Legacy of Magnus Empyrean

[drowking]

Character Introduction



Iron

Full Name: Magnus Empyrean
Birthdate: Warmwind, 16th
Birthplace: Drolund, Midlands
Birthsign: The Legionnaire

Appearance
Age: 45 (46 now)
Height: Towering, 6.8ft
Weight: Heavy, muscled
Eyes: A profound hazel
Hair: Greyed, white
Skin: Caucasian, scarred
Handedness: Ambidextrous
Posture: Soldier-like
Hygiene: Good enough
Scent: After shave balm

Physical Description: A towering 6.8ft tall figure stands before you, casting a long shadow. The leather armor barely contains his strong build. On his face, you see a glorious moustache, for which he seems very proud. He speaks with a foreign accent and a grave voice, in an assertive tone. He marches firmly, like a man with a purpose. A soldier-like posture denounces years of service. From head to toe, his skin is decorated with several scars - marks of a warrior. His hands, specially around the knuckles, have the most bruises; some look quite recent.

Personality
General Health: Looks extremely fit, well above average for his age
Profession: Mercenary, warrior; hunter
Faction Affiliation: none currently; retired legionnaire
Languages: Decusian, Yultish
Accent: Drodain
Roleplay Tools: His unrelenting sarcasm or a bleeding new scar sometimes

Hobbies: Training hard, fighting, flexing
Habits: Trains daily, eats a lot of protein

Personality Description: Friendly, humorous and sarcastic, though dark and pessimistic at times. He can be incredibly astute and strategic when the situation calls for it.

History: He was born after the Republic invaded Drolund, son of the violence between one of the invading soldiers and a local farm girl. His mother died during his birth. He was raised in the farm she worked on, as a helping hand. The love of parents was replaced by the constant fear of Torment. As he grew up, he displayed great physique and strength, what led him to start working as a guard and, eventually, mercenary. For many years he served the very legion that invaded the land. A problematic soldier, he was forced into retirement a few years earlier due to a rumour of heresy spread by a rival. For a while, he made a living out of winning fights in illegal arenas; disgraceful. Without causes to fight for anymore, Magnus finds himself seeking opportunity in the First Province, where an aging warrior may still find a place and meaning in this world.

Strengths: "Yes. Plenty."
Weaknesses: "Do not touch my moustache."

Governing Virtue: Valor
Governing Throne: Pride

[drowking]

Whoever said life passes in the blink of an eye doesn't open their eyes very often.

It takes several.

In the blink of an eye, you were there, being born into this world. You never asked for it, but they pulled you out all the same.

Blink again and you're now old enough to understand the meaning of "your mother died at birth, Magnus".

Blink again and now you're working the fields. You've grown into a strong boy, maybe you can help out in the farms; they let you stay.

You grow up hearing about the Torment. You think it will never get here. You think you are safe. You work the field.

In the blink of an eye, it's right here, knocking at your door, ravaging and turning the crops into monsters. Turning the other house servants into beasts.

Blink again.

You survived somehow.

You are running for your life through the tall grass. You hear them behind you. Screaming and moaning hungrily. You run.

Blink.

You run.

Blink.

You run.

And you keep running until one day...

Blink.

You fight.

You are now old enough to do that. You're good with your fists, you've found.

Your mustache is starting to grow.

Blink.

Some mercenary band noticed you. You are now one of them. A soldier.

A fighter.

Blink.

Some farmer hires the militia to defend an outpost on the drodain pradarie, against the ever-present threat of a republican invasion. A battle every week and you've never felt so alive.

Fighting. Waging war. You like it more than you'd care to admit.

Blink.

Drollund is losing the civil war. You're getting hurt. Scarred in more ways than just the flesh.

To the west, Torment. To the East, the enemy. You knew the war was lost before it was too late, and you surrendered, for the first time in your life.

Blink.

You survived, yet again. You were conscripted. You are a legionnaire now. Working for the very republic you fought against.

As a legionnaire, you learned to be silent and precise. To use the mantle of darkness to your favor. To never let down your guard and stay alert always. It feels like a long time gone without blinking.

Blink.

You're stationed at the border, mustache on the peak of its glory, pointing high into the sky. Your job: to contain your very people. The drodain flood the Baronies, escaping from the cursed plague.

You live here now. In Hel.

Blink.

You look at a certain lady.

She looks back.

Blink.

You see her again.

You spend two poems and three silvers to win her heart.

Somehow you know she is the woman of your life.

Teresa.

Blink.

You two marry. She is pregnant, no one knows, it's your secret. Your secret little girl. She wants to call her Cecyl, after her mother.

You couldn't be happier.

Blinks.

Things aren't well. There is rumour of Torment again. Cecyl is about to be born and you know fear for the first time in your life.

But you have Teresa. And Teresa has you.

Blink.

Strange phenomenons happen around your daughter. You can't explain most of them. Teresa fears Cecyl is witchborn. And so do you.

Blink.

You keep your daughter hidden from the outside world. You are very careful and protective. Specially the Legion can not find out.

You take every precaution to keep your little secret safe.

Blink.

Cecyl froze the couch today.

Blink.

Tired... How long can we keep doing this?

Blink.

It is here. Oh no. Not again.

You witness the decay of life around you once again when Torment arrives. Once again, you have to run, but this time not for yourself.

Blink.

It is not enough.

You are trying your best, but it is not enough. They need medication. They need to see a doctor from Redholme, some expert.

You try to use your influence as a soldier, but...

It is still not enough.

Blink.

You witness the loves of your life deteriorate and disppear into a husk, a hollow, mindless being. In tears, you put them to rest yourself.

You bury them with the last piece of your heart. Nothing is left. You just want to close your eyes and never open again.

Blink.

You can't stop thinking about them. You start drinking. It affects the leggionaire life, causes you trouble. You are suddenly forced into an early retirement.

Why did it take them? Why did it spare you?

Blink.

Some idiot spreads rumours about heresy in your home. Did they find Cecyl's books?

Blink.

You are running again. You have nothing to fight for. No wars to wage, old warrior. What will you do now, huh?

You keep running. From ilegal arena to ilegal arena, from tournament to tournament, you paint the road red with others' and your own blood, trying your best to die, to stop blinking once and for all.

You end up just making coin.

Blink.

You are tired. You are bored. And you are aging.

Every year goes by faster than the previous. Your glorious mustache, now white as if peppered by snow, remains up like a mask between you and the outter world. A spike pointing fatally at anyone who would dare look beneath the mask.

You miss them so much. So, so much...

Blink.

With the money from the ilegal boxing, you bribed the right hands. You got yourself papers signed and a Visa stamped. Fuck, you're going to the First Province.

Somewhere, there has to be a war somewhere. Some fight. Some distraction from your agony.

When everything you know was destroyed you find solace in destruction.

Blink.

You board the train. Coat and top hat. Walking cane. A real figure.

You wish you had a monocle. You wish things had been different. So many things.

But now this train... This train is all that matters.

Onto the Province.

You lay back in your seat and, finally, let your eyes close...

Choo-choo.

Choo-choo.

[drowking]

Things move fast on this Decus-forsaken province. Faster than the train did. Faster than a blink. And here you are, still blinking. Somehow.

In the blink of an eye, you arrive at Fort Praesidum. You jump off the horse hoping to fall head first against a rock.

But you don't. You fall on your feet.

You blink and you're drinking water that tastes like gretchen piss. Might as well have been it.

Blink and you're shitting your pants for days, barely able to keep any food in. Welcome to the First Province, you bloody bastard.

Blink.

You are alone. You have no one here, in this strange land.

Their memory linger to you; wherever you go, they are there. Staring at you.

You still wear black. You still mourn them.

Blink.

You are not so alone anymore. Making a name for yourself. The former legionnaire with a glorious mustache and a tendency to get injured.

You are starting to draw attention. You kind of enjoy this... persona. This mask.

The duality of it. When you are mustache man, you can smile. You can forgive yourself.

And forget.

Forget you came here to die.

Blink.

You are not alone. In fact, you feel watched most of the time. Whose eyes are those, staring at you from the shadows? Intense eyes... Predator eyes...

It all started since you met that kid. The one with an attitude. A real thorn on your side.

Blink.

They give you a job. Do that and you get to meet her. That's the deal.

Who the fuck are these people? What do they want from you?

Blink.

There she is, at last. The Dark Lady.

And you recognize the eyes. Intense eyes... Predator eyes...

Blink.

You tell yourself this isn't family. You try very hard not to care, to stick to business.

And you can't. Because you do care.

All their energy and youth. It makes you feel young again.

Almost.

Blink.

Complications. Their inexperience has drained the thrill of the hunt. The momentum is lost.

You wonder where this will lead, but you can't stop. You're one of them now.

Blink.

She is completely crazy, that one. You realize, far too late, you've made a mistake.

This isn't your family, old warrior.

Blink.

You befriended an enemy today.

You've been doing this far too long to pretend you don't know how it will end. The Legion also had you befriend many. May their souls rest in peace.

Blink.

You killed an enemy today, one you had hoped would become a friend.

"I'm sorry", you said, as you broke their neck. Without thinking, you followed the protocol you learned in the midland borders.

You cut them to pieces. And you fed the pieces to wild animals, spread all over this forsaken province. It is easier to get rid of a problem if you break it down into smaller parts.

Fuck.

What have you become? Did you forget what you came here to do?

You bastard.

Blink.

She slit his throat like it was nothing. Her face painted in crimson red from the blood gushing out of the wound.

And the bitch smiled.

Blink.

Now the bitch is dead...

Blink.

Everything is falling apart. Everything is dying and crumbling around you. Again. But perhaps you can salvage just enough to get by. To get away with it.

To get away... from what? Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this why you came here?

Why do you seek to survive now? What changed?

When did you get lost inside the character? Let the curtain fall. End the act.

Blink.

Only few left. That thorn is still on your side, but with less of an attitude.

You tell yourself he is not your son. That he can never replace her. He will never be Cecyl.

You force yourself to remember. The sadness is all you have left of her. Of Cecyl.

And Teresa.

Blink.

Light and dark. We all carry them in our pockets. Some more so than others.

You live and breath in this eternal twilight.

Blink.

Not one, but two walk within you. Side by side, yet apart. A shadow lies between them.

A face with a smile. A face with a frown.

Which one will you wear today, old warrior?

Duality.

[drowking]

What? You're still here? Still alive and blinking, old warrior? Why? You came here to die. You came here to join them, remember? United as a family again, in death - your personal tragedy. What happened to the mourning? To the sadness? To the death wish? Stop blinking, old warrior. Stop blinking.

Yet you blink.

There are enemies everywhere. Seeking to do harm to you and yours. And you've just about had enough. Three chances you gave the meddling bastard. Three chances and he's wasted them. Now he gets the fist.

You blink.

A chest is stolen, a relic disappears and a curse spreads. Everyone seems more interested in pretending none of this is happening. Look at them in their neverending parties. You should be amongst them. Don't you want to die? All you have to do was sit tight and wait. Yet, here you are - moving.

Blink.

You tried to alert everyone. And, as a result, Hairy Betty was burned alive by the VIC. Her death reminded you of theirs, and of your own, the one you keep postponing. Another day, another day. To punish yourself, you shave your mustache off. Didn't cut yourself once with the razor. Disgraceful. The woman burned alive and you can't even get a tiny scar.

Blink.

With her death, everything spiralled into chaos. You fell into darkness and madness. You feel responsible, don't you, old warrior? How do you carry on now? How do you combat this feeling? If only you could punch it in the face, right?

Blink.

A bullet token. A promise in the dark.

Blink.

You feel like life is moving fast. Too fast. Just a blur, just a blink, and you're being dragged with it. Somehow lingering to it. What is it about life that just keeps you coming back? Everything is moving fast and sometimes a body falls.

You became quite the hunter, haven't you?

Blink.

He is back. Your... son? Can you really call him that? C'mon, old man, you're growing too soft.

Blink.

A failure. A success. And something in between. A wanted man now. A banned man. But just as the cage is open, you fly out a free crow and move to assemble the others.

Now a group dons the black.

Blink.

Every night it visits you now. You dream of it. Or is it a nightmare?

The throne.

The dark Throne of Murder.

Who's the figure sitting upon it? It looks familiar, doesn't it, old warrior?

Blink.

All this talk about collatian relics got you wondering about their pagan magics. You took interest and started a research on the subject. And here and there you'd run into a torn page, a dusty tome, a forgotten scroll... You hated to admit it, but you were learning. And you were liking it. You always thought Cecyl had inherited her witch side from Teresa.

Were you wrong? All this time?

Blink.

What the fuck just happened? You witnessed a tree bear fruit within seconds, after you touched it. An apple grew and fell. You catched it. The sweetest thing you've ever tasted.

Blink.

Day by day, you think of them less and less. Have you noticed? Have you noticed them slipping away from your memory? Twenty years is a long time, old warrior.

Cecyl would be a woman by now. A doctor, no doubt.

Teresa and I would be living by the beach. Seagulls on our windows every morning.

Blink.

You feel the pull from the shadows and you take the leap of faith. You embrace them. Something has changed. What was it? You know your place in the world now.

You gaze upon the chimneys over Praesidium walls. Here you are, entering these gates again. This time, three gold poorer; thank you, Foundry dogs.

Inhale. Exhale. It didn't feel good to be back.

But you had a job to finish. And a fire to start.