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Blasphemy carries a price that few men can bear. Lance Corporal Herseur D'Sauveur of the Ishgardian Temple Knights learned the weight of heresy well after cursing the name of his beloved goddess in rage after his first failure on the battlefield. The young cavalry officer was punished severely for spitting in the face of She who consecrated The Holy See, leading to brief imprisonment. After serving his sentence which ended prematurely, just after Nidhogg's awakening, he was swiftly transferred to a penal regiment and made one of many to lead the suicidal charges against the vile brood of Dravania. By sheer luck, the cavalryman survived alongside his only steed, Savisha, until the end of the war. Perhaps, he wondered, he was kept alive only because his debt to The Fury was not yet paid. Sickness overtook Herseur towards the end of the war, but its malevolence did not fully bloom until the day the Archbishop died. Pustules, gaping sores, and rotting wounds began to afflict him like a curse sent from on high, and the arrogant young man learned his place under The Fury as all he had loved was ripped from his hands. His beloved wife barred the door and windows, fearing that his pestilence would spread to their four sons. His regiment cast him out, seeing that he was no longer fit to serve in battle, nor was he fit to serve alongside the able-bodied. With nothing but shame left to his name, he took his steed and rode down The Steps of Faith one last time, exiling himself from his home not just out of humiliation, but for the sake of his own kin. None deserved a curse that he believed was designed solely for him.
Few behold the face of the shameful leper, but those who do often feel their stomachs churn in disgust. His pallid skin clings tight to ailing sinew like bleached parchment, thin and fragile. Dueling scars, earned from a youth of saber fencing, have reopened and gone fetid, rotting through his right cheek in such a way that nearly all of his teeth show along it. Sullen, sunken eyes have not yet lost their vitality nor color, however, and shine through his hideous visage as piercing rays of frigid blue. Beyond his countenance, Herseur's frame shows equal signs of decay. He once towered over his compatriots and bore shoulders so broad that they put many men to shame, but muscular atrophy has stricken him, especially at the core, causing him to lurch forward naturally. His firm posture often looks awkward and forced, as standing straight has become a conscious effort for him.
Aspects That Stand Out:
Quick to anger but quick to calm, Herseur is a mercurial man enslaved to his own volatility. His ambitions are betrayed by his own rage, and his silver tongue is rendered into little but mud with the venom he spews when provoked. As a man with little time left, he has abandoned his formalities, his patience, and much of his compassion.
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