Birthday: 1 Nandir 727 (35 years)
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/him
Race: Human
Origin: Noria
Occupation: Lord General
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Marital Status: Single (sort of)
Alignment: Chaotic good

Magic: human (none). His views on magic are reserved. He is wary of magic users, as he doesn't understand much of such power and he doesn't trust how unpredictable the concept of magic is. He generally distances himself from magic users if he can help it.
Combat: hand to hand, fencing and swordplay, has honed exceptional skills wielding a long-sword one-handed owing to his acquired disability
Passive: armor and weapon repair, heavy armor, combat first aid
Misc: lucian is nobility and therefore has a high quality education. Primarily he was educated in diplomacy, politics and can speak several languages fluently.

Eyes: bright blue
Hair color: a sandy blonde, cropped short currently
Scars: many of varying degrees of depth and severity
Distinguishing Features: missing a hand - he wears a fake, usually with a glove over the top. the rigidness of it is quite noticeable
Attire: most commonly seen in his military uniform. otherwise, he favors comfortable, expensive, high quality leather and linen garments
Animals: a white arabian stallion named Frost
Weapons: a steel longsword of high quality steel and make, a couple of daggers, again, both high quality

Growing up an only, male child into a noble family, you would think life for Lucian Rivain was glorious and that he wanted for nothing. You would be wrong. His mother, Lucette, died giving birth to him...

She was a true beauty, Lucian has been told. His father, Nikolai, had fallen head over heels in love with her from the moment he clapped eyes on her. He was a young nobleman with aspirations in politics, she was the daughter of another wealthy family, and it seemed destined for them to be together. Lucette suffered from chronic health problems that had plagued her from childhood. These health issues left her with a weak constitution, she fell ill often. It hadn't occurred to anyone then, that giving birth may be too much for her. They both wanted a family of their own as soon as they were wed, and in their newlywed bliss, the realities and complications of the situation were ignored. In the end, it wasn't flu or common disease that took her life - it was Lucian, or so he had been led to believe from his father.

Her death broke his father's heart, and he blamed Lucian. He looked so much like her, that every time his father looked into his eyes, he saw his beloved, late wife, and each time it tore his wound afresh. If ever his father had felt any love for his son, Lucian never knew it.

Needless to say, Lucian's privileged childhood was lonely, and he quickly developed unhealthy ways to cope with this. He grew to be arrogant, entitled, foolish and reckless, and cared little for anyone besides himself, the least of which his father. The first thing Lucian did when he was of age was to join the military. It promised great wealth, glory, adventure, and best of all, it took him away, far away, from his father.

He had dreamed of a military life for a long time. He craved the glory, the recognition, to be named 'a hero'. He vowed he would become the greatest, most decorated warrior so that he would never need to rely on others, and more than a little bit to show his father what kind of man his son truly was. For the first 10 years, maybe, this was the life he thought he was well on his way to leading. He mattered, in the military. He was climbing the ranks, he was building a name for himself. Glory would be his. He was invincible.

Until one day, he wasn't.

A reconnaissance mission deep in Orc territory had gone terribly wrong and saw Lucian and his comrades captured . For days, they only suffered light torture as the Orcs tried to get as much information about their mission as they could. Lucian and his men were loyal though, and no information was offered by the men. Then one night something changed. The barbarian orcs, seemingly possessed of a severe and desperate need for information, commenced incredible torture on Lucian and his comrades. He continuously flew in and out of consciousness during the entire ordeal. Regular beatings brought him within an inch of his life. He was fed and watered little, and tied up to a post, unable to rest or recover before the next onslaught. There was a commotion one night, that he was barely aware of, during which he could glean from the Orcs reaction and behavior that some of his men had escaped. He had assumed the rest dead, as the cries from other tents had stopped days previously. Whether or not this was the case, he couldn't be sure. Angry at their loss of leverage, and Lucian assumed because he was the only one left, the chief had come into his tent in a rage that rivaled anything he had ever seen. It was then that he lost his hand, and there is little to nothing he remembers with any clarity or certainty from that point on. To this day, he doesn't know how he survived, or why the Gods had him cling to life. He didn't know how long he was held captive at this Orc encampment, but it felt like months to him and by the end of it, he found himself wishing for death.

In a blur of half memories that felt more like a dream, he was rescued. He doesn't remember the details of his rescue, but he returned to full consciousness, miraculously, some two weeks after he was rescued. From that time onward, something in him had changed. He was missing his right hand, his sword hand and he had to face the hard reality that he would have to live like this for the rest of his life. If anything inside him was left unbroken, this harsh acknowledgement made sure there wasn't anything whole left inside him. All the things he had been striving for were now suddenly, completely and with cruel irony, out of his reach. Instead of pride, he found pity in the eyes of his old mates and comrades. He was no longer a man. He was but a shell of a man, and not even a complete one.

He had never really been a very religious man, but when you receive a sign as resounding and clear as the one he received, it was near impossible for him to ignore. During his recovery and long-term extended leave from service, he was doomed to return to his father's care. In his absence and old age, his father had become, if possible, even more sinister and cruel. Lucian was greeted with pure disdain, disgrace and disappointment. His father was disgusted by his missing hand, he was ordered never to appear in his presence again less he find himself a new one. Weeks of a lonely, alcohol induced hell and oblivion consumed Lucian. During these dark hours, he came to a dark resolution. His father deserved life no more than he did.

So, that night, he crept to his father's rooms where he slept. He watched the weak, small man silently for a while before gently taking a pillow. He prodded his father awake. The look of confusion soon turned to disgust, and that was all Lucian needed. He shoved the pillow over his father's face and leaned into it. His father thrashed and kicked, tried to push him off, but he was weak and feeble in his old age, and proved no match for Lucian. The thrashing soon stopped. There was no movement for several minutes from under the pillow. Lucian was too afraid to let go. Finally, he pulled the pillow away and stared at his dead father. Grief overtook him, not for his father, but for his mother and himself. He collapsed on the floor by his father's bed. He pulled a knife from his boot. Tears blurred his vision, and drink blurred his senses. He raised his stump and glared at it with hatred, before digging the knife deep into his forearm.

He waited for death to come for his damned soul and his father's. The blood spurted quickly, pooling around him as he slumped against the bed. At some point, he gave way to unconsciousness. It was done.

He awoke back in his own rooms. A maid was crying at his bedside. He stirred and she jolted upright in surprise before breaking down in tears again. "Oh, thank the Gods, thank the Gods! You live, my Lord, you live!" Lucian was having a hard time remembering what had happened, why she was crying. The dull pain below his severed hand was confusing. "Yo-your father, my Lord, he has passed. Some three days ago now. We feared you, so overwhelmed with grief, were to die too, but it is not so! You live, thank the Gods!"

Recovery took a couple of weeks, during which time he contemplated recent events. He had murdered his own father, and tried to kill himself, and yet the Gods still determined that he deserved to live. This was the sign he could not ignore. More than that, the death of his father was assumed natural, given his age, and no-one suspected the truth of the events. He inherited his father's lands and titles and essentially had been awarded a chance at life.

With a strange renewed sense of determination, he trained like a dog, desperate to return to military service, desperate to stay relevant, desperate to pretend to still be some semblance of a man and have some kind of meaning in his life. It paid off - he is now a General within the Norian military component, and his name brings both respect and judgement. But as much as he has tried to forgot his past, to reassemble himself after his ordeal, now the past is catching up with him. He is a mere ghost of what he once was, and everyday is harder than the last. He fights with himself to survive each day, to slay his demons, over and over again, only to wake up and do it all again.