PLAYED BY: Matthew Timmons
CHARACTER NAME: Arthur Tanner
GENDER: Male
PREFFERED PRONOUN(S): He/Him
CLASS: Rogue
AGE: 36
RACE: Human
HAIR: Brown
EYES: Blue
OCCUPATION: Traveler, trader, merchant
KNOWN SKILLS: Useful with a sword, some slight magic
BIRTHPLACE: Faedrun
APPEARANCE: Tall and plain. No bright colors, fairly drab
NOTABLE TRAITS: Nothing unique or special. He is smart and well spoken, but otherwise nothing.
RELATIONSHIPS: Doesn’t remember his family. Was an only child, but was given to a mage at a young age.
RUMORS: Nothing noteworthy. Quiet guy, keeps to himself.
BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:
“You did it wrong AGAIN!” The instructor yelled as the young boy attempted to push the cup of water off the stool. “BOTH hands, extended! Gods, you’re useless!” A resounding slap echoed across the dimly lit hall. He had been doing this for hours. His hands hurt, as the mana coursed through the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. “Get out of my sight.”
He lay curled up in his little cell. The walls around him acrid with the scent of filth and grime, years of mold and mildew caked throughout the stone slabs that housed the young boy. He spent the night, hungry, belly aching in fits of cramps, as he tried and tried to push the little doll he carried with him over. But, no matter how much he tried, he felt unable to muster the mana or the strength.
“AGAIN!”
*SLAP* The man backhanded the boy once more as the morning rays bounced into the long hall, holding the master mage and his apprentice. The boy could feel his ears ringing with blood, as the pain surged through his head. He hated being hit. He hated being weak. His small frame struggled enough to keep itself alive, let along channel mana into some semblance of a spell. He brought himself to his feet and tried again. The tall tower in which they lived seemed to sway within the heavy winds that collided with the sides of the immense structure. The breeze kicked the curtains within the hall to and fro. Shoving both hands forward, he attempted to send the mana from his soul through his fingertips. But alas, the little cup barely moved.
“BOTH HANDS, BOTH FEET! Hands forward, feet planted! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!?”
*SLAP* He crumpled once again to the floor. This time, he could swear a tooth was loose within his bleeding cheeks. His head panged with bursts of anger and resentment.
“Stop hitting me…” He squeaked, as he brought himself to his feet, rubbing a fresh tear from his eye.
“What did you say to me, you fucking little worm?”
*SLAP* The boy was sent again to the marbled floor, his head colliding with the cleanly polished floor he had buffed barely hours before. As he lifted his body again, he could see the little splats of blood fleck across the carved stone beneath him. He stood, angrily staring at the teacher.
“I said stop hitting me!” He yelled, feeling the blood within him boil. A sense of energy began welling within his core as he began channeling mana, counting to himself silently.
“You impudent little ant, how DARE you!” The man raised his cane high and brought it down with anger upon the boy’s head. But, with a flash of blue light, the weapon bounced off, electricity rippling through the air around the tip of the cane. Seconds later, he felt the force of a thousand winds collide with this torso, as he saw the outstretched hands of the boy and heard the little child explode in an bloodcurddling scream of hatred.
The boy gathered his remaining strength and stood to his feet. The hall was silent, the curtains ripped from the rod that held them above the window, and looking out, he could see the distinct tiny figure of a broken man lying a hundred feet below, in a crumpled heap of shattered bones.
Years later, he wandered the streets. Poor. Destitute. He had no name to call his own, but it meant nothing. His family had long since abandoned him. All he had to his name was a trifling of minor magic and the ability to remain to himself.
UPDATE:
Ras stood near the edge of the great hill that overlooked Shieldhaven, watching the smog-thick tree line and castle-esque walls rustle with activity and preparations for the war. He clutched the dagger in his palm…ornate, fragile, and containing the key to toppling a country. Behind him, the silent chanting from Jaerreth still echoed with whispered strategy, but Ras knew what came next would be his alone.
Jericho had saved him once. From a life of apathy, from a world that watched without acting. They gave him purpose, a cause greater than himself. And now they needed a sacrifice.
To deliver the blade directly to his heart, Ras had to be stalwart. Not sheepish. Not gentle. A discovered body would draw attention away from the covert operatives making the real strike. His death would buy time, suspicion, and confusion. His freedom was the cost.
He walked to the precipice of the rockjagged mountain foothill with no disguise. Eyes closed. A warm hand rested on his shoulder. Soft, reassuring words muttered into his ears about those who would die and those who would suffer.
As he knelt upon the cracked ground and dirt, Ras allowed himself one last breath of crisp, morning air. No regrets, he told himself, as his vision danced with images of what’s to come.
The settlements’ defenses burned from the inside. Mordok and Undead alike emerged from the Great Forest. Faces like his became symbols, omens and drawings of it stenciled on shattered doorways and alleys. No one spoke his name openly. But in the shadows, where whispers sparked turmoil, Arthur…Vincenzo…and countless more names people thought they knew but truly didn’t… no…. RAS AL FARRUK meant annihilation.
And though the walls around him grew cold, juxtaposed by the warm blood that ran down his torso, Ras smiled in the dark. His purpose had outlived his chains.