The Highlander, Keeper of the Balance

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The Highlander, Keeper of the Balance

Post by The Highlander on Sun Mar 22, 2009 9:32 pm

Name: ???
Name of Choice: The
Highlander
Age:???
Place of Origin: The Highlands of
Scotland
Station: Keeper of the Balance
Patron gods: Alaunus,
god of the Sun and wisdom and Cerridwen goddess of wisdom and
the Moon.

Originally a simple farmer in the Highlands of
Scotland, the Highlander was struck with a cruel twist of fate after
his beloved homeland was struck with a terrible blight, killing or
twisting everything in the area, as a result of the Life-Force of the
Earth's upset of the gods continual meddling. He was chosen (at
random) to be a mediator between the two supernatural forces, and was
thus granted partial access to both groups powers, as much as was
appropriate to the situation with a set minimum percentage. He was
tasked to use these powers to ensure the continuation of the Balance
of power between the forces, and keep the Order of Events as they
should be. He has kept his station for long millenia, protecting the
Balance against constant threats. In the early days of his station,
his immortality caused him to watch his loved ones slowly die of old
age while he remained untouched by time, a situation soon remedied by
the gods. They placing him in a section of the Highlands suspended
from time, to which they sent all threats to the Balance, except
twice when he was released, and granted the full powers of gods and
Life-force, to deal with unnaturally large threats, two moments he
heralds as the most horrifying of his existence. Now he only seeks
the peace of death, but knows he cannot (through moral conviction and
the pact of the gods) give up his station unless he can somehow
ensure permanent Protection of the Balance, or perhaps a successor
(Although he would wish the station on no one). Recently, he gathered
the Heroes who appeared in the Highlands to form a group to protect
the Balance of the Universe, and was soon contacted by Admiral
Bernard. Bernard convinced him to join in his rebellion against the
Evil Overlord, and after that he has led the group of heroes as the
spearhead of the movement.

Attire: Well worn, solidly built
Kilt, with the Clan Ross tartan, broached at the shoulder with a twin
griffin-headed ring. In well worked leather boots, and an off-white
tunic . At his waist is his sporran, at his belt (with a brass
buckle depicting a thistle) is his dirk, and somewhere about his
person is his sgian dubh, or small hunting knife. His red hair
is cut fairly average, perhaps a trifle long, as his mortal vanity
was set aside long ago. However, his negligence of it is offset by a
slowed metabolism.
Weapon: Two-handed claymore, blessed by
Druid-magic and covered with many mystic runes, it serves as both a
fearsome weapon and a channel for his power. He is also adept at
virtually all weaponry of his day, as well as many ways of unarmed
combat, and is an adept mage.

He is a man of much skill,
through long millenia of practice, who is still occasionally haunted
by memories of his past. As a result, he normally reveals as little
about himself as possible, unless it is to explain what he is to his
recently acquired allies, and then only what they need. He has
managed mostly to accept what he is, however, and he fully assumed
his 'new life' as full Keeper of the Balance, when he constructed the
temple to Alaunus, which now serves as the groups head
quarters and gathering point.


Last edited by The Highlander on Mon Apr 27, 2009 10:09 am; edited 2 times in total
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Re: The Highlander, Keeper of the Balance

Post by The Highlander on Sun Mar 22, 2009 10:03 pm

The Highlander sat, kneeling in the
woodland glade outside the recently constructed temple to Alaunus,
god of the Sun and wisdom, contemplating his life before he was
charged as the keeper of the Balance, only a few centuries prior. As
the birds flew over his body sitting in the timeless Highlands, is
mind went back, to a harvest faire many centuries before…
He sat
with his neighboring farmers around a roaring bonfire, tents pitched
haphazardly around a wide field, drinking, laughing and
singing.
“Come on boy,” said one old codger, who lived two
farms over and was, despite his years, strong as a bear and sharp as
a whip, “It’s no secret to anyone that you’ve got designs on
Ms. McIntyre over there. Why don’t you just ask her for a dance?”
This statement was supported by a chorus of approval from the group,
accompanied by one or two belches from the good drink that everyone
had a cup of.
“No sir, I don’t think I will. Not now anyways,”
he took a drink, “Maybe next spring, or at latest the year after. I
don’t think she or I are quite ready yet.”
“By then you’ll
be as old and crusty a man as I am,” The man exclaimed with a
laugh, “And you’ll be lucky anyone’ll marry you. Besides, if
you don’t get ‘er now, what’s to stop someone else from doin’
the same? Like, say, young Patrick McGraw over yonder. Seems to me
he’s an eye for our young Rosie as well.” This last was
accompanied by a gesture of his cup in the direction of the gaunt and
homely youth, sitting with a group of young hotbloods making loud and
raucous jokes, and giving bawdy winks to any lady who had the
misfortune to step within ten feet of them.
“Come on, Ol’ Sam;
Rosie’s got some standards, she does,” a laugh from the group, as
well as some murmurs of approval, “She wouldn’t pass up this lad
here,” a pat on his back, “For that no good!” The speaker was a
man perhaps a decade or so younger than Ol’ Sam, and he tended to
be a bit more easy going.
“Although,” he said, turning away
from Ol’ Sam, to speak more privately, “It looks like you won’t
be having much choice in the matter tonight.”
“What do you
mean? Why not?”
In answer, his defender merely smiled slightly,
tilting his head towards a figure coming from nearer the bonfire, and
turned away, quickly burying his beard in his mug.
And suddenly,
she was there. Standing there, still skipping a bit from the last
reel, with a smile on her face and excitement in her eye. Miss Rosie
McIntyre, the star of the County Down, the Belle of Belfast; the
loveliest lass in all of Scotland.
“If you wouldn’t mind,
sir,” she asked with an almost breathlessly suppressed enthusiasm,
only partly do to the energetic jig she had just exited, “a
dance?”

A crashing and thrashing in the woods interrupted
the Highlander’s reverie, and as he focused in on it, he began to
distinguish individual words. Specifically, a rather vile and vulgar
string of curses, in a nasal and arrogant tone.
“Cursed Warlock!
You have banished me to this, this… primitive Jungle, at the apex
of years of scheming! You have greatly inconvenienced me, and you
will pay! May the Dark Lords consume the black remains of your soul!
May you be damned to the Thirteen Hells for a thousand generations!
May your descendants roll amongst the dungheaps, as your mother’s
mother did! May you…” The Highlander blocked out the string of
obscenities following, whose sound was a jarring contrast to the
musical lilt and breathtaking beauty of Rosie…
He stood, grimly
gripping the hilt of his great broadsword, whose druid runes began to
glow faintly in response to his power. Slowly, he began to make his
way into the woods, silently making his way through the forest in the
direction of the jarring cacophony.
The Highlander sat in the
branch of a tree, looking down on the apparently recently deposed
World Dictator, or whatever he called himself. The man had ceased his
ranting, and now contented himself with muttering darkly to himself,
hacking his way unnecessarily through the forest, marring the beauty
of the Highland woods.
“Greetings, wanderer,” The Highlander
called out to the man, who started and whirled, bringing forward a
thin rapier at the sound of the Highlander’s voice, but unable to
spot him.
“Who’s there? Show yourself! I command it, the
Terran Overlord!”
“Terran Overlord, ye say,” The Highlander
queried, jumping lightly to the ground behind the man, who gave a
start and quickly turned around, “Now, what matter of title is
that? Ye don’t rule the planet, surely if what I heard ye say
earlier was true.”
The man, blustering with embarrassment at
being caught in his bluff, sputtered, “I am! Or, would be, if that
Warlock hadn’t banished me here!” a slash of his sword, severing
a nearby sapling nearly in two, “Or, I should say, I will be, by
the time I find my way back, out of this cursed woodland,” at this,
he spat on the poor tree, now twisting to the ground unnaturally,
held together by the slimmest thread of bark. The Highlander knelt by
the sapling, and held it in two hands now glowing with a faint gold
energy.
“The woods are nay as bad as you make out, once you
know them,” he said, straightening the sapling, and mending its
wounds with god-given power.
“Ha, they’re nothing but fire for
my forge, as far as I’m concerned.”
The Highlander sighed,
seeing that his hopes were proven false, and this man was what he
appeared to be: an unforgivable tyrant, and a threat to the
Balance.
“I am the Keeper of the Balance, and you are a threat
to it, and an insult to the gods,” the Highlander said quietly,
still knelt beside the now blossoming sapling.
“What?! How dare
you… I’ll have your head for that!” The man blustered, fumbling
for his recently sheathed rapier.
Like lightning the Highlander
had his sword out, spun up, and swung.
With a dull thud, the man’s
head fell severed to the ground, followed shortly by his body.
As
the blood flowed, the grass and tree seemed to eagerly drink it into
themselves, growing perhaps a shade greener, a hair taller, as the
Highlander wiped his blade on them, and walked away sadly, sheathing
his sword. It was a painful, saddening work, and his conscience
rested uneasily as he walked back to the Temple.
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