[hider=Rudolf Sagramore]
[center][img]https://i.gyazo.com/219cfb2bde98ddf454cba9f66b823d88.png[/img]

[h3][i][color=C0392B]"Oh, the big one on my back? Heh... Believe me. If I have to use that, we're all screwed."[/color][/i][/h3][/center]

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[color=C0392B][h1]GENERAL INFORMATION[/h1][/color]

[b]Name:[/b] Rudolf [s]Shilage[/s] Sagramore

[b]Age:[/b] 19

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Race:[/b] Sollan

[b]Origin:[/b] Edren

 

[color=C0392B][h1]COMBAT INFORMATION[/h1][/color]

[b]Class:[/b] Vagrant

[b]Weapon:[/b] A Greatsword of clear quality and balance rests easily on Rudolf's back, but never sees use aside from nighttime drills and provision of a subject for frustrated grumbles under the breath. With some prying, he'll mopingly give up the ghost— for all its dreamlike handling in the grip of even a novice, no matter the power he or anyone else puts behind a swing, the metal is dead. Won't even cut twine. The pair of more standard, unremarkable swords on his hip do the real work, uncomfortable as it is.

[b]Inventory:[/b]
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[*] [url=https://cdn.donmai.us/sample/81/7f/__abyss_watcher_dark_souls_and_1_more_drawn_by_josh_corpuz__sample-817f6c4843b9e4485d3a567d2080aa2c.jpg]Armoring.[/url] Worn often on the road, in the twinned spirits of comfort moving around in what you plan to fight in and in never lacking protection from Nasty Surprises. The trip northward has seen a high mask and pointy, brimmed hat adorn Rudolf's pale face and locks, two parts protection from sun and sand and three parts "always liking a nice hat".
[*] Greatsword
[*] Longsword
[*] Shortsword
[*] Dagger
[*] Knife, Knife, Knife (for cooking)
[*] Oil, Whetstone, other such upkeep tools. Included among them are sheets of parchment and charcoal, ostensibly for drafting, oftentimes for sketching. He won't make a living off his portraits any time soon, but he's got a charming sense of expression and meticulously hatched shading.
[*] Adventuring Gear. Your standard backpack replete with rations, bedroll, canteen, and rope. Road boots, and heavy cloak the color of dried blood to throw over it all on a windy day.
[*] Casual wear. We all need something for the day-to-day.
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[b]Materia:[/b] Gravity, Shield

[b]Limit Breaks:[/b] 
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[*] Svalinn : Inky mists coalesce before Rudolf's outstretched palm, a roiling mass of shadow and flame swirling, burning, driving towards a lone point in space— then blossoming outwards into a multi-layered shield of magic that blocks fire, blocks the arcane, blocks an oncoming avalanche, all without fail. Your one get out of jail free card.
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[color=C0392B][h1]PERSONAL INFORMATION[/h1][/color]

[b]Appearance Details:[/b] As if at odds with the small arsenal strapped to his person, Rudolf is a fresh-faced and young man of short, wiry build. Scrawny, in his own words, barely cresting 5'8 with his grown-out mop of platinum blonde. His eyes are his mother's gold rather than his father's brown, but carry a similarly dimmed luster— though less stoicism in his case, and more wary insecurity. He carries himself accordingly, the clash of heavy-hammered military training and a meek demeanor evident if one looks closely.

[b]Personality:[/b] At first blush, a confident and composed warrior, keen as any of the blades on his person and near as keen with his tongue. He'll speak clearly, hold eye contact, exude a sense of strength as well as any son of uplifted military can be taught— but scratch that surface, and time will tell you the truth of things. The boy's facade will waver, and inevitably chip to reveal the messier picture under the hood. Easily intimidated, awkward, prone to childish sensitivity, no amount of the remarkable strength packed into his slight frame seems to have quite gotten the message to his mind, still disappointing disowned middle child, still the runt of the litter. Once his guard is down around you, you'd be shocked he ever pulled the mask off in the first place.

But nobody exists with one facet.

Beneath this high-strung ball of defense mechanisms and weak points is, by all accounts, an affable, friendly, even [i]driven[/i] young man. He's a people pleaser at heart, his upbringing leaving him with a hatred of feeling like he's let anyone down, desperately seeking to avoid it even if it gets him in a situation he hates every second of. He enjoys being helpful, rarely balks at hard work, and understands well the feeling of being abandoned to one's fate, something he refuses to be the cause of. It's part of why his sturdy soldier's veneer gained the polish it did— he's quite studious and was surrounded by fine teachers in the older men of his family, however harsh they were with him. He wishes with all his being to meet the expectations set for him by those he considers important— that same dented confidence a tireless engine to stop being the weakling he can't help but see himself as.

Provided he isn't double-checking his back for the next dark streak of luck that comes his way, his concentration and focus are admirable both in and out of battle. He inherited a desire to cut through to the structure of things he needs to understand, tracking process and tendency to find threads to pull and gaps to prod. His spartan upbringing left him with many of the classical Midgar-adjacent gaps in intuition, taking a while to read people as well as he reads combat and making a real mess of relationships that don't feel like brotherhood, but he never considers getting to know someone a waste of time— if anything, a rare privilege he had as a common villager compared to even the least of a knightly house.

[b]Biography:[/b] Born second in a family of career soldiers uplifted to Knighthood just two generations before, Rudolf was always expected to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers in the Shilage creed— [color=993333]"All that is held by blood, shall too be earned by blood."[/color] Theirs was a history of consistently decorated service, like many from their ancestral home in Midgar, and though he was never expected to succeed his father István (shoes that the firstborn Otto already seemed to be gracefully filling), he was nonetheless trained from the moment he could walk in the many arts of war, administration, and culture. Their designs on climbing the ladder certainly had ample room for distinguished commanders, savvy political alliances, stalwart, fierce, and reputable knights. Inheritance was the king, but only a fool would neglect making use of the full board. For now, they and their little slice of paradise carved in the open plains between the Midgar Peaks and Chocobo Forest would act as crucible for the next generation, no matter their birthright.

Fate had, as it so often does, other plans for little Rudi.

In spite of his immersion in the most thorough developmental programs new money and a long history in the martial field could provide, Rudolf lagged behind as a warrior, even being outstripped in time by Imre, the youngest of them. For all his hard work and focus, for all his earnest desire to catch up and enjoy sparring with his brothers and peers, he seemed to plainly be bereft of the natural aptitude for soldiery that served them so well. Where they grew tall and strong, he remained scrawny, an eternal step behind. [color=993333]Taking after your mother, then? So be it. Double your training menu, boy.[/color]

Desperate and dutiful, his efforts did indeed redouble.

The passage of time brought little reprieve from a widening gap, both between he and his brothers as well as between he and his stern, brutal patriarch. On his best day an oppressive cliff face, Istvan's methods grew increasingly heavy-handed before, eventually, stopping altogether. The tireless mental machine that rose to prominence as leader of some of the finest expeditionary corps in the nation had reached his wits' end— and war was brewing upon their doorstep. Opportunity's clarion call was not left to hang in still air— as The Shilage Raiders departed for the North, a stalwart young Otto in tow, arrangements were made for Rudolf to be sent away, a smidge too young and a slab too roughshod to join the war effort.

A month of travel brough him west, onto the doorstep of one Earl Cadmon Demet outside Lunaris. A scholarly man that had kept his father on retainer in his youth, Cadmon knew well the customary trade of favors in play here— it having been Istvan himself that passed down the teachings of Edric Demet onto him, after the old lord's untimely passing left an unprepared teen to fill his shoes. Rudolf was summarily made squire, and spent the wartime years furthering his knowledge of both sword and pen beneath the watch of the old ruins. The Earl was a far gentler, kinder man than his father, even if he provided the boy with all the work he could handle— and that mentorship would soon prove an invaluable windfall. 

He knew how to gauge his own progress. He had been watching it hawkishly for more than a decade. Even putting aside Imre's visits that unilaterally ended in a sound trouncing, he knew that as Osprey made its final stand high in the mountains, Istvan and Otto were soon to return home as part of the triumph, and he would be found yet wanting. Weak, too weak by half, and paralyzed by his weakness, he would wait for the moon to lift high into the night and stalk the perimeter of the Lunarian ruins, alone with these thoughts. By now a common sight here at the Earl's suggestion, for both study and sparring, few paid the young noble much heed.

Then the ruins began to call to him. Voices in the darkness, answering his unspoken prayers for strength, with a bargain— just a bit of luck, equal in measure to the power he lacked. They had watched him and heard him for years now, and believed their covenant a fair win for both parties. The question was, did [i]he?[/i]

His return to the Shilage household, and reunion with father and brother, were short-lived in their joy. A burst of black flame erupting from his palm during a spar "for old times' sake" saw him swiftly thrown out like yesterday's trash, his only boon from the war effort an inscrutable, dull greatsword his furious father had poached from the hands of a rogue landsknecht— one that could cut nothing, no matter the skill of the wielder. Magic and a contract with the shadows themselves— a shame upon them twice over. He had no use for Rudolf any more, as he had, clearly, turned his back on the Mothercrystal's Light. He had not earned this strength through Blood.

With the dulled sword tossed to his feet before the heavy gates slammed shut, the message was as clear as the rain overhead— [color=993333]For your sins, you never will again.[/color]

He returned to Lord Demet, now as nothing else but wayward squire, and begged forgiveness, redemption, shelter at least. Seeing a desperate boy for what he was but needing a deft hand to maintain their familial ties, Cadmon instructed the former Shilage to take residence in the warrior settlement of Sagramore at the interior edge of his domain, where he had been sent to train from time to time among their many swordsmen and swordsmiths alike. They knew him chiefly as the Earl's understudy; provided he could lid those signs of the covenant, they would accept him readily as a familiar face. Perhaps they could turn their shared obsessions over to the puzzling sword as well, while Rudolf gathered the shattered remnants of his life back into a little pile.

He would remain there for five years, taking the village as surname and joining the Sagramori in leasing out services of monster-hunting (hating it every time) and armed escort for the many scholars that studied the ruins (hating it every time for different reasons), known for sometimes being swallowed by the labyrinth. When the Blight hit, he and they were among the frontliners in the sudden war against the newfound aggression of the savage beasts. Word of Leonhart's call to arms had made its way in short order to Earl Demet, who passed it on down to the village with a single word of advice for his miserable fool of a squire, once an honest, hopeful boy.

[color=ff8c00]"Go."[/color]

[b]Traits:[/b] 
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[*] Reliably unlucky. Will drop his coins down the grate. Will strike no truer than his ability. Will draw the short straw or have a ladder fall on his head.
[*] Believes that honor is [color=C0392B]"the refuge of the strong"[/color].
[*] Does not believe in his own strength.
[*] Nonetheless, faultlessly will be found presenting arms before a spar or duel. Gives both their proper respect, actually seems to enjoy them once they get going.
[*] Finds a meditative calm in the many rituals of upkeep. Feels similarly about the rhythm of crosshatching with his charcoal.
[*] Is a fair hand at preparing road food like stews and grilled meats. No gourmand, but not half bad for a castle boy.
[*] Has a fondness for eccentric hats. The swankier, the better.
[*] Can sketch a quite flattering portrait, provided you're okay with it.
[*] Inherited his father's taste for coffee. Prefers it with a splash of cream, and a pinch of cardamom.
[*] Mildly easy to talk into things. Incredibly easy to drag into them.
[*] Doing his best, alright? Be nice!
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[b]Relationships:[/b]

[list]
[*] [b]House Shilage:[/b] Estranged. Outcast. It's as complicated as it is simple. His father's final message eclipsed even words, and was the first time he had seen true fury on the man's granite slab face. They aren't on speaking terms. His brothers stand head and shoulders above him in both men's standings. All involved share the wish that he could be a little more like them. He is the least of them, but he used to still be one of them.
[*] [b]Earl Cadmon Demet:[/b] A savvy, understanding Uncle in all but blood. For a while, possibly the only friend in the world Rudi had— despite the taciturn message that foisted this quest onto his squire, Earl Demet maintains regular written correspondence, watching over the boy from afar, advice never far down the page.
[*] [b]The village of Sagramore:[/b] Proud warriors that train their bodies to be strong, fast, and tough as any armor, they are singularly responsible for keeping him sane at his nadir, by providing a constant stream of training, jobs, and most of all, something like a home away from home. A place to be [i]almost[/i] normal. He's not one of them, but he stands among them all the same.
[*] [b]Lord Galahad Wildemont Caradoc of Midgar:[/b] It's a rare red-blooded young Edreni man, especially one with Midgar ancestry, who [i]hasn't[/i] heard of the dragonslaying prodigy, the gallant veteran of the War in Osprey. In many ways Galahad's tales are every bit the inspiration that Otto was.
[*] [b]Izayoi of the Wild Dance, The Limbtaker, The Emperor's Demon, Kaien's Revenge:[/b] Worst case scenario. Avoid at all costs. If she's in the area, leave the area. If you can't leave the area, stay out of sight. If you can't stay out of sight, don't make eye contact. If she demands you converse, play dumb and abuse the fact that you look a lot more like Mom than Dad. If you can't avoid a fight, cheat like a bastard. Use the magic. Worry about people knowing about that later, while you still have a head that isn't paying for Dad's exploits.
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