“He also had lost friends to death. He was not a man given to illusions, he knew that those things we desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while those which we would put away seem often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than an echo and shadow. In the end perhaps not even that." - Cormac McCarthy
NAME Belisarius Quintus Varro xx RACE Colovian Imperial xx GENDER Male xx TITLE Lord xx AGE 40 xx EYES Grey xx
SKIN Bronze xx HAIR Dark xx HEIGHT 6'3" xx BUILD Formidable xx
D R E A M E R
The man sleeps. And as he sleeps he dreams and the dream was that of his father. And in his dream his father was afoot and lost in the land he once called home. In the dying light of that day he could see his father’s eyes. He stood looking toward the west, from where the good men came and where the sun had fled. The wind rising out of the darkness in the east. Small patches of grass in that wasteland, that seething detritus, that once-longed-for seat of empire. His father’s eyes searched the coming night and the deepening redness of war that seemed to glow beyond the rim of the world. He watched as his father contemplated that terrible equanimity, the cold and the dark and the silence that moved upon him. And then all was dark and all was swallowed up and in the silence he heard a solitary bell that tolled away into the grim. And then he woke.
L O R D
The horse-lord they call him. Fifth son. Conqueror, Tribune, ally, friend, brother—names he knows. Titles earned. Tales are spoke of him, the glossy kind, the hateful kind: a good man, a bad man, a vagrant, a warlord, a murderer, a judge. A savior. A tyrant.
Who he is or what he is does not matter. What matters is his beloved home, his Colovia, his Empire. Who he chooses as his friends. His lovers. His enemies.
What he knows is conviction. How he lives is endurance. To dream a dream and chase it frantic to the edge of the world. There is no more stopping him than there is the rising sun.
Hate him or love him, he is a man to be respected and feared. For in the varied depth of his eyes, you see an inexplicable evocation. Some wicked confidence. As though he could will your death or loyalty by resolve of that sea-gray gaze alone. You imagine him an exalted statue, enshrined in some future time for some future deeds not yet known. And though you may wonder why, this thought of greatness rings true somewhere in your heart.
S A V I O R
The naked men yowled in drunkenness so intoxicated by their gods they believed in no enemy blade. Such men were spoken of in legends by firelight. Terror-fiends to scare the children. These barbarians of the north. And when they charged some part of you knew you would die but inwardly you welcomed it because at least you knew you would die well.
The men with their unbound hair took up their spears and swords and upon our meager Imperial line they danced. They howled as they worked themselves into their battle frenzy; that mindless ecstasy that ushers men to feats unlimited. Such men had no need of shields or clothes or armor. The gods were their protection and glory was their reward and if they succeeded in their killing then the bards would sing their victory for years to come and our bones would burn on every pyre between here and the frosted mountains. They advanced upon us and we gathered ourselves – our breath hot and white in the unforgiving air – the last gasps of broken animals ready for their slaughter.
And then the horn sounded.
It was a clear horn. A cold note like none we ever heard before. There was a purity to it, a chill hard shrill unlike nothing else on Mundus. It sounded once, then twice, and the second call gave the naked men pause and they stopped their charge and turned toward the east from whence the sound had come.
There on the a hill a new sun had risen, bright and gold in that dying day. The light slashed over the muddy pastures and blinded us and confused us but the beam slid on and the reflection of her beauty glanced from a shield polished bright as mirror glass. That shield was held by such a man as I had never seen before, a man of might, and a horde of wondrous men, plumed men, armored men, men sprung from the dreams of Reman, sent to this murderous field, and over the men’s plumed heads there floated a banner I would come to love more than any banner on all the earth. It was the banner of the horse.
The horn sounded now a third time, and suddenly I knew I would live, and I wept for joy and all our spearmen were half crying and shouting and the earth was thundering beneath our feet with the hooves of those godlike men, these thundermen, who rode to our rescue.
Lord Varro had come.
C O N Q U E R O R
I led my horse among the dead. The corpses splayed in the mud where we trampled them. Clubbed them. Split their skulls and smashed their bones and crushed their souls beneath the iron and the steel and the hooves of Colovian valor.
There was no righteous among them; no, not one. Their mouths lay open in their dying pain and, one-by-one, my men sent them to their grave. A dagger’s plunge to the underbelly of the arm, it was a simple method. The gore vomits quickly, so you must take care to keep the blood from your boots.
One of our quarry remained: a Nord, towering, stark naked in that grim light of day. In his mighty arms he held a mighty maul made of ash and my men surrounded him, breathless, yapping, like wolves upon their prey. He swung his weapon wild and my men laughed and when he missed his screams grew desperate. At last, I dismounted my horse.
My men turned to me and when they saw me marching toward them, they parted. The barbarian looked upon me and I could see in his eyes the fear welling up like liquid darkness. My boots sunk in the mud and step-by-step my armor jingled the tune of his death and he stared me down while my squire removed my bearskin cloak, and he continued staring when I drew my sword.
“A man should know when he is conquered,” I said.
His eyes went wild and he rushed me and with a roar he swung his maul, but the man was weak from the hour’s battle and it was a simple thing to catch his weapon in my hand. There I held it and the naked Nord through his warpaint glared and it was his glare that doomed him.
My iron fist crushed his nose and the sweep of my blade severed his leg and like a hamstrung horse he limped away and so upon him I descended and with my boot I held him to the ground and there I stabbed him again and again and again. I stabbed him until his blood churned hot with the soil, black and wet like paste.
Some crow cawed nearby and my men stared at me in their silence and the others whom we rescued huddled together and whispered with their eyes bright and wide.
It was in these moments that I never found it necessary for a lord to possess all the good qualities of man. Better it is to appear to have them. For no man can at all times observe the quality of good. To appear to have them, however, is useful; to appear merciful, faithful, humane, religious, upright, and to be so, but with a mind so framed that should you require not to be so, you may be able and know how to change to the opposite. That is what it means to be a lord.
Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are.
A cavalryman approached and pointed toward the dreary horizon. Down in the valley, there wobbled upon the road a caravan of carts led by merchants spooked.
I called for my horse and the mounted knights of the House of Varro attended to my cause.
“Knight Commander Lucius,” I said. “Reform the lines and prepare to charge.”
“But my Lord Varro. That is a trading convoy.”
“Sound the charge.”
T A C I T A
In the end, it was always her.
It wasn't the vow of chastity he made as a young man in service to Arkay; it wasn't the career-driven duty he fostered as an ascending legionary; it wasn't the naive manipulations of his first wife, neither was it the poison-tipped tongue of his second. In the end, it was Tacita. Tacita was his ruin and his end; the final chapter in his book, a long and tragic tale of failed relationships and broken hearts, of selfish urges and desires, of treacherous mistakes and irreparable hurt. It was Tacita who found these pieces and molded them back together. She was fierce and fire-filled in her love for him, and in his brokenness, she remade him. She knew him not as the Varro warlord, but as Quintus, the man. She brought him his ruin and his salvation. His beginning and his end. He knows how frail the memory of love can be; he knows how close he stood to utter failure, and ruined legacy. He knows that she represents his best and final chance to leave a mark on the world that will not be bathed in pain and hurt and blood. He knows that she is his gateway to a different legacy, a different memory, a different history -- a history they will write together.
I N S P I R A T I O N
Voice & Persona - Tom Hardy, Taboo, Land Negotiation Scene
Face claim - Tom Hardy, Taboo
Mounted Combat - Battle of the Coliseum, Gladiator
Dueling Combat - Hector vs. Achilles, Troy
A R T W O R K
Spoiler: Belisarius portait by syoshikodesignShow Spoiler: Tacita and Belisarius by GrumpyVivecShow
H O O K S
House Varro - As lord of House Varro, Belisarius is accessible for audience at the Varro Estate, which rests in the Colovian Highlands. Nobles, diplomats, tradesmen, sellswords, and refugees frequently visit the man known as 'the horse-lord'.
Former Legion - Belisarius served in the Imperial Legion as a decurion and, later, a tribune. He has twenty years of formal military experience. It is quite common for his name to be known among former legionaries, auxiliaries, or allies of the former empire.
Junius Vorenus - The horse-lord served as legate for Junius Vorenus, the boy who would be emperor. Varro was married to Junius' sister, Agrippina, though the marriage was later annulled. Any characters who frequent Cyrodiil, or are involved in the three-banners war would likely have heard of this allegiance, which has since been broken.
Colovian Warlord - It is no secret that Lord Varro lives up to his reputation as a Colovian Warlord. He is frequently engaged in conflict, and given the right price or persuasion, he is usually interested in talking matters of war. So long as it serves his interests, and that of the Colovian people.
Dark Knowledge - Varro is a man who hungers for more: more money, more soldiers, more knowledge, more power. He is rumored to be in possession of several ancient books that deal with the darker side of Tamriel. It is also no secret that his fathers, and his four brothers, were Daedric worshipers and servants of Molag Bal. Belisarius insists that this impropriety was expunged from his family when he had them all killed, but rumors about him and the curse on the Varro name continue to swirl.
Horses - It goes without saying that any interest in horses - be it breeding them, raising them, or warring them - is a topic of interest for Belisarius. It is not uncommon for solicitors to visit the estate to learn the Varro way and see the breed up close. On rare occasions, Varro stallions are bred with outside lines to bolster and expand the lineage.
Design by Mossycoats
Posted Feb 16, 14
· Last edited Jan 13, 19
A solid character with a humble personality. What I would like to see are some clear talents and weaknesses. I already know he's been trained in the way of the sword. But how strong is he on the battlefield? What are his weak spots?
Updated with strengths and weaknesses.
I didn't think 'Imperial' was a race seeing as any race can be an Imperial.
Are you using Imperial in the way the Stormcloaks and their sympathizers used it, which equated the Imperial race with the Empire and the Imperial Legion?
As for the character at hand, I can see a 23 year old with a lot potential but being a formidable fighter, competent archer, and skilled tactician? He's fought in, and won, a significant amount of battles at the age of 23?
And his weaknesses appear to contradict his strengths; they match the description of an inexperienced individual, or worse, someone incapable of learning from their experiences. I believe those are good weaknesses as they would make for quality character growth or hilarious RP.
Revealing armour defeats the purpose and is therefore stupid.
Posted Feb 16, 14
· Last edited Feb 16, 14