Post by Coolreject on Jun 20, 2009 16:46:35 GMT -5
This is a really angsty and violent section from Jorian's history. I wrote this crap in high school and it shows, but it's not exceedingly terrible, so I thought I would share it. Since a DM brought up parts of Jorian's past in a quest, and a few have expressed interest in it I figure I should post more of it. I might as well, since he's one of the few character's I've invented who's background isn't ambiguous, and is actually almost 100% thought out.
Jorian walked among the gravestones, the solemn silence almost intimidating. It was some time before he spotted the three he was looking for, easy enough, all of them lined up next to each other. He glanced over the names engraved into each stone.
The first marked the resting place of his mother. Jorian had barely known her as he was three when she passed away while giving birth to his sister, Stephanie. She had not known her mother at all, and Jorian’s memory of her was blurry and unattached. Their father seemed to be the one who missed her the most.
His eyes moved over to the next grave. It was the newest of the bunch and in good condition. Jorian sighed, bowed his head and prayed. He imagined what it would be like to speak with his father now, to show him what his son had become. He wasn’t a young, punk kid anymore, he had grown up, gained responsibilities, maturity and wisdom. Jorian was still left in the dark as to whether his father ever really approved of him.
Soon after, his gaze wandered to the grave of Stephanie, his younger sister. Throughout her life, she had always felt guilty about her mother’s death and she foolishly blamed herself for it. She seemed sorry about her existence and as such, she was extremely generous, kind and made many self sacrifices. She was a bizarre creature to find in the Beggar’s Nest. Her life was cut short, though, at the age of sixteen.
Jorian winced as the memories flooded his mind. He remembered the loud pounding on his door, rushing over then opening it to find lying at his feet, the beaten, stabbed, amputated, naked and violated corpse of his sister. Chunks of her hair were missing, seemingly ripped off by bare hands and she was covered in stab wounds which left her body pale and drained of blood. One of her arms was missing, not cut off, but seeming to be… -chewed- off.
A pure, numbing shock buzzed through his body, and his vision went white with rage as his mind tried to process what it had just seen. His hands shook as he kneeled down, wide eyes gaping over the destroyed body of his baby sister, the one who had been so kind and generous to everyone she met, the only innocent soul in the Beggar’s Nest. Who could have done this? Who? WHO!?
The name hit him like a punch to the stomach: Torn. Torn must have done this. Yes, it certainly made sense. Jorian’s old boss, Torn, was an evil man who lead a gang of thugs in the Nest who terrorized and extorted the population. Jorian was a part of that gang, but not anymore. No, he had recently changed, due to extreme circumstances. He had left and was training to be a paladin. He ratted out the entire gang and helped to destroy them.
He had also recently slain Kryss.
Yes, that was it. Kryss, Torn’s lover… Jorian had killed her, this was retribution. The coward. He came after a defenseless teenage girl instead of the man who he really had a problem with. That fubar, he was going to pay.
He was going to pay, dearly.
Hatred ran through Jorian’s soul as he made his way down towards his home. He saw his father lying inside, beaten up and bloody. Jorian began to dress his wounds, but he only cried out in protest.
“Forget me! They took Stephanie! You have to save her!”
Jorian didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was far too late.
He knew where the gang would be hiding out, an old abandoned warehouse, in the wretched center of the slums. When Jorian reached the destination, the entrance door exploded off of its hinges when it gave way to a swift kick. The moment the warrior ran inside, he was assaulted by at least thirty or more men. They all snickered and shook their heads.
“Come to die, old pal?”
“Aww look at that, he misses his poor little baby sister!”
“This’ll be fun. I’ve always wanted to kill him. Always knew he was a bad one to have around.”
“Let’s get this over with already. I’m still tired from the fun we had with his sister.”
And so they unsheathed their weapons, and moved in to kill the emotional wreck that their target had become.
Rage burning in his eyes, Jorian drew his sword.
With a thunderous battle cry, Jorian became a whirlwind of flashing steel, a bladed death machine powered by fury. The nonchalant demeanor of his foes quickly turned serious as his weapon sliced into the flesh of his attackers, liberating limbs and covering the ground in puddles of blood that splattered when the numerous boots stepped in them. Screams of anguish and horror echoed throughout the room. No attacker could hope to stand up to Jorian’s prowess for long. They were soon disarmed then reduced to a quivering pile of gore. One after another, wave after wave, all fell to the whirling scimitar.
His father taught him how to fight.
Torn taught him how to kill.
The order of Tyr taught him discipline and divine skill.
The combinations of the different lessons and viewpoints over the years had culminated inside of him. Instead of confusing him and dividing his mind, they merged and became a whole better than its parts. He was now a warrior, far more experienced than any other his age as he was put through a rapid explosion of mental and physical growth. His prowess was nearly ten times of what it had been when he left the gang.
Soon, the crowded room of warriors and thugs was reduced to a few winded peons. Jorian glanced up at them, his body soaked in blood. A reddish tint was plastered to his skin and his long black hair hung down around his face in a sweaty mess. His clothes were torn and he was inflicted with numerous wounds that would have killed him, if it were not for his immense rage. His powerful muscles heaved with each labored breath, and the scars that criss-crossed them only added to their intimidating appearance. He held out his blood stained scimitar to his enemies, showing off its numerous tally marks carved into the hilt. His lips gave way to a grin when he looked into the eyes of his foes.
These people, he had known them for most of his life as heartless, ruthless and extremely frightening killers. These were people who murdered entire families for money, these were people who got pleasure out of torturing others. It was there, in the orbs, the eyes of these vicious human monsters, he saw something beautiful.
Fear.
They slowly backed away, their swords trembling in their feeble hands. They could readily steal the life of another, but had no stomach for looking their own death in the face. They were murders, not warriors. Finally understanding this, Jorian’s grin grew wider and wider, until it became a full-fledged laugh. Realizing how pathetic they really were, he threw himself at the small group with a hearty roar. Knowing he was superior in every way to these piles of scum, he struck with an unbeatable confidence and drove them bloodily into the nonexistence fit for their kind.
Slowly walking forward and leaving behind a pile of slain enemies, he finally faced the leader, Torn, a huge, brutish half giant, who had inherited a taste for flesh. He grinned at Jorian, showing bits of meat and skin, his sister’s, hanging from his animal-like teeth. He held two massive great axes, one in each hand and taunted Jorian.
The warrior charged, and the two clashed for what seemed like hours. After a grueling dead lock, Jorian finally found his body giving out on him. He collapsed to the floor, bleeding from a seemingly infinite number of wounds. He stared up at Torn, hatred still burning in his eyes. The giant grinned down at him and prepared to strike the final blow.
He prepared for the end, he was finally going to die.
But one empowering thought crept into his mind…
He was about to die by the hand of the fubar that raped and murdered his sister.
Denying that fate with every fiber of his being, Jorian summoned one final burst of strength. He lifted his scimitar up off of the ground and drove it viciously in between Torn’s legs. The scream the monster emitted was both horrible and immensely satisfying.
The man beast threw back his head and howled in agony as his manhood, one that he abused, was ruined. Jorian, encouraged by his foe’s agony, twisted the blade, ripping apart flesh and spilling blood down Torn’s legs. The pain for him was unimaginable, it shot through his entire being, as if the veins in his bladder and stomach were constricting upon their respective organs. Drool poured out of his mouth as it hung open in a convulsive scream. He tried to close his jaw, gritting his teeth, but the pain made him bite so hard, that some of his yellows popped forth from his jaw.
Finally, Jorian ripped the blade out, letting Torn drop to his knees. With a final cry of victory, the warrior jammed his tally mark covered scimitar into the half-giant’s forehead. There was a spurt of blood, an unfocusing of the eyes and then Torn, the evil one, lay dead.
Staring at his corpse and looking back at the dead gang-members strewn across warehouse floor, Jorian couldn’t help but wonder: Was all the paladin discipline worth it?
It was later that night he felt it, a sickening nausea in the pit of his stomach that gripped his form as he headed towards the city gates. He was bleary-eyed and exhausted, and his body still reeked of blood and sweat from the battle. He had covered his body in a red and black robe and similarly colored helmet and he was able to slip through the gates of Neverwinter to leave the city. On the road winding away from where he had spent his entire life up until now, the sickening feeling in Jorian’s stomach grew more powerful.
He could feel something being sucked away from him, and he could feel his body growing weaker. The paladin spells he had prepared began to fizzle, and he suddenly felt very cold, and very alone. But then, shortly after, there was a slightly warm embrace from seemingly within his own body.
Tyr had weakened him, and punished his actions by withdrawing a great deal of his paladin abilities. Jorian could be forgiven, but he would have to atone for his actions before fully regaining his paladin strength. Thus, the warrior looked forwards towards the horizon, as the long road stretched out to what seemed like an infinite length along the dangerous Sword Coast. The path to redemption would be difficult indeed, and he might not even survive it, but he was young, and time was on his side.
Back at the graveyard, as that part of the story ran through his mind, he kneeled down by his sister’s grave, the world growing blurry behind his tearing eyes. He brought his eyelids together and chocked back sobs, each word he spoke threatening to let them out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry… If I had never gotten involved with them…”
He only hoped futilely that his sister could hear him.
When he felt he was ready, Jorian turned and left the graves behind with a wealth of flowers laid around them. Familiar guilt still filling up his mind, he made his way through the haphazard maze of the Nest, his vision occasionally growing blurry before being cleared by a wipe of the sleeve. The memories had clawed their way from the back of his psyche and had begun their assault. Stopping to lean trembling up against the wall of a looted shop, he thought of the one tool he had always used to help him through moments like this.
He glanced up and across the street and saw a sign hanging above a door. It bared a ridiculous name, “The Bearded Nymph,” which was a telltale sign of a tavern. His gaze shifted back and forth between the sign of the tavern and the symbol of Tyr necklace dangling around his neck. Jorian painfully turned his gaze to the tavern, sighed, stuffed the necklace in his pack, and made his way over.
Jorian walked among the gravestones, the solemn silence almost intimidating. It was some time before he spotted the three he was looking for, easy enough, all of them lined up next to each other. He glanced over the names engraved into each stone.
The first marked the resting place of his mother. Jorian had barely known her as he was three when she passed away while giving birth to his sister, Stephanie. She had not known her mother at all, and Jorian’s memory of her was blurry and unattached. Their father seemed to be the one who missed her the most.
His eyes moved over to the next grave. It was the newest of the bunch and in good condition. Jorian sighed, bowed his head and prayed. He imagined what it would be like to speak with his father now, to show him what his son had become. He wasn’t a young, punk kid anymore, he had grown up, gained responsibilities, maturity and wisdom. Jorian was still left in the dark as to whether his father ever really approved of him.
Soon after, his gaze wandered to the grave of Stephanie, his younger sister. Throughout her life, she had always felt guilty about her mother’s death and she foolishly blamed herself for it. She seemed sorry about her existence and as such, she was extremely generous, kind and made many self sacrifices. She was a bizarre creature to find in the Beggar’s Nest. Her life was cut short, though, at the age of sixteen.
Jorian winced as the memories flooded his mind. He remembered the loud pounding on his door, rushing over then opening it to find lying at his feet, the beaten, stabbed, amputated, naked and violated corpse of his sister. Chunks of her hair were missing, seemingly ripped off by bare hands and she was covered in stab wounds which left her body pale and drained of blood. One of her arms was missing, not cut off, but seeming to be… -chewed- off.
A pure, numbing shock buzzed through his body, and his vision went white with rage as his mind tried to process what it had just seen. His hands shook as he kneeled down, wide eyes gaping over the destroyed body of his baby sister, the one who had been so kind and generous to everyone she met, the only innocent soul in the Beggar’s Nest. Who could have done this? Who? WHO!?
The name hit him like a punch to the stomach: Torn. Torn must have done this. Yes, it certainly made sense. Jorian’s old boss, Torn, was an evil man who lead a gang of thugs in the Nest who terrorized and extorted the population. Jorian was a part of that gang, but not anymore. No, he had recently changed, due to extreme circumstances. He had left and was training to be a paladin. He ratted out the entire gang and helped to destroy them.
He had also recently slain Kryss.
Yes, that was it. Kryss, Torn’s lover… Jorian had killed her, this was retribution. The coward. He came after a defenseless teenage girl instead of the man who he really had a problem with. That fubar, he was going to pay.
He was going to pay, dearly.
Hatred ran through Jorian’s soul as he made his way down towards his home. He saw his father lying inside, beaten up and bloody. Jorian began to dress his wounds, but he only cried out in protest.
“Forget me! They took Stephanie! You have to save her!”
Jorian didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was far too late.
He knew where the gang would be hiding out, an old abandoned warehouse, in the wretched center of the slums. When Jorian reached the destination, the entrance door exploded off of its hinges when it gave way to a swift kick. The moment the warrior ran inside, he was assaulted by at least thirty or more men. They all snickered and shook their heads.
“Come to die, old pal?”
“Aww look at that, he misses his poor little baby sister!”
“This’ll be fun. I’ve always wanted to kill him. Always knew he was a bad one to have around.”
“Let’s get this over with already. I’m still tired from the fun we had with his sister.”
And so they unsheathed their weapons, and moved in to kill the emotional wreck that their target had become.
Rage burning in his eyes, Jorian drew his sword.
With a thunderous battle cry, Jorian became a whirlwind of flashing steel, a bladed death machine powered by fury. The nonchalant demeanor of his foes quickly turned serious as his weapon sliced into the flesh of his attackers, liberating limbs and covering the ground in puddles of blood that splattered when the numerous boots stepped in them. Screams of anguish and horror echoed throughout the room. No attacker could hope to stand up to Jorian’s prowess for long. They were soon disarmed then reduced to a quivering pile of gore. One after another, wave after wave, all fell to the whirling scimitar.
His father taught him how to fight.
Torn taught him how to kill.
The order of Tyr taught him discipline and divine skill.
The combinations of the different lessons and viewpoints over the years had culminated inside of him. Instead of confusing him and dividing his mind, they merged and became a whole better than its parts. He was now a warrior, far more experienced than any other his age as he was put through a rapid explosion of mental and physical growth. His prowess was nearly ten times of what it had been when he left the gang.
Soon, the crowded room of warriors and thugs was reduced to a few winded peons. Jorian glanced up at them, his body soaked in blood. A reddish tint was plastered to his skin and his long black hair hung down around his face in a sweaty mess. His clothes were torn and he was inflicted with numerous wounds that would have killed him, if it were not for his immense rage. His powerful muscles heaved with each labored breath, and the scars that criss-crossed them only added to their intimidating appearance. He held out his blood stained scimitar to his enemies, showing off its numerous tally marks carved into the hilt. His lips gave way to a grin when he looked into the eyes of his foes.
These people, he had known them for most of his life as heartless, ruthless and extremely frightening killers. These were people who murdered entire families for money, these were people who got pleasure out of torturing others. It was there, in the orbs, the eyes of these vicious human monsters, he saw something beautiful.
Fear.
They slowly backed away, their swords trembling in their feeble hands. They could readily steal the life of another, but had no stomach for looking their own death in the face. They were murders, not warriors. Finally understanding this, Jorian’s grin grew wider and wider, until it became a full-fledged laugh. Realizing how pathetic they really were, he threw himself at the small group with a hearty roar. Knowing he was superior in every way to these piles of scum, he struck with an unbeatable confidence and drove them bloodily into the nonexistence fit for their kind.
Slowly walking forward and leaving behind a pile of slain enemies, he finally faced the leader, Torn, a huge, brutish half giant, who had inherited a taste for flesh. He grinned at Jorian, showing bits of meat and skin, his sister’s, hanging from his animal-like teeth. He held two massive great axes, one in each hand and taunted Jorian.
The warrior charged, and the two clashed for what seemed like hours. After a grueling dead lock, Jorian finally found his body giving out on him. He collapsed to the floor, bleeding from a seemingly infinite number of wounds. He stared up at Torn, hatred still burning in his eyes. The giant grinned down at him and prepared to strike the final blow.
He prepared for the end, he was finally going to die.
But one empowering thought crept into his mind…
He was about to die by the hand of the fubar that raped and murdered his sister.
Denying that fate with every fiber of his being, Jorian summoned one final burst of strength. He lifted his scimitar up off of the ground and drove it viciously in between Torn’s legs. The scream the monster emitted was both horrible and immensely satisfying.
The man beast threw back his head and howled in agony as his manhood, one that he abused, was ruined. Jorian, encouraged by his foe’s agony, twisted the blade, ripping apart flesh and spilling blood down Torn’s legs. The pain for him was unimaginable, it shot through his entire being, as if the veins in his bladder and stomach were constricting upon their respective organs. Drool poured out of his mouth as it hung open in a convulsive scream. He tried to close his jaw, gritting his teeth, but the pain made him bite so hard, that some of his yellows popped forth from his jaw.
Finally, Jorian ripped the blade out, letting Torn drop to his knees. With a final cry of victory, the warrior jammed his tally mark covered scimitar into the half-giant’s forehead. There was a spurt of blood, an unfocusing of the eyes and then Torn, the evil one, lay dead.
Staring at his corpse and looking back at the dead gang-members strewn across warehouse floor, Jorian couldn’t help but wonder: Was all the paladin discipline worth it?
It was later that night he felt it, a sickening nausea in the pit of his stomach that gripped his form as he headed towards the city gates. He was bleary-eyed and exhausted, and his body still reeked of blood and sweat from the battle. He had covered his body in a red and black robe and similarly colored helmet and he was able to slip through the gates of Neverwinter to leave the city. On the road winding away from where he had spent his entire life up until now, the sickening feeling in Jorian’s stomach grew more powerful.
He could feel something being sucked away from him, and he could feel his body growing weaker. The paladin spells he had prepared began to fizzle, and he suddenly felt very cold, and very alone. But then, shortly after, there was a slightly warm embrace from seemingly within his own body.
Tyr had weakened him, and punished his actions by withdrawing a great deal of his paladin abilities. Jorian could be forgiven, but he would have to atone for his actions before fully regaining his paladin strength. Thus, the warrior looked forwards towards the horizon, as the long road stretched out to what seemed like an infinite length along the dangerous Sword Coast. The path to redemption would be difficult indeed, and he might not even survive it, but he was young, and time was on his side.
Back at the graveyard, as that part of the story ran through his mind, he kneeled down by his sister’s grave, the world growing blurry behind his tearing eyes. He brought his eyelids together and chocked back sobs, each word he spoke threatening to let them out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry… If I had never gotten involved with them…”
He only hoped futilely that his sister could hear him.
When he felt he was ready, Jorian turned and left the graves behind with a wealth of flowers laid around them. Familiar guilt still filling up his mind, he made his way through the haphazard maze of the Nest, his vision occasionally growing blurry before being cleared by a wipe of the sleeve. The memories had clawed their way from the back of his psyche and had begun their assault. Stopping to lean trembling up against the wall of a looted shop, he thought of the one tool he had always used to help him through moments like this.
He glanced up and across the street and saw a sign hanging above a door. It bared a ridiculous name, “The Bearded Nymph,” which was a telltale sign of a tavern. His gaze shifted back and forth between the sign of the tavern and the symbol of Tyr necklace dangling around his neck. Jorian painfully turned his gaze to the tavern, sighed, stuffed the necklace in his pack, and made his way over.