Post by Maxodis on Jun 8, 2010 11:32:20 GMT -6
Your character's full name: Redin Outmir (Formerly known as Scythe)
Age: 30
Species: Weasel
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Redin, while not outstandingly tall, is nonetheless quite the imposing figure. He is only slightly taller than those of his kind, but his frame and bone structure is significantly thicker. A thick layer of sinewed muscle covers his wide shoulders and upper torso, well-toned muscular structure showing clear through his coat of faded crimson fur. An illogical pattern of pink scars are splayed across his abdomen, showing faintly pink through his pale yellow underbelly. Scars line his arms, though these are shorter and older than those on his abdomen. The muscular structures of his legs are highly pronounced, a sign of a life of travel. His fur, though far from smooth and illustrious, is nonetheless in surprisingly good condition considering the circumstances. There is a tattoo of a scythe blade decorated with spikes and dripping blood emblazoned on his left shoulder.
Redin has three small silver rings in his left ear, and three identical rings on the left side of his muzzle. The three sets of rings are all connected to their corresponding pair by thin chains with enough slack in them so that they hang below his eye. There is a small bell affixed to the middle of each chain, that jingle softly as he moves. When he smiles, one can see that unlike some of his kind, Redin has a healthy set of teeth. Upon further inspection, however, his teeth are faintly stained crimson.
Proud of his muscular definition, Redin wears only two articles of clothing; a sleeveless maroon vest and a sturdy pair of pants with deep pockets. The vest is worn with age, faded, and frayed. There are several places where crude handiwork has sewn gashes in the material back together. Redin makes a point of wearing the vest open, either because of his own vanity or because the buttons have been lost. The pants are of an earthen color, and are in the same condition as his vest. They are held in place by a coarse grass-woven belt.
Belongings:
Besides his clothes, Redin does not carry many personal effects. Around his neck is a sturdy chain, that would normally be used for utility work. It is wrapped around his neck five times, tight enough to stay in place, but loose enough to allow him to move easily and breathe. Like the bells on his facechains, this improvised neck-guard rattles as he moves, its harsh rasping sound the polar opposite of the light tones of the bells.
He also carries with him his sole weapon, a scythe of peculiar design. The scythehead is larger than normal, the tempered steel layered to add weight to it. The shaft of the polearm is also twice the thickness of other such weapons, although its length is a meager three feet. The wood at the end of the polearm is splintered and jagged, as if the other half of the weapon was snapped off and discarded. Although aged, the weapon still appears sturdy, its simple unadorned design speaking volumes of the sole intent of the weapon to be an instrument of war.
Job or Position:
Vagabond Bandit, Mercenary
Personality:
Redin's personality is highly variable, and the weasel can often be difficult to predict. Primarily he is gleefully violent, embracing every opportunity to make things bleed. He is often abrasive, rude, contemptuous, sarcastic, easy to anger and quick to become violent. For the most part he enjoys a sadistic pleasure from drawing blood from creatures. Injuring and killing have their own appeals, but to the weasel, blood is grimly soothing to all of his senses. He cannot go for more than a week without at the very least seeing it. Should he find himself at this week limit, he begins to lose control of himself. More often than not he willingly submits to self-injury to prevent his madness to reach that point, the withdraw from his addiction to blood is not a sight to behold nor one to be experienced.
Such is the way of this malicious weasel, at least up until the present. A culmination of events left him in a situation where he cannot fulfill the demands of his mind with the blood of victims, one where it is also highly inadvisable to receive the same fulfillment from his own blood instead. The resulting insistence of his conscious desperately urging him to find some way to satisfy the addiction has caused him to begin to question if the thoughts that drive him are really his own, or the driving force of some other entity that has resided within his head from birth.
His suspicion stems from the insanity that he knows has claimed him for as long as he can remember. Whenever he finds himself in serious danger, his active thought process fades from his awareness, and whatever results he seems to observe as if from a distance away. Externally, the weasel truly becomes gleefully violent, attacking whatever it is that threatens him without any regard for himself whatsoever. Redin has a high tolerance for pain to begin with, and years of practice and battle have taught him to control even more abuse, but when he enters this state of madness, flinging himself into literal crowds of combatants, laying waste to all who fall under his weapon, friend or foe, the weasel's threshold of pain skyrockets. He isn't slowed by pain, rather he is fueled by it, the disturbingly inane grin that is exclusive to this state often widening. He has even been known to grab an opponent's weapon and drive it deeper into himself. Often when he enters this state he receives a staggering number of wounds that would kill lesser creatures. He is often close to death himself, only saved by his staggering constitution. Two things have been known to bring him out of this state: Losing consciousness due to blood loss and the interference of a ferret named Sleetfang.
History and Background Information:
Redin's childhood was led fairly simply, he was raised in a small village in the lands east of Mossflower. The inhabitants were all vermin, but they were peaceful folk. He was brought up with values of respect, not morals. To preach morality would be to bring into question the actions and livelihoods of many of the residents. There were few rules in the small community, which worked fine as every creature kept to themselves. Violence, however, was strictly prohibited.
It was in this environment that Redin discovered his lust. He had always been fascinated with the workings of the body, how exactly the muscles moved, how one's blood pulsed through their veins. Out of sight of his parents, the young Weasel would dissect and examine the anatomy of any small living thing he could get his claws on. To see life in action underneath one's flesh would send thrills throughout the weasel that could not be explained to others.
He was discovered at the age of 10. His parents, who had harbored little love for each other, and less for their demented son, were not shy about expelling him from their home. Left with nowhere else to go, Redin wandered east, barely surviving off the land as he traveled.
He was absorbed into a small raiding party at the age of 12. The raiders did not care for the young weasel, did not see the potential hidden within him. Mostly, they used him for entertainment, beating him for sport. The beatings, while thorough, were bearable to the young weasel: at least he was fed. It was during one such beating that Redin experienced a change like nothing he had experienced before. Losing all rational thought, Redin howled like an unearthly thing and bit savagely into the arm of the unfortunate who was beating him. The other members of the raiding party laughed at the expense of their fellow bandit until Redin managed to tear off a large chunk of the bandit's flesh with his teeth. Immediately, Redin was restrained. Still he fought on, kicking and thrashing with a strength that belied his young age. Several other bandits suffered severe wounds before they managed to subdue the weasel.
He was chained and starved for days while the raiders decided what fate would fall upon the violent little creature. Through the simple diplomacy that is offered by a knife, the bandits came to the unanimous decision to make Redin one of their own, on the exception that he would remain chained until they were satisfied he would not fly into another rage.
It was then that Redin discovered his second passion, combat. For years he learned and mastered the use of the only available weapon on-paw, a scythe. For 5 years he remained chained as the small raiding party grew in size and became a horde. During this time he watched the dumb creatures around him, silently holding all of them in contempt. For 5 years he plotted his rise to power.
Free to act of his own accord, it did not take long for the ambitious weasel to wrest control of the horde from it's dead leader's paws. For a time he abandoned his name, preferring to take that of his weapon, The Scythe. He had a tattoo of a bloodied, spiked, scythe branded into his left shoulder so that there would be no question to his identity.
Driven by some faint subconscious urge, he took a mate and had two children. He did not care for their company. His mate, however, was more ambitious than he, and strove to exert her influence over the horde, to shift their allegiance from Redin. Redin was aware off her treachery, but let it pass, uncaring of her actions.
During his time as horde leader, there was only one creature that Redin could never kill. Originally, she had been hired to assassinate him. Ultimately, she had failed. His attempts to bring her to an end had been met with the same measure of success. They grew to respect the other's persistace. From this respect, an odd friendship grew.
At the age of twenty-two, he was driven from the horde in an uprising, during which he murdered his mate and beat his two children to near-death and left them to die in a ditch.
During a particularly violent skirmish during the N'Tashi conflict, Redin was gravely wounded and left Mossflower to recover in his hidden safehouse, a location only known to him and his traveling partner Sleet, a safe haven from intruders by virtue of its location for years. He stayed there for the duration of the conflict as he recuperated, until it was discovered three months previous. Finding himself in a serious situation, he left the safehouse in search of Sleet, only to track her to the now liberated sandstone building that was known as Fort N'Tashi.
Any other details:
He does not tire easily, even when wielding his heavy weapon. Whenever his bloodlust overtakes him, he can appear to be quite insane, and wields his weapon with a speed and energy that is frightening.
Sleetfang : Friend of the abusive sort.
Dakker Outmir : Son (Potentially dead)
Isillia Outmir : Daughter (Potentially dead)
Codeword thingees: Already accepted and stuff.
Age: 30
Species: Weasel
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Redin, while not outstandingly tall, is nonetheless quite the imposing figure. He is only slightly taller than those of his kind, but his frame and bone structure is significantly thicker. A thick layer of sinewed muscle covers his wide shoulders and upper torso, well-toned muscular structure showing clear through his coat of faded crimson fur. An illogical pattern of pink scars are splayed across his abdomen, showing faintly pink through his pale yellow underbelly. Scars line his arms, though these are shorter and older than those on his abdomen. The muscular structures of his legs are highly pronounced, a sign of a life of travel. His fur, though far from smooth and illustrious, is nonetheless in surprisingly good condition considering the circumstances. There is a tattoo of a scythe blade decorated with spikes and dripping blood emblazoned on his left shoulder.
Redin has three small silver rings in his left ear, and three identical rings on the left side of his muzzle. The three sets of rings are all connected to their corresponding pair by thin chains with enough slack in them so that they hang below his eye. There is a small bell affixed to the middle of each chain, that jingle softly as he moves. When he smiles, one can see that unlike some of his kind, Redin has a healthy set of teeth. Upon further inspection, however, his teeth are faintly stained crimson.
Proud of his muscular definition, Redin wears only two articles of clothing; a sleeveless maroon vest and a sturdy pair of pants with deep pockets. The vest is worn with age, faded, and frayed. There are several places where crude handiwork has sewn gashes in the material back together. Redin makes a point of wearing the vest open, either because of his own vanity or because the buttons have been lost. The pants are of an earthen color, and are in the same condition as his vest. They are held in place by a coarse grass-woven belt.
Belongings:
Besides his clothes, Redin does not carry many personal effects. Around his neck is a sturdy chain, that would normally be used for utility work. It is wrapped around his neck five times, tight enough to stay in place, but loose enough to allow him to move easily and breathe. Like the bells on his facechains, this improvised neck-guard rattles as he moves, its harsh rasping sound the polar opposite of the light tones of the bells.
He also carries with him his sole weapon, a scythe of peculiar design. The scythehead is larger than normal, the tempered steel layered to add weight to it. The shaft of the polearm is also twice the thickness of other such weapons, although its length is a meager three feet. The wood at the end of the polearm is splintered and jagged, as if the other half of the weapon was snapped off and discarded. Although aged, the weapon still appears sturdy, its simple unadorned design speaking volumes of the sole intent of the weapon to be an instrument of war.
Job or Position:
Vagabond Bandit, Mercenary
Personality:
Redin's personality is highly variable, and the weasel can often be difficult to predict. Primarily he is gleefully violent, embracing every opportunity to make things bleed. He is often abrasive, rude, contemptuous, sarcastic, easy to anger and quick to become violent. For the most part he enjoys a sadistic pleasure from drawing blood from creatures. Injuring and killing have their own appeals, but to the weasel, blood is grimly soothing to all of his senses. He cannot go for more than a week without at the very least seeing it. Should he find himself at this week limit, he begins to lose control of himself. More often than not he willingly submits to self-injury to prevent his madness to reach that point, the withdraw from his addiction to blood is not a sight to behold nor one to be experienced.
Such is the way of this malicious weasel, at least up until the present. A culmination of events left him in a situation where he cannot fulfill the demands of his mind with the blood of victims, one where it is also highly inadvisable to receive the same fulfillment from his own blood instead. The resulting insistence of his conscious desperately urging him to find some way to satisfy the addiction has caused him to begin to question if the thoughts that drive him are really his own, or the driving force of some other entity that has resided within his head from birth.
His suspicion stems from the insanity that he knows has claimed him for as long as he can remember. Whenever he finds himself in serious danger, his active thought process fades from his awareness, and whatever results he seems to observe as if from a distance away. Externally, the weasel truly becomes gleefully violent, attacking whatever it is that threatens him without any regard for himself whatsoever. Redin has a high tolerance for pain to begin with, and years of practice and battle have taught him to control even more abuse, but when he enters this state of madness, flinging himself into literal crowds of combatants, laying waste to all who fall under his weapon, friend or foe, the weasel's threshold of pain skyrockets. He isn't slowed by pain, rather he is fueled by it, the disturbingly inane grin that is exclusive to this state often widening. He has even been known to grab an opponent's weapon and drive it deeper into himself. Often when he enters this state he receives a staggering number of wounds that would kill lesser creatures. He is often close to death himself, only saved by his staggering constitution. Two things have been known to bring him out of this state: Losing consciousness due to blood loss and the interference of a ferret named Sleetfang.
History and Background Information:
Redin's childhood was led fairly simply, he was raised in a small village in the lands east of Mossflower. The inhabitants were all vermin, but they were peaceful folk. He was brought up with values of respect, not morals. To preach morality would be to bring into question the actions and livelihoods of many of the residents. There were few rules in the small community, which worked fine as every creature kept to themselves. Violence, however, was strictly prohibited.
It was in this environment that Redin discovered his lust. He had always been fascinated with the workings of the body, how exactly the muscles moved, how one's blood pulsed through their veins. Out of sight of his parents, the young Weasel would dissect and examine the anatomy of any small living thing he could get his claws on. To see life in action underneath one's flesh would send thrills throughout the weasel that could not be explained to others.
He was discovered at the age of 10. His parents, who had harbored little love for each other, and less for their demented son, were not shy about expelling him from their home. Left with nowhere else to go, Redin wandered east, barely surviving off the land as he traveled.
He was absorbed into a small raiding party at the age of 12. The raiders did not care for the young weasel, did not see the potential hidden within him. Mostly, they used him for entertainment, beating him for sport. The beatings, while thorough, were bearable to the young weasel: at least he was fed. It was during one such beating that Redin experienced a change like nothing he had experienced before. Losing all rational thought, Redin howled like an unearthly thing and bit savagely into the arm of the unfortunate who was beating him. The other members of the raiding party laughed at the expense of their fellow bandit until Redin managed to tear off a large chunk of the bandit's flesh with his teeth. Immediately, Redin was restrained. Still he fought on, kicking and thrashing with a strength that belied his young age. Several other bandits suffered severe wounds before they managed to subdue the weasel.
He was chained and starved for days while the raiders decided what fate would fall upon the violent little creature. Through the simple diplomacy that is offered by a knife, the bandits came to the unanimous decision to make Redin one of their own, on the exception that he would remain chained until they were satisfied he would not fly into another rage.
It was then that Redin discovered his second passion, combat. For years he learned and mastered the use of the only available weapon on-paw, a scythe. For 5 years he remained chained as the small raiding party grew in size and became a horde. During this time he watched the dumb creatures around him, silently holding all of them in contempt. For 5 years he plotted his rise to power.
Free to act of his own accord, it did not take long for the ambitious weasel to wrest control of the horde from it's dead leader's paws. For a time he abandoned his name, preferring to take that of his weapon, The Scythe. He had a tattoo of a bloodied, spiked, scythe branded into his left shoulder so that there would be no question to his identity.
Driven by some faint subconscious urge, he took a mate and had two children. He did not care for their company. His mate, however, was more ambitious than he, and strove to exert her influence over the horde, to shift their allegiance from Redin. Redin was aware off her treachery, but let it pass, uncaring of her actions.
During his time as horde leader, there was only one creature that Redin could never kill. Originally, she had been hired to assassinate him. Ultimately, she had failed. His attempts to bring her to an end had been met with the same measure of success. They grew to respect the other's persistace. From this respect, an odd friendship grew.
At the age of twenty-two, he was driven from the horde in an uprising, during which he murdered his mate and beat his two children to near-death and left them to die in a ditch.
During a particularly violent skirmish during the N'Tashi conflict, Redin was gravely wounded and left Mossflower to recover in his hidden safehouse, a location only known to him and his traveling partner Sleet, a safe haven from intruders by virtue of its location for years. He stayed there for the duration of the conflict as he recuperated, until it was discovered three months previous. Finding himself in a serious situation, he left the safehouse in search of Sleet, only to track her to the now liberated sandstone building that was known as Fort N'Tashi.
Any other details:
He does not tire easily, even when wielding his heavy weapon. Whenever his bloodlust overtakes him, he can appear to be quite insane, and wields his weapon with a speed and energy that is frightening.
Sleetfang : Friend of the abusive sort.
Dakker Outmir : Son (Potentially dead)
Isillia Outmir : Daughter (Potentially dead)
Codeword thingees: Already accepted and stuff.
