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.