K O N R A D - S C H R E I B E R
Details
Full Name: Konrad "Kurt" Schreiber
Race: human
Sex: male
Age: 23
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 140 lbs
Birthdate: 12th Day of Ash, Cinderfall, Year 96 of the 6th Age
Birthplace: Essen, Brandt
Profession: attendant
Housing: a small apartment in Essen
Partners: none
Titles: none
Factions: The Northern Lodge, House Galbrecht
Fluencies: Common, Silvain
Conversationals: none
Ineptitudes: none
Appearance
For a man so small, it's curious just how many of his features tend to be described as "big". His ears, his teeth, his hands, his jaw... it's as if his body was never introduced to the proper concept of proportion. He wears it well, like an imp in a suit a few sizes too big who's stuffed the skin full to compensate. His rakish grin and glinting gaze are jauntily juxtaposed with his Rein heritage. While pale of skin and dark of hair and eyes, there's an air about him that's decidedly foreign. Where other Rien remain calm and composed perched neatly atop their respective, self-made pedestals, he's quick to laugh or question or prod, and it shows in the easy crinkle of his eyes and the manner in which his attention very nearly never seems at rest.
Though unlikely as it is, it settles easily enough upon whoever calls for his attention. Not quite so piercing as to be described as "intense" but neither quite so soft as to be considered "amicable", there is no question when he is engaged in a conversation or interaction. He is, if nothing else, exceedingly present. Present of mind. Present of body. Present of time. There is always something bubbling just beneath the surface, idly pronounced, that many who care to spend not more than a second's notice on anyone but themselves would condescendingly refer to as "machinations".
His posture is impeccable. His muted suits clean and pressed. He lacks the gaudy firs and belts and buckles better suited towards nobility and is more of a pragmatically inclined sort. He keeps a spare set of leather gloves in his back pocket at all times save the times the spare is required. His buttons are muted but polished, as are his shoes. His hair is nearly always neatly brushed, his skin is nearly always washed, and he carries about him the distinct scent of softwoods and a light but noticeable spice.
He is well accustomed to himself. When he moves, he moves with a precise purpose. When he speaks, his voice is unexpectedly full-bodied, warm, and commands attention in the sort of way the opening of a front door draws the heads of all but the most engaged of those in the room. He can move quietly, speak quietly... he has all the trappings to be considered subtle in fine supply, but it is not his natural state of being.
To many Rien, his smiles and apparent amicability are untrustworthy, for how could someone who can't even manage to hide a grin remain a vault for the very many secrets that buzz and bumble throughout their fine society? The truth of the matter is his warmth is as practiced as their chill. He is every bit as Rien as the rest, though perhaps in the most unconventional of senses.
Personality
All men and their fairer counterparts are nothing more than an expression of three distinct qualities, or so Eckhardt Schreiber, Konrad's esteem father, is convinced. The first is Desire, the second is Inhibition, and the third is Respect. Each plays a role, some greater some lesser, in what it is to be someone. Some one specifically as an animal possesses neither Inhibition nor the capacity for Virtue. Thus, Konrad can be described as such:
He desires to make sense of an insensible world.
He is inhibited by his fascination with the non-sense.
He respects that some things simply cannot be understood.
There are an innumerable number of ways to describe how and where and why and what he might be or pursue or do, but it can all be simmered down to these three immutable facets of who Konrad Schreiber is. When the situations calls for it, he can dawn most any mantle should he need to, though his generally jovial disposition seems to be his favored. He is quick to joke, but a joke is often only a summary of truths learned or observed, a test to see who or what has seen the same. He is quick to smile, but expressions are not windows but masks donned to share with the word a feeling, whether felt or not.
The fact of the matter is, Konrad is whoever he needs to be in the moment. Patient, observant, and genial, he does not need to be trusted nor entirely distrusted, only tolerated. There is only confusion in being taken into confidence and the chill of empty air when cold shoulders are turned. A fine line to tread indeed.
History
The only son of the renowned poet and vocalist Eckhardt Schreiber and his considerably robust and much lauded athlete wife Cordula, I was bound for greatness. Brains and brawn, they'd said. They the people, not so much Mother or Father. It's no surprise, I'm sure, they held- and hold- no love for one another. Though, there's no animosity either. A contract, like so many marriages are. Father was and is an exceptionally weak individual, prone to illnesses and fainting spells. It's hereditary. Which is why Mother, who was quite famous during her prime, was offered his hand for hers.
"Vivacious blood". Father might be the Lady's favored poet, but I've always found Grandmother to have such a peculiar way with words. At any rate, Mother agreed. Upwards mobility and all that. She and he were wed, taken to bed, and I'm certain I need not give you the specifics of the matters that led up to my birth. I've been told- told numerous times by Mother, I might add- that Father very nearly died that night. I'm still uncertain as to how, but the experience left him quite scarred. A fact, however unlikely it might seem, that to this day sees me a single child.
I was too young to remember the dawn of my youth, as I imagine very nearly everyone else is as well. But to recount what I've been told: I was not an easy child. I was prone to fits of hysteria and had a very particular palate in which I would only ingest foods of a specific hue for days on end or otherwise starve myself. I assume these things to be true, but there really is no way to know for certain, as neither Father nor Mother was all that involved with my upbringing at the time.
Father chose to begin his lessons the moment I learned to speak. I'm told my first word was "blue". My first book I ever completed reading was a collection of children's poems written by my Grandfather. The very first piece of prose I ever wrote was entitled "The Sea" wherein I describe the vast expanse of salty water so poorly and lacking so much "soul", Father took ill for an entire week from the stress of it. Needless to say, the disappointments continued, though by no intention of my own. I, for one, enjoyed Father's lessons. The world was already so vast and yet, hidden behind cloth or leather, ink and scroll, parchment and paper, were worlds within worlds within worlds. It was all very fascinating- and still is.
Mother had her hands upon me by the time I learned to walk- not toddle about but really, truly walk. If I could not be an intellectual genius like Father and Grandmother so very much desired for me, I could sprint through my mother's footsteps. There's really only so much a child can do with such tiny hands and feet, but if there was something that could be done, I was expected to do it. Climb this. Kick that. Carry these. There were times, especially those times when there were callers at the house, where I was jokingly mistaken for a Hollow. I'm still uncertain whether I myself find this fact humorous or offensive, but there's no doubt in my mind the parallel was aptly drawn.
The more I grew, the more I learned. The more I learned, the more I proved to my parents I was neither my Father's heir in intellect nor my Mother's heir in prowess. I was- and am- a perfectly capable child- and man- but exceptional I was not. I still remember the moment each of them seemed to realize I wasn't- and was never going to be- the child they hoped for. For my father, it was a dulling of the eyes and sagging of the shoulders. A resignation, if you will. For my mother, it was a shift from forcing me into competitions wherein I only ever finished right at median to allowing me to pursue whatever physical whim passed through my hard little head.
And I know. I know I should feel some sense of shame in it. Some sort of... failure. Because, yes... I did fail. Certainly. Utterly. Completely. The thing is: I never failed myself. I enjoyed learning. I enjoyed training. I enjoyed winning and losing and growing, year after year. There were things that were fun, things that were boring... difficult things, exciting things, things so simple even I was surprised when I found a way to botch them up some way or how. But I never, not once, ever felt a shred of shame for failing.
That is, perhaps, the greatest thing Father ever taught to me. He brought me into his study one evening, so many years ago I can't quite remember when exactly. He'd set me upon his lap, pulled open a locked drawer within his desk I was absolutely not allowed to touch, and withdrew a stack of old and yellowed papers. We'd spent the better half of the evening reading through them: the drafts of one of his greatest works- the collection of poems which first drew the Lady's attention and subsequent shower of wealth.
They were, without a single doubt, some of the most terrible pieces of writing I had- and very well may ever- put to sight. After each one, my nose crinkled with disdain, Father would say, "And so, I tried again." And so he did. Again and again and again. Each time different than the last, some better or some worse, but never the same. A winding road of failures that led, eventually, to his shining, shimmering pearl.
So too, has my own life been a series of similar failures. Though my family is wealthy enough I need not work a day in my life, Mother refused to allow me to stagnate within the walls of the house. She, a once Nameless by lack of breeding, made a name for herself by sheer will, and, to quote her own words, "I'll be damned to death and back before I let you waste what I've earned for the both of us." And so... job after job, really.
For a time I worked for Father as a scrivener. Mostly copying this or editing that but... it was so very bland. I'd list all the vocations I've tried my hand at, but the only thing that matters is nothing really stuck. Not until I stated up late to spy upon those very segregated goings on of the mages of Brandt. It took all of three seconds, once the first of them arrived, for me to be discovered, and from the moment I was asked to leave, I knew exactly where I wanted to be.
I admit, obsession is not one of my finer qualities, but it does often rear its needy, needy head. I badgered them. All of them, really. Whomever I could manage to speak to longer than an irritated "go home, boy" or "not you again". It wasn't even so much the magic itself I was- and am- fascinated with. It was the strangeness of it all. Both Father and Mother cultivated within me, whether by intent or not, a curiosity even I am not fully in control of. It burns like... like a particularly invasive rash at times. One that sends me down... questionable paths, surely.
Though paths that, in the end, led me to where I am today: right in the middle of what can only be described as utter fucking chaos, and I absolutely love it. An "all hands on deck" sort of situation. Mages are being brought in from all over the world to take part in the uprising. I'm well aware of the politics behind all of it, but I still find myself bewildered at times. Magic, for one, is utterly incomprehensible, but that's not my job. No, my job is to latch myself onto a foreign Lord or some such and make certain he behaves himself.
Can you imagine that? Behaving in the midst of an uprising against the ancient god-like creatures that have, for so long, reigned unimpeded over Lorien for hundreds of years? I certainly don't know what to expect, but I do know one Tailien Ela'Rannoch will be in very good hands. Or, at least, good enough hands, isn't it?
