- Joined
- May 12, 2017
- Messages
- 106
- Reaction score
- 140
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- Roleplay Guilds
- House Winslough
Basic Information
Life Story
Just a disclaimer: I used very flowery and boastful language when describing his skills. I certainly don't mean that Anton is inhumanly fast or better than everyone else, I simply like to write that way. His skills are skills, not superpowers, and I'm well aware of this fact.
- Full Name: Anton Jacques Durand
- Age: 29
- Gender: Male
- Race: Leutz-Vixe Ailor
- Main Ambition: Mastery of Bladesmanship and self. He wants to fight better than a dragon, be quicker than lightning, and to have wits as sharp as his blades.
- Proficiency Points:
- Total: 29
- +20 short swords (+10 from School of Turall, +10 from Proficiency)
- +11 daggers (+10 from School of Turall, +1 from Proficiency)
- +18 acrobatics (+10 from School of Turall, +8 from Proficiency)
- Culture Points:
- Total: 29
- +14 smithing (+14 from culture points)
- +10 cuisine cooking (+10 from culture points)
- +5 carving (+5 from culture points)
- Languages
- Leutz-Vixe (Native Tongue)
- Common (Native Tongue)
- Eye Color: green
- Hair Color: black
- Hair Style: short and spiked up slightly
- Skin Color: naturally pale, but tanned somewhat from constant outdoors activity
- Clothing: usually wears black, often looser clothes that don't restrict his motion. Keeps his Turall Dagger on his chest and his arming swords - one on his back and one at his hip (if he's registered to legally carry). Sometimes accents with purple, silver, or red. Wears a black lacquered leather cuirass when on duty or in battle.
- Height: 5'9"
- Body Build: Ripped
- Weapon of Choice: Dual arming swords, though he also carries a pair of daggers concealed for when he needs quicker, sneakier, or lighter weapons.
- First Paragraph: Anton is often seen as arrogant and overconfident, though he can also be charming and witty when he tries. Often people are put off by his natural confidence and his strong belief and vocal advertisement of his abilities, but should they spend a few hours in his company, they often find that once you see past this bluster - which is often meant in a friendly and joking manner, though it may not initially come off that way - Anton is a kind and charming fellow, rather affable and even good company. Just don't offend him, unless you have a very fast horse.
- Second Paragraph: Anton is supremely confident. He has spent years honing the skills he has, and he knows they are strong. He sometimes misjudges others though the lense of his own talent, seeing them as inferior merely because he is so skilled. This can lead him to be careless and overconfident, having little or no care for the consequences of his actions until after the fact. He internally sees himself as the pinnacle of skill, and often forgets that others - even his friends - do not necessarily have such a high opinion of him.
- Third Paragraph: Around his friends and family, Anton can be more careful, trying to keep a damper on his natural arrogance and bring out his charisma more often, trying to be more likeable. He often jokes and enjoys playing practical jokes. He is a merry fellow to be close with, and an excellent drinking companion. When Anton is in the company of those he loves, he is always interested in having as much fun as possible - whatever the cost.
- Fourth Paragraph: Anton doesn't care much for the rules, but he cares enough to keep himself out of jail. He has a reckless side that can get him in deep trouble, but he isn't necessarily morally corrupt. He cares about people, and he respects property rights and such, depending on the situation. For example, he would not steal gold simply for the gold, but he might steal an item to place it in someone else's home as a prank, or trespass on private property as a shortcut or a way to have fun. He has few moral barriers, but he is motivated more by the need to learn and have fun than he is by personal greed or lust for power. He also does care for people, and should his pranks hurt people (which they often do) he does his best to repair the damage and make things right again.
- Turall Training - Anton is an expert with blades of all shapes and sizes - or, at least those smaller than an arming sword. He has spent the vast majority of his life honing these skills and going up against him in battle is not an action to be taken lightly. He enjoys showing off these skills and will not hesitate to defeat a weaker opponent for any reason - rank and relationship included. Anton is lightning-quick and feather-light on his feet, and these, together with his Turall-trained endurance, make him a very dangerous man.
- Wit - Anton's mind is sharp, and he takes pains to educate and hone it. He reads as much as he can, he's intensely inquisitive, and he enjoys challenges of wit and intellect. He often enjoys playing chess with friends, comrades, and rivals alike. Being the merry, unambitious man that he is, his wit mostly goes into contests and humour, but sometimes it comes in handy in battle or in social and political situations he may find himself in.
- Charisma - Anton has a dry wit and snarky humour which often makes him friends, though it has been known to get him in trouble. However, when he is able to contain his arrogance, he has an easy charm and an affable nature, and often makes friends. It helps that his arrogance is somewhat justified, and once he has made his point and won his bout - be it an argument of words or swords - he is typically gracious and kinder than he was before the match, rather than boastful like many expect him to be.
- Not Ticklish - Anton is not even a tiny bit ticklish.
Life Story
Lying facing her on the bed, Anton would trace her side absently "Alright, then," he'd say "I suppose I'll tell you the whole story…"
"My life began in the large home of a wealthy tailor in Brissiaud. My brother and I were his fifth and sixth sons - twins. Our mother… wasn't able to take two births in a row, and my brother's birth right after mine killed her. I don't think our father ever forgave us for that, though he was never cruel. He just never seemed to have the time for us." He'd grimace slightly and say, "but as much as I hate my father, I have to concede that he was a kind enough man, and he did, after all, pay for my brother and I to attend the School of Turall, as soon as we were ten years old."
He'd close his eyes for a moment, "The years we spent at the school were the best in my life. Ten years of learning to make the best use of my body. Ten years with friends our age and teachers who seemed to care for us, and had time for our questions. That school was my home more than a tailor's house in the highlands will ever be. I was like a starving man at a banquet there, determined to learn everything I could. I was an avid student, doing all the exercises and then some, practicing in my spare time and always asking after more and more advanced techniques and skills. When I wasn't practicing I was reading in the library, or playing chess with a friend." He'd chuckle, "That is, unless it was one of the days my brother convinced us to go off into town. On those days, I swear the villagers all barred their doors, because we were a nightmare. Some dozen young boys and a few young girls all swaggering about, drinking too much and laughing, joking, flirting, and generally causing chaos. I was quite the prankster, let me tell you, and I expect I'm still infamous in Turent…"
Still laughing softly at the memories, he'd continue, "Well, anyways, after finishing our education, my brother and I decided we ought to make a bit of coln off these new skills of ours, and we dashed to the nearest town to grab ourselves jobs as caravan guards. We kept this circuit up for quite awhile, earning money to live on and setting quite a bit aside." He'd gesture at one of the two scars that ran in a lopsided X along his chest. "I got this from some bandit down in Hinter Calem. That's when we decided to start investing in equipment - leather cuirasses, better blades, and so on."
"For me, the thirst to learn had never really gone away, and I practiced with my blades daily, even learning tips and tricks from fighters of a hundred different styles to help my own style evolve to be able to combat any opponent. However, the caravans are no place for an intellectual, and I found myself lacking in chess partners and good books. To compensate, I talked one of the cooks into teaching me his craft, and I continued to practice it when we switched caravans."
"After awhile, one of our more lucrative jobs ran into a huge ambush, and my brother and I - riding rearguard - were jumped. We swung into combat as we always do, back to back, presenting a whirling blur of steel to our enemies… Today, though, I suppose our luck had run out. These bandits had picked up some crossbows somewhere, and they got off a couple shots at us." He'd finger a divot in his shoulder "Mine took a gouge out of my shoulder. My brother's took his life. Unable to understand the blood leaving his mouth, I flew into a rage, and I swear, that day I was faster than lightning. The crossbowmen were dead before they could even think to reload. My blades were everywhere at once, but." He'd pause for a moment, unable to speak, then continue, choking the words out, "…but it wasn't enough. I was overwhelmed, and some big brute ran me through." He'd finger the scar on his stomach, which has a matching exit wound behind. "I was certain I was going to die, and I wanted to. The bloody cook saved my life, but nobody could save my brother. I buried him on a hill under a tree next to a beautiful pond, and left that caravan. They understood, and paid me well, giving me my brother's share, and a bonus for his life. I just wandered aimlessly for awhile, having lost sight of my life."
At last, Anton would break into a sob, unable to continue. "That fool of a boy was the happiest person I knew, and I still miss him. We were each others' best friends, comrades, and we even tried to make up for our father's indifference." Then, very softly, he'd admit, "I'm entirely lost without him…"
After a few minutes, Anton would compose himself, "Well, anyways, that's not the end of the story. I wandered the archipelago awhile, taking up whittling and hiring out my blade like we used to. After traveling a bloody long way, I decided to make for Grebor, odd as that sounds. I'd known a few dwarvish traders in my youth, and I always found them amiable. I figured I could learn something at the great hold of Grebor, or, if not, I could get myself killed in the mines fighting the Dakkar."
"I suppose I was a bit of a surprise to the dwarves, as they were to me. Their fighting style is entirely opposite mine. Dwarves are rocks, immovable in combat, and they'll stand their ground until they've been beaten down repeatedly. On the other hand, I flow like water, swaying around blows and darting in to find opportunities. While their styles weren't much help to me, practicing against dwarves might have been the most valuable thing I ever learned."
"While I was there, I lived with a smith and his family, an Aldor family who made their living off of selling their father's master craftsmanship to Ailor like me. I took the opportunity to learn from him, gaining some smithing skills in the hope that the trade would call to me… It didn't, and I haven't used those skills since, though I suppose I could if I had to. Anyways, eventually I realized that I wasn't finding any sort of solace in the Hold, and that I didn't really want to die anymore, so I bought a blade off of my host, thanked them graciously, and left. I wandered for another year before I came to Regalia." He'd shrug and sigh. "So there, you've got my whole sad story. Happy?"
"My life began in the large home of a wealthy tailor in Brissiaud. My brother and I were his fifth and sixth sons - twins. Our mother… wasn't able to take two births in a row, and my brother's birth right after mine killed her. I don't think our father ever forgave us for that, though he was never cruel. He just never seemed to have the time for us." He'd grimace slightly and say, "but as much as I hate my father, I have to concede that he was a kind enough man, and he did, after all, pay for my brother and I to attend the School of Turall, as soon as we were ten years old."
He'd close his eyes for a moment, "The years we spent at the school were the best in my life. Ten years of learning to make the best use of my body. Ten years with friends our age and teachers who seemed to care for us, and had time for our questions. That school was my home more than a tailor's house in the highlands will ever be. I was like a starving man at a banquet there, determined to learn everything I could. I was an avid student, doing all the exercises and then some, practicing in my spare time and always asking after more and more advanced techniques and skills. When I wasn't practicing I was reading in the library, or playing chess with a friend." He'd chuckle, "That is, unless it was one of the days my brother convinced us to go off into town. On those days, I swear the villagers all barred their doors, because we were a nightmare. Some dozen young boys and a few young girls all swaggering about, drinking too much and laughing, joking, flirting, and generally causing chaos. I was quite the prankster, let me tell you, and I expect I'm still infamous in Turent…"
Still laughing softly at the memories, he'd continue, "Well, anyways, after finishing our education, my brother and I decided we ought to make a bit of coln off these new skills of ours, and we dashed to the nearest town to grab ourselves jobs as caravan guards. We kept this circuit up for quite awhile, earning money to live on and setting quite a bit aside." He'd gesture at one of the two scars that ran in a lopsided X along his chest. "I got this from some bandit down in Hinter Calem. That's when we decided to start investing in equipment - leather cuirasses, better blades, and so on."
"For me, the thirst to learn had never really gone away, and I practiced with my blades daily, even learning tips and tricks from fighters of a hundred different styles to help my own style evolve to be able to combat any opponent. However, the caravans are no place for an intellectual, and I found myself lacking in chess partners and good books. To compensate, I talked one of the cooks into teaching me his craft, and I continued to practice it when we switched caravans."
"After awhile, one of our more lucrative jobs ran into a huge ambush, and my brother and I - riding rearguard - were jumped. We swung into combat as we always do, back to back, presenting a whirling blur of steel to our enemies… Today, though, I suppose our luck had run out. These bandits had picked up some crossbows somewhere, and they got off a couple shots at us." He'd finger a divot in his shoulder "Mine took a gouge out of my shoulder. My brother's took his life. Unable to understand the blood leaving his mouth, I flew into a rage, and I swear, that day I was faster than lightning. The crossbowmen were dead before they could even think to reload. My blades were everywhere at once, but." He'd pause for a moment, unable to speak, then continue, choking the words out, "…but it wasn't enough. I was overwhelmed, and some big brute ran me through." He'd finger the scar on his stomach, which has a matching exit wound behind. "I was certain I was going to die, and I wanted to. The bloody cook saved my life, but nobody could save my brother. I buried him on a hill under a tree next to a beautiful pond, and left that caravan. They understood, and paid me well, giving me my brother's share, and a bonus for his life. I just wandered aimlessly for awhile, having lost sight of my life."
At last, Anton would break into a sob, unable to continue. "That fool of a boy was the happiest person I knew, and I still miss him. We were each others' best friends, comrades, and we even tried to make up for our father's indifference." Then, very softly, he'd admit, "I'm entirely lost without him…"
After a few minutes, Anton would compose himself, "Well, anyways, that's not the end of the story. I wandered the archipelago awhile, taking up whittling and hiring out my blade like we used to. After traveling a bloody long way, I decided to make for Grebor, odd as that sounds. I'd known a few dwarvish traders in my youth, and I always found them amiable. I figured I could learn something at the great hold of Grebor, or, if not, I could get myself killed in the mines fighting the Dakkar."
"I suppose I was a bit of a surprise to the dwarves, as they were to me. Their fighting style is entirely opposite mine. Dwarves are rocks, immovable in combat, and they'll stand their ground until they've been beaten down repeatedly. On the other hand, I flow like water, swaying around blows and darting in to find opportunities. While their styles weren't much help to me, practicing against dwarves might have been the most valuable thing I ever learned."
"While I was there, I lived with a smith and his family, an Aldor family who made their living off of selling their father's master craftsmanship to Ailor like me. I took the opportunity to learn from him, gaining some smithing skills in the hope that the trade would call to me… It didn't, and I haven't used those skills since, though I suppose I could if I had to. Anyways, eventually I realized that I wasn't finding any sort of solace in the Hold, and that I didn't really want to die anymore, so I bought a blade off of my host, thanked them graciously, and left. I wandered for another year before I came to Regalia." He'd shrug and sigh. "So there, you've got my whole sad story. Happy?"
Just a disclaimer: I used very flowery and boastful language when describing his skills. I certainly don't mean that Anton is inhumanly fast or better than everyone else, I simply like to write that way. His skills are skills, not superpowers, and I'm well aware of this fact.
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