Weight: 140 lbs.
Date of Birth: 15st of Saun, 691
Languages: Fluent - Lorien/Basic - Common
Hard flecks of amber stare coldly at the world around him, revealing nothing of what goes on behind that chilly gaze. Impassive features shield his thoughts from the people around him, rarely changing except in moments of extreme emotion. Sleek, small dark feathers cover the edges of his face and running down his head, neck and covering his back. Large, jet black wings rest folded against his back. Narrow limbs extend from his torso ending with elongated, thin fingers tipped with menacing, hooked nails. All around, he cuts an imposing figure.
Kydrel Sevnium, though cloaked in soft feathers, is all sharp edges.
Raised in a culture where the strong dominate the weak, the willful Avriel quickly learned power and cunning paved the way to success; where the strong were praised, the weak mocked. The possibilities that were available exhilarated him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, were those more powerful and shrewd then he to so easily surpass him.
The original thrill of being the best was quickly snuffed out as reality set in. Living in the shadow of those better than him, a shard of anger forged deep within his soul, slowly reawakened from his time in the wilderness, rooted itself in the spirit of the Avriel. Those stronger than him, regularly made sure he knew it, thus stirring within him a need to prove himself better than them.
Over time, Kydrel challenged them in every way imaginable, but still they came out victorious. Each defeat fed the seething resentment and bitterness that grew in his heart. An increasing need to challenge his oppressors became an obsession. For no other reason than to prove himself stronger. Faster. Better.
Because of this, an unyielding spirit of aggression, born out of his uncontrollable anger, compels the Avriel. A relentlessness was created out of an insatiable desire to prove himself against those who sought to exploit his weaknesses for their own enjoyment.
Kydrel is quick to jump into a situation where a stranger is being tormented but not for the sake of being a hero. Rather, it’s a selfish motivation that draws him. He craves the challenge of pitting his abilities against that of the oppressor. The greater the challenge, the greater the pull. And if the tormented wants to view him as a hero, well, he isn’t about to correct them.
One of Kydrel Sevnium’s first rational memories involved waking up as though from a deep sleep, covered in blood, staring into the vacant eyes of a lifeless deer, its head twisted back on itself, body sprawled out awkwardly beside him. Everything up until that point remained a blur of wild emotion and instinctual frenzies, filling his mind like a haze of color and sound. But something about that morning stirred something within him. Everything felt...different.
Memories came and went from that point, simple snapshots, each day his memory growing stronger, emotions randomly flaring but rational slowly fighting for control. Gradually, Kydrel found himself making decisions based on reason rather than impulse. Trials past, more than he could care to recall, before he began to realize he was alone. Not just realize, but come to the startling revelation that he wanted something outside of just hunting and sleeping.
He wanted to find meaning.
That was the memory Kydrel draw upon when the anger began to boil up from deep within. The weak died and the strong prevailed. He was strong and survived while many of his race met their demise. He conquered his nature and overcame his primal passions. And in his culture, that was the key to success.
It was that feeling of power that drew him, like many, to the Shadow Wing division. But first, he had to complete Dominion. A school every Avriel had to complete if they ever wanted to move up into the different martial factions. Each member, once accepted, began their training in combat and tactics. The skills and abilities Kydrel craved for himself. To become the strongest and gain the attention of the best trainers, he had to excel.
But little did he realize, that the members of his school far surpassed him in almost every field of study. No matter how hard he trained, how much he sweat, bled and fought, he always came up just short of victory. From combat matches to aerial training, the majority of his class managed to just pull ahead.
And they made sure he knew it.
The mockery and personal insults were muttered behind his back, they slowly began to increase in both frequency and harshness. They clung to him like a disease, eroding the walls of resolve that held back the roiling anger from erupting. An anger created by the torment of his peers.
No one ever physically hurt him; not outright anyways, no one would be as foolish as to make that mistake. Sparring matches were another matter however. He didn’t know what started it or why he was the focus of their dislike, but it became a common past time of his class to see who could humiliate him in front of the trainers without being caught.
From outright excessive violence during training to more subtle tactics, the flick of a sharp rock just before the trainer turned, forcing Kydrel to lose his focus in a critical moment and embarrass himself. But it was the small, false accusation that was backed by the rest of his oppressors that really caused his anger to flare. There was never an accusation that would lead to his expulsion, but enough to damage his reputation among those who could offer advancement in his future.
There was little he could do to defend himself, however, and he found little respite from his oppressors. They proved themselves to be more cunning and stronger than he, thus esteemed. The resentment grew stronger, the anger hotter and harder to control. The resolve he worked so hard to build, to keep his primal nature in check, was coming to a breaking point.
And it was that fateful day, halfway through his Dominion training, that it finally happened.
The sun was just dipping below the horizon; the Dominion trainer had just assembled the class together for their weekly ritual. A circle was formed, they knew what was about to transpire. Anticipation buzzed in the cooling air, students waited to see who would step forward.
A large Avriel stepped into the ring, two wooden swords in hand, mimicking both the weight and size of its real counterpart. A name was barked out as he paced the ring impatiently. He didn’t have long to wait.
Kydrel Sevnium stepped forward warily, a small shield in one hand, a wooden mace in the other, held loosely at his side. His opponent grinned at him lewdly and a wave of quiet laughter rolled through the group of warriors. They were familiar with this specific source of entertainment. They took turns calling Kydrel out to fight, not so often as to catch the attention of their trainer, but enough that he never quite recovered from the beatings he received before he was challenged again.
Before he had even fully stepped into the ring, his opponent struck and the dance began. Everything was going well; he had only taken a few hits, when everything went to hell.
No matter how fast he struck, his enemy was always one step ahead, dancing away at the last second. Kydrel became more and more frustrated; the familiar scene playing itself out. Finally his opponent lashed out, faking a strike towards Kydrel’s knee but at the last moment reversing and slamming the butt of his weapon directly into the Avriel’s temple.
The world reeled and dimmed as pain surged through his body. But that crack not only resonated in his skull, it also obliterated the last fragment of self control that held back the torrent of rage, which he so meticulously kept at bay.
It wasn’t until the next day, when he awoke in a cell among the Forest of Stone, that he recalled what happened.
Having regaining consciousness a few moments later, Kydrel flew to his feet and lashed out at the unaware Avriel as he was congratulated for his victory. The first blow connected with his head, hard enough to knock him out cold, before the vengeful warrior fell upon him, raining blow after blow across the motionless body. Shouts and cries filled the air as students jumped to stop him. But the rage consumed him. He lashed out, striking anyone who got close until the trainer disarmed him, but not before Kydrel attacked him.
After a long imprisonment, a public lashing, dismissal from the Dominion program and his actions known by all, he did the only thing left for him to do.
Kydrel Sevnium left.
With nothing but his possessions, training and his anger momentarily appeased after the injustice he suffered, turned his back on Athart.
He would make his own way. He would train. Grow stronger. Become the best. And if they knew what was good for them, would stay in Athart. Because the next time they crossed paths, it would be on much…much different terms.
Location: Renting in Eztos - Southwestern Civilian Outer Housing (Wooden House - 40GN a season)