P O D V R A K
Details
Full Name: Podvrak
Race: Rathor
Sex: Male
Age: 200
Height: 6'10"
Weight: 387 lbs
Birthdate: Glade 1st 4423
Birthplace: Tyrclaid
Profession: Librarian's assistant
Housing: Shattige Mulde, Lorien
Partners:
Titles: Minotaur
Factions:
Formerly;
Men of Majesty
Currently;
None
Fluencies: Vithmi, Common
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Appearance
Broad-shouldered, large chest, huge hands, this man is a sight to behold. Pure muscle and steel his towering, hulking figure would make most men pale beneath Podvrak's wake. If it's not the size that gets to you it's the piercing, amber-colored eyes which gaze out judgmentally, drinking all things in. As a Beastalt Rathor of the bull nature, the man is covered in a fine layer of dark, brown-red hair. Its texture is like that of a soft hide. His head is that of a bull, sporting on top a mop of unkempt, thick white hair as well as a white goatee and mutton chop. Podvrak has some hoop earrings of gold and a large septum piercing. Huge horns jut out from either side of his head, stained with time and scars. Vrak's voice is deep but not booming; it's not often will this man raise his voice but when he does it carries like a low rumble-- like something churning within the subterranean depths of the earth. He does in fact have a tail, it has a tuft of white hair in the end. There is nothing special about his tail, but don't pull on it!
Often you will see him out and about with no shirt, just wearing his breeches. His chest has many scars, as do his arms and back. Some are deep, some are more superficial but one thing is certain this man has lived a long, hard life. The palms of his massive hands are simply flesh, not graced with fur, his feet are hooves. When wearing clothes he prefers shirts without buttons that are plain, solid colors. He does not dress up "fancy".
Personality
Big Softy
He loves children of all races and ages. Due to Vrak's exceptionally long life, it's a sorrowful yet wistful kind of beauty to watch young children grow. He also has a soft spot for music and reading and other beautiful things. He sees this not as a weakness but as his other strength, someone his size and stature is often taken as an idiot or meathead. When he opens his mouth he might not have much to say but it's intelligent.
Unyielding
Stubborn in his actions for good and bad. Also, one-track minded, he sees things fulfilled to completion. Workaholic. Practical.
Rage
Blessed with a thin line of patience, at least, he has several triggers; injustice, assault, thievery, and battle in general. His rage is like that of many berserkers, teeth chattering, then bulging eyes, flared nostrils until the literal hammer comes down. While his patience is thin for these specific triggers he's not necessarily quick-tempered, although he does have a rough around the edges attitude which may make people think that.
Dry
Extremely dry. I mean like, when he cracks a joke he's so deadpan that people have to double-take and often don't even laugh. His facial expression runs from slightly angry, even if he isn't, to blank. Because of his stature and tone of voice, he can even sound commanding when he doesn't intend to.
History
It all started nearly two hundred years ago as most stories do of people in the world, a baby was born. One could go into miles of childhood memories but those are best left for conversation, in fact Podvrak’s childhood is little of note. He was raised, he grew and eventually became a young man.
During his earliest years he had tried to become a healer, a scholar. He learned his fine set of morals and a clue to his Purpose, “do good for all people”, “love all people unconditionally”, and “forgiveness is key”. But civil war broke out in Tyrclaid then, a small scuffle in retrospect between noble houses, and they found better use for his stature than helping hands. The time spent fighting wracked his mind, body, and soul causing him to shatter when the fighting died down and things become settled. He was lost now without a purpose and found himself gravitating towards the only life he knew, the life of a fighter and protector. Taking up more mercenary work was natural, but the things it would make him do would take a much greater toll on his weary soul. Being a merc this time was unsatisfying, you cracked open skulls, walked around with merchants, killed feral creatures, where was the justice? Where was the glory? It seemed to him that all traces of his previous life spent as a paragon of virtue had been washed away seemingly overnight.
Caring not for the wars of the land anymore he instead joined a band called Men of Majesty, lured in by promises of glory and honor. During his time spent with them, he came to like them. Even calling some of them brothers, sisters. They came under the employment of a Rathor man and noble named Mirth who was so severe he put Podvrak’s sensibilities to shame. Mirth was from the Vestria region of Radenor and was secretly after power. He convinced the band that his plots would give them the glory they deserved and then when he finally ruled they would become his personal knights. Podvrak at first didn’t sense what was going on, the dirtiness of it all, until Mirth's plot of drugging them and initiating them into his cult. Mirth claimed that he was a god, their god, and that he would rule over his land with them as his iron fist.
The money was good, none of the Men of Majesty at first would admit to buying into the man’s cult but as the money and the drugs got not just good but great Podvrak could no longer take it. The old, weary man couldn’t stand for the injustice and in a fit of blind, drugged rage murdered all of them during a ceremony. Standing in a pool of blood with a candelabra for a weapon he fled the gory scene, took all of their gold, tossed it into the streets of the previously terrorized village and left there forever. Never to return or speak of this moment in his lifetime. The things he had done, seen done, to the poor villagers were heinous in the highest degree and unfit for mortal ears. At least in the paladin’s eyes.
It took another 50 years for the man to fully recover from what had happened to him. He took up calligraphy, reading, writing, and songwriting to pass the time and free his mind. Studying old cultures and the past, diving into mysticism and mythology in libraries were his mecca. He made homes in the halls of old, tired books and felt a kindred spirit there as if their painted words could hide his sorrow. And for a long time it did. It certainly did. Eventually though through travel his coin ran dry. Hiking and caravanning from the Free Cities, to Atinaw, to Turoth, and back again was taxing on his account and he came back to mercenary work. This time he looked not for glory but for simple things; walking with nervous nobles across vast distances, ridding vermin from farms, bouncer work in unsavory parts of town. It felt good this time because sometimes they really did thank him and seemed grateful, but the old man was tired. Nearing almost 200 years old it was time to settle down.
He chose Lorien, an academic land and one seemingly perfect for the worldly, scarred man despite the hardships. He would need a citizenship surely, but that would be easy to obtain for a man of his worthiness. Vrak was able to get a job as a librarian’s assistant, the perfect job in his later years he thought, in fact maybe his dream job, but this has also not been easy. His coworkers are rude to him in subtle ways picking on his size and sometimes calling him clumsy. All Vrak wants to do is settle down and have a nice, peaceful life in Lorien reading books and maybe even becoming a scribe for the library eventually. Will he ever find his peace?
MEN OF MAJESTY PLOT LINE:
The Long Road Awaits:
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Path of Majesty
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