[piosenniel]

Himaran's character

NAME: Abârzadan Batânzâira, Of Strong House Longing of Travel, Turmeawa Mélatrevad

AGE: 43

RACE: Númenórean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:

Abârzadan carries a longbow and a few arrows, customary of Númenóreans, but they are not the tools that he wields most smoothly. His favorite weapon is the large, double-bladed axe that he carries comfortably over one shoulder; an heirloom of his father.

APPEARANCE:

Abârzadan is six foot, four inches tall. He has shoulder-length, dark-brown hair, and large blue eyes. The man has a strong frame, large hands -- scarred from hours of axe-practice with his late father, and a slightly mishapen lower lip (which he is chews on frequently). He walks with a partial swagger, much practiced, in order to seem a swashbuckler. Abârzadan's fingers display several rings set with precious gems, adding to his already prominent air of importance; although he despises the look of "cleanliness" and usually keeps his hair greasy and ruffled. Always he seeks to appear as a rich, experienced and road-weary warrior; a tough combination to apply.


PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

As a general rule, Abârzadan is haughty and bold; a product of his heritage. His father taught him that only great warriors deserve respect, and even then only those "above" his family's prominent status. The man laughs loudly, and argues frequently, but will rarely become involved in an actual fight: for such matters are "below" him. He does, however, have a kind heart -- despite his father's belief that those poorer than him are unworthy of recognition, Abârzadan is generally touched by the sight of poverty, and will give freely; especially if another important figure is watching him.


HISTORY:

The House of Batânzâira was indeed a great power, but its influence has slowly slipped away. In reality, few among the Faithful have even heard of such a thing. In its days of greatness, it served proudly under Ar-Pharazôn, but as the king himself fell under the influence of the cult of Melkor, Batânzâira too was diminished. Abârzadan's father was one of the last to stand beside Ar-Pharazôn, cautiously counseling him to stray from the dark one's designs. When Sauron discovered his disloyalty, Abâranâ was forced to flee, leaving all his possessions and relations except for his son. Together they journeyed through Númenor in secrecy, at last arriving in the land controlled by the Faithful. To his death Abâranâ never trusted them, believing that he was living among traitors and criminals.

Abârzadan thus was forced to live among the Faithful after a long and pleasent childhood elsewhere, with his father isolated in their large home. (It should be noted that Abâranâ brought both his son and his fortune along.) He learned the ways of a warrior, and often strayed from the designated territory of the Faithful. He still thought that Ar-Pharazôn was not to blame, but that his father had ruined their life in Númenor. One day, he hopes to return there, and attempt to rebuild the dynasty of Batânzâira.

Shortly before his death, Abâranâ made his son swear a strange oath; that he would never marry until after he had proven himself in battle. Also, he implored Abârzadan to only become betrothed to a Númenorean woman, and not to an "Outcast." The man took both these things to heart, and seeks to accomplish both in the same feat. He has waited for several years to fulfill his promise, and now a chance has arrived...

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Himaran's post

Two swords crossed in overlapping fashion, drawing attention to the silver star located at the place of their meeting... The symbol of the House of Batânzâira. Abârzadan turned away from the treasured decoration adorning the wall of his large house. In reality, it was a thing of the past; there was no House Batânzâira... there was only him. The Númenórean man's ascendents were vast, but all had long since died out, persecuted by Sauron and the cult of Melkor. What that evil one so feared about letting it survive? Perhaps its strength, and the many warriors it had bred. Whatever the reason, all that was over. Abârzadan was the last of them, as far as he could tell. No one else remembered. No one understood.

Banishing the disparaging thoughts from his mind, Abârzadan forced himself to look on the positive side of the matter. He was safe, rich and secure; at least for the time being. The sole heir of a large fortune, the man was not stranger to the lavish lifestyle of the elite. But was there such a among the rabble of the Faithful? His father, Abâranâ, had never trusted them since entering their lands to escape the wrath of Sauron. They were outcasts, rebels, unfit to serve the King of Númenór. The old man's sentiments were never known publicly; he lived out his days isolated in his home, without making any aquaintices with the locals. After his father's death, Abârzadan had gradually come to accept the Faithful and did not hold them in a hostile light, but still he held on to the sometimes violent longing to see his true home. And then there was Abâranâ's last request...

No. That can never be accomplished. Never. Deciding that the acute loneliness of the house was becoming oppressive, Abârzadan pulled on a, coat, opened the door and hurried out into the street, allowing the wooden frame to fall shut loudly behind him. The refreshing tinge of cool air met his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore met his ears. Abârzadan's home was near the docks, for he loved to look out at the sea from his bedroom window... somehow, although it was not the way back to the King he still felt loyal to, the water was strangely attracting. Perhaps it was the sense of mystery it held, for doubtlessly there were unexplored regions beyond the simmering edge of the horizon.

Even the sea could not give Abârzadan's mind the rest that it longed for. His thoughts went back to six years before, when his father lay dying from disease. "Hear me, Abârzadan," he had rasped, before breaking into another fit of coughing. "And never forget. Keep the House of Batânzâira clean from the Faithful. Only marry..." the sick man's voice trailed off again. His eyes opened wide, as if he was seeing a vision. Then he had struggled back to reality, and made one last, desperate effort to finish his last statement. "Only marry... a woman of Númenór. I say this to you so that I know that one day, you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie. Never forget, Abârzadan, please..." The man had then gone unconcious, and died during the night, as silently as he had lived.

Enough reminiscing! Abârzadan decided that if he were to get any work done that night, he had better get a drink and clear the disturbing memories from his distraught mind. The man hurried down the street, soon finding a small inn that he rarely visited. Abâranâ had seen the place when they first arrived, and snidely commented on its disrepair. Indeed, it was in rather poor condition, and not the sort of place that a member of the elite would go to dine. However, it was close, and though the ale was poor it still contained the kick that he needed. Besides, the gossip of those at this particular small establishment was far more interesting than that at any fine diner.

As he entered the inn, Abârzadan noticed that it was quite empty, almost deserted. The man ordered a drink and walked over to a table in the corner; slowly easing into the hard wooden chair. His ears immediately sharpened, and he began to pick up snippets of conversation from a booth near him. When he heard "the King's men have been watching your uncle," his ears perked up. The King? Ar-Pharazôn? As he continued to eavesdrop, his suspicions were confirmed. "Your uncle is walking into a trap," one of the men said. Prized horses? And uncle and his daughter? As Abârzadan left the inn later that evening, he promised himself to keep his ears open for any more information regarding the strange tale that he had been exposed to.

Especially if it dealt with Númenór.