Discord
Changelog
02-19-2014, 05:06 PM
Name: Harrison Harkness (Omari Abasi)
Race: Human (Mulan)
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Deity of Worship: Myrkul (currently, even though he is dead, likely Velsharoon when he ascends)
Class: Bard/Fighter/Palemaster
Description
Harrison is relatively tall, but not overly so. He stands around 74 inches tall, but appears much taller due to his extreme gauntness. He is lean to the point of emaciation, making his skin tight and stretched in places, and hang loosely in others. He is heavily muscled, but that only seems to accentuate his gauntness, rather than provide an air of fitness or health.
His skin is a pale sickly gray like he has spent too much time away from the sun. His head is shaved bald, as are his eyebrows; however the little body hair he does allow to grow indicates his hair is dark brown. His eyes are a deep brown almost black.
He seems to have the scent of wildflowers and spice following him wherever he goes. A careful smell of him would detect the extremely feint scent of decay coming from him. The source cannot be pinpointed, it doesn't appear to be he himself that is decaying, but possibly something he is carrying.
Biography
The stench of alcohol and failure entered the room several seconds before he did. Already, judging by the way the slaves were scattering and the disapproving roars were reverberating from the ceiling, his “father” had a less than stellar day.
As he entered the room, his mother tried to shield him from the beating that was sure to come. His mother did her best to protect him during these times. Sometimes her efforts were successful and she was able to redirect the rage toward her, but most times it was Omari that bore the brunt.
At the ripe age of three, he was not able to discern why his father was so incensed by his very existence. He could not understand that his father, a former up and coming Sergeant in the Pyarados Legion, himself a son of a minor noble, would regret any reminders of his former life as a successful soldier. The alcohol had undone him. He became sullen, and acted rashly, eventually leading to his demotion after striking a superior officer. All after he had been chosen to marry little Omari’s mother following the death of her first husband. It was supposed to be a marriage uniting two small families of true nobility, hanging their hopes on the soldiers rise through the ranks, swinging the balance of power and influence decidedly toward both families.
All of it undone by the bottle of fermented grapes he preferred.
The rage tonight was unbelievable. He was shouting incoherently about some imagined wrong done to him by either his squad leader in the Legion, the barkeep that refused to serve him another, or the lack of a hot meal for him despite being home three hours late. In truth, it mattered little. The full force and strength of that emotion, embodied by the resentment he bore for the son who was not truly his, came flying into the room.
Mosegi! Leave Omari alone!
His mother attempted to redirect him. It was not to be this night. Not at this moment.
Omari! OMARI! He is not worthy of such a name. Look at the sniveling worm, crying for his mother! He cowers……like …like…like a SLAVE!
In one smooth motion, Mosegi reached out and snatched a passing slave by his hair, yanking him hard into the conversation.
What is your name, slave?
Slave, sir!
WHAT IS YOUR REAL NAME SLAVE?
H…H..Harrison. Harrison Harkness, sir!
Omari’s father spun around and looked at Omari, his eyes fiery red and watery with drink.
From now on, you are named Harrison! Harrison Harkness. THAT is what you mean to me. No more worthy of attention than this worm deserves!
He shoved the slave away, laughing slightly as he crashed to the floor in a frightened heap.
It was at that moment, Omari’s mother jumped on him. Overcome by the insult to her first born son of calling him a slaves name, she landed on her back and began pummeling him as hard as she could with her fists and fingernails.
Omari backed slowly into the corner, trying hard to become one with the shadows in the room.
With little effort, Mosegi lifted his wife from his back, snapped her neck with his hands, dropped her on the floor, and lurched out of the room in search of another drink. The violence satiating his rage enough that his single minded pursuit of drink was able to resurface.
Omari crept forward from his corner and sat and watched as the life faded from his mother. He sat and watched as the last but of light fled from her eyes and her muscles went slack. He sat and watched as over the ensuing hours, patekia developed and rigor set in. For what seemed an eternity and he sat and watched how the dead body of his mother changed to a corpse. Not in fear, not in grief.
But in fascination.
He learned to hide his natural gifts for magic. His father wanted nothing to do with it, and so he practiced in secret. He learned quickly how to channel power through his body, and found he had a natural penchant for transferring such power into song.
His father insisted on his trying to master weapons, and at least try to follow in his footsteps into the legion. When he was young, he obeyed his fathers will and obediently trained. As he grew older he began to despise the weakness of his father….the failure of his flesh. He began to search for ways to undue the weaknesses of the human body and the frailty of the mind and the inevitable failure of the body.
The answer….so simple…jumped into his mind unbidden one evening. UN-life. If practicing sword play made you better, perhaps being able to practice forever would make you a true warrior, a juggernaut for the ages. His father began to notice the slaves going missing shortly thereafter. His initial forays into creating the undead were mindless brutes, unable to be controlled, but their power, and especially their ability to absorb punishment kept him fascinated. The one overarching fact he learned in his studies of the arcane, cursory studies of the divine, and the craft of armed combat, was a simple one: Power is power. It may be more concentrated, or diffused, but it was all power. A spell caster can run out of energy, but a warrior can swing his weapon until his body gives out. A spellcaster can do incredible damage in a short period of time, but given enough time, a warrior could do the same. It was in the merging of these two he would find himself.
On his eighteenth birthday, he gathered what little he had. It was not much as his father had been forced to sell most everything to keep his addiction fed. He stood over his father, now a huddled sloppy, unshaven mess on the floor of the ransacked foyer. He debated killing him, but only for a moment. It was far more appropriate to allow him to continue his existence the way he was: a broken failure.
He decided to keep the name his father had given him, despite the negative connotation. As far as he was concerned, Mosegi was his father and had the right to name him as he wished.
Race: Human (Mulan)
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Deity of Worship: Myrkul (currently, even though he is dead, likely Velsharoon when he ascends)
Class: Bard/Fighter/Palemaster
Description
Harrison is relatively tall, but not overly so. He stands around 74 inches tall, but appears much taller due to his extreme gauntness. He is lean to the point of emaciation, making his skin tight and stretched in places, and hang loosely in others. He is heavily muscled, but that only seems to accentuate his gauntness, rather than provide an air of fitness or health.
His skin is a pale sickly gray like he has spent too much time away from the sun. His head is shaved bald, as are his eyebrows; however the little body hair he does allow to grow indicates his hair is dark brown. His eyes are a deep brown almost black.
He seems to have the scent of wildflowers and spice following him wherever he goes. A careful smell of him would detect the extremely feint scent of decay coming from him. The source cannot be pinpointed, it doesn't appear to be he himself that is decaying, but possibly something he is carrying.
Biography
The stench of alcohol and failure entered the room several seconds before he did. Already, judging by the way the slaves were scattering and the disapproving roars were reverberating from the ceiling, his “father” had a less than stellar day.
As he entered the room, his mother tried to shield him from the beating that was sure to come. His mother did her best to protect him during these times. Sometimes her efforts were successful and she was able to redirect the rage toward her, but most times it was Omari that bore the brunt.
At the ripe age of three, he was not able to discern why his father was so incensed by his very existence. He could not understand that his father, a former up and coming Sergeant in the Pyarados Legion, himself a son of a minor noble, would regret any reminders of his former life as a successful soldier. The alcohol had undone him. He became sullen, and acted rashly, eventually leading to his demotion after striking a superior officer. All after he had been chosen to marry little Omari’s mother following the death of her first husband. It was supposed to be a marriage uniting two small families of true nobility, hanging their hopes on the soldiers rise through the ranks, swinging the balance of power and influence decidedly toward both families.
All of it undone by the bottle of fermented grapes he preferred.
The rage tonight was unbelievable. He was shouting incoherently about some imagined wrong done to him by either his squad leader in the Legion, the barkeep that refused to serve him another, or the lack of a hot meal for him despite being home three hours late. In truth, it mattered little. The full force and strength of that emotion, embodied by the resentment he bore for the son who was not truly his, came flying into the room.
Mosegi! Leave Omari alone!
His mother attempted to redirect him. It was not to be this night. Not at this moment.
Omari! OMARI! He is not worthy of such a name. Look at the sniveling worm, crying for his mother! He cowers……like …like…like a SLAVE!
In one smooth motion, Mosegi reached out and snatched a passing slave by his hair, yanking him hard into the conversation.
What is your name, slave?
Slave, sir!
WHAT IS YOUR REAL NAME SLAVE?
H…H..Harrison. Harrison Harkness, sir!
Omari’s father spun around and looked at Omari, his eyes fiery red and watery with drink.
From now on, you are named Harrison! Harrison Harkness. THAT is what you mean to me. No more worthy of attention than this worm deserves!
He shoved the slave away, laughing slightly as he crashed to the floor in a frightened heap.
It was at that moment, Omari’s mother jumped on him. Overcome by the insult to her first born son of calling him a slaves name, she landed on her back and began pummeling him as hard as she could with her fists and fingernails.
Omari backed slowly into the corner, trying hard to become one with the shadows in the room.
With little effort, Mosegi lifted his wife from his back, snapped her neck with his hands, dropped her on the floor, and lurched out of the room in search of another drink. The violence satiating his rage enough that his single minded pursuit of drink was able to resurface.
Omari crept forward from his corner and sat and watched as the life faded from his mother. He sat and watched as the last but of light fled from her eyes and her muscles went slack. He sat and watched as over the ensuing hours, patekia developed and rigor set in. For what seemed an eternity and he sat and watched how the dead body of his mother changed to a corpse. Not in fear, not in grief.
But in fascination.
He learned to hide his natural gifts for magic. His father wanted nothing to do with it, and so he practiced in secret. He learned quickly how to channel power through his body, and found he had a natural penchant for transferring such power into song.
His father insisted on his trying to master weapons, and at least try to follow in his footsteps into the legion. When he was young, he obeyed his fathers will and obediently trained. As he grew older he began to despise the weakness of his father….the failure of his flesh. He began to search for ways to undue the weaknesses of the human body and the frailty of the mind and the inevitable failure of the body.
The answer….so simple…jumped into his mind unbidden one evening. UN-life. If practicing sword play made you better, perhaps being able to practice forever would make you a true warrior, a juggernaut for the ages. His father began to notice the slaves going missing shortly thereafter. His initial forays into creating the undead were mindless brutes, unable to be controlled, but their power, and especially their ability to absorb punishment kept him fascinated. The one overarching fact he learned in his studies of the arcane, cursory studies of the divine, and the craft of armed combat, was a simple one: Power is power. It may be more concentrated, or diffused, but it was all power. A spell caster can run out of energy, but a warrior can swing his weapon until his body gives out. A spellcaster can do incredible damage in a short period of time, but given enough time, a warrior could do the same. It was in the merging of these two he would find himself.
On his eighteenth birthday, he gathered what little he had. It was not much as his father had been forced to sell most everything to keep his addiction fed. He stood over his father, now a huddled sloppy, unshaven mess on the floor of the ransacked foyer. He debated killing him, but only for a moment. It was far more appropriate to allow him to continue his existence the way he was: a broken failure.
He decided to keep the name his father had given him, despite the negative connotation. As far as he was concerned, Mosegi was his father and had the right to name him as he wished.