Post by Aedan Filmore on Aug 14, 2010 19:32:51 GMT 2
AEDAN FILMORE
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" lyrics or quotes here "
you say you're curious[/color]
CAN'T LEAVE A THING TO YOUR IMAGINATION[/font][/center]
AGE: 37
GENDER: Male
BIRTHDAY: March 25th
CLASS: Minor nobility
TITLE/RANK: Sir Aedan Filmore, Knight-Protector of Glenring
OCCUPATION:Knight
ALIGNMENT: Good....mostly
ALLIGANCE: Samarid
RACE: Man
CANON:No[/SIZE]
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but oh, you seem so serious
[/color]I SHOULD ENJOY THE SWEET INTERROGATION[/font][/center]
HAIR: Blond
WEIGHT:175lbs
HEIGHT:6’2
PLAY-BY:Alexander Skarsgard
GENERAL:Aedan Filmore used to have a rather well-kept appearance, with rather expensive clothing and as well groomed as anyone could hope to be in a far off settlement like Glenring. Now his attire is very different. Usually he keeps to his armour, dulled with ash to keep the shiny metal obscured in his attempt to keep himself hidden in the woods during his hunt for his quarry.
Aedan’s body is flecked with scars and tattoos, the latter souvenirs of his journey with Amelia and of his training, the former dotting his hands, arms and torso, reminders of training mishaps, or occasions when his guard slipped and his armour failed him. The most notable is a long scar that stretches from his shoulder blade to his lower back, a gift from a strange serpentine beast that attacked him in the wastes of Evangosthal.[/SIZE]
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i should not be telling you
[/color]I'M FLATTERED BY YOUR INTEREST[/font][/center]
DISLIKES: Arrogant individuals, Sanglant, thunder, cats, swimming
STRENGTHS: Tactically astute, excellent swordsman, good horseman
WEAKNESSES: Driven by vengeance, limited in his resources, near-suicidal
QUIRKS/HABITS: Always wears a talisman given to him by his master, bites his nails
FEARS: Drowning, failing in his quest, seeing Sanglant win the war.
GOALS: To gain vengeance for his home by killing the leader of the soldiers that destroyed his village
PERSONALITYIn the past Aedan Filmore was a rather calm man. He was known as the best man in his village, always there to help someone if they needed help with anything, whether it was looking after their children, bringing the ill to the nearest town for medical treatment or helping organise the annual celebrations at festival time. He was known as a man who was always there with a laugh or a small or a helping hand, always willing to indulge children who wanted to hear stories of his old adventures around the fire in the village pub.
That is no longer the case. The anguish of seeing nearly everyone he knew and his home vanish in fire over the course of one night turned a man who’d been known for his kindness into a stone cold killer. He now mostly shuns the company of his countrymen and only leaves the woods to collect supplies. He is for all intents and purposes a hermit, alone with his thoughts, plotting his revenge...[/SIZE]
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you start to hypnotize me
[/color]WHY SHOULD I TRUST YOU[/font][/center]
FATHER:Gregory Filmore (Deceased)
SIBLINGS: None
OTHER: Amelia Filmore (wife, deceased), James Filmore (son, deceased)
FAMILIAR/PET:None
MOUNT: Tymon – warhouse, currently being kept stabled by a friend.
PLACE OF BIRTH: Village of Glenring
CURRENT RESIDENCE:None.
WEAPONRY:-Trained with swords from age 11, received plenty of experience in the use of blades during his time as a Knight, now an expert swordsman.
-Skilled with use of bows, primarily for hunting, but is not averse to using them in combat
-Competent with the use of daggers as concealed weapons, but prefers his sword and lacks the talent to use them as throwing weapons.
-Competed in the annual village quarterstaff competition when he was younger, usually able to place in the top five, but never won.
HISTORY:Aedan Filmore was born to his parents Gregory and Catherine on a sunny spring day thirty seven years ago. His parents were minor nobility: his mother the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, his father a former knight of Samarid who’d retired to the village, married, had a son and taken up the mostly ceremonial position of protector of the sleepy little village of Glenring. Aedan had a happy childhood, one that verged on boring, until the age of 11. On his eleventh birthday he said goodbye to his parents and his friends for five years and went to train under one of the Royal Guard, Edwin Brotch. There he learnt the arts of the sword and the bow, how to ride a horse and use armour, how to command an army and how to track a single man across a kingdom. Upon his sixteenth birthday Brotch decided he was fully trained. That day he swore an oath to defend Samarid: its lands, its people and its rulers, until his dying breath. Almost immediately he was given an assignment, one that took him out of Samarid for many years. He was to safeguard a scholar travelling the length and breadth of the known world and guard his charge while she carried out her task.
Amelia Cousland was an odd woman when he met her, almost constantly writing or reading and dismissive of anyone with more testosterone than oestrogen as “more likely to raze the world’s wonders than learn of them”. Aedan himself thought the scholar too naive about the nature of the world, and too eager to prove herself in a field dominated by men. Still, a decade of travel managed to smooth the rough edges the pair had. They travelled the length and breadth of the world, studying the capitals of Samarid and Sanglant, the great halls of the dwarves, the ruins of Evangosthal and what little could be seen at a distance of the realms of the dragon riders, and what could be read of of the Elvenkind. Amelia compiled volumes on subjects too numerous to list, and instilled in Aedan a tolerance, if not a love, of books. In turn Amelia found an appreciation for Aedan’s more martial view of the world after years of watching him beat off beasts, bandits and creatures even more unsavoury.
The journey ended after ten years. Aedan returned to Samarid very different from how he had left. His shining armour was now scratched and dented, his virgin blade had tasted blood many times and where he had left alone he returned with a wife. He returned to Brotch, hoping to get a short rest before receiving a new task, to find out that his father had died a matter of weeks before his return. Brotch added that the position of Knight-Protector of Glenring was now open with his father gone. Saddened by his loss, Aedan still got his meaning. His master was giving him the same reward that he had given his father: he would remain a knight, but unless war descended on his country then he would have, effectively a normal life. Aedan returned home and took his father’s title and his family’s sword. However he never had cause to use it. Not long after Amelia gave birth to their son, James. After a couple of years, James buried his momentos of knighthood: weapons and armour, some gold and some books. The chest was left under a loose stone in his bedroom and sat forgotten for years as he continued on with his life. He watched his son grow from a baby, to a boy, and finally to the age where he was nearly ready to go off to his own master.
Then it happened.
Sanglant and Samarid were at war. Had he known, Aedan would have armed the villagers and ordered then to evacuate the women and children to the nearest defendable town, then retrieved his weapons and armour and ridden to the capital to rally around whatever army the queen was rising. But the day war was declared Aedan was out hunting deer in the woods near his home, and the first message that Glenring got was a volley of flaming arrows igniting the thatch of the houses as the villagers woke up. Most of them were burnt alive as their wooden houses caught alight. The remainder were run cut down as they tried to flee. Except for the women, those they caught would have envied the dead.
Aedan returned home to see ashes and flames, and a black banner with three silver snakes on it flickering in the centre of town, planted there like a calling card. Mocking him. He found his house reduced to the stones of the floor, blackened stumps of supports and a few blackened bones. Aedan’s whole life was reduced to ash. Well not his whole life. He dug through the ash until he found his chest, removed his few meagre possessions, put on his armour and darkened its polished shine with the ashes of his home. He made his way eastwards to the capital, in search of help, but when he found his master and was informed of what was happening in the nation. But Aedan was not happy with it, he wanted a lead a host through the enemy army and burn the enemy’s city to the ground. Brotch tried to calm him, told him to remember his training and his discipline. But Aedan was having none of it. He marched out alone into the woods and has seldom been seen by his fellow countrymen since. But every now and then scouts or villagers will find Sanglant soldiers in small groups with arrows in their backs or sword slices slipped into the chinks in their armour, with no sign of Samarid troops nearby. Still these are just a sideshow. His main aim is to find one man, the commander of the band that destroyed his home, whose heraldry was on the banner planted in the ashes of his home. If he does one more thing before he dies, it will be to sink his blade into the bastard’s chest. [/SIZE]
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who am i talking to
[/color]COULD BE A DEMON IN A MASK[/font][/center]
AGE: 17
EXPERIENCE: Two years in November...I think
CONTACT: Well there’s PMs, or you could use one of the various means of contact in my profile (YIM, MSN or email, your choice)
MEMBER TITLE: anything you want to put under your member group? -if has different colors, please put in code-
ANSWER: Scurvy
EXAMPLE:
Aedan could remember when things weren’t like this. When he had a bed of fine linen instead of dead leaves. When he had more of a roof over his head than the canopy of the trees. When any chill in his bones was banished by a warm fire and any hunger in his belly filled with a warm meal and a tankard of ale, and when he could wile away an evening in the pub with the village’s children, and more than a few of the adults, gathered around him, eyes wide in amazement as he told them tales that had them gasping in amazement: tales of the turreted citadel of Sandimont, the wealthy city of Stratenvale, the wildmen and ruins of Evangosthal, the crafts of the dwarves, the beauty of the elves and the beautifully terrifying sight of dragons flying above his head, far higher than anything of that bulk had any right to go.
But those days were over. There was no bed, no meal, no fire and no pub. No children or self-conscious adults, no quiet fields. No wife or child to return home to at the day’s end. It was all gone. His home, where he had lived ever since he had returned to the village after he’d received his posting, was now ash. Only a few scorched supports and one or two tankards had survived the flames that had engulfed the pub. There were no children either. He’d buried those bones he could find at the top of the hill, among the flowers where they’d played and set up the maypole at festival time. There was no wife or child to come home to. If their bones had survived the fire they too resided under that hill.
Now there was little to live for. Many a man would have torn his hair with grief or slit his throat with his knife to end the agony. But Aedan had the iron will of a knight. He had walked through the burned ruins of his village to the ashes of his home, digging through the ashes until he’d found the stone of the floor, and them searched until he’d found the loose few that hid his old chest. Its contents: his old armour, his grandfather’s blade, his shield with the heraldry of a two-headed eagle screeching with a sword in its talons. Except for a sack of gold in coins minted in both kingdoms of men and by every race besides, that was all he had. His weapons and arms, and the coin to keep himself going until he’d found his vengeance. He still remembered that banner flickering on the breeze planted in the middle of his old village. Black as night, with trio of silver snakes. He knew the banner, that would lead him to the banner’s owner, and that would lead him to his target. He would have vengeance. Of that he was sure.
But those days were over. There was no bed, no meal, no fire and no pub. No children or self-conscious adults, no quiet fields. No wife or child to return home to at the day’s end. It was all gone. His home, where he had lived ever since he had returned to the village after he’d received his posting, was now ash. Only a few scorched supports and one or two tankards had survived the flames that had engulfed the pub. There were no children either. He’d buried those bones he could find at the top of the hill, among the flowers where they’d played and set up the maypole at festival time. There was no wife or child to come home to. If their bones had survived the fire they too resided under that hill.
Now there was little to live for. Many a man would have torn his hair with grief or slit his throat with his knife to end the agony. But Aedan had the iron will of a knight. He had walked through the burned ruins of his village to the ashes of his home, digging through the ashes until he’d found the stone of the floor, and them searched until he’d found the loose few that hid his old chest. Its contents: his old armour, his grandfather’s blade, his shield with the heraldry of a two-headed eagle screeching with a sword in its talons. Except for a sack of gold in coins minted in both kingdoms of men and by every race besides, that was all he had. His weapons and arms, and the coin to keep himself going until he’d found his vengeance. He still remembered that banner flickering on the breeze planted in the middle of his old village. Black as night, with trio of silver snakes. He knew the banner, that would lead him to the banner’s owner, and that would lead him to his target. He would have vengeance. Of that he was sure.
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