Desgevell [Lieutenant]

[Desgevell]

GENERAL

OOC Name: Vell.
Other Characters: None.

Name: Desgevell (des-geh-vell); goes by Vell.
Gender: Male.
Age: Thirty-five.
Orientation: Heterosexual.
Order: Chaos.
Rank: Lieutenant.
Occupation: None.

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits:
→ Observant. Hardly anything escapes his view. He is content being quiet and watching the world around him, which allows him to pick out things others might miss, or learn about someone by watching how they work.

→ Dependable. However much he complains, he will carry out his orders without fail. He is very loyal to authority even if he resents following orders. One can always trust him to fulfill a task for the good of the Order.

→ Patient. In specific cases, he can be very tolerant, whether it’s being teased or waiting for a chance to strike. He gets angry fast when someone he sees as lowly irritates him, but for the empress, other high-ranking members, and children, he would sit for hours even under stress.

→ Debonair. To a point, he can be quite charming and diplomatic when it matters most. Usually his suave nature hides a condescending opinion, but no one can find fault when he is acting as courteous as possible.

→ Opinionated. He is not blinded by faith or the opinions of others; he will agree with who he wants to agree with, even if it’s not the majority, and even if only he has the “right” idea. Because he is stubborn, he won’t be swayed from what he believes in.

Negative Traits:
→ Indifferent. He at least appears to be apathetic to those around him, even if he might care. This does not always happen, but he tends to close up at the most inopportune moments

→ Stubborn. A double-sided coin, as while it makes him dependable, it also gets him into a hell of a lot of trouble. He commits to a task in such a way that it rubs off on his speaking and deliberating, meaning he will never back down from an argument.

→ Curt. He doesn’t know when to be sensitive and in most cases comes out with a blunt opinion, which bothers some people who want discretion.

→ Skeptical. He has little belief in Vysec and does not actively worship the Goddess of Chaos. He does believe in the deities because of the proof of life and magic around him, but he believes that what the gods are doing now will have little effect on the world. While this lack of faith keeps him from being blind to his own ideals, it also makes him hated by more devout followers.

→ Hard-working. One of his flaws is that he doesn’t know his own limitations, and when he does get weaker he attempts to defy that weakness by working harder. It has a bad effect on his health.

→ Excessively violent. He is not peaceful by any means; his answer to anything bothering him is, at the very least, a punch to the face. He kills remorselessly, and while this makes him a good warrior, it also keeps people from trusting him.

→ Envious. Buried underneath his loyalty is envy to the title of leader among the Order of Chaos. It doesn’t affect him that much on the outside, but his jealousy shows up in many other ways. If he covets something, he will proceed to win that item, no matter what it is. This results, usually, in violence.

Fears:
→ Demotion.
→ An opponent he can’t beat.
→ Spiders.

Quirks:
→ Impulsively grooms.
→ Swears a lot.
→ Bordering on alcoholic, even if he claims to despise alcohol.
→ Completely a dog person.

Ideals:
→ Strength of body and mind.
→ Ability to hide or defeat weakness.
→ Determination.
→ Loyalty.

Overall:
A determined warrior, a diplomatic and observant lieutenant, someone whose strength anyone would want on their side… Behind that first impression, anyone can see that he has far more flaws than positive attributes. Blunt, stubbornly opinionated, and supposedly apathetic about others, he will get on anyone’s nerves if they can see past his strength. Quirks such as swearing, drinking, and fighting make him a typical roughhousing bar patron. While he has more enemies than friends, however, some people value his occasional patience, loyalty, and self-determination. He isn’t incapable of making connections and can be a humorous and protective if stubborn and aggravating friend.

APPEARANCE

Hair Color: Saturated auburn.
Eye Color: Hazel.
Skin Color: Tanned.
Clothing:
Desgevell does not have any unique style of dress but prefers to blend in, not an easy task with his appearance. He wears the usual dark, drab clothing. He dresses practically for a warrior, unless he needs to be at a formal meeting, where he abandons the usually bloodstained and tattered wear for cleaner, still dark apparel. He usually doesn’t have accessories.
Weapons:
Two-handed mace as main weapon in battle.
Knife for smaller disputes.
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 170 lbs
Overall:
Desgevell looks very intimidating at a first glance, with a relatively tall and broad-shouldered, muscular build. His tanned skin is marred with several scars, a testament to the years that he spent in battle; it causes lighter patches on his skin though only one is distinct. He has a nasty, long cut on his back from between his shoulder blades curving slightly to his hip. His shoulders and arms are defined from the heavy weaponry he is fond of. His hair is auburn, though it appears red at a first glance. It’s long enough to partially hang over his eyes unless he feels like slicking it back to look less messy. His eyes are a deep hazel, a mix of brown and grey and mahogany with redder flecks. His nose is very slightly crooked from an old break though not enough to detract too much from his appearance. He probably would not be considered handsome, unless you can get past the fact he looks scary, and if you like the rugged types.
Picture: None.

HISTORY

Family: Unknown father. Chinaza, mother.
History:
Desgevell was born to Chinaza, a worshiper of the Goddess of Discord and a follower in the ranks of the Chaos Order. He never knew his father and grew up despising him for not being there. His mother tried to explain that he was long dead, lost even before she found out she was pregnant with his child, but she refused to say anything else about him. With no one to explain this mystery, he grew slightly bitter from the get-go.

Something seemed to be wrong with Vell as he grew up. He was a trouble-making child, getting into fights left and right, always unruly and often punished. However, his mother had returned to her job as a soldier and was killed brutally. When he rushed to her body, everyone was shocked at the apparent apathy on the teenager’s face, but inwardly he promised to be a great fighter and to prevent things like that from happening.

He was instantly promoted to a follower after a few years as an initiate. During his training years he had shaped up, directing his obvious aggression into meaningful tasks, and there was no question as to where he was going when he grew up. He became a warrior as soon as he was able to. He was a great asset in battle; while he did not have the wisdom or control of older warriors, he was swift and strong and merciless. He was scarred heavily through reckless determination and stubbornness, too set on dealing damage than watching himself. His life was almost ended when a heavy sword was swung at his back, leaving a long and deep gash. His spine had almost been crushed by that blow. As a result, he grew more cautious and patient in battle.

He was promoted by the empress when he was twenty-seven, mostly for his battle skills, while the older lieutenant handled the more diplomatic stuff. That lieutenant was the one who taught him to be more charming in the presence of others, knowing that the smallest thing might set off the other Orders in one of the short intervals of relative peace. He became more proficient in delegating though he would always represent the warriors of the Order of Chaos.

A couple of years later, the empress promoted a third lieutenant, a younger woman much to Vell’s disbelief. He was skeptical of her skills and usually avoided her when he could with the knowledge that she was slowly becoming the empress’s favorite. He knew that he would be the oldest and more able to lead when the oldest second-in-command and his mentor died. With this confidence that the woman, less experienced than he, would never rise to power and destroy his ambitious dream, Desgevell took it easy. He didn’t know that the woman was working hard to take on the duties of the aging leader.

When Virisca was named the new Chaos Empress, Desgevell was shocked. His immediate reaction was resentment, but quickly he realized that there was no way to change what had happened. Reluctantly, he pledged loyalty to the new leader. Though he was jealous of her position, he would never oppose her. He could only sit and wait.

ROLEPLAY SAMPLE

Among the masterpieces, carefully molded clay statues and shining pieces of metal twisted like swan necks, a darker shape lurked. The figure passed by the bust of an old philosopher and carelessly stepped over the ripped canvas of a painting depicting a starry night. Snowflakes fell in from cracks in the ceiling, which allowed dim daylight to spill in. Nevertheless shadows draped the silvery-white coat, obscuring half of her face in darkness. Yellowed teeth, exposed against raw scar tissue, glinted in the dreary sunlight that illuminated the snowy landscape outside. The shadowed side of her lips wore only a slight frown as she sniffed around at the torn carpet and old pedestals of the museum.

She had followed a smell here, distinct, imprinted in her mind out of rage that was, back then, perhaps unjustified. But now her tongue slowly maneuvered around her incisors, as if trying to lick pieces of flesh from between them, tasting memories of ginger fur pressed between her jaws. A hunger for vengeance had willed her to walk among the Pass and seek out that first traitor who openly defied her. Perhaps not because of Osaron, no, but it had offered her a whiff of betrayal’s rotting reek. And the blood of the First Dissenter must be precious in her god’s eyes.

But somewhere she had lost Xyrin’s scent among the dust and snow, and any tracks would be blown away by the wind and scattered white flakes. Heaving a bad-tempered sigh, the alpha lifted her head and sniffed the air one last time. An odor even more familiar came to her nostrils, and the tension left her shoulders and the erect silver hackles. One of her pack had ventured here; whether or not they were also on the trail of her target was yet to be decided, but she would see. As long as they weren’t slipping information to the dissenters—fate forbid they be found out now—this would be a relatively low-stress situation. She didn’t think she could take the stress anymore, anyway. Seven years was ancient for a wolf of old, and even after evolution this harsh environment did not let her forget her age.

“Hraefn,” the small she-wolf greeted when she had walked into the room her fellow pack member now sat in. Her head bobbed only subtly before her black tail swept upward, a subconsciously raised banner of dominance. While the sentient wolves did not have to rely on postures of submission and displays of aggression to communicate, the old instinct was still there, and as turncoats were exposed every week she wanted her subordinates to know that she was in charge. Her brown eyes fell, lighthearted if not enthused, on the brown-black delta.

Her silver-striped face suddenly turned skeptical. She peeked at the odd contraption of glass and wire and took a seat among the small pieces of rubble. Ears erect, she glanced once more at her pack mate. “What are you looking at?” she questioned, before she noticed the stained glass window. Confusion made her expression distant as she turned and rose to her paws, tiptoeing toward the large display. Light glinted off what remained intact of the image, while fragments scattered around her paws caught it like a prism. Suddenly colors swam up around her legs, and she jumped back as if the reds and greens and blues were insects attempting to crawl all over her.

As much as the old alpha had seen of the world, Sneer could never get used to artifacts like these. She had faith in her god, but to think anything of the buildings and other objects fashioned by human hands was a crazy thought to her. Everyone had theories, while she saw them as rocks and plants, not “art.” While unnerved by the large image before her, she at last settled on a smile and sat down again.

“Life is full of small miracles, isn’t it?” she whispered.