SA'ACHERN, VISSERION TH'ORMEND

[carson]

N A M E Carson

C O N T A C T S PM & Chatbox. MSN if you're nasteh (ask for it).

O T H E R . C H A R A C T E R S None, yet.

R A N D O M . F A C T I am an identical twin!

N A M E Crown Prince Visserion Th'ormend Sa'achern

N I C K N A M E S Viss (but only by friends ... anyone else is likely to get a bloody nose. Or something else. In either event, blood will be drawn.)

A G E 21

B I R T H D A T E July 11

G E N D E R Male

S E X U A L I T Y Heterosexual

O C C U P A T I O N Crown Prince of Carthonia, General of the Carthonic Army

M A G I C ? Magic has always been strong in Visserion's bloodline. Through the inheritance of his mother, especially, and it is from her he has gained an affinity for creating illusions, and for detecting those of others. Not a trickster by nature, and far too serious (on most occasions) to use illusions for the sake of buffoonery, he tends to reserve that power for the battlefield, fond of creating additional if non-corporeal soldiers to confuse and confound the enemy, and to augment his own fearsome appearance. The latter is aided further by his other affinity, that for the element of fire. Visserion can turn the merest flame of candle into a roiling blaze, and to summon a conflagration out of thin air. This in particular comes in handy through battle, the general given to setting his sword aflame, and ringing himself with a curtain of fire when the situation calls for it.

ADMIN CLASSIFICATIONS
Illusion: Level 2, Class A
Fire: Level 2, Class A

H E I G H T 6'3"

W E I G H T 195 lbs

B U I L D A veritable mountain of a man, a physiognomy honed in the fires of war must necessarily be hard and strong, or else it will break. So it is with the Crown Prince of Carthonia. Blessed with a rich, swarthy tan, his is a body built for conquest, on both the battlefield and in the bedroom. Broad shoulders, a well-defined and admirably muscular chest and abdomen, and strong, tightly-knit arms and legs speak of martial pursuits and a vigor which is not accustomed to being denied.

E Y E S Dark green, with the faintest motes of gold should one stand close enough to look therein. And in such close proximity, they had either best be female or Visserion drunk, or a brawl is likely to ensue.

H A I R Black, and close-cropped, in the severe martial style of a soldier.

I D E N T I F I E R S A scar on his left breast, just over his heart, where an insurrectionist once sunk a knife into the prince's chest. Not deep enough to reach his heart, but enough to hurt like hell ... and leave him with a blade-width scar for the rest of his life. He has spoke of getting a tattoo on occasion, but has put it off. He means to have one once he is betrothed, if the woman is deserving to mark the prince's body in so permanent a fashion, that is.

A P P E A R A N C E As has already been established, Visserion is fearsomely tall and imposing of build. Yet for that musclebound appearance, there is a depth and alacrity to his green eyes, a softness only seen by his family and closest friends behind the hard-set jaw and a mouth given to thin, neutral lines rather than effusive grins. But on those occasions when he lets his guard down, there is a driven, passionate young man seen behind them, capable of charming smiles and a deep, rumbling laugh. The prince tries to keep his face clean-shaven, but if he's made a late night of it or has been on campaign, the dark stubble which rings his chin is impossible to hide. He is not given to ostentation, and wears, more often than not, a serviceable, unremarkable suit of armor over a standard-issue military tunic, leather breeches, and almost invariably dusty boots. The only thing that marks him as anything more than a rank and file soldier is the general's golden insignia affixed at either shoulder, joined in between with a scarlet ribbon, the same hue as the short cape which falls behind to waist-length. A longsword and dagger are almost always hanging from his sword belt.

L I K E S Visserion leaves very little time in his life for creature comforts. He tends to fill his days with the administration of Carthonia's army, and what duties towards the kingdom his mother will allow. Judged by many to be a hard, stubborn, difficult man, he tries his best not to disappoint, and tends to give the impression of disliking just about everything bar his family, his subjects, and the all-encompassing duty towards them which defines his life. However, in truth, he is quite fond of good company, good conversation, good women, and good wine. Not to the point of outright hedonism, he indulges in these things as a soldier is expected to, but only when there's quality to be had. More typically, Visserion finds enjoyment in swordplay and sparring, and racing by horse or foot.

D I S L I K E S It is part and parcel of the life of a prince, and one destined to be king hereafter, but Visserion hates ceremony and pomp. The only parade he enjoys is one of a victorious army returning home from battle, preferably with himself at the head of it. The usually dour prince does not suffer sycophants or flatterers, and there's never any shortage of them in the palace. He can generally see through such flimsy pretense and while he has some heart for charity, it is purely for deserving and downtrodden cases, not the idle rich looking to get even moreso. He also dislikes excessive cheer, dim-witted or demure women, harps, cats, sunshine when he's hungover, sweets, and, above all else, Niendra and all who dwell within her.

F E A R S Since childhood, Visserion has had a fear of being alone at night. It is something he cannot explain, and an irrational compulsion that has only grown since his father was assassinated (by Niendrans, no doubt). Every night, without fail, he will have either a woman in his bed or take to the barracks to rest with the men. Visserion cannot rest alone.

He also fears dying without begetting an heir, dying before he can assume the throne, the threat of assassination against the rest of his family, and the notion of Niendra ever holding sway of Carthonia.

S T R E N G T H S One of Visserion's most visible strengths is his ... wait for it ... strength! His body has been honed by years of combat and training, a soldier who does not hesitate to fight on the front lines with his men, and who matches considerable prowess with a courageous streak that can verge on foolhardiness. By this talent, Visserion yields another one: leadership. He is a natural motivator, both through fear, and, for those who follow him without need of the strap, some measure of admiration, precisely because the prince and general doesn't ask them to do anything he would not and does not submit himself to. The unusual sight of a prince of the realm, indeed its future king, digging latrines or hoisting tents might strike some as odd, but it gets him a loyalty out of his men that few other commanders can match.

For all of his martial prowess, Visserion couples it with a first rate mind, as well. Perceptive and attentive, few things pass his notice, though he is happy to live up to the reputation, at least amongst the nobility, of being a man of roaring bad temper and very little discretion. In truth, few things pass his notice, even if he tends to keep those observations to himself. Visserion is a prince made for politics, no matter how much he hates the subtlety of it. He would rather duel his enemies on the spot and have done with it than wait for a covert knife to fall or a poisoned draught to reach his lips ... as it did his father's. And while he can be short-tempered and is undeniably stubborn, beneath it all, Visserion has some manner of tenderness in him. He wants to find a good wife, one who give him strong children, and he wants to be a -good- ruler for Carthonia. Those are his dreams and aspirations, and he if he is tenacious in pursuing them, well, in his own mind, a man should fight for what he wants.

W E A K N E S S E S Temper, temper, temper. The easiest way to get Visserion at a disadvantage is to make him angry. When the red haze of anger is upon him, he is like a bull in a china shop, needing to break something, or someone, before he can find release. When roused to it, he's terribly irrational, bounding off to fight whoever or whatever has angered him so. And Visserion is not a man to forget a slight, either. He carries a grudge for years. For a lifetime, if need be, and forgives only with the greatest hesitation when his honor or that of his family or realm is at stake.

He also sacrifices too much for what he -perceives- as his role in life. Visserion tackles warcraft and, when he's allowed, statecraft with a gusto that leaves little time for other things, or other people, not because he must but because he -thinks- he must. He is driven by the need to be something even greater than his father, or his mother for that matter, and he sacrifices so much of what makes life fulfilling: friends, the cultivation of a wife and family, and the other necessities of real, enduring happiness. It makes for a lonely existence.

Q U I R K S Visserion is prone to grumbling, insensibly, to himself when angered. He will also sit and play with flames on his fingers when bored. An affectation which has resulted in several burned buildings and one completely immolated cow.

G O A L S More than anything, he wishes to rule, and to be a king who lives on, favorably, in the memory of his people. Too, he wants a wife and consort who is more than just an ornament on his arm and an orifice to pop out children, though he wants an heir as well. She must be a partner, a confidant, a lover, and a cooperative force in whatever future awaits Visserion. He saw the way his mother was treated by his own father ... and temper or no, he could not bring himself to reduce a proud, beautiful woman to a mere object for use and abuse as the late King Th'ormend visited upon Queen Ceried'a.

P E R S O N A L I T Y Stubborn, strong-willed, often grim and dour until he's in his cups or the company of a good woman, as has already been established, Visserion allows himself few comforts in life, little time for relationships, and covers every hour of the day he can with the shroud of duty. But when he can be drawn from those dispositions, he is warm, considerate, and evidences a sincere love for his people and his kingdom. In a way, he views all that he gives up in his own life to be a willing sacrifice for -their- good. To encourage and produce in himself the best damn king for Carthonia that he may. There is an element of pride in Visserion, too ... He has earned a reputation as a general, at least in some part, because of the glory with which it has gilt his name. It is some way for him to distinguish himself beyond his father. That, too, is a compulsion Visserion lives with, as well as a sincere lust for vengeance against Niendra, who he -assumes- was behind the murder of the late king. And in that rage, Visserion is easily led and swayed. It is the one time he is malleable and open to manipulation, and those who are aware of it do not hesitate to exploit such a chance. If Visserion did but know it.

F A M I L Y
Th'ormend Sa’achern---Father---Deceased
Ceried'a Sa'achern --- Mother---35
Brother---20
Sister---18
Adopted Sister---17
Brother's Betrothed---19

P L A C E . O F . B I R T H The City of Ingril, Carthonia
H I S T O R Y
Fitting, perhaps, for the heir of the Land of Storms, the night of Visserion's birth was host to a lightning storm of almost mythical proportions. As the sky was torn asunder by talons of forked illumination and the thunder of a million celestial drums, a son and heir was born to King Th'ormend and Queen Ceried'a. Perhaps some of that brutal night imbued itself in the child, for his birth was a difficult one, and he came forth from the womb screaming almost as loud as the thunder outside. It was a sign of things to come. They named him Visserion, and for a season, his was a happy infancy. A royal father overjoyed to have an heir, until his younger brother was born a little less than a year later, Visserion was doted on incessantly. But when the second son came along, and then a daughter, and an adopted daughter besides, children became nothing more than a novelty to the king.

Thankfully, what love he denied them, their mother was quick to apply. To say that Visserion was his mother's son would be an understatement. Knowing he could come to her for comfort and advice and affection, he was ever at her feet, as a child. And learned there, too. He took after her in cleverness and hiding much behind the fascade of a personality that, even before adulthood, was given to dour and sullen streaks. Which lent itself towards martial training, as he grew into a tall, lanky youth. That was the only way Visserion could find to still command some attention from his father. Returning home after a successful campaign got a pat on the back and congratulations from the king ... affection which Visserion lived for, even if it was mingled with a healthy dose of resentment for the man who sired him, but wanted nothing whatsoever to do with his son and heir.

Thankfully, Visserion harbored no such feelings towards his siblings. Fiercely protective of them all, even his younger brother who never seemed to appreciate it, he loved, and continues to love, his family above all other things, bar only perhaps the kingdom he knows he must one day serve. And that was the tenor of the years in between ... until the king was felled by an assassin felled the king at his dinner table. Poison! The gasping man was taken ushered away in a great hurry at the queen's orders, and though his bedchamber was barred to any visitors, Visserion managed to sneak in before the dying king was laid upon his death bed. He watched him breathe his last. And then watched his mother conjure a doppleganger, a false king, an illusion wrought of her own cunning magic, to take his place.

What could he do? Nothing. He knew the ... thing which pretended at being king was not his father. And he knew why his mother did it. She was finally free of Th'ormend's domineering and controlling touch. Of course, this means the king shall reign as long as she deems fit. And though he is still young, how much longer must Visserion chafe under this phantom's rule, waiting and waxing older and older until his mother relents and banishes this apparition so that her son can assume the throne? The thought of waiting decades for it is one he cannot countenance. Eventually, and soon, he must confront her. Privately, of course. This is a deception which Visserion would not reveal to anyone, not even to have the throne. For deep down, greater than the desire for power, greater than the confidence that he has the makings of a great king, greater even than the fire of ambition which fuels his soul is the love of family. Of a mother who denies her son his rightful crown. Of a brother who, unwittingly, murdered their father and would do the same to Visserion, as well. Of a sister who he has always doted on, no matter how rottenly spoiled she has grown. Family is everything to Visserion precisely because it meant nothing to his father.

And he may still hate the man for what he did to the mother he adores, but Visserion is fixed, now, upon another course: war with Niendra. So far as he knows, they killed King Th'ormend. And blood must be answered for with blood.

C O D E . W O R D Wyeshing

S A M P L E . P O S T
Noon. The best time to make announcements in a town like Fischer. Many residents were out and about on their lunch hours, the smallest children being escorted home from school by their parents, the journalists getting their stories together for the evening edition of the newspaper, and on a brisk November day like today, the sun's warmth had plenty of time to burn away the morning chill. Beyond -time-, there could perhaps have been no better -place- for such an event than the steps of the town hall. Symbol of the political edifice of Fischer which had been so weakened by the allegations swirling around Mayor Rodgers' hasty resignation, his would-be successors needed to prove they were up to the task of renewing trust and hope in the office which the debonair and now-departed Mayor had drug through the mud of mob affiliation.

The significance of the time and place of his announcement was not lost on Brevard Bennett as he stood, tall and proud, dressed simply but strikingly in a well-made suit of black worsted, a starched white shirt and understated wine-red necktie. He had got the word out the day before, through his supporters and the tireless strength and convincing intimidation of one Miss Evelyn Wentworth. He shot her a faint, hopeful smile as they stood there on City Hall's colonnaded front portico. God willing, their work would yield fruit. Telling a few housewives in Fischer was often as effective as advertising in the Southern Post, and all of the political wags had been duly informed. Whether or not people would come, word had got around. Now, it was time to meet the expectations his campaign team had worked so hard to build up in the last 24 hours.

A podium had been set up to the fore, just at the bottom of the short rank of marble steps and in front of the crowd of journalists, supporters, maybe even a few detractors, and general passersby who would stop to hear what the City Councilman had to say. Of course, the 'Vote Bennett for Better Days' sign pasted to the front of the podium left no doubt what was coming. Walking with that confident, dapper gait of his, Brevard descended to the podium, waving and giving the journos ample opportunity to snap his handsome face and athletic frame before he clasped hands at either side of the podium, expression shifting into something more serious and grave, but still pulled at the corners of his lips into a subtle manner of smile, looking for all intents and purposes like the model statesman he had strove these last seven years to become. The voice which rang out through the air was loud, strong, clear, and redolent with firm conviction.

"Friends, Fellow Citizens of Fischer, thank you for coming out to hear what I have to say. I promise to keep my remarks brief, and will take questions from journalists as well as concerned voters once I've finished.

I remember, as a child, envying other children whose doting parents would give them medicine laced with an ample amount of sugar, to help it go down sweeter. I was not so fortunate. My sainted mother was a firm believer in letting life's lumps come unadulterated. I hated the tonics, cordials, and other remedies that were poured down my throat when I took ill, but as I got older, I realized the wisdom of what I, as a child, had counted the worst sort of torture imaginable. But not sugar-coating the medicine, I learned to accept it for what it was: the necessary remedy of a condition which, if left untreated, could do me grievous or even fatal injury. It took a measure of courage to accept what others might have taken for granted. And the same thing can be said for what we; as a city, a state, and a nation find ourselves in today.

This depressed economy is the worst hard time any of us have ever known, with the possible exception of the venerable patriots still living who fought so gallantly in the War of Northern Aggression. Georgia, and Fischer, have long served one master in the pursuit of prosperity: King Cotton. But the boll weevils and the crash of our national economy have changed that. And let me be clear: it has changed it not just now, but -forever-. We cannot continue to rely upon a single crop to keep this community clothed, fed, and sheltered. President Roosevelt has made that clear with his Agricultural Adjustment Act. Our farmers are now being paid to -not- grow cotton! My friends, farming is in our blood. It is the backbone of Fischer, of Georgia, and of the South, but we have to start casting our nets wider. We've got to start growing other crops, and embracing other economic opportunities, besides. There are millions of dollars waiting for us in Washington, if we will build new roads, schools, hospitals, public housing, power plants, and other grand works projects. We have an opportunity to not only lift Fischer and all of her people out of economic hardship, but to change the face of this town and give all of our people a better standard of life in the process.

Now, I'm not going to speak ill of Mayor Rodgers. What he may or may not have done is up to a jury of his peers, and until he's proven guilty, what we have and should judge him on is his record as mayor of our fair city. I will leave the interpretation of that record open to debate, but will say this much: even if Mayor Rodgers had been the Huey Long of Fischer, Georgia, even if he had been George Washington, Jefferson Davis, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt wrapped up into one, no public servant can or should rest on his laurels. We can always do better. And I mean to prove that to you, my friends and neighbors, as your next mayor. For the happiness and prosperity of -all- of Fischer's residents, I am announcing today my intention to run for the office made vacant by Mayor Fischer's resignation. I believe the first duty of our next mayor must be to appeal to Atlanta and Washington to bring some of the federal investment being flung far and wide for public works projects into our community. I believe the office of mayor has a first duty not to himself, and not even just to those who have elected him, but to every last man, woman, and child who live within the boundaries of his jurisdiction. Everyone deserves a chance at prosperity, and I mean to give them that chance with new jobs, new investment in our town, and a government which is at last accountable to the people.

As a City Councilman, I have occasionally had my differences with Mayor Rodgers. I have made no bones about the fact that I believe our mayors must be accountable to the City Council. They are the effective legislature of this city, and he is the executor of the will of the people as expressed by their representatives. To that end, as a foundational plank of my election platform, I make this promise to you today: if elected as your next mayor, I will enact a resolution giving the City Council the right to deliberate and ultimately decide the budget for the City of Fischer and every department of its government on an annual basis. What is done in -your- name with the money that -you- have been taxed should be decided by those -you- elect to public office. The more eyes that are on the financial operations of this city, the better we can safeguard them against any allegations of graft, corruption, and private greed. And the more wisely our finances are managed, the greater portion of them can be returned to the citizens of our city. That ought to be the agenda of the next mayor of Fischer, and it will be mine if I have your vote come Election Day.

Hard decisions await the man who will follow Mayor Rodgers into office. I never took sugarcoated medicine as a child, and I won't dole it out to you, here and now. We're going to have to hunker down together and -work-, my friends. This is no time for laziness. I am committed to being a mayor who is available to every citizen of this town for any problem or concern they may have. I am dedicated to being a visible and active force for your good, that of your families, and our community. I'll be the one sitting in the stands at your sons' Little League games, on the bench at the soda shop talking to your brothers and sisters about their jobs, at the hospital and retirement home, checking up on your mothers and fathers and making sure that our elderly, who have worked so long and so hard are given a well-deserved and well-provided rest, and in every last session of the City Council, to answer for my actions as a public servant. The one place I won't be is in a smoky room surrounded by shady associates from out of town.


Elect me as your next mayor, and these are promises you can literally take to the bank!" In the course of his speech, Bennett's voice rose in tenor and strength, starting out calm and even, and finishing with an impassioned thump of fist against the podium, punctuating the promises which the fire in his soft brown eyes showed he had every desire and intention of fulfilling. In him, there was a man who really did wish to be a public servant rather than another petty demagogue or the dictator of a one-horse town. Whether he had done a good enough job to communicate that would be up to the journalists and the everyday citizens who had turned up. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," the candidate closed with a grateful nod of head and a boyish grin. "I will be happy to take any questions you may have at this time.'

[FLYFLY]