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 Posted: Tue Oct 16, 2012 12:54 pm
Name: "Darius." Real name redacted. When asked for a last name, the witch gave "Goodfellow", to Darius' horror. ((I REALLY WANT HIS CERT TO STILL SAY 'A SOLDIER' IF THAT'S POSSIBLE AT ALL HUAUSHG))
Age: 29
Orientation: So straight you could measure with him
Occupation: ex-Imperial Guardsman, currently helper/apprentice to a witch.
Looks: Darius is 6' 3", built broadly across the shoulders, with excellent (soldierly!) posture. He's caucasian, tanned from many hours outdoors, and his hands are rough and large. His hair, once long, is a light ash brown and chopped in a slightly unruly short cut. Darius has very clear grey-blue eyes, very sharp, very perceptive. His features are handsome, but his mouth is a little too long, slightly distracting -- especially because it's rarely tipped into a smile. He often wears a stoic expression, unreadable, from long hours of standing sentry.
Darius enjoys the feeling of being clean. He is neat but not fussy, and does not mind being dirty by any means, but if he has the luxury of a river, a basin filled with water, a wet cloth, he will use it to clean himself.
Personality: Who did Darius used to be? What was he like?
There's no doubt he was always stoic. A good soldier doesn't let emotions interfere, after all! He is a serious, grave sort of man, not disposed to show very much emotion on either end of the spectrum. He is similarly laconic, not particularly used to giving his opinion or making long conversation. His voice matches these feelings, quite deep and slightly gravelly, like a wolf taught to speak. He is much more used to observing, to making quick judgements, and to storing his opinions. (But, should you ask him blankly, Darius will answer you, and honestly! He is not hiding his opinions because he wants to mislead; he simply hasn't often been in a position where he is meant to speak freely. So, for instance, when Darius gives unprompted compliments, he really means them. They are given sparingly!)
Darius likes to do. He cannot be idle for long; he must have an occupation. Do not misunderstand -- if his occupation were to stand guard for hours without moving, he could happily do so, as it would still be considered working. It's his own leisure time he seems uncomfortable with: Darius hardly likes to sleep, let alone sit and do nothing. He is something of a workaholic, always training his body or doing chores and assignments. He will find things to do, or he will run a little mad.
At first glance, Darius doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. It seems like it might be buried under layers of disappointment and frustration... (Now and then he does things or says things that seem like they may be a joke, but -- but certainly not, right?)
Currently, Darius is going through a good amount of depression, due to the recent upheaval in his life. He tries hard to push down the disappointment he feels with the Guard, the bitterness at having dedicated his entire life, his entire soul to what basically feels to him like a house of cards. He has not yet found a good outlet for these feelings. The witch says he does a lot of staring angrily and chopping wood. Darius denies any of these feelings exist at all.
Certain prejudices -- dislike and distrust of the Cult, for instance -- still remain in Darius from his Guardsman days, just as the habits of a soldier do not diminish. He is slightly judgmental against those he believes do not try hard enough, work hard enough, or behave in ways that he finds cowardly or sycophantic. He cannot stand cowards, and is disgusted by Cult extremists.
History: ... redacted redacted redacted.
Darius does not talk much generally, but he does not talk at ALL about his former life. He was a Guardsman. He entered into the life as soon as he was able. He thinks that is plenty information to satisfy anyone's curiousity.
What he does not say is that Darius came from a family of wealthy luxury merchants (the name we shall gloss over for now, lest Darius hear us), eager to apply themselves into being thought better-born than they were. Their main trade is in luxuries -- once spices and furniture and rugs, of which their stock has plummeted since the borders closing. Now their trade is mainly in fine furs, although if the price is right they sometimes find artisan furniture pieces and sell them to silly aristocracy~.
Darius has a father, mother, and a sister that were a little bits of fluff only interested in being pampered and complimented.The family led a frivolous, thoughtless life, full of simpering and complimenting, dancing and hobnobbing and eating sweets. As a boy, Darius was just as bad as the rest of them, but soon enough he learned to love tales of heroism and war and of serving the glorious crown. He was educated and romantic when he was quite young, and quickly began to see those stories of heroism in members of the Imperial Guard -- a heroic life, pledged to the Emperor!
His family lived close to the mountains on the Shyregoed/Mishkan/Helios border, far enough away that the family considered their property incredibly exclusive and impressive, but close enough to trek into town and rub elbows with important clients. In their many visits to Helios, Darius was exposed to plenty of propaganda and had many opportunities to brood and wax philosophic/poetic about the uniformed Guardsmen he saw standing outside the noble addresses.
As he became a stormy adolescent, he pulled away from his family's shallow pursuits, more and more interested in the military. He became easily annoyed with his family's thoughtlessness, and intended to be more than a brainless son in a brainless family. (He is not amused to find that he brainlessly followed to where the Guard pointed.)
When he grew old enough, he entered into the Guard as an infantryman. He found strength in himself, a love of working, a determination not to break. He drifted from his family and all their aristocratic company and dived headlong into the business of soldiering. The glories and heroism were not what Darius expected, but he found that he liked the grit of service more than the shining romanticism that had initially taken him to the Guard. Relentless, tenacious, intelligent, Darius volunteered for missions and became part of a traveling Guardsmen company, dispatched to whatever place that most needed help. (Thanks to years of political unrest, he is now widely traveled.) He became quite skilled with a sword, perceptive to battle plans, good at improvisation and self-preservation.
When he returned sometimes to Helios, he was every bit the propaganda piece he himself once fell prey to. A handsome Guardsman, easy and friendly to those who exhibited the same sorts of hero-worship that he once had. It worked out for him, he thought, and the cause was just and true...
Darius distanced himself from his family. It has been years since they spoke. Darius' true family was his company, although recently he suffered many losses there, due to riots, the plague, etc. Those closest to him were lost, perhaps triggering Darius' sudden desire to question what he'd always taken easily as fact. Perhaps the romanticism that had been slowly falling away for all those years finally completed its descent. But Darius, in the past few months, slowly drifted from his peers, little by little, distracted by his thoughts. What if their cause was not so just and true as he thought? What if the Emperor was not the shining example of goodness and nobility as he'd always believed? Darius did not voice his concerns with his company. He does not say if he thinks of his company now that they all believe him to be dead.
Darius did what he should not have done; in a stay at Helios he was able to finally see the Emperor Rine for whom they all breathed and died. He was, in a word, unimpressed. The Emperor, still a boy, seemed frightened and selfish, and all the aristocracy in the court were ever bit as foolish and unpleasant as Darius remembered his family to be. It was a rude awakening, the realization that he was working so hard -- watching other soldiers risk themselves and die -- for a group of people he could barely stand to listen speak.
The depression of these realizations may have been overcome if Darius' company had not been sent soon after to quell a riot far away from Helios. In his distraction, Darius was less than vigilant and was easily stabbed by a man in the early stages of the plague illness. Darius killed the man with his faithful dagger in what he thought was his last act as a Guard, and then fell beside him to die.
But it was not to be. An old healer mage, Mary Rocque (formerly of Fort Estratus) found Darius still alive after the battle and dragged the Guardsman back to her home to heal him. As a nomadic sage of the Fellowship, Rocque was used to doing good deeds, to healing those she could in the name of the Fellowship and thereby spreading its good name. (It is, she believes, the only way she can feel close to the community she lost at Fort Estratus.) She healed Darius over a period of time, renamed him when he would not give her his name, and educated him as to the status of his dagger. To leave Darius, a confused and angry Guardsman as well as a Grimm, would be irresponsible, Mary thought. He could, after all, fall prey to his anger and turn toward the House...
After he was healed, Darius offered his services to Mary -- whom he still refers to as witch, somehow affectionately -- as she made her way back to the Fellowship hub in Shyregeod. He is currently without ambition or cause, save for her and for his plagued dagger.
Mary, however, impressed by his work ethic and manner, is thinking of how to draw him in to the Fellowship, perhaps make a mage of him...
Future?: Maybe one day you'll be found, soldier boy, then what?
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Posted: Tue Oct 16, 2012 12:55 pm
Name: Cyril Horatio Byron Daggerfeld IV*
*middle/family names and lineage subject to change whenever Cyril feels necessary.
Stage: Excito
Occupation: Plague of the Year
Looks: Dashingly plagued. A smile that can barely be contained by his face.
Personality: Cyril's hallmark is that he is invariably optimistic and gloriously spry. He is enthused to be alive! He wants to make a difference, to be on some kind of grand adventure, and he firmly believes that everything IS some kind of grand experience, even if it's ... sweeping, or gathering herbs. This is sometimes amusing and sometimes obnoxious, but now and then he works himself into a frothing hyperactivity and must be reminded to settle down. He is not especially perceptive, and sometimes does not understand when he is being insensitive or ridiculous until he is beaten over the head with it.
Cyril tries to be gentlemanly when in the presence of others -- especially Plagues. He cannot help his excitement or his too-broad smiles, but his addresses are always with compliment and flourish. He is chatty, cheery conversation. He is overjoyed to meet new people and tends to believe they are ALL his friends, whether they would agree to this or not. This is how Cyril sees the world -- generally good, and if it is not so, he will firmly pretend it is or explain the unpleasantness away until he is presented with irrefutable evidence.
Cyril is touchy-feely, loving hugs, handshakes, handholding -- all physical contact. He often rides on Darius's shoulder in the Captain Morgan/ Washington Crossing the Delaware style pose, talking happily with his Grimm, whether he is listening to him or not.
Cyril is also strangely lucky, a touch superstitious, and believes his good luck lies in the four-leaf clover in his hat.
Cyril is good at weaving tales, and tries to amuse others with outrageous stories and jokes. Sometimes he pretends to believe in his own clearly-fabricated stories; it's so hard to tell when he's always grinning like a madman...
Cyril believes he is a gentleman, a prince of daggers, and wants to be helpful to those he meets. His chaos and drama is all benign; underneath all the ridiculousness and flurry of activity there is a good heart and a pleasant disposition.
History: Once, he stabbed a guy in the throat that had the plague. Then he became gross and spotty. Now, he is five AND A HALF inches tall and tremendous.
To be more in depth: As a dagger, Cyril was crafted overseas by an artisan's loving hand, one that made him as sharp and well-balanced as he was beautifully ornate. He was sold and shipped away to Panymium, eventually landing in the hands of a particular luxury merchant, who intended to sell him for a pretty price. However, this luxury merchant had a young son whose head was full of romantic dreams about the military, and who took a shine to this dagger. The boy was given the dagger to display in his room. But boys will be boys; the youth often played with this dagger rather than allowing it to simply rest on his shelf. The beginning of their relationship was not always smooth. The boy would sometimes be sloppy with the dagger; the dagger would sometimes n** the boy in response.
Time passed. The boy grew, and as he did, the dagger was less and less on the shelf and more and more on the boy's person. When eventually he entered the Guard, the dagger entered with him. Cyril was a good dagger, quick and easy to draw, attractive tucked into a uniform, easy to keep sharp. He saved his master's life more than once.
At some point, the dagger's owner became thoughtful. He would draw out Cyril and polish him more often then he usually did. Sometimes he would not pay attention to the dagger, and Cyril would n** him gently to remind him to keep his wits about him.
During one skirmish -- there had been many, and the dagger did not see that this one was any different -- the boy did not draw his dagger in time. The dagger felt his boy's blood, and was gratified to be drawn and stabbed. The man he stabbed was ill; the dagger could feel that much immediately, and did not want to rot in the man's throat. He, the stabbed man, and his boy all fell. And Cyril was happy that his boy still retrieved him.
After this, Cyril could not get rid of the illness the man's blood had given him. But he was glad his boy had lived, even though his name had changed. But he, himself, he was pungent and disgusting, even though Darius still kept him close. The witchlady, Mary, who had saved them both, told Darius that the dagger was 'plagued'. She called it a strange name.
One night, the dagger died. Or disappeared. Or perhaps just changed forms. But all the same, it remembered none of its previous life or importance or gravity. It grew legs, and arms, and a smile. But one thing remained: when it awoke in the middle of the night and saw Darius nearby sleeping, he loved him.
Relationship with Darius:
All of Darius' past enthusiasm and romanticism went into Cyril. He is talkative where Darius is not, but they are both disposed to action, and Cyril is very happy to be constantly doing rather than resting. Darius encourages Cyril's high energy in that he does not actively discourage it, which is plenty for the little plague to keep being himself.
Darius is sometimes annoyed by Cyril's enthusiasm and optimism, sometimes amused, and sometimes endeared -- it all depends on how his philosophical mood interprets Cyril's optimism. Is it naivety, or ridiculousness, or innocence? One way or another, Cyril's high energy and sometimes outright silliness does pull the odd smile from Darius, even if it is paired with a head shake and a long-suffering sigh.
The bond between them is strong. To Darius, Cyril is still his faithful dagger. He is reborn, but it is only right that he should have been reborn when Darius 'died'. He feels a sense of responsibility to keep Cyril safe, to keep him happy. It is one cause he cannot doubt.
To Cyril, Darius is all that is noble and right. He is aware that Darius is strong, that he is wiser than him, and that Darius cares for and has always cared for him.
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