Les yeux d'Avad s'ouvrirent et il s'assit, s'étirant et bâillant. Il regarda autour de lui, un lit de bébé, une maison délabrée... une architecture familiale. L'architecture de la ville. Il soupira et flippa, jetant son bras sur ses yeux. "Damnation," s'irrita-t-il, "je lui ai dit de ne pas venir ici."
Éparpillé sur lui au sujet de la maison apparemment abandonnée—Westering District, il a décidé, en se basant sur l'opulence étrangement contradictoire et l'état de décomposition—étaient divers articles de vêtements dans divers états de réparation. Soupirant avec regret, il a dépouillé la robe militaire, complété par ses étoiles de décoration et d'honneur, le pliant soigneusement et le plaçant sur le côté, le laissant porter seulement une tunique à ceinture légère.
Au lieu de la merveilleuse robe, il jeta sur un manteau épais et profond de laine grise profonde. Scowling légèrement au tissu démangeaisons, il a réajusté le vêtement jusqu'à ce qu'il soit confortable, puis a placé la robe pliée dans l'une des plusieurs poches profondes de la cape – les rideaux ont eu des avantages, après tout – et s'est levé, saisissant son carnet de sort de sa place à ses côtés et le plaçant dans une seconde poche, doigtant les pages tendrement pour un moment.
En naviguant à l'extérieur et en jetant le capuchon gris, il a massacré ses cheveux bruns gris jusqu'à ce qu'il soit convenablement désorganisé. Dans le manteau ravagé, il était assez confiant qu'il ne sentait plus la noblesse. En entendant une collection de sons d'un côté à l'autre, il a dévié et a trouvé une collection de trois assis près du chariot : Sergei, le vieux soldat ; le Dullahan qu'il avait si mal avisément jeté un sixple boulon de foudre ; et enfin, une femme un peu impardonnable – du moins par rapport à la compagnie actuelle – de moitié elfe, quelque part autour de ses premières à la vingtaine, si ses yeux lui disaient droit. En entrant dans leur cercle d'alcool, il s'est hurlé d'elle.
"Je suppose que vous êtes le propriétaire du wagon qui nous a amenés ici." Il a fait un clin d'œil. "Merci. Tu nous as épargné beaucoup d'ennuis." Cela dit, il s'est tourné vers le Dullahan, bien qu'elle l'ait encore mis mal à l'aise. "Et... je m'excuse d'avoir essayé de te tuer sans provocation. Après les événements de la nuit, j'ai été un peu secoué. Bien entendu, j'aimerais réfléchir."
Puis il riait, se détendait visiblement. L'absence totale de maux de tête l'avait mis dans une bien meilleure humeur. "Maintenant que les formalités sont terminées," il a glissé, tirant quelques pièces d'argent et se tournant vers le propriétaire de la charrette à nouveau, "Combien de tasses avez-vous laissé dans ce baril? Je pourrais... vraiment... prendre un verre."
Name: Avadodren Ichen Onem (the -ch in Ichen is pronounced as a hard, guttural hiss)
Age: Appears somewhere near his mid-thirties to early forties.
Race: Avadodren, or Avad, as he is known to very close friends, is 100% bonafide human.
Looks: No matter how exceptional I truly am, all that is seen is my exterior. By that standard, I was born average, and will die average. Av is exceedingly typical looking. He is of typical height, somewhere between 5'10" and 6', and average weight for his slightly slender build. He has a messy head of brown hair and a pair of gooey, dark-brown eyes. His skin is pale and fair, a few freckles smattering his brow and the bridge of his nose, to his eternal chagrin. He wears his uniform as a High Battlemage, a long, flowing robe of pale ivory white and embroidered with ash-gray and flaming red in elaborate flame patterns. His honorable stars are worn on his shoulder. He nearly always carries his spellbook with him. It is a massive tome, bound in dark gray leather and bound with ragged, long-used, gilt pages. He has a bit of a theatrical flair about him; often, he will twitch a finger and use a tightly controlled gust of wind to flip the pages instead of being a regular person and using his fingers in a more mundane fashion. Put it all together and you have a medium-tall, medium-light, brown-on-brown-on-pale person, eyes glimmering with deep intelligence, with a flamboyant nature and an incredibly sharp mind.
Bio: Avadodren Ichen Onem was born Avad Onem into a Valstand noble family of middling influence and wealth. Though he wanted for little in his childhood, he certainly had none of the absurd wealth of some of the higher families. He was trained in the standard noble pursuits; swordsmanship, riding, court manners. Then, at one particularly uninteresting party, he experienced a cataclysmic magic surge. As many such events go, there was much flash. There was, however, far more danger at Avad's magic surge than most. Several nobles were permanently injured, and his father, Veddys, was killed. Avad, desperate to escape the cloying guilt that ate at him, decided to find a noble death: a battlefield mage, torn apart either by the power of his own spellcraft or by whatever might be faced at the moment.
Through some cruel joke of fate, he lived through every campaign, and indeed, through many years, began to creep little-by-little up the ranks. Eventually, his desire for a good death fled, replaced by a savage desire to ascend to the highest echelon of magic: an Archmage. He took the name of the greatest Archmage in the history of Valstand: Odren. He appended it to his own, calling his determination for all to see: I will be an Archmage. Along the road, he took an honorific as well: at the battle of Ichen, he distinguished himself by saving over a thousand men with a well-timed fog cloud to obscure the enemy's lines of sight. Thus, 'Of Ichen's Glory' became his military title. He internalized it, turning it into a name as he fully took it for himself, becoming nigh-obsessed with his rise to glorious power, burying the memory of his past and determined to make his late father proud.
Over time, that motivation faded. He was no longer a child, and became able to look back without regret. His meteoric rise through the military steadied off as his frenzied energy petered away, and he settled into the life if a professional High Battlemage. While he still aspires to the Archmage's mantle, he longer pursues is feverishly. He's a close confidant of the king, and is able to see the good buried beneath the tyranny. He firmly believes the king has the best interests of his subjects at heart, and will support him in nearly endeavor.
Other: In departure from his typicality, Av is an exceedingly skilled mage specializing in storm magic. In particular, he has a talent for nimbomancy, or the control of clouds. He has a lesser talent for direct combat with his magic--although the lightning bolts and lashing rain ensure that he's no slouch there, either--but rather, when engaging, is far more adept at tactics and strategy. His fog and cloud control allow him to craft expert illusions and massive concealment and for one of his age, he has a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of military strategy, born both of natural aptitude and of enormous amounts of study. As a side of effect of his long military experience, he is able to remain unbelievably calm under pressure.