Post by Cirus on Mar 2, 2019 22:29:07 GMT
Name: Cirus
Nationality: Andoran
Age: 20
Rank/Occupation: Dedicated (Black Tower)
One Power Strength:
Date they were raised to Novice/Soldier:
107 FA
Date they were raised to Accepted/Dedicated:
112 FA
Date they were raised to Aes Sedai/Asha'man:
N/A
Date they were raised to any other rank: N/A
Talents:
Earth Singing (eventually), Aligning the Matrix (eventually)
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 5 | Hand-Held: 6 | Stave: 0 | Thrown: 0 | Ranged: 0 | Mounted: 1
Height:
6'2"
Weight:
190 lbs
Build/Complexion:
Toned
Eye/Hair Color:
Green eyes/Blonde Hair
Distinguishing Features: None
Cirus prefers a simple black coat made of wool, no matter the weather he wears it. Thanks to the concentration technique he is able to keep from sweating or shivering in whatever weather is present. He meticulously cleans the coat in his off hours, taking time to work out any stains from the day. Other than his black coat, the only other possession he wears openly is the blade given to him by the Black Tower. This blade is kept with equal care, as it is his only other possession, and very much a part of him. Whether in his barracks or walking the streets of the Black Tower in Caralain, he wears his sword at his hip and his simple black coat with pride.
Deeply indebted to the Tower for giving him not only a home but a purpose, Cirus is fiercely loyal to those he considers friends. He will go out of his way to help those who he sees as family and friends, including those he calls ‘brothers’ among the tower. This does not mean that he will be a pushover to whoever asks him for help, he will not turn away from a friend or colleague is clearly in distress and has once or twice gotten himself sick or injured in the process of aiding his fellow soldiers.
Driven by an internal need to prove himself worthy of the title of Asha’man, Cirus does not take to failure kindly. He has already been told he’ll be lucky to be able to lift more than his own bodyweight with the one power, and as such has taken a deep interest in the other arts that an Asha’man must be a master of. Tactics, swordsmanship, and leadership are things he has thrown himself into mastering since his strength with the One Power is much less than even some of the new arrivals that come to the tower. In addition, he has also thrown himself into learning history, survival skills, and hand to hand combat. A failure sends him into a spiral of either self-loathing or a desire to improve, depending on how badly he failed.
Born to a poor mother in Caemlyn with barely enough for herself, Cirus has always struggled in his life. An unwanted child from a forced union, he received neither his mothers' love nor his fathers' name. Food was as scarce as warmth in his early years, forcing him to fight, steal, and sometimes beg in order to get enough to survive on. He remembers his mother spending what little they had on drink and the occasional shiny trinket for herself, never bothering with getting new clothes or a nice toy for her son.
At the age of seven Cirus was kicked out of his home, or left, depending on who he’s talking too. Either way, he broke with his old family, swearing that if they didn't want him, then he would never return. He gave up everything, including his family name. It was a rough time for him, but a time when he learned to fend for himself. He quickly learned that being small made most think him either weak or unable to defend himself, so he learned to defend himself quickly with the help of a few older boys who spend time wandering the streets. Brawls for food or a sleeping spot were common, and he had to draw blood with a rusty knife more than once to defend a good sleeping slot or for a crust of dried bread.
At the age of 14 Cirus started getting headaches, and nothing he did seemed to push them away. What was strange about these headaches was the weird things that would happen when they occurred. Sometimes candles or random pieces of curtain nearby him would catch fire, or a window would break seemingly at random. The headaches made him more anxious and irritable, combined with the usual pangs of going to bed hungry and sleeping in dark alleys he was far from a pleasant young lad to deal with. He became known by the local guards and was routinely chased away from whatever street corner he was trying to beg or steal on.
On one day when he was in a particularly foul mood, a paving stone cracked as he was stomping away from a rather foul woman who had told him off for his language. As he was storming away his headache came, and it would only get worse the more he thought about the woman. His anger grew deeper and deeper until as he was walking he felt something crack underneath his feet. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t stumbled as a result of the break.
As he was looking at the stone he reached out to grab it, intent on throwing it down the alley at nothing in particular to vent his frustrations. When he reached out to touch the stone it felt hot, not uncommon if it had been a warm summer's day, but in the pouring rain in the middle of fall, the stone should have been cold and wet. Something was wrong with it, or worse, something was wrong with him. He’d always tried to keep a low profile, just survive, but this… if he was responsible for it then it could easily mean being sought out, or worse, kidnapped and sold off. If the rumors were true at least.
He ran and tried to hide, tried to find a place to lay low but the rumors were already spreading among his usual hiding places. A stone, lying broken in the middle of fall, and then the other odd things that happened around him, candles suddenly springing to life, windows cracking randomly. Strangely all when he was suffering from a headache that he had usually chalked up to being cold, or hungry, or just plain frustrated with the situation he found himself in.
It was barely a week later that his confrontation that would change his life happened. Cirus was trying to find a place to lay low, avoiding people who generally infuriated him. Winter was coming on and it was cold and wet, the little work he was able to get hadn’t been enough for a real bed. It had been barely enough to afford a loaf of bread that was half eaten. Walking to one of his corners to try to fall asleep he found himself confronted by two women he didn’t recognize and a rather imposing man. He tried to run at first, but he quickly found himself frozen. It was terrifying, not being able to move. At first, he panicked further, screaming for them to let him go, that he’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t until he calmed down and heard what they had to say that he realized they were trying to help him. After hearing what they had to say he agreed to go, leaving the city that night and going to the north without delay.
Once he was taken to the Black Tower in Caralain, Cirus found himself in a situation where he finally had enough. A roof over his head, clean clothes and knowing where his next meal was going to come from. It was a comfort that he’d never known, and while he was grateful for it, he soon became bored with the comfort. What’s more his weakness in the One Power made him useless for most chores, barely able to work for half an hour before getting exhausted by its use early on. His training in the One Power was further stagnated by his inability to work unless angry, which only lasted for a few weeks as he was broken down to nothing and forced to become just another soldier among the hundreds of those present.
The discipline was intense, and not easy to wrap his head around. Having lived for so long as a man out for himself, it was hard to adapt to living and serving others. Initially resistant, he found himself only more isolated and alone. The only good thing that came of this was he was able to channel his frustration, literally, into the one power. The downside was that it meant he had to be resentful in order to do anything, something that became harder as time passed and he noticed that those he lived and worked beside were truly treating him not like a rival or unwanted pest, but as a brother. Three months into his training this came to a head as he found himself unable to bring himself to channel at all, even as he was berated by instructors for his failures. He understood they wanted him to improve, to become more powerful, to become a guardian as they were.
The only solace he found after his loss of ability to channel was in the training, his earlier lessons from brawls on the streets were blended with the more rigid and martial training of the Aiel warriors of old. He quickly found himself excelling at the hand to hand, and his constant downtime from chores, due to his inability to channel, left him with more time than some of his peers to focus on his bladework. The additional physical training of climbing, swimming, and running gave him an outlet for his boredom and downtime that he would normally have used looking for a place to sleep or a crust of bread to eat. He threw himself into these, honing himself into a weapon that would make him the equal to any standing soldier in any nations army.
It was during his martial training that he discovered a way around his block, though not intentionally. One day he had accepted a challenge from three of his bunkmates to take them on in the training yard. It was meant to be a simple exercise, a test of his concentration in combat since he was unable to help with chores in the traditional way. A dedicated was set to watch over them and watch everyone's progress to see how their skills were developing.
The bladework forced upon him a form of concentration so complete that he forgot everything else around him. The three he fought against knew his style, and they knew him. They used that against him, coming at his right, forcing him to constantly keep shifting his position as they tried to circle around to his blind spot, even occasionally doing something stupid like sending a kick toward him in an effort to knock him off his balance. They tried everything they could think of to get an advantage over him, after all, they had all bet a week's worth of polishing boots on this bet.
At one point his brothers knocked the blade out of his hands and forced him to the ground. Cirus rolled, rising with a blade in his hand, what he thought was a practice blade, he adopted a defensive stance against all three of his friends. None of them approached, all looked at him beaming as if they had already won. The dedicated was standing there, mouth agape, completely silent. It wasn't until the oldest of his friends shouted to him that his concentration on the fight broke, ever so briefly. He realized that he was holding Saidain, and he hadn't felt any anger or frustration. In his hand, there was a blade of fire, not a practice blade. He didn't feel frustration or anger or fear, just pure concentration, the kind he'd never experienced before. What's more, he could hold it, there was no weakening of his connection or fading of his power. He started laughing, then his friends did, even the dedicated sent to look after him started chuckling at this. When word of what happened reached the Asha'man present Cirus was put on double chore duty for a month, as makeup for his inability to channel. His strength was weaker than it had been at first, but it was at least stable. Now he could truly take his place among his brothers, learning alongside them in all of their classes.
Spending five years as a Soldier honed the young orphan who came to the tower into what he thought the title was meant to be. He took the ideas of old and what the title meant and applied himself to it with gusto. A few missions outside the tower and chances to build his strength with the One Power gave him a greater perspective on just what it meant to wear the uniform. What was most surprising was the looks of hope he received in the borderlands, apparently there were some who still saw the black coat as a sign of what the Dragon stood for, not what the tower had been in it’s recent past. Those looks of hope he carried with him through his trials, and now he carries his head high with pride while wearing the sword on his collar.
Books Read: Up to Knife of Dreams (including the Morraine/Lan prequel), did not finish Knife of Dreams.[/i]
Nationality: Andoran
Age: 20
Rank/Occupation: Dedicated (Black Tower)
One Power Strength:
4 (6 max)
Air: 4 (6 max) | Earth: 5 (7 max) | Fire: 5 (7 max) | Spirit: 4 (6 max) | Water: 2 (4 max)
107 FA
Date they were raised to Accepted/Dedicated:
112 FA
Date they were raised to Aes Sedai/Asha'man:
N/A
Date they were raised to any other rank: N/A
Talents:
Earth Singing (eventually), Aligning the Matrix (eventually)
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 5 | Hand-Held: 6 | Stave: 0 | Thrown: 0 | Ranged: 0 | Mounted: 1
APPEARANCE
Height:
6'2"
Weight:
190 lbs
Build/Complexion:
Toned
Eye/Hair Color:
Green eyes/Blonde Hair
Distinguishing Features: None
Cirus prefers a simple black coat made of wool, no matter the weather he wears it. Thanks to the concentration technique he is able to keep from sweating or shivering in whatever weather is present. He meticulously cleans the coat in his off hours, taking time to work out any stains from the day. Other than his black coat, the only other possession he wears openly is the blade given to him by the Black Tower. This blade is kept with equal care, as it is his only other possession, and very much a part of him. Whether in his barracks or walking the streets of the Black Tower in Caralain, he wears his sword at his hip and his simple black coat with pride.
PERSONALITY
Deeply indebted to the Tower for giving him not only a home but a purpose, Cirus is fiercely loyal to those he considers friends. He will go out of his way to help those who he sees as family and friends, including those he calls ‘brothers’ among the tower. This does not mean that he will be a pushover to whoever asks him for help, he will not turn away from a friend or colleague is clearly in distress and has once or twice gotten himself sick or injured in the process of aiding his fellow soldiers.
Driven by an internal need to prove himself worthy of the title of Asha’man, Cirus does not take to failure kindly. He has already been told he’ll be lucky to be able to lift more than his own bodyweight with the one power, and as such has taken a deep interest in the other arts that an Asha’man must be a master of. Tactics, swordsmanship, and leadership are things he has thrown himself into mastering since his strength with the One Power is much less than even some of the new arrivals that come to the tower. In addition, he has also thrown himself into learning history, survival skills, and hand to hand combat. A failure sends him into a spiral of either self-loathing or a desire to improve, depending on how badly he failed.
HISTORY
Born to a poor mother in Caemlyn with barely enough for herself, Cirus has always struggled in his life. An unwanted child from a forced union, he received neither his mothers' love nor his fathers' name. Food was as scarce as warmth in his early years, forcing him to fight, steal, and sometimes beg in order to get enough to survive on. He remembers his mother spending what little they had on drink and the occasional shiny trinket for herself, never bothering with getting new clothes or a nice toy for her son.
At the age of seven Cirus was kicked out of his home, or left, depending on who he’s talking too. Either way, he broke with his old family, swearing that if they didn't want him, then he would never return. He gave up everything, including his family name. It was a rough time for him, but a time when he learned to fend for himself. He quickly learned that being small made most think him either weak or unable to defend himself, so he learned to defend himself quickly with the help of a few older boys who spend time wandering the streets. Brawls for food or a sleeping spot were common, and he had to draw blood with a rusty knife more than once to defend a good sleeping slot or for a crust of dried bread.
At the age of 14 Cirus started getting headaches, and nothing he did seemed to push them away. What was strange about these headaches was the weird things that would happen when they occurred. Sometimes candles or random pieces of curtain nearby him would catch fire, or a window would break seemingly at random. The headaches made him more anxious and irritable, combined with the usual pangs of going to bed hungry and sleeping in dark alleys he was far from a pleasant young lad to deal with. He became known by the local guards and was routinely chased away from whatever street corner he was trying to beg or steal on.
On one day when he was in a particularly foul mood, a paving stone cracked as he was stomping away from a rather foul woman who had told him off for his language. As he was storming away his headache came, and it would only get worse the more he thought about the woman. His anger grew deeper and deeper until as he was walking he felt something crack underneath his feet. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t stumbled as a result of the break.
As he was looking at the stone he reached out to grab it, intent on throwing it down the alley at nothing in particular to vent his frustrations. When he reached out to touch the stone it felt hot, not uncommon if it had been a warm summer's day, but in the pouring rain in the middle of fall, the stone should have been cold and wet. Something was wrong with it, or worse, something was wrong with him. He’d always tried to keep a low profile, just survive, but this… if he was responsible for it then it could easily mean being sought out, or worse, kidnapped and sold off. If the rumors were true at least.
He ran and tried to hide, tried to find a place to lay low but the rumors were already spreading among his usual hiding places. A stone, lying broken in the middle of fall, and then the other odd things that happened around him, candles suddenly springing to life, windows cracking randomly. Strangely all when he was suffering from a headache that he had usually chalked up to being cold, or hungry, or just plain frustrated with the situation he found himself in.
It was barely a week later that his confrontation that would change his life happened. Cirus was trying to find a place to lay low, avoiding people who generally infuriated him. Winter was coming on and it was cold and wet, the little work he was able to get hadn’t been enough for a real bed. It had been barely enough to afford a loaf of bread that was half eaten. Walking to one of his corners to try to fall asleep he found himself confronted by two women he didn’t recognize and a rather imposing man. He tried to run at first, but he quickly found himself frozen. It was terrifying, not being able to move. At first, he panicked further, screaming for them to let him go, that he’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t until he calmed down and heard what they had to say that he realized they were trying to help him. After hearing what they had to say he agreed to go, leaving the city that night and going to the north without delay.
Once he was taken to the Black Tower in Caralain, Cirus found himself in a situation where he finally had enough. A roof over his head, clean clothes and knowing where his next meal was going to come from. It was a comfort that he’d never known, and while he was grateful for it, he soon became bored with the comfort. What’s more his weakness in the One Power made him useless for most chores, barely able to work for half an hour before getting exhausted by its use early on. His training in the One Power was further stagnated by his inability to work unless angry, which only lasted for a few weeks as he was broken down to nothing and forced to become just another soldier among the hundreds of those present.
The discipline was intense, and not easy to wrap his head around. Having lived for so long as a man out for himself, it was hard to adapt to living and serving others. Initially resistant, he found himself only more isolated and alone. The only good thing that came of this was he was able to channel his frustration, literally, into the one power. The downside was that it meant he had to be resentful in order to do anything, something that became harder as time passed and he noticed that those he lived and worked beside were truly treating him not like a rival or unwanted pest, but as a brother. Three months into his training this came to a head as he found himself unable to bring himself to channel at all, even as he was berated by instructors for his failures. He understood they wanted him to improve, to become more powerful, to become a guardian as they were.
The only solace he found after his loss of ability to channel was in the training, his earlier lessons from brawls on the streets were blended with the more rigid and martial training of the Aiel warriors of old. He quickly found himself excelling at the hand to hand, and his constant downtime from chores, due to his inability to channel, left him with more time than some of his peers to focus on his bladework. The additional physical training of climbing, swimming, and running gave him an outlet for his boredom and downtime that he would normally have used looking for a place to sleep or a crust of bread to eat. He threw himself into these, honing himself into a weapon that would make him the equal to any standing soldier in any nations army.
It was during his martial training that he discovered a way around his block, though not intentionally. One day he had accepted a challenge from three of his bunkmates to take them on in the training yard. It was meant to be a simple exercise, a test of his concentration in combat since he was unable to help with chores in the traditional way. A dedicated was set to watch over them and watch everyone's progress to see how their skills were developing.
The bladework forced upon him a form of concentration so complete that he forgot everything else around him. The three he fought against knew his style, and they knew him. They used that against him, coming at his right, forcing him to constantly keep shifting his position as they tried to circle around to his blind spot, even occasionally doing something stupid like sending a kick toward him in an effort to knock him off his balance. They tried everything they could think of to get an advantage over him, after all, they had all bet a week's worth of polishing boots on this bet.
At one point his brothers knocked the blade out of his hands and forced him to the ground. Cirus rolled, rising with a blade in his hand, what he thought was a practice blade, he adopted a defensive stance against all three of his friends. None of them approached, all looked at him beaming as if they had already won. The dedicated was standing there, mouth agape, completely silent. It wasn't until the oldest of his friends shouted to him that his concentration on the fight broke, ever so briefly. He realized that he was holding Saidain, and he hadn't felt any anger or frustration. In his hand, there was a blade of fire, not a practice blade. He didn't feel frustration or anger or fear, just pure concentration, the kind he'd never experienced before. What's more, he could hold it, there was no weakening of his connection or fading of his power. He started laughing, then his friends did, even the dedicated sent to look after him started chuckling at this. When word of what happened reached the Asha'man present Cirus was put on double chore duty for a month, as makeup for his inability to channel. His strength was weaker than it had been at first, but it was at least stable. Now he could truly take his place among his brothers, learning alongside them in all of their classes.
Spending five years as a Soldier honed the young orphan who came to the tower into what he thought the title was meant to be. He took the ideas of old and what the title meant and applied himself to it with gusto. A few missions outside the tower and chances to build his strength with the One Power gave him a greater perspective on just what it meant to wear the uniform. What was most surprising was the looks of hope he received in the borderlands, apparently there were some who still saw the black coat as a sign of what the Dragon stood for, not what the tower had been in it’s recent past. Those looks of hope he carried with him through his trials, and now he carries his head high with pride while wearing the sword on his collar.
Character Timeline:
Born: 93 FA
Came to Black Tower: 107 FA
Raised to Dedicated: 112 FA
Came to Black Tower: 107 FA
Raised to Dedicated: 112 FA
Books Read: Up to Knife of Dreams (including the Morraine/Lan prequel), did not finish Knife of Dreams.[/i]
