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A massive beast of a horse towering at 21HH, Torstein's lineage is a mixed pot of ... well, mutt. Warmblood and light draft is obvious - and he's always guessed that it's something like Irish Draught, Appaloosa (the only one he was completely sure of), and Dølehest with a little bit of Percheron somewhere deep in his history. Pedigrees were never of much concern to him or his family.

Torstein is no outrageously handsome looker, although he has a sort of rugged masculinity that may be attractive to ... someone? A solid seventy-five percent of his body is covered in varying shades of cream in a way that can only be described as some sort of odd semi-leopard pattern. The other twenty-five percent of his body - most of it being somewhere from the middle of his haunches down to his hocks - was an ill-fittingly marvelous spectrum of plum colors. The cream once again crept up his rear legs, enveloping them in long socks with the stray distal spot here and there. His hooves, wide as they were weathered, have seen the bones of many, and are cracked and splintered with age. He's made a lifelong habit of keeping parts of his hair especially short - mostly just his tail dock and about halfway up the nape of his neck. For the few sections allowed to grow, they are messily braided but kept otherwise under wraps... with the exception of the feathering on his legs, which might as well be called 'out of control.'

Truth be told, all of this is relatively mundane when compared to the rest of him. He boasts a set of two spectacular 5-tined horns, sharp as they were beautiful and worn with pride. But even the sheen of his prized feature pales in comparison to his affliction. He has never particularly called himself unique, but rather burdened. His mother - bless her soul - must have had some positively f░░░d up genetics. His heart had formed outside of his sternum in a condition called 'thoracic ectopia cordis..' what that really translated to, he had no idea and cared little. What made him unique, was that he never really was on the edge of death as a foal as many expected. His heart was not completely vulnerable; instead, it was surrounded by powerful muscle-controlled spines that had the ability close at his own will.

Torstein never spoke much of his condition, and too many people were afraid to ask.

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[↤]  uncompromising  [↔]  sometimes foolhardy  [↔]  manipulative  [↔]  judgemental  [↔]  unconvinced  [↔]  temperamental  [↔]  critical  [↦]
[↤]  traditional  [↔]  opportunistic  [↔]  oddly empathetic  [↔]  appreciative  [↔]  loyal  [↔]  collected  [↔]  methodical  [↦]


Fueled by his upbringing, Torstein is wholly stoic and unwavering. A military man by birth and family, he finds a sense of pride in his methodical, uncompromising, and judgmental ways. Even in his homeland, he was never known for being nice - but never arrogant, either. People always seemed to regard him with a fearful respect, if they didn't outright despise him and his family. He always found a way to spin the bottle in his favor.

While a dictator born and bred, Tor holds a special appreciation for those who exhibit loyalty and creed. There is nothing more impressive than a person who lives and breathes discipline. Although that's not saying it's easy to impress him; quite the opposite, really. Critical and temperamental to fault, he is wholly intransigent and oftentimes sets the bar far too high for those under the rule of his weathered hooves. And woe to the miserable soul who fails such an inflexible beast: believe you me, the keratin of his hooves did not become cracked by lack of care.

That's not to say that he does not hold (somewhat) moralistic values. Sometimes. Those who impress him have won the favor of a man with little favor to give. By respect, he is loyal to those who are altogether devoted to him; but never question that he will crush you should you cross him. And for your sake, don't hold a grudge: Tor is a strategist, rigorous and uncompromising, who is always testing the waters. Should he make an enemy, it's likely he'll care little - but maybe somewhere in his weak heart, you can dig out some form of compassion.. Although that might just be pity you're seeing, and maybe all he's destined to be is a disdainful, grumpy old bastard til the conclusion of time.

In the end, everyone's a pawn in Torstein's eyes. Sometimes he questions if he is, too.

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The Empire

It wasn't always like this.

At one point in time, the rulers of Stolthet were noble people. Led by moral justice and a love for their nation, they elected the very best - from surrounding lands and within Stolthet itself - to stand beside them. One such man - Agnar of the Solheim family, husband to Ingrid - was chosen. Agnar came highly recommended as one of the best military generals around, and the people of Stolthet were happy to welcome him into their borders. But with militant men, come militant decisions.

After a long period of peace and many years later, the nobles of Stolthet fell mysteriously ill. Doctors were baffled at what was affecting the highborn families... Nor were they able to cure them. The attending doctors spoke of some form of intended retribution, and began to point fingers at those closest. Shocked and in denial that such a thing could happen in their peaceful nation, the rest of the counsel agreed that the doctors had no right to accuse, as they themselves were not even able to remedy the ailments. Thus, they were all accused of treason, and executed.

One by one, nobles and commoners alike fell ill and succumbed to whatever disease was ravishing the land. The great nation lost over twenty-five percent of its populace, and all of the noble counsel. All, but one.... the Solheim family. Declaring a state of emergency, Agnar shut and fortified the borders of the nation. By now, his wife had grown swollen with child - and not only was he intent on protecting what had now become his nation, but his progeny as well. At least, that's what he would always say when people would ask why dignitaries and visitors were no longer welcome.

No one would ever know if what Agnar Solheim said was true. Whether he had good intentions, or he was behind it all along - in the start of Stolthet's decline, he pleaded innocence. And who was to try him? He was the only pillar still holding up the once great nation.

Quickly, the empire of Stoltheth became as cruel as it was large. The unrelenting Agnar and a figurehead wife (who was no more notable than the dirt itself) led the Empire, and their rule was truly resolute. Maybe the power corrupted him, or maybe he was always like this... Those who questioned his decisions were met with an awful end; til eventually, there came a time when no one dared to oppose anything the Family said. To most of the populace, quiet obedience was a better alternative than mutilation.

The Day of Birth

The only son born to the Stolthet empire, Torstein’s birth was very much celebrated.. even in a land that feared the Family so. But it wasn’t without a cause for concern, and many worries of his… condition… were whispered under the hushed breath of the commoners. Even the midwives expressed hesitation among themselves – although they dare not let the Family hear, for fear of consequence.

Despite the hearsay, Agnar was far too stubborn and cruel to believe that he, of all people, could bear a son so weak. Torstein, gangly and feeble, bore the curse of defective genetics: his sternum, deformed and split down the middle, let his heart develop outside of his chest in a freak malformation. Every doctor who attended to him had never seen a condition as severe as his, and told the Family that he would surely die within hours. Refusing to believe any such nonsense, Agnar chose to seek “alternative” forms of care.

The Helbrede of Stolthet were shamans by trade, and people talked little of. The general populace feared them, as if they brought forth hideous and fatal diseases. To be fair, the Helbrede never made much of an effort to deny these allegations – as it meant they were generally left undisturbed. In reality, their intentions were far less wicked. They sought to make things or people better… although what ‘better’ is to them wasn't always 'morally right,' whatever that happens to be.

Offered up the only son of Agnar the Ceaseless on a silver platter, they relished in the idea of being seen as gods among mortals, able to cure the incurable. What exact spells or magic they performed was kept a secret, even from Agnar himself... but when Torstein was returned to his Family, he was certainly not ‘fixed.’ Not by his father’s standards, at least.

Overwhelmed with rage, Agnar struck down the Helbrede one by one. Their explanations, screamed shrilly to the dark night’s sky, fell on deaf ears. Only one managed to quell his anger, and with but one simple phrase: " We made him stronger! "

Stunned to silence, Agnar stared at the Last. His gaze demanded answers while his lips spoke no words. The Last feebly tried to explain themselves:  " We gave him teeth of the Gods to enclose his heart, for we could not push it back into his chest without slaying him. "

" and the eye? " The Triennial Eye, seemingly sentient with a mind of its own. Agnar could have sworn it looked at him when he mentioned it…
" To see the intentions of those around him. To manipulate them. " With that, the Last was spared, but exiled and cast out from the Empire. Complete mercy was not like Agnar, so the Last counted themselves lucky.

The Younger Years

The Last did not lie: Torstein grew to be strong. He surpassed all those around him in size, and no one dared to think of him as a weak young colt anymore. Groomed to be the heir, his upbringing was strict but lavish, as no expenses were spared for the Family. But extravagant clothing and armor couldn’t cover up what he was while his father was alive: the brute force behind the old man’s words.

He was trained to leverage his empire’s power in all situations, and he never truly complained. It got him many women (and maybe men as well) and plenty of material belongings. It even secured him a beautiful wife; although truth be told, her personality made her a hag and he despised her. The idea of being wed to someone he so disliked never bothered him, though, as faithfulness was of little concern to him.

As he grew, the power of his Triennial Eye became an effective asset to the empire. Those who questioned the Stolthet reign no longer needed to be convinced by... less conventional methods — although that's not to say those methods were ever fully eradicated. Torstein knew that his unique sense of power would be especially useful once his father passed away and the reign fell fully into his hands.

It’s too bad that Torstein was not the only one who knew such.

Watch the Empire Fall

To the west of Stolthet lay the Roskildar nation. No rivaling nation – not even Roskildar – was strong enough to take down the Stolthet empire, which had a dedicated and massive army despite the cruelty of their dictatorship. In a last-ditch effort to topple them, Roskildar launched a haphazard attack. While it was poorly organized and destined to fail, they accomplished the one thing they set out to do: get rid of the heir.

During a trial where Torstein was set to be the executioner, fighters from Roskildar snuck past the guards and into the courtyard’s viewing quarters where the event was taking place. These trials were always sickening displays of brute force and intolerance: commoners executed for the smallest of infractions, such as attempting to communicate with the outside world. Torstein was the unrelenting, always present, backbone of all punishments.

Having brought some of their best magic wielders, they seized the opportunity. Ambushing the Family, their most powerful mage cast a spell that fully shred a rift in space underneath the war-cracked hooves of Torstein. Unable to repel such an attack, he felt his feet drop from beneath him and in that moment, the teeth that guarded his heart slammed shut.

As he was propelled to a completely different continent in the blink of an eye, the pain and agony he felt was indescribable. Every shred of his body felt like it was being ripped apart by hundreds of the rustiest of fish hooks imaginable, all pulling in different directions. And then he landed, his massive shoulder plunging into the soft sand of Novus’ soil, sending him skidding 20 some-odd feet in the middle of what he would come to know as Elatus Canyon. Beaten and weary, the Beast scoured the area around him – and only one thought crossed his mind.

Where the fuck was he?

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Telemanipulation: The art of influencing or controlling a victim via the mind, and without physical contact.

[ ↭ ] DISCIPULI [ ↭ ] Vaguely Reading People's Intentions - Torstein is able to sense a vague idea of someone's intentions. At this level, his interpretations are generally limited to "good," "bad," and "deceitful," the last of which comes across the strongest. His Triennial Eye needs to be open and able to maintain eye contact with the victim for at least 2 seconds. Victims will often feel drawn to his gaze. At this level, Torstein tires easily and his readings can be inaccurate if he does not concentrate very hard.

[ ↭ ] Vexillum [ ↭ ] Reading People's Intentions in Depth - At this level, Torstein is able to more accurately read people's intentions, as well as see them in more detail. His Triennial Eye must be open and able to maintain eye contact with the victim for 5 seconds. Victims will find it hard to look away. He does not tire as easily, but can after a couple victims. His readings are more accurate, but can still be wrong upon occasion. He can project subliminal messages to his victims, who will hear them as subconscious thoughts they may perceive as their own.

[ ↭ ] Periti [ ↭ ] Influencing People's Intentions or Perceptions - Not only can the Triennial Eye read people's intentions accurately and in good detail, but he has also gained the ability to partially influence their decisions without them being aware. His influences are never guaranteed and often appear in the victim's mind as a 'suggestion' that they feel themselves drawn towards. The more he concentrates, the more insistent the suggestion becomes. Weak-willed victims, especially, will find themselves hard-pressed to deviate from the proposal. Deciphering intentions no longer tires him, although influencing them often causes terrible headaches. His Triennial Eye must be open and able to maintain eye contact with the victim for 8 seconds. While influencing the victim, his Triennial Eye's pupil noticeably increases in size. Victims will find it very hard to look away.

[ ↭ ] DOMINUS [ ↭ ] Altering Intentions or Perceptions - The Triennial Eye gains the ability to change the victim's current intentions or how they perceive a situation. This could manifest in several ways. An example of him changing the victim's perceptions would be: altering how the victim views past or present situations, like making them believe that their brother was murdered, versus dying of natural causes. Or he could change the victim's intentions in a current situation: like making an emissary intentionally break a rule of a Court he's visiting. The effects of altered perception usually wear off within a day, although weak-willed victims may be affected for greater periods of time. His Triennial Eye must be open and able to maintain eye contact for 15 seconds. While altering a victim, the Triennial Eye's pupil will overtake the entirety of the eye itself - turning it wholly black. Victims will find it nearly impossible to look away from his gaze, save for strong-willed individuals who may be able to stave him off. At this level, a victim's best bet at safety is for another individual to intervene physically.

; she is the massive shadow that looms overhead. Torstein has no idea where she or her kind hid within Novus for all these years; Greater Lammergeier Wyvern is what she says she is, and Tor is not stubborn enough to argue or pry further. To be frank, she is nothing short of a massive and intimidating cross between a wyvern - a winged, two-legged dragon with a barbed tail - and a Lammergeier, or Bearded Vulture. Roughly 11 or 12 feet tall (depending on how she holds herself), she weighs approximately 100 pounds with a wingspan of about 35 feet. Light like a bird, the talons of a raptor, and distinctive posture of something similar to a wyvern or Pteranodon.. she dwarfs many in her shadows. Even the titan whose side she occupies pales in comparison to the vastness of her height and wingspan.

Her feathers are a spectrum of colors as vivid as the sands in early morning, ranging from the rusted orange upon her crest, to the dark espresso brown upon her wings and back, to the muddled ivory of her belly. Unlike the rest of her body, the lower expanse of her legs are lacking in feathers as they disappear and turn into smooth skin, avoiding the unnecessary mess of bloody and clumped feathers. Dark-colored talons are made to rend flesh and grip into her prey, and her beak has a decisive hook to do just that, too. In a fashion not unknown to Bearded Vultures, her sclera are a bright scarlet and her iris a blue as clear as the Solterran sky. The horns that spiral back from her crown blend into the palette of her feathers - and while they serve no particular carnivorous purpose, they do remind others of her distinct wyvern heritage. Her wings are broad and long, with slotted primaries, to support her weight.

Her tail is long and heavily muscled, ending in a tuft of long, thin, wispy feathers that closely resemble hair in a vivid shade of orange. However, if her deadly talons and vast size are not intimidating enough, hidden within the tuft of her tail and the crest of feathers upon her neck is an even deadlier surprise. The concealed quills are very similar to those of a Porcupine - thin with a sharp point, lending them the ability to easily slide into flesh. They are a shade of plum that matches Torstein himself, and feature very small, backwards-facing barbs. The barbs hook into the flesh and when pressure is applied, they will begin breaking off. Upon breaking, they release a myotoxin that breaks down surrounding muscle and tissue. This rapid necrosis can be deadly if not treated immediately. And be warned: she is immune to her own toxins... so it would not be out of the question for her to make a meal out of someone afflicted, and it certainly wouldn't be unheard of for her to do so. She does not discriminate when it comes to food.

Despite her intimidating presence, there is something about her eccentric, sarcastic nature ... something about her dry, dark humor that grounds Torstein to this mortal coil. He is hesitant to admit that he is attached to Circe, but it'd be a lie if he said he wasn't. But even despite their bond, it's not unlike the two to bicker, snap, and give each other lip amidst their humor. Even then, she rarely meddles directly in Tor's affairs, as she is more content to sit along the sidelines and provide witty commentary (much to his disdain). That is, unless she senses that he is in imminent danger (which, let's be honest, is not common). She often chastises him for getting into violent or precarious situations... not because she morally cares about his decisions, but rather because if he dies or is injured, she then has to deal with it. And she'd rather not be bothered.

On a slightly more humorous side, her obsessions are really as eclectic as they come. In true dragon sense, she can be easily wooed with shiny objects — but her true fixation lies with things slightly less typical. She has a vast collection of left horseshoes (only the left) that she would rather fight tooth and nail than give up. Why she collects them is beyond Torstein's understanding, but what truly boggles his mind is her near-psychotic obsession with picked flowers. She doesn't seem to comprehend that they eventually die once picked, no matter how many times he reminds her to just take the whole plant instead of plucking just the flower. The severity of her emotions every time they do eventually die off... well, he chooses not to comment on it, but instead just stare on with an incredulously defeated expression. It sums up their relationship well.

ARMOR - Battle-worn and battle ready: A wool-padded hard wooden breastplate with steel inlaid into the grain, just below a thick metal gorget around his neck. Steel plates on either side of his withers connect to steel shoulder plates. His entire armor is connected to a sturdy leather harness that loops under his chest, around his barrel, and below his tail. The back half of the harness has hooks that can facilitate clipping additional gear, bags, or other useful items. Currently, there is one wool-padded steel plate on either side of his haunches for additional protection (not pictured in the above image; would replace the two banners closest to his rump).

ENCHANTED WEAPON - A very large (even by Torstein's standards) Damascus dagger in a wool-padded leather forelimb sheathe. The bolster is made of a whittled stone that is pocked with permanent, deep crimson-brown stains of dried blood. The dagger's hilt itself is made of wood stabilized with natural blue resin, with the very center featuring a 'window' of clear resin. In this a single feather is suspended — pure ivory at its tip, tarnished by blood and fading into a deep, rich espresso color. A violent token of a downed bird; of the Stormsinger struck from the skies.
Enchantment: When blood hits the grooves of the stone bolster, the blade will briefly glow, resharpen itself, and becomes that much harder to break.