This is the backstory I wrote, over the course of a few days, the last time I did a pbp RP. It is a warhammer character, and some writing conventions follow the precedent in the rulebooks I read through for background (swordmasters, greatweapons, and such).
Note that the first part is about his father
. Some people get this confused. Also, at the beginning is his Warhammer (WH) stats, which would be irrelevant to most here, but I've including them for the sake of completeness.
High-Elf Sword Master of Hoeth.
Crusader's Sword: +2 Str, Greatweapon (+2 str)
Longsword: Backup weapon, no special qualities.
Large Shield: To use with longsword, no special qualities. Improves armor save to 1+
Longbow: No special qualities.
Dragon Armor of Caledor (non-magical): 2+ Save
Crusader Greaves: +1 move, immune to knockdown
Periphat of the Dragon: Re-roll saves vs magic effects.
Warhorse: No armor or special qualities.
Armor: 2+, 1+ on mount
Combat: M6, WS 6, Str 8 (with sword), T3, W2, A3
Bow: 3 attacks, BS 5, Str 3
Horse: M9, WS 3, Str 3, T3, W1, A1
[It might be noted that his longsword and shield are pretty much entirely flavor, since he has little mechanical reason to use them aside from his main sword. Just any warrior wroth his salt carries a shield and a backup weapon.]
Amearithus (pronounced Ah-meer-it-tus) Celebron was born to the noble house of Celebron, of the province of Caledor. His father, Prince Seanadrin Celebron, was a proud and noble warrior, but was aloof and spent most of his life in solitude after Amearithus mother died in childbirth.
While campaigning against the most vile dark elves, his father dwelt upon their land for a time as part of an occupying force after a great victory. In this time, his loneliness grew heavy on him and one day in his patrols he met a seductive and beautiful woman being attacked by a savage and fearsome saurus. He charged to her aid, slaying the beast and winning her favor. Although her nature was not obvious to him (for she was cunning and disguised it well), he nonetheless felt the need to hide his newfound companion from his fellow Princes.
She dwelt with him in secret, and fulfilled in him all the secret lusts and desires that he had not known in his life, driving him mad with passion and entrancing him to her with her vile enchantments. When next he left on patrol, she sneaked out with him and brought him to her home and people. Although initially horrified and repulsed, he could not refuse her bed, or thereafter any of the degenerate activities that her people performed with him. His companions searched for him, but the devious magicís of the corrupted elves hid him from their perceptions.
When he emerged a year later, he was a twisted effigy of his former glory. Given new strength by their dark arts, he led a host against his former colleagues, seeking to remove their shamming presence from his newfound home. He fought with all the futile ferocity of a man who had lost himself and desperately sought to regain his dignity and valor through deed of arms. His attack was brave and potent, but did not well take advantage of the cunning strength of his new allies. Subsequently, in a direct pitched battle against the mighty host of Princes and their allies, the Druchii were swiftly cut down. Crown Prince Liamar Tradrian himself cut down the former champion, and saw the gratitude and shame in the eyes of his former friend as his life passed into the Grey Realm.
However, the attack was merely a diversion as a large group of Druchii assassins sneaked behind the Princes' battle lines and assaulted the HighBorn commander and his entourage. When the Princes returned from the field, they found their commander slain and their victory spoiled. Enraged by the Druchii blasphemy, they charged into their now-revealed settlement, and overran its defenders. Although they were able to reclaim a portion of their honor in victory, and many tainted and degenerate items of the Druchii, many of the dark elves escaped through secret underground tunnels that they magically collapsed and sealed behind them, including a mysterious and seductive woman.
Back in Caledor, Seanadrin's only son and heir, Amearithus Celebron, heard tellings of his father's disgrace and defeat. Horrified and distraught, Amearithus did not join the ranks of his brethren when he came of age, instead he travelled to far-distant White Tower Of Hoeth to seek training and contemplation. There he found the peace, edge and purpose his mind required and learned a mastery of arms that gave him a fierce pride and formidable power.
With the Order's blessing, he led a small group of a dozen Swordmasters on a epic quest to the tainted lands where his father fell from grace. Items of power and divination as well as the service of a Great Eagle were lent to him by his Order, that he might be able to complete his task. Some might question the wisdom in such, but Amearithus was even then a man of powerful charisma and sense of personal destiny, and the Order saw the makings of a hero and gambled on his fortunes.
His journey was perilous, and by the time he arrived at the Tainted Lands two of his companions lay buried behind him and their souls resided in the Gray Realms. Only through the scouting of the eagle and Amearithus' shrewdness in tactics combined with the bravery of his men were they able to arrive at their destination. In such lands he saw depravations and horrors that tested his mettle, resolve and fortitude. He met with surprisingly little resistance, and came across at last a suspicious sight:
In a string of cages where a trio of Druchii women, all bound in a vulgar and lewd fashion. It was apparent that they had fallen out of favor with their people, for they were also tormented by many insidious and vulgar piercings of their flesh. His men, disgusted by the display and eager to be done with it, drew their weapons and moved to end the suffering and threat of these wretched beings.
Whether it was a sense of tactical astuteness, dangerous curiosity or misplaced compassion it is hard to say, but nonetheless Amearithus was moved to stay their hand for the moment and order the Druchii brought down. Upon his removing of the gag of the centermost and most tormented of the degenerate elves, she began to desperately attempt to entrance him with words of gratitude and promises of repayment. In swift anger, Amearithus struck her across the mouth and commanded that she refrain from her vile trickery and speak only in answer to his questions. He then demanded to know why they were put out here in such a fashion, so conveniently in the path of his men. Obviously shammed from her current state, the temptress nonetheless regained her poise quickly and spun a tale of Byzantine politics that ended in one double-cross too many and her scheme being defeated.
He did not accept this. Her story was too smooth, her eyes too shallow for him to believe that someone with such pride could speak of their disgrace so easily. He demanded the truth from her, and she attempted once again to divert him. Finally, he said to her simply but with great conviction and pride:
"Your tale ends here, your works have come to naught. Would you leave this world covering your shame and being too cowardly to speak your true tale? Say what you are, speak plainly and truthfully, and we will grant you a swift death and you may regain some measure of honor."
Her handmaidens sneered scornfully at the words, finding only contempt with his lofty ideals, but she seemed more moved. She looked up with eyes that made his heart skip, and spoke with a quiet dignity that was impressive under her circumstances.
She spoke without shadow, laying plain her plotting and revealing her shame; allowing herself to be judged. She spoke of many things, some far past, some yet to come, but what was the most compelling to Amearithus was the Prince she spoke of. His blood boiled, and his vision swarmed red as he heard tell of the corruption of his father. He barely took heed of the unrequited affection that was in her voice, or her sadness at his fate. Only of passing interest was that she did not mean for him to embark on his fateful, final charge; failing at the last to convince him otherwise over the viperous words of her kin.
She then told of the time thereafter, of the anger and malice of her people after her plan backfired on them and cost them their settlement and many lives. She spoke of the horrors she endured in the aftermath, and the glee at which she and her followers were punished for a failure that was not truly theirs.
Her eyes were repentant, her heart was in pain and although she said nothing, her gaze drew him in and begged his compassion.
His resolve wavered at her strange nobility, but he recalled the damage she had done, to his family and his people, and his fire returned anew. He calls her down on her plot to seduce his father in the first place, on plotting to undermine the command structure of the Princes, and corrupting his family.
Upon learning just who he is, she goes silent and has a look of sadness. When it is demanded of her, she relinquishes the secret place his father's relics are kept, and all the hidden paths to get there. She speaks of how they are guarded, and how such guards might be avoided.
When she is finished, she waits silently, finding a sense of peace with having closure with it all. Amearithus nods to his men, ending the handmaidens in fluid slashes of steel. He kneels beside the fallen, tortured woman, who once might have been beautiful, and whispers in her ear "find peace, be reborn into something fitting such nobility". Her face has a smile upon it as her head sails from her body.
With renewed purpose, his men travel swiftly to the shadowed vault. Easily dispatching the few skirmishers that guarded the entrance, they swiftly level the door to the vault with their mighty greatweapons. Inside lies the relics of Amearithus' noble line, including his father's dragon armor and mighty blade.
Enraged at the violation of their sanctuary, the Druchii dive at the swordmaster line in droves. With chaos-mangled madness, they bare down on the swordsmen, who cut them down as quickly as they step up, only able to inflict glancing blows. Undaunted, the masters of this shrine muster and press the attack. Khaine's mad witch elves charge forth, seeking the blood of the trespassing high elves. Although their blood rains upon the ruined gate, their blades find more purchase then their lesser kin, and swordmasters fall buying seconds for their master.
Amearithus returns, clad in the raiment of his lineage, and walks as a god upon the ocean. His armor untouchable by the crazed dervishes, he cuts them down by the dozens. Their mistress, a Priestess of Dhar's Destruction, seeking to end the rout she summons a mass of spinning blades that swarm the charging hero. The blades strike innumerably, but his mighty armor holds back the worst of the magical assault, and the bitten hero charges forth and cuts her down in a single, fluid blow.
Rallying his remaining brethren, they make good their withdrawal. Their journey out of the lands of the Druchii is not nearly so easy, and most of the remainder of their company falls. With the blood of a hundred more Druchii cleansing his blade, Amearithus returns to the White Tower Of Hoeth in triumph with a mere two of his original company.
After resting for a time and returning the tokens of power leant to him by the Order, he once again sets out, this time in response to a call to arms from the Pheonix King. Already distinguished by his quest into the Druchii lands, Amearithus is given command of a small force and with his 2 hardened lieutenants is entrusted with defending a sacred glade of Averlorn against an approaching orc and goblin raiding party.
His troops take up defensive positions amongst the sacred trees, and on seeing the horde crest the entrance to the mountain veil, know that their duty is upon them. Fierce and savage Forest Goblins, mounted on chaos-tainted monstrous spiders swarm over the forest floor. Charging alongside them in the second rank is a mighty orc warboss with a unit of Night Goblins, chanting in the incoherent fervour of his bloodlust.
Arrows volley and spiders fall, but not many and not enough. They plough into and overwhelm the small group of spearmen, flowing past them and into the vulnerable archers. More horrifying is the chaos-driven madness of some of the goblins; possessed and empowered, they lay waste to all around them. Then Amearithus charges. On a gossamer white elven steed he bares down upon the rampaging goblins, his swordsmen flowing behind him as a wave of vorpal quicksilver. Quick as lightning, the sword masters of Hoeth carve a devastating path into the vermin, rescuing their beleaguered and decimated brethren. Amearithus lets out a fearsome roar of challenge and triumph as he charges, but as he closes with the warboss a crazed and chaos-empowered goblin flies out of the main battle and crashes into his steed, killing it and unhorsing him.
Leaping off his mount he rips into the warboss, hurting him deeply. Out skilled and overpowered, the warboss still is slow to go down. He is a tough and resilient monster, a veteran of many battles and a hero amongst his people. The creature manages to strike a telling blow on the elven prince ling as he falls to his masterful strikes. As Amearithus stands, leaning on his blade, taking stock of who else survived this 'victory', his heart drains of vigor at the light of his eyes. The crest spills forth orcs by the hundreds; wild, blood-hungry and savage. Towering over them are giants of the shadowlands, stupefied in their lust for carnage and on a charging boar rides the gleeful Warlord Breantusk, leading his people by action.
Amearithus prepares to die with his men, with honor, knowing that against such doom there can be no victory. But so it was not written, and so it was not to be. This force had not come to the most sacred of places unnoticed, and it was not to be unchallenged, for Tyrion, the Defender of Ulthuan and warleader of all elvendom, suffers no such trespass. A single, clear note of unparallel majesty rings out over the hills, and Tyrion charges with a thunder that drowns the orcs as an ocean to the fog. With a roar that splits the heavens, Sun Dragons lift from the nearby mountains and sail into the rear of the horde. Orc shamans flail uselessly against the arts of the Dragon Mages and the might of their devastating steeds, and just as their horde recovers from the impact of the Prince's charge, they realize the depth of their peril. Handmaidens and White Lions, servants to the Everqueen herself, fill the forest in Tyrion's wake, and cover the flanks of his lancers.
Amearithus is stunned, overwhelmed and awed by the power and majesty of his people. He wonders for a moment at the cost of his men's lives when such force was to be brought to bare, but quickly realizes that defeating the vanguard is what allowed such an advantageous charge, and is honored in victory. Indeed, more then he knows, for as he moves amongst his men, aiding those treating the wounded, Tyrion returns from the field and speaks with him. He speaks of bravery, resolve, but above all else, the ability to find victory when the hour required it.
In recognition for his valor, Tyrion invites Amearithus and his men to stay at the Court of the Everqueen, to rest, recover and celebrate their victory.
Spending the winter in the mystic glade, Amearithus found himself out of sorts with the gentry and courtiers of the place, but found a distant friend in Tyrion. Amearithus saw embodied in him all the majesty, power and courage of his people, and could only think of what an honor it would be to even walk in such a legend's shadow. Thus, he did so. He spent every moment he could with him, learning at his side. Amused by the proven champion's attentions, Tyrion challenged him to a duel of skill. Although unable to even strike true against the Everqueen's champion, he nonetheless accounted well-enough for himself to earn a begrudging "you have potential" from the man.
Tyrion was not the only person of interest in the court. The Everqueen herself was too beautiful to bear, although Amearithus counted himself blessed even to have seen her and heard her voice. It was, however, another voice that drew him. A voice raised in heated anger, filled with a passion and spirit that drew him like a moth to a flame. A young elven woman, clad in fine ornate, yet flattering armor raised her voice against her superior. She spoke of her destiny, of how her place there, however honored, was not her true calling. She spoke with great fire and passion, and at some length. After her storm had passed, her commander informed her with amusement that her tenure of service had ended, and that she had lost track of the time in her recklessness. Embarrassed, she stalked off, but with an excited glint in her eyes. Noticing Amearithus, she speaks to him:
"I saw you on the field, and again against Tyrion. You are a man of no small courage. And perhaps, no small destiny."
It was that destiny that he wished to share with her, and in the passing of those frozen days, he found renewed life in her fire. With a master's skill, Celentis tempered his blade, renewed his drive and showed him the meaning of passion. In return, he showed her the meaning of strength. They fought with words and steel, they fought for dominance and authority, they fought to know they were alive, and they held each-other thereafter.
Alas, in the passing of time the skies became clear, the land became greener and spring was upon them. Celentis, with a reluctance she had not know before in her life, parted with Amearithus to pursue the powerful calling of her destiny. She knew Zalanc Aimear'Theron waited for her in the caves of Caledor, and she had kept him waiting for far too long. After a night of wild abandon and fierce goodbyes, they parted with his promise that he would seek her out when he could join her in the skies.
Saddened and determined, he was about to take his own leave of the Gaen vale when Tyrion came to speak with him.
"The sun is rising on our land. This storm that has taken from us so many has passed. The time is coming for us to drive from it the infectious pestilence and darkness that plagues it. I will need heroes to stand with me, to lead our forces by deed and wisdom, when this time comes. Prove to me you are worthy of this honor, and you will have it. Return here or find me when you have become a hero of our people, and I will grant unto you a boon worthy of such. I will see to it that you can join her in the skies." He says this last with a smile.
His lieutenants return to Hoeth, training the next swordmasters as they await his summons. And with destiny shining into his eyes, and a new steed from Averlorn's stables, he sets out onto the lands of his people to see what will be next be written.