Baphomet Hitsuya
Name:
Baphomet Hitsuya.
Age:
52
Personality:
"I owe you. Brother. ... I will bring to life everything that you fear."
Hate.
He has an intense personal drive. Baphomet's entire being radiates with a ferocity; an undying, overwhelming hatred for the Upperworld. For his brother. For everything and anything that goes against his will.
The will of the King.
Some say this hatred was nurtured by jealousy for the older child, others claim the lord Baphomet was born with a missing heart.
To truly understand the Dark King; you must first understand his past.
Baphomet grew in the shadow of his skilled, charismatic older brother. The rough young boy could never quite understand what made others gravitate towards Alaric so readily, while they approached the rougher, uncut brother with apprehension. A prideful boy, striving for the love and attention of his father; of them all. He was resilient, violent; a promising soldier. Ever to be inferior to his shining older sibling. Slowly the young boy grew jaded; watching as the elder gained the benefits that came with being the first-born child. His suspicion, his dislike of his brother grew; he had always excelled over his studious brother in physical prowess, yet somehow, Alaric seemed ever praised, and he-pushed to the shadows.
The strong boy grew into a strong young man; tenacious and fierce- a warrior. He worked his way up the ranks of his father's army, preferring prestige in combat over his brother's exceedingly "peaceful" ways. They were the sun and the moon; one fiery and full of passion, the other far more grounded, calmer.
Baphomet strove to gain his father's praise through a path opposite that of the eldest. It was a competition; the younger always that much behind the talented sibling. For a time, both brothers held equal power: The people loved Alaric, and feared Baphomet.
The young prince lived ever in a state of suspense; awaiting the day that would finally bring his father's praise. His suspicions grew until finally the Old King died: Splitting the world between the two brother's; though it had been Baphomet that had secured this very land for his father. He had suffered the wounds, the long, treacherous conquests into the hidden places of the world. It was he who had commanded the armies that bent the smaller clans to his father's will. It was he, who had shed his blood so his brother may sit in ease upon the sunlit veranda amongst his delicate studies. Yet- his weak, frightened, brother- by pure superiority of birth what given his choice of the lush, prosperous lands. Baphomet the rest. The unwanted, barren rocks; the darker savage lands Alaric shunned. Always second-best.
Sorrow, crippling sorrow. Fostered into a deep hatred for the one who had taken his father's ear, trust, love, and finally; his last redeeming hope. His beautiful brother... Always first. Always loved best. It was so clear now. He had reached out for far too long; and they, in their cruel treachery, had allowed him to struggle for their benefit. Keeping him hanging on their promised words of "love". Hah. This life was a mere joke. He had fought for their recognition, killed for their approval, spent his years waiting to be commended. Oh, his smart, crafty brother; to turn his own father against him. He was cast aside once more; nothing more than a disposable inconvenience. Suspicions confirmed, Baphomet turned away for the last time; retreating deep within his territory. He would not be humiliated further by crawling to his brother for help. He disappeared into the badlands with a small platoon of chosen, loyal men.
No one knows how he survived those wild lands. How he bent the ancient horrors to his will. How he forced the demons to build him a fortress of the hardest stone, and broke the savage clan of Ogers until they scarcely remembered the great people they once were. The skies above his kingdom were darkened, and from it's depths he rose with a vengeance; the Dragon King. He took his place as the rightful ruler; his hatred now seeped into the very core of him. His obsession. He had changed within the deep, hidden places. No longer did he hesitate- killing without remorse, relishing the screams of the tortured. Drinking their blood. The land was plauged by this poison within him; a writhing mass of pain, confusion, and... Insanity. The stagnate hatred had eaten away at him; clawing within his mind. The Dreaded King was unstable, unpredictable. Mad... and focused on only one thing: The complete annihilation of everything his brother ever loved.
Baphomet raised army, his dark kingdom; full of shadow, and sin. Depravity, and death. Some challenged the Bloody King, most joined him. Baphomet's power grew until every crevice of his kingdom was crushed under his iron fist. His mosters slobbered over the imminent battle; to be set free upon the soft, succulent denizens of the Upperworld. But something happened not even the witches predicted.
Baphomet fell in love.
That horrid, blasphemous, insidious emotion. It was unbelievable. But there she was; a vision of strength that rivaled his own. Unsuited to such things, Baphomet stole the young maiden away. He was hopelessly entranced by her; the sunlight in his desolation. She stirred in him things long dead. At first, the headstrong woman resisted him; but the heartless King learned, desperately learned, to care for her. She was his; someone who held whatever was left of his heart, and quelled his psychosis. He guarded her with fearsome jealousy- the only weak point in an otherwise uncaring tyrant. The blessed goddess bore him three sturdy children. He nurtured them, trained them- made sure they would never falter, never break. They would one day take his place. But first; First he had to secure their future.
Secure his revenge.
He has an intense personal drive. Baphomet's entire being radiates with a ferocity; an undying, overwhelming hatred for the Upperworld. For his brother. For everything and anything that goes against his will.
The will of the King.
Some say this hatred was nurtured by jealousy for the older child, others claim the lord Baphomet was born with a missing heart.
To truly understand the Dark King; you must first understand his past.
Baphomet grew in the shadow of his skilled, charismatic older brother. The rough young boy could never quite understand what made others gravitate towards Alaric so readily, while they approached the rougher, uncut brother with apprehension. A prideful boy, striving for the love and attention of his father; of them all. He was resilient, violent; a promising soldier. Ever to be inferior to his shining older sibling. Slowly the young boy grew jaded; watching as the elder gained the benefits that came with being the first-born child. His suspicion, his dislike of his brother grew; he had always excelled over his studious brother in physical prowess, yet somehow, Alaric seemed ever praised, and he-pushed to the shadows.
The strong boy grew into a strong young man; tenacious and fierce- a warrior. He worked his way up the ranks of his father's army, preferring prestige in combat over his brother's exceedingly "peaceful" ways. They were the sun and the moon; one fiery and full of passion, the other far more grounded, calmer.
Baphomet strove to gain his father's praise through a path opposite that of the eldest. It was a competition; the younger always that much behind the talented sibling. For a time, both brothers held equal power: The people loved Alaric, and feared Baphomet.
The young prince lived ever in a state of suspense; awaiting the day that would finally bring his father's praise. His suspicions grew until finally the Old King died: Splitting the world between the two brother's; though it had been Baphomet that had secured this very land for his father. He had suffered the wounds, the long, treacherous conquests into the hidden places of the world. It was he who had commanded the armies that bent the smaller clans to his father's will. It was he, who had shed his blood so his brother may sit in ease upon the sunlit veranda amongst his delicate studies. Yet- his weak, frightened, brother- by pure superiority of birth what given his choice of the lush, prosperous lands. Baphomet the rest. The unwanted, barren rocks; the darker savage lands Alaric shunned. Always second-best.
Sorrow, crippling sorrow. Fostered into a deep hatred for the one who had taken his father's ear, trust, love, and finally; his last redeeming hope. His beautiful brother... Always first. Always loved best. It was so clear now. He had reached out for far too long; and they, in their cruel treachery, had allowed him to struggle for their benefit. Keeping him hanging on their promised words of "love". Hah. This life was a mere joke. He had fought for their recognition, killed for their approval, spent his years waiting to be commended. Oh, his smart, crafty brother; to turn his own father against him. He was cast aside once more; nothing more than a disposable inconvenience. Suspicions confirmed, Baphomet turned away for the last time; retreating deep within his territory. He would not be humiliated further by crawling to his brother for help. He disappeared into the badlands with a small platoon of chosen, loyal men.
No one knows how he survived those wild lands. How he bent the ancient horrors to his will. How he forced the demons to build him a fortress of the hardest stone, and broke the savage clan of Ogers until they scarcely remembered the great people they once were. The skies above his kingdom were darkened, and from it's depths he rose with a vengeance; the Dragon King. He took his place as the rightful ruler; his hatred now seeped into the very core of him. His obsession. He had changed within the deep, hidden places. No longer did he hesitate- killing without remorse, relishing the screams of the tortured. Drinking their blood. The land was plauged by this poison within him; a writhing mass of pain, confusion, and... Insanity. The stagnate hatred had eaten away at him; clawing within his mind. The Dreaded King was unstable, unpredictable. Mad... and focused on only one thing: The complete annihilation of everything his brother ever loved.
Baphomet raised army, his dark kingdom; full of shadow, and sin. Depravity, and death. Some challenged the Bloody King, most joined him. Baphomet's power grew until every crevice of his kingdom was crushed under his iron fist. His mosters slobbered over the imminent battle; to be set free upon the soft, succulent denizens of the Upperworld. But something happened not even the witches predicted.
Baphomet fell in love.
That horrid, blasphemous, insidious emotion. It was unbelievable. But there she was; a vision of strength that rivaled his own. Unsuited to such things, Baphomet stole the young maiden away. He was hopelessly entranced by her; the sunlight in his desolation. She stirred in him things long dead. At first, the headstrong woman resisted him; but the heartless King learned, desperately learned, to care for her. She was his; someone who held whatever was left of his heart, and quelled his psychosis. He guarded her with fearsome jealousy- the only weak point in an otherwise uncaring tyrant. The blessed goddess bore him three sturdy children. He nurtured them, trained them- made sure they would never falter, never break. They would one day take his place. But first; First he had to secure their future.
Secure his revenge.
Family:
His children grew. He taught them how hard the world could be- they would never be hindered by false dreams. He showed them ruthlessness through his example, and upon their coming of age; began to train his sons in the knowledge he had amassed from a life of combat. However, like all parents, he could only mold them so much.
Baphomet can not help but see his past reincarnated in his sons; the oldest, cunning and aloof, reminds him of Alaric. The eldest, Jeremy, is skilled; taking to the art of the blade with ease, and pleasing his mother with his finer talents. The middle child Kurenai; something different altogether from her brothers. A delicate, beautiful rose. His precious, pure little girl. The rough warrior treats her with a semblance of gentleness; as if he is afraid his slightest touch could break her. The third child made him proud- strong, broad shoulders, and a piercing stare, he began to hone Sesaro's untamable nature in potency. The boy's inhibited, wild character troubles Baphomet somewhat; he see's too much of himself within the boy. He tries to treat both boys with equal praise for their different skills, hoping to avoid a repetition of history.
Description:
Baphomet is tall; standing at 6' 5". Scars, hundreds of them, marr almost every facet of his anatomy. His face, arms, and shoulders carry the deepest history. They are trophies of his countless battles; He did not simply claim the seat of the underworld; he proved himself to it's people. The beings of the underworld are hardy, unyielding creatures. Baphomet drove them back brutally; leading advances even upon the Dragon clans, a mad thing to do. He conquered their land as well- after a long, bloody war, earning him the title of Dragon King.
Baphomet has a dragon tattoo that winds across his broad shoulders, his chest, and down his arms. A mockery at the once-powerful dragon people. The serpent's claws cover the man's large hands, it's head staring steadily from his chest.
Although in the middle years of his life; Baphomet has a fire that burns hot within him. He is far from "fading"; this unquenchable fury does not let his mortal form rest. It is as if by sheer willpower, the man has defied time itself in his obstinacy. The sluggishness; the softening that comes with aging... his body is as hard as the basalt boulders which litter his kingdom. The sturdy, resilient frame, and it's decades of experience make the man a formidable warrior.
Baphomet has a dragon tattoo that winds across his broad shoulders, his chest, and down his arms. A mockery at the once-powerful dragon people. The serpent's claws cover the man's large hands, it's head staring steadily from his chest.
Although in the middle years of his life; Baphomet has a fire that burns hot within him. He is far from "fading"; this unquenchable fury does not let his mortal form rest. It is as if by sheer willpower, the man has defied time itself in his obstinacy. The sluggishness; the softening that comes with aging... his body is as hard as the basalt boulders which litter his kingdom. The sturdy, resilient frame, and it's decades of experience make the man a formidable warrior.
Skills and/or Talents:
Baphomet has waged war most of his life. He understands battle; it is what he breathes. The man has a hard time resting as it is. Baphomet is proficient with blades: throwing knives, swords, daggers, but he relies most on his perceptive ability in battle. His body is strong; more often than not he uses his crushing strength to his advantage. However, what makes Baphomet truly feared is his stubborn refusal to be defeated. In terms of pure probability the king should have died a long time ago- tempting fate as recklessly as he did. The fire within him preserved his life; his hatred did not allow him to lose.
Location of Power Gem:
Baphomet had it crafted into a ring, which resides on the third finger of his right hand. He has a fondness for crushing it into the skulls of his adversaries; effectively "sealing" them so to say.