut his eyes and allowed the ether to surround him, penetrating into his skin and filling him with warmth. As he reopened them, he found himself standing in a field of tall grass next to a dirt and gravel road. Off in the distance he could see a small waystation. A sign not far from him read Underwood.
Skills: Ability to control ether- living energy contained within all things, including the surrounding environment- and utilize it to a small degree. He can use it to heal wounds over a period of time, increase his own physical abilities, and can manifest it visibly to create light or a pocket of thermal energy. Its degree of usefulness is only limited by Baldur's imagination and, of course, his skill in manipulating the ether.
Equipment:
- Tan cargo pants with integrated knee padding.
- Green long-sleeve shirt
- Light brwon barn jacket
- Gray tri-strap backpack
- Damascus Trench Knife (http://www.knifecenter.com/knifecenter/boker/images/1918dam.jpg)
- Brown leather Guardsman's boots
Codename: Baldur
Age: Perpetually 26 (No longer ages)
Race: Human (AEsir) , Caucasian
Hair Color: Dirty Blonde
Hair Style: Buzz Cut
Eye Color: Emerald Green, almost Black
Height: 6' 0"
Weight: 195 lbs, nearly all muscle
Occupation: Protector, novice gunsmith.
*Personality: Very quiet, thoughtful. Not fond of people. Patient, and slow to anger. Strong sense of morality, steadfast of opinion. Not quick to make friends, uncomfortable with crowds.
Appearance: Handsome, strong jaw. small scar above left eyebrow, stubble of a goatee. Very muscular, but lean. Very lightly tanned skin. One tattoo: Right chest, Norse rune Tiwaz within a circle at 45* angle. "Lure With Bait/ Strike With Chaos" written next to it in plain script.
History: Born in a small township removed from the known regions of Althanas, Sean was raised the son of Stephen, a skilled blacksmith, and Katherine, a respected healer. He was the youngest of three with two sisters, Colleen and Marciella. His father's father, Merick, and mother, Judith, were very close throughout his childhood, and very active in his life.
Sean was well educated, and was born with a thirst for knowledge. From the age of four he was an avid reader, and became enamoured with his father's craft. His grandfather, a former Elite Guardsmen and skilled hunter, began instructing him in fieldcraft from a very young age. Sean always demonstrated an advanced sense of perception and worked hard to learn the skills of his father and grandfather, as well as some basic medical skills from his mother, and cooking from his grandmother.
At the age of nine Sean was parted from his grandfather, the victim of a home invasion. The would-be thief was struck down with a .44 through the left eye socket after managing to critically wound Merick. The loss struck Sean hard, and he never quite came to terms with it.
Several years later, at the age of seventeen, he lost his grandmother to old age. He was far more capable of finding peace with this loss, though he missed her terribly.
Three years later, Sean enlisted in the Guard. The region was in the early stages of a civil war against a force of rebels calling for a regime change. Sean's father, a Guard Sergeant himself, was called to war. In his ninth week of basic combat training, Sean recieved the news that his father had been slain while fighting in the capitol. He felt no bitterness or resentment, only pride in his father for risking everything for his beliefs, and a renewed determination to stand up himself. Four weeks later he graduated from basic and was made a corporal in a scout platoon.
Armed with a revolving cylinder rifle, his father's Damascus-bladed trench knife, and his grandfather's blackpowder .44, Cpl. Donovan made quite the reputation for himself amongst his fellow Guardsmen. Within his own squad he became known as The Reaper, for his tendency to silently slit the throats of enemy patrolmen while fighting a campaign in densely forested marshlands. At the end of the war, which came around his twenty-sixth birthday, Sean was relieved from active duty, promoted to Sergeant, and granted an honorary position among the Elite Guard.
Sean returned home to find much had changed. His eldest sister, Colleen, was a horse trainer for the Guard. Marciella was a well-known seamstress. His mother was still in good health and practicing medicine, and so he took over his father's workshop and began producing firearms and blades of fine quality, though he had far to go before he could compare with his father's craftsmanship.
Only a few months later, while walking home from visiting with a few old squadmates at a tavern in a nearby city, Sean stumbled upon three men attempting to take advantage of a young woman . . .
His footsteps fell inaudible against the muffled shouts of the young woman and the vulgarity spouted by her three assailants as Sean slowly approached from within the shadows. He took one more step out of the darkness, his right hand resting on the butt of his grandfather's Guardsmen .44. "Hey!" He shouted, his voice booming within the confines of the small alley out behind the tavern. The men turned with a start to face the stranger who had dared to interrupt them.
"What the hell do you want, prick? Can't you see this ain't your business?" The largest one said, taking a step towars him. In a blur of motion the .44 was drawn, cocked, and leveled at the man's left eye. "I just made it my business." The large man stumbled back a half-step, and his two comrades drew their knives. Attempting to regain his composure, the large one barked, "Fur against one, whad'you think you're gonna do, mister...?" Four? Sean thought, but he replied, "Sergeant Donovan, Elite Guard, and I think I'm going to kill you, then him," he motioned behind himself with a twitch of his head at the thug standing at the entrance to the alley, "then twitchy," he indicated the thug to his left, "then shrimp over there." He indicated the last man.
"Get-" The back of the man's head exploded out before he could complete his order. Still, his cronies rushed forward. Sean spun on his heel and fired a round into the chest of the rogue behind him. Before he could turn his attention back to the last two, he felt the stinging spasm of a knife blade piercing his back. He let out a gurgled cry of pain, rage, and indignation as he dropped his .44 back into his belt and drew his own knife. He felt the blade in his back retract and seized the oppertunity to face his attacker.
As he turned he saw a flaash of steel and felt another sting just above his left eye. Blood spattered from the wound, but he hardly noticed as he drove his knife down to the hilt into twitchy's throat. As he drew back he felt another twist of a blade in his gut. With a flick of his wrist he spun his knife into an underhanded grip and slashed open shrimp's cheek. The shorter man drew back, dropping his blade and gripping the side of his face as he screamed in agony. Sean sheathed his own knife and stepped towards his final opponent. Loss of blood was beginning to take effect, and the world blurred around him. Still, the only thought which fueled him was the cold determination to kill this last man before he succumbed to death, himself.
With a vengeful fury burning behind his eyes, Sean reached out and grabbed the man's jaw with one hand and looped his other arm around the back of the thug's head. With one final act of defiant rage, and a gruesome crack, he snapped the bastard's neck. The limp wreck of a body dropped to the cobblestone. Sean took one last look around at the four dead bodies and the screaming young woman pressing herself against a wall in fear before he fell to his knees. He stared into the eyes of the poor lass he had rescued. She could read the message behind his eyes and his weak smile as she reached forward to catch his crumpling body.
I died for you, never forget why.
This is only the first time you shall die.
The voice was deep and soothing, like a father speaking to his son of the pride he has for him. Sean's eyes fluttered open, greeting him with the sight of a beautiful valley spread out before him as he stood on a glass walkway high above a roaring river. He felt no pain, only a blossoming relief and a heavenly serenity. He heard a light flapping of wings and felt a tight caress on his shoulder. He turned his head to stare into the coal-like eyes of a Raven. Though the voice echoed only within his head, he felt as though this bird were its source. "But where-?" He began, but the voice cut him off. Silence, my champion. It whispered. You have been graanted a vision of Asgard for your heroism. Yet, there is still more I must ask of you.
The Raven cocked its head and continued to pierce his soul with its glare. Your world, the ephemeral world, is in a grave state. Blood is shed by evil men every day, and fewer and fewer rise to defy them. You must join my AEsir, my guardians, and show these wretches what it means to stand for yourself and others. My son, you have earned your place amongst us here, but I must ask this act of honor of you, for the sake of the many.
Sean struggled to find his voice again. "... Odin." He finally managed to choke out. He felt a warmth emmanate from the shoulder atop which perched the Raven. He watched a single drop of blood spread from his bare skin and slowly drip down his chest. A gold spark shot through the sanguine and pierced his wound. He felt strength growing within his heart. The voice returned. You, Baldur, Guardsman of Tiw, are my final AEsir. Now you must return to Althanas. I grant you my blessing, with which you may learn to control life itself. Live, and die, well my son.
The Raven spread its wing and shot from its perch on his shoulder. Baldur's eyes followed it as it flew high above the valley, disappearing into the distant sunset. He shut his eyes and allowed the ether to surround him, penetrating into his skin and filling him with warmth. As he reopened them, he found himself standing in a field of tall grass next to a dirt and gravel road. Off in the distance he could see a small waystation. A sign not far from him read Underwood.
Skills: Ability to control ether- living energy contained within all things, including the surrounding environment- and utilize it to a small degree. He can use it to heal wounds over a period of time, increase his own physical abilities, and can manifest it visibly to create light or a pocket of thermal energy. Its degree of usefulness is only limited by Baldur's imagination and, of course, his skill in manipulating the ether.
Equipment:
- Tan cargo pants with integrated knee padding.
- Green long-sleeve shirt
- Light brwon barn jacket
- Gray tri-strap backpack
- Damascus Trench Knife (http://www.knifecenter.com/knifecenter/boker/images/1918dam.jpg)
- Brown leather Guardsman's boots