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Description

AP TRACKER | GALLERY | MOODBOARD

I HAVE MADE THE OBSCENE DECISION
TO DO SOMETHING UNFORGIVEABLE.
Name: Thorvald.
Nickname: Val, prefers to be called by his nickname.
Age: 40.
Gender: Stallion.
Breed: Unicorn, obsidian horns & hooves.
Colour: true black rabicano.
Height: 17.2hh
Orientation: Bisexual Polyamorous.

Voice Actor: tba

Herd Affiliation: Vagabond.
Rank: Disciple.
Familiar: n/a
Relatives: Eira (mother, deceased) & Colborn (father, deceased).
Torrhen (twin brother, alive).
Significant Other: Maddock .
Lovers: open!
Children: n/a.

Patron God: Digend.
Talent: Shadowhoof [LOCKED]
Second Talent: Perception [LOCKED]
First Blessing: Necromancy [LOCKED]
Second Blessing: Frost Manipulation [LOCKED]
Teke Color: Crimson flecked with Black.

Theme Song: Rats -- Ghost.
Zodiac: The Peryton.

Character Tracker: Character Tracker

Personality
Temperamental but often Flirtatious. Amiable but Guarded, shares information about himself and others when it's of benefit.
Deadpan snarker and Sarcastic to a fault, will absolutely make backhanded commentary about your life choices without remorse.

Hedonistic but has carefully maintained limits, indulges as he feels. Jaded thanks to his past, has no love for those who call Onea home.

Quick thinker with a Cutthroat attitude. Apathetic to nearly everyone he meets beyond face value, only in it for himself.

puts on a facade as a man whose as easy going as they come, quick to laugh and quicker to share a joke, in reality he's just looking for a way to slit your throat and have a good time while doing it.

Val is an amalgamation of contradictions and half-formed truths. Where does the real him begin, and where does the lie end? He's not so sure anymore, he's not even sure the reflection in the water is his own. Such a pity, one might think, he could of been so much more than this. Not the laughing man with the cold eyes, who came to life at a moments prompting by a wandering soul with a passing fancy. The sneering shuck in the next breath which drove everyone away.

He used to be better than this, when his eyes were the color of the southern sea in summer. Deep but inviting. When he knew the crackle of the open fire and the laughter of true friends. He remembered laughing more then, or at least laughing and meaning it with good intentions, being more agreeable to life than just amiable as a constant, ready to shift and change in his skin to fit the situation at hand. He used to be so full of life. When he bled crimson it was for a reason that would of made the Warlord proud, it was to the sound of steel and the raucious laughter of his brethren.

Thorvald remembers when he felt so very very light, so very free. Before the weight wrapped around his hocks and dragged him in deep, before he was left to bleed out on the cold onean ground one winter. Oh he feels still, but it is a muted thing — something wrapped beneath ice only to be gleaned by himself, or those he wants to spin a web for. He can write sonnets, if he wanted to wax poetic, but all that falls from his mouth is a caustic observations from behind a grin that ers on the side of dangerous. A off-handed comment or an after-thought a moment too late, or too soon. He delights in this existence instead, something fierce and wild if he's not too careful.

But he twists and turns like a serpent on it's coils, sneering and laughing, the smell of blood in the air and ale on his tongue. He is a man of many shrouds, kind in one instant and apathetic the next. You could say that you have spent many a night crowded at his campfire with nothing to fear, for he was a chivalrous fellow with rich timber and good intentions. One wandering soul extending a boon to another soul upon the same road. Others, who cannot share their stories in this life, know different. They know the twist of his grin, and the way his gaze changes from one of interest to one of purpose. Eyes cold and dull as pale stone. A lucky few who escaped his cold grasp can come to call him friend, whatever a friend might mean to someone like him. Someone to share a joke or three, after all he does like a laugh and good company should the mood strike him. Other times their role in life is someone to wrangle information out of for a price.

History
It is on one spectacularly unspectacular winter when Thorvald was born, to a Circle member and his Scout wife. Eira's pregnancy had been troubled, the twins within her filled with fire which often sapped their mother for strength. They promised to be strong at least, had been Eira's musing remark as she rested against the archway of doors, in the plush furs of their bed, hooves tucked against her belly. They would do well in the frost. Colborn had remained decidedly mute on the comments, they had longed for the sound of small hooves to clatter in the family walls, but he had not wanted them at the expense of Eira's health.

When they were born, it should of been an indication that they were never meant to be a saga of greatness. Eira labored and wailed most of the night, tended to by healers who frantically tried to stablize the situation. The twins were born in the haze of Dusk, to the sound of panicked mutters and the rasped sound of a mother's moment of love. It would be the first and last time Torrhen and Thorvald ever saw their mother, heard the sound of her voice as her muzzle pressed into the fuzz upon their necks. Whispered their names as only a mother can.

The next was watching her body being returned to the earth, watching as her soul was finally allowed to be free.

Their father couldn't hate them for it, but he resented them in subtle ways. The distinct stretches of absence which they came to learn was not because he spent hours in the small council chambers with the Warlord. The way he idled for a fraction of a second before he entered a room. But, he could not hate his father. They had robbed him of the love of his life, and in return he had gotten colts who radiated animosity for one another. They bickered and they fought, what could be excused as coltish rambunctiousness soon became full out fights. Teeth snapping and scraped pasterns as the seasons changed like birds on the wind.

Torrhen had inherited much of their father, easily irritated but hesitant to step into a fight without reason. Unless his brother was the other party, he was built for a life following in their father's hoofsteps. An advisor and a warrior of words, before a warrior of action. Thorvald, on the other hand, inherited much of their mother. Her strong will, raucous laughter and willingness to leap into the fray without looking back.

One was the calm waters of the sea, the other was the raging tide. They would of been great, if they weren't so bitter.

Fortunately, or so it seemed, that they shared a common friend. A mutual conduit for which they could live a barely tolerant life. Over the years they had developed a friendship with a son of their father's friend, Vali. Kind, funny, patient and disarmingly charming. The brothers found a semblance of normalcy and together the three would often whittle away days talking about the future. Their hopes and dreams, what kind of future the three would have. So much potential.

And it was wasted in one Brother's greed. As boys became young men, Thorvald threw himself into the role of a Raider whole-heartedly, excelling with a fury unmatched and a thirst for ale that made fireside nights entertaining. Torrhen meanwhile apprenticed beneath an aged and retired Ambassador, hoping to secure the spot when the current ones had also had their fill of politics. Colborn meanwhile, began to succumb to the years that he endured upon Hireath. Colborn was old when his sons were born, and positively ancient by the time they became young men. Aunts, uncles and cousins hounded him over the Old Ways, Colborn would have to name one of his sons Heir.

Unable to favor one brother over another, Colborn proposed a challenge. Out of fairness, but also out of spite. Whoever won would have the seat as Patriach of their Clan. A test of mettle. Thorvald could only grin while Torrhen visibly grimaced. Thorvald had always stolen the victory. He was a better fighter, a better sailor, a better stallion at holding ale and charming the masses. If Torrhen was to win, he would have to find a way to hinder Thorvald before he even started.

And that started with poison.

He should of seen it coming, but then again, he had hoped for a shred of honor from his brother. That in this they would stand as equals. Torrhen decidedly did not toast when one was called, and now he understood why. As they staggered back to their home hall, well, Thorvald staggered back with a seemingly tolerant brother to aid him. It was gradual, the decline, what he thought had been alcoholic stupor soon became panic when his airways constricted and he stumbled, his legs going numb.

The world span in shades of grey and vivid flashes, and all he remembered was his brothers sneering face as he pushed him from the bridge. An accident they would say, Thorvald lost his footing and fell.The icy embrace of the river consumed him, pulled him down and down until he washed against the shore again. Half-drowned and half-dying, Thorvald lay upon the river bank entangled in the reeds and half-delerious. Praying to a Goddess that did not answer.

Oh what have we here, something whispered, exasperated and sad. Yet hopeful as they pulled closer to his thrashing body. You do not have to die this way, the voice continued, hope filled whimsy turning to hopeful rage. The world swirled and whipped, his hair reeds in the water as he struggled to stand. Legs kicked wildly in the air and nostrils flared, and the woman laughed. I can help you, you know, she had then said the voice, her face pressed close as he slipped from reality. Me and mine, your Goddess cannot hear you now, but my God can. He will give you what you want.

In those final moments, driven mad from the sense of betrayal and grief — turned to revenge, thoughts twisting and latching onto that promise. The promise of life.

Save me. The thought drifted between them, one last breath of conviction uttered from dirt stained lips, as the mare dragged him unceremoniously from the bank, into the forest and unknown. Where he ended up was a dark little camp hidden in a dense thicket. Foul smells permeated the air but the mare, who later indentified herself as Ymera, didn't seem to mind it in the slightest. She cared for him as one might do a project. An investment. As he clawed his way back from the brink, Ymera painted him a picture of Digend. The true God. A God that listened and understood, who knew chaos was the only way to survive. Through conflict, strife and blood they paved the way to a tomorrow that would see a future worth living in. No comfortable quarters under the rule of Warlords, Kings and Emperors.

It wasn't hard to make an impression on a ruined man, he had barely seen 20 winters.

So he rebuilt the stattered parts of himself around Digend's Creed, artfully and carefully imparted to him by Ymera as they travelled through the Onean wilds and toed the borders with other shadowy figures he would soon call family and friend. In all this he shifted bits and pieces to suit the rest of him which hadn't died on the banks of some godforsaken river, there was something oddly theraputic about it all. Yet he clung to his vengeance like a man might clutch a ratty piece of timber in the midst of a storm, clutched it like a handful of tattered rope attached to the only way to safety as the waters rose. He would have his revenge, one day, but first there was other more important matters to attend to. There was a purpose in this life, this second chance with fresh eyes he would seize. Suffocate it and own it.

Ymera bid him her goodbyes eventually, satisfied that Digend's will had been done and she had garanteed another loyal soul to the ever growing flock. One that would be tenacious, but adaptable, different but fitting all the same.

Since then, the man has travelled with different bands of his family, flitting like shadows between them and then settling.

Thorvald operates in an usual creed for a cultist at least, where many paint blood, gore and rivers of tar black night and burned out stars, he seeks not the mass carnage but delights in the long game. A singular target whom he finds worthy of his attention, worthy of the honor. There is little to be gained, he has come to view, in simply slaughtering the many. It sows chaos, sure, it uproots even the most stalwart raider and the most surefooted mercenary, the high and the low shudder at the thought. But there are prizes sweeter than that, he has learned through the years, beyond the upbringing on those rolling hills of Onea, beyond struggling and dying upon the banks of the river and becoming whole again. Bigger games, smarter games, more cunning and tenacious games he hungers to tear his teeth into. To that effect, he blends when he can. A mercenary for hire, a weary traveller looking for his next adventure, a guide of sorts through the crooked trees.

headshot & fullbody by catfynli

design by kaons

Description

AP TRACKER | GALLERY | MOODBOARD

I HAVE MADE THE OBSCENE DECISION
TO DO SOMETHING UNFORGIVEABLE.
Name: Thorvald.
Nickname: Val, prefers to be called by his nickname.
Age: 40.
Gender: Stallion.
Breed: Unicorn, obsidian horns & hooves.
Colour: true black rabicano.
Height: 17.2hh
Orientation: Bisexual Polyamorous.

Voice Actor: tba

Herd Affiliation: Vagabond.
Rank: Disciple.
Familiar: n/a
Relatives: Eira (mother, deceased) & Colborn (father, deceased).
Torrhen (twin brother, alive).
Significant Other: Maddock .
Lovers: open!
Children: n/a.

Patron God: Digend.
Talent: Shadowhoof [LOCKED]
Second Talent: Perception [LOCKED]
First Blessing: Necromancy [LOCKED]
Second Blessing: Frost Manipulation [LOCKED]
Teke Color: Crimson flecked with Black.

Theme Song: Rats -- Ghost.
Zodiac: The Peryton.

Character Tracker: Character Tracker

Personality
Temperamental but often Flirtatious. Amiable but Guarded, shares information about himself and others when it's of benefit.
Deadpan snarker and Sarcastic to a fault, will absolutely make backhanded commentary about your life choices without remorse.

Hedonistic but has carefully maintained limits, indulges as he feels. Jaded thanks to his past, has no love for those who call Onea home.

Quick thinker with a Cutthroat attitude. Apathetic to nearly everyone he meets beyond face value, only in it for himself.

puts on a facade as a man whose as easy going as they come, quick to laugh and quicker to share a joke, in reality he's just looking for a way to slit your throat and have a good time while doing it.

Val is an amalgamation of contradictions and half-formed truths. Where does the real him begin, and where does the lie end? He's not so sure anymore, he's not even sure the reflection in the water is his own. Such a pity, one might think, he could of been so much more than this. Not the laughing man with the cold eyes, who came to life at a moments prompting by a wandering soul with a passing fancy. The sneering shuck in the next breath which drove everyone away.

He used to be better than this, when his eyes were the color of the southern sea in summer. Deep but inviting. When he knew the crackle of the open fire and the laughter of true friends. He remembered laughing more then, or at least laughing and meaning it with good intentions, being more agreeable to life than just amiable as a constant, ready to shift and change in his skin to fit the situation at hand. He used to be so full of life. When he bled crimson it was for a reason that would of made the Warlord proud, it was to the sound of steel and the raucious laughter of his brethren.

Thorvald remembers when he felt so very very light, so very free. Before the weight wrapped around his hocks and dragged him in deep, before he was left to bleed out on the cold onean ground one winter. Oh he feels still, but it is a muted thing — something wrapped beneath ice only to be gleaned by himself, or those he wants to spin a web for. He can write sonnets, if he wanted to wax poetic, but all that falls from his mouth is a caustic observations from behind a grin that ers on the side of dangerous. A off-handed comment or an after-thought a moment too late, or too soon. He delights in this existence instead, something fierce and wild if he's not too careful.

But he twists and turns like a serpent on it's coils, sneering and laughing, the smell of blood in the air and ale on his tongue. He is a man of many shrouds, kind in one instant and apathetic the next. You could say that you have spent many a night crowded at his campfire with nothing to fear, for he was a chivalrous fellow with rich timber and good intentions. One wandering soul extending a boon to another soul upon the same road. Others, who cannot share their stories in this life, know different. They know the twist of his grin, and the way his gaze changes from one of interest to one of purpose. Eyes cold and dull as pale stone. A lucky few who escaped his cold grasp can come to call him friend, whatever a friend might mean to someone like him. Someone to share a joke or three, after all he does like a laugh and good company should the mood strike him. Other times their role in life is someone to wrangle information out of for a price.

History
It is on one spectacularly unspectacular winter when Thorvald was born, to a Circle member and his Scout wife. Eira's pregnancy had been troubled, the twins within her filled with fire which often sapped their mother for strength. They promised to be strong at least, had been Eira's musing remark as she rested against the archway of doors, in the plush furs of their bed, hooves tucked against her belly. They would do well in the frost. Colborn had remained decidedly mute on the comments, they had longed for the sound of small hooves to clatter in the family walls, but he had not wanted them at the expense of Eira's health.

When they were born, it should of been an indication that they were never meant to be a saga of greatness. Eira labored and wailed most of the night, tended to by healers who frantically tried to stablize the situation. The twins were born in the haze of Dusk, to the sound of panicked mutters and the rasped sound of a mother's moment of love. It would be the first and last time Torrhen and Thorvald ever saw their mother, heard the sound of her voice as her muzzle pressed into the fuzz upon their necks. Whispered their names as only a mother can.

The next was watching her body being returned to the earth, watching as her soul was finally allowed to be free.

Their father couldn't hate them for it, but he resented them in subtle ways. The distinct stretches of absence which they came to learn was not because he spent hours in the small council chambers with the Warlord. The way he idled for a fraction of a second before he entered a room. But, he could not hate his father. They had robbed him of the love of his life, and in return he had gotten colts who radiated animosity for one another. They bickered and they fought, what could be excused as coltish rambunctiousness soon became full out fights. Teeth snapping and scraped pasterns as the seasons changed like birds on the wind.

Torrhen had inherited much of their father, easily irritated but hesitant to step into a fight without reason. Unless his brother was the other party, he was built for a life following in their father's hoofsteps. An advisor and a warrior of words, before a warrior of action. Thorvald, on the other hand, inherited much of their mother. Her strong will, raucous laughter and willingness to leap into the fray without looking back.

One was the calm waters of the sea, the other was the raging tide. They would of been great, if they weren't so bitter.

Fortunately, or so it seemed, that they shared a common friend. A mutual conduit for which they could live a barely tolerant life. Over the years they had developed a friendship with a son of their father's friend, Vali. Kind, funny, patient and disarmingly charming. The brothers found a semblance of normalcy and together the three would often whittle away days talking about the future. Their hopes and dreams, what kind of future the three would have. So much potential.

And it was wasted in one Brother's greed. As boys became young men, Thorvald threw himself into the role of a Raider whole-heartedly, excelling with a fury unmatched and a thirst for ale that made fireside nights entertaining. Torrhen meanwhile apprenticed beneath an aged and retired Ambassador, hoping to secure the spot when the current ones had also had their fill of politics. Colborn meanwhile, began to succumb to the years that he endured upon Hireath. Colborn was old when his sons were born, and positively ancient by the time they became young men. Aunts, uncles and cousins hounded him over the Old Ways, Colborn would have to name one of his sons Heir.

Unable to favor one brother over another, Colborn proposed a challenge. Out of fairness, but also out of spite. Whoever won would have the seat as Patriach of their Clan. A test of mettle. Thorvald could only grin while Torrhen visibly grimaced. Thorvald had always stolen the victory. He was a better fighter, a better sailor, a better stallion at holding ale and charming the masses. If Torrhen was to win, he would have to find a way to hinder Thorvald before he even started.

And that started with poison.

He should of seen it coming, but then again, he had hoped for a shred of honor from his brother. That in this they would stand as equals. Torrhen decidedly did not toast when one was called, and now he understood why. As they staggered back to their home hall, well, Thorvald staggered back with a seemingly tolerant brother to aid him. It was gradual, the decline, what he thought had been alcoholic stupor soon became panic when his airways constricted and he stumbled, his legs going numb.

The world span in shades of grey and vivid flashes, and all he remembered was his brothers sneering face as he pushed him from the bridge. An accident they would say, Thorvald lost his footing and fell.The icy embrace of the river consumed him, pulled him down and down until he washed against the shore again. Half-drowned and half-dying, Thorvald lay upon the river bank entangled in the reeds and half-delerious. Praying to a Goddess that did not answer.

Oh what have we here, something whispered, exasperated and sad. Yet hopeful as they pulled closer to his thrashing body. You do not have to die this way, the voice continued, hope filled whimsy turning to hopeful rage. The world swirled and whipped, his hair reeds in the water as he struggled to stand. Legs kicked wildly in the air and nostrils flared, and the woman laughed. I can help you, you know, she had then said the voice, her face pressed close as he slipped from reality. Me and mine, your Goddess cannot hear you now, but my God can. He will give you what you want.

In those final moments, driven mad from the sense of betrayal and grief — turned to revenge, thoughts twisting and latching onto that promise. The promise of life.

Save me. The thought drifted between them, one last breath of conviction uttered from dirt stained lips, as the mare dragged him unceremoniously from the bank, into the forest and unknown. Where he ended up was a dark little camp hidden in a dense thicket. Foul smells permeated the air but the mare, who later indentified herself as Ymera, didn't seem to mind it in the slightest. She cared for him as one might do a project. An investment. As he clawed his way back from the brink, Ymera painted him a picture of Digend. The true God. A God that listened and understood, who knew chaos was the only way to survive. Through conflict, strife and blood they paved the way to a tomorrow that would see a future worth living in. No comfortable quarters under the rule of Warlords, Kings and Emperors.

It wasn't hard to make an impression on a ruined man, he had barely seen 20 winters.

So he rebuilt the stattered parts of himself around Digend's Creed, artfully and carefully imparted to him by Ymera as they travelled through the Onean wilds and toed the borders with other shadowy figures he would soon call family and friend. In all this he shifted bits and pieces to suit the rest of him which hadn't died on the banks of some godforsaken river, there was something oddly theraputic about it all. Yet he clung to his vengeance like a man might clutch a ratty piece of timber in the midst of a storm, clutched it like a handful of tattered rope attached to the only way to safety as the waters rose. He would have his revenge, one day, but first there was other more important matters to attend to. There was a purpose in this life, this second chance with fresh eyes he would seize. Suffocate it and own it.

Ymera bid him her goodbyes eventually, satisfied that Digend's will had been done and she had garanteed another loyal soul to the ever growing flock. One that would be tenacious, but adaptable, different but fitting all the same.

Since then, the man has travelled with different bands of his family, flitting like shadows between them and then settling.

Thorvald operates in an usual creed for a cultist at least, where many paint blood, gore and rivers of tar black night and burned out stars, he seeks not the mass carnage but delights in the long game. A singular target whom he finds worthy of his attention, worthy of the honor. There is little to be gained, he has come to view, in simply slaughtering the many. It sows chaos, sure, it uproots even the most stalwart raider and the most surefooted mercenary, the high and the low shudder at the thought. But there are prizes sweeter than that, he has learned through the years, beyond the upbringing on those rolling hills of Onea, beyond struggling and dying upon the banks of the river and becoming whole again. Bigger games, smarter games, more cunning and tenacious games he hungers to tear his teeth into. To that effect, he blends when he can. A mercenary for hire, a weary traveller looking for his next adventure, a guide of sorts through the crooked trees.

headshot & fullbody by catfynli

design by kaons