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Old May 4, 2019, 11:35 PM   #1
Conan mac Chulainn
Join Date: May 2019
Posts: 7
Conan mac Chulainn is an upstanding Citizen
Conan mac Chulainn


Name: Conan mac Chulainn
Heritage: Human, Linn Faenii
Age: Unknown, appears mid-to-late 20's
Birthplace: Daruuk Mountains, Xet Alliance
Current Location: Wandering

Current Status in the Aelyrian Empire: Illegal; Barbari
As of Era XXVI, Conan has not yet adapted to nor learned to blend into the culture of the Empire in any way, and he stands out dramatically as an obviously foreign barbari. The threat of capture and legal placement into slavery is very real, though he in unaware of this risk and does not take the prudent measures he should to avoid this fate.

Language Capacity:
As of Era XXVI, Conan can speak and understand very basic Common, but is unfamiliar with advanced speech patterns, colloquialisms or expressions, and will often revert to his native Linn Faenii language when frustrated by communication difficulties.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Wealth Tier: Below Copper; Destitute
As of Era XXVI, Conan is penniless, homeless, and without a means of earning a living in the Empire. In order to survive, he scavenges scraps of rotting refuse from the garbage of dining establishments, catches rats, birds or assorted vermin in alleys, or steals what is left unattended by distracted proprietors. He sleeps anywhere that is out of the public view, seeking shelter in any place that might afford him even a couple hours of rest.

As the hottest flames produce the purest ore, so has the unyielding forge of Conan's life melted away any weakness from his body, shaping and molding him into an unprecedented physical specimen. While relatively short of stature compared to many of Telath's humanoid species, standing approximately five-foot eleven inches, the barbari towers over his Linn Faenii brethren. What sets him apart most, however, is his immensely muscular form. Forced to endure brutal physical labor that often proved lethal for lesser men, Conan developed into a colossus of raw, physical strength. Born with a naturally wide and stocky build, he is extremely barrel-chested and thick-necked, with exceptionally broad shoulders and large, powerful hands that look as if they could squeeze water from stone. His arms and legs are heavy with dense muscle and near in size to the trunks of modest trees, and his torso, devoid of even an ounce of spare flesh, is a rippling canvas of deep grooves and contours that dramatically displays all the mighty musculature that lies within. The barbari's flesh is a pale olive tone, though it has been darkened and tanned by constant exposure to the sun's rays, and it is a rent and ruined tapestry of prominent scars that stand as testament to the pain and suffering of his existence thus far. His weathered face is a harsh, brutish visage with a heavily shelved and brooding brow and a strong, brick-square jawline, framed by a thick mane of shaggy and matted hair that hangs to his shoulders and so dark brown in color that it appears nearly black in all but direct light. His sullen and piercing eyes are the same deep brownish black as his hair, turbulent and tempestuous, and they radiate silent judgement and condemnation of the cruel and unforgiving world around him. Unfamiliar with most clothing and certainly ignorant of most forms of armor, Conan is almost always wearing only a simple loincloth and sandals that strap partway up his shins, though in extreme circumstances he might be persuaded to don less revealing attire. With his primitive garb and primal, uncivilized mannerisms, it is immediately apparent that Conan is a foreigner within the Empire and is unquestionably a barbari of the most feral sort.

On first glance, with his massive musculature and bulky build, you might understandably think that Conan is a heavy and ungainly creature, thundering around without subtlety or grace. You would be mistaken. The Xet subjugation of the Linn Faenii and the inadvertent selective breeding that resulted from those survivors strong enough to reproduce, combined with the incredibly extreme working conditions imposed on the enslaved race, had the potential to create truly remarkable examples of humanity's famous adaptability. Decades of climbing and trudging across the jagged and inhospitable Daruuk Mountains taught Conan balance and coordination, until the enormous barbari could deftly negotiate even the most narrow of peaks and ledges with the skill of a mountain goat. The endless labor of cultivating the mountains and bringing fresh soil from the Avinsmar Prairie gave him the muscles of a titan, but with the fear of death from a displeased Xet taskmaster an ever present reality, Conan also learned to push himself past points of exhaustion and fatigue that other slaves succumbed to. The barbari's endurance is as relentless and unyielding as the Xet themselves, an attribute born from their merciless and unforgiving ways. Finally, surviving in a world dominated by the Xet required one to learn to be unobtrusive and perceived as rarely as possible by the cruel taskmasters. Thus, Conan learned to step lightly and move with a quiet, flowing grace that belied his size, exercising remarkable control of his body in order to avoid the Xet whenever possible. The cumulative effect of this lifetime's worth of hardship and struggle has gifted the powerful barbari with a physical bearing most reminiscent of a panther; a stalking predator, a creature of finely honed instincts whose movements display a fluid and smooth deftness in their deliberate precision.

Conan is a living embodiment of the old expression “Still waters run deep”. The barbari is exceedingly stoic in the face of most situations or encounters, and he appears to have a detached or disinterested response to most things. Life beneath the crushing heel of Xet enslavement has robbed Conan of many of his emotions and outward reactions, and natural human inclinations such as sympathy or community, for example, have been abandoned in the pursuit of survival. He rarely chooses to speak, partly because of a lack of familiarity with the Common tongue of the Empire, but when he does speak he is taciturn, blunt, and unfamiliar with the accepted social conventions of conversation. The great exception to Conan's stone-like stoicism is his capacity for a brutal and all consuming rage. This inferno of emotion lies deep within the barbari's soul, kept well in hand after decades of practiced subservience, but when the flames are stoked, he can be likened to an unchecked force of nature. No rationality or concern for repercussion tempers his actions and there is no sense of self-preservation, for all semblance of survival has been sacrificed in the indulgence of his fury. It is exceptionally rare for Conan to lose himself to this overwhelming display of emotion, though it can be triggered by actions or circumstances that remind him of the worst and most horrible aspects of life beneath the Xet overlords. His emotionality aside, Conan is also far more shrewd and observant than his simple speech or his brutish appearance might indicate. Due to the dangers inherent in the world in which he grew, he is keenly observant and notes many fine details about his surroundings, and has a remarkable gift for learning quickly and applying this knowledge to the situation at hand. This enables him to better adapt and survive against any perils or unfamiliar environments that he may come across; another inadvertent gift of his cruel masters.

In the distant past, when the Linn Faenii still roamed free across the northwestern territory now controlled by the Xet Alliance, Conan mac Chulainn's people were nomadic hunters that roamed the southern portion of the Steppes of Asra. His clan was comprised of fierce and hearty stock, as rugged and harsh as the lands they inhabited, and they learned much from the wild packs of Dorin that also called the Steppes home. The clan grew strong and learned much of hunting and survival from their interaction with the Dorin, separating themselves from the more docile Linn Faenii of the Avinsmar Prairie region by their uniquely aggressive and warlike tendencies. Though they remained as primitive as the rest of their agrarian brethren, the clan adopted the ways of raiding and marauding, launching assaults on the domesticated and cultivated sections of the great Prairie to claim valued herds of cattle. All of this would be utterly destroyed however, as the crushing might of the Xet swept in like an unstoppable gale and brought ruin upon the world as they knew it. No amount of aggression or survival instinct could even begin to repel or resist the Xet, and thus Conan's people were slaughtered and subjugated along with all others who dwelled in the doomed region. Many hopeless era of slavery and brutality passed beneath the heel of the cruel overlords, and though the once mighty clan was no more, it's survivors clung to what shreds of identity remained to them in their bondage. They never let themselves forget the memory of the thrill of the hunt, the rapture of the kill, and most importantly, they never forgot that which had defined them long before they had learned to stalk the land like predators. They were survivors; they would endure.

Eventually, Conan, son of Chulainn, was born to the enslaved clan. His birth was the first trial of survival that he would be forced to overcome, but far from the last. His mother was a fierce woman called Deichtine, whose innate spiritedness had earned her the ire of the Xet taskmasters in the past. Working while heavy with child and nearing her time of delivery, she angered the Xet overseer and openly defied it, earning herself a quick and brutal death at the insectoid creature's hands. In an act of desperation, Chulainn, her mate, took a edged shard of chert stone and slashed her belly open, pulling out the unborn child from within. The Xet allowed this act, as the child, if it lived, would replace the mother in cultivating food for the species. Upon seeing his son, Chulainn bemoaned the cruelty of the Formeyl that had shaped his offspring. The child was not only healthy and unscathed during the assault that had slain it's mother, it was robust and perfectly formed. To the enslaved Linn Faenii, this meant that the child would be doomed to endure the harshest and most grueling of physical labors that the Xet required until fatigue, injury, or simple malice ended it’s short and brutal life. It would be a sweet mercy to take the bloody shard of stone and drag it across the infant's neck, sparing it from such a fate, but Chulainn could not do this thing. He hoped that perhaps, some day, the broken and tortured man that Conan would become could forgive his father for his weakness and his obedience before the will of the Xet, and for wanting to keep a piece of the woman that he had loved alive. Unfortunately, Chulainn would not live long enough to see the fate of his son, as a lifetime's worth of toil and hardship finally claimed the enslaved man's life before the infant Conan was old enough to even remember his father's face.

Chulainn's prophetic lament quickly came to fruition, for as soon as the child could walk upright unassisted, he was put to work in the endless cultivation cycle for the Xet's boundless appetites. Exceptionally large and strong among the youth of his people, Conan was placed at the fore of the most labor intensive of tasks. The child would spend grueling days cleaving and breaking the stones of the Daruuk Mountains with the primitive and rudimentary tools of his people, then hauling them by hand or by sleds strapped to his body far away from the area being landscaped for farming. He was also tasked with relocating great cumbersome loads of rich soil from the Prairie lands back up and into the unforgiving and perilous mountains, a nightmarish labor that often claimed many lives. With the poor nutrition and lack of proper sustenance that plagued the Linn Faenii, Conan would have been doomed to a short and unhealthy life, but the survival instincts of his clan ran deep within him. The feral child, raised by the whip and the rancor of his overlords, knew nothing of the taboos of civilization, nor would he have concerned himself with them if he had. When another of the slaves set to his tasks died nearby, Conan would take a jagged stone and crudely carve bloody chunks of flesh and muscle from the corpse for his own consumption. The Xet cared nothing for the cannibalism, neither applauding the initiative nor reviling the barbarism, but the child's fellow Linn Faenii shunned him as an animal and a savage. Conan did not care; he knew nothing of kinship or community in the ceaseless toiling that comprised his existence, and the meat and marrow of the fallen helped his body continue to grow strong and large. He supplemented the flesh of his kin with the bitter and hard roots of the Daruuk rainforests and the plants that he watched the sparse animal life consume, carefully studying and noting the ways in which life could be sustained in this most merciless of environments. The young barbari was determined to endure at all costs, and his relentless pursuit of survival saw him grow immensely strong under the burden of his labors.

After many Era had passed in this brutal fashion, a light came into Conan's world of darkness; beautiful Fionna, daughter of Aine. The woman tended the crops that were grown for the Xet, and unlike the other slaves that feared and scorned the enormous Conan, she had grown fond of his quiet and somber nature and found unexpected gentleness and affection buried beneath his calloused and scarred exterior. She was the barbari's only comfort and solace in a world that seemed determined to destroy him, and the only happiness he had ever known in life was found in her arms. The grim fancies of the cruel Formeyl were not yet done with their torments however, and they found the means to shatter Conan's world for more effectively than slavery or labor could ever manage. That fated day found Conan high atop an uncultivated section of mountainside, cleaving and clearing stones to expand farmable land, and from his vantage atop a cliff face he could see into the field below where Fionna toiled amidst the crops. He paused in his work to admire how the sun's rays shone in her dark hair and on her olive skin, but as he watched, the fearsome Xet taskmaster came upon the woman with it's cruel whip and began lashing the air, chittering in it's awful language for her to work faster. Fionna, fair and fiery, to the horror of all watching, momentarily forgot herself and stood defiantly before her tormentor. The whip lashed out, catching poor doomed Fionna around her neck, and a harsh jerk of the Xet's arm stole the life from the slave woman before she had even collapsed upon the soil. Conan stood frozen, the shockingly unexpected wound suddenly inflicted on him cutting through his soul and robbing him of sense and conscious thought. Without knowing how, a nearby boulder was hefted in his powerful arms, and with equally shocking suddenness, it was careening down the cliff toward the pre-occupied taskmaster. The boulder struck true, crushing through carapace and chitin and ending the life of the Xet below him.

All eyes slowly turned upward, faces aghast and terrified, to behold Conan standing alone atop the cliff edge. There was no mistaking the immensely muscled slave, and though Conan himself wore an expression of shock and horror, he watched as his brethren lifted their fingers to point and shriek in his direction. He had doomed them; the discovery of a murdered Xet taskmaster would be answered with swift and merciless retribution for them all. Numb with grief and terror, the large barbari whirled away from the accusing eyes of his enslaved kin and he tore into the depths of the Daruuk Mountains with the familiarity of one whom had trudged it's inhospitable terrain all his life and knew only the desperate abandon and forsaken panic of escaping prey. He thought only to head east, away from the subjugated Linn Faenii colony, away from the Xet who would undoubtedly pursue him before long, away from the only existence he had known. The instinct to survive drove him further and harder than he had ever endured before, but his powerful body, so adapted to the terrain, refused to succumb to the fatigue. There was only run, climb, run, hide, run, survive… survive...


Known Skills:
Initiate Song - **Starting Package
Unbeknownst to Conan, he was born with an innate harmonic resonance to the Material Plane. The extreme toil and exertion of his difficult life taught him to draw upon his natural reserves of vis without even knowing that he was doing it. It began with small repetitive chants that came to him in moments of extreme fatigue, mantras that he would repeat to himself to stave off the threat of collapse. From there, the barbari developed the habit of chanting deep in his vocal range whenever under extraordinary duress, repetitively articulating guttural and primal sounds that drew from his vis and filled his body with the power he needed to endure. He has no training or insight what so ever into the arcanomechanics behind his behavior, only the knowledge that his primitive chanting bolsters him in times of great need.

Known Lore:
None as of Era XXVI

A simple, primitive loincloth made from pieces of leather and fur.
A pair of primitive leather sandals that strap partway up the lower legs.

Grimoire of Spellsongs:
“Take The Next Step.”
The first chant Conan ever taught himself, subconsciously growling the phrase in a repetitive mantra when fatigue threatened to ruin him. The chant has no real spoken words, only a series of low, guttural grunts that rumble deep in his throat in a deliberately rhythmic pattern. The chant draws upon the barbari's vis to replenish his endurance and stave off the effects of fatigue, hunger and thirst for a brief time, allowing him to push further than his normal physical limitations might allow. Because of the low and inarticulate nature of the chant, the effects of the spellsong can not be gifted to another person.
Type: Chant
Targets: Self
Description of Effects: Restores and extends a portion of Conan's endurance, allowing him to ignore physical limitations such as fatigue, hunger and thirst for a limited amount of time.

“I Have Known Hell, and I Have No Fear.”
The second spellsong that Conan inadvertently taught himself stems from his people's spirituality in regards to the malevolent Formeyl spirits. While his brethren would cower and grovel to the shades of the vindictive Formeyl for mercy from their spiteful whims, Conan believed that no Formeyl could rival the Xet in merciless brutality and callous cruelty, and thus he shed his fear of the unseen spirits after living beneath the whips of the slavemasters. This chant, reminding him that he has seen and endured all that is terrible in the world, draws upon his vis to strengthen his convictions and embolden him when fear threatens to erode his resolve. Like his chant of endurance, the low and inarticulate growls that comprise this repetitious rhythm are too primal to be interpreted by another, and so the barbari is the only one effected by the spellsong's power.
Type: Chant
Targets: Self
Description of Effects: Bolsters Conan's courage in the face of terror or uncertainty, and removes the feeling of fear from his mind.

Last edited by Conan mac Chulainn; May 5, 2019 at 08:45 PM.
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Old May 5, 2019, 06:01 PM   #2
Conan mac Chulainn
Join Date: May 2019
Posts: 7
Conan mac Chulainn is an upstanding Citizen
 Fluid Timeline:
Era XXVI -

Last edited by Conan mac Chulainn; May 5, 2019 at 08:45 PM.
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