Castinus Oltean

Portrait

Description
Occasionally, a knight or holy warrior falls in battle against a force driven by powerful necromancy and is brought back as an undead soldier. Among the armies of the unliving, there are also mortals who have chosen a different path, and the greatest of these harness terrible power through the usage of dark rituals. Those rare few who survive without passing into undeath become Death Knights. -Vitals- HEIGHT: 6'4". WEIGHT: 192lbs. AGE: Early 20's, visually. EYES: Luminous blue. HAIR: Jet black. His body seems that of what you'd see in a typical city militia or bodyguard for an important being.  He is not overly large to stand out in a crowd, but obviously not too small to be taken lightly either.   Shoulder-length, jet black hair usually clings to the man's face, suggesting he hardly ever feels the need to find shelter. If one can look beyond the wayward hair they'd see a man that could have been far more appealing than he makes himself out to be. -History- Castinus Oltean. Born 227 AE to a long line of Whitehollow nobility. In his youth, he was always thought of as a spoiled brat, and he managed to find the most inventive ways to cause trouble if he had to. He wasn't much liked by his peers, one could fathom, but in truth his parents were primarily to blame for his haughty attitude and rapier wit. Sometimes, he dreamed of becoming a church acolyte of Blackthorn Keep, but every request he had made was turned down swiftly and without forethought. Castinus was only 16 at the height of the Whitehollow Conflict, when the king of Whitehollow had become greedy and spiteful and corruption had taken hold of the Royal Family, a civil war developed among the people. With one side fighting for a fair rulership, and the other side blindly following the wicked king, Castinus was caught in the middle of a deadly battle between the righteous, and the unclean. His house was among the ones to be raided, with everything he had burned to the ground and everyone he loved murdered in cold blood, he did the only thing he thought he could do. He fled to the very place that had refused him. 5 years later, following the destruction of Whitehollow at the hands of The Necrophant, Castinus now served as a squire in the Blackthorn Templars. Young and still stupidly brave, he was still in training when the Crusaders received the call to arms to expunge the evil that had taken root inside the ruins of Whitehollow Castle. He begged them to let him fight by the sides of his more experienced brothers. This was an outrage to the clergy, who believed he was not at all ready for the task. After being firmly denied, he retreated to his quarters and watched the knights prepare their horses from his window ... when he got a clever little idea. Later that night, he was seen riding off onto the road on a stolen horse, clad in the armor of a templar and bearing a longsword upon his belt that he barely knew how to wield. He joined the knights at their camp, and was greeted only by anger and dismay. They told him that he would be a liability, that he would just get everyone killed, but his determination was nevertheless an inspiration to those knights, who dreaded their march upon the castle. They allowed him to ride with them the next morning, into the foggy ruins of Whitehollow... It was storming that day. Rain fell upon their armored heads like the great crackle of hellish fire. Rumbles of thunder echoed across the sky, and lightning flashed in vicious arcs among the clouds. There it was before them, the gnarled and defiled remains of the castle. Once a symbol of unity and peace, it was now no more than a grotesque abomination in their eyes. Foolishly, they pressed on through the gates... and were met with the grisly sight of the tattered and destroyed Great Hall, littered in the bodies of the dead. No one had survived the destruction. There was an unusual sense of silence to those halls, once filled with joyful noise and warm light in every sconce. The oldest of the knights could even remember a banquet with the lords. Those times had gone. Now, it was a wasteland, a graveyard for the righteous and the wicked alike. Their metal boots clanked upon the ground as they made their way to the chapel. Of all the places they had gone, the chapel was the most empty... with a strange sense of unholy energy emanating throughout the grand cathedral. There they were, the descending stairs that lead down underneath the chapel, to a sanctuary which had once housed a sacred, magical crystal... The chamber was dark as they entered, with only a faint, sickly green light coming down from the middle. A large crystal floating upon four arced pylons, for however brief, was illuminated by the light in its dormant state. They had not remembered this being in the castle. Had the king constructed such a device when he had turned away from his worldly causes for whatever vile purpose it might serve? But their question was cut short as the room suddenly filled in a low, grating hum. The crystal had activated! The room was showered in a pale green light, and the knights felt dreadfully sick to their very core. Castinus grew weak in the knees, crumpling to the ground and puking his bodily essence upon the cold stone. The room danced with ghostly figures that wielded deadly blades, slicing into the knights and cutting them down in droves. Castinus raised his head to watch, trying to scream, but no words came out of him. He stuttered a prayer to no god in particular, hoping that someone would hear his call for help. On that day, so long ago, something was listening. As tears of shock fell from his eyes, the squire suddenly felt an unusual strength rise within him. A light unlike any other emanated from his eyes, and he rose to his feet to join the battle around him with his sword raised high. The wraiths recoiled and ran, but the crystal had no such fear of the child given power he did not know how to control. He was thrown across the room, clattering against a wall, and fell into a crumpled heap. He was not ready to give up. He had to prove to his brothers that he, too, could be a hero. Taking up his sword, he marched towards the crystal, raising his blade high, and swung... Time seemed to lose its flow as his blade flew towards the crystal, but it did not connect in the way he thought it would. He felt a sharp pull and noticed that the sword had been drawn inside of it! It was pulling him closer, and a terrible cacophony of otherworldly voices whispered in his ear. The knights were doomed. The world was doomed. He looked around and saw the same thing happening to his brothers, tendrils of green light wrapping around them and pulling them in... Everything went black.
Player:	A Withering Smile
Gender (Visually):	Male
Race (Visually):	Human