Erorn

[Erorn]

Erorn Basic Information Race: Nuit - Human body Birthday & Age : 87th of Summer, 46BV - Five hundred and sixty-seven years old. Gender: 'His' current body is male. Languages Fluent: Common, Middle-esque dialect (He speaks with a Shakespearean lilt to his voice). Physical Description Erorn is unnervingly cold and distant, as are all Nuit. He is devoid of hope, hopelessness or emotion of any kind and he tends to just exist. This translates into his appearance - his slumped shoulders, his apathetic expression, the dark, unhealthy bags under his white, half-blinded eyes... He does not try to be appealing, and he is not. He is anathema to all who would find the good in living things, for he cannot be living. A time when he was once beautiful, smiling, vibrant and full of life is long gone, and even if it were still here, the face he wore then is a rotted shell, soaked in arsenic older than the kingdoms of the now. His clothes are drab, boring, or gaudy and rich, or whatever he takes off of the last corpse he found. He hasn't paid for clothes since the last time he had money, and that was a long time ago. He doesn't feel cold, and so doesn't feel a need to keep warm, and mainly will wear simple clothes for the benefit of others. When he travels, he tends to wear a simple, single-piece tunic that covers his body goes down to his knees to avoid offending people he may pass, if only because any particularly violent passers-by will only be aggravated by a naked rambler and he has no desire to fight. Character Concept Erorn is crushed by his life, lived in such a regretful manner that he no longer cares what happens to him, and no longer knows why he continues to live. His fatalistic view shows through in his stance, his words, everything he does, since it lies at the core of his being and has defined his life for four hundred and sixty years. This translates into him often being careless with his own life, Not particularly taking care of his own body and simply existing day to day. He doesn't feel a need to talk to people, pretend to sleep or eat. He spends his days and nights doing work, and is quite happy to simply work for money and spend said money on embalming fluid to stop him from having to raid tombs another day. He has no long-term goals, and perhaps long-term goals are what he needs. When he is not working, which is rarely, he spends his life finding new and inventive ways of ending it, and then being too afraid to carry forward on these findings. His boredom with life is outweighed only by his regret, guilt and fear of death. In reality, he is a weak person, a mindless soldier who appears intelligent by virtue only of his great age and his archaic speech. Once upon a time, Erorn was a great swordsman, a leader of men, and an awful, awful person. The Erorn of the pre-Valterrian wars fought for a living, fought for a plaything, fought because fighting was what he did and what he enjoyed. The rush of blood from his enemies and the rush of blood to his heart and head was what he lived for, and this addiction to violence carries over into an almost pathological avoidance of conflict in the modernday, his regret physically preventing him from attempting to take the life of another. Pity for mortals is perhaps the only emotion he really feels anymore. Erorn's existence is one of dust and ash - he has not been hungry or full, hot or cold, happy or sad for untold centuries, and he is never going to change that by himself. What Erorn needs, more than anyone else, is a companion who will last longer than the blinks of eyes that Erorn himself measures human lifetimes in. Character History To tell the tale of Erorn, one must skip over countless other thousands of stories almost identical to his, but that they ended sooner. One must skip past the beginning of the world and every world before and after, the birth of every man and beast and God alike to the very beginning of the only one that matters. In his childhood... Erorn was born long ago, in a time when countries were real, large and constantly at war. Born into the summer, he was ever hot-blooded, rash, and outright stupid, and his family were likewise in that ignorant, wartorn age. He was a bully, a well-built, well-tanned, beautiful and angry little boy who took out his frustrations on his friends. His parents were uneducated but tried their best to keep the family afloat, keeping him fed and watered and making sure he was never in the street when the soldiers marched down it He doesn't remember those days anymore. . He lived in a slum that was constantly being picked clean of youth to throw into the meat grinder of war, and as all his role models left to fight over places that stand as ruins now, he began to idolize them. Going into his teen years, thoughts of how glorious his father and brothers and older friends must have become defined him, and he would play with toy swords, if playing can be defined as seriously injuring other children and organising gangs to attack them for no reason. This continued into his early teenage years, whereupon real life kicked in. When he joined the army... When he signed up, the man at the desk told him what a great thing he was doing. How his sword-arm would help the country he loved so much. He didn't love his country. He'd just been raised to kill. Then he was whisked off to a walled compound, and there he lived in hell for two months. His nights were defined by sweltering humid blackness and torturous 'jokes' played on his fellow men and him by his superior officers, brandishing their power like branding irons to phase the men into shuddering wrecks of themselves, ready to be remade into emotionless killing machines. His days were taught with use of sword, shield and spear, how to hold a line, to thrust when told to and jerk the spear out of the ruin of an enemy's side, to take a man's head off with the rim of a bronze shield. But Erorn didn't need to be taught to kill - he was already ready. When a prefect of his sergeant tried to strangle him with a bucket handle as a 'training exercise' in his sleep, he brained the man with it, and was promoted into his place. So began his career as an abusive father to every man who would be placed under him. His duties were harder, but offset by a marked decrease in the trickle-down of spite and bile that reached him in the night. His ability to invoke fear in his men was marked, and his brutal disregard for life made him a natural killer. In time, the army marched on another, and Erorn won renown for his fighting, pillaging and raping his way in the wake of his superiors across Mizahar. His skill with a blade increased, and eventually he came to view fighting as a glory, then a duty, then an occupation, then a bore. Still he fought, because there was nothing else to do, and he was not yet tired of the battle-rush; only the duties involved with lining up other men to fight. His death... One of the sage-women he encountered while fighting through the countryside offered him a blessing, she said. A powerful enchantment that would render him unkillable. Even though war was becoming a bore, Erorn took the chance and the ritual was performed. The night was dark, foggy, generally awful, and Erorn remembers only that. The ritual was performed without incident, and the woman told him afterward, in a cackling, hateful voice, that he would never die again, and that he would grow to be a bitter, thousand-year-old man before the end. In a fit of rage, he killed her, and made off with the gold he'd paid her. In retrospect, he supposed in later centuries, it wasn't a good idea to agree to anything performed by a woman whose family he'd ordered raped and murdered. But then the war ended... At long last, the war was over, and the killing done. Erorn returned home, and his family no longer knew him. A strong man in the prime of his life, barely into his thirties, but with a body that was strangely lifeless, cold and unfeeling with the stench of death about it. The heat of his home country didn't sit well with him, and even as he grew sick of his home, his home grew sick of him, and the Nuit Erorn was chased from his hometown. He never saw it again - he doesn't remember its name, and presumes it a ruin. For twenty years he wandered the world, taking mercenary work where he could find it, his mastery of the blade and youthful bloodlust lasting well into his forties, then waning as he grew tired of killing when all the challenge was removed. Mortal wounds did nothing to him, and he killed all his foes with ease, and was eventually chased out of every job with the gold he had made. It was a boring twenty years. Little did he know that it would be more boring still before the end came. The Valterrian struck... Erorn remembers the Djed storms well, if only because they were the beginning of an age even more hostile to Nuits than the one he lived in. The earth was torn asunder - he remembered being leagues away from the place that would become the Suvan Sea and still seeing the glow over the horizon. The rage of the Gods was as a whirling storm, and the magical energy killed all those around him. He was sure that he would be killed too, but the hag's prophecy held true - Erorn simply watched as the world broke apart around him, and afterward, just like after the war, he moved on. So many people were dead. He wasn't. For a time, preserving his body was hard, but corpses were plentiful. Slowly, he watched the world rebuild. In the aftermath... Erorn felt his first pangs of regret, watching women and children screaming for their husbands and fathers, watching people cope with a lack of mothers, brothers, sisters, friends... it sickened him, and he came to realise that living through this had given him a new perspective. The sundering of the heavens, the lightning bright enough to turn night to brighter-than-day, the earth cracking and mountains being thrown over his head from one province to another had shown him that living for people who were not constantly in motion was hard, and he began feeling pangs of pity for these people. He had hundreds of years left to live, however, and as he learned how to live in this strange new world from day to day, memories of his family passed from his mind and he began to live in the moment. His life stretched on into hundreds of years as the world quieted down, and he gradually changed bodies and bodies and bodies until he forgot who he looked like, who his father was, any of his loved ones... The present-day Erorn is a person for which memory is synonymous with regret, and reality is synonymous with apathy. He wanders randomly, seeking purpose, refusing to kill, the last of his weapons and armour and most of his skill having been washed away by the river of time. He is not his own man; he is not any man, and perhaps that is his greatest challenge. All that he needs, really, is to find himself, and then to find something to do with himself. Religion Erorn doesn't see the point in worshipping any God. He's seen what they all do, and mainly that is squabble amongst themselves and cause things like the Valterrian. He has no time for such petty things as Gods. He has no time for much of anything, anymore. Likes Erorn doesn't enjoy many things, but he does enjoy literature. Literature is nothing but sweet memories, and since all that is left to Erorn is memories, they are a welcome break from the bitter wine he tastes from day to day. His sense of smell and taste are dependant on the body, but he enjoys good food even though he doesn't need to eat, in the few days before he has to embalm his body and destroy his senses. Dislikes Ironically, Erorn hates corpses. Corpses remind him of his days at war, before the Valterrian, and this means he will only go near a corpse to transfer into it every few years. Goals Erorn's goal is twofold - to make reparations for his atrocious past, and then to die. It is simple, and were he more motivated and strong-willed it might have been accomplished a lot sooner.

[Erorn]

Skills Skill Exp Rank Misc. Embalming 10/100 Novice 10 RB Begging 5/100 Novice 5 SP Observation 15/100 Novice 15 SP Weapon - Broadsword 15/100 Novice 15 SP Weapon - Buckler 15/100 Novice 15 SP Lores Lore - Reading Archaic Text Lore - Layout of Zeltiva's Streets Possessions 1 Set of Clothing (Boots, breeches, undergarments, shirt, coat and hat) 1 Waterskin 1 Backpack which contains: 1 Set of Toiletries (comb, brush, razor, soap) 1 Bottle of Embalming Fluid 1 eating knife Flint & Steel A short, straight staff for walking, about 3.7ft long Family Heirloom: An ancient, crumbling seal of the Suvan empire, etched into a disk of half-rusted steel. It's on a thong around his neck. Housing: 1 basic 20x20 cottage (400 sq feet) with a hearth, bunk, chest, chair, and small table. Ledger Event Money Recieved/Spent (gm) Total (gm) Starting Package +100 100 Short Staff -1 99 [/color] Thread List Dinner with a Corpse [Jayden Leina]