Wynken
12-08-09, 02:42 PM
Name: Wynken Vanaril
Age: 20
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Gray
Height: 6ft
Weight: 170lbs
Description
Distanced from the normal people with their normal affairs, you see a man draped in the shadow of a black hooded cloak. A sword hangs from his left hip, its tarnished blade is pitted and etched as if forgotten and neglected by its owner. Motionless he observes the events around him. As a ghost passively haunting our world or as The Reaper silently tending his harvest, he watches. You see an ebbing red glow behind the darkness of his cowl, and you watch as he takes a long draw on his lighted herbal parchment. The agitated embers flare to life and illuminate his face as if a fiery dragon had just roused from slumber. Through the haze of smoke, you see his ruggedly handsome features masked behind the unshaven stubble and scowling visage which you guess both perpetually paint his face. Though he has aged well, he looks weathered and experienced beyond his years. As he inhales once more the burning coals reflect as a smithy's furnace in his eyes and the blood runs from your face as you realize they are fixed upon your own. You nearly recoil from the cold pierce of that brazen stare, but in an instant and without warning, the light is extinguished and the man is once again an unimposing silhouette.
Personality
Twisted by the magic of his sentient blade, Wynken is cold and harsh. He is an opportunist and a survivalist in the truest sense of the words, feeling that friends are merely enemies who can be easily exploited to personal gain. He acts only in accordance with his own interests.
Weapons and Armor
Black leather vest
Steel bracers
3 Throwing daggers (steel)
1 Main-gauche - Parrying dagger (steel)
The Mirror Root - Long sword (Petrified wood magically hardened to be as steel)
There is a great deal of history surrounding the Mirror Root. Little of which is known to any of this age, and none by even Wynken himself because it has not always been his sword to wield, though he would certainly tell you otherwise. He would believe it as well, for such is the power that it holds over him. As many events that compose its history are the number of dark forces which were imbued upon it during the time of its creation. It has been recorded that the Mirror Root will reflect in us our own subconscious, bringing to the surface those thoughts and behaviors that we suppress out of social necessity until they replace the pomp and polish of such a manufactured façade with the dark and dreadful instincts of our ancestry.
The sword's blade that is now tarnished and etched was once a thing of beauty, and looked like silver freshly and perfectly polished. However, the blade tarnishes as the sentient weapon corrupts the mind of its wielder. In addition to its weathered appearance, the blade shows markings which make it look as though it were entangled by thin roots which wind up and around from the guard. The hilt is fashioned entirely from petrified wood which has been crafted in the likeness of a very miniature and very dead tree. The guard forms the roots, one of which wraps clear around the blade, and the grip is the trunk of the tree whose dead and leafless branches form a spire shaped pommel.
Equipment
Smoking herbs
Parchment paper
Crude lock picks
Skills
Ambidexterity (wields two weapons flawlessly)
Swordsmanship (above average)
Throwing (above average)
Stalk and Hide (above average)
Remove Traps (average)
Pick Locks (average)
Pick Pockets (average)
History
The inhabitants of this realm seem to know me by the name of Wynken, though I recall naught of them. The torn pages of this journal are illegible. The writing is my own but I have no memory of it, and this sword chills me to the core though I dare not part from it. Such a twisted and ugly weapon would be considered unusable by most but I feel as if it is an extension of myself, and I wield it with power and precision. So angering that I struggle to know who or where I was one year ago but recount vividly the distant past that has made me who I am today. Those harsh realities, lessons well learned in my youth. I suppose I can thank my father for that in the least. He got his in the end, although those early years spent at his manor were not without benefit, that mansion that doubled as guildhall for The Hand of Azrael.
They were a band of mercenaries, hired killers really, few in number but most efficient. Daggers were forced into my hands as soon they could adequately wield them. I was no more than six years of age when I received my first lesson in armed combat, and the small scar on my right hand still bears resemblance to the teeth marks from the rat in that musty celler. One of many trials I would endure with little gained other than personal development and a growing need to earn the respect that my father carelessly withheld.
I would not have survived my adolescence without the training I received under the weapon masters and thieves there, as I was expelled from the hall upon my thirteenth year. Told by my own father to not return until I could do so undetected, I took to the dank and impoverished streets of the city under threat of death at the hands of my father's cohorts. Employing the skills I had acquired, I carved out an existence in the city's vicious underbelly, taking what I needed to survive from those unable or unwilling to keep it from me.
Though existence became easier with the passage of time and I began to settle in to the routine of my life on the streets, the deep seated hatred I harbored for my father was never far from my mind. I watched as even wretched and destitute children played games and tarried in the streets, enjoying their existence in the bliss of careless freedom. As I looked on them with jealousy and rage, I couldn't help but feel comfort in that my existence was real, and that their happiness would fade leaving nothing to show for it.
By the age of sixteen I had grown in confidence as well as ability and began to indulge in the finer things. Rumor of my talents spread through the city's network of underground and less than legitimate proprietors, and I began filling their contracts. However, with success came a level of fame that is unbecoming of beings who make their existence by remaining unseen, and numerous times the undiscovered or unsuccessful attempted to carve a name for themselves by putting a dagger into my back. It was also not uncommon for those few who had established themselves as hired thieves, assassins, or informants to compete over contracts or bounty, and on one such occasion, I found myself defending against a member of The Hand of Azrael. We came together on even footing, and through the engagement he did not recognize me, though I did him. I reveled in his astonishment, eyes widened, as I whispered my name into his ear while the last of his blood ran from his throat. I had thought many times before of the moment that I would finally reenter my father's house, but that incident bolstered my resolve and signified in my mind that I was now ready.
Age: 20
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Gray
Height: 6ft
Weight: 170lbs
Description
Distanced from the normal people with their normal affairs, you see a man draped in the shadow of a black hooded cloak. A sword hangs from his left hip, its tarnished blade is pitted and etched as if forgotten and neglected by its owner. Motionless he observes the events around him. As a ghost passively haunting our world or as The Reaper silently tending his harvest, he watches. You see an ebbing red glow behind the darkness of his cowl, and you watch as he takes a long draw on his lighted herbal parchment. The agitated embers flare to life and illuminate his face as if a fiery dragon had just roused from slumber. Through the haze of smoke, you see his ruggedly handsome features masked behind the unshaven stubble and scowling visage which you guess both perpetually paint his face. Though he has aged well, he looks weathered and experienced beyond his years. As he inhales once more the burning coals reflect as a smithy's furnace in his eyes and the blood runs from your face as you realize they are fixed upon your own. You nearly recoil from the cold pierce of that brazen stare, but in an instant and without warning, the light is extinguished and the man is once again an unimposing silhouette.
Personality
Twisted by the magic of his sentient blade, Wynken is cold and harsh. He is an opportunist and a survivalist in the truest sense of the words, feeling that friends are merely enemies who can be easily exploited to personal gain. He acts only in accordance with his own interests.
Weapons and Armor
Black leather vest
Steel bracers
3 Throwing daggers (steel)
1 Main-gauche - Parrying dagger (steel)
The Mirror Root - Long sword (Petrified wood magically hardened to be as steel)
There is a great deal of history surrounding the Mirror Root. Little of which is known to any of this age, and none by even Wynken himself because it has not always been his sword to wield, though he would certainly tell you otherwise. He would believe it as well, for such is the power that it holds over him. As many events that compose its history are the number of dark forces which were imbued upon it during the time of its creation. It has been recorded that the Mirror Root will reflect in us our own subconscious, bringing to the surface those thoughts and behaviors that we suppress out of social necessity until they replace the pomp and polish of such a manufactured façade with the dark and dreadful instincts of our ancestry.
The sword's blade that is now tarnished and etched was once a thing of beauty, and looked like silver freshly and perfectly polished. However, the blade tarnishes as the sentient weapon corrupts the mind of its wielder. In addition to its weathered appearance, the blade shows markings which make it look as though it were entangled by thin roots which wind up and around from the guard. The hilt is fashioned entirely from petrified wood which has been crafted in the likeness of a very miniature and very dead tree. The guard forms the roots, one of which wraps clear around the blade, and the grip is the trunk of the tree whose dead and leafless branches form a spire shaped pommel.
Equipment
Smoking herbs
Parchment paper
Crude lock picks
Skills
Ambidexterity (wields two weapons flawlessly)
Swordsmanship (above average)
Throwing (above average)
Stalk and Hide (above average)
Remove Traps (average)
Pick Locks (average)
Pick Pockets (average)
History
The inhabitants of this realm seem to know me by the name of Wynken, though I recall naught of them. The torn pages of this journal are illegible. The writing is my own but I have no memory of it, and this sword chills me to the core though I dare not part from it. Such a twisted and ugly weapon would be considered unusable by most but I feel as if it is an extension of myself, and I wield it with power and precision. So angering that I struggle to know who or where I was one year ago but recount vividly the distant past that has made me who I am today. Those harsh realities, lessons well learned in my youth. I suppose I can thank my father for that in the least. He got his in the end, although those early years spent at his manor were not without benefit, that mansion that doubled as guildhall for The Hand of Azrael.
They were a band of mercenaries, hired killers really, few in number but most efficient. Daggers were forced into my hands as soon they could adequately wield them. I was no more than six years of age when I received my first lesson in armed combat, and the small scar on my right hand still bears resemblance to the teeth marks from the rat in that musty celler. One of many trials I would endure with little gained other than personal development and a growing need to earn the respect that my father carelessly withheld.
I would not have survived my adolescence without the training I received under the weapon masters and thieves there, as I was expelled from the hall upon my thirteenth year. Told by my own father to not return until I could do so undetected, I took to the dank and impoverished streets of the city under threat of death at the hands of my father's cohorts. Employing the skills I had acquired, I carved out an existence in the city's vicious underbelly, taking what I needed to survive from those unable or unwilling to keep it from me.
Though existence became easier with the passage of time and I began to settle in to the routine of my life on the streets, the deep seated hatred I harbored for my father was never far from my mind. I watched as even wretched and destitute children played games and tarried in the streets, enjoying their existence in the bliss of careless freedom. As I looked on them with jealousy and rage, I couldn't help but feel comfort in that my existence was real, and that their happiness would fade leaving nothing to show for it.
By the age of sixteen I had grown in confidence as well as ability and began to indulge in the finer things. Rumor of my talents spread through the city's network of underground and less than legitimate proprietors, and I began filling their contracts. However, with success came a level of fame that is unbecoming of beings who make their existence by remaining unseen, and numerous times the undiscovered or unsuccessful attempted to carve a name for themselves by putting a dagger into my back. It was also not uncommon for those few who had established themselves as hired thieves, assassins, or informants to compete over contracts or bounty, and on one such occasion, I found myself defending against a member of The Hand of Azrael. We came together on even footing, and through the engagement he did not recognize me, though I did him. I reveled in his astonishment, eyes widened, as I whispered my name into his ear while the last of his blood ran from his throat. I had thought many times before of the moment that I would finally reenter my father's house, but that incident bolstered my resolve and signified in my mind that I was now ready.