Post by phrostphyre on Jun 20, 2010 15:41:27 GMT -5
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Name: Convel MacTire [Mac-Cheer]
Age: 17 years of age, with seven months, three weeks, and four days
Race: Human
Real World Ethnicity: Viking
Accent: Alban (Scottish Highlands)
Occupation: Tacksman of Pravus Corripio, Alban clan chieftain, general all around Hell raiser. Was a smuggler-cattle thief before giving Pravus his oath
Allegiance: Pravus Corripio, Alba, Clan MacTire
Appearance: Despite being human, Convel bears little in common to the Alagaesian type. With flaming red hair that shines in sunlight, broad shoulders, and the height of a giant compared to most men, Convel is a demon when the fire in his eyes are bonfires, signaling the death of someone or something. The slanted sea-blue eyes that dance with laughter, anger, or cold-blooded thoughts of murder. With a long, knife-bladed nose, high cheekbones, and a square jaw, Convel shows that the Viking blood in his mother's clan, the MacLarens, runs strong through his veins. Dressed at all times in a kilt of MacTire and a shirt, with a sporran, his broadsword, dirk, Sgian dubh, and a blue cap with three eagle feathers pinned behind the clan badge; a grinning wolf head gripping a haunch of meat with the clan motto over it; Convel is a prime example of barbaric splendor, the talk of any party, especially when he wears his torc; a solid gold item that goes around the neck.
Convel's build, coloration, accent, and dress mark him as an outlander anywhere he steps in Alagaesia, but his skin is that of farmer/warrior, with calloused hands and a tan. The flogging scars on his back belie his farmer's and laird's origins. As a noble and the son of a leader of a Highland clan, Convel can put on a mask of impassiveness that fools all but the most accomplished face readers, mind breakers, his mother, his father, and his sister. His best friend can usually crack it with a quick word, but now stranded in Alagaesia, Convel has let his face wear the mask at all times.
His broadsword is a fine piece of workmanship. The basket hilt is lined with red felt, with the pommel sporting dyed red and black extra felt hanging down, getting it attacked by cats often. The blade is relatively long for most men in Alagaesia, being thirty four inches long. His dirk is what all Albans grow up with, being given one at birth. With a wood handle, it doesn't look like much at first glance, but the handle is extremely well made, carved in exquisite detail with Alban (Celtic) knot work decorating. The blade is seventeen inches long, and goes to the right of the sporran since Convel is actually left handed, but his schoolteacher made him learn to do everything right handed. The Sgian dubh, or black knife, has a blade of three inches of black steel, and it goes into the top of hose or a boot. His claymore, which he had specially made, is five feet long with up swept cross guards, making it the shape of a cross with pointing down cross-pieces. The targe is seventeen inches in diameter, with a wicked ten inch spike pointing out from the middle.
Personality: Fiercely loyal, a berserker, deadly with his blades, silent as the shadow of a ghost of a wolf, a natural at picking up languages, able to disappear at any time in mountainous terrain, a tactical genius when outnumbered, gentle as only a large man can be, amazing with horses and cattle, these are only a few of the things that the person Convel MacTire is. All Albans are graced with an enormous amount of luck, but Convel not only has his share, but more. With a swift word or fast fist, Convel can cool most heated situations, but when these fail, drawn blades longer than most men in Alagaesia can imagine dispel the arguers. Honor is a very large part of life in Alba, with all men upholding their oaths to clan, High King, and family at any cost. The Revenge-Trail has been walked many times in Alba, and with one direction: Destruction. The Albans are quick to rouse to battle, no matter the odds against them. Preferring to stay out of others arguments, they are indifferent to anything but that which stirs their blood, sets the heart beating. When calling a clan to battle, the Albans will build a cross of pine, then pour blood over it and light it. Extinguishing the flame, the clan chieftain will then go around his land with the Firey Cross in tow, letting his men know to meet at the rally point, armed for war.
As a typical Alban male, Convel will not let any insult, perceived or not, mar the honor of his women. Broken noses and black eyes are the least of the worries an insulter needs fear. As an Alban, Convel is extremely skilled at guerrilla warfare, traps, ambushes, and straight out brawls. The basket hilt that is on all Alban broadsword serves a dual function: to protect the hand in combat, and to aid in destroying the other combatants face when punched with the basket hilt. The Alban code of honor dictates that when the High King says prepare for war, every man, young or old, is to drop their scythes, shepherds crooks, and pick up their spears, swords, axes, and shields and rally at the court of the High King; Tara.
When sworn to a laird, Albans are loyal to the last breath in their body, often dieing as they cry the name of their laird, clan, the war cry of the clan; on their death bed. When imprisoned, Albans will not break under the direst circumstances, unless guilty of betraying their clan. Scars gained in battle are worn with pride, as are the heads of worthy enemies, often being tacked to the barn, house, or castle door. Convel has tired of being insulted over his kilt, and now draws steel against the insulter, dueling to first blood, often drawn by Convel on the arm, not wishing to harm a fellow man. Killing comes easily to the Alban native, but never does killing an unarmed person.
History: WIP, muse for this has died.
Name: Convel MacTire [Mac-Cheer]
Age: 17 years of age, with seven months, three weeks, and four days
Race: Human
Real World Ethnicity: Viking
Accent: Alban (Scottish Highlands)
Occupation: Tacksman of Pravus Corripio, Alban clan chieftain, general all around Hell raiser. Was a smuggler-cattle thief before giving Pravus his oath
Allegiance: Pravus Corripio, Alba, Clan MacTire
Appearance: Despite being human, Convel bears little in common to the Alagaesian type. With flaming red hair that shines in sunlight, broad shoulders, and the height of a giant compared to most men, Convel is a demon when the fire in his eyes are bonfires, signaling the death of someone or something. The slanted sea-blue eyes that dance with laughter, anger, or cold-blooded thoughts of murder. With a long, knife-bladed nose, high cheekbones, and a square jaw, Convel shows that the Viking blood in his mother's clan, the MacLarens, runs strong through his veins. Dressed at all times in a kilt of MacTire and a shirt, with a sporran, his broadsword, dirk, Sgian dubh, and a blue cap with three eagle feathers pinned behind the clan badge; a grinning wolf head gripping a haunch of meat with the clan motto over it; Convel is a prime example of barbaric splendor, the talk of any party, especially when he wears his torc; a solid gold item that goes around the neck.
Convel's build, coloration, accent, and dress mark him as an outlander anywhere he steps in Alagaesia, but his skin is that of farmer/warrior, with calloused hands and a tan. The flogging scars on his back belie his farmer's and laird's origins. As a noble and the son of a leader of a Highland clan, Convel can put on a mask of impassiveness that fools all but the most accomplished face readers, mind breakers, his mother, his father, and his sister. His best friend can usually crack it with a quick word, but now stranded in Alagaesia, Convel has let his face wear the mask at all times.
His broadsword is a fine piece of workmanship. The basket hilt is lined with red felt, with the pommel sporting dyed red and black extra felt hanging down, getting it attacked by cats often. The blade is relatively long for most men in Alagaesia, being thirty four inches long. His dirk is what all Albans grow up with, being given one at birth. With a wood handle, it doesn't look like much at first glance, but the handle is extremely well made, carved in exquisite detail with Alban (Celtic) knot work decorating. The blade is seventeen inches long, and goes to the right of the sporran since Convel is actually left handed, but his schoolteacher made him learn to do everything right handed. The Sgian dubh, or black knife, has a blade of three inches of black steel, and it goes into the top of hose or a boot. His claymore, which he had specially made, is five feet long with up swept cross guards, making it the shape of a cross with pointing down cross-pieces. The targe is seventeen inches in diameter, with a wicked ten inch spike pointing out from the middle.
Personality: Fiercely loyal, a berserker, deadly with his blades, silent as the shadow of a ghost of a wolf, a natural at picking up languages, able to disappear at any time in mountainous terrain, a tactical genius when outnumbered, gentle as only a large man can be, amazing with horses and cattle, these are only a few of the things that the person Convel MacTire is. All Albans are graced with an enormous amount of luck, but Convel not only has his share, but more. With a swift word or fast fist, Convel can cool most heated situations, but when these fail, drawn blades longer than most men in Alagaesia can imagine dispel the arguers. Honor is a very large part of life in Alba, with all men upholding their oaths to clan, High King, and family at any cost. The Revenge-Trail has been walked many times in Alba, and with one direction: Destruction. The Albans are quick to rouse to battle, no matter the odds against them. Preferring to stay out of others arguments, they are indifferent to anything but that which stirs their blood, sets the heart beating. When calling a clan to battle, the Albans will build a cross of pine, then pour blood over it and light it. Extinguishing the flame, the clan chieftain will then go around his land with the Firey Cross in tow, letting his men know to meet at the rally point, armed for war.
As a typical Alban male, Convel will not let any insult, perceived or not, mar the honor of his women. Broken noses and black eyes are the least of the worries an insulter needs fear. As an Alban, Convel is extremely skilled at guerrilla warfare, traps, ambushes, and straight out brawls. The basket hilt that is on all Alban broadsword serves a dual function: to protect the hand in combat, and to aid in destroying the other combatants face when punched with the basket hilt. The Alban code of honor dictates that when the High King says prepare for war, every man, young or old, is to drop their scythes, shepherds crooks, and pick up their spears, swords, axes, and shields and rally at the court of the High King; Tara.
When sworn to a laird, Albans are loyal to the last breath in their body, often dieing as they cry the name of their laird, clan, the war cry of the clan; on their death bed. When imprisoned, Albans will not break under the direst circumstances, unless guilty of betraying their clan. Scars gained in battle are worn with pride, as are the heads of worthy enemies, often being tacked to the barn, house, or castle door. Convel has tired of being insulted over his kilt, and now draws steel against the insulter, dueling to first blood, often drawn by Convel on the arm, not wishing to harm a fellow man. Killing comes easily to the Alban native, but never does killing an unarmed person.
History: WIP, muse for this has died.
