Post by Joscelin Trevalion on Feb 28, 2010 20:14:44 GMT
Name: Joscelin William Trevalion
Age: TWENTY-SEVEN
Sex: Male
Class: Foreign Nobility
Appearance: |MUSE Henry Cavill|
Joscelin has a sense for fashion, and with a seemingly neverending stream of coin to supply such things, he's become the owner of a wide array of lush and rich garments from all parts of the world. Often, though, Joscelin tends to wear the latest of court apparel but likewise tends to lean toward comfort more than anything else. It's no surprise that Joscelin has clothing for nigh any moment, though, from magnificent fêtés to ventures upon night's doorstep where lovely doves - courtesans, of course - await upon his hand and foot, or even travel upon the high road. He spares no expense, truly. That's saying little of the flesh though.
Joscelin's blessed with his mother's beauty and honed with his father's soldierly standing. With the woman's eyes of azure and the masculinity of a man wrought of lean muscle and strength, Joscelin truly shows of an attractive air that's rarely seen. It makes little mention of his golden tongue, though, for singing and even less mention of what such tongue may do between the warm thighs of a woman. That's hardly speaking of what he looks like though, truly.
He stands at an even six-foot-two-inches and weighs only at one-hundred-ninety pounds. He does take magnificent care of himself and makes grooming a ritual. With sable hair that's oft tousled and stubble gracing that face of his, Joscelin's thoroughly clean of any hint of womanflesh or the road as a whole. That's not to say there aren't any imperfections upon him.
One would find small scars upon the backs of his hands and even upon his body proper but as from what, Joscelin would never say. Besides the scars of his hands though, his fingertips and palms are calloused from the many instruments he has learned and played throughout his years. That, and the faint scars that still line his sides and back. Again, as from what, he will not say.
Character: Joscelin's something else entirely and unmatched by any. He's charismatic and eccentric alongside a quick wit that's honed with his art. Truly, nothing phases him and even deters him. He has an addiction, though, to the flesh of women and wine both; daring to call himself a connoisseur. He has an appetite for social delites and delicacies, as well, that can only be sated through the fêtés he has grown accustomed to. Yet, despite his love for Inner city politicking and intrigue, Joscelin finds pleasure with the outside world and covertcy both between outlying nations. He savors the Game of Thrones and reckons himself as a player and not a pawn. That's to say he's perfect though.
Joscelin's often overwhelmed with anger when trumped and can easily become volatile. He's often been pursued to become the best at what he puts himself to be. So, Joscelin will fight tooth and nail for the position. He's stubborn and his weakness has always been such as he'd often be unwilling to let go. That's only few of the weaknesses that's his though that barely touch the surface of what lies beneath his flesh.
Strengths and Weaknesses:
STRENGTHS
- Strong Willed
- Intelligent
- Charismatic
WEAKNESSES
- Women
- Wine
- Stubborn
Magic: None.
Weaponry Skills:
- Swordsmanship
- Bow
- Horsemanship*
{*although not a weapon it's something weight nontheless, and can be used effectively in battle when needed.}
Character History: For all that Joscelin has uttered with his golden tongue, there are very few things known of the noble who has traversed the world nigh threefold and made such his own through song and number. Yet, Joscelin's no Immortal, and truly has blood beneath the sun kissed flesh of his body, and the signet adorning one finger proves a tie to one household, and that being of House Trevalion.
The truth of Joscelin's birth is the fact that he was a courtesan's get and bastard son of Barquiel Trevalion. Although, their story is not his, there's much that can be said about his unnamed mother and noble father. His father was once a renown lord and diplomat for his nation, and as trying times had beckoned him for warfare upon foreign soil, so did he heed the call of his Grace.
Barquiel was a bound man by then and married to a lovely woman by the name of Ysandre Vestrit. Yet, as winter drew on and Barquiel was faced with the aspect of a life abroad, so did his longing for the comfort of womanly flesh. There was no doubt that even a stronger man would have buckled beneath the fear of death and need for comfort. He submitted and found such within another. As for who? It's unsaid of her name but that she was a courtesan and woman of high regard. Then on did the winter grow toward other seasons and that campaign lasted for nigh onto four years, and the birth of a mewling babe came unto the world.
Although Joscelin does not recall the name of his mother, his mind was sharp even at birth. He can recall her scent and her sound. He could recall her heat and the taste of her breast as she fed him. He could recall her crooning and soft touch upon his brow. Yet, he knew not of her name but only that she loved him more than he ever would love himself. Yet, Joscelin was taken from her by his one and only father with the assurance that he'd be tended and cared for properly.
He was a burden on the shoulders of Ysandre Vestrit - loyal wife and consummate lover of Barquiel - and a stroke of sorrow that lashed her life from then on. The truth was, was that she was barren and unable to carry any children despite her longing for such. The appearance of a child within their household of her lord husband's blood left her cross and nearly unforgiving. Yet, even the most stubborn of people break and she tended him albeit reluctantly at first.
Joscelin lived a warm life then on and nearly wanted for affection albeit his father could often be detached and cold, his foster mother was somewhat of a pillar of strength and touchstone of warmth. She taught him the art of dance and tongue; taught him to sing and recite, and even dance with his fingers upon lyre and harp both. He had an unnaturally innate sense toward music as a whole and even more so toward the finer things of the art. Then there was his father.
Half-blooded or not, Barquiel understood that his one and only son would be the heir to his Household and Barquiel would not stand for a gentle and soft-touched boy despite his wife's persistent attention. He taught his son all that he needed to know and spared no expense at molding the eccentric lad to a fine instrument balanced between society and military art.
Joscelin learned swordplay from his father and the art of the hunt. He learned horsemanship from him as well when considering his father had been apart of the royal army's cavalry. What better teacher would be than his own blood? Barquiel taught him the art of being a tactician and surveyor of war. He also taught him how to map the lay of the land and to read such.
Other things though were taught by many others that were hired. It came with the form of knowledge of other countries; history of his own land and those abroad. He learned of cultures and people; of their anatomy and circulatory system. He learned and savored the knowledge with a hunger nearly unmatched even by scholars. He learned the art of the world and that of covertcy. He knew little of what he had become until the day his father had announced his first and utmost important diplomatic assignment.
There's little that can be said of being the one to end the life of another. Joscelin does not savor the crude thing of such and blood guilt plagues him within his dreams. Yet, he knew he'd brave the world as a whole for his nation no matter where he must be called to...
So the years pass and Joscelin comes of age. His father passes of age and his foster-mother lives on. He carries the signet of House Trevalion upon his finger and heeds the call of his Grace as his father had long ago. Now, though, he braves the world as he knew he would one day. Now he makes for Pendragon's court and so he establishes himself.
Additional Information: None.
Sample Roleplay: It's that dead spot within the night, that coldest, blackest time when the world has forgotten evening and dawn is not yet a promise. A time when it is far too early to arise, but so late that going to bed makes small sense. A year passes for a wolf as a decade does for a man. Time is no miser when one lives always in the now. Even for one such as Julian Patrick Moore.
How long now has it been? He could hardly recall the last time he had allowed the beast within to roam free and ravage any other. It's been years now, though, and longer than that. At least that's what he thinks as he looks down upon his bare and scarred hand. It's rough from the art of war and rough even more so from the sins he had dealt with. How many had suffered from his hands when he had first turned? It seemed such a mild predicament compared to all else now but he could feel his flesh heat whenever he thought of the scent of offal.
It's nearly the same feeling one finds when thinking of the last time they had coupled. That feeling of one's pulse deep within their loins that leaves them aching for more. He wanted more. He needed more. He could stand there and recall the horrid days of his torture and recall the feeling of releasing himself unto the world to tear such asunder but that wasn't enough. He felt nigh humiliated then and there with the ache deep within his gut as he fought the urge to salivate. It's utter and bestial anticipation that seeks to claw deep and throttle him.
Half the evil in this world occurs while decent people stand by and do nothing. It's not enough to refrain from evil though. People have to attempt to do right, even if they believe they cannot succeed. He had been there at those crossroads time and again, and the truth was, was that he had nearly abandoned himself. How much longer can he venture through life as he was now?
Who was he any longer?
It's another one of those nights again. It's a night where self-doubt lingers high within one's mind and fills them with naught else but dread. It's not only that but the ever present feeling of fear within as that bestial self churns deep and begs to be free; to feast upon flesh.
How long now since the last?
His eyes open wide as the floor underfoot shifts wildly and comes to a sudden halt. An intercom hisses and a voice pushes through soon after. "Thalia," the driver utters and those upon the bus make their move to step off. Moore pinches an eye shut and follows; a wolf within sheep's clothing...
...a wolf that hungers.
What greets him are the lights of the city.
[Optional] OOC Section:
Name: Andre
Location: New York City, EST.
How long have you been RPing for: Several Years.
Any other characters on the site?: No, although I'm hoping to bring another after Joscelin becomes established as a steady member.
