Aemondall
Information
Player: jasonb
Character Full Name: Aemondall Jackson (Ay-mon-DALL JACK-son)
Character In-Game Name: Aemondall
Nickname(s): Aemon (Ay-min)
Association(s): Mainly, himself. He doesn't concern himself with Alliance affairs much.
Race: Human
Class: Warlock
Age: 47
Sex: Male
Hair: Black and grey
Eyes: Black/Brown
Weight: 165 pounds
Height: Five feet, eleven inches
Appearance
Black, rough linen robes, and a dark colored cowl. More than likely carries a book with him.
Personality
Aemon's thoughts are without pattern, twisting and convulating in seemingly random directions, like the roots of a dark, sinister tree. His tongue is quick and his thoughts even quicker, as his mind, however odd, is cunning and genius. He isn't naturally withdrawn, but works to stay outside of the thoughts of those around him. His talks evasively, with half-truths and vague metaphors. He's pompous and vain by nature, but still able to follow orders, if he deems the person worthy of it. However, this is rare due to his extremely superior opinion of himself. He's mostly skeptical about the government and establishment, telling himself he could do better. If it were him in charge, he thinks, this whole drivvle with the orcs and tusky whowhats and wherefors would be done with in a month. Unfortunatly, we are not so fortunate. Neither is he so fortunate to have this fortune.
History
First person, present tense
Dawn is about to break. I can picture Myself against the twilight background to my rear. Dashing. Proud. Princely. I ask myself, Why not just be damned with these infidels and live alone?...And I chuckle. What fun would that be? I shift My weight to the other leg, marveling at how uncomfortable my shoes are. I deserve much better, I think. I deserve a castle, and catapults...big ones. Big, man-throwing catapults. Ones that make an impressive twang. Outfitted with shiny, iron and steel alloys. Ones that could launch slaves all the way to the Maelstrom. Oh but...then I'd need a large telescope, or seeing stone, so that I could watch them drown. And maybe have a wine cellar in the same room, with my very own statue...
I go on like this for a few more seconds, then turn my attention to the water I was looking at, without conscious thought of even doing so. I sneer at the dirty canal waste. So undeserving. The cobblestones of the uninteresting canal bridge I stand on emit a cold radiance that sneak up through My boots. The feeling is welcome, and clarifying. Flicking a lock of hair away from My eye, I glide down the ramp of the bridge, robes sliding smoothly across the ground behind me. A good effect. I should do this more often, I look like a wraith. A black wraith of elegance, and terrible beauty; A dark god befitting of followers and gifts. Gifts of gold, and silver, and cesium graphite...and- I'm interrupted by a street urchin. The small boy leaps out in front of me. I swear loudly at the child, and curse him. Not literally. I could have, had I wanted to, but I did not deem him worthy of my entropic talents.
"Please, rich sir. Can I have bread? Some coin? I need it, or I'll die." Croaks the boy. He is a beautiful, all about him blond, angel hair and bright blue eyes. I reach into my pocket, smiling. The boy lights up. I take out a silver coin. I flick the coin high into the air. His eyes follow it upward...I deliver a swift kick under the child's pretty chin, sending him backwards and into the canal. With liquid ease I snatch the coin out of the air, polish it on my robes and put in my pocket as I begin walking away, still smiling.
Oh, the glory of supremacy. The pure empowerment of it. And I deserve it too. I do. Yes...yes I do.
Second person, past tense
Aemon spent most of his early childhood in the care of Philea and Jorgen Jackson. His parents were crude people, but their parenting was firm. He could consider himself lucky he wasn't beaten. Often. Nothing exceptionally exciting ever happened, despite his mother and father's obvious eccentricities. Nothing, that is, until he came.
Aemondall was at the far edge of his homestead, near the woods. It was in his interests to carve notches in a stump to pass the time, there being no other boys to play with. The only usual distractions was a spider or howl, which would usurp his attention for the better part of a few seconds until he was intent on making another notch again. The usual sounds were present, none to his surprise, but then...there was a sound. It itched at the back of his mind, like...a voice. He looks towards his house, curious. Was there a visitor? He didn't see many visitors. Whenever one came by, he was to hide in the Armour until they left.
His curiosity was piqued. Aemon started towards his poor, decrepit home. As he neared the whisper continued to increase in volume. He could discern certain words, amongst the alien tongue. "Pain"..."misery"..."misfortune"..."fear"...His heart was racing, his eyes wide and alert. He reached his door. With a trembling hand, he pushed it open, inch by creaking inch. His eyes beheld a demon. It's skin rippled like molten glass, and it's one eye burned as if laced with copper. Green light radiated from it's blue and violet exoskeleton. A more tangible voice rung, sounding of a thousand tormented gasps. "You are mine." The three words sent his body into a panic.
Out from behind him stepped a tall, hooded man in traveling robes. He shoved Aemon roughly out the door, where he fell on his behind. Several minutes passed, as he stared at the door, slightly ajar. He could hear sounds coming from inside. Battle sounds. His pulse still raced. After more than ten minutes, the clamor ceased, and the black robed man stepped out into the meek, fading light.
"You boy, do you live here?" Aemon nodded hurriedly. "I am sorry, your parents are dead. They summoned a demon and could not control it." The man shook his head. "I know they couldn't have controlled it. They were mediocre at best...no doubt they were trying to gain some respect. That turned out well..." He looks at Aemondall. "So...suppose you'll have to be coming with me now, won't you? Good. I need an extra pair of hands around." Before Aemon could decide for himself, he was being led away from his house, now beginning to smoke and burn. Flames licked at the pane of a window. It resembled the demon's eye. The demon's voice rang in his mind again. "You are mine."
Through the next decade, Aemondall was schooled in the practice of the dark arts. It wasn't until the age twenty one, eleven years after he had been taken into apprenticeship, that he was allowed to start his formal studying. He devoured his books with zeal, excelling fast as nature inhibited. In all his talent, however, he couldn't' help but be just over mediocre in the eyes of others. A curse. Love, mom and dad. Aemon learned to resent them for their disgrace. He would do better though. He would blot their names from his family tree
