chap
ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɪɴ-ᴏᴘ ɢᴜɪʟʟᴏᴛɪɴᴇ
Inner Sanctum Nobility
- Local time
- Today 6:32 PM
- Messages
- 29
- Age
- 36
- Pronouns
- he/him
Franthirion Ly'Dell
ALIASES
Frank. Never Frankie. Don't get cute.AGE
169. Nice.GENDER
MaleSEXUALITY
Heterosexual, but you know what they say: any port in a storm, baby!SPECIES
Elf, but like, the cool kind. He ain't big on social graces.ORIGIN
Born in Tethis, but the world is his ashtray.OCCUPATION
ROLE
Transporter, Smuggler, Drinking Buddymore information +
⠀
the self
⠀
You're in a dark, smoke filled tavern. You hear some loudmouth in the corner getting real chatty, bragging about his glory days and talking shit to anyone who'll listen. He's drunk, but you get the idea that this is the kind of high functioning alcoholism that only the most committed barfly can live with. You can't help but turn to look at this jackass, and when you see him, all of your preconceived notions are entirely confirmed. He's dressed like shit. He looks like shit. There's bags under his eyes as deep as the ocean and stains on his tunic that have been there for weeks. His bed head hair is an underachiever's crown. He even has a mustache and that mustache is just awful. He's handsome in spite of himself, average weight even though you can tell he hasn't eaten a vegetable in over a decade, attractive in the same way that watching a carriage wreck is entertaining. A toothy grin reflects his undeserved sense of self-importance. He looks older than he should, even by Elvish standards, sun damaged skin and hair already going gray at the edges. This is a man who stared into the abyss and decided it was a good idea to go for a little swim. And now… well, now he's drowning, isn't he?
ALIGNMENT:
Chaotic NeutralLOVES:
Cheap ale. Cheaper women. Little cigarillos rolled with tobacco leaf and halfling-weed. A warm bed. A damn good mutton sandwich. Card games that allow for gambling. Gambling that allows for card games. Arguing. Fistfights. Soap carving. Dwarven hammer music.HATES:
Family. Stability. Responsibility. Sobriety. Dry spells. Money, or lack thereof. Himself, if we're being entirely honest.GOALS:
Shit, man. Frank just wants to keep on keepin' on. Here's a man who has fully embraced the absurdity of mere existence and now he's swan diving towards rock bottom with all the grace and precision of a kingfisher crashing into concrete. All he wants is to have a little fun, make a little money, and raise a little hell along the way.FEARS:
Ain't nothin' to fear but fear itself, baby! Just kidding. Frank is afraid, in this exact order, of 1) Being a normal, functioning member of society. 2) The Infinite Wilds because, jeez, they're just so infinite. and 3) That profound sense of failure and overwhelming loss that only ever comes after a night of heavy drinking when he starts feeling introspective and weird.⠀
the body
⠀
HEIGHT:
6' 4" / 193.04HAIR COLOR / STYLE:
Brown, thinning, wispy little follicles. He's thought about shaving it off.EYES:
Silvery grey. It's a family trait and it's usually quite striking, but on him, it just looks sad.SKIN TONE:
Unlike most elves with their perfect, pristine skin, Frank's is still every bit as white and pale, but it's also sun damaged and probably flea bitten.PHYSIQUE:
Surprisingly, Frank has a halfway decent physique in spite of all that hard living. Elves don't crack, as they say.APPARENT AGE:
Thirty-Three-ishVOICE:
Brash and abrasive, loud and obnoxious. Frank speaks to everyone like he's known them his entire life, usually weaving an entire tapestry of curse words into every single sentence.ATTIRE //
Usually, Frank dresses in a leather-enforced tunic with a, to quote, 'big-ass belt' and a 'big-ass cape'. He thinks it makes him look cool, but honestly, it really doesn't.MODIFICATIONS //
An unfortunate tattoo of a reverse centaur on his left arm; y'know, with the horse on top and the man on the bottom. An equally unfortunate tattoo of a snake smoking a cigarillo wrapped around his wrist. An even more unfortunate tattoo of his ex-wife's name on his collarbone, crossed out after the divorce.SCARS / MARKINGS //
Frank is riddled with tiny scratches and scars from gods know where. He doesn't remember how he got most of them. When you live life as drunk as he does, you're bound to forget a night or three.⠀
the power
⠀
If nothing else, Frank is one smooth talking sonuvabitch. He has a way with words, even if half of them are bullshit, and an almost uncanny knack for talking his way out of most situations. A lot of folks would call that charisma, but no. Don't give him that much credit. However, when talking doesn't seem to help, he's not above throwing a few fists.
ABILITIES //
You cannot out drink this man. He's pretty good at lock picking, but usually doesn't have the patience for it. He has an almost preternatural connection with his horse, Mayoneighs. He excels at sleight of hand. persuasion, and has spent enough time in nature to know a thing or two about how to best travel the lands without too much trouble.SPELLS //
Frank knows a few cantrips and minor spells, mostly only ever amounting to party tricks.GEAR //
His cape, obviously. His mustache, if that counts as gear. A flask engraved with the Ly'Dell family crest and always filled with the cheapest liquor money can buy. A small packet of cigarillos in his breast pocket along with an enchanted, reusable matchstick that he spent way, way, way too much money on. What ever's in the wagon because you just know his sticky hands are going to find something that nobody will notice went missing.⠀
the story
⠀
Look.
Let's just be honest here.
Franthirion Ly'Dell the Third, better known as Frank, is a fuck up of the highest calibre.
That isn't meant to be insulting. It's not meant to be rude or mean or anything of the sort. It's simply meant to be the truth and it is the truth, so... uh... mission accomplished. But how did we get here? What makes a High Elf from Tethis from a good family go so bad, so wrong, so off kilter?
Well. It goes like this.
Frank was born in Tethis to a well-known and well-respected family. His father was involved in politics and his mother was a socialite. His brothers and sisters would all become movers and shakers in their own right. Frank's future wasn't just bright, it was glowing and he had every opportunity in the world to make something of himself. Life is a funny thing, though.
For the first one hundred years of living, things were relatively normal for Frank. He did the things that were expected of him. He was good in school and a master orator when it came to public speaking. He was well liked by his community, well loved by his family, and nothing could possibly ever go wrong. His father envisioned him becoming a business magnate in Tethis, sitting atop one of the high towers with an office overlooking the whole city. Franthiron Ly'Dell the Third would be a name that would live through the ages, a legend of the elven financial industry... and then Frank met a Dryad woman named Fernia and the wheels started to come off.
It's easy to blame a woman for the failures of a man if you're stubborn and chauvinistic enough, but that's very rarely the whole story. In Frank's case, he fell for Fernia and he fell hard. His parents were against the union and so was the rest of his family, but True Love™ is a wriggly little thing that almost never has room for the voices of those that would doom it. Frank married Fernia and, the simple fact is, they were bad for each other. Call it cultural difference or a misfire from cupid's bow, but the arguments and heartbreak started almost as soon as Frank put the ring on her leafy finger. The stress of it all drove Frank to seek out taverns and drown himself in ale, drunkenly staggering home every night. One day, tired of being married to a man who was breaking apart at the seams, Fernia left Frank and that was the end of what was supposed to be a happy marriage.
Frank became unhinged. What little restraint he had through some strange affinity towards the sanctity of marriage was gone and he started to explore his worst, most disastrous impulses. He became an embarrassment, all those promising attributes disappearing in a sea of booze, drugs, and sex. His family disowned him and Frank barely even blinked an eye. No, he was too far gone, forging his own path towards the rockiest of rock bottoms.
Sixty-five years since the divorce, not much has changed. Frank has been in and out of trouble with the law, depending on petty crime and larceny to support his various addictions. In recent years, he's tried to get back on the straight and narrow, but has quickly found that narrow paths lead to less money than wider roadways. Taking on a job as a wagoneer transporting goods between Khare and Tethis, Frank has learned that it pays beaucoup to bend the rules on what can and cannot be transported. It's not like anyone ever has to know, right? His little secret. A few silver, always paid underneath the table, just enough to keep him afloat.
Let's just be honest here.
Franthirion Ly'Dell the Third, better known as Frank, is a fuck up of the highest calibre.
That isn't meant to be insulting. It's not meant to be rude or mean or anything of the sort. It's simply meant to be the truth and it is the truth, so... uh... mission accomplished. But how did we get here? What makes a High Elf from Tethis from a good family go so bad, so wrong, so off kilter?
Well. It goes like this.
Frank was born in Tethis to a well-known and well-respected family. His father was involved in politics and his mother was a socialite. His brothers and sisters would all become movers and shakers in their own right. Frank's future wasn't just bright, it was glowing and he had every opportunity in the world to make something of himself. Life is a funny thing, though.
For the first one hundred years of living, things were relatively normal for Frank. He did the things that were expected of him. He was good in school and a master orator when it came to public speaking. He was well liked by his community, well loved by his family, and nothing could possibly ever go wrong. His father envisioned him becoming a business magnate in Tethis, sitting atop one of the high towers with an office overlooking the whole city. Franthiron Ly'Dell the Third would be a name that would live through the ages, a legend of the elven financial industry... and then Frank met a Dryad woman named Fernia and the wheels started to come off.
It's easy to blame a woman for the failures of a man if you're stubborn and chauvinistic enough, but that's very rarely the whole story. In Frank's case, he fell for Fernia and he fell hard. His parents were against the union and so was the rest of his family, but True Love™ is a wriggly little thing that almost never has room for the voices of those that would doom it. Frank married Fernia and, the simple fact is, they were bad for each other. Call it cultural difference or a misfire from cupid's bow, but the arguments and heartbreak started almost as soon as Frank put the ring on her leafy finger. The stress of it all drove Frank to seek out taverns and drown himself in ale, drunkenly staggering home every night. One day, tired of being married to a man who was breaking apart at the seams, Fernia left Frank and that was the end of what was supposed to be a happy marriage.
Frank became unhinged. What little restraint he had through some strange affinity towards the sanctity of marriage was gone and he started to explore his worst, most disastrous impulses. He became an embarrassment, all those promising attributes disappearing in a sea of booze, drugs, and sex. His family disowned him and Frank barely even blinked an eye. No, he was too far gone, forging his own path towards the rockiest of rock bottoms.
Sixty-five years since the divorce, not much has changed. Frank has been in and out of trouble with the law, depending on petty crime and larceny to support his various addictions. In recent years, he's tried to get back on the straight and narrow, but has quickly found that narrow paths lead to less money than wider roadways. Taking on a job as a wagoneer transporting goods between Khare and Tethis, Frank has learned that it pays beaucoup to bend the rules on what can and cannot be transported. It's not like anyone ever has to know, right? His little secret. A few silver, always paid underneath the table, just enough to keep him afloat.
INVENTORY //
You probably really don't want to look into his pockets, but let's just say they're full of things that can put hair on your chest and melt your brain out of your ears.