Name: Gillian Reynaud

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Gill is a gangly young man standing at 5’11, with a lithe frame that seems ill suited to armor or the feats of raw strength he often performs. His arms are artificial and strange interlocking plates of insectoid looking silvered metal of unknown origin and composition with a softly glowing blue membrane beneath. They are overly long and thin even in comparison to his body, as though sized for someone much taller than himself and all together more alien. His palms hang comfortably at his knees. While handsome, he does cut a rather...uncanny figure to those not expecting him.

Personality: Gillian values honesty, simplicity and trust. All of which he feels are impossible to find in any sufficiently large group of people. A loner nature, he prefers not to speak too much, especially on matters of nobility. He can be very defensive when dealing with intimate issues (or those dealing with his condition), and as such avoids them as much as possible except with those he considers close friends. What few friends he keeps are treated to a watchfulness most attack dogs would envy and the occasional stroke of melancholic humor when he’s in his more ‘peppy’ moments.

He has an open disregard for some of the traditions of the Roses, a bad habit inherited from his mentor. He will gladly fight dirty if it means winning and saving more people and considers the tradition of choosing a child as their leader to be insane at best.

Backstory:

Gillian was born in the township of La Reine, located on the Velt-Thaln boarder just off a rarely traveled caravan trail. The only truly notable thing about it was the local superstition that a powerful witch resided in the local woods, though this was mostly to scare children into staying in doors at night as far as Gillian ever knew. His parents were both local hunters, trading much needed food and pelts to travelers and locals during the winter months. It was a quiet place to grow up, much of the day spent hunting or practicing with the town militia (which consisted of little more than a few men armed with makeshift spears). For the first fourteen years of his life, Gillian faced few hurtles aside from the normal trials of a rural hunter and the occasional disorganized Orc warband attempting a raid.

In the fall of his fifteenth year, a small caravan accompanied by a squad of Iron Rose Knights rolled into town. Their commanding officer, Seige Parnella, was investigating reports that the local orc bands had gone utterly quiet. Parnella cut a disturbing figure, a once exceptional beauty now massively scared in ways few in the town could identify and with long strange legs made of blackened metal that seems to chill the grown she walked on.

The people of La Reine, Gillian included, were eager to believe the Orcs had simply vanished, eager to remove this strange visitor from their home as quickly as possible. But Parnella was not so easily removed and ordered her squad to occupy the town. Parnella’s suspicions held true and within the week the town was under siege by an impressive warband, seemingly brought together by an ambitious and skilled young Orc. The Knights, even while bolstered by the town militia, could barely hold back the attack. Being young and untrained, Gillian broke rank quickly, fleeing into the forest, seeking sanctuary in deep in the heart of the forest. He soon discovered that he was followed by an orc on boarback, who hunted the boy seemingly for the pure sport of it, side swiping his prey and letting his boards tusk slowly gore the young man, narrowly missing and tearing a swath of his arm’s flesh away. After many wild and halpless wings, he eventually managed to land a blow on the rider’s saddle, sending the orc tumbling over the side of his awkward to the merciless hooves that awaited him below. As the Orc lay dead or dying, the cripple Gillian limped and eventually collapsed in the hollow base of a tree.

Parnella greeted him in the morning rather unpleasantly, but kicking him awake. A rather unpleasant method at the best of times made all the worse by the still white hot pain in his gored arm. She was mostly alone, save for another knight of her small company who spoke little and made just as much of an impression. The two of them half escorted, half dragged him back to the village...or what little remained at least.

The battle had ended in a victory for the knights and militia, though not without intense casualties on all sides. A good half if not more of the town were piled at the village center, his parents among them. Parnella seemed quite pleased with the result and Gillian would have attacked her (for what little it would have done) had she not immediately followed up with informing him about how his fleeing caused the militia to nearly route before the battle even really began.

The guilt cowed him quickly, the urge to insult the woman overwhelmed by the realization that no small amount of the death before him was his fault alone. Parnella seemed to have little time for his self pity, declaring the town a loss and advising the remaining villagers to grab what they could and flee to one of the larger and more fortified towns to the west.

Gillian opted not to join his fellow villagers, his family was all but dead and, while definitely the minority, some villagers seemed to share in Parnella’s assessment of the battle and were all to happy to lay the blame at his feet. Instead, he decided shadowed Parnella’s group back to the capital. He didn’t really have a reason and Parnella didn’t seem interested even if he had one.

It was a long walk back to the capital, but Gill busied himself with aiding the knights with whatever trivial tasks they needed doing and nursing an arm which still shot with pain. Most of the knights tolerated his presence but...Parnella seemed to enjoy it. If only in a sort of sadistic way. At times she would pile on meaningless chores for him, especially ones too difficult to do with one arm. Other times she would ‘train’ him, an act largely consisting of literally kicking the tar out of him and deciding what note the noise he made was. He was pretty sure he never manage to land even a single hit on the woman, but she never seemed dissatisfied with the results.

Asking the other knights about his new ‘mentor’ (A title she gave herself he might add) revealed atleast a few things. One, yes she was ALWAYS like this and frankly they were all just happy that she was taking it out on him. Two, that she was one of the few Living Reliquaries of the order.

A Reliquary, in this case, being a holy artifact, generally made in the appearance of a major organ or limb. Which was rather relieving because, while nobody put it past Parnella to beat someone to death with the long desiccated body part of a saint in a vial of oil, nobody really seemed able to put it past her.

Back to the point, Reliquaries were a scarce commodity within the Iron Roses, though it was hardly due to a shortage of artifacts. Biology is a fairly fickle mistress, even where magic is involved, and would often physically reject the grafted organ quickly. The host, of course, would die in the process. But in those would could play host to such artifacts were immensely powerful, even with relatively little training. And most knights considered it to be...less than tasteful. A shortcut to strength that many took years to train up to (that said training was expensive and far outside of the realm of possibility for most folks being left unsaid). At the time, only four such knights had undergone the process (all voluntary of course) and as such there were...certain allowances given to their behavior.

Eager to hope that Parnella perhaps saw something in him, he asked her if she knew if he could be a Living Reliquary like her and if that was why she was attempting to train him. After finally getting her to stop laughing the Knight told him plainly she had, quote, “No fucking clue if you are. And even if you were, you’re too chicken shit to do it. Mayon’s tits if you were and were dumb enough to volunteer to get hacked up even more than you are now I’ll eat my loincloth and train you myself!”

Her dismissal hurt, if only she had robbed him of what little he saw he could do to redeem himself for his cowardice. He was tempted to part ways with this sadistic little fucking goblin of a woman and her merry bad of steel clad tag alongs then and there, but he didn’t. Just because Parnella didn’t know didn’t mean someone else didn’t, and (as petty as it might be) he’d die before letting Parnella be right about him.

The next few weeks were spent as usual and of little note. Mostly days spent trudging along trails and suffering through his insufferable ‘mentors’ childish antics. By the time they’d made it to the capital, Gillian was willing to cut his arm off just to shut the old hag up for a day or two.

When the healers at Candaeln took a look at him they were practically beside themselves, due to both his general health, how badly infected his arm was, the sheer amount of neglect he’d been put through by his ‘mentor’, and the fact that a child was asking them to cut things off and stick only vaguely understood magical nicknacks inside of him. Parnella laughed it off, enjoying the chaos of their collective fury with an ease that only comes from having been through it (and probably the cause of it) several times already.
Her mood darkened when they asked if she knew he was an acceptable candidate.

Gill had never seen Parnella serious before or since. The normally bright, if disturbed, woman leered at him like a predator. Ready to kill and devour him if there was even a moment of opportunity.

She didn’t lie about what he would be facing the next few years. It would take two years to recover from the physical trauma, easily. It could easily take two more if they cut major limbs off, as he would need to learn how to live day to day with arms or legs with no sensation beyond vague pressure. And teaching him how to fight, if she even could help with that? She couldn’t begin to guess.
But more so than all of that, she told him that if he did commit to this, then it was a life sentence. There was no way to remove a Reliquary once it was implanted without its host being dead. And the phantom pains that came with it would never go away. So if she needed to know if he was serious. That there was no shame in saying he wasn’t and walking away.

Gill asked if she wanted her loincloth cooked or raw.

Equipment:

Twined Arms of Dawn and Grace: A set Reliquary arms that have replaced Gillian’s own. Attached at the shoulder with a thin set of plates arranged along the spine, these silvered arms end in a three fingered clawed hand with engraved iconography of Reon etched along their surface. There is no sensation of touch in them beyond a vague sensation of weight and pressure. They are finely crafted and he often leaves them uncovered, as armoring them seems to make no real difference. They also provide the following benefits.

Passive Effects: Gillian’s physical strength is well beyond human, able to punch and tear his way through stone and metal with an ease belied by his svelte figure. He is also immune to the fire he conjures when using the arms as a focus for spells.

Active Effects: Gillian is able to wreath his arms and body in white hot flame, adding some extra offensive capability to his already deavistating strength. While not a magical effect, the clawed hands can be used to climb sheer surfaces easily.

If a defensive solution is needed, Gill can form a small shield of energy in front of himself. The shield can withstand most physical attacks for a short duration but is heavily draining to maintain. It does not, however, stop magically created effects or projectiles.

Finally, Gill is able to place a sigil on another creature for 12 hours. The Sigil oozes harmless, but highly luminescent, fluid constantly for the duration. The Sigil can be removed with any commonly available method of removing minor curses.

Armor:Being fairly poor in comparison to many of the knights with who he travels, Gillian’s armor is a bit of a hodge podge. While it is all well fitted, it largely consists of old leather armor, with modest amounts of chainmail and the odd piece of plate to supplement weaker areas. While it offers more mobility and reduced weight, it sadly lacks the greater amounts of protection a proper suit could afford.

Skills:
Gillian is a capable hunter and tracker, having spent many years as a furrier in his youth. There are few Knights of the order who can track a bleeding Orc from a day old trail in the wilds of Thaln, and Gillian is one of those proud few.

While trained in how to use a sword, Gill eschews most weapons in favor of his Reliquary, often fighting hand to hand and ripping shields and armor out of his way through sheer strength and ferocity. He likes to get in quick and strike hard, overwhelming an opponent with sheer intensity and unpredictability.