About Felthún ThriceslainFelthún Thriceslain NE
Race:
Template:
Skills:
Class Features:
Samurai:
Feats:
Traits:
Automatic Bonus Progression
Stuff:
Murder Table
Background:
Strong. Vital. Handsome. Intelligent. Those were all words that used to be used to describe Felthún. It seemed that anything he put his mind to learning, he could do easily. Martial arts, painting, long jumping, you name it. While Felthún delighted in training his body, as well as practicing high society arts, he did not exercise his willpower in the same way. Felthún enjoys food, carnal desires, wine, and other creature comforts, and despite his rather modest living conditions, often partook in them. Felthún considered a standard job beneath him, and typically made his money off of selling his paintings. When money got short, he would paint more and more debaucherous things for more and more unsavory clients. If that didn't work, he would borrow money. That would lead to be his undoing. Felthún's parents, being long since dead, and having no relatives that he thought particularly highly of, meant that no one except for local bartenders and brothel owners noticed when Felthún went missing. His habit of borrowing money finally caught up to him. First they beat him. And still Felthún laughed at them, for he hardly felt the sting of their kicks. Then they tried hanging him. But there wasn't enough room indoors to break his neck with a drop, and so after 5 minutes of Felthún's disapproving gaze, they cut him down. The return to beating finally took some of his cockiness away from him. Using cudgels and knives, they carved and beat at him for what seemed like hours. And still his baleful eye stared back at his assailers. He had yet to cry out in pain. So they burned him. Finally, he began to scream, as his flesh began to sear, and the room that they were holding him filled with smoke. His beauty melted away with the fire, melted like the fat under his skin. He knew in his heart of hearts that he was no longer beautiful as the flames licked at him. And that hurt more than the endless cuts and bruises, hurt more than the rope around his neck. Straining against the bonds that held him, he raged as he had never done before, breaking them, and tumbling from the pyre. His captors, who had abandoned the smoky room long before, did not see him tumble, and as such did not know that he lay in wait for them behind the door. His hands became as claws that day, the phalanges scraping at the meat of their frail bodies. Staggering out into an abandoned street in the warehouse district, the first person he came across screamed and ran when he tried to ask them for help. The moneylenders hadn't succeeded in killing him. But they had humbled him, and broken his spirit. It was in the underground churches of Asmodeus that he found respite. They were the only ones willing to take him in, who recognized his physical might, who praised him for his artwork. They still saw his potential for greatness, his tenacious grip on life, the anger at the society that had cast him away. Filled with anger, self-loathing, and a burning desire to return to how he was before, Felthún swore allegiance to the Asmodaen uprising. His former glory may have been lost to him, but he could find new glory amongst these compatriots. Glory as an unpeered warrior. Glory in serving until death. Felthún is tall, and broad. His patchwork of hair is brown. There are charred patches of skin that refuse to heal properly. He could best be described as a giant callus, often with a raven on his shoulder. However, he is also very vain, and purchased items to make him appear more normal. When those are taken from him, he flies into a blind fury, especially when confronted with his own true reflection. When engaging in sexual activities, he insists on keeping up the illusion of handsomeness. He can still fight with the grace that he used to have as a martial artist, but now prefers to rely on his absurd pain tolerance to fight like a berserker, approaching an almost superhuman level of punishment taken. He wears no armor, and takes a superhuman glee in inflicting injuries that resemble his own, spurring him to greater and greater heights in battle. Outside of battle, he's kinder, gentler, and enjoys creating beautiful things. Felthún takes a new joy in being around animals. They don't seem to judge him the same way that people do. He has a Raven that he is particularly close to that he named Stephan. Stephan is Felthún's closest companion. |
