The Legacy of Faolán Mac an Bháird

[Faolan]

Faolán Mac an Bháird

Birthdate: 26th of Frostmarch
Birthplace: Athaerun
Birthsign: The Tower

Appearance

Age: Early Twenties.
Height: Above Average.
Weight: Above Average.
Eyes: Mossy Green.
Hair: Black.
Skin: Fair.
Handedness: Left.
Posture: Relaxed, friendly.
Hygiene: Passable.
Scent: Firewood.


Physical Description:

A lifetime of hard labor has made Faolán broad of shoulders and thick of waist. He’s young, though he stopped counting the years. Still, one might approximate him to be in his early twenties. He has a “dark” complexion for an Athaerian, but he still looks properly pale compared to those that spent their lives under less forgiving climes. Large meaty hands are rough and calloused from his work – but, this seems countered by glimmering in his moss green eyes. If the occasion calls for it, Faolán might even braid his dark shoulder length hair. He’s tall, but not towering – handsome but not smolderingly so.

Personality

General Health: Malnourished, dehydrated, and fatigued.
Profession: Forrester.
Faction Affiliation: None.
Languages:Nothryian, Low Decusian
Accent: Maintains a hint of the Highland lilt.
Hobbies:Writing, drawing, and drinking – really anything to distract his mind.


Personality Description:

Faolán is typically warm and welcoming. He will share stories, and listen intently to those around him. It is rare that the Athaerian becomes quiet or guarded. Yet, when he does, he tends to isolate and disassociate as a means of protecting others from his vices.

History:

*Established IG lore, so far:

Bháird hails from the highlands of Athaerun where his family has lived for generations. However, due to the scarcity of work, the young man found himself far from home. As a talented guide and woodsman, Bháird was conscripted into a local auxiliary force tending to the risen dead near Alftwyn Monastery.

When asked why he came to the First Province, his answer has thus far been: “Necessity”.


Strengths: Resiliency in the face of overwhelming odds.
Weaknesses: Prone to fits of melancholy.

Governing Virtue: Sacrifice.
Governing Throne: Murder.

[Faolan]

Alftwyn Monastery, Athaerun


I can still remember my first hollow. Namely, I can remember the way it shuffled through the charred ruins. The vacant look of its eyes, and how her head lolled off to the side. Her hair, once the color of golden wheat, was stained with the vile ichor of decay. And, the dress she wore, had probably been a pretty little number. Most of all, I remember the way it smelled. There’s nothing pleasant about the way death shrouded the hollows, heralding their presence like a ghastly banner.

Perhaps she had been someone’s mother once; but, certainly none that remained could name her. Hollows didn’t speak. I think that’s another thing that always bothered me. The ebbing silence of one’s inner voice. All that remained was the primal hatred woven into the putrescent flesh of the walking dead.

It was our duty to keep the stragglers from wandering too far from Alftwyn’s outlying villages. And, it happened more than you would think. Hollows are drawn by the mocking calls of carrion crows. Further and further away from the pyres. In a way, this was a blessing for us. It allowed for some time in cleaner air, hunting down these forsaken souls before they became a hoarder.

Still, I would have preferred another life. One far away from the risen dead. Where I could learn to play the lyre or lute. Alas, we must reap what we sow.