Amarion Glelor

[Amarion]

Amarion Glelor Appearance Race: Human Gender: Male Age: 18 Birthday: Spring 4, 497 AV Starting City: Nyka Birthplace: Southern Quarter Appearance: Amarion is a brawny male, short, with tousled, curly black hair that drapes over the brow. He is also rather short, a compressed figure based around large hips and menacing thighs with calves the size of grapefruits. His eyes are two amber stones, uncomfortable, bulbous things defecating a mangled progeny of flesh from between their narrow cleft that at one point served as a functional nose. His lips are peeled and burned, draping lazily over two arrays of decaying teeth and expressive, bleeding gum lines. He has skin of a muted bronze sheathed in grime and oily rivulets that crawl along the length of his arms like ebon veins. In stark contrast is his raiment, a sagging lime tunic with unceremoniously torn sleeves and chewed edges that fasten to less boisterous trousers and sandals. There is a nauseating perfume of smoke bleeding through his pores that threatens to gag the transgressive passerby. Character Concept Character Journal Summer 1, 515 AV *The first entry of the journal starts about a quarter of the way in, with it’s preceding pages dredged in an inscrutable amalgamation of ink blots and calligraphy. The margins have been left untouched, embroidered in parsed phrases of yesteryear now a garbled irrelevancy. It’s been awhile since I’ve bought anything of significant value. This reedy, broad smiling merchant sold this half-used journal at a discounted rate-- told me I was getting the deal of the century and smiled, revealing his yellow dagger countenance as well as the strong scent of fish. Within these pages. . ., he professed to me with the shriveled leather binding pushed to his chest (I had this urge to shove my fist through the tome and to pull out his lying heart) . . . lies the wisdom and aphorisms of another land. When asked if I could peruse this ‘wisdom’, he scoffed, asserting that there was value to the mystery and demanded pre-payment for such a privilege. I shoved the full cost for the glorified journal into his palm and went on my merry petching way. In case I ever forget, the previous entries were about as riveting as I had expected them to be-- little more than the inventory and notes of a fishmonger. I’ve taken great pains to swath them in ink, clearly demarcating his entries from my own. While not necessary, the experience was gratifying all the same, as if I was suffocating the embers of his non-important life and in turn feeding the inglorious revelries of my existence. Perhaps, within these pages, I can begin to make sense of the screwed up inadequacies of my family, from the husk of a former father, to the absentee mother that harbors all remaining affection in her black heart towards O. That’s pronounced “oh” for those that have the grim misfortune to traipse along these perturbed memoirs. O is my eldest brother of about ten cycles, and he is, by and large the self-appointed warden of our family. He is the bane of my existence and a brutal torrent of cruel energy that is representative of all of our monks. For purposes of clarification, I will refer to the defining moment in my life as “The Lashing of Jukeydon”. The irony of this impressionable, rippling scenario is that I did not witness the actual conflict, nor the immediate aftermath. It was several hours following, upon returning from a particularly exhausting apprenticeship that I bore witness to a stomach turning scene, or was it the smell? Regardless, there is a particular horror in seeing the rock in your family shattered and lying in a pool of his own blood and sweat. I find that my whole body shakes in even recalling the vagaries of that hazy afternoon. I’ll return to it another day. Jukeydon Glelor is my father, and if you’ve ever met him, past or present, you’d think the man to be a pillar in the Southern District. In fact, he expresses all the youthful energy and tact of himself twenty cycles ago. He’s a senior agrarian who helps in the development of our farmlands, and his work is at least partially responsible for our successful harvests. As I write these words Skerr, our Celestial, has emerged from her palace, a burst of grace and beauty hoisted upon her marble throne which is stoically burdened by eight strong monks. My brother O is not among them (thankfully). She will bless the crops and, through her divine rite, put into fruition the labors of our people. The tone of her work is amenable and she seems to be worthy of idolatry, although their are rumours about her rounded belly. . . But I’m digressing. What is shown belies the reality of my situation, because since that fateful evening Jukeydon has put on a front for his people, exhausting his willpower to externalize this facade which breaks the moment he steps through the front door of our home. All of the pent up frustration for living this lie fuels his already physical exhaustion and culminates in the drunken mess that is, in an underestimating appraisal, ‘savage’. Regarding the rest of my family there is the misunderstood Garnellmau, my 2nd eldest brother, and my sweet sister Ly. For accounting purposes we’ll include my mother I (that’s pronunced “ee"), but we rarely see her, and when we do it’s to berate our father and steal our stores of food. Her tempered pleasantries are reserved for our ‘accomplished’ brother, O, who’s an acolyte in Skerr’s order of monks. In fairness to all, there was a time of peace, and in fact the majority of my life was under the stabilizing guidance of two loving parents and siblings with which I shared a bond. While I was never the favorite of the four I was acknowledged and set to useful purpose at the age of 12. I was, and have been apprenticed to Helgor for six years now. He is an aggressive Uphisian who seamlessly fits the mold of the Northern district. I find our mutual tolerance amazing given our different locales. There is a silent understanding that our feedback is reciprocal and to his assistance I gain less practiced ability in benefit to my people. I struggled as a child, as most people do, with the frequent beatings from unhappy monks and even my elders who felt slighted by the most innocuous of offenses. There is a deep rooted, tenuous sense of honor here that everyone tries to cling to, and the only pragmatic way of handling it is learning how to defend yourself. Scrawny and malnourished, I took the hint and taught myself to fight. Alright, O is the one who gave me formalized lessons in hand to hand combat, but I struggle to give any sort of noteworthy praise to that man. If there was a connection between us at any point, it has since dissolved. His lessons have stayed the test of time, and I at least have the tools to deflect some of the more severe punishment given my augmented physique (thanks Helgor). There are uncomfortable sensations in the air, and they are undoubtedly the Heart of the World trying to make a connection. I find I cannot focus at night. I see discouraging shadows that dance to the darkest bits of my past, goading me outwards and down. It is these cryptic pulls that I attribute most of my anxiety. Sometimes the ghosts are less ethereal, more pronounced. I could swear I witnessed the outstretched legs of my mother openly inviting a strong robed man into her thighs one night on the bridge. The vision is more ghastly than what the Aperture could conjure and it’s afforded my conscience waves of nausea. Gods, I need a smoke. Language Fluent Language: Common Skills Skill EXP Total Proficiency Blacksmithing 15 RB, 15 SP 30 Competent Weapon Smithing 15 SP 15 Novice Unarmed Combat 15 SP 15 Novice Agriculture 5 SP 5 Novice Lores Lore of Nykan Culture Lore of Religion: Skerr Possessions Lime Green Tunic Faded Gray Trousers Undergarments Navy Flaxen Coat Simple Brown Sandals Waterskin Backpack Comb (Wood) Brush (Wood) Soap Razor Steak Knife Flint & Steel Journal Quill Traveler's Pipe (Heirloom) Tevino Pipeweed (5 oz) Vayt’s Ruse Snuff (5 oz) Housing Location: Nyka, Southern District House: Housing comes mostly in the form of apartments and townhouses. These are all small and cramped, and everyone has a neighbor. Religious art and offerings of food and money hang from the walls, both inside and out. The housing comes with a hearth, bunk, chest, chair, and small table. Ledger Purchase Cost Total Starting +100 GM 100 GM Journal (Starting) - 5 GM 95 GM Quill (Starting) - 5 CM 94 GM, 95 CM Vial (Ink) 1 Oz (Starting) - 1 GM 93 GM, 95 CM Tevino Pipeweed (5 oz) (Starting) - 25 CM 93 GM, 70 CM Vayt’s Ruse Snuff (5 oz) (Starting) - 25 CM 93 GM, 45 CM Thread List