Vinyael

Information

Player: Evanmcgregor

Character Full Name: Vinyael Duskedge

Character In-Game Name: Vinyael

Nickname(s): "Scratch", Vin

Association(s): Sin'dorei

Race: Blood Elf

Class: Warrior

Skills and Abilities: None to speak of beyond that of the typical soldier. Vinyael is proficient in two handed blades and axes; proficient with long one-handed blades used in coordination with moderate to heavy shielding.

Age: 115

Sex: Male

Hair: Long blonde hair, almost white, that reaches down to his shoulders.

Eyes: Fel Green

Weight: 135 lbs.

Height: 6'2"

Usual Garments/Armor: Usually seen in heavy black plate armor with an aged, yet well-tempered greatsword that his father once wielded. When traveling light, Vinyael will wear a moderate chain set, typically something in an ashen gray color. Occasionally, Vinyael has been seen with a set of chain lighter in color, shining silver and white with a light blue tint.

Other: Unusually pale even at the best of times, almost as if in conjunction with his nearly snow white hair.

Alignment: Neutral Good

Personality

On the face of things, Vinyael is a soldier by instinct, knowledge, and personality. He does not strictly enjoy and relish the thought of combat per se, but what he does feel about it is that it is the one place he feels right. Home holds nothing for him, only a hearth and his family.

When in the heat of a fight, from a friendly spar to a staked brawl to an all-out war, the adrenaline rush of combat makes Vinyael feel at home, alive, and truly needed. Perhaps due to this, he has a rather high tolerance for pain and injury. His trademarked comment of “It’s just a scratch” while being injured in battle has earned him the not so unfitting nickname “Scratch” among his comrades and fellow fighters.

Short of being cripplingly wounded in combat, Vinyael is likely to continue swinging his weapon until either his opponent or he himself is incapacitated. Some have suggested this persistence is due to the tenacity he showed during the Scourge invasion of Quel’Thalas and the Sunwell, when he had to protect his mother. Others say it’s because of his father, who put him through rigorous, brutal combat training as a child which bordered on the inhumane and abuse. Whatever the reason, Vinyael has become a steeled and seasoned fighter, practically refusing to die in the field.

While honor and glory are not his motivations, and while it also isn’t clear what is, Vinyael refuses to allow himself to fall in combat. He wants to die at home, surrounded by his family, when he has reached an elderly age.

When acting as a civilian, he still does not lay down his arms. In the cities of his people, among the cities of where Sin’Dorei are welcome, Vinyael does not remove his armor until he has laid down to rest, and even then, he keeps a light blade handy by his side, should the time come he is needed.

While not strictly acting as a mercenary or a vigilante, Vinyael does have a small reputation for being one of the first to respond to a local call to arms with few questions asked beyond “What am I fighting and where am I going?” He does not take any coin offered for what he does, and again, his motivations for this are unknown, as well as his source of income for maintaining himself and his gear.

History

Born into a moderate family, Vinyael might have had a modest upbringing, if it weren’t for his father. Vinyael’s father, Aeleon, was a paranoid and hardened fighter. From before it was even sane to give the boy a weapon, Aeleon had been teaching his son to fight and to survive. When Vinyael would ask his father why he had to learn to fight so fiercely, his father would simply respond “Someday, you’ll see.” Vinyael never got another answer, no clearer, no more obscure. Save for once.

On this day, Vinyael was learning the mechanics of proper shield use. He was slightly older now, ready for true training, by the popular standards. He was growing up rather well, becoming mature. He was still curious as to why he must train so vigorously, and so often. Since he was a young boy, he still trained every day with his father, while is mother would work a tailoring shop. Even to this day, she was not a major factor in Vinyael’s activities. But one day, after a particularly long session with the shield, Vinyael spoke to his exhausted father.

“Father, why is it we work so hard? What is it that has scarred you so? We have nothing to fear inside our walls.” He asked calmly. Aeleon, breathing heavily, responded to him;

“Yes, son, but one day we will. Nothing is permanent, my boy. We are born to die. Rules are created to be broken. Walls are erected to fall. Such is the very nature of existence. It is inexplicably tied to non-existence. This is practically a physical law. I know you don’t understand yet. But someday, maybe not even in my life time, you will. Trust me, you will.”

Vinyael nodded at his father, trying to wrap his head around the philosophy his father had just spoken. But before Vinyael could utter a word of agreement, his father spoke again.

“Vinyael…” it was the first time his father had addressed him as anything besides Son, my boy, or anything of the sort in near twenty years. “I need you to promise me something.”

“What is it, Father?”

“I may not be around when this time comes. But your mother may well be even if I am not. If such a time should come… I need you to protect her with every aspect of your physical being. With every facet of knowledge I should pass on to you.”

With a nod of somber agreement, Vinyael fell silent and did not speak again, nor did he ever ask for a reason behind their training. Aeleon had made his point clear enough.

For years more, the same routine would repeat itself every day, until Aeleon and Vinyael found themselves in a rut of simply sparring with each other. Aeleon had passed on everything he could teach. Armor techniques, two handed techniques, shield techniques, even some unarmed mechanics.

Through these spars, Father and Son became quite close to each other, even if it was simply because they would fight each other until they could hold a blade to the other’s throat. They had an unspoken bond, one that combined the inherent bond of a father to his son with that of a militaristic bond of a Commander and his subordinate. They were brothers in arms, as well as father and son now.

And one day, Aeleon’s philosophy came to light, his prediction more accurate than ever. The peace was ravaged. The walls fell, and the Scourge of Arthas came pouring into the once peaceful, beautiful city that was Quel’Thalas. The gates were breaking. The siege of the elven city had begun.

To the luck of Vinyael and Aeleon, the siege began while they were sparring. They were less than an arm’s reach away from battle ready blades. Vinyael grabbed his Long Blade and his shield, his father taking up a greatsword. They had no idea what was truly happening, how much destruction was about to take place, or even what would be destroyed that would shatter the elves’ way of life.

At the moment, their only thought was to get home. Vinyael’s mother was there; blissfully unaware of what was happening at best, at worst, already being torn apart by a ghoul or an abomination as they made their break for home. For the first time, real adrenaline flowed into Vinyael’s blood.

True battle was exhilarating for him. As he pushed his way through the city with his father, one of the first things to come across him was a small group of ghouls. Only three of them. They were moving through an alley, one that the two elves were using to try and avoid as many of the undead as possible, so they could get home faster.

They were facing the other way at first, and this allowed Aeleon to get the drop on one. The greatsword found its mark, splitting the half rotten skull of the ghoul down the middle, ending any killing spree it may have had. The other two ghouls were more attentive than their comrade, and turned to attack their new adversaries. The first one was simply mindless, and threw itself at Vinyael. Doing the first thing he could have his mind muster for his muscles. He just jammed his sword forward, the creature impaling itself on the steel blade. For a moment, it struggled, but it fell limp and ceased its attempts to kill.

The final one was smarter… as smart as an undead creature of its caliber could be. It crouched into a position to leap at someone, and waited for Aeleon to make a swing with his blade. By some miracle, the creature managed to duck underneath it and tear at one of the arms gripping the blade.

Aeleon’s bloody arm fell to the floor, enraged and pained screams piercing the veil of Vinyael’s mind-numbing adrenaline. Aeleon’s greatsword fell to the ground beside the arm which once wielded it, Aeleon unable to hold onto it with one arm, especially under the pain he was in. When Vinyael’s mind caught up to what had just happened, he howled with fury at the ghoul who had returned to its ready position, ready to finish off the now unarmed elf before him. But this time when it moved to continue its onslaught, a sudden wall of steel cut off its path, and it fell to the floor in surprise. Vinyael’s shield was outstretched, Vin himself in a defensive position in front of his wailing father.

Wordlessly, he let his rage-fueled adrenaline take him over, redoubling his strength and resolve. Instead of moving to slice the being’s head clean off, like he was planning on working against the undead after he decided it was the most effective way to defeat the masses of the mindless dead, he took the moment of shock and destabilization in the ghoul to slam his shield into it again and again, rage fueling his murderous attack on the creature. After a few brief moments of becoming lost in the mindless bludgeoning of the ghoul that had wounded his father, he made one final smash with the shield at the now (most likely) crippled creature. With the last of his wrath at the ghoul, he brought his sword down to its throat, slicing in a lethal arc that removed the creature’s head, permanently ending its life in undeath.

When he regained his reasoning faculties, Vinyael practically screamed for help, for a medic to help his father. He got no answer. In his panic, Vinyael almost missed what his father had said. But his father put on his stern voice, that of the one from the lectures on combat they had not had in several years. One of instruction and command, not of respect and fatherhood.

“Vinyael. You remember the promise you made. I’ll be fine. Get out of here and find your damn mother. Now.” With these words, Aeleon slumped down to into a sitting position, leaning up against a wall and cradling his crippled forearm. Nothing existed below the elbow. There was an unperceived emptiness there. But even that was nothing compared to the emptiness that would soon take hold.

Vinyael was almost ready to defy his father for the first time in his life, to find someone to help him, or even try to create a fire to cauterize the wound himself. But he knew that the promise he made would have to be kept. He knew that he had to save his mother. She was in more danger than his father. He gave a shout of resentment and derision, running from the alley towards his home. He received no more resistance from the undead until he found his house.

However, when he got there, there was pure terror and panic in his eyes. The front of his home had been torn to shreds. The door was gone; windows imploded as if something had slammed against them with the force of a Giant swinging its club. Other homes had the same damage, but they were not what he feared for. He heard the feminine screams of horror from his mother, emanating from what was once his home.

Again, the fear for his family redoubled both his strength of muscle and nerves of mind. He had tasted blood already today. He will taste it again in the defense of his home and his family. A red haze he had never before experienced descended over his mind, his vision, and his very thoughts. He renewed the grip on his weapon and threw himself inside the house.

He slashed at the first thing he saw, lopping the top half of a particularly rotted being to the floor. To his horror, it still moved what was still attached to the top half of its torso, and Vinyael slammed his steel greaves onto the creature’s skull, the rot of the creature and anger of his strength lending him the power enough to crush the thing beneath his boot, obliterating all resemblance of that thing ever being a humanoid.

Three more faced him, turning away from a silent mass pushed up against a wall. One of them, yet another ghoul, launched itself at him. Reacting quickly, Vinyael raised his shield and bashed it out of the air, quickly following through with a lethal swing of his sword the planted itself in the skull of the attacker. The next one decided the shield was big a threat as the blade that ended its comrade. It tore away at the shield as it attacked, rending the steel wall of protection away from Vinyael.

Without his shield to occupy his left hand, Vinyael gripped his blade with both hands and made a frenzied downward arc, splitting open the attacking ghoul. It did not move again. The remaining two undead creatures were unrecognizable to Vinyael, looking like rotted patchwork humanoids. This, more than anything, implanted fear into Vinyael’s mind. He backed himself against a smoldering wall that still had a small amount of flame burning through the wooden frame of the wall.

For some odd reason, a feeling of pure desolation and hollowness infiltrated Vinyael’s very being. He felt empty, like something had just been sucked out of him. There was some sort of void in his body. He loses focus of the battle, feeling only the emptiness that was taking him over.

Only by a searing pain in his shoulder, like he was on fire, awoke him. As he regained his own true consciousness, he realized that in a way, he was. One of the rotted creatures has pinned him against a wall, ready to sever his head from his body. And his shoulder was pinned up against one of the smoldering embers of the frames. By sheer will, he forced himself to slide down a bit, his free left hand reaching up to rip the flaming wood from what was left of the frame, and lashing out with it, slamming the thing, flaming end first, into the creature’s face. It recoiled and stepped back, instinctively avoiding all semblance of the flames assaulting him.

Taking advantage of the creature’s momentary immobilization to bring his blade around and obliterate everything that was above the neck, slicing through both the arms covering its face defensively and the neck tying the head to its torso. The thing clamored to the floor, and the final creature made its advancement known with a sharp piercing of Vinyael’s torso the creature had taken advantage of his distraction with the last undead he had dispatched, and now had a bony claw extended into his back, narrowly missing the kill zone of his heart.

Blood spilled from his mouth, and with the last of his strength after being through such rigorous fighting, the brought first the wooden flames onto the creature’s spine, burning through the rigor stricken flesh and making way for what came next. With a mundane finality, Vinyael’s right arm brought the sword down on the creature, slicing easily into its back and severing a part of the spine. It fell, bone claw retracting from his back, tearing more of his flesh as it moved. He dropped the flaming plank on it and brought his sword to grip in both of his hands, repeatedly stabbing the undead ghoul in the chest, stomach, and head, eradicating any fragment of life that may still exist within the creature. When he was sure of his work, he at last let the blade rest in the ground, still piercing the skull of the rotted attacker. Vinyael shambled over to the mass leaning up against the wall that he turned the undead from, and rests a bloody hand on her head.

From both fear and curiosity, the woman raises her head, looking at her son. Tears were streaming down her eyes, but a smile trickled into her face as she realized who her savior was. Vinyael let his own smile spread, and he picked his mother up, getting her to stand on her feet. She shambled aimlessly for a few moments while Vinyael pondered what to do, his strength and mind quickly ebbing. After a few short moment of contemplative thought, Vinyael removed his sword from the corpse of his final attacker. He coughed, some blood escaping his mouth again. It was then that his mother realized the extent of his injury.

“Vin… you’re hurt. Stop.” She says in a frail, meek voice. Vinyael shook his head as he moved toward a ruined corner of his home, where the walls were once lit aflame. Much of the frame still stood there, and he began whacking away at it with his sword, demolishing the wooden frame and creating a small alcove in the corner. “It’s just a scratch, mother. Just a scratch. I’m fine.”

When he was satisfied with his work, he grabbed his mother by the arms and gently pushed his mother into the alcove he made, covering her with the pieces of wood he knocked to the ground before finally retrieving his shield and covering what he could of the hole in the wall with the steel wall. She protested the entire time, but finally subdued to Vinyael’s resolve to protect her. He swore he was going to get himself somewhere safe too, that he would dig himself a trench and bury himself alive if it meant survival.

He was unable to make good on his promise. Between his wound and the alien desolation that filled his very essence, he was unable to keep himself moving. With a loud thump and clamor from falling to the ground, Vinyael passed out.

Time passed, and the siege ended. Vinyael and his mother were both recovered from their home. Vinyael was patched up, his mother by his side at every second possible. When Vinyael finally awoke, he still could not shake the feeling of a void in him. As it happened, the Sunwell was destroyed during the siege. The barren feeling inside him was the absence of the Sunwell’s power on his people. He felt worse than ever.

Soon enough, it was brought to his attention that his father had died. He tried to shuffle his way to a location to fortify and hide until the siege was over, but he could not stop his own bleeding. Aeleon’s life was extinguished.

Time passed again, and eventually, the cities were rebuilt, the Sunwell restored. But to this day, Vinyael does not forget the hollow feeling inside him. He still feels it when he is idle, when he is doing nothing. Only during the rigors of combat does he feel whole again. When he fights, he feels at ease, at peace with the world. Only that feeling of adrenaline can remind him that he is whole, that the world can still exist. And so he fights. Not always strictly for his people, but he fights the battles he deems worthy. He refuses to take money. He refuses to fight for a cause he deems inappropriate. He simply helps to defend those in need. He does not work for honor or glory. He finds the concept of a glorious death insane and injudicious. Why fight to die when you can fight to live, to win, and earn your core harmony with the world? Maybe one day, he’ll find out.