Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

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Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  Curzonis Inganos Korr on Sun Sep 30, 2012 1:15 pm

Age: 16
Birthday: February 5, 419 BC
Sex: Male
Progenitor: Vulcan
Gifts:

Appearance:



Face Claim: Kit Harrington
Eyes: Grey
Hair: Black
Height: 6'

General Appearance: He looks older than he is, with the weight of experience in his eyes and his bearing. Strongly built, he hides his muscle under full clothing at all times, but his broad shoulders give a hint to the observant. He is a serious youth; not stoic, just quiet, watchful. When speaking he is not cold, but he is distant. On occasion he will be moved to anger, at which point his face will almost appear to be made of stone, and a slight rumble can be felt in his stride. His hair is dark, shoulder length, and curly; his eyes are piercing, his gaze penetrating; his look is one to quiet a room and draw attention.

Personality:

General Character Traits: Curzon is quiet, reserved, and observant. He does not trust easily, but he is fiercely loyal to those he does form relationships with. In settings with many people, he will attempt to remain in the background. He is prone to feel the need to quit a situation and find a place by himself to think. He will act as he sees necessary, taking actions that he deems others too unwilling to take, but that he deems necessary. This can often lead hm to acting when others would rather not, and those that are with him may need to restrain him or talk him down if they do not agree. He is not rash, but he is strong-willed (stubborn), and when he makes up his mind he is difficult to dissuade.

Strengths: He is cautious, measured, taking everything in stride and responding with consideration. He is strong, self-confident, and experienced. He has a variety of skills he can call upon to help him steer through most situations.

Weaknesses: He does not trust people easily; he believes in building relationships slowly, and keeping most people at arm’s length, so he can’t be hurt if something happens to them. His measured approach can lose him certain opportunities, especially those that require fast action in social situations.

Likes: Smithing, forges, riding, swimming, fighting, being in small groups or alone, silence and quiet thought

Dislikes: parties, loud gatherings, rash actions, drawn out debates

Backstory: Curzon, as he prefers to be called, was born right here, in Rome, a few months more than sixteen years ago. His father was a merchant craftsman, from a lesser branch of the great Korr family. He was content to live out his life in peace, to make his family proud through his faithful service to his profession. He wasn’t allowed to be content. He was conscripted into the army, made to buy spear and shield, and sent north. That is how he met his wife.

Curzon’s mother was a Gaul, the daughter of a chief of the Bituriges, descendant of the king Bellovesus. She first met him when my father killed my grandfather, and took his daughter to wife. The Roman Consul L. Furius Medullinus III commanded a small force to march north in the eighty-ninth year of the Republic, to investigate rumors of gathering hosts of Gauls in the shadows of the Alps. Of a full century which marched north, only four returned, with my mother a captive.

They had come on a Gallic village, in which the women and children were going about their daily business, but from which the men were absent. As his father and his fellows neared the village to investigate further, they were attacked by the Gauls, who had been lying in wait. His father’s unit was unable to form properly, and was quickly broken up and left fighting each man for himself. The Gauls were fierce, and their surprise leant them ability; they cut down most of his unit in minutes. He found himself unwillingly fighting the leader of this mob, and he was getting the worse of it. Beaten to the ground, he was only saved by Fortuna, who caused the chief’s own man to stumble into his leader and knock his grandfather onto his father’s upraised spear. His father, dumbstruck, rose to his feet and just stared at the body of the man he had killed, watching the life fly from his eyes. As he stood there, a young woman cried out and ran from the village, and after a moment went to her knees at the dead man’s side, cradling his head and weeping. His father took a step toward her, and reached out his hand to hold her face, but then he was roused by the three of his fellows who also survived the skirmish. They seized the woman and dragged her off, with his father coming behind. In the camp that night, the men debated what to do with the woman. They had her captive, but they were too far north, alone and leaderless. They decided to kill her and be done, but his father spoke, and convinced them that she could fill the purpose of their mission: by bringing her back, to speak before Rome and the consul, their mission would not have been in vain. He convinced them, and they decided to head back to the city come dawn. That night, a man came to his mother, and knew her, and she conceived Curzon. The man bore the appearance of his father, the man who had killed her father, then spared her life. The night was the eve of the Summer Solstice, the hottest of the year, and the fire was great and powerful. In the morning, Curzon’s mother was alone, and his father was in his own tent. They went south, and travelled for many days. Curzon’s mother grew to know his father, and his father his mother. When they reached the city, he took her as his wife, and in February of the following year she bore him a son.

For the first nine years of his life, Curzon was the son of a happy household. His father was a smith, whose family was among the greatest in the city. His mother was beautiful, and loved to laugh. He was allowed to get away with much, at least until his father apprenticed him. For the first couple of years, life as a smith’s apprentice was uneventful, but pleasant. Curzon’s father would often go on trips to acquire metals from far places, and leave him with a few simple pieces to craft. Eventually, however, on Curzon’s ninth birthday, his father told him he was to go with him on his next journey. He would be leaving the next day for the Pillars of Heracles, where he would trade for tin from far away Britannia. Curzon’s mother was at first unsure if he was ready, but his father convinced her, and the next day, his ninth birthday, they set sail. It was the last time he would see his mother alive.
On the third night at sea, a storm came up and forced their ship off course. Where they were in the morning he does not know to this day, but what he does know is that it was home to pirates. He woke from a dream of storm tossed seas to the noise of battle on the deck. His father was among those who fought the pirates, struggling with them as they tried to board. He was among the last to die, and when he did, bleeding from his belly, it was with his eyes on Curzon’s face, shame at his failure twisting them to the last.

The pirates burned the ship, and took my father’s money; but they did not kill me, as they did the rest of the crew. Instead they took me, and I became their boy. For the next two years I sailed with them, doing their bidding on this matter or that, always having to get out of the way and avoid the angry fits of the pirates’ captain and mate. I was a slave, and my fate was not my own. Then one day, the captain grew tired of my scamperings and sold me off.
Curzon was given to a small emporium, or village, along the Carthaginian coast. A Berber named Al-Khawe purchased him from there, and took him into his travelling caravan. He was the leader of a mercenary band of warriors who had just been discharged from Carthaginian service. He had Curzon act as his personal attendant slave for the next three years, taking him east. First he gained employ in a small Berber war in the great desert of Africanus; then he headed to Egypt, where the pharaoh bought his service. After a year there he continued along the sea, first east, then north into Palestine. All this time, as Curzon grew and worked as his slave, he taught him the arts of war. He learned spear and shield, sword and axe, strategy, economy, and intimidation. He had the chance to practice the skills his father had taught him, in repairing Al-Khawe’s arms and armor. He actually began to be happy in his service… which is of course why the gods saw fit to take him from the world.

As he took Curzon with him past Palestine and into Asia Minor, they were attacked by another mercenary band, who wanted to ensure the business in the area remained solely theirs. Al-Khawe was killed, but not before he could dispatch Curzon away on his horse. He rode for days, up into the mountains. At last his water gave out, and he was forced to seek a stream or a river. As the Fates would have it, he found one, already in use of course.
Curzon came on a small mountain stream, full of cold, fresh snow melt, and quenched his thirst and renewed his tears. He set to following the stream up its course, hoping to find he didn’t know what. Curzon wandered, lost in thought, when he came on a water fall. It was no great thing, just twenty feet or so, but it was thunderous and had a deep pool at its base. He decided to stay and camp the night. When he woke in the morning, he found himself in a cave. Getting up, he realized that he could hear the falls not too far distant, and realized that there must have been a cave or tunnel behind the curtain of water. Then he noticed the light: the cavern he was in was lighted by a torch, which was held by a man. In fact there were several torches, and many men. They watched him.

These were the mountain-dwellers of Asia, renowned for their hidden underground communities. They took Curzon in, thinking him at first a danger, a scout for an attack. They did not kill him, but rather kept him with them so he could not escape and give away their location. After a week they finally began to listen to Curzon when he told them he was no spy, but they still did not trust him. After a month he finally convinced them he was not a threat, but by then he had begun to fit in. He was taken in by this people, the Colivars, made a part of their community. He was an orphan, a young man not yet of age, lost, and these people made him one of their own. He lived with them for just over a year, they taught him things. He learned how to mine. He learned how to hide. He learned about fire; they had one cave system in the heart of a fire mountain. Finally, he learned things about metalworking even his father never knew. These people were peaceful, but they were natural smiths, and they taught Curzon ways of working iron that he’d never heard before, folding the metal dozens of times to gain something stronger than any iron he’d worked before.
Then the eruption occurred. An ashen cloud fell from the sky, and liquid fire spilled through the caves. Only a few actually died; the rest escaped own the stream with Curzon. But the place he’d come to think of as home was gone, the community broken and scattered. He had nothing left. He was in the port city of Smyrna; he decided the time had come for him to go home.
Curzon arrived in Rome three weeks later, having gained service aboard a merchant ship as a combined serving man and smith. He immediately went to his family’s old home and business: someone else was living there. He questioned them, asking them of the woman who used to live there, and that’s how he learned of her death.

His mother had died two years after his father’s and his own disappearance. She had lived on hope for that long, but eventually she received word of the burned hull being spotted washed up on shore near Massillia. She didn’t last long after that.
After that story Curzon left his old house. He knew of only one other thing he might do: seek out the sole surviving member of House Korr, a distant cousin from a higher bloodline, an old man when he’d left. Curzon’s father had told him about him: Marcus Tiberius Korr, once a hero and tribune of the Republic, even in line for the consulship, until his son died and he withdrew from public life in grief. He now lived on a private estate outside the city walls.
When Curzon sought entrance to Marcus’ house, he was initially turned away. However, after two days of constant attempt the answering servant finally let him in to speak with him. Curzon found him at study, alone with some tablets and some papyrus scrolls. He was not anxious to see Curzon, as he wanted only to be left alone, or so he told the boy. Curzon then explained who he was and what he wanted: merely a place to live and work, someplace with some tie to his old life, his old family. Marcus did not seem to care, merely nodding tiredly, annoyed, as if telling him he would tolerate him, for a time at least. Curzon thanked him, and set himself up in the guest quarters.
Over the next six months, he worked in whatever manner Marcus or even his servants asked of him, not wanting charity but on the contrary, wanting to prove to himself and everyone else that he could support himself. That is why he also began to seek an apprenticeship in smithing in his spare time. One day, though, something changed in Marcus. He simply came over to Curzon one morning as he was carrying flour for his kitchens, and he handed him a tablet.

“Can you read?” he asked Curzon.

“Yes,” he said, “my father taught me.”

“Then read that,” he said. Curzon looked down and, written out on the wax, the phrase CURZONIS INGANOS KORR, SON OF MARCUS TIBERIUS KORR. He looked up to Marcus.

“What is this?” he asked of him.

He got a slight glimmer in his eye as he said to Curzon, “Your future. Tomorrow you will begin life anew, as my adopted son, my heir, and my legacy. I have lived a long time, but accomplished little. You have lived but a short time, yet accomplished much. I believe, with my son and your parents dead, the last of the Korrs should be of one family, and should work together to achieve once again our ancient glory. Tomorrow you will join your father’s footsteps and join the army. You will be known as a great man and leader, and from there you will build a political career.”
He did not know what the Fates had in store for him, but he knew it lay along the same path his father walked, and now it was time for him to seek his fortune.


Last edited by Curzonis Inganos Korr on Mon Oct 01, 2012 1:44 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Curzonis Inganos Korr

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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  Admin on Mon Oct 01, 2012 12:51 pm

Hey thanks for your submission and lengthy backstory. I need you to fill out General Character Traits before I can approve you though

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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  Curzonis Inganos Korr on Tue Oct 09, 2012 10:23 am

Please approve me
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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  Admin on Tue Oct 09, 2012 10:42 am

Alright, its not perfect but its....workable.

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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  Curzonis Inganos Korr on Tue Oct 09, 2012 10:45 am

What should I do to make it perfect?
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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  *Admin* on Tue Oct 09, 2012 11:23 am

Your profile, mainly your backstory, still switches from third person to first person constantly. Please fix this within 24 hours or you will be moved back to pending profiles. Also, please refrain from posting in any threads untill your profile fixed.

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Re: Curzonis Inganos Korr (Son of Vulcan)

Post  *Admin* on Thu Oct 11, 2012 4:01 pm

Your profile has been moved back to pending as said. Please review and fix your back story.

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