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~Plaza Life~
Name: Eriol de Mein
Nicknames: Eriol
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 185 lbs.
Age: Around 5,800 (approx)
Eye colour: Black
Hair colour/length: Black / shoulder length, straight and held back with headband
Distinguishing features: infectious smile; very clean; left handed; dark, sun bronzed skin; scars on back, arms and upper torso; usually wears a leather headband to keep his hair from his face, very protective of his horse, Ðæ.
Eriol was born in 641 of the Second Age to a sailor and an elf maid of Gondolin. His father escaped the wreckage of his beloved ship in the Mouth of the Sirion and met Alantárial, a former member of the court of Turgon. She loved the sailor, Angamaitë, and took him to live with the few left of the Exiles where they soon were wed. Angamaitë was a man in his prime, of the old blood, a follower of Elros Minutaur of Numenor. They lived in peace for many years, hidden from the world, singing old song and holding onto forgotten history. At a respectable age, Angamaitë was at last given a son, Eriol. Eriol was a dark haired and dark eyed child. His blood was that of a half-elf and his maturity that of one born long ago.
He was still very young when his father finally died, an old man with grey in his raven hair. They placed his body in a small boat and loosed it on the Sirion to disappear in the sea, but his memory was not forgotten. Alantárial mourned him, a hollow shell that soon left Eriol’s world for Valinor and the peace of the Elvenhome.
Eriol stayed with his kin, where his heritage was revealed to him and the heirlooms of his house were given to him. Only a few treasures were brought from the City, his grandsire's helm, armor and the sword that was gifted to the half-elven youth for deeds he had done hunting the orcs that roamed near his home. He lived with the remnants for many years and learned the way of the sea from those who remembered his father's name.
Bitterness eventually grew in his heart, for the half-elf felt at odds with his kin. He was not accepted by the pureblood Elves, even though Elrond Halfelven was already powerful in their eyes, nor did the men of the sea look kindly on the orphan who did not age and looked upon the world with eyes that had seen more than the eldest of their elders. He made his home between the two kindreds, hating both, but not knowing were else to go.
After living on the outskirts of the elven society Eriol took to his ships, fierce black vessel, but did not sail to the elf-havens or the ports of the South Kingdom. Instead he sought the company of the Corsairs and other pirates, the scurviest to be found in Umbar and the deep South. A twisted seed in him grew; fed no doubt by his new comrades, and he learned to survive in the harsh world alone. He became renowned for his recklessness and brash courage, and learned from his father’s people, the best of all seamen.
Many sought to best him, both in sport and with deadly intent, and his young life was spent evading capture and chasing his enemies. It wasn't long past the Fall of Numenor when his luck ran out. He was deserted by his closest companions and betrayed to an ever-vigilant foe.
When he escaped he was a changed man. His smile no longer came from emotion, rather it was a mask used to hide himself. His back was a tapestry of lash marks and burns and his black eyes resembled the void. Torn between the love of the sea and the calling of a home, he turned in desperation to the men of the southern deserts.
They were a fierce people, not given to acceptance of any not bred in the hostile desert. The half-elf was persistent, and finally, through an exhausting combat to the death with the champion of the tribe he was accepted. Years of bleakness upon the sea had all but silenced his emotions, but by giving mercy to his opponent he won the respect of the close nit tribes and for once was accepted for who he was.
It was soon noted that he did not age, and as his wisdom grew he became the chieftain and shaman of the clan. His clan, the Sea-hawks, was brilliant in battle, and was among the first called to war when the Last Alliance marched upon Sauron and destroyed the towers of Barad-Dur. Eriol journeyed with the Haradrim to the mighty battle on the northern marches of Mordor and saw his people destroy before his very eyes. Wounded himself, he was one of the few who were spared and sent to the White City for questioning and holding.
The Men of the City treat Eriol fairly, to his utter surprise and shame. He came to respect them as men of honor and slowly began to change. His jailors noted this and spoke for him before the King and Isildur was moved to mercy and released him before marching on the Gladden Fields where he was destroyed.
Eriol made his home in the White City, but his transformation was never completed for he found himself adrift in the descendents of his father’s people, proud and unbending and the general populace distained the half-blood. His only possessions were his heirloom from Gondor, his wits and quick, nimble fingers.
He left the White City on the wings of rumors that were finding him. Rumors that had a basis in truth for he become a night creature on the edge of society, living from day to day by what he could steal in his nightly forays. Some would say he found the Black Gates by luck, others that he was destined to enter the Land of Ash, for evil was burned into his very soul. Eriol figured it was a measure of both, though he hated the land he was drawn to. However, he found a home that embraced him as a liar, thief and recently turned assassin and eventually what was left of his humanity was crushed until he resembled a living wraith.
His elven features became hard, stamped with the lifelessness of Mordor. Death stared from his once beautiful eyes and his hair became long and matted. Muscle bulged from his arms and chest, the strength of men finally grown into maturity. Black eyes were sunk deep into his sun darkened face, burned to a everlasting mahogany by the desert sun, his cheekbone jutting out of his cold face and his lips forever curled into a sneer or pressed together in a look as cold as a tomb.
He made his home in the mountains near Cirith Ungol, awaiting the rise of Sauron, whittling away the long years of his life filled with the hate of Gondor, of Mordor and of himself. It became so that living in Mordor was his punishment for living, yet he could not take the step to end his life. He fought consistently, Gondorian, Mordorian or Elf, he did not care, for he hoped that someday he would meet his match and be released from the prison of his weary world.
He once again fought side by side with the Minions of Mordor as Sauron began his final rise to power, making brief attacks into Gondor. He stood in the city of Osgiliath, watching the White City welcome back the Sons of Denethor as heroes and he cast down his eyes in shame and slunk back to his home in Cirith Ungol.
There he met the Black Sage of the Morannon, a feared branch of assassins and murders of Mordor’s army, and after a brief period, joined the mighty band. It was not long however before the garrison was disbanded and Eriol could no longer stomach his life in Mordor.
He briefly journeyed into the Mordorian hellhole known as the Black Pits, unconsciously wishing to anger the Chamber Guard, the most feared minion who was quick to dispatch any irritant. Inside the walls, however, he found a Rider of Rohan, languishing in torment. His mind troubled by memories of his own time spent in shackles, and the irons that held him securely in their clutches now, he began an intricate process of freeing the woman. She touched a part of him he had thought long dead, his heart, with her stubbornness and trust. Greatly troubled by her death sentence, the pair fled the Pits and he let her go on the Plains of Gorgoroth.
He freed her, allowing her to return to her people but he could no longer bear the life he had once lived. He saw what he had become, a filthy being half alive and suddenly he realized he was something more. Never could he take his place among the pure of heart or the innocent, but he could accept his punishment and put himself to better use that wasting his immortality on the dark caves and unappreciative minions.
He left Mordor, becoming a wandering mercenary and living by the edge of his black sword. His device was known throughout the land, and even the most lawless and fearless of criminals avoided the silver serpent like Melkor again walked the earth.
During his travels, he met a vagrant flutiest who invited him to the Elven Stables of Lothlorien. There the newly awakened half-elf could explore his desires while training others in the art of war. The dark half-elf became a common figure, his tight, sleeveless black shirt emblazoned with a silver serpent, loose black trousers and bare feet could be found relaxing at the Pub after a hard days training, his scarred hands wrapped around a full mug and his eyes full of shielded memories. He soon became an officer and made his home in the Golden Wood, never venturing to the ash-choke land of Mordor.
Slowly the transformation that had started in Gondor strengthened and his personal demons released their hold on the half-elf. His eyes lightened occasionally, yet those who knew him could feel the bleak hopelessness of his soul best. He became as family to those of the Elven Stables, going so far as to adopt a few of his trainees, Alasse of the Nenharma's, Ella and Gili. Dhalion de Mein, the vagrant flutist and Field Marshal of the Elven Stables became as a brother to the half-elf and the young man, a mere child compared to Eriol, knew him better than any that walked the earth. A new mask replaced the old, one of lightheartedness and fun. His honed humor became droll, and a sincere smile often touched his face. A flask full of strong spirits was never far and came to hand as quickly as his knives and usually stayed longer. His dark temper and quick-changing moods were buried under the knowledge that mortals, on occasion, were all right.
However, it was an immortal that managed to snare his heart. Sure of the friendship behind the deep green eyes of a fellow officer, he had held his feelings close to his chest, wishing yet knowing that he was not worthy of her. A misunderstanding finally caused a forced separation, and he vowed to tell her of his feeling, for he realized that even for the deathless, life was a gossamer thread…Easily broken.
Upon his return, he proposed marriage to the elven beauty, stunned into silence when she heartily agreed and so, finally allowing himself to love, he wed Kala and became her willing slave. |
