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Tristan
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Age:

1 [Year 505 Spring]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

He/Him/His

Orientation:

Bisexual

Breed:

Friesian x Haflinger

Height:

15.2 hh

Health:


Attack:


Experience:

19
Offline

Last Visit:

10-05-2020, 11:05 PM

Joined:

09-05-2020
Signos: 1,060 (Donate)
Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

Sir Tristan, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Genesis


You find him at the back of the tavern, but you hesitate before taking the final few steps to where he is resting. There were images in your mind's eye, exaggerated expectations fueled by tall tales and legends of what this man was supposed to look like, and the man you are looking at now resembles nothing of what you were anticipating... But rumors said that this was him, and after months of searching you are not going to squander this opportunity.

He looks old and tired, his features silvered by the touch of age. Beneath it, you see his once rich, vibrant coat, supposedly a sooty buckskin though he seems far more chestnut now. He must feel your scrutiny upon him, for sharp eyes of freezing turquoise lock upon you and it is then that you know it is him, and you approach.


There is little about Tristan that is 'remarkable' or 'unique'. While he has grayed and silvered with age, he is still strong, still proud, still capable. There is a nimble grace in the way that he moves, an eloquence as he traverses the lands. His pace is confident and he carries himself upright and poised, his presence itself commanding and daring, yet soothing like a stalwart stone.

His body is a sooty buckskin with faint pangare, mottled by the touch of silver from age. It is most noticed in the chestnut and white of his face and in the strands of his ombre mane and tail, but otherwise he retains his eloquent and baroque build remarkably well.

Tristan's most striking features are surely his eyes. A keen, bright, brilliant turquoise, his stare is fierce and cool at the best of times, yet vastly expressive. In his older years the man has done far less talking than he did when younger, and instead lets his deep stare articulate what he chooses to not say with words.

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Rumor is that he isn't very good at conversation, at least not anymore. You aren't entirely sure if it has something to do with how long he's been alive or if it's something else. Regardless, as you approach and situate yourself next to him, he does not seem to mind. An empty cup is in front of him and next to it, a small, sleeping dragon.

'Mind if I join you?' Your inquiry warrants another look from him, and you're intrigued by the unfathomable depths of his eyes and the turmoil you see raging war there. He frowns, seems to want to say something, and then shrugs instead.

"Suit yourself."


He is quiet, this Knight of the Genesis, aloof at the best of times and terribly reclusive. There is no doubt that he prefers his solitude, choosing to live and reside in the depths of the Arma Mountains where few can find him. Of course, resources are scarce and so oftentimes he is seen in the markets of the Courts, predominantly those of Denocte or Terrastella.

Those who manage to exchange a few words with him call him 'polite' and 'charismatic', but they hardly know him other than through business. They say he smiles easily, but his smiles never truly reach his eyes.

There is a depth to him, however, endless and consuming in a place where few can see. Hidden beneath layers of despair, heartache, and unfathomable loneliness, is a man who desires more, a man who does not want to simply settle for less than what he has been given. The fire to pursue such a life has gone out, however, and Tristan struggles to overcome the crushing weight of his depression.

Yet he is determined. Oh, but he is determined. Tristan is stalwart in most things, touched and seasoned by both age and experience to react accordingly. He thinks most things through before acting, picking and choosing his actions and very aware of what risks may arise as a result. He is tactile and keen, smart and witty, and once he opens up, one might be surprised by the sharp tongue and charismatic presence he can exude.

Tristan has no patience for petty and pointless drama. Very few instances can force him to lose his seemingly endless patience, but gossip, rabble, and petty behavior are an easy way to toe such a line.

You keep all of that in mind as you settle next to him, watching him with excitement and a touch of caution. This man is a legend, and yet he seems so very ordinary. You flag down a barmaid and ask for a drink, and then tip well when she delivers one. Summoning your courage, you ask, 'Tristan Cadfael?'

He bristles and you know that you have the right guy. Good. The stuffy monks up in Delumine were right after all. You continue, eager to find answers. 'Is it okay if I ask you some questions about the Omnium?'

You are, once again, on the receiving end of a fierce and mighty stare, but such a mighty look seems grossly out of place upon a face as tired and grey as his. He sighs, shrugs a shoulder once more, then dips his head in a nod.

"I suppose."


As most Knights are, Tristan possesses a fierce, unfaltering dedication and sense of both loyalty and honor. He is noble-born, and while not nobility, he was raised by an honorable Knightly father and a fierce mother. Honor is important to him, and as such, fairness in all things is to be upheld, on and off of the battlefield.

Age, however, has made him tired and complacent. He has little desire to participate in skirmishes or violence, but he also lacks the will to try and talk his way out of it. Quite honestly, if any form of interaction can be avoided, that is the path he would surely take... But that path may not be open for much longer.

the flow of time is always cruel...


’What was it like? Your youth.’ The din of idle chatter and the smell of smoke and drink cloy your nose. You wonder if this is truly the man you’ve read about, the man from the legends; he looks nothing like you have imagined, yet you’re curious and fueled by one too many cups of stale mead. He casts an eye of striking turquoise in your direction that seem to burn, yet he is honest in his reply as his dragon companion snoozes upon the table top.

“It feels like a dream, if I’m being honest… That world was lifetimes ago and I struggle to remember it. A forest in the mists, nestled upon a cliff edge. There was goodness there in that place, but there was also a cruel, terrifying evil.”


Tristan does not speak of the world in which he was born, not with detail, anyway. Some may say that it is partially because he cannot remember it, being as old as he is, yet others claim that it is simply too painful of a memory. Regardless, the truth is known only to him, and that is how it will stay.

He was born in a land distant from Novus, an average world of happiness and grief, of love and war. He had a family; a mother, a father, siblings… Yet they were gone mere months after his birth, taken or lost by the fake-god that usurped the Gods of his homeland and crushed the world itself into dust. The only clarity he holds from that time are the words of the Usurper, motioning the terrified and huddled masses through a dark, swirling vortex with a saccharine smile that promised nothing but anguish. ’Pass through or die.’

There is a gravity to his voice, something that your alcohol muddled mind cannot fathom. Still, you are curious and test your luck for more details. ’So then you came here? What did you do then?’ His draconic companion continues to slumber, snoring softly upon the table. He looks away from you, staring without truly seeing. It’s a look you are deftly familiar with.

“I woke up, and the Omnium found me.”


The Omnium, a Knightly Order of this world of Novus, a unity of the Five. Knights that serve their Patron Deities, lifting their blades and their voices for the righteous, for the virtuous, for the honorable servitude of defending the public, they rise to the call of war in the name of peace and tranquility, to quell discourse and bloodshed.

Tristan was found by Sir Sophus, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Dawn. A wise and kind fellow, he took Tristan under his proverbial wing and introduced him to the Omnium. Arriving to this world alone and confused, joined only by his father's draconic companion Merlin, he had no choice but to follow... Yet the blood of his Knightly father ran through his veins, and he took to such a lifestyle like a fish takes to water.

He spent his youth as a humble squire, meeting the members of the Order and doing what he could to make a name of himself. As he grew, he learned. The Omnium was comprised by different 'sects', individuals that held the Chivalric Titles of their respective Courts or Deities upon Knighthood; Dawn for Oriens and Delumine, Day for Solis and Solterra, Dusk for Vespera and Terrastella, Night for Caligo and Denocte, and Genesis for Tempus, the All Creator.

They existed not as a faction of Novus, but as an essence, for their numbers were few but poignant, spread throughout the land to uphold their noble ideals, morals, and traditions. Tristan served them faithfully, training under the other Knights and mastering his abilities with sword, shield, and bow, with both body and mind. Despite his desire to abide by the ideals of the Order, however, there was a selfishness that drove him, the desire for revenge, to find the Usurper who destroyed his home and see the end of him. It was that secret desire that encouraged him to grow, to push himself, to test his limits to their breaking points and beyond.

Years passed, he grew, and he was inevitably knighted. Chest heaving from the aftermath of a battle most foul that lasted three days and three nights, his blade still stained with the red lifeblood of their enemies, Tristan was made to kneel in the muddy wake of their victory by Sophus himself.

'Rise, Sir Tristan, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Genesis.' Tempus, the All Creator. Time.

Something kicks in your chest, something like excitement, like eagerness. You are impatient to hear this tale, greedy for the knowledge that not even the old scrolls and tomes in Delumine's library possess. 'So what happened then? Why did the Order fall?'

He looks at you, and his stare is heavy. You see the years in his eyes, the things that he must have seen, the battles waged and the roads traveled. His draconic companion finally stirs. Silence stretches between you, endless and yawning like a chasm. His answer is not one you are expecting and it leaves you unsettled.

"Time."


Tristan dedicated his life to the Omnium. In them he found the family that he had lost to the Usurper, he found friends, he found purpose. The years passed him by and he matured, his skills grew competent, capable, and seasoned. Tristan became a noble, respected veteran amidst the Order. Those he knew and grew up with began to retire, to settle down with their families, yearning to enjoy the last of their golden years that had been so hard won. Experiences were had, battles were waged, peace was won, lost, and won again. Life went on, the cycle an endless circle of motion. Time passed.

Tristan, a veteran in his own right, accomplished and reliable, had one final task to complete before seeking out his own retirement. Word reached them of a man parading as a God who walked their shores, poisoning the world and whispering of danger, of deceit, of death on the horizon. 'An Eternal Darkness,' was the whisper on the wind, 'it's coming. The Harbinger has arrived.'

Sir Tristan, Knight of the Genesis, went to war on a battlefield reserved only for two. The Bellum Steppe became a testament to their fury, their rage, the single witness to their strife, the unfortunate casualty of violence. With weapon, magic, and Merlin's draconic aid, they challenged the Usurper, the fake-god who had stolen everything from him and had crushed his world to dust. There is no record of how long they fought or how bloody their battle became, fighting tooth, hoof, body, magic, and soul against one another, but legends rumored that the legacy of their battle lived on in the distorted, uneven earth left in the wake of the fight.

Wielding his blade, a final blow to the heart of the Usurper was enough to finish the task. Such might of the blow caused the blade to shatter, leaving Tristan with naught but the hilt... Yet with his dying breath, the Usurper laughed a curse to the skies. '... And in the end, there is only time, is there not?'

Victory obtained, vengeance achieved, Tristan returned to the Omnium, his body a testament to his survival. Time passed, as it always did, the endless cycle of repetition... Yet Tristan did not change. He did not age. His features remained the same, locked as they were on the day of the battle against the Usurper. Time passed, and darkness fell, and the Omnium fell with it.

The balance of the world shifted as Caligo's fury overtook the world. The Omnium fell into ruin. Those who followed the Old Ways were lost, and yet Tristan remained. He did what he could to salvage the memory of their Order, to provide hope, to guide... But it crumbled, light giving way to dark, hope giving way to despair.

Through the one hundred years of darkness, Tristan traveled. He crossed the land of Novus, he found passage on ships to sail to different lands... But his heart always brought him back from his journeys abroad, and eventually the balance was restored, light had returned, but hope had not returned with it. The Order dismantled and forgotten, lost to memory, to legend, Tristan found himself a home in the Arma Mountains, cursed with this immortality and the memory of a Pyrrhic battle.

Active & Parvus Magic

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Passive Magic





Bonded & Pets

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There is a point where you no longer feel comfortable asking such intrusive questions. There is a fatigue in his face, something so deep-rooted and exhausting that you cannot possibly understand. So, you decide that enough is enough, and you cease asking him questions about his past and instead focus on the lazily stretching black dragon seated on the table. 'Who is this?'

He arches a brow, curious at your own curiosity, yet seems to manage the patience for your company for a little longer at least. "Merlin. He's been my companion since I was a boy." The dragon perks up at the sound of his name, but offers you what you would swear is a dirty, irritated look.


Merlin hatched from his egg within the same week of Tristan's birth. The two were practically inseparable, and often the small black hatchling would be found curled up inside of the colt's short mane for warmth. Despite being the companion of Tristan's father, the two shared a remarkable bond, and after arriving into Novus that bond only seemed to solidify.

Even though he shares many of the same physical characteristic's as Delumine's 'pygmy dragons', he is not one, and tends to be easily offended when compared to them. His size is slightly larger than most pygmy dragons of Novus, bordering on the size of a large house cat, and his scales are a smooth, solid black. He is, to put it simply, a small wyvern.

Like his companion, Merlin lost much during his life. While he misses their family and their friends, the black dragon does not share Tristan's desire to live as a hermit in the mountains. He would much rather encourage his bond mate to return to the Courts and assimilate himself into civilization once more. Merlin can be a bit bossy at times, but there is an innocence to him that never quite truly left, a youthful, jovial presence and fondness for tricks and light pranks that still manages to win some of Tristan's smiles, brief as they are.





Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

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