Height: 5'10" | Weight: 190 lbs | Eye Color: Blue | Hair Color: Black"I will stand at the summit and make my detractors pay for the privilege of watching my ascent." Ceolfric is stocky and powerfully-built like the mountains that raised him, with skin covered in little scars and calluses that speak to a lifetime of conflict. He carries himself with a princely bearing that doesn't suit him, with all of the entitlement but none of the aristocratic civility, underlied by the subtle tension of a man who anticipates violence in every sudden movement. Likewise, his gaze is cold and judgmental, appraising everyone he looks upon in the way a predator might size up its next meal.
His hair, despite being greasy and swept back haphazardly, looks like it had been previously cut with some deliberate, tribal style in mind rather than the pragmatic shearing of a backwood savage. Swirling
tattoos adorn the sides of his head, quite prominent when his undercut is freshly shaved but now just barely visible through the regrowing hair. A conspicuous scar bisects his right eyebrow, though his face appears otherwise unblemished until Ceolfric opens his mouth, where a discolored tongue marks him as Aetherborn in an unnatural, plum-colored hue.
Name: Ceolfric, Son of Ravangar
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Classification: Animas - Mental
Abnormality: His tongue is colored a deep purple.
Personality: Ceolfric is a firm believer that it is better to live in infamy than anonymity. He believes he has a birthright to rule, gifted to him by right of conquest and lineage and the providence of fell gods. He wears the facade of a civilized man to this end, for the demeanor of the ruler and the conqueror are not always aligned, but at heart he is an unruly savage, looking for an opportunity to break out into violence at any given moment. Unless he intends to turn his magic upon someone, Ceolfric reserves words for only the most inconsequential matters - anything he can solve with a fist, he will. Though he usually puts up a gruff exterior, he's capable of being quite wordy when he wishes to ensnare a foe in a web of double-speak and broken truths, and, of course, he celebrates his bloody victories with as much vigor as he puts into securing them, just as any other self-respecting raider would.
His powers have left him with little regard for the personal autonomy of other beings - all the world's a stage and Ceolfric is the playwright; the puppets will dance at his word whether they want to or not. He does not ask for things so much as he
demands them, as he is accustomed to simply taking what he wants regardless. Every act he undertakes is self-serving and his word is only as good as the benefits that keeping it would bring him. A lie that brings a foe further into his thrall is no less a weapon to him than an axe or a spear.
That's not to say his selfishness blinds him to the concerns of others. His magic has taught him quite well; it is often easier to coax obedience from those who trust him than to force compliance from those who don't, and he has seen firsthand what happens to tyrants. Ceolfric knows, if he is to rule, that he must desire what is best for his subjects. He's quick to share the spoils of his success with his allies, and though he may play with others' trust for his own gain, his loyalties aren't fickle; if he betrays anyone, he intended to from the start.
Despite whatever feral cunning he can muster, Ceolfric is woefully out of his depth in the civilized world. The coalescence of aether from so many beings in close proximity grates on his senses and urbanite social norms often leave him confused and frustrated. Coddled weaklings rule with little respect for power, instead playing a pointless game of intrigue with rules that Ceolfric has yet to truly learn. His one saving grace is that he knows the bestial nature of man intimately, and intends to reveal it beneath all the pageantry.
Bio: Where there is war, there are those who would profit from it, and the Gnomian Revolution was no different. Drawn to the carrion of the conflict, the bandit warlord Ravangar and his Crimson Heralds emerged to raid and pillage among the chaos that consumed Dranir. It was said that he owed his brutal success to the favor of Umbraxakar, that his raids let the rivers run red with blood and that he left no altar to the Lord of Slaughter in his wake without a gory sacrifice upon it. It's no surprise, then, that his Aetherborn son would inspire a host of foul rumors. From a young age, it became very apparent to all who served under Ravangar, greedy thug and demonic zealot alike, that Ceolfric was dangerous to interact with. The boy could enthrall the souls of mortal men with but a word, binding all but the most willful to the nonsense of a child's whims. Word spread that Ravangar coupled with a succubus to birth his cursed child, that the boy's tongue was blessed to spin twisted, irresistible lies by Rakas itself.
The boy and his father did little to discourage these rumors. Brought up in bandit camps and secluded mountain hideouts rather than a stable home, Ceolfric knew nothing of his mother, whether she was one of the captive 'war brides' he'd been raised by or if she was even still alive. With no knowledge to the contrary, he took no aversion to being identified as the product of a profane union with an infernal temptress, in fact it served only to glorify his name. He was the heir of the mighty warlord Ravangar, and he was far too happy to follow the gruesome model of his father. Likewise, Ravangar relished in the reputation such hearsay brought - that Ceolfric's birth was the seal of an unholy covenant, proof of his vile god's favor.
It wasn't until he was in his teens and he was sent along with the raiding parties that Ceolfric found true use for his gift. Watchmen wandered aimlessly away from their slumbering camps at the behest of a mysterious little war orphan. Guards lowered their weapons in a daze while a horde of bandits set upon them. Horses suddenly veered off the road, dragging their cargo-laden wagons into the waiting arms of Ravangar's men. The roads of Dranir became the crucible in which Ceolfric honed his magic on hapless travellers, and when peacetime brought the free flow of the caravans through the nation once more, his talents were well suited to profiting from them.
Ravangar, it seems, had a higher use for the boy. He rarely exerted too much direct pressure on Ceolfric, fearful that too short of a leash would breed resentment in his strongest weapon, but as the boy's arcane abilities grew, so too did his father's ambition. After a raid, Ceolfric was summoned by his father's faithful cultists, those select few among the bandit warband who valued the glory of carnage over the mere worldly riches it provided. He was brought before an altar strewn with meticulous sigils, all painted in fresh gore, and given specific instructions on how to weave the aether through them. For a brief moment before the exertion robbed him of consciousness, Ceolfric saw the creature he had called forth, all spikes and horns and flaming orbs for eyes that burned with the limitless malice and rage of demonkind, and in its gaze he saw the true nature of their relationship laid bare. It was one of utility, of use; all the piety he could offer would amount to nothing, his demonic masters would use him to satiate their wicked desires and then cast him aside, and he would be a fool not to reciprocate in kind.
When he awoke, his father's unholy communion had ended. Ravangar never elaborated on what he'd wanted with the demon and Ceolfric never asked, he merely did his duty and partook in every summoning he was told to. When his father finally decided to share his machinations with his son, he spoke of grand plans of conquest and grander sacrifices meant to fuel them. There would be war in Dranir once more, the giants were on the march and the armies of Othard were mustering, leaving the lands caught between them ripe for slaughter and plunder.
His ambitions were never realized. Emboldened by whatever dread prophecies his hellish allies had whispered in his ear, Ravangar took to the field of battle once more, in an attack on a woefully under-defended wagon bound for the Ruby Forge. The reason for the suspicious lack of guards soon become apparent when one of the only three passengers lifted his hands began to unravel the mountainside and swallow his assailants in gaping maws of stone. Ceolfric managed to slip away after stalling the mage - and that was all he could do, for the man shrugged off the boy's attempts to dominate him as easily as he turned aside incoming arrows - but his father and most of the others in the raiding party were not so lucky. As Ceolfric predicted, the Lord of Slaughter had finally tired of his pawn - Ravangar was aged and his glories were behind him; his infernal patron had little reason to preserve him now that his reach had exceeded his grasp. Of the nine bandits present, four were killed in the immediate attack, and two more were cut down by the animated weapons of the fallen that hounded them as they routed back into the woods. It was a small comfort that the geomancer had not deigned to follow.
It was the first time Ceolfric had encountered a mere human so far beyond him. His father was dead and he was no longer a servant at last, yet his birthright was soured by the cold truth of his position. He knew from a young age, what his father conquered, he would rule, but a king who sees another as his better rules nothing. The princeling knew he could not rely on the fickle favor of his dark gods to grant him lasting sovereignty, nor would the rule of might and fear to which he was accustomed uplift him from the status of a petty raider. If other Aetherborn of that mage's caliber existed in the world, he would never maintain a monopoly on violence against any population that could muster even a small force of them.
Yet sheer violence was not the only way to maintain sovereignty. Ravangar was right about one thing, war would come again. The giants would be cast down and in their place, the peaks of Dranir would be without a liege and his for the taking. All he needed was the blessing of the petty lords of Othard once the dust had settled and the land was divvied up among the victors. Knowing full well that he'd likely be killed were he to stand before any noble of considerable status and lacking the political acumen to take advantage of such an opportunity even if he wasn't, Ceolfric turned to the one method of gaining renown he did understand; glory in combat.
He'd heard of the aristocracy's new pet project in the wake of their armies' deployment beyond their lands. If he continued on his path, he and his men would only become fodder for these 'Bounty Houses' eventually. But they also presented an opportunity to distinguish himself before the greater powers of the continent. Leaving the Crimson Heralds in the hands of his father's lieutenants, no doubt hungry for prestige themselves, the Bandit Prince ventured south.
Likes:- Willing slaves.
- Fights with odds tipped heavily in his favor.
- Material luxury.
- Straightforwardness.
Dislikes:- Disregard for his authority.
- Pretension.
- Written correspondence.
- Hot weather.
- Anyone he cannot control, whether by mundane or supernatural means.
- Large crowds.
Habits:- Assumes anyone touching him from outside his field of view is hostile and will react accordingly.
- Runs his tongue along a broken tooth in the corner of his mouth when lost in thought.
- Snaps his fingers often when activating or manipulating spells.
Inventory:- 3 Silver, 14 Copper
- Goredrinker - His father's sword, consecrated in Umbraxakar's name and anointed in the warm blood of the innocent.
- Wooden targe shield, notably lacking in discernable heraldry.
- Hunting bow and quiver.
- High-collared gambeson.
- Utility knife.
- A stolen monocle on a tarnished silver chain - Someone told him it helped people read, but he didn't quite understand and thinks it somehow bestows literacy. He's still determined to discern its secrets.
Member
Obscene Symphony
