Difference between revisions of "Sulking Boar"
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Revision as of 05:42, 16 April 2018
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Scratching eight fulms tall, Boar is a great, big lumbering thing. He possesses excessively wide shoulders to match an excessively wide gait, and hands large enough that they look ill-suited to picking up average-sized tools, let alone performing any task that requires precision (yet his long nails are always painted and cared for). Atop a reasonable amount of core muscle, Boar carries a few hundred extra ponze, which round out his features and settle into a ponderous belly. Often, his small, sleepy eyes are obscured by a mane-like head of black hair. It appears disheveled at a glance, yet is in fact just cut that way: haphazardly, and into many uneven layers that have a habit of falling into his face. And he prefers it that way; the elements are more liable to brush it back out of the way than he is. What he's hiding is what some might consider positively cherubic: permanently pouting lips, chubby cheeks, a stout, black-tipped nose. Any mention of the word cute will cause him to grimace and/or groan. Or to turn and leave promptly. Aspects That Stand Out:
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Born Ganzeyn Guldlorasyn to a young single mother, the future-mercenary went from doughy infant to pudgy toddler, spending nearly every waking hour of his little life pampered, coddled, and doted upon, before Guldlora passed away suddenly, quietly—and as the chirurgeons ruled it—from natural causes in her sleep. Her Will read thus: every coin she'd earned working at the lapidary would be relinquished to Thal's tithe. In exchange, the Ossuary was to make absolutely certain her son was cared for. Regarding this, Guldlora was exhaustively specific, going so far as to include an exact regimen.
The congregation at Arrzaneth approached this request with (albeit scoffing) seriousness, it being their duty to honor the final wishes of well-paying devotees, no matter how trifling or ridiculous. However, they did not have to debate exactly how they planned to fulfill Guldlora's for long. To the surprise of most of their order, Onzonza Onza—although infamous for her crabbiness among their ranks—rose to the task. When Guldlora lived, she'd crafted Onzonza a scepter etched with the most detailed relief of a serpent biting a man in half she'd ever seen. For that, she made the necessary preparations for Ganzeyn to be moved into the dormitory next to hers, and when her schedule allowed it, she would see to it that the boy was taught what he needed. In time, he'd become one of their own—if he so chose. Such was how the reclusive denizens of Arrzaneth Ossuary found themselves plagued by a large child waddling through their halls, wailing at obscene hours. And how Ganzeyn eventually came to feel at home in its heavy shadows, surrounded by scripture and frankincense-scented death. He was a withdrawn youth, quiet and not terribly confident, but still eager. He'd happily do whatever he was told. Likewise, his seniors were happy to entrust him with their errands if it stopped the big lout from looming around them. Any time a heavy casket needed to be toted to and fro, he was usually called upon. Ganzeyn learned everything there was to know about preparing the dead for burial when he was ultimately drafted as a mortician's assistant. Everything, with the exception of the cleansing fires and preserving ice his master wielded. Letting a six year-old replace a cadaver's humors with various aromatic chemicals was no trouble, but introducing him to thaumaturgy? That would be taking things a step too far.
Once Ganzeyn was deemed old enough to take the Order's vows, and therefore old enough to finally become privy to their thaumaturgical secrets, his caretakers made a few discoveries regarding their least favorite tenant. One, his aether pool was sizeable, enough to draw the envy of the seasoned mages tutoring him—or at least attempting the feat, as—two—he seemingly lacked any modicum of control when it came to manipulating it. The times he actually managed to call it forth, it tended not to stop, stuck like a rusted tap gushing bloated, volatile amoebas of aether.
The combination spelled frequent disaster. Training staves nearly put out eyes when they exploded from within, lectures were canceled in favor of containing small cataclysms, and sleep-incantations gone rogue dropped bystanders into lengthy comas. He wasn't lacking in IQ, despite the sort of mocking his peers began to favor. Yet there may as well have been a solid wall between Ganzeyn and the fundamentals of casting. When redundant lessons gleaned no results, Ganzeyn was barred from live training sessions and sent back to the books. Quite literally, his days consisted of rereading the same basic texts in a dusty rear wing of the sanctum, though he understood the need. He didn't want to hurt anyone. In a month, he could recite Essences & Permutations from front to back. His reward? Another tome and more frustration. The cycle felt unending, and yet he never entertained thoughts of rebelling against his scholastic condemnation. The closest he came was following a group of fellow adherents out to Hammerlea at night, after overhearing them whisper about holding duels in secret. It contented him to watch the spectacle, even if no one wanted him there. No one had to be bothered, so long as he kept his distance. This repeated every levinsday over the course of a hot summer until a pack of jackals was drawn to the gathering, moving with predatory purpose, not as deterred by the fireworks as they should have been. His peers never noticed them approach, to his great dismay. Ganzeyn shouted to direct their attention. More surprised to hear his voice, they all turned to look at him instead of the toothy animals stumbling through the brush toward them. With no time to right the confusion, he acted quickly. Even if he failed miserably, there was nothing else in that direction for him to hit. Or so he thought, before a small unit of brass blades resolved from the darkness, tailing after the creatures. By then, it was too late. The flame blossomed like an earthly sun, leaving the corpses of the jackals black and near-skeletal. Thirty fulms further away, a humanoid shape lay partially disintegrated, although it was still moving somehow, screaming. It looked as awful as the realization coursing through Ganzeyn felt.
By the next afternoon, the repercussions had taken his formerly quiet world by storm. Accusatory stares met him throughout the Ossuary. At the altar, on the steps, down the avenue, even within the deepest hall of the burial chamber where he eventually tried to escape from them. The folk that dotted his daily routine had never been overwhelmingly friendly before. The difference now was that he couldn't tell himself it wasn't his doing.
As it turned out, the burned blade's father was well-off. Rich. Influential-rich. The law is what I decide it is—rich. And at the behest of his half-dead son, he'd funneled capital into the pockets of everyone who mattered—and even a few that didn't—to corroborate his claims: that his body had been the only thing in the way of the attempted murder of several dozen Ul'dahn youths. A lie, of course, but permanent disfigurement had left the man a mite bitter. Not only was he going to ruin Ganzeyn's life, but he was going to do it in a way that brought him immense joy. (WIP) ...
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