Post by Sven on Jan 5, 2014 2:46:55 GMT -8
Name: Sven Zevari
Age: 19
Class: Mercenary [7]
Appearance: Fair of skin and fair of hair, with bright blue eyes and a soft rounded face. More than once he had been told he looks like a child despite being an adult. Not without reason, for even on his tippy-toes he still stands shorter then most men. Hovering somewhere in the lower-mid five foot range, the exact number being lost due to his refusal to let that information out. Having a lithe and fit build, he has a body designed for quick and sudden movements, like a burst of activity before falling silent once more. Framing his face and covering his head is short curly blond hairs. Having a pale complexion with few blemishes outside of the perpetually grumpy look on the face, he doesn't fit the picture of a 'hero'.
Despite leading what most people would assume as a pampered life, Sven definitely doesn't have the feeling of some carefully groomed daisy. His body is hard from constant action as opposed to the soft and pokeable physique that most nobles have. His hand grown tough from wielding a weapon since near birth, though he lacks the scars that show he has had true battle experience.
Sven is from a family that is clearly well to do, and his outfit proves it. It isn't fancy in any particular capacity, but the details and fitting are too precise to have been done by anything then a personal tailor. Not every man could afford a set of chainmail, and even less could afford one as well crafted as the set he toted about. It's made of many tightly wound chains, fitted exactly to Sven's measurements. Relatively light, his body long since accustomed to the added weight it put upon him.
Atop of this chainmail lies a surcoat made from thick linen. It stands dyed a deep forest green as it reaches down to near his shins, but with a large gash in both the front and back allowing better mobility. His arms are both guarded by a pair of leather gloves picking up where the chainmail lets off, the pliable leather letting his fingers hold all the wiggle room a swordsman like him needs. At the ends of his outfit sit a pair of hard leather boots, reaching to his shins. Finally a pair of dull white pants sitting hidden underneath the surcoat completing the whole thing.
While Sven is hardly a man you'd call hardy, his lightweight but protective armor set bolster his weaker constitution handily.
Personality: As a man from a family such as his, Sven is expected to be a gallant stalwart fellow with nary a fear and endless supplies of valor. Of course expectations and reality vary wildly, especially when concerning this young man. While he was raised in the utmost most proper of situations, learning proper etiquette and diplomacy, he's not exactly one to practice it. To be truthful, he's rather crude and sardonic most of the time with a permanent sort of grumpy air about him. He was raised to be proper, but as soon as it became apparent that he needn't anymore he dropped it and instantly began to act in a contrary manner. Whether or not this is his actual personality, or rather something he does simply to 'make up' for all the years of 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs' is unclear.
Sven is, to put it plainly, sarcastic. He's blunt, he's whiney, and he complains. He likes to joke around, poke fun at situations and people, and sometimes doesn't take things seriously that he should. He's not exactly the adventurous type either, and prefers to stay out of problems instead of asserting his self like he knows he probably should. Of course he's not a bad man either, and will not just let things happen around him simply because he doesn't feel like doing anything, or because he's afraid of acting. When it comes to dealing with other people, he's quick to joke and roll his eyes. However, despite how it appears, he's also quick to warm to people and is very susceptible to just clamming up when someone's had enough and snaps at him. Which, in turn, leads to him being quiet and a bit moody. He still has all his skills of proper conversation and meaningless small talk and double handed words taught in the world of the rich and powerful, but he avoids using them because he's never really like doing it. He's not exactly a fan of the rich for such a reason, and generally holds a poor opinion on anyone in the higher echelons of society.
His ego is a strange and frail thing, he creates goals for his self, many of which are completely impossible to achieve, and gets down on his self when he fails. His self esteem seems to toe a strange balance between being simultaneously cocky and self depreciating that is a bit tricky to understand. One moment he'll be scoffing at a bandit for even bothering standing against him, then the next he'll be insulting his self about his poor people skills. Then again that's a good way to describe him in general, 'tricky'. What's true one minute may be false the next, when you expect him to roll his eyes he may apologize, or when you expect him to get sad he'll grow enraged.
Backstory: Have you heard the story of the hero of shadow's bane? It's a wonderful little tale that the people of certain land hold near and dear to their heart. In a land without much recollection of the past, it perseveres from generation to generation as one of the truly old tales of this world. A tale of men and beast. It's a long story, and honestly you could find a grand retelling from just about any bard. Many different versions really, each one spectacular, each one definitely worth a listen. Of course it isn't as famous of a story outside of the homeland of our hero, but those who know of it regard the tale with a sort of childlike wonder of a young boy staring up at a statue of a grand hero of the past. Something to aspire to, something that makes the shadows seem just a little less scary. A tale that brings warmth to all who know.
Enter the Zevaris. The Zevaris are the family descended from this great man. They weren't content of riding upon the coattails of a hero long gone, they were a family with a lust for greatness. A family that seemed to devour the stars themselves to become as them upon the earth, heroes of their own. One would be hard pressed to find a family filled with more great men and women then the Zevaris. For generations they have ruled over a small expanse of land in Central Elibe as Dukes and Duchesses to the local monarch.
From child to child, the torch was ever passed. The most recent being the Duchess Cecillia. There was a sadness to her however, for she was a woman barren of womb. Unable to birth a proper heir, and with no brother or sister to take up the reins of the duchy in her stead it appeared the Zevaris would end with her. A legacy such as theirs shant be derailed over such a thing, if she could not bear a child she would take one in instead. This child was Sven.
It was obvious to all that this child was not of their blood. They were a family of strong hardy folk with hair black as coal, while this child was frail and had hair of spun gold. They grew tall and broad while the child remained ever small. The differences were too many to count, though it was a secret never meant to be hidden to begin with.
Cecillia would never bear a child of her own, she would never know the trials of raising a child from just a babe to a grown man. This was unacceptable. She would raise a child from just a babe, she would care for it whilst it cried, she would change its smallclothes. She would adopt a child as young as it could be, one to call her own. She chose Sven, though he be small and barely a few weeks old, and she would raise it as her own.
Now, to be raised as a Zevari entailed certain expectations. Expectations to become great, to make the family proud, to become a hero in their own right, expectations that were only harsher for the young Sven. He was not of their blood, and everyone knew. Was the greatness in the family? Or in the blood that flowed through their veins? Cecillia was determined to prove her son could be just as great, if not greater than any other Zevari had ever been. To rival the hero of shadow's bane himself!
Every day, every waking moment of Sven's life was filled to the brim. Training, tutoring, teaching, riding, learning, fighting, he had to do it all. His entire youth being drowned in a never ending quest to better him, to make him great. An all consuming pressure was put upon him from everywhere. His mother, his father, his grandmother and father, the countless instructors and tutors, even the people of the duchy. They all expected Sven Zevari to become the greatest hero of all. They gave him it all. Every possibly gift, every possible advantage and edge.
Then it all just stopped. No longer did he get forced to dance around a schedule that would make royalty grow pale, no more did he have to train his body until his hands were raw and bloody. The impossible had happened, a miracle from the watcher himself. His mother gave birth to a son. A one in a million chance, one would think. A woman that all had considered barren gave birth to this strong and hardy child, with hair black as coal. Such a child was bound to be great, one would think. A child so strong that he was birthed from a barren woman's womb, a story that would be talked of for ages. All that pressure, everything vanished in an instant. There was Sven, a boy barely on the cusp of manhood who had spent his life being told what to do, being told he could do what he wanted.
What he wanted. What he wanted. Such words, more cruel than even the sharpest barbs. It was to be expected, after all. For all their hard work, Sven was nothing like the Zevaris. He wasn't as strong, quick, or even as smart as the heroes his life revolved around. While this child, this child would grow to be tall, strong, and everything he wasn't and could never be. He would make them proud and Sven, Sven could do what he wanted.
So he did. He did what he wanted and left.
Age: 19
Class: Mercenary [7]
Appearance: Fair of skin and fair of hair, with bright blue eyes and a soft rounded face. More than once he had been told he looks like a child despite being an adult. Not without reason, for even on his tippy-toes he still stands shorter then most men. Hovering somewhere in the lower-mid five foot range, the exact number being lost due to his refusal to let that information out. Having a lithe and fit build, he has a body designed for quick and sudden movements, like a burst of activity before falling silent once more. Framing his face and covering his head is short curly blond hairs. Having a pale complexion with few blemishes outside of the perpetually grumpy look on the face, he doesn't fit the picture of a 'hero'.
Despite leading what most people would assume as a pampered life, Sven definitely doesn't have the feeling of some carefully groomed daisy. His body is hard from constant action as opposed to the soft and pokeable physique that most nobles have. His hand grown tough from wielding a weapon since near birth, though he lacks the scars that show he has had true battle experience.
Sven is from a family that is clearly well to do, and his outfit proves it. It isn't fancy in any particular capacity, but the details and fitting are too precise to have been done by anything then a personal tailor. Not every man could afford a set of chainmail, and even less could afford one as well crafted as the set he toted about. It's made of many tightly wound chains, fitted exactly to Sven's measurements. Relatively light, his body long since accustomed to the added weight it put upon him.
Atop of this chainmail lies a surcoat made from thick linen. It stands dyed a deep forest green as it reaches down to near his shins, but with a large gash in both the front and back allowing better mobility. His arms are both guarded by a pair of leather gloves picking up where the chainmail lets off, the pliable leather letting his fingers hold all the wiggle room a swordsman like him needs. At the ends of his outfit sit a pair of hard leather boots, reaching to his shins. Finally a pair of dull white pants sitting hidden underneath the surcoat completing the whole thing.
While Sven is hardly a man you'd call hardy, his lightweight but protective armor set bolster his weaker constitution handily.
Personality: As a man from a family such as his, Sven is expected to be a gallant stalwart fellow with nary a fear and endless supplies of valor. Of course expectations and reality vary wildly, especially when concerning this young man. While he was raised in the utmost most proper of situations, learning proper etiquette and diplomacy, he's not exactly one to practice it. To be truthful, he's rather crude and sardonic most of the time with a permanent sort of grumpy air about him. He was raised to be proper, but as soon as it became apparent that he needn't anymore he dropped it and instantly began to act in a contrary manner. Whether or not this is his actual personality, or rather something he does simply to 'make up' for all the years of 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs' is unclear.
Sven is, to put it plainly, sarcastic. He's blunt, he's whiney, and he complains. He likes to joke around, poke fun at situations and people, and sometimes doesn't take things seriously that he should. He's not exactly the adventurous type either, and prefers to stay out of problems instead of asserting his self like he knows he probably should. Of course he's not a bad man either, and will not just let things happen around him simply because he doesn't feel like doing anything, or because he's afraid of acting. When it comes to dealing with other people, he's quick to joke and roll his eyes. However, despite how it appears, he's also quick to warm to people and is very susceptible to just clamming up when someone's had enough and snaps at him. Which, in turn, leads to him being quiet and a bit moody. He still has all his skills of proper conversation and meaningless small talk and double handed words taught in the world of the rich and powerful, but he avoids using them because he's never really like doing it. He's not exactly a fan of the rich for such a reason, and generally holds a poor opinion on anyone in the higher echelons of society.
His ego is a strange and frail thing, he creates goals for his self, many of which are completely impossible to achieve, and gets down on his self when he fails. His self esteem seems to toe a strange balance between being simultaneously cocky and self depreciating that is a bit tricky to understand. One moment he'll be scoffing at a bandit for even bothering standing against him, then the next he'll be insulting his self about his poor people skills. Then again that's a good way to describe him in general, 'tricky'. What's true one minute may be false the next, when you expect him to roll his eyes he may apologize, or when you expect him to get sad he'll grow enraged.
Backstory: Have you heard the story of the hero of shadow's bane? It's a wonderful little tale that the people of certain land hold near and dear to their heart. In a land without much recollection of the past, it perseveres from generation to generation as one of the truly old tales of this world. A tale of men and beast. It's a long story, and honestly you could find a grand retelling from just about any bard. Many different versions really, each one spectacular, each one definitely worth a listen. Of course it isn't as famous of a story outside of the homeland of our hero, but those who know of it regard the tale with a sort of childlike wonder of a young boy staring up at a statue of a grand hero of the past. Something to aspire to, something that makes the shadows seem just a little less scary. A tale that brings warmth to all who know.
Enter the Zevaris. The Zevaris are the family descended from this great man. They weren't content of riding upon the coattails of a hero long gone, they were a family with a lust for greatness. A family that seemed to devour the stars themselves to become as them upon the earth, heroes of their own. One would be hard pressed to find a family filled with more great men and women then the Zevaris. For generations they have ruled over a small expanse of land in Central Elibe as Dukes and Duchesses to the local monarch.
From child to child, the torch was ever passed. The most recent being the Duchess Cecillia. There was a sadness to her however, for she was a woman barren of womb. Unable to birth a proper heir, and with no brother or sister to take up the reins of the duchy in her stead it appeared the Zevaris would end with her. A legacy such as theirs shant be derailed over such a thing, if she could not bear a child she would take one in instead. This child was Sven.
It was obvious to all that this child was not of their blood. They were a family of strong hardy folk with hair black as coal, while this child was frail and had hair of spun gold. They grew tall and broad while the child remained ever small. The differences were too many to count, though it was a secret never meant to be hidden to begin with.
Cecillia would never bear a child of her own, she would never know the trials of raising a child from just a babe to a grown man. This was unacceptable. She would raise a child from just a babe, she would care for it whilst it cried, she would change its smallclothes. She would adopt a child as young as it could be, one to call her own. She chose Sven, though he be small and barely a few weeks old, and she would raise it as her own.
Now, to be raised as a Zevari entailed certain expectations. Expectations to become great, to make the family proud, to become a hero in their own right, expectations that were only harsher for the young Sven. He was not of their blood, and everyone knew. Was the greatness in the family? Or in the blood that flowed through their veins? Cecillia was determined to prove her son could be just as great, if not greater than any other Zevari had ever been. To rival the hero of shadow's bane himself!
Every day, every waking moment of Sven's life was filled to the brim. Training, tutoring, teaching, riding, learning, fighting, he had to do it all. His entire youth being drowned in a never ending quest to better him, to make him great. An all consuming pressure was put upon him from everywhere. His mother, his father, his grandmother and father, the countless instructors and tutors, even the people of the duchy. They all expected Sven Zevari to become the greatest hero of all. They gave him it all. Every possibly gift, every possible advantage and edge.
Then it all just stopped. No longer did he get forced to dance around a schedule that would make royalty grow pale, no more did he have to train his body until his hands were raw and bloody. The impossible had happened, a miracle from the watcher himself. His mother gave birth to a son. A one in a million chance, one would think. A woman that all had considered barren gave birth to this strong and hardy child, with hair black as coal. Such a child was bound to be great, one would think. A child so strong that he was birthed from a barren woman's womb, a story that would be talked of for ages. All that pressure, everything vanished in an instant. There was Sven, a boy barely on the cusp of manhood who had spent his life being told what to do, being told he could do what he wanted.
What he wanted. What he wanted. Such words, more cruel than even the sharpest barbs. It was to be expected, after all. For all their hard work, Sven was nothing like the Zevaris. He wasn't as strong, quick, or even as smart as the heroes his life revolved around. While this child, this child would grow to be tall, strong, and everything he wasn't and could never be. He would make them proud and Sven, Sven could do what he wanted.
So he did. He did what he wanted and left.
