image by Laura J, Bayless
Name: Joxan Mensir
Nickname: Joy
Age: 26
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 159 lbs.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Occupation: Bodyguard
Physical Appearance:
Joy is too pretty. Or at least that is what he hears from men in his line of work. This isn't the beauty that inspires tears, or is even the type compels people to listen or obey. It's just natural, and untapped. The common response is envy, or brief attraction. Little more.
His skin is smooth and creamy peach, soft and unblemished, just about everywhere - except his hands. His fingers are well callused, accustomed to the grip of a sword, to climbing, and even menial chores.
The hair atop his head shimmers with red highlights, but indoors the more dominant warm brown is clear. It is cut to frame his face, and while realistically one would think it would get in his way without ties, he never complains of its interference. If it does occasionally cover his liquid mahogany eyes, he doesn't seem to care.
Some accuse him of elven blood due to his high cheekbones and somewhat slight frame, but he denies any such lineage. At least his musculature isn't particularly elven, at least not the dainty stereotype - he is lean, but built quite sturdy even so. His build seems halfway between laborer and warrior.
He wears a long sleeved waistcoat, burnt orange in color, but of common sturdy cloth. It is well pocketed, inside and out, and has the added benefit of being reversible - the dark grey-blue lining is a bit more discrete when dominant. Often the coat is open, revealing the flexible and worn brown leather bodysuit he wears underneath. His trousers are tan in tone, and cut for mobility instead of style. Moccasins adorn his feet, and are tied securely to him. He sports a broad belt, matching nearly invisibly with his bodysuit, and upon it hangs a well devised roomy belt pouch, a water-skin, and the simple sheath for his blade.
Equipment/Belongings:
Speaking of which, he possesses a rapier of quality, but not overtly so. The crosspiece and hilt is simple, a common design to protect the hand with none of the ornaments of nobility. Most noteworthy is that the weapon is crafted of fine dwarven steel, but in a sleek style more befitting the elves then the miners of its ore. This is not obvious from casual observance, but under close inspection its quality becomes quite obvious. Although not by itself magical, it is still extremely light and sharp. In terms of being able to affect creatures only hurt by magical weapons, it might just be able to do so if used in a precise manner.
Other than the clothing on his back, he carries a fair amount of coin secreted about his person in multitudes of hidden pockets, with only a trivial amount in his belt pouch. It is not enough for any heavy purchases, but enough to keep himself fed and sheltered for a great period of time. His pouch also stores some dried meat, fruit, and nuts, along with a tinderbox. Hidden however, in a secret compartment in said pouch, are a collection of thin darts and a collapsible blowgun. He stashes a simple dirk (stabbing dagger) in a hidden sheath strapped to his right leg. Beyond that is his water-skin, and a pair of bone dice that he often rolls about over his fingers.
Pets:
Not quite a pet so much as a traveling companion, he had the luck of befriending a sleek bronze colored hunting dog akin to a greyhound. Byron, or so Joy affectionately calls him, bears a keen intellect for his race and is certainly no tamed lapdog. He is a dignified predator, a noble hunter, with the gift of immense speed and a trained survival sense. Perhaps it isn't magical, but it seems as if the dog can smell trouble from a mile away.
Joy and Byron are not constant companions. When the man chooses to visit civilization, the dog simply fades away into the wilderness to do his own thing. Fortunately Byron has the sense not to hunt livestock, or at least not do it often enough to get caught. As Joy returns to the road, the dog has the uncanny knack of ending up right besides him.
As stated before, Byron has a greater than average intelligence. The extent of his gifts lie in such things as bringing back game to his human companion unbidden, guiding Joy past perceived danger, or tearing through rope binding Joy's hands. Anything as extraordinary as his ability to keep Joy alive and well while the man was practically comatose was something he has yet to repeat, however.
Personality:
Joy is all about living life to the fullest. For him however, that means simply living. His nickname developed from the fact that he could take light of just about any situation. Stuck in a pit with cannibals all around? At least he was around to observe their unique dining habits. Walking bare foot over broken glass? At least his feet will be tougher once they heal. Not to say that he's foolhardy - he, like most, will avoid danger and death when it looms its ugly head. But, when forced into a bad situation, he tries to make it better, by word and deed. Often enough, he'll try to talk his way out of a problem, using a firm grasp of logic and a wee bit of charm. He's not above lying either, however he'll try to use the truth first if possible.
One of the most remarkable qualities Joy possesses is his ready sense of delight in even the most mundane of objects and occurrences. Childlike in this regard, he is no fool to quite a few harsh realities of the world, but he chooses to ignore them for the most part.
As for his sense of humor is a little bit skewed. With his business relationship with a rough lot of seasoned warriors, he grew accustomed to their gritty and abrasive natures, and reads things as they are – jokes, albeit often bad ones. Not only is he not one to judge, but he tries to replicate that sharp humor in hopes to bring a chuckle out of those around him.
Joy knew a childhood of pain. This, he never dwells upon, at least not for long. When asked of such things, he covers them up as smoothly as possible, usually being honest and straightforward about being disinclined to speak of such things. Sometimes the pangs will arise, especially around high art and culture, but his repression is very very strong.
Skills & Talents:
Joy carries the gift of voice, for singing, recitations, or orations of any sort. He has a great memory for stories and songs, ballads and poems, and has many memorized. To a lesser extent, he mastered the art of physical mimicry, and has several ballets and the like embedded in his memory. Unfortunately, this is all part of his painful past, and as such, he is aware that he possesses such talents, but represses the knowledge most fervently. The only benefit he still retains of such things is his ability to talk circles around most people.
Due to the fear that only being a fugitive can bring, he has rather enhanced reflexes. He is a light sleeper, and although he doesn't jump at any sound, he usually is prepared to leap out of harms way at the slightest provocation. Or, in the case of guarding others, leap into harms way.
Since claiming his freedom, he has trained martially - extensively. Although toning his muscles well enough, his speed is his greatest asset, and he uses it to it's full advantage. He became an advanced student of the defensive and offensive techniques of fencing, although he focused on the defensive side. He is no master swordsman, but highly talented nevertheless.
Tapping into his luck, augmented by a decent amount of trained accuracy, Joy is quite the marksman with his blowgun. Although he doesn't use poisons, like most who utilize the weapon do, his aim is extreme enough to target points on the body that are extremely debilitating, and sometimes even deadly.
Beyond the ability to kill or not be killed, he also managed to pick up survival skills. From chopping wood for a fire, to basic cooking and household repairs, he has attained a basic understanding of how to live like a normal human being.
Powers:
A Second Skin: Joy's skin was replaced (see History), and the replacement has special properties.
• Firstly, he is immune to heat and cold, including fire. Electricity doesn't burn him, but would most likely stun him. Acid does not affect his skin, but would harm him as per normal if imbibed. The only exception is that he is vulnerable when his mouth or eyes are open, or wounds exposed by yet to be healed cuts. Magical versions of above dangers are not any more effective, unless of course they target his vulnerable points persistently.
• Secondly, the skin is capable of absorbing bludgeoning blows. Such attacks will still knock him back, and will still hurt, but they will cause no lasting damage. Anything from a fist to a sledge hammer, to a great fall, he is impervious to - except of course for the temporary immense pain. His bones will not break from such impacts, but they can be bent and broken with enough specific force, and he can still be choked or squeezed to ill effect. Slashing or piercing attacks have only slightly more trouble harming him than a normal human.
• Thirdly, his skin regenerates rapidly, healing surface cuts but doing nothing for inner organ damage. Light injuries take anywhere from a few seconds to a minute to properly heal up. Deep cuts will be sealed within minutes but will need further attention to fully heal.
A Slippery Mind: Due to being subject to extensive telepathic torture, Joy became adept at shutting his mind to all but the most powerful mental attacks. If caught unaware, there are chances he may be psychically attacked, read, or otherwise manipulated, but he has the training to react quickly to such attacks. No idle attempt from anyone short of a telepathic master will succeed, it will take a great deal of concentration and power. But, similarly, if Joy is somehow preoccupied and unable to concentrate on his defense, the likelihood of his successful resistance is highly diminished.
A Great Deal of Luck: Really, what has kept Joy going has been luck. He's ended up running into the right people, finding what he needed when he needed it, and landing lucky blows in the most opportune of moments. It isn't constantly active, but it often rises to the occasion. The one complication is his luck becomes much less predictable around strong magics, and with objects and creatures with astral roots.
Strengths:
- Resiliency to environmental dangers, and blunt attacks. Also difficult to damage through magic, unless specifically the magic bypasses his skin or has a slashing/piercing/squeezing effect. Strong willed against attempts at mental control.
- A talented swordsman with superior reflexes. Excellent marksmanship with his blowgun.
- Often able to talk his way out of trouble.
- Difficult to detect as magical. No ranged magical scan short of a fully intrusive powerful divination can detect the fact that carries any unusual gift. However, touching his flesh with ones own flesh, and carrying out even a casual spell of divination, will reveal the nature of his skin.
Weaknesses:
- Ignorant of many things, including local geography, politics, and policy, as well as corruption of ruling bodies.
- Unable to read or write. Not by lack of intelligence, but by lack of instruction.
- Does not maintain a healthy fear of the unholy (demons and the like), but instead believes them to be just as reasonable and safe as anyone else
- Tends to forget his joy of life under the threat of psychic subjugation. Will irrationally target those he feels are intrusive to his mind with violence.
- Vulnerable to attacks targeted against his open eyes or mouth, or against exposed slashing/piercing wounds not yet healed.
- Hatred of his past prevents him from tapping into exceptional performance qualities he possesses.
Character History:
The life of a favored slave boy to a powerful, maniacal wizard prince is not an easy or pleasant one. Especially when not given the resources to be what ones master wants. Raised to be the enlightened entertainment for Lord Mensir, Joxan knew only suffering at the hands of his master. Except, the hands were never used. It was through Mensir's will alone that the boy knew the most pain. Mental lashes for every mistake, and mistakes were a plenty. For Joxan had to memorize entire plays, word for word, after seeing them performed once. Memorize entire ballads after hearing them once, epic poems that stretched on for hours. It wasn't just for that which was listened too either, no, Joxan was forced to learn to dance with no formal training. One false step, and the pain began. One false note, and time would stop to prolong his torment. Forbidden to learn to read or write, the talent was excruciatingly slow to develop.
After several years of this lifestyle, Joxan became adept and attuned to performance arts, and miracle of miracles, managed to perform as his master desired. Mensir, however, started to grow frustrated that the boy who had turned so rapidly into a young man found little to no difficulty in the insane tasks forced upon him. So a new torture was devised. Joxan was to become a living tapestry for his lord. Strapped down, artists would use inks and dyes and painfully sharp needles to transform the young man into a twisted work of art celebrating his lord. But the crude techniques of the artists weren’t dreadful enough, so Mensir decided that Joxan must recite poems and tales without flinching or stopping to brace himself against the pain. Every stutter or tear, and he was paralyzed with the excruciating mental intrusion of his lord. And although the pain lingered long after the needles stopped, he was forced to exercise each night so that he would have enough tone in his body to properly represent his lord.
The artists took their time. Some even made mistakes, and although they were quickly executed, Joxan had to endure the deep burning of his skin to clear the damaged parts of the living canvas. Although clerics would come to heal the burns and eliminate scars, the burns existed in his mind for days, for weeks. But at last, the tapestry was finished. For the grand unveiling, Joxan was paraded out, naked except for a tiny loincloth, every visible part of his body covered in either text or images that hailed Mensir as a god. As the God. And despite how the lord was impressed by the work presented, he shook his head. No. They would have to do it again. He didn't like how fat the illustration of him made him look, despite the fact that the artists had shaved at least 100 pounds from his image already.
The process began again, except before they could begin, he was burned from head to toe. It took all the efforts of the team of clerics at Mensir's disposal to bring him back. But they did, to Joxan's regrets. Strapped down, new tests were provided for him as he was worked on. He was to provide every ballad, poem, and song he knew, backwards. The pain born of mistakes only stopped by the very end of the process.
And then it didn't stop. The second full tapestry did not please Mensir either (the text made him sound characterless, as he was), and so burned anew and healed, Joxan was forced to succumb to a third tapestry. This time, however, the wizard lord would be on the road, with his entertainment with him. And the carriage ride wasn't smooth, and the artists made mistakes a plenty. Only, Mensir stopped punishing them for their mistakes, so the fear left their bodies and they worked, regardless of how deep the needles went. Patches of him were burned so many times that Joxan wished day after day, hour after hour, that he would die. That the artist would stab too deep, that the clerics would be too late. But it never happened.
And at last, in a land far from where Mensir ruled, Joxan the tapestry was finished for the third time. This time, the audience was just his lord, without his court. Wearily, stumbling about on shaky legs, he turned and presented himself, not believing this would be the end. But it was. At last, Mensir was content. But most frightening, was the laugh, the harsh abrasive laugh that hurt worse than any amount of needle, any amount of fire.
"Boy, it is time you learned something useful, something beyond the stories I had you stick in that ripe little brain of yours. Today is your eighteenth birthday. And as such, I will reveal to you a little known secret. You are, in fact, my son. The lies I told you, about being born of two slaves? The lies I told everyone? Hah! You were born of my wretched bitch of a wife, may she suffer endlessly for her insubordination. For you see, she refused to let you grow up as I intended. REFUSED. No one refuses me. NO ONE."
His laughter rolled forth, wave after wave. He went on to explain that Joxan had a purpose. Now that he was a man, he would learn to serve his father in the world. But not until he was fixed of a certain problem. For Mensir could read minds, as easy as he could breathe. And so he knew, how much his son hated him, how much his son was learning to channel his will to die into this hatred. And he spoke of how with a twinge of power, Joxan would be the most faithful servant he could ever want. In fact, his son would THANK him for all the torment inflicted throughout his life. This was only possible now that the tapestry was done, for it held great symbols of arcane power.
But then, Mensir stopped laughing. What was usually so easy, he failed to do. His son's mind was a closed book, a book with a lock sealed and jammed. And although the wizard lord was a careful man, this was something he never could have expected. And then he noticed how his weak, tortured, and full of despair son, had crushed a beautiful sphere of colored glass in his hand. Blood dripped to the beautiful carpets from the young man's cut hand. One shard of glass in particular stood out, a jagged and dangerous piece. Before Mensir could blink, or even think of calling upon his power, the glass was nuzzled firmly against the wizard's spine, protruding out of his throat.
The monster was dead before he could call down even the most simple of spells. But Joxan was not yet free. He knew, at that point, only the will to survive, to flee. Barely able to control his shaking, he left the tent. A story was invented, how his lord desired him to perform a dangerous test in the wood for him. That his lord did not want to be disturbed. A guard was reluctant to believe him, until Joxan said this. "I, of all people, know the pain Lord Mensir can deliver. Do you believe I would do anything contrary to his will? That I could? He knows my mind, he knows all of our minds. Let me pass."
And so it was, with some rations, a small and quick horse, and a handful of coins, Joxan was off. He knew he would be hunted down. Despite the monster that Mensir was, many were loyal to him, and feared him even after his death. Joxan knew the markings tattooed all over his body would give him away to anyone, that with the promise of enough money, even the noblest of individuals would give him up to his hunters.
But luck was with him that day, and the stories forced upon him came to use. Roughly realizing the region he is in by physical landmarks, mainly monstrous looking mountains, he came across the cabin of a woman feared by all who knew her. A witch, a beautiful shape-shifter, capable of calling demons to this world. Joxan knew the tales of her horrific ways, as he had memorized six of them. He didn't care. In fact, after rushing through the story in his head, he had the briefest bit of hope. For it was told that she was so powerful, she could flay the skin of a man's body, and turn it into a coat.
Joxan did not know if he wanted to live, but he knew he did not want to die with his father's glory strewn across his flesh. So he turned to the witch, the nameless sorceress, the one known as the Maid of Torment and begged that she would free him of his curse. She was in a mind to kill the young man on the spot, until he quickly mumbled something. He was giving himself up to be flayed. A willing man. The power she could gain from such a man, from the skin of a man giving himself up to be flayed, was immense. Her blood red eyes lit up.
She consented, without hardly a thought. Too hasty, too late. She didn't realize that many of the artfully arranged symbols etched across Joxan's body were runes of power. Binding runes. Runes that clashed severely with the magic she brought forth. Only halfway through the ritual, with the skin peeling off Joxan's back as he screamed the scream of a man dying a thousand deaths, did she realize what she had done. Her screams joined his, and her flesh began to peel. Joxan's flesh burned with green fire as it lay in piles about his feet. His exposed muscles quivered and bled. And then, with one last scream, the Maid of Torment's own skin wrapped around Joxan, conforming to his curves.
And the then she was gone, dragged down to the hell she had sold her soul to long ago. But, she had left part of her powers behind, tied to the shifting skin she once possessed. Unwilling as she was to part with it, she had granted the young man a great gift of protection.
It took Joxan several weeks to recover from this ordeal. But he wouldn't have survived if it wasn't for the mysterious appearance of Byron. The great dog wandered in the blood strewn hut one day to lick Joxan’s face, a face covered with skin not his own. He was whole, but the pain had not died, and had mostly paralyzed him. The canine, with an intellect beyond that of others of his kind, managed to care for the man. Dragging him to a stream to drinkwithout drowning Joxan who could hardly swallow, hunting small game, and tearing the animals apart to leave strips of uncooked meat in the man's mouth... all of which helped him regain his strength.
Around this time was when a realization was made. Life was now worth living. All of the pain was behind him. He could move forward. And NOTHING would ever be as bad as it once was. Nothing. There was only moving up in the world. And that was what he did.
Although eight years passed from that day to this one, every moment counted in the development of a boy who knew a great lack of love. But through incredible luck, he found himself in the company of kind individuals. First was a old widowed woman by the name of Valyria, or Missus Dwellner. She took in the confused young man, and educated in what life was like for people who do not know cruelty or opulence. He was amazed and warmed by the common lifestyle, of the concerns of the peasant. For the gifts of wisdom, food and shelter, she provided, Joxan took care of her as her ailing body grew weaker and weaker. He was there to kiss her forehead as she expelled her dying breath, and moved on with the last promise Valyria had given. She was not the only good soul in the world. Find another, who would help him grow to be a survivor. She feared he grew weak being so domestic, so she had urged him to move on to harsher realities.
Thus, Joxan decided to be a warrior. He discovered that there were many causes worth fighting for, knowing that bad people would take advantage of the weak, and the weak needed a protector. There we lives worth risking ones own for. He wanted to give people the chance to live, like he was now learning to.
And fortunate as he was, not much time passed since he made such a realization, that he found himself in the company of a battle-worn mercenary. A man, once of nobility, who allowed Joxan to develop expertise in fencing. This knowledge was only the tip of the iceberg however. Joxan was taught how many people were selfish and cold hearted, and would sooner cheat a good man then befriend him. His name was Ruparis Dynhar, formerly of a military that was unjust. In a way, Joxan was taken in as a reluctant apprentice, a thirsty young man who lapped up all the knowledge his master would provide in the arts of war. He would practice his battle forms for several hours at a time, imagining how with each thrust, he was further away from his past and firmly planting himself into a brighter future.
When he was found to be skilled enough, Ruparis gave Joxan his sword. This was no idle gift, and a great symbol of transition – for the former mercenary would now settle down, and have a new warrior take his place in the world. The former noble had married a young woman, and bid his apprentice good journeys. Joxan, of course, did not want to part with the man who had taught him so much, helped him train his body to better himself and perhaps the world. But, with well-contained tears, the young man took his leave. He could hardly contain the shock in being in possession of Ruparis’ prized rapier. It was a symbol, he had been told long ago, of a battle worth dying for. Greater than that, it was a symbol that someone cared for him – a man cared for him. They were not all like Mensir, wicked and cruel.
Joxan, alone in the world but with great enthusiasm, took on the task of keeping certain individuals safe, protecting people at risk. He wouldn't keep a job for long, but he would always find a suitable replacement before he left a client. He was always moving, forward. For he could not, would not, go backwards.
Three years of plying his trade passed. His feet hardly ever stopped moving, with his job of choice protecting caravans and lone travelers. His blade and his sword brought him to a strange locale, one that Byron was rather opposed to entering. But Joxan desired a dose of civilization, and thus proceeded forward. And although the place didn't seem like much, poverty stricken and dark, he entered the country of Thar Shaddin. Every place, he had learned in his travels, had some gem of insight discover. He was certain this place was no different. Marn, or so he learned the city to be called, would provide him with something. He just wasn't sure what that something would be.