Khilith Hruind

Born and raised in the quiet night, he seeks the warmth of the light.

0 · 277 views · located in Sevaecia

a character in “The Knights of Artorias”, as played by DarKnight36



"But what did I learn there, in the darkness, if not patience?"


â‰ŧ General Information â‰Ŋ

∡ [ Khilith Hruind ]

∡ [ Khili (pronounced Keelee) ]

∡ [ Male ]

∡ [ 29 ]

∡ [ Orc ]

∡ [ Knight of Artorias ]

∡ [ Dark Brown, nearly Black in some places ]
∡ [ Green with strong flecks of gold. The gold is more pronounced when he gets excited. ]
∡ [ A rich brown ]
∡ [ 6'5" ]
∡ [ 210 lbs. ]
∡ [ Solid ]
∡ [ Nothing too noticeable. ]

â‰ŧ Physical Description â‰Ŋ
If one did not look too closely, Khilith's body would not be too much different from other orcs. Despite his height, everything about Khilith bespeaks sturdiness, from his wide chest and shoulders to his gait as he walks. Khilith never seems to be in a hurry, his calm demeanor reflected in his ease as he walks through crowds or sits alone at bars. Khilith's face would be considered handsome by many, were he human, with high cheekbones, thin lips, and his rich brown skin. His horns, unlike other orcs, curve down and forward after starting just above his ears. His eyes are set under a brooding brow, and appear smaller than they are. His hands and feet are both large, and his knuckles and forearms (and indeed much of his body) are covered in small scars that tell of his experience fighting in many a brawl.

What really sets Khilith apart, however, are his scales. Unique from any other orc, Khilith's face and body are plagued with a series of hardened keratin, similar but still yet different from Khilith's black horns. Between his eyes sits the most noticeable - the bottom parting across the bridge of his nose, and rising up into his forehead. Along his chin more appear, giving Khilith the appearance of constantly having a beard. Indeed, Khilith often is able to pass it off as such. But more appear down his back, along his arms and legs, and across his chest. No one is sure why he has these scales, although there are many rumors of orc research gone awry, perhaps, or this being a hereditary throwback to olden days. Whatever the case, Khilith himself is unaware, and is often successful (although not fully) at ignoring the stares and whispers after enduring decades of it as he grew.


â‰ŧ Proficiency â‰Ŋ
STR 」x. ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ AAACON 」x▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊
DEX 」.x.▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ AAAWIL 」x.▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊
CNG 」x ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ AAARES 」x.▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊
ARC 」x ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ AAACHA 」x▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊
SKL 」x ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ AAASPD 」x ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊

Unlike other orcs in this day and age, Khilith was not trained in the ways of the scholars, though he was taught how to read and write. As he grew, Khilith would steal books from his orphanage's library, and read of the legends of mages and knights past. Under the tutelage of an old knight, Khilith trained to become one, slowly training his body to become a weapon in its own right.

Due to this training, Khilith is well-accustomed to wearing armor, swinging swords, firing bows, and wielding spears (his favorite being the latter). During battle, Khilith never seems to blink, or flinch, making him an intimidating presence in battle. Khilith's punches are rumored to be powerful enough to crack a steel plate, although Khilith himself does not assert this.

Khilith's skills with the arcane are inconsistent, but in general, Khilith can create a small flame to light campfires, or torches, during journeys or jobs outside the city. Although he would like to know more about his magic, and learn to control it better, the knight who taught him was no master himself. Therefore, Khilith remains mostly self-taught in wielding mana.

â‰ŧ Demeanor â‰Ŋ
Despite his natural ability to intimidate, Khilith has never been known to instigate fights. Even in the midst of battle, Khilith remains calm, his breathing steady and measured. Even when taking blows or outnumbered, Khilith stands his ground, refusing to crack. He retains this attitude in conversation, and his answers can be slow at times, leaving many to believe he is unintelligent. In reality, Khilith simply seeks to think before he acts or speaks, although he also recognizes that this very hesitation can often get him into trouble.

No one has ever befriended Khilith, something that has never truly bothered him, but which has left him with the attitude that friendships are unimportant. He keeps his distance from others, and gets flustered when others attempt to connect with him beyond a mere acquaintance level. Khilith finds joy in the simple things - a good book, a warm fire, or a small flower along the roadside.

xâ‰ŧ Personal History â‰Ŋ
Khilith's first memories are of the orphanage he grew up in, surrounded by others who were similarly without parents. What happened to his family, he knows not, although he often wonders. At first, Khilith seemed normal, but as he aged, his unique scales appeared, disgusting the caretakers at the facility and leaving him open to bullying and teasing from the others. Khilith, in turn, would spend most of his time hiding away in secret places, reading books stolen from the building's library.

When he was about 12, he slipped away from the orphanage and spent his nights on the streets. The back alleys remained mostly safe for him, despite his vulnerability; due to his scales, many believed him to be touched by the devil and would not come near him. He wandered for a time, living off the land, until he found an old knight who had been blinded years ago. This old knight, a human by the name of Mort, took Khilith in, allowing him to stay in return for helping with the chores about the knight's farm.

Mort, upon Khilith's request, would regale the growing teenager of his exploits as a knight, every night telling him a story until he had repeated each adventure and returned in memory to slay every monster a hundred times. During the day, after the chores were done, Mort would train Khilith, finding new purpose in his young pupil. When sickness and age finally took Mort's life two years ago, Khilith left the farm for good after burying his surrogate father in a solemn goodbye.

Since that time, Khilith spent most of it working as a bouncer or guard for bartenders and merchants, respectively, until his enlistment as a Knight of Artorias. He looks forward with a strange excitement to his work as a knight. Will he become everything he dreamed?


— What strange heritage gave rise to Khilith's unique physical features? What happened to his parents? Does he have family out there? These questions float about Khilith's head at night, and if given the opportunity, he will pursue the answers.


So begins...

Khilith Hruind's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Khilith Hruind

0.00 INK

Khilith was dreaming about flying again. Well, he wasn't sure if flying was accurate; it was more like he was simply in the air while the world moved beneath him. He could feel the wind on his face and taste the vapor in the clouds as he floated. In front of him, a peak; at the peak, a cave. But as he approached the cave, something prodded him in the side, hard, and Khilith's dream shattered back into reality.

"Hey you, you can't sleep here!" came a voice from his side. Khilith slowly became aware he was lying in an alleyway, slumped against one of the walls. He slowly rose, willing his tired eyes to make sense of the scenery. What had happened last night after the fifth bar? Had he made it to a sixth? Khilith raised his eyes to meet those of the man who had poked him: a middle-aged street guard by the looks of it, and the staff the guard held in one hand being the culprit of the jab.

"...Wait, uh... what exactly are you?" the street guard asked, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion as he stared into Khilith's face. "I thought you were an orc but... those scales."

Khilith sighed, and began to examine the handful of bottles lying about him. Perhaps one would... Ah, but no luck. They were indeed all quite empty. He returned his attention to the guard, who had backed away to the mouth of the alleyway.

"Look, whatever you are, don't make trouble, you hear?" the guard said nervously. "We can't have people just sleeping out on the streets. If you need a place to stay, there's many an inn in town, and many'll take work for payment, you hear?"

"Indeed, good sir," Khilith said, his deep voice amicable as he slowly rose to his feet, one hand to his head as he strove to shake off the headache. "It seems, however, that I may have drank a bit too much the night before. I apologize for the trouble. I meant no harm, as I'm sure you did not in waking me."

The guard relaxed visibly. "Ah, yes, we've all been there. May I ask your reason for being in town?"

"I came to join the Knights," Khilith said, brushing himself off in a vain attempt to make himself presentable. He frowned at the obvious stains on his dark clothing, and sighed again. "I am to attend the entrance ceremony."

"Then you'd best hurry," the guard said, laughing. "The ceremony begins in just over an hour, and they'll want you on time."

"I guess that leaves no time for another drink," Khilith muttered. "Thank you, friend, I'll be on my way."

The guard stepped aside as Khilith walked (or stumbled) out of the alleyway and towards the castle, where the ceremony would be held. Perhaps by the time he arrived, his headache would subside.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Vysella Celgari Character Portrait: Khilith Hruind

0.00 INK

#, as written by mombie
It was, perhaps, humorous as this lithe frail woman in gently flowing violet robes was seeking Knighthood. However, as she scurries toward the gate in hopes of catching up with Khilith, since she had not been far behind at all, she radiates a sort of confidence that only a small thing could have with such seemingly impossible task set out before her. Vysella hopes to hide behind the other man, but she soon caught the eye of one of the sentries that had a hard time believing what was before them now.

"Oh, hello, she begins, offering up a small and cheerful wave. "I am here to become a real Knight," she beams with pride. Sure, she's small and unseeming, but the underdog in every novel eventually becomes the top dog. Not that her story would end so fruitfully, but she could at least be optimistic about where she was headed.

A slight laughter slipped from the lips of one of them, and they murmur something. She already knows that she'll be the laughing stock of all of the Knight potentials; physically inept, svelte, a tad timid of nature. But she had other things to offer; things that others often missed in the fray of being the big bad meat shield.

They grant her entry, and her swift heeled feet take her through the gates. Just as she thought about going ahead and dismissing the fact that she was being made fun of, she turns around swiftly and sticks her index finger out at the both of them. "I was hand chosen by the King! You'll really regret picking on me," she promises them both. It would have been threatening coming from anyone else but the meek redhead.

Regardless of whether they say anything back to her or not, she pivots back to face the courtyard and looks up at this new place. Hand chosen by the king! What a fateful thing, really. It must be destiny. She admired him so much because in him she saw a sort of kinship that only gentle souls could have in this dark times. It was a relief to have him on the throne, and she couldn't wait to meet him face-to-face.

Alas, there was an hour to go and Vysella had nothing to do and nowhere else to be. Instead, she just idles around. She's a bit nervous coupled with a whole lot of lost. She has to remind herself that she trained for this. She was one of the chosen. Even if she wasn't exactly physically intimidating, she had a place somewhere in all of this chaos.

She had proven herself to be a great healer and an even better alchemist. She had a knack for putting herself in harms way to offer someone else a way out, and to make sure that the warriors of the unit were in a position to fight when needed. Healers are often the unsung heroes of war, and it was no different for her. She loved it - the ability to seal a wound or inspire others to bring their best to the battlefield. Everyone could train to be a fighter, but only a few have the patience and the willpower to use their abilities to woundmend. It was a dangerous job out in the field, but so long as the others have her back, she has theirs indefinitely.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Editus Rayne Character Portrait: Vysella Celgari Character Portrait: Khilith Hruind

0.25 INK

A lone man walked the path towards the castle, dressed in armor that had been hastily strapped on, leaving him to adjust it every once in a while. His expression was sullen, trying not to make eye contact with those that looked upon him. They whispered to one another, keeping their distance from him like he were some ill omen. He was a strange man, of the like from a foreign land, darker complexion and eyes a hot yellow, messy hair black as night with a strange bluish glisten to it.

He had no real name, no lineage that was obvious to him, things that even a lowly peasant would have in comfort. Rumors spread about him, that he was born of a devil, or cursed at birth, and he wouldn't be surprised if they were right. They called him Editus Rayne, a bringer of misfortune. Ever since he could think on his own, he has known only a cycle of unending struggle, and the cruel cold within and without. He didn't even know why he had survived this long, or cared to do so. He was here, now, hand picked to be sized up for the role of knight.

Why am I even doing this? This is laughable, I'm not fit for a knight, they know it well, and yet... picked by the king himself? Why? he wondered as he scratched through his hair with slight visible frustration. From everything he knew, from what all people have said, the king wasn't the kind to pull such a cruel prank. They say he is a good man, a righteous man, concepts foreign to an unwanted child grown into a cynical man. Everything to him was a subject of suspect, as much as his own existence was. Just, what the hell even is a righteous man? he wondered in frustration. He wanted to see it with his own eyes, what is truly the brightest of virtues.

He looked ahead to the gate, taking a deep breath and exhaling, blowing his messy hair from his eyes. By no surprise to him, others had come before him, likely more enthusiastic than him. What sort would these others be? Glory seekers, looking for their slice of fame and fortune? Were they the noble sort that looked down on blots like himself, was there going to be a fight as soon as he entered their presence? He wasn't afraid of conflict, he wasn't afraid of battle, and he certainly wasn't afraid of being honest.

"Well then, o' noblest of parties, the stray mangy dog, Editus Rayne, now walks among you!" he cried out with an irreverent yet smooth tone, thick with flagrant disregard of even his own self. He then fished out something from his bag, a rolled up piece of parchment with the undeniable royal seal. "Perhaps I was mistaken and this is my arrest for some crime instead, but this summons I received seems to indicate that I was called for... service?"