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.