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 Vannelson SelDakovhen-::Anderson::- (Human)

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PostSubject: Vannelson SelDakovhen-::Anderson::- (Human)   Sun Feb 08, 2009 10:36 pm


Basic

Name: Vannelson SelDakovhen, Anderson
Age: 27
Birthday: September 24th, 3682
Gender: Male
Picture: Bust Shot
Profession: Monk in the Brotherhood of Tolerance
Relation to Others: He has no memory, and though others know him, he doesn't remember them.
Likes: Serenity, practicing with his weapons, the companionship of his fellow Brothers
Dislikes: Unnecessary or stupidly incited violence, close-mindedness, being left alone


Description

Eyes: Blue
Hair Color/Style: Brown with bits of blond that varies in length depending on when last it was cut. Just behind his ear on the right side of his head is a braided lock of hair with a blue bead on the end.
Height: 5'9"


Other

Cause of "Death": During the battle of Racksom, Vann challenged Kevv to a duel. After Kevv transformed into hir male form, Vann lost his life when his weapon broke, allowing Kevv to land the final blow.
Resurrection: It is unknown why Vann was resurrected, for what purpose, or how. All that's known is that he woke in a puddle of his own blood with his slashed throat closed and no memory of the years in which he spend possessed by a crowd of angry spirits who wished vengeance on males.

History: Vann was born into a wealthy artisan family in Yarrowitz. His eldest brother was always destined to be the head of the family, and was given a top-notch education from the get go in politics and the arts. Vann would have grown up to be an assistant of his brother's one day, save for some inner family strive that saw all the siblings separated. The second eldest brother somehow got involved with some shady politics of his own and tried to assassinate the eldest brother so he could take his place in the family hierarchy. The plan ultimately backfired, resulting in the younger brother's death. After the inevitable fall-out once the assassination attempt had been revealed, Vann and all his siblings were scattered to the corners of the city and beyond.

Vann was sent to a monastery in Didienne, learning to be a scholar for the sake of knowledge in the Brotherhood of Tolerance. There he also learned the ancient art of weapons, but only as a defensive and ceremonial technique. His range of knowledge covers most weapons of old, though most of his skills are useless for the purposes of practical battles. At the age of 18, he was inducted into the church officially and performed his ceremony on a night that would prove to change his life forever. Something went terribly wrong, and he was possessed by vengeful spirits of fallen warrior women. The next morning he woke up covered in blood, and the church was burning to the ground. For a while, he fought against the call of the blood-lust, but the Voices won out in the end and he had committed many murders under their influence. However, when he apparently lost his life in the battle of Racksom, the spirits fled his corpse and returned to the afterlife where they belonged. The next day, he woke from death itself with nine years of his memory erased on top of the border walls of Racksom. All is not silent in the realm of Vann's head, however. He still has one voice left, though what it's intentions and purpose are have yet to be revealed. For whatever reason, the Voice is simply content to remark on the goings on of the outside world in metaphor, and does little else.

Currently, Vann is residing in Racksom as an underling of Andyr's. The ideals of his creed forced him to speak out when it might have better served him to remain silent, and he now belongs to the Surahnian army. He has a new name, "Little Blonde", and that is the only name by which he is allowed to be called in Andyr's presence.


Quick Facts: The Order of Tolerance believes that “You must understand the ways of battle before you can understand those who wage it.” Meaning, they strive to see both sides of any conflict in order to come to a peaceful resolution that benefits both sides without invoking blood shed. Toward this purpose, all monks of the Order are taught ceremonial weaponry "combat", and they are stepped in the art of debate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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PostSubject: Re: Vannelson SelDakovhen-::Anderson::- (Human)   Mon Feb 09, 2009 12:36 am

The land seemed eerily quiet that night; the moon little more than a sliver of light in the pure, unobstructed sky above. Far below on the grounds walked a line of twenty or so men along a winding road that lead steadily up hill, each holding a staff with a lantern attached to the end. The paper that covered the lanterns bore strange symbols, markings that any local would know represented a creed of monks who lived in that abbey at the top of the hill connected to their church. In the middle of this group was a single young man who hadn’t been given a lantern to hold. He was cloaked in heavy materials that were stained black as night, the deep cowl hiding in shadow all of his facial features. Embroidered all over the cloak were symbols much like those on the paper lantern covers in a light green color that stood out against the pure black. With only the sounds of the creaking of the lanterns and the shuffle of feet on a dirt road, the procession continued steadily up hill in silence.

The doors of the church swung open wide as the group approached, two of the elders having been left behind to prepare their sacred home for the ceremony that was about to take place. Incenses were burning on every window sill, filling the room with wisps of scented smoke thick enough to make the room seem slightly blurry at first glance, giving the church a surreal feel. All the pews had been pushed to the side of the room to keep out of the way of the procession, the altar bare of any decorations but the traditional scented candle sticks by which they could see. The weak moon light spilled gently through the stained glass windows, tainting the room blue where the torches above could not cast their light, the smoke playing in the moon rays. Forms seemed to dance across the gentle light, the shapes creating creatures and forms that tempted the eyes to watch as their silent music played on.

Heavy doors closed as the last of the hooded men filed in and stood before the altar, the single black-cloaked man still in their center. With the slowness of tradition, all of those with lanterns reached up and removed the paper, extinguishing the lights within and setting their staves aside, leaving the man in the black cloak by himself as the rest formed a semi-circle around him, all facing the altar. The two elders who had opened the church doors walked up the steps to the altar, each passing their hands through the flames of the candles without harm before standing side by side. One of the elders produced a small, simple bowl from beneath the altar, while the other revealed a small knife, the blade only the length of his pinky finger.

Bleck ted schokeib, favor unto you.” The elder with the bowl said, bowing to the audience gathered.

“And to you as well.” The monks replied, twisting their hands in front of their abdomens and bowed in the same fashion, all keeping their heads lowered for a moment before looking up once more.

“Brothers, tonight we are here to induct into our family the young apprentice, Vannelson SelDakovhen.” The elder holding the knife said, using his free hand to gesture to the audience.

“May he be received with warmth.” The monks said together, all sitting on their knees where they stood, attention now centered on the lone standing black-cloaked man.

“Apprentice, you have passed our tests and have this day become of age to be considered a man. You have proven that you are willing and able to mind our creed, and have come to be considered a part of our family. Do you know and accept the creed of our Brotherhood?” The bowl holding elder asked, his voice low and very serious.

“Yes, I do.” The black-cloaked figure replied, his body still under the watch of all the monks in the church.

“Come forward then, apprentice.” The elders said together.

Without hesitation, the single standing man walked forward up the steps to the altar, carrying himself with pride that could be seen by all, despite the heavy cloak about his shoulders. Reaching the altar, he touched the stone with reverent hands and bowed before the elders. “I, Vannelson SelDakovhen, do ask to be accepted by God into this brother hood. I now wear a cloak of black. It represents my sin, my ignorance, my greed, violence and malevolence. I shed this cloak now.” Shrugging off the heavy material, it slid to the ground with a whisper of fabric, revealing the face of the young man beneath. Bright blue eyes and dark, straw-blonde hair, a strong jaw line and a somber look about his being. He looked ready for the undertaking he was about to go through, for there was not a trace of hesitation in his eyes.

The elder with the bowl placed it in the center of the altar before the young man, and the other handed him the small knife. “The blood you spill into this bowl will represent the bond of this brotherhood. In all things, we are connected, for we all share our faith in God, and now our blood through tradition. Take this knife in hand, and may it be the last time that you ever willingly spill blood.”

Vannelson took the knife in hand with a respectful nod, pricking his finger with the small blade. A dark ruby drop of blood appeared, and he touched the bottom of the bowl with it, tracing a pattern that was the most prominent symbol of their religion. When he had properly traced the pattern in the bottom of the bowl, he handed the small knife back to the elder and bowed his head, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes in prayer and began chanting.

“Nomu Bleck, zumufipumg yemwai lidujivep gosh senzupu hujifaimeg yehkeh gi zu lujinogguwei gi aieji zeguw. Holojogeh iv didij, O omofogu aie go pofu omohow nu yemwe quuil na suing juyawa vougi hegjovu....”

Suddenly, the wind outside howled and whistled outside. The monks gathered all gasped at Vannelson’s words, a small panic erupting from within their midst. Vann’s eyes opened and his head snapped up, dread settling in his stomach as he realized what he’d just said. The wind outside came to a screaming pitch and the church moaned under the assault. The stained glass windows burst, scattering the glass every which way and the monks screamed in pain. All the lights were instantly blown out, putting them all in complete darkness.

“What’s going on?” Vannelson asked, his head whipping from side to side, his unease quickly turning to a very potent fear. The two elders in front of him suddenly collapsed, and the wind died, no longer screaming, but whispering.

At first, the voices were undistinguishable, mutterings that kept the fear and pain-filled monks in the church quiet, just listening to them. Then the voices became more defined. They were female voices, sweet, seductive and utterly tempting. Siren calls so sweet that they made Vannelson grip his head and drop to his knees, trying to block out the sound. Now they seemed to be assaulting him, driving at his ears and begging for entrance, for fulfillment and for blood. His vision blurred, a splitting headache making him scream, his body writhing against those horrible voices.

“Make it stop!” He screamed, falling to the floor and convulsing there against the noise. He was dimly aware of hands on him, voices other than those screaming siren calls trying to break through the haze that gripped his mind… then nothing.

----

He was first aware of the smell of burning wood, then came an acrid stench that seemed to assail all of his senses, violently waking him from his sleep. Only half aware of what he was doing, Vannelson flipped himself so that he was lying on his face, then managed to half-way sit up and vomit all the contents of his stomach. The stench clogged his mind and body, forcing him to heave until everything was on the ground and he felt weak and trembling, blurry eyes not comprehending the scene around him.

Managing to stand, he wiped his mouth on the corner of his sleeve surveying the land. The sky above was clouded with black oily smoke. The sun on the horizon cast what little sky there was to be seen in a deep blood-red color. All around him was the burning remains of a building, and he could even make out the half-burnt bodies of the people who had occupied it. Steadying himself against his rebelling stomach, Vannelson started walking backwards away from the scene, horror filling him. Was this the church? It had to be! He recognized the robes of one of the corpses. What had happened here? What had-

He stumbled on something and nearly fell, but caught himself in time. Looking down, he saw the long shaft of a decorated lance that had hung above the altar in the back of the church. It was covered in dried blood. Vann raised his hand to his face, as if to cover his eyes and block out the sight of the weapon and the burned church, but stopped. Red swam before his eyes, but not in anger or rage. Blood coated his hands, his arms and clothes. Spatters of dried blood were in his hair and on his face. He was covered in the blood of the monks.

Eyes widening in fear and horror, he stumbled backwards and fell to his knees, eyes locked on the lance. Then he heard them; the voices. Sweetly whispering in the back of his head, congratulating him and expressing their satisfaction at his work. Clapping his hands to his ears, the youth let out a blood curdling scream.

He was a murderer.



Bleck ted schokeib - God be willing
* The long speech that Vann says is on the beginning to a traditional acceptance speech. He mispronounced a few key words, which made them mean something completely different and gave the Voices access to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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PostSubject: Re: Vannelson SelDakovhen-::Anderson::- (Human)   Tue Oct 25, 2011 3:22 am

Vann wiped the blood from his sword on the shirt of the man he had just killed, his breath heaving from the exertion of the fight. Though the man lying dead on the ground had succumbed to the possessed man's superior sword fighting skills, he had left a fair amount of wounds on the aggressor before he had been defeated.

He had been skilled, Vann admitted grudgingly, his body screaming with pain as he tried to stand from his kneeling position. He sported a large wound on his left forearm where his defenses had been penetrated, laying open the flesh with ease, seeing as he sported no armor to speak of. He had ripped up some cloth to bind the wound, but it was still seeping around the material. If there was no healer he could turn to to stitch the wound up, he very well could die from blood loss, or have the gaping wound become infected, and loose his arm to gangrene. Neither option seemed very nice to the murderer, so he began walking toward where he thought the nearest town would be.

As the adrenaline from the battle began to wear off, Vann noticed that all the pain that had been inflicted on him was slowly surfacing. A wound on his thigh he didn't even know he had incurred began to burn with every step he took, forcing him into an awkward straight-legged limp. The energy high he had experienced was leaving him, and it took a supreme effort and all of his concentration to simply place one foot in front of the other as he walked, not even sure if he was going the right way anymore. His vision began to swim, the corners going dark, and all sense was lost to him. He tripped on something, but couldn't summon the strength to stop himself from falling, or even worry that it was going to hurt. In fact, it didn't. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first thing that he became aware of was a warm glow on the right side of his body, and the light that was causing it was falling right on his face. Secondly, he noted with dull interest that a throbbing pain just weak enough to play on the tip of his consciousness emanated from his arm, leg, and a few other parts of his body from the battle. Turning his face from the light, Vann opened his eyes slowly, wondering where he was. The sheets and bed were certainly not a feature that he remembered on that dusty road in the middle of nowhere.

Sitting up, he inspected the bandages binding his wounds, and saw that not only was he shirtless, but was wearing someone else's pants. Underneath the clean white bandages on his arm, he could see that someone had gone through the trouble of stitching the wound up. It was fresh, the skin still a bright irritated red around where the thick thread was holding the edges of his flesh together. No signs of gangrene, which was good.

The room he had been set up in was very plain, with a simple wooden nightstand next to the bed and a dresser in the corner of the room. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Vann stood, groaning with the effort it took. His muscles were still sore, and his body felt weak and lethargic. How long had he been bedridden?

Walking to the other side of the room, he opened the door, hoping that someone would be able to explain his shirtlessness, how he'd gotten there, and where his sword was. The door allowed him a view of the main parlor of the house. This was no fancy upper-class home, just a simple village peasant's residence with a single table and a relatively new carpet underneath it. There was a wood stove in the corner, and sitting next to it was a rocking chair, currently inhabited by what he supposed was the owner of this house.

The woman looked up when she noticed him, stopping in the middle of her knitting at the sight of the stranger up and about. She was relatively pretty by normal standards, small of stature with large brown eyes and equally brown hair, caught back in a knot to keep the long locks from falling into her face. Like her house, she was dressed very plainly, in a simple cream colored dress that was perhaps a little big on her small frame, but not noticeably so. "I see that you've finally woken up." She said, setting aside her knitting and standing, walking forward a few paces.

"Finally?" He asked, arching one brow in question.

"Oh yes, after they brought you here and I stitched you up, you were out for five days." The woman replied with a smile. "You were terribly wounded, and had lost a lot of blood. We weren't sure if you were going to make it."

"We?" Vann felt as if he was about to play a game with twenty questions with the woman. She seemed like she was just one of those people with the annoying habit of leaving out all of the important details.

"My husband, and the traveling traders who found you on the roadside." She said evenly. "You were very lucky that they found you." Vann nodded mutely, seemingly unwilling to comment on the subject. Her smile saddened a little bit, her suspicions all but confirmed. Bandits in the area had become quite the problem, and this poor man seemed like just another victim. "Well, let me check your stitches, and then I'll get you a shirt. Can't have a half-naked man running around my house!" She said jokingly, nodding back toward the bedroom that he'd just come out of.

Unwilling to offend the woman who had probably saved his life, Vann did as was ordered and sat back down on the bed, letting her peel back in bandages and check the wounds that were scattered around his body. "Where exactly am I, and who are you?"

The woman looked up, a bit surprised and re-wrapped a bandage on his right hand that she'd been inspecting. "Why, we're in Plurith. And I'm Aimee Thatcher, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Vann, of Didienne." He replied shortly, watching with a dull sort of interest as Aimee went over all of the bandaged bits with extreme care. For a woman married to a thatcher, she certainly seemed to know her way around wounded patients. He had to wonder how many people like himself showed up on her doorstep on a regular basis, and came to the conclusion that it must have been a lot. She seemed too pretty to be a nurse.

Again, she paused in her work to look up at Vann. "You're certainly a long way from home, Vann. What brings you all the way out here?"

He shrugged, trying to effect a carefree attitude. "I'm just a wanderer by nature, I'm afraid. There's no rhyme or reason to my traveling." And that was mostly the truth. His traveling only had purpose when he was out to murder somebody. Otherwise, he was just like any other wandering swordsman without a purpose.

"Well, I guess that means you'll be on your way again once you're back to health, right? Well, don't worry about it if you need to go. We've had people in and out before. I'm used to it." She gave him her best smile, then stood, heading for the door. "It's nearly dinner time, so get a little rest and I'll whip up some soup for you." Aimee gave him a small wave and closed the door after herself, leaving him alone again to ponder the situation.

Well, at least he had free room and board for now. It was certainly better than scouting around for an inn.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Vann woke with a sudden jolt, only half conscious as he reached for his sword, only to find that it wasn't where he expected it to be. Waking up a little more, he realized that he'd been startled out of his sleep by someone entering the room, and that someone was standing at his side, apparently watching him. Rubbing his face to clear away the sleep, he found that it was Aimee, her form barely definable in the darkness of the night.

"What in the world are you-" He began, but was cut off as a slim finger was pressed against his lips, shushing him effectively.

"There's no need to get flustered." Aimee whispered, her voice low and sensual. It was only then that Vann could see that she wasn't dress in anything more than a simple thin nightgown, the front of which was dipping dangerously low as she leaned over him, her fingers playing gently over his chest. Her face came closer, and she placed a few fleeting kisses on his jaw, her breath hot on his neck.

With what little room he had to maneuver in, he manged to put a little distance between himself and the woman, staring at her confused. "Aimee, you've got a husband."

She frowned, her full lips pulling down into a pout. He could tell that she'd practiced that face many times before, and found it strangely alluring. "Aye, a husband that leaves me for weeks on end and won't be back for days yet." She replied, her voice still in that low sexy tone. "But you're here and now, Vann. Besides... as soon as your wounds heal, you'll be out of here again. No strings attached."

Vann attempted to say something more, but was shushed again as Aimee maneuvered herself onto the bed, her body practically radiating heat and desire. "Just one night."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning was nothing if not awkward. Aimee seemed completely at ease, telling Vann that she'd probably been an adulteress for a long time, and had probably seen many one night stand companions float through here. She'd practically even said so herself!

Breakfast was a silent affair, with the woman doing her knitting by the iron pipe stove like before. Just as he'd finished the soupy oat bowl, the front door swung open, a man appearing in the doorway. Aimee looked up alarmed, but upon seeing who it was, quickly set aside her knitting and stood, a bright smile on her face. "Richard! You're back early, my dear!"

The man gave a great hearty laugh, embracing the small woman with a large grin on his face. "I rushed home just for you, Aimee dear. Business was done a tad early this time. The job was easier than expected." Richard said, planting a kiss on her forehead, and then her lips. It was only after he was satisfied with his hello to his wife that he noticed Vann sitting at the table, and turned a friendly smile on him. "Why hello there. Are you another one of those pesky wayfarers that my wife keeps dragging into the house?" He asked with a good-natured tone.

Vann could only stare in response. Not because he couldn't come up with a decent reply, but because the familiar stirring in his mind that marked the presence of a man that had just signed up for death had appeared before him. As always, one particular voice rose above the rest, screaming for his death in the most horrible ways possible. The particular voice seemed abnormally livid up and above the rest, so he had a feeling that the resulting death of this Richard person wasn't going to end pretty. A shame. He seemed like such a nice person.

Realizing that they were both staring, he cleared his head, and managed a weary smile. "Yes, sorry for intruding. Your wife was kind enough to patch up my wounds."

Richard, seeing that the young man seemed to have a hold over himself again, waved off the praise with a grin. "You're lucky! There's no better nurse in all of Plurith."

Vann nodded his assent, then stood. "I'll excuse myself... recovering is a tough job."

"Oh yes, please, do go get your rest. The more the better." Aimee piped up, hardly looking at Vann, her eyes seemingly locked onto Richard with nothing less than absolute adoration in her eyes. What a strange woman...

Back in the little room that he had been allotted, Vann opened the large dresser across from his bed, and rifled around in the drawers until he found his sword. Aimee had shown him where she had kept his clothes and weapon the day before. It seemed that the time to use them was much sooner than he had expected. Calmly, and with a practiced hand, he buckled on his sword belt over the clothes he was wearing now, flipping the clothes in the drawer over his left shoulder. With that same air of calm and collectivity, he walked back out the door into the main room, where Richard and Aimee were talking animatedly to one another.

It was Aimee who gave away the pending attack, her eyes widening as she saw the sword. "Vann, what are you doing?" She asked, her voice rising. Richard, in automatic response, turned, and received a sword slash directly across the chest.

In the background, he could hear Aimee screaming as Richard fell, eyes wide with fear as he looked up at the blond sword-wielding man, his blood quickly staining the front of his shirt and dripping onto the floor. "What-" He didn't get to finish his question, Vann's blade flashing out and plunging into his chest, piercing his heart. All that he could manage was a strangled cry of pain that increased in volume when the sharp steel twisted in his chest, ripping up the failing organ as his lifeblood poured out all over the floor. He tried to grab the blade, as if to yank it out of his chest, but his strength was quickly failing him, and he couldn't do much more than touch it fleetingly with his finger tips.

Vann stepped on the downed man's chest, ripping his blade free and causing Richard to cry out again in agony. "I'll see you in hell, brother." He said in a soft voice, slightly distorted as his eyes flashed red, his sword coming down in an arc the laid wide the soft tissue of the man's neck.

Aimee had retreated to a corner of the house, quivering in fear with wide eyes centered on her dead husband and the man who had killed him, calmly wiping the blood off of his blade with a bit of shirt that he'd sliced off the dead man. When he had sheathed his sword, he looked over at Aimee, a smile gracing his face. "Well, it looks like you'll never have to worry about him leaving you alone for a job ever again." he made a move with his left hand, as if he were tipping his hat to the woman, then simply turned and walked out of the house, leaving the traumatized Aimee with the fresh corpse that had once been her husband. "Ah, love." He said with a sigh, shaking his head with an amused look on his face, and just kept walking. Next stop, Racksom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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