'Obliteration, decimation, annihilation...These are the few things I bring with me to battle. Should you raise iron to me or my people, I shall bath this pale skin of mine in the blood that flows from your veins...
Name:
Malthael Fae'ryker
Alias:
General Sorin Savant
Race:
Hound of Ultar
Court:
Fall
Position/Occupation:
General of the Fall Court
(Actual) Age:
6000 years old (looks mid thirties)
Personality:
It is hard for him outside of his duties to be laid back as he is kept in constant contact with his military at all times, making calls even when he is taking his break. He is, after all, the general of his court. He has been a military man since a young age and it is shown in how he holds himself. Excess training and discipline, as well as battle experience and a great teacher has helped him hold his head high when he walks and even more so when his court is behind him in the charge. He tries to help out his court when not in a meeting or with their leader, opting to bartend in a tavern or help sell items in the center bazaar.
However, should one be on the receiving end of his blade, should one be an enemy of the court, heed this warning. He is an unforgiving man, ruthless and cold-blooded when he fights but never one to let his emotions control him. No, in fact, he controls them, utilizing them in a way that has baffled many fae. His use of destructive magic, complemented by his distinct fighting style has earned him the moniker "The Wraith of War". His brutality can also be seen not only in battle against a foe, but in the execution of a traitor.
He is not a fan of politics and prefers to settle things quickly and efficiently. He has no qualms about being blunt to his leader in his opposition of what they request, backing up what he says with facts and reasoning. But should his leader claim a final order, he will follow it through for he is also a man of true honor and loyalty.
Appearance:
General Sorin stands at a large 6'4" and appears to be 235lbs of refined and toned muscle. His pale skin is only ever complemented by his bright gold yet piercing eyes. His body has been decorated like a violent canvas of scars from battle with two very distinct ones. One that goes in a diagonal direction over his left eye down to his right lip as well as three across his left cheek for added measure. The other major one is one that crosses from the right side of his neck down n to his lower left ab, all earned in war. His out fit is dark and made of fine leather and steel, the best that could be made. In the center however, is a special gem, meant to help amplify his powers though he does not necessarily call upon its abilities often. Now it is merely for decoration. A bit of light to add to his dark exterior. Now, this is not much of an appearance description as it is a description of his posture and mannerisms. He holds himself as a soldier in and outside of work from his rigid yet sharp, graceful movements to his simple hand motions, everything about him screams of discipline and experience. Even his eyes, which can sometimes have a wary appearance, hold a steadfast determination and dedication to his Court's cause.
Family:
Father: Captain Arrad Hylae, Captain of the Guard, Mother: Sivir Hylae, Grand Archer
Ambition:
Although he has no true ambition, he does wish to find an opponent worth to fight. One that could grant him a true warriors death. Until then, he will settle with becoming the most famous Fae general to have ever lived.
Background:
Six thousand. Six thousand years it has been since one of King Falk's most accomplished Generals were born unto this world. A pup of Ultar, a pup of a hell hound and a pup who, one day, would make a name for himself as the Wraith of War. A violent individual on the field and ruthless with the blade and devastating with his magic. But, a story must begin somewhere. This one will begin at the youngest age. The age of an infant. Malthael was given up by his biological parents for fear of his life and was handed over to the King, who had placed the young pup with another family of the same species. The head of the family, Arrad Kylae, was one of the captains of the royal guard and when Malthael was old enough, began teaching him the art of battle, the art of the sword. Around this age Faelyn, the Arch Arcane of Arrad's company, began training the young boy in the art of the Arcane. For years since his human transformation glamour, he had been training for battle since the young age at five, managing to show traits of a prodigy at the young age of 8 and expertise in the sword and bow by age 14. It was then did he decide to join the royal guard but with this there was stipulations. Many did not feel that he was truly ready for combat. He was still too young, he was still learning arcane magic and despite his finesse with the blade, he was denied by the court until, Falk, of all people, gave permission for young Malthael to join but first, he would start out on patrols, hunts and things akin to such tasks. A way to get his feet wet.
All seemed to go well around the age of 17 and he had been on multiple hunts and patrols, little fighting occurred as most of it were bandits and small time resistance groups or humans that had crossed into the fey line but nothing of particular significance in the aspect of the military and he had begun to loath it. He felt it was time for him to embrace real fights, real battles but at the time there was peace. It would see that he would never experience combat, the rush of adrenaline, the sounds of swords clashing, the booms of magic clashing with magic and the shuffling of feet and armour. No he would not feel that but in fact he would feel something else, something much...Much worse.
One year later, near Raven's Creek, Malthael and his merry group of brothers, those he had now considered as such, were ambushed. Was it Spring? Summer fae? Nigh, it was something, or someone far worse. earlier that year, there was rumors going around the court of a Witcher, a powerful witcher who was hunting down those killing humans by Ravens Creek and it seemed that this witcher had gotten word of the group. And there he waited, iron and silver weapons with magic meant to defend against the fey. Instead of feeling that yearning rush of combat, he felt fear, the darkening shroud of darkness engulf him like a tide wave of a raging sea. Instead of fighting to the death, he ran. He abandoned those he considered brothers and ran for help. For this, he was pulled away from military duty, considered weak and shamed his family name. His father, who held a high reputation had it destroyed in one evening at Raven's Creek. His father did not speak to him but his mother tried to give him comfort. He was unhappy with himself and felt that he should leave, maybe even destroy his own life to try to bring honor back to the family.
One night, at the lake near his house. A full moon loomed over head, lighting up the beautiful lake with bright whites and grays. He sat lakeside, a dagger in hand. Looking up to the night sky, sparkling tears rolling down his eyes, he prayed to the gods to give him a sign, any sign that would show him the true way. A sign to point him down the right path. With no response he raised his blade, ready to strike his own heart in hopes to bring back honor to his family. Just before the blade pierce his skin, he heard a large and primal growl from behind and he turned.
A wolf, as large as a great horse with fur colored of ash and smoke gazed into Malthael yellow eyes with its on steely gold ones. Runes of many gold shades glowed dimly off of its body as it It bared its teeth and snarled at the boy.
"Stailc féin agus go bhfuil tú lag. Stailc féin agus náire duit an t-ainm Faeryker."
Its voice held power, its voice held emotion and the most important...It held a silent threat. It was his sign, it was the answer from the gods. With a shaky hand he dropped the deadly metal and simply looked towards the lunar light and stars for his new resolve.
The witcher had continued his terror near Raven's Creek and word had spread about his fighting prowess, how he had taken down many a great warrior. Few dared to attack him but those that dead, were given swift burials. Eventually, the Court prohibited those to go near. Months after this event he stayed to himself and his training, instead of hours a day, he went until he could no more, pushing himself to the point of collapse, and on some occasions he did. His father started to wonder what the boy was aiming to accomplish and when he confronted him he asked. The boy, whose eyes seemed to have hardened into those of the wolf, stared into his father's own, sending a slight chill down his back. He responded with only few words. Words that resonated his resolve.
"I'm going to kill that witcher who killed my brothers and when I'm done with him, I will kill anyone who threatens my brothers and sisters of the court. I will make a name for myself, a name that will only be said through whispers. A name that will strike fear into our foes. I will earn my honor back and I will earn your honor back as well. With these hands...I will make the name Malthael feared throughout the fey. Now step aside father, I have someone to kill."
There were stories, rumors and ballads of the day the Wolf slayed the Witcher, but one thing was for certain, when he returned to the Court at the end of the next day with the witcher's head in a bag, it was known now that the Kylae boy had slain the witcher, a task that was meant for the more powerful fae of the court. He had restored the honor of his family and his honor.
Years had gone by after this and he had begun to make a true name for himself. Inspiring brothers and sisters of the fae as well as those who had doubts about their existence. Falk had kept the boy close, knowing that one day he would truly be great. He had fought salamanders, lycan, orges and orcs. Taken on summer and made high ranking friends of winter. He trained the youth and spared with the experienced and fought side by side with some of the most powerful fey to have ever come through the Fall court. Even his magic had improved. So much so that he had begun teachings of his own. But this is thousands of years later.
If one was to look now, they would see one of the most powerful generals of the Fall court, an argued subject but nonetheless an observation that is just. His story is still being written in the novel of his life. What is to come is uncertain, but one thing is. Whatever happens, songs will be sung, poets will write and myths and legends will be told of his actions.
Malthael Fae'ryker
Alias:
General Sorin Savant
Race:
Hound of Ultar
Court:
Fall
Position/Occupation:
General of the Fall Court
(Actual) Age:
6000 years old (looks mid thirties)
Personality:
It is hard for him outside of his duties to be laid back as he is kept in constant contact with his military at all times, making calls even when he is taking his break. He is, after all, the general of his court. He has been a military man since a young age and it is shown in how he holds himself. Excess training and discipline, as well as battle experience and a great teacher has helped him hold his head high when he walks and even more so when his court is behind him in the charge. He tries to help out his court when not in a meeting or with their leader, opting to bartend in a tavern or help sell items in the center bazaar.
However, should one be on the receiving end of his blade, should one be an enemy of the court, heed this warning. He is an unforgiving man, ruthless and cold-blooded when he fights but never one to let his emotions control him. No, in fact, he controls them, utilizing them in a way that has baffled many fae. His use of destructive magic, complemented by his distinct fighting style has earned him the moniker "The Wraith of War". His brutality can also be seen not only in battle against a foe, but in the execution of a traitor.
He is not a fan of politics and prefers to settle things quickly and efficiently. He has no qualms about being blunt to his leader in his opposition of what they request, backing up what he says with facts and reasoning. But should his leader claim a final order, he will follow it through for he is also a man of true honor and loyalty.
Appearance:
General Sorin stands at a large 6'4" and appears to be 235lbs of refined and toned muscle. His pale skin is only ever complemented by his bright gold yet piercing eyes. His body has been decorated like a violent canvas of scars from battle with two very distinct ones. One that goes in a diagonal direction over his left eye down to his right lip as well as three across his left cheek for added measure. The other major one is one that crosses from the right side of his neck down n to his lower left ab, all earned in war. His out fit is dark and made of fine leather and steel, the best that could be made. In the center however, is a special gem, meant to help amplify his powers though he does not necessarily call upon its abilities often. Now it is merely for decoration. A bit of light to add to his dark exterior. Now, this is not much of an appearance description as it is a description of his posture and mannerisms. He holds himself as a soldier in and outside of work from his rigid yet sharp, graceful movements to his simple hand motions, everything about him screams of discipline and experience. Even his eyes, which can sometimes have a wary appearance, hold a steadfast determination and dedication to his Court's cause.
Family:
Father: Captain Arrad Hylae, Captain of the Guard, Mother: Sivir Hylae, Grand Archer
Ambition:
Although he has no true ambition, he does wish to find an opponent worth to fight. One that could grant him a true warriors death. Until then, he will settle with becoming the most famous Fae general to have ever lived.
Background:
Six thousand. Six thousand years it has been since one of King Falk's most accomplished Generals were born unto this world. A pup of Ultar, a pup of a hell hound and a pup who, one day, would make a name for himself as the Wraith of War. A violent individual on the field and ruthless with the blade and devastating with his magic. But, a story must begin somewhere. This one will begin at the youngest age. The age of an infant. Malthael was given up by his biological parents for fear of his life and was handed over to the King, who had placed the young pup with another family of the same species. The head of the family, Arrad Kylae, was one of the captains of the royal guard and when Malthael was old enough, began teaching him the art of battle, the art of the sword. Around this age Faelyn, the Arch Arcane of Arrad's company, began training the young boy in the art of the Arcane. For years since his human transformation glamour, he had been training for battle since the young age at five, managing to show traits of a prodigy at the young age of 8 and expertise in the sword and bow by age 14. It was then did he decide to join the royal guard but with this there was stipulations. Many did not feel that he was truly ready for combat. He was still too young, he was still learning arcane magic and despite his finesse with the blade, he was denied by the court until, Falk, of all people, gave permission for young Malthael to join but first, he would start out on patrols, hunts and things akin to such tasks. A way to get his feet wet.
All seemed to go well around the age of 17 and he had been on multiple hunts and patrols, little fighting occurred as most of it were bandits and small time resistance groups or humans that had crossed into the fey line but nothing of particular significance in the aspect of the military and he had begun to loath it. He felt it was time for him to embrace real fights, real battles but at the time there was peace. It would see that he would never experience combat, the rush of adrenaline, the sounds of swords clashing, the booms of magic clashing with magic and the shuffling of feet and armour. No he would not feel that but in fact he would feel something else, something much...Much worse.
One year later, near Raven's Creek, Malthael and his merry group of brothers, those he had now considered as such, were ambushed. Was it Spring? Summer fae? Nigh, it was something, or someone far worse. earlier that year, there was rumors going around the court of a Witcher, a powerful witcher who was hunting down those killing humans by Ravens Creek and it seemed that this witcher had gotten word of the group. And there he waited, iron and silver weapons with magic meant to defend against the fey. Instead of feeling that yearning rush of combat, he felt fear, the darkening shroud of darkness engulf him like a tide wave of a raging sea. Instead of fighting to the death, he ran. He abandoned those he considered brothers and ran for help. For this, he was pulled away from military duty, considered weak and shamed his family name. His father, who held a high reputation had it destroyed in one evening at Raven's Creek. His father did not speak to him but his mother tried to give him comfort. He was unhappy with himself and felt that he should leave, maybe even destroy his own life to try to bring honor back to the family.
One night, at the lake near his house. A full moon loomed over head, lighting up the beautiful lake with bright whites and grays. He sat lakeside, a dagger in hand. Looking up to the night sky, sparkling tears rolling down his eyes, he prayed to the gods to give him a sign, any sign that would show him the true way. A sign to point him down the right path. With no response he raised his blade, ready to strike his own heart in hopes to bring back honor to his family. Just before the blade pierce his skin, he heard a large and primal growl from behind and he turned.
A wolf, as large as a great horse with fur colored of ash and smoke gazed into Malthael yellow eyes with its on steely gold ones. Runes of many gold shades glowed dimly off of its body as it It bared its teeth and snarled at the boy.
"Stailc féin agus go bhfuil tú lag. Stailc féin agus náire duit an t-ainm Faeryker."
Its voice held power, its voice held emotion and the most important...It held a silent threat. It was his sign, it was the answer from the gods. With a shaky hand he dropped the deadly metal and simply looked towards the lunar light and stars for his new resolve.
The witcher had continued his terror near Raven's Creek and word had spread about his fighting prowess, how he had taken down many a great warrior. Few dared to attack him but those that dead, were given swift burials. Eventually, the Court prohibited those to go near. Months after this event he stayed to himself and his training, instead of hours a day, he went until he could no more, pushing himself to the point of collapse, and on some occasions he did. His father started to wonder what the boy was aiming to accomplish and when he confronted him he asked. The boy, whose eyes seemed to have hardened into those of the wolf, stared into his father's own, sending a slight chill down his back. He responded with only few words. Words that resonated his resolve.
"I'm going to kill that witcher who killed my brothers and when I'm done with him, I will kill anyone who threatens my brothers and sisters of the court. I will make a name for myself, a name that will only be said through whispers. A name that will strike fear into our foes. I will earn my honor back and I will earn your honor back as well. With these hands...I will make the name Malthael feared throughout the fey. Now step aside father, I have someone to kill."
There were stories, rumors and ballads of the day the Wolf slayed the Witcher, but one thing was for certain, when he returned to the Court at the end of the next day with the witcher's head in a bag, it was known now that the Kylae boy had slain the witcher, a task that was meant for the more powerful fae of the court. He had restored the honor of his family and his honor.
Years had gone by after this and he had begun to make a true name for himself. Inspiring brothers and sisters of the fae as well as those who had doubts about their existence. Falk had kept the boy close, knowing that one day he would truly be great. He had fought salamanders, lycan, orges and orcs. Taken on summer and made high ranking friends of winter. He trained the youth and spared with the experienced and fought side by side with some of the most powerful fey to have ever come through the Fall court. Even his magic had improved. So much so that he had begun teachings of his own. But this is thousands of years later.
If one was to look now, they would see one of the most powerful generals of the Fall court, an argued subject but nonetheless an observation that is just. His story is still being written in the novel of his life. What is to come is uncertain, but one thing is. Whatever happens, songs will be sung, poets will write and myths and legends will be told of his actions.
