Name | Lorcan Brigh
Age | 17
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | A1
House | Dracona
Appearance/Attire |
Lorcan is a svelte young man standing around 5'10, only just starting to broaden out in the shoulders despite his age. He has a fencer's build, all fast twitch muscle and long limbs with only the barest amount of core strength necessary for the art. While he certainly does not cut the most traditionally masculine figure in any given room there is no arguing there is an appealing regal elegance to the young man.
In terms of clothing, Lorcan is rather uninteresting often wearing military esque uniforms more at home at a Officers school than a school than an Invoker's. Still, they are tailored well and offer a great deal more freedom of movement than their stuffy nature would suggest. He also has a large selection of formal wear, though he hates this sordid collection of cloth with a passion. If you ever see him dressed in such a state and appearing happy, expect the sky to rain blood and the world to come to a shattering halt in the next few hours.
Alignment | Judge
Personality/Habits | At first glance, Lorcan is rather typical of house Dracona. Stiff, prim and proper with a noblesse oblige that practically defines the house, all wrapped nicely in an vague sensation that somehow you've offended him by presenting him with your less aristocratic heritage. He is dedicated to excelling at whatever task he sets himself to be it becoming a concert pianist (by age 11), a champion fencer (age 15) or now as an invoker.
As they should be, for the Brigh family's meteoric rise to prominence these last few generations (of which he would not deny no small deal of pride in) demands that anything short of perfection be considered failure.
And if he were being honest...he'd admit to hating all of the above with an intensity to shatter mountains. He WANTS to be lazy and childish, the very idea of spending an afternoon skipping out on his various exercise regiments and goofing right the hell off with friends filling him with such deviant glee that he would burst into a fit of giggles...if propriety allowed for such things.
The common folk have far too much fun in his mind. They're never expected to choke down the saccharine compliments of foppish nobility with a winner's smile glued uncomfortably over their face. They don't have the joy of a hobby stripped away because an opportunity to accumulate accolades and prestige is more important than anything else. They get to chose what friends they keep, by virtue of their character and not the frankly stupid rules of heritage.
The unfairness of it makes him want to spit, but pride is really the only thing that keeps that venom contained. Still, L'Mordryn is an opportunity in his mind to indulge in that freedom (even if only for a while).
Background | The Brigh family was, but a few scant generations ago, a painfully minor noble house. Oh yes, they owned land and conducted the business of their petty fiefdom loyally for countless generations just as the greater houses had but they were decidedly....mundane. There was no great bloodline of dragons flowing through them, no great deeds of daring doo by some distant heroic ancestor or anything of the like. In fact, their rise to nobility was (as far as the historians were concerned) born out of administrative necessity and being competent enough to read and write in an era were such skills were rare.
All of that changed with Lorcan's great grandfather Tuathal Brigh. Tuathal was always an ambitious man, eager to prove the Brigh's Noble standing was more than a token gesture (it was, but nobody ever claimed Tuathal was well versed in history either). The Dust Wars gave him the opportunity, severing with distinction under General Ilan Mulryan whom he later married. Ilan, while not the heir to the family name, was none the less something of a hotly desired suitor at the time so the fact that an as of then unknown noble managed to win her over came as something of a shock back home (something Tuathal was always quick to preen over, albiet with the good nature of a man just as pleasantly surprised as his audience.)
After the Dust Wars concluded, the two set about a frankly terrifying campaign of reconstructive efforts both domestic and abroad. Charity events, dogged diplomatic meetings to simply being champions of comfort to those affected. In hindsight, it was perhaps a comical over compensation by Tuathal but it was good work none the less. There are even a few nobles who make it a point to reserve seats for him and Ilan long after their passing, if only for fear that the two may leap from their graves and break down their doors for not giving them the chance to help in some fashion or another.
Without having been there, it is difficult for Lorcan to say what had changed his family. The Brigh family is still known for its charitable efforts and its continued presence among the military elite, and for much of the population they are regarded with a nostalgic warmth imparted by his great grandfather. But among the noble classes they were decidedly not the same family.
Where once there was an eager welcoming charisma presence at their events and estate, there was now the distant weight of influence and standing...and all the insecurities of a family who had not had it for long enough to count. His father was almost predatory in his pursuit of sustaining the 'family honor', wheeling and trading favors for favors with a knack for polity (both social and otherwise) that may have left Tuathal with more than a few concerns.
His mother was one such example, an heiress to a family who were just short of coming to blows with the Mulryan family for generations. The marriage was not one born of love, one side wanting to expand their power base should their long time patrons become unfavorable and the other just pleased to spite the red eye'd bastards. Proximity and time ultimately made it a happier marriage than it had any right to be, as Lorcan's birth might suggest (or at least he desperately hopes).
Growing up in such a home wasn't...well it wasn't life threatening. His parents, for as cloying and affluent they might've been, weren't cruel. They encouraged his hobbies and passions as any good parent should, though perhaps with...an unknowingly misplaced eagerness.
When he was little he had expressed awe at his mothers ability to play the piano. Once. Exactly Once. His parents had practically drowned him in tutors, studies, and practices. At first it was wonderful, a shared gift between the three of them that won him their praise and private moments of subtle affections that neither parent realized as being rare.
By the time he was ten, it had soured. He no longer played for them privately, instead to audiences of hundreds all equal parts enamored with his proficiency in the art and amused that he could perform as well as someone easily three times his age. That did not stop his parents from attending his concerts, or the various after parties where they would ply their speechcraft among the other well-to-dos.
They lauded him a prodigy and were all too happy to accept the praise of vapid old fools who likely had never been within forty feet of the damnable instrument on his behalf. Their praise should have made him happy, but it didn't. As selfish as it was he wanted that praise for his own benefit, not to grease the wheels on some overly wealthy HAG who just had to attend his next performance at one of his parents innumerable charity balls.
He can't remember what prompted him to tell them he wanted to quit. But he remembered the argument that followed. Loud screaming from two sides, ironically more emotional than they'd ever been, cascading violently across the halls of their estate and heard only by servant who knew better than to get involved or had enough survival instinct to feign ignorance the conflict. His parents won the exchange, eventually cowing him into submission with reminders of their investment into his success and the necessity of paying that back to the family name. He didn't care a whit for their reasoning, but the intensity and certainty of their voices carried with it a promise of consequences that left him ill.
He continued to perform for little over a year after that, though his parents rarely attended anything other than the after parties there after. If it was a move designed to hurt or punish him in someway it did, but it also provided him with a wondrous and uncontested excuse to duck out of the parties all together. He'd spend that time better locked away in whatever private sanctuary he could find available (it would be improper to be seen in such a state afterall), where he could flip flopping between silent seething anger or cracked hushed sobs in peace.
So it came as something of an immense panic when Isobel Mulryan found him one night. He knew about her, they WERE relatives as distant as that connection might have been. But they were hardly close and the girls reputation was...not the most comforting. The image of a dumpster fire came immediately to mind. At first he feared she would run off and rat him out, either out of naive concern or an attempt to try her hand at shaming a potential political rival. That the latter was a prospect even occurred to him as an eleven year old almost shocked him into action, where it not for the little girl wrapping her knuckles against his skull and dragging him bodily from the bathroom like it was about to explode with the loud (VERY loud he might add) proclamation of his status as a quote 'Dweeb'.
The sheer alien absurdity stunned him more than the blow did, a miasma of complacency robbing him of the strength needed to pull himself out of her grip as she dragged him into the hall. Not that it mattered, the last punch was a pretty sound indication that that she could have beaten him soundly with little effort if that was what she wanted. When she finally turned on him, he flinched away and prepared for another blow.
Instead she decided that he was not yet confused enough and launched into a pep talk. He wished he could say it was profound, that through simple eloquence she had lifted him subtly from his mood. Gods though, it was anything but. It was the awkward clumsy attempts of a ten year old girl (Correction: ten and three quarters) who knew maybe one twelfth of a percent of the situation. With all the subtly and elegance as the aforementioned dumpster fire. Scratch that, with words alone she'd not only up ended said dumpster fire but, in fact, managed to set ablaze every dumpster within a four mile radius with after shocks to follow. But the concern was there, naked and freely given as the praise (and boasting...) that accompanied it.
It did help him feel better, though he made sure to never be on the receiving end of such a scenario again. He did not fancy his chances of surviving if he burst into laughter in front of her like that. He did a little digging on his would be savior after that. Not out of some childish crush of course. The fact they were related but a swift and violent death to that notion thank you very much!
It was more an excuse to find a way to be around someone remotely comforting, if not her then someone (literally anyone at that point). Swordsmanship was first obvious inlet and he latched onto it like a drowning man, his 'cousin' being more fond of it than graceful as he'd been told. His first instinct was to try and emulate her style (what little there was anyway), but that was quickly put aside for a variety of reasons.
Firstly, his fumbling attempts with lifting a heavier blade (pilfered from a suit of armor on the family Estate) told him he was definitely not suited to that sort of thing. Secondly, it would have been all kinds of creepy to copy her in an attempt to win her attention. He might have been desperate, but he was definitely not THAT desperate. But most importantly, learning to fight like Isobel didn't suit the image his parents had cultivated of him. He was demure, sophisticated and eloquent beyond his years by design. He was NOT a hyperactive kid with ready access to medieval weaponry and a panache for the dramatic and the world would sooner burn than his parents let him be.
Competition fencing, however, was all the things he was supposed to be. Perhaps not demure, but a carefully worded reminder to his father that such skills would be invaluable for when he entered the military let him successfully let him avoid that counter argument. And soon enough he was thrust (pun very much intended) into the sport with the rabid fervor his parents normally used.
He excelled at the sport, as was expected of him, and continued to perform at his parents request interspersed with the occasional reunion with his 'cousin' at social events (and the only savings grace of being forced to attend them). Frankly he was so busy that training to be an invoker had all but slipped he and his parents mind. But L'Mordryn was a school for a reason, he could afford to enter is with a novice understanding of the art.
...and if he could not, then the look of horror that would be on his parents faces if he failed would be worth their weight in gold.
Favorite Summons |
While a humanoid dragon is...an unusual choice, Penjani is possibly Lorcan's most used summon. She is a diminutive waif of a summon, barely 4'5 and actually physically WEAKER than most humans. She is capable of simple tasks when given commands, though anything more complex than opening a chest and grabbing a specific item is beyond her somewhat limited intelligence. She is entirely unsuited to combat but will engage when ordered (not that he ever would).
The reason he keeps her around is that she does have one exceptionally useful trait. If an object or person and their vague position is known to her summoner, she can lead him to them to their approximate position. As she cannot speak (either lacking in the intelligence need or simply not able to) the only way direct her summoner is by physically taking them their at a normal walking pace. There are limitations however. If Lorcan wrongly assumes the vague location of something she will be confused and lead him in circles wordlessly. In the case of people, if they desire to NOT be found (even casually) the result is much the same.
She is a fairly shy creature, often hiding behind her summoner to avoid the gazes of others unless ordered otherwise. But she is eager to please and a dutiful companion, happily acting as Lorcan's assistant or performing menial tasks that would be considered below his station.
Warin is Lorcan's go to summon for combat. As a Psuedodragon Warin is the lowest form of dragon life, practically a pest by most standards. Their barbed tail can deliver a venomous payload that, while harmless (save for minor numbness for a day or two after), is exceptionally painful. He can also breath small gouts of fire that can leave fairly minor burns.
Generally a psuedodragon would have no place as a combat summons but Warin and Lorcan work well together. Mostly because Warin is a vicious little bastard with just enough intelligence to fight dirty. He likes to crawl along Lorcan as he engages an opponent, leaping on to them and stinging relentlessly at any available flesh and fleeing the moment they turn their attention to him. He also enjoys setting hair on fire.
While not in combat Warin is little more than an overprotective pet, roosting on his summoners shoulders and fixing heated glares at anyone that fails to meet the little buggers unknown standards. However he is easily bought with neck scratches and gifts of fried fish.
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