Post by Deleted on May 17, 2012 22:20:03 GMT -6
**********
GENERAL-
Name:[/b][/color] Tyre (Past: Osric Aslan)
Title: Earl of Tivinter
Rank: Unblooded
Profession:Marshal
Alignment:Lawful Neutral
PHYSICAL-[/b]
Race: Judged of Nargel
• Nether worldly Physicality(+15 Vitality, +5 Endurance)
• Ethereal Resistance (Physical Damage Values reduced 25%, Nearly Impervious to Poisons, better suited for extreme climates)
• Reconstitution (Return to the Bowels of Solabren to reform their body)
• -10 Social
• Cannot exceed Chaotic Neutral in Alignment
• Cannot enter holy grounds
• Vitality reduced by 50% when fighting a holy person
Age:Fifty Two
Sex: Male
Height:5'11''
Weight: 152 lbs.
Hair Color: Dark brown hair with weaving strands of grey to white shading.
Eye Color: His eyes host a strange coloring; a black void fills the sclera, while a moon white shines from behind a glossy black iris. Like an eclipse of the moon shining forth in a peerless night.
Voice Description:[/b] Tyre's voice is a shadows of his former voice, while in the depths of his speech a strong and demanding tone, is now shadowed by an echo in itself, distorted and hard to comprehend from afar. Example:Echoed Voice
Clothing:(This may change based on the post)
1. Tyre dresses his long body in a long robe-like coat that stretches down to the tips of his ankles and adorns a thigh-length tunic cut in the middle up to his belted waist with a dark grey coloring, the robe portion is fine cloth blue wrapped by a golden colored thread. With popped up collars and a black hood to cover his crown and distort some vision of his face and otherworldly appearance. Thick leather boots are strapped to his leg, purposely giving a thumping sounds to every motion he carries. This outfit is usually worn at social gatherings or important meetings.
2. A Great Cloak linked together by chainmail, supported by a few iron shoulder guards and leather strapping's cover a majority of Tyre's body as he enters battle. Favoring a lighter armor selection, his torso and arms share bits of metal plates hinged to rough leather armor. While his bottom half carries much of the same gear, aside from his iron greavers and plated boots.
3. When required for highly marked or decorated military affairs, Tyre dawns a finely crafted suit of plate mail. Embroidered with designs that depict ancient battles and various displays of valor, the armor is complimented by a sleeveless robe of black cloth, dragging on the floor and covering a large portion of his face and crown.
4. Study and practice cannot be weighted down by metals and certainly the finer silks cannot be tarnished by the gritty work and overall general exercise that involves an average days work. Tyre, likes to keep his gear rather simple on a routine day, by first dawning a simple white cotton tunic, tucked in and supported by tight leather pants, patched and belted with anything he might need on that day. His boots much in the same way as his pants, but his face likes to keep
Build / Complexion &Physical Description:
Whatever was a man is but a faded shadow upon the body of his judged human. H skin holds almost no coloring to it, like snow blanketed upon a large field and casts a texture of ash upon wood. His frail skin looks to have been stretched beyond repair, cracks ripple through his skin and fester without the presence of living tissue. Unrepairable, the man looks to have sewn various large gashes and cuts with string and even a few metal staples. His body is well spent, but between the lacerations and bandages, are signs of muscle growth and symbols of strength.
His face is long and gaunt, ashen white without the dots and speckles of any fine dark hairs or even stubble that forgot to be shaven the morning of. His lips are nonexistent, relying only what appears to be a long cut atop his flattened chin only visible by the wooden block jaws that hold up his distorted visage. With an equally square forehead and nonexistent eyebrow ridge, His moon eclipsed eyes set very deeply beneath that removed ridged. the man holds no delusion about his accursed state.
Although, as his eyes foreshadow his facial reconstruction changes as the moon appears at night. When Tyre's body is touched by moonlight, it almost as if the decay and maggots catch up with his damned body, revealing a horrendous and blighted body that could very well be described as his remains syncing with his ethereal body, but only for a limited time.
MENTAL-
Likes:
Despite his ethereal state, Tyre finds himself a learning man still grasping the concepts that elude the commoners of the land, leading him to pick up a large selection of books regarding any topic one may consider asking him; philosophy, religion, fiction to biographies. Yet, while the mental state still elludes him a former teaching has been etched into his skin, " To train the mind, one must train the body." Tyre has always been one to practice the martial discipline and while he is not so bound to the fluxuating state of a living body, he is moreso inclined to improve upon the techniques and styles that were passed onto him in his living time.
Which presses on to his more leisurely pursuits, Tyre has found time to find a great love for the instrumental arts, favoring the greater toned viola rather than it's brother in the orchestra lines. While no master at the instrument, Tyre finds it a relaxing thing in a stressful environment. He also enjoys horseback riding and falconry, aided by the favorite hunting excursion and archery.
On a note, green happens to be Tyre's favorite color.
Dislikes:
A broader spectrum of what he dislikes than what he likes in general, is first put to by the worship of gods or those above those on their knees, religion. Despite knowing firsthand the truth of the gods, Tyre finds the worship of these gods appalling. He believes that they are no greater than us, but given more toys to play with than their mortal brothers and sisters. Although some are brought to their knees by religion, the arcane arts do the same for Tyre. Adept in the magical arts, he finds it the most difficult and impossible of subjects to study and understand, although he may love it, it sits next to the greatest of his dislikes.
An afore mentioned practitioner of the martial arts, Tyre despises actually having to use the skills in combat, rather taking a diplomatic approach to situations that require that kind of attention and only reaching for the sword or spell later, if it is needed. He also tends to dislike social gatherings when the numbers exceed the occupation of the room, a crowd can be dealt with, but an overcrowded room is never good for an escape if needed.
Strengths / Skills:
Tyre practices long and hard in both the mental and physical fields that one can study; martial combat, ranged combat and techniques and styles suited to most weapons available. While this is apparent, he also takes great time studying tactics and strategy, seeking tutors and veterans for field advice and tactical advice. While he dredges on the applications of such things, he invests time into understanding trading practices and that of social understandings to better himself where others of his make might find difficult.
Weaknesses:
Study and practice never turn out to be the same thing, with interest Tyre has found some leeway into the arcane arts, but still finds it very difficult to comprehend and even produce the simplest of energy. Also, he has found it very tiresome to engage in the tired routine of politics and intrigue, much preferring a straight ahead approach.
Fears:
In the off chance that one might actually appear, Tyre is paranoid about the fact of meeting an actual being blessed by the gods. The very individuals can break his very survival into bits and pieces, he tries his best to stay away from holy grounds or religious congregations. When his survival is broken, he dredges the fact of being reconstructed in the bowels of the world, having to claw his way to the surface again terrifies him.
With that lasting fact of immortality, Tyre fears being alone, that is his greatest fear.
Personality Description:
The men entered the long and hollowed dining hall, the almost endless oak table stretched to the edges of the wall with a broad metal caged fireplace, roaring in a vain attempt to fill the entire room with the sense of warmth and homely feelings. The twelve men entered the room and took their places at the elegantly carved chairs, sprawled around the massive table. Each one holding a particular look about them; from commoner to merchant and military official to noble in disguise. As they sat, another man approached from a separate door, taking long and stern strides to the masterful chair at the edge of the table. This man was different, dressed in fine robes and guarded by a cowl holding a black of night within its grasp. Tyre had placed himself at the table, taking careful note of those at the table and their official roles within their respected settlements. He had no such position or rank to boast up, but what he had was a carefully constructed plan and with ample funds and strength to see those plans through, it was only a matter of time before plans turned into action and this small chunk of land would be plunged into chaos for the betterment of it's own people. How ironic that may be, it was the way Tyre saw it had to be done. From ashes, one rebuilds and makes stronger, not on the decayed remains of an elder wood.
" Respected military officials, noblemen of the court and those of you who server those above with fervor and enthusiasm. " He spoke with respect and command, trying to appear as the man in charge of this gathering of people he so carefully woven with months of planning and deeds done in the midst of night. " I will not bore you with long speech or attempt to suede you with women or food, but I will tempt you with the offer to change this miserable excuse for a sovereignty." He had spoken of the very man they all served, a king by no worthy name or note, but still one to be feared. " I speak treason, I speak it for the good of all, for the good of your families." Tyre thought himself the master speaker until one of the men coughed up a laugh, almost standing from his seat before his hunged belly prevented him from doing so. " Death doesn't even stop the foulest of the damned it seems." Tyre stared at the man for a long moment, his eclipsed eyes recycled the faces of the men again and again and again. Before seizing speech, Tyre moved himself from the chair, standing himself and moving towards the man. " Death does not stop retribution, death does not stop vengeance and it certainly does not stop justice. I am but a broken man, who only with your aid will find some honor left." Pausing, he takes an unneeded breath and counts his blessings. " A broken man cannot fight this sovereign without those to help him up to his feet and reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Lord Barley, I know your families lands were traded to foreigners, while you received a small pith of land." He spits on the ground, " Hardly land, the soil so coarse and rocky not even death itself would find life upon those rocks, while your king grew richer and those foreigners took your land and raped it." One of the man, Lord Barley by the way he squirmed and couldn't control his enraged expression.
" Or Lord Mayor Andor, the men and women drafted into the levies so much that your streets would lie barren with only old folk and children, not able to craft and tend to the fields." Another irritated look pushed out from the grouping of men. The spark of emotions had been ignited between their host and the guests, the rest of the night carried out with minor conversation and without swearing to a final cause. It seemed Tyre may have won them over to stage his coupe and with the support of these lords and nobles, it would be even easier to take the throne.
Retiring to his quarters, Tyre had found the walk to his chambers intimidating to say the least. Shadows swayed with the lit torches as the windows were basked in moonlight, he could feel a shaded hand trying to latch at him as he quickened his pace towards the safety of his own chambers. Was it fear that gripped the man? No, it was paranoia, Tyre had an everlasting fear of dying again. While he knew the stories and some of those who had been reincarnated, the thought of dying again almost brought Tyre to a breaking point. With careful eyes and cautious hands, Tyre kept a hand on his dagger at all times, hoping nothing attacked him in the darkness of the night.
Having reached the small iron-banded door, he clicked his bony fingers into the handle and pushed on the door, letting it set ajar enough for him to slip in and close the door behind him quietly. Changing to the hue of lights in the room, he walked towards the large bed in the center of the room. Parting his robes and setting himself on the bed. Hunched over, a small hand moved across his ashen skin, pressing against his gaunt cheeks and with a hushed voice, it whispered, " Tired, negotiations?" It asked.
Casting his stare upon the frail voice, a small and petite woman lay hidden beneath the silken bed spread. With short auburn hair and a well groomed body, the only oddity was the silver bracers on her hand. " Negotiations were never my strongest suit, but never tiring." With a loud grunt, he reached over to the tiny woman and clawed his hands into her skin. Eventually forcing her up against the wall and letting the night slip away.
HISTORICAL-[/b]
Place of Birth:
Current Residence:
Known Family: N/A
Chosen Pantheon: N/A
Preferred Deity: N/A
Past History:
Osric Aslan was born in the grasslands of Imperia, born into a peasent family and raised as a peasant. Never gifted with the luxuries of life that some families had obtained, his family was one of the many who served under a lord's hand; milling his fields, harvesting his crops and serving in their wars. His father served as a messenger between commander and their armies during times of war and the rest of the time was spent tilling the fields and taking care of his family. While his mother stayed at home and raised their family. Osric was born with two sisters and one brother, giving him an extended family and a mission to take care of his siblings when his parents were away. Osric was born the first in his family and exceeded his brothers and sisters years by twelve. Being the oldest, he took on the slack of work that his father gave to him while his siblings grew and pursued their own talents. He was stuck with the life of a peasant, that was bound to be passed onto somebody with his parents deaths sooner or later.
When he was old enough and his brothers had taken some of the load from him. Osric enlisted in his lord's militia, giving his life to military service and to the greater glory of his lord. Particularly, his lord was a violent and unruly young man who had only inherited his father's land, because of either old age of assassination. Quickly, Osric found himself as a retainer in the young lord's army; learning strategems, leading raiding parties and commanding the spearmen of the militia. Osric grew to despise war, as he found himself cutting the common folk that he was raised from.
After a long and defeated campaign against an enemy marchlord, Osric returned from service to the village he had been raised in. Only to find it raised and burned accidentally by another retainer who served the same lord. Outraged, Osric cried out for vengeance and took those who were loyal to him and hunted down the other retainer without warning. Finding the retainer and slaying him was neither problem or found with hesitation, but the consequences for his actions washed over him like a tidal wave striking a harbor.
Stripped of rank and position and sentenced to the chopping block, Osric escaped captivity and gained himself an enormous bounty from the lord's own coffers. Disobedience and betrayal would not be tolerated amongst his land. Osric turned to his family to harbor him, at least for a little time.
Eventually however, his brothers and sisters gave his location over to the authorities, not wanting their own lives to be ruined or their aging parents to meet a horrific end by a hunter who had threatened them, when he found out Osric's location. Betrayed and brought to sword point, Osric fought his way out of a terrible situation and found himself destroying his family's farmlands, in order to keep himself alive. Was it a necessary lost? Osric wondered that the rest of his days.
Osric had been consumed by paranoia and enraged by the few people he could trust, now no longer. Osric lead a bloody campaign of vengeance against the lord that branded him as an outlaw, destroying many people's lives and earning himself a position among the most hated in all of Imperia. Osric knew his actions were evil, but each step got him closer and closer to vengeance and he did not care of the consequences of his actions. They were only a means to an end, a body to act as a staircase to his lofty goals.
However, his reign would end in an anticlimactic battle inside the lord's keep. His own men had been payed off by the lord's agents, and when battle came to pass, Osric was turned on by those he attempted to trust again. Speared enough times to fell a bull, Osric died in that battle and was taken away to the afterlife to be judged.
And Judged he was, Nargel damned the man to walk for eternity as a creature not suited for either peace or torture in the afterlife. He awoke in the bowels of Solabren and with the magma and clashing stone of the earth, Osric clawed his way to the surface, once again in the green arms of Imperia. Strange though, Osric found himself neither with the feeling of guilt or the damnation that the rest of his kind might have felt. He found this new life as a second chance to finish what he had started and grow from that event, if he did indeed finish it. Shortly after his release from the afterlife, Osric had chosen the name of Tyre, to disguise against his horrid identity and he took up the banner of a revolutionary against an aging lord that he once served.
Site History:
**********[/b]
GENERAL-
Name:[/b][/color] Tyre (Past: Osric Aslan)
Title: Earl of Tivinter
Rank: Unblooded
Profession:Marshal
Alignment:Lawful Neutral
PHYSICAL-[/b]
Race: Judged of Nargel
• Nether worldly Physicality(+15 Vitality, +5 Endurance)
• Ethereal Resistance (Physical Damage Values reduced 25%, Nearly Impervious to Poisons, better suited for extreme climates)
• Reconstitution (Return to the Bowels of Solabren to reform their body)
• -10 Social
• Cannot exceed Chaotic Neutral in Alignment
• Cannot enter holy grounds
• Vitality reduced by 50% when fighting a holy person
Age:Fifty Two
Sex: Male
Height:5'11''
Weight: 152 lbs.
Hair Color: Dark brown hair with weaving strands of grey to white shading.
Eye Color: His eyes host a strange coloring; a black void fills the sclera, while a moon white shines from behind a glossy black iris. Like an eclipse of the moon shining forth in a peerless night.
Voice Description:[/b] Tyre's voice is a shadows of his former voice, while in the depths of his speech a strong and demanding tone, is now shadowed by an echo in itself, distorted and hard to comprehend from afar. Example:Echoed Voice
Clothing:(This may change based on the post)
1. Tyre dresses his long body in a long robe-like coat that stretches down to the tips of his ankles and adorns a thigh-length tunic cut in the middle up to his belted waist with a dark grey coloring, the robe portion is fine cloth blue wrapped by a golden colored thread. With popped up collars and a black hood to cover his crown and distort some vision of his face and otherworldly appearance. Thick leather boots are strapped to his leg, purposely giving a thumping sounds to every motion he carries. This outfit is usually worn at social gatherings or important meetings.
2. A Great Cloak linked together by chainmail, supported by a few iron shoulder guards and leather strapping's cover a majority of Tyre's body as he enters battle. Favoring a lighter armor selection, his torso and arms share bits of metal plates hinged to rough leather armor. While his bottom half carries much of the same gear, aside from his iron greavers and plated boots.
3. When required for highly marked or decorated military affairs, Tyre dawns a finely crafted suit of plate mail. Embroidered with designs that depict ancient battles and various displays of valor, the armor is complimented by a sleeveless robe of black cloth, dragging on the floor and covering a large portion of his face and crown.
4. Study and practice cannot be weighted down by metals and certainly the finer silks cannot be tarnished by the gritty work and overall general exercise that involves an average days work. Tyre, likes to keep his gear rather simple on a routine day, by first dawning a simple white cotton tunic, tucked in and supported by tight leather pants, patched and belted with anything he might need on that day. His boots much in the same way as his pants, but his face likes to keep
Build / Complexion &Physical Description:
Whatever was a man is but a faded shadow upon the body of his judged human. H skin holds almost no coloring to it, like snow blanketed upon a large field and casts a texture of ash upon wood. His frail skin looks to have been stretched beyond repair, cracks ripple through his skin and fester without the presence of living tissue. Unrepairable, the man looks to have sewn various large gashes and cuts with string and even a few metal staples. His body is well spent, but between the lacerations and bandages, are signs of muscle growth and symbols of strength.
His face is long and gaunt, ashen white without the dots and speckles of any fine dark hairs or even stubble that forgot to be shaven the morning of. His lips are nonexistent, relying only what appears to be a long cut atop his flattened chin only visible by the wooden block jaws that hold up his distorted visage. With an equally square forehead and nonexistent eyebrow ridge, His moon eclipsed eyes set very deeply beneath that removed ridged. the man holds no delusion about his accursed state.
Although, as his eyes foreshadow his facial reconstruction changes as the moon appears at night. When Tyre's body is touched by moonlight, it almost as if the decay and maggots catch up with his damned body, revealing a horrendous and blighted body that could very well be described as his remains syncing with his ethereal body, but only for a limited time.
MENTAL-
Likes:
Despite his ethereal state, Tyre finds himself a learning man still grasping the concepts that elude the commoners of the land, leading him to pick up a large selection of books regarding any topic one may consider asking him; philosophy, religion, fiction to biographies. Yet, while the mental state still elludes him a former teaching has been etched into his skin, " To train the mind, one must train the body." Tyre has always been one to practice the martial discipline and while he is not so bound to the fluxuating state of a living body, he is moreso inclined to improve upon the techniques and styles that were passed onto him in his living time.
Which presses on to his more leisurely pursuits, Tyre has found time to find a great love for the instrumental arts, favoring the greater toned viola rather than it's brother in the orchestra lines. While no master at the instrument, Tyre finds it a relaxing thing in a stressful environment. He also enjoys horseback riding and falconry, aided by the favorite hunting excursion and archery.
On a note, green happens to be Tyre's favorite color.
Dislikes:
A broader spectrum of what he dislikes than what he likes in general, is first put to by the worship of gods or those above those on their knees, religion. Despite knowing firsthand the truth of the gods, Tyre finds the worship of these gods appalling. He believes that they are no greater than us, but given more toys to play with than their mortal brothers and sisters. Although some are brought to their knees by religion, the arcane arts do the same for Tyre. Adept in the magical arts, he finds it the most difficult and impossible of subjects to study and understand, although he may love it, it sits next to the greatest of his dislikes.
An afore mentioned practitioner of the martial arts, Tyre despises actually having to use the skills in combat, rather taking a diplomatic approach to situations that require that kind of attention and only reaching for the sword or spell later, if it is needed. He also tends to dislike social gatherings when the numbers exceed the occupation of the room, a crowd can be dealt with, but an overcrowded room is never good for an escape if needed.
Strengths / Skills:
Tyre practices long and hard in both the mental and physical fields that one can study; martial combat, ranged combat and techniques and styles suited to most weapons available. While this is apparent, he also takes great time studying tactics and strategy, seeking tutors and veterans for field advice and tactical advice. While he dredges on the applications of such things, he invests time into understanding trading practices and that of social understandings to better himself where others of his make might find difficult.
Weaknesses:
Study and practice never turn out to be the same thing, with interest Tyre has found some leeway into the arcane arts, but still finds it very difficult to comprehend and even produce the simplest of energy. Also, he has found it very tiresome to engage in the tired routine of politics and intrigue, much preferring a straight ahead approach.
Fears:
In the off chance that one might actually appear, Tyre is paranoid about the fact of meeting an actual being blessed by the gods. The very individuals can break his very survival into bits and pieces, he tries his best to stay away from holy grounds or religious congregations. When his survival is broken, he dredges the fact of being reconstructed in the bowels of the world, having to claw his way to the surface again terrifies him.
With that lasting fact of immortality, Tyre fears being alone, that is his greatest fear.
Personality Description:
The men entered the long and hollowed dining hall, the almost endless oak table stretched to the edges of the wall with a broad metal caged fireplace, roaring in a vain attempt to fill the entire room with the sense of warmth and homely feelings. The twelve men entered the room and took their places at the elegantly carved chairs, sprawled around the massive table. Each one holding a particular look about them; from commoner to merchant and military official to noble in disguise. As they sat, another man approached from a separate door, taking long and stern strides to the masterful chair at the edge of the table. This man was different, dressed in fine robes and guarded by a cowl holding a black of night within its grasp. Tyre had placed himself at the table, taking careful note of those at the table and their official roles within their respected settlements. He had no such position or rank to boast up, but what he had was a carefully constructed plan and with ample funds and strength to see those plans through, it was only a matter of time before plans turned into action and this small chunk of land would be plunged into chaos for the betterment of it's own people. How ironic that may be, it was the way Tyre saw it had to be done. From ashes, one rebuilds and makes stronger, not on the decayed remains of an elder wood.
" Respected military officials, noblemen of the court and those of you who server those above with fervor and enthusiasm. " He spoke with respect and command, trying to appear as the man in charge of this gathering of people he so carefully woven with months of planning and deeds done in the midst of night. " I will not bore you with long speech or attempt to suede you with women or food, but I will tempt you with the offer to change this miserable excuse for a sovereignty." He had spoken of the very man they all served, a king by no worthy name or note, but still one to be feared. " I speak treason, I speak it for the good of all, for the good of your families." Tyre thought himself the master speaker until one of the men coughed up a laugh, almost standing from his seat before his hunged belly prevented him from doing so. " Death doesn't even stop the foulest of the damned it seems." Tyre stared at the man for a long moment, his eclipsed eyes recycled the faces of the men again and again and again. Before seizing speech, Tyre moved himself from the chair, standing himself and moving towards the man. " Death does not stop retribution, death does not stop vengeance and it certainly does not stop justice. I am but a broken man, who only with your aid will find some honor left." Pausing, he takes an unneeded breath and counts his blessings. " A broken man cannot fight this sovereign without those to help him up to his feet and reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Lord Barley, I know your families lands were traded to foreigners, while you received a small pith of land." He spits on the ground, " Hardly land, the soil so coarse and rocky not even death itself would find life upon those rocks, while your king grew richer and those foreigners took your land and raped it." One of the man, Lord Barley by the way he squirmed and couldn't control his enraged expression.
" Or Lord Mayor Andor, the men and women drafted into the levies so much that your streets would lie barren with only old folk and children, not able to craft and tend to the fields." Another irritated look pushed out from the grouping of men. The spark of emotions had been ignited between their host and the guests, the rest of the night carried out with minor conversation and without swearing to a final cause. It seemed Tyre may have won them over to stage his coupe and with the support of these lords and nobles, it would be even easier to take the throne.
Retiring to his quarters, Tyre had found the walk to his chambers intimidating to say the least. Shadows swayed with the lit torches as the windows were basked in moonlight, he could feel a shaded hand trying to latch at him as he quickened his pace towards the safety of his own chambers. Was it fear that gripped the man? No, it was paranoia, Tyre had an everlasting fear of dying again. While he knew the stories and some of those who had been reincarnated, the thought of dying again almost brought Tyre to a breaking point. With careful eyes and cautious hands, Tyre kept a hand on his dagger at all times, hoping nothing attacked him in the darkness of the night.
Having reached the small iron-banded door, he clicked his bony fingers into the handle and pushed on the door, letting it set ajar enough for him to slip in and close the door behind him quietly. Changing to the hue of lights in the room, he walked towards the large bed in the center of the room. Parting his robes and setting himself on the bed. Hunched over, a small hand moved across his ashen skin, pressing against his gaunt cheeks and with a hushed voice, it whispered, " Tired, negotiations?" It asked.
Casting his stare upon the frail voice, a small and petite woman lay hidden beneath the silken bed spread. With short auburn hair and a well groomed body, the only oddity was the silver bracers on her hand. " Negotiations were never my strongest suit, but never tiring." With a loud grunt, he reached over to the tiny woman and clawed his hands into her skin. Eventually forcing her up against the wall and letting the night slip away.
HISTORICAL-[/b]
Place of Birth:
Current Residence:
Known Family: N/A
Chosen Pantheon: N/A
Preferred Deity: N/A
Past History:
Osric Aslan was born in the grasslands of Imperia, born into a peasent family and raised as a peasant. Never gifted with the luxuries of life that some families had obtained, his family was one of the many who served under a lord's hand; milling his fields, harvesting his crops and serving in their wars. His father served as a messenger between commander and their armies during times of war and the rest of the time was spent tilling the fields and taking care of his family. While his mother stayed at home and raised their family. Osric was born with two sisters and one brother, giving him an extended family and a mission to take care of his siblings when his parents were away. Osric was born the first in his family and exceeded his brothers and sisters years by twelve. Being the oldest, he took on the slack of work that his father gave to him while his siblings grew and pursued their own talents. He was stuck with the life of a peasant, that was bound to be passed onto somebody with his parents deaths sooner or later.
When he was old enough and his brothers had taken some of the load from him. Osric enlisted in his lord's militia, giving his life to military service and to the greater glory of his lord. Particularly, his lord was a violent and unruly young man who had only inherited his father's land, because of either old age of assassination. Quickly, Osric found himself as a retainer in the young lord's army; learning strategems, leading raiding parties and commanding the spearmen of the militia. Osric grew to despise war, as he found himself cutting the common folk that he was raised from.
After a long and defeated campaign against an enemy marchlord, Osric returned from service to the village he had been raised in. Only to find it raised and burned accidentally by another retainer who served the same lord. Outraged, Osric cried out for vengeance and took those who were loyal to him and hunted down the other retainer without warning. Finding the retainer and slaying him was neither problem or found with hesitation, but the consequences for his actions washed over him like a tidal wave striking a harbor.
Stripped of rank and position and sentenced to the chopping block, Osric escaped captivity and gained himself an enormous bounty from the lord's own coffers. Disobedience and betrayal would not be tolerated amongst his land. Osric turned to his family to harbor him, at least for a little time.
Eventually however, his brothers and sisters gave his location over to the authorities, not wanting their own lives to be ruined or their aging parents to meet a horrific end by a hunter who had threatened them, when he found out Osric's location. Betrayed and brought to sword point, Osric fought his way out of a terrible situation and found himself destroying his family's farmlands, in order to keep himself alive. Was it a necessary lost? Osric wondered that the rest of his days.
Osric had been consumed by paranoia and enraged by the few people he could trust, now no longer. Osric lead a bloody campaign of vengeance against the lord that branded him as an outlaw, destroying many people's lives and earning himself a position among the most hated in all of Imperia. Osric knew his actions were evil, but each step got him closer and closer to vengeance and he did not care of the consequences of his actions. They were only a means to an end, a body to act as a staircase to his lofty goals.
However, his reign would end in an anticlimactic battle inside the lord's keep. His own men had been payed off by the lord's agents, and when battle came to pass, Osric was turned on by those he attempted to trust again. Speared enough times to fell a bull, Osric died in that battle and was taken away to the afterlife to be judged.
And Judged he was, Nargel damned the man to walk for eternity as a creature not suited for either peace or torture in the afterlife. He awoke in the bowels of Solabren and with the magma and clashing stone of the earth, Osric clawed his way to the surface, once again in the green arms of Imperia. Strange though, Osric found himself neither with the feeling of guilt or the damnation that the rest of his kind might have felt. He found this new life as a second chance to finish what he had started and grow from that event, if he did indeed finish it. Shortly after his release from the afterlife, Osric had chosen the name of Tyre, to disguise against his horrid identity and he took up the banner of a revolutionary against an aging lord that he once served.
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