Durion, the Poison of Gondor (Minas Tirith)
Feb 25, 2018 19:39:34 GMT -5
Post by Durion on Feb 25, 2018 19:39:34 GMT -5
.The Facade.
Character Name: Durion
Name Meaning: Son of darkness
Age: 33
Date of Birth: January 17th.
Race: Man
Residence: Minas Tirith
Profession: Once a member of the Gondorian cavalry, he now is a junior advisor for Lord Denethor himself.
Appearance: Durion is a striking man, and one that, should you pass him, will immediately have your eye. He is a striking six foot three inches, lithe though muscular, with an elegance that hangs in the angles of his face. He prides himself, perhaps overly so, on his appearance---and one would never find him looking disheveled or otherwise unkempt.
He has brown hair, nearly as dark to be considered black. Though, the feature most people recall about him are his eyes. They are deep and nearly black themselves, though something about them is altogether sinister at times. He is wonderful at seeming gentile and earnest, though for moments at a time one can see through his façade to glimpse his true character.
Personality: Durion is, at his heart, a coward. He is a Gondorian, one of the noble sons of a wealthy father on the sixth tier, showered in accolades of “hero” that the Steward himself set upon him many years ago.
He plays the part of a loyal Gondorian, yet unbeknownst to those who cross his path, his loyalties do not lie in the lands of his birth. While he considers himself being a realist, Durion feels that the dark day of Gondor’s fall is eminent, and has adopted the personal task of working on Gondor from the inside for a coming grand reward.
While many people find him worrisome, few, if any know the truth. He covers his true self masterfully with charming smiles, dancing eyes and his handsome features. However, at times it is all too clear that he is only seeking self-preservation.
Durion is also one to woo the ladies. He, by all means, is a womanizer. Any woman, comely or not, is fair game. In fact, he takes extra joy trying to win over the ladies that are already claimed by another. For him, it is all a game. He never sought companionship in the form of a true relationship, knowing that his heart, nor wandering eye, would not fit well with most women.
.The Blood.
Parents:
Father – Daeron, aged 59.
Mother – Verisiel, aged 56.
Sibling(s):
Sister – Anira, aged 26.
Spouse: None.
Children: None.
History:
Durion was born the first son of a great general of Gondor. As such, from a young age he was pressured to be in all ways like his father, down to the profession. As a child, he was manipulative and cruel whenever he would play with the others. Somehow, he always received what he wanted from others, including his two parents. When Anira was born, Durion immediately detested her, for the attention that he had gotten from his parents was now split, and to Durion unevenly so.
As they grew up together, it seemed that Anira was able to read him better than any other being in all of Minas Tirith, and she had grown to trust him very little. Still, it did not trouble him, for while many were aware of something off about him, after enough time spent speaking to them, they were smitten by his charisma and blinded to his true, twisted self.
By the time he was seventeen, he had been placed in the cavalry of Gondor: the absolute most loathsome job this young man could have ever imagined for himself. While he loved being in control, and he did love power, he was one who secretly feared untimely, gruesome death, and such end was almost certain when one was in the services. One day, he had a campaign with some of the other cavalry members under the guide of one unlucky general to take on some orc who had pressed in on Ithilien. They were to intersect some of the rangers and collect valuable troop postings for Steward Denethor’s review. The orcs overwhelmed them; they never stood a chance.
Led by a being of ice, blackness, and despair, it seemed their onslaught unstoppable. Durion had never seen any monster alike to the one that took no wound by sword, whose blade was black and sharper than a freshly whetted steel, though looked old and ancient beyond compare.
All but he were slain. Ever one to preserve his own interests above all others, as the black-cloaked being closed in upon him, pleaded from the ground that if his life be spared, that he could be useful. He was a noble. A man of influence. If he returned with the papers, perhaps thought a hero. He would be an asset. He would serve the Dark Lord.
And thus it was Durion, son of Daeron switched his allegiances. Nobody questioned how he survived; accolade was thrust upon him. “Durion the Lucky”, “Durion the Valiant”. He carried news of the attack, and it seemed that almost every retelling warped darker and more sinister. He was deemed a hero, and the councilors of the Steward were interested in his knowledge of a black-robed man, untouchable by blade. So it was he was able to lift himself from the services in the cavalry to a junior councilor of sorts.
He has worked his machinations for the Dark Lord from then on, though has not relinquished in pursuit of his own delighting as well. Small things have his hand in them, yet even those have proven great enough that his keep has been earned by the Nazgûl’s standards; Durion yet has his life.