Name: Gian Age: 19 Gender: Male Nationality: Regna Ferox Allegiance: East-Khan of Regna Ferox Class: Mercenary Level: 10 Weapon Levels: C - Swords Weapons: Frostbiter (Massive, Iron, Enchanted Bastard Sword) - A sturdy Bastard Sword with one edge slotted similar to a swordbreaker in order to catch incoming sword blows. Once caught the blade’s enchantment can be activated to further freeze them in place and overwhelm the enemy with a combination of its overbearing weight and creeping cold. Flamestriker (Non-lethal, Iron, Enchanted Longsword) - A sword capable of letting off a small-scale fiery explosion upon hitting its target, causing blades to recoil and bodies to strain under the force. As dangerous as its explosions look they’re in practice very weak and it’s seemingly incapable of doing anything more than fatiguing human targets. The major downside is that the wielder may end up just as fatigued as the target, having to deal with the force of the blasts as well, but Gian is confident in his ability to outlast most opponents. Appearance: Gian has wavy lighter-blue hair, light-purple eyes, a slight scar on his nose and wears a tribal-pattern, red headband and silver earrings. He protects his left side with armour dyed a subtle red but considers light padding sufficient for covering his right. The padding itself is covered in red-dyed cloth robe a shade lighter than his armour. Throughout are tribal-patterned ties and straps similar to his headband. He keeps his longsword sheathed at his left and his Bastard Sword can generally be found in his hand, resting on either shoulder. Personality: Gian is a man of two humours, considered by many to be annoying until he starts to get serious, which isn’t too far off the mark. More than anything he believes that if there’s fun to be had, it should be had, whether that fun involves telling jokes at other’s expense, outdrinking his companions or playing ‘well-mannered’ pranks that many would consider to be mean-spirited it’s all likely to begin with a smile and end in him laughing up a storm. With nobody else laughing. But, when play time’s over, play time’s over, plain and simple. Smile shifts into a smirk, eyes grow narrow and jokes stop as fighting starts. In a word, he’s reliable and that’s the only reason any of his former companions put up with his down-time antics. Backstory: Gian grew up in the eastern mountains, far from the walls and in a small village of little note. It was quiet and that was precisely the reason his father had decided to settle down there originally, having lost an arm in combat, his other too mangled from past injuries to compensate. Gian, though, he made it a little less quiet. His father loved him and indulged his motor-mouth for years more than any other would have been able, but by the time the boy was seven he wanted his quiet back. So he began to indulge his boy in a different way, beginning what he called ‘Lifetime Training’ or ‘Climbing the Mountain’. It was simple, really; he’d start by posing a simple question--“Hey, boy, you want to become one of Khan Flavia’s champions?”--and would then escalate it from there, telling the boy the path to get there. “You want to grow old as me but keep both your arms?”, “You want to grow so strong that you’ll never lose anyone you don’t want to?”, “Grow so strong that even after death nobody will forget you!”, gradually the goals became more personal and shifted from posed questions to commands, the training between them escalating in intensity each time. On and on he pushed the boy until years later he was able to swing even his heaviest of blades for ten minutes without pause, without the blade swinging him. To get there he had literally climbed mountains, sacks of rocks strapped to his back. To get there he had hunted goats in full kit, no food lest it be goat. To get there he had repeatedly swung all manner of things until the very act of swinging became as natural as that of breathing. And yet, as far as his father had driven him, the boy now thirteen, there were still greater mountains yet to climb. It came about quick--the boy was no longer allowed to so much as touch a blade and instead was made to train his mind rather than his strength. Three years passed. Three years of father torturing son as an act of love, so that his mind might grow strong enough to withstand worse still in the future, of nature torturing son as a matter of course, so that he might come to understand it, of silence torturing son as a mirror, so that he might reflect its patience, of war-game after simulated war-game torturing son as they taught defeat, so that he might learn the weight of life the strong carry with them. But, by the end it all, he’d begun to understand the enchantments hidden within his father’s blades, how easily strength could be lost if left neglected and so much more. Father, his boy now sixteen, began to view son as an equal, as a companion in all things including drink. No more did he dictate the boy’s training; that was for him to figure out and decide on his own, though he did give him one last piece of advice before leaving him to climb his own mountain, “Once you feel up for it, what you really need is experience. And you won’t get much of that hunting only animal.” A year later he was off, leaving his father and his village for the first time, planning only to return upon becoming one of his Khan’s champions. “Haven’t felt this way since I was little, only this time I’m not crying, hahaha.” He left laughing and another two years later he’s laughing still, travelling as a mercenary, always moving, meeting new faces, parting with old ones and gaining the experience his father told him to seek. “If you could see me now, father, hunting scum with the best of them.” Notes: Approved by Squishy
