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

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.

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.