I greatly prefer adventure/action/story roleplay over everything else. Come to me looking for this, and you'll make a good friend.
If you come to me looking for an RP, please have at least most of what you want ready for presentation before coming up to me.
"The Lord of Knights"
General Information
Name: Narsyl Destrin
Age: 38 years old.
Height: 6' 4"
Weight: 260 lbs. 360 lbs with his armor.
Eye Color: A clear, pure, silver.
Hair Color/Style: White/Medium-length.
Physical Appearance: As either a young fellow or a fully-grown man, Syl always stands out in appearance for hair as white as freshly-fallen snow, slightly shaggy at times, but typically mostly neat and short, about to his brows. Those drawn in by that are usually met with a casual, indifferent look from silver eyes that somewhat reflect whatever they look at, and a calm expression asking them what they want. His physical beauty is around the scale of handsome and slightly rugged, with mostly strong, healthy features and a powerful body from a lifetime of physical activity. His skin, while not very dark isn't light either, carrying all the signs of someone who spends a fair bit of time outside. He moves and acts with a subtle air of confidence and purpose, not rushing for much, but not wasting time either.
Personality: At the best of times, Syl usually keeps himself distant from others, though why, none can say. He's hardly rude, actually being quite polite to almost everyone he meets, but usually telling them he wants to be left be, and if he has a specific reason to interact, he's straightforward and to the point. To those who manage to get close to him, Syl keeps his normal exterior attitude, but will show his side of being somewhat a softy, like a big teddy bear some might say. Those who he truly despises though are always given a cold, icy glare, and he would sooner see them away from him by any means possible.
Equipment
Black Knight Set: A matching set of armor and a hefty one-handed blade that have been made characteristic and signature to his appearance. Both were gained from besting the original Black Knight, gaining Syl a fair level of respect and his armaments. Both armor and sword are finely-crafted and high-quality, weathered through years of brutal combat yet still as durable and strong as the day they were forged thanks to careful maintenance. Though many "Black Knights" and even an entire order arose since then, Syl's stands out as something truly unique and iconic among them for the deeds he performed with them.
Powers and Skills
"Dust": A strange ability he picked up during the exploration of old ruins in the far North. After touching a strange stone, he was filled with a heavy feeling in his chest and the ability to manipulate a special form of energy only accessible to ancient beings that have long since died. This energy acts much like particles of dust in movement and appearance, but is far more capable than that. Able to cut clean through certain materials and make an equally durable form of defense, it is a power that none besides him can use. Over the years that he's possessed it, he has learned to use it in many ways and strengthen it, making it a versatile tool in almost any situation. This has also changed his physical build as well, hardening his bones and body to become as tough as rock, strengthening him to inhuman levels of power, and enhancing his senses.
Survival - Expert.
Lore - Magic - Adept.
Lore - Monsters and Demons - Advanced.
Sword Fighting - Master.
Hand-to-Hand - Commando - Expert.
Tracking - Adept.
Languages - English - Master.
Backstory (Still a work in progress)
"One should be wary of the old in a profession where many die young."
The Archknight, often mentioned and revered as a god of knights and warriors alike. A lordless knight and wandering mercenary without peer among the humans. His is the way one follows to become the true pinnacle of what a warrior can and should become, both in strength and virtue. His deeds are things of legend, and throughout wherever he goes, fear and respect both are to be expected. His coming to a battlefield inspires either courage, or dread, and many are those who spin the tales of The Archknight being a demi-god, or otherwise immortal figure. This is and much more is said...but the man behind it all would simply plant his face in his hands and groan.
Narsyl Destrin may in his time now be the subject of many a myth and story, but he was not always so. Many know the legend, but few if any know anything about the man.
Narsyl is a man from humble roots, born and raised during painful times. A great period of depression for the lands following a lengthy, terrible war with a neighboring country. Though victory had been claimed, the lands resources had been badly drained, a great many people were lost, and hefty amounts of land were made almost entirely uninhabitable. As was always done in such times, wealthy nobles and businessmen alike hoarded what they could and necessities became harder to come by for those in lower classes. Many were those who resorted to thievery and the lives of bandits to gain such resources, leading to an oppressively heavy policing of everyday life. Narsyl was born in that lower class, a simple, outlying town of farmers and general laborers that made the food and items, and traded such for other things they needed. Born to a kind enough mother and father and as an older brother to a sister, he was a decently-hopeful sort of boy. He was generally well-mannered and wise due to the good teachings of his parents, and he grew to be hardworking and compassionate enough in his own rights, often spending his time aiding in the family's workload once he was old enough between his daily activities. He learned quickly enough that life wasn't all fun and games thanks to regular bits of oppression and childhood roughness, but he remained fairly kind and optimistic, simply learning to be a touch more streetwise to better handle himself.
Life was hard, but life was good, and each day felt worth it despite it all if he could settle down with his father, mother, and sister before the fireplace at the day's end and find a warm bed waiting for him. Like many who rise to greatness, however, this was not to last forever.
He was eleven when tragedy struck. A great, unknown plague had begun spreading through the human populace far and wide as a result of unknown means. Many were those afflicted, suffering through growing swelling, hot and cold flashes, peeling flesh, and hacking coughs to the point of being stuck in bed. Narsyl's mother was one of the unfortunate ones, despite the rest of the family being lucky enough to avoid this. The normally beautiful, smiling woman was wrapped in dirty bandages that often needed changing and was stuck within the home at all times. The boy often worked with his father to tend to her, both taking up more than their usual workloads to try and make up for the work she was unable to do otherwise. Despite their best efforts though, much like many who were affected by the plague, she made no signs of getting better, only getting worse.
"Imagine being a child, your mother clearly not long for this world. Imagine wiping the mess of her blood, shed flesh, and all other things up from your hands. Imagine how it feels when your little sister asks why mother isn't getting better. How are you even supposed to begin to feel?"
As was the case with any great tragedy, many were among those who began to turn to their gods for answers and salvation. Narsyl and his father were among them, praying on their knees every night before the fire, making offerings during the day, and adding so much more to their workload, hoping for any sort of aid. Like many children, he'd always been told of the ways of the gods and goddesses of the world that governed the many races, how they lent their gentle hands out to those who were faithful. That the grace of those above were the reasons behind the victories of many wars, the birth of healthy children, and the saving of many lives. Like many children, he too put stock in this, hoping for his mother's life to be spared from the plague. To see that woman smiling at them again like before was all he could want.
...This was not to be. Though she'd persisted for months, it was inevitable that her sickness eventually overtook her in the dead of night. The greatest pain was that they could not even bury her body, but in accordance with the mandated efforts to combat the plague, her body was stripped and burned like so many others. Father kept strong in front of them for their sake, even despite how his sister wept. Narsyl nearly wished to, but with his father remaining stoic, he did his best so share this. Of course, in the late hours of the night afterwards, every shell cracks, such was the case when he found his father silently weeping at the hearth as he prayed. This sparked anger in the boy, anger that was directed at the god they had prayed to. With all the sickness and death, so many people prayed, and yet it kept happening. His mother was just one among many. It left a bitter, miserable Narsyl wondering awake that night. How could their gods allow such things to happen?
"Have you ever prayed for your mother's life, and not had that prayer answered? Have you seen bandits raid villages and be stopped by the hand of God? Have you ever yet seen a wicked man impose his will upon good people and face righteous judgement? Mistake me not, I do believe in the gods and goddesses about. And I despise the lot of them."
It was hard and many were lost, but the plague, like any tragedy eventually passed after a year. Tens of thousands were claimed, many children left without parents or the other way around. In comparison to so many families, Narsyl's was fortunate. His father always reminded them of that, he remembered that. It was during the time of recovering from the loss of their mother that Narsyl and his sister grew especially close, the boy more protective than ever of his sister. He worked all the harder, picking up the slack wherever able. It went as far as picking up various odd jobs and doing work for strangers and even the wealthier businessmen within the other towns to bring home a bit more for his father and sister. It took the better part of a year, the boy nearly thirteen, but life finally seemed to be picking up for not only his own family, but in general. The land and crops were recovering and becoming more bountiful, borders were more well patrolled and manned, and for the first time since the war, things seemed to be going well. Fate deemed fit once again however to be discontent.
Not even two decades after their war with the neighboring country was another looming on the horizon due to tense scenarios arising between the kingdom of men and a society of the Elves that had culminated in a nobleman striking down an Elven messenger in cold fashion. It started as any war did, with small scale conflicts here and there, but it was obvious already that the kingdom of men there were not ready for such a war, still low on sufficient manpower and supplies. So great was their need that many had resorted to hiring out mercenaries, and eventually even forcing people from their homes to enlist them as aides or workers. Even before such recruiters came to his village, Narsyl had reason for worry. Though it wasn't a serious illness, his father had begun to get sick, struggling to even do his normal work, let alone be well enough to fight or slave away in mines.
Inevitably, they did arrive, seeking able folk to recruit as trained soldiers or induct as miners to get resources for the war effort. A good handful of people were taken away, and his sister, caught playing in the fields was nearly one of them, despite his father's protesting. Narsyl, ever seeking to protect his sister insisted he go in her place. Being a larger, stronger person than his comparatively small, lithe sister, they agreed, and sent his sister home with a small sack of coins in return.
"I remember what I said. Told them I could do many times what she could do, that I'd do whatever was asked of me if they'd leave her and my sick father be. I don't know how father reacted, he was at home resting at the time, but I remember clearly the look in her eyes as I was taken into the wagon. That was the most painful part of making that decision, but it was for her. Her sadness, my father's pain, my own guilt, I'd bear it all over again if the choice was given to me again."
As might be expected, Narsyl's life after his ride among wagons of other young boys or grown men was a grueling one. Placed into set uniforms and garb, he was put right away to demanding tasks, assigned to a knight. Every breath was to be spent attending this knight who he came to know as Glenn. A nobleman, clearly, as were all of the knights already stationed there. He was a stern, cold man, and he alone ended up deciding when or when not Narsyl worked to the bone, when he ate, or when he slept. When he wasn't traveling at his side and moving to his beck and call, he was trained under him in the ways of a knight. The art of swordplay was something the boy adjusted to quickly to an extent thanks to his physical lifestyle, but it seemed nothing was ever truly satisfactory for Glenn.
"To Glenn's credit, he was a phenomenal swordsman in his own right, and I think my own talent as one is owed to his teachings. A great warrior, yes...but he was worse than scum aside from that."
Despite how hard it all was at its core, Narsyl like any of the other boys his age persisted. In time, it even became somewhat comfortable, habit even to do it all. To some extent, he took pride in his work, and he found a strong desire to please Glenn, despite how impossible this seemed. So much so that when he was able at the age of fifteen, he took his first ride into combat alongside him and the knights to raid an enemy stronghold. He was not ready.
Training and practice with the sword in the controlled environment was nothing compared to the real thing. The bandits that had made the stronghold their home were more ruthless, cold, and savage than he could have imagined in combat. The first time he saw a blade cleave through armor into flesh stuck with him years afterwards, and the lives that were lost among his compatriots stung him greatly. His first battle was nearly his last, saved only by Glenn who reprimanded him for cowering the way he did. When he recovered, Narsyl forced himself into the fray. Clashing swords with grown, experienced fighters was a chilling thing, but in his first true battle, he claimed several lives, and was there to witness their first victory and reclaim the stronghold. He was there to watch as another group of knights was sent to occupy it and see how Glenn and the other seniors were congratulated and thanked. Despite their victory and his own survival, he had disappointed Glenn, and he wished to change that.
From then on, whenever he had time to himself, any idle time possible was turned into time to practice and train with his sword. In time he became intimately familiar with its weight in the air, refined his slashes and thrusts. He accustomed himself to the bits of chain and plate armor that were assigned to him, dealing with how it encumbered his body and complicated movement. He did his best too to steel himself mentally. He remembered how it felt to slay his first opponent, the sounds of clashing steel in his ears, the vibrations of his weapon colliding with another. When it came time for them to be sent out yet again, he surprised many, both among the knights and other squires when he performed rather exceptionally. Another victory was theirs, yet Glenn said nothing to him yet again. Narsyl resolved only to try even harder next time and train harder, and it was for this that each time the knights were sent out that he continued to improve his battlefield performance. So much so that many discussed how he might make a fine enough knight when he grew. Still, instead of the praise or even acceptance he'd hoped to receive from Glenn, he found that ironically the knight distanced himself from the boy more. Still, he took what he could get and continued to succeed on the battlefield with his company. For two years he continued to work and make himself fairly popular among the knights and squires. In some ways less favorably than others did such popularity come.
It was late one night after a successful raid. He was relaxed in his bed when Glenn arrived in his chamber, accompanied by another knight. They both talked for a moment, and then Glenn was handed a sack of coins before he left Narsyl and the other knight alone in the room, shutting the heavy wood door behind him. The man forced Narsyl to the bed and upon him. It was all painfully burned into his mind and being for the hours it occurred. Come morning, no one discussed it or treated it like it'd happened, but Narsyl knew well. He could only be reminded of it in excruciating detail whenever he met the the knight responsible, see it in his shit-eating grin.
"I cried that night. How could I not have, considering what happened? I remember begging for Glenn to stop it, anyone to make it stop. I even begged the man who was defiling me to stop. Even prayer failed me yet again. No men or gods were going to save me. I understood when my eyes met with that man's the morning after that to stop such a thing from happening again, I would need to take matters into my own hands."
It was during a mission that he did it. A raid at a bandit camp within a woodland area, densely-packed with trees of pine. Many were spread out and separated, and this was his chance. By the raid's end, despite it being successful, the knight who'd defiled him did not return, just one among many corpses in that battlefield and none were aware. None save for the boy who kept his lips sealed. His career continued as normal, thankfully, Glenn had never tried to sell him like that to another man again. It didn't lessen the pain any, however, and Narsyl was no longer any bit concerned with trying to impress his master. When he fought, it was solely for his own purposes. With each mission, he did further strive to improve himself. In time, his reputation and the talk of his promise continued to spread among the other knights, and that talk then spread to those in the higher positions. Word was common about the child knight who held great promise, a commoner who might in time be destined for greatness. Glenn said nothing, but the boy could see it whenever they met gazes. Glenn began to detest Narsyl by this point, believing that a simple peasant child had no place being the subject of talk like that.
Nevertheless, successful raids kept coming one after the other, liberating stolen sections of their homeland from the various thieves and brigands who'd arisen during the time of war, and each time, Narsyl went above and beyond expectations for a trainee. By the age of seventeen, the company he was serving with had done coordinated work with other companies to finally clear the last of the major bandit influences around the country, helping to gain them a more balanced setup for the war effort with the Elves that had by now become impossible to avoid. Narsyl's company had returned to the main kingdom, the knights given their due honors, and the squires and trainees of note given evaluations for potential promotion. Narsyl was among the first to be considered, confronted the captain of the royal guard who seemed impressed by the boy's deeds shared by his peers, speaking of him having a promising future as a true knight if he persisted. Hearing this from a figure as respected as the captain did to some extent make his years of toil and pain worth it, and though silent at the time, Glenn was not pleased.
"I never really expected that I'd respect the good captain as much as I did, nor did I figure he was one among few genuine human beings within the royal court. The world would benefit from more men of his caliber, and the respect I once held for Glenn found itself shifted to him over the years that followed."
While the main armies were out fighting in the war, the company Narsyl was a part of was delegated to the homeland to strengthen their defenses. A chance for some knights and squires alike to see their families and to recover some, and one that the boy was eager to take advantage of. In the years he'd spent away, he's surely amassed many stories to share, and he'd missed them terribly. Thus, the first day after his normal tasks were done and over with, he headed out to his home village. When he arrived, however, his heart sank to find that his sister was nowhere to be found, and the town was far smaller than it was last time. He did thankfully find his father, though his illness from before had worsened. The man was thin and weak, walking about with support whenever he moved. What he heard from his father set in motion his next years. Seven long years that would shape and change his life and the ways of the royal court forever.
His sister, and all other children of the village and many others had been taken. Snatched away by unknown groups of armed men to God knows where.
"I reason out these days that there was little I could have done regardless, but the me I was back then, young and stupid blamed himself. I remember it clearly, thinking that if I'd only been there, I could have done something. The naive, blind judgement of a reckless child."
For as much as Narsyl wanted to rush off to search, even then he understood searching blindly would yield no results. To add to that, worry for his ill father slowed him. Thankfully, over the course of the next few days between his duties, he did succeed in setting up a stable supply of food and medicine to him, able to be administered by helpers within the castle. With that taken care of, he knew right away that this needed to be discussed with the knights and officials.
((Will continue building this later.))