Hey Dymtra!!! I mentioned wanting to make another character and I have some ideas for him, but I wanted to make him a member of The Abbey Nightshade, and I was thinking a little on the religion and made up some extra stuff?? So here my ideas for it - please feel free to add/take away stuff u don't think fits, but yea!!!
SO:
buddhism as a base - The Belladonna reincarnates after every life time and apparently holds the culminative knowledge and wisdom of all previous Belladonna. The Abbey doesn't see this as a contradiction to their belief system, as the Belladonna is not a deity as such but a normal human being.
The Belladonna is the avatar of justice
The Abbey is dedicated to helping those in need as it rallies against the dark and uncertain forces of the universe/magic, and so have many orphanages throughout all the kingdoms
But the orphanages also serve a purpose, to raise children to fight against perceived enemies e.g. witches, demons, magic etc etc
They have a strong community feeling and will protect and induct anybody who wishes to join their order
Highly developed medicine and developed anesthesia due to humanitarian aid focus and connections across the empire
Symbol is the belladonna leaf, traditionally gold and worn as a necklace or cloak pin
Multiple practices and traditions in the cult due to schisms of practise. Different cells may have a leader of their own who co-operates with The Belladonna through messengers and letters
A lot of travelling cultists are clerics who perform marriages and help the wounded are also used as judges, and travel through towns periodically to deal out the Kingdoms laws
Thats about all I have so far, but yes, please feel free to corroborate!!! Also, I have a friend who wishes to join in - its not too late for that, right?
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hey guys!! not to be nit picky or overly critical, but I would appreciate it if i could write lior's reactions to things. and just a suggestion: rather then moving everyone in a single post, you could hint where we are supposed to go? :? that way it gives people time to write their reaction. again, i'm sorry if this is presumptuous of me, i dont want to come across as rude or critical!! it is just a friendly suggestion for a more fun writing experience!!
Lior - Boar's Head Tavern
Lior awoke later in the morning then he usually would - on the streets, being up after dawn meant missing the prime begging corners and waiting too long to steal a fresh loaf of bread while it was still dim light. It was most definitely the fault of his thin feather mattress, which felt much akin to sleeping on a cloud after nights spent sleeping on street corners and between rooftops. Hurriedly he clambered from his nest of blankets, pulled on his shirt and slipped down the well worn wood of the stairs - the inn keep, Tessa, stood brusquely behind the bar polishing at the counter top. As he ascended she glanced up, and her stern face was split with a grin.
“Busiest we’ve been in a while, lad,” She says before placing a steaming bowl on the countertop from somewhere under the counter. The smell of cooked eggs fills the air, and Lior feels his knees nearly buckle with glee. Eggs. Eggs. He was near giddy as he placed himself lightly on one of the tall bar stools, and dips his head in a little half bow.
“Simply glad to be of service,” He politely returns. Glad to be hired and fed, and sleep on a warm bed. He’d never had much of a knack for stealing, and almost always felt stricken with guilt after snatching a loaf or apple. He knew being alone meant having to lever the weight of the decision: being starved, or stealing a small profit from an honest worker. Perhaps, when he had been the rich lordling son he had once been, he would have considered it owed to him. He had found very quickly that with a ragged shirt and no coin, no one gave a rats ass whether you said you were of noble birth or not.
“If you keep playing like you did last night, I think I can cut you a deal with free lodgings and food,” Tessa continues, still wearing her grin.
Lior is halfway scooping runny eggs on top of warm porridge into his mouth and deep reverie, and nearly coughs his mouthful across the newly cleaned counter top. With a splutter, he suffices to answer with an enthusiastic head nod, and Tessa smiles before returning to polishing the wood of the bar, and tutting over one of the serving girl’s, who is apparently late for her mid morning shift.
--
Lior - City Centre
With the Nightshade festival approaching, the tavern is slowed to near halting. Everyone has headed into the city proper to join in the cavorting, and Lior lets his feet take him with the sway of the crowd from the dirtier more disused sections of city.There is a secret thrill of rebellion as he imagines attending the Nightshade proceedings: his mother ever the diplomat had never been openly contemptuous of their teachings, but after they had attended the sermons and recitings with other nobles she would return him to his studies, and point out the hypocrisies and fallacies in their ruling. She spurned their cruelties and injustices, and mention the many lengthy crusades and massacres the church had funded or proceeded with themselves. She had been especially critical of their treatment of magic and its rulings, though he had little specifications why. The idea of joining in on that which his mother had so rebuked was an intoxicatingly new form of freedom he was ready to flex. He dodged out of the way of some other pedestrians, and noted that he was moving through to the better parts of town - those built more closely beneath the cliff’s of the castle.
His heavy harp and few belongings are left safely back at the inn and his shoulders feel light with the prospect of destitution no longer looming with the heavy certainty of a hangman’s noose. He squares his shoulders and walks a little taller. He had gotten this position all by himself - no mother leaning over his shoulder, pushing him this way and that. He was a free man. He could do as he wish. He was practically-
There was suddenly a terrifyingly loud noise, the force of whatever caused it rocking through the cobblestones and up through his feet. He stares, eyes wide and alarmed as he notes the plume of smoke and the fire, chewing hungrily at the building before him. His ears are ringing, and the people around him and scurrying two and fro, there mouths opening and closing with yells and cries he can’t quite make out over the ringing. He puts a hand to his head as slowly the world seems to come back with a startling clarity, and raised voices which seemed but a whisper come back with a roaring coherence. People are clearing the way faster and faster, and Lior see’s why: beyond, he sees the well known figures of the Atropos. Dressed in their sharp military uniform, and bearing with them all manner of tracking beast, they buzz about the building like ants on a nest, but with twice the bite. From the crowd comes forth a man at least twice Lior’s height, and built broad and strong - his face mottled with scars, he brandishes a longsword with the same sort of deadly grace one might expect of a viper, or a cat about to strike. For a moment, he looks to have a single long talon - and he scrapes it down a cheek, blood running freely. With a deft swing, he runs a man and dog through. The action seems almost inhumanly fast - he is obviously skilled. The Atropos is sliced clean through, and the sight of it freezes Lior in place.
This was not the leisurely stroll of subtle defiance he had intended. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t had quite so much breakfast as the hunks of what was once human slide to the ground in thick wet pieces. He feels sick. He smells smoke and fire and sweat and grit all at once, and his vision seems to swim again. He needed to hide, to flee, to crouch or run. Whatever was going on, be it by Nightshade or demon terror, he wanted no part in it. Of all the places in the world he wishes to be, he thought of the small room on the top floor of the Boar’s Head, his harp nearby. Things had finally been going so right. He watches with a sort of fascinated horror as the flames seem to engulf more of the building, and one of the passerby’s jolts into him in their rush to escape, knocking him clean off his feet. Lior lands on his back with a soft ‘whoosh’ as the air leaves his lungs in a sudden burst. He lies there, shocked and terrified and grasping at the cobblestones with elegant musicians fingers. He prays he wont get trampled.
Lior awoke later in the morning then he usually would - on the streets, being up after dawn meant missing the prime begging corners and waiting too long to steal a fresh loaf of bread while it was still dim light. It was most definitely the fault of his thin feather mattress, which felt much akin to sleeping on a cloud after nights spent sleeping on street corners and between rooftops. Hurriedly he clambered from his nest of blankets, pulled on his shirt and slipped down the well worn wood of the stairs - the inn keep, Tessa, stood brusquely behind the bar polishing at the counter top. As he ascended she glanced up, and her stern face was split with a grin.
“Busiest we’ve been in a while, lad,” She says before placing a steaming bowl on the countertop from somewhere under the counter. The smell of cooked eggs fills the air, and Lior feels his knees nearly buckle with glee. Eggs. Eggs. He was near giddy as he placed himself lightly on one of the tall bar stools, and dips his head in a little half bow.
“Simply glad to be of service,” He politely returns. Glad to be hired and fed, and sleep on a warm bed. He’d never had much of a knack for stealing, and almost always felt stricken with guilt after snatching a loaf or apple. He knew being alone meant having to lever the weight of the decision: being starved, or stealing a small profit from an honest worker. Perhaps, when he had been the rich lordling son he had once been, he would have considered it owed to him. He had found very quickly that with a ragged shirt and no coin, no one gave a rats ass whether you said you were of noble birth or not.
“If you keep playing like you did last night, I think I can cut you a deal with free lodgings and food,” Tessa continues, still wearing her grin.
Lior is halfway scooping runny eggs on top of warm porridge into his mouth and deep reverie, and nearly coughs his mouthful across the newly cleaned counter top. With a splutter, he suffices to answer with an enthusiastic head nod, and Tessa smiles before returning to polishing the wood of the bar, and tutting over one of the serving girl’s, who is apparently late for her mid morning shift.
--
Lior - City Centre
With the Nightshade festival approaching, the tavern is slowed to near halting. Everyone has headed into the city proper to join in the cavorting, and Lior lets his feet take him with the sway of the crowd from the dirtier more disused sections of city.There is a secret thrill of rebellion as he imagines attending the Nightshade proceedings: his mother ever the diplomat had never been openly contemptuous of their teachings, but after they had attended the sermons and recitings with other nobles she would return him to his studies, and point out the hypocrisies and fallacies in their ruling. She spurned their cruelties and injustices, and mention the many lengthy crusades and massacres the church had funded or proceeded with themselves. She had been especially critical of their treatment of magic and its rulings, though he had little specifications why. The idea of joining in on that which his mother had so rebuked was an intoxicatingly new form of freedom he was ready to flex. He dodged out of the way of some other pedestrians, and noted that he was moving through to the better parts of town - those built more closely beneath the cliff’s of the castle.
His heavy harp and few belongings are left safely back at the inn and his shoulders feel light with the prospect of destitution no longer looming with the heavy certainty of a hangman’s noose. He squares his shoulders and walks a little taller. He had gotten this position all by himself - no mother leaning over his shoulder, pushing him this way and that. He was a free man. He could do as he wish. He was practically-
There was suddenly a terrifyingly loud noise, the force of whatever caused it rocking through the cobblestones and up through his feet. He stares, eyes wide and alarmed as he notes the plume of smoke and the fire, chewing hungrily at the building before him. His ears are ringing, and the people around him and scurrying two and fro, there mouths opening and closing with yells and cries he can’t quite make out over the ringing. He puts a hand to his head as slowly the world seems to come back with a startling clarity, and raised voices which seemed but a whisper come back with a roaring coherence. People are clearing the way faster and faster, and Lior see’s why: beyond, he sees the well known figures of the Atropos. Dressed in their sharp military uniform, and bearing with them all manner of tracking beast, they buzz about the building like ants on a nest, but with twice the bite. From the crowd comes forth a man at least twice Lior’s height, and built broad and strong - his face mottled with scars, he brandishes a longsword with the same sort of deadly grace one might expect of a viper, or a cat about to strike. For a moment, he looks to have a single long talon - and he scrapes it down a cheek, blood running freely. With a deft swing, he runs a man and dog through. The action seems almost inhumanly fast - he is obviously skilled. The Atropos is sliced clean through, and the sight of it freezes Lior in place.
This was not the leisurely stroll of subtle defiance he had intended. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t had quite so much breakfast as the hunks of what was once human slide to the ground in thick wet pieces. He feels sick. He smells smoke and fire and sweat and grit all at once, and his vision seems to swim again. He needed to hide, to flee, to crouch or run. Whatever was going on, be it by Nightshade or demon terror, he wanted no part in it. Of all the places in the world he wishes to be, he thought of the small room on the top floor of the Boar’s Head, his harp nearby. Things had finally been going so right. He watches with a sort of fascinated horror as the flames seem to engulf more of the building, and one of the passerby’s jolts into him in their rush to escape, knocking him clean off his feet. Lior lands on his back with a soft ‘whoosh’ as the air leaves his lungs in a sudden burst. He lies there, shocked and terrified and grasping at the cobblestones with elegant musicians fingers. He prays he wont get trampled.
humble ur a god sent. anyone who wants to impress avalon and sneak ahead and bash this sleeping nerd is welcome to give it a raring hot go!!!!!!! or something. idk. im also thinkin of makin another chara oh gosh........ heh...
and all the lore stuff is great!!!! i cant wait for a lil action!! >:3
and all the lore stuff is great!!!! i cant wait for a lil action!! >:3
hey guys everyones post are lookin rad rn : D
hope it was ok that i set lior up - thought it would be best to give yall a sitting duck and leave it at that
hope it was ok that i set lior up - thought it would be best to give yall a sitting duck and leave it at that
Lior was finally content.
This was a rather new feeling for him, as the insane juggling act of living on the street, avoiding being found, and finding ways to keep fed had been an all consuming terror for the past year. The complete change in lifestyle had been shocking for the young lordling. He occasionally regretted not pocketing at least a few cups or candlesticks to pawn off on the way. But finally.. finally, he was getting the hang of things. He straightened his threadbare green shirt for the utmost time that evening, idly thumbing at the sloppy stitches which marred the once-fine fabric. Still, at least he had managed to buy green thread, and his harp still had strings and that night, he would be allowed to sleep by the fire. Things were most definitely looking up. Hurriedly he gathered up his harp in both arms and shuffled it delicately down the staircase.
The tavern he had chosen was by no means the most classy of establishments. This was part of the reason he had chosen the venue. Steering clear of high society or rubbing elbows with any familliar faces had been his goal of the past 12 months. Lior previously had never even set foot in a tavern. He had read about them sometimes, when he would sneak a book from the great dusty library in the manor, under the pretense of study. He had heard stories of pirates who would quench their thirst in bars and pubs then go on to have fist fights and play cards and trade for knives. He had thought it had all sounded rather barbarian. His upbringing had been strict and clean, with elegant ballrooms and gilded gold plates.
The Boar’s Head was no such establishment. But so far no one had had a knife fight, and the card games looked relatively mundane and mostly for coin. Lior dodged a few dusty well-travelled looking gentleman, and the innkeeper gave him a brisk nod. She was a woman of middling age with hair the colour of dark brewed beer, and a plain bandana bound about her head to keep her curls from spilling across her shoulders. It had taken him two nights of skulking about and a short practice performance to convince her to allow him to be the evenings entertainment. Harp’s weren’t usual tavern fare he supposed, but his voice and playing had convinced her well enough. He nearly tripped as he made his way to the upturned crate that would serve as his seat, and a tittering of laughter rolled through the sparse crowd. Lior made a good show of ruefully mussing his silvery hair, before settling down, harp placed between his knees. He fiddled with the strings for a moment, fearing they were a little worse for wear - his budget factored in food and little besides. He tweaked at the tuning pins just briefly, and struck a note. It rang out, true and clear, and his crowd settled, glasses laid firm on the table tops. He felt a flutter of nerves edge into him, but he pushed the feeling aside. He had practiced this. Playing to crowds of people was something he knew.
He began, fingertips hovering lightly against the strings, as he stroked up a song. He had recently come into plenty of spare time to practice - it was a relief not to be constantly forced to train, or study, or fight. It was almost enough that he could forget that night.
He had been keeping an ear out as he’d walked by at night, scouting the sort of songs that were often played. Sussing out the audience was half the job, after all. So with relative confidence he began ‘Shrinking Violet’ to an expected smattering of applause and grins as patrons began to clink their mugs to the tune and chime in on the chorus. His voice was light and had the right candor to carry the piece, but it was his fingers that would work the magic. He tickled them across the strings with a lightness befitting the brush of fingers against a lady’s hand, the gentleness one uses when handling flower petals or beetles wings. ‘Shrinking Violet’ was an upbeat number about a shy tavern girl who was waiting for her knight in shining armour to come, and the music seemed to fill The Boar’s Head with a little bit of life - and laughter at the few extra verses he added. He grinned as he finished with an expert flourish, and a few new faces have already milled in, taking drinks and seats. He goes on to play ‘Sailor Sailor’, and ‘Days of Yore’ before he’s given a brief respite. A mug of ale, some bread and warm potato and leek soup wait for him at the end of the bar, and gratefully he takes a seat, delicately placing his harp beside him. The innkeeper nods and flashes him a smile - he has a few coins that were thrown at his feet during the performance, and they sit heavy in the secret pocket he has tucked against his side. Within his first few days on the street he learnt just how quickly a purse could be cut, and a pocket could be raided. They were just a few slips of coin, but any money at all would have felt heavy to him - and it assured him at least one more meal. He spoons down the soup and feels the warmth of it melt against his tongue and slide to his stomach. He had never felt so poetic over potatoes and leeks in all his life. The philosophers and poets had it all wrong - he would trade a thousand evenings spent in the warm and delightful embrace of a fae woman for a single bowl of potato and leek on a cold night. Maybe two.
The bread is a little stale, but tastes good enough dumped in with the rest, and idly he glances down at his harp. There, crouched in the shadows of the bar, is a little brown rat. It sniffs at his harp just once before teetering away little paws a scuttle for a crumb. He glances back to his bowl of stew, bread sticking out like a little soggy boat in a sea. There was plenty there. No one else had yet spied the tiny squatter, and the little rat twitches its whiskers. Once, twice. There aren’t any crumbs to be found.
The young musician breaks off a chunk of bread, a little soggy with soup, and slowly lowers it, tossing it a little ways past his foot, and towards the little furry beggar. He knew what it was like to be hungry every night. He supposed he felt a little kinship with the rat. Small, scruffy, unassuming - hurried out of every doorway he ever tried to sleep on. He finishes the rest of his meal in a hurry, and picks up his harp as he skips back toward the stage. He notes, with a little satisfaction, the hunk of bread is gone and so if his furry companion. Street rats had to stick together, after all.
Weary and a little haggard, Lior runs a hand through his hair, messing it up only further. His finger feel sore and tender from being arched in strumming positions, and his back and shoulders are stiff from a chair with no back. He lost his voice halfway through the last song, but his dwindling and far from sober audience had filled in. The innkeeper had graciously allowed him the spare room for the promise of playing the following evening, and he had assured her she could have him for the rest of the year if it meant a nights rest on a bed. He had almost forgotten what beds looked like. After he dragged himself upstairs and entered the little room, he found he couldn’t be happier - there was a chair for his harp and a bed with sheets, and the whole place took about two steps to cross. It was far from palatial, but it was warm and cozy and for tonight, it was his. He shucked off his shirt and boots with all the glee he could muster, before crawling beneath the covers and snuggling into the pillow. By the time he had drifted off, he didn’t even notice the rain pattering gently against the tiny window by the bed. Or the ominous smudge of the Gandryll castle on the horizon, little more than a hulking shadow that leered high over the few speckled drops of light in the little city.
This was a rather new feeling for him, as the insane juggling act of living on the street, avoiding being found, and finding ways to keep fed had been an all consuming terror for the past year. The complete change in lifestyle had been shocking for the young lordling. He occasionally regretted not pocketing at least a few cups or candlesticks to pawn off on the way. But finally.. finally, he was getting the hang of things. He straightened his threadbare green shirt for the utmost time that evening, idly thumbing at the sloppy stitches which marred the once-fine fabric. Still, at least he had managed to buy green thread, and his harp still had strings and that night, he would be allowed to sleep by the fire. Things were most definitely looking up. Hurriedly he gathered up his harp in both arms and shuffled it delicately down the staircase.
The tavern he had chosen was by no means the most classy of establishments. This was part of the reason he had chosen the venue. Steering clear of high society or rubbing elbows with any familliar faces had been his goal of the past 12 months. Lior previously had never even set foot in a tavern. He had read about them sometimes, when he would sneak a book from the great dusty library in the manor, under the pretense of study. He had heard stories of pirates who would quench their thirst in bars and pubs then go on to have fist fights and play cards and trade for knives. He had thought it had all sounded rather barbarian. His upbringing had been strict and clean, with elegant ballrooms and gilded gold plates.
The Boar’s Head was no such establishment. But so far no one had had a knife fight, and the card games looked relatively mundane and mostly for coin. Lior dodged a few dusty well-travelled looking gentleman, and the innkeeper gave him a brisk nod. She was a woman of middling age with hair the colour of dark brewed beer, and a plain bandana bound about her head to keep her curls from spilling across her shoulders. It had taken him two nights of skulking about and a short practice performance to convince her to allow him to be the evenings entertainment. Harp’s weren’t usual tavern fare he supposed, but his voice and playing had convinced her well enough. He nearly tripped as he made his way to the upturned crate that would serve as his seat, and a tittering of laughter rolled through the sparse crowd. Lior made a good show of ruefully mussing his silvery hair, before settling down, harp placed between his knees. He fiddled with the strings for a moment, fearing they were a little worse for wear - his budget factored in food and little besides. He tweaked at the tuning pins just briefly, and struck a note. It rang out, true and clear, and his crowd settled, glasses laid firm on the table tops. He felt a flutter of nerves edge into him, but he pushed the feeling aside. He had practiced this. Playing to crowds of people was something he knew.
He began, fingertips hovering lightly against the strings, as he stroked up a song. He had recently come into plenty of spare time to practice - it was a relief not to be constantly forced to train, or study, or fight. It was almost enough that he could forget that night.
He had been keeping an ear out as he’d walked by at night, scouting the sort of songs that were often played. Sussing out the audience was half the job, after all. So with relative confidence he began ‘Shrinking Violet’ to an expected smattering of applause and grins as patrons began to clink their mugs to the tune and chime in on the chorus. His voice was light and had the right candor to carry the piece, but it was his fingers that would work the magic. He tickled them across the strings with a lightness befitting the brush of fingers against a lady’s hand, the gentleness one uses when handling flower petals or beetles wings. ‘Shrinking Violet’ was an upbeat number about a shy tavern girl who was waiting for her knight in shining armour to come, and the music seemed to fill The Boar’s Head with a little bit of life - and laughter at the few extra verses he added. He grinned as he finished with an expert flourish, and a few new faces have already milled in, taking drinks and seats. He goes on to play ‘Sailor Sailor’, and ‘Days of Yore’ before he’s given a brief respite. A mug of ale, some bread and warm potato and leek soup wait for him at the end of the bar, and gratefully he takes a seat, delicately placing his harp beside him. The innkeeper nods and flashes him a smile - he has a few coins that were thrown at his feet during the performance, and they sit heavy in the secret pocket he has tucked against his side. Within his first few days on the street he learnt just how quickly a purse could be cut, and a pocket could be raided. They were just a few slips of coin, but any money at all would have felt heavy to him - and it assured him at least one more meal. He spoons down the soup and feels the warmth of it melt against his tongue and slide to his stomach. He had never felt so poetic over potatoes and leeks in all his life. The philosophers and poets had it all wrong - he would trade a thousand evenings spent in the warm and delightful embrace of a fae woman for a single bowl of potato and leek on a cold night. Maybe two.
The bread is a little stale, but tastes good enough dumped in with the rest, and idly he glances down at his harp. There, crouched in the shadows of the bar, is a little brown rat. It sniffs at his harp just once before teetering away little paws a scuttle for a crumb. He glances back to his bowl of stew, bread sticking out like a little soggy boat in a sea. There was plenty there. No one else had yet spied the tiny squatter, and the little rat twitches its whiskers. Once, twice. There aren’t any crumbs to be found.
The young musician breaks off a chunk of bread, a little soggy with soup, and slowly lowers it, tossing it a little ways past his foot, and towards the little furry beggar. He knew what it was like to be hungry every night. He supposed he felt a little kinship with the rat. Small, scruffy, unassuming - hurried out of every doorway he ever tried to sleep on. He finishes the rest of his meal in a hurry, and picks up his harp as he skips back toward the stage. He notes, with a little satisfaction, the hunk of bread is gone and so if his furry companion. Street rats had to stick together, after all.
Weary and a little haggard, Lior runs a hand through his hair, messing it up only further. His finger feel sore and tender from being arched in strumming positions, and his back and shoulders are stiff from a chair with no back. He lost his voice halfway through the last song, but his dwindling and far from sober audience had filled in. The innkeeper had graciously allowed him the spare room for the promise of playing the following evening, and he had assured her she could have him for the rest of the year if it meant a nights rest on a bed. He had almost forgotten what beds looked like. After he dragged himself upstairs and entered the little room, he found he couldn’t be happier - there was a chair for his harp and a bed with sheets, and the whole place took about two steps to cross. It was far from palatial, but it was warm and cozy and for tonight, it was his. He shucked off his shirt and boots with all the glee he could muster, before crawling beneath the covers and snuggling into the pillow. By the time he had drifted off, he didn’t even notice the rain pattering gently against the tiny window by the bed. Or the ominous smudge of the Gandryll castle on the horizon, little more than a hulking shadow that leered high over the few speckled drops of light in the little city.
I put dibs on Goldilocks and Papa Bear!!! I'm writing up an app for them both right now and I'm already halfway done heh
Yeah I was also curious about Kogi's last point - I can add a bit where he meets Avalon, somehow, but I was hesitant to infer anything much about him or his methods of searching out Canavar!
dude hell yes i am SO excited!!!!
Hello!!! I'm relatively new to this site and its set up, but a pretty old hand at the RP business. Hope this guy will fit in alright, but should anything be out of sorts I have no problems changing it up to better suit the RP! Anyway, here goes
Name: (Lord) Lior Niamh Taliesin
Age: 19
History: Lior is the son of a lesser noblemen from Gandryll. His mother was a woman of little noble standing who managed to marry her way into nobility, slowly having worked her way artfully into the courts, through use of political ploys. She is a Kirin Canavar, and an exceptionally old one. Kirin are practically immortal, and through use of her powers, she has remained relatively youthful in appearance. Kirin, like unicorns, were some of the first of the mythical beasts to be hunted down, for the properties of longevity that could be attained through grinding down their horns into powder. They were also slightly more lethal - having a powerful elemental connection with lightning. She is only a descendant of the initial purge of magic users and the legends of the power her people once held is lost to her. Still, she does not sneeze at the gifts her ability bestow upon her, and the advantages they would give her child. Lior was raised specifically to be a spy at court - groomed from a young age by his mother to blend and hide, listen and command. His one respite was learning to play court harp, which was only allowed as he could use his talents as a musician to sneak closer to people and gain court gossip. From his youngest years he was kept locked within the manor grounds and dilligently taught lessons - everything from history to mathematics. His mother also took him aside and made a special point of teaching him the atrocities committed against any and all magical creatures. She also had him take lessons in duelling and physical fighting, but he is pretty abysmal at both. She put him through rigorous and often times brutal training to try and unlock the secret of wielding lightning - believing that perhaps through extreme duress, the ability would show itself, but so far he showed no aptitude.
On his 18th birthday they held a ball at their manor, and to truly test his abilities, Lior’s mother sent assassins after him. They were under strict order not to kill him, though she made no specifications about the lengths they could go to. After beating him to near unconsciousness, Lior finally struck back out in a wild attack, shifting to his more beastial form and skewered one of the assassin’s with his horn, and blasted a hole clean through him. He shifted back to human form, weak and horrified with what had happened, while the other assassin fled. Scared witless and unable to decipher what it meant or whether it was a test he had failed, Lior panicked and fled home with nothing but his harp, a few scarce possessions, and the shirt upon his back. He fled into the lush forests surrounding Gandryll, searching for a place to hide away from the things he had seen and been forced into. He had no experience living on his own, or how to survive in the forest - other then a few books he had read in his spare time on plants, he was relatively useless. Within a week he was crawling back to the city outskirts, sick with hunger and thirst. There he began begging and busking to earn a few odd coins to keep his stomach full and buy thread to patch the holes in his clothes. He has been on his own for almost a full year, keeping well clear of the better cleaner parts of town, and playing in pubs and bars. Though his clothes are threadbare and his harp badly in need of a few new pegs and a case, he is free as a bird and intends to stay that way.
Personality: Lior was raised as the son of a nobleman, and has all the airs and graces of one: he can seem arrogant, pig headed and stubborn. His noble upbringing gave him a sheltered beginning in life, and he was naive and unknowing of the struggles of those with less fortunate parents. Though his recent homelessness is teaching him swiftly that the price of having a shelter over ones head and a full stomach is almost always costly, he fumbles with social graces and thinking of others. He is often unplanned and has difficulty in thinking plans all the way through - often times, he reacts on gut instinct and little else. He hates the idea of being bound to anyone or any place, and rejects having any responsibility thrown upon him. Though not unkind or belligerent, he tends to keep his interactions with others at a cordial friendly level, and delves little further. He gets tight lipped about his past, or his comings and goings, tending to veer conversation to silly tangents or his own poetry. His diligent training with his mother only seemed to inspire his more wilful, playful and mischievous side, and his distaste for authority. However when yelled or ordered he tends to back down without a fight because of learned behaviour ingrained under the harsh tutelage of his mother. In an effort to leave the drudgery of his past behind, he covers up with a cheerful and air of easy confidence. Beneath this charade however, he feels pretty lost and confused - certain he can’t go home, but uncertain where he SHOULD go, and terrified of the power he holds. Sometimes he still thinks back to the assassin, and how he killed them in a reactionary burst - and the idea of shifting back into his more bestial form sends shivers down his spine. As a distraction, and as a way of getting coin now that he is no longer living the plush life of nobility, he plays his harp and sings along with it. While he has a sweet enough voice, he is a far better harpist then he is a singer, and he often writes lyrics and poems to accompany his playing.
Strengths:
1. Good singer and harpist. This is probably what he would consider his foremost strength and he would much rather rely on this and his relative charm to get him through.
2. He has gone through intense physical and mental training all his life, geared toward making him the perfect spy. He can be light footed and sneaky, has a skill with climbing rooftops, and is relatively good at listening in and other such spying ways.
3. He can transform into his kirin form, which is effectively the size of a small horse but thicker set with more muscle, and cloven hooves. He has turquoise scales intermingled with shaggy white fur, a long curved gold horn and fangs. In this form he is swift, agile and strong.
Weaknesses:
1. He cannot actually shift to his bestial form at will. He’s actually pretty much terrified of doing so. He has very little control of it however, and no control of his ability to use lightning attacks, or any idea how to even begin using them. He has little drive to practice at it, so is effectively pretty useless.
2. He has no future planning skills. He jumps from present idea to present idea, and often winds up worse for it.
3. He’s pretty naive. He’s not stupid, but easy to take advantage of: he’s not lived on the streets long enough to have good instincts for when an area is dangerous or a situation has gone from tense to downright dangerous. He can be naive about the implications of things, and also social situations. He was groomed for parties in the high courts, after all, not for brushing shoulders with those you would find at the local tavern.
Other: His family were nobility of medium rank, and have issued a reward for information about him, or his swift and safe return to the Taliesin mansion. Also other characters of nobility may recognize him or his name, as he had spent most of his life attending balls or other noble affairs with his parents.
Name: (Lord) Lior Niamh Taliesin
Age: 19
History: Lior is the son of a lesser noblemen from Gandryll. His mother was a woman of little noble standing who managed to marry her way into nobility, slowly having worked her way artfully into the courts, through use of political ploys. She is a Kirin Canavar, and an exceptionally old one. Kirin are practically immortal, and through use of her powers, she has remained relatively youthful in appearance. Kirin, like unicorns, were some of the first of the mythical beasts to be hunted down, for the properties of longevity that could be attained through grinding down their horns into powder. They were also slightly more lethal - having a powerful elemental connection with lightning. She is only a descendant of the initial purge of magic users and the legends of the power her people once held is lost to her. Still, she does not sneeze at the gifts her ability bestow upon her, and the advantages they would give her child. Lior was raised specifically to be a spy at court - groomed from a young age by his mother to blend and hide, listen and command. His one respite was learning to play court harp, which was only allowed as he could use his talents as a musician to sneak closer to people and gain court gossip. From his youngest years he was kept locked within the manor grounds and dilligently taught lessons - everything from history to mathematics. His mother also took him aside and made a special point of teaching him the atrocities committed against any and all magical creatures. She also had him take lessons in duelling and physical fighting, but he is pretty abysmal at both. She put him through rigorous and often times brutal training to try and unlock the secret of wielding lightning - believing that perhaps through extreme duress, the ability would show itself, but so far he showed no aptitude.
On his 18th birthday they held a ball at their manor, and to truly test his abilities, Lior’s mother sent assassins after him. They were under strict order not to kill him, though she made no specifications about the lengths they could go to. After beating him to near unconsciousness, Lior finally struck back out in a wild attack, shifting to his more beastial form and skewered one of the assassin’s with his horn, and blasted a hole clean through him. He shifted back to human form, weak and horrified with what had happened, while the other assassin fled. Scared witless and unable to decipher what it meant or whether it was a test he had failed, Lior panicked and fled home with nothing but his harp, a few scarce possessions, and the shirt upon his back. He fled into the lush forests surrounding Gandryll, searching for a place to hide away from the things he had seen and been forced into. He had no experience living on his own, or how to survive in the forest - other then a few books he had read in his spare time on plants, he was relatively useless. Within a week he was crawling back to the city outskirts, sick with hunger and thirst. There he began begging and busking to earn a few odd coins to keep his stomach full and buy thread to patch the holes in his clothes. He has been on his own for almost a full year, keeping well clear of the better cleaner parts of town, and playing in pubs and bars. Though his clothes are threadbare and his harp badly in need of a few new pegs and a case, he is free as a bird and intends to stay that way.
Personality: Lior was raised as the son of a nobleman, and has all the airs and graces of one: he can seem arrogant, pig headed and stubborn. His noble upbringing gave him a sheltered beginning in life, and he was naive and unknowing of the struggles of those with less fortunate parents. Though his recent homelessness is teaching him swiftly that the price of having a shelter over ones head and a full stomach is almost always costly, he fumbles with social graces and thinking of others. He is often unplanned and has difficulty in thinking plans all the way through - often times, he reacts on gut instinct and little else. He hates the idea of being bound to anyone or any place, and rejects having any responsibility thrown upon him. Though not unkind or belligerent, he tends to keep his interactions with others at a cordial friendly level, and delves little further. He gets tight lipped about his past, or his comings and goings, tending to veer conversation to silly tangents or his own poetry. His diligent training with his mother only seemed to inspire his more wilful, playful and mischievous side, and his distaste for authority. However when yelled or ordered he tends to back down without a fight because of learned behaviour ingrained under the harsh tutelage of his mother. In an effort to leave the drudgery of his past behind, he covers up with a cheerful and air of easy confidence. Beneath this charade however, he feels pretty lost and confused - certain he can’t go home, but uncertain where he SHOULD go, and terrified of the power he holds. Sometimes he still thinks back to the assassin, and how he killed them in a reactionary burst - and the idea of shifting back into his more bestial form sends shivers down his spine. As a distraction, and as a way of getting coin now that he is no longer living the plush life of nobility, he plays his harp and sings along with it. While he has a sweet enough voice, he is a far better harpist then he is a singer, and he often writes lyrics and poems to accompany his playing.
Strengths:
1. Good singer and harpist. This is probably what he would consider his foremost strength and he would much rather rely on this and his relative charm to get him through.
2. He has gone through intense physical and mental training all his life, geared toward making him the perfect spy. He can be light footed and sneaky, has a skill with climbing rooftops, and is relatively good at listening in and other such spying ways.
3. He can transform into his kirin form, which is effectively the size of a small horse but thicker set with more muscle, and cloven hooves. He has turquoise scales intermingled with shaggy white fur, a long curved gold horn and fangs. In this form he is swift, agile and strong.
Weaknesses:
1. He cannot actually shift to his bestial form at will. He’s actually pretty much terrified of doing so. He has very little control of it however, and no control of his ability to use lightning attacks, or any idea how to even begin using them. He has little drive to practice at it, so is effectively pretty useless.
2. He has no future planning skills. He jumps from present idea to present idea, and often winds up worse for it.
3. He’s pretty naive. He’s not stupid, but easy to take advantage of: he’s not lived on the streets long enough to have good instincts for when an area is dangerous or a situation has gone from tense to downright dangerous. He can be naive about the implications of things, and also social situations. He was groomed for parties in the high courts, after all, not for brushing shoulders with those you would find at the local tavern.
Other: His family were nobility of medium rank, and have issued a reward for information about him, or his swift and safe return to the Taliesin mansion. Also other characters of nobility may recognize him or his name, as he had spent most of his life attending balls or other noble affairs with his parents.
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