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Old 10-06-2006, 05:03 PM   #105
Garen LiLorian
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Join Date: Nov 2002
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Hello everybody. Here's a rough character sketch, that may or may not work very well. It may be a bit modern. *shrug* Oh well. It was fun to think about. Please let me know if and how it needs to be changed.

Linked ~*~ Pio

Garen LiLorian's character

NAME: Adbrandr

AGE: 22

RACE: Ulfing


WEAPONS: Adbrandr's weapon is usually rhetoric, but he has the strength of his beliefs and so occasionally wields a dagger or a torch as becomes neccessary. In a real fight, he would use the same short spears and shield as the other Easterling warriors, though he is not trained with them beyond a basic proficiency.

APPEARANCE: Adbrandr is taller then average for an Easterling, (say 5'5" or so) straight limbed and beautiful. His eyes (which are blue) are fiery and passionate. His skin is fair (for an Easterling) and his hair is long, black, and tied in a ponytail. For an Easterling, he is slender and not very strong. He wears typical peasant clothes, though his family can afford better, to show his devotion to the working man.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Adbrantr is a political activist. Though a man in the prime of life for an Easterling, he is not married, continues to live with his parents and doesn't work or own property. Instead, he devotes his entire attention to his political agenda. He is a student (insofar as it is possible) who has decided that the Ulfings would be much better off allied with the Enemy. He is happy giving incendiary speeches against the Eldar, whom he sees as frightening, condescending aristocratic overlords and comfortable arranging mysterious fires or administering dark alley beatings to those he sees as collaborators with the hated Elves. He is extremely zealous and has a charisma about him, a strength of belief that sustains him much more then food or friends. He is strong but brittle, overly passionate but close-minded, intelligent but foolish.

HISTORY: Minor house carls in Ulfang's "court," Adbrandr's parents enjoy some status and wealth above most of the other subsistance farmers, and thus Adbrandr's life was less hard then most of his peers. He was only a small child during the relocation of the tribes, and carries only a small child's romantic vision of the "motherland" that the tribe relocated from. His knowlege of Elves is just as scarce, his only real experience being a vague memory of them as bright and terrible as they, according to him, commanded that the tribe settle in the area where they are now, an area pitifully too small for the growing number of Men, in his estimation. His youth, while less hard then most, was not easy by any stretch, and he blames this as well on the Elves. Hearing of the "Enemy" that dared to challenge the Eldar's claims of superiority with nothing but a few brave men and other creatures hated by the bigoted Elves, Adbrandr spent most of his teenage years trying to learn from the old men of the tribe about Elvish history and oppressions. Armed with a patchy knowlege of third-degree history, he had declared his contempt for the Elvish collaborationist views expressed by Ulfang and his two younger sons, and holds up the oldest as a misunderstood folkhero, worthy of praise.


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"And that is why!" the crockery rattled from the thump as he be brought his fist down, staring feverishly around the dinner table at his companions. "Don't you see? What have they ever done for us? How have they helped us? By giving us what is already ours?! No! And no again!" His head traversed from side to side in an emphatic shake, but his too bright eyes remained fixed on his audience. On the table, his fist trembled with restrained passions. "This... this slavery, yes, slavery is an affront to our proud house that cannot, nay, will not be borne. Justice will out, friends." He dropped into a prophetic whisper at this last. "Mark my words. And you would be wise to side with the people rather then with the overlords when we rise up and throw off this yoke of elvish imperialism." He punctuated his impassioned talk with a deep swallow from his earthenware cup, revolutionary fervor burning deeply in his breast, his strange eyes darting over his audience.

"Yes, yes, just as you say dear." His mother pushed back in her chair uncomfortably, hands dry washing themselves in her lap as she looked imploringly at her husband. The other person at the table brought the palm of his large, hairy hand down on the table with a thump not unlike his son's, only a moment before. "And I say, that is enough of that nonsense, boy." He growled, foul breath washing over the intervening space, his small black eyes glinting dangerously. "Three times already ye've escaped having yer throat cut and fed to the crows, and each time ye come back more lunatic then the last. I'll na' have it under my roof anymore, d'y'hear?" The revolutionary started to speak strongly, but the hairy limb slammed the table again, a cup leaping off in fright, preferring the cool safety of the packed earth ground to the increasingly abused table. "No! I said no an' I mean no, boy! While ye live under my roof, ye'll do as I say, or it'll be me feedin' ye to the crows." The small part of his face not yet claimed by the ongoing struggle of beard, hair and eyebrows was a dangerous red and the hand not used for so scaring the cookware clutched the wooden handle of a long dirk at his belt unconsciously, the barest gleam of iron reflecting candlelight.

The revolutionary leaned forward in his chair, his passion turned cold. His bright eyes glittered like a snake's and, as though taken with the metaphor, his body appeared coiled and tense, ready to strike. His voice, perhaps feeling left out, came in a hiss. "You cannot suppress the truth, father. You cannot kill it with your cold iron or stamp on it with your boots. You are just like every other fat, self satisfied house carl, living off the work of the people, offering nothing in return. A mangy wolf, living off of the scraps the elves feed you, and the meat you can steal without bringing down the wrath of the people upon you." His head made another slow traverse. "No more, father. Strike me all you wish. I never wanted your protection, and I renounce your soveriegnty over me."

The bearded thundercloud darkened and he reached for a handful of the rough shirt his son was wearing, but the younger man slipped his grasp and moved to the door gracefully. "Farewell mother. Find the truth before it finds you." He intoned, and was gone. "Damn blast that Elf-spawned, goblin loving excuse for a milk blooded son of a pox-ridden -!" His father's bellow cut through the night. "You know it's only a phase, dear..." The peacemaker laid her hand on her husband's arm, her voice soothing. "This is the third time this month, and he always comes back, talking about filial piety and the values of this revolution he seems to want so much." She looked out the door sadly. Her still glowering husband clenched and unclenched his ham-like hands, looking for something to hit. "... I'm for the lord's house." He said after a moment through gritted teeth. "If that blasted goblin lover gets his feet too cold and runs back, he can sleep in the field with the animals, d'y'hear?" His wife nodded obediently, privately resolving to do nothing of the sort. "Well then." The man of the house took another look around, as if daring the furniture to utter revolutionary slogans, then ducked into the night after his son.

This is my quest, to follow that star; no matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause. To be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause! -Man of La Mancha

Last edited by Garen LiLorian; 11-04-2006 at 01:33 PM.
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