As Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain, formerly Monsieur, walked down towards the furthest trench of Plymouth Lane, smile convincingly fixed upon his face and eyes fixed upon his carbine, he could not help but feel the juxtaposition – he, a cavalryman with a cavalryman’s uniform in the case hooked through his arm, stepping forth to the apex of these trenches, this construct of infantry warfare, of defence, of immobility. He could still remember surmounting them, striking through the biting stasis like…
He shook his head. That was done. It was all done. Valkyrur keep them.
And so Alexandre walked on, smile affixed. He passed by a few here and there, squeezing through the tight gaps and nodding as he went where he drew eyes. He drew a fair few, which wasn’t a shock; he must have looked an odd sight even besides his unkemptness, practically laid down with arms between his three guns and his two hand weapons, if one could reduce such tools of war to such a simple title. His sabre’s scabbard rattled, not from the tightly-held weapon inside but from its length clattering against the trench wall and the ground, dragging the mud with it – he would have to fix that somehow. As for Tue-Tyran… Well, its weight at his belt grew with every step he took upon this earth that his ancestors had left so long ago.
Alexandre closed his eyes, just for a moment – the images behind them would permit him no more. This is how I can fight for Gallia now, he thought. This is how I must.
When he opened them, he was rounding the final bend leading to the head of the trenches. Alexandre almost craned his neck to look both ways – almost, before recalling that, yes, that was indeed the best way to have one’s head blown off by an Imperial sniper. He took a breath; recomposed himself; fixed the smile upon his face once more. Then he went hunting.
Supposedly, this was where he’d find this ‘Britta’, who would reportedly be able to help with the ‘carrying two separate carbines everywhere’ business. It was an open secret that she and the one with whom she was living in sin had set up a trading post of some kind – not that Alexandre much liked living in sin or open secrets but he knew that some informality was good for unit camaraderie. Regardless, she (grey-haired before her years, tough, vaguely well-kept) was supposedly the structure of the operation to her not-husband’s familiar face – the sort of person who wouldn’t get things lost.
Precisely what he required.
And, seemingly, precisely when he required it, if the woman with the large gun that he caught sight of at that moment was any indication. Tracking forwards, Alexandre intensified his smile, adopting as open and enthusiastic an expression as he could. “Ah, excuse me, Priva –” Not that, you’re not a lieutenant any more – “Forgive me – you wouldn’t happen to be Britta Hagen, would you?”
His hands full, Alexandre opted for a small bow. “Al-hhh… Marius Blanc, at your service.” He infused himself with brightness. “I was wondering whether you might be able to take hold of something for me, if that’s a possibility.”
‘Was there a man dismay’d? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die’
- Excerpt from ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1854
___________________________________ Monsieur Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain (named in Federation documents as ‘Marius Blanc’, though he rarely goes by this) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Gallian | Bihain, Southern Gallia ___________________________________
▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Age 19 ► Height 178 cm (5 ft 10 in) ► Rank Private (formerly 2nd Lieutenant) ► Role Shocktrooper ► Sexuality - Complicated. Alexandre is attracted to both men and women but represses the former desire due to his ingrained understanding of the need to provide an heir for his family; simultaneously, he is also well-versed in the literature of the pre-Valkyrur powers and admires the romantic bonds between male comrades contained therein.
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D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E
Lithe (or perhaps just underweight) and somewhat tall, Alexandre cuts a striking figure in the trenches (as far as one can ‘cut a striking figure’ in such a bleak environment). He takes significantly more care to tidy and clean his uniform than he does to maintain his personal appearance and often sports a scraggly beard and bags under his eyes that make him look a lot older than he is. His expressions are typically confident and happy, though in such cases they never quite reach his eyes. He wears a very standard Valois shocktrooper’s uniform, featuring essentially no modification.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Alexandre is a man weighed down by a lot of guilt and stress. Erudite and introspective, he is more than capable of understanding the consequences of his actions and beliefs and, under normal circumstances, grappling with their interplay with the world around him. Unfortunately, circumstances as they are are far from normal, rendering him gloomy at the best of times. Like any true noble, of course, he covers all of this up to show the face that he believes is necessary at any given time - usually courageous, friendly and supportive. This mask slips typically only in the company of those with whom he is close and on the battlefield; in the latter case, he often acts more like a black knight than the paladin that he idealised, and on some level still idealises.
Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain was born in 1894 as the heir of the de Bihain family, minor barons whose influence was slipping away with the social ramifications of the Ragnite Revolution, like the rest of the nobility. His father, Lieven Victor de Bihain, had married his mother, Ada Van Rompaey, for precisely this reason: the daughter of industrialists who had made a fortune in Ragnite mining, Ada brought much-needed wealth and connections to a family previously struggling for both.
Given this, like others of his station, Alexandre was raised with the best schooling available at the time, which meant attending a Yggdist boarding school where he gained a profound respect for the faith. There, he was exposed for the first time to people far above his station and was, in his first years, the recipient of a fair amount of bullying (beyond the usual abuse of power by prefects that one could expect in this period). That drove him into his studies and his books - which only stoked a passion that had burned in him for a while.
The de Bihains, you see, have a long history of equestrianism; the family was originally nobility from the lush plains of north-eastern Valois who fled to Gallia after politics turned against them in the late medieval period, bringing with them the proud tradition of the Valois knights and (just as importantly for the king granting them refuge) fine Valois destriers as breeding stock. Though they had changed their title in the wave of nationalist sentiment that led to the War of Gallian Independence, the de Bihains still had the blood of chevaliers in their veins - and their horses in their stables, and their stories in the manor library. Alexandre took to all of it, drinking in the heroic tales of his ancestors - there was Philip le Brave, who had saved the life of the King of Valois in a daring charge over rough ground; there Rosamund, who took the initiative to lead their household to Gallia after her husband’s execution and rushed at the head of but two dozen knights in a daring charge to cut through an ambush to Gallian reinforcements; and there, greatest of them all, was Roland-Florence, called ‘Tue-Tyran’, an appellation earned for making a daring charge to strike down the corrupt regent of Gallia on the battlefield with his horseman’s axe and end a civil war to restore the rightful heir to the throne, a feat for which he accepted no reward. Armour bearing the same names and weapons matched to each lined the manor’s walls, intimidating and inspiring in equal measure.
Finding a new identity for himself in this, Alexandre became obsessed with chivalry and knightly behaviour. At first, the bullying intensified. Then Alexandre took up fencing, doing so with fanatical fervour, and challenged the leader of his abusers, the son of a count three years his elder, to a match. He humiliated him utterly.
The bullying stopped after that.
After that incident, which earned him a small circle of friends, the delighted laughter of both of his parents when they received a letter from the boy’s father actually thanking Alexandre for giving him a much-needed dressing down and some highly beneficial self-actualisation, Alexandre would continue on at his school for several more years. In that time, two things occurred. Firstly, Alexandre’s interest in chivalric heroism would develop into a broader love of military history, tinged with a sense of national duty. To anyone with an awareness of politics and diplomacy it was clear that the clouds of war were growing on the horizon and Gallia would be exposed to the crossfire; he would be needed, with all of his skill as a fighter, cavalryman and leader that was sharpened by the day. Secondly, he became more sociologically aware; he heard more and more of his mother’s poorly hidden dislike of her family’s treatment of their overwhelmingly Darscen workforce and, reasoning that he was obliged by his Yggdism to help those who the Valkyrur had liberated before him and by chivalry to defend those weaker than himself, he developed a strong pro-Darscen sentiment. Alexandre even went so far as to attempt to set up a ‘Darscen Cultural Appreciation Society’ at his school, though he was rebuked for it by his schoolmaster and the nascent group shut down. This did not ruin his reputation enough to prevent his military talents being recognised, however, and at the age of sixteen he was recommended to a scout from Lanseal and subsequently offered a place at the famed military academy.
Alexandre entered Lanseal with profound hope of his own continued development as a soldier for the Principality. His actual experiences were more mixed. As an equestrian, the whispers he heard of the obsolescence of the cavalry charge in modern warfare from some of the staff and students were concerning and, indeed, a little offensive to him; his response was to obstinately push cavalry forces into a dominant role in every tactical scenario and war game that the academy’s students were presented with. That aside, he was considered well by most of his peers, if a little old-fashioned, and looked set to graduate into a high placement in the Gallian Armed Forces.
The war prevented that. With skirmishes at the border growing more threatening and invasion expected any day, Alexandre made the difficult decision to leave his studies before graduation to enlist in the cavalry arm of a military that was rapidly expanding. Being a noble from a farming region with horses to spare and having some theoretical understanding of command, he was placed as a 2nd Lieutenant at the head of a platoon of the 4th Lancers Regiment, a force that contained a good deal of the men and women of Bihain itself. For Alexandre, this was his chance to put everything that he had learned into practice. Alongside his standard-issue weaponry he took Tue-Tyran, the famed axe of Roland-Florence that bore the same name as his epithet; such a symbol at the head of Gallian cavalry, he hoped, would strike fear into those before him and be an inspiration and strengthen morale for those behind him. With his favourite horse, a gelding called Lambert, as his mount, he began working to form his platoon into a proper fighting force.
He did well. Between a fair but nonetheless encouraging and supportive approach to command, his action on the principle that a commander should lead by example and share in the tasks of a common soldier and perhaps one too many knights’ tales told in the mess hall, and despite (perhaps because of) his youth, the troops became thoroughly endeared to him; in the other direction, Alexandre’s concern for each and every one of his lancers was obvious to all and his belief in them and the values that he espoused was contagious. Fairly soon, the platoon had nicknamed themselves the ‘Chevaliers d’Arlem’ and had a community spirit that outshone any other in the 4th Lancers.
It was in that same spirit that Alexandre introduced Alex Schäfer to the Chevaliers. When he heard that a military attaché from Vinland was joining the 4th, and especially after hearing that he was Darscen, Alexandre was quick to request that he be assigned to his own unit as the platoon sergeant. Making clear from the start that he was one of their own, Alexandre encouraged Alex to share some stories from his home and culture with the rest of the platoon. The latter needed little of it and soon the two men had become fast friends.
That friendship would be tested, for the Europan War had finally arrived in Gallia and the 4th were to be among the first thrown against the onrushing imperial forces. The theatre was the Naggiar Plains, a sweeping landscape in Gallia’s North-East - which suited Alexandre down to the ground, being both ideal cavalry terrain and a place that he’d studied for years as one of Gallia’s most frequent battle sites. Pitching camp a few miles from the Imperial position with the river to their back, the lancers rested; tomorrow, they were to break through the enemy vanguard, carving a path for the 6th and 17th Regiments of the Line and associated militia units to advance, break up and cut apart the remnants and stall their advance. It was a task reminiscent and worthy of the knights of old, forging forth before any others to protect their home, and the Chevaliers relished the anticipation of the coming fight, telling stories around the campfires and charging each other’s spirits. Alexandre slept with his Valkyrur spiral clutched in his hand and Tue-Tyran beside him that night, awaiting the moment that the axe would meet with glory once again on the coming day.
That day, that moment, would define Alexandre for years to come. The Chevaliers d’Arlem were drawn up beside their fellows, towards the left of the formation - plains before them, a thick copse far off in the distance, the river running to their right… The cavalrymen of the 4th Lancers trotted, then cantered, then galloped at full tilt against their foe. That foe had seemingly had foreknowledge of their arrival; horses and men fell as they met with peppering rifle-fire, biting wire and caltrops. Still they came on, still they charged, surmounting the enemy’s line and spearing men left and right to silence the crackling barrage…
Still it came - three hundred metres up the plains, more rifles cracked. Each and every officer among the 4th paled at once - a defence in depth, designed to take apart a charge and destroy it just as they had planned to do to their foe. Still, with the infantry behind them, a retreat would only cause panic and let their foes take advantage of their disorder, or at best leave them depleted and vulnerable to counterattack; they had to press on. And at that moment, Alexandre recalled something. These plains, those woods, more familiar than they should be… A spark of inspiration running through him, Alexandre left Alex to command the Chevaliers and pushed Lambert on, passing quickly to the front of the formation. There, he told the colonel that he knew those woods - he’d studied them before, knew of an ancient battle where cavalry had rushed through a path less crowded with trees than the rest to strike at an enemy who had believed their flank was secure against them, collapsing their line and putting them to rout. A daring charge from those trees now, he pleaded, could win them the battle. The somewhat distracted and irritable colonel nonetheless hurriedly agreed to the plan, needing every advantage that he could take. So it was that Alexandre rode back to his platoon, shouting that they would save lives and be honoured that day if only they would follow, and led them away from the rest of the 4th Lancers.
Through the copse they rushed, moving at a quick trot to avoid stumbling. The woods had changed little in the two thousand years since the battle that Alexandre remembered; the ancient glades and clearings allowed the Chevaliers passage like they had their ancestors, hooves rumbling quietly against the dew-sodden ground. As the eighty-four well-governed horses wove between tree and bush and their riders caught sight of the treeline before them, Alexandre looked back at Alex, giving him a nod and a smile, of respect for him and reassurance for himself. Then he took Tue-Tyran in hand, raised the axe high above his head, and called for the charge.
So rode the Chevaliers, bursting from trees shaking with the thunder of hooves and voices raised in righteous hope and fury.
Straight into the company of Imperial machine gunners supporting their last line of defence.
To the cavalry platoon’s credit, the Chevaliers had taken their enemy by surprise and it did take a moment for them to wheel to face the new threat. Once they did, however, the result was a massacre. Bullets lashed at every man and horse among them, striking them down as they came. Alexandre was among the first, Lambert cut away beneath him and he then knocked out by a stray kick to the head as he fell.
Alexandre remembers being surrounded by the dead when he awoke - remembers the smell of iron rich in the air, the call of carrion birds, faces all around - so many faces. He remembers crawling, stumbling forward - to where, he knows not. He remembers collapsing again, falling in and out of consciousness any number of times. The rest is far from clear in his own mind, but seemingly he awoke far from the battlefield, in a bed in a small farmhouse, with a kindly couple tending to his wounds and his axe, sabre and carbine on a bedside table.
That gave him time to think - perhaps too much time. All the people he had known among the Chevaliers, all those he had come to think of as comrades, even family… They were being - would have been butchered, almost to a man, and he was at fault. How would he face the families back in Bihain; how could he even bear that title now, with what he had led so many of its people into? And even if he could… His ideals were shattered. There was no honour in the knightly charge any longer, not against machines that cut down mounted soldiers as a plow broke poppies, uncaring, unaffected. If he were to return now, he might be called on again - might be commanded once more to turn the flower of Gallian youth into brave knights, to send against the Imperial guns and be cut down just as before. No - he would not. Better that he be thought dead.
And so, once he was close enough to healed, Alexandre stole away in the middle of the night from that kindly couple with only the clothes they had lent him, his officer’s uniform in a case that they had been readying for him, that he might not forget his failure, his Valkyrur spiral chained around his neck and his weapons in his belts and scabbards. For a while, he wandered, purposeless, living from day to day as best he could as a noble who had never had to do so before in his life and trying to figure out what to do next. All the while, he fell further into misery. Despite it all, though, he did realise one thing: that Gallia would still need to fight and that he still had a duty to his nation. He could not follow that duty in the way that he had always dreamed of, not any longer; nor could he return to the Gallian Armed Forces in some other capacity, for somebody would be bound to recognise him at some point. Perhaps, though…
In 1914, Alexandre signed on to fight with the 15th Atlantic Rifles, under a false name that he would soon eschew, with a Gallian carbine at his side and, on the other, a sabre and an axe.
---P O T E N T I A L S
Tip of the Spear: Alexandre is used to leading from the front and, between equipment that allows him to wreak havoc in close combat, skill in hand-to-hand fighting and an attitude that isn’t too concerned with his own survival (if for different and slightly more erratic reasons than a few years ago), is excellent at doing so. Tell him to cut a path for the soldiers at his back and he will lead them down it without hesitation.
Guardian: Alexandre grows attached to his allies quickly and will go far for them. Knowing that they are secure and safe at his back and trusting in their support is a great comfort to him and makes him more effective in combat. Losing a companion or seeing them in harm’s way, on the other hand, can throw him either into panic, cold fury, something in between or entirely different strong emotion.
Horseman: Alexandre still idealises mounted combat and is, regardless of anything else, profoundly skilled in that field as well as equestrianism in general; he will outperform most in any task to do with riding, caring for or considering horses. On the other hand, he empathises with enemy horse-oriented units, especially cavalry, and will hold himself back when fighting them.
Lessons of Wars Gone By: Alexandre is very much a student of war, well-versed in military history and tactical thinking for someone of his age. He will likely be able to add value to discussions of such, even if his ideas can often be outdated; moreover, though he is most familiar with Gallia, he will often already be aware of the terrain of a given battlefield if it played host to other battles in the past.
Linguist: Alexandre is Gallian nobility and, being from a trilingual nation, someone expected to engage in diplomacy and fascinated by historical literature, speaks and reads a lot of languages as a result - alive and dead. He can be counted upon to communicate with almost anyone in the Europan linguistic sphere and to give a rough translation of anything from enemy reports to holy texts.
Darscophile: Alexandre has been a long supporter of the struggle against Darscen prejudice and maintains an active interest in Darscen culture. He will go a fair way to promote inclusion of Darscen troops in a unit that he is a part of and seek out insights and history that he and others are unaware of - even if this might be seen as overbearing and insensitive by some.
Brave Face: Alexandre maintains a mask when around most people, in accordance with what he believes is necessary at the time. In combat, that normally means something amounting to ‘supportive courage’. Being just a mask, not only does this make him less resilient but it can also break, typically revealing either anger, fear or general psychological pain.
---E Q U I P M E N T
- SM-Longfield Mk.3 Carbinewith Bayonet - Shrinking the standard Federation firearm adds manoeuvrability to a reliable and accurate design, albeit at a slight cost to power. Alexandre normally keeps his bayonet detached as a regular knife, given his other weapons; using it means that the enemy has already got too close. - M1889 Gallian Officer’s Cavalry Carbine (with four 5-round clips of Gallian ragnite alloy ammunition) - Alexandre’s old ranged weapon, this carbine is less reliable and slower to load than its Federation counterpart but features superior muzzle velocity and penetration thanks to the copious use of ragnite in its structure and bullets. Mostly kept stored for critical engagements due to a lack of access to compatible ammunition. - John-Wissel Revolver - Few shocktroopers carry a handgun, attached as they are to their carbines; Alexandre’s reliance on one-handed close combat weapons, however, makes this useful as an emergency ranged sidearm. - Tue-Tyran (Late Medieval Cavalry Axe) - Well-kept and robust despite being a half a millennium old, this family heirloom of the de Bihains is a surprisingly agile one-handed weapon. Its hammer head effectively transmits force through armour while its axe head catches enemy weapons and hews through unarmoured targets; more than either, though, its history raises the morale of its wielder and those alongside him. - 1822 Valois Line Cavalry Officer’s Sabre (Gallian variant) - While a little long for unmounted trench combat, the reach, agility and cutting power of this sabre wielded by a man of his skill grants Alexandre a significant advantage over the bayonet. - Entrenching Tool - Unlike most entrenching tools, Alexandre’s choice of arms gives him no reason to weaponise his; that does not reduce its utility in building and breaking things, however. - Fragmentation Grenades - As a private in the Atlantic Rifles, Alexandre has access only to mundane fragmentation grenades; his focus elsewhere sees him carrying few of them and typically relying on his fellows with heavier ordnance. - Shocktrooper Armourand Type 8 Helmet - Alexandre uses the standard pistol-rated armour given to Federation shocktroopers but wears a prototype visored helmet alongside it that he heard was being offered for field tests. While slightly limiting for his vision and communication, the protection it offers is far greater than a standard helmet. - Gas Mask - The realities of being at the front of a modern charge demands that Alexandre wears a gas mask around his neck at all times.
---A F F I L I A T I O N S
- Monsieur Lieven Victor de Bihain, Baron de Bihain (father) - Madame Ada de Bihain, Baronne de Bihain (mother) - Monsieur Renaud Valère Laurent de Bihain (younger brother) - Madame Amabel Eulalie de Bihain (younger sister)
---R E L A T I O N S
Alex Schäfer: Once his second-in-command of the Chevaliers d’Arlem, Alexandre and Alex became good friends over their time there. Up until their reunion in the Atlantic Rifles, of course, each believed the other dead; it remains to be seen whether they will rebuild their old comradeship or whether it was the only casualty between the two of them.
‘Was there a man dismay’d? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die’
- Excerpt from ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1854
___________________________________ Monsieur Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain (named in Federation documents as ‘Marius Blanc’, though he rarely goes by this) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Gallian | Bihain, Southern Gallia ___________________________________
▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Age 19 ► Height 178 cm (5 ft 10 in) ► Rank Private (formerly 2nd Lieutenant) ► Role Shocktrooper ► Sexuality - Complicated. Alexandre is attracted to both men and women but represses the former desire due to his ingrained understanding of the need to provide an heir for his family; simultaneously, he is also well-versed in the literature of the pre-Valkyrur powers and admires the romantic bonds between male comrades contained therein.
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D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E
Lithe (or perhaps just underweight) and somewhat tall, Alexandre cuts a striking figure in the trenches (as far as one can ‘cut a striking figure’ in such a bleak environment). He takes significantly more care to tidy and clean his uniform than he does to maintain his personal appearance and often sports a scraggly beard and bags under his eyes that make him look a lot older than he is. His expressions are typically confident and happy, though in such cases they never quite reach his eyes. He wears a very standard Valois shocktrooper’s uniform, featuring essentially no modification.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Alexandre is a man weighed down by a lot of guilt and stress. Erudite and introspective, he is more than capable of understanding the consequences of his actions and beliefs and, under normal circumstances, grappling with their interplay with the world around him. Unfortunately, circumstances as they are are far from normal, rendering him gloomy at the best of times. Like any true noble, of course, he covers all of this up to show the face that he believes is necessary at any given time - usually courageous, friendly and supportive. This mask slips typically only in the company of those with whom he is close and on the battlefield; in the latter case, he often acts more like a black knight than the paladin that he idealised, and on some level still idealises.
Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain was born in 1894 as the heir of the de Bihain family, minor barons whose influence was slipping away with the social ramifications of the Ragnite Revolution, like the rest of the nobility. His father, Lieven Victor de Bihain, had married his mother, Ada Van Rompaey, for precisely this reason: the daughter of industrialists who had made a fortune in Ragnite mining, Ada brought much-needed wealth and connections to a family previously struggling for both.
Given this, like others of his station, Alexandre was raised with the best schooling available at the time, which meant attending a Yggdist boarding school where he gained a profound respect for the faith. There, he was exposed for the first time to people far above his station and was, in his first years, the recipient of a fair amount of bullying (beyond the usual abuse of power by prefects that one could expect in this period). That drove him into his studies and his books - which only stoked a passion that had burned in him for a while.
The de Bihains, you see, have a long history of equestrianism; the family was originally nobility from the lush plains of north-eastern Valois who fled to Gallia after politics turned against them in the late medieval period, bringing with them the proud tradition of the Valois knights and (just as importantly for the king granting them refuge) fine Valois destriers as breeding stock. Though they had changed their title in the wave of nationalist sentiment that led to the War of Gallian Independence, the de Bihains still had the blood of chevaliers in their veins - and their horses in their stables, and their stories in the manor library. Alexandre took to all of it, drinking in the heroic tales of his ancestors - there was Philip le Brave, who had saved the life of the King of Valois in a daring charge over rough ground; there Rosamund, who took the initiative to lead their household to Gallia after her husband’s execution and rushed at the head of but two dozen knights in a daring charge to cut through an ambush to Gallian reinforcements; and there, greatest of them all, was Roland-Florence, called ‘Tue-Tyran’, an appellation earned for making a daring charge to strike down the corrupt regent of Gallia on the battlefield with his horseman’s axe and end a civil war to restore the rightful heir to the throne, a feat for which he accepted no reward. Armour bearing the same names and weapons matched to each lined the manor’s walls, intimidating and inspiring in equal measure.
Finding a new identity for himself in this, Alexandre became obsessed with chivalry and knightly behaviour. At first, the bullying intensified. Then Alexandre took up fencing, doing so with fanatical fervour, and challenged the leader of his abusers, the son of a count three years his elder, to a match. He humiliated him utterly.
The bullying stopped after that.
After that incident, which earned him a small circle of friends, the delighted laughter of both of his parents when they received a letter from the boy’s father actually thanking Alexandre for giving him a much-needed dressing down and some highly beneficial self-actualisation, Alexandre would continue on at his school for several more years. In that time, two things occurred. Firstly, Alexandre’s interest in chivalric heroism would develop into a broader love of military history, tinged with a sense of national duty. To anyone with an awareness of politics and diplomacy it was clear that the clouds of war were growing on the horizon and Gallia would be exposed to the crossfire; he would be needed, with all of his skill as a fighter, cavalryman and leader that was sharpened by the day. Secondly, he became more sociologically aware; he heard more and more of his mother’s poorly hidden dislike of her family’s treatment of their overwhelmingly Darscen workforce and, reasoning that he was obliged by his Yggdism to help those who the Valkyrur had liberated before him and by chivalry to defend those weaker than himself, he developed a strong pro-Darscen sentiment. Alexandre even went so far as to attempt to set up a ‘Darscen Cultural Appreciation Society’ at his school, though he was rebuked for it by his schoolmaster and the nascent group shut down. This did not ruin his reputation enough to prevent his military talents being recognised, however, and at the age of sixteen he was recommended to a scout from Lanseal and subsequently offered a place at the famed military academy.
Alexandre entered Lanseal with profound hope of his own continued development as a soldier for the Principality. His actual experiences were more mixed. As an equestrian, the whispers he heard of the obsolescence of the cavalry charge in modern warfare from some of the staff and students were concerning and, indeed, a little offensive to him; his response was to obstinately push cavalry forces into a dominant role in every tactical scenario and war game that the academy’s students were presented with. That aside, he was considered well by most of his peers, if a little old-fashioned, and looked set to graduate into a high placement in the Gallian Armed Forces.
The war prevented that. With skirmishes at the border growing more threatening and invasion expected any day, Alexandre made the difficult decision to leave his studies before graduation to enlist in the cavalry arm of a military that was rapidly expanding. Being a noble from a farming region with horses to spare and having some theoretical understanding of command, he was placed as a 2nd Lieutenant at the head of a platoon of the 4th Lancers Regiment, a force that contained a good deal of the men and women of Bihain itself. For Alexandre, this was his chance to put everything that he had learned into practice. Alongside his standard-issue weaponry he took Tue-Tyran, the famed axe of Roland-Florence that bore the same name as his epithet; such a symbol at the head of Gallian cavalry, he hoped, would strike fear into those before him and be an inspiration and strengthen morale for those behind him. With his favourite horse, a gelding called Lambert, as his mount, he began working to form his platoon into a proper fighting force.
He did well. Between a fair but nonetheless encouraging and supportive approach to command, his action on the principle that a commander should lead by example and share in the tasks of a common soldier and perhaps one too many knights’ tales told in the mess hall, and despite (perhaps because of) his youth, the troops became thoroughly endeared to him; in the other direction, Alexandre’s concern for each and every one of his lancers was obvious to all and his belief in them and the values that he espoused was contagious. Fairly soon, the platoon had nicknamed themselves the ‘Chevaliers d’Arlem’ and had a community spirit that outshone any other in the 4th Lancers.
It was in that same spirit that Alexandre introduced Alex Schäfer to the Chevaliers. When he heard that a military attaché from Vinland was joining the 4th, and especially after hearing that he was Darscen, Alexandre was quick to request that he be assigned to his own unit as the platoon sergeant. Making clear from the start that he was one of their own, Alexandre encouraged Alex to share some stories from his home and culture with the rest of the platoon. The latter needed little of it and soon the two men had become fast friends.
That friendship would be tested, for the Europan War had finally arrived in Gallia and the 4th were to be among the first thrown against the onrushing imperial forces. The theatre was the Naggiar Plains, a sweeping landscape in Gallia’s North-East - which suited Alexandre down to the ground, being both ideal cavalry terrain and a place that he’d studied for years as one of Gallia’s most frequent battle sites. Pitching camp a few miles from the Imperial position with the river to their back, the lancers rested; tomorrow, they were to break through the enemy vanguard, carving a path for the 6th and 17th Regiments of the Line and associated militia units to advance, break up and cut apart the remnants and stall their advance. It was a task reminiscent and worthy of the knights of old, forging forth before any others to protect their home, and the Chevaliers relished the anticipation of the coming fight, telling stories around the campfires and charging each other’s spirits. Alexandre slept with his Valkyrur spiral clutched in his hand and Tue-Tyran beside him that night, awaiting the moment that the axe would meet with glory once again on the coming day.
That day, that moment, would define Alexandre for years to come. The Chevaliers d’Arlem were drawn up beside their fellows, towards the left of the formation - plains before them, a thick copse far off in the distance, the river running to their right… The cavalrymen of the 4th Lancers trotted, then cantered, then galloped at full tilt against their foe. That foe had seemingly had foreknowledge of their arrival; horses and men fell as they met with peppering rifle-fire, biting wire and caltrops. Still they came on, still they charged, surmounting the enemy’s line and spearing men left and right to silence the crackling barrage…
Still it came - three hundred metres up the plains, more rifles cracked. Each and every officer among the 4th paled at once - a defence in depth, designed to take apart a charge and destroy it just as they had planned to do to their foe. Still, with the infantry behind them, a retreat would only cause panic and let their foes take advantage of their disorder, or at best leave them depleted and vulnerable to counterattack; they had to press on. And at that moment, Alexandre recalled something. These plains, those woods, more familiar than they should be… A spark of inspiration running through him, Alexandre left Alex to command the Chevaliers and pushed Lambert on, passing quickly to the front of the formation. There, he told the colonel that he knew those woods - he’d studied them before, knew of an ancient battle where cavalry had rushed through a path less crowded with trees than the rest to strike at an enemy who had believed their flank was secure against them, collapsing their line and putting them to rout. A daring charge from those trees now, he pleaded, could win them the battle. The somewhat distracted and irritable colonel nonetheless hurriedly agreed to the plan, needing every advantage that he could take. So it was that Alexandre rode back to his platoon, shouting that they would save lives and be honoured that day if only they would follow, and led them away from the rest of the 4th Lancers.
Through the copse they rushed, moving at a quick trot to avoid stumbling. The woods had changed little in the two thousand years since the battle that Alexandre remembered; the ancient glades and clearings allowed the Chevaliers passage like they had their ancestors, hooves rumbling quietly against the dew-sodden ground. As the eighty-four well-governed horses wove between tree and bush and their riders caught sight of the treeline before them, Alexandre looked back at Alex, giving him a nod and a smile, of respect for him and reassurance for himself. Then he took Tue-Tyran in hand, raised the axe high above his head, and called for the charge.
So rode the Chevaliers, bursting from trees shaking with the thunder of hooves and voices raised in righteous hope and fury.
Straight into the company of Imperial machine gunners supporting their last line of defence.
To the cavalry platoon’s credit, the Chevaliers had taken their enemy by surprise and it did take a moment for them to wheel to face the new threat. Once they did, however, the result was a massacre. Bullets lashed at every man and horse among them, striking them down as they came. Alexandre was among the first, Lambert cut away beneath him and he then knocked out by a stray kick to the head as he fell.
Alexandre remembers being surrounded by the dead when he awoke - remembers the smell of iron rich in the air, the call of carrion birds, faces all around - so many faces. He remembers crawling, stumbling forward - to where, he knows not. He remembers collapsing again, falling in and out of consciousness any number of times. The rest is far from clear in his own mind, but seemingly he awoke far from the battlefield, in a bed in a small farmhouse, with a kindly couple tending to his wounds and his axe, sabre and carbine on a bedside table.
That gave him time to think - perhaps too much time. All the people he had known among the Chevaliers, all those he had come to think of as comrades, even family… They were being - would have been butchered, almost to a man, and he was at fault. How would he face the families back in Bihain; how could he even bear that title now, with what he had led so many of its people into? And even if he could… His ideals were shattered. There was no honour in the knightly charge any longer, not against machines that cut down mounted soldiers as a plow broke poppies, uncaring, unaffected. If he were to return now, he might be called on again - might be commanded once more to turn the flower of Gallian youth into brave knights, to send against the Imperial guns and be cut down just as before. No - he would not. Better that he be thought dead.
And so, once he was close enough to healed, Alexandre stole away in the middle of the night from that kindly couple with only the clothes they had lent him, his officer’s uniform in a case that they had been readying for him, that he might not forget his failure, his Valkyrur spiral chained around his neck and his weapons in his belts and scabbards. For a while, he wandered, purposeless, living from day to day as best he could as a noble who had never had to do so before in his life and trying to figure out what to do next. All the while, he fell further into misery. Despite it all, though, he did realise one thing: that Gallia would still need to fight and that he still had a duty to his nation. He could not follow that duty in the way that he had always dreamed of, not any longer; nor could he return to the Gallian Armed Forces in some other capacity, for somebody would be bound to recognise him at some point. Perhaps, though…
In 1914, Alexandre signed on to fight with the 15th Atlantic Rifles, under a false name that he would soon eschew, with a Gallian carbine at his side and, on the other, a sabre and an axe.
---P O T E N T I A L S
Tip of the Spear: Alexandre is used to leading from the front and, between equipment that allows him to wreak havoc in close combat, skill in hand-to-hand fighting and an attitude that isn’t too concerned with his own survival (if for different and slightly more erratic reasons than a few years ago), is excellent at doing so. Tell him to cut a path for the soldiers at his back and he will lead them down it without hesitation.
Guardian: Alexandre grows attached to his allies quickly and will go far for them. Knowing that they are secure and safe at his back and trusting in their support is a great comfort to him and makes him more effective in combat. Losing a companion or seeing them in harm’s way, on the other hand, can throw him either into panic, cold fury, something in between or entirely different strong emotion.
Horseman: Alexandre still idealises mounted combat and is, regardless of anything else, profoundly skilled in that field as well as equestrianism in general; he will outperform most in any task to do with riding, caring for or considering horses. On the other hand, he empathises with enemy horse-oriented units, especially cavalry, and will hold himself back when fighting them.
Lessons of Wars Gone By: Alexandre is very much a student of war, well-versed in military history and tactical thinking for someone of his age. He will likely be able to add value to discussions of such, even if his ideas can often be outdated; moreover, though he is most familiar with Gallia, he will often already be aware of the terrain of a given battlefield if it played host to other battles in the past.
Linguist: Alexandre is Gallian nobility and, being from a trilingual nation, someone expected to engage in diplomacy and fascinated by historical literature, speaks and reads a lot of languages as a result - alive and dead. He can be counted upon to communicate with almost anyone in the Europan linguistic sphere and to give a rough translation of anything from enemy reports to holy texts.
Darscophile: Alexandre has been a long supporter of the struggle against Darscen prejudice and maintains an active interest in Darscen culture. He will go a fair way to promote inclusion of Darscen troops in a unit that he is a part of and seek out insights and history that he and others are unaware of - even if this might be seen as overbearing and insensitive by some.
Brave Face: Alexandre maintains a mask when around most people, in accordance with what he believes is necessary at the time. In combat, that normally means something amounting to ‘supportive courage’. Being just a mask, not only does this make him less resilient but it can also break, typically revealing either anger, fear or general psychological pain.
---E Q U I P M E N T
- SM-Longfield Mk.3 Carbinewith Bayonet - Shrinking the standard Federation firearm adds manoeuvrability to a reliable and accurate design, albeit at a slight cost to power. Alexandre normally keeps his bayonet detached as a regular knife, given his other weapons; using it means that the enemy has already got too close. - M1889 Gallian Officer’s Cavalry Carbine (with four 5-round clips of Gallian ragnite alloy ammunition) - Alexandre’s old ranged weapon, this carbine is less reliable and slower to load than its Federation counterpart but features superior muzzle velocity and penetration thanks to the copious use of ragnite in its structure and bullets. Mostly kept stored for critical engagements due to a lack of access to compatible ammunition. - John-Wissel Revolver - Few shocktroopers carry a handgun, attached as they are to their carbines; Alexandre’s reliance on one-handed close combat weapons, however, makes this useful as an emergency ranged sidearm. - Tue-Tyran (Late Medieval Cavalry Axe) - Well-kept and robust despite being a half a millennium old, this family heirloom of the de Bihains is a surprisingly agile one-handed weapon. Its hammer head effectively transmits force through armour while its axe head catches enemy weapons and hews through unarmoured targets; more than either, though, its history raises the morale of its wielder and those alongside him. - 1822 Valois Line Cavalry Officer’s Sabre (Gallian variant) - While a little long for unmounted trench combat, the reach, agility and cutting power of this sabre wielded by a man of his skill grants Alexandre a significant advantage over the bayonet. - Entrenching Tool - Unlike most entrenching tools, Alexandre’s choice of arms gives him no reason to weaponise his; that does not reduce its utility in building and breaking things, however. - Fragmentation Grenades - As a private in the Atlantic Rifles, Alexandre has access only to mundane fragmentation grenades; his focus elsewhere sees him carrying few of them and typically relying on his fellows with heavier ordnance. - Shocktrooper Armourand Type 8 Helmet - Alexandre uses the standard pistol-rated armour given to Federation shocktroopers but wears a prototype visored helmet alongside it that he heard was being offered for field tests. While slightly limiting for his vision and communication, the protection it offers is far greater than a standard helmet. - Gas Mask - The realities of being at the front of a modern charge demands that Alexandre wears a gas mask around his neck at all times.
---A F F I L I A T I O N S
- Monsieur Lieven Victor de Bihain, Baron de Bihain (father) - Madame Ada de Bihain, Baronne de Bihain (mother) - Monsieur Renaud Valère Laurent de Bihain (younger brother) - Madame Amabel Eulalie de Bihain (younger sister)
---R E L A T I O N S
Alex Schäfer: Once his second-in-command of the Chevaliers d’Arlem, Alexandre and Alex became good friends over their time there. Up until their reunion in the Atlantic Rifles, of course, each believed the other dead; it remains to be seen whether they will rebuild their old comradeship or whether it was the only casualty between the two of them.
“Worry not,” Nika tells Conrad as they ascend the platform, smile sitting easily above her rapidly beating heart. She breathes, calming herself. “Whatever our teachers tell us, you do not win with the advantages you have.”
She unfolds her own stand, planting the base on the stage (adhesive patches sticking to the surface) and adjusting the panel, then looses the drawstring around her pouch. With one hand, she grasps the fabric furthermost from the entrance and tosses the contents upwards with a clatter and glints of light; with the other, she presses a button to begin the opening sequence.
Nika feels the familiar rush of energy as the programmed spell takes effect. Thus do the balls of magnesium halt in mid-air, rapidly heat and burst into flame, the resulting brilliant white light instantly drawing the crowd’s gaze.
Conventional wisdom coming into this event forecasts an Ishtar sweep; the academy has more experienced musicians on its side, even besides Ishtar’s long-standing advantage in Write from its freer philosophy of education. Their rival academy cannot fight on their terms. The counter, then? An immediate upset – doing something unexpected and striking, making the certain uncertain. Experience, after all, has a frame of reference; break that and what remains is doubt.
Nika smiles still, the magic continuing to flow from her – the marbles vibrate under her metal manipulation, issuing forth a deep, constant monotone that echoes in the stadium even as its issuers spread with predetermined direction to form a perfect rectangle, a shining backdrop to the team’s stage. In the instant that they reach their goal they pulse, the monotone rising two octaves and separating to a chord – a chord of the very same notes that will begin the performance.
This song was Ishtar’s. It is now Marduk’s.
Breathing, Nika turns again to Conrad, gaze grey and sharp as flint. “You win with how you use them.” She looks to William, hands moving to their positions on her controls. “Ready.”
“Uhh, thank you again… I should introduce myself, my name is Gloria Sosa Hathaway, so what’s yours fellow Philosophy student?”
The cold is chilling now, suffocating any other thought – correcting the mistake. Alistair reads the curiosity, the hope on Gloria’s face through her nerves, warm and dangerously compelling. You must not accidentally sabotage another. Nor may you dedicate time that must be utilised for understanding. Distance yourself, now!
You’ll hurt her…
Moreso by attachment. “Alistair Parton,” the boy answers, straining for a frigid tone and keeping his eyes firmly anchored forwards as he sets a rapid pace out of the building and onto one of the campus roads, where a slight rise and curve inhibit line of sight. “The building ought to be down there…” Alistair trails off from his attempt to sound authoritative, suddenly self-doubting – and then flinches. Stop undermining yourself! You look vulnerable; vulnerability endears; endearment creates connection and connection without comprehension risks harm to others! He nods in affirmation; “It will be down there,” he declares.
That is all that Alistair says as the two make the short walk down to the entrance of the Mary Wollstonecraft Building and then pass through its bright atrium to arrive at the doors of Lecture Theatre 2. There, he gives Gloria a swift nod, now working to not read her expression and focussing hard on keeping his own blank, before making his way inside to find a seat at the very front while hoping against hope that she doesn’t follow.
‘…the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others.’
What’s ‘harm’, though?
Alistair sighs. He swings his legs from atop the metal lattice, planting his solidly-shod feet on the ground and resting his head on the pillar of his hand and arm. Down at the book he gazes. “It’s… It’s like the pleasure machine. What’s to stop someone locking people up to prevent them from getting hurt – in the most specific sense?” He growls. “Or, in the other direction, to convince people to trust no-one in academia because they think they’re part of some nonsensical conspiracy?”
He shakes his head, lying back against the metal post. It’s just too vague. You could use this to justify anything. Then he closes his fist – the one not holding the library’s copy of Mill’s On Liberty, one of a number of texts he’d plundered and absorbed over the last few days (as opposed to engaging with most of Freshers’ Week) – and shakes his head again, leaning down to drop the text into his bag, stand and pick the whole thing up in a single, fluid motion. “Need to keep reading. Probably explains later.” Still…
His thoughts trail to a halt as he looks behind him, confirming the appearance of an elderly couple waiting patiently and a little nervously off to the side. Alistair opens his mouth slightly, then shuts it, hunching over in guilt and walking away to allow them to use the telescope. As he does so, he looks up slightly to take in the view of London, then back to the hole through the hedges to where he knows by now St Paul’s Cathedral is, crowning the City. And it doesn’t solve the main issue, either. No matter how much thought I put into rules, or how much I think I might be protecting people…
He shakes his head, turning away to begin the journey home. I could still just be hurting them.
The Parton Residence, Hounslow Monday Morning
The clanks of spoon against bowl ring out across the Partons’ kitchen diner and into the wider flat beyond as Alistair practically gulps down his cereal and muesli. The young man’s face practically cries out with determination, focus and thought (contortions from eating aside).
“Easy there, tiger!” Steven Parton’s chuckle gives way to a yawn as he makes his way out of Alistair’s parents’ room, dressing gown-clad. “No need to get it all inside at once. You’ll give yourself indigestion if you’re not careful.”
Alistair pauses a moment and bites his upper lip. Then, giving a grudging nod, he slows the pace of his consumption. Fractionally.
“You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today,” Steven continues. He glances out of the window, the sky still cloaked in twilight. “When’s your first lecture?”
Alistair swallows – “Ten. Planning on getting there early – picking up some books, then settling into the lecture hall for a bit –” and then continues as before.
Steven purses his lips. Then he swings round the table, sitting opposite his son to look him in the eyes. “Hey. You’re going to be fine, Alistair. Don’t worry.”
My own being fine isn’t the issue… “You don’t worry either, Dad.” Alistair musters up a smile. “You’re right, I’ll be fine.”
“Good!” Steven raises a huge smile, its infection crossing to Alistair through the hand that clasps and shakes his shoulder. “Seriously, though, you’re going to be great.”
Alistair gives a nod in answer, light in his eyes… Then his mind turns to his purpose again, to the question that paralyses him – to its enormity, to the fact that it has never been solved before. His gaze turns downwards, steely once more. I must be. There isn’t another option.
Not if I am to meet with success.
Thames’ Edge Campus
Striding away from the library – in which he had already spent three hours and from which a new haul of books weighs down his backpack – Alistair glances at his watch. Twenty to. Plenty of time to find a seat, set out belongings and obtain a proper state of mind for absorption and note-taking. He nods to himself, continuing his course through the gleaming corridors of the shining modernist buildings… Bland but efficient, though no doubt it would make life harder for those who hadn’t memorised much of the campus’ layout already.
“Uhh… Hi… How are you two doing? I-I need help finding my first class…”
Ah.
Mind catching on the voice as he passes the open doors to the common area, Alistair stops mid-stride and hesitates, eyes taking in the situation with the precision of intense practice: a blonde-haired girl – one whom he realises he recognises from the preliminary Philosophy lecture – her hunched, shrinking posture implying distinct unease, facing away from him to speak to a pair of others: one another blond, tall even for a man of his age but seemingly also nervous – and leaving – the other a shorter dark-haired girl with a cane accompanied by two dogs (Alistair’s brain takes in this fact only after some difficulty – one dog would make sense, but two?), her face the picture of pleasantness straining as hard as it possibly can to obscure indignance. Clearly, the first of the three (possibly the second too) is out of her depth.
Help.
A tidal wave of cold swamps that thought. No. You could make things worse just as easily as better. You have no way of knowing.
Standing by won’t do anything…
And that is the best that can be guaranteed beyond doubt. Study. Comprehend. Act only then. So does his creed repeat itself – and yet…
BONG.
Alistair starts as the peal of the bell rings through his mind – That’s been there the whole time, he realises, where, when did – and then there is a another BONG and a pulse and suddenly the world is shrouded and still and where the three are standing there are others superimposed, half-real, and the bell rings, and rings again, stronger, and rings again –
Closing his eyes and raising his hand as if to ward against the strain, Alistair opens them to find the world… Normal.
What… He groans softly, bringing the hand to his head. Maybe I did get up too early –
“Next time maybe look for people not in a conversation, or wait until they're finished? We were kinda in the middle of something there.”
The strident tone brings him back to the situation at hand. This time, rationality momentarily blindsided, Alistair drives forward and moves to lightly tap the blonde on the shoulder. Closing his eyes again, momentarily focussing past the quietened yet still powerful wave of cold, he forces a smile and awkwardly extends a directing finger. “First year Philosophy? Wollstonecraft Building? Headed there now, if you want to follow.”
Name: Adrian Towner Age: 17 Gender: Male Height/Weight: 167 cm/70 kg (Former) Occupation: Schoolchild Appearance: Short, gaunt and pale of face, Adrian is most often found dishevelled in both clothing and hair, not out of any recent event but due to a general lack of self-care beyond the mechanical. His eyes frequently bear bags and he rarely meets those of others.
________________________________________
Biography
To say that Adrian has had a poor life would be something of an understatement.
This was not set in stone from the beginning, of course; nobody’s future is. Adrian was born into a loving family in Sussex, consisting of a mother, father and elder brother, with whom he spent the first five years of his life – more than enough time to form numerous happy memories, faded but still warm. That, sadly, is all he now has of his first family, for Adrian’s biological parents and sibling died after being struck by a car while on their way back from a friend’s birthday party.
Adrian was being taken care of by his grandmother, Marjorie Towner, at the time, now his only living relative, and it was with his grandmother whom he would now stay. Ordinarily, this would have still set him up well for life; Marjorie doted on the young boy and had the wisdom to both support him through his confused grief and to allow him to forge his own path in school and life. Adrian, for his part, was hardly unhappy with his new existence; he loved his grandma and the next few five or so years were very enjoyable for him.
This made it even more painful when she was slowly, excruciatingly torn away from him. Marjorie fell ill; it transpired that she had an incurable cancer and, as her condition deteriorated, Adrian took on the role of her caregiver. This was a role that he was more than happy to fulfil, despite it being stressful and time-consuming for someone so young, given the care that she had lavished on him. Indeed, his mental state remained strong and his performance in school stable. Of course, it was at this point that social services involved themselves, deciding that Adrian could not be expected to take care of Marjorie and that both would be best served if she were placed in a home and he with a foster family. Thus, he never properly got to stay with her in her last months or say goodbye to her before she died, a fact which haunts him to this day.
Instead, Adrian was moved from one family to another, grief renewed and warm memories turning searing hot. Those which found themselves unprepared for a new addition to their family only reinforced a burgeoning paradoxical mixture of self-loathing, fear of loss and desperation for connection; those which ordinarily would have been found him alternating between sorrowful coldness and clinging warmth that nonetheless did not extend to sharing the burdens of his past. His grades slipped, badly, and he pushed away what few schoolfriends he had.
Then, of course, came the waves of power, and with them the painfully vivid dreams of what could have been, the families that he could have had, sundered by each dawn. Adrian told no-one, for fear of what they might herald. And then he Awoke.
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Skills and Weaknesses
Skills:
Hardened to Sorrow: Adrian has suffered sufficiently and is normally reserved enough that the outside world can’t do much more to hurt him should he choose to not let it.
Wanderer: Adrian has spent the last years of his life drifting from home to home, unwilling and unable to form lasting connections. Adaptability to new or difficult situations is hardly a problem for him.
Magical Anticipant: Despite the deaths of his family, and though he hid it, the advent of bittersweet dreams of his former family in the immediate aftermath of each Wave began to make him suspect that he might be due for Awakening before it happened; he is thus less blindsided now than he might otherwise be.
Weaknesses:
Lost and Alone: At his core, Adrian is still a person in deep conflict with himself – desperate for the affection that he had as a child and simultaneously fearful that gaining it will only mean the pain of losing it again. Should his defensive shell crack under stress, results will tend towards the self-destructive.
Discordance: Adrian’s personal complexes render him difficult to communicate with at the best of times and actively sabotaging of personal relationships at the worst. This is somewhat anti-synergistic with his magic.
Untrained Form: Adrian’s physical abilities are less than stellar, first too focussed elsewhere and then too erratic to leave room for exercise or sport; he possesses below-average strength and stamina.
Spells:
- Circle: Only by harmony may one find strength. Adrian creates a telepathic space in his mind in which surface thoughts and emotion are shared. He may then invite other beings of whom he is aware into this space; such an invitation makes itself known as a feeling of mental resonance in the mind of the receiver, which can then be briefly focussed on by the receiver to bring themselves into the space and, in turn, briefly blocked out to leave the space. The more beings within this space, the greater the mental strain on Adrian, which can cause headaches and migraines. Adrian may use and dismiss any of the Circle variants of his spells on any of those in the space; their effects end for any who leave the space.
- Bond: Only by dedication may one find understanding. Adrian forges an intense empathic bond with one other being of whom he is aware, with whom he has a social connection and who is willing to forge such a bond, which first makes itself known in the same way as Circle, if more powerfully; forging and maintaining this bond is incredibly difficult and mentally taxing, resulting in head pain like Circle even if held for short lengths of time and permanent damage to the nervous system if used too frequently or for too long or especially if the other being forcibly removes themselves from the bond at any point, but becomes somewhat less so if the social connection between Adrian and the other being is particularly strong. This ends Circle, if Circle is active; any of the spells which Adrian is using through Circle end, unless they are directed towards the person to whom Adrian is applying Bond, in which case those spells switch to the Bond variant. Each of the Bond variants of his spells requires more energy than its Circle equivalent. Bond’s empathic link can also cause aspects of Adrian’s personality and the personality of the other being to pass through, manifesting as a permanent influence on either, particularly if used frequently or for long periods of time and particularly for people with weaker senses of their own identity.
- Conduit (Circle): Adrian opens a magical channel to another being within his Circle, allowing them to use him as a focus for their spells. When casting a spell, instead of directing it themselves, this being may transfer the spell through the channel, allowing Adrian to direct it instead. Conduit gives Adrian no knowledge or intuition of how the other being casts this spell or what said spell is, resulting in profound risk of backlash or miscasting, especially if used recklessly or without communication. - Spellweave (Bond): Adrian opens a magical channel to the being with whom he shares a Bond, allowing them to share their spellcasting potential with him. The being may direct any of the colours of magical energy which they are capable of harnessing and, with it, the basic metaphysical patterning of their spells through the channel, allowing him to rework this energy into the singular spells that the being with whom he shares a bond possesses or to combine their properties to form new merged spells. Like Conduit, Spellweave gives Adrian no knowledge of what energy and spell patterning is being transferred before he receives it or how it may be reworked beyond Bond’s normal effects, risking backlash or miscasting if not used carefully.
- Exchange (Circle): Adrian switches places with another being within his Circle. This typically results in some level of disorientation for both, particularly for those unused to magical teleportation. - Synchronicity (Bond): Adrian and the being with whom he shares a Bond enter a state of metaphysical mirroring, causing them both to simultaneously exist in the two places that they were originally in as individuals. Both direct the motion of each of the resulting superimpositions, though neither gains any innate ability to cooperate in doing so beyond their Bond’s mental closeness. Upon the spell’s end, the beings separate into the positions of the superimpositions whose space the other originally occupied; this, the spell’s acivation and the process as a whole are all normally disorientating and, for many, profoundly unsettling, especially if they are unused to it.
- Lifelink (Circle): Adrian anchors his physical wellbeing and endurance to that of another being within his Circle. Any wounds that either takes are rendered half as grievous as they otherwise would be but also appear on the other, while their reserves of physical energy become shared. These effects may be extended to other beings within Adrian’s Circle, mitigating and sharing wounds equally and pooling stamina among the larger group, by casting the spell upon them as well. - Lifeblaze (Bond): Adrian anchors his physical wellbeing and endurance to that of the being with whom he shares a Bond. Any wounds that either takes are rendered half as grievous as they otherwise would be but also appear on the other, while their reserves of physical energy become shared. Moreover, the red magical energies of both continuously restore their stamina and vitality, allowing them to perform greater feats and shrug off wounds more easily than they would otherwise be able to; this does not, however, amount to healing or last beyond the duration of Lifeblaze’s effect.
- Manalink (Circle): Adrian links his magical energies to those of another being within his Circle such that either casts spells with the energy from both. This effect may be extended to other beings within Adrian’s Circle, pooling magical energy between the larger group, by casting the spell upon them as well. Maintaining the integrity of this central pool of energy is taxing for Adrian; moreover, it loses the efficiencies of each being’s practiced use of their own magical energies, causing the casters’ overall energy to be drained more quickly than it otherwise would be. - Manastorm (Bond): Adrian links his magical energies to those of the being with whom he shares a Bond such that either casts spells with the energy from both. Each spell cast by either may also draw upon the magical potential of both, effectively doubling its power (assuming equal levels of magical potential). Maintaining the integrity of this central pool of energy is taxing for Adrian; moreover, it loses the efficiencies of each being’s practiced use of their own magic and neither being receives any knowledge or intuition for managing the increased power of their spells.
Adrian has been updated in line with OP recommendations and, I believe, is ready for review!
Adrian Towner
Basics
Name: Adrian Towner Age: 17 Gender: Male Height/Weight: 167 cm/70 kg (Former) Occupation: Schoolchild Appearance: Short, gaunt and pale of face, Adrian is most often found dishevelled in both clothing and hair, not out of any recent event but due to a general lack of self-care beyond the mechanical. His eyes frequently bear bags and he rarely meets those of others.
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Biography
To say that Adrian has had a poor life would be something of an understatement.
This was not set in stone from the beginning, of course; nobody’s future is. Adrian was born into a loving family in Sussex, consisting of a mother, father and elder brother, with whom he spent the first five years of his life – more than enough time to form numerous happy memories, faded but still warm. That, sadly, is all he now has of his first family, for Adrian’s biological parents and sibling died after being struck by a car while on their way back from a friend’s birthday party.
Adrian was being taken care of by his grandmother, Marjorie Towner, at the time, now his only living relative, and it was with his grandmother whom he would now stay. Ordinarily, this would have still set him up well for life; Marjorie doted on the young boy and had the wisdom to both support him through his confused grief and to allow him to forge his own path in school and life. Adrian, for his part, was hardly unhappy with his new existence; he loved his grandma and the next few five or so years were very enjoyable for him.
This made it even more painful when she was slowly, excruciatingly torn away from him. Marjorie fell ill; it transpired that she had an incurable cancer and, as her condition deteriorated, Adrian took on the role of her caregiver. This was a role that he was more than happy to fulfil, despite it being stressful and time-consuming for someone so young, given the care that she had lavished on him. Indeed, his mental state remained strong and his performance in school stable. Of course, it was at this point that social services involved themselves, deciding that Adrian could not be expected to take care of Marjorie and that both would be best served if she were placed in a home and he with a foster family. Thus, he never properly got to stay with her in her last months or say goodbye to her before she died, a fact which haunts him to this day.
Instead, Adrian was moved from one family to another, grief renewed and warm memories turning searing hot. Those which found themselves unprepared for a new addition to their family only reinforced a burgeoning paradoxical mixture of self-loathing, fear of loss and desperation for connection; those which ordinarily would have been found him alternating between sorrowful coldness and clinging warmth that nonetheless did not extend to sharing the burdens of his past. His grades slipped, badly, and he pushed away what few schoolfriends he had.
Then, of course, came the waves of power, and with them the painfully vivid dreams of what could have been, the families that he could have had, sundered by each dawn. Adrian told no-one, for fear of what they might herald. And then he Awoke.
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Skills and Weaknesses
Skills:
Hardened to Sorrow: Adrian has suffered sufficiently and is normally reserved enough that the outside world can’t do much more to hurt him should he choose to not let it.
Wanderer: Adrian has spent the last years of his life drifting from home to home, unwilling and unable to form lasting connections. Adaptability to new or difficult situations is hardly a problem for him.
Magical Anticipant: Despite the deaths of his family, and though he hid it, the advent of bittersweet dreams of his former family in the immediate aftermath of each Wave began to make him suspect that he might be due for Awakening before it happened; he is thus less blindsided now than he might otherwise be.
Weaknesses:
Lost and Alone: At his core, Adrian is still a person in deep conflict with himself – desperate for the affection that he had as a child and simultaneously fearful that gaining it will only mean the pain of losing it again. Should his defensive shell crack under stress, results will tend towards the self-destructive.
Discordance: Adrian’s personal complexes render him difficult to communicate with at the best of times and actively sabotaging of personal relationships at the worst. This is somewhat anti-synergistic with his magic.
Untrained Form: Adrian’s physical abilities are less than stellar, first too focussed elsewhere and then too erratic to leave room for exercise or sport; he possesses below-average strength and stamina.
Spells:
- Circle: Only by harmony may one find strength. Adrian creates a telepathic space in his mind in which surface thoughts and emotion are shared. He may then invite other beings of whom he is aware into this space; such an invitation makes itself known as a feeling of mental resonance in the mind of the receiver, which can then be briefly focussed on by the receiver to bring themselves into the space and, in turn, briefly blocked out to leave the space. The more beings within this space, the greater the mental strain on Adrian, which can cause headaches and migraines. Adrian may use and dismiss any of the Circle variants of his spells on any of those in the space; their effects end for any who leave the space.
- Bond: Only by dedication may one find understanding. Adrian forges an intense empathic bond with one other being of whom he is aware, with whom he has a social connection and who is willing to forge such a bond, which first makes itself known in the same way as Circle, if more powerfully; forging and maintaining this bond is incredibly difficult and mentally taxing, resulting in head pain like Circle even if held for short lengths of time and permanent damage to the nervous system if used too frequently or for too long or especially if the other being forcibly removes themselves from the bond at any point, but becomes somewhat less so if the social connection between Adrian and the other being is particularly strong. This ends Circle, if Circle is active; any of the spells which Adrian is using through Circle end, unless they are directed towards the person to whom Adrian is applying Bond, in which case those spells switch to the Bond variant. Each of the Bond variants of his spells requires more energy than its Circle equivalent. Bond’s empathic link can also cause aspects of Adrian’s personality and the personality of the other being to pass through, manifesting as a permanent influence on either, particularly if used frequently or for long periods of time and particularly for people with weaker senses of their own identity.
- Conduit (Circle): Adrian opens a magical channel to another being within his Circle, allowing them to use him as a focus for their spells. When casting a spell, instead of directing it themselves, this being may transfer the spell through the channel, allowing Adrian to direct it instead. Conduit gives Adrian no knowledge or intuition of how the other being casts this spell or what said spell is, resulting in profound risk of backlash or miscasting, especially if used recklessly or without communication. - Spellweave (Bond): Adrian opens a magical channel to the being with whom he shares a Bond, allowing them to share their spellcasting potential with him. The being may direct any of the colours of magical energy which they are capable of harnessing and, with it, the basic metaphysical patterning of their spells through the channel, allowing him to rework this energy into the singular spells that the being with whom he shares a bond possesses or to combine their properties to form new merged spells. Like Conduit, Spellweave gives Adrian no knowledge of what energy and spell patterning is being transferred before he receives it or how it may be reworked beyond Bond’s normal effects, risking backlash or miscasting if not used carefully.
- Exchange (Circle): Adrian switches places with another being within his Circle. This typically results in some level of disorientation for both, particularly for those unused to magical teleportation. - Synchronicity (Bond): Adrian and the being with whom he shares a Bond enter a state of metaphysical mirroring, causing them both to simultaneously exist in the two places that they were originally in as individuals. Both direct the motion of each of the resulting superimpositions, though neither gains any innate ability to cooperate in doing so beyond their Bond’s mental closeness. Upon the spell’s end, the beings separate into the positions of the superimpositions whose space the other originally occupied; this, the spell’s activation and the process as a whole are all normally disorientating and, for many, profoundly unsettling, especially if they are unused to it.
- Lifelink (Circle): Adrian anchors his physical wellbeing and endurance to that of another being within his Circle. Any wounds that either takes are rendered half as grievous as they otherwise would be but also appear on the other, while their reserves of physical energy become shared. These effects may be extended to other beings within Adrian’s Circle, mitigating and sharing wounds equally and pooling stamina among the larger group, by casting the spell upon them as well. - Lifeblaze (Bond): Adrian anchors his physical wellbeing and endurance to that of the being with whom he shares a Bond. Any wounds that either takes are rendered half as grievous as they otherwise would be but also appear on the other, while their reserves of physical energy become shared. Moreover, the red magical energies of both continuously restore their stamina and vitality, allowing them to perform greater feats and shrug off wounds more easily than they would otherwise be able to; this does not, however, amount to healing or last beyond the duration of Lifeblaze’s effect.
- Manalink (Circle): Adrian links his magical energies to those of another being within his Circle such that either casts spells with the energy from both. This effect may be extended to other beings within Adrian’s Circle, pooling magical energy between the larger group, by casting the spell upon them as well. Maintaining the integrity of this central pool of energy is taxing for Adrian; moreover, it loses the efficiencies of each being’s practiced use of their own magical energies, causing the casters’ overall energy to be drained more quickly than it otherwise would be. - Manastorm (Bond): Adrian links his magical energies to those of the being with whom he shares a Bond such that either casts spells with the energy from both. Each spell cast by either may also draw upon the magical potential of both, effectively doubling its power (assuming equal levels of magical potential). Maintaining the integrity of this central pool of energy is taxing for Adrian; moreover, it loses the efficiencies of each being’s practiced use of their own magic and neither being receives any knowledge or intuition for managing the increased power of their spells.
Alistair’s physical form is fairly average; he’s perhaps a touch shorter than medium height, is neither scrawny nor bulky and has a face somewhere between broad and angular. His hair is jet black and his eyes are a dull green. He’s normally at least somewhat well-kept – he washes his face enough to avoid outbreaks of acne but does get the occasional spot; has his hair cut every four or five months or so; and shaves once every two days.
In regards to clothing, Alistair’s wardrobe isn’t extensive or especially varied, since he isn’t exactly fashion-conscious and lets his parents and grandparents buy most of his clothing for him. His school uniform is worn according to Evergreen’s policy; when dressed casually he prefers mostly plain and fairly dark clothes, favouring mostly forest greens, maroons and deep blues, though he’s also a fan of burnt orange. Where he does wear more colour is on his t-shirts – which most people don’t know because he also favours heavier clothing, to the point that he’s been known to wear jumpers during heatwaves. Given that he enjoys walking, he possesses very rugged and practical footwear and sees little need to use anything else beyond his school shoes.
Alistair’s gear in the World of Fog will almost certainly skew towards the pragmatic and practical, favouring his usual rugged clothing and gradually augmented by what armour happens to be available.
Biography
Alistair’s life did not begin favourably. His biological parents died in a car crash when he was about three. Both were only children and, by a stroke of misfortune, all of his biological grandparents had died already; with no family to care for him, Alistair was thus put up for adoption. This, in most cases, would not have set him up well for the future.
Enter Henry Parton and Steven Daniels, a young, kind couple who had just entered into a civil partnership, as soon as the law allowed, and were now looking to adopt. Their application came through and, after warming quickly to Alistair and he only slightly less quickly to them, the two became his new parents and their mid-sized apartment in Manchester his new home.
This would be precursor to the best part of Alistair’s existence thus far. Proving bright, he was placed into private education funded by Steven’s job as a civil rights lawyer, something which he enjoyed thoroughly. At the same time, Henry’s work running a youth club in Manchester’s heart, where he kept watch over Alistair each day after school, kept the young boy from becoming snobbish – in fact, he became something of a little brother figure to several of the teenagers who frequented it. Through them, Alistair learned about many of society’s social ills, an education that was redoubled by his participation with his parents in Manchester’s Pride events and their telling him about their experiences when they were younger and society was less tolerant. Indeed, Alistair only knew two of his parents’ parents; Steven’s were heavily religious and had ostracised him upon his coming out. Nonetheless, that was the past and this was now; now the two of them were happy together and now they had a son who was quickly developing the fire to confront obstacles to his own and others’ happiness head-on.
Several wonderful years passed. Eventually, Steven secured a high-profile job at a law office in London and, Henry assuring him that one of his fellow youth workers was actively eager to take on a leadership role, the family moved southwards. Fortuitously, this was just before Alistair was due to start secondary school; while he did shed some tears over leaving his friends at his old school and at the youth club, some parts of the transition would have been inevitable even without the move, making it somewhat less painful. Performing very well in his SATs, he more than passed the threshold for entrance to the pre-eminent Evergreen Grammar School. Indeed, life could seemingly only get better; Henry and Steven married in 2014 as soon as same-sex couples gained the legal right to do so and Alistair also took the surname ‘Parton’ at his own insistence, binding their family yet more closely.
And then things got complicated.
Alistair never quite learned to love London – the place was unfamiliar, yes, but Alistair also found it more claustrophobic than Manchester; there were noticeably more people and buildings packed into any given space. It all felt rather hostile and, unfortunately, that set a tone. He didn’t really secure a friendship group at Evergreen in the same way that he had at his last school. Nor did he find himself with much social activity outside of school hours; not one to fall into gang activity, he instead started exercising his independence in walking through London’s many parks (one of the few things he preferred about the city). Richmond Park quickly became one of his favourite places to be and he’d often spend hours traversing its pathways.
That gave him time to contemplate, and he needed it, for his beliefs were also under assault. In 2016, when Alistair had just turned 15, the United Kingdom held a referendum on membership of the European Union. He and his parents, like most others, expected a Remain victory. They were proved wrong. For Alistair, this was a shock; Brexit, and especially the surge in racist abuse afterwards, presented a profound challenge to his previous belief that humanity was moving towards a more open future and would continue that way if only there were people to strive for it. He came to question whether fighting for a cause at all could in fact do more harm than good; after all, in Brexit’s case, the backlash against the values that he treasured had actually become more powerful than the case for those values. This wasn’t helped by his increasing predisposition towards philosophy, especially existentialism, and his hardening certainty that there could be no such thing as an objective right or wrong – meaning that all of the beliefs that he considered abhorrent were, in fact, as justifiable as his own. They could still be fought against, of course, but then he was reluctant to do that now.
Alistair thus began a search for answers that continues to this day – or, perhaps more accurately, for the answer, one to the question of society. His investigation fuelled him to near breaking point; what was distance before became active separation in an attempt to limit the perceived threat that any positive effort would entail, even as his conscience cried out that those efforts were needed now more than ever. This internal struggle motivated him, if self-destructively, such that his GCSEs, then A-Levels, were all great successes, or at least deemed as such.
This brings us to the Alistair of today, headed to Thames’ Edge – close and eminent, the obvious choice. His great struggle continues, caught between his desire to provoke change for the better and his fear that attempting to do so has an equal chance to bring about change for the worse. This fight and its self-imposed conditions have closed him off, despair creeping towards his heart for, within it, he still wants the chance to act, to dedicate himself to the justice, truth and harmony that he remains hopeful the world can one day embody.
Perhaps he’ll have that chance.
Personality
Once extroverted and constantly cheerful, Alistair is now a considerably more muted and deeply extrospective young man, questioning everything about the world around him to try and make some sense out of the growing chaos and contradiction. For now, that contradiction has rendered him more than a little mechanical, simply going through the motions of daily life. He rarely attempts to make friends anymore; that said, should one take the effort to crack his shell and get to know him, they would find someone who is still very personable, kind and warm – even fun-loving! What was previously his main drive, the determination to push society to be open and more welcoming, has been stifled; his primary goal now lies in finding the answers to the questions which are stifling it.
That stifling, naturally, is what has generated his Shadow. Alistair’s Shadow is what he has suppressed in his uncompromising search for answers: his desire to act, to strive to make the world a better place rather than trying to avoid making it a worse one. Like most Shadows, it is impulsive and reckless; unlike most, one could hardly call it selfish and, unlike most, Alistair does not reject it out of ignorance or fear alone but out of perceived necessity.
Education
Studying BA Philosophy and Sociology
Affiliations
Henry Parton – adoptive father Steven Parton – adoptive father
Alistair has had a wonderful relationship with his adoptive parents for the vast majority of his life, a bond forged over many years of shared thought, trust, hope and laughter. However, that bond is now under strain; Alistair’s relentless search for a way to enact change without risking its opposite has left him little time for regular interaction. Alistair, of course, knows full well that they worry after him; though he regrets it, he believes it another necessary sacrifice.
Janice Parton – adoptive grandmother Terence Parton – adoptive grandfather
Henry Parton’s parents have always doted on Alistair and that remains true today, something which Alistair appreciates. That said, he doesn’t see them terribly often any longer, given their home in the North of England. He’ll make more time for them at some point soon; such does he tell himself.
Alistair’s first choice of weapon system upon entering the World of Fog will be ranged, supportive and easy to use. The pavise and crossbow, therefore, will suit him well, allowing him to shelter out of others’ way and strike from a distance. He will also carry a basic first aid kit, enabling him to help others from behind cover.
Given the above, Alistair will initially reject his manifested weapon: a montante with a blade of beautiful silvery steel and spiralling script in that same silver running around the grip – an ever-growing list of the names of each of those for whom he has taken on the role of protector. Almost as long as he is tall, upon accepting it Alistair may either grasp the blade and use the crossguard to strike at armour like a pollaxe or, more conventionally, whirl this surprisingly defensive two-handed sword in great slashing arcs to keep multiple Shadows at bay and allow his teammates to work and fight unimpeded.
Once he has abandoned the crossbow and pavise in favour of the montante, Alistair will not carry any true ranged weapons; instead, he’ll keep a bag of caltrops on hand to scatter immediately before a fight and collect afterwards. These small tetrahedral spikes always land with a point up, significantly limiting the mobility of Shadows which move across the ground. This can be used to simply slow them down or to concentrate them into chokepoints – where Alistair will almost certainly be.
‘Horatius alone remained where he had first taken his stand, and directed Herminius and Larcius to tell the consuls, as from him, to cut away the bridge in all haste at the end next the city... the rest, he said, would be his concern. Having given these instructions to the two men, he stood upon the bridge itself, and when the enemy advanced upon him, he struck some of them with his sword and beat down others with his shield, repulsing all who attempted to rush upon the bridge. For the pursuers, looking upon him as a madman who was courting death, dared no longer come to grips with him... Finally, when he was overwhelmed with missiles and had a great number of wounds in many parts of his body... he heard those behind him shouting out that the greater part of the bridge was broken down. Thereupon he leaped with his arms into the river and swimming across the stream with great difficulty (for the current, being divided by the piles, ran swift and formed large eddies), he emerged upon the shore without having lost any of his arms in swimming.
Horatius, who had shown so great valour upon that occasion, occupied as enviable a position as any Roman who ever lived, but he was rendered useless by his lameness for further services to the state; and because of this misfortune he obtained neither the consulship nor any military command either.’
Background and Symbolism
Publius Horatius Cocles (the last part, meaning ‘one-eyed’, coming from the fact that he had previously lost an eye in battle) was a junior officer in the legendary earliest days of the Roman Republic. After the Romans lost a battle against an army of Etruscans seeking to restore Rome’s former king and their own forces fled into the city, Horatius fought first alongside two more senior officers and then alone to hold the Pons Sublicus, the wooden and at the time only bridge across the River Tiber, as it was torn down behind him. Though battered by enemy missiles and wounded in many places, including being run through entirely with a javelin above the hip, he stood steadfast against the entire Etruscan host until the bridge began to collapse; at that point he jumped into the Tiber itself, trusting himself to the god of the river. At this point tradition diverges. According to Polybius Horatius died in the waters, swept away under a hail of spears; according to Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he reached the bank despite the weight of his wargear but was crippled by his injuries. Whatever happened, Rome survived.
Appearance
As Alistair’s Persona, Horatius takes the form of a man with bronze skin, wearing sandles, a bronze breastplate, greaves and a broad-brimmed, crestless helmet over a deep red woollen tunic; all are battle-worn, marked with innumerable scratches and dents. Highly prominent are two holes that run straight through his body, one above the hip and one through his eye-socket; the latter of these is the only properly visible part of his face, as the helmet casts an unnaturally dark shadow over it. He wields a bronze Italic sword, stained with blood, in his right hand. Most notable, however, is the shield that he wields in his left: of the Republican style (a heavily bowed rectangular shape that bends backwards less than its later evolutions) but absolutely massive, easily as tall as Horatius himself and proportionately wide. Its face is similarly bloodstained, stuck with dozens of broken and half-broken javelins and, like Horatius’ armour and skin, covered in scratches and gashes, as is its rim. The one exception is the entirely untarnished central bronze boss and its plate, formed in the shape of an outward-facing, halting palm, which gleams defiantly against oncoming foes.
Symbolism
Horatius represents Alistair’s ability to dedicate himself to his allies and friends after realising that he need not understand every facet of the causes for which they fight to do so. Horatius also reflects the potential pitfalls of that approach, however, both in his semi-historical origins and his appearance: broken and known only for his martyrdom, leaving nothing of himself to the world.
Alistair’s physical form is fairly average; he’s perhaps a touch shorter than medium height, is neither scrawny nor bulky and has a face somewhere between broad and angular. His hair is jet black and his eyes are a dull green. He’s normally at least somewhat well-kept – he washes his face enough to avoid outbreaks of acne but does get the occasional spot; has his hair cut every four or five months or so; and shaves once every two days.
In regards to clothing, Alistair’s wardrobe isn’t extensive or especially varied, since he isn’t exactly fashion-conscious and lets his parents and grandparents buy most of his clothing for him. His school uniform is worn according to Evergreen’s policy; when dressed casually he prefers mostly plain and fairly dark clothes, favouring mostly forest greens, maroons and deep blues, though he’s also a fan of burnt orange. Where he does wear more colour is on his t-shirts – which most people don’t know because he also favours heavier clothing, to the point that he’s been known to wear jumpers during heatwaves. Given that he enjoys walking, he possesses very rugged and practical footwear and sees little need to use anything else beyond his school shoes.
Alistair’s gear in the World of Fog will almost certainly skew towards the pragmatic and practical, favouring his usual rugged clothing and gradually augmented by what armour happens to be available.
Biography
Alistair’s life did not begin favourably. His biological parents died in a car crash when he was about three. Both were only children and, by a stroke of misfortune, all of his biological grandparents had died already; with no family to care for him, Alistair was thus put up for adoption. This, in most cases, would not have set him up well for the future.
Enter Henry Parton and Steven Daniels, a young, kind couple who had just entered into a civil partnership, as soon as the law allowed, and were now looking to adopt. Their application came through and, after warming quickly to Alistair and he only slightly less quickly to them, the two became his new parents and their mid-sized apartment in Manchester his new home.
This would be precursor to the best part of Alistair’s existence thus far. Proving bright, he was placed into private education funded by Steven’s job as a civil rights lawyer, something which he enjoyed thoroughly. At the same time, Henry’s work running a youth club in Manchester’s heart, where he kept watch over Alistair each day after school, kept the young boy from becoming snobbish – in fact, he became something of a little brother figure to several of the teenagers who frequented it. Through them, Alistair learned about many of society’s social ills, an education that was redoubled by his participation with his parents in Manchester’s Pride events and their telling him about their experiences when they were younger and society was less tolerant. Indeed, Alistair only knew two of his parents’ parents; Steven’s were heavily religious and had ostracised him upon his coming out. Nonetheless, that was the past and this was now; now the two of them were happy together and now they had a son who was quickly developing the fire to confront obstacles to his own and others’ happiness head-on.
Several wonderful years passed. Eventually, Steven secured a high-profile job at a law office in London and, Henry assuring him that one of his fellow youth workers was actively eager to take on a leadership role, the family moved southwards. Fortuitously, this was just before Alistair was due to start secondary school; while he did shed some tears over leaving his friends at his old school and at the youth club, some parts of the transition would have been inevitable even without the move, making it somewhat less painful. Performing very well in his SATs, he more than passed the threshold for entrance to the pre-eminent Evergreen Grammar School. Indeed, life could seemingly only get better; Henry and Steven married in 2014 as soon as same-sex couples gained the legal right to do so and Alistair also took the surname ‘Parton’ at his own insistence, binding their family yet more closely.
And then things got complicated.
Alistair never quite learned to love London – the place was unfamiliar, yes, but Alistair also found it more claustrophobic than Manchester; there were noticeably more people and buildings packed into any given space. It all felt rather hostile and, unfortunately, that set a tone. He didn’t really secure a friendship group at Evergreen in the same way that he had at his last school. Nor did he find himself with much social activity outside of school hours; not one to fall into gang activity, he instead started exercising his independence in walking through London’s many parks (one of the few things he preferred about the city). Richmond Park quickly became one of his favourite places to be and he’d often spend hours traversing its pathways.
That gave him time to contemplate, and he needed it, for his beliefs were also under assault. In 2016, when Alistair had just turned 15, the United Kingdom held a referendum on membership of the European Union. He and his parents, like most others, expected a Remain victory. They were proved wrong. For Alistair, this was a shock; Brexit, and especially the surge in racist abuse afterwards, presented a profound challenge to his previous belief that humanity was moving towards a more open future and would continue that way if only there were people to strive for it. He came to question whether fighting for a cause at all could in fact do more harm than good; after all, in Brexit’s case, the backlash against the values that he treasured had actually become more powerful than the case for those values. This wasn’t helped by his increasing predisposition towards philosophy, especially existentialism, and his hardening certainty that there could be no such thing as an objective right or wrong – meaning that all of the beliefs that he considered abhorrent were, in fact, as justifiable as his own. They could still be fought against, of course, but then he was reluctant to do that now.
Alistair thus began a search for answers that continues to this day – or, perhaps more accurately, for the answer, one to the question of society. His investigation fuelled him to near breaking point; what was distance before became active separation in an attempt to limit the perceived threat that any positive effort would entail, even as his conscience cried out that those efforts were needed now more than ever. This internal struggle motivated him, if self-destructively, such that his GCSEs, then A-Levels, were all great successes, or at least deemed as such.
This brings us to the Alistair of today, headed to Thames’ Edge – close and eminent, the obvious choice. His great struggle continues, caught between his desire to provoke change for the better and his fear that attempting to do so has an equal chance to bring about change for the worse. This fight and its self-imposed conditions have closed him off, despair creeping towards his heart for, within it, he still wants the chance to act, to dedicate himself to the justice, truth and harmony that he remains hopeful the world can one day embody.
Perhaps he’ll have that chance.
Personality
Once extroverted and constantly cheerful, Alistair is now a considerably more muted and deeply extrospective young man, questioning everything about the world around him to try and make some sense out of the growing chaos and contradiction. For now, that contradiction has rendered him more than a little mechanical, simply going through the motions of daily life. He rarely attempts to make friends anymore; that said, should one take the effort to crack his shell and get to know him, they would find someone who is still very personable, kind and warm – even fun-loving! What was previously his main drive, the determination to push society to be open and more welcoming, has been stifled; his primary goal now lies in finding the answers to the questions which are stifling it.
That stifling, naturally, is what has generated his Shadow. Alistair’s Shadow is what he has suppressed in his uncompromising search for answers: his desire to act, to strive to make the world a better place rather than trying to avoid making it a worse one. Like most Shadows, it is impulsive and reckless; unlike most, one could hardly call it selfish and, unlike most, Alistair does not reject it out of ignorance or fear but out of perceived necessity.
Education
Studying BA Philosophy and Sociology
Affiliations
Henry Parton – adoptive father Steven Parton – adoptive father
Alistair has had a wonderful relationship with his adoptive parents for the vast majority of his life, a bond forged over many years of shared thought, trust, hope and laughter. However, that bond is now under strain; Alistair’s relentless search for a way to enact change without risking its opposite has left him little time for regular interaction. Alistair, of course, knows full well that they worry after him; though he regrets it, he believes it another necessary sacrifice.
Janice Parton – adoptive grandmother Terence Parton – adoptive grandfather
Henry Parton’s parents have always doted on Alistair and that remains true today, something which Alistair appreciates. That said, he doesn’t see them terribly often any longer, given their home in the North of England. He’ll make more time for them at some point soon; such does he tell himself.
Alistair’s first choice of weapon system upon entering the World of Fog will be ranged, supportive and easy to use. The pavise and crossbow, therefore, will suit him well, allowing him to shelter out of others’ way and strike from a distance. He will also carry a basic first aid kit, enabling him to help others from behind cover.
Given the above, Alistair will initially reject his manifested weapon: a montante with a blade of beautiful silvery steel and spiralling script in that same silver running around the grip – an ever-growing list of the names of each of those for whom he has taken on the role of protector. Almost as long as he is tall, upon accepting it Alistair may either grasp the blade and use the crossguard to strike at armour like a pollaxe or, more conventionally, whirl this surprisingly defensive two-handed sword in great slashing arcs to keep multiple Shadows at bay and allow his teammates to work and fight unimpeded.
Once he has abandoned the crossbow and pavise in favour of the montante, Alistair will not carry any true ranged weapons; instead, he’ll keep a bag of caltrops on hand to scatters immediately before a fight and collects afterwards. These small tetrahedral spikes always land with a point up, significantly limiting the mobility of Shadows which move across the ground. This can be used to simply slow them down or to concentrate them into chokepoints – where Alistair will almost certainly be.
‘Horatius alone remained where he had first taken his stand, and directed Herminius and Larcius to tell the consuls, as from him, to cut away the bridge in all haste at the end next the city... the rest, he said, would be his concern. Having given these instructions to the two men, he stood upon the bridge itself, and when the enemy advanced upon him, he struck some of them with his sword and beat down others with his shield, repulsing all who attempted to rush upon the bridge. For the pursuers, looking upon him as a madman who was courting death, dared no longer come to grips with him... Finally, when he was overwhelmed with missiles and had a great number of wounds in many parts of his body... he heard those behind him shouting out that the greater part of the bridge was broken down. Thereupon he leaped with his arms into the river and swimming across the stream with great difficulty (for the current, being divided by the piles, ran swift and formed large eddies), he emerged upon the shore without having lost any of his arms in swimming.
Horatius, who had shown so great valour upon that occasion, occupied as enviable a position as any Roman who ever lived, but he was rendered useless by his lameness for further services to the state; and because of this misfortune he obtained neither the consulship nor any military command either.’
Background and Symbolism
Publius Horatius Cocles (the last part, meaning ‘one-eyed’, coming from the fact that he had previously lost an eye in battle) was a junior officer in the legendary earliest days of the Roman Republic. After the Romans lost a battle against an army of Etruscans seeking to restore Rome’s former king and their own forces fled into the city, Horatius fought first alongside two more senior officers and then alone to hold the Pons Sublicus, the wooden and at the time only bridge across the River Tiber, as it was torn down behind him. Though battered by enemy missiles and wounded in many places, including being run through entirely with a javelin above the hip, he stood steadfast against the entire Etruscan host until the bridge began to collapse; at that point he jumped into the Tiber itself, trusting himself to the god of the river. At this point tradition diverges. According to Polybius Horatius died in the waters, swept away under a hail of spears; according to Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he reached the bank despite the weight of his wargear but was crippled by his injuries. Whatever happened, Rome survived.
Appearance
As Alistair’s Persona, Horatius takes the form of a man with bronze skin, wearing sandles, a bronze breastplate, greaves and a broad-brimmed, crestless helmet over a deep red woollen tunic; all are battle-worn, marked with innumerable scratches and dents. Highly prominent are two holes that run straight through his body, one above the hip and one through his eye-socket; the latter of these is the only properly visible part of his face, as the helmet casts an unnaturally dark shadow over it. He wields a bronze Italic sword, stained with blood, in his right hand. Most notable, however, is the shield that he wields in his left: of the Republican style (a heavily bowed rectangular shape that bends backwards less than its later evolutions) but absolutely massive, easily as tall as Horatius himself and proportionately wide. Its face is similarly bloodstained, stuck with dozens of broken and half-broken javelins and, like Horatius’ armour and skin, covered in scratches and gashes, as is its rim. The one exception is the entirely untarnished central bronze boss and its plate, formed in the shape of an outward-facing, halting palm, which gleams defiantly against oncoming foes.
Symbolism
Horatius represents Alistair’s ability to dedicate himself to his allies and friends after realising that he need not understand every facet of the causes for which they fight to do so. Horatius also reflects the potential pitfalls of that approach, however, both in his semi-historical origins and his appearance: broken and known only for his martyrdom, leaving nothing of himself to the world.
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