Syr Isander
| Age 44 |
| Gender Male |
| Origin Human |
| Occupation Knight Sworn of the Knights of Anathaeum |
Three decades ago, the Arshakans made an example of his people. Torched once grand cities, pilloried its people, ensured Rhiade would live only as a footnote in foreign histories. What began as a petty border dispute morphed into the city-state's death.
The Kharmic Legions were swift, diligent in their work. Under guise of parlay Legion agents murdered the queen; dignitaries once thought of as allies turned coat, barring armsmen from rendering aid to their liege. On borrowed time did these Legionnaires detonate magitech charges throughout the palace, throwing Rhiade into violent confusion.
Wyverns descended, spewing wyrmfire across the city to the beat of unveiled siege engines. The ensuing storm scarred the young Isander. He watched from behind the armored backs of guardsmen as his city burned, his mother's corpse strewn upon a tower as a warning for any who sought to resist. Few did, of which fewer still managed to mount more than a token repartee.
Oddly, of the weeks to follow Isander recalls most vividly the pangs of hunger. Not the fear of pursuit (which yet hounds his dreams) or the grief, the anger. Hunger, a sensation he seldom felt before. He grew weak on it, unable to stomach more than stale bread and a bit of broth for months as his guards harried him ever north. He suspected even then that they had no true destination. Only a pressing need to get away, far from the Empire. Had they not collapsed soon after crossing the Altalusian border, perhaps their exodus might have taken them to the mythic, Lapvonan tundra at Ilica's peak.
Instead, they set down in a hamlet due west of the White Port, the exhaustion of indecision crippling their party. Days bled into years as Isander's guards lost purpose, lost hope in ever returning home. One by one they left him; some by illness, disease, others simply walked out and never returned. At a spry seventeen, Isander found himself truly alone. Not a boy but less than a man, equipped with small knowledge of combat and magicks and a hatred for the Empire that had only begun to fester, he found little recourse. For all the world he wished to be a hero, a sword in the throat of the Imperator. By that same measure, he was anything but.
Playing at hero brought him (much to his chagrin) further from the Empire he swore to fell. North and east of Crown's Hold, shy of Altalusia's very capital, he fell in with a particular group of ne'er do wells. The Knight of Anathaeum. Within the monastery's walls he found new oaths, new purpose to distract him from his hate. Twenty-three years among, six a squire and seventeen a Knight. Labor sworn, blood paid, and dreams wound tight within the Loch in pursuit of an ever-burning Dawn.
Appearance
| Height 5'8 |
| Build Solid |
| Hair Blonde |
| Eyes Hazel |
Pale of skin and light of hair, Isander sports an average build for a man of average height. Face split by a cloven chin and sternly weathered as might an oak under the bemusement of time, a generous soul might depict him as stoic at best. Drawn brows frame hazel eyes that have long lost their twinkle, gaining instead the pattering of crow's feet in age's dance across his visage. He is clean shaven as a point of pride, although it serves little purpose other than to illustrate the severity of lips scarred from flagrant chapping in the cold.
Personality
A hard man, like fresh cooled iron. Yet brittle. He hides it behind a quick humor (despite how rarely lands) and a veneer of experience. He is rigid, however, his thoughts patterned after sequences of straight lines.
Skills
In combat, Isander is well-versed. Blade and spear and cudgel and hand, he spent the better part of two decades on the craft by trial and tutelage and achieved some moderate success in each. While lacking the raw talent and dexterity to truly excel or master the physical arts, he possesses a fair coordination and technique such to aid in his hunt of beasts. Having long come to terms with his lack of prodigious skill, he relies instead on knowledge and preparation. It serves him well.
Following the Knights of Anathaeum's dogma, Isander is confident in his pursuit of flame, less so in life, and least of all in the Loch (for even in dreams he cannot escape himself). For combat, he has practiced long in the art of fire and can wield it with a measure of expertise.
Tutelage from an early age bequeathed the basics of history and theology onto him. He has spent little time in refreshing his knowledge on these subjects, however.
Following the Knights of Anathaeum's dogma, Isander is confident in his pursuit of flame, less so in life, and least of all in the Loch (for even in dreams he cannot escape himself). For combat, he has practiced long in the art of fire and can wield it with a measure of expertise.
Tutelage from an early age bequeathed the basics of history and theology onto him. He has spent little time in refreshing his knowledge on these subjects, however.
Art Credit: https://kriskukko.com/