03-01-2024, 01:15 PM
Description
Dark blonde hair that catches the summer sun and has a gold cast in bright light. Hazel eyes. Rarely smiles. Usually sports facial hair, and sometimes a full beard. He’s 6ft and well-muscled in the way of one who relies on peak physical fitness. As a hunter in the field he blended his appearance, unconcerned with fashion. These days he’s rarely out of uniform, or if he is, he generally sticks to dark colours and smart suits he feels befits the station. He always wears the pin, even off duty. He also wears a thick silver ring inlaid with the image of a sword. The ouroboros is currently his only tattoo and is in the style of a draconic knot.
Bastian is stoic and excellent in a crisis. Not much punctures his shell. He’s a keen observer with a great mind for strategy, sharp reflexes, and a tendency towards calculated risks. There’s a casual arrogance to him, well earned through the discipline that has shaped most of his life, but it doesn’t always make him well liked. He has high ambitions, and despite his origins, believes them well within his grasp.
He has never enjoyed killing but is nonetheless good at it. He finds satisfaction in sparring, though, and is a talented swordsman for its own sake. He also practises meditation.
Bastian is known to value manners, perhaps because formality is a useful shield for dealing with strangers. Most would find him humourless. While he’s never meaningfully rude, he can be exceptionally blunt, and openly admits to forming no attachments, though this is not out of dislike for others. He will work well in a team, and better if he leads it, though he will take orders when he respects the command. Ultimately he is selfish, and will often put pursuit of his own needs first, but there is a contrary streak of heroism in him too.
History
At thirteen, as tradition dictated, Bastian was sent to the Vatican Historical Society for training – a child from one of a handful of dedicated bloodlines that were allegedly able to trace their way back to the mythical heroes of old. He was assigned into the care of Father Dimitri, who would be his teacher, protector, and jailer for the next five years of his life.
Upon arrival he was surprised to discover he was not the Father’s only ward. At first Bastian eyed Aria with the suspicion of rivalry, presuming his dedication was to be tested from the very start. But the truth was far worse. Soon enough he heard the rumours she'd killed a boy by accident, and realised at once why they had been partnered under the same guardian.
It was because neither of them could be fully trusted.
Amongst the Atharim it’s said the Völsungs had been great heroes during the godwars and in the times after; that they had been the caretakers of a legendary god-killing blade, in fact, though the weapon had long since been lost to the turn of time.
But it’s also alleged their line was cursed by the same gods they had helped to end.
The stories are old, dissected and interpreted a hundred times by Atharim scholars, but it does seem as though the Völsung bloodline is beset by an unusual amount of tragedy. Bastian himself grew under the shadow of a much older brother, who was loved, venerated and respected among the Atharim until the day he suddenly snapped. Athrian’s name is blacked from the histories now, despite his prowess as a hunter and the list of his kills. Tarred by his memory, Bastian has always known he was not a child wanted by his parents, but instead one needed in a desperate bid to continue the sparsity of their prophesied bloodline. A literal Plan B.
For it seems there are only two paths for a Völsung to take. Hero, or monster.
Bastian was a studious and serious child. Emotions had never been accepted at home, and his life had always been strict and within the confines of the church. He never treated Aria unkindly, but never offered friendship either – though he was honest about it from the beginning. They might both be outcasts, but it didn’t make them allies. Still, it was not unusual to find them both together in silent study in the library. As it happened Bastian also shared her keenness for the blade, and the two trained hard at it despite Father Dimitri’s disapproval. Their life was an ascetic one filled with endless drills and study and weapons. Aria was treated as a daughter, albeit one in receipt of tough love. But Bastian formed no attachment.
He was determined to prove himself worthy of the tattoo, seeking an acceptance he was never likely to find no matter how hard he tried. Yet he was single-sighted in the goal, for of course he believed in both his family’s curse and its great prophecy. Neither were things he would speak about, just as he never acknowledged his older brother’s fate. But sometimes he imagined one day finding his family’s lost sword.
A church in Naples, the Santissima Annunziata Maggiore, was the first time he accompanied Father Dimitri beyond the Vatican. Aria had been left behind that day, though Bastian had seen no purpose in it at the time. A priest had been killed by a small child, but it transpired they had not come to pick up her trail, but to investigate the records of her birth. She was a foundling left on church steps with a note and a cross, but Father Dimitri was determined to dig deeper. It was the first time Bastian recalls hearing the name Giordano Pirozzi.
Father Dimintri shared a great secret with him that day, though even now Bastian is not sure if it was out of trust or because he believed Bastian was also destined to become a monster one day.
Aria was not to be told what she was. And Bastian has never broken the trust.
At eighteen he was permitted to take his vows. It marked his freedom and was a rare moment of satisfaction for him, if it faded quickly in favour of focusing on the next goal. His tattoo is in the shape of a knotted snake, draconic in its design.
True to his aspirations, he excelled out in the field, an avid blend of both warrior and scholar whose dedication was unrivalled. Despite his youth he was calm under pressure, and adept at his work. He rarely lost a mark. Such a keen tactician’s mind soon brought him to the attention of Martin Borovský, who recognised promise and took him under wing. He learned much from the older man, who was ex-military and similarly ambitious in climbing the Atharim’s ranks. Bastian’s own goals began to grow – he truly believed he was destined for great things, and perhaps to even someday lead the Atharim himself.
He travelled the Custody, seeking scraps of myth and prophecy between each job. The hunts always came first, but he rarely let the opportunity for discovery slip him by, especially when visiting a new city. He’s visited the world’s most renown libraries and museums, always with an eye and ear attuned to evidence of the sort of relics he chased.
In his mid-twenties, Bastian’s life took a wrong-turn. He finally discovered in which direction his Völsung heritage would lead him.
It was a routine hunt in which he sparked. A minor burst of power, but he knew it for what it was almost immediately – because it filled him with a cold dread of certainty. Gods and their gifts were still considered myth, a remnant of the past, but one the Atharim were ever vigilant against. Especially with the meteoric rise of Nikolai Brandon. Unsettling rumours stirred even in those early days, and some of the scholars already believed there were numerous small signs of old things returning. Bastian was furious at the cruel hand of fate, but he never considered doing what honour would bid him do. He still felt human. He had too much to lose.
And if Aria could live, despite what she was, then so could he.
The Sickness caught up several weeks later. Bastian was in Uppsala, one of Sweden’s oldest cities, when the fever forced him to standstill. Illness would be suspicious; a mark against him, and one he could not afford. All he could see was Atharian’s face. In his delirious mind there were already hunters on his tail, just waiting for a sign that the Völsung had finally revealed his true face. He followed the Fyris river to the cathedral, and collapsed in prayer to a god that had clearly forsaken him. No one disturbed him.
When he felt able to stand, he refused to allow himself the weakness or rest. Sweat still slicked his pale pallor, but he pushed on with the reason he’d come to the city.
He’d met with Seven before, back when the man had first confirmed for Bastian that he had indeed been duped by a supposed ancient artefact. Scandinavia had thick veins of mysticism, and Seven helped parse the truth from the worthless hoaxes, a valuable service – and one that Bastian never questioned the mechanics of. It was better not to know.
This time he had an item to validate he was sure about, and he watched while Seven examined the contents of the box. It was the first time he ever experienced the overwhelming sense of menace from another man’s power, and it alarmed him, though he presumed it was the remnants of fever and grit his teeth through it at the time. But when Seven next spoke, it was not about the relic in his hands.
There was a moment, however brief, where tension swelled in Bastian’s chest. His fingers twitched, but he never reached for a weapon. Instead, he accepted the help offered. The object he’d brought to Seven was the stranger’s price. Bastian never found out what it was. And he never knew the man's name.
But the Sickness never returned.
He’d long since lost touch with Aria by the time he finally made his way to Moscow for the convocation of 2045, though he’d heard word of her from time to time via her various handlers. Through the crowd he spotted her at a distance, but did not choose to make his presence known; he knew she’d find the gathering difficult enough on her senses, and nor at the time did he wish to remind the others that they’d once trained together. It was hard enough to cast off the shackles of his family’s past without that.
He always intended to seek her out later, if only out of courtesy. But it was the last time he’d ever see her, though he didn’t know it then.
After the spectacle of Father Stone, the Regus announced the return of the gods and the creation of the Order of the Archangels to combat the threat they presented. Bastian watched on in stoic calculation. He knew himself to be the perfect weapon, albeit for reasons he could never share. But his reputation alone ought to have spoken for itself. He’d learned under Borovský himself. His place was surely assured.
But when he was not invited to join the Archangels’ exclusive and secretive number, Bastian finally realised that his blood would always hold him back from rising amongst the Atharim. He would always be the Völsung, their sharpest weapon, but never a man they would follow.
For the first time he acknowledged resentment churned in place of unwavering dedication.
Thus when Nikolai Brandon, the much feared Apolloyn himself, offered amnesty to those who signed the magic registration rosters, Bastian did not hesitate.
He never looked back, and he did not consider it a betrayal. The interview with the Custody agents was a strange experience, for all Atharim spend their lives in the very shadows, taking their secret society to their deaths. Bastian was forthright in his ambition, and in fact requested an audience with the Ascendancy himself, though it was not granted. Not with the snake on his forearm. So instead he asked for the opportunity to prove both his worth and loyalty, and was brought before Commander Vellas.
It was how he found himself shipped to Africa in the charge of two Rods of Dominion. An IT expert and a surgeon, Bastian eyed them with nothing short of scepticism, though he said nothing. The Dominions were an augmentation to Légion Première, a mercenary company newly allied with the Custody to free Africa from the tyranny of Al Janyar. Not the sort of thing he had direct experience in, but no less so than the Dominions, upon whom he quickly decided he had the edge.
For the first time, the blood of a Völsung was not a weight he must carry.
After proving his capabilities, a commendation from Jacques Danjou himself, and the unfortunate death of the Dominion Anthony Petrovic, Bastian returned to Moscow to accept a Dominion pin.
Reincarnations
Dark blonde hair that catches the summer sun and has a gold cast in bright light. Hazel eyes. Rarely smiles. Usually sports facial hair, and sometimes a full beard. He’s 6ft and well-muscled in the way of one who relies on peak physical fitness. As a hunter in the field he blended his appearance, unconcerned with fashion. These days he’s rarely out of uniform, or if he is, he generally sticks to dark colours and smart suits he feels befits the station. He always wears the pin, even off duty. He also wears a thick silver ring inlaid with the image of a sword. The ouroboros is currently his only tattoo and is in the style of a draconic knot.
Bastian is stoic and excellent in a crisis. Not much punctures his shell. He’s a keen observer with a great mind for strategy, sharp reflexes, and a tendency towards calculated risks. There’s a casual arrogance to him, well earned through the discipline that has shaped most of his life, but it doesn’t always make him well liked. He has high ambitions, and despite his origins, believes them well within his grasp.
He has never enjoyed killing but is nonetheless good at it. He finds satisfaction in sparring, though, and is a talented swordsman for its own sake. He also practises meditation.
Bastian is known to value manners, perhaps because formality is a useful shield for dealing with strangers. Most would find him humourless. While he’s never meaningfully rude, he can be exceptionally blunt, and openly admits to forming no attachments, though this is not out of dislike for others. He will work well in a team, and better if he leads it, though he will take orders when he respects the command. Ultimately he is selfish, and will often put pursuit of his own needs first, but there is a contrary streak of heroism in him too.
History
At thirteen, as tradition dictated, Bastian was sent to the Vatican Historical Society for training – a child from one of a handful of dedicated bloodlines that were allegedly able to trace their way back to the mythical heroes of old. He was assigned into the care of Father Dimitri, who would be his teacher, protector, and jailer for the next five years of his life.
Upon arrival he was surprised to discover he was not the Father’s only ward. At first Bastian eyed Aria with the suspicion of rivalry, presuming his dedication was to be tested from the very start. But the truth was far worse. Soon enough he heard the rumours she'd killed a boy by accident, and realised at once why they had been partnered under the same guardian.
It was because neither of them could be fully trusted.
Amongst the Atharim it’s said the Völsungs had been great heroes during the godwars and in the times after; that they had been the caretakers of a legendary god-killing blade, in fact, though the weapon had long since been lost to the turn of time.
But it’s also alleged their line was cursed by the same gods they had helped to end.
The stories are old, dissected and interpreted a hundred times by Atharim scholars, but it does seem as though the Völsung bloodline is beset by an unusual amount of tragedy. Bastian himself grew under the shadow of a much older brother, who was loved, venerated and respected among the Atharim until the day he suddenly snapped. Athrian’s name is blacked from the histories now, despite his prowess as a hunter and the list of his kills. Tarred by his memory, Bastian has always known he was not a child wanted by his parents, but instead one needed in a desperate bid to continue the sparsity of their prophesied bloodline. A literal Plan B.
For it seems there are only two paths for a Völsung to take. Hero, or monster.
Bastian was a studious and serious child. Emotions had never been accepted at home, and his life had always been strict and within the confines of the church. He never treated Aria unkindly, but never offered friendship either – though he was honest about it from the beginning. They might both be outcasts, but it didn’t make them allies. Still, it was not unusual to find them both together in silent study in the library. As it happened Bastian also shared her keenness for the blade, and the two trained hard at it despite Father Dimitri’s disapproval. Their life was an ascetic one filled with endless drills and study and weapons. Aria was treated as a daughter, albeit one in receipt of tough love. But Bastian formed no attachment.
He was determined to prove himself worthy of the tattoo, seeking an acceptance he was never likely to find no matter how hard he tried. Yet he was single-sighted in the goal, for of course he believed in both his family’s curse and its great prophecy. Neither were things he would speak about, just as he never acknowledged his older brother’s fate. But sometimes he imagined one day finding his family’s lost sword.
A church in Naples, the Santissima Annunziata Maggiore, was the first time he accompanied Father Dimitri beyond the Vatican. Aria had been left behind that day, though Bastian had seen no purpose in it at the time. A priest had been killed by a small child, but it transpired they had not come to pick up her trail, but to investigate the records of her birth. She was a foundling left on church steps with a note and a cross, but Father Dimitri was determined to dig deeper. It was the first time Bastian recalls hearing the name Giordano Pirozzi.
Father Dimintri shared a great secret with him that day, though even now Bastian is not sure if it was out of trust or because he believed Bastian was also destined to become a monster one day.
Aria was not to be told what she was. And Bastian has never broken the trust.
At eighteen he was permitted to take his vows. It marked his freedom and was a rare moment of satisfaction for him, if it faded quickly in favour of focusing on the next goal. His tattoo is in the shape of a knotted snake, draconic in its design.
True to his aspirations, he excelled out in the field, an avid blend of both warrior and scholar whose dedication was unrivalled. Despite his youth he was calm under pressure, and adept at his work. He rarely lost a mark. Such a keen tactician’s mind soon brought him to the attention of Martin Borovský, who recognised promise and took him under wing. He learned much from the older man, who was ex-military and similarly ambitious in climbing the Atharim’s ranks. Bastian’s own goals began to grow – he truly believed he was destined for great things, and perhaps to even someday lead the Atharim himself.
He travelled the Custody, seeking scraps of myth and prophecy between each job. The hunts always came first, but he rarely let the opportunity for discovery slip him by, especially when visiting a new city. He’s visited the world’s most renown libraries and museums, always with an eye and ear attuned to evidence of the sort of relics he chased.
In his mid-twenties, Bastian’s life took a wrong-turn. He finally discovered in which direction his Völsung heritage would lead him.
It was a routine hunt in which he sparked. A minor burst of power, but he knew it for what it was almost immediately – because it filled him with a cold dread of certainty. Gods and their gifts were still considered myth, a remnant of the past, but one the Atharim were ever vigilant against. Especially with the meteoric rise of Nikolai Brandon. Unsettling rumours stirred even in those early days, and some of the scholars already believed there were numerous small signs of old things returning. Bastian was furious at the cruel hand of fate, but he never considered doing what honour would bid him do. He still felt human. He had too much to lose.
And if Aria could live, despite what she was, then so could he.
The Sickness caught up several weeks later. Bastian was in Uppsala, one of Sweden’s oldest cities, when the fever forced him to standstill. Illness would be suspicious; a mark against him, and one he could not afford. All he could see was Atharian’s face. In his delirious mind there were already hunters on his tail, just waiting for a sign that the Völsung had finally revealed his true face. He followed the Fyris river to the cathedral, and collapsed in prayer to a god that had clearly forsaken him. No one disturbed him.
When he felt able to stand, he refused to allow himself the weakness or rest. Sweat still slicked his pale pallor, but he pushed on with the reason he’d come to the city.
He’d met with Seven before, back when the man had first confirmed for Bastian that he had indeed been duped by a supposed ancient artefact. Scandinavia had thick veins of mysticism, and Seven helped parse the truth from the worthless hoaxes, a valuable service – and one that Bastian never questioned the mechanics of. It was better not to know.
This time he had an item to validate he was sure about, and he watched while Seven examined the contents of the box. It was the first time he ever experienced the overwhelming sense of menace from another man’s power, and it alarmed him, though he presumed it was the remnants of fever and grit his teeth through it at the time. But when Seven next spoke, it was not about the relic in his hands.
There was a moment, however brief, where tension swelled in Bastian’s chest. His fingers twitched, but he never reached for a weapon. Instead, he accepted the help offered. The object he’d brought to Seven was the stranger’s price. Bastian never found out what it was. And he never knew the man's name.
But the Sickness never returned.
He’d long since lost touch with Aria by the time he finally made his way to Moscow for the convocation of 2045, though he’d heard word of her from time to time via her various handlers. Through the crowd he spotted her at a distance, but did not choose to make his presence known; he knew she’d find the gathering difficult enough on her senses, and nor at the time did he wish to remind the others that they’d once trained together. It was hard enough to cast off the shackles of his family’s past without that.
He always intended to seek her out later, if only out of courtesy. But it was the last time he’d ever see her, though he didn’t know it then.
After the spectacle of Father Stone, the Regus announced the return of the gods and the creation of the Order of the Archangels to combat the threat they presented. Bastian watched on in stoic calculation. He knew himself to be the perfect weapon, albeit for reasons he could never share. But his reputation alone ought to have spoken for itself. He’d learned under Borovský himself. His place was surely assured.
But when he was not invited to join the Archangels’ exclusive and secretive number, Bastian finally realised that his blood would always hold him back from rising amongst the Atharim. He would always be the Völsung, their sharpest weapon, but never a man they would follow.
For the first time he acknowledged resentment churned in place of unwavering dedication.
Thus when Nikolai Brandon, the much feared Apolloyn himself, offered amnesty to those who signed the magic registration rosters, Bastian did not hesitate.
He never looked back, and he did not consider it a betrayal. The interview with the Custody agents was a strange experience, for all Atharim spend their lives in the very shadows, taking their secret society to their deaths. Bastian was forthright in his ambition, and in fact requested an audience with the Ascendancy himself, though it was not granted. Not with the snake on his forearm. So instead he asked for the opportunity to prove both his worth and loyalty, and was brought before Commander Vellas.
It was how he found himself shipped to Africa in the charge of two Rods of Dominion. An IT expert and a surgeon, Bastian eyed them with nothing short of scepticism, though he said nothing. The Dominions were an augmentation to Légion Première, a mercenary company newly allied with the Custody to free Africa from the tyranny of Al Janyar. Not the sort of thing he had direct experience in, but no less so than the Dominions, upon whom he quickly decided he had the edge.
For the first time, the blood of a Völsung was not a weight he must carry.
After proving his capabilities, a commendation from Jacques Danjou himself, and the unfortunate death of the Dominion Anthony Petrovic, Bastian returned to Moscow to accept a Dominion pin.
Reincarnations
- 2nd Age: Bayrd Bal Lenitonir
- 3rd Age: Baldragos
- 6th Age: Baldr