Ilaról'silarná, Murmillion Silversmith

Name: Ilaról'silarná
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Race: Human
Tribe: Murmillion
Occupation: Silversmith
Title: Wayward Silversmith

Height: One ped, two fores, and two palmspans
Weight: One pygge and six hebs
Hair color: Ash-blond
Eye color: Light grey

Overview: A former slave of the Chyrakisth, Ilaról'silarná is less than sane after being subject to their brutalities. His mind has been corrupted by their drugs and witchcraft, acting as an unknowing servant as magically induced impulses grip his mind. Most pitiful of all, he cannot remember his life before being enslaved. But he thrived among the Sanhorrhim for two years, loving a gorgeous styrás by the name of Rhén’áelin. Under her tutelage his craft truly blossomed as his talent manifested itself in his artful creations.

Appearance: From within pale grey eyes lurks the shadow of madness, of chaos awaiting release, the most mesmerizing feature of the one called Ilaról'silarná. Ash-blond hair frames his finely chiseled features as it cascades past his shoulders, an aquiline nose and high cheekbones conveying an exotic beauty upon the youth. Unkempt bangs fall before clouded eyes, obscuring his vision momentarily before being idly swept to one side. Emphasizing his youthful appearance, his cheeks remain smooth and clean shaven.

Pallid skin stretches over his slender, gaunt frame, as fair as finest porcelain and susceptible to being burnt by harsh sunlight. Lean muscles ripple beneath the skin, overlaying his broad shoulders and coiling around each limb, belying any illusions of weakness. Tapering into a slim waist before ending in long shapely legs, his figure is athletic and attractive, even beautiful. Inked onto his stomach is a tattoo of a full moon, its silver face obscured by dark mist and marked with a pair of gorgeous green eyes, thickly lashed and feminine. The tattoo remains a symbol of his union with Rhén’áelin, binding him to her no matter where his feet may lead him, her eyes always upon him.

With a mass of scars on his back, long and crisscrossing, his ethereal beauty is marred, the memory of the whip forever etched into his flesh. Bite marks are evident upon his neck and wrists, where sharp fangs have sunk into his skin for the sweet nectar that is his blood.

Clothing: Draped about his shoulders is a long, flowing cloak, its hood often cast over his head to avoid the cursed sun, bane for one with so fair a complexion. Thick and woolen, the dark green cloak protects its wearer from foul weather. Upon its back are the symbols of his trade, a hammer and pair of tongs stitched in silver. His torso and arms are left bare, the tattoo on his stomach in full view. Sea-green breeches cover his legs to the knees, the light fabric held together with fish-bone pins. Lines of a paler green are dyed throughout the fabric, resulting in breeches that resemble a calm sea reflecting bright sunlight. Extending to his ankles, his leather boots are dyed green to match the cloak.

An intricate silver chain hangs around his neck from which descends an emerald ring, far too small to be worn by a man, its band crafted of silver. Etched inside of the band is a single word “lýth” or love in Styrásh. Believed to be blessed by Baveras, the ring was returned to Rhén’áelin by the sea, cast ashore along with her love Ilaról'silarná.

Personality: In a way life began for Ilaról'silarná only seven years ago. It was then that the long night began, an unending nightmare of being a slave, the shock of which robbed him of his memory, his past. He knows nothing of his tribe, not even their name. His memories begin at the first moment he awoke among the Chyrakisth orcs, not knowing even how he came to be enslaved by them. A longing to learn about his people lurks within his mind as he seeks out others that resemble him, hoping they hail from the same tribe and know something of his heritage.

The memories are not lost to him, only buried deep within the recesses of his mind. They haunt his every dream, causing him to toss and turn as his mind relives the memories it cannot recall, his lips voicing the words once spoken. It could be said that Mari, the Goddess of Dreams, punishes Ilaról'silarná for his past worship of the Unspoken, but then the knowledge of both gods has long since left him. Fading in the moment of waking, the dreams remain only a blur of the memories they once were, elusive thoughts that seem to shimmer seductively along the outer edges of his awareness.

Enslavement left Ilaról'silarná with more than scars marring his flesh. Madness has left its mark upon his mind as it pervades nearly every thought, coloring his remarks with eccentricity at best and insanity at worst. He hears the voices of the orcs, his former tormenters, in his head and responds with fear and submissiveness. Most of all he hears the voice of his love Rhén’áelin and speaks to his ring as though he were talking to her.

Fear once ruled his life. And there are events that trigger that flight response in him once more. At the slightest hint of violence he ducks for cover, cowering in fear and refusing to come out until he is assured that the danger is past. His every word is meek during any confrontation, seeking to please everyone, whatever it takes to end the conflict. Akin to his fear of violence is his apprehension of bloodshed. The very sight of blood is enough for him to shriek in terror, frantically trying to cover his neck and wrists. Whether reacting to violence or bloodshed, his mind flashes back to the nightmare of enslavement and loses its grip on the present moment.

Love for his beautiful savior Rhén’áelin burns within his breast, an inferno of passion fueling his every desire for her presence, for her touch. When he speaks to his ring, his mood lightens as though she were truly there with him. His happiness borders on ecstasy then, overwhelming all other emotions as a smile brighter than the morning sun illuminates his face. But there is a darker side to his love, one where his longing for her becomes despair due to being parted from her. He blames himself for their parting, never her, and abuses himself verbally to no end, cursing himself for leaving her embrace.

One aspect of his personality remains beyond his control. It was not out of the kindness of their hearts that the orcs released him. They left him marked by their foul drugs and witchcraft, intending to use him as their unwilling and unknowing spy among the other races. Ilaról'silarná is chronically afflicted with impulses that he cannot predict, explain, or control. Often enough the impulses seem explainable by common sense, such as ones to explore or inquire of strangers he meets. But there are times when neither rhyme nor reason applies. It is when he is under the influence of the impulses that Ilaról'silarná seems the most sane, his insanity momentarily overridden by the subliminal commands of the orcs.

Strengths:
- Talented and skilled, Ilaról'silarná remains an adept silversmith. The body remembers even what the mind has forgotten, and his fingers recall crafting the silver into works of art. His craft was further reinforced by his years among the Sanhorrhim, learning from his love.

- Accustomed to darkness from his years as a slave, his eyes see well in the darkness and need only the slightest light to see.

- From years of smithing he possesses a strength unexpected from one with so slender and gaunt a frame.

- Driven by his love for Rhén’áelin, he will do anything to reconcile himself with her. Only when speaking of her does he become bold, passion filling his voice.

Weaknesses:
- Susceptible to sunlight, his skin is easily burned. Likewise, he has trouble seeing in full daylight.

- Remembering little of his homeland and knowing even less about Santharia, Ilaról'silarná does not know the landscape around him and is a stranger in nearly any land.

- Unaware of his heritage, he is gullible for anyone claiming to have knowledge of his native tribe, even more so for those that resemble him.

- Appearing to be mad, rightfully so, few choose to approach Ilaról'silarná, much less offer him aid. And whenever compassion is displayed toward him, he rarely chooses to accept it. Even worse are those that react to his apparent insanity with hostility.

- Fear holds an everlasting grip on his heart. Running from all confrontations, he is easily overcome by others, both physically and verbally. In particular he fears violence and bloodshed, cowering in fear from the first and even shrieking in terror due to the second.

- As despair darkens his mind at being parted from his love, Ilaról'silarná becomes a miserable creature, interested only in insulting himself and his own misery.

- The impulses induced by the drugs and witchcraft of the orcs leaves his behavior unpredictable at best. And once under their influence he cares for little else, even the needs of his own body.

History: He lived in darkness, an eternal night from which there was no reprieve. Nightmares had come to life in the form of towering brutes, vicious creatures that delighted in the agony of others. They surrounded him now, laughing at each bloodcurdling scream to escape his lips, their fangs and claws sinking deep into his delicate flesh. He knew they robbed him of life-sustaining blood, those barbarians that had taken nearly all from him, even his name and past. Flashes of the life before this unending nightmare haunted his dreams, vivid memories lost in the moment of waking. The world around him mercifully faded to black as his eyes closed, his mind consumed with dreams of the man he once was.

Garbed in black, he stood before his people, a lone figure isolated by his very beliefs. Vehemently he preached of worshiping the Unspoken, husband to Mari and creator of the world. Only in darkness, in nothingness, could they escape the World of Exile, or so he preached. But his sermon fell on deafened ears and on hearts devout to the worship of Mari. A false prophet and sinner they proclaimed him, and by throwing stones they spoke of their desire that he depart from them. With only faith to sustain his strength he embarked upon his exile, aimlessly wandering as his feet steadily carried him out of the Nightvalleys, his home.

Hunger consumed his body as doubt claimed his mind. Faith remained his sole companion as he cast his gaze skyward, seeking salvation from his god. But the Unspoken deals not in the plight of mortals, and his pleas were carried on the wind into nothingness. Only the one he had forsaken, Mari, remained to aid him, and he fought sleep to avoid the dreams that would undoubtedly carry her presence. Fatigue and hunger weakened him as delusions maddened him. Guttural voices went unheard as demonic creatures surrounded him, his eyes unseeing as their claws dug into soft flesh. His lips uttered only prayers as his body was dragged behind them, condemned to a life of slavery.

Agony bloomed in every wound upon his body, his skin punctured from cruelly sharp fangs, as his eyes slowly opened. With a glance around him Ilaról’silarná took in his dismal surroundings, his eyes accustomed to the darkness in which his nightmare thrived. Each movement jingled the chain connecting the steel collar around his neck to a stake driven into the ground, the sound grating on his ears. Surrounding him were other slaves similarly chained and as pitifully garbed in nothing but the remnants of their once fine clothing. He trembled in fear as his gaze rose to meet eyes of red, pitifully cowering in the instant required for an armored fist to descend upon the back of his head. Darkness mercifully claimed him once more.

Religious fervor filled the voice of the priest as he preached about what it meant to worship Mari as a member of the Cult of Moth. Among the audience sat one youth, finally old enough to attend at the age of sixteen, his eyes alight with passion. The words of the priest were echoed within his own soul as he realized his true calling, to serve Mari as he sought enlightenment. Aligned with the Cult of Moth as his family was, it was expected of him that he would join their ranks. In particular he was expected to work under the Master of Iron within the cult’s workshops, perfecting his craft as he honored Mari with his creations.

As an oak he grew, thriving on the teachings of the cult, his faith rooted deeply within his very identity. Every night of the full moon he would attend the sermon of his cult, augmenting his faith with the words of the priests. But every other night he worshiped Mari simply by dreaming, by allowing her presence to fill his soul as he abandoned the World of Exile if only for a night at a time. It was with his creations that he honored the goddess most, his hands crafting wonders of silver, intricate necklaces and fine rings, each a work of art in its own right. With talent evident in each piece of silver, he was a rising star within the cult.

Doubt entered even into the most faithful of souls as he pored over “The Sermons of Mari”, finding within each verse evidence of the Unspoken, dark husband to Mari embodied in nothingness. Heresy entered his thoughts then, thoughts of enlightenment being attainable only by denying the World of Exile much as the Unspoken denies his very existence. With each new verse read of the sermons, the greater his doubt in the goddess grew and the stronger his newfound faith in the Unspoken became. The sermons of the priests began to fell on deafened ears as his very demeanor changed, to the point that he began to dress in all black to honor the Unspoken.

Silently he toiled to smith the armor of the orcs, his gaze grimly fixated upon the horizon in search of the sun that seemed absent from this world of darkness. It vexed him to waste his skill with armor, to corrupt his craft with anything so grotesque, but it was better than the life of a miner. Here at least he could cling to hope whereas only death would find him in the perilous mines. With disdain he gazed upon the slaves forging weapons, creations with only one purpose, that of destruction. Accustomed to death though he was, Ilaról’silarná had no desire to have any part in it, taking comfort in the knowledge that his creations, the armor, could not be used to kill. Memories of crafting fine pieces of silver had long since fled his mind, but his fingers remembered, longing to once again smith silver into works of art. Slowly his eyes closed, his body swaying as he lightly dozed on his feet, fatigue claiming him once again no matter how valiantly he fought sleep.

Diligently the boy ran errands for his father, learning the trade of a silversmith. As a lesser noble family they were renowned for their works of silver, crafting pieces of jewelry for nearly the entire tribe. For generation after generation dating back to the time of Menemronn the men of the family have been silversmiths, their very techniques becoming family secrets. The boy’s dreams were nothing short of grand, of becoming the greatest of them all, his very creations earning him the fame he craved. But for now he could only run errands, watching as his father handled the silver he longed to craft.

Finally he came of age to work as an apprentice for his father, lovingly crafting each piece of silver with an artistic vision of the beauty held within. The hammer with which he forged the silver became an extension of his body, each stroke falling with a ding that seemed like music to his ears. Hours of smithing in the workshop shaped his budding body with lean muscles as his father instilled in him a work ethic passed down through the generations. He loved only the silver and his craft, possessing only a vague awareness of the goddess his people so vehemently worshiped.

With the crack of a whip his mind snapped to awareness, the agony a cruel reminder that he yet lived. Quickly his hands raced to resume smithing, yet the whipping continued, each cry to escape his lips only encouraging the sadistic orc. After what seemed to be an eternity of pain, he was left to continue his work. His mind found refuge in the routine of smithing, long hours passing quickly as his hands worked of their own accord. But reality could not be denied forever as Ilaról’silarná was herded with the rest of the slaves to receive the gruel that passed as their food. Despair weighed upon his soul, and hope was nothing more than a glimmer of light, forever lost in this darkness. And it was darkness that found him as his eyelids succumbed to the weariness heavy upon his mind, leaning back against a tree as his head slumped forward.

Pain greeted his awakening as his nearly lifeless body was dragged along the ground, a grip like iron holding him by his long tangled locks. A towering inferno robbed him of his sight as his ears were assailed by voices chanting a language foreign to him. With chains of iron Ilaról’silarná was bound to a tree, his head held back as a foul concoction was forced down his throat. Fire was all he could see as voices echoed in his head, whispering of his purpose in this world. Even with his eyes closed the fire remained, the sight of it burned into his vision. The chains seemed weightless as his body went limp, numb to the sensations overwhelming it.

Sunlight bathed his battered body as Ilaról’silarná slowly stirred, squinting in the bright light after years of darkness. Long had he yearned to look upon the sun once more, but now it burned his flesh and seared his eyes, its light harsh to one accustomed to night. As one lost he wandered, stumbling through a foreign landscape as he sought to evade the sun. In a nearby village he stole a hooded cloak, wrapping it around himself as he continued on, his feet unerringly carrying him closer to the sea though he knew it not. The needs of his body went unheeded as he ingested only enough food and water to survive. A gaunt, nearly skeletal figure stumbled onto the docks of the closest port a few weeks later, wordlessly offering his fare to the captain of a merchant vessel. Vaguely he recalled begging for that very silver, his thoughts focused only on his need to cross the sea.

Tossing and turning the ship was cast about on the waves, at the mercy of the sea as a lone passenger tossed and turned below decks. Storm clouds engulfed the evening sky, swallowing the failing light of the sun. Rain hammered down onto the deck of the ship as towering waves slammed against its mast. The shouts of the sailors were lost to the wind as it howled its fury, yet the sleeper awoke not, his mind enthralled to disturbing nightmares of violence and bloodshed. Hellish screams echoed above the howling of the storm, drowning out all else as the wind fell silent as if in fear. The air sizzled as a bolt of lightning struck the mast, thunder booming only a second later.

Dark clouds obscured the night sky, pierced only by the light of a silver moon as slender fingers dipped into the frothy waves. A merry laugh arose from rosy lips as the tide caressed dainty ankles. Emerald eyes opened wide in shock as her questing fingers found not the jewelry she was searching for but a head of hair instead. With a strength surprising for her slender frame, the elf heaved the nearly lifeless body out of the sea, bending over him and locking her lips to his as she breathed for him. The worry evident in each line of her face slowly faded as his eyes opened, pale grey orbs she found herself lost within.

Two years the wayward silversmith lived among the Sanhorrhim elves, perfecting his craft under the tutelage of his love, Rhén’áelin, the one to whom he owed his life. The long night seemed to finally be at an end, the nightmare of living enslaved to the Chyrakisth orcs receding into the far recesses of his mind. His talent blossomed as it never had before, surpassing all past creations as his artworks earned him prestige among the tribe. They gave him a home, a life, and a name, Ilaról’silarná for the silver moon he was discovered beneath. But darkness crept back into his life as he set out one night, a lone figure illuminated only by the moon, driven by the need to explore though he knew not why.

Belongings: Within a leather pack Ilaról'silarná carries all his possessions in this world. First and foremost are the tools of his trade, namely a lightweight hammer and pair of tongs. Rations for traveling are included within the pack along with a canteen of water. Flint and tinder are there as well, useful for starting fires on cold nights. An assortment of sans, copperbards, and silverbards are kept in a small bag on his belt, the profit from recent sales of his creations.