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The Dying Breed
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- May 26, 2008
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[Full Name]: Malchoir Thalameiha
[Age]: 27
[Height]: 5'10"; 6'0" in Armor
[Weight]: 206
[Appearance]: Malchoir is a handsome individual, and rightly so after being raised in a noble family in Valus for years. If he had not had the looks of a noble he would have been sent off to be a farm worker. He has light blond hair that hangs loosely about his face in strands, helping to shape his well defined features. There's always a thin smile set on his usually pale lips that belies a small hint of mischief. When talking to Malchoir, it is almost impossible not to stare at his eyes at least once during the exchange, the dark violet colors a very bewitching shade that has earned the nickname "The Jewels of Valus" by those noble families he grew up with. While in town he wears finely woven silk tunics, and matching trousers to go with them, a pair of leather shoes to accompany that or if he's out in the stables grooming his horses or in the Paladin's Smith repairing his armor he will opt for a less pricey, more modest tunic of any color. Underneath all of his clothing is a well toned body of a Soldier. Fighting as he does in near full plate builds his body's muscles tough and strengthens them to a degree that he's quite adept in any physical means.
When on active duty as an acting Paladin Sergeant he dons what most other Paladins do for battle, their suits of full plate armor. However, Malchoir has a unique preference most people do not understand. Due to the nature of his fighting style, Malchoir has stripped down the standard Paladin's Plate into something others might consider half-plate, getting rid of any excess layers of plate armor, removing the heavy paldrons altogether, and even completely modifying his boots so they're more comfortable to run in. Thanks to all of his changes, his total load of armor is reduced drastically in comparison to any of the others on the battlefield, his speed and reflexive agility a few cuts above everyone else. A few personal touches of Malchoirs are the golden designs he etched into them himself after he had been promoted to Sergeant; it helpa signify his rank.
All those changes come thanks to his weapon preference. His choice weapons are even hard to call weapons. They are shields of his own make and design, adopting the shape of a much smaller tower shield. They're a bit thinner than the normal Paladin shields to make them easier to swing. The edges have been sharpened much like they would a claymore blade, and when in combat these 'weapons' are attached to the top of his bracers very much like a pair of Katars are handled. He prefers to take "defense is the best offense" to a new level, relying on his ability with his own weapons to act as his guard than his actual armor. On his belt, for when his shields aren't in reach, he carries a one-handed longsword.
After his ordeal in Valus, his armor has seemed to have lost the normal shine and polish it used to have. Almost as if with his betrayal it too had something stolen from it.
[Personality]: Malchoir usually has a pretty cheery disposition, a kind smile on his features. He can be described as a great host at parties, and an even better friend to go out drinking with. He's often very nice, considerate, and always worrying about others as he thinks his god wants him to take care of everyone else being a Paladin, a living extension of his god. He doesn't look at someone any less for being in a different family class than his own.
After a battle, though he's often seen in a melancholy state, praying for those lives lost and taken in battle. Malchoir very rarely holds hatred for anyone or anything, and so believes everyone deserves a chance at peace in the afterlife, even if his god is not their god, he prays for them nonetheless, as he believes it's the right thing to do.
If you haven't guessed already, Malchoir has a very firm belief in his religion, and would very obviously die for it. In the most recent times, though he finds himself questioning it, and almost up to the point he wishes to abandon it.
[History]:Spoiler: click to toggle Malchoir probably had one of the best childhoods one could ever wish for. Both his parents were kind, generous, and loving towards their only son. Everyday was filled with fun activities such as horseback riding in the countryside, sword practice with his father, and even cooking in the kitchen with his mother. There was not a single thing in the world he could wish to have changed. His life continued on fantastically as the years passed, growing up inside the protected world of Valus. By the age of fifteen he had shown interest in metalworking, and while studying his religion fanatically, he was noticed by one of the High Priests as a 'Blessed Child', one that had been touched by 'God's Hand'. After having spoken with his parents he had been taken into God's Blade, the Paladin Army of Valus. After a few years of training, at the age of seventeen, and showing much talent in the areas of combat, he was made a full-fledged Paladin for his efforts and unwavering belief. His first few battles had gone as most had thought they would. On the battlefield first as a Halberdmen he proved to be very apt no matter where his Sergeant had sent him, but he had a habit of trying to move around too much out of the formation causing him to tire long before the battle would ever end. He had discovered that he didn't like the weight the full plate forced onto him, and even after discovering how light it was compared to how it looked he still didn't grow fond of it, but nonetheless he held true and continued on fighting it in for his country. One battle, when he was twenty, they had entered to aid Belmoth in from attacking mercenaries, Malchoir's unit had taken a heavy blow getting caught in a hail of catapult fire. Amidst the chaos he had lost his halberd, and was left with just his tower shield. Nearby was another one of his fallenmate's shield, and so, figuring something was better than nothing, he picked up the second one too. It was in that battle that he had discovered his own fighting style, and it was also in that battle he had earned recognition for being unusually brave in the face imminent death. As a few months of peace passed after that battle, he had received notice that he was being promoted to Sergeant, and was being given his own platoon of Paladins. With that promotion came Officer training, and a few more months passed, his turning twenty-one during that time. While being trained to act as a field commander he spent time modifying his Paladin's armor more to his tastes, trimming down the excess layers of plate, and more bulky parts of the armor for a lighter, more sleek version; in addition to his more physical mods came a few smaller more cosmetic details along with them. After he had finished with his armor he moved onto developing his own shields, test fighting with them when they were put into combat against others. Most laughed, but it was soon proven that he found something that worked for him. As that year was coming to an end, he met a young lady that he soon fell in love with, and even sooner married. Under the watch of God, he felt that his marriage would last forever with his Love, that it was unbreakable, and because of that he would return to her every time he marched for battle, and that she would remain faithful despite how long he was gone for. It all held true. His service continued on for several more years until his current age of twenty-seven. At this point he was considered one of the most respected Paladins in the God's Blade army, known for his prowess and aggressive style of defense. In most recent times Malchoir and several other units of Paladins were out marching on orders of the Pope to slay those near Valus territory that didn't follow their beliefs. They were told it was the will of God, and that was enough reason to follow orders, but after they had gone through a few towns and villages, Malchoir was starting to question why they were doing this. It didn't feel right, not something that his god would want them to do. He started to question whether or not his god was right, but he kept it to himself, for if word got out he would be executed for heresy. After the army had returned from their 'cleansing' he sat down with his wife one night and told her that he was questioning his beliefs. She found it troubling, but comforted him, and they never spoke of it again. However, his wife Alison started to act odd, and eventually she confessed to having told the authorities about Malchoir's heretic thoughts. There was no fight, there was no yelling or hitting, just a quiet affirmation that his heart and trust had been shattered as he left in silence, leaving his wife without a single word. Malchoir now knew his fate, that he was to be executed and exiled to eternal damnation when he passed. He also knew that his own men wouldn't let such a thing stand without raising word against it, but if they did, then they too would be in trouble. It was dusk by the time he had rounded up his whole platoon in one of the massive horse barns where they kept the horses for war. The air was heavy, and with one look around you could tell news had reached their ears of what had happened. Malchoir explained it to them anyway, leaving out the detail that his wife had been the one to rat him out, he didn't want her dead. He had questioned his faith, and thus he should pay for it. Giving his men one last order to leave this matter alone and let him accept his punishment, he left them to wait for the Valus City Guard at the City's central square to come and arrest him. - Author's Notes
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Now when I had come up with his concept, I won't lie, I got teary eyed at the mere thought of how it all turned out. I'm going to try and get the exact same feelings I got when I thought it up for those of you reading. So, hopefully you'll get the full experience~ <>====::~::====<>Malchoir Thalameiha had been dragged to the Valus Prison, left to sit in a small, stone, ten by ten cell until he was brought out to be publically executed. The cell he rested in was utterly dark, the only small source of light was that of a dim glow entering from a small viewing slit in the door, the torch somewhere near his cell. It did nothing but cast an even more dreary shadow upon the Heretic in his cell. There was not a single sound except that of his own breathing, and the occasional guardsmen, but those were rare. It seemed to be one of those times too as the Heretic listened to the sound of metal boots on stone approaching his cell. Perhaps his execution had been pushed forward. It would only mean a swifter death for him, and an even sooner start to his eternal torture in the afterlife, the punishment of fate he had accepted.
The footfalls had grown close, and just when he was sure they were outside his cell did they stop, the dim glow being blocked. A rap of a gauntlet covered hand came on the door. Nothing happened, Malchoir didn't acknowledge it. Another came, this time more sharp. Nothing. Then a third time, and a huff followed.
"Holy Lord, Sarge. If you're going to be such a mopey pain-in-the-ass perhaps we shouldn't be breaking you out."
The Heretic looked up to see the visor of a Paladin's helmet looking back at him, not the normal prison guard. He blinked a few times, trying to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. There wasn't time for him to respond as the jingling of keys echoed off the stone, and the cell's door opened up.
"C'mon, Sarge, no time to waste. We have a very tiny window to get you out of here."
"You shouldn't be doing this, Allen...I told you not to..."
The Paladin helped Malchoir to his feet, aiding him with one arm, and almost pushing him down the hall in haste.
"It's called dynamic judgement, Sarge. We are allowed to overturn our surperior's orders if we find them unfit. Well, we think your orders were complete bullshit," The armor shifted a bit in what could have been a shrug as they continued to move, "So we're doing what we think is best."
It was hard to tell what was going through the mind of the betrayed man as he was practically carried up a set of spiral stairs by his former second-in-command. They burst through a pair of doors, the rest of the platoon waiting in full armor, five of which were on horses, a spare horse probably meant for the Heretic.
He didn't deserve to live. He questioned his god's wishes, and that, even to him, was unforgivable.
The Paladin who had been named Allen straightened out the ragged looking prisoner, patting him on a cheek with a cold metal gauntlet.
"Hey, get a hold of yourself," Nothing had been said by any of the others as they witnessed the poor state of their Sergeant, but despite it a pair of them had approached with two large bags, each containing pieces of armor the Heretic would find familiar, and started putting it on him while Allen spoke, "Listen to me, Sarge. I don't know what you're going through, I don't, but I know that you would never defy God. Never. Whatever it is that's eating away at you, whatever that has brought this charge down upon your head isn't because of God. I can't even explain how I know this, but I do. I do because I believe in your faith, and your loyalty to God."
The whole platoon gave silent nods of respect and agreeance. Allen moved away as to allow the two gearing up the demoralized solider to attach his breastplate. It took only a few more minutes until he was fully armored, his helmet resting in the hands of Allen.
"We wouldn't be doing this if we did not think you were right in your beliefs. We want you to live, to get away from here until we find out what's really going on."
For once, during this whole thing, the Heretic looked up to Allen, tears welling in his eyes as he looked around at all of his Paladins. They had such a steadfast belief in him, even with him being branded a heretic to their country. They remained loyal.
"My God..." The Heretic started, "My God..." He was praying, trying to find that belief again, that same strong belief that had kept him fighting for all those years, but he found nothing.
"You'll find your way again, Malchoir, but you can't do it if you're dead."
The five horsemen rode over, one leading the extra horse, and presenting the reigns when he got close.
"Come on Sergeant, we're getting you outta here."
"No, you're not," It was a low, echoing voice, it was a voice of a Paladin, but not just any Paladin. The large man came into view, his large, eagle-marked armor making him unmistakable, "You all are comitting heresy for aiding this pathetic heretic."
It was the High Commander of the Holy Blade and the Pope's personal Guard Captain, Leonardo Bazellin himself. It wasn't long before the sounds of footfalls filled the courtyard, red-clothed Paladins surrounding the platoon. This was the Pope's Honor Guard, the Holy Shield Unit.
The small twenty-five man platoon watched as they were closed in, each taking up a defensive stance, many with hands resting on their weapons.
Allen started to speak, but was cut off by the Commander, "You do not get to speak while in my presence. God has determined you as unfaithful. He has sent those still pure to rid this world of you."
The Heretics eyed widened. They were going to kill them all. Clinching his eyes in prayer was all that he could do. He didn't want his comrades to do this. It was an order, and yet here they were, all ready to take up arms against the Pope's Guards to prove that they thought their Sergeant was in the right.
Then it happened. Like some barrier had finally been broken. Malchoir rose his head up, opening his eyes, and setting them upon the High Commander.
"Allen, My Helmet." He extended a hand for the piece of armor which the Second-in-command handed off with a smile underneath his visor. Setting the metal down on top of his face, he fastened it, completeing his full suit, eyes never once leaving the direction of the Commander, "High Commander Bazellin, I do believe I am wrong, questioning our Lord's will, and I never thought in my life I could do such a thing, but there is no way God would have had us kill all those people! God wouldn't have made us force our religion onto them, and he wouldn't certainly have these men who have served him so faithfully executed!" He wasn't so much yelling as he was projecting his voice as to allow every Paladin in the courtyard to hear him.
The High Commander let out an echoing laugh, "You do not understand God, boy. You do not work with the man who has seen God and who lays unto us his bidding. You speak heresy, and it's time we slienced that mouth."
It was that moment Malchoir knew what was going to happen, there was a tension in everyone there. One of Malchoir's Paladin's reached down into a bag at his feet and pulled out something that would be a sight for sore eyes.
"Sergeant, catch!" The Paladin underhanded the two shields to his Superior who caught them with practiced skill. As it happened the Holy Shield charged in weapons raised. The Paladin who had thrown the shields was the first to get hit, a halberd being rammed into his back, cutting through his armor like a can opener. Everyone drew, platoon fighting against unit. A red-garbed Paladin rose his claymore to cut Allen down as he was pulled into a grapple by another Holy Shield, and on instinct alone, Malchoir wheeled his shield backwards and caught the attacker with the broad side of one of his shields, knocking him onto his back. That was quickly followed by a spin, raising his left shield to clobber another attacker in the face, and then he drove his right shield into the stomach of the first downed Paladin, the shaprened tip of the shield breaking through the armor around the waist. Before Malchoir could continue fighting was he pulled away by his collar, and pushed against the horse, Allen being the one who did it. Everyone was drawn into combat, holding their own for as long as they could against the overwhelming numbers. The High Commander was slowly making his way towards the pair of Sergeant and Second.
"Sergeant, go!" Allen roared as he drove his spear through an opponent's stomach, leaving it in place and drawing his longsword, "Get out of here!"
Malchoir paused not sure what to do. There was no want to abandon his men that risked their lives to get him out, and now it was almost a sure thing that they would all die, and guranteed if he left now. The Holy Shield was closing in, more than half the platoon now dead at their feet as they advanced. Such a horror-filled sight to behold. Those you considered brothers, family dying in front of you, dropping like flies to a swatter.
"Paladins! Clear a path!"
The order resonated through the courtyard, Allen's powerful voice easily carrying it throughout. The five or six remaining Paladins to the platoon all some how waded out of the clash with the Holy Shield and drove all their attention to those blocking off the gate. Allen led the attack, and in a formation shaped like an arrow they plowed through the gate guards, killing at least ten of the Holy Shield, but losing three of their own in the process.
They say when a Paladin's belief in their god peaks that they're granted a boon, a gift from God to help them be truimphant in battle. Well, the remaining Paladin's of the platoon certainly were showing their belief as a sparce four men held off an entire Honor Guard unit.
The gates were wide open, Malchoir had his chance, and he would not let his men's lives go to waste. If they died trying to give him a second chance he would live it and honor them in doing so. Swinging one leg up and over, he mounted the horse, rigging his shields to the saddle and whipped it with the reigns. The horse jolted forward, Malchoir catching a glance from Allen to which he could just nod, and whisper the words 'Thank you'.
The High Commander was shouting for someone to stop the rider as he galloped out of the prison, and towards the city's exit. Malchoir could only listen to the sounds of battle as they slowly faded, but not because of his gaining distance, but rather one side had won. Their was a heavy feeling weighing down upon him as he continued to thunder down the cobblestone streets. The night sentries were caught off guard as he rocketed by and couldn't do anything. If he stayed ahead of their communication he would be able to escape, and even if he didn't they would be dealing with one pissed off heretic.
The gates to Valus' countryside were wide open, and suddenly he was driven into a flashback of when he went horseback riding with his Grandpa one afternoon. He was quickly snapped out of it as the shouting of guardsmen filled his ears. Nothing would stop him, he would get out, but the only difference now is that there was no lush green hills for him to ride through, no spending hours fishing on the banks of the same small lake they always went to. Now...now there was nothing....just a second chance that would be wasted in Valus.
The gates were in sight, the large steel and wooden structure slowly closing. Malchoir pushed the horse as hard as it could go with the mass of flesh and steel riding on top of it. It would be close. They closed in on it, and in an instant that made it feel like time froze, Malchoir passed under it, the metals tips of the gate scrapping across the backside of his helmet.
"Dear, God, watch over my comrades even if you will not watch over me. Protect their souls when I couldn't. I'm sorry I have strayed from your path of goodness, but I promise to find my way back."<>====::~::====<>Malchoir rode out of the heart of Valus, riding for two days straight to reach the fortress town of Muro. The chance to escape that town and out of Valus presented itself in the form of a merchant looking for a hired escort. Working out a deal with the Merchant, he was snuck out in the goods the merchant was moving, and when they made past security, and out of Muro's main gate, Malchoir did his job in exchang for getting out. The Heretic now wanders around in Gellieith, where the Merchant had ended back up, searching for something to renew his faith in his god and for something to mend his shattered heart. Rumors of a rogue Paladin travel around constantly, causing Malchoir to move rather often as to prevent a Valus party from finding him.
Edited by Wolfy, Sep 30 2008, 12:35 PM.
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