Jovius

A warrior and bard-in-training from Riverunder.

Appearance

Large with thick arms and even thicker neck, a mass of undefined muscle hidden under a layer of skin and hair – also thick. Long blond hair, silky and soft as a result of his daily buttermilk and honey masks followed by 333 strokes of a horsehair brush. His face well balanced with large clear blue eyes, his mother’s angular nose and full lips above his father’s square jaw. He’s clean-shaven… well, he would be had he the need to shave. Much to his chagrin, his peers and parents as much as his hairless chin reminded that parts of manhood still elude him.

History

Trained by the understudies of some of the best swordsmen money can buy, he is formidable with nearly all instruments of war that either slice, bruise, bash or impale. Though as he sees it, he figures himself fortunate never to have had to make use of it outside of the training grounds. In the sweat-drenched sparring sessions Bryceton moved with a respectable speed, neither impressing nor disappointing. In defense he was better – quicker to avoid the stabs and slashes of his opponent and all the more so be that blade dirtied or bloody. He is known around his village as much for his strength as is he is for his reluctance to make use of it. – Hath thy cart flipped o’er, spilling thy golden spuds upon the bosom of Mother Earth? Worry not thyself! – would say the broadsheet if one were so moved to advertise Bryceton and his abilities. Bryceton can flip it back over single handed, but only after giving him fair time to drag his feet, approach and hesitantly place his meaty fingers on the mud coated wagon wheel before retreating to find a corner of fabric (most likely the cart driver’s doublet, and never cloth belonging to himself) to wipe his hands and reassess the situation, looking for a less grimy way to accomplish the job. Alas, the job will get done, eventually, to be followed by a shudder that looks as if it were meant to shake any excess dirt off that may remain. However, this will be done at no cost to the recently troubled cart driver, apart from another pass at the unsoiled side of his doublet and a chance to leave without further discussion so as to put the ordeal out of mind and refocus it on more pleasant things like the songbird’s trill and melody. Had he paid more attention to his son’s proclivities, the events of the solstice may not have come as such a shock to the Lord of Riverunder. You know, the kind of shock that can make even the most confident and decisive of men stutter to the point of slobbering. Spittle on his chin, the man who ran Riverunder, who negotiated deals with rough riverboat men and sly tradesmen, who dealt with the lowly riffraff that comes with being the lord of a major river port as well as the Duke’s own ministers, stood struck dumb. For three days he said nothing, ate nothing, bellowed orders to no one (the last of which had never been witnessed before during his entire time as river lord – for he was famous for barking orders even in his sleep. One of the many reasons his wife didn’t share sleeping chambers with him). Having been made aware of his son’s days long absence by multiple “keepers,” (the term Lord Riverunder likes to call all his staff, from stable boy to chief advisor) he set out with a few of his guard on horseback to discover the whereabouts of his one son and heir. After two full days following the meandering river and backtracking further inland did he come across a clearing after sunset, dark but for the bonfire lighting one side of each of the nearby trees in its glow and stretching the shadows of the seemingly crazed people circled around it with their frenzied howls and yelps in sync with the flickering flames. In the middle of it all was his son! Was he held prisoner? He hadn’t received a ransom note. Was this some sort of demonic sacrifice? Those are just tales told to scare kids. Whatever it was, the Lord’s instincts told him unquestionably that no good was to come of this. Thus, into action he sprung…charging forward in and followed by his men at arms, in the heat of that night, near the heat of that fire, in the heat of battle were slain a host of demonic fiends and many possessed souls lost in the ecstasy of evil – or so the lord would tell people the next day. However, it was an entire troubadour group out of Harlequin, a pair of druids playing accompaniment on reed flutes, a handful of groupies and an unfortunate rouge who was hiding in a nearby bush waiting for the festivities to die down before pilfering unguarded trinkets from the unexpecting group (he was trampled unbeknownst to anyone save himself, his presence apparently reported by bird who tweeted something to another druid some days after, who mentioned it in the local druid circle, in which was a tree-hugger from whose mouth gossip flowed out in quantities in equal measure to the ale going in.) Of those around the fire that night, only one survived, one who didn’t even exist before that night. For Bryceton was, for all intents and purposes, dead – killed by his own father. And thus, among the dying embers of that trampled fire, arose Jovius!

Personality

Why does Bryceton of Riverunder go off and adventure? The short answer is he doesn’t. It is Jovius who does, his true self. And why does Jovius adventure? At least one answer to that question was tattooed across his ale-soaked chest by a scullery wench in Tantric after he filled in, pro bono, for the lute player in one of the hottest troubadour groups this side of Crux, a lute player who, after running afoul of some magicians in a game of chance, found himself treating acid arrow wounds and unable to perform – to date the greatest night of Jovius’ life.