Burkegan Iriq

Burkegan Iriq "May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again." -Corrax Entry 7:17 ■ Name: Burkegan Iriq ■ Alias: Bastard of the Steppe ■ Age: 33 ■ Gender: Male ■ Race: Au Ra ■ Clan: Xaela ■ Orientation: Bisexual ■ Marital: Single ■ Deity: None ■ Nationality: Azim Steppe ■ Occupation: Militia Commander, Master-at-arms ■ Alignment: Neutral Evil BACKSTORYAPPEARANCEPERSONALITYRELATIONSHIPSRUMORS / RP HOOKSOOCCREDITS History The script that coats each page, front and back, of the worn and weathered journal is drawn with a heavy hand. Where it begins in an awkward chicken-scratch, the letters gradually ease out until they appear as practiced and severe as the man who wrote them. I write this to remind myself of my journey. Without perspective, I fear my hatreds will burn themselves out. What drives me then? Of the many tribes that populate the Azim Steppe, two in particular - the Borlaaq and the Iriq - are the nearest approximation of a symbiotic relationship between the nomads of my old home. The Borlaaq, a fierce tribe of warriors that make a routine of their plundering, raiding, and fighting, take what they want as their spoils of war. The Iriq, on the other hand, take out the trash. Nevermind. Parasitic is the word I was looking for. When a child is born into the arms of a Borlaaq mother, their cry is the first thing they check. Their genitals are the second. Should a newborn boy have the misfortune of a cock between his legs, his clock begins to tick. Exactly one year after his birth, this boy will be left behind on the plains, the dunes, or the mountain face as the Borlaaq continue their roaming warpath. They will not be stopped for an inconvenience. The boy, nameless and alone, is left to wait for his new home among the other discarded sons: the Iriq. Some of them are found. Some of them are not. I would not be surprised if some were simply ignored until their cries were drowned out by the howls of the Steppe's wild dogs. Whether by luck or some curse, I was found. My life among the Iriq was… simple, in its way. You were fed by the old and the infirm among the tribe until you were old enough to hold a weapon, at which time you would learn to feed yourself. I had seen my sixth summer when the old, obsidian knife’s grip fit my hand. Most of the boys were seven, perhaps eight. Nine for the scrawny ones. Scrawny children were rare. I learned rather quickly that the weapon was not only for hunting. Older boys understood that they could apply their strength and cunning in such a way that they rarely had to find food for themselves; if they could keep the younger boys beneath their thumbs, food would come to them. Sometimes the boys starved. Usually they died at the claws or hooves of a hunt that far outstripped their skill, driven to bring back larger cuts and greater hauls just to have something left for themselves when the tithe was collected. Hunting a child is easier than hunting a mammoth. The survivors among the Iriq know this, and they know it well. Children - even those with longer legs, stronger arms than a six-year-old’s - they drop easily. My first kill was imprecise. Messy. I had a rock; he was asleep. It pains me to admit that he woke up before I was done. His screams woke half the camp before I finished the job, and the adults found me wet with his blood, smeared with his viscera, and terrified of what I’d found. They beat me bloody for waking them all up. My lessons began this way. Death was a minor inconvenience at worst, and a boon at best. One less mouth to see fed. One less source of aggravating questions, piping up every bell from the back of the convoy. I’m sure there were those among the elder Iriq who considered it a small mercy, to die before they came of age. I became very talented at granting mercies. If I’d known what awaited me for surviving, I might have let another boy hold the rock. Shortly after my first kill, I was awarded my name by one of the disheveled assholes that beat me that night. “Burkegan,” he branded me. A bastardization of our tongue. “Difficult.” He wasn’t wrong, I suppose. I killed him hardly a fortnight later. That particular beating was one for the history books. “Death is for the young,” they howled. “A boy should learn his place, and inflict himself upon the weak.” The adults whimpered more, when they died. Boys died quickly. Rarely enough time to protest. The older they were, though, the longer it took to carve through the carotid, to cave in the temple. I never saw a child cry when I toiled to survive. Why did the men? Appearance With a lifetime’s worth of scars and a striking silhouette, Burkegan is hard to miss. At last measurement he stands at eight fulms, two ilms tall and weighs over 500 ponze. What he lacks in carefully sculpted muscle tone he makes up for in sheer mass; every ilm of his body is devoted to brutal purpose rather than aesthetic. His tanned skin is crisscrossed with a thick, webbed network of pale scar tissue, most heavily saturated across his chest, belly, back, and upper arms. Many of these scars carve through his tattered patches of black scales, and more than a few grooves and cuts can be found etched into his horns and tail. Burkegan’s one bastion of frivolity is his close-cropped, bright pink hair. While his natural color is a mystery, he keeps his hair dyed to match the pink glow of his right eye’s limbal ring. His left eye is dull and lifeless - a cheap glass substitute, nestled within a shredded, scarred pit that dominates the left side of his face. Burke typically wears an eyepatch as a public service. Personality In his younger years, Burkegan was quick to act, quick to speak, and quick to anger. He’s applied a few years’ worth of wisdom since. His words tend to come slowly, after a moment’s thought, and unless he’s getting drunk he prefers to keep people guessing over how stupid and “savage” he actually is. Given a situation where he is expected to remain professional, he’ll opt to remain silent rather than berating any perceived weakness or stupidity. LIKES - Trying new foods - Sparring, observing fights - Gardening - Excelling at his work - Reading; pulp novels - Brevity and speaking frankly DISLIKES - Other Xaela - Empty threats - Boats - Large bodies of water where boats may be found - Children - You, probably Relationships This is not a complete list. If you are on this list and would prefer to be removed, please let me know! All opinions should be considered IC; IC and OOC do not mix during character interaction with Burkegan. Color Key ♥ In A Relationship ♥ Romantic Attraction ♥ Sexual Attraction ♥ Platonic Love ♦ Friend ♦ Friendly Acquaintance: Name considers this person mostly friendly, or as an ally. ● Good Standing: Name has no specific feelings about this character, however they left a good impression. ● Neutral ● Bad Standing ♠ Dislike ♠ Hate ♠ Fear ♠ Rivalry ♥ Family Member / Related by Blood ✔ Business ✖ Deceased ? Hidden Feelings/Unknown NPC Rising Peak ✖ {{{placeholder}}} PC Evette Blackstone ♥ ♦ {{{placeholder}}} Y'zareen Serhan ♥ ♦ {{{placeholder}}} Rumors / RP Hooks Whether these rumors are true, exaggerated, or outright lies, they are entirely open for IC use. Let me know if you have a rumor you'd like to add! RUMORS - {{{placeholder}}} RP HOOKS - Burkegan has traveled from one end of Hydaelyn to the other looking for new contract work; it's entirely possible that he ran into you along the way. - As a current competitor in the Proving Grounds gladiatorial event, Burkegan is used to building new rivalries and finding new points of interest within the fighting circuit. - Burkegan is the current Field Commander for the Aureate Ward's private militia, and routinely meets with new recruits, interested hopefuls, and other mercenaries during joint operations. RP Limits & Info ■ {{{placeholder}}} ■ {{{placeholder}}} Credit ■ Template based off the work of Bancroft Gairn. ■ Tabs based off the work of Suen Shyu. ■ Code used with the permission of Ekhram Almasi.