Aloysius Beaumont
Race: Wick (Parse)
Birthday: Intas 10th, 2692
Age: 27
FC: Joe Anderson
Place of Origin: Hullwen, Anaxas
Current Location: Old Rose, Anaxas
Occupation: Bad Brother, Thief
Player Name: Rouge
Birthday: Intas 10th, 2692
Age: 27
FC: Joe Anderson
Place of Origin: Hullwen, Anaxas
Current Location: Old Rose, Anaxas
Occupation: Bad Brother, Thief
Player Name: Rouge
Physical Description
Haunted by nights of paranoia and inconvenienced by days of misfortune, the resulting lack of sleep and sustenance makes the freckled skin over Al’s face appear tautly stretched back, sinking in his cheeks and jutting out the bones above them. Both exhausted and gaunt, his shoulders tend to slump forward as if his heavy eyelids and guilty conscience weigh him down. And when his hands aren’t concealed inside his pockets, one could see that his nails are all bitten to the quick, some bleeding from frequent peeling. His most notable feature is a pair of bright blue eyes that become even more striking as they contrast with the dark circles underneath them.
Most people don’t get a good enough look at him to take much notice of his weary countenance since he usually hangs his head low, obscured by the bill of his flat cap.
Although he is a natural blond, his unkempt hair is currently darkened to brown with a matching mustache and goatee, which simultaneously makes him look more like his late Bastian father and a ravenous wolf. Or a thick-whiskered weasel depending on how intimidating another individual finds him.
Diablerie:
In a surge of magic that spans an eight-foot radius, anyone within its range is overcome with a rage so intense their restraint is completely shed and replaced with an overwhelming urge to harm another. Head pounding and blood boiling, they are blind to their uninhibited fury that lasts for ten grueling minutes. Unfortunately, there does not have to be a history of animosity against an individual for the one affected by the spell to be compelled to attack them.
In a surge of magic that spans an eight-foot radius, anyone within its range is overcome with a rage so intense their restraint is completely shed and replaced with an overwhelming urge to harm another. Head pounding and blood boiling, they are blind to their uninhibited fury that lasts for ten grueling minutes. Unfortunately, there does not have to be a history of animosity against an individual for the one affected by the spell to be compelled to attack them.
Personality
Aloysius is a creature of habit, specifically bad ones. If the state of his nails aren’t telling enough, his recklessness surely would be. Unsurprisingly, being a Bad Brother feeds into this behavior, skewing his sense of morality and getting him into more than enough trouble.
Raised to believe sharing one’s emotions — distress, anguish, envy, etc. — is a sign of weakness and that weakness is shameful, he represses his childhood trauma. Letting the memory replay in his mind and the accompanying ache in his chest fester. Confiding in no one. Consequently, his anxiety does not manifest itself in the expected outward manner of fidgeting or fretting but rather in irritability and insomnia.
As with most people, Al despises being made a fool of by others, even if it’s constructive or not their intention. Galdori in particular happen to be walking reminders of his failings. From their highbrow demeanor to the plummy or matter-of-fact way they speak, they remind him how dimwitted he perceives himself, and this lack of confidence translates into hatred for galdori. But even if he acknowledges this unfair perception of galdori, he’d still harbor some resentment for them because most would readily reciprocate the loathing over a defect he could not control and a bloodline he did not choose.
He feels most at home with humans and wicks, but this does not say much as he has an unconventional idea of home. Growing up, he never stayed in the same town or city for longer than a scorenight. So, much like his relationship with places, he rarely gets to know someone long enough outside of his family or the Bad Brothers to form a connection.
Being among the few people in Anaxas who are both affected by a diablerie and able to roam free, he pities gated passives. One of the few reassuring thoughts that makes him feel fortunate is remembering he still has his freedom.
As for raen, his father, a storyteller at heart, used to tell a ghost story of his own imagination about these curious beings to keep his brothers and him from wandering off at night. He’d tell them raen come out of the trees when the moon rises. These lost souls wander in a wisp like one’s breath on a frigid evening, searching for a body to claim. He’d say children were especially vulnerable. The existence of raen was believable as an impressionable and gullible child, but now they are no more than phantoms in a tall tale.
Backstory
In the fishing village of Hullwen, Aloysius Beaumont was born to an odd pair of wicks. His father, Miltiades, was a stout, jolly man who performed magic tricks for entertainment's sake rather than for money. His mother, Harlow, was taller than her husband by three inches and had an austerity to her that intimidated others. They provided each other with what they were missing. His liveliness gave her a warmer disposition, and her cynicism gave him better judgment. Together, they doted on their children.
As a child, Aloysius was — according to his mother — rather lovely. His hair was a golden sheen and grown in soft waves past his shoulders. Long lashes framed his eyes. His brother, older by two years, teased him relentlessly for this, calling him Allie or asking if Al was short for Allison. What made matters worse was being often mistaken as Harlow’s only daughter rather than her third son by others. Finally fed up with his brother’s cracks and everyone else’s quick assumptions, he got his hands on a pair of scissors and snipped off the locks he thought were responsible for them. He did a shoddy job of it. His ends were blunt and uneven. When he revealed what he had done, his mother did her best to fix it but not without a good chiding first. And his brother didn’t even attempt to stifle his snickering. Al felt at that moment no matter what he did, he would always be the butt of his brother’s jokes.
Aside from being rather pretty, he was also an unfettered and boisterous boy who always seemed to have a scrape on his knee and smudge of dirt on his cheek. Much like the way he raced across fields or along footpaths, his imagination ran wild. Branches were the rungs of a ladder that led to the upper deck of a ship. He’d imagine that the treetops were the sea, the wind pushing and pulling them into rustling waves. A fallen branch was a pirate’s cutlass, a soldier’s rifle, or Old Man Wake’s walking stick.
When the fun and games were over, his parents taught him practical, hands-on skills. His father showed him the proper way to draw a bow and how to be quick with his hands. His mother demonstrated how to skin game and when to flip the meat on the pan so both sides were evenly seared. Through their guidance, he learned how to hunt and feed himself at a young age. He knew how to survive. However, they neglected to teach him the meaning behind those scribbles on the pages of the Spoke’s Almanac or on the signs hanging above shops.
Most of his childhood was carefree. No obligations. No troubles. Boundless. That was until the string of his father’s bow came loose from his twiddling.
Aloysius was afraid his father would be angry with him.
There was something inherently terrifying in being strangled by the one person with whom he felt safest. Al’s father, the same man who lifted him up onto his shoulders in an attempt to lift up his spirits. The man who pulled coins out from behind his ear in a playful little trick instead of handing him his allowance. This man, Aloysius’ protector, became a fearsome assailant. Bug-eyed and red-faced. Spittle spraying from his mouth like a slobbering savage dog. Veins bulging at his temple and throat, ready to burst. Pushed up against the wall, Al’s feet dangled from off the ground. His own face mirrored his father’s but strained in a panicked desperation rather than wrath. He croaked out an apology, thinking his father was furious for breaking his cherished bow.
Amidst the struggle, his mother emerged in the front doorway. At first, she was squinting in a bleary vexation; it was the same expression she wore when he and his brothers disrupted her sleep from being too loud. The grogginess clouding her eyes dissipated once she saw what was responsible for the noise. She darted forward after a second’s hesitation, pleading with Milton. Her nails dug into his skin as she tried in vain to pry his fingers from around their son’s throat. This only fueled his frenzy. Al’s peripheral quickly grew dark, as if he was sinking down a six-foot deep hole. The light vanished once the earth closed over him.
A distant wailing roused him. It was a woman’s voice, sounding like it was coming from another room. But as he focused in on the noise, it broke through the wall and he realized the source of the wailing was much closer than he’d thought. He opened his eyes. His father was on the ground, staring blankly up at the sky. His mother was stooped over him. Sobbing. Blood coated his father’s head, his mother’s hands, and the stone his eldest brother, Enoch, was holding.
It became clear within the next few months what caused his father to become enraged. The possibility of a diablerie being behind it did cross their minds. But none of them, especially Al’s mother, wanted to believe it. First, it was the complete lack of a field. Then, Enoch tried to teach Al a spell. Levitating came easy to Enoch and Al’s other brother, but not even a millimeter of space came between the bottom of his feet and the ground. After trying for days to no avail, there was no longer any doubt. Al was parse.
As a teenager, Al isolated himself, both in physical and emotional distance. He trailed behind on horseback as the rest of his family wheeled ahead inside the caravan. He was also quick to anger. After a scuffle with a galdor who called him a towhead, Al returned to his family’s caravan with a swollen eye and a split lip. His mother was busy brushing her horse’s mane. Her hand froze once she looked up at his face. There was a flash of concern on her own face, but she provided no cooing comfort. No tending to his cuts and bruises. She merely handed him a wet towel to wipe the blood from his chin, telling him that it’s a dog eat dog world out there and the only way to thrive in it is to grow thick skin or bite back. This was an attitude toward life he became all too familiar with throughout the years.
When the Bad Brothers came back into his mother’s life, she chose for him to join. But he chose to stay. Al stayed because there was a sense of camaraderie that he felt nowhere else, not even with the Yellow Eye tribe. He never questioned whether being in this organization was the right path for him or not. Neither did he know if this was what he truly wanted. Doubts began to develop when his eldest brother died.
After Enoch was shot in front of him, he took pause. This moment and feeling were awfully familiar to him. Awful indeed. During his retrospection, he let his guard down and an auntie took the opportunity to knock him out with the butt of her gun. He came to half an hour later inside a barred carriage that wheeled its way toward the nearest jail cell.
Unsure if his diablerie was responsible for his brother's death as the events leading up to it happened within seconds, remorse still plagued him. He desired isolation, and being in prison provided him with exactly that. Trouble was: he came to find this desire was temporary and matters weren't telling whether his stay was the opposite.
Aptitude Skills
Mental
Poor
Physical
Good
Social
Poor
Poor
Physical
Good
Social
Poor
Focus Skills
Career and Income
Housing and Inventory
Goals
Deep down, Al wants to connect. He wants to make long-lasting friendships and eventually start a family of his own. It's a desire he'd never outright admit because it’s far too sentimental for his taste. However, the lie he keeps telling himself is nobody’s worth the time, that any relationship is sure to fail. In actuality, he can’t let go of the nagging idea that proximity can mean the difference between calm and chaos. This does not only apply to his diablerie, but also his ill-earned livelihood and involvement with the Bad Brothers.
He has to learn to trust himself, let alone others.
