Vaoris

[Angmor]

Name: Vaoris (House unknown)
Age: 80
Race: Elf
Allegiance: The Riders

Appearence:

In a world in which elves are still fairly commonplace, Vaoris is an exception to many of the rules as the race is concerned. The first of these is his height. Standing at about five feet and nine inches, he is short even by human standards, let alone by the standards of his race, for whom the average is even taller. He is not often bothered by this however, as it makes him a very unobtrusive figure, able to go completely unnoticed in a crowd, which is precisely the way he likes it. The second break in the image is his complexion. While most elves retain a paleness that has been described by many bards as 'fair', Vaoris instead possesses a pallor that is almost sickly, owing to spending so many hours in the dusty recesses of the archives, away from the light of the sun. All in all however, the rest of his features are unremarkable for an elf; exotic, slanted eyes, sharp and angular features with high cheekbones, and of course, tapered ears. His eyes are perhaps his most attractive feature. Usually clouded and dreamy with thoughts on a particularly interesting scroll or book, these are a very light shade of silver, carrying just the slightest tint of forest green that can really only be noticed when in shadow. In stark contrast with his skintone, his raven-black hair is most often cut just above the shoulder, tied back in a simple braid style much favored by the elves of Ilirea.
While most elves are slim and toned, Vaoris is downright skinny when it comes to muscle-mass. The most strenuous exercise he has to endure on a daily basis usually revolves around carrying stacks of books up and down the many staircases of the library, and so contributes little to his physique. He finds nothing wrong with this. Combat has never been one of his interests, and he can see no use in a scholar being able to defend himself. Even so, he is a creature of magic, and therefore stronger and more agile than the average human, just not by such a huge margin as, say, an elven soldier.

As with most scholars, Vaoris does not have much in the way of material possessions. Even without his simple tastes, his modest salary rather limits him in his fashions and luxuries, a fact of which he is almost totally ignorant. In clothing, he can usually be found in a very simple tunic and pants, most often some dark shade of grey, green, or tan. Despite his garments simplicity, the fact that they are tailored in Ilirea makes them of better quality than most of the rest of the land, even though he is often caked in dust. As with any in his profession, he also wears a pair of exceedingly comfortable leather shoes, a gift from an old human friend who was retiring from archive work and no longer needed them. The defining feature about his mode of dress however is distinctive and unmistakable; the constant presence of his scholar’s robe.
A long, loose garment of comfortable grey fabric, this is the unofficial uniform for the archivists in the Grand Library, although this is more a tradition than regulation. Long enough to provide warmth and yet short enough not to sacrifice mobility, most of the scholars of Ilirea choose to adopt this robe out of sheer practicality and comfort, making any gathering within the Library appear to an outsider as either a cult meeting or a pajama party, except for the symbol of a silver scroll against a six-rayed star of gold embroidered on the right shoulder, the symbol of the Grand Library. Vaoris especially likes to store things such as quill pens and even small books and scrolls within the folds of the robe’s flared sleeves, and finds the hood perfectly adequate to ward off the chill in the winter months.

Vaoris is not a traveler if he can at all help it, but the nature of his work does sometimes take him outside into the world. On these occasions, he can usually be seen wearing a satchel of the type preferred by messengers, used for holding pens and ink, parchment, and the scrolls that he will inevitably be carrying. Despite the danger involved, he has never been successfully persuaded to carry a blade. He will sometimes carry a polished hardwood staff for longer journeys, although this is more to ward off the appearance of total helplessness than an actual hope to use it.

Personality:

Vaoris, in short, is a solitary temperament.
Having had little in his life in the way of social instruction, he can often come across as distant and shy to anyone he meets for the first time. He is perfectly content not to be the center of attention, and most of the time even prefers to be alone with his thoughts, which he likes to think are deep and important.

For anyone who cares to keep up with him long enough to lure him out of his shell, on the other hand, can find a surprisingly outgoing personality inside. Vaoris thrives on intelligent conversation, and is never one to back down from academic debate. While he does not subscribe to the common elven failing of vanity toward his appearence, he does take a zealous pride in his knowledge. This is mostly manifested in a penchant for employing exorbitantly expansive words in his conversation. He does not try to be malicious, but he does hold an almost unconscious sense of superiority over any that are not themselves scholars. As with most elves of his age, he sometimes dreams of becoming a Dragon Rider, he just does not harbor this desire for the usual reasons. Instead of becoming a great warrior and hero of the land, he dreams of the ancestral knowledge and ancient wisdom of the dragons, and just what wonders he might unlock if he was ever allowed that sacred union.

Another defining feature of Vaoris' personality is his dogged determination toward gathering knowledge. Ancient tomes and forgotten texts are his passion and his life, exciting him like nothing else ever has. He believes that there is nothing more important than the surviving words of past ages, and that any amount of time and dedication is worth the cost in its acquisition. He has spent and continues to spend his free time in search of an forgotten text written by the legendary Grey Folk that was hinted at by one of the books in the library, despite the insistence of his colleagues and elders that it does not exist. If not for this craving for knowledge, Vaoris would probably never leave the library.

History:

Although he is totally unaware of it, the story of Vaoris' childhood is rather long and complicated. He was born in the heart of Ellesmera, to a pair of young nobles within the city’s ruling class. Both of his parents were part of a very old and respected house, but its ill fortunes in the Grand Game over the years left it with little more than a memory of its former power. Very shortly after the birth of Vaoris, the house of Straethir began a long and daring gambit to restore its power and influence.
Less than five years later, the gambit failed.
Rather spectacularly, in fact. Thoroughly outmaneuvered by their rival, the duplicity of house Straethir was exposed for all to see, inciting blood in the waters of elven politics. Knowing that they probably did not have long to live, or were at the very least in danger of losing their positions, Vaoris’ parents sent the infant away to a distant relative, an older elf who was currently working as a scholar in the Grand Library of Ilirea.

This relative was very kind-hearted elf, and readily agreed to hide the child, and to raise him as his own. In a strange twist of fate however, he was killed shortly afterwards by a spell gone wrong, a fairly common cause of death among the elves. By his death however came the severing of the last connection Vaoris would have of his past. After this, he was taken in by the scholars, who assumed that Vaoris was merely the product of a one night stand, or from a humble relative looking to better the child’s future. Because of this gap, Vaoris grew up ignorant of where he came from or who he was going to be. In the end, it was probably just as well.

The next decades passed more or less without momentous events. Ileria had institutions in place to take care of orphaned and unwanted children, and it was this institution that was responsible for the day to day needs for the young elf. But while the orphanage took care of him, it was undoubtedly the scholars who raised him. After the death of his relatives, it was this collection of archivists and bookworms to bring up Vaoris as one of their own. As it turned out, there could not have been a better choice in upbringing. From a very early age, Vaoris showed an insatiable appetite for learning. Throughout his life, the shelves and hallways of the Grand Library was his home, and books were his playmates. And, of course, the scholars were his teachers and his friends. After all, the life of a scholar is often dull and dreary, and those of the Grand Library were no exception. They relished the opportunity of a willing protégé. Vaoris had a dozen doting fathers in his life, and a dozen loving mothers, people from whom he received lessons on life, the difference between right and wrong, and the proper use of power. Not even the forty years of the Blue Divide managed to shake his mostly idyllic life, insulated as Ilirea was from the conflict. Even now, the war is more of an abstract historical happening in his mind, and never ceases to be surprised on the few occasions when he leaves the city long enough to see the aftermath firsthand.

Very soon, he applied to become a scholar himself, taking on the official title and the oath required to become a keeper of the Rider's wisdom. Having been a part of the archives his entire life, he was accepted without incident. Today, he continues to pursue the life of an archivist, perfectly content to be insulated from the world around him, wanting for nothing but a good book, ignorant of his past.
And of his future.

RP Example:

He surged into a sitting position, eyes wide, muscles tense. A flow of adrenaline gave instant clarity to his senses without even a hint of the sleep from which he had awoken. As he so often was, he was ready to fight to the death with anyone or anything, or run a mile without even looking back. But a second later, as so often happened, he found there was no one trying to kill him. There was nothing to fight, and nothing from which to run. He was left with no other options but to sit in the dark, breathing hard and waiting for the controlled panic of his body to recede. He realized he had his knife in hand. Even summoning the memory of the past few seconds, he could not remember drawing it. His body had done so without the consent of his free will, driven purely by the animal reflex to live. Still panting, he glanced around again, now just to make sure everything was how it should be, instead of looking for the direction of the threat. He had made camp in a tiny clearing in a patch of forest on the shores of the Leona lake. The fire he had risked lighting had now burned low, a rough circle of pulsing red light amid the gloom. On the other side of this slept his companion, curled up in the warm cloak he had stolen for her, by all appearances peacefully. Near her head was the silvery shape of a sleeping cat. At last the final vestiges of hyper-awareness melted away, leaving him alone with his fatigue. His body ached. It had been nearly two weeks since his misadventure in the mountains, but many of his wounds were still only partially healed, and the long march had not helped. He was tired. A fog of fatigue clung to his joints, each one of them screaming for him to sleep. But he could not sleep. He could not even lay down to rest. He could not face again the pain of remembrance. Sheathing his knife, he stood up and stole silently away from the camp in direction of the lake.

He sat down on the bank, staring out across the huge expanse of water, to which clung billowing patches of predawn fog. The lapping of the water on the shore helped to sooth his thoughts. But only a little. He shut his eyes and placed the heels of his hands against his forehead, as if he could push away the welter of painful memories if he only pressed hard enough. But he could not. He knew he could not. Magic-users could not erase them, nor had they ever faded with time as so many said they should. Always and forever, he would be alone with what he had seen and done. Not for the first time he considered ending it. It would be simple, he knew. A quick slash across the back of the neck between vertebrae, a painless fade and then... whatever came after the life that he knew. Was there anything? He hoped so. He hoped with all his heart that there was some kindly entity beyond life that had received the souls of his family, so that one day they might be reunited. But he knew he could not go. Not yet. He had too much to live for, and that burned through his pain like a flaming sword, overriding his need to be free of it. He would have revenge against the Empire that had destroyed him. Revenge against the man they had used to destroy him. But above all else, he would have the salvation of his only living friend. Like an enemy withdrawing to prepare another assault, his headache receded. Drawing strength from his conviction as he always did, he took a shuddering deep breath and stood wearily to his feet. At last Taraak had the strength to face the day, for his revenge, and for his friend.

He noticed that the light had grown while he had been sitting there, begining to melt away the mist and banish the darkness. He let the let the rising warmth heat his back, lightening the load of his fatigue with new strength. With it, he became Taraak the canny spy once again. Immediately he began planning the general outline of the day's journeys. After leaving the mountains, he had decided that they would travel on the road for most of the way, in order to speed the trip. After some modification, there was nothing immediately suspicious about them, so there was no point in hiding from humanity just yet. And the backstory that Taraak had fabricated, that he was a hunter who was down on his luck and Calia was his sister had satisfied the few inquiries that had been put their way. As of yet, Taraak had managed to gain everything they had needed by hunting small game or 'acquiring' it from the passing villages or travelers. But after Dras-Leona, soldier activity would be far too great for such means. Which meant they would have to enter Dras-Leona itself in order to get the supplies they needed.

Normally his good sense would have balked at this, especially in the current situation, but all other choices would take time he felt he didn't have. Besides, it would give Calia a first-hand look at the depravity of the Empire. Over the long hours of walking, they had discussed at length the war and it's factions, and Taraak could tell that she still was not completely convinced that one was worse than the other. Such beliefs were hard to let go of unless one could see it for one's self. He knew that full well.

Finally he turned into the rising sun and stole silently back through the trees. He stepped into the small clearing a moment later, although not without an effortless, almost subconscious check for danger. Everything was still in order however, without even a breath of wind to disturb the silence. Calia was still asleep, River beside her, although the former had moved position since he had left them. He stared down at the sleeping pair for a moment, feeling a twinge of envy. The ability to sleep through the night was just about his vision of bliss. He decided not to wake them just yet, instead moving to douse the fire with the sandy soil of the wood's floor and retrieve his bow and quiver from where he had left them. As he worked, he asked himself the question for the nineteenth time; why? Why was he wasting time and energy and resources on these two? The imperial assassin part of him that he still had not managed to totally purge told him that there was no point. His survival was paramount, and they were only luggage that slowed him down. They had already almost been his downfall twice before and, as the saying went, third time's the charm. But the other part of him, the part that Ferial Baric had spent nine years trying to destroy told him that they were worth it. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly why this was, but he knew deep down that something good would come of their meeting, even if it meant the sacrifice of him and the goals that drove him. And it was this instinct that he chose to listen to.

He cinched the last strap of his quiver tight across his chest, positioning the shafts exactly where his hands knew to look for them. Finally he surveyed the campsite one last time with the eye of one used to leaving no trace. Finding the site was as clean as he could make it, he bent and gave Calia a gentle nudge. "Wake up Calia." He said softly to coax her out of the realm of sleep. "It's time to get moving again."

[/blockquote]

[Emma]

C'EST TRES MAGNIFIQUE! Accepted, durr.