Advertise/Affiliate Other Forum Main Page The World Before You Play

Vandryn Kazida'am

Started by Lion, October 25, 2011, 08:56:47 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

Lion

Prologue
+ NAME + Vandryn Kazida’am
+ ALIAS + Whatever he chooses
+ AGE + 493
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Moon Candle
+ BORN + Beginning of Autumn
+ ORIGIN + Southern Thunderblacks
+ SPECIES + Umbraeon (Dark Elf)
+ RESIDENCE + Anywhere
+ OCCUPATION + Assassin / Agent-for-hire
+ COUNTENANCE + Dusty Black hair / Lava-red eyes
+ STATURE + 6’0” / 200 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Extremely Picky


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
There was a time when Vandryn might have been considered beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, with smooth, unmarred skin, not a wrinkle or scar in sight.  He might have been should his fate been different.  For Vandryn, his face is grotesquely scarred, in a symmetrical manner where flesh has been pulled and stitched together.  His features, if you can look past the scarring, are very sharp and his cheekbones are high.  His browridge is low leading down to a wide nose with an aquiline bend to it and his head covered in a mop of dusty black hair, short and spiked, longer in the front than in the back and his hair is shaved beside his temples, making his ears stick out more than usual.  While his lips are full, they are torn here and there from piercings that were yanked from them.  There are two tears, one on the right side of his upper lip and one on the left side of his lower lip.  The scars reflect each other as one starts down from the middle left of his forehead, the other following in a parallel fashion, and going down before turning at his eyebrow and going around his eyes along his temples, then curving back on the path along his cheekbones and flowing straight down his cheeks and curving just under his jaw.

His face has fared only slightly better than his body.  Though he is built with a sturdy, tensile musculature, one that is more than slender but significantly less than a mountain, his flesh is massively scarred from being stretched and stitched where skin was peeled away.  Once he possessed, the full body tattoos that marked him as a tribal Umbraeon.  But where the tattoos once traced his dark ash-blue skin, in their place only gruesome scars remain, across his chest, a long his back, shoulders, arms and legs, cut and torn away by his own hands.  Overlapping them are the remains of smaller puncture wounds where stitches were plucked out in order to seal his skin together.

Vandryn acknowledges the boundaries societies and people place on physical appearance, and cares nothing for it.  Whether there is beauty to be found in a shattered face or ugliness in the common beauty, Vandryn could care less for the words gasped in shock.  Out of mind, over matter.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
The massive amount of scars that reside all over his body and the stitching that sealed them together, making his skin seem like patchwork, take over where his full-body tattoos used to be.

+ PREFERRED CLOTHING +
Vandryn prefers to wear simple, unassuming clothing when not on a job.  He wears a thick leather cuirass, made of a flexible animal hide underneath a set of simple commoner robes.  He wears thin-soled boots that quiet his footsteps and he can often be seen armed with a pair of short, curved sword, one on either side of his waist.


CH II – Mental Make-up
Just by a mere glance, a stranger may easily tell that he doesn’t like people knowing about him.  And in his line of work, the less people know about him, the better.  Despite being an opportunist, he’s picky about the work he takes and he knows when to fold his hand when he sees no chance of victory.  He prefers to work alone, seeing other people just getting in the way.  His job is to look out for ‘number one’ first and to forget everyone else.  He despises what he calls the ‘Marauder Mentality,’ the idea that a person finds self-importance and identity within a group and without the group, they are nothing.

Vandryn may decide to extend his servitude to a particular employer, especially if he sees incentive enough that will benefit his interests.  Yet he will turn the tables of his loyalties faster than a heartbeat, and without regret.  He’s self-serving, backstabbing, and has no sympathy for others.  When given a job, he is driven and will carry it out at all costs, no matter who gets hurt or in his way. He’s apathetic to the weak and mocking to his enemies.  Vandryn is neither humble nor vain.  He bears pride in what he does and his ability to do it well, and he follows his own code of conduct, disregarding established rules of etiquette.

He is not above resorting to underhanded and unorthodox tactics of warfare and as a means to an end.  For to him, there is no justice, and there is no honor; only survival of the most cunning.  Thinking on his feet is something he’s used to, often having to improvise rather than just sticking to a well-laid plan.  Despite his line of work, Vandryn actually prefers not to start or participate in fights that he deems completely unnecessary, most of which are.  He does not often rise to the challenge of taunts or insults.  More than likely, he will simply laugh at the attempt then just go back to that he was doing.  Even physical contact is unlikely to get a rise out of him.

Vandryn maintains his independence fiercely, and trusts no one completely and wholeheartedly, not even Mat’nacht, nor contacts that he’s been in touch with for years.  He lives with the philosophy that everyone, at some point, is expendable, some more than others.

+ FAITH +
Vandryn had once been in a position to mock the gods and all those who worshipped them, because he found faith to be useless in the matter of life.  He was disillusioned with the native faith of his people, hated their continued worship of a dead god as a complete waste of time.  It wasn’t long before he fell under the gaze of a mysterious death god that called itself Mat’nacht, and took him into her embrace.  He refers to this figure rarely by its name, frequently referring to it as ‘it’ or ‘she’, though it has no specified gender.

+ HABITS +
The assassin doesn’t have what many would be consider vices.  He drinks very little, and does not smoke, or enjoys vices of the flesh.  He has a habit for meditation and ritual to Mat’nacht, whom would expect nothing less from him.  He dabbles in harvesting ingredients for different needs and recording the effects of such ingredients when blended together.


CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Mat’nacht, Deity.  This figure is largely unseen in the physical world and touches its followers through dreams, nightmares and visions.  Vandryn stays close to her, often through self-induced hallucinations and conversing through what he calls the ‘Hidden Tongue’.  Mat’nacht is the only thing Vandryn shows any loyalty to.  It is unclear whether this loyalty stems from something genuine inside him, or if he’s merely loyal to prevent himself from being dragged into the pits of hell.


CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ ARCHERY +
Vandryn has had centuries with which to hone his archery skills and can string a bow and nock an arrow and fire it as if it’s little more than an extension of himself.  He has an eye for distance, from years of experience, and takes great care when taking his shot, patient and waiting for the right moment to strike; even capable of gauging approximately how long it will take for an arrow to strike its target.  He has a vast amount of experience with crafting bows, making them stronger and more durable, creating his own arrows, fletching them, and forging arrowheads as well.  He has a nigh uncanny aim and can snipe a target from nearly a fifth of a mile away.

+ DUAL SWORDS +
In close quarters combat, Vandryn chooses to wield dual swords, the likes of which resemble wakizashis.  They are lighter and quick to wield single-handedly and Vandryns ambidextrous hands give him an added advantage.  They are folded in a fashion that makes the foreign metal much sturdier.  Vandryn maintains these weapons himself and keeps the blades keen and sharp.  He prefers to utilize speed and well-aimed strikes to take out an opponent rather than brute force, though he’s still quite capable of delivering power behind every move.

+ ACROBATICS +
The years of training and moving have left Vandryn extremely flexible and far more agile than he might at first seem.  He’s good at incorporating acrobatics into combat in addition to using acrobatics as a means of evasion and escape.  He’s has an almost unnerving appreciation for heights and can twist his body so that he lands on his feet instead of his head.  That isn’t to say he hasn’t broken plenty of bones in the past or hurt himself; for it isn’t without any work that he’s taken his pain and turned it into a strength.

+ ALCHEMY +
In his spare time, Vandryn likes to dabble in the art of alchemy.  He learned the skill from an old potions-master, an ancient soothsayer woman whose life he eventually sacrificed to Mat’nacht.  He tests his concoctions mostly on himself, or if he finds a particularly useless subject to test it out.  As a result, he’s developed a high resistance to a number of poisons and toxins.  He can create a specific poison for a job and it’s antidote should it be needed.  He also creates hallucinogens with which to become closer to Mat’nacht, or to induce a vision.  He prefers to forage for his own ingredients and may spend days or weeks, memorizing the effects of choice ingredients within a given area.

+ MARTIAL ARTS +
Vandryn is capable of defending himself without the need for weapons.  He has perfect the seven tiers of his native martial art as well as learning quite a few more in his travels.  He makes practice a constant habit, keeping his reflexes ready to react like lightning and to dispatch an opponent or sentry as efficiently as possible.

+ DARK MAGIC +
His connection with the entity Mat’nacht has opened up his mind to a greater sense of being.  He may draw power from her, and use it to kill or maim, or augment himself.  He may cast blasts of lightning or fire, or other destructive magics, or use it as a form of telekinetic manipulation, extending his reach in a form of a violet energy that extends from his hand

CH V – Gear / Equipment

+ TWIN SWORDS +
Fashioned from a silvery, gleaming steel and folded over and over again to make the sturdiest form possible, these twin swords were products of an old swordsmith from across the sea who presented them to Vandryn as a reward for performing a favor for the old man regarding an unfaithful son-in-law and betraying ancient secrets.  He taught him how to maintain the blades and they are some of his most prized possessions.  He keeps them at his waist, one on either side of him, and only uses them when he has to.  They have angular hand-guards and are a little wider than normal.  The swords are exactly identical in nearly every way with faint distinctions in their hilts and scabbards.

+ RECURVE BOW +
Vandryn’s bow of choice.  It is shorter than a long bow and easier to wield on the move and provides more power behind the arrow when it is launched.  It has a tighter bend to it when an arrow is nocked and pulled back and greased with oil to keep the drawing noise as minimum as possible.  He uses it both for sniping enemies and hunting.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
“Your Lord Umbra has failed you.  There is no Reborn.  All gods will fail you,” the voice of his dreams repeated.  Vandryn awoke to the howl of the wind travelling through the mountains and his body covered in a hot sweat despite the cold that seeped through the thin fabric of his family’s kohte.  He first heard the voice when he was five years old.  And once more on the eve of his fifteenth birthday.

Vandryn grew up in the household of his father’s brother, his uncle, Khan At’tai of the outcast tribe Zih’t-zien-zchooukgrak of the southern Thunderblacks.  He was made aware from an early age that he was an orphan and that his parents were slaughtered at the hands of a rival tribe during an invasion.  He was treated with a cold respect by his uncle and his other cousins.  He was trained in the arts of the warrior, to hone and fight with dual swords like his father had before him.  He became proficient and earned prestige for fighting, killing his first enemy at 13.  Within two years, he was viewed with respect.  Though not the respect of his uncle.  There was always a grudging look in At’tai’s eyes and perhaps even that of disgust but the Khan said nothing of it.

He’d just turned fifteen when a scout had arrived, face bloodied and bruised and dragging behind her the torn corpse of her partner.  Her face was weary and expression haggard.  She walked straight for the Khan as he stood at the center of camp, the entrails of her partner dragging along the floor behind her.  The Khan inquired what the matter was and she pulled the corpse in front and knelt.  She pulled back the tattered remains of a shirt the corpse wore, and revealed a message carved in the waxen ash-colored flesh there.  “It is the Nissh’ahrad!  We were scouting in the highlands and they found us and tortured us…  They killed Sh-zirak and carved this in his back.  They let me live only to make sure this gets to you….”

At’tai’s eyes wavered, not sure what to make of this and turned the face of the Sh-zirak’s corpse to peer at him, red eyes glazed and paled over when his thumb turned up the eyelids.  At’tai turned his eyes back to the message on his back and scanned over the symbols over and over until his eyes turned to molten iron.   The entire tribe had gathered around them, to hear what At’tai had to say and to view the one and a half scouts that had returned.   “The Nissh’ahrad,” At’tai murmured before ordering one of his tribunal to get the girl cleaned up and taken care of.  He kept his eyes lowered just as he stood.

“They have stolen our rightful burial grounds and they will burn our ancestor’s bodies…and desecrate our tombs…and take what sacred items reside there for their own,” At’tai murmured.  “If they think they can take what they want without a fight, they are wrong!  They will pay with their blood.”  The war declaration had been established and preparations had begun.  The top half of Sh-zirak’s body, all that remained of him, was burned by the Ankuman and his spirit was laid to rest alongside Umbra, as the Ankuman decreed.  They would march on the morrow and pride swelled inside Vandryn’s heart as he realized that this was the moment he could prove himself.

He approached the Khan that evening around the heart-hearth at the center of the kohte and asked to permission to lead a band of fighters on his own, as a preliminary force to get them by surprise while the enemy waited for their arrival.  Vandryn expected At’tai to show a little more enthusiasm for the idea than the iron-red eyes that met him with a look of annoyance.  “And just what do you know about leading a band of marauders?  Are you a Warlord now?  Warchief?  Did you suddenly become the Madakhar?  What reason in that thick skull of yours makes you think I should let you do this?”

“I know I can.  Just give me a chance, Uncle.  The Nissh’ahrad will expect you to take a day, at best, to prepare for battle.  Tomorrow you plan to head to the tombs, and they will be ready for you.  I may be young, but I am a warrior, you’ve taught me that much.  I know they will not be expecting a night assault.  I’m not asking for many to follow me, give me thirty of our best fighters and let’s bring the fight to them.  They’ll be crippled by the time you arrive.”

At’tai’s eyes narrowed and he turned his gaze instead toward the fire.  “You want me to give you my best?  You are a child and a fool at that.  What makes you think they will listen to you?”

“Because you are the Khan and they will do what their leader tells them.  All I’m asking for is this chance.”

At’tai’s eyes were always speculative but there was a different light in them this time; Vandryn withdrew sat the sight of it as if an idea struck his uncle.  His expression twitched slightly, but long enough for Vandryn to catch a glimpse of what almost seemed like a strange grin.  He furrowed his brows when At’tai looked at him after a moment and nodded.  “Very well,” he said.  “But only if you’re sure about this…  Twenty will come with you.  As will my son.”

“B’nach?”

“Yes.  He will lead with you.  A night assault is a high risk task.  He has valuable experience that you should use to your advantage.  That is all, Vandryn.  You should be getting ready.  You leave tonight.”

“Yes, Uncle.”  Vandryn nodded and bowed before making his exit to his own quarters.  B’nach had been sitting beside At’tai and when At’tai motion him to do so.  The Khan leaned to the side and whispered something to him.  B’nach made a questioning face and only nodded when his expression was met with hard, unmovable eyes.  No task set by the Khan was to be refused; especially if it was for the good of the tribe.  It did not take long for them to prepare for departure.  They dashed off into the dark when they were ready, as moving shadows as soon as the moon was high, heading off toward the burial grounds that resided several miles into the hills.

Within a half hour, they spotted the soft glows of fires interspersed and the rising smoking of the burning dead.  As soon as they found an opening was made, they burst into the clearing, attacking in a blinding barrage.  The Nissh’ahrad were unprepared for the assault, as Vandryn had predicted, and though his numbers were significantly less than the enemy, the bodies began to pile up. They were thrown in disarray by the small force, and took far too long to regroup.  Within minutes, half their forces lay in reddened pools.  Vandryn called for a retreat, knowing what remained of twenty would not be able to hold off five times that number that was headed for them.

As the tip of Vandryn’s sword dug itself through the chest of another, twisting the blade before planting a foot on the corpse’s chest and tearing it out of him, Vandryn suddenly found himself surrounded on all sides.  He paused and soon saw B’nach leading the troop out through the edge of the clearing.  “B’nach!  What are you doing!?  Help me!”

“Die with honor, Vandryn.  Don’t fret, you will be avenged.  At’tai will see to it!” B’nach replied with a solemn nod and a sneer before twisting round and vanishing with the warriors that retreated.

Vandryn was stunned, but only for a moment before his attackers closed in on him.  He was severely outnumbered, perhaps even outmatched, but there was a sudden flare of anger in him, and he fought with every ounce of energy he had left.  His blades cut through limbs where there was a failure to block, and spilled stomachs where steel collided with flesh.  Hot blood splattered his face, meeting sweat, and every slash, stroke, and parry felt like he was wading through mud and tar.  He was blinded by death and deafened to the agony around him.  Every muscle in him pained with movement as he went on, yet something in him drove him on and he was determined to take as many with him as possible before he met his fate.  Just when he felt like his heart was going to explode, he stopped to find the circle around him had widened and his swords were cutting air.

Falling to his knees in a heap of aching bones, he watched with blurred vision the figure of a woman stepping closer to him with a large war axe in hand.  She had a peculiar grin on her face and it was the last thing he saw before she smashed the flat of the blade against his head, knocking him out cold.

His eyelids fluttered opened hours later with the sensation of icy water splashing against him, a feeling quickly replaced by the crack of a whip.  He seethed and would not give them the satisfaction of a scream if he could help it.  All he could think of were the words B’nach had murmured and he felt like a hole had been ripped through him.  At’tai had betrayed him…why?  Why would his own uncle leave him to die?  Vandryn knew then that he had two choices, he could feel sorry for himself or he could avenge himself.  It didn’t take long for him to decide what to do and when the female Khan of the Nissh’aharad approached him, she grinned at him when at least he finally screamed after holding it inside for so long.  “I’m surprised you’re still alive,” she said.

“If you’re going to kill me, then do it already, instead of prolonging the inevitable,” Vandryn snapped at her haggardly.

“I want only to see how long you can hold out until the pain slowly, dreadfully, kills you.  After how many of my men you managed to kill, I think it is a just and fair trade, don’t you?” she replied.  Vandryn peered at her through a lowered gaze.  His whole body quivered with what energy he had left.  Slowly a grin of his own twisted his lips and he pulled himself upright where he hung by his arms.  “I can do more than offer you a fair and just trade.”

“And what is that?”

“Let me go…and I will lead you to my camp…  Do what you want.  Burn it to the ground for all I care.  Kill them all!”

“You must think I’m foolish to believe that rubbish.  What a smooth-tongue you have, boy.  But I’m not buying it.  You are At’tai’s nephew, aren’t you?  I think we have a traitor in our midst.  But more than likely it is a trap to lure us into the grasp of an enemy tribe.”

Vandryn scowled at her.  “At’tai left me to die by your hand, whore!” he spat.  “He wanted me dead.  He won’t care that you’ve captured me, that you’re slowly torturing me to death, or even if you plan to sell me as a slave!  You don’t have to believe me now, but by daylight, my uncle, his son, and all their warriors will drench the soil with your blood.  But let me go now…and while they sleep, it will be your blades at their throat and all that they have will be yours.  My uncle for all his nobility, left his own bloodkin to die at enemy hands.  But I won’t be his martyr.  I have no loyalty to him!”  The Nissh’ahrad could see it in his eyes that he spoke the truth, it was undeniable.  She ordered him cut down and through he was tired, the need for vengeance left him renewed.

They did not give him his weapons until the Ziht’zien camp came into sight.  “Destroy what you want,” he said.  “But At’tai is mine.”  Vandryn ran from them before they began their assault, armed and heading straight for the Khan’s kohte.  The sky was pale with dawn’s light and the evening sentries yawned with boredom.  Kohte’s were as of yet unstirred and the only thing that rippled the leather walls was the breath of the wind.  And they came without a sound, without warning, or a battle cry of any kind.  It could have been all done quietly, but suddenly someone somewhere screamed aloud and the camp turned into bloody chaos.  Kohtes were torn into, torched, families dragged out and screams of slaughter engulfed the early morning air.  Amidst the fury, Vandryn heard someone call out his name and he saw the familiar shape of his cousin.  B’nach looked like he’d seen a ghost only to be cut down from the back.  Vandryn only grinned before heading on toward At’tai’s kohte

When he got there, he found the Khan barely emerging in full battle regalia, armored and armed with dual dolorams, stubby axes with large piercing points, in his hands.  He stopped at the entrance and stared at his nephew.  “Vandryn…  Impossible.  You’re dead.  You should be dead!  Why didn’t they kill you?!”

“I thought you were a wise man, Uncle.  I once looked up to you.  But now I know there is nothing in honor and wisdom.  You’re not as wise as I had thought.  And the gravest mistake you have made was not killing me by your own hand!”  Vandryn was younger than At’tai and he moved faster as he whipped his swords out and lashed at At’tai.  He missed by a mere inch, but he pressed the assault and attacked relentlessly.  At’tai was stronger and parried and blocked when he saw through Vandryn’s assaults.  Vandryn was thrown out of the kohte, rolling along his back.  He quickly scrambled to his feet as an axhead came at him.  He was cut and bleeding along his arms and he made his way toward the center of camp.  There their blades clashed once more and Vandryn felt himself weaken.

“Is this where it ends, Vandryn?  You’re weak just like your father was.  You try to kill, but inside you doubt your ability to do so.  You know not of the perfect victory.  Killing you will be a mistake I won’t make twice.”

Vandryn felt cornered, trapped as he was forced to fall back again.  But he couldn’t let At’tai get the better of him.  And suddenly he felt himself surged with adrenaline, for the taken memory of his father, of his mother, and he cut down At’tai when he had let his guard down to laugh, for only a second.  A second was all he needed before he fell to his knees a sword plunged through his chest, and took his head clean off with a second clean swipe.  Vandryn was exhausted and might have collapsed then and there, or viewed the sight of his entire tribe destroyed, but he knew he no longer had a place here.  So he departed quickly, away from the scene of battle and ran into the thickness of trees, as far away as he could before the Nissh’ahrad would notice he was gone.

He ran until he could run no more and collapsed to the ground.  He hated himself, hated who he was, for there was no stable existence in tribe-life.  Gods be damned, there was no honor in war, no glory or dignity in death.  He wanted to be rid of everything he was, even if it cost him his life.  So he took a knife that he held in his belt and cut into his own flesh, shredded and burned at the tattoos on his body that marked him as an outcast Umbraeon.  He pulled away his skin, one by one, ignoring whatever blood drifted his way in the horror that he inflicted upon himself.   The tattoos were threaded all over him and the blood loss drained him of whatever energy to he had left to remain conscious.  His face was torn open and the skin cut and burned away where he removed the last remains of who he was.  And he lay on the ground, ready to die if that was to be his fate.  He heard a voice, distantly, murmuring his name.  He was in a delirium, wondering if it was the voice of death.  Was he dreaming?  Was he still alive?  If so, why?

Then he remembered the voice…it was the same one from his nightmares, the ones that declared that there was no Reborn and he knew then of the futility of worshiping dead gods.  A blurry shape came before his sight, black against the sunlight, and it called itself Mat’nacht.  She had saved him from death, made him reborn with a new purpose to serve her, in exchange for his life.  Vandryn, weakened, delirious, resigned then and was pulled back from the doors of death, forever bound to serve this strange entity.  His flesh was sewn back together where it was torn, leaving behind the gruesome scars of a brutal past.




Like to kill mages?  Join the Order!
The Order of St. Agratha

Help Rebuild Connlaoth from the ashes of war!
The Red Legion

Jump in the water's fine!
Desert Valley Nights
Wrong Turn

"Go into battle determined to die and you will survive.  Go into battle hoping to live and surely you shall not." -Bushido proverb
"Life is a series of dogs." -George Carlin
"We must view with profound respect the infinite capacity of the human mind to resist the introduction of useful knowledge." -Thomas R. Lounsbury
"If a cosmic tree falls in the universal forest and nobody is evolved enough to hear it, does it make a sound?" -Unknown

Tags: