Melchior
Appearance
Handsome though this creature's facial features are, their allure is belied by the ravenous rubies etched to encompass his eyes, for they have witnessed the horrors of battle and worse besides; a tale transcribed across the muscular frame which bears the weight of armour as readily as a woman might a summer's smile.
Despite their inherent charm, however, the figure exudes a palpable sense of dread, as they carry themselves not as a lord might amongst their peers, but instead maintain the posture of a predator, a beast built for war, whose gait betrays the bloodshed so often bequeathed to the world in their inexorable wake.
Despite their inherent charm, however, the figure exudes a palpable sense of dread, as they carry themselves not as a lord might amongst their peers, but instead maintain the posture of a predator, a beast built for war, whose gait betrays the bloodshed so often bequeathed to the world in their inexorable wake.
Skills and Abilities
Abhor the Arcane
Whether through a malevolent mutation, or perhaps damnation from the divine, Melchior's Anirian birthright was arguably squandered, when he was born with an inverse affinity to magic; actively allowing him to sap the sorcery from an adversary in battle, rather than wield it directly, though he has learnt to refocus it into his armaments over the years as well.
Bolstering his brawn, or merely the bite of his blade then, the swordsman has been witnessed performing inhuman feats of agility upon the field of war; lending credence in part to the fearsome reputation of the Blackguard, as whilst he may not begin a fight every man's equal, by its end, he has often smothered their splendour with his own.
Salted Soil
Due to the devastating magics which Melchior has been exposed to during his existence, he has become as infertile as Rome-ruined Carthage; a cruel and merciless curse, given the way this condition has dramatically slowed his natural ageing process. Knitting itself together, as though the Norns themselves toiled to maintain the tortured tapestry of his flesh, the mysterious magus has been known to regenerate from grievous wounds as well, given enough time; as the foul forces that flicker across his frame refuse the promise of peace from the grave.
Crowned, yet Crucified
Due to his unnatural upbringing, Melchior is uniquely positioned to manoeuvre in Anirian society;
hailing from both the prestigious academy originally, yet also serving time amongst the Army of the West, he straddles both worlds, without being afforded accolades from either command structure, or hierarchy. What this means is, whilst he might serve as liaison or even bodyguard to Anirian nobility, he is never considered for promotion, so even the lowliest acolyte quickly outpace him in political power, if not martial skill.
Despite this, the cursed swordsman holds the grudging respect of any who serve at his side, for although he has witnessed countless horrors, the annals report that his loyalty to his nation has never wavered.
Anathema
Unlike blades of yore, whose enchantments inspired envy in allies, as readily as they did dread within their foes, this was once a humble sword, a weapon wrought from meteorite certainly, as was Blackguard tradition, but one bereft of the benefits most adventurers sought; though not for want of wealth, as this beast was bred for something greater than most.
Once the wise masters of Vel Anir had learnt of Melchior's talents, and witnessed the devastation his abilities could wreak upon the battlefield, they commissioned a custom creation which would surge to life within his grasp, but lay dormant, should the specialised soldier be captured or killed by another nation. That is how Anathema first rent the enemies of Anir asunder, for the slick obsidian steel became a malleable and malicious thing when wielded by the Magus, a device with several unique configurations, as engineering and artifice bled together in unholy matrimony.
Skyshredder
In war, an army's ability to project its power becomes of vital import, blessing battlements with ballista and bow alike, to ensure that even the most elusive of adversaries will succumb to its strength eventually. The first permutation of this pernicious prophet then, entices arches to appear in place of the sword's point, a position which allows Melchior to channel magical energy through the length of the weapon itself and propel it across distances akin to that of the composite longbow.
The emanations that ensue such cunning conjurations are doubtless as destructive as they are surprising, as one moment the swordsman might be massacring men amidst a fierce melee, and the next killing kings who thought themselves safe behind the bulk of their forces.
Jotunjabber
Vast as it is beautiful, Arethil has mustered many mortals to sojourn upon its surface across the ages, sentience whose shapes are as varied as the leaves upon a wistful wind, and it is only the fortunate, or perhaps most creative of killers, who recognise that where one blade might bite deeply in some, it might break when bathing another with its bloodied kiss. Melchior learnt this lesson well, when first the Western Legion repelled giants on campaign; for though their strength was something to behold, it was the stoutness of their skin which truly struck terror into soldiers' hearts; as spears shattered and even spells seldom slowed the bitter behemoths.
That was where the second silhouette of Anathema took root, as its wielder would swiftly summon the girth of a greatsword mid-swing, felling many monsters in the process as their confidence mere moments before crumbled, when thin blade became bludgeoning battering-ram ushered inexorably toward their neck.
Suddensorrow
The wonder of the world's wildlife is matched only in the endless environs which spring like saplings across its great face, countless castles and climates, demesnes and domiciles, which complicate combat for any who would battle beneath the gaze of gleaming, hungry stars. What use is a pike, one might wonder, when pinned within a tavern's tight tapestry of tables and chairs, or a crossbow when confronted by the cramped corners of a staircase, or dungeon.
That was where the third foray into fortifying Anathema was born, as scenery would subdue Melchior's swings no longer, when he reduced its wrath in size to that of a shortsword, or even a deadly dagger, should the need arise to adapt or out-draw his foes.
The Mourning Maiden
Etched from ebony, and nestling nightmare with each and every edge of its design, this kite shield depicts a devilish scene, where a maiden mourns their fate, as they lie encircled by an array of monstrous beasts; a being bereft of hope, save their belief that someone will snatch them from the jaws of proverbial defeat.
This enchanted edifice lends more than metaphorical might to Melchior's endeavours, however, for just as the maiden endures amidst the dangers of the void, so too do his intentions find comfort in the cavalcade of spells that smother the shield's shell; dweomers which dismiss gravity's grip, should he seek to soar, and oxygens ire, should he swim beneath the waves.
Whether through a malevolent mutation, or perhaps damnation from the divine, Melchior's Anirian birthright was arguably squandered, when he was born with an inverse affinity to magic; actively allowing him to sap the sorcery from an adversary in battle, rather than wield it directly, though he has learnt to refocus it into his armaments over the years as well.
Bolstering his brawn, or merely the bite of his blade then, the swordsman has been witnessed performing inhuman feats of agility upon the field of war; lending credence in part to the fearsome reputation of the Blackguard, as whilst he may not begin a fight every man's equal, by its end, he has often smothered their splendour with his own.
Salted Soil
Due to the devastating magics which Melchior has been exposed to during his existence, he has become as infertile as Rome-ruined Carthage; a cruel and merciless curse, given the way this condition has dramatically slowed his natural ageing process. Knitting itself together, as though the Norns themselves toiled to maintain the tortured tapestry of his flesh, the mysterious magus has been known to regenerate from grievous wounds as well, given enough time; as the foul forces that flicker across his frame refuse the promise of peace from the grave.
Crowned, yet Crucified
Due to his unnatural upbringing, Melchior is uniquely positioned to manoeuvre in Anirian society;
hailing from both the prestigious academy originally, yet also serving time amongst the Army of the West, he straddles both worlds, without being afforded accolades from either command structure, or hierarchy. What this means is, whilst he might serve as liaison or even bodyguard to Anirian nobility, he is never considered for promotion, so even the lowliest acolyte quickly outpace him in political power, if not martial skill.
Despite this, the cursed swordsman holds the grudging respect of any who serve at his side, for although he has witnessed countless horrors, the annals report that his loyalty to his nation has never wavered.
Armaments
Anathema
Unlike blades of yore, whose enchantments inspired envy in allies, as readily as they did dread within their foes, this was once a humble sword, a weapon wrought from meteorite certainly, as was Blackguard tradition, but one bereft of the benefits most adventurers sought; though not for want of wealth, as this beast was bred for something greater than most.
Once the wise masters of Vel Anir had learnt of Melchior's talents, and witnessed the devastation his abilities could wreak upon the battlefield, they commissioned a custom creation which would surge to life within his grasp, but lay dormant, should the specialised soldier be captured or killed by another nation. That is how Anathema first rent the enemies of Anir asunder, for the slick obsidian steel became a malleable and malicious thing when wielded by the Magus, a device with several unique configurations, as engineering and artifice bled together in unholy matrimony.
Skyshredder
In war, an army's ability to project its power becomes of vital import, blessing battlements with ballista and bow alike, to ensure that even the most elusive of adversaries will succumb to its strength eventually. The first permutation of this pernicious prophet then, entices arches to appear in place of the sword's point, a position which allows Melchior to channel magical energy through the length of the weapon itself and propel it across distances akin to that of the composite longbow.
The emanations that ensue such cunning conjurations are doubtless as destructive as they are surprising, as one moment the swordsman might be massacring men amidst a fierce melee, and the next killing kings who thought themselves safe behind the bulk of their forces.
Jotunjabber
Vast as it is beautiful, Arethil has mustered many mortals to sojourn upon its surface across the ages, sentience whose shapes are as varied as the leaves upon a wistful wind, and it is only the fortunate, or perhaps most creative of killers, who recognise that where one blade might bite deeply in some, it might break when bathing another with its bloodied kiss. Melchior learnt this lesson well, when first the Western Legion repelled giants on campaign; for though their strength was something to behold, it was the stoutness of their skin which truly struck terror into soldiers' hearts; as spears shattered and even spells seldom slowed the bitter behemoths.
That was where the second silhouette of Anathema took root, as its wielder would swiftly summon the girth of a greatsword mid-swing, felling many monsters in the process as their confidence mere moments before crumbled, when thin blade became bludgeoning battering-ram ushered inexorably toward their neck.
Suddensorrow
The wonder of the world's wildlife is matched only in the endless environs which spring like saplings across its great face, countless castles and climates, demesnes and domiciles, which complicate combat for any who would battle beneath the gaze of gleaming, hungry stars. What use is a pike, one might wonder, when pinned within a tavern's tight tapestry of tables and chairs, or a crossbow when confronted by the cramped corners of a staircase, or dungeon.
That was where the third foray into fortifying Anathema was born, as scenery would subdue Melchior's swings no longer, when he reduced its wrath in size to that of a shortsword, or even a deadly dagger, should the need arise to adapt or out-draw his foes.
The Mourning Maiden
Etched from ebony, and nestling nightmare with each and every edge of its design, this kite shield depicts a devilish scene, where a maiden mourns their fate, as they lie encircled by an array of monstrous beasts; a being bereft of hope, save their belief that someone will snatch them from the jaws of proverbial defeat.
This enchanted edifice lends more than metaphorical might to Melchior's endeavours, however, for just as the maiden endures amidst the dangers of the void, so too do his intentions find comfort in the cavalcade of spells that smother the shield's shell; dweomers which dismiss gravity's grip, should he seek to soar, and oxygens ire, should he swim beneath the waves.
Biography & Lore
Appropriated from aristocracy at a young age, as is Vel Anir's way when a child shows signs of sorcery, Melchior found little success at the academy initially; after all his strength was squandered by instructors, who sought to subdue him through the summoning of spark and spell, as dictated by the rigid curriculum.
Scorned for his ineptitude, and inevitably assailed by peers that picked at his prowess, like vultures can a corpse, the boy might have consigned themselves to a lifetime of misery, had their true talent not blossomed when the blows of bullies graduated from fists, to flame; for the backlash birthed by a spell striking the child's skin, consumed their foe in a ferocious conflagration. That was when Melchior's worth, or perhaps woe, was first wrought, for from that moment he became anathema to his kin, a blasphemous weapon with which to strike at the academy's arcane inclined enemies.
As the years crept on, and the masters of the citadel scoured every inch of lore in hopes of understanding the boy's abilities, so too did he study with blade and bow, honing his martial might through rigorous and often relentless training, whilst wise men waged wars of words and influence, over who would claim him for their house. Realizing that their presence within the structure of seven would simply divide Vel Anir though, at a time when the lands were beset by elves at every turn, Melchior was thrust from the bosom of the academy's spell-seared walls, into the barracks of the Blackguard instead; a fate far less ignoble than his parents had dreamed.
There are rumours abound about the fate of that proverbial pariah, whispers of misfiring magic and catastrophic conjurations, which rent battlefields asunder for years to come; but perhaps the proudest that the blackguard are best known for, is destroying a druid's stranglehold on Anirian forces, during the second Elven War.
Scorned for his ineptitude, and inevitably assailed by peers that picked at his prowess, like vultures can a corpse, the boy might have consigned themselves to a lifetime of misery, had their true talent not blossomed when the blows of bullies graduated from fists, to flame; for the backlash birthed by a spell striking the child's skin, consumed their foe in a ferocious conflagration. That was when Melchior's worth, or perhaps woe, was first wrought, for from that moment he became anathema to his kin, a blasphemous weapon with which to strike at the academy's arcane inclined enemies.
As the years crept on, and the masters of the citadel scoured every inch of lore in hopes of understanding the boy's abilities, so too did he study with blade and bow, honing his martial might through rigorous and often relentless training, whilst wise men waged wars of words and influence, over who would claim him for their house. Realizing that their presence within the structure of seven would simply divide Vel Anir though, at a time when the lands were beset by elves at every turn, Melchior was thrust from the bosom of the academy's spell-seared walls, into the barracks of the Blackguard instead; a fate far less ignoble than his parents had dreamed.
There are rumours abound about the fate of that proverbial pariah, whispers of misfiring magic and catastrophic conjurations, which rent battlefields asunder for years to come; but perhaps the proudest that the blackguard are best known for, is destroying a druid's stranglehold on Anirian forces, during the second Elven War.