Personality

Gruff | Taciturn | Paranoid | Aggressive | Protective | Weary | Tactician | Soft-Centered | Wrathful | Focused

Posturing himself as a distant and gruff fellow, Spear’s softer inner workings are largely hidden to anyone who isn’t close to them. A history as a fighting man has left the wild mage defensive and prickly, paranoia creeping into his expectations of nearly any situation or new person.

Spearóg speaks little in public or larger groups, presenting a quiet & stoic outward persona. Inside is a being that is often terrified, fearful of the world’s fast-turning opinion on those with magic, and the ever closer encroaching of the ‘civilized’ sorts from the north

Additionally, there is a warmness and affection at his core reserved for his family, his friends, those who have helped him and his own retain their freedom away from the searing gaze of witchfinders and the order they now sink their claws into.

There is a rarely awoken burning focus in him, that will see him stop at no obstacle to clear his own goals. Whatever it takes.

wc: 180

History

Born under the canopy of the sunless jungle, Spearóg was welcomed by a bevy of cousins, and all manner of folk that lived in a small community away from the prying eyes of more settled areas.

His mother was a stern, doctorly sort, and kept a hawkish eye on the community to make sure everyone was alright. New arrivals were put under her ever suspicious eye - much of the community had come running from elsewhere, fearing magic in their or their children’s blood would see them imprisoned.

His mother was a community leader, certainly. She was a good woman, but not a particularly good mother.

Spear found himself frequently snapped at, and held to what some would consider an impossibly high standard when he was in earshot of his mother - her desires to keep him safe and to imbue caution within him heightening a desire to be out of her sight whenever he could manage - surely keeping themselves safe did not have to come at the cost of his own childhood. He wished to be good, a proper son, something she could be proud of and other children could look to, certainly - but he felt as if his own breath was under scrutiny.

A natural aggressive streak began to lead to frequent shouting matches whenever his mother’s harsh words fell on his ears, and much of the community gradually learned to pretend they couldn’t hear such a thing as the lanky Spear grew into an adolescent, all bones and sharp corners.

His magic did not emerge for quite a while - an oddity in that strange, out of sight ‘wild’ clan. The assumption was made that he was a non-mage, and to some degree, his mother’s intensity lessened; he would be less at risk than his magic-hued family and friends.

Spearóg appreciated the lessened scrutiny, and the frequency of shouting matches between the two lessened.

Spearóg swiftly decided, however, that the lessened oversight was a fine reason to throw himself into the makeshift militia that worked to keep interlopers - specifically those tied to suppressing and sinking their talons into wild mages - at bay.

Instantly the thin peace that had settled between him and his mother was utterly destroyed - the pair having one last violent verbal clash, and then settling into not speaking to each other.

Spearóg threw himself into the work at hand, insisting on training in battle, tactics, and field medicine in equal measure - the last of which was heavily influenced by his estranged mother’s doctoring role, something he’d always admired even at her most overbearing. On occasion he would even find himself envying her healing magic, desiring to be more like his peers amongst the community and their ramshackle unit of warriors.

It was a fairly ‘normal’ turn of events that would see his mark of ‘non mage’ fade into obscurity.

The ‘unit’ had met with a group of soldiers - on the track of a runaway mage - in a violent clash, costing the lives of two of their number. Hiding in the underbrush with a heavily bleeding shoulder & watching an enemy soldier pick through the undergrowth looking for the injured mages, Spearóg found himself greatly wishing the soldier bore the wound on his shoulder instead of himself - in some karmic repayment of what they’d done to his brothers in arms. With a violent flash of crimson, the soldier stumbled in their tracks. The sharp pain in Spearóg’s shoulder was gone - and the same gash was cut into the interloper’s pelt instead. Not yet understanding what was happening, but seeing an opportunity, Spearóg lunged out of the undergrowth - startling the soldier into falling on their own blade.

Once they were all properly out of the fray and safe, his battle-siblings would only encourage and offer themselves up for aid in experimentation with what was clearly freshly awoken magic.

He was intelligent, he was tactical, and with learning and application of his new ability, he was dangerous.

In the band of warriors defending the sunless jungle and its subjects, Spearóg became a force to be reckoned with. He would weather many painful battles, and train others in the defense of their home, their treasured safe community.

He would grow particularly close with one of his battle-fellows, a bright-eyed stag called Halcón who had a much friendlier voice than Spearóg’s own. Countless instances of saving one another from scrapes and always surviving began to stack up into something dear to them both.

The last time Spearóg spoke to his mother before she died was about his dear friend, as she sat tending to the unconscious stag. They hadn’t spoken in years.

“Keep him close.” Would be all his mother said in reply.

When they next returned to their community, his mother was already gone - a sudden failure of her heart in her sleep, her apprentices theorized - and he spent several weeks in choked silence, while the stag kept close beside him, tucked against his side.

The pair would never admit or confess anything, not in words - but eventually, Halcón was pregnant. It was clear their adrenaline-laced, conflict-filled life would have to have compromises.

The birth of their child took a sharp and drastic toll on Halcón, impacting his overall health long after anyone else would have recovered. His stamina was cut in ribbons, the stag only able to walk about for periods of five minutes before exhaustion and bodily discomfort hit. There was a sharp weakness to his immune system too, making the stag delicate at the best of times.

It was blatant they would both need to retire from the warrior’s life, to raise their son - a bright little thing called Sparvhök.

So Spearóg put down his weapons, and settled into the life of a parent, in the same community he’d been born into. He understood his mother now, in part, looking at his bright and cheerful son, who was far too curious for his own good.

He was gentler than his mother had ever been, taking more care for his son to know he loved him - ending up the primary childminder, due to Halcón’s various health issues.

It was a day like any other - except his husband, his Halcón was struggling. He stayed indoors with him, watching the doctors tend to him - telling his son to go play outside, with the other children.

Two terrible things struck at once.

Halcón’s heart would give out, and he would pass on under Spearóg’s gaze - and his son’s playmates would return home without him in tow.

It had been a dare, they’d said - he had go to the very edge of the jungle, close to an ivrasian farmer’s land. The other children had watched in terror as fellows draped in the garb of witchfinders had taken him.

His fellows begged him not to strike out alone, to wait until they could come up with a plan and all strike out to get his child back - but that might be too late. Spearóg denied their attempts to calm him.

Now Spearóg has taken up his arms again - he moves northward. He will find his son. Whatever it takes. No matter how much blood he has to spill.

wc: 1219

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