Post by Hellion on Oct 31, 2010 9:14:35 GMT -8
Your Name (or nickname): Grady, Katsu, Hellion
RP experience: Not quite sure when I started, but it’s been a long time. I’d say sixth grade and onward maybe?
Age: 19
Gender: Male
-First Character-
Name:Marcus Actaeon
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Appearance: A rough looking young man with brown hair and emerald hued eyes, Marcus’s once white skin is tanned and scarred from years of travelling, battle, and hardship. He wears simple clothing common among mercenaries: A tight leather jerkin over the top of steel chainmail and a white undershirt. His breeches are simple black travelling pants. He wears a thick leather belt with a pair of swords hanging from it. Around his neck he wears a small, silver amulet with a purple gemstone embedded in it. He usually hides it beneath his shirt. Due to constantly travelling, his hair is lanky, brown, and unkempt. He has stubble covering his chin and cheeks, running up the side of his face to his hairline. He seems to be a very common man, but carries himself with the air of a nobleman.
Behavior: A quiet young man, Marcus avoids cities and towns, usually only finding only trouble there. He tends to be a loner, a travelling blade selling his skills to the highest bidder. Marcus has a past, but not one he shares willingly. He is a pragmatic, cold individual, usually coming off as a bit of an asshole. He has a strong like of the “drink”, and when he’s in town he can usually be found at the nearest brothel, flinging coin about as he wills. Despite his cold demeanor, Marcus has a heart of gold. He has an incredible difficulty with turning away people in need of help. Marcus is a good man, despite his many faults.
History: Marcus Actaeon was born in the richer part of Damona to Duke Eamon Actaeon and his wife Sophia. Raised in the lap of Luxury, Marcus was given every comfort a child of nobility would expect. Educated in both academics and morals, Marcus became the exemplary son of a noble. Cultured, Kind hearted, honorable, and naïve, Marcus was on the fast track to a knighthood among the king’s royal guard. He would have continued on this path, if not for the night of his greatest failure.
While on patrol in the wilder region of Tirin, Marcus was assigned to guard the royal heirs to the throne, the princes of Damona. As part of their training, their father forced them to participate in regular military duties. It was just Marcus’s dumb luck that he was stuck guarding the brats. They were supposed to stay out of the fighting, “protecting the royal blood line” as Marcus’s commander put it. Though it was boring and irritating, Marcus felt it was his duty to follow orders. As the day wore on, Marcus and the two boys somehow ended up far behind the rest of the group. The princes, tired of being “Baby sat” went off on their own, forcing Marcus to follow them. When Marcus found them, it was the end of his life as a noble. Lying in a clearing, the eldest prince had been stabbed through the heart. His body was still warm. As Marcus crouched over him to search for any signs of who the murderer had been, the youngest prince came crashing into the clearing…followed by the rest of the guardsmen. Without a chance to defend himself, the boy began accusing Marcus of murdering his brother, demanding that Marcus be executed. Though he tried to protest, to explain his side of the story, he was arrested, imprisoned, and sentenced to hang. Stripped of all honor, rank, and title, Marcus languished in his cell for a week, with only the bare minimum of food and drink allowed to survive. In that private hell, with the howls of the tortured and condemned, Marcus prayed for death, prayed to a god who never answered back. He questioned everything about his beliefs, about his childhood. He hadn’t seen his parents since the trial, where his father had publicly disowned his only son, and his mother had remained quietly sobbing in her chair.
On the eve of his hanging, Marcus’s salvation arrived. The guards opened his cell and pulled him out, shoving another man into the cell…a man who looked suspiciously like him. The guards shoved Marcus’s head into a burlap sack and dragged him out of the dungeon to an awaiting carriage. When he was seated in the carriage, the bag was removed from his head, allowing him to see his rescuers. His parents sat across from him, both looking somber and upset. They explained, in no uncertain terms, that he could never return to Damona. They had sacrificed much in order to save him from death, and apologized for not being able to clear his name. They travelled to a small estate in the outer regions of Tirin, where Marcus was nursed back to health, armed, and prepared for the life of a travelling sword. On his final day, his mother gave him a silver amulet, a family treasure so that he would remember who he was in the harsh days to come.
He left his home on horseback and never looked back. The life of a mercenary was hard. He was forced to do many things he never would have considered as a noble. Piece by piece, his honor and morals eroded away into nothing. He became a shadow of his former self, a depressed drunk who spent most of his time and coin picking up whores and booze. He would have continued to fall into even further levels of depravity if not for a single day of good. He was travelling alone again, travelling along a deserted road in the middle of the Felswoop territory. He hadn’t seen another human for miles. He didn’t expect to see another human for many more, but he was wrong. He stumbled across a destroyed, ransacked caravan. A small group of humans, survivors of the attack, who claimed bandits had made off with their goods and supplies. One woman, bold enough to reach up to his horse and grab Marcus’s hand, pleaded with him, tears in her eyes, to rescue her son. The bandits had taken him. Why, they did not know. They only knew the bandits had travelled north along the road, at a high speed. Marcus fought with himself. This was not his fight, not his duty. He had no duty. He was no honor bound to help the down trodden…and yet he found himself succumbing to her pleas. The woman’s eyes, so full of pain that reminded him of his own mother’s suffering, broke him. Without a word, he struck out for the northern road. He found the bandits shortly before nightfall, and with the skills he had honed through battle and training, slaughtered them all. He returned the boy, but did not stay long enough to hear their thanks. Marcus might have had a good heart, but he was no hero.
He continues his weary journey alone now, living his life as best he can. He has no friends, he cannot return to his family, and now works day by day to earn his food, his booze, and his other pleasures.
RP experience: Not quite sure when I started, but it’s been a long time. I’d say sixth grade and onward maybe?
Age: 19
Gender: Male
-First Character-
Name:Marcus Actaeon
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Appearance: A rough looking young man with brown hair and emerald hued eyes, Marcus’s once white skin is tanned and scarred from years of travelling, battle, and hardship. He wears simple clothing common among mercenaries: A tight leather jerkin over the top of steel chainmail and a white undershirt. His breeches are simple black travelling pants. He wears a thick leather belt with a pair of swords hanging from it. Around his neck he wears a small, silver amulet with a purple gemstone embedded in it. He usually hides it beneath his shirt. Due to constantly travelling, his hair is lanky, brown, and unkempt. He has stubble covering his chin and cheeks, running up the side of his face to his hairline. He seems to be a very common man, but carries himself with the air of a nobleman.
Behavior: A quiet young man, Marcus avoids cities and towns, usually only finding only trouble there. He tends to be a loner, a travelling blade selling his skills to the highest bidder. Marcus has a past, but not one he shares willingly. He is a pragmatic, cold individual, usually coming off as a bit of an asshole. He has a strong like of the “drink”, and when he’s in town he can usually be found at the nearest brothel, flinging coin about as he wills. Despite his cold demeanor, Marcus has a heart of gold. He has an incredible difficulty with turning away people in need of help. Marcus is a good man, despite his many faults.
History: Marcus Actaeon was born in the richer part of Damona to Duke Eamon Actaeon and his wife Sophia. Raised in the lap of Luxury, Marcus was given every comfort a child of nobility would expect. Educated in both academics and morals, Marcus became the exemplary son of a noble. Cultured, Kind hearted, honorable, and naïve, Marcus was on the fast track to a knighthood among the king’s royal guard. He would have continued on this path, if not for the night of his greatest failure.
While on patrol in the wilder region of Tirin, Marcus was assigned to guard the royal heirs to the throne, the princes of Damona. As part of their training, their father forced them to participate in regular military duties. It was just Marcus’s dumb luck that he was stuck guarding the brats. They were supposed to stay out of the fighting, “protecting the royal blood line” as Marcus’s commander put it. Though it was boring and irritating, Marcus felt it was his duty to follow orders. As the day wore on, Marcus and the two boys somehow ended up far behind the rest of the group. The princes, tired of being “Baby sat” went off on their own, forcing Marcus to follow them. When Marcus found them, it was the end of his life as a noble. Lying in a clearing, the eldest prince had been stabbed through the heart. His body was still warm. As Marcus crouched over him to search for any signs of who the murderer had been, the youngest prince came crashing into the clearing…followed by the rest of the guardsmen. Without a chance to defend himself, the boy began accusing Marcus of murdering his brother, demanding that Marcus be executed. Though he tried to protest, to explain his side of the story, he was arrested, imprisoned, and sentenced to hang. Stripped of all honor, rank, and title, Marcus languished in his cell for a week, with only the bare minimum of food and drink allowed to survive. In that private hell, with the howls of the tortured and condemned, Marcus prayed for death, prayed to a god who never answered back. He questioned everything about his beliefs, about his childhood. He hadn’t seen his parents since the trial, where his father had publicly disowned his only son, and his mother had remained quietly sobbing in her chair.
On the eve of his hanging, Marcus’s salvation arrived. The guards opened his cell and pulled him out, shoving another man into the cell…a man who looked suspiciously like him. The guards shoved Marcus’s head into a burlap sack and dragged him out of the dungeon to an awaiting carriage. When he was seated in the carriage, the bag was removed from his head, allowing him to see his rescuers. His parents sat across from him, both looking somber and upset. They explained, in no uncertain terms, that he could never return to Damona. They had sacrificed much in order to save him from death, and apologized for not being able to clear his name. They travelled to a small estate in the outer regions of Tirin, where Marcus was nursed back to health, armed, and prepared for the life of a travelling sword. On his final day, his mother gave him a silver amulet, a family treasure so that he would remember who he was in the harsh days to come.
He left his home on horseback and never looked back. The life of a mercenary was hard. He was forced to do many things he never would have considered as a noble. Piece by piece, his honor and morals eroded away into nothing. He became a shadow of his former self, a depressed drunk who spent most of his time and coin picking up whores and booze. He would have continued to fall into even further levels of depravity if not for a single day of good. He was travelling alone again, travelling along a deserted road in the middle of the Felswoop territory. He hadn’t seen another human for miles. He didn’t expect to see another human for many more, but he was wrong. He stumbled across a destroyed, ransacked caravan. A small group of humans, survivors of the attack, who claimed bandits had made off with their goods and supplies. One woman, bold enough to reach up to his horse and grab Marcus’s hand, pleaded with him, tears in her eyes, to rescue her son. The bandits had taken him. Why, they did not know. They only knew the bandits had travelled north along the road, at a high speed. Marcus fought with himself. This was not his fight, not his duty. He had no duty. He was no honor bound to help the down trodden…and yet he found himself succumbing to her pleas. The woman’s eyes, so full of pain that reminded him of his own mother’s suffering, broke him. Without a word, he struck out for the northern road. He found the bandits shortly before nightfall, and with the skills he had honed through battle and training, slaughtered them all. He returned the boy, but did not stay long enough to hear their thanks. Marcus might have had a good heart, but he was no hero.
He continues his weary journey alone now, living his life as best he can. He has no friends, he cannot return to his family, and now works day by day to earn his food, his booze, and his other pleasures.