Name:
Clarent
Gender:
N/A
Appearance:
A humanoid amalgamation of silver and bone, slick and flowing in design. Metal fused to, coating, and augmenting a (mostly whole) human skeleton. Runic text encircles various parts of its body, and if one were able to decipher the dead tongue with which it was written, it would read as "Believe in Your Own Justice". It stands with an imposing regal aura, and yet, its movements are swift, its footsteps silent, and just to throw off the entire appearance it seems to only either be shouting, or shouting even more loudly than usual.
Personality:
Incredibly hot-blooded, and occasionally impulsive, Clarent is seemingly physically incapable of subtlety, a rather distressing quality for any up-and-coming rogue to possess. However with his unwavering determination comes a surprising patience, perhaps one that should not be surprising coming from someone who waited countless years to be released from their tomb. They do not consider themselves to be the man whose forgotten dreams they inherited, which is perhaps for the best, instead they consider themselves an executor to their will, apparently perfectly fine with living on behalf of another.
Backstory:
Once there was a man, His name now long forgotten to time.
He was a foolish man, with foolish dreams; a man of royalty, a man who would be king. A prince, a prince of a country that sought war, a prince who could be neither general, nor champion; a prince unfit for battle and thus unfit to rule, which is to say that he was a worthless prince, and worthless princes make worthless kings.
So they sent Him out, to study abroad. There was time still, perhaps He could find himself a spine, or failing that, a queen more worthy of the throne than He. They sent Him out so He may learn to fight, and yet He mingled. They sent Him out for a queen, and yet He made only friends. They sent Him out to return a king, and yet He remained an imbecile.
And then one day, they miscalculated. They lost, and in that moment of weakness, their neighbor descended upon them. His country burned, His people burned, His chains burned. Now, He had no family, not duties, no obligations. He was safe, He was spared; He was elsewhere, He was among friends; He was free, finally free. Free to live His life as He saw fit. Free of the collar they called a crown, free of wars, free of violence, of court, of peace. Free at last.
And yet, and yet, He knew what would happen. He knew which path He would take. It really never was a question. Those wistful fantasies of His youth, those hopeful dreams, if they were the price that had to be paid, and they were, then so be it; however meaningless it was, He was now king, and if He could not rule His life, then He would rule the world that took it.
Standing amidst the ashes of the place, the ashes of His home, He gathered the broken swords, the shattered armor, the ceremonial sword, and ordered, what few would listen back then, to melt them down and reforge them as a suit of armor, armor that could fight on its own, as was the traditional coronation gift. Slowly, with the help of old friends, he rebuilt his kingdom. Piece by piece, day by day. It was, far from its former glory, but it was whole again, it was prosperous once more, and for now at least, He had won back the loyalty of His subjects, however fickle.
And then the messengers came, the culprits were at war, a protracted war. They were vulnerable now, now was their chance, now was His chance, bloody vengeance was within His grasp.
No. He refused. First, there was silence. Then came the quiet murmur. And soon enough, violent outrage. What cowardice! What gall! To tarnish the kingdom, to tarnish His parent's legacy. Silence. He ordered silence to return, and, however begrudgingly, they gave it. If their foes were weak, for their forces were elsewhere, then what of they themselves? Would they too not be weak, even weaker, with their armies chasing vengeance? What a foolish question! If they could do it swiftly, and they had shown that they could, then any would-be interlopers would not hear of it until they had already won.
Still, He refused. Instead, He would bide His time. He would send emissaries with great offerings to secure alliances, to sow the seeds of future fortune. Rubbish! Cowardice! His ministers refused. Some, even threatened revolt.
The guards locked the doors, and the armor rose. He stated, in no uncertain terms, that if such was the case, then every single person in this chamber would perish. That managed to buy their cooperation, for now at least.
The months dragged on, complaint after complaint. Usually the same. That the culprits would win soon, that they had to strike now, while they were still bogged down. And yet despite all that fuss, they remained bogged down. In fact, they were now more ensnared in that little war of theirs than ever before. As it turned out, a good chunk of those lavish tributes, had somehow found their way into the hands of the other side, and they, now more capable than ever, had markedly less-than-sterling opinions of their would-be conquerors.
Combine that with the opportunistic power-grabs of the other kingdoms, and those culprits of His found themselves in rather dire straits.
And now, by some fitting twist of fate, the scoundrels have returned, begging for aid, begging for mercy. For while they'd rather not beseech the son of those they slew, utter annihilation was now at their gates, even former allies wanting a piece of the action, and He seemed, at least, reasonable enough, having not attacked as they thought He would.
Many thought He would take their heads. A foolish notion. No. All He asked for, were their crowns, for what use were their heads without their crowns? He annexed their kingdom, and, soon after, married into the royal family of the kingdom He played benefactor to. It really wasn't too hard a bargain, after all, foreign spies had oh so conveniently happened to stumble upon irrefutable proof of His actions, and He had offered them, not only the kingdom of their enemies, but also, of His own kingdom. His home, and all the accursed expectations, were signed away with a ring and a kiss.
Such would set the pace for the rest of His days. Rule not through waging war, but through cloaks and daggers, through spies and assassins, after all, why should He dirty His hands and risk His own kingdom, when all His enemies had their own enemies? His kingdom would not expand much further after that, but, with spies in every court, and more than enough dirty material to bring ruin to any nation on the continent, it wasn't too hard to see who was in control, who even kings bowed down to.
And though throughout the years, he would occasionally ponder what could have been, what could have happened, had He taken a different path, a simpler life, a dare He say, happier life, He did not regret His actions, not even upon His deathbed. Such, was the King of Kings.
Clarent, is not that man. They may have His bones, they may have His memories, but they are not Him. Clarent, is His armor. The armor that had fought no battles, seen no violence, and which had served merely as a symbol of office. The armor that was dismantled, fused upon His bones, so that even in death, He may protect His own tomb. The armor that malfunctioned, that changed, that inherited His life, that inherited His will, and that inherited His forlorn dreams.
It wanders, seeking to take the other path, the path He could not take, for they were kindred spirits, and though He may be no more, perhaps, one day, He shall see what became of dear old Clarent, and smile.
Age:
Probably a couple centuries since gaining sentience. Almost all of those years were spent stuck in their tomb, waiting for something or someone to crack it open.
Species:
Hot-Blooded Construct. Durable, and with utterly unshakeable will (or is it perhaps stubbornness?).
Initial Class Selection:
Rogue
Author
Topic: Adventuring Academy OOC: Welcome new students! 8 of 12 slots filled. (Read 3401 times)