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Yarmahal

An ancient warrior, cursed to wander from one battleground to the next, conflict forever chasing him till his punishment is lifted(major wip)

0 · 360 views · located in Lorn

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Wake

Description

Yarmahal Brogrum
Image

Theme: Hurt - By Johny Cash
Gender: Male
Nickname(s): The Rusted Swordsman
Age: 873 (appears late fifties)
Race: Human/immortal

Appearance: Dark skin from a life time under the sun and wrinkled sunken expression of many times that worth of shame and horror. Yarmahal looks very much the part of a world weary old man, having both the wondrous and the terrible in bountiful measure.

Preferred Clothing: Arabic style robes and hood. Sometimes with beads hanging from them.

Height: 5'10"
Weight: 173
Hair Color: Grey
Eye Color: Greyed out

Personality: Tired. That is the best way to describe Yarmahal. A man that has seen much, done much, and experienced much and only to be left exhausted by it all. He talks of tragedy as if it were something to be expected a part of one day, an inevitability one must simply deal with whether they wish to or not. That is not to say he doesn't still feel pain though. If anything he actually seems to suffer from chronic depression. Constantly he has an expression of sadness or resignation on him and it isn't uncommon to see him lost in thought over something that has happened. In spite of this though, those that know him long enough discover that he doesn't give into his own cynicism. There have been many an occasion where has bestowed acts of kindness upon others without any prompt and still often gives strangers the benefit of the doubt, never letting the idea of others taking advantage of his goodwill bring him down.

Quirks:

Likes:
Dislikes:
Hobbies:

Phobia(s):

Weapon:

Fighting Style: Do they use physical combat more than magic? Are they a mage, do they use magic?

Abilities: Yarmahal cannot die. While you might look at this and think it a gift it is anything but, for his immortality was granted against his wishes and it certainly does not guard against pain and injury. His wounds will not heal with speed as other immortals might, with weeks or even months needed to recover from inflicted damage. His eternal existence is in fact a curse, and as long as he possess it he is doomed to suffer as that curse also attracts others who wish him agony.

Personal History: At least three paragraphs please!

Other:
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So begins...

Yarmahal's Story

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#, as written by Wake
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#, as written by Wake
Quietly, an old man dressed in rags sat next to the trunk of the tree, a rusted blade dangling from his side, a few drops dried blood still clinged to it. Quietly he sipped from his canteen, tired from his walk. He only briefly looked up when he heard voices approach down the road, before turning back to his water.

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#, as written by Wake
"Tiss alright, I've been around a long time so many have the right to call me an old man." The ragged swordsman said, apparently able to hear the two just fine despite the distance. He didn't look up as he talked, he simply screwed the cap back on his canteen. "Though if you are hungry then I suggest you fine easier prey." He warned, already placing the canteen down. "I am not something easy to sink your teeth into." It wasn't a threat the man gave, his tone sounding more matter-of-factly.

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#, as written by Wake
"Walking." He said, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Well that's not exactly right." He brushed himself off at the pant leg. "Tiss, more like I was trying to avoid a conflict earlier. Unfortunately a group of individuals back in town a few miles form here didn't take to kindly to my presence. So I thought better to relocate myself. Though I expect the rest of them will be catching up with me shortly."

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"Oh to kill me I would guess." He said almost like he were discussing the weather. "I'm not to surprised really."

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"Oh while I appreciate the sentiment it's probably best that you don't." He said, slowly rising to his feet. "I don't want to drag any passerby's into this intentionally." The old man stared down the road, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He seemed to be slowly readying himself.

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"Well that's kind of you," he said. "But I prefer to settle my problems on my own." In the distance, men on horses carrying weapons in hand rounded the bend. Upon seeing the old man they started spurring their mounts onward faster, shouting something intangible from their distance. The old pulled the rusted blade from his side, it was chiseled and worn from much use, covered in stains that would be to stubborn for even the most dedicated cleaner to remove. He readied himself into a fighting stance, pass on last look at the strange he had just met. "Last chance miss, are you sure I cannot talk you out of getting involved with this?"

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#, as written by Wake
The old man sighed, and began walking forward. "You are a stubborn on then. Very well don't blame me if anything goes wrong soon." As the band of riders approached, what they were shouting became more audible.

"We've got you no ya damned murderer!" "Who or what is that with him?" "Don't know, don't care. Just kill the bastard before he gets away again!"

The old man continued to walk toward the rapidly advancing group. within seconds they were withing striking range. It was then the old man took action. Just as a spear came level with his head, the elderly warrior dropped into a squat. His blade flashing to the side to strike the closest horse on the leg. The beast gave out a scream and tumbled, taking the panicked rider down with it. The old man, waited, and repeated the action with the next horse to get near.

Fifteen men on horses, and the first thing he needed to do was get them down on foot.

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#, as written by Wake
Seeing themselves losing the charge, the men still remaining on horse back broke their rush, switching tactics. Firstly, the group started to surround the old man, while a portion of them broke off to charge at the winged woman.

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While the other men were trying to catch the winged woman, the horse riders that were surrounding the old one began moving in. Spears jabbed at him from multiple directions, and the elder warrior struggled to keep track of and parry the many strikes that came at him. One rider, however, over extended his reach, and the old man grabbed his spear and pulled him from his horse. He switched the weapon around in his hand, and stabbed another rider in the thigh. Now using his new pole arm to full effect, he force the gather men to widen the circle, giving the old man more room to parry and dodge.

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"What the hell are these things!" One of the men shouted. Fear was starting to rummage through the ranks of the men. The old one they had been expecting, prepared for. Not some flying witch or a demon from the forest. Already some were starting to back away from the winged woman and the creature. The riders surrounding the old one having trouble keeping focus on both him and the monsters behind them.

The old man looked once, and snorted before making to strike another man in the leg.

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#, as written by Wake
The remaining men switch goals now. The old man the no longer cared for, now that there seemed to be bigger threats nearby. Much more broke off now, leaving but three of the men that had fallen from their mounts yo face down the old one while the rest charged the winged witch and the demon.

The old man cursed, dodging another spear and slashing a down on a sword that came next. This was not going the way the old man wanted it too.