Defenders of Verulia
Caranor the Red
Evil Elven Swordmage from the far west
Name: Caranor the Red (born Eiravel the Younger)
Concept: Repetant Fratricidist in exile
Alignment: Evil ( 3.5 Lawful Evil, nWoD Fortitude/Envy )
Eiravel had lived most of his life among the Red Skulls, a minor faction of thieves and bandits working in concordance in the far west. On a more personal level Eiravel’s family worked together with a small band of fellow lowlives in terrorizing the countryside, enjoying the spoils of robbery for as long as feasible before choosing another village to terrorize before things got out of hand. This particular practice had worked out rather well for Caranor’s father, Eiravel the Older, and he was quick to teach Eiravel and his brother Elwyn the particulars of the noble profession of highwaymanship. In a particularly unfortunate turn of events his father was slain by officials of the law during a raid thirty years ago, and this drove a wedge between Caranor and Elwyn, one blaming the other for the death of their shining example. Whereas Caranor swore to stick to the ways of his father, taking up his blade and swearing an oath to master his peculiar style of battle, Elwyn sought to escape their father’s yoke, preferring to focus on the use of his unnatural reflexes and unarmed prowess instead. Eiravel’s brothers in arms considered the obsession with his father’s ways rather disturbing, and slowly but surely they began to drift away from him. The months after his father’s death Elwyn used his natural charisma to assert leadership of their little warband, declaring himself bandit lord in his father’s stead. This affront to his father’s remembrance proved too much for Eiravel, and he threw the gauntlet. The ensuing battle left Eiravel bleeding from copious wounds and Elwyn gravely wounded. In an act of defiance Eiravel struck the head of his brother cleanly off his shoulders and as he held up his grisly trophy in victory his compatriots, shocked to the core by this unnatural act of kinslaughter, subdued him and cast him out, branding him a traitor and a murderer of the worst degree by inking the right side of his face red before nailing him up at a crossroads to die of exposure.
This would have been the end of Eiravel’s story. However, a presumably well-meaning old lady and her son passed by said crossroads the following day, and much to her son’s annoying the crazy old coot insisted it would not be a righteous thing to leave the poor fellow hanging there, regardless of what he may or may not have done, and they nursed him back to health over the course of a fever-riddled month. The extent of his crimes dawned on Eiravel, and he decided that he was unworthy of the name of his father, instead taking on the name granted to him during his bouts of fever. Caranor, the name a constant reminder of his transgression.
After his recovery it was more than clear for Caranor that it would be more than wise to leave the region, home as it may have been for him, and to seek shelter elsewhere. Still sworn to master the ways of his father, Caranor took his sword, and after copiously thanking the old lady, who was growing weary of his surprisingly unpleasant company anyway, Caranor left the shoddy yurt and set out for vengeance on his former allies. Over the course of three days Caranor singled out and ambushed five members of the Red Skulls, all former friends, before fleeing the region, a hunting posse of enraged rogues on his tail. While he eventually managed to lose them, Caranor is certain that they would probably spread the word that the Red Skulls were out looking for him, and thus preventing him from forming or joining a new gang. While this frustrated him to no avail, having the only way of life he knew barred from him, he decided that this would give him ample opportunity to continue studies in the direction his father had pointed him in. The years following these events Caranor spent mostly on the road, living off the occasional robbery and petty theft at swordpoint, but quite understandably he grew weary of a life on the run. Finally, seeing an opportunity five years ago, Caranor travelled to a nice and quiet elven village, demanding an audience with the mayor, offering him ‘protection’ in exchange for the opportunity to live among them. The mayor, wanting to avoid needless bloodshed and seeing an additional pair of hands during next sowing season, accepted, and Caranor was pointed to a shoddy old shed to live in.
The past five years Caranor has quietly dedicated himself to his studies, mastering the art of magic-fueled swordplay and silently reciting the oral traditions of his people, making a living off his position as town guard as well as being a jack of all trades to make odds and ends meet. It is a modest life, but Caranor figures he’s got the better part of the deal. After all, nothing horrible has happened to him so far, he’s well fed, has a place to call his own and is generally left alone. Nevertheless the niggling sense of ambition is spurring him to get moving again, and the path of the adventurer tempts him…