Post by Vigil on Nov 8, 2016 2:19:33 GMT
Character's Name:
Vigil
Character's Age:
33
Character's Nationality:
King's Lander
Character's Skills:
Fighting
-Weapons
--Two handed
---Maces 75
-Armour
--Chain (30)
Leadership
-Battle
--Land
---Ambush 75
Political
-Persuasion
--Charm 90
--Intimidation 80
Miscellaneous
-Other
--Healing 75
--Poison Creation 75
Character's Personal History:
Vigil had many different names during his lifetime and many different jobs. Being born in Kind's Landing, in the poorest area, created a man that was tough and unforgiving. When he was younger he had been part of gangs struggling to gain footing and control over territory and resources. It was during his youth that he looked up to the soldiers and thugs that were around, might really did seem to make right. He enjoyed seeing one of his mates prop a blade under someone's neck to make them squeal and hand over their food. And if the person pissed themselves, then it was extra amusing for a good laugh. He tried dabbling in art because he had seen some folk peddling their wares to nobles that were free with their coin. A little bauble could fetch enough coin for a long term supply of food. If he just was lucky enough to carve out something decent he could have it good. But that didn't pan out at all. He had been pulled into the affairs of nobles a few times where he learned to survive in conflicts that were greater than he could understand at the time. He had seen the senselessness of the slaughter and of the fighting. However, there was a realization, that he, a thug, a criminal, a failed artist, was no different from the farmer next to him or even the knight on horseback. They were all in it to survive, to get ahead and at the end of the day it was about making sure your belly was full, that you saw the next day, that you beat someone else out. That was life and it was rigged for those noble bastards to have their way.
It was this sort of epiphany along with a meeting with a septon that changed the course of his life, out from the gutter and the meagre subsistence he had grown accustomed to. Failure wasn't acceptable anymore. It was the septon that also made him realize an important truth, a lie, a good story could certainly give you an edge. It was important to provide a picture, like an artist did, to provide a story of life that people could be swayed by. He had interpreted the knife in the past as a tool to make people shit their pants, but that moment was temporary, fleeting. It happened once and maybe the person would fear for their life for some time, tell their friends about their run in with a goon that had taken their money, but they were all right now, they had survived, they had been the victor and had lived to see the day out. They had only lost their coin or food and if they were honest with whoever they spoke to, they would say they had lost a bit of their dignity. For others, they'd make a lie, say they were all right actually, that they had faced off with a menacing thug but had managed to escape. They'd inspire their mates, they'd share the tale and laugh about it. They would forget that moment they had shit their pants because the knife was gone.
Yes, what Vigil wanted was a story that would make people listen to him as they would listen to the knife in that moment. He would be there all the time to remind them, he would not remove the blade. His hands would close around their throat, his stories would caress their mind, squeeze it. That is what the Faith was, the caressing of the mind, people feared the stranger, the other gods, tried to appease them. They were stupid enough to even give gifts. Gifts that would make any poor man rich, richer than if he had been succesful in making some shitty trinket and selling it to a noble. Yes, a story, a lie propagated could earn him far more than just food for a few nights, it could earn him a reputation, give him a life. Whatever he wanted. He would be bigger than an artist, a small time crook, a farmer, a soldier in a faceless army dying at the whim of a nobleman.
Character's Physical Description:
Vigil is a rugged man with a rough exterior. His hands are rough, calloused, and well worn. His face looks older for his age, partly because of his greying hair on his head and the greys in his short facial hair. One of his eyes seems to be a little bit more closed than the other due to a wound suffered long ago. He's missing a few teeth but not enough that it impedes his eating or talking. His voice is firm and commanding, it bellows out and it can be heard in the midst of many other people talking. People would say that he looks like a 'character'. Someone that had the ability to both blend in in a crowd but also stand out. Perhaps they also thought he seemed wise because of his greying hair. He was big and strong despite his poor upbringing. Lately he had been eating well, feeling strong and more energetic than ever. He walked with a firm clip, calculated, never meandering. When he sat down at a table he would put his hands on the wood, flexing his arms, imposing himself on others. He took up space and sometimes came closer to someone's personal space than they would have liked. Perhaps it was a way of exerting control. The discomfort often passed when he made them feel at ease with his voice.
Vigil
Character's Age:
33
Character's Nationality:
King's Lander
Character's Skills:
Fighting
-Weapons
--Two handed
---Maces 75
-Armour
--Chain (30)
Leadership
-Battle
--Land
---Ambush 75
Political
-Persuasion
--Charm 90
--Intimidation 80
Miscellaneous
-Other
--Healing 75
--Poison Creation 75
Character's Personal History:
Vigil had many different names during his lifetime and many different jobs. Being born in Kind's Landing, in the poorest area, created a man that was tough and unforgiving. When he was younger he had been part of gangs struggling to gain footing and control over territory and resources. It was during his youth that he looked up to the soldiers and thugs that were around, might really did seem to make right. He enjoyed seeing one of his mates prop a blade under someone's neck to make them squeal and hand over their food. And if the person pissed themselves, then it was extra amusing for a good laugh. He tried dabbling in art because he had seen some folk peddling their wares to nobles that were free with their coin. A little bauble could fetch enough coin for a long term supply of food. If he just was lucky enough to carve out something decent he could have it good. But that didn't pan out at all. He had been pulled into the affairs of nobles a few times where he learned to survive in conflicts that were greater than he could understand at the time. He had seen the senselessness of the slaughter and of the fighting. However, there was a realization, that he, a thug, a criminal, a failed artist, was no different from the farmer next to him or even the knight on horseback. They were all in it to survive, to get ahead and at the end of the day it was about making sure your belly was full, that you saw the next day, that you beat someone else out. That was life and it was rigged for those noble bastards to have their way.
It was this sort of epiphany along with a meeting with a septon that changed the course of his life, out from the gutter and the meagre subsistence he had grown accustomed to. Failure wasn't acceptable anymore. It was the septon that also made him realize an important truth, a lie, a good story could certainly give you an edge. It was important to provide a picture, like an artist did, to provide a story of life that people could be swayed by. He had interpreted the knife in the past as a tool to make people shit their pants, but that moment was temporary, fleeting. It happened once and maybe the person would fear for their life for some time, tell their friends about their run in with a goon that had taken their money, but they were all right now, they had survived, they had been the victor and had lived to see the day out. They had only lost their coin or food and if they were honest with whoever they spoke to, they would say they had lost a bit of their dignity. For others, they'd make a lie, say they were all right actually, that they had faced off with a menacing thug but had managed to escape. They'd inspire their mates, they'd share the tale and laugh about it. They would forget that moment they had shit their pants because the knife was gone.
Yes, what Vigil wanted was a story that would make people listen to him as they would listen to the knife in that moment. He would be there all the time to remind them, he would not remove the blade. His hands would close around their throat, his stories would caress their mind, squeeze it. That is what the Faith was, the caressing of the mind, people feared the stranger, the other gods, tried to appease them. They were stupid enough to even give gifts. Gifts that would make any poor man rich, richer than if he had been succesful in making some shitty trinket and selling it to a noble. Yes, a story, a lie propagated could earn him far more than just food for a few nights, it could earn him a reputation, give him a life. Whatever he wanted. He would be bigger than an artist, a small time crook, a farmer, a soldier in a faceless army dying at the whim of a nobleman.
Character's Physical Description:
Vigil is a rugged man with a rough exterior. His hands are rough, calloused, and well worn. His face looks older for his age, partly because of his greying hair on his head and the greys in his short facial hair. One of his eyes seems to be a little bit more closed than the other due to a wound suffered long ago. He's missing a few teeth but not enough that it impedes his eating or talking. His voice is firm and commanding, it bellows out and it can be heard in the midst of many other people talking. People would say that he looks like a 'character'. Someone that had the ability to both blend in in a crowd but also stand out. Perhaps they also thought he seemed wise because of his greying hair. He was big and strong despite his poor upbringing. Lately he had been eating well, feeling strong and more energetic than ever. He walked with a firm clip, calculated, never meandering. When he sat down at a table he would put his hands on the wood, flexing his arms, imposing himself on others. He took up space and sometimes came closer to someone's personal space than they would have liked. Perhaps it was a way of exerting control. The discomfort often passed when he made them feel at ease with his voice.
