"-- He'll blacken the sky on wings, so high,
Bite and burn, he'll chop and slice
Drag you back to a pile of gold,
And eat you up whole."
'- Drakesong, ancient Orisian folk-poem'
'And loathe those beasts as nothing more than slaves to their own insipid avarice and predatory, ruinous cunning. To mistake any of their kith and kin as noble or regal is to bring a fool's glory to one of natures cruellest creations-'
'On Draconids, and other such beasts' - Controversial Versillian biologist, Kó Gesellian
Name: Gabriel Sæth
Pronunciation: GAE-BREE-ELL SEH-EEAH-THE
Monikers/Titles/Aliases: Lord of Blackrock (Former), Knight-Brother of The Black Heart (Former), Slayer, Monster of Orisia, Half-Wyrm, Gabe
Allegiances/Factions: Order of The Black Heart (Former)
Faction Rank: Brother-Knight (Former)
Religion: La'Ruta (The Path)
Culture: Orisian (Versillan)
Birthplace: Orisia, La Cierra
Date of birth: 18,573 WTA
Height: 309 cm, 10ft, 2in, 3.09m
Weight: 750lbs, 340kg, 54st
Hair-colour: Dark Blond
Physical Description: Becoming, were it not for his calling in life. His face is that of a marble statue, and as though a mason has become malcontent with his work, and set about ruining it with gauges from his hammer and chisel. Even still, there are faint vestiges of attractiveness to his likeness. He has inherited his father's cold, austere features and expression, yet his eyes hold the loving warmth of his mother, undiminished by his years of hardship. His reminiscence of the romanticised poems and tales of young knights saving young princesses and women in need have been shattered by clefts and scars across his swarthy flesh. Upon his ascension, his visage is enthralling to behold, an unnatural appeal borne from an unnatural transformation. His hair is shaved down to to a faint brown fuzz.
Weathered, faint tattoos cover the canvas of his flesh. Great lines of intricately wrought and tapered lines flowing across his limbs and chest. Possessing a physique beyond the ken of human limitation, Gabriel is a tower of hulking musculature barely hidden beneath a garb of dark flesh.
Grievous pockets of raised flesh cover his body -- things that look so severe no man should have withstood them. Where the volatile breath of a serpent has met flesh, the entirety of his left arm and most of his torso are a riddled mesh of ruined, pitted flesh.
Even as a man, Gabriel exuded the martial virtues and ideals that quantified and defined the protectorate knights of Orisia long before his ascension, and even now he exudes these virtues as though he was a paragon of the credence and ethics set down by the oaths taken by these stalwart, brave warriors. But, it has long since faded into distant, foggy memory for the him -- now where the man would have seen opportunities to bring honour to his matriarch and defend those he swore to when taking the mantle of knight, he simply sees an opportunity to further test himself against an anvil of conflict, to be made or broken over and over. It is this that keeps him 'aloft', without this he would surely spiral into further mental atrophy and eventual decay. He does not slay the weak or helpless, but this is no longer out of a sense of duty and humility for those persons, it is simple disinterest, and, 'fortunate happenstance' that he helps those in need at all. That is not to say that the man is cruel or hateful of others, it is simply rare for him to find something or someone interesting unless they are attempting to kill him, and, give him an opportunity to further sharpen his skills.
But if Gabriel's 'true' empathy towards others has disappeared, his sense of duty has not. Prescribed in court as possessing a 'Dog's loyalty', the man takes personal promises and vows of allegiance very seriously. As stubborn as an ox when it comes to fulfilling any and all tasks set before him, he rarely if ever disappoints those who somehow manage to get the man to work for them.
Yet he does feel some kind of love towards those he knew and cherished before his transmutation -- yet what used to be a pure love quickly became corrupted into a possessive greed, and realising this, the man has left them well enough alone, or severed ties with them entirely, denoting some sense of kindness still breaths in him yet, however he might try and deny it.
But to say that the man has a sense of honour at all is at best, misinformed, and at worst, foolish.
As with his ingestion of Wrymsblood, Gabriel has felt the insatiable need to enforce his will upon everything around him. What is worse still, is how effective he is at truly doing it -- anyone would be hard-pressed to resist the warrior's palpable aura of dominion and strength, to control and hold complete and total domination of those around him.
And as of late, the warrior has been taken of significant interest in the gold. Unable to truly rationalise or understand as to why he finds the opulent so enthralling, a sort of feverish, maddened haze overcomes the warrior when presented with large sums of anything that glimmers, especially gold.
The Transfusion: To partake upon the rapturous anodyne of the Drake's own essence -- a boon, taking the fleeting whispers of a man's withered, faint physiology and to elevate it higher, beyond the comprehensions of mortality and weakness. The blood of dragons, the ichorous-royalty of the Great-Serpent, forever coveted by man, this yearning for the power of the Wyrm spurred on by man's morality. And with those that sought, so too did the desire die. To speak of it now is anathema, and assured death. No Dragon would sit idle as a creature as debased and lesser as man sought enviously sought that which it held most precious; the golden life flowing through it's veins -- as such, the mere utterance of the wanton need to partake of the beasts's claret brings ruination upon them and their lands. Kings have had their holdings burned, entire civilisations wiped from memory by a rueful monster, to quell the envious appetite of man.
Gabriel has committed the ultimate sin against Drake-kind. He has partook of ancient curor, and forever changed himself. The metamorphosis was not an easy, passing thing. It was agony, as the frailty of his own being was ripped from him; changed and mutated, broken and remoulded into something greater.
With the imbibing of a Dragon's essence into himself, Gabriel has achieved physical apotheosis, something far beyond the ken of humanity's own limitations. His strength is beyond measure, his reflexes churning the actions of those around him into a slow, spastic lull. Wounds knit themselves shut with a fervour that would make any mortal warrior envious , the red life-force that weeps from these rents housing a nauseating, sulfuric emanation. This elevation granted him the capacity to understand the language of the Drakes, to which he speaks fluently, with a voice as imposing as his now-half kindred. His capacity to withstand great heat and flames is otherworldly.
But it is a curse, to be baptized in blood. Middling in the strength of a true serpent of fire, he is neither ageless, nor immortal. His aging has slowed to a practical standstill, but he still ages. And as any beast, he can be felled. The beast whom he owes his ascension was ill-favored by his kin, for a man to come close to reaching their own greatness, and to achieve this upon the blood of a craven is salt upon an already dire wound.
As it is to be reforged from the yolk of a fire made flesh, Gabriel's strength is greatest during the heat of the summer. As a cruel parallel, winter invokes a great lethargy and pain to surge through him, the blood within his veins becoming envenomed by weakness and spite, churning beneath his flesh -- crippling the power he had stolen from the drake for the remainder of the season. With this, upon the emergence of a Lunar Solstice, Gabriel's powers are chastised significantly, and his body is wracked with agonising tremors , as though the very beast he had consumed is attempting to break out of him, to be born anew. Many a man and beast would be foolish to dismiss the opportunity to elevate themselves as Gabriel had done -- as such he is a literal markerlight both in the astral and physical plain, for power-hungry mages and beasts both.
Magically Null: To be born without the innate sensation of La'Ruta coursing through one's being is a great taboo within the cultures of Orisia. It is a condemnation, a perceived curse and ill-omen. Many fanatics believe that those born without the sense of The Path are disciples or even. Areder reborn. Even now, the exact cause and effect of why those born without this sense exist is unknown. Philosophers and men of the arcane quarrel and squabble over their beliefs in it's origins. It is impossible not to sense, even to those with a mundane attunement to the mystical. They simply do not exist within an Astral plane, appearing as soulless, blank entities. To many, their presence is barely noticeable, if not a peculiarity, to others it is distinctly distressing, even terrifying to be near.
Gabriel's father attributed his "deafness" to The Path upon the circumstances of his birth. Born within the ruins of La Cierra, many advised the child simply be discarded -- his condition was seen as nothing more than ruination upon his Father's noble household. These suggestions were fiercely dismissed by his mother. Try as he might, Gabriel's father could still not find a cure for the boy's condition. Bathing in holy ointments, the scrying of gateway tattoos upon his body; all in vain.
This "soullessness" does not grant one immunity from outside magical forces. They are still as susceptible to magic as any other, if not more so -- they are simply and utterly incapable of conjuring spells or intone rites of their own, and are particularly susceptible to curses and hexes.
Martial Prowess: As a man, Gabriel possessed exceptional battle-skills. Upon his ascension, these abilities were magnified exponentially. Though he cared little in the way of 'technical' skill with a blade, the man's ability to land blows with phenominal strength, precision and speed was staggering even before his transformation.
Faustian Mantle: Gabriel was not the only thing changed when he slew The Dragon. Tempered in the boiling life-force of the drake, the very plate he had clad himself in began to change. Imbued with the beasts's unrelenting fury and hatred for that which had slain him, it's alloy took on a red, glowing sheen -- becoming as tough as Dragonscale, and just as light. Likewise, his tabard was dyed a dark burgundy, only the faintest trims of it's original violet remaining. His great-helm sprouted a great crest of four horns, and the breaths that escaped his helm's grille now plumed like expelled smoke from the flaring nostril of a slumbering wyrm.
Yet the greatest change was to the armour's very being itself. Part of the Dragon's self was imprinted deep into it's material, infusing it with rage, and an unrelenting desire to kill. The suit constantly cries out for bloodshed; the once great psyche of the beast that had soaked its steel surface rendered into a mewling, thrashing madness. Broken bones are realigned by the tightening of plates, or great spikes plunge into broken bones and flesh, reknitting them. Never healing, only keeping functional. The suit's wanton desire to destroy far outweighs its concern for it's wearer.
The suit itself can drive Gabriel into a fit of madness, instilling him with an insatiable bloodlust. With each of this resignations of control, the suit's grasp upon him grows stronger, and the lingering thought of who truly wears the armour, him or the suit becomes much more commonplace.
Bearded axe: A cruel looking weapon devised for a cruel purpose. The thing's handle is threaded, cast from tempered, layered steel. It glows with the same eerie red sheen as the rest of Gabriel's equipment. The patterns inlaid by the alloys layers are a sight to behold; although the weapon has very little in the way of embelishment, the quality of both the metal and techniques used in it's forging denote a significant worth, both on the battlefield and in a lump sum of gold.
Greatsword: A blade designed with a singular purpose: fell a dragon. It's inception was met with cries of heresy, no thing so large and so rough could or should be used by a man. Taller than it's wielder, the blade is able able to split a destrier (and it's rider) in twain with a single, brutal swing. Gabriel still carries the thing out of necessity; not of it's potential use, but of it's nature. Having felled a beast as powerful as a dragon, and having drank it's blood, the thing has garnered a malignant sentience, and is bound to it's sheathe by several chains wrought from silver.