Post by wulfaros on Jun 7, 2017 3:15:11 GMT
Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
-J.R.R Tolkien
Psychological attributes
Lysanthir is a shrewd and calculating man, under his distant physical appearance. He is pragmatic, methodical and straightforward, yet individualist in character. He may often depict what could be seen as mischevious arrogance, both voluntary and innate, a flaw and a strategy both. The elf is a cynic one, having seen many ordeals and hardships in the past, enough to have lost any pretense at self-righteousness, rather turning into a boundless opportunist and self-serving individual, nobility and honor only concepts to be used circumstantially to his benefit.
His past has taught him to be independent and autonomous, only really charming and gregarious when seeking something to further his goals. He cares little for spirits, ancestry or divines, not because they may not exist, but merely out of disinterest and self-reliance. Lysanthir is a practical man, preferring to focus, much unlike most of his brethren, on the present and what faces him.
Lysanthir cares little for what others may think of him, or what others may feel- He sees most as simply help or hindrance in the path to his personal success. Through the life he has lived, the man has developed a considerable degree of cynism towards divinity and other unnatural forces, sometimes turning into dislike and disdain for such things.A trait sometimes despised or seen with mistrust and doubt by others, He is also gifted and prone to use underhanded and sly tactics, if it can grant him what he desires out of someone.
His past has taught him to be independent and autonomous, only really charming and gregarious when seeking something to further his goals. He cares little for spirits, ancestry or divines, not because they may not exist, but merely out of disinterest and self-reliance. Lysanthir is a practical man, preferring to focus, much unlike most of his brethren, on the present and what faces him.
Lysanthir cares little for what others may think of him, or what others may feel- He sees most as simply help or hindrance in the path to his personal success. Through the life he has lived, the man has developed a considerable degree of cynism towards divinity and other unnatural forces, sometimes turning into dislike and disdain for such things.A trait sometimes despised or seen with mistrust and doubt by others, He is also gifted and prone to use underhanded and sly tactics, if it can grant him what he desires out of someone.
Physical attributes
The high-elven wandering warrior stands at a tall 6'2, an imposing figure, even amongst his kin. Although high-elven, a hint of human blood has allowed him to retain a slight mesomorphic leaning to his build, the body of a seasoned, well-trained fighter sporting past wounds being his form. His facial features are mostly angular, sharp brows lording over emerald-tinted eyes, piercing and stern, yet able to show much deviousness and mischief if need be. A dark, onyx and loose mane towers over his head, of lenghty locks. His skin is a touch darker then the average, due to plentiful sunlight.
His garments and attires are mostly composed of lightweight, versatile outfits and armors, alongside various pieces of equipment and weaponry, that of a polyvalent traveller and adventurer. Through decades of intense training, Lysanthir has gathered great talent in combat and blade arts. He is a skilled fighter, to put bluntly.
Lysanthir maintains a healthy body and a sane mind, brought together by a sportive and simplish lifestyle and an energy-consuming line of work.
BackstoryLysanthir maintains a healthy body and a sane mind, brought together by a sportive and simplish lifestyle and an energy-consuming line of work.
"We are punished"
He thought, as arrows rained around him, covering the heart of the battlefield with thorns of pain and blood. "We've always been punished... punished by the divines for our sins, fallen from disgrace thousands of cycles ago, and now punished by the lesser races for our arrogance and our disdain...". The elf thought, laying his green eyes upon the charred field surrounding him, covered in the bodies of elves and dwarves alike. The defences would not hold long, now. The decadence of the high elven Courts was at it's breaking point. Soon enough, the fickle kings of dwarves with their machines would come take their due, ravaging and pillaging with little consideration for where they would lay their hands. Thousands of years of culture, thought, research and progress would be lost or defiled. The elven man gazed around, quickly analysing the premises with his eagle sight, as his breath recovered. The left flank was falling apart, and skill would soon falter in favor of the foe's numerical advantage, he thought. For all our boasting, and the fulfilling words of the High Lords and Ladies of the Court, the result seemed inevitable... the last defences would soon fall, and with them, the last hope for the independence of High elvendom. The pale-haired, wise knight would angle his head rightwards, gazing at the right flank, where volleys of dwarves bolts, imprecise yet numerous, decimated the tired defenders. His breath would slow, before stopping entirely, eyes widened in terror.
A mere few dozens of meters away laid his son, Dendreivach, alongside the remains of High Lord Vanathil. Their mangled bodies laid there, lifeless, as a faceless foe pulled his blade out of the lifeless, bloodied husk of the elve's son, his pride and his heritage. The boy's hair slowly fell alongside his head, broken helmet split apart, the mere second of the fall seeming like an eternity to the man. Blood covered the elve's pale visage, as the desperate, broken father, helplessly watched as his only heir's eyes closed unto themselves, his last sight of his son before he was soon trampled under the merciless, cruel charge of the rival horned cavalry. "This whole war is folly... madness and rage.." He thought. Defeat was nigh inevitable from the start, yet false pride and melancholy for ancient strength had convinced the hearts of his people that there was still hope for victory. Such folly brought them here, to imminent defeat and great collective loss. His son, the last surviving member of the Cinlach dynasty, apart from himself, had just fallen, at a mere and short thirty-four winters, an instant in elven standards.
The man fought and fought, eventually reaching his son's corpse in the last charge of the torn elven forces, the Spirits and the Ancestors granting him the gift of being able to salvage Dendreivach's body and, in the doing, mayhaps salvage his own soul from oblivion. In due time... Humanity and Dwarvenkind falters and dies, and while those victorious that day would eventually die, and then their sons, and so on, Lysanthir and his brethren, no longer immortal, would ye still live to outmatch even their grand-grand-children, and keep within their hearts the small and optimistic glimmer of hope that one day, the High Elven realms could rise again, and return to their roots, stopping the inevitable decadence of Elven society, and their imminent fall to Mankind's spread across the worlds. Such meager hope was the last bastion of reason the elven sire could retreat to, to keep his honor and his sanity, and remember his family and all the others who perished in the name of Elven survival.
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W.I.P.
