Richard Ashendale
"The weak are conquered by the strong."
| Belpheron | |||||||
| Male Human | |||||||
| Player: Bushy_Fro | |||||||
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| General Information | ||||||||||
| Full Name: | Richard Ashendale | |||||||||
| Nicknames: | Belly, Belphy, Belpheron | |||||||||
| Age: | 31 | |||||||||
| Deity: | None | |||||||||
| Alignment: |
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| Occupation: | Arcanist, Sword Singer, Merchant | |||||||||
| Faction/Rank: | None | |||||||||
| Place of Birth: | Baklunish Empire, Oerth | |||||||||
| Physical Attributes | ||||||||||
| Height: | 193cm (6'4") | |||||||||
| Weight: | 205 lbs | |||||||||
| Eyes: | Yellow | |||||||||
| Hair: | Midnight Blue | |||||||||
| Complexion: | Tan | |||||||||
| Physical Build: | Muscled, not toned. | |||||||||
| Physical Features: | His eyes glow faintly | |||||||||
| Skills | ||||||||||
| He's well versed in both close quarters combat and Spellcraft, his knowledge of the arcane at the level of an arch mage. He's also capable of speaking to weapons through an entranced chanting, the depth of which can vary but can leave him vulnerable to attack. | ||||||||||
| Equipment and Items | ||||||||||
| He has two different sets of gear, one which is a set of wizarding gear which consists of fine tuned robes and some spell rings, including multiple different wizarding staves. His combat gear consists of Elven Mithril, made to fit him specifically. All of his gear tends to, however, have purple and black. | ||||||||||
Appearance
Standing tall and proud this Human, at first glance, would appear to be some form of warrior, with muscles forged out of battle, rather than out of physical exercise and because of this, although he is rather large, he is not statuesque but rather untoned in fact, seemingly just a large man. He boasts features that could betray him to be a stereotype for a hero with a strong jawline and a stern face that paladin's keep adorned, but an eerie glow from his bright yellow eyes suggests something different entirely.
His eyes have a constantly serious stare with his eyebrows naturally furrowing into a frown that implies a constant concentration on the world around him, or more often his own thoughts. His eyes, although unnatural for humans, with their luminescent properties have a constant glow for a reason that is as of yet unexplained which gives his piercing stare an eerie quality far beyond his own control.
His general appearance is rather rigid, his posture always perfect and his face always in a constant expression, rarely broken by a smile or even a hint of irritation, but when the face that seems still as porcelain is broken by emotion it's fierce, unbridled, even mild irritation can appear to be full fledged rage or a small smile or grin can make him seem the happiest man in the multiverse, betraying his rigid visage.
Although he lacks scars and tattoos, upon occasion when caught in a deep trance he gains a sort of set of tattoos that cover his body. These are simple arcane text and to those arcanists that don't understand their context they would appear to be gibberish words strung together, but to a well trained eye they tell a story, a complex one at that and depending on the amount of time the individual arcanist has to study them they would even be able to piece together parts of his history that he has forgotten, for the story that these glyphs show are his own story, written in the form of language that sword chanters use and in which enchantments are made.
When clothed, as he usually is, he typically wears clothes made of black and purple though he bears no religious marks on most of his clothing, his battle armour does feature a large white cross that reaches down the length of his cloak, draped over his shoulder. His clothing tends to be functional, robust but well made, a fine menagerie of styles that range from the typical barbarian's rough and functional sense, to the elegant stitching and fine cloth of a nobleman's garb. This leaves his appearance to be rather odd, clearly from somewhat reputable origins but lacking the refined touch that nobles have and far more akin to being in clothing that's functional, he's managed to combine two elements together. Typically, his dress contains fine cloths and heavy armours with a capable amount of movement, he prefers chainmail made of Mithril and gentle cloths such as silk.
His basic features are typical of his origin, with long straight hair that hangs down neatly, always tended to very carefully and cut neatly, his skin is tanned and dark though not quite as golden roasted as some others he does have a more healthy brown skin, sometimes described as olive skin, which betrays the typical arcanists pasty pale skin. His hands are firm and strong with thick skin that comes from wielding a weapon for a long time, his skin, although barely scarred, has some thick skin and callouses from extended wear of heavier armours, a trait that follows those that wear armour.
Personality
A rather stoic man, he keeps generally to himself and tends to stay away from conversation for the most part, however, he won't reject conversation entirely, moreso he finds himself to be lacking in the social resources to be able to participate in conversations comfortably. Although he is incapable of normal social interaction he's a man that holds great pride in his abilities and will not hesitate to voice his opinion, when coupled by the fact that he tends to be brutally honest - by his own admission that he is a terrible liar - tends to rub a lot of patrons the wrong way.
Although he is cautious he acts in a manor that can be seen brashly, but he very carefully calculates most of his actions working based within his own restrictions, which he is very well aware of. Although he speaks very brashly of the gods and openly admits that he does not see the point in gods, he knows their strength and does not go to the point of directly challenging them, but rather voices his opinion of them openly, even in front of their champions. His opinion on the matter tends to be that if the gods are so petty they would smite down a man for speaking his mind then he'd rather die having spoken his mind freely and die because of it, than live in fear of them.
Many describe him as arrogant, which he does not deny, but the truth of the matter is not that he is arrogant, though he is egotistical and confident, he prefers to be challenged - on an intellectual or physical matter, and will gladly accept a challenge, even from someone he knows he cannot defeat, not because he doesn't fear them but because he does. In fact, he seems highly willing to accept all emotion, a fact that is hidden away from most that do not take the time to get to know the man.
History
Birth
Born into the highest family of a small village by the coast, this young boy’s path is laid before him without his choice. From the first breath he draws his life is planned out, from what he will study, to the friends he will make and even down the most minor detail of the way his room is organised. His father is the heir to an old lineage, a man that holds great respect amongst the village which he’s protected from a young age, even more feared by those that stand in his way – regardless of whether they are friend or foe. The Arcanist, Sebastian Ashendale, gained his magical prowess through years of study, having reached the power equivalent to even an Arch Mage he was capable of destroying entire armies within a single fell swoop, or break down the foundations of a man in very many ways, both painful and slow. The man had become a legend and his son, now born, would be entrusted to carry on the name: Ashendale. The little boy, carrying the innocent smile that a child does lays in his crib, carrying features that suit him rather well, dark hair and shining blue eyes, grasping and his mother’s hair – but his mother does not smile at his birth, instead she sobs, she holds the child close to her chest and whispers a quiet apology to the boy, as his life would change very dramatically from the first sunrise. At least the little child gets to experience the night in his mother’s arms, loved and cared for and pitied, an emotion that would likely not be felt for the child in any recent measure of time. With the sunrise, the first of the father’s plans start, a small arcane mark is made on the back of the neck of the boy, not older than even a full cycle of the sun; he is already becoming part of his father’s plans for him. A simple mark, nothing anyone would see, it blocks part of the boy’s essence, but ancient power runs through the very blood of this boy, a power that could corrupt a hero, or change the heart of the foulest scoundrel. The boy does not cry, he does not scream, he simply lays in the arms of his father, that smiles and coos, entertaining the boy with a hidden malice that they boy does not yet recognise, instead the young baby boy gargles, clutching the cloth of the father that holds him. The First day of the rest of life, and the last day of his life – a fitting moment to mark the events that are yet to unfold for him, Richard Ashendale, son of the people.
Innocence and Ignorance
The little toddler laughs as he runs across the stone floor and up to a gate, holding on to some rails and looking out at the village. Richard had grown into a happy boy, and even at this young age had shown some remarkable talents, he was able to talk and walk, he kept himself well tended and didn’t show anger, and although he would sometimes grow impatient or annoyed, he was never angered. The villagers of the small village lying by the coast of the Baklunish Empire named the little boy the son of the people, as many had come to see the marvel of a son that their revered leader had raised, in their eyes, for them. He looks from the rails across the village for a moment, watching them scurry about their business, he looks up to his mother with a smile and says calmly; “They’re like little ants, mummy.” His smile remained as she looks to him, crouching down and calmly says “Only from up here. One day you will see, they are as real as you or I”. His eyes look away from her and turn back down to the village, staying silent. The boy’s intellect was no fluke of nature, the same power that runs through the veins of his father also runs through the veins of Richard, and his father’s arcane experiments on the boy, something that had not stopped after the first mark was placed on the boy. Since then there were four more marks placed on him: One on the back of his skull, one on each shoulder blade and one at the bottom of his back, forming a cross. These symbols, placed on him though arcane means and usually invisible – except to those with the appropriate arcane knowledge – holds a power that restrict the boy, it keeps him from feeling anger, it stores everything he remembers with crystal clarity, it grants him immunity from the diseases of the common folk, it increases his strength and his toughness. These five marks are named the greater seals, the ankh of rebirth. These marks combined makes the boy into a symbol of calm strength, even at a young age, but where there’s strength there’s always fear and hatred. The boy never made friends, his father doesn’t allow it, stressing that he must remain safe within the grounds of their home, resting at the top of the highest hill, looking down at the village.
War
A simple action, raising a hand and expelling power from it, burning enemies to ash or swinging a sword and removing the head of a human, or an elf – perhaps disembowelling an orc, these actions mean little to those who are raised with it as part of their life. Richard trains on a daily basis, he is older, stronger, smarter, and he holds no regard for any that would try to take his own life. His eyes have grown colder, those in the village adore him, they say he is kind and patient, he would not harm a fly, but these are the people he’s sworn to protect. He smiles, he is happy that he can serve them as their soldier, but he feels little else, sometimes when he rests he has dreams of when he was younger, feeling sorrow and sobbing; he had not shed a tear in over a year, he could no longer cry. He doesn’t feel rage, hatred, fear or pity, he does not stop his sword regardless of who threatens the village against him, he knows his place and that is between any enemy and the village which adore him so, and he will stand and fight till his last breath. Years have passed and although he is a mere teenager, he stands at the height of almost a full grown man, his muscles are well developed and strong, built from years of training with a sword, from the moment he could lift it he was taught to use it. His father’s intentions are that the boy does not become even nearly as strong in the arcane arts, that his intellect does not grow beyond the control of Sebastian, for the village holds an ancient secret, a reason why so many want to destroy it.
The power that runs through the veins of Richard and his father and every father before him is the power stolen from a God, the oldest father in the lineage, an arcane trickster, made a wager with the God, one that seemed impossibly in the favour of the God, but the oldest father had known that the God’s hubris would blind him and played a trick, deceiving the God and taking a portion of the God’s power for his own. Outraged that the trickster had managed to deceive him, he placed a curse on the trickster, that every child would be born an outcast, and the power would eventually consume them and be redistributed amongst the people, where the God would gain it back. The oldest father took a warning from this curse and fled to a village, small and simple, he convinced them that he had been tricked by an evil God and they had to protect themselves, to cast off the beliefs of Gods, he used his power to bind the small village away from Gods, so the power may never leave the village, bound in the body of the oldest father.
This is a history that Richard was taught from when he was small, something unable to forget, that rings true every day, as he fights off hordes that attempt to invade to steal the power that was bound on Oerth and stolen from a God, though many believe this power is held in an amulet or weapon they do not know the horrible truth, the matter of fact is that it’s been so long since the oldest father that nobody knows the truth but Richard’s own research taught him that the power that he commands, the power that runs in his blood is a temporary gift and by the age of twenty he must kill his own father, to retain the power that runs in his own blood, or else the power will end and the village will fall. So it will be his duty to end his father’s life, to become the mayor, something his own father did, and his father before him, leading back to the first son, war is simply a preparation for a larger battle to come, one between him and his father. Perhaps that’s the reason his father placed those seals inside of him, to lock away all the bad, to make sure that Richard is a righteous leader, to make him a better person, or is it out of fear? Fear of dying, perhaps, something that drives men to do mad things. Fear can lead an army to fall, as Richard wore fear like a fierce cloak, his yellow eyes glowing with arcane power, shining from behind the slits of the helm that hides his face, the eyes all his foes stare into before he removes their entrails.
The villagers, although keeping a respectful distance, adore him, something he had craved his whole life. Despite the warnings of parents, children would flock around him and play with him, and his firm hand that could choke the life from a man with a squeeze would instead hold children and throw them up into the air, even when returning from months out in the field at war he would return in armour with not even a drop of blood on him, and he always seemed well fed, some tricks he had been forced to learn, he loved his people and would die for them, he may have even fallen in love with a girl one day, but not yet, for now his only thought was remaining strong for the village, and growing to be the man the village needed him to be. Although he felt joy and love, many nights he found himself pondering, whether the feeling came from the adoration he felt from the people, or the feeling of gutting an orc and watching the life drain from its eyes, for joy is one of the few luxuries he has left in the world, one of the few things he could feel between the dozens of marks that his father had placed on him, a whole net of them now covering the once crying baby, the laughing boy, the man that drank blood and ate the flesh of the fallen.
Matrimony, Malice and other things that start with M.
Reaching adulthood, usually something marked by some sort of move on, getting your own family, living on your own, gaining your independence. For Richard the marking of his adulthood is when he turns twenty full years, down to the very hour he was born, pending which he chooses a wife during the following three cycles of the sun; failure to do so ends in him being assigned a wife by his father – something that would likely end in a broken home with no mother and a wife being taken from her husband and children. The decision would be based on logic, for he felt little else any more, the joy that he once felt in protecting the village had been taken and he could no longer feel love, his pride was taken from him too, all that remains is a sense of duty faintly glowing in the empty shell of a man that he has become. His body contains over a hundred seals, from greater seals to lock away major pathways of emotions to minor seals to take away some basic fundamentals of him, he is as close to a golem as you can get without crafting one yourself and even so his father’s plans are not yet done. The binding of the son occurred a short while before the day that his twentieth year would be complete, his father ordering him to stay still as usual, and as the good son was engineered he stood still, then the father drew on the power that held the village together, the power that kept it protected against the view of the Gods for centuries, that kept their influence from reaching the small village and infused it into his son. The side effect of this was the power being drained from the father himself, sapped from him and passed down into his son, but a smart wizard does not show weakness in front of someone that can cleave them in twain, instead the devise a way to obtain power and stall their own death, and such was exactly what his father did. Ordering Richard away he locked himself away, not to be seen or heard of – at least not yet.
This brings us to the night that Richard was born on, twenty yearly cycles ago, and the night Richard begins his quest to find a woman suitable. Although he has no more love for the village, not a semblance of care, he does have memories of a time when he felt good emotion, an understanding of the way the village functions and he has an understanding of the complex social systems in play. A woman is approached by a suitor that then attempts to woe her, they will then court until they have a family, no official ceremony is held for them as they make an agreement to stay together, only a ceremony is held for the head of the village, an occasion which is meant to be celebrated. Watching the village, Richard must decide, he chooses to wait until the final day to approach his choice and so he watches them in their complex plays, he studies them from afar and makes notes, figuring out which woman belongs to which man, which child to which family, narrowing the options to cause the least amount of distress in the village. Until the final day comes, the time to choose and the time to wreck the life of the poor woman that could not anticipate what the next morning could hold.
A cock screams at first light and Richard slowly gets up from his bed, placing on the armour he’d worn every day from the moment he could, crafted for the – now – giant of a man, standing at 6’4” he could almost be mistaken for one of the warriors of Asgard, but for the lack of a beard and a sense of humour. He slowly heads down into the village to the door of the woman whose life is about to crumble, knocking twice and then waiting, an elderly woman answers the door and looks up with a surprised look “What can we do for you, m’lord?” she asks with a bow. He looks down and says calmly “I have come to claim your daughter, she has no suitors and is of appropriate age.” The elderly woman’s face lights up with joy and she claps her hands together exclaiming “Kiara! We’ve found you a man! Oh the damnedest of luck, we’ve found you a man!” He watched the display, keeping a calm expression and when given a chance to speak he simple says “Bring her to my home by sunset, she will reside there from tonight onwards” and turning away he walks back to his home, the sound of footsteps rushing through the home from up some stairs heard behind him and a voice of a young woman curious to find out what the commotion was that her mother was screaming about.
The first night the woman stays, the night that the two are meant to get to know each other but she does nothing but sit in anger, displeased at the situation; he sits and stares at her, uncertain of the etiquette of standard conversation, for he’s not had one in an eternity, or so it felt. His voice now scared people, and only those old enough to remember him as a boy could remember what he looked like when he smiled, what he was before he was the cold man that was molded this way. The night drags on, and the two barely say a word, they sleep in separate rooms and keep to themselves. She has an entire house to roam through, and yet she is more trapped than when she had nothing else, everything she could demand and nothing that she could ever need.
A week passes and plans are made, large cakes are baked and banquets are cooked as a feast for the whole village. Kiara and Richard say nothing to each other, they do not speak from the moment they meet till the moment they are to be betrothed, for he has nothing to say to her, the village knows the affairs of the old family, and they know it’s best to abide by them. They walk down the aisle, and the father shows his face, a face most presumed had gone mad or fallen ill, perhaps even worse. They do not mince words, they simply perform the ceremony. It’s over quickly, she heads back to the home and he does too, back to her tears and back to his books. All is as it should be, tonight, and a son has performed his duty, and readies to continue doing so.
The red river
Having seen his father, the weakness in him, Richard knows that he must perform his next duty; he’s surpassed his father in strength and therefore has to fulfil the final act in the play that’s gone on for centuries. He takes the night, his wedding night, to prepare and talks to his weapon – the hand and a half sword that he wields so loyally, letting it know its duty.
The night shifts, Richard does not sleep tonight, he prepares for what could end up in a terrible conflict, the first light glimmers over the horizon and while the rest of the village only barely starts to stir, he is already ready for combat. He walks calmly through the house, sword in one hand, and a shield tied to the other, he comes up to the door where his father spends all of his time: The study that is so important, where so many hours was spent making Richard into the golem that he is today. Only a moment is given for his father to prepare himself, a courtesy at most, and calmly his foot rises up and presses against the door with a mighty force that forces it off its hinges and flying down with a mighty crash. His father’s face is shocked for only a moment, quickly turning to a sneer as he grabs a scroll and incants, the edges of the scroll burning away, a bolt of lightning hits Richard and sears his flesh but this does not halt his stride which quickly turns into a run, the smell of the burning flesh on his shield arm the only indication he has that he’s wounded. He closes the distance between him and his father and knocks into the frail man, realising now that his father has very little actual endurance or strength as he watches him fly into a book case, landing with a gasp, he walks up to his father and with an unceremonious slash, his father’s head rolls off its shoulders and lands at his feet.
The cold stare from his father’s eyes is filled with a shriek as he turns around to see his mother standing in the doorway. He turns away from the corpse of his father and walks towards her, to find out what troubles her, for in his eyes his father is just another corpse and he is not a murderer, but in her eyes, he is no longer her son, no longer the boy that smiled or the teenager that laughed, but the man that kills without remorse and without emotion and he is coming to her. She runs and he lets her go, he has no business with that woman, she is nothing more than the one that birthed him – the duty that his wife has to oblige by, granting him a son that will one day kill him, too.
Hierarchy of Standards
High Regard
The people that may die, but not likely by any blade I possess
Elianes: She cured him of the seals that held him back, breathing a new life into him. He owes her a great deal and would stand by her to protect her, even to the point of mortal wounding or death.
Alexander Krupkin: This little halfling keeps Richard entertained, he's shown to be worth the reputation he carries and has knocked Belperon down a peg more than once.
Mack Bloodeye: This brute of a man always gives Belpheron something to laugh about, and is notably a strong warrior. Two things he can respect.
Edward Hyde: The half-dead man that can take more blows than even Belpheron, he holds respect merely for his ability to withstand pain and do as he pleases.
Average
Your average stranger, nobody you care about and whether they live or die is no matter
Nobody noteable, yet.
Low Regard
Given the chance I would gut them and choke them to death with their own entrails. Then have them ressurected so I can do it again.
Anyone that tries to force Gods down his throat.
Goals
Short Term
-Wizard Tower: He wishes to construct a tower in the Abyss where he can stay, somewhat, comfortably.
-Weapons: Collecting weapons is his passion and he wants more.
-Slaughter an irritant: Although basic, he has the constant overwhelming desire to simply kill irritating people.
-Learn Social Behaviour: To be able to properly express himself, he wants to learn social behaviours and apply them.
Long Term
-Forge a godkiller: He wants to forge a weapon capable of slaying a God, he doesn't care which God.
-Kill a God: Bringing down a God will entitle him to stand above the rest of the God fearing, and allow him to seize power.
-Create a plane: His desire is to rule over a demiplane, free from the influence of Gods, a place for Arcane studies.
-Learn: Another simple goal but important, he wishes to learn as much Arcana as possible, every spell he can learn he will try to learn.