Post by charlemagne on Jun 30, 2011 2:49:45 GMT -5
♥ It Started Out As A Feeling ♥
[/color]
x
"I swear my loyalty until death."
♥ Pick A Star On the Dark Horizon ♥[/color]
Name: (Lord) Charlemagne Harowael
Age: 19
Race: Archenlander
Weapons: His sword and staff.
♥ Now We're Back to the Beginning ♥[/color]
History:
Since he was a boy Charlemagne had been warned that, should he continue to act rashly and let his emotions away him so, it would mean his end at the sword of someone more skilled than he. In fact, he had been told this very thing multiple times before by his sister, Lady Vanessa Harowael, when she had been at the peak of her power and, some might have even said, life. Once, his sister had even said that she would die, "and then, dear, Charlemagne, I believe you might just try to hunt whoever killed me down." Neither of them could have known how soon her words would ring true.
Born Charlemagne Harowael in the apex of summer, he was at once whisked away from his mother to be presented to his father, to demonstrate his mother's success at finally birthing a son and heir. And he would be an heir one day - a Lord, yes - but at that time, the nursemaids were stunned to hear that not only would Charlemagne not be inheriting the estates and fortune, but that they would go to his sister, the then-twelve-or-thirteen-year-old "Dragon-Tongued" Lady Vanessa Harowael. Almost instantly, Charlemagne was taken back into his affronted mother's care, and grown up being shown the type of motherly love that his sister had never received. He was taught that he was supposed to be the heir, not his sister, but as devoted to her as he was, he never believed that. Instead, he trailed her around like a puppy since he could walk, crying when he couldn't get into the meetings his father brought her into, and sometimes throwing tantrums until one of his nursemaids whisked him back to his mother, who would chide him gently and explain that one day he would be conducting all the business in their home, and about their land.
Still, Charlemagne's loyalty to his sister never wavered, even after their father died and she inherited the estates and fortune, making more enemies that they could count on both of their fingers. He continued to try and warn her, even when she brushed off his words, showing his patience with his sister as many others had refused to do. Even when she began making enemies with more power than she could ever hope to match, Charlemagne stuck by her, determined to be a steady presence where she had none, even if the Lady Vanessa herself was not yet aware of it. When she succumbed to poisoning on the day of her thirty-third birthday, during the celebrations, Charlemagne knew instantly who had done it.
Officially Lord Charlemagne Harowael at that time, the young man had infiltrated the home of the Blakeviels, and although he had initially attempted to solve it without bloodshed, he soon found himself battling against guards more trained than he, and it didn't take him long before he felt the bite of a blade running him through the chest. Having willed the estates to his cousin Rhalith in case of his death, Charlemagne Harowael breathed his last, awakening almost instantly in a field.
He was in Aslan's Country, now.
Family:
Lady Vanessa Harowael, sister (deceased: assassination - Aslan's Country)
Lord Arthur Harowael, father (deceased: hunting incident)
Lady Viviavess Harowael, mother (deceased: old age)
Lord Rhalith & Lady Liliavich Harowael (cousins)
Magic: None.
Original or Canon: Original
♥ No Need to Say Goodbye ♥[/color]
Sample RP (from Captured):
Caspar just watched her steadily, not saying anything while she seemed to think something through. He wouldn't presume to know what it was, and his best guess was that it was something along the lines of "mortals don't understand" - that's usually how it went. And in a way, it was the truth - he didn't understand, because with each year he grew older, and with each day his appearance changed a little more, never staying the same, never one coming close to perfection when it came to appearances - that was something the immortals had. Vampires had the perfect grace; the perfect means of slinking around and surprising their prey through speed and cunning. Werewolves had the perfect build for hunting in terms of strength - muscles, well defined, were visible on every open inch of skin, and he could even see them on the lycan across from him.
In Caspar's mind, humans were a blend of both - masters of nothing but what they chose to at least try and perfect. Lycans and vampires didn't have that choice, he supposed, but then again they became the automatic masters of one thing or another. Humans never could - they could just try and learn as much as possible in the hopes that it would be useful to them one day, like Caspar had. He supposed this was why he had broadened from just archery into fighting with melee weapons, to build up pure physical strength as opposed to just plain speed. Instead of specializing in just one and being perfect, now he was a feared hunter, because he had harnessed both abilities to his will and could execute them with determination that would mirror and make a mockery of what the immortals called their own.
In a way, he almost preferred it like that. He supposed he could see where not having that choice would be devastating.
His mind was torn back to the present when she spoke again, though, and Caspar was silently amused and simultaneously a little awed by how long the conversation had been going. Yes, he had conversed with a couple people he had met over time, but those had been short discussions, more about safety and where they would end up as opposed to just... mundane things. Or as close to mundane as one could get going this sort of thing. It was almost refreshing - not quite, but as close as he had come to it since the hunting mission and the subsequent deaths of over twenty people.
"He probably will," he placated her, careful not to soften his voice, instead keeping it strong and constant. "And he knows that, I assure you. But it ties into your claim that werewolves were peaceful, once upon a time. I assure you they weren't - they were always fighting vampires. You cannot claim yourself peaceful when even my mentioning of them riles you up." Of course, it made him angry too - even the thought of vampires was enough to blacken his mood permanently, his mind plummeting into thoughts of death, destruction, the screams that just wouldn't go away oh Lord please make them stop. But he had never claimed to be peaceful, either. He knew he killed, and he killed as painfully as he could. If Hell hadn't permanently moved itself to Earth, he would have flown straight there after his death.
But now he supposed it didn't really matter.
The hunter stilled, though, as he witnessed her change in mood. He had not expected that sort of response, and it surprised him enough for him to freeze almost completely, muscles seizing up as he tried to gauge the mood of the creature in front of him - human and not, all at once.
But he supposed he put too much value into the trait of "humanity" these days.
He watched her now - watched her conceal her pain and her loss under the guise of a self-righteous sense of justice that he found so revolting in immortal creatures - a streak of hypocrisy that would never go away or be acknowledged, no matter how many times it was pointed out. He had only met one who had been willing to see and accept that, but he had died shortly thereafter - a victim of the vampire queen.
The amount of information he could gather from just one reaction never ceased to amaze him. But he did not push the matter - he had unintentionally brought up a sore spot he sensed she didn't appreciate, but at the same time he did not apologize. He sensed she had had enough people offer false sympathy, or just useless sympathy in general. And he doubted the word of a stranger would console her - she had only just met him, after all, and his words would mean absolutely nothing. So he stayed quiet, watching her quietly, keeping his judgments to himself as he slowly placed his arrow back in its proper place, the bow slung onto his shoulder almost as an afterthought.
How did you find us: SupportBoards.
Custom Title: The Lord of Fealty
Anything you want to say: Very gifted in the music department, though it's rare he shows it; Mei's second character. Charlemagne is pronounced "Shar-la-maine."
Password: For Narnia~
-------------------------------------------------------------
Template made by Ciel, DO NOT STEAL!
Lyrics by: Regina Spektor[/center]
