Personality

Debonair is a charismatic and terribly self-indulgent wreck, coming off perfectly sure of himself. Only about half of the intensity of that projection is true, as half the time Debonair is quite certain he's nothing but a predatory blight on every other living thing that ought to be destroyed. The other half he's certain he's some sort of wild-minded genius and a gift to all those who chose to remain in his near vicinity. Oftentimes acquaintances can't help but at least grudgingly like the bastard.

His magic lends to him being naturally inclined to be manipulative to some degree, and though he tries to keep this aspect leaned away from his crew 'family', sometimes it may leak. To those who he is not attached to with emotional bonds, Debonair is a ruthless force of... not quite nature that will do whatever's needed to get himself and his whatever they need to survive, and thrive.

Debonair has developed into a rather intense flirt since escaping the heavily repressed years of his early youth - if he thinks you charming, attractive, or otherwise worthy of notice, you'll find this out quick. However, he takes rejection generally rather gracefully and is respectable about that sort of thing.

Word Count: 206

History

The firstborn and defacto heir of a pair of nobles in Nymene, Debonair was born as Dacre Langley Montbrook II, which in truth, never really suited him even then. Done up to look like his duke father in miniature, the young colt usually looked distinctly uncomfortable at whatever formal events he had been shoved towards.

Duke Dacre Langley Montbrook was staunchly anti-mage (as had been in 'fashion' in Nymene for a long time, and has remained so since), and young Dacre II was expected to be as well. After hours of rants, however, the colt had the distinct feeling that if the country's populace swung towards approving of mages tomorrow, his sire and mother would switch in an instant.

All the same, horror stories of a mage child springing up in a respectable non-mage family and turning into some horrific monster haunted the young lad, having no first-hand or real experience of mages.

When the first stirrings of his magic began to creep into his life, he didn't even suspect it as magic. He understood others feelings on things with almost flawless clarity, this creeping into his head without his intent.

This resulted in young Dacre seeming far more intelligent then he should have had any right to at a young age, and his parents only fluffed up with pride - bragging of their lovely, understanding, son.

Internally, Dacre became ever more uncomfortable with this life - himself propped up as some example of his parents shining goodness always. He felt always that if he were to step a hoof out of line, his father's reaction would be... monstrous.

Repressed feelings of childish and human urges built up, and eventually... seemed to slide partway off onto other people unintended. This was minor at first, enough for the young colt to brush off as coincidence - a respectable family valet saying something untoward to his father, then looking startled it had slipped out of his mouth. His mother's most unpleasant-looking vase found 'accidentally' cleared off its stand by a 'clumsy' servant.

He learned well enough his father thought of him and his mother both as mostly tools to prop himself up - the emotional leak was sometimes so strong it felt rancid.

The illusion of odd-happenings being simply that, and not some sort of magic at play ended abruptly and violently - when Dacre idly wished his father would stop ranting his newest politic policy to the hapless dinner table, and choke. Duke Dacre was suddenly asphyxiating himself - and young Dacre knew. He was the monstrous mage hiding in a family of non--mages - he was the infection that was laying waste to Nymene's families. He would prove to do far more then make people choke themselves, later in life.

With this new terrible flood of feelings upon Dacre - His father stopped choking himself all at once. The colt was filled with blind, guilty panic - and he ran. Rushing to his quarters, he gathered up the things he actually cared about and pursued by the house staff and his confused and terrified parents, he left through the window of his bedroom - landing very painfully on the estate grounds. He bolted into the night.

Soon after that, looking much less respectable after time on his lonesome, the greying colt stumbled into a port town and hid, for the time being. Fearful of whatever hunt for him his parents had put on, he signed to the Nymenian navy under a fake name, and an age far more legal for this then his actual one.

Out from under his parents' thumbs, he became more of a bold sort, an actual personality slipping out over time. He liked the sea, and the stars that hung over it - however, it became swiftly clear that his morals and the morals of Nymene and its naval did not align. He rose up the ranks not out of actual dedication or passion, but out of safety - and more carefully placed applications of making those above him feel his own feelings.

When the ship was caught in a clash with a ship chock full of half-feral pirates, mages among their number, well - He saw his chance and helped made sure the damnable navy ship lost. The assaulting ship would prove to be The Trespasser, and desperate for somewhere where he did not feel like a horrible rat for having his ill-favored magic, he offered himself as part of the crew.

With the navy regulations now off his back too, the newly self-named Debonair could truly - well, blossom didn't seem quite the right word. He was fiercely loyal to his newfound "family". His manners were shed unless they seemed needed; his personality and self-expression became far more vibrant, and sometimes, he leaned into the vicious urges that crept under his skin. Debonair was somewhat awful, but at least he was himself.

Years later, when Vidar ordered that they sail straight into a storm, and everything afterwards- the battles, the poor decisions- he supported her - and, truth be told, used careful applications of his own magic to ensure that some of the bottom-rung crew members that doubted her would listen without further question, certain this would be key to surviving whatever came next.

This would not be the first time that Debonair was horribly incorrect. This would, however, be the first time it cost him half a leg.

About five years later, one of the survivors of the shipwreck, Debonair has been stumbling after Vidar, filled with longing for the sea again. The land makes his skin crawl now - maybe his captain will return them to it soon?

Word Count: 952

⭼ Venomous Empathy ⭺