Zen
01-19-07, 09:04 AM
Name: Faust Adalrich
Age: 19
Race: Human
Hair Color: Wheaten gold
Eye Color: Sapphire
Height: 5"8'
Weight: 132lb
Personality:
In life, Faust holds one word taboo: failure. He wasn’t a failure, damn it, and no matter what his siblings say, he will prove it. I can became his motto.
In a way, the teen can be considered egocentric. He is selfish, and doesn’t deny it. What he does, he does for himself and because he wants to. He wants to make something of himself, because there was a promise he made to himself that he will; and he will do anything within his power to get there – legal, illegal, moral, immoral. It is rather easy, Faust supposed, to keep one eye opened and one eye closed. All you have to do is not care, and he had learned to be good at that at a fairly young age.
And call him a fool, but he felt the greatest pleasures derived from physical pain. Perhaps it was because the first person who truly cared for him first showed her love through a rather nasty slap.
Appearance:
In the art of grooming, Faust had been taught well. His hair gleamed like sheaves of golden wheat under the autumn sun’s glow; his eyes were cold sapphires, like a glacier’s edge; and his skin, pallid and fair. A fair face most often bearing a tilting smirk, was framed by strands of hair that reached the chin. His long torso, lithe and supple, was still untried by life. Clothing was carefully chosen to suit the purpose, but always simple. He looked like a boy – he was a boy, on the verge of manhood.
History:
Faust Adalrich blamed them.
It wasn’t logical. But when you’re a child, you can’t help but be sad when you see your parents loving your siblings but not you. Never you. Stronger men had jaded. Faust had never claimed himself strong.
Everyone knew Mother was raped, viscously, and then had her last child - she could never bear touching a man in the night after that. They never outright said anything to that child, never raised a hand against him, and yet the silent accusations were always there in their cold eyes and thinly pressed lips. For that silent condemnation, he hated them, wanting to shout out but never dared – damn it, it’s not my fucking fault!
Yet he loved them. Because they were his parents, and despite how insignificant he was in their eyes, they were his parents, and that had to count for something, right? He had to believe, because it was the only way he could live.
And so it was within the conundrum of love and hate that Faust began his life.
The fact that he was a bastard, illegitimate, and to top it off, the result of a rape accorded him no social status. It didn’t matter that he had the blood of nobility running through his veins – his parents were lords of a rather large (and useless) Salvaran fief. Those parents stirred clear of his way. His siblings turned up their nose at the sight of their half-brother. The servants didn’t know how to treat the boy who should have been nobility but was an outsider in the house, and so they ignored him.
Really, there was no seat insignificant enough for him.
He asked his parents once, “Why didn’t you people just abort – ”
But the question was never quite finished, because Mother fainted and Father just glared like so and turned away, carrying his fainted spouse in his arms. He knew why they didn’t abort. Because aborting meant magic and mages and debts. Mother had a bad constitution, so magic might just be the death of her, and getting the mages to do anything is difficult, and God knows what debt they would owe by the time the deed was done. It just not worth it, so they kept the boy.
He should feel grateful. Really, he should, but he couldn’t.
If he never existed, they would be so much happier. But he wasn’t fool enough to take his own life.
They thought him a fool, though. A fool and a failure, his siblings taunted with honeyed poison tongues. Useless, cowardly, spineless and weak. He was nothing. He glared at them because he hated, but never spoke back because he loved. Failure, failure, failure, they sang, until he believed it, and despised himself.
It hurts.
“Send me away,” he pleaded when it became too much to bear. “Send me somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Send me away.”
They did. And if he really, really tried, he could pretend that they didn’t look grateful when he asked.
***
Misery loves company.
She was the black sheep of the family, hidden away in some country home at the corner of the fief, so of course they sent him to her. He hated her on sight, when she greeted him in a drunken stupor, slurring, “So this is the brat?”
He would freely admit though, she was the best thing that had every happened to his aloft, ten year old ass.
The first year he was with her, she found him a tutor, who would teach him to sing. He stared at her incredulously, wanting to ask, are you mad? Don’t you know? I’m a failure. I can’t do this. Don’t make me, because I’ll fail and you’ll only look at me in disappointment, and bitch about wasting good money and make me feel all guilty-like about myself.
When the first score of music found itself into his hands, he gave her a sullen gaze. “I can’t -”
She slapped him, hard, and he went sprawling onto the ground. “You didn’t even try, brat. Talk to me again when you do.” And she left.
She stayed true to her word, and beyond. He endured a full week of silence before finally, finally trying his voice and failing awfully. See, I told you I can’t, he wanted to say, but kept his mouth tightly shut. He didn’t want her knowing that he actually liked singing. She talked to him afterwards. “At least you tried. Try and fail, whatever. Not try at all, and I’ll beat the crap out of you. And if you go into it thinking you’ll fail, you will.”
He snorted at those words, but took them to heart. It was kind, in a way, and he held on to it. The occasion set the tone to his next five years of life, when he rebelled against her tooth and nail, but accepted her and came out of his broken shell. He would never admit it, but he grew fond of her. Loved her a little, even. And whenever he fell into his pessimistic mood, saying I can’t, she would send him sprawling onto the ground; and when he got older and taller and stronger than her, she got someone else to trounce him. Eventually, after I can’t became I damned well can and you’d better believe it, he still looked forward to those little battles, taking pleasure in the hurt. She loved him a little too, he thought, nursing his black eye and bruised pride, all the while smiling.
And it was for that love that he pretended, every night, not to notice when a distinctly different man entered the house through the back and went to her room, and departed before dawn. And it was gratitude for that pretension that she taught him more than what he would have learnt otherwise. Grooming and dress, she had them pat to art forms, and imparted them to him. His liking of songs and tongues, she nurtured. She taught him, above all, to listen and observe.
She died later, of some hereditary disease on her mother’s side, still in her prime. Nobody attended her funeral but him. She was a whore’s begotten get, though her father was his uncle. She was his cousin, but she was bastard and illegitimate just as he was. It was fitting that he should be by her side.
“You’re not a failure,” she whispered on her deathbed. “Never a failure. You’re not like… me.” And her eyes closed for the last time.
He wept then, wept, and promised himself – never again will he consider himself a failure.
***
He inherited the country home, but didn’t keep it. Left it standing, and went away to school. She had arranged it, and it seemed wrong to not do it.
It would be the first time in five years he was with people his age.
He met his brothers again.
A chanced meeting during mealtime, the reunion was bittersweet, though more bitter than sweet. Whatever it was his siblings expected, it wasn’t this. A well groomed teen with piercing eyes and a tilting smirk, and had a penchant for pain – both receiving, and dealing.
Faust hid his shock better. Some of them actually tried welcoming him back to the fold. He only dealt them a cruel smile, and turned away. Forget and forgive? It would be wise, but his heart wouldn’t let him, and therefore he wouldn’t. From then on, it was cool neutrality and bitter rivalry. Only this time, their taunts spurred him on.
The years finished fast. Four years of barrack conditions. He graduated with a baccalaureate to his name and little else. “You’ll never succeed,” his eldest and inheriting brother hissed as a parting gift, smirking all the way. “You’ll never amount to much.”
“Watch me.” And Faust smiled.
That’s right. Watch me. Because I fucking can, and you’ll see. The whole world will see. And when I do, I’ll come back and laugh in your face, and destroy that inheritance you value so much.
I’m going to do whatever I want. So watch me.
Skills:
Brawling
Tangling with his cousin – and those whom she hired - had given him quite a bit of experience in hand-to-hand brawling, and it couldn’t be called anything but brawling. A style full of holes – jumps and half-baked spins, blind jabs and kicks, it was pretty much obsolete outside of bar fights… or fights with one’s cousin. But then again, Faust never was brought up to be a fighter.
Gifts of Song
It would seem as though Faust had a natural penchant for music and songs, with a soft tenor voice that simply captivates the soul, and an uncanny ability to come up with melodies on the spot. For now the youth is content with mere singing, though he had kept one eye on the Istien University. Perhaps there, these simple abilities would be molded into something more.
Gifts of Tongues
He had a gift for tongues and languages, seeming to pick them up out of nowhere at almost phenomenal speeds. Of course, Faust wasn’t just going to let someone see him studying in the middle of the night, for hours on end. Still, his ability to pick up foreign tongues seem astounding to some.
Observe and Listen
All knowledge are worth having – so said his cousin. And thus he learnt to observe, listen, and most of all, make sense of what he was seeing and listening to. An unused mind would do nobody good, and might as well be the death of a man.
Age: 19
Race: Human
Hair Color: Wheaten gold
Eye Color: Sapphire
Height: 5"8'
Weight: 132lb
Personality:
In life, Faust holds one word taboo: failure. He wasn’t a failure, damn it, and no matter what his siblings say, he will prove it. I can became his motto.
In a way, the teen can be considered egocentric. He is selfish, and doesn’t deny it. What he does, he does for himself and because he wants to. He wants to make something of himself, because there was a promise he made to himself that he will; and he will do anything within his power to get there – legal, illegal, moral, immoral. It is rather easy, Faust supposed, to keep one eye opened and one eye closed. All you have to do is not care, and he had learned to be good at that at a fairly young age.
And call him a fool, but he felt the greatest pleasures derived from physical pain. Perhaps it was because the first person who truly cared for him first showed her love through a rather nasty slap.
Appearance:
In the art of grooming, Faust had been taught well. His hair gleamed like sheaves of golden wheat under the autumn sun’s glow; his eyes were cold sapphires, like a glacier’s edge; and his skin, pallid and fair. A fair face most often bearing a tilting smirk, was framed by strands of hair that reached the chin. His long torso, lithe and supple, was still untried by life. Clothing was carefully chosen to suit the purpose, but always simple. He looked like a boy – he was a boy, on the verge of manhood.
History:
Faust Adalrich blamed them.
It wasn’t logical. But when you’re a child, you can’t help but be sad when you see your parents loving your siblings but not you. Never you. Stronger men had jaded. Faust had never claimed himself strong.
Everyone knew Mother was raped, viscously, and then had her last child - she could never bear touching a man in the night after that. They never outright said anything to that child, never raised a hand against him, and yet the silent accusations were always there in their cold eyes and thinly pressed lips. For that silent condemnation, he hated them, wanting to shout out but never dared – damn it, it’s not my fucking fault!
Yet he loved them. Because they were his parents, and despite how insignificant he was in their eyes, they were his parents, and that had to count for something, right? He had to believe, because it was the only way he could live.
And so it was within the conundrum of love and hate that Faust began his life.
The fact that he was a bastard, illegitimate, and to top it off, the result of a rape accorded him no social status. It didn’t matter that he had the blood of nobility running through his veins – his parents were lords of a rather large (and useless) Salvaran fief. Those parents stirred clear of his way. His siblings turned up their nose at the sight of their half-brother. The servants didn’t know how to treat the boy who should have been nobility but was an outsider in the house, and so they ignored him.
Really, there was no seat insignificant enough for him.
He asked his parents once, “Why didn’t you people just abort – ”
But the question was never quite finished, because Mother fainted and Father just glared like so and turned away, carrying his fainted spouse in his arms. He knew why they didn’t abort. Because aborting meant magic and mages and debts. Mother had a bad constitution, so magic might just be the death of her, and getting the mages to do anything is difficult, and God knows what debt they would owe by the time the deed was done. It just not worth it, so they kept the boy.
He should feel grateful. Really, he should, but he couldn’t.
If he never existed, they would be so much happier. But he wasn’t fool enough to take his own life.
They thought him a fool, though. A fool and a failure, his siblings taunted with honeyed poison tongues. Useless, cowardly, spineless and weak. He was nothing. He glared at them because he hated, but never spoke back because he loved. Failure, failure, failure, they sang, until he believed it, and despised himself.
It hurts.
“Send me away,” he pleaded when it became too much to bear. “Send me somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Send me away.”
They did. And if he really, really tried, he could pretend that they didn’t look grateful when he asked.
***
Misery loves company.
She was the black sheep of the family, hidden away in some country home at the corner of the fief, so of course they sent him to her. He hated her on sight, when she greeted him in a drunken stupor, slurring, “So this is the brat?”
He would freely admit though, she was the best thing that had every happened to his aloft, ten year old ass.
The first year he was with her, she found him a tutor, who would teach him to sing. He stared at her incredulously, wanting to ask, are you mad? Don’t you know? I’m a failure. I can’t do this. Don’t make me, because I’ll fail and you’ll only look at me in disappointment, and bitch about wasting good money and make me feel all guilty-like about myself.
When the first score of music found itself into his hands, he gave her a sullen gaze. “I can’t -”
She slapped him, hard, and he went sprawling onto the ground. “You didn’t even try, brat. Talk to me again when you do.” And she left.
She stayed true to her word, and beyond. He endured a full week of silence before finally, finally trying his voice and failing awfully. See, I told you I can’t, he wanted to say, but kept his mouth tightly shut. He didn’t want her knowing that he actually liked singing. She talked to him afterwards. “At least you tried. Try and fail, whatever. Not try at all, and I’ll beat the crap out of you. And if you go into it thinking you’ll fail, you will.”
He snorted at those words, but took them to heart. It was kind, in a way, and he held on to it. The occasion set the tone to his next five years of life, when he rebelled against her tooth and nail, but accepted her and came out of his broken shell. He would never admit it, but he grew fond of her. Loved her a little, even. And whenever he fell into his pessimistic mood, saying I can’t, she would send him sprawling onto the ground; and when he got older and taller and stronger than her, she got someone else to trounce him. Eventually, after I can’t became I damned well can and you’d better believe it, he still looked forward to those little battles, taking pleasure in the hurt. She loved him a little too, he thought, nursing his black eye and bruised pride, all the while smiling.
And it was for that love that he pretended, every night, not to notice when a distinctly different man entered the house through the back and went to her room, and departed before dawn. And it was gratitude for that pretension that she taught him more than what he would have learnt otherwise. Grooming and dress, she had them pat to art forms, and imparted them to him. His liking of songs and tongues, she nurtured. She taught him, above all, to listen and observe.
She died later, of some hereditary disease on her mother’s side, still in her prime. Nobody attended her funeral but him. She was a whore’s begotten get, though her father was his uncle. She was his cousin, but she was bastard and illegitimate just as he was. It was fitting that he should be by her side.
“You’re not a failure,” she whispered on her deathbed. “Never a failure. You’re not like… me.” And her eyes closed for the last time.
He wept then, wept, and promised himself – never again will he consider himself a failure.
***
He inherited the country home, but didn’t keep it. Left it standing, and went away to school. She had arranged it, and it seemed wrong to not do it.
It would be the first time in five years he was with people his age.
He met his brothers again.
A chanced meeting during mealtime, the reunion was bittersweet, though more bitter than sweet. Whatever it was his siblings expected, it wasn’t this. A well groomed teen with piercing eyes and a tilting smirk, and had a penchant for pain – both receiving, and dealing.
Faust hid his shock better. Some of them actually tried welcoming him back to the fold. He only dealt them a cruel smile, and turned away. Forget and forgive? It would be wise, but his heart wouldn’t let him, and therefore he wouldn’t. From then on, it was cool neutrality and bitter rivalry. Only this time, their taunts spurred him on.
The years finished fast. Four years of barrack conditions. He graduated with a baccalaureate to his name and little else. “You’ll never succeed,” his eldest and inheriting brother hissed as a parting gift, smirking all the way. “You’ll never amount to much.”
“Watch me.” And Faust smiled.
That’s right. Watch me. Because I fucking can, and you’ll see. The whole world will see. And when I do, I’ll come back and laugh in your face, and destroy that inheritance you value so much.
I’m going to do whatever I want. So watch me.
Skills:
Brawling
Tangling with his cousin – and those whom she hired - had given him quite a bit of experience in hand-to-hand brawling, and it couldn’t be called anything but brawling. A style full of holes – jumps and half-baked spins, blind jabs and kicks, it was pretty much obsolete outside of bar fights… or fights with one’s cousin. But then again, Faust never was brought up to be a fighter.
Gifts of Song
It would seem as though Faust had a natural penchant for music and songs, with a soft tenor voice that simply captivates the soul, and an uncanny ability to come up with melodies on the spot. For now the youth is content with mere singing, though he had kept one eye on the Istien University. Perhaps there, these simple abilities would be molded into something more.
Gifts of Tongues
He had a gift for tongues and languages, seeming to pick them up out of nowhere at almost phenomenal speeds. Of course, Faust wasn’t just going to let someone see him studying in the middle of the night, for hours on end. Still, his ability to pick up foreign tongues seem astounding to some.
Observe and Listen
All knowledge are worth having – so said his cousin. And thus he learnt to observe, listen, and most of all, make sense of what he was seeing and listening to. An unused mind would do nobody good, and might as well be the death of a man.