Post by Xander on Jun 6, 2015 13:18:06 GMT -5
Name: Capt. Merick Pfeiler
Race: Human
Age: 29
Class: Abjuration Wizard / Fighter Multiclass
Background: Soldier
www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=232103
Appearance:
It is easy to surmise, merely from his physical appearance, that Merick has lived a life of conflict and soldiering. His upright posture displays the rigorous discipline drilled into a man of war, the criss-crossed scars etched into his weatherbeaten skin detail every altercation, each frozen river of flesh carved into the landscape of his body by a different campaign. The buzzcut hair, greying around his temples, and his lean, muscular frame exhibit a man who greatly values physical efficiency.
But most striking are the dark, sunken hollows of his eyes. Pools of brown so deep, they are almost black. Reflected in those pools is Merick's every failure. Every comrade he has lost. Every innocent life lost because of him. Every drop of blood he has shed. Every life he has taken. He doesn't look people in the eye very often. It is not fair to share the burden he carries, it is his duty to bear it.
History:
Merick joined the infantry of his homeland, Galiecia, on the continent of Mylone, as soon as he was old enough, he had always wanted to be a soldier - there was just something that appealed to him about fighting for a just cause. Of course, looking back, he finds it hard to justify much of what he has done. He was an average soldier physically, but his superiors quickly discovered that he possessed a formidable mental faculty. His intelligence attracted the attention of a war mage attached to his company, who notified a senior mage. Merick was assessed formally and found to possess a gift for magic. He was enlisted in the mage corps immediately, to receive tutelage and instruction regarding his gift and to harness his bright intellect. It was at the Royal Academy of War Magics that he learned abjuration magic. Most war mages choose to specialise as evokers, the magical artillery of warfare; however Merick found he had a particular talent for protection spells. It made sense - he was known for his utter selflessness in his squad. His mage tutors had been surprised when he told them he was going to become an abjurer. Merick always found this bemusing. Why wouldn't he want to use his powers to help other people? Once he had finished his training he was deployed to a new infantry squad as magical support, providing forcefields, wards and arcane security measures for his squad in battle. He was a genius tactician and his dynamic personality and arcane gift quickly pushed him up the ranks until he was a captain in charge of his own infantry unit. The bond they shared was unbreakable - each man under Merick's command would have gone to hell and back for him - and with Merick as their commanding officer, they were unstoppable... That is... until they came... The Orcs...
An invasion force, approaching the kingdom from the frozen North. Reports were coming in of raids on outlying villages and towns, under attack by monsters of unparalleled savagery and might. The entire army was mobilised and deployed and battle lines were drawn. Merick's company was to be the first line of defense for the capital city of Gwendawyn. Eventually, the invasion force had forced its way down to the city. Merick was ready with a battle plan. He deployed his troops and rode out with them to battle... and a crushing defeat. The Orcs were monstrous, they seemed to possess the strength of 10 men and were utterly ferocious - even when struck by wounds which would have felled the hardiest man they continued to fight until death. Losses were horrendous. Merick was the only surviving member of his unit of about 200 men. At some point Merick was struck on the head and fell. His men rallied to his unconscious form, fighting with just as much savagery as their enemy to protect their commander. They succeeded, but at no small loss. Merick's body escaped the spears of his foe, concealed as it was by the bodies of his fallen brothers.
Alone, near death and pinned down by his platoon, Merick awoke. He felt as though he had been hit by a battering ram. He extricated himself from the darkness and was greeted by a grim sight. All his men - dead. Crows pecked at their lifeless forms. He stood swaying for a moment. What was the point in life, when it could be ended so cruelly, so easily? He turned, confused and grieving his men, and began limping back to Gwendawyn. The weight of all those bodies had broken several of his ribs and he couldn't move his leg properly - it could have been broken. He didn't care. He kept hobbling and wheezing, numb to all pain except the raw anguish which ravaged his mind. Eventually he reached the city, but he was too late. It lay in ruins. As tears cut through the caked blood and dirt on his face and he was overcome by the stench of wood smoke and death, he staggered on. Doors hung off their hinges, windows were shattered. In some places flames still lapped hungrily at housing, waves of heat gluttonously devouring everything they came in contact with. There was blood everywhere, running in the gutters, staining the streets, but no bodies anywhere. Eventually Merick reached the city centre. At first he didn't believe what he was seeing. But then the full scale of the massacre hit him. A mountain of bodies rose above him. Their clothes were soaked in blood, the cobbles were slick with it. Slaughtered men lay over the women they had tried in vain to save, mothers still clasped children and death's cold embrace replaced the comfort of lovers who had died in each others arms. No one had been spared. But worst of all, was the black, barbed spear which rose from the top of the huge mound... impaled upon which was a baby, skin as white as the ash which fell around it.
Merick fell to the ground and closed his eyes, completely broken. As he slipped into unconsciousness, images began to materialise before him. Standing before him, in formation, were his men. They were all smiling and well and the bustling city behind them stood tall and proud against the blue sky of the North. Suddenly the invaders appeared, they hacked down everyone, soldier and bystander alike. Gwendawyn was burning, his men were screaming for him to save them... It was too much! He opened his mouth to scream... and he woke up, sweating profusely, screaming and kicking. His leg felt like it was on fire and every breath he sucked in brought waves of agony. A soothing voice crooned to him, a wet flannel wiped the sweat from his forehead and he lay back, eyes staring but not seeing. An old woman was nursing his injuries in the scorched stone shell of a building. She touched his hand comfortingly then rose with an effort to answer the cry of another casualty. Merick sat up and his senses rushed back to him. The groans of the injured assailed his ears - rows and rows of wounded filled the gutted room. The futility of life when faced with so much death overwhelmed him. He began to sob and yell. The old woman saw him writhing and rushed back to his bedside, pinning him back to his cot with surprising ease. She scrambled inside her grimy apron and drew out a vial of green liquid. She uncorked it with her teeth, plugged it into his mouth and pinched his nose, forcing the viscous, vile smelling mixture down his throat. Darkness clouded his vision and he drifted into a soothing oblivion...
When he awoke this time he was laid out on a straw mattress. A homely fire filled the hearth across the room from him, a bubbling stewpot hung above it, and birds sang outside the windows. He had no idea where he was. His movement attracted the attention of a figure hunched over the stewpot - it was the old woman who had nursed him in the shattered city. She shuffled over to him from the fire, a tender expression illuminating her features.
"Feeling better are we, deary?", she crooned. She sat down stiffly in a chair by his bedside and drew back the sheets from Merick's broken leg, appraising it cordially. Merick looked down expecting the worst. Someone had splinted it and swaddled it with clean rags. The old woman smiled at him approvingly.
"Mmm... Yes. Much better.", she beamed. His broken ribs and gashes had been bound in similar fashion, but he was so feeble that it was all he could do to swallow the tonics and potions the old woman administered to him every day. He had terrible nightmares, tormented by the images of the battlefield he had crawled from and the ruined city he had left. But every time he woke crying and screaming, she was there, pushing him back onto his bed, armed with a vial of that green sleeping potion. While the sleeping draught took effect she would sit in front of the fire, knitting and speaking to him in a hushed, lilting voice. He learnt her name, Greta. She was an apothecary and healer living in the Myron forest, South of the city of Blackdawn. She had travelled North to stock up on rare herbs at the markets in Gwendawyn, but had only reached the neighbouring city of Gwynedd before the capital fell. She had seen the smoke rising and led as many city-folk as would follow her out into the tundra fleeing before chaos broke out in the city. They fled into the tundra and hid until the smoke settled over the horizon. Many of the refugees had family in Gwendawyn, so they wound their way over to the sacked city, picking up other wounded refugees along the way. The convoys scouts had found Merick's form and brought him to Greta. Cuts and burns, Greta could manage with the limited supplies she had available, but the soldier's wounds required medicines she could only make back in her cottage. There had been nothing else for it - she said to him one night - she had had to bring him back to Juscor with her. She had taken her cart and mule, thrown Merick up on it and ferried him back home across the sea.
Slowly, over months and weeks, his wounds closed and his leg mended. But long after his body had been healed, his mind was still reeling from what he had experienced. He had confronted death before, that was his profession, but this... This was different. The sheer volume of the dead was incomprehensible to him. His entire unit gone. His entire city erased. Those Orcs... what kind of monsters could do that? And the worst part? It was all his fault. His magic hadn't been strong enough. His tactics hadn't been smart enough. If his men had held the line, the capital would have had more time to be evacuated. It was all his fault... Depression and wracking guilt filled the gaping void of his numb mind, forcing out the man which had once occupied it. He felt the death of every man, woman and child, of every one of his soldiers, it was like a physical weight pressing down on him.
He could walk now, with the aid of a crutch. All his muscles had atrophied and despite the ample servings of stew and salads which Greta filled him with, he had a gaunt look about him. Greta was worried. She knew exactly what he had seen but the young soldier had to close this wound on his own. Still, she would do everything in her power to aid his recovery. She took him on long walks in the forest, allowed him to accompany her on her visits to the sick in nearby villages and waited for him to approach her. Eventually, he did.
"Why are you doing this for me? Why not just leave me in Galiecia?" Bewildered tears filled Merick's eyes as he asked the question. His voice was hoarse and cracking after so long without use. Greta sat in silence, tears filled her own eyes.
"My son fought for King Gallant in The Great War.", she said eventually.
"I fled to Juscor to escape the war. When he... died... I didn't have anything to return to. You remind me of him. So much.", she smiled up at him sadly and he was suddenly struck by how old and frail she looked.
"I couldn't save him in time. Please. Let me help you."
So they talked. It was hard, he was very hesitant at first - the words felt like nails in his throat. But every thought, every doubt which Merick unloaded onto Greta, brought a relief which he had thought he would never feel again. He was still plagued by nightmares and there were still moments where he felt ready to give up, but Greta's sleeping tonic kept the dark at bay and her very presence became a panacea for him. After months living with her, tending her small garden and few livestock, Greta ran out of an ingredient for his sleeping tonic. So they headed North together, to Blackdawn market, to buy what they needed. They checked into an inn on the outskirts of the city, as the large crowds of the inner city terrified Merick still. Greta left for the market, telling Merick that she would return soon. When night fell, Merick was worried, when the next dawn rose and Greta had not returned, he was beside himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath and sit down. Greta was gone. No. It wasn't fair. Life had ripped everything Merick had ever loved away from him once already. This time he would not stand for it. Greta was the one thing that mattered to him now, the one person he could look at and see good in - pure, soul enriching goodness. He would not allow his hope to be stolen so easily. He rose slowly, gathering the meager supplies Greta had left. He would find her. He would bring her home. And he would kill whatever or whoever had tried to take her away from him.
Personality: Merick suffers from PTSD. His sleep is plagued by nightmares from which he wakes screaming and sweating, he is frequented by terrible flashbacks and finds it very hard to relax - he is constantly on edge, seeing threats everywhere. Greta makes a sedative tonic which cures his insomnia and nightmares, but she didn't leave him any before she disappeared and the nightmares are getting worse. His broken mind has only just began to piece itself back together, but it is possible to see He has gathered his resolve and vowed he will never allow his loved ones to suffer. He is, therefore, hellbent on finding Greta. He is very honorable and disciplined. He feels a deep guilt for the past events detailed above, which pervades everything he does - he desperately seeks repentance, so strives to be as good a person as he can be.
Triggers for PTSD: Orcs, Half-orcs, people who look like soldiers I knew, war machines, my insignia of rank (large tattoo branding me as a warmage officer across my back - I keep it covered) and the crest of the Galiecian Royal Family (both feature heavily in my nightmares). Not so good with violence so more either, though can usually cope by repeating a mantra, e.g "Must save friends, must save friends...", or, "Not gonna die, not gonna die...".
Race: Human
Age: 29
Class: Abjuration Wizard / Fighter Multiclass
Background: Soldier
www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=232103
Appearance:
It is easy to surmise, merely from his physical appearance, that Merick has lived a life of conflict and soldiering. His upright posture displays the rigorous discipline drilled into a man of war, the criss-crossed scars etched into his weatherbeaten skin detail every altercation, each frozen river of flesh carved into the landscape of his body by a different campaign. The buzzcut hair, greying around his temples, and his lean, muscular frame exhibit a man who greatly values physical efficiency.
But most striking are the dark, sunken hollows of his eyes. Pools of brown so deep, they are almost black. Reflected in those pools is Merick's every failure. Every comrade he has lost. Every innocent life lost because of him. Every drop of blood he has shed. Every life he has taken. He doesn't look people in the eye very often. It is not fair to share the burden he carries, it is his duty to bear it.
History:
Merick joined the infantry of his homeland, Galiecia, on the continent of Mylone, as soon as he was old enough, he had always wanted to be a soldier - there was just something that appealed to him about fighting for a just cause. Of course, looking back, he finds it hard to justify much of what he has done. He was an average soldier physically, but his superiors quickly discovered that he possessed a formidable mental faculty. His intelligence attracted the attention of a war mage attached to his company, who notified a senior mage. Merick was assessed formally and found to possess a gift for magic. He was enlisted in the mage corps immediately, to receive tutelage and instruction regarding his gift and to harness his bright intellect. It was at the Royal Academy of War Magics that he learned abjuration magic. Most war mages choose to specialise as evokers, the magical artillery of warfare; however Merick found he had a particular talent for protection spells. It made sense - he was known for his utter selflessness in his squad. His mage tutors had been surprised when he told them he was going to become an abjurer. Merick always found this bemusing. Why wouldn't he want to use his powers to help other people? Once he had finished his training he was deployed to a new infantry squad as magical support, providing forcefields, wards and arcane security measures for his squad in battle. He was a genius tactician and his dynamic personality and arcane gift quickly pushed him up the ranks until he was a captain in charge of his own infantry unit. The bond they shared was unbreakable - each man under Merick's command would have gone to hell and back for him - and with Merick as their commanding officer, they were unstoppable... That is... until they came... The Orcs...
An invasion force, approaching the kingdom from the frozen North. Reports were coming in of raids on outlying villages and towns, under attack by monsters of unparalleled savagery and might. The entire army was mobilised and deployed and battle lines were drawn. Merick's company was to be the first line of defense for the capital city of Gwendawyn. Eventually, the invasion force had forced its way down to the city. Merick was ready with a battle plan. He deployed his troops and rode out with them to battle... and a crushing defeat. The Orcs were monstrous, they seemed to possess the strength of 10 men and were utterly ferocious - even when struck by wounds which would have felled the hardiest man they continued to fight until death. Losses were horrendous. Merick was the only surviving member of his unit of about 200 men. At some point Merick was struck on the head and fell. His men rallied to his unconscious form, fighting with just as much savagery as their enemy to protect their commander. They succeeded, but at no small loss. Merick's body escaped the spears of his foe, concealed as it was by the bodies of his fallen brothers.
Alone, near death and pinned down by his platoon, Merick awoke. He felt as though he had been hit by a battering ram. He extricated himself from the darkness and was greeted by a grim sight. All his men - dead. Crows pecked at their lifeless forms. He stood swaying for a moment. What was the point in life, when it could be ended so cruelly, so easily? He turned, confused and grieving his men, and began limping back to Gwendawyn. The weight of all those bodies had broken several of his ribs and he couldn't move his leg properly - it could have been broken. He didn't care. He kept hobbling and wheezing, numb to all pain except the raw anguish which ravaged his mind. Eventually he reached the city, but he was too late. It lay in ruins. As tears cut through the caked blood and dirt on his face and he was overcome by the stench of wood smoke and death, he staggered on. Doors hung off their hinges, windows were shattered. In some places flames still lapped hungrily at housing, waves of heat gluttonously devouring everything they came in contact with. There was blood everywhere, running in the gutters, staining the streets, but no bodies anywhere. Eventually Merick reached the city centre. At first he didn't believe what he was seeing. But then the full scale of the massacre hit him. A mountain of bodies rose above him. Their clothes were soaked in blood, the cobbles were slick with it. Slaughtered men lay over the women they had tried in vain to save, mothers still clasped children and death's cold embrace replaced the comfort of lovers who had died in each others arms. No one had been spared. But worst of all, was the black, barbed spear which rose from the top of the huge mound... impaled upon which was a baby, skin as white as the ash which fell around it.
Merick fell to the ground and closed his eyes, completely broken. As he slipped into unconsciousness, images began to materialise before him. Standing before him, in formation, were his men. They were all smiling and well and the bustling city behind them stood tall and proud against the blue sky of the North. Suddenly the invaders appeared, they hacked down everyone, soldier and bystander alike. Gwendawyn was burning, his men were screaming for him to save them... It was too much! He opened his mouth to scream... and he woke up, sweating profusely, screaming and kicking. His leg felt like it was on fire and every breath he sucked in brought waves of agony. A soothing voice crooned to him, a wet flannel wiped the sweat from his forehead and he lay back, eyes staring but not seeing. An old woman was nursing his injuries in the scorched stone shell of a building. She touched his hand comfortingly then rose with an effort to answer the cry of another casualty. Merick sat up and his senses rushed back to him. The groans of the injured assailed his ears - rows and rows of wounded filled the gutted room. The futility of life when faced with so much death overwhelmed him. He began to sob and yell. The old woman saw him writhing and rushed back to his bedside, pinning him back to his cot with surprising ease. She scrambled inside her grimy apron and drew out a vial of green liquid. She uncorked it with her teeth, plugged it into his mouth and pinched his nose, forcing the viscous, vile smelling mixture down his throat. Darkness clouded his vision and he drifted into a soothing oblivion...
When he awoke this time he was laid out on a straw mattress. A homely fire filled the hearth across the room from him, a bubbling stewpot hung above it, and birds sang outside the windows. He had no idea where he was. His movement attracted the attention of a figure hunched over the stewpot - it was the old woman who had nursed him in the shattered city. She shuffled over to him from the fire, a tender expression illuminating her features.
"Feeling better are we, deary?", she crooned. She sat down stiffly in a chair by his bedside and drew back the sheets from Merick's broken leg, appraising it cordially. Merick looked down expecting the worst. Someone had splinted it and swaddled it with clean rags. The old woman smiled at him approvingly.
"Mmm... Yes. Much better.", she beamed. His broken ribs and gashes had been bound in similar fashion, but he was so feeble that it was all he could do to swallow the tonics and potions the old woman administered to him every day. He had terrible nightmares, tormented by the images of the battlefield he had crawled from and the ruined city he had left. But every time he woke crying and screaming, she was there, pushing him back onto his bed, armed with a vial of that green sleeping potion. While the sleeping draught took effect she would sit in front of the fire, knitting and speaking to him in a hushed, lilting voice. He learnt her name, Greta. She was an apothecary and healer living in the Myron forest, South of the city of Blackdawn. She had travelled North to stock up on rare herbs at the markets in Gwendawyn, but had only reached the neighbouring city of Gwynedd before the capital fell. She had seen the smoke rising and led as many city-folk as would follow her out into the tundra fleeing before chaos broke out in the city. They fled into the tundra and hid until the smoke settled over the horizon. Many of the refugees had family in Gwendawyn, so they wound their way over to the sacked city, picking up other wounded refugees along the way. The convoys scouts had found Merick's form and brought him to Greta. Cuts and burns, Greta could manage with the limited supplies she had available, but the soldier's wounds required medicines she could only make back in her cottage. There had been nothing else for it - she said to him one night - she had had to bring him back to Juscor with her. She had taken her cart and mule, thrown Merick up on it and ferried him back home across the sea.
Slowly, over months and weeks, his wounds closed and his leg mended. But long after his body had been healed, his mind was still reeling from what he had experienced. He had confronted death before, that was his profession, but this... This was different. The sheer volume of the dead was incomprehensible to him. His entire unit gone. His entire city erased. Those Orcs... what kind of monsters could do that? And the worst part? It was all his fault. His magic hadn't been strong enough. His tactics hadn't been smart enough. If his men had held the line, the capital would have had more time to be evacuated. It was all his fault... Depression and wracking guilt filled the gaping void of his numb mind, forcing out the man which had once occupied it. He felt the death of every man, woman and child, of every one of his soldiers, it was like a physical weight pressing down on him.
He could walk now, with the aid of a crutch. All his muscles had atrophied and despite the ample servings of stew and salads which Greta filled him with, he had a gaunt look about him. Greta was worried. She knew exactly what he had seen but the young soldier had to close this wound on his own. Still, she would do everything in her power to aid his recovery. She took him on long walks in the forest, allowed him to accompany her on her visits to the sick in nearby villages and waited for him to approach her. Eventually, he did.
"Why are you doing this for me? Why not just leave me in Galiecia?" Bewildered tears filled Merick's eyes as he asked the question. His voice was hoarse and cracking after so long without use. Greta sat in silence, tears filled her own eyes.
"My son fought for King Gallant in The Great War.", she said eventually.
"I fled to Juscor to escape the war. When he... died... I didn't have anything to return to. You remind me of him. So much.", she smiled up at him sadly and he was suddenly struck by how old and frail she looked.
"I couldn't save him in time. Please. Let me help you."
So they talked. It was hard, he was very hesitant at first - the words felt like nails in his throat. But every thought, every doubt which Merick unloaded onto Greta, brought a relief which he had thought he would never feel again. He was still plagued by nightmares and there were still moments where he felt ready to give up, but Greta's sleeping tonic kept the dark at bay and her very presence became a panacea for him. After months living with her, tending her small garden and few livestock, Greta ran out of an ingredient for his sleeping tonic. So they headed North together, to Blackdawn market, to buy what they needed. They checked into an inn on the outskirts of the city, as the large crowds of the inner city terrified Merick still. Greta left for the market, telling Merick that she would return soon. When night fell, Merick was worried, when the next dawn rose and Greta had not returned, he was beside himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath and sit down. Greta was gone. No. It wasn't fair. Life had ripped everything Merick had ever loved away from him once already. This time he would not stand for it. Greta was the one thing that mattered to him now, the one person he could look at and see good in - pure, soul enriching goodness. He would not allow his hope to be stolen so easily. He rose slowly, gathering the meager supplies Greta had left. He would find her. He would bring her home. And he would kill whatever or whoever had tried to take her away from him.
Personality: Merick suffers from PTSD. His sleep is plagued by nightmares from which he wakes screaming and sweating, he is frequented by terrible flashbacks and finds it very hard to relax - he is constantly on edge, seeing threats everywhere. Greta makes a sedative tonic which cures his insomnia and nightmares, but she didn't leave him any before she disappeared and the nightmares are getting worse. His broken mind has only just began to piece itself back together, but it is possible to see He has gathered his resolve and vowed he will never allow his loved ones to suffer. He is, therefore, hellbent on finding Greta. He is very honorable and disciplined. He feels a deep guilt for the past events detailed above, which pervades everything he does - he desperately seeks repentance, so strives to be as good a person as he can be.
Triggers for PTSD: Orcs, Half-orcs, people who look like soldiers I knew, war machines, my insignia of rank (large tattoo branding me as a warmage officer across my back - I keep it covered) and the crest of the Galiecian Royal Family (both feature heavily in my nightmares). Not so good with violence so more either, though can usually cope by repeating a mantra, e.g "Must save friends, must save friends...", or, "Not gonna die, not gonna die...".
