Basic Information (Required) Full Name: François Laurent Dubois Age: 55 Dead - Morvali Gender: Male Race: Altalar (Teledden) Skill Information (Required) Total Points: 45/50 (+10 Hobby Points) 12 Rapier Combat 15 Pottery Art (5 Hobby points) 10 Painting Art (5 Hobby points) 7 Needlework Art 6 Roguery Rogue Gift 4 Honed Skill 4 5 Dance art Body Shape Physical Stat: 14.5 Body Shape: Athletic Body Fat: Low Body Fat Languages Common Ithanian Language - Cultural Modern Altalar - Parent Tongue Special Traits/Spells/Mutations Morvali Echo Shade Banshee Shade Memory Feeding Remember Death Visual Information (Required) Eye Color: Light Blue Hair Color: Raven black (Had forgotten original color over time) Hair Style: Kept short on back and sides but has long, unkept bangs. Skin Color: Pale Clothing: Dark clothes that often have a regal look to them. Height: 6'3 ft. Personality (Required with Choice) Option Two: The Core List Choose your Character Alignment Lawful Neutral- Upon coming back into the realm of the living, the man was left with a surprising lack of emotions. Due to this he has very little sway in the morals of man. Instead he seeks out a resemblance of his past life, doing activities and things he would have done. Because of his lack of emotions and morals he tends to stay more on the evil end of the spectrum. Choose your Character Personality Type Logistician- Every movement and decision he makes is backed by some sort of plan. Not one to act on emotion he acts on logic. He sees others as pieces on a chess board and he wants to learn everything about them. Every move they make as well as everyone they speak to. He is a puppet master. Choose your Character's Religion Ordial- 4/10 - he feels pulled to this belief system but he does not know why. He spends some of his days at the Ordial church near the pit. He is drawn to it nearly every day. Life Story (Required) Born to a wealthy family in Ithania, Francois had a rather easy upbringing. He spent his time in doors due to him being a sickly child. His mother taught him arithmetic while his father taught him the arts. He would sit for hours next to his father, a famous painter who knew no hardship. His mother would watch them from afar as she did the work required of a matriarch. By age ten he had already begun to paint, he traced his father's movements and copied his color schemes. He loved this, not being the one to create an original work but being able to copy it and make it his own. He started making his own form of art at age 14, finding mud with a clay like consistency and using it to make little figurines. When his parents found him doing this they scolded him for playing with mud and so they got him an artist's clay. In his teenage years he started to learn fencing, he was not healthy enough to spare against anyone but he had the basics down. Still being a sickly boy he knew training himself too hard would only lead to him getting sick faster. He stayed with the arts, developing his gift over a span of many years. With every figurine and doll he made he grew more confident in his ability, he decided to start making copies of people. When he got the doll made and the face and body painted he realized he was lacking one major aspect. The hair and clothes. He begged his mother and father for help, and as a result he was sent to another noble's house to learn this trade. He stayed there for a few days every week, learning with a group of girls how to make clothing and how to sew. By the time he was a young adult he was ingrained in Ithania's artistic society. He knew everyone from small time artists to famous sculptors. He took over the sewing group and began to teach them when the old teacher no longer felt the urge to. He stayed soft spoken through out his adulthood, never verging into politics. He lived for the social ups and downs, seeing which artist would rise to the top and which ones would fall from great heights. Or at least he did enjoy this, that was until he met the love of his life. A young lady who could sew the most beautiful dresses and sing the most beautiful songs. A lady so enchanting that he saw her as his muse. He became infatuated, seeking her out nearly every day. Upon getting to know the girl he found himself drawn in by her. Nearly every gift he could give went to her and every poem he read reminded him of her. He became obsessive, his muse was now his only reason to live. Every doll he made was of her, every painting he made was a memory of her. He sought her out day and night. How he got to live with her is a mystery, perhaps his family coerced her into it, perhaps she took pity on him. Now, as a full adult, he lived with the love of his life. He spent every waking moment with her. He gave her everything she wanted and more. He put off his career in an effort to please her. He gave her everything, but his everything wasn't enough. Every doll and painting made for her she sold for wealth. Every poem he went to read to her she silenced with her having a 'head ache'. Every small act of affection she brushed off and did not return. He did not see a problem with this though, he looked at her through rose colored glasses and as such saw no faults. He continued to try and please her, making every day harder and harder to bare. But he was not the only one getting tired. The lady would spend nights away from him, waiting until he fell asleep to sneak out. He had not realized she was doing this, if he had he would have gone mad. One particular day is where everything went wrong. Upon returning from the sewing class he taught he found the house empty of all of his art and valuables. He did not care for this fact, he was more disturbed by the lack of his lover. He searched the estate frantically, and in the master bedroom he found her. In her arms was another man, a commoner who had no wealth to his name. It was at that moment Francois became someone else, all of his sadness and anger boiled over. He took the man from his muse's arms, placing a sculptors chisel in the man's hands. He held the wrists of the man and plunged them into his chest. Francois stood there, a chisel in his chest and the commoner's hands now covered in blood. "If he truly loves you, as I did, he will love you even from the pits of hell that is murderer's fate." He let out a cough of blood, pulling the man closer. To the servants who made their way in at the lady's scream they saw only a commoner killing a noble while his wife looked on. That was the day Francois Laurent Dubois died.
