Randall Jameson

Discussion in 'Profiles' started by Cloud, Dec 11, 2013.

  1. Cloud

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    Name: Randall Jameson

    Age: Mid-50's (54)

    Gender: Male

    Nationality: Halidom of Ylisse

    Allegiance: Himself and his bandits.


    Class: Barbarian

    Level: 10

    Weapon Levels: Light and Medium Axes – A Three-fifths from Grand Opening Lottery, one-fifth from Lottery #8, five-fifths from Lottery #10, one-fifth from Lottery #12

    Weapons: Thrown Unbreakable Silver Killer Waraxe
    Waraxe - A thing of great power. Possesses great dark powers, though they have very obciously not filly twisted its gleaming form. The same dark energies that course through its frame also make it nigh indestructible. Smithed from a silver alloy, causing it to be incredibly sharp; sharper than most other weapons could ever hope to be. Due to an intense event from his past, his personality and force of charisma itself has twisted the very nature of his axe, causing it to constantly thirst for blood. It is also finely balanced and thus a quick-striking weapon, yet also suitable to be thrown as a form of ranged offense.

    Appearance: Randall wears minimal armor – regarding it as only a hindrance in battle, preferring to fight quickly and fiercely. As a result, his body is covered with many scars, all of which vary in size and shape, marking just how well-built a man he is, to have endured so many blows from so many weapons. In place of standard armor, he wears a ratty leather vest, being decorated with as many marks as his body through its years of use. His vest is open, allowing for easy removal – though at some point it is possible it was simply sliced open, considering the tear along it matches a long, painful scar lying in the center of his torso. He also constantly totes around a tankard of the finest brew their latest conquest possessed. Given the circumstances, though, the brew in question is typically little more than pisswater, its taste and scent being far from refined, yet somehow enough of an intoxicant to him to retain his drunken state.


    Atop his head lies a nest of dark, blond hair, clearly unwashed, the ways of battle leaving no time for hygiene. His face is coated with the same dark fur, though in a lesser amount. There are various lines and stretches of skin that are barren of hair – but rather than this being a result of shaving, it is the result of the many scars that adorn his body, giving him a rather imposing look.


    His eyes are a piercing shade of blue, seemingly reflecting a man's true character from within their depths. His eyes still carry a determination, a will to carry on and survive within them, giving him a very stern and serious look.


    He usually does not smile, but when he does, you can notice various teeth being either chipped or missing, as a result of battle. His smile is a crooked one indeed, being representative of a joy one can only know through war.

    Personality: Randall is a ferocious, borderline savage man, living a life of wanton slaughter and destruction. He has a natural, almost instinctual love of chaos and disorder, showing itself even prior to his banditry.


    While he may behave like an utter beast, that does not mean he is entirely without honor. He usually chooses to not completely destroy villages, owing to his service in the Ylissean Military, unless they resist. Typically, they will simply ransack the village, burn a few buildings, and move on. In villages where residents are dumb enough to raise arms against them, they slaughter most anyone and everyone who hasn't fled, burning buildings and destroying architecture all the while.


    In addition to this utter disregard of law and order, he is consistently inebriated to an extent that would normally kill a man. When found gathered around the fire with his men, he is a boisterous, nonsensical fellow with a good sense of humor and an even better taste for cuisine. He also enjoys cooking, and when you combine his rampant alcoholism with what could be described as gourmet chef skills, his bandits are falling over within the hour.

    Backstory: Randall was born in a rural farmstead somewhere near the border of the Halidom of Ylisse, where he was raised with a boring, quiet childhood. Perhaps this is where his love of chaos and disorder originated, desiring something to offset the stillness of farm life.


    Months after his seventeenth birthday, a nearby bandit clan had attacked the farmstead. Grabbing the wood-chopping axe from the chopping block, he aided his father and the local militia in fending off the pillaging brigands. Fifteen rugged, dangerous-looking, mean spirited men assaulted their lands, ravaging their land and burning their barn to the ground.


    They struck in broad daylight. Randall himself was preoccupied in the house, preparing lunch after having chopped lumber in a secluded corner of their land, under the shade of a tall oak tree. Thankfully, his father was out front, plowing the fields. Ten minutes after setting up the stove in the kitchen, he heard the front door slam open and footsteps quickly sprinting through the living room, his father dashing in front of the kitchen doorway. He made his way up the stairs, where a single room lay: his father and mother's room. Hurrying to just behind their bed, he picked up a single artifact. It was a simple sword; not at all elegant or exaggerated in design or feature. It was concealed in an excellently made black scabbard, its blade being made of bronze, and its handle being wrapped in dark brown leather. He let loose a somewhat frantic, adrenaline-filled holler, “BANDITS!”


    Randall's head snapped up from the stove, his heart already racing from the onset of chemicals. The fire in the stove was already stoked; he'd have to put it out, but there was no time. An internal conflict soon halted his actions, grabbing pan full of water and dousing the embers as he raced through the house behind his father, making his way out back. Typically, he would have stayed inside; not being very experienced in combat nor possessing a feasible weapon, but like hell he'd let this opportunity pass by, the monotony of farm life finally being broken up; by a bandit attack, no less! Bandit attacks weren't entirely unheard of here, but they were a bit of a rarity. Hastily reaching for the well-maintained woodcutting axe, he stumbled, almost throwing it ten feet in front of him. It was a tool he was familiar with; having chopped fresh timber with it not but twenty minutes ago. His heart raced in his chest, his eyes eagerly surveying the surrounding landscape... five, no ten, no fifteen men were all coming upon their land. All of them looked particularly vicious;scarred from battles, barely kept, all of them wielding frightening-looking axes. Some were iron; some were a transparent, reflective material that vaguely resembled the windows in the house. He noticed another person among them; it was his father, accompanied by three or four armsmen from the local militia. Three in total, including his father, wielded swords – the rest wielded lances, and soon, he would join them, wielding an axe.


    He rushed into the fray of battle, brandishing the woodcutting axe as he hustled into a brigand's blind spot – he was wielding a black, metal axe, clearly crafted from iron. He swung in a wide, horizontal arc, sweeping from side-to-side with a quick, powerful chop. The axe connected with the bandit's bicep...and continued through his arm, ultimately shattering the bone, blood spilling from the wound as the bandit let out an indignant screech, clutching what remained of that arm in pain. His arm hung from his body, still just barely connected to his body by his triceps. He keeled over in pain, his axe cluttering to the ground as Randall withdrew the axe from the man's arm, before letting a furious, strength-filled blow loose from the axe's handle, clobbering the screaming bandit in the temple. Randall looked up from the man. Dark, black smoke rose from the barn and the surrounding fields...they'd lit the damned barn on fire! With an intense shout of fury, he redoubled his efforts in the battle. He let loose a blow on another bandit, already weak with stab wound all across his torso. A deep, vertical slice impacted the dark-haired brigand, his axe being forged of the glassy material some of the others carried with them. Already being weakened, the bandit could barely react; Randall managed to loose another blow onto him, this time slicing deep into his neck, surely finishing the man off. Glancing wildly around the battle field, he saw that six others were already slain. One of the armsmen, wielding an iron lance, brandished it hastily at the two brigands that surrounded him, before quickly being grabbed and hacked at by another. This simply deepened his rage; losing himself, and his thoughts for the rest of the duration of the battle.


    He leaped onto one, bringing his axe down with a tremendous force. Another bandit's skull shattered as the axe head sliced through the air. Five of the bandits remained, while only two armsmen, his father, and himself remained. He brought his axe to the torso of yet another bandit, crushing his ribs and slicing through his skin as blood spilled from the wounds. Randall himself had his fair share of wounds as well; he was fairly sure at least two of his ribs were broken, along with several of his fingers. He could also vaguely feel several gaps in his mouth, tasting blood upon his tongue, though he couldn't be sure if it was his or his enemies'. He had no idea where his teeth had gone; he may have swallowed them, though it's possible he merely spat them out loosing yet another of his fury-filled yells. Cuts decorated his body as well, but he couldn't tell how deep they were through the pain-blocking adrenaline coursing through his veins.


    Soon, the last of the bandits fell, pierced through an armsman's blade. The fire had mostly stopped, thankfully, the embers of the barn house placing an orange glow as the evening set in. His wounds began to ache; the taste of blood, his blood, soon became to much to bear. With nary a passing thought, he flopped onto the bloodstained grass, losing consciousness in an instant.


    He awoke the next day, his sight hazy and his body aching tremendously. He was in his own bed, and his father soon came in, feeling much better for wear than his son. They had a short, groggy conversation between each other. Randall still felt like he'd gone through hell, and was close to vomiting a few times. They exchanged short words, and before he lost consciousness once more his father had managed to tell him that some of the men that he had fought alongside recommended he go towards the capital and enlist in the military.


    Surely enough, his life after this point would resume at a boring pace. His journey to Ylisstol was peaceful and uneventful, the roads being secure. He applied into the Ylissean military, and was accepted without issue. He climbed the ranks at a steady pace; his authority not undermined by his subordinates or peers. And this life bored him. While he had seen some combat during his military career, it was not enough to satisfy the chaos within him. And soon enough, that problem was alleviated.


    The former Exalt soon declared war on Plegia. A crusade they called it; a meaningless mask to hide the slaughter of innocents. Randall cared naught; more than anything he was excited for the monotony of his life to be broken up at last. Quickly, he refined his troops as thoroughly as he could. In the sleep of innocence, they slacked; their muscles becoming dough, their axes, lances and blades being stowed away in an unlit storage area; yet, in the wake of war and heat of battle, their blades were sharpened and skills honed, their muscles being baked into the finest baguette imaginable. They won battle after battle, his troops rumored to be invincible by some. This, however, came at an incredible expense of morale; so incredible, in fact, that It nearly caused his troops to mutiny, and most definitely abandon him.


    He was a feared leader indeed, his might unquestionable within their ranks and his skills more than impressive. It was a stormy day, that day. The sun's righteous rays were blocked by the murderous block of the storm clouds than hung overhead. Rain poured forth from the heavens. It was as though Naga herself was weeping. Or perhaps it was something more symbolic, so hidden and submerged within his character that even Randall himself couldn't interpret it. His unit marched through thickets of trees, crossing river and plain alike as they met with Plegia in the center of a valley.


    It was a disaster, to say it fortuitously. His own troops threw down their arms, blade and spear alike hitting the bedraggled valley floor, a mush of gravel, rock, and sparse grasses and mosses. His own men (and women) simply paired up, sometimes even tripling, onto the back of wyvern rider and pegasus knight and simply flying away. He was left alone. Simply utterly lonesome. His predicament struck the deepest chord in his character, his face growing wry with shock as he began to chuckle. Slowly, it grew into a cacophonous cackle, his voice booming off the canyon walls as Plegia's forces approached. “You cowards!” He roared, his voice brimming with hatred.”You Ylissean dogs! You'll pay for what you've done here!” He shouted murderously at the silhouettes as they disappeared behind the rainfall. However, there was no such escape for Randall himself. He had to fight, or flee. And he, most certainly, was going to live to fight another day.


    Archers and Dark Mage alike flung projectile after projectile at him. Some were searing arrows, so hot that their very passing seemed to scorch the stone itself. Others were acid-like darts that carved into the rock of the valley basin itself. A might wyvern rider landed brusquely in front of him, his axe at the ready.


    However, he was far too speedy and determined to be humiliated in such a way. Thinking rather quickly, thanks in part due to the adrenaline now rushing through his veins, he managed to slip underneath the wyvern itself, his axe slicing cleanly through the beast's underbelly. However, as he were coming from underneath, a powerful side-swipe from the dragon's tail caught him in the ribs.


    It was merely winding, thankfully. The creature's tail was not nearly strong to cause any lasting damage, but it had caused him to slow quite a bit, his pace through the thickets dotting the north-eastern edge of the valley being comparable to watching paint dry. Knowing that with this disadvantage, he would most likely be imprisoned and executed, he hatched a scheme. It was a hair-brained one, but it was his only option. After cutting this rider down to size, of course.


    With a single throw of his axe, it sliced perfectly along the rider's soft, bronze cuirass, easily penetrating whatever defenses the rider might have had. His axe twisted around, gliding through the air almost effortlessly, as he caught it in his right hand. The rider's carcass fell off of his wyvern, and Randall continued his forced retreat into the valley thickets. The forest grew considerably dense as he crept along, slowly but surely. He knew they would most definitely have the remaining flying units searching for him through the forest, but they could also quite possibly simply torch his cover, reducing the forest to ash and smoke. He made his move. Gathering some rather makeshift materials, he began to construct, slowly, an ensemble that thoroughly resembled him. He even discarded his armor, placing his double inside of it. He placed the double near the edge of the forest, and as thunder rang in the skies, made his getaway under the blanket of the storm.


    It was a hard time, after just barely escaping near certain death. Thankfully though, he still had his axe. Which meant he could hunt. Slowly but surely, he made progress. Months passed. Years. He had become a savage. A bandit, a brigand, no better than a common thief in the eyes of a layman. He began to pillage. He had a modest ensemble of characters; wayward souls whom knew not what to do with their lives; drifting mercenaries who simply wanted their share of the loot, or, the best of all, magic practitioners, occasionally.


    In more recent times, he has come to settle to a humble cave dwelling in the mountain ranges near the borders of Plegia and the Halidom. Slowly, his loot began to line its walls. His bandits made it their home. With tensions rising between Plegia and the Halidom once more, they have been planning raids. Both sides obvious had spoils ripe for the pickings, but they were trained military forces, who could, if faced unwisely, slaughter each and every one of them.


    Notes:
    His Followers (open)
    His followers thus far number seven in total. They are a mish-mash of the most unlikely group of people, all of whom share one thing in common: a debt to Randall, paid back with their service.
    • Guzol, the Soldier A burly ex-plegian footsoldier, skilled with lances. Underneath his typical Plegian armor is a nest of dark, curly hair. His salet covers everything on his head from the nose up, leaving his mouth visible. A bushy brown beard hangs down from his jaw, but not so much so that it drapes onto his breastplate. He is a loyal man with prowess in battle; he is only as caring as he is bloodthirsty, intent on ravaging those who intrude upon their territory. Owes a life debt to Randall after he aided him in escaping from murderous brigands and an enraged Plegian brigade.
    • Ophelia, the Wounded Flyer A naive yet courageous pegasus knight from Ylisse. Tenacious, yet uneager to kill. Her flowing indigo hair is usually tied into a ponytail, kept underneath a bronze helmet. Her silver pauldrons hug her shoulders, an imprint of a horsehead with crossed lances behind it telling anyone who sees that she was a member of the Third Pegasus Battalion of the Ninth Brigade. She wears a red shirt under her pauldrons. Her figure is small overall, with wide hips and long legs suitable for riding completing her figure.
    • Boris, Brother-at-Arms An experienced swordsman hailing from Ferox. Ruthless and fearless, he earns his keep. He wears a plain enough leather jerkin, without many distinguishing markings across it. Over this, he wears a thin yet strong steel cover, colored blue. On his left shoulder, he bears a pauldron which strongly resembles a heater shield, though it is a great deal smaller than anything a soldier would ever actually consider using in a real fight. It serves him well enough, however; its edges are blue, forming one continuous outline, and the interior of the outline is a bright white color. His hair is green, like foliage in midsummer, and his eyes are an earthy brown, complimenting the two well.
    • Pierce, Brother-at-Arms A swordsman from Regna Ferox with a lightning fast sword arm. He rivals his older sibling, Boris, in every aspect of fighting; except, perhaps, in taking direct attacks. His frame is small and lithe, his movements quick and focused. He wears little armor, staying only to cloth and wool clothing. His movement is unhindered. He wears a poncho consisting of cloth over leather -- a gift from his family, having had it since he was a boy. Over the years, it has become worm and ragged, though many of its tribal designs are still able to be made out. Under this, he wears a thin yet insulating gray wool jacket over a black cotton shirt. He wears simple moccasins made from leather. His hair and eyes are a direct reverse of Boris's -- his eyes are green, yet his hair is brown. And rather than keeping it short and tidy, like his brother, he allows it to fall free on his head, tying it back with a simple headband and ribbon, both being a simple black.
    • Jacques-Harald, Mountain Apprentice A fresh-blooded anima apprentice hailing from the mountains on Ylisse's border. Physically weak, yet mentally fortitudinous. He possesses the makings of a great mage, yet he fears that his lack of a proper mentor will weaken his magic over time. Garbs himself in a blue cloak over a viridian tunic, with comparatively plain leather trousers stretching down into his thick leather boots. Dusky blond locks cascade through his hood onto his face, swaying to the left. On the battlefield, he can frequently be seen brushing it out of his eyes.
    • Vivian-Louise, Dagger from the Shadows A young woman from an unknown origin. Long, dusky red hair flows around her face, being kept in place by a small bronze hairband. She dresses in leather died a lighter shade of violet, with a plain leather bandolier striping across her chest. Her eyes shine a bright cyan, though it is a less a shine of goodness, and more a symbol of mischief yet to be had. She is an enigma, almost overly so, her words being brief and her mannerisms erratic. It would not be inaccurate to say that, while still quite agile and skilled with a knife, her body would otherwise be almost the ideal of what a man would ask for. However, those who get close to her typically do not live to tell the tale.
    • Margeret, Hillside Archer More than just a little adept with a bow. Good for more than just hunting a little game here and there. She could hit just about anything from anywhere, it didn't matter the distance. Not to her. She was cold. Calculating. Didn't care about morality or ethics. Didn't care about getting dolled up and whored out to whoever could pay. So she left. Just wanted to be with her bow. Short black hair accentuates her rater tan skin. Kept short so it wouldn't get in her eyes. Her assets don't matter, never have to her, but she was attractive; attractive enough to the right people, at least. Tall. Dark eyed. A cold, soul-chilling stare was the only thing she ever expressed. She rarely talks. Hardly speaks to anyone, except sometimes Vivian, or to let Randall know she caught more game so they could eat.



    Approved by Darth
    Last edited: Jul 5, 2014