|Created by||Alex Tanner|
|Affiliation||The Grey Tower|
|Affinities||Fire, Spirit, Earth/Air, Water|
Andrin is a powerfully built young man of medium height just making it to 6’0”, he has bright blue eyes and short dark brown hair and a pale complexion. He is of noble blood, despite his less than savory birth status, his father always made sure that everyone knew his younger son was a base-born bastard. His father is Lord Brendin Delmoleros from Illian, his mother the Lady Camlyn Renwelyn of Tear neither of whom was married to the other. Physically he is a blend of his parents, having his height and coloring from his mother’s side of the family and his eyes and build from his father’s. At the end of the day, he himself considers himself an Illianer rather than an Tairen, having had very little to do with his mother and her birth nation after she had dumped him, quite literally, on the doorstep of his father’s estate after he was born, essentially forcing his father to acknowledge him.
He is clean shaven and moderately handsome if you can get past his cold demeanor, his hands are calloused from sword practice, and he has a sharp almost cool gaze, developed over his time as a Questioner with the Hand of the Light. His voice is deep but clear his accent is almost forcibly neutral, something he adopted growing up in his proud Illianer father’s household after he realized it put his father on edge. He likes to keep his thought to himself and doesn’t like to show his emotions overly much, finding that it gets in the way of whatever he is doing at the time, he prefers dark red wine over white and is not overly fond of ale, he also enjoys a pipe when the occasion permits.
When not wearing the traditional uniform of a Solider of the Tower he prefers to wear coats of silk or fine wool in darker colors with bright gold or silver embroidery, money never having been an issue for him, despite being illegitimate, his paternal grandfather had left him a sizeable inheritance and a personal estate after his death. On the third finger of his right hand, he wears a heavy gold ring bearing his personal sigil, a strident lion under an upturned crescent moon, his personal colors are dark grey and red. The only other piece of jewelry he wears is a gold pendant on a thin chain of roped gold, the pendent depicts the golden Sunburst of the Children of the Light with a Red shepherds Crook behind, the sigil of the Hand of the Light.
The young man sat hunched over in his booth at The Silver Trout, his cold grey eyes were moving around the room at a slow pace, watching, analyzing, and determining if there was even a single face in the crowd that knew who he was, that was a chance he could not afford to take. He took a small sip of the wine sitting in front of him, he wasn’t overly thirsty, nor was he particularly hungry, although he had forced himself to eat a meal, he was on the run and would need to keep his strength up. He had never lacked for funds so the way he was fleeing was probably vastly different from the way that most people did, most people did not have the best room in the inn rented, nor were dressed in fine blue wool coats with silver embroidery, nor bore swords chased in silver bearing their own personal sigils in the pommel, but Andrin did.
He had been left a sizeable inheritance, much to the chagrin of his father and half siblings, his paternal grandfather had taken a shine to the young bastard of house Delmoleros and had taken him under his wing, when he had died when Andrin was fifteen he had left him his own estate, his business interests, and a sizeable amount of gold. His grandfather had also instilled in him a deep-seated belief in the Light and all that it stood for, and the absolute certainty of the victory of the Light over the Shadow as long as there were good men willing to stand and fight, along with the ideals of service, honor and duty, considering his grandfather had served with the Companions in his youth such ideals were every bit as real as his faith, as such almost within the year or the family burying his grandfather he had joined the Children of the Light, a decision that had brought him to his current predicament, sitting in a up marked inn waiting just inside the borders of Andor waiting for a contact he didn’t even know to arrive with the promise of aid, without a conscious thought his mind cast back to the events of barely three weeks hence.
The wind was hot and humid on Andrin’s face, although the chainmail shirt, armored gloves, boots, conical helm, heavy white tabard, and cloak didn’t help either. But when five hundred Children of the Light Commanded by a Senior Lieutenant and accompanied by two Inquisitors of the Hand of the Light are mobilized, they are mobilized prepared for whatever situation they are heading towards.
There had been a disturbing report out of Arad Doman, that the entire village of Tarzine’s Gate had vanished, neighboring villagers had gone to Tarzine’s Gate when they had not received any word from friends or relatives nor had any deliveries been made. Those that had gone to the village had found it in ruins, not burnt like it had been raided, but doors torn of hinges, belongings strewn around the ground, and other far more serious signs of violence. But despite the copious amounts of blood staining the soil there were no bodies found.
The detachment was commanded by Senior Lieutenant Meilan Damora a surly Tairen who resented being assigned this command, especially when it had Inquisitorial oversight. Since they had left the Fortress of the Light, Andrin had avoided the detachment commander, Tairens generally did not like Illianers, and despite his bastard status, Andrin was first and foremost an Illianer. Andrin was the acting Inquisitor on this particular mission, although he was not the most senior Inquisitor present. Andrin although an Inquisitor, held the rank of a full Lieutenant within the Children, his superior who had come along as an observer held the rank of Lord Captain.
Andrin glanced over at Inquisitor Barthanes and almost cracked a smile, the other man looked like someone’s cheerful grandfather, he was the only member of the detachment who was not armed and armored, he bore no sword nor wore armor, when you get to his rank though there are very few people who can tell you otherwise.
“What do you think we are going to find My Lord?” asked Andrin as they waited at the top of a rise to let the long files of marching white cloaked soldiers pass, Andrin marveled at their discipline, the muggy heat was almost oppressive, but the men kept marching, blinking the sweat from their eyes as they strode on purposefully.
The voice of his mentor cut through his reprieve “Oh I expect what they told us was accurate to some degree, but commoners have been known to exaggerate from time to time when speaking of traumatic events.”
Andrin did grin at that one of the first lessons he had been given when he joined the Hand of the Light was that the truth was absolute, but there were many different layers to that truth, exaggeration was one of those layers, and commoners were well known for having overactive imagination, men that lurked in a dark alley could easily become a Fade with enough telling’s of a tale. He checked that his sword was loose in its sheath, a habit he had picked up from his grandfather, the old man had preached readiness in all things, and a stuck sword was particularly embarrassing for a soldier.
“Come along Andrin let us see what this village holds for us, I will be evaluating your findings and conduct on this little outing, a favorable report from me will see you rise high in the ranks of the Children, with a little more seasoning of course.” Andrin let out a snort, the other Inquisitor never took on a mentee, but he had taken a shine to the young Illianer who always asked questions and always got to the heart of a matter. Right now, the world looked bright and clear, the Creator was watching over them, what could go wrong?
Three days later was the utter opposite, Andrin was riding hard, his once pristine uniform splattered with mud and gore, his sword drenched in ichor. He could barely come to grips with what had happened over the past three days, the things he had seen come out of that stone vine carved doorway in the center of the village, what had happened to the five hundred men who had marched into that Light forsaken village, the things he had done, he had done the unspeakable for an Inquisitor, he had channeled.
He shook himself out of his reprieve, to his knowledge he hadn’t channeled since that day, he didn’t want to, just the thought of it turned his stomach. He pulled out his silver chased pipe, thumbing it full he looked around for a taper or something to light it when a small flame flickered into existence and lit it for him, he froze. Had he done this, was he going mad already, would he turn on everyone around him. His thought were interrupted by a voice “Calm yourself boy, I don’t need you keeling over as soon as I get here” Andrin’s sharp blue eyes flickered up to the man taking a seat opposite him. He wore a high collared black coat, in the Andoran fashion, with two pins affixed to the collar, one each side of the neck, he was a short man having the look of a borderlander, although no matter how he tried Andrin could not place his age, either twenty or sixty, or anything in between.
The other man spoke again “You are the one who sent the missive requesting aid aren’t you, otherwise I have waisted my very valuable time travelling here.”
Andrin swallowed his instinctive reaction, sitting across from the kind of man he had sworn to fight, sworn to stand against, and was now perhaps the only hope he had of not destroying everything he held dear, swallowing his anger and shame he said in a voice that crackled from disuse “Yes I am….please I need help.”
The other man smiled, it wasn’t an unkind smile, it was a smile of someone who understood “That is why I am here child, we all come to the Tower in our own way, but once there we are all the same. Your old life is over, Welcome to the Tower.”
- Soldier (7 September 2021)