Averill Rooks

Averill Rooks
The Vagrant
"There'll be a story here, somewhere..."
OOC Character Information
Main Job(s):	WAR/BRD
Main Tradeskill:	None
Preferred Role:	Tank
Server:	Balmung
Status
Alignment:	Chaotic Neutral
Reputation:	Known to Twin Adder and Maelstrom
Occupation:	Vagrant
Education:	Decent formal education, Survival Expertise
Marital Status:	Married
Sexuality:	Straight
Guardian:	Oschon, the Wanderer
Free Company
None
Items Carried
Savage Axe 'Huracan', Self-crafted Armor (assorted)
Characteristics
Race:	Hyur
Clan:	Midlander
Age:	27
Height:	5'9"
Weight:	172 ponze
Eyes:	Green
Hair:	Red
Complexion:	Pale
Physical Build:	Athletic
Notable Features:	Pale left eye, deep scars across his body

Attributes
	Strength	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █		P.Defense	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
	Dexterity	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █		M.Defense	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
	Martial Prowess	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █		Intelligence	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
	Magic Affinity	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █		Luck	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

Summary

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Averill Rooks (formerly Tomus) is a vagrant Midlander. Claiming no citizenship or loyalties of any professional measure, he wanders Eorzea sating a lust for new roads and challenges every day.

The scion of a long-dead Lominsan family, Averill has taken great pains to distance himself from the last of his family, removing himself to increasingly violent and dangerous locales for reasons he is hard-pressed to explain. Surviving on the road for almost ten years, living through even the Calamity on the strength of his will and unique abilities, he carries a wealth of stories and an innate curiosity about the travellers he stumbles across.

Appearance

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Standing at average height for one of his clan, Averill's road-weathered physique evidences clear experience to the rigors of travel, combat, and simple survival. Scars litter his body, most notably across his left side, so severe as to render his left eye pale and useless.

Typically, he wears armor crafted from the scraps and skins of beasts he has slain on his travels. His gear is piecemeal at best, leaving his chest exposed to preserve his innate agility. His arm is the only item he has purchased; a custom-made axe, forged to channel his abilities with devastating effect. He wields it comfortably in one hand or two, carving a whirlwind of steel and blood in whatever melee he throws himself into.

RP Hooks

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Listed below are some possible ideas for you to get connected to Averill. Feel free to include any of these in your RP!

Rumours

Perhaps the most common way to connect to Averill is through the hearsay that swirls about him. The rumour mill turns its grim spokes, its tales including:

• Whispers of a fell savage, axe lagging in one hand behind him, toppling ferocious beasts in bloody melees.
• Stories of the long-lost scion of the Tomus line, a family driven mad by the grim circumstances surrounding its last child's birth. Though scarred and by no means a scholar, arcanists may note a resemblance between Averill and the late, mad Dawson Tomus....

Official Business

For those seeking a more direct encounter or confrontation, consider the following:

• The Wood Wailers fervently seek dedicated hands to guard the borders of the Twelveswood, appeasing the Elementals and staving off the dreaded Greenwrath. When reports abound of a scarred beast bearing a grim axe, these requests grow ever more desperate.
• For a time, Averill was a combatant in the Ul'dahn-affiliated company, the Pathfinders. The Brass Blades took note of his bizarre strength, and oft seeks to entice the savage with recruiters.
• Known amidst hunters and mercenaries as a man of uncommon strength and singular purpose, many have attempted to sway his axe with coin and earthly pleasures. What will you try?

Aether-sensitivity

Mages one and all will note the following about Averill, perhaps encouraging an approach (or attack):

• The man carries himself with a wind separate from Eorzea's. No natural gale lifts his steps. His presence is the arrival of an unnatural storm front.
• A closer examination will reveal that he is steeped in corrupted wind aether, resisting invasive attempts to better understand the brutal crucible his life is forged in, and the madness that drives his violent worship.
• Even without magical roots, the common man may well shrink from his preternatural presence. His physical appearance, his body language, his attire, his scent - something warns them away from the thin veneer of civility that tugs at the savage's features, much in the way a bird may shrink from an anzu...

Biography

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SPOILERS AHEAD

[C] Marks Averill's current situation.

[edit] Childhood Teenage Life on the Road The Pathfinders The First Breath Watcher of the Broken Gate [C] A child of traumatic circumstances, Averill was born into the family of noted Lominsan Arcanist, Dawson Tomus. A gifted scholar and student of aetherical balances in the environment, Dawson had travelled to Gridania with Averill's mother, Elaine. The pair shared a love for their craft almost unmatched in all of the Guild, with publications and treatises sat on the shelves on many who studied aether to any degree. Their expedition brought them to Gridania as part of an extended study into the presence of sprites in certain regions. A truth, long accepted, was that the presence of sprites in a given area indicated, at least roughly, the balance of aether. Fire Sprites in the Sagolii, Lightning Sprites in La Noscea - the pair had documented the presence of these curious elementals across Eorzea, and their effects. They now turned their gaze to Gridania, and the curious abundance of Wind Sprites. Averill was conceived during their stay, and would be born nine months later in a Wood Wailer cell. Two full moons had passed since the Tomus family's arrival, and the pair camped in the Shroud. Watched over by a hand of Wailers loaned out by the city-state, their fire drew the attention of Garuda's fanatical Ixal, a growing presence on Gridanian soil. In one of the many crimes that had severed the peace between Gridania and the original Ixal, Dawson's camp was attacked in the dead of night. Though successfully defended, when the smoke cleared and the survivors counted, Elaine was not among them. All thoughts of research fled from Dawson's mind. He abandoned his work to the shelves of his room at the Roost, dedicating day and night to scouring the Twelveswood. A small hand of Wailers assisted - mainly survivors of the initial attack, men and women whom Dawson could count as friends. The group was eventually located, butchered and Elaine rescued, but the savage Lady of the Vortex had already laid her claim. Gone was the brilliant mind, the delicate cursive that joined Dawson's sharp hand. A feral woman, a mere vestige, clawed at Dawson's desperate embrace. Elaine was secreted to a Wailer prison, far from the eyes of the public. The Elementals demanded any tempered's execution, but the revelation of her pregnancy complicated matters. Conjurers, Hearers - even the Seedseer herself could not discern the judgement of the Greenwrath's sentinels. Through the quiet storm raging at Gridania's heart, Dawson watched, and despaired. As the child neared birth, a fragile agreement was found. The child would live, its mother would die, and Dawson's presence would never again be tolerated in the shadows of the Shroud. He and his progeny would leave Gridania at the soonest possible moment, lest another tempered plague the city. As if recognising that her baby was the only thing keeping her alive, Elaine grew increasingly desperate in her final weeks, risking both of their lives. Nine months after the ordeal began, Dawson and his son, Averill, were ushered from the city-state as urgently as possible. Secluded in the cabin of an airship, Dawson left Elaine to her fate, and returned to his Lominsan estate a changed man. In the years that followed their return to Limsa Lominsa, the Tomus estate showed rapid and worrying change. The rumour mill turned, fuelled by news of Elaine's disappearance; then her death; then her suspected tempering. Lectures were cancelled. The Tomus name fell from the shelves of noted scholars. The man himself vanished from all eyes, buried behind the ever locked door to his study - vanished from all, including his son's. Young Averill grew under the watchful eye of Dawson's retainer - the aging Duskwight Percevains Tomus. His proved to be a tempestuous childhood; much as father and retainer desperately tried, it was painfully clear that Averill's fits of rage and stubborn resistance to civilising education stemmed not from his birth mother, but from the savage Lady of the Vortex herself. All who met the boy sensed, perhaps reacting to his nigh-illimitable wells of corrupted aether, that he was no ordinary Hyur. As the family neared their tenth strained summer, Averill's wanderlust took on a greater role. Percevains, ever the stern sentinel, dragged the boy back from market streets and marauders' training grounds. One occasion saw them returning from the borders of Aleport, the boy stowing away on the smallest boat he could find. Dawson withdrew to his study to greater extents. His son could barely recall his weathered features, remembering once tense meals shared over opposite ends of the long dining room's table. The subject of his mad pursuits was a matter of public ridicule, but Percevains remained ever faithful. Of the scraps of arcanima he could comprehend on his nightly visit to deliver meals, Percevains recognised Dawson's attempts to correct Averill, to restore his twisted aether to its normal state. The boy retained little from his lessons as he was pressed into a desk at the arcanist's guild. His staggering lack of talent only exacerbated the Tomus family's shame. Eschewing the dusty tomes and droning lectures of his tutors, Averill's tardiness rewarded him with a discovery that would give clarity to his unusually violent temperament. One late afternoon, as he drew close to the marauder's guild under cover of the waning eve, he stumbled across a discarded axe. The battered thing sat easily in his young hands. He'd learned to play the fool, to maintain at least a tenuous grasp on the guise of a civilised citizen, and in doing so he concealed the blade for practise in the dead hours. He took to the fields of La Noscea, where the bracing cold and ocean gales called to him like a jackal slinking from its cage. Dragging the heavy war axe, Averill took to practising on the small beasts pestering Limsa Lominsa's borders. Adventurers culled the beasts regularly; few would think it strange if the boy joined in the slaughter. The battles proved to be his favourite teacher. Arcanists drilled him on the sciences and geometries, and Percevains hammered the humanities and etiquette - these were struggles Averill faced daily, but here... Here in the night, in the cold, with his heart racing and blood boiling, he found peace. The seeds of savagery and bloodlust Garuda planted in the babe so long ago began to take root. With his new deception bringing quiet to Averill's monstrous instincts, he found his circumstances vastly improved. Tutors reported to Percevains on the child's sudden interest in class. His manners improved, and gone were the echoing shouts of the late night. Thinking his condition suppressed by the constant pressure of civilisation, Dawson relaxed on his studies, believing that whilst his aether still required normalizing, Averill could at least pass as a growing lad. Seven years would pass, the aging Dawson and now-ancient Percevains none the wiser to Averill's late night melees. As the boy took strides towards maturity, his needs turned to ever larger prey. Where once the occasional drove of feral pests would lay slain under the stars, now the local aurelias and, when Averill's mood proved particularly insatiable, goobues perished, their viscera spoiling the soil of La Noscea. All truths must eventually find the light of day, however, and his morbid stress-relief proved no exception. On the eve of Averill's seventeenth birthday, Dawson escorted his son from a Yellowjacket cell. He'd been found - rescued - from a camp of belligerent Kobolds. The adventurers that found him reported a scene of carnage expected from freshly-summoned voidsent, of beasts on the hunt, or a man whose mind was not his own. Long had rumours swirled and festered around the shameful scion of the Tomus name, and so the Yellowjackets, recalling the fear Elaine's rumoured tempering had sparked, locked the boy away. His practise discovered, Dawson's rage knew no restraint, and he unleashed seventeen summers of grief, of loss and terror and rage at the youth. Averill responded the only way he could. He struck Dawson and, axe in hand, stormed from the estate. Forging a name conjured from the clumsy pronunciation of the Sea Wolf that had captured him, Averill Rooks purchased passage from the Vylbrand, and turned his back on all he knew. On the father he'd never seen, on the retainer that enslaved him to civility. He clutched his axe. Soaked in his corrupted aether, the dull blade sang keenly to his bloodlust; the crow's call of his true mother, the savage whose quiet song carried in the winds that bore him to the shores of the Silver Bazaar. Ten years have passed since Averill first crossed the Strait of Merlthor. His father's rage festers in the far reaches of fitful sleep. The Calamity is a memory of ash, smoke, of choked lungs and hellsborn struggles. Averill survived. He always survived. As soon as he made land, it was his every intention to join the Adventurer's Guild as a means to justify his violence. With no such luck in Ul'dah - the guild potentially seeing straight through his attempt - he turned to living off the land, hunting where he could and learning more of Eorzea every day. The axe he brought with him served faithfully for many years, perhaps clinging to life in the same way its wielder did. At its end, shattered on the rocks, the staggering volume of aether it had soaked up was enough to eviscerate the earth surrounding them. Every blade he wielded since never lasted for more than a moon, though it gave him rounded experience in numerous blades of various shapes. He wandered the length of Eorzea, from Ul'dah to the Shroud, and back again. His presence became known throughout, notably in Gridania. The Elementals remembered the circumstances of his birth, and his twisted aether sent ripples of distress through the boughs. Hearers and Wailers both feared the presence of darker threats, but upon finding the young vagrant merely warned him off further incursions, lest the Greenwrath awake from his actions. Averill avoided his past whenever strangers brought it up, and for several years his roots remained back in Limsa Lominsa. Shortly following the Calamity, however, their tangle found their way across the waters to drag him home. A missive from the Tomus estate found Percevains waiting for Averill, on one of the rare nights he ventured into the Quicksand. An aging Dawson, far past the prime of his life and so consumed in his research, now suffered under the pall of sickness. To see his son returned had become his fixation, and in squandering the last of his resources and connections, he had located the wayward scion. Initially furious at his father's intrusion, Averill eventually ceded and, under the watchful eye of the stalwart Percevains, returned to his father's deathbed. Never knowing the secrets of his birth, Dawson understood Averill's juvenile rage and his habits more deeply that he ever thought possible. He bared it all - Elaine's capture and tempering, the battle he fought to preserve a child's life, corrupted as it was, and the fruits of his research. For nearly two decades he had pored of tomes esoteric and forbidden, crafted geometries and pushed the limits of his knowledge to their absolute reach in vain efforts to normalize Averill's aether. In his last days, Dawson had admitted defeat. There was no cure for tempering - as everyone, Averill included, knew. Knowing the mother of Averill's brutal instincts shook the young man. He realised his mind had, perhaps, never been his own. His violence and bloodlust were traits well known of the Lady of the Vortex, perhaps the most savage and sadistic of all primals. He'd clashed numerous times with Ixal, and realised now just what that peculiar kinship their battles had stoked in him meant. Percevains approached as Dawson's strength began to fail. His father spoke; if he could not cure him, then with the last of his strength, he would at least help him cope. The ancient retainer delivered an axe to Averill. A fell thing, with a head as broad as his shoulders, forged from metals unknown to him. His father's last gift; a true home and focus for his abilities. Much in the way a Thaumaturge might use a staff, or an Arcanist their tome, this axe would serve as both channel and focus for Averill's aether. Capable of surviving the great tempest his strength wrought without shattering, it could successfully quell his most barbaric rages. With Percevains's pledge to forever serve the Tomus name, Averill abandoned the ghosts that haunted his family's estate, and returned to Eorzea a man carving out his identity in every perilous encounter he threw himself towards. Reports abounded of a savage beast roaming fields as far abroad as Dravania, even to the very reaches of the Orn Wilds. Man and beast both trembled as his scars rent the lands he blighted. There would never be a chain that would bind him. In time, Averill came to settle closer to the harsh wilds of Coerthas and the crags of Abalathia's Spine. The fierce creatures and unforgiving conditions proved the perfect - and safest - environ to harness his abilities and eke out a living. In his separation, he found himself severed from the life he had built around his wife Ayda, nomadic as it was. Never bringing himself closer to civilization than the Ishgardian outpost of Camp Dragonhead, he found a savage peace in the daily battle. Fearing that he was forever lost, Ayda drew on the last of the Tomus Estate's wealth and the ageing Percevains to contract the Pathfinders, a group of adventurers taking dangerous missions in uncharted territories. The leaders, Eddard Holt and Madison Brookstone along with two of their members, Jin and Zigovali took it upon themselves to locate Averill and bring him home. They found him in the Weeping Saint, following reports of disgruntled and displaced ogres harassing Camp Dragonhead. Dressed in furs and scraps of plate as makeshift armor, his axe as broken and scarred as the man who swung it, Averill showed naught but hostility. Upon discovering that it was Ayda who had tasked them with his retrieval, he grew only more agitated, unwilling to risk the public's safety or his neck should the source of his strength come to light. After a heated exchange, Averill agreed to return, on the condition that he be brought back in chains until such a time as he could adjust to the life of a civilised man again. After a period in the Pathfinders' prison, Averill eventually shared his tale with Eddard and Madison. Believing in the human so desperately holding the chains around his savagery, they agreed to employ him as a Pathfinder, and find a more constructive application of his strength than senseless hunting. Try as he might to hide his tempering, his eagerness to cut his teeth on the myriad fighters amongst the Pathfinders began the turn of the rumour mill around his nature. His membership proved contentious as more astute members discerned the truth; none more so than Zigovali, who saw naught but the bestial strength he wielded and the dangers such a strength risked. Still, Averill found himself adjusting to his new home. Respected either willingly or begrudgingly for his savagery and simple efficacy in his missions, he began his new life as a Pathfinder. Averill's time as a Pathfinder proved tumultuous. Frequenting the tournaments organized for members, he established his strength and unstable demeanour. Inspiring rivalries and sewing tensions, he proved a fierce combatant on the more dangerous missions the Pathfinders operated, including the fight against the dread voidsent Anima on the Isles of Umbra. After a time, the company's long-standing quarrels with a rival company, Eorzea Unexplored, turned to violence. Embroiled in the ensuing chaos, the savage fought myriad supernatural foes alongside his comrades. Battered and broken after every fight, Averill's consumption of aether - the source of his abilities and his healing - grew rapidly and severely. Only able to recharge on corrupted wind aether, per the demands of his talent's mother, Averill's desperation turned him to consuming wind crystals. The direct and sudden boost provided proportional increases in his martial prowess - however, the darker edge to that blade soon revealed itself. Every time Averill consumed wind crystals - every time the herbalist Khortani Himaa treated Averill to augment his natural ability to recharge - he surrendered another scrap of his civility. Practise bouts turned to brutal brawls. His ruthlessness on the battlefield only exacerbated. Still he fought, convince that in helping the Pathfinders achieve their aims, he was doing the right thing. This cycle came to its peak against one of Eorzea Unexplored's lieutenants, Gilbraux. Butchered by his onslaught of arrows, the Pathfinders barely triumphed. Denied the finishing blow by his peers and their aim for a merciful end, Averill fled the site of their conflict, his wounds a testament to Gilbraux's lethal efficacy. Stowing away on a vessel that might bear him to the company estate, Averill's bleeding stopped - as did his heart. The change passed unnoticed for the longest time; perhaps he simply did not care enough to notice his apparent demise, so blinded by a burgeoning lust for vengeance. Vengeance for the wounds Gilbraux had caused, vengeance against the fools who had fielded his illimitable strength against them to begin with. Anger stirred him, a thousand coals scorching his blood black. When they next met, Averill confronted the Pathfinders' leadership, blaming them for his condition. His outburst earned the scorn it deserved, and despite requiring his presence for the final battle, their faith in the tempered soul had been irrevocably scarred. Set against Eorzea Unexplored's final line of defence, he fought with a fury and zeal saw only in the mad Lady of the Vortex herself. He carved the last lieutenant to the point of would, stopped only by Eddard's disarming strike to sunder her will and fighting ability in one strike. As their target - an ancient, forgotten Allagan Node bent on subjugating Eorzea in the name of piece - fell and the enclosure collapsed, Averill's faith finally shattered. He cut through a wall and made to escape, abandoning them to burn for their crimes against him. This would be the last time Averill worked for the Pathfinders. As his sanity returned, slowly, and his heart beat afresh, he turned his efforts into managing his condition, using the journal penned by his father as a guide to the answer. He called the Pathfinders one last time, but little aid would come. The failure of that mission cemented Averill's estrangement from his second family. Abandoned by the Pathfinders, estranged from all he had learned to care for, Averill's lingering sanity fixed on the responsibility left to him - the gate in Dravania he had smashed open. His father's notes and his last mission revealed the existence of an ancient cavern - the Cage of the Scrimshaw. The creator of his axe, Huracan, and the solution to every problem that blighted his life lay within. If he could only get past its guardian... Alas, there were none. Even as the bandersnatches returned, emboldened by silence and the scent of fresh meat, even as Averill drew on more of Garuda's aether to keep the entrance peaceful, none came to his aid, leaving the lone savage to his new life. A savage sentinel for the Cage that birthed his cursed weapon. -This plot will be updated as new developments arise. Stay tuned!-

Relations and Affiliations

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Eorzea and its Organisations

Gridania

Knowing Averill's condition only by the tragedy of the tempered child secreted from the city state nearly thirty years ago, the Elementals have since raged against the savage's presence in the Twelveswood whenever he has deigned it necessary to travel there. Wailers actively hunt the beast down, lest Greenwrath destroy them all, and he is denied entry to the city-state proper. Such harsh action is endemic to those who suffer the wrath of Garuda's Xelphatol Ixali, and all those attuned to the will of the Elementals reckon well the anxiety shrouding any possibility of Averill and the Lady's children ever meeting.

Ishgard

Whilst not directly persecuted by the Holy See, Averill has caused no small amount of trouble for Ishgard's outposts. Camp Dragonhead has suffered Averill's presence in the central highlands as he took to the Weeping Saint, challenging ogres for their territory. So much so, in fact, that it was this that guided the Pathfinders to him. Beyond Coerthas, Averill's presence in Dravania has been tolerated owing in part to the severity of these environments. The hunters of Tailfeather share an amicable relationship, and a mutual trust born from Averill's assistance in handling the local, more unruly bandersnatches.

Limsa Lominsa
Averill's childhood home. (WIP)

Ul'dah
(WIP)

Personal

Abilities and Equipment

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Abilities

High Physical Strength: Perhaps due to the weight of his chosen weapon, or the abundance of aether pulsing through his body, Averill nonetheless possesses abnormal strength for a Hyur of his stature, comfortably wielding a weapon almost as large as he is in one hand or two.

Immense Aetheric Capacity: Flooded with corrupted aether from the moment of his birth, Averill sustains a gargantuan wellspring of wind aether, serving as both the fuel for his martial skill and the core of his savagery. In channelling such a volatile resource, he channels the strength of Garuda; her strength, and her boundless rage.

Wind Affinity: The heart of Averill's ability lies in the cruel gales that twist around his strikes, serving to increase their impact and sharpness both. With enough force, his storm can eviscerate even the stoutest of defences, physical or magical.

Martial Prowess: From the moment he set out, Averill has always preferred the axe above all weapons. As such, he has developed a style of combat unique from Marauders and fabled Warriors both, focussed on whirling strikes and unpredictable onslaughts. Bearing no finesse or professional discipline, his skill is born from an innate brutality and a decade of experience in the hard wilds of Eorzea. Even without his signature weapon, he is a formidable fighter with any blade - though none can withstand his abilities for a prolonged period of time without shattering.

Tempered Soul: Twisted in the crucible of Garuda's aether, held in check only by the weakest chains of civilising education, Averill's soul belongs to the Lady of the Vortex. Her will manifests in his nigh-insatiable bloodlust, but despite its drawbacks affords him unique protection against other aetheric influences.

Equipment

Huracan: An axe borne of Dawson's defeat. Upon realising there would be no stabilising or curing Averill's condition, his failing father sought to at least provide a suitable home for his son's abilities, lest they rip him apart from the inside. Forged from materials uniquely suited to conducting and channelling aether, it is named after a creature of legend; a beast that ravaged far away lands, its home a ferocious storm from which few returned.

Wilds Armour: In his travels, Averill learned to adapt the scraps he stumbled across into armour of his own design. Piecemeal and providing protection only to his vitals, it affords him the mobility to carve through battlefields unrestrained.

Rumours

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Anyone who RPs with Averill and leaves with a good/bad/dramatic impression, don't hesitate to add to the rumours section below!

• "You really don't want to get into a fight with this guy. He's not always terrifyingly fast and furious, though. There's a... well, I wouldn't say a normal man, but there's certainly some sort of man underneath all that frightfulness, and he makes good coffee." -Eaubront Shopont
• "Few I'd rather have by my side in a fight. He swings an axe like nothing else. Don't know too much about him, seems less than willing to speak on certain subjects." -Aysa Farland

Outfits

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Wilds Armour