Character Name: The Summoner (Rufuss Nitram)
Basic Backstory: Hatched one above the bottommost rung on the Hemospectrum, the troll who would become the Summoner had a hard wigglerhood. He entered the military as soon as he came of age (8 sweeps, for his bloodcolor), rose through the ranks astonishingly quickly for a bronzeblood, and soon made history as the first lowblood to ever become a full officer. In the fullness of time, fed up with the hemospectrum and the highbloods' abuses of power, he led a rebellion against the Condesce that, against all odds and expectations, he won.
How Do They Feel About Tavros as the Heir Apparent: He feels sorry for his descendant and really wishes the boy wouldn't try so hard to be someone he's not. He also thinks Tavros has some definite potential, if he'd stop listening to the people running him down and take a few steps on his own.
RP Example: It seemed an eternity that the pair stood unmoving, staring at each other, each waiting for the other to move first. Both were covered in blood, bronze and indigo, and both had multiple wounds still bleeding, but neither would give ground. The smaller figure leaned against his lance in stubborn refusal to bow, wings flared defiantly on his back as he glared up at the larger. Around them the battle raged on, only those nearest pausing to take notice of the silent tableau.
The larger fell, club falling from limp hand, rainbowed mud splashing with the impact of his body as he hit. The winged troll allowed a cold but victorious, tired grin as his legs finally gave out, sending him to one knee as a shout began to go up around him.
His title seemed to put new life into his troops, the death of the Grand Highblood inspiring the revolutionary army into a new charge. The most feared soldier the Condescension had was fallen, and though Summoner knew he would not long outlive his foe that didn’t matter. That had been the point, though none had known that but him. Taking on the Highblood alone was suicide for anyone, but he had managed it. All that remained was to win this battle.
The cries of his army had brought the attention of the other feared member of the opposition. The Condescension herself had taken the field with her late moirail, and at the calls of his death her ire had been raised higher.
The bronzeblood looked up at the shout, hatred flashing across his eyes as he saw her approaching. Hand tightening on his lance he forced himself to his feet, taking mental stock of his condition. Broken ribs, broken shoulder, multiple wounds, blood loss, internal bleeding - which he could tell by the bronze coming up with each cough. Wounds that would kill him. Wounds that would not let him last long against the Condescension.
But this was to be his last battle regardless. If this was how he was to die, then he’d be damned if he’d do so on his knees. He’d die on his feet, die fighting like the soldier - like the warrior - he was. And he would give her something to remember him by. As she charged him he raised his lance in a backwards grip that would be unweildy had he intended on fighting with it. Then he let it fly.
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