RoamingRonin

Hailing from the sweet chicken fields of Elysium, Atreus’s ancestors made themselves known for being a battle-hardened warrior sect of Farfolk. They spoke a language that many would consider foreign, and practiced rituals that would be considered morbid. Each child was to be inspected three times. Once when born, another at age five, and lastly, once when the child had matured to age 18. If found to be unsatisfactory, they were either fed to the chickens, or thrown into the ocean. The 18 year olds were forced to fight to prove their worth, and show that they can stand up for themselves or prove to be useful in other ways. This bred the Elysians as formidable fighters, yet, they were outmatched in other areas. Despite having a government, they were crippled by the poultry-plague that had overtaken their lands. Eventually, along with raids, they had succumbed to collapse, and found themselves scattering off the landmass. Tribes of Elysians were thrown to the far reaches of the lands, eventually breaking down their genetic code and sharing it with those who would deem them appropriate for family-life. Barely a footnote in history, the Elysians bore olive-skin and an accent that was considered conventionally attractive to the royalty, and many were scooped up and brought throughout the history as slaves or workhorses. Traveling with the masses, the Elysians seem to have lost their ways. Traditions have been swept from their memory, and now, inhabiting Arcas, they seem content to grow old and fat with their wives. Many tribes have taken on the civilian lives, their accents and skin tone becoming less and less apparent. All except for one. Generations upon generations had passed since then, and Atreus the Warborn was born in the Holy Orennian Empire, to a loving mother and a battle-hardened blacksmith father. A stalwart in his own right, Atreus’s father held true to the old traditions of his people, deeming him and his kin the last of the warrior people. Inspected in the old ways, Atreus grew in the harsh nature of his ancestry, trained in martial combat, and how to hunt by his father and grandfather. At the age of 18, he experienced his final test, a battle with his father. Set in the basement of his home, Atreus was given a dagger and nothing else. His father and grandfather set upon him, baring shields and shields. No one can quite say what happened in that basement, but Atreus appeared with his generational counterparts, blood smeared on his face and several scars alone his body. One, being a horizontal slash down his front. No one died, but they came close. Nursed of his wounds and given the gift of life once more, Atreus was reborn in blood and battle, and taught the old traditions of his people. His father, grandfather and mother had prepared for him a special gift. A blue cloak to wear upon his back, as well as a blue linothorax as well as bronze and leather bracers for his arms. The crown jewel of the gifts, however, was his helmet. Styled in the old ways of his people, his warhelm is special, in the fact that it is improved with modern metals and smithing, as well as having a dyed orange and red plume. His beard was tied into a knot, to symbolize his growth as a man, and he was loosed upon the world, without any direction of where to go. “Go forth, my son, and carry on the Warborn name.” Were his Father’s final words to him. He kissed his father and grandfather’s cheek, and hugged and kissed his mother goodbye. And the was the last time he had seen them. Years had since passed, and Atreus the Warborn had accrued a name for himself, The God-Warrior, though he would never call himself that on any occasion. His first name would suffice. A contracted mercenary, Atreus fights for the highest bidder, and looks to restore his family name to the greatness they had once been. Campaigns of war and battle are the life he knows, and blood and bone are the things he finds himself covered in. Despite this, however, he remains to himself. An honest man with good intentions, even if he is a sell-sword.