Malcolm Mahlum

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MalumMalleus
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Character: Malcolm Mahlum

Malcolm Mahlum

Post by MalumMalleus » March 31st, 2019, 7:31 pm

EDIT: This is a resubmission that has been edited to better fit within the fabric of the cloth you have been weaving for a decade. I do not want to try to make my own new cloth, I just want to be part of the warp and woof of really good story! :D


Do you have any prior experience with Requiem? If so, please detail when (and what characters, if desired) you previously played:
No. I have never played on Requiem, and to the best of my knowledge, I don't know any of the players or staff from previous roleplay, though it may turn out to be the case that as other RP shards have closed, players and staffers from those shards have relocated to your own. If it comes to my attention that I know someone from prior experience, I will let you know that in case it is of consequence.

Briefly summarize your prior role-playing experience in a sentence or two:
My very first RP experience was in college back in ca. 2002. I played on a server called Realms of Demuria which was operated by a guy named Sharlenwar Ishenshi. They had lots of fun, custom scripts and enforced a relatively relaxed RP. My partner and I played lawful evil characters with an elaborate custom dungeon in the basement of our estate. My little brother also played some. It was a great time, and I was sad when the server disbanded.

I have roleplayed on Grimmwold (found it too licentious and the shard owner leaned to the despotic side (and some stuff that I feel was illegal and extremely immoral)) and enjoyed a 6 month stint there during which time I was promoted to decorating and light scripting.

Additional roleplay experience was gained from UO Roleplay. That shard has changed leadership hands a few times and I just generally don't like how de-populated the shard has become and how insular the old timers have gotten. It feels like a clique or a country club: very hard to break into for newbies which means the same boring storylines keep playing out with the old guard. When I was first new there, a few of us newcomers got together, pooled resources, and purchased a large fort outside of the main town. We published pamphlets and fliers both in game and on the forums advertising a guild that was for the training of citizen-guards to drive back the hordes of evil threatening the town. We grew steadily to about 20 people who were active regularly. We trained together, fought evil together, and ended up driving new roleplay story elements that were GM-assisted. It was fantastic. Then a half dozen players who had GM-everything accounts, millions of gold, ultra powerful heirloom artifacts, and were basically unassailably powerful decided they would come out of dusty retirement to play again now that the server was alive again. They immediately squashed the storyline we had spent several months contstructing, seized control of the story element for their own ends and gain, and repeatedly killed those of us who were new but trying our best to RP. It was extremely disappointing.

I quit UO for several years after that because I was so put off by it. I'm over the bad taste it left and hoping to find a shard that offers great RP that strikes a balance between honoring folks who have been around a bit and 'paid their dues' while also encouraging novel RP elements. From the details of your website and the word of mouth I've seen on Reddit, it seems like you guys are the real deal!

Why do you wish to play on Requiem, and what do you expect from the shard?
I want to play on Requiem because it looks and feels like a new take on an old game. Not a new game, not new, wild mechanics intended for powergaming. It seems like you are paying homage to the original game while inventing new aspects to bolt on to it without disgracing the original intent of the game. I also very much love Lovecraftian horrorterrors and I got a little verklempt when I saw you had added such an aspect to Ultima Online. No MMO has ever quite captured the specialness of UO. I suppose it's because it was my first love. I love the crafting system and absoltuely will be doing some crafting in the new system, especially checking out Engineering and steam power! Steam Punk UO? Um, yes please!

As far as expectations are concerned, I expect to be caught up in the story. I expect to be treated fairly (i.e. no noto-PKs with 2 ice wyrms beating the hell out of you the second you turn gray). I expect to play a part in advancing the narrative of the story. I expect to be disappointed at times when things do not go as I had hoped, and delighted at times when things do not go as I had hoped! I feel that this server's story has a uniquely gritty mythos that allows for a great deal of moral gray area wherein a neutral character can shine as both hero and antihero.

What will your character’s name be?:
My character's true name will be Malcolm Mahlum, but his nom de guerre will be Malum Malleus, the Hammer of Evil. I'm not sure which I should put in my character's profile so it shows on my paperdoll. I assume the nom de guerre, as that is what I hope people will know him by and surely seeing a name pop up on a screen in UO is akin to a character looking at another avatar and recognizing his/her/their physical attributes and likeness rather than knowing the exact identity and name and notoriety and alignment of that character upon first sight, no?

Please briefly describe the physical attributes of your character, including age, looks, height, weight and any notable features:
Malcolm stands 6'3” or about 190cm. His skin is dark, reminiscent of Persian or Sinai peninsular skin tones of Terra. He has a scar across his left eye and part of his left forearm along the radial process. His hair is long and generally pulled back and tied, though when it hangs loose it frames a handsome, if grim, face. He looks somehow older than his 25 years, perhaps a result of a long stripe of gray in his bangs, though this is hidden by hats or pulling back his hair. A look of challenge, hard as flint, serious as the grave, intense as the sun, burns in his eyes. There is something not quite fully worldly about his appearance. You couldn't say what it is, exactly, upon looking at him.

He is somewhat lanky, yet not hunched, wizened, or feeble. His nose is thin and the nostrils flare when he is in high dudgeon. He is fond of earth tones with occasional forays into the brightest sprays of color the new science of manufactory permits.

His hands move with purpose and grace. His movements are measured and precise. He is clear-eyed and speaks with a deeper voice than one would expect given his age and build. He is good at engaging with those around him and extracting information if need be, but also good at masking or muting his presence in a room to avoid unwanted attention.

Beneath his robes and unknown to most is another scar, a single, tidy puncture wound straight through the chest and out the back angling from left breast out under the right scapula. Any who saw this mark in the setting and context of this shard's timeline would be shocked and amazed that he had survived a through-and-through stroke of the sword such as this. He is well aware and keeps it hidden always.

Briefly state your character’s intentions or motivations for entering the First Province:
Malcolm wants answers. He does not understand how a Promethean god who sacrificed itself to walk among mortals could let the mortal world suffer such calamity and despair without acting. He does not believe there is any good in the Church, but also does not believe in the wisdom of anarchy and atheism. He is seeking a Pure Way, a Truth beyond the Truth, a deep Magick from before the Truth that will make sense of the senseless violence and loss he has endured. The Torment is, for Malcolm, internal and ongoing. His own soul is at war within him, and at times he is lost to that struggle.

He seeks the First Province because he hopes to find, mouldering in the ruins of mankind's abortion of a golden age, answers to the struggles he faces. What is the Torment? Who or what are the Ill? Why would mortals serve such abominations? Why is the Church so powerless to stand against such evil? Why did this system fail his family so completely? What might ancient tomes in strange handwriting reveal to his mind? Will the tension raging within him resolve in peace or descend into Madness once he learns the Truth?

He hopes, too, to find, raping and pillaging among the ruins of the First Province, Balthazar and the other marauders from the night his mother was cut down. He will have his revenge when he does, and he will be certain to be ready for them when that time comes.

And then, perhaps most of all, he plans a reckoning with his mother, if indeed she still lives, who has thrown penumbra over his every waking moment—and much of his dreaming. Who or what is she really? Why did her intentions remain hidden for so long? How did she vanish that fateful night? Would he ever have the chance to know his own story by learning hers?

Briefly provide a pertinent detail or notable quality of your character’s history (this does not have to be exhaustive nor revealing of any information you wish to keep secret):
Malcolm comes from a family of 4: father, mother, and younger sister. As a child, Malcolm was always closer with his mother. His father, after whom Malcolm was named, was a hard man, nearly impossible to please. He would often call down the archangel on both wife—Jacintha—and son, hollering drunken oaths by the fire at night after hard labor in the fields by day. On more than one occasion, he beat Malcolm. Sometimes it was for nothing at all. Others, it was for placing himself between father and mother to save his mother as she cowered in fear.

Because of the abuses of his father, Malcolm felt a strong sense of protection and patronage for his younger sister from the moment she was born. Though he was only five years old, he had grown up much in that time, and he vowed to himself that his sister, Naomi, would never know the blow of his namesake's hand. To ensure this, Malcolm took special care to keep his baby sister away from his father, especially on nights when he had tasted of the wine.

And so, a stable, if terrible, equilibrium was held in a tenuous balance in the Mahlum household. But that equilibrium would be shattered one terrible day just five years hence.

As the pestilence began to spread, the lord of the realm ordered that all able-bodied men ten years of age and older be trained for the defense of the land. Malcolm, having reached his 10th year just three weeks prior to the decree, was ordered into combat training. His father would give him daily lessons, never going easy on the boy, always taunting him and telling him of his unworth and cowardice at any sign of hesitation or hurt.
At the end of each week, after Sunday prayers, the local knight would review all of the men in the hamlet and provide better, more forgiving training. This was where Malcolm's cooler head prevailed. He had learned, from years of terror under his father, how to mute his fear and stand resolute. He would stand defiant before boys five and six years his senior and often turn aside their blows, worsting not a few of them.

Malcolm had been some five months at this training, growing in strength and stature daily, though still living each night in the shade of his father's malcontent. One day, his father left with a small detachment of peasants as both a guard and a vendor, intending to sell some of the surplus harvest in the city at the behest of the local lord. He and the band of men with whom he set forth were expected back in four days' time. When the sun sank over the horizon that fourth day and there was no word from the band, there was a murmur among the villagers. When the fifth day waxed long in the tooth, there was a panic as a glow of fire could be seen on the distant horizon, emanating from the direction of the city. On the sixth day, only three of the original detachment of fifteen men returned home, Malcolm's father at the lead.

All three men were battered and battleworn, some of their clothing in tatters, each of them with wounds. As they limped into town, their friends and family pressed them for news of the others, tales of what had befallen them in their journey. But Malcolm's father waved the crowd away with a grunt and a sweep of his sword, muttering something about the city in ruins and the dead. His eyes were blood shot. All three men looked as if they had not slept in all the time they had been gone.

As Malcolm the elder hobbled into the cottage that night, he took neither wine nor food, yet was in a fouler mood than his son had ever seen. He seemed to bristle at every word from Jacintha as though it were a hammer blow. He growled at the boy without provocation, and when Naomi cried in fear, he moved to strike her. Malcolm, having grown enough in strength to stand against his father somewhat, threw himself between the two expecting to turn aside his father's hand but was suddenly alarmed to find himself hurled aside as though he were a child's doll!

As Malcolm hit the wall of the cottage, the plaster cracked and gave a little as the air left his lungs and stars appeared in his vision. He struggled through the pain and clung to his consciousness enough to see his father lift Naomi into the air. Then, as Jacintha screamed in horror, he dug his teeth into her throat, ripping and tearing at the sinews as hot, bright red blood erupted from the girl.

While his sister, lay gasping and dying, Malcolm grabbed his father's sword, which hung on the wall beside him. He had heard of a pestilence that drove its victims mad, but had never seen the afflicted in person. Putting in mind years of torment and horror at the hand of his father, Malcolm gripped the blade and, lifting it high above his head, rushed his father, who now knelt over Naomi's body, and, bringing the blade down with a shout, he smote the man's head clean off of him.

The body convulsed on the floor in front of him, thick, black blood pouring out over the pale body of his sister. Jacintha yelped in alarm and pulled Malcolm back from the pooling blood, charging him not to touch it and to drop the sword at once. He complied, letting it fall to the floor with a clang as he stood in shock at what had just transpired.
As she threw chaff and cloth into the black puddle of exsanguination, Jacintha ordered Malcolm to the church at once. He protested, fearing to move, but his mother shouted, “Malcolm, there is no time. Go at once and do not leave until I have fetched you.” It was well into the second watch of the night before she gathered him at the church, speaking hushed words to the abbott before collecting her boy.

The morning brought news that the other men who had survived the trip home had met similarly gruesome ends, with some of their family passing as well. In total, the death toll came to seven that night: all three men, Naomi, the eldest son of one of the other men, the wife of another, and a hound that had seized on one of the men.

Having learned much of brute force and cruelty from his father, Malcolm now at last learned cunning, strategy, and self-mastery under his mother. She was a capable shield-maiden, and where she could not defeat an opponent with size and strength, she would outwit him with shrewd tactics. This new mode of combat struck a cord in Malcolm and touched off a thirst for new knowledge, new ways of seeing things, a desire to be cleverer and better prepared than his opponents. For five years, he spoke daily with the town abbott about faith, Decus, the Father of All, the archangels, the time before time, and the full span of human knowing. He learned much of the new sciences of engineering. He had split his days between combat training and the chores of a peasant and evenings had been devoted to reading. His mother, being devout, had urged him to learn letters and runes from the abbott at a young age. Now that he was growing into manhood, Malcolm took to reading in strides. This is when his mind began to expand in truth, and his grief was stayed somewhat by the new worlds that opened before him with each new tome.

The lord of the region had taken note of Malcolm during his reviews of the hamlet, marking him as a possible squire for one of his knights. Malcolm's future looked as if it might be brighter than the past that haunted him, the Torment notwithstanding. But for the young man, one final night of tragedy lay between a brighter future and the despair of a lifetime of sorrow...

At the age of sixteen, he stood tall and resolute between a pack of marauders and his mother whom they had fought to her knees through sheer superior numbers and strength. The men had broken in suddenly and unexpectedly, covered face to foot in black robes, masks, and showing no standard or heraldry. Rearing up to his full height between mother and menace, Malcolm was mocked and jeered, taunted to throw the first blow, to make the first cut. His jaw set like stone, the sinews of his neck stiff as bronze, he struck a fell blow to a cur who said what he would do to his mother before he gave her passage to the life hereafter. The wound did not kill the man, but it stopped the pack of four from further goading. The roving band's leader stepped forth and, without another word, sliced a lightning quick sword stroke at the boy. Malcolm had his wits about him enough to feint, dodging the brunt of the blow, but the tip of the blade still cut him from his left brow, down his cheek, and over his raised left forearm.
The pain of that first cut was breathtaking, almost as though the edges of his soul were being pulled at. Cast aside by his assailant, Malcolm lay prone and helpless on the floor as the man set upon his mother next, plunging the blade into her breast. Jacintha collapsed, gasping and clutching at her chest. Malcolm opened his mouth in a silent gasp of sorrow as he watched the color and life drain from his mother's eyes. The marauders made off with all of his family's meager means and left him, bleeding, for dead.

Malcolm, reeling from the events of that night, lay in the quiet long after the sound of hooves of the marauder's mounts had faded into the dark. For some time he thought he would die then and there, for he had feverish dreams as he faded in and out of lucidity. One moment he would see with almost hyper-clarity every detail of the world around him: he remembers, with strange wonder, that he had never really taken notice of the pattern of the thatching on the roof which now stood out in such stark contrast that he marveled he had never really given it much mind. The next moment, he would slip into dreams of fire and fury, running from demons that nipped at his heels, or perhaps simply feeling fury: fury at himself, first, for failing his mother. Then that fury darkened and turned to rage at a world and a deity so careless and absent. He felt himself slipping away, the voice of the Abyss calling to him, beckoning him to surrender, telling him he would be no more.

It was then that he opened his eyes and mouth for a final glimpse of life and breath of despair, and saw his mother standing over him, her eyes glowing in the lantern light, her hands reaching for him with animal-like hunger. She growled her bloodlust and lunged for him.

With sanity momentarily returning to him, Malcolm struggled back against a wall, evading Jacintha's clumsy grasp. As she steadied herself on shaky legs, he gathered his own trembling knees beneath him and stood. But before he could find the strength or breath to run from that horror, his mother's body brandished a sword and ran him clean through the chest, pinning him to the wall.

As the blood rushed out of him, Malcolm's consciousness faded to a pinpoint, then receded further and further away until even the pinpoint of light was gone. He was locked deep in a coma, near death.

Malcolm does not remember the events of the rest of that night, only that he woke as the dawn rose over his hamlet. He was atop a hill overlooking the ruin of the village. Fires smouldered where cottages and huts had once stood. Charred bodies were strewn about the village green. There was nothing left of his hometown or the cottage where he had grown into a man.

He stirred, he groaned, and he rose to his feet, his tongue swollen with thirst, his lips cracked. He was alive, somehow. A great black stain on his tunic reminded him that he had bled profusely. He was hungry, so hungry, but, somehow, some way, very much alive. As he pulled his tunic to one side, he saw that the blow to his chest had completely scarred over as if it were weeks old! How could this be? How long had he slept? Had he slept at all? How had he moved beyond the burning of the village? How could he have survived the blow from his mother? When did she take ill? Had the marauder's known? Was he now ill too? He patted at his face and arms, feeling for bite marks, cuts, fresh bleeding...Nothing. Nothing? How?

He rose and searched the remains of his village for the body of his mother, but he could find no trace. Was she reduced to cinders in what must have been a conflagration? He had so many questions, and no one to answer them.
But for now, he knew he could not remain where he was. He gathered his tunic around him and made for the nearest garrison, hoping to find some way to find food and shelter in a world that seemed to have spit him out.

Briefly write an in-character response to the following scenario:
You have finally arrived at your destination; the Rumbling Pass checkpoint. Before you stands a massive outpost, looking to have been erected only recently, of which is patrolled by numerous Legionnaires and Church Templar. The outpost guards the only viable entrance to the recently quarantined First Province; the home of Tor, the fallen capital of the Republic. Sitting at the foot of the massive mountain line that effectively contains the First Province within, the outpost serves as the last obstacle you must overcome before gaining entry into the quarantined territory. You and others like you assemble outside of the palisades of the outpost, awaiting the opportunity to speak your case to the presiding Legion officiant who is processing admittance to the Province.
You watch as but a scant few of the dozens that approach the officiant, whom stands at the outer gates of the outpost flanked by a few heavily armored Legionnaires, are actually allowed to pass through the man-door and into the outpost. You see some slip pieces of gold to the officiant, while others plead their cases and rationale as to why they should be allowed to enter the recently fallen territory. Some appear to provide some sort of paperwork to the officiant, whom promptly waves them through. While eavesdropping, you manage to overhear the well-rehearsed speech the officiant provides to those whom don’t provide paperwork or grease his palm.
“By decree of the Venerated Church, the First Province is considered to be a mortal health hazard, and as such, is quarantined under Article Eighteen of the Republic Treatise of Health Act of 1320. Citizens who do not possess a Quarantine Visa issued by one of the recognized Factions of the Republic are considered non-essential to the reclamation of the First Province. Under Article Eighteen, non-essentials seeking entry into an official quarantine zone must petition for entry into a said zone, and state just cause for the issuing of a visa by the perimeter authority. State your business and make it good, citizen; we’ve enough bodies in there to keep us busy for months without adding yours to the pile.”
You ponder the situation for a moment, evaluating your options. It’s well known that with the right connections and the right amount of coin, one can get their hands on a Quarantine Visa from any one of the major Factions of the Republic, or even a passable counterfeit from more nefarious sources. At the same time, it would appear that the officiant doesn’t appear to be above some simple bribery. However, you’re sure that some of those let in appeared to have made a convincing case with the officiant. Gathering your wits, you make your decision as to how to gain access to the First Province.


Taking stock of the situation with a level-head and a cool gaze, I note that the overseer's spaulders are scuffed. Waiting patiently in line to approach him, I regale him with the simple truth when I am before him. I begin to tell him the story of how my father and sister were taken by the Torment and sent to their graves. As I tell the story, I pull out a simple oil cloth and offer to polish the man's spaulders, working at the scuffs. I explain that after my mother was then slain by marauders--here I tell only a partial lie, for I do not know whether she yet lives for certain--I moved to the nearest garrison and took to work as a squire of sorts, tending to the care of armor and horse for the soldiers stationed there. I explain that I seek to find the men who slew my mother, as well as answers to the source and nature of the pestilence that tore apart my community. I tell him that once there, I will find answers and use the knowledge I gain to track down the ones responsible for this plague. I leave out what my exact intentions are once I find them and turn instead to an offer to lend my service to the garrison to offer minor repairs and polishing to the armor for the space of several days in exchange for passage.
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No gods, no masters.

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Scarlet
Posts: 19
Character: Ellie Andrews

Re: Malcolm Mahlum

Post by Scarlet » April 2nd, 2019, 4:32 am

The officiant pulls back before the man can touch the scuffed armor, but listens to his story with a thoughtful look. "At least you seem more capable than most that try to worm their way into this place. Caring for beasts and gear? Are you some sort of servant then for the actual men?" He snorts, standing tall: perhaps subconsciously trying to increase his own height as to have a physical advantage over the taller, more fit man that stands before him. "I suppose there could be use for you in the province. Servants are always needed to lick boots clean from those muddy, gorey forays deeper toward Tor after all." The officiant waves him through with a slight frown creasing his brow. As Malcom heads on his way, a few words can be heard passing between the officiant and his right hand man: "Thomas, you should whip the lad that maintains my armor. He has embarrassed me for the last time!"


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MalumMalleus
Posts: 3
Character: Malcolm Mahlum

Re: Malcolm Mahlum

Post by MalumMalleus » April 2nd, 2019, 5:46 pm

As Malcolm marches with purpose through the gate, he laughs within himself, knowing that the show of abasement before the bored, pompous magistrate was exactly how to manipulate him. He vows silently to himself that violent, arrogant fools such as this would be suffered no more once he had seized the Truth that must, surely, be found within the Province. The specter of his namesake would haunt him no more, interred together with all the horrors of his childhood, once that day of reckoning came...
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No gods, no masters.

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