Rían (Rian)


Lord of Altera

A barbarian
whose luck has finally worn thin. Hacking, chopping, and impaling his way to notoriety brought him few friends and many foes. A dead man, who, for far too long, stumbled from fight to fight in a bellicose stupor. A gambler that ascended the highest peak of prodigality, and took the fall, all the way down...

There was once the son of
Rex of Lonmar, but no more.

His head ringing from the night before--partially from alcohol, partially from the blow to his head--Rían awakens to find his pockets, once filled with the coins earned from heated barfights and bloody duels, are completely empty.

He is strong like his father, and drunkenly furious like his mother. And for a while, he was lucky. He fought and lived like a savage: untrained, and uncivilized, recklessly riding on the wave of his spell of good fortune without thinking once, acting on impulse. But such a crude approach to living and fighting can only work for so long. Now, with the only possession of worth being his name and blood, he is a barbarian.

Whose luck has finally worn thin.

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Lord of Altera

He appears to be anywhere from twenty years of age to thirty.
Gender: Unmistakably a man.
Race: Human.
Social Status: Peasantry.
Height: Inheriting both the blood of Rex and a Varyn has endowed him with an impressive height of 6'7. Much to his chagrin, it is an inch short of his sister.
Weight: Somewhere within the vicinity of 300 lbs (136kg; 22 stone).
He does not know when he was born. He is unsure of where he is from. And he certainly doesn't know what to consider home.

A lumbering and muscled physique, Rían bristles with strength that ripples across his entire frame. Alas, his alcoholic tendencies have slightly softened his definition, but the vitality of his youth--in conjunction with his father's flattering genes--preserves the prominent appearance of his musculature. For now.
Hair: An orange reddish mixture that is not quite as fiery or red as his sister's, Sylvi. As depicted above, it tends to be coarsely swept back, and is longer at the top and cropped on the sides.
Eyes: Green, just as his mother's.
Skin: Fair.
Identifying Marks: Any scars he possesses that on their own might serve as an identifier have been effaced by scores of others riddled across his body.
Appearance: Perpetually gruff, unkempt, and disheveled, these qualities, when combined with his towering and muscled form, secure his semblance of utter barbarianism.
Clothing: A tattered and pitiful gray coat that he has worn since his downfall. His brown and equally shoddy breaches reach down to his boots, which were once a solid black, but now are an ambiguous black. Oddly clean and un-shitty, his white undershirt is perhaps the only article of clothing he wears that is not entirely abysmal. Strapped to his left shoulder is a large leather pauldron that he never seems to remove, and wears atop the coat.
Weaponry: An unremarkable round and wooden shield, rimmed with a thin layer of steel to prevent the wood from being rent from a slash to its side. It is capable of blocking arrows. His sword is no more impressive: a long and worn gladius that is more intimidating for the tetanus it harbors than its actual cutting abilities.
Prized Possessions: An eyepatch worn by his mother.
Hygiene: Barbaric.
Voice: A raspy and deep voice (this is a link).

His physical strength, for one, tends to be quite useful. When he is not drunk, he is sure and lightfooted and oddly capable of stealth.
Fears: What does a barbarian fear, one must wonder.
Weaknesses: While not quite as much of a drunkard as his mother, sobriety is something that he could do with retaining more often. He was or is impulsive to a fault, brash, and apparently unable to make decisions that account for more than a day ahead of time.
Intelligence: Entirely uneducated, save for his rudimentary literacy that he acquired as a young boy, Rían, to some, may seem to embody the typical drunkard northerner. But what he lacks in education he compensates in an experience of gruesome failures and (lucky) successes. Whether or not he will be wise enough to utilize this experience and reflect on his hardships, is another question completely.
Languages: Common.
Profession: With the revelation that he is somewhat of a fuck-up and no longer able to consider gambling, barfighting, and looting fallen foes a sustainable profession, he currently meanders about, wayward and performing odd jobs.

INSPIRATIONS: Logen Ninefingers, the Bloody Nine.
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Lord of Altera
Warning: vulgar language.


Sylvi (Elz): "Sister. Where be ye...?"


Eltsir (Eltsir): "He knows me father, 'n was quick t'call me a brother after escapin' th' dungeon. Patched me leg up as well. Not bad for a rich elf bastard. Think we might 'ave somethin'."

Arnaud (Axex): "The Father is 'un o' those Ignis coonts, but 'e's a fighter and not a 'alf bad lad. Look forward t'workin' with 'im."

Josephine (Charybdis): "She be more than she seems... 'n tha' makes her th' interestin' sort."

Jaxon (Michcat): "Brother o' Evelyn. Good lad tha' I can share a drink with. Helped me with his sister, bu' I still focked it up. He be a blacksmith, no doubt a good friend t'have."

Evelyn (Lannis): "I like her. But it might be tha' she's too good for a bloody barbarian like me."


Virnaak (Vincentius): "What th' fock be wrong with his skin? Lad needs to eat more. Want to be helpin' 'im. Dunnae why."

Vashti (Charybdis): "Almost be a big of a coont as me. 'Least she be likin' to drink."

Iskvandar (Vincentius): "Not a complete coont once ye've got a few drinks in 'im."

Syr (Arken): "Bit o' a young lad. Humble 'nough. 'N fock if I give a bloody shite, he be payin' me in rum 'n gold."

Aryus (Mitch): "Had each other's back's in there. 'ppreciate what 'e did to help me fight our way out."

Ward (Tarron): "Met 'im with th' Father. Quiet, but seemed th' competent sort. Good man t'have me back."

Nwalme (blargtheawesome):"Not tha' bad. Cunning 'un, I can tell. Nice enough t'give me some gold. Don't mind workin' fer 'im."

Harlow (Hannah): "She be 'un o' them Rangers or th' like. Might be tha' we could teach each other's crafts. Would be nice t'use a bow."

Jaden (CloakedReaper): "I'll be comin' for me whiskey, coont. But he be a straightforward lad. Might be a bit grim but he be nice enough. Would like 'im more if weren't be puttin' spice in me chicken."

Elwyn (Charybdis): "Always seems t'be pissed but actually not tha' bad when she's not clubbin' noggins. She better be treatin' Eltsir well."

Brutus: (Old-Seadog): "Ol' bastard be cryptic as they come, but 'e be havin' a strategic mind, 'n good weapons 'n trainin'."

Orvar (Sir Andrew Wallins): "Tha' little stunt we did was worth th' surprise on tha' knight bastard's face."


Oliver (Glados): "Barely be knowin' 'im."

Gelyk II (Rygan): "Looks t'me tha' he be knowin' how t'hold himself in a bloody fight."
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Lord of Altera

No self respecting swordsman would leave blood to dry on his weapon. True to this philosophy, the Barbarian is sat on the toppled log of a tree, his hulking shoulders slumped over like a great sack of rice as he eliminates every trace of red and unwanted detail from his gladius. “The blood will cause the blade to rust, and will stick to the inside of your scabbard. Wouldn’t want to be quick on the draw and find your sword stuck now, wouldn’t you?” he recalled his father telling him. But he needn’t his father to impart such information, after all, the Barbarian, Rían, is his own man. He learned things on his own, the hard way most of the time. Toughened himself up. With a scrutinous squint, the Barbarian meticulously scoured the stainless blade as it glowed with a soft luster in the afternoon light. His old weapon had been more intimidating for the tetanus it harbored than anything else, but Rían obtained a replacement, and took care of it well. The coin hadn’t been easy to come by over the past years.

“Been making quite the name for yourself,” a stranger said as he approached. Rían grunted.
“I sit ‘ere t’ave some peace ‘n quiet way from th’ Pit. After a brawl I like t’lick me wounds, clean me sword, and count me gold,” Rían said as he began to rise. “Don’t think tha’ I included talking to some dumb cunt stranger in tha’ list, aye?” The Barbarian glared down at the man. He fidgeted at Rían’s intensity.

“Calm down there mate,” said the stranger, putting his hand between them. “Just wanted to have a drink with the winner here. Give me a few pointers for my own fight, eh?”

For a moment, Rían looked past the man, gazing at the urban sprawl of hovels and wretched shanties. Somewhere within that unorganized and impoverished mass was the Pit, a breeding ground of gamblers and fighters. He could only discern it amongst the other ramshackle piles of planks and stone because it was the only place he’d ever go for the past few years.

“Oi mate, you gonna talk?” urged the stranger as he watched Rían’s thousand-yard-stare manifest. For the Barbarian, the moment had been longer than what he thought. “You pissed already? You just had the fight,” he continued.

“Give me a fockin’ reason tha’ I should be talkin’ with ye,” Rían lashed back, slurring his words.

"Godssake mate, you are bloody pissed. In both ways at that. Can smell the fucking ale in your breath from here.”

Rían gave him nothing, leaving them both staring at one another in silence. Not even the slightest breeze durst to disturb them, before the Barbarian finally stomped his foot into the dirt, a plume of sand rising about his boot. “Aight. You pay for th’ fockin’ drinks ‘n I’ll talk t’ye.”

The stranger shrugs back, slightly more at ease. “Sounds good to me. Name’s Garrett by the way.”

“Fock if I care.”

Garret only sighed as the pair began to make their way down the path. “You know, if you were a bit more charming, maybe the whole fighting ring in this bloody city wouldn’t hate you.”

Kicking a stone, the Barbarian scoffed. “They hate me because I be ruinin’ all their bets since I’m th’ bloody underdog with me fair share o’ upsets.” Their heels scuffed the ground as the path descended into a hill, lowering into the city. “That’s true,” Garrett conceded, “but only part of the truth. No one likes an arsehole. No one will like an arsehole that’s making them lose coin. And you’ve had your fair share of antics as well. Like when you took a piss on the Mad Dog after you put him on the ground.”

“I took their fockin’ shite fer years. I’m jus’ treatin’ ‘em th’ way they treated me.”

“I believe you. But that’s not the way they see it,” Garrett replied, practically yelling to be heard over the commotion of the city. They were back in its midst, evident by the smells of shit and piss and the sticky heat that only amplified the already stomach churning stench. Vendors lined both sides of every street, each possessing an identical building: a dirt floored shop on the ground and on the second floor above it, their quarters, from where the occasional angry wife could be seen emptying a bucket of shit through the window. If either of the men were phased by the conditions, they did not show it, save for the occasional scrunching of the nostrils. The Barbarian shouldered his way through a few passersby, before the collective subconscious of the oncoming crowd cleared a path at his towering stature. Garrett followed Rían in close vicinity, now appreciating having a companion that is at least a head taller than anyone else to be seen. They turned into a quieter alley, and the Barbarian took the opportunity to respond. “I be comin’ with ye so I could give ye some advice and so ye could buy me a drink, not th’ other fockin’ way around,” he growled.

“For fuck’s sake mate,” Garrett exclaimed. “I’m probably the only bloke in this area that doesn’t hate your guts, let alone give a rat’s arse about you. Listen, if you’re going to survive here, you’ve got to be more careful. You keep this up mate, and sooner or later you’re going to piss off the wrong people.”

Rían tore his gaze from the path ahead and glared down at the smaller man as they came to a halt. Garrett’s fingers were crossed as he tried to return Rían’s scorching countenance. His attempt was less convincing. Finally, the Barbarian grunted and began to walk once more. Rolling his shoulders, Garrett followed, masking his relief. “Wha’s with th’ fockin’ beard?” asked Rían. “Be fockin’ blazin’ in this shitehole and ye’ve a bloody racoon on yer face.”

“Fuck off mate.”

Rían chuckled, dispelling the aura of unease. Though perhaps half a foot shorter than the Barbarian (as most men would be), Garrett himself was no meek man, with an imposing demeanor in his own right. The caution he found himself exercising--and perhaps fear--was an unfamiliar experience. But by the time they had arrived at the dilapidated entrance of the Pit, the two did not appear as if wanting to slice one another’s throats. Once inside, Garrett raised a hand towards the bartender, two fingers up. “A pint for me and the winner here, eh Sal?”

Heads began to turn at the mention of the ‘winner’ as the bustling of the tavern trickled to a standstill. Murmurs echoed throughout the room as the Barbarian scanned the vista of glaring eyes. He kept his hand lingering at his scabbard. Any sudden movements and he would pounce. Interest waned. The eyes blinked and disappeared behind the backs of the tavern-goers as they turned back to what they were doing.

“You trying to start a bloody war in here? Already enough fightin’ in the arena downstairs, don’t need to bring that into the tavern,” the bartender barked at Garrett as the two sat themselves at the counter. “And you,” he continued, looking at Rían, “you could start a war just by existing. Nothing but trouble, you are.”

Garrett feigned a laugh, choked by nerves. “Come on Sal, you don’t mean that.” He moved forward to hiss into the bartender’s ear. “Just appreciate that he hasn’t fucking clobbered you in the noggin yet.”

“Barbarian cunt. What kind of monstrous whore your mother must have been, to give birth to you,” the bartender spat. He crossed his arms, unimpressed. Unfortunately for the man, so was Rían. Without a moment to spare, he yanked Sal by the hair and slammed his face onto the countertop. The bartender fell to his knees, his head slumped forward. “Get back up, willye?” Rían said, as he cackled his raspy laugh. He thrusted the ridge of his palm into Sal’s forehead, sending the already disoriented man backwards. “And while ye’re at it. Get th’ two o’ us somethin’ to drink.”

Horror was written across Garrett’s face as his jaw dropped, anticipating their inevitable doom. Sal stumbled to his feet, before bumbling to the kitchen. “Rían, mate. What did I bloody say back there!” A snarl escaped the Barbarian. While the room hadn’t fallen dead silent as it did when they entered, the both of them could feel the hostile eyes all around the tavern examining them. “This be why I don’t come to this bloody joint. Ye should o’ left me alone with me fockin’ sword.”
“Ye, this is my fault,” Garrett replied sarcastically. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No,” Rían declared firmly.
“Wha’? Are you bloody insane?”
“I’m goin’ t’get me drink, otherwise, none o’ this shite was worth th’ time.”
“The only thing that the bartender whose face you just SMASHED is getting, is the fucking Enforcer! And his whole bloody battalion of henchmen!” Garrett could hardly contain his bafflement as he flailed his arms in desperation.
“Let them come.”
“Do you want to die?”
“No, ‘n I won’t be dyin’. They’ll be needin’ a bloody army fer me.”
“And that’s exactly what they’ll be bringing!”
“If you don’t like it, you can be leavin’!” Rían roared raspily. Garrett shrunk.
“You’re a cunt,” Garrett finally said. “But I’m not going to let you just die here. I’m more charismatic than you are. I can sort this out without any of us getting bloody maimed.”
“Good luck with tha’.”
“Yeh, and good luck fighting a whole horde of the Enforcer’s men.”

Rían only cackled.

“We are so fucked…” Garrett muttered under his breath. His eyes darted between every corner of the room. It was not long until the reveling in the tavern abruptly ended, giving way to a cadence of thunderous footsteps that were headed for them. Rían remained seated. Garrett gulped as he looked to the other side of the bar at the source of the footsteps. “Rían… the Enforcer is here.”

As if on cue, a tall, bald man emerged around the corner, his face riddled with scars. He donned steel armor of imperial make, a raiment completed by his tattered red cape. His gait had all the movements of a soldier: rigid and practiced, yet smooth. The Barbarian spared him only a mere glance over his shoulder. Barging into place, the soldiers encircled him and Garrett, and when the shuffling died down, the bald man stepped forward. Garrett, in turn, took a step back, nearing Rían.

“You’ve caused a great deal of trouble today,” the man boomed.
“I could be on th’ other side of th’ fockin’ world and ye lot would still be sayin’ I be responsible fer all yer problems,” Rían grumbled. “Maybe ye should be gettin’ a barkeep tha’ jus’ takes me fockin’ order instead o’ askin’ fer trouble.”
“And what warranted you smashing his face into the countertop?” the man calmly replied. Garrett was nearly swept away by the fierce undercurrent of the man’s chilling brevity.
“You all be thievin’ cunts, tha’s why.”

The Enforcer raised a firm hand to calm the rest of the men, before clenching his fist in his palm. “You really are nothing but a dull sack of meat. And from all the trouble you’ve caused us, I’m sure no one will miss you when you’re gone.”

“Leave him be. He's just had too much to drink. Surely this isn't the first time one of the fighters got bloody mad at the bartender, is it?” Garrett chimed, ignoring the terribly dry feeling in his throat. It hadn't come out as commanding as he'd wanted. It was more of a squeak. So much for his charisma.

The Enforcer casted an amused glance at him, before looking back at his soldiers. “Kill them.”

With a vociferous roar, the circle engulfed them like a crushing wave. Springing out of his seat, Rían thrusted his gladius straight through the heart of the nearest man. He drove his elbow into the face of another behind him as he freed his weapon. Garrett managed to pummel one before the horde of others apprehended him, holding his arms behind his back. Pivoting, the Barbarian pierced the brigandine of another soldier, the sword lodged in his stomach. Rían had no time to remove it. He bellowed a frightening growl, striking the temple of a man and launched him crashing to the floor. He grabbed the arm of a trailing punch with both his hands, and smashed it onto his knee. The bone burst from the flesh, leaving the owner hollering. The Barbarian swung at every man that neared him. Some fell in his wake. But not all. It must’ve been a dozen men that grabbed him by each arm and pinned them behind his back. Now both him and Garrett were in the same boat. With a complacent smirk, the Enforcer approached Rían.

“I hardly know th’ man, leave ‘im be,” the Barbarian sputtered.

“I won’t be doing you any favors, no,” he replied. Rían spat in the bald man’s face. The Enforcer replied with a punch to his. Snarling, the Barbarian violently shook his head to clear his vision. “But I’ll be doing everybody else one, by getting rid of you,” he continued, wiping the saliva off his face. “Men, release his arms. I’ll deal with-” The Barbarian wasted no time pouncing the Enforcer. He enjoyed the rush, enjoyed the stupefied look on the bald fucker’s face as he was caught off guard, and most of all, he enjoyed burying his knuckles straight into it. The slam of his fist threw the man to the floor, and Rían crunched his boots into his rib cage. The Barbarian expected the soldiers to let them exchange blows, but one stepped forward and hooked at Rían’s legs. It toppled Rían to the floor, like a towering tree crashing into the earth. Both him and the Enforcer grumbled as they rose and prepared to attack. The Enforcer wound up for a powerful punch, and Rían began to raise his arms to block as he tried to evade. But the soldiers behind him once again intervened, grabbing his arms. Defenseless, his face buckled at the full force of the blow, and he grunted a silent “uff” at the impact. Rían spat out blood as the Enforcer wiped some off of his fist. “He’s all yours men. And his companion too,” the Enforcer uttered, before turning to storm off. “And leave him alive!”

“Which one sir?” one of them replied.
“You know which one.”


The Barbarian awakened to the warm glow of the morning sun, lying on the shores of a sandy beach, wet patches of sand caked to his shirtless torso. The first thing he noticed, other than his location and lack of shirt, was that he had been stripped of all his coin. His armor, his shield, his sword, everything that wasn’t his pants were gone. Rían searched his pockets, the panic setting in, to see if it was still there. He sighed with relief when he produced his mother’s eyepatch. A momentary pang of regret crossed his mind. All these years, fighting, making a name for himself, he neglected to find his sister. “Sylvi…” he muttered. It was a name he hadn’t said in a long time. Moaning, he rolled off of his back, brushing off the sand. His head rang from the night before--partially from the alcohol, partially from the blow to his head. As he stood up, a paper plastered to his back fell to the ground. He examined it with a scowl; he wasn’t a profound reader.

“Your companion is dead. There is a bounty out for you. If you return to the city once more, both the guards and my men will kill you. You have been robbed of all your possessions, and your home has been given to another. We left you with a few items so that you can fuck off. They’re in the cave behind you. You have caused a great deal of trouble for me and my city. Now it is your turn to suffer. Begone.”

Rían morosely crumpled up the paper in his hand, before trudging over to the cave. He found his old tattered and pitiful gray coat strewn out on the ground, along with a pair of black boots. A white shirt muddled with sand was included, underneath his rusty old gladius and his shield and pauldron with it. There wasn't much to be said as he gathered his belongings, as he slipped them on. There was no one to say anything to. There might have been. He did find someone to talk with, but he was dead now, over a drink. Silently, the Barbarian savored one last view of the shithole he called home for the last few years, before lumbering off. They wanted him gone. And gone he will be.