Legacy of The Grey Lion

[The Broken Sword]

♛

Alaric von Folkvar

*Grunts*
- Alaric von Folkvar

[[ Most spoilers redacted, but minor ones below - read at your own risk. DO NOT METAGAME! ]]

Theme

Full Name: Alaric von Folkvar
Birthdate: 7th of Deepsnow, 1291
Birthplace: Androvsk, Teramer
Birthsign: The Cog

Appearance

Age:Mid-Fifties
Height: 5'10"
Weight:164lbs
Eyes:Ashen
Hair:White
Skin:Dusky


Physical Description:

Alaric stands at a height of five-foot-ten, only slightly above average for a Teramerian. Though, even at such a height, some might describe the Westerner as stocky. Once thick black hair has long-since faded to the color of a freshly fallen snow, contrasting his strangely dark features. Though his hair is allowed to grow quite long, it is braided here and there, and appears to be well-groomed. A thick beard covers a powerful jawline, obscuring what might be considered an attractive countenance were it not for the scars that decorated his features. And, though he dresses conservatively, covering from head-to-toe in dark somber colors, one might occasionally discern the dark ink that permanently marks the man's bulky frame with Decusian script.

Personality

General Health:Vigorous, resilient, tough
Profession:Metalworker, Laborer
Faction Affiliation:Unknown
Languages:Common, Collatian
Accent:Teramerian
Roleplay Tools: Possesses a wooden talisman that is typically hidden beneath his clothing

Personality Description: Alaric von Folkvar is a man of few words. The typical interaction is guarded, distant, and apathetic. Though there have been scant signs of something deeper. Of the few known qualities, Alaric's hatred for those born of Collatian decent is well-known.

History: [WIP]

Strengths: [To be revealed.]
Weaknesses: [To be revealed.]

Governing Virtue: Sacrifice
Governing Throne: Hatred

[The Broken Sword]

Androvsk, Teramer 1313

Anya...

Her name had been whispered -- barely lifting from the lips of those that gathered around the small stone hovel. They huddled in small groups, shielding themselves against the frigid weather. Their hushed tones nearly lost in the steady drumming of a cold gray rain crashing against the dark Teramerian landscape. But, whatever drove these men and women to cling to what little sanctuary was offered by the stone structure shattered upon the arrival of an armored figure. And, the silence that followed was a yawning chasm and a sharp blade.

Anya had been stricken, and there was only one treatment for the sickness, The Flame. It was a mercy, truly, as the hemorrhagic fever tore through its victims in a manner most cruel. Worse, if the sickness was allowed to progress, the illness might spread, and devour the village whole. So, the elders did what they knew was right, they called upon agents of the Republic.

Yet, instead of physicians, the Holy Decusian Church sent them. They were a Diaconate chapter, tasked with the safety and security of Androvsk's priesthood. And, it had been decided, for the good of the community, that this Anya must be given over to the flame. And so it was, that the crowd receded, abandoning their ill-fated neighbour for the safety of their own homes, as a lone Templar entered the stone hovel, naked steel in hand.

Her name had been Anya. But he knew her by another.

Mother...

[The Broken Sword]

Androvsk, Teramer 1314

Twenty-Five strong, they had been, armored in thick steel from head-to-toe, heavy cloaks falling from their shoulders like a crimson tide, emblazoned with the regalia of the Venerated Republic. Their charge, a priest from a nearby Decusian cloister, tasked with maintaining the faith's traditions in these far-flung reaches of the Republic. These men and women of the faith, sheltered within a humble chapter-house wrought of dark tone and timber brought in from the Eastern Baronies, were far from home. All, but for a young templar, Alaric von Folkvar, whose home was the very sprawling hamlet that the Chapter's keep overlooked.

In the winter of 1313, Alaric had barely passed through the crucible, the final trial through which a Templar is forged, when the sickness began to rip through the Western Territories. There would be no ceremony, no feast, no celebration of any kind. The enemy had revealed their hand. And, this new class would be among the first to be thrust into the gaping maw of what would become one of many Blacklands. Fortunately, or so he had thought, this brought Alaric's chapter to Teramer, a mere stone's throw from Androvsk, the place of his birth. Unfortunately, that reunion would be bitter-sweet, as the sickness had taken his mother, and much of Androvsk was put to the flame as a preventative measure. In the months that would follow, rumors of strange men, bringing a cure for the Torment, began to spread -- and, it did not take long for the people to turn against their so-called protectors.

Twenty-Five, they had been, armored in thick steel from head-to-toe, but that seemed to matter little to the people of Androvsk, as their fury overtook them. It all came to a head in the market square, where the priest was questioning a woman that claimed to have been cured by these men. It would seem, these mysterious healers could do what the Church would not, and this angered the people of Androvsk. First, the crowds gathered, pressing in from every side, shouting at the priest to leave the woman be. The templar, uncertain, formed a protective barrier around their charge, encircling him and the bewildered woman. Unshaken, perhaps due to their new sense of power in the promises of their mysterious benefactors, the crowds drew close. Soon, angry shouting turned to violence, as rocks and bottles whistled and crashed against the Templar. Yet, the shields did not yield. Finally, the crows fervor, whipped up by some unseen force, threw themselves against the veritable wall of oak and iron. Still, they did not yield.

They did not yield... until... her blood-curdling scream pierced through the chaos, echoed by others within the crowd. Angry shouts fell away to panic and fear. The afflicted were among them. What ensued, was pure carnage, and much of Androvsk was lost that day -- a terrible scar that Alaric wears to this very day.

[The Broken Sword]

Blacklands, 1317

Torment...

A sickness, unlike any other, has spread through Vitaveus like a wildfire... devouring anything caught in its path. In the past few years, much of the Western Territories have been declared as Blacklands and abandoned as refugees flee to the east. And, though this sickness brings unparalleled devastation, the armies of the Republic manage to reclaim much of the Midlands -- though at great cost.

Alaric von Folkvar, now twenty-six years old, has not seen his home of Androvsk for three years; the Templar chapter which he served having been recalled to the Midlands in the early winter of 1314. Great changes occur within the Republic over the next several years; and somehow, in this veritable dark age, whats left of the Republic's power and influence seems to consolidate within The Authority. Religious zeal, and superstition, ripples through the weakened Republic, and much of the blame for the affliction that ravaged the West is laid at the feet of the so-called Witchkin.

Alaric, having lost so much at the hands of this affliction, embraces the indoctrination willingly. In truth, the young Westerner never had a chance. And, he was tempered, as easily as a skilled smith might work iron into works of war. Just three short years, occupied in various skirmishes across the Midlands, the banners of Legion and Templar march across Vitaveus once more -- with an eye on the Blacklands of the West. Little did they know that the campaign to reclaim the Midlands and push into the West would take the better part of a decade, with thousands lost.

This war, unfinished in the eyes of many, devoured him whole, leaving a man of honor and integrity diminished. A mere shadow cast by the eager flames that burned across Vitaveus, leaving her people hollow and broken.