Crazed

Player Name: Crazed

Character Name: Crazed

Character Full Name: Robert 'Crazed' Foxman

Affiliation(s): None

Class: Necromantic Warrior

Race: Human

Alignment: None

Faith: None

Build: His build is rather hard to be seen, as his body is hidden behind layers of bandages and armor, however the general aspect of him would be tall yet skinny.

Age: Supposed to be 21 at the moment

Gender: Male

Height: Rather tall, towering above normal men

Weight: Slender, his weight actually bellow the average one.

Eye Color: Black

Hair Style & Color: Altought bandages cover his entire body, his long grey hair can still be seen

Skin/fur Color: Milk White, however, due to the bandages he always wears, it remains partially unknown.

Armor/Garment Type: His full body is covered in strange bandages, however, above these bandages he boasts heavy plate armor, battered by wind and sword.

Usual Attire: As mentinoned at Armor

Personality: Anti-Social

History: ((Side-note: this will be completed later, I would like some feedback before continuing".))

As said by Arch-Mage Ar'Kenan in his last days. “Ahh yes, so you want to hear the story of ‘Crazed’ yes? Well son, take a seat” as the old man pointed over at the stool next to the fire place. His wrinkled face was complemented by his thinning white hair, his beard curly and long, battered by the days that have passed. A smile would crack on his face, the entire skin of his face moving as the cracking sound of the rocking chair would begin to fill the room. The old man swung back and forth slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, escaping the harsh reality, a sole tear running down his cheek, falling on his lap. He took a deep breath, smiling yet again as he said “I can not explain just how… young you make me feel”, reaching out to pat you on the shoulder with his wrinkled hand, the skin all floppy, riddled with scars and blemishes.

Suddenly, the arm moves back to the chair. He turned to you, and saying “It all began with…”, with this words the old wooden cabin disappearing, the cold and bitter winter field turning to a lovely hamlet, the hiss of the wind turning to the song of birds, flying around. As you look around, you realize this was more then a dream, the aroma of the summer flowers tickling your nostrils. The old man was still in his rocking chair, as if floating on a pillow of clouds. He began “This is Valleshire, this is where ‘he’ was born…”, his words now a narration in the background. The children ran around the dirt streets, their childish voices complemented by the “Cockadodaluu” of a rooster that was too late. “You see… even the most rotten trees have pure, innocent roots…” said the old man, pointing over at a dirt shack, poorly built and with a wooden door made out of a bunch of planks, the nails rusty as hell. The door opened, out of it rushing a bunch of children, each with their own age and height, in the end, the youngest one, holding a ragdoll that seemed to have been stitched too many times from falling apart. He walked out, scarred, followed by a woman. The woman wore a long apron, her cheeks red, yet her face pale. The young child ran to her, hugging her leg as she kneeled over, a few tears running down her cheeks, falling on his head. She stroked his hair, almost crying. You stare at the sad image, the mother holding her child in her arms, with no food to feed him, just the love that she could offer. “You see… “ said the old man, pointing over at the child “Even the coldest hearts must have had a time when they were warm…”. The woman stopped embracing the child, as she walked inside, going back to the old dirty dishes that had no food to hold. The child wandered on in the garden, stepping carefully trough the poor and drought affected garden. “Look closely… you’ll see something interesting…” said the old man again. The child tried to scratch out letters on the ground, however making out barely readable signs.

“She never had the money to send him to school… or to teach him that is, but enough with this, let us move on…” exclaimed the old man, the environment changing, everything moving around you at lighting speed. Now the shack was nothing but a mound of dirt, on top of which there was a grave. Around the grave there were crops, in the crops a young man, burnt by the sun and battered by hunger, worked the crops as others would sit at the shadow of an oak, the oak a mere sapling before. They laughed, telling jokes about the poor man tending the fields. “You see… they brought this with their own hands…” said the old man, his chair rocking back an forth as he ran his hand trough his beard. You look down again, just to see the poor young man eat a porridge from a poorly crafted clay bowl, whilst the others were standing around a rather large stump, drinking some ale one of them brought over from his family’s manor. The old man smiled softly, the few teeth he still had showing up as he said “You already guessed, he is ‘Crazed’ “, pointing over to the old man tending the crops. Crazed sighed, a few tears running off his face and falling on the thirsty soil, cracked by drought. He would look over at the grave on top of the mound of dirt and continue working.

“Now son, let’s move on”, the same process as before unveiling a new scene, a horrific one now. The hamlet was burning, the screams of agony and pain filling the air as the night sky would be lit by the embers of the fires. The crops were burnt to the ground, along side with it, on the grave, a ragdoll that seemed to have had better days. Walking out of the fire, holding a skull in his hand, was Crazed, his skin charred by the flames he has produced himself. “See my son… Revenge always has it’s price…”, however, not finishing the sentence as Crazed screamed in pain, both physical as mental and emotional. The environment changed yet again, at lightning speed, now a tavern riddled with warriors celebrating their recent victory. You would close your eyes, the suffering you have witnessed being enough for one day as the old man saying “Well then… let’s hold this part for another day…”, opening your eyes you find yourself in bed, tucked in, the old man in his rocking chair, fast asleep.