Post by Benil Varnor on Jul 30, 2019 22:36:03 GMT
Name: Benil Varnor
Age: 32
Nationality: Andoran
Place of Birth: Whitebridge, Andor
Place of Residence: Caemlyn, Andor
Affiliation: House Traemane, the Dark One
Rank/Title: Under-Lieutenant
One Power Strength: 0
Air: 0 | Earth: 0 | Fire: 0 | Spirit: 0 | Water: 0
# of Years as Soldier: 0
# of Years as Dedicated: 0
# of Years as Asha'man: 0
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 9 | Hand-Held: 9 | Stave: 5 | Thrown: 0 | Ranged: 7 | Mounted: 0
Height: 6’
Weight: 180 lbs
Build/Complexion: Lean/Tan
Eye/Hair Color: Brown/Brown
Distinguishing Features:
Standing at 6’, Benil is tall, but not towering. Though active and fit, he is not a large man. Ben’s musculature is long and lean, rather than bulky.
Ben’s face is pleasant, with a low brow and a long nose. His mouth is average, neither full nor thin lips, neither too pinched nor too wide for his face, and frequently turned up at the corners. Ben is a man who is frequently smiling, joking, laughing. He has curly, almost black hair that he keeps shaggy, in a halo of ringlets around his head. He maintains a well-groomed goatee.
Ben Varnor is a bloody charming chap; the kind of guy you either want to be or be with. Roguish grin, deep eyes, and shaggy curls add up to him usually getting whatever he's after, information or someone to warm his bed or any other thing really. It never hurts to be really, really, ridiculously good looking.
Benil is fully aware of this, of course, which makes him a little vain. He usually does a good job of hiding it though. Vanity is not becoming and he has built his entire life around being alluring. Everything about his persona has been carefully woven to entice. Luckily for Ben, he has always been naturally charismatic, so it is not a hard role for him to play. Along with his looks, his natural charm has aided in opening many doors that would likely be closed to any other poor boy from a no-name family.
Behind the facade though, Ben is a man of contradictions. He views the world as an innately corrupt place that deserves to be destroyed; yet he has held strong loyalties to many good people, even while simultaneously counting some of the most sadistic and cruel people in the world among his acquaintances. He is fiercely loyal to those that he deems worthy, be they good or bad people, at least so long as they are useful.
The River Arinelle overflowed its banks in Whitebridge the night Benil was born. It was an inauspicious start for an inauspicious life. The youngest of seven children whose parents were taxed after two, Ben was never a particularly well-loved boy. He was the runt, the smallest, the slowest, the quickest to cry. The most unwanted.
Ben’s father was a drunkard and a layabout who could only occasionally rouse himself enough to put food on the table. He was a mean drunk. He was a mean not-drunk. He wasn’t much for talking but he expected his wife and children to anticipate his whims and was more than happy to show his displeasure to those who angered him. Never in public, mind, but the walls between the poorer houses on the outskirts of Whitebridge were thin and the neighbors couldn’t help but overhear.
Ben’s mother had once been beautiful, but seven children and a hard life had put hard lines around her mouth by thirty-five. She was a soft-spoken woman, gentle and patient even though she was perpetually exhausted. It’s not that she didn’t care for Benil, she cared for all her children but there were so many of them and so few of her. She had her demons to contend with as well. Benil loved his mother fiercely even though she only had the energy to give a little affection.
The elderly neighbors took note of this little boy, who tried to be so good but was forever chasing after the attention of those around him and coming up short. They never had children of their own, but they would have loved them. The children they daydreamed of for decades would have married and had children of their own by now. Likely, they could have a curly headed grandson of four. Benil’s parents never even missed him during the countless hours he spent with the Varnors.
He learned to read on Derril Varnor’s knee and learned arithmetic at Marjari’s kitchen table. Derril taught him the importance of hard work and patience in the small vegetable garden he kept in the backyard. Marjari provided the maternal affection Beny’s own mother was too threadbare to provide. But despite their wholesome exterior, the Varnor’s had a secret: they were Friends of the Dark.
They were not high ranking members; they merely observed and reported, occasionally passing messages between higher ranking Darkfriends. When another Darkfriend in Whitebridge overreached and exposed himself, everyone who had ever had contact with him came into scrutiny. There was not much evidence connecting the Varnor’s to the man in question, but scared people don’t necessarily need evidence. It only took a few days before the first dragon’s fang was scrawled on their door. Derril scrubbed it off, but it was replaced the next night. He removed it again, only for a neighbor to put it back brazenly in the middle of the day.
Benil was eleven years old the night he was awoken from his sleep by people shouting in the streets. He rubbed sleep from his bleary eyes as he tried to make sense of the strange glowing light filling his room. Finally, his tired mind lurched into action and he was out of bed and throwing clothes on in a heartbeat. Somewhere nearby, a building burned. He rushed down the stairs still pulling his shirt over his head and was out the door so fast he nearly ran into the back of a man just barely off his family’s front step.
Ben elbowed his way to the front of the crowd to discover the Varnor’s house engulfed in flames. He ducked down an alley to circle around to the back, where he slammed his small body against the door over and over, screaming to the people he knew were still inside. The doorknob jiggled from the other side and the door swung open to Marjari clutching a large package to her chest. She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob and shoved the package into Benil’s arms.
“Derril fell and I couldn’t get him and this at the same time. I have to go back for him but you get out of Whitebridge. Go to the spot Derril takes you fishing. Stay out of sight. We’ll meet you there.”
She gave him a gentle push away from the house before turning back inside.
Ben had no reason not to trust her, so he turned and fled, ducking down alleyways and through backyards, until he was clear of the city walls and running north along the River Arinelle. A mile outside the city, he turned to see Whitebridge bathed in orange light. It looked like half the city was burning. He continued on for a while until he came to the small shelter Derril had built years ago which he ostensibly used for occasional fishing excursions. It also made a good meeting place away from the eyes of the city guard. Benil waited two and a half days before hunger drove him out of the cabin and back to Whitebridge.
What had looked like half the city ablaze turned out to have only been half a block, but the damage was still extensive. The fire had started at the Varnor’s, deliberately set by someone who had decided to take the law into their own hands. The jeering crowd that gathered all knew the rumors that had been circulating around Derril and Marjari lately and so did nothing, but the fire grew out of control. The wind spread it to the next house and the next, so on down the street.
Benil’s own home had only minor damage, spared from the worst of the flames because it sat upwind that night, but he couldn’t make himself go home again. He felt like his true home was gone and with it the only people who had ever loved him. He returned to the cabin to tear through the package that Marjari had given him; he wanted to know what they had died for.
The realization came slowly, like the tide, sometimes with great waves of epiphany crashing into him all at once. The Varnor’s were bad people. They were the kindest, most loving people he had ever known. He went back and forth in his mind for days, pacing the cabin, sometimes arguing with himself, laughing and crying by turns. By the end of the week, he shed his old name and life. He set out for Caemlyn, knowing there would be more opportunity there.
With what he had managed to decode from the Varnor’s correspondences, Ben managed to place himself in the household of a minor noble who just so happened to also be a Friend of the Dark. From there he talked his way into sword training with the nobleman’s guards. He was a quick learner and by fifteen he held a position among Caemlyn’s guard. Two years later, he had a fortuitous encounter with Renalt Traemane that led to a spot in the High Seat’s personal guard, leaving him conveniently placed on the outskirts of Andor’s royal court. For one such as him, it was a perfect place to gather information and to move important pieces around the board without being noticed. Ben had not only been playing at swords during those years.
Benil Varnor had garnered a reputation as a discreet and competent informant. He was reliably around yet unnoticed by men and women of great influence. He was charming and handsome and free with his affections in a way that brought down the guards of most. Though they were not Darkfriends, he tied himself tightly to the Traemane’s, showing great loyalty to them and gaining their loyalty in return. It had been so difficult to arrange for Renalt Traemane’s unfortunate accident after so many years of mutual admiration, but such decisions weren’t Ben’s to make. He had always known this day would come though and had already formed a strong bond with Renalt’s oldest daughter and heir, Adela.
Books read: All
Age: 32
Nationality: Andoran
Place of Birth: Whitebridge, Andor
Place of Residence: Caemlyn, Andor
Affiliation: House Traemane, the Dark One
Rank/Title: Under-Lieutenant
One Power Strength: 0
Air: 0 | Earth: 0 | Fire: 0 | Spirit: 0 | Water: 0
# of Years as Soldier: 0
# of Years as Dedicated: 0
# of Years as Asha'man: 0
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 9 | Hand-Held: 9 | Stave: 5 | Thrown: 0 | Ranged: 7 | Mounted: 0
APPEARANCE
Height: 6’
Weight: 180 lbs
Build/Complexion: Lean/Tan
Eye/Hair Color: Brown/Brown
Distinguishing Features:
- Dark ringlet curls
- Goatee
Standing at 6’, Benil is tall, but not towering. Though active and fit, he is not a large man. Ben’s musculature is long and lean, rather than bulky.
Ben’s face is pleasant, with a low brow and a long nose. His mouth is average, neither full nor thin lips, neither too pinched nor too wide for his face, and frequently turned up at the corners. Ben is a man who is frequently smiling, joking, laughing. He has curly, almost black hair that he keeps shaggy, in a halo of ringlets around his head. He maintains a well-groomed goatee.
PERSONALITY
Ben Varnor is a bloody charming chap; the kind of guy you either want to be or be with. Roguish grin, deep eyes, and shaggy curls add up to him usually getting whatever he's after, information or someone to warm his bed or any other thing really. It never hurts to be really, really, ridiculously good looking.
Benil is fully aware of this, of course, which makes him a little vain. He usually does a good job of hiding it though. Vanity is not becoming and he has built his entire life around being alluring. Everything about his persona has been carefully woven to entice. Luckily for Ben, he has always been naturally charismatic, so it is not a hard role for him to play. Along with his looks, his natural charm has aided in opening many doors that would likely be closed to any other poor boy from a no-name family.
Behind the facade though, Ben is a man of contradictions. He views the world as an innately corrupt place that deserves to be destroyed; yet he has held strong loyalties to many good people, even while simultaneously counting some of the most sadistic and cruel people in the world among his acquaintances. He is fiercely loyal to those that he deems worthy, be they good or bad people, at least so long as they are useful.
HISTORY
The River Arinelle overflowed its banks in Whitebridge the night Benil was born. It was an inauspicious start for an inauspicious life. The youngest of seven children whose parents were taxed after two, Ben was never a particularly well-loved boy. He was the runt, the smallest, the slowest, the quickest to cry. The most unwanted.
Ben’s father was a drunkard and a layabout who could only occasionally rouse himself enough to put food on the table. He was a mean drunk. He was a mean not-drunk. He wasn’t much for talking but he expected his wife and children to anticipate his whims and was more than happy to show his displeasure to those who angered him. Never in public, mind, but the walls between the poorer houses on the outskirts of Whitebridge were thin and the neighbors couldn’t help but overhear.
Ben’s mother had once been beautiful, but seven children and a hard life had put hard lines around her mouth by thirty-five. She was a soft-spoken woman, gentle and patient even though she was perpetually exhausted. It’s not that she didn’t care for Benil, she cared for all her children but there were so many of them and so few of her. She had her demons to contend with as well. Benil loved his mother fiercely even though she only had the energy to give a little affection.
The elderly neighbors took note of this little boy, who tried to be so good but was forever chasing after the attention of those around him and coming up short. They never had children of their own, but they would have loved them. The children they daydreamed of for decades would have married and had children of their own by now. Likely, they could have a curly headed grandson of four. Benil’s parents never even missed him during the countless hours he spent with the Varnors.
He learned to read on Derril Varnor’s knee and learned arithmetic at Marjari’s kitchen table. Derril taught him the importance of hard work and patience in the small vegetable garden he kept in the backyard. Marjari provided the maternal affection Beny’s own mother was too threadbare to provide. But despite their wholesome exterior, the Varnor’s had a secret: they were Friends of the Dark.
They were not high ranking members; they merely observed and reported, occasionally passing messages between higher ranking Darkfriends. When another Darkfriend in Whitebridge overreached and exposed himself, everyone who had ever had contact with him came into scrutiny. There was not much evidence connecting the Varnor’s to the man in question, but scared people don’t necessarily need evidence. It only took a few days before the first dragon’s fang was scrawled on their door. Derril scrubbed it off, but it was replaced the next night. He removed it again, only for a neighbor to put it back brazenly in the middle of the day.
Benil was eleven years old the night he was awoken from his sleep by people shouting in the streets. He rubbed sleep from his bleary eyes as he tried to make sense of the strange glowing light filling his room. Finally, his tired mind lurched into action and he was out of bed and throwing clothes on in a heartbeat. Somewhere nearby, a building burned. He rushed down the stairs still pulling his shirt over his head and was out the door so fast he nearly ran into the back of a man just barely off his family’s front step.
Ben elbowed his way to the front of the crowd to discover the Varnor’s house engulfed in flames. He ducked down an alley to circle around to the back, where he slammed his small body against the door over and over, screaming to the people he knew were still inside. The doorknob jiggled from the other side and the door swung open to Marjari clutching a large package to her chest. She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob and shoved the package into Benil’s arms.
“Derril fell and I couldn’t get him and this at the same time. I have to go back for him but you get out of Whitebridge. Go to the spot Derril takes you fishing. Stay out of sight. We’ll meet you there.”
She gave him a gentle push away from the house before turning back inside.
Ben had no reason not to trust her, so he turned and fled, ducking down alleyways and through backyards, until he was clear of the city walls and running north along the River Arinelle. A mile outside the city, he turned to see Whitebridge bathed in orange light. It looked like half the city was burning. He continued on for a while until he came to the small shelter Derril had built years ago which he ostensibly used for occasional fishing excursions. It also made a good meeting place away from the eyes of the city guard. Benil waited two and a half days before hunger drove him out of the cabin and back to Whitebridge.
What had looked like half the city ablaze turned out to have only been half a block, but the damage was still extensive. The fire had started at the Varnor’s, deliberately set by someone who had decided to take the law into their own hands. The jeering crowd that gathered all knew the rumors that had been circulating around Derril and Marjari lately and so did nothing, but the fire grew out of control. The wind spread it to the next house and the next, so on down the street.
Benil’s own home had only minor damage, spared from the worst of the flames because it sat upwind that night, but he couldn’t make himself go home again. He felt like his true home was gone and with it the only people who had ever loved him. He returned to the cabin to tear through the package that Marjari had given him; he wanted to know what they had died for.
The realization came slowly, like the tide, sometimes with great waves of epiphany crashing into him all at once. The Varnor’s were bad people. They were the kindest, most loving people he had ever known. He went back and forth in his mind for days, pacing the cabin, sometimes arguing with himself, laughing and crying by turns. By the end of the week, he shed his old name and life. He set out for Caemlyn, knowing there would be more opportunity there.
With what he had managed to decode from the Varnor’s correspondences, Ben managed to place himself in the household of a minor noble who just so happened to also be a Friend of the Dark. From there he talked his way into sword training with the nobleman’s guards. He was a quick learner and by fifteen he held a position among Caemlyn’s guard. Two years later, he had a fortuitous encounter with Renalt Traemane that led to a spot in the High Seat’s personal guard, leaving him conveniently placed on the outskirts of Andor’s royal court. For one such as him, it was a perfect place to gather information and to move important pieces around the board without being noticed. Ben had not only been playing at swords during those years.
Benil Varnor had garnered a reputation as a discreet and competent informant. He was reliably around yet unnoticed by men and women of great influence. He was charming and handsome and free with his affections in a way that brought down the guards of most. Though they were not Darkfriends, he tied himself tightly to the Traemane’s, showing great loyalty to them and gaining their loyalty in return. It had been so difficult to arrange for Renalt Traemane’s unfortunate accident after so many years of mutual admiration, but such decisions weren’t Ben’s to make. He had always known this day would come though and had already formed a strong bond with Renalt’s oldest daughter and heir, Adela.
Books read: All
