Name:
Doridex Sonnocingos, 72
Gender:
Male
Age:
22
Role:
Bound
Appearance:
Rugged might be the best word to describe Doridex. Having lived his life in mountain valleys with the rest of his tribe, caught up in the socio-political conflicts that held his peoples' loose military hegemony together, he is no stranger to war, and finds the weight of an axe or sword comforting and familiar when faced with the constant threat of death that Helvenian life entails. He has a warrior's build, but one toned for a combination of both speed and strength. His skin is warmly tanned from days spent toiling in the sun. As a soldier the sting of steel is not alien, and he carries the reminders of past missteps in battle across his flesh. His eyes are overcast with gray clouding vivid blue, chilling them to an icy hue, and they once hid behind long and tangled brown hair, just as he once carried a thick beard, both traditional for men of his people as signs of loyalty, heritage and pride. For clothes he typically wears a léine (knee-length, loose fitting, long sleeve tunic) tied at the waist with a belt, simple pants, and boots held tight by cloth strips fastened in a criss-cross pattern. Symbolically, like the "-ex" suffix on his given name, he wears a silver chain choker around his neck to denote his place in the tribe as a soldier.
Personality:
No-nonsense and fiercely determined, Doridex embodies the warrior lifestyle of the Helvenians nearly perfectly. His words can be weapons and never conceal his thoughts behind lies, though metaphorical speech meant for clever concealment of the point may be deemed acceptable from time-to-time. As honor and respect are very powerful ideals in his tribe, Doridex always holds himself to the standards a warrior should, especially one in service to a Chieftain, the people, and the gods. His people believe that one should always pull their own weight, and never display weakness that could be used by another, and thus his respect for someone may be drastically diminished if they do not hold themselves to similar standards of pride and self respect. At the same time, soldiers are to be uplifting forces and defenders unto the day death's warmth envelops them. Although, he may find it difficult to fight for anyone who is of foreign birth. He has a harshness to him, a recent effect of the crippling hardships brought on by the battles against soldiers from Tarsha, a people he now passionately hates.
Fears:
Dying meaninglessly or dishonorably. The fear of death, in itself, is viewed as a sign of absolute cowardice, and passing on from an act of stupidity or without reason is seen, by many of his people, as one of the ultimate crimes. If one should die, then it must be a good death.
Strengths:
Fearlessness and physical power top the list. As a laborer would he best be suited.
Weaknesses:
His conviction to the beliefs of the Helvenians, which could push him to find any feasible way out of the bonds of slavery.
Origins:
About to be sold.
Roleplay Sample:
It had been four years since the journey had begun. For three years they prepared, as was custom. When they had stored enough food, when their supplies were rich and their hearts and minds well set, they burned their old village to the ground, leaving nothing remaining but blackened earth. And then they departed for greener lands. The whispers of the other tribes were ignored, and they set out with iron will to find new land to sew where homes could be built. Once it was too late to turn back they knew all too well their mistake, but they would stand against the gale, never mind the threat the outlanders posed. They would not be the cowards to suffer from another journey when their stores were running dry. It seemed to most that, either way, they would die. And if that was to be the way of it then let them come, the soldiers had cried. And now they felt, all to well, the gravity of impending doom. Their settlement had been found out all too fast, and skirmishes had already come and gone, each larger than the one before. They made good on their oath to hold their ground despite it all. The Tarshish, as to them they were known, would pay if they wished to continue their assaults. They would not have themselves an easy victory.
Doridex walked between squadrons of gathered men on the day of their final confrontation, mud splattering onto his boots with every step. A heavy rain had droned on through the night and only just recently let up. The air was cold, the sky was white, and fog choked the eye. It seemed a dismal and dispirited morning. Little could be seen, but much could be heard. They had known for days another strike was headed their way, and so they made to hold their line. Other groups where waiting farther back and deeper out into the heavy mist, using the trees for cover and awaiting the call to move. The time was coming near, and the anticipation was thicker than the heavy silver muddling the air. Scouts returned from their rounds to report bearing nothing good. The enemy would overtake them soon, in only a matter of minutes, they said. They numbered in the thousands. Word passed solemnly through the ranks. The men readied themselves for the onslaught that was to come, never faltering for even a the space of a breath. As Doridex returned to the front to stand alongside the rest of the vanguard, a whispered chant moved across the barren field until it was a thunderous song of voice alone. A prayer to the gods, a farewell to family, and a curse on their foe. A battle hymn as old as all the Helvenian tribes.
They could see armored men gathering at the edge of their vision, just where the clearing ended and the forest rose up in an ominous wall, dark against the cloaking fog. Doridex roared an order to his unit, as did the other commanders. Steel sang its haunting song as swords were drawn. Doridex pulled his own bearded axe from his belt and raised it into the air for his men to see. He kept his arm high and steady. The others did the same, and they would fall in unison. Only moments later their weapons dropped, cries tore from their throats, and the armies surged across the field to crash together with the roar of a hell-born beast. The bloodshed passed in a blur of flesh and metal. All Doridex knew was the feel of his weapon and the enemy before him just ripe for the killing. He fought like a wild beast, at any moment expecting the final chill and the beckoning hearth beyond the black. When the slaughter ended, the noise quieting and the frenzy settling, the foreigners had prevailed. Doridex was one of the last soldiers standing, but rather than kill him they beat him to the ground, stripped him of his weapons and hauled him away. It seemed his life as a free man was ended. He mourned that he had not been killed, just as he lamented for those who, like he, were being taken instead of slain.
