Vicier
08-26-10, 10:53 AM
Name: Vicier Arudua
Age: Twenty-two
Race: Partially human, partially wolf (explained in history)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: Six feet and one inch
Weight: One hundred and eighty-six pounds
Occupation: A bit of a hunter with a smattering of adventurer on the side, and perhaps a bit of a thief some days when he is running low on coin and food.
Personality: On the outside he seems a bit brusque, but beneath that rocky exterior there lies a kind heart and soft bearing. He can seem feral at times, something of an animal when threatened, but those are in a minority. At best he is called reserved, at worst anti-social. If one were to try describing him with a bad pun they would choose ‘lone wolf’.
Appearance: His hair is blacker than midnight, cut short and left however the wind decides to comb it. When one looks in to his eyes they would first notice a human brown, but if they decided to look deeper one would find flecks of gold scattered throughout the iris. Drawing their gaze to his face, one sees a mostly handsome visage and deeply tanned skin. Falling lower, they see a body toned by wilderness, honed specifically to hunt.
History: His birth was something of a mistake. Sometime during her pregnancy, his mother, Aludra, wandered in to a sleepy village at the edge of humanity. She bedded down in the local inn, falling to sleep quite cozily on a mattress of down. But in the middle of night she awoke to the screams of the damned. Sorrow and terror filled the air, crisply battling for emotional supremacy, but underneath those, laughter wove its way on to the scene. She hardly breathed, too frightened of what was going on to move a muscle. Her thoughts were scattered, trying to think of the cause of this madhouse. She thought of bandits before something pounded on the door.
You see, her bed was on the first floor, very close to the entrance of the inn. She peeked out of her door and saw the innkeeper holding the door shut, straining with the effort even though he had placed a heavy iron bar across the threshold. The pounding stopped and the innkeeper tensed. He listened at the door, waiting half a minute before saying that they were safe. He said that whatever those creatures were, they must have left. Everyone drew a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately for the innkeeper, before he could finish his last sentence, a clawed hand smashed through the window. The hand dug in to his meaty thigh and before anyone could scream, dragged him out through the shattered threshold. Though no one screamed, everyone heard the terror filled bellows of the innkeeper. He was a kind man, a bit on the gluttonous side, but kind nevertheless.
As the last of the screams died away, an eerie silence fell like a shroud. It was the kind of silence that one felt in the deepest corners of their chest. No more fighting. No more death. All that remained was silence, complete and utter silence. The silence was pierced by the sound of splintering wood.
A new figure made his arrival in a most dramatic fashion. His cloak fluttered in the breeze and moonlight made his already pale features all the paler. His eyes were listless, black orbs, staring blandly in to the inn, offset by the crooked grin on his lips. He appeared to be weaponless, but that did not make him any less threatening. No, oddly enough it increased the menacing quality of those eyes, and when he lifted his hand, pointing at a few of the people in the inn, a wave of fear began to spread. It spread rapidly and crushed all hopes of survival, for the hand the man raised was clawed with tufts of fur on the individual digits.
Luckily, this man was not one of the creatures that terrorized the sleepy hollow brief minutes ago, but the people in the inn did not know this. Perhaps that was for the best, as the muted air of fear prevented any impromptu acts of foolish heroism. Yes, heroism would only prove to be the last act of any standing in the room.
Aludra held her breath as the finger came to rest in front of her. The blood drained from her face and she closed her eyes, waiting for the pain that she knew was coming. Behind her closed eyelids she saw a flash of light…
…and then nothing. She was on the ground breathing heavily and the man was gone, a trail of wicked laughter marking his path. People were helping her up, murmuring apologies and exhaling sighs of relief that no one else died, but she didn’t hear them. She heard their hearts, heard them beating raggedly in time. Everything else was muted, as if heard against the wind. Distant. Her eyes felt as hollow as they looked and slowly, ever so slowly, they rolled in to the back of her head and she crumpled.
She left the sleepy hollow the next day, resolute to get out of this neck of the woods, and never in the rest of her short, short life did she return.
Aludra Arudua died giving birth to her son, Vicier Arudua, husbandless and without any family to take the boy in. Her death was written off as a result of loss of blood, but the sordid truth leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. That man back in the sleepy hollow was no human. Years previous he had used the arcane arts to splice his genes with those of a wolf, thinking to make himself stronger, faster, and in every way superior. He was very much mad, but even so his experiments were met with muted success. Yes, his veins coursed with the blood of both a wolf and a human. He had achieved his goal, but a hunger grew in him. Loneliness.
He didn’t want to be alone, the only one of his unnatural species. So he preyed on travelers, using a similar technique to force the same transformation on to them. The very first of these became feral immediately, springing claws from their fingernails and reverting to an animalistic bearing. After those failures he refined the technique, until finally he discovered the missing link. Gift a human with a wolf’s agility with minimum backlash while keeping his or her humanity.
His first test subject was Aludra, but the effect backfired slightly. Her body rejected the change and the magic hit her child, forcing the transformation upon him. This was done subconsciously, with Aludra only suspecting what had transpired. During childbirth she felt her son. Felt him. For the first time she understood what happened. She, in one moment of panic, turned her son in to a monster, something inhuman. The grief of it killed her. It stripped her of her will to live, and the last words she whispered were her son’s name.
He was given to a foster family and kept his surname. It looked like his life was going to be simple, but of course nothing is ever cut and dry. Sometime during his eighth year of life something in the back of his mind clicked and he ran. He ran, not like a child dissatisfied with his parents, but like an animal. He fled the house to find his own life.
Make no mistake, this was the stupidest decision a boy of eight could possibly make with the exception of suicide. He became lost on the streets and was forced in to poverty. So as to not bore you with the details, let us skip over this chapter to when he was picked up by a traveling gypsy troupe.
Only twelve at the time, Vicier was already an adept thief and beggar, with a small reservoir of knowledge in the department of defense. He knew how to hurt someone that wanted to hurt him, but mostly he knew how to run. During one such chase he ended up in the wagon of a trouper. When they stopped for the night he was discovered and given what he lacked: freedom. They gave him the choice of joining them or going back to the city. He could have done anything he wanted. With that in mind, he chose to stay with them.
For a few years, three or four, he stayed with them, learning a bit in the fields of acting and education. Mainly, they taught him how to survive without a town. One of the troupers was a former soldier, while another was a woodsman. Those two taught him the basics of how to fight and survive. He knew how to walk silently from the woodsman and how to defend himself from the soldier. Not the worst tutelage, but enough for him to go off on his own.
The next few years were spent without a troupe. He wandered from town to town, living off the land when he could and finding work wherever there was any. Not a glamorous life by any means. Finally, wanderlust caught him in her treacherous grasp, leading him on wild goose chases and heated bounties.
Skills:
Swordplay
He dabbles a bit in the fine art of swordplay, though has not had any official tutelage. Most of his knowledge comes from improvisation and defeat. His training is basically enhancing his agility and endurance to either outlast or overpower an opponent with blinding speed. It’s rather unfortunate that his ‘blinding speed’ is less than impressive against an opponent trained in the forms and maneuvers of battle.
Brawler
Raised on the streets, he learned to speak with his fists first. When cornered he will oft lash out with a vicious left hook, hoping to catch his opponent by surprise before falling upon him in a mass of clawing, biting, and punching he becomes.
A Bit of a Wild Animal
Considering the splice in his genes, he can be considered quite the wild animal. Though the effect doesn’t lean him more to his wolfish side, he can be a bit feral at times, choosing to growl or snarl at someone that displeases him.
Equipment: He has a sword, a simple creation of steel with a hilt wrapped in boar skin. It is an ugly thing, crude to a point, but it serves its purpose. There is an iron dagger at his belt and a hunting bow on his back with a smattering of steel tipped arrows mingled with a few homemade flint ones.
Age: Twenty-two
Race: Partially human, partially wolf (explained in history)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: Six feet and one inch
Weight: One hundred and eighty-six pounds
Occupation: A bit of a hunter with a smattering of adventurer on the side, and perhaps a bit of a thief some days when he is running low on coin and food.
Personality: On the outside he seems a bit brusque, but beneath that rocky exterior there lies a kind heart and soft bearing. He can seem feral at times, something of an animal when threatened, but those are in a minority. At best he is called reserved, at worst anti-social. If one were to try describing him with a bad pun they would choose ‘lone wolf’.
Appearance: His hair is blacker than midnight, cut short and left however the wind decides to comb it. When one looks in to his eyes they would first notice a human brown, but if they decided to look deeper one would find flecks of gold scattered throughout the iris. Drawing their gaze to his face, one sees a mostly handsome visage and deeply tanned skin. Falling lower, they see a body toned by wilderness, honed specifically to hunt.
History: His birth was something of a mistake. Sometime during her pregnancy, his mother, Aludra, wandered in to a sleepy village at the edge of humanity. She bedded down in the local inn, falling to sleep quite cozily on a mattress of down. But in the middle of night she awoke to the screams of the damned. Sorrow and terror filled the air, crisply battling for emotional supremacy, but underneath those, laughter wove its way on to the scene. She hardly breathed, too frightened of what was going on to move a muscle. Her thoughts were scattered, trying to think of the cause of this madhouse. She thought of bandits before something pounded on the door.
You see, her bed was on the first floor, very close to the entrance of the inn. She peeked out of her door and saw the innkeeper holding the door shut, straining with the effort even though he had placed a heavy iron bar across the threshold. The pounding stopped and the innkeeper tensed. He listened at the door, waiting half a minute before saying that they were safe. He said that whatever those creatures were, they must have left. Everyone drew a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately for the innkeeper, before he could finish his last sentence, a clawed hand smashed through the window. The hand dug in to his meaty thigh and before anyone could scream, dragged him out through the shattered threshold. Though no one screamed, everyone heard the terror filled bellows of the innkeeper. He was a kind man, a bit on the gluttonous side, but kind nevertheless.
As the last of the screams died away, an eerie silence fell like a shroud. It was the kind of silence that one felt in the deepest corners of their chest. No more fighting. No more death. All that remained was silence, complete and utter silence. The silence was pierced by the sound of splintering wood.
A new figure made his arrival in a most dramatic fashion. His cloak fluttered in the breeze and moonlight made his already pale features all the paler. His eyes were listless, black orbs, staring blandly in to the inn, offset by the crooked grin on his lips. He appeared to be weaponless, but that did not make him any less threatening. No, oddly enough it increased the menacing quality of those eyes, and when he lifted his hand, pointing at a few of the people in the inn, a wave of fear began to spread. It spread rapidly and crushed all hopes of survival, for the hand the man raised was clawed with tufts of fur on the individual digits.
Luckily, this man was not one of the creatures that terrorized the sleepy hollow brief minutes ago, but the people in the inn did not know this. Perhaps that was for the best, as the muted air of fear prevented any impromptu acts of foolish heroism. Yes, heroism would only prove to be the last act of any standing in the room.
Aludra held her breath as the finger came to rest in front of her. The blood drained from her face and she closed her eyes, waiting for the pain that she knew was coming. Behind her closed eyelids she saw a flash of light…
…and then nothing. She was on the ground breathing heavily and the man was gone, a trail of wicked laughter marking his path. People were helping her up, murmuring apologies and exhaling sighs of relief that no one else died, but she didn’t hear them. She heard their hearts, heard them beating raggedly in time. Everything else was muted, as if heard against the wind. Distant. Her eyes felt as hollow as they looked and slowly, ever so slowly, they rolled in to the back of her head and she crumpled.
She left the sleepy hollow the next day, resolute to get out of this neck of the woods, and never in the rest of her short, short life did she return.
Aludra Arudua died giving birth to her son, Vicier Arudua, husbandless and without any family to take the boy in. Her death was written off as a result of loss of blood, but the sordid truth leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. That man back in the sleepy hollow was no human. Years previous he had used the arcane arts to splice his genes with those of a wolf, thinking to make himself stronger, faster, and in every way superior. He was very much mad, but even so his experiments were met with muted success. Yes, his veins coursed with the blood of both a wolf and a human. He had achieved his goal, but a hunger grew in him. Loneliness.
He didn’t want to be alone, the only one of his unnatural species. So he preyed on travelers, using a similar technique to force the same transformation on to them. The very first of these became feral immediately, springing claws from their fingernails and reverting to an animalistic bearing. After those failures he refined the technique, until finally he discovered the missing link. Gift a human with a wolf’s agility with minimum backlash while keeping his or her humanity.
His first test subject was Aludra, but the effect backfired slightly. Her body rejected the change and the magic hit her child, forcing the transformation upon him. This was done subconsciously, with Aludra only suspecting what had transpired. During childbirth she felt her son. Felt him. For the first time she understood what happened. She, in one moment of panic, turned her son in to a monster, something inhuman. The grief of it killed her. It stripped her of her will to live, and the last words she whispered were her son’s name.
He was given to a foster family and kept his surname. It looked like his life was going to be simple, but of course nothing is ever cut and dry. Sometime during his eighth year of life something in the back of his mind clicked and he ran. He ran, not like a child dissatisfied with his parents, but like an animal. He fled the house to find his own life.
Make no mistake, this was the stupidest decision a boy of eight could possibly make with the exception of suicide. He became lost on the streets and was forced in to poverty. So as to not bore you with the details, let us skip over this chapter to when he was picked up by a traveling gypsy troupe.
Only twelve at the time, Vicier was already an adept thief and beggar, with a small reservoir of knowledge in the department of defense. He knew how to hurt someone that wanted to hurt him, but mostly he knew how to run. During one such chase he ended up in the wagon of a trouper. When they stopped for the night he was discovered and given what he lacked: freedom. They gave him the choice of joining them or going back to the city. He could have done anything he wanted. With that in mind, he chose to stay with them.
For a few years, three or four, he stayed with them, learning a bit in the fields of acting and education. Mainly, they taught him how to survive without a town. One of the troupers was a former soldier, while another was a woodsman. Those two taught him the basics of how to fight and survive. He knew how to walk silently from the woodsman and how to defend himself from the soldier. Not the worst tutelage, but enough for him to go off on his own.
The next few years were spent without a troupe. He wandered from town to town, living off the land when he could and finding work wherever there was any. Not a glamorous life by any means. Finally, wanderlust caught him in her treacherous grasp, leading him on wild goose chases and heated bounties.
Skills:
Swordplay
He dabbles a bit in the fine art of swordplay, though has not had any official tutelage. Most of his knowledge comes from improvisation and defeat. His training is basically enhancing his agility and endurance to either outlast or overpower an opponent with blinding speed. It’s rather unfortunate that his ‘blinding speed’ is less than impressive against an opponent trained in the forms and maneuvers of battle.
Brawler
Raised on the streets, he learned to speak with his fists first. When cornered he will oft lash out with a vicious left hook, hoping to catch his opponent by surprise before falling upon him in a mass of clawing, biting, and punching he becomes.
A Bit of a Wild Animal
Considering the splice in his genes, he can be considered quite the wild animal. Though the effect doesn’t lean him more to his wolfish side, he can be a bit feral at times, choosing to growl or snarl at someone that displeases him.
Equipment: He has a sword, a simple creation of steel with a hilt wrapped in boar skin. It is an ugly thing, crude to a point, but it serves its purpose. There is an iron dagger at his belt and a hunting bow on his back with a smattering of steel tipped arrows mingled with a few homemade flint ones.