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Freed

"In the end, we're all free."

0 · 279 views · located in Khassus

a character in “As The Dragons Slumber”, as played by Lifecharacter

Description



Name: Freed

Age: 658

Gender: Male

Race: Undead, formerly human.

Appearance: At a height of 6'1 and weighing a rough 174lbs., Freed has the body and build of someone built for physical labor or, as his life attests to, military service. Unfortunately, this powerful body has deteriorated since its death over 600 years ago and what stands in its place is what amounts to a corpse. The skin has grown dry and taut from all these years, the now defunct veins and arteries clearly visible at all times and it has lost all of the healthy color it had had in life. The place that has received the most damage from all these years, though, is the face. Where two blue eyes once looked out, only a hollow window into Freed's empty skull remains. A similar fate has befallen his lips, as the tightening of his skin has caused it to recede away from his mouth or fall off completely, leaving him with a perpetual, discolored grin. Though, his eyes and lips should take solace in knowing that their related bone structure has remained intact, as his nose, in all its parts, has been lost without care.

The only real connection between this ambulatory corpse and the man that was Teryl, is the strands of hair he has maintained all this time. The long, bronze-clasped dreadlocks that fall from his bony scalp serve as reminders of his long dead home and family, to give him that much more motivation to continue on. This traditional hair of Kerket falls almost all the way to the bottom of his chest when they're not caught on something or being restrained for some reason. And, while he would have liked to keep his old Kerken armor, it had been torn apart by the explosion of a lodestone and any proper replacement would serve little use after such a long time has passed. As such, he has been stealing the armor off of those he has killed, swapping them out whenever something gets damaged or something better comes along. Currently he wears the gray steel panoply of some mercenary from the northern tundra, complete with a helmet that thankfully covers the top half of his face, furred skirt and greaves, and loose medallions with the names of everyone the deceased had killed, twenty-four in total. Though, when he's trying to not draw attention to himself, he throws some tattered robes over himself; dead men don't do very well in cities.

Personality: Freed is not that complex of an individual and he never really has been. He has never been one for deep and meaningful conversations, often speaking very little and to the point when he does (even more so now that he requires magic to do so). The distance he feels and puts himself has also, understandably, enlarged since his death, meaning that he rarely interacts with others. The entirety of his life was spent being told to fight and now that that's all over he knows little else to do, resulting in a rather violent disposition. Now he certainly would prefer to not have to be violent and for violence to just not be, but that is impossible at the moment. As such, he has in his violent tendencies as a means to achieve his goal of eradicating violence from the world. He believes that anyone seen bearing arms or armor should be killed on the spot if the situation allows for it to free them from their violent lives, and all weapons, armor, and magic stones are stolen or destroyed to prevent their further use. He does make the occasional exception for people who seem to be acting in self defense, but such exceptions are rare.

Fighting Style: Freed is all about getting in close. He always tries to be as close as possible before fighting actually breaks out, he uses a good amount of magic to help close the gap between him and the soon-to-be-dead things, and he's not above feigning actual death to draw anyone in to take a look. When the distance has been narrowed, he's a rather hard one to fight off. While he was little more than a common soldier in life, centuries of combat practice have made him an efficient wielder of practical fighting. He punches, kicks, tackles, headbutts, and, most importantly, swings his curved sword with precise aim. He is a bit slow at it, but he's likely more durable than anyone he'll come up against and he can, if necessary, put more magic into his movement to pick up the pace. Due to his aforementioned durability, he's also incredibly reckless while fighting. He charges in without care or caution, will almost always go on the offensive even if he should switch to defense, rarely, if ever, retreats, and uses plenty of attacks that leave him wide open for a counter blow, not that he's at much risk.

History: Born Teryl of Uljir, Freed was set to have a relatively normal life as a farmer in the small human nation of Kerket, just like his parents and grandparents and siblings. Unfortunately, the little nation that could decided that it liked the neighboring territory and needed some extra bodies to throw at the natives. While out running errands for his family, the recruiters spotted a healthy boy of fifteen and decided that he'd make a good addition to the army, which meant that he never made it home that day. He doesn't really know where the soldiers took him exactly, but he was give a heavy shirt to wear and a spear and told to start marching.

When they stopped marching, if you could call what he did that, he was on a field in front of a mass of his own people and standing a short ways away from a mass of what weren't his people. When he started hearing the beat of a drum, he was too startled to move at first, but when the men behind him all but pushed him forward, he eventually found those who were to be referred to as "the enemy" drawing closer and closer. When the two masses that Teryl wanted nothing to do with met, it all became a blur, a muddy, bloody blur. After who knows how long, a man came along checking bodies and turned him over to find him still alive. He was dragged away from the dead and placed near a couple of others who had apparently survived whatever he had just gone through and were getting drunk. He was told that they'd won.

As the bodies began to smell under the burning light of the sun, they had finished pillaging the dead and began marching again. This time, Teryl was able to keep in step with the others.

In the next of these battles, the gods decided to partake and split the sky apart. Rain poured down onto the field, soaking it and all who walked upon it and lightning struck the earth all around, drowning out the shouting and the drums with its divine percussion. Teryl ran forward this time instead of being pushed along, and when the two masses met this time, his vision didn't get blotted by the mud and the blood. What began as two separate entities became one, writhing monstrosity upon this field, flailing about madly in defiance of all that was good in the world. He stayed upright much longer this time, but it wasn't long before sharpened steel carved a line in his left cheek. He fell to the mud screaming in pain while the battle went on, expecting, hoping that he would be trampled to death. He found that he was partially right, as heavy boots left bruises along the entirety of his body along with several broken bones, but it just faded away again only to be brought back as someone began healing him. He was told that a fresh recruit, those who were always put in the front, surviving two battles was rather lucky and that he should thank the gods for his life. He didn't.

This life, the marching, the brawling, the killing, the pain, the smell, all of it went on for nine years. Every day they took a little more of this country and, in exchange, they gave back piles of corpses and burnt land. Eventually, the last of it had been taken and Teryl had survived it all. He was allowed to go home for the first time since those soldiers took him from his village. Nothing had really changed about Uljir; he couldn't tell if the buildings had gotten bigger or smaller and whether his being bigger had anything to do with his confusion. Though he wasn't the only one confused when a grown man covered in scars showed up at his parent's door claiming to be their son. It took some convincing, certainly helped by nine years worth of pay and loot, but they eventually accepted this scarred man into their home in place of the fifteen year old son that had disappeared so long ago.

For ten years Teryl tried to live as he had done as a boy. He helped out at his parents farm, he spent time with his siblings, and he didn't have to fight people. Unfortunately, that was all the time he would get to do such a thing as Kerket's large neighbor, the empire of Rexia, declared war on the little nation that could. Veterans, including Teryl, were found and brought back to the army alongside swaths of conscripts meant to swell the ranks. Teryl entered this war with his own arms, armor, and killing intent, which he put to rather good use through several skirmishes with the invading High Elves. When the first pitched battle came though, neither Teryl nor his kin did very well; they were slaughtered.

The humans had managed to draw the High Elves, including a powerful mage from the Pax Alma, into an advantageous position before attacking from several sides, outflanking them. Teryl was on the right flank, unfortunately, as the Elven left had the aforementioned mage in it. They did rather well with their maneuver at first, managing to fight their way through a few lines of the enemy as they struggled to reorganize to meet the flanking. When they came near this mage, this wielder of something as powerful as a lodestone, the tide turned immediately. Dozens were cast aside before his power, and they would have been completely wiped out had he not been crowded in amongst his allies, causing damage to them as well. Before he could free himself and command his magic properly, Teryl had broken through the line and come within striking distance of the mage before he was noticed. He managed to get one swing in, striking the hand that held this powerful stone, before everything went bright before a great darkness consumed it all.

Teryl wasn't dragged from the battlefield this time, he had been thrown, violently, away by the shattering of the mage's lodestone. When he awoke some time later, he found that everything had gone, save for the birds who were pillaging the corpses instead of the usual soldiers. His body was bloodied, bruised, and painfully embedded with pieces of the once powerful stone, but alive. He pulled himself up slowly and peered out over the slaughter before leaving the sight to search for other survivors. He didn't last very long before his body gave out and fell to the ground. Thinking it was just a result of his injuries, he made use of some healing magic and was back on his feet, only for it to happen once again, and again, and again. It was frustrating, but that slowly faded into fear and confusion as his body began to smell and his eyes began to grow blurry. It took him some time, but he eventually settled on the explanation that he was dead, but still walking. Not liking the blindness, or the pain of decomposition, or the general idea of being a walking corpse, Teryl attempted to kiss himself, several times over, all of which ended in failure.

It took some time, but Teryl came to terms with his new status as a living corpse that couldn't kill itself, though it certainly didn't leave him with a healthy mindset. He was angry, afraid, and confused. As he shuffled about, falling over as was to be expected from a newly blind man, he started to feel what was around him, it pulsed in a way. At first it wasn't much better than blindness, but, as the hours turned into days, he started being able to discern the pulse of a tree from the earth as well as tell their shape size and distance from him. He was now able to move around, albeit slowly, in a way reminiscent of the living. It wasn't long before this newly mobile, sensory corpse was blinded once again, though only for a moment this time. But then it happened again and again until he managed to adjust to the sudden pulsating of whatever it was and set out to find and stop it.

What he found after a few shambling moments was a few High Elves defeating some of his old comrades. When Teryl charged in to fight them, the elves turned their magic upon him, casting their favorite bits of lightning at the seemingly human opponent. While his body tensed under their magic, once they had ceased their attack he continued on, unharmed and undeterred. This was answered with swords but, again, they did little to stop someone who had already died and Teryl cut them down and bashed their heads against the hard ground. He discovered that the source of the large pulse was the elves' use of a thunderstone and that, now that it was so close, it started to overwhelm his senses again. No matter what he did, nothing would stop the stone's pulse and the urge to be rid of it eventually overcame him and he simply swallowed it, thinking that he would no longer have to feel it if it, like the lodestone shards, was a part of him. He was right and, other than his bearings returning to him, he also felt his strength increasing with the addition of the new stone.

Over the next few weeks, this was all Teryl did, hunt down elves by their use of thunderstones and take it from them. With each new stone his body was able to move faster and with more force, and he even managed to perform magic beyond just what was needed to keep his body functioning. Years went by like this, with him hunting down elf after elf, stone after stone, and never being satisfied with himself after he'd deprived this Pax Alma of his life or that soldier of his. He came to resent his life of doing nothing but killing simply to survive and grow, and that was when he began to reflect upon his life as a whole, a life filled with war and carnage that no one should have to live.

He began to give his killing of others meaning, thinking that he was freeing them from their lives of suffering and sending them to someplace, anyplace, better than this world. He made it his mission to take part in wars, not on any side, just as someone who killed soldiers and commanders and took their most powerful weapon away from them. The war between the High Elves and humans was rife with such people and plenty of stones, when given the opportunity, he would always carve "Freed" into his victims' corpses, to let people know that they had not just fallen in battle.

People, exaggerating beings that they are, turned the true stories of several dozen corpses into hundreds and thousands, all killed by "Freed." When the war ended, Freed, who had decided to take on his new identity and abandon his mortal life, had to search elsewhere for battles and magic stones. For centuries Freed traveled from battlefield to battlefield, from soldier to soldier, and from mage to mage, freeing them from their sad lives and claiming their stones for himself. Recently he's started feeling a consistent and powerful pulse of magic coming from what he would learn was the Naua Te archipelago. He had felt similar things before that were attributed, through news of this or that country acquiring one, to lodestones and, as such, he set out to take this great weapon away from mortal hands who would cause great suffering with it.

So begins...

Freed's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Kryssis Wyvernjack Character Portrait: The Strange Watcher Character Portrait: Jag of Bosphorous Character Portrait: Ruby Milliana Character Portrait: Artora IV Character Portrait: Raze Character Portrait: Nimba Hawteeya Character Portrait: Requinn Voss Character Portrait: Sarasa Zyakala Character Portrait: Adrian Ronuad des Màstoof Character Portrait: Riktor Fortis Character Portrait: Balor Palamet Character Portrait: Freed
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Requinn listened as Nimba went on about cooking specialty meals, occasionally slipping into her native tongue. Requinn had not bothered to learn the language of the Yi Aba, as the group that had taken him in was relatively well versed in the vox altus, though now he wished he had, as it could have proven useful.

"I'm talking abo- ..I'm.. talking again, and getting carried off." She sighed, and Requinn gave a soft smile. "Sorry. Again. I tend to do that..." Her voice died down and she took a closer look at Requinn, who pretended not to notice, though he saw the exact moment that she realized he wasn't a sea elf, the surprise glinting clearly in her brown eyes. Requinn nodded, halfway a response to her apology, and halfway an acknowledgement of her realization. As annoying as she thought she was being, Requinn felt her tendency to ramble was endearing, like a child blissfully babbling about anything and everything. He made a mental note to strike up another conversation with her during the journey. She cleared her throat and continued: "Uh, anyway,a ssuming the Cap'n ever gets around to giving you the okay - I mean, why wouldn't he? - I don't think you're really gonna be a problem. Not too sure 'bout that one." She motioned to the Naraga and shrugged. "Oh. We've.. actually got several more, now." She voiced Requinn's thoughts almost exactly. Despite the two narans, the lumbering bosphorean approaching the ship that he had clocked just moments earlier during Nimba's rambling, the barbarian woman on the docks scoping out the ship, and the two mercenaries, the newest arrival, an elderly human in dark grey robes and a pointed hat, was absolutely the most interesting.

The man was a wizard, there was no doubt. Even from this distance, Requinn could smell the magic on him. It radiated from him like light from the sun, and it flooded Requinn's senses when he turned his attention to the man. Partly because the high elves were not the only species capable of magic,and partly because they were so naturally good at it, the Pax Alma trained in the detection of magic and effective ways to fight against it, but Requinn had never before encountered a human with this man's level of mastery. Then the wizard spoke, and, judging by Nimba's expression, his words had a similar effect on her as they did on Requinn. He didn't even hide his intentions like the rest of the group assembled. Requinn half expected the captain to kick him off or cut him down right there, but to his surprise, Adrian chuckled.

Time for a new strategy.

Still keeping his attention on the captain and the group, Requinn turned to Nimba and spoke, his tone steady and serious.
"He's the smartest out of all of us. He's the most dangerous person aboard this ship now and they all think he's an idiot. It'd be ironic if it weren't so frightening." He furrowed his brow put his hand gently on Nimba's shoulder and leaned back onto his cane. "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I owe your captain some money. For my sake, please be careful around some of these passengers."

He turned from Nimba and made his way towards the captain, but stay back just a bit. The bosphorean had made it's way onto the ship and silently paid it's way. Nothing had been broken yet, so that was a good sign. Requinn had encountered bosphoreans twice before in his life, though he had read a great deal about them. The first time he was forced to resort to killing the brute because it insisted that he had stolen it's coinpurse. He had taken it, of course, but no amount of maneuvering could get him out of that situation. Luckily, that one was without any armor, so all Requinn had to do was leap up and deliver a swift strike at the base of the neck. The second was more reasonable, taking three chests of Requinn's gold and two of his agents as slaves in exchange for it's services as an enforcer. This one, however, appeared neither particularly chatty nor lacking in armor, so Requinn decided he would simply avoid it altogether.

The Naran's had apparently pre-arranged a passage, and from the arrogant way the Naraga carried herself, along with the fact that her Naralin bodyguard did all the talking, Requinn deduced that she was nobility. Disgusting. Svaris was one of the few places Rexia deigned to trade with simply because the Narans were not humans, and were thus looked upon more kindly. Requinn felt the exact opposite. While he disliked the human nations to a certain degree, he preferred them over the Narans, especially the Naraga, who would enslave or kill all the other races and nations if they had the ability. He had no qualms with using people to achieve his own goals, but at least his goals were in the pursuit of prosperity and peace. The suffering of others was acceptable if it advanced the greater good, but in Requinn's experience, the Naragans enjoyed watching others grovel, and that was unforgivable.

Next on Requinn's mind were the two mercenaries, who introduced themselves while he was conversing with Nimba, but he didn't bother to listen. They posed little threat. Even if they did manage to best everyone else and get the stone, he was confident they didn't actually know how to use it, and then there were a number of ways he could retrieve it from them. He wondered how loyal they were to each other, toying with the idea that he could turn them against one another, or possibly hire them against one of the other parties. If they didn't die on the upcoming adventure and if they proved skilled enough, Requinn could always use more sword arms.

Adrian asked for 800 gold coins, a paltry sum really, as Requinn had expected nearly twice that. He turned his back to the crowd and palmed a small glass container with a note inside that he'd prepared to signal his agent in Saridur, leaned against the railing as if he was looking out to sea, and casually dropped into the lapping waves below. After they had set sail, his agent would collect the container and read the note inside. Then he turned back and removed two small coinpurses from his robe, checked their labels to insure they had the proper amount of coins, and looked to Adrian. The captain looked almost swamped by the amount of passengers, though unsurprisingly, he appeared content with the amount of gold he was pocketing. Requinn decided to give the man some space, and waited patiently. After all, the captain wasn't going anywhere without collecting everyone's money.