The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:15 PM

Hiriel's character

NAME: Azaryan

AGE: 89

RACE: Umbarian Male

WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them.

APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors.

HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics.

At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions.

His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom.

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Hiriel's post

A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle.

He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long.

But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy.

They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath.

“Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features.

“That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat.
“That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.”

Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow.

“Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

10-14-2005, 08:15 PM	#187
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Hiriel's character NAME: Azaryan AGE: 89 RACE: Umbarian Male WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them. APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors. HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics. At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions. His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hiriel's post A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle. He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long. But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy. They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath. “Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features. “That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat. “That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.” Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow. “Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.