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7 yrs ago
Current Returning after a 5 month break. I don't know why... just needed time.


I powerlift...

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So does anyone want to hash out any kind of details, character connections, or something of that nature? What's happening in the wide world out there? Sounds a little quiet.
History is up and a bit longer than expected but when I started writing this guy up it all just came together. Hope it works out, let me know if it needs any revision, I will go through another proofread tomorrow.

I know what you mean about trying to "push" things to happen, I am right on board with your intent there.
Name: Arvass Ji'lumin Tanarel Tre-ashoth

Age: 52

Nation of Origin: The League of Free Poleis, the Tre-ashoth Syndicate

Sex: Male

Physical Description: Arvass’s appearance was born of the wealth and refined tastes shared by every child of the Tanarel family belonging to the Tre-ashoth Trade Syndicate. The well-kept features of a young trade house boy would age though, becoming harshly weathered and darkened by the violent and austere life of naval service. More still, age would crease and draw the features of Arvass as naval service became tempered by rigorous intellectual study. Today his ebon colored skin is tough, like darkened leather, cut deep with lines carved by wear, wounds, and wisdom. Under this battered skin the heritage of his Tanarel ancestors is evident in the strong bones of jaw and cheek, the constant unassuming expression of knowing amusement, and the deep set of chocolate colored eyes flecked with gold. The hair he has left is kept closely cropped to his scalp and is the color of slate. A beard covers most of his face under a broad nose and around a large and expressive mouth, the stone colored hairs neatly trimmed and only absent along the track of a jagged scar stitched across his left cheek. His stature speaks to good breeding and martial discipline, the vigor of youth replaced by a hard strength obtained only through labor, the speed of early life giving way to the measured assurance of a man that knows well each move he makes. Unlike those men that stoop with age and grow frail, Arvass’s five foot ten, twelve stone frame has become distilled, concentrated, and intense. His skin, in accordance with his religious beliefs, is unmarred by tattoos or branding and is seldom ornamented with any type of jewelry or frivolity. More often than not he wears the ancestral style thawb, brocaded sashes, a simple leather traveling vest, and the traditional keffiyeh that are common on the Tre-ashoth islands.

Equipment/Personal Possessions: His clothing consists of an earth colored silken thawb over which he wears an open and flowing robe bound with thick silk or woolen sashes. Arvass protects his feet by wearing open leather sandals that lace part way up his lower legs and covers his head with a traditional keffiyeh head scarf. When traveling he wears a utilitarian leather vest under the robe that serves as the only armor he willing wears, a career at sea watching men drown under the weight of chain and plate wards him away from anything heavier. Any time he leaves the Scholastica Civilitas he takes with him three steadfast items that are as much a part of him as his heart. The first is a satchel that contains paper, ink vials, quills, and other tools that mark him as a historian, the second is an ornate and ceremonial khanjar dagger, less of a weapon and more of a symbol that serves as a marker of his connections to the Tre-ashoth Syndicate, and the third is an equally practical and deadly Shamshir style blade belted to his left hip.

History: A great feast was prepared with the utmost vigor and excitement. Whole lambs were roasted in curries, turmeric, and cumin, the Tanarel’s coastal villa was alight with paper lanterns of all colors and shapes that drifted on tethers moved by the hot winds that blew in from the island’s central desert, and the tops of great casks of fragrant spiced wine were cracked open in celebration of the birth of Diaab Is'haaq Tanarel Tre-ashoth’s sixth child and fourth son. As the Nagid or “ruler” of the Tre-ashoth Trade Syndicate Emir Diaab had expertly maneuvered his family to the top of the Syndicate’s hierarchy and the birth of a sixth child ensured that Diaab would have the lineage to control each of the six minor houses that made up the Syndicate, through marriage proposals.

At the feast Diaab announced the boy’s name, his latest son would take the name of Diaab’s beloved brother who had died bravely while commanding a fleet that ran a blockade during the Nivale Trade Wars. His name would be Arvass Ji'lumin Tanarel Tre-ashoth. At this feast Arvass was already six months old, having spent the months between his birth and his naming in another Tanarel estate, in seclusion, with his mother and her midwives as custom dictated. So at this feast a name was conferred to the boy and to the people of the deserts that make up the Tre-ashoth islands in Free Poleis this is when the life of Arvass began.

If one trait could be said to define Arvass it would be wanderlust. He spent little of his youth, compared to his brothers and sisters, within the Tanarel holdings on the Tre-ashoth islands of Free Poleis. So overpowering was Arvass’s desire to examine the world around him that instead of constantly trying to contain his son, Arvass’s father hired retainers, Bedouins, tutors, former caravan drivers, and ships navigators to form a retinue for the boy, to educate him when he traveled, and to watch over him when he wandered, reporting his condition and progress to the family. Under the stewardship of these enigmatic, skilled, and intelligent men Arvass walked, rode, and sailed across nearly every mile of the Tre-ashoth islands and coasts. He languished for months on end in the heady port towns of Gilmazra, Munjed, and Fakrath and he strode across the great sand deserts of Piro Ravi spending his formative years learning the ways of the island’s native and nomadic peoples. Arvass traveled the high desert oases of Tibon Yasir dancing and singing the hot days and languid nights away under the shade of date groves and in the arms of gypsy girls. On the island of Zahir Sujal, Arvass was swept up with a visiting Horatican Senator’s daughter, taking her as a paramour, an experience that ended with a nasty scar across the young Tanarel’s cheek from the Senator’s blade and a stern message from the Nagid of the Tre-ashoth Syndicate, it was time for his wayward son to quit his whirlwind dalliances and worldly education and return to the family’s affairs.

Arvass’s station abroad was enhanced by his families standing and it allowed him a wide degree of freedom but at home he was the sixth and final child in a family that loved him deeply but had grown accustomed to projecting their power without him. His older brothers had secured their place in Syndicate houses through adroitly timed marriages and consolidations and his sisters too had married into the right house at the right time, merging the smaller houses and consolidating the Trade Syndicate into four great houses that spanned the three Tre-ashoth islands of Piro Ravi, Tibon Yasir, and Zahir Sujal. As Arvass spent years handling the minor affairs of his brothers and sisters his dissatisfaction grew to be unbearable. His mother tried to console him, his sisters brought their children, Arvass’s nieces and nephews, often to visit and his brothers would ask him to retell the stories of his travels but none of it helped. Emir Diaab seeing his son’s spirit dim within the confines of Syndicate life procured for his youngest son a commission within the League Navy, not only to satisfy his son’s desire to travel freely but to insert the Syndicate’s connections into the League Navy that spanned all of Free Poleis. It was a calculated move but a move still brought about by equal parts love and maneuvering. In the Navy Arvass’s education, wanderlust, and brash daring was harnessed into a disciplined command within the League’s far sailing scout squadrons.

The scout squadrons, known as Harbingers, consisted of light dhows and sambuk style ships that could make great speed across the expanses between islands, navigate the shallow reefs and lagoons with ease, and pin down smugglers, pirates, and enemy ships for follow on boarding actions by larger more cumbersome galleys. Arvass excelled at this life, his wanderlust led him to learn all he could about navigation and seamanship and he soon outstripped his fellow junior officers in all respects. By his late twenties he commanded his own dhow in a Harbinger squadron, had earned a solid reputation as an officer that did not shy from boarding actions, and was considered a rising star in the League Navy that led his men from the front and treated them like his own sons. Though his star was on the rise, Arvass’s career as a Naval Officer ended in drastic fashion when it seemed at its most promising.

Another family had risen within the Tre-ashoth Syndicate and was positioned as an equal to the Tanarel in both power and influence, however this new family was especially vicious in its quest for lordship of the Syndicate and was not above employing murder most freely. In the span of a week the upstart Pershtal family orchestrated the assassination of Arvass’s mother, two sisters, and two of three brothers, and the attempted assassinations on Arvass, his remaining brother, and his father Diaab. The fallout would be known as the Per-Ashoth murders and when Arvass utilized his League Naval command and those sailors loyal to him to attack and destroy four escaping Pershtal ships, killing all on board and burning everything down to the keel, the consequences would damn him for the rest of his life.

Publicly, the League Navy denounced Arvass for involving the Navy and his sailors in familial affairs and for the killing of, what the Navy saw as, innocent Pershtal family members and retainers. During a formal inquiry Arvass was stripped of command and all standing in the League Navy and denounced by every Commander in attendance. Also publicly and with a heart shattered by tragedy and death Nagid Diaab Is'haaq Tanarel Tre-ashoth disavowed his son’s rash and bloody actions, condemning the act of slaughter and banishing his youngest and one of only two remaining sons from the Tre-ashoth islands, a move that shocked many but saved the family a great deal of face. Privately, the League Navy did more than denounce Arvass, they wanted his head lopped off and his body thrown into the sea and it took the heartfelt pleas of a still very powerful Nagid Diaab to spare his son from naval justice and execution. Privately, the Tanarel family rejoiced in the vengeance Arvass had wrought, celebrated him as a hero that had sacrificed his Command and homeland in order to bring about the violent hand of Tanarel justice to the Pershtal family.

Days after the assassinations perpetrated by the Pershtal family nearly destroyed the Tanarel family, Diaab and his two remaining sons executed a swift and deadly plan, the scale of which had never been seen in Free Poleis and has yet to be repeated. Through guild connections, mercenary contracts, house retainers, hired thugs, and well paid officials the Pershtal family was brought to absolute ruin in a matter of months. Their assets were seized, credit was denied or called in all at once, ships disappeared with their precious cargo and incomes, and distant relatives vanished without a trace only to be found victims of petty street muggings and murders. When nothing remained of the Pershtal’s except the means to escape the final part of Diaab’s plan to exact revenge fell into place. What was left of the Pershtal family fled the city of Munjed in their sole remaining trade ships and when they did Arvass, knowing full well the sacrifice he was about to make, was waiting just outside the ports sheltered waters. Arvass and his men boarded the Pershtal ships and spared none, young and old, men and women, Pershtal and retainer were cut down and then thrown from the ships, and the slaughter that occurred at Arvass’s hands snuffed an entire family line from existence in the span of an hour. Publicly Arvass had been consumed by grief, motivated by his hot blooded upbringing among the desert tribes, and his inexcusable actions were condemned by family and Navy alike. Privately, the Tanarel family gathered with Arvass one last time before his exile, at the graves of their assassinated mother and wife, brothers and sons, sisters and daughters and mourned. Though as the father and two remaining sons mourned they also took heart and heralded the youngest son as a hero that sacrificed all his accomplishments for the family before leaving Free Poleis a disgraced Captain and public exile who could never visit the graves of his mother, brothers, or sisters again.

Arvass left Free Poleis and the Tre-ashoth islands in his thirty-fourth year, a disgrace to all except his Father and brother who knew the truth of his acts as part of the family’s greater plan to exterminate the Pershtal family. He arrived in the Republic a year later and wandered for a time, plying his skills as a menial sailor on various coastal fishing ships and compulsively writing the tales from his youth that he had learned during his travels. It was during this time that Arvass came into contact with an elder scholar from the Scholastica Civilitas who noticed that the immigrant Free Poleisian was educated far beyond a commoner and was capable of composing stories that explored a foreign world to those in the Republic.

Arvass spent many long days and nights with the scholar, soon becoming a student of the Scholastica under the moniker Vass in order to disguise his torrid history which even the scholar did not know. As a student his studies consumed him, his wanderlust was satiated by experiencing different cultures and places through books and scrolls and he devoured knowledge veraciously. Vass studied the languages and cultures of the Republic, wrote extensively on the Free Poleis islands, their government, religion, and culture, and became a uniquely emphatic historian of the Republic, the Islands, and the world.

It has been eighteen years since his exile and most if not all of those years have been spent in an almost penitent pursuit of knowledge. Vass has become a trusted adjunct of the Scholastica Civilitas, advising those that teach, though he himself does not teach for fear of revealing himself and his past. He is a leading scholar on Free Poleis history, religion, trade, and culture and a source of knowledge that is often consulted when it comes to naval histories and foreign language or culture. To his dismay though, contact with his family has been non-existent except once when his brother, who now leads the even more powerful Tre-ashoth Syndicate, was granted special dispensation to bring Vass news of their Father’s death and even this meeting was short, sorrowful, clandestine, and now eight years past. The loss of his family, though his sacrifice secured their future, pains him deeply and the recent arrival of a letter from his brother has Vass expecting the worst.
@Asyrdar The inability for word to travel is one of the reasons I was drawn to the role of a historian. A major reason a lot of our knowledge of ancient events like military campaigns, regime changes, and manhunts for infamous people exists is because a scribe or historian was there, riding with the people, recording the events.

The more I read of The League of Free Poleis the more I like the idea of my character coming from there. I am thinking of a fourth son of a highly notable merchant house on one of the islands (requesting permission to name one for his history), possibly a prominent silk and spice trading family with connections to Samakar, Horaticans, and Teleucia. However, since he is the fourth son and the sixth child he would have been relegated to some minor holding, counting shipments rather than discharging the affairs of the house's trade. To escape mundane obscurity he enlists in the League Navy, serves time there (combat and sea experience) but ends a notable but not heroic Naval career at the Scholastica Civilitas where he studies history and becomes a chronicler of naval trade a warfare. Since he is connected to his familial trade house, the Scholastica, and The League Navy he could have resources and contacts in each tempered by pressure not to rock the families boat or betray comrades, traditions, or his own standing in each group.

Still working out his exact reasons and motivations for being on this particular manhunt but it is gelling together, I am sure I will have a sheet soon.

@Scout Stalking is a dangerous game, though I guess it has led us both to some pretty good RPs.
@Asyrdar What would you think of about a Chronicler of sorts, someone in the like of a Tacitus of sorts? I was thinking an older character that had spent time in a minor house's guard or a mercenary company when he was younger, he would have experience being on the march and of warfare but he would be past his prime. Perhaps after some sort of experience in his younger days he turned to the Scholastica Civilitas and Academia and become a historian. He would be a tier 2 fighter with experience and skill but without the strength and stamina of his youth and a sharply observant historian sent to record the event for some interested patron. Perhaps his patronage also leads to some other conflict down the road.

Any input on how valid a character like this would be?
I am interested and returning after a break, much like you Asyrdar.
The slow repetitive sound of dripping water came to Vincent’s ears but mentally, he was unaware of the faint sound. Consciousness had left him shortly after his tumble into the library’s back office. A violent coughing fit hit him as he had gasped for oxygen after his desperate flight and sitting on his haunches against the wall in that dark office was the first relief he had had in hours. As pain and realization came back to him the revolver he carried fell from his limp aching fingers and the toxic nature of his body, brought on by his failing liver, overwhelmed his weakened and battered immune system and mind. The passage of time left him as his narrow little world blacked out and the taste of metallic bile filled his mouth and nose.

Later, the falling droplets of water became louder, awareness returned to Vincent and with a weary push he managed to get himself to his feet, grasping the revolver in his right hand as he did. Sight was slow to return to his rattled mind, the edges of things blurred and faded into indistinct blobs at first. The concussion of the blast still rang in his ears which, coupled with the meager amount of fading daylight working through the shuttered office window, told him no too much time had passed since he blacked out, chronic drunks like Vincent were good at gauging blackout times. He stumbled for a moment in the dimming light, balance failing him before he was able to catch his balance on a desk chair and standing straight, attempted to shake the fatigue and general malaise from his bones. “Get a fucking grip man.” He told himself, using the back of his arm to wipe away some of the beaded sweat from his furrowed brow. Vincent’s eyes began to adjust to the rooms poor light, the ambient light being just enough to focus, allowing him to appraise the office. A couple of desks, chairs, file cabinets, and all the accoutrements of clerical duty surrounded him including phones and computers. With steps that were becoming more confident he went from desk to desk, toggling power switches on computers and lifting receivers to phones. Nothing worked. His whole reasoning for moving to the library was because he thought there would be some ability to contact someone from within its walls. That had now turned out to be a false hope. As he tested the last phone Vincent again registered the sound of dripping water and realized just how parched his throat was. The big man pushed his way through the office space and into a small workplace restroom where a faucet slowly dripped into a porcelain bowl. Vincent moved towards the sink, setting the revolver on the sink's edge and turning the faucet’s cold knob over, opening the valve to some cool water. Quickly he cupped his good hand under the running water and brought it to his mouth slurping noisily, droplets of water running down his long white beard. He shoved his hand under the sink again and got a second handful of water before a violent rattle of the pipes, worked its way along the walls and burst from the open faucet with a rush of air, heralding the last of the water from that line.

Retrieving his weapon and moving from the small restroom Vincent stopped for a moment, leaning against the door frame and allowing a shock of pain in his side to pass. As he waited he became more frustrated with the lack of any success in contacting the outside world. Once the pain subsided Vincent moved across the office and to the door that opened to the library’s main lobby. The door was slightly ajar and he squinted through the crack attempting to see out into the vast lobby area with little real effect. With a small degree of difficulty and a sharp twinging of nerve pain Vincent grasped the door knob in his left hand and slowly eased the door open, using the frame and door as concealment from one side, he kept the barrel of the revolver low and swept the other side of the open lobby. Seeing that the lobby was empty, as far as he could tell, he lowered his gun and walked over to the reception desk and as he moved up beside it he heard a muffled thump come from the upstairs area, the stairs of which were just behind the desk. Vincent hefted the barrel of the gun towards the stairs, expecting to see some of those things, whack jobs, come trundling down the stairs but nothing moved, and for a moment no sound followed. Slowly he moved along the edge of the desk bracing his hip against the side for support and balance as he watched the stairs, eyes flitting back and forth from the stairs to the lobby. For a moment nothing else moved or made a sound and just as Vincent’s nerves and paranoia were starting to calm his eye caught something that started him worrying again. A can of food sat on the reception desk, opened. Vincent moved over and inspected the cold canned pasta and sauce and subsequently spotted the bag tucked away behind the reception desk. Frustrated again, in pain, and really needing a drink to calm his nerves Vincent was becoming irrational, anger starting to boil over.

“If there is someone in here that would rather eat fucking spaghettis than my face then why don’t you say something instead of creeping around damn it!” He nearly bellowed.

Vincent hefted his bulk onto the reception desk next to the can of food, set the revolver on his lap, and scooped the can up, peeling the lid back again and downing half of what was left in two mouthfuls, some of which he would need to brush from his beard later. In truth Vincent didn’t know if anyone was there, the thumping sound could have been the wind, boards settling, books falling, living people, or more whack jobs. The food was cold and canned and could have been the receptionist’s lunch before shit hit the fan, Vincent knew nothing about who or what he shared this library with but he was getting tiered of creeping around like some mouse in a room full of traps waiting for things to happen. “Be my luck anyway…” he shouted between mouthfuls, “…stuck in a library where nothing works with a bunch of whacked out twits outside trying to fucking eat me and who the hell knows what in here!” He shook his head, setting the now almost empty can down and searching for his flask which he found to be empty due to his earlier escapades.

“Should have found a bar instead of a damn library.” he mumbled.
Summary: Vincent gets up, gets some water, gets some free food, and begins to rant and rave at no one in particular; on one hand he wants to vent some pent up stress, on the other hand he may be aiming to see if there are people that will answer.
Alright, I'll put something together tonight in order to try and bring them a bit more into interaction range.

Update: post is up, not particularly proud of it but it should help move things along.

In all seriousness though, is there any specific collaboration anyone wants to work in so that we can come together? I just don't want to come face to face with someone and end the post because from where Vincent is at now that would be a short post unless I fluff it to death. Anyone interested in collaborating a meeting of the characters?
Yep, no piddly half ass dying... everyone... totally.... dies.
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