Seourd Lackdeh

[Maxodis]

Your character's full name: Seourd Hrothen Lackdeh
Age: 42 Years
Species: Hedgehog
Gender: Male
Appearance:

Physically, Seourd is a behemoth. At full height, he easily towers over other of his kind, though can not fully compare to those of other species. In addition to be unusually large-boned, Seourd is extremely muscular. Layers of rippling sinew cover his frame, belying his growing age. His muscles are toned and hardened from the labors of his life. A great many of his back-spikes show old signs of battle. A great many scars trace lines through his fur along his arms and to a small extent, across his torso. A large, jagged, unhealed scar is prominent on the back of his right paw.

He is no beauty. His features are coarse and rough, he wears a perpetual scowl, which is lined in wrinkles given by time. He has a heavily muscular jaw, the result of much aggravated clenching and grinding of teeth. His eyes are a piercing hazel color that, save for the grim cast about them, seem curiously out of place in this intimidating creature.

His fur is a dark color, in moderate light appearing to range from brown to black, though in direct sunlight, it can appear to be a shade of burgundy. His back spikes are blackened, those still with tips have small streaks of gray piercing the tip of the spike.

He wears clothes of his own design, similar in every respect to that of others save for the fact that his have been modified to accommodate his spikes. When at his home, he is usually satisfied with wearing a simple brown tunic and pants, held in place by a wide belt with an equally simple buckle. When leaving his home, however, he adds a shirt of heavy chain-mail and plated pants to his attire. The links in his chain-mail are slightly larger and thicker than that of normal chain-male. The links on the shirt are significantly larger and more sparse in the back, allowing his spikes to fit through. The pants are constructed of a thick, coarse, fibrous material that is similar to ship canvas. Several plates of polished, scratched, dented iron armor are attached to the pants at the sides of the thighs and around the shins. Straps hold the plates in place and serve to keep his pants from getting in the way of his movement. He wears thick traveling boots made of a material similar to his plated pants.

Belongings:

A great many of his belongings are kept within his home, as it is not wise in these times to have many valuables with you, lest you lose them to thieves. Whenever he does feel the need to leave his home for a time, however, he always has with him an aged, small, fragment of wood on a thin chain. The wood appears to have been cut from the outermost portion of the tree where it originated from, and an unusual deep gash runs through it in a curved fashion.

For weaponry, Seourd has several weapons at his home that he is proficient in and use regularly. He has a large, simple hammer which looks like it was designed for utility work more than battle, a bladed war mace that is just as simple, but clearly made for combat, an axe of unusual size and weight, and a lance. He is most comfortable with the mace, perhaps due to its sinister look which serves as a repellent to those of weak will who would wish him harm.

Job or Position:

Blacksmith

Personality:

Seourd is a solitary creature, through his own decision. He is troubled by the grievous mistake he had made in his younger years and does not feel worthy of companionship. This causes him to adopt a harsh, blunt nature around others. He has read a great many books (Though most of them were not of a literary nature, most were books of instruction) and is fairly intelligent as a result. His speech is clear, unmarred by dialect. He can be surprisingly gentle, though these emotions are often followed by an immense sadness. He has learned to not judge others on the stereotypes that might apply to them, and instead regard them with respect to their abilities.

History and Background Information:

Seourd was born to a small, humble family that lived in a modest home located in southern Mossflower. His mother was kind, his father strict, but fair. His father was a mason, leaving his mother to take care of their home and children whenever he was needed to work. Their life was simple, but happy. As a single child, his parents growing older, he was taught to know everything about maintaining their lifestyle so that he may assist his parents with what they were not young enough to do anymore. By the time he was nine, he knew enough about the household to be able to sufficiently live alone for periods at a time. Growing up, Seourd noticed a change in his parents. Over time, his father became bitter and resentful, his mother grew saddened and troubled. The events that caused this change in behavior was not disclosed to Seourd, as he was deemed 'too young to understand'.

When Seourd reached the age of ten, his father decided to begin teaching his son the art of combat. Seourd had much spare time to learn, and was a quick study. He even reached a point where his father found himself afraid to teach his eager son too much more, lest he unknowingly addict the poor child to a life of fighting.

Around the same time, The small family found themselves woken in the night by their relatives, injured, despairing, and tormented, pleading for shelter. They were not refused. At first, it was only a few distant cousins and nephews. As the years passed, however, more and more family came looking to escape whatever it was that pursued them, uncles and aunts, relatives of closer family ties.

Their home expanded to accommodate, makeshift lean-to's were constructed, more land was cleared, shacks were added onto the small building. An uncle of Seourd, upon observing his practice with the training weapon that his father had given him, offered to further his training with weapons. Every night, after his father had gone to his rest, the older hedgehog would lead his pupil to a small brook some distance away, the sound of water would mask the metallic clashes.

His life continued as such untill he was the age of sixteen. It was on one such nightly training session that his practice was interrupted by a piercing scream. Stricken with horror, both creatures hurried back to their home, cursing the long distance as the screams increased in volume and frequency. They arrived to the scene of a massacre. It was clear that those of his family who were able to fight had, considering the vermin corpses strewn around the area, but it had clearly not been enough. Here and there, feeble movement could be caught as his dying family tried to grasp onto the last of their lives. He witnessed a small group of vermin, presumably all that were left of the raiding party, roughly 5 beasts, milling around, searching the bodies of the dead and dying, often leaving the latter to their miserable fates. Seourd saw his mother, leaning against a low wall, her breathing shallow as her lifeblood seeped from the multiple wounds she had sustained. His father lay dead a few feet away, Warmace loosely held in his paws. She lifted her head slightly. Their eyes met. A single tear and a weak smile formed on her face, she tried to lift her arm to reach out to her dear child. The smile never faded, even as the large weasel looming over her deemed it necessary to create a gaping cavity in her chest with his rusted cleaver.

The fighter and his pupil displayed reactions at polar opposites. Seourd dropped to his knees, wrought with despair and grief, clutching his chest at the pain that burned there, feeling as if it were he that had been cut open. The uncle flew into an incoherent rage, charging into the cluster of vermin with the blunted axe that he had been teaching his nephew to use just a short time earlier. A vicious battle was fought, the uncle with no regard for his own life, the vermin with plenty of regard for theirs. As suddenly as it had begun, the battle ended. All the vermin lay slain. The uncle collapsed. He was dead before he hit the ground, a peaceful expression on his features.

It took several days before Seourd had finished burying the dead. With little will to live, wracked with grief, he focused on keeping the house in running order, hoping desperately that his family was not dead, that they were just out on a trip. His mother would be very displeased with him were he to let the house fall into disrepair...

He overcame his grief with time, but it was replaced with hate. Burning, cataclysmic rage filled him with the thought of the kind of creatures that had massacred his family. He began to go on small expeditions to the areas beyond his immediate home, wearing his father's armor and wielding his uncle's axe. He slew any vermin he saw, but was continually disappointed that their deaths only filled him with a hollow satisfaction. He resolved to kill more, thinking that it would resolve his problem.

Around the time he was twenty, on one such, expedition, he came across a home not unlike his own, which contained a family very much unlike his own. He had found a family of ferrets. There was no hesitation in the strokes of his weapon. He cut them down without mercy. It did not matter that they were unarmed and pleading for their lives. They needed to die. Standing in the now darkened cottage, seeing the light from the dying fire in the hearth reflect off the now blood-slicked walls, he turned to face the last of the murderous creatures. He was faced with a young ferret, lying where he fell, trembling violently in uninhibited terror. Seourd looked into the young one's eyes, his own hazed with hate piercing into that of the ferret's, wide with terror. They were a bright hazel color.........not unlike his own. The hesitation was the undoing of his rage. On deeper inspection, he realized he saw within the young ferret the same fear and torment that he had suffered through. He came to understand that in clearing Mossflower of those he deemed to be monsters, he had become one himself. Shaken, he stumbled several steps backward, away from the ferret that was quickly turning hysteric. He stumbled over a corpse and fell. He found himself staring into the dead eyes of the young one's mother. Stricken, he fled the cottage.

Many years have passed since that day. Many times he has slain those who sought to kill him and ravage his home. Many times he has regretted the blind prejudice that had pervaded his thinking. He no longer hates vermin. He cannot feel pity for them either, as he sees himself as more miserable and misguided than they are. Seourd keeps to himself, living out his life at his home, refining his talent in blacksmithing that he had once learned from a book that he found among the possessions of his deceased relatives.

Any other details:

Dislikes alcohol passionately.

Code Words: -correct-

[Treble Tiderunner]

Accepted. Have fun, welcome to the site!