Ashan Wayne

[arakes99]

First Name: Ashan
Last Name: Wayne

Appearance:
Relatively tall, very broad and heavy to the point that he has difficulty fitting in most chairs and has more than once broken a chair by sitting in it too quickly. His features look like carven, craggy limestone with deepset obsidian eyes. His appearance gives him the look of a living statue in many senses. He wears steel full plate and carries a thick tower shield and a few favored weapons including his bastard sword, a morning star, and a sling.

Race: Earth Genasi
Age: 42
Height 6'3"
Weight: 290-300 lbs.
Eyes: Obsidian
Hair: Thick rootlike bands of orangish brown.
Facial Hair Style: None.

Personality Profile:
General Health: Very hearty, seems ageless due to the stony look of his heritage.
Deity: Garagos
Initial Alignment: Lawful Evil, bordering on Lawful Neutral and currently shifting toward the latter.
Profession: Former soldier turned wanderer and mercenary
Habits/Hobbies: Fighting/Training, drinking, reading, socializing and drinking.
Languages: Common, Elven, Dwarven, Terran
Weapon of Choice: Longsword

Background:

Born in Athkatla to a set of moderately successful leather merchants who both seemed human. His family was well rooted in Amn and its history documented six generations back with no record of any genasi's or extra planar heritage involved. Since Ashan's appearance was so strikingly inhuman, his parents were at first shocked, and later resentful.

He was all but disowned, though he was allowed to live in the family home but worked like a slave and was punished severely to the point where he left on his own to join the Amnian military at fifteen. As he was already over six foot and two hundred pounds at this point, he was accepted readily.

He spent the next twenty years as an enlisted man fighting in whatever wars, internal struggles and other matters as he was required. Toward the end of his service he was mostly dealing with matters of civil unrest in the eastern frontier of Amn until he became displeased with the menial and dishonorable nature of his current assignments and left, essentially defecting although he was in the military long enough and left during an uneventful period for the military so it is unknown to him if anyone cared.

After leaving he began wandering his way north over the next several years, stopping to speak with various folk and learn various fighting styles to improve his own while trying to find a place and purpose.

Ashan's life has left him cold, violent and awkward around those he does not know, but also very honorable, polite and dedicated to his duties. A perfect soldier in many senses, though without a cause he finds worth his while. The shadows in his life are not without the light that casts them however, and Ashan does enjoy the company of others from time to time.

The life he has lived in Baldur's Gate is softening him so far, and he has made many allies and has even formed a few loose friendships and harbors even deeper connections to a very small number of people. It is these few deep connections that are softening him, and it is also these connections where his greatest weakness lies, and further betrayal or loss might leave him with nothing but darkness in his soul.


Goals:

To be the greatest swordsman on the Sword Coast and to possibly take on students in his art one day, or to find grand battles which are one of the few things that give him a sense of satisfaction and a feeling of having a place in the world. But he is making friends in unlikely places, and his priorities are likely changing all the time.

While he is fairly wealthy from several years of successful work as a sellsword, he cares little for money and finds titles pointless. He only cares about his ability, loved ones and his duty.


Possible Plot-Hook Ideas and Misc Facts:

Ashan is fascinated by yet terrified of magic. He despises rudeness and judgmental behavior to the point he will actively oppose the spread of either trait like a disease. He was touched by the plane of shadows in a personal way not long after arriving on the coast, and has had a sickly fear and fixation on it since, wondering how he is connected to it.

Ashan is currently at a tipping point, and it seems like he will soon leave the darkness to which he has been comfortable with for so long behind, if things continue as they have been.

[arakes99]

Three Months

Three months. Ashan often found himself repeating these words in his head as he walked about the coast, as he had public and private discussions both. He thought back on his parents, and years upon years of curt, uninterested silence. Toleration of his cragged, cumbersome and clumbsy child. Dismissing him in whatever fashion afforded the least stress, the least confrontation and the least reminder that they had sired this...thing, that looked and acted nothing like them.

And then years, and years spent in battle, amongst his fellows would run through his mind. He was always a well thought of Corporal, a rank he earned in singular speed due to the fact that he was all but wreck less in his ferocity on the field, but also because of his determination to ensure the safety of his fellows despite the risk to himself. When not in battle, he was quiet, and jovial as he could manage. Most of the men enjoyed his company, but he was not like them, he did not talk of women, of home, of friends. He never visited the brothels nor called out to tavern wenches while at his drink. He couldn't relate to these things. His life had been one of silent suffering, of dismissal and of proving his worth in battle.

To use another to satisfy lusts disgusted him on some deep level and few really knew him. Maybe none.

So he fought, he drank, he was good to his fellows and watched them enjoy life as they could, but he was always alone.

Three months. His mind flashed again. He had wandered for seven years, sellsword, guardsman, lone traveler. He had had enough of Amnian greed, many things in his twenty years of service had piled on his mind, driven him further and further from his duty. Giving him less and less what little sense of place he had ever had. And then he came to Baldur's Gate and things quickly began to change. He was all but dizzy with the interest shown in his quiet nature and his absolute dedication to his task.

He was finally wanted.

And it began to pile up. While he had worked willingly for the Ebon Blades since early in his arrival, the Captain never took to him and they rarely spoke. He, unlike so many others, reminded Ashan of his past. Of being forgotten. Of being something else, something to be used and put out of sight. The man was almost singular in that regard when it came to his new home.

The longer he spent, the more interest was shown, offers of work for the Commercial Exchange, personal guardsman to others, knighthood, even to his great surprise was the latest offer. Still, once he left the Ebon behind, only one man seemed to have a mind to which Ashan could relate, but goals to which he now aspired. Alexander Marshall was unique in that. Ashan had never met a knight that conducted himself truly like a soldier before. He often found them to be proud, arrogant, and to hold themselves in distinction with one title or another. This man was bound to his duty, not himself, and Ashan called him by "Knight" because he was the only one he had ever truly regarded in that sense.

Three months. He thought again, his meeting grew ever more, those who had various thoughts about how he might spend his remaining years ever more common. He was flattered by the attention, although he never understood it. None of it truly made sense in light of all he had known. His want of more, of better, of a life that had meaning had only amplified the matter. But still, aside from a few, he was still different, he was still alone.

Marshall, Fenix, Shelagh, the Keenan's, and even the bard, Davril, who Ashan thought surely meant nothing more than to torment him at first had all worked their way into his heart. He often thought of Eleanor and Dunn, though his connection to the two was cut now, mostly. Though Dunn was still approachable. But while they all gave him a better sense of comradery than he had ever known, a void, the darkest of holes in the recesses of his soul, had become amplified by their presence. And it was the brightest thing in all his life that had made Ashan aware of this shadow for the first time, his new friends outlining it in perfect clarity.

Her.

When with her, he would forget. He felt the same, he felt like a man, like someone who deserved something out of life. She was the only one from which he had ever wanted anything, in all his life.

She was also one of the few, to which he felt he had the least to offer. She was beloved by most, and the little he heard of complaint was mired in seeming jealousy. She shone, on that stage and in the street alike like a beacon to him. His dark eyes, wide in disbelief, more child like than they had been ever in his youth. When she was gone, the shadows darkness would spread, enshadowing his friends, his life, his goals. He could cope with it, as he always had, but his occasional glimpses of ..living.. had made lifeless, dark existence all the more unbearable.

He was not the sort of man who could offer her what she deserved, certainly the least appealing to the eye even of those that flocked to her side with great regularity. He was grave, awkward, unfamiliar. But still... when they spoke he saw something, too. A spark in her, though he felt certain it must be only his own wishes mirrored in those perfect green eyes.

What else could it be?

The more he realized that he could not look away, that he would never be able to look away from this bright flame. The more he searched for answers. Should he ask her for more? She had already shown him what it meant to feel alive, to feel cared for. How could he even dare ask for more. But the more he looked on that dancing light, the more he desired its warmth. He said things, did things, dared to think of things that before the last three months would have been a cruel dream. His mind wandering to false places that could not exist.

She showed him warmth, but as things came, he found her coldness and depths as well. She had suffered, her own pain as defining as his own. It only made the light grow brighter in his eyes, the shadow she cast all the deeper.

As his mind flashed to the last two tenday, he thought how dizzying things had become, even compared to the months before. And he began to reflect that with each step he took toward the light, it would dance just beyond his reach. She was kind, he still saw something each time they spoke, but she lingered, her reasons made clear at a time, just beyond his reach.

Ashan often thought, perhaps he should let her do as she would, he could offer her his protection, his loyalty, everything, and just stop grasping. Just enjoy the light for what it was, without trying to possess it. He tried to offer this, even. But at this too, she lingered, she danced just far enough from him to leave him uncertain again.

And then there was the others. Those that whispered in his ears that he was a fool, that he was just the latest to throw himself at the flame only to circle it like all the others. They claimed concern for his well being, that they only wished hm spared the inevitable pain.

What did they know of it?

He would rather gaze at her from a crowd and watch her smile contentedly, than go back to where he had come from. As long as that light shone, from time to time, he was content. But was it enough? He couldn't decide. No counsel he ever sought brought any clarity to it. The words of one sage, offering conflicting views with that of another.

He would have to dance, too, taking steps as she retreated, until an answer was found. He was on the greatest mountain he had ever known, too far up to stop, and the depths beneath him were too much to bear when he even lingered on the thought of life, without that fire to warm his soul.

[arakes99]

The 'Tempest'

Ashan stared at his Chessentan helm, its battered bronze visor and red plume, hollow sockets staring back at him gravely. He didn't know where the helm came from in truth, but it was a haunting reminder to him. It's foreign look, it's long history all but unknown to the genasi other than the haunting memories that brought it to him to begin with.

During the last year of his service in Amn's military he was deployed east near Esmeltaran along the trade road, policing the interior for illicit activity and civil unrest. During times of relative peace he was often forced into this kind of work, he found it dull, and often heartless as not all of the 'peacekeeping' he did seemed well warranted. Greedy governors often sending him and his men to deal with peasants who'd become unruly or to simply further their own greed. Still Ashan had sworn an oath, and he followed it, for now.

He was serving under Sergeant Gastin, a man he had known for seven years. A good fighter, but a better leader. Staunch and harsh but fair with his men. There other five in the unit were privates, Miguel, a man Ashan had served with for close to twelve years and the closest thing he had to a friend, Jones, Rickert, Arven, and Carver. He had server with each of them for a season or two at most. Rickert was small but had heart, the others, especially Jones were too undisciplined for his taste, but the Sergeant kept them in line.

They had been travelling east for three days, on a tip that a large shipment of black lotus would be headed to Crimmor in the next tenday. The stuff made for a terrible poison and the local governor didn't want the Shadow Thieves getting their hands on it.

It had been raining particularly hard the day he first saw that helm. A modest looking wagon pulled by twin horses and complemented by a guard of two, one clearly Amnian, the other foreign, dark skinned and wearing a style of armor Ashan had never seen before. His helm and breastplate were bronzed in appearance, a set of leather tassles hung low from the base of the chest plate about his legs with metal studs lining them. Two narrow scimitars hung at his sides and Ashan noted right off that the man moved with an ease and confidence that was suprising for a simple guardsmen. But they expected the black lotus to have a hefty guard of at least several men due to its value. So he dismissed the matter without much thought.

Arven and Jones were leading the unit and halted the wagon. After a few quick words with the driver they made to the back and began inspecting the load. Rickert came in close behind them to watch followed distantly by the Sergeant and Miguel while Ashan and Carver brought up the rear. Everything seemed fine, until Arven noticed a loose board below one of the sacks in the wagon.

As soon as he reached for that board, all hell broke loose. The strange looking soldier drew his blades and nothing but a red mist could be seen for a moment until Jones and Arven fell to the ground, one missing both arms, the other his head. The second guard rushed Ashan and Carver from the other side of the wagon, but when Carver saw the carnage he turned on his heel and ran.

Ashan tried to get to the Sergeant and Rickert but he was forced to deal with the other guard, who was a skilled swordsman in his own right. Poor Rickert drew his blade shaking, staring at his two dead friends before the man eviscerated him in two perfectly placed blows. Another red mist hovering over him. Miguel and the Sergeant, far more experienced managed to flank the fellow from both sides but it mattered not. The warriors speed and skill was like nothing either of them had ever seen and he killed them both effortlessly in a few strokes just as Ashan crushed his opponents skull with a pommel strike and took his first few steps towards his now lifeless friends.

Miguel...his face frozen in a look of horror and disbelief stared up at Ashan as he moved toward the swordsman, shield high and his tensions higher. He had never seen anyone that fast, that accurate, in any battle he had ever seen. He knew, if he made a single mistake, that no one would ever know how they had died. Just another missing unit.

The fear faded quickly, being replaced by a sense of elation. This...after all was what he lived for. Bladework, his art, and the more Ashan studied the bladesman, the more his blood boiled, his senses honed. A dark smile crossed his earthen lips as he stared at that strange helm and circled his opponent.

Maybe this will be it. Maybe I will finally earn a place in this world, or find relief from it.

Thoughts of his darkened, bare room circled his mind, of endless nights spent alone, huddled in the dark. The looks of contempt in other children, in grown men, the fear he occasionally left in a young lass when he allowed his gaze to linger long enough for her to notice.

He managed a laugh, as his obsidian eyes locked on the other mans. The foreigner breaking his cadence in surprise by the unusual response. Ashan then brought his blade high, and across the edge of his tilted shield. A stance he used only when vastly outnumbered usually. But this man, this brilliant fighter infront of him deserved no less than his best.

Once the foreigner regained his composure, the first strike rang out against Ashan's blade as he narrowly parried the blow. The man had found the only gap in his defenses on the first strike and as the second blade made its way toward another opening Ashan was forced swing his shield up wildly to block the blow in time and took a step back quickly to regain his posture.

Steel rang on steel, minute after minute as Ashan barely blocked each strike, the mans speed surpassing his own incredibly. Only years and years on the front line allowed him to block and parry the assault. He began to wonder if this would truly be it..

As he lost his footing once more and back peddled to catch himself, the other warrior bore down on him and cleaved Ashan's shield arm just below the shoulder.

The heavy tower shield clattered on the rocks as Ashan's arm fell limp at his side and the genasi rolled backwards to evade another blow. His shield arm was cut to the bone, lifelessly hanging as much by the armor about it as the flesh that remained.

Despite the pain Ashan managed to regain his feet before the man was on him again and raised his sword high, all remnants of his defensive stance gone and only rage in his battered mind. As the other warrior strode in for the kill, Ashan took two quick steps in and slashed down with a battlecry on the surprised warrior. The man tried to parry the blow with one blade but the brute force of the swing knocked the blade from the mans hand and sliced deeply into his shoulder.

The foreigner stumbled back, staring at Ashan in stunned silence. Never screaming, never a sound. He just stared for a moment before tumbling backwards. The helm rolling along the muddied road with a clatter.

Ashan smiled contentedly before collapsing forward into the mud.

He woke, in a small home, his wounds tended by a priest a day later. All of his friends, save the cowardly Carver were dead and beyond the aid of simple prayer. Miguel, the only man he had considered a friend in all his life, would be buried in a nearby field in a few days time.

Once his strength returned, Ashan made his way to the recovered wagon and inspected the bodies. The driver had fled, like Carver. The other guard, and the five dead soldiers laid beside the wagon lifeless. The strange helm atop a pile of ruined armor and weapons but the foreigner was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps he was taken by animals.

Ashan lifted the helm and walked off. He kept it, as a reminder of his failure and the dead men he left that day.

[arakes99]

Bladestone

He sat in his room in the Blade and Stars, running a stone up and down the edge of one of his longswords, the other in its sheath perched across the bed. So much of the change that had brought him to this point, had again changed. The dance had ended, at least in his mind and it had brought him a sense of peace and a friendship that was proving to be truer than any he had ever known. Still in his heart of hearts, much would never change he would always lose himself, at least a bit, when she was near.

The Athkatlan.

Showing up as she did, unexpectedly, calling him his childhood moniker and reminding him of his days in the city. Shunned, alone, feared, hated, the only one. She had upset him greatly, though it was a pain he was familiar with, in a sense that he had almost grown fond of, until late. It brought a flood of memories with it, of battle, of death, of lost comrades. While that he could endure, when that young lass insulted her without thought, he had lifted her by her collar. His rage welling up beyond his means to control, something that had come too, with his wish for more. He had never cared enough in the past about anything to lose himself like that, but now that he did, as he recalled holding the waif of a girl by the neck he had wanted to hurt her, he intended to hurt her. Only a calling, from deep in his soul, had pulled him from his rage. A voice that whispered to him like a song, telling him he was not a monster, that it would be alright, let him breath and release her.

He slid the stone down the blade once more. His mind shifting from personal matters to that of the region.

The Knight had left. He had no place in Candlekeep any longer. Much like Alexander, Isabella had told him to follow his own path. She was a wise woman, and he appreciated her greatly for her understanding. So he did what he had told her of many tenday ago, and he started his school. He and Allie had debated the name for an evening, settling on "The Bladestone Foundation". It both made him smile, and cringe as it reminded him of what he was, still it was fitting and a good name.

The training had been quite well attended, though he lacked confidence in his ability to train such a wide variety of students, all with differing skills, equipment, styles, and a gap of experience that no amount of training could close quickly. Still, it seemed as if others appreciated his efforts so he would continue to refine his methods, consider new and more diverse ways to bring his students to a level he could be proud of.

Talas, Ramar, Vala, Ronja, and Derik all showed great promise. He was certain, in time that these students could offer the Sword Coast as much as he wanted to, perhaps more. Rynwynn, already a skilled fighter in her own right, more talented than he in her own ways was a bit of a mystery. He sensed she was uncertain, or not free in all her mannerisms with him. Not showing him what she was truly about, or how she had come to be such an established swordsman. Still, she could offer the other students much if she tried, and if they let her.

The last session, had shown him though that he needed to be careful, and guarded in what he was teaching. The Ebon Blade, Desrah, and many more had come to watch and participate. Not out of a spirit of teaching and learning, but to maim, to avail there prowess upon those they held in disdain. This...motivation...this pride...offered the coast nothing, and it was infectious. He had even wanted to urb the pride of some of these folk himself, but he resisted the temptation, as much as he was able.

If the school was to succeed, he would have to do better, be better. He had only set out to help in the only way he knew how. He had nothing to offer, save his skill with the blade to people, but without the proper restraint, the proper setting, violence was only that. A barbaric display that harmed and did not help. This, like so many things of late was a careful act of balance for which he had no experience, no reference. He could just as easily wrought chaos and destruction, as he could improve things and he would be mindful of that.

In other matters...the orcs were showing themselves in the north again, The Ebon Blade, and the numerous groups that hated them were escalating, driven by personal rivalries and pride. As he delivered the final stroke of the stone to his blade and admired the razor like edge the genasi had a moment of perfect clarity, honed to a point like his sword.

If men brought war to the north, the orcs would follow, and as much as he hated the Blades, if they were gone there would be no one to stand against the orcs on behalf of Soubar. He sighed deeply as he slid his blade into the sheath. He was going to have to speak to many folk he had no relationship with, try to persuade them...onerous tasks better left to those like Jane, and the Knight Commander. Those who preferred mincing words to drive the effect they wished.

Still, all around was naut but petty squabbles, and the orcs were singular in their hatred. They were overlooking their differences, while the men of the coast highlighted their own. If it meant he must try and play diplomat, he would to so to his great displeasure. But if she had taught him anything, it was that we all must stand for the right, even when we least want to or the darkness would fall. And he had no intentions of letting her down.

[arakes99]

Fallen

He sat in his room in the Blade and Stars, running a stone up and down the edge of one of his longsword, his shield lying on the bed with his second blade having been given to a needing warrior. His breathing was stifled, as he pained himself to draw each breath. His body trembled with an anger that had never held him before, save when there was a threat to what he cared about most.

Now...

Now....

Now.... he didn't care anymore. Not like he had. He had given his all and settled for an uneasy acceptance, for a situation he was willing to tolerate although it left him more than wanting. He had devoted himself to that utterly and in the end it was all a lie. This...position of importance he had built his life around had crumbled in an instant. His devotion twisting to rage, all of his fears and assumptions he had squelched over the long months and years instantly resurged and boiled within his soul.

He was unwanted, a monster, a brute good for naught but killing. The rest of them might try and convince him otherwise, but this was the only though that in its simplicity sat well in his gut. It was truth, the rest was sympathy smeared rhetoric that would only inspire further lies.

Still...

Still.....

Still...... these lies were all around, and many flocked to question him. Some kindly, others frustrated, and some even seemed angry at his new found rage. Adelaide had made him feel like a fool, had called into question his very motivations as misplaced from the beginning. Yet it changed nothing of the facts for him. It mattered little what anyone thought of a monster....

But then he met the Lioness who calmed his fury and made him reconsider all he knew. She was unlike all of them in her simplicity, simpler even than his own truths, which made her arguments against them have merit. It inspired him to consider it.

While she brought him a great deal of peace in their time together, when he was alone, as he sharpened his blade like this evening his mind would retreat to darker thoughts and places. While it would be easier to just go back to fighting, to looking for that final hard won death on the field. One thing throughout all of the lies, the questions, the paltry reassurances stuck out to him.

He was needed. They came, because they relied on what he had become.

He realized...whether he wanted it or not, his duties were binding, their needs outweighed his own suffering. He was still a monster of stone, but with that came the responsibility of standing resolute against any and all. He may only be fit for killing, but that death would find those that tried to harm that which he protected. He would meet force with force, he would be the shield that did not relent. His allies would know his resolve every time they stood by him and never question it again.

It wasn't what he wanted, but if it was all he was meant for, then he would do it well.