"Used to consider myself a monster. But these days, I see the only monsters in these lands are those who hide what they truly are." ~ Abrenard Rondelet
The conflict of the classes has always been an issue when it comes to the city-state of Ishgard. The rich tread upon the poor, the hungry left to fight for even the most meager of breadcrumbs to survive. The greed and self-entitlement led to no small manner of various affairs and scandals within the higher-class. Abrenard Rondelet was but the by-product of one such scandal, the result of the union between Lord and servant. The bastard of noble blood.
In an effort to save the House such humiliation and to avoid the wrath of the Lady, the days-old babe was delivered to the steps of an orphanage within the Brume with naught but a hand-woven basket with but a thin blanket to protect him. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence in any fashion. Left without any indication of a name, the boy was given the name of the deceased Matron's son who's hair was the same brilliant shade as his own. When he came of the bare minimum age to work, he was in the streets, tending to any meager duty he could. From feebly cleaning the rubble left in the streets from the most recent attacks to painting houses and the like, his life never had a moment of respite from the harsh reality of the world. As grew older, work was scarce and often offered to those more in need. There was no bitterness within him. In fact, he preferred that the others take the easier work as they hadn't the strength to live as he did. He'd taken a shining to thievery. Quick fingers and sleight-of-hand made certain the boy was rarely seen and in the few instances he was, his nimble feet carried him over walls and roofs to safety before any could spot him. Despite the crime, it was never out of greed but of survival. Taking only food and drink that he needed to survive the day while providing for his 'brothers'. But he wanted more. Constant conflict with the children of nobility gave rise to anger and then determination. Looking not to their houses but to the armor-clad figures that soared through the sky whenever the scale-kin loomed, Abrenard Rondelet began living for the sole purpose of joining the ranks of the Dragoon. Those of noble-blood could boast all they wanted of their superior talents but when a commoner took such an honor from sheer force of effort? The look on their faces would be glorious...
Each day was spent training heavily. Mind. Body. He'd take to tests of wit against his elders in the taverns, most often through games of triple triade. He'd throw himself to challenges of endurance and strength, hauling rubble and taking jobs such as tilling fields to improve himself while each night was spent with lance in hand.
His efforts over the years paid off. He was welcomed into the order with an above average impression upon his superiors and wasted little time in pushing himself higher into the ranks. The outrage and disbelief on the faces of those who'd mocked his class for so long were well worth every moment.
This drove a few extremists to an act that would tear the man down from the inside. Abrenard had a habit of 'adopting' the youth of the Brume to ensure they survived, taking care of them as best he could. Gaspard was but a boy in his teens and unable to survive as his brother had due to a birth-given defect that slowed his motor skills. One who idolized Abrenard and gifted him with a hand-crafted mask that he'd often wear when in the midst of theft. It was he they chose to frame for theft and attempted assault upon one of their daughters, who played her part perfectly. Weeping and sobbing hysterically. Abrenard arrived just in time to watch the blade cut the boy's throat. No trial. No justice.
The lance cast aside, Abrenard had a new purpose. He couldn't justify defending a people so vicious and spiteful that they'd kill an innocent just for the sake of enraging another. He took to the taverns, to the streets. Long had he heard the tale of the fabled 'Dark Knights'. Of their deeds most would call villainous against the Holy See, but within Abrenard saw only justice, pure and true. They danced around no politics, heeded no law. He needed to find one such Knight.
It took many moons before a reliable source finally managed to locate the rumors of one such character. Abrenard latched onto it and gave chase, eventually happening across the armored figure and wasting little time in lashing out at him, steeling himself to restrain the other before demanding he be taught. There was something in the boy's eye, that look of utter desperation and outrage, that the Knight saw potential within.
Years passed. None had seen nor heard from either of the pair since their meeting. The Calamity had fallen and Ishgard lay feet beneath the snow, silence gripping the night.. until a sharp scream of fear and agony pierced the night and the woman who had commanded the death of Gaspard plummeted from her balcony with skull shattering upon the pavement, her middle torn by the serrated blade.
He'd had his justice. Gaspard had his vengeance. Fleeing from the scene with those very same nimble feet that'd allowed him to escape before, Abrenard Rondelet took flight from the nation of Ishgard and found himself within Tailfeather, hiding amongst the hunters until more recently the gates were opened and he took the chance to flee the Holy See inquisitors with a venture south.
An incredibly abrasive and blunt man on the outside, Abrenard tends to have a way of bringing the worst kind of attention upon himself due to his nature to disregard coddling anyone who spends most of their time feeling sorry for themselves given his own harsh upbringing. Regardless, the man seems to be openly welcoming to near anyone willing to sit and enjoy a drink by his side. He's not ever one to allow troublemakers to go without a stern word of warning. Under the rugged exterior lies a quiet man, one ravaged by both his deeds and the memory of how cruel 'humanity' can truly be.
He's done a fair amount of deeds he regrets heavily and finds that alcohol is likely the safest way to keep the darker avenues of his mind from drawing him down memory lane. More often than not, it's safe to assume he's intoxicated in some form with a hint of drink on his breath. His drink of choice? "Rum. No additions. Just a straight, tall glass of just rum."
He has an incredible weakness when it comes to helping those who can't help themselves. It's not uncommon to see him trotting about with his adopted niece, Inelaa Locte, in tow. Quick to offer an ear, a gift, a cuddle or more to those who are in need, it's clear he does have some form of soft-spot within that hardened exterior.
The training of the Dragoon is perilous and not for the faint of heart. Yet while some cower at the thought of such an arduous journey, he flourishes with a grin on his lips and a fire in his heart. Be it mental or physical, he'll not often outright deny the challenge posed before him and can often be seen dabbling in his spare time with various riddles or physical training that borders on the insane.
No surprise he's ever suffered has been a good one and thus, he tends to become a touch tense when one rolls along. There are exceptions, mostly if the person dropping said surprise is a close comrade, but they still tend to make his gut roll uncontrollably with discontent and stress.
The thought of any man or woman holding themselves above others due to bloodline or wealth is laughable to a man who had nothing and built a life for himself from nothing. Most Ishgardians will find him to be incredibly put off by their presence and his words incredibly unforgiving. If you want to hold such a status, earn it. To do otherwise is disrespectful to those who put forth the effort to climb the ladder.
He's no racist. Not by a long shot. Many of the new races outside of Ishgard have his excitement but when it comes to Miqo'te, a fair bunch have caused his opinion of the race to slant just slightly. He doesn't go far out of his way to make friends with them, even calling them 'cats', but there are a few exceptions that have been redeeming the bunch for him.
Ineela Locte - Having been asked to take Neela under his wing by her mother, Kiipa, Abrenard has become 'Uncle Kweh' to the younger woman and humors her nickname for him through styling his hair after the 'bird's behind' which she seemed to find amusing when they were first introduced. The pair have become strongly bonded after only a short time and though he's never had any family, she is one he would gladly defend with his life.
Currently under the employ of the Dread Wyrm's of Dalamud's End, Abrenard serves as a personal guardian to Admiral Shiori herself and lives for the thrill of the fight provided in doing so due to her madcap adventures. The crew is vast and varied with many providing different talents.
Disclaimer: The notes below are purely in character and are not influenced at all by OOC, or how well I know anyone outside of RP. If there's a missing listing, it's either due to the author's poor memory or there being too little information for Abrenard to consider them more than a simple contact.
(( You're more than welcome to add any rumor you'd look, for better or worse. Hit me! ))
Posted as they are created.
This section contains any stories related to this character, and anything written ICly.
Full Disclosure: I made use of several snippets I found on various profiles but the main contributor was Ciel Sauveterre. Credit for the design goes to her as far as I'm aware. Be certain to take a look at her profile for she's a divine role-player herself.