Name: Tiberum Ein Habsurg
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Appearance:Tiberum Ein Habsurg is barefaced, and likes to keep it that way. He has moderately full lips, a rather rounded chin, and unpronounced cheekbones. Short, naturally wavy hair of chestnut brown is neatly trimmed at the extremities so as not to interfere with the fit of his helm. His body is lean but muscular, and his chest sports a nasty, jagged scar that starts just over his heart and ends at his bellybutton. He is considered by his peers as effeminate in that he has barely any chest or limb hair, and his skin is quite pale. Yet, he is firmly secure in his manhood, as described by the piercing, predatory stare of his eyes of dark brown, as he waits patiently for that one opportune moment, when his foe’s defenses are at their weakest, and he can sink his flaming blade through their heart, wherever the organ may be.
On Ractem, he dons his mercenary uniform: a red padded gambeson hugs tightly his person, under which he dons a simple cloth shirt without the layer of a chainmail shirt to separate the two garments, because the article was taken away from him. An arming cap and mail coif secures the fit of a steel helm with a nose guard. The authorities having basically looted him, he was allowed only the lightest of his weapons and armor as he departed, spending money on a brand-new hauberk, great helm, surcoat, broadsword, a crossbow and its bolts, all for nothing. His feet are wrapped in leather sandals he liberated at the Battle of the Magnicot from its previous owner. With such a light loadout, he is understandably displeased, for how in Kajuss' name was a gambeson going to protect him?!
Outside of combat, in an atmosphere of complete peace, he can be seen wearing a simple cloth shirt and pants, with a lucky charm made of pewter pinned close to his breast. But whether fighting or simply drinking or otherwise, he always keeps with him his utility belt, with its straps holding useful pockets and places for things to be put into, including two scabbards, one for his dagger and the other for his sword, and several general-use pouches.
The long scabbard is loose, vacant and vestigial when he arrives at Ractem, with only the short dagger's seeing use.
Tiberum Ein Habsurg, age 27, wearing a cloak over his gambeson in the cold Jermanian winter as a mercenary.Affinity: Elemental Magic
Spells:
- The Gods Will It!: Tiberum musters up his personal courage and magic for a flaming charge that will bring him to a foe no farther than ten meters away from him instantly, wreathing his target, and anything around it, in flames. He will shout either a battlecry or an insult during this move.
- Ethereal Protection: Tiberum wreathes himself in flames which actively lick and lash at any opponent close enough to engage in melee with him.
- Fireball: Tiberum thrusts either of his arms with an open palm to unleash a fast-flying ball of clinging fire about the size of a full-grown man’s fist.
- Crescent of Fire: Tiberum slashes at the air, unleashing a heavy crescent of flame which will naturally arc down due to gravity after some distance and keep burning on the ground for a good while.
- DIE!: Tiberum musters as much hatred as he can to unleash a lightning-quick, point-black attack with the effect of a bomb. Either his weapon or his hands or feet will touch the enemy, and a specific section of the unfortunate victim shall be consigned to a great weight of fiery magic, concentrated into a single point, in a timespan of less than a second, which will expand outwards faster than the blink of an eye with great rapidity. Tiber, after this attack, will generally be tired and thus less combat effective.
Personality:Tiberum Ein Habsurg is a simple man who holds simple convictions. He fights for his Gods, for his Country, for his King, and of course, for himself. Being a soldier, he is stereotypically fond of drink. His philosophies are down-to-earth and mostly practical, with his moral compass being very ready to disappear if, say, a dire situation appears, wherein the only way to survive is to do the unthinkable and pick the most disgusting of choices. He does not “get” art, though he praises humanist artists for portraying the human body in such a realistic manner with oil and brush: a craft so fine that his weary, calloused hands cannot possibly take up and learn.
He is rather withdrawn in social events and is not inclined to speak at length about anything, save for the few topics that interest him greatly. However, this changes significantly when in combat, with him shaking viciously in rage, his tongue uttering the foulest of curses and his lungs heaving with every breath to convey them with amazing strength.
He is reasonably friendly and patient and will listen to a person's problems, sometimes giving advice, but at other times only pretending to care so as not to look impolite.
Tiberum is not very opinionated, and if he respects his commander, then that commander’s morals will be his own, because he trusts them. He is an inborn follower, even if he inspired his friends and comrades from the front with acts of valour.
He is also very pious to the gods Kajuss and Grindall, and goes to mass every Holy Day, even if he doesn’t necessarily follow the moral tenets preached the day after.
Background: Tiberum Ein Habsurg was born to two villager peasant farmers in the northern kingdom of En. However, he was delivered into a tumultuous era: bandits and deserters of extremely displeased soldiers from armies disbanded after a series of wars roamed the roads and the countryside, and traded coin with travelers in exchange for the guarantee of their continued existence. His childhood was relatively normal until a years-long famine forced him, his family, and the bulk of his community to abandon their home and migrate elsewhere. Families with lineages dating back to the first settlers of the land left the village one by one, and the young Tiberum’s own was one of the last to leave, in a caravan headed for the rich fields surrounding the capital of Great Londen.
Bandits, of course, happened upon Tiberum. Yet, these bandits were different in that they did not extract a toll from them, rather, attacking directly without so much as a word of warning. Those with arms fought, but these bandits were skilled indeed, some of whom were even former soldiers in service to the crown. Tiber ran, hid in the nearby forest and quivered as a scared boy like him should until the ugly sounds of fighting had died down, at which point he waited two hours to be confident enough to walk to the wreckage of his looted caravan.
People died within his village, yes, but those were peaceful deaths. These were not. Open wounds wept blood which pooled into viscous muddy puddles slowly draining into the soil that drank eagerly. Eyes were open, yet they were glazed and lifeless. Bodies lay contorted in different positions, most of which looked uncomfortable and unnatural. When Tiber came among the bodies of his parents and two sisters, he wept until the night.
He was found at the caravan wreckage by a detachment of troops moving from Great Londen to York. The man in charge took pity and let Tiber stay with them until they reached their destination, where the eleven-year-old was then given to a Church-run orphanage. There, he would receive a proper education, learning how to read the Gospel, write the alphabet, and other lessons, until he was sixteen, when the local captain of the guard was volunteering recruits for the new war and picked Tiber.
Those who refused to go were, of course, executed and made an example of at the central square. Thus, Tiber had no choice but to go along. Buying his own weapons and armor with what little money he had, he reported to the militia training grounds for two months of training and drilling while the state mustered up its forces. He stabbed at straw targets with the spear, but liberated an arming sword from the corpse of a comrade who had died in an unfortunate accident whilst training, and practiced with that was well.
Eventually came the baptism by fire: Tiber was assigned to a regiment of spearmen and his very first action saw him bashing shields and parrying spears with Frank soldiers. He perspired and was assaulted by fatigue, but, carried on by the spirit of his fellows, Tiber fought on, and he saw himself living through the Battle of Agrincarte. He helped himself to the spoils of war: gold, new weapons and armor and equipment -- so many useful things, for personal use, or for selling.
He fought for the rest of the Ten Years’ War as a loyal soldier to the Crown of En. Promoted to sergeant at age twenty-two, he took to using his arming sword as an inspirational tool, to wave above the heads of his fellows while he stood on top of a rock and yelled something uplifting. He also took a liking to the sword immediately, being less of a hassle to carry than a spear with its scabbard, and being versatile with both a stabbing point and a cutting edge.
The Ten Years’ War, ending on the eve of his 26th birthday, saw no victor and was ultimately a bloody stalemate, but, at the very end of it, Tiber saw a rise in prestige and prominence, however small: he was assigned into the elite bodyguard unit of a captain, a knight, a noble. He was taught how to ride and care for a steed, and how to fight while mounted on one. His duties had become light in this new time of uneasy peace, and he was left with many hours in the day to simply think. And think, he did, of things he could have done to change myriad outcomes.
He had made a great many friendships throughout his so-far ten-year career as a soldier. Many of those men whom he remembered always as happy faces wearing stupid, drunken grins around the campfire, were lost. Some were taken away without him even knowing, plucked by an arrow or a crossbow bolt during a charge. Others, he saw fell, and held in his arms, surrounded by the two’s comrades as everyone watched the man fade away. The fires of war, with their constant activities, were gone now, and without distraction, Tiberum Ein Habsurg had thought and regretted.
His mind in a state of restlessness, he began to have night terrors. Spears tipped with blood thrusted and jabbed in his dreams whereupon an colosseum of displeased spectators, each individual face familiar, spectated an ashamed Tiber. There were screams and there were sobs, but the anguish always pointed out to Tiberum. He blamed himself. He didn’t take this well, and, suddenly, he set aflame his bedroom.
The first two times, the candle was blamed. The third time had him interrogated. The fourth time had him imprisoned. The fifth time killed his cell partner, which only worsened it, and when the seventh came, the Archbishop of En himself came to to Tiber, performing an exorcism, which had no effect. His own captain, ashamed and blamed by others for Tiber’s accidental damages to lives and property, ordered to have him executed, with the members of his bodyguard, Tiber’s former comrades, watching the spectacle.
He was gagged, blindfolded, chained, and handcuffed and brought to the central square of Great Londen itself to be hanged, then beheaded. When they had taken off the bag and the blindfold so he could see the jeering crowd, so he could hear the Archbishop himself speak ill of him, calling him monster, witch and demon, something snapped inside of him: he literally exploded in rage, melting off his chains and bands. This shocked the crowd enough that he was able to run through the city streets -- naked, mind you -- to procure a horse at the gate stables and ride away for his life.
The next two years had him serving in a band of mercenaries, honing his new fire magicks. He could cast the primordial power from his hands, his weapon, basically any part of his immediate extremities. However, he was still loyal to the Crown of En, despite the circumstances, and moved south, where he could kill unfamiliar Jermanians instead of his Enlandern countrymen.
Yet, he found out he wasn’t alone. People with strange powers akin to his own were popping up and the air of taverns was being filled with numerous stories about them. Seeking comradeship and a new cause to fill the void left by his state's banishment of him, Tiberum Ein Habsurg found himself at Ractem after bankrupting himself on new weapons and armor -- most of which, to his massive frustration and annoyance, were taken away from him. As he was sent off, he was allowed only cloth garments, a gambeson, a dagger, and a helmet. But, once on Ractem, he breathed in the air, found it cool and soothing, and then said, in a voice that was neither too high nor too low:
"This is good."
Short version: Tiberum Ein Habsurg is a peasant soldier suffering from survivor’s guilt sent away because he kept burning his bedroom and killed quite a few innocents.
Skills, Non-Magical:
- Bash and Slash: Tiberum Ein Habsurg is a veteran of several campaigns and is very proficient with using a sword and a shield together.
- Use the Pointy End, the Pointy End!: Tiberum Ein Habsurg is a veteran of several campaigns and is comfortable with a spear in his hands.
- Marksman Apprentice: Tiberum Ein Habsurg has seen the use of both the bow and the crossbow and has knowledge pertaining to such weapons, though he is only decent in their operation.
- Siege Operator: Tiberum Ein Habsurg has operated catapults and ballistae and knows how to handle such weapons, though their construction remains a mystery to him.
- Living Off The Land: Tiberum Ein Habsurg is a veteran of several campaigns and has learned to forage and hunt.
- Rider: Tiberum Ein Habsurg has had mounted training and is able to control a horse well enough to fight on it, but inexperience makes this awkward.
Likes and Dislikes:Tiberum, although simple, can fully appreciate the dewy mornings of spring and autumn, the raunchy, boisterous laughter and conversation of friends around the campfire, slugging ale and whatever alcohol they had managed to scrounge up with gusto, and, of course, seeing the enemy either dead or driven before him and his companions. There isn’t much he doesn’t like, but one thing that gets on his nerves is the arrogance of aristocrats when at peace. Nobles would drink and pat your back in war, but would be cold as winter iron when the documents were signed and people no longer had the right to kill other people. Tiberum despises such deceitful personalities.
Description of Magic:Tiberum’s flavor of magic reflects very well his style of fighting and personality: crude, quick, and unfancy. As he thinks, so does he create, and from the very thin air, he summons flames as blue as the expanse of the ocean, which, in a short time, becomes a bright orange as the essence of the flame is mixed with impurities in the air. He literally demands that there be fire where he wills, and the world impossibly bends itself so, though he is limited only to spells concerning fire. The strength of his spells are tied heavily to his will and resolve, and if he loses the spirit to fight, either by exhaustion, fear, or some other reason, then his magic will be pathetic and laughable. But it takes a lot to unnerve a veteran of the Ten Years’ War, and though he has had his moments of weakness, Tiber has proven himself a tough nut to crack.
