Name: Aurelius Greyland Steel
Age: 58
Race: Laicar (Terran)
Vigor: 1000
Latens: 500
Persona: Aurelius is a strange man, a man who finds solace in the fires of his forge. Swept away in his own thoughts accompanied by nothing more than ringing metal, roaring flames, humming technology, and his hushed words spoken to unseen forces. Suffice to say, perhaps not the most social of individuals.
Though he is capable of socializing, to a basic degree, he makes no effort to seek out the company of others. Especially since people seem to irritate him simply by existing, or so say some of the few regulars he has. His temper is matched only by the fires he works with, unpredictable and often volatile. Some of the individuals who know of him, have taken to calling him “The Mad Blacksmith”, and while he’s no psychopath, the label tends to fit.
Aurelius seeks quality over quantity. He devotes his time, and his life, into improving his skills and knowledge. When given a task, he will devote himself to making sure the item is made to his standards. Sometimes this means it can take longer than requested, but few have said anything about it. Not to his face anyways. Of course, with his strong devotion to quality and uniqueness, he harbors a strong sense of pride in his work. A pride which doesn't take well to misuse or insult.
Physical Stature: Despite the wrinkles, scars, and snow white hair carved upon him by time and experience, Aurelius does not hold the figure of your average fifty to sixty year old man. Standing a good six foot two with a body forged in the same fires as his weapons, Aurelius is blessed with broad shoulders and a well toned physique, coupled with his height for an impressive and sometimes intimidating figure. Several scars mark his lightly tanned skin, from war and accidents alike.
Fierce fiery orange eyes seem to glow from beneath his brow, seeing the world in their own skewed way. Observing, judging, and burning things away. His head is graced by soft snow white hair, singed at the tips, and kept short enough to stay out of his eyes while he works.
Biography: This is a man who’s seen the toils of war and conflict. The needless violence for pointless goals. He’s been a victim of their consequences, and a contributor to their outcomes. Yet, unable to abandon his trade, he continued what his father had taught him.
Aurelius was raised on the frontlines of war, learning his father’s craft, seeing the battles that the common soldier faced. Often helping his father mend and create armor and weapons for the footmen in their camp. With their opposition putting a superior strategy in place, his camp was inevitably overrun by the enemy, his father killed in the process. Aurelius spent the next several years as a prisoner of war, utilizing his skills - and learning new ones - under enemy control.
Eventually he was freed from their grasp when conflict overtook the enemy. But, unable to look at things the same, he put down his craft and hid from the world at large. He distracted himself in ale and bar brawls, denying the war and what it stood for.
Alas, his past caught up with him and he was forced into his trade once more. This time a determination to end the conflict overtook him; a newfound devotion to his skill that would follow him even after the conflict had ended. Before long, Aurelius lived his craft, one with his smithing.
Character Skills
Discipline of Pugilis (The Brawler)
Art of Aedificare (The Blacksmith)
Art of Terriculum (The Gunsmith)
Art of Ingeniarius (The Engineer)
Sample Chapter:
Burning embers danced through the air, accentuating the superheated metal in his forge. Ringing metal blotted out the world around Aurelius, enveloping him in pleasant isolation. He stared carefully at the product before him, examining it with a trained eye as he had done for years. This particular sword was almost done; he had spent the last few days working on it, though not for anyone in particular.
“I thought you had a commission due today.” A voice cut through the roaring fires of his forge, vaguely resembling his father’s.
“It’s done,” he replied simply, irritation clear. Not even bothering to turn from his work. “I always finish my commissions--”
“No. Not always, remember last month’s request? Not only didn’t you finish it. You threatened to bring one of your own weapons against the young man,” the voice said, cutting him short.
“Hah! Ahahaha. The look on his face ws priceless.” Aurelius’s face shifted from amusement to irritation again seamlessly. “Besides, he kept making demands and changing his order every day. What kind of ingrate does that anyways? Make up your damn mind.” His last words shifted into an inaudible grumble as he muttered a few more choice words under his breath.
The forge fell silent again, though only briefly, before the clanging of metal returned. Aurelius returned his focus to the product in front of him, only now the sword had lost all original meaning to him. Why was he making it again? The core was all wrong. What a waste of time! With a throaty yell of irritation and the sound of a dangerous hiss against his craftsman’s gloves, Aurelius hurled the scrap of metal across his workshop. The burning metal whirled through the air, emitting an ominous hum before crashing into reinforced masonry and clattering with an equally loud hiss into a cooling trough. Water steamed and boiled as it rapidly cooled the metal, placed in that spot for this exact occasion.
With his age, the older smith had developed a few habits, and this particular outburst happened often enough to warrant a safety trough near the far wall. The wall itself was seared, scorched, and physically damaged from a variety of rejected pieces hurled in frustration, and it only added to the general decor as this was by no means a fancy workshop. Aurelius’s workshop was of a hole-in-the-ground, back alley, shady side of town variety; intentionally set up in the slums of an out-of-the-way city often referred to as the ‘Rustyards’ by travelers and residents alike. He liked the general peace and quiet, and the few that tried to mess with him learned that his size wasn’t just for show.
“With the amount of work you throw away, it’s a surprise you get anything done these days.”
“Octavius, I swear I will ram this smithing hammer down your throat if you don’t shut it!” Aurelius turned on his heel and finally faced the source of the voice. A young man with tar black hair and a scruffy beard faced him. Though perhaps not as young as he once was, time had favored his looks at the very least.
“You’ve made that threat since we were prison pals, and you’ve yet to act on it. C’mon, I’m just trying to help you out here.” The fresh white smile of his old friend turned Aurelius’s stomach, and he couldn’t keep his anger. It irritated him to no end, but whenever he faced that smile he couldn’t hold anger towards his comrade in chains.
Aurelius had met Octavius years ago, back when he was a prisoner to a rebelling army. He had already been there for a time, when he found himself paired up with a new prisoner. A chatty, over friendly, and needlessly caring prisoner who would also end up teaching him a thing or two about engineering. At first it was stormy seas between them, in fact it’s probably safe to say that it was never perfectly calm. However, with that disarming smile and unabated optimism Octavius had, it was hard not to appreciate his company. It was hard to believe how long ago that was.
“It may be an empty threat, but the temptation grows every day,” Aurelius finally replied as he set down his hammer and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Especially when you shine me that stupid grin of yours.”
“Uhm, excuse me...” came an unfamiliar and younger voice.
“Oh, looks like you’ve got company. Try not to scare this one off,” Octavius said from his spot to the side, a smart grin on his face.
“I’m not afraid to follow through on my previous threat you know,” Aurelius warned in his gruff voice before he finally turned his attention to the young man at the door. Or, at least it looked like a young man, it was hard to tell with him standing in the partially-concealed doorway. The occasional flash of lightning defining his features.
When did that storm start?
“Sir?” the man continued, taking Aurelius’ attention as an acknowledgment to continue. “I’m here about a sword I ordered previously?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he replied, though with a little more bite than intended. “I get enough orders, that unless you tell me specifically what you ordered, I can’t very well tell you if I have it.”
“Right! Sorry about that, uh, sir,” the man sputtered out in response, clearly not sure how to engage this conversation. In the most likely circumstance he was a victim of rumor, afraid that this elderly blacksmith would smash him into the ground if he said the wrong thing. Not that he’d be completely wrong. “I’m here to pick up a sword my father ordered for his family’s estate. An ornamental sword designed to be hung over the fireplace.”
“Ah. Yeah, that one...” Aurelius muttered as he shuffled out of the man’s sight, further into his workshop. Before long, he returned with a blanket-wrapped sword. “Here it is. One fancy sword for a fancy house, as requested. But be careful when you carry it. I may have made it fancy, but it’s still a perfectly capable weapon. I don’t make useless clutter.”
With that last warning he handed the bundle to the client, glad to be free of it. Who orders an ‘ornamental sword’? Weapons are for fighting, not for decoration. That’s what time had taught him. He watched as the man, fiddling with his package, tried to pull the cloak up over his head to deter the downpour above. Then, when it looked like he was about to leave, the man turned back towards him.
“I’m sorry if I’m prying, but, if I may ask... who were you talking to?”
There was a prolonged silence as his words hung in the air. Aurelius turned to Octavius who continued to smile at him, neither ushering a word. A flash f lightning lit up the workshop and for an instant the old smith saw his friend’s face flayed to bone, blood exposed where it shouldn’t be. Then all was normal as the flash faded. With a time weathered face, he turned back towards the client who stood there innocently.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Age: 58
Race: Laicar (Terran)
Vigor: 1000
Latens: 500
Persona: Aurelius is a strange man, a man who finds solace in the fires of his forge. Swept away in his own thoughts accompanied by nothing more than ringing metal, roaring flames, humming technology, and his hushed words spoken to unseen forces. Suffice to say, perhaps not the most social of individuals.
Though he is capable of socializing, to a basic degree, he makes no effort to seek out the company of others. Especially since people seem to irritate him simply by existing, or so say some of the few regulars he has. His temper is matched only by the fires he works with, unpredictable and often volatile. Some of the individuals who know of him, have taken to calling him “The Mad Blacksmith”, and while he’s no psychopath, the label tends to fit.
Aurelius seeks quality over quantity. He devotes his time, and his life, into improving his skills and knowledge. When given a task, he will devote himself to making sure the item is made to his standards. Sometimes this means it can take longer than requested, but few have said anything about it. Not to his face anyways. Of course, with his strong devotion to quality and uniqueness, he harbors a strong sense of pride in his work. A pride which doesn't take well to misuse or insult.
Physical Stature: Despite the wrinkles, scars, and snow white hair carved upon him by time and experience, Aurelius does not hold the figure of your average fifty to sixty year old man. Standing a good six foot two with a body forged in the same fires as his weapons, Aurelius is blessed with broad shoulders and a well toned physique, coupled with his height for an impressive and sometimes intimidating figure. Several scars mark his lightly tanned skin, from war and accidents alike.
Fierce fiery orange eyes seem to glow from beneath his brow, seeing the world in their own skewed way. Observing, judging, and burning things away. His head is graced by soft snow white hair, singed at the tips, and kept short enough to stay out of his eyes while he works.
Biography: This is a man who’s seen the toils of war and conflict. The needless violence for pointless goals. He’s been a victim of their consequences, and a contributor to their outcomes. Yet, unable to abandon his trade, he continued what his father had taught him.
Aurelius was raised on the frontlines of war, learning his father’s craft, seeing the battles that the common soldier faced. Often helping his father mend and create armor and weapons for the footmen in their camp. With their opposition putting a superior strategy in place, his camp was inevitably overrun by the enemy, his father killed in the process. Aurelius spent the next several years as a prisoner of war, utilizing his skills - and learning new ones - under enemy control.
Eventually he was freed from their grasp when conflict overtook the enemy. But, unable to look at things the same, he put down his craft and hid from the world at large. He distracted himself in ale and bar brawls, denying the war and what it stood for.
Alas, his past caught up with him and he was forced into his trade once more. This time a determination to end the conflict overtook him; a newfound devotion to his skill that would follow him even after the conflict had ended. Before long, Aurelius lived his craft, one with his smithing.
Character Skills
Discipline of Pugilis (The Brawler)
Art of Aedificare (The Blacksmith)
Art of Terriculum (The Gunsmith)
Art of Ingeniarius (The Engineer)
Sample Chapter:
Burning embers danced through the air, accentuating the superheated metal in his forge. Ringing metal blotted out the world around Aurelius, enveloping him in pleasant isolation. He stared carefully at the product before him, examining it with a trained eye as he had done for years. This particular sword was almost done; he had spent the last few days working on it, though not for anyone in particular.
“I thought you had a commission due today.” A voice cut through the roaring fires of his forge, vaguely resembling his father’s.
“It’s done,” he replied simply, irritation clear. Not even bothering to turn from his work. “I always finish my commissions--”
“No. Not always, remember last month’s request? Not only didn’t you finish it. You threatened to bring one of your own weapons against the young man,” the voice said, cutting him short.
“Hah! Ahahaha. The look on his face ws priceless.” Aurelius’s face shifted from amusement to irritation again seamlessly. “Besides, he kept making demands and changing his order every day. What kind of ingrate does that anyways? Make up your damn mind.” His last words shifted into an inaudible grumble as he muttered a few more choice words under his breath.
The forge fell silent again, though only briefly, before the clanging of metal returned. Aurelius returned his focus to the product in front of him, only now the sword had lost all original meaning to him. Why was he making it again? The core was all wrong. What a waste of time! With a throaty yell of irritation and the sound of a dangerous hiss against his craftsman’s gloves, Aurelius hurled the scrap of metal across his workshop. The burning metal whirled through the air, emitting an ominous hum before crashing into reinforced masonry and clattering with an equally loud hiss into a cooling trough. Water steamed and boiled as it rapidly cooled the metal, placed in that spot for this exact occasion.
With his age, the older smith had developed a few habits, and this particular outburst happened often enough to warrant a safety trough near the far wall. The wall itself was seared, scorched, and physically damaged from a variety of rejected pieces hurled in frustration, and it only added to the general decor as this was by no means a fancy workshop. Aurelius’s workshop was of a hole-in-the-ground, back alley, shady side of town variety; intentionally set up in the slums of an out-of-the-way city often referred to as the ‘Rustyards’ by travelers and residents alike. He liked the general peace and quiet, and the few that tried to mess with him learned that his size wasn’t just for show.
“With the amount of work you throw away, it’s a surprise you get anything done these days.”
“Octavius, I swear I will ram this smithing hammer down your throat if you don’t shut it!” Aurelius turned on his heel and finally faced the source of the voice. A young man with tar black hair and a scruffy beard faced him. Though perhaps not as young as he once was, time had favored his looks at the very least.
“You’ve made that threat since we were prison pals, and you’ve yet to act on it. C’mon, I’m just trying to help you out here.” The fresh white smile of his old friend turned Aurelius’s stomach, and he couldn’t keep his anger. It irritated him to no end, but whenever he faced that smile he couldn’t hold anger towards his comrade in chains.
Aurelius had met Octavius years ago, back when he was a prisoner to a rebelling army. He had already been there for a time, when he found himself paired up with a new prisoner. A chatty, over friendly, and needlessly caring prisoner who would also end up teaching him a thing or two about engineering. At first it was stormy seas between them, in fact it’s probably safe to say that it was never perfectly calm. However, with that disarming smile and unabated optimism Octavius had, it was hard not to appreciate his company. It was hard to believe how long ago that was.
“It may be an empty threat, but the temptation grows every day,” Aurelius finally replied as he set down his hammer and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Especially when you shine me that stupid grin of yours.”
“Uhm, excuse me...” came an unfamiliar and younger voice.
“Oh, looks like you’ve got company. Try not to scare this one off,” Octavius said from his spot to the side, a smart grin on his face.
“I’m not afraid to follow through on my previous threat you know,” Aurelius warned in his gruff voice before he finally turned his attention to the young man at the door. Or, at least it looked like a young man, it was hard to tell with him standing in the partially-concealed doorway. The occasional flash of lightning defining his features.
When did that storm start?
“Sir?” the man continued, taking Aurelius’ attention as an acknowledgment to continue. “I’m here about a sword I ordered previously?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he replied, though with a little more bite than intended. “I get enough orders, that unless you tell me specifically what you ordered, I can’t very well tell you if I have it.”
“Right! Sorry about that, uh, sir,” the man sputtered out in response, clearly not sure how to engage this conversation. In the most likely circumstance he was a victim of rumor, afraid that this elderly blacksmith would smash him into the ground if he said the wrong thing. Not that he’d be completely wrong. “I’m here to pick up a sword my father ordered for his family’s estate. An ornamental sword designed to be hung over the fireplace.”
“Ah. Yeah, that one...” Aurelius muttered as he shuffled out of the man’s sight, further into his workshop. Before long, he returned with a blanket-wrapped sword. “Here it is. One fancy sword for a fancy house, as requested. But be careful when you carry it. I may have made it fancy, but it’s still a perfectly capable weapon. I don’t make useless clutter.”
With that last warning he handed the bundle to the client, glad to be free of it. Who orders an ‘ornamental sword’? Weapons are for fighting, not for decoration. That’s what time had taught him. He watched as the man, fiddling with his package, tried to pull the cloak up over his head to deter the downpour above. Then, when it looked like he was about to leave, the man turned back towards him.
“I’m sorry if I’m prying, but, if I may ask... who were you talking to?”
There was a prolonged silence as his words hung in the air. Aurelius turned to Octavius who continued to smile at him, neither ushering a word. A flash f lightning lit up the workshop and for an instant the old smith saw his friend’s face flayed to bone, blood exposed where it shouldn’t be. Then all was normal as the flash faded. With a time weathered face, he turned back towards the client who stood there innocently.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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