Post by eemp on Jul 12, 2010 16:18:11 GMT -5
Aurelius Elyon
Name: Aurelius Elyon
Age: 32
Species: Fel'asar
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 155lb
Family: Parents, living in Silvereye under cover of darkness. Their bodies are not as human as their son's, and they are aware of their species' reputation.
Magical Abilities: None acknowledged. What magical abilities manifested in him have been quashed as horrid, stinking sins with no place in the body of a hunter.
Birthplace: Silvereye, Caedere
Current Residence: Roundabout, making slow circles.
Occupation: Witchhunter
Accessories: His most essential accessory is his pack, which holds a great number of very useful tools. None of them utilize magic, which may be a disadvantage, but that is not an option he has ever entertained. He carries a small assortment of projectile weapons, as well as a few short iron blades. Also, a hat. A terribly adorable little green duckbill that shades his eyes and squashes his curls down around his ears.
Description: Aurelius is of lean build, imbued with a sort of feline grace that marks him as a little less or a little more than human. His body, however, is not extraordinary: a tallish, curly red-haired man with a pale face that is pleasant enough, smattered with freckles across the bridge of a straight nose and a pair of high cheekbones. His eyes are a light, gentle green, despite the glare that tends toward turning them rather flinty. His lips are thin, and his mouth is, uniformly, shut. He does not speak if he can help it, as his heritage is written in the sharp and vicious points of the animal teeth he bares in battle like some blood-crazed valkyrie, but when he does his voice is soft, raw from wear and loathe to be used. It could be pleasant, if he bothered- when he was young it was raised in glory to the Architect, and for a few beautiful moments there were a few humans that thought he had potential for good- but such things do not last, and as his teeth grew in he lost the will to speak in public, let alone sing. His parents were not religious, anyway. They knew they were not wanted, even if Aurelius had to find out for himself. His voice went raw and feral as he did.
He is a hunter, and his every fluid motion marks him as a predator. He does not interact with others any more than he must, and is often standoffish in the presence of strangers. He does not trust his own kind- who would?- and trusts other species even less. This leads to a lot of camping alone.
His clothes are nondescript, as the intent is to blend, and he generally wears a pair of clean brown leather gloves tucked into his sleeves. This is not an accident. A few years back there was an accident in the shop where he was apprenticed, and Aurelius lost his right arm. Luckily, he was in the best place possible to do such a thing, and with the help of his master he recreated himself a limb without pretense of magic, structured in iron and terribly strong. What it has in strength it lacks in subtlety: he cannot feel that hand, and the missing bones still ache as phantoms. He bolted this unyielding machinery into himself, and sometimes his body rebels against it even now, fifteen years later.
It is worth mentioning for the lack of feeling within, as well as for the pain it causes, but the main reason it is brought up is because his arm is a weapon. As an artifice of iron it is numb to pain, and may be reshaped: through cautious and ambitious mechanics he has only to twist the right way, and the twitch of his remaining muscles initiates a shift into a rudimentary flamethrower, powered by the oxygen in the atmosphere and his own accursed blood.
Relationships: His parents still live in Silvereye, as anonymous but profitable cooks in a well-established restaurant.
History: The Fel’asar are not a friendly people. When one is born a Fel'asar, one learns why very early. Aurelius was spit on, called names, and kicked at from the first time he left the house with his cloven-hoofed mother, and as he grew he found no solace in history. Such a promising young man, such otherworldly grace! But one good look in his mouth- one good look at his parents- and all promise was lost in the taint of his blood and his heritage. It did not matter how well he played, how quickly he moved or how many scholars he impressed: he was a Fel'asar and he was evil.
We believe we call that a "self-fulfilling prophecy." Aurelius grew tall and lean and he learned how to hate. Long slender fingers and an unblinking gaze set him well at a workbench: for a good few years he grew taller and broader of shoulder under the tutelage of a clever machinist, learning how best to create a better life for those who would oppress him. Such a promising young man, such otherworldly grace. Aurelius grew tall and lean and quickly he learned how best to survive in a world full of hate. Once as a young teen he'd filed down the long sharp teeth of his marred heritage and magic grew them back, turned him right back into the freckled face of hidden evil overnight. He realized, then, what was to blame. Even as magic was written into his veins he found it right to blame it- without magic of course it would be better, there'd be no witches and there'd be no bomb, there'd be no Fel'asar and no corruption, no evil- no long sharp teeth behind such a pleasant human face. So Aurelius studied, and he learned how to fight. He learned the ways of magic in machinery, the grim and useful bounds of sorcery in steel. He learned to scrap for life and ore in the dim back alleys of his city, to sort through rust and wire and make new of old. He learned to fight magic with iron and ivory, with knives in boots and sharp, sharp teeth.
Aurelius took up his guns and he left the rain of Silvereye to rid the world of magic.
