NAME; Aðalbjartr Eiríksson Þjóðríkingr
ALIASES; Alrex, Aðalfylkir, 'Málakonungr'
CHARACTER TITLE; Theoretical Sunflower
GENDER; AMAB Genderfluid [ He/Him, She/Her, They/Them ]
SEXUALITY; Gynepreferential Pansexual
AGE; 500+ [ Physically Mid-20s ]
BIRTHDAY; 21st of June
HEIGHT; 4'4
PLACE OF ORIGIN; Útgarðar, Khaenri'ah
PLACE OF RESIDENCE; The Abyss
RELATIVES;
Eiríkr Heimríksson Þjóðríkingr ; Father ; Deceased
Yrsa Ægadóttir Svinnríkingr ; Mother ; Deceased
ELEMENTAL ALIGNMENT; Hydro
WEAPON OF CHOICE; [ Quasi ] Claymore
CONSTELLATION; Florens Carbasus [ 'Blossoming Canvas' ]
PERSONALITY;
Alrex is an individual that is deeply unusual in his mannerisms, habits and ways of dealing with himself and others. Generally reclusive, anti-social, quiet ; Alrex is noted as, outwardly, perhaps the most anxiety riddled and unsure member of the Abyss Order's upper echelons, constantly second guessing himself and others, presuming the worst of his own words and actions even when reassured it isn't the case. He possesses a deep-seated self loathing, a warped view of himself as nothing of worth that exists as a remnant of the past and the sins of himself and others, considering himself an eternal fool who knows no better. This mindset lends towards Alrex being considerably malleable and easy to abuse or manipulate, as he often feels he has no right to stop others who lord over him, nor that he has any real right to self determination.
While deeply disturbed and downtrodden, Alrex maintains a sickly optimism and can often be found with a smile of utter and pure melancholy on his face, silently hoping and praying that things can and will get better for his country and kin, even if it truly may all be hopeless, and even if he's just deluding himself . . .
Alrex is extremely adverse to conflict and will avoid it at all costs, even if it means he himself gets hurt. This mentality is generally fuelled by his self destructive view of his 'worthless life'.
Alrex can often come across to others as befuddled, confused, delirious or unresponsive, and is often referred to as 'maddened' by less than polite Abyssals, who view his extremely nervous and anxious behaviour, and the erratic or irrational actions it can lead to as a form of weakness to be detested.
He isn't exactly popular amongst his kin, is he . . . ?
He understands. He deserves it. Sorry.This does not mean Alrex is beyond displaying things like genuine happiness, joy, or so on. Deep within all his negative feelings is his original core self, a 'diamond in the rough' with a still admittedly anxiety-crippled view of himself, which possesses flickering flames of confidence, the capacity for snark and even smugness within him, possibly playful if coaxed into a joking mood. Perhaps, one day, he can feel like that once more, and go even further into learning to love himself.
Section to undergo reconstruction and rewriting.
BIOGRAPHY;
a great deal of the following includes worldbuilding about khaenri'ah.
this is purely flavour-text and is not intended to be taken as fact.Alrex, born Aðalbjartr Vilhjalmr Auðvarðr Eiríksson Þjóðríkingr, was the son of Eiríkr Heimríksson Þjóðríkingr and Yrsa Ægadóttir Svinnríkingr. The former of his parents was a þegn in the bureaucracy of Khaenri'ah, overseeing their family's native city as a type of elected mayor. The latter was a fræðari, a scholar of book and quill, in this one deeply entrenched into the alchemical scenes of their homeland, and one who was well versed in the usage of Khemia.
Alrex himself was born, and has always been, sickly. He was often eerily quiet as baby and his father spent many sleepless nights watching him as he dreamed ; terrified his eyes would not open again.
Due to his frailty, he was often coddled by his over-protective parents, who chose to home-school him using tutors and barred him from playing outside. It was one of his tutors who introduced him to painting at first as a recreational activity, unaware of the fire it would ignite in the young man.
Alrex in his teens took to painting as a mixed activity, both out of love and enjoyment for painting that had developed fiercely since he started, and as a way to express himself and cope with his ever-weak condition. Relations with his parents became exceedingly strained as his teenage years rolled on, rebellious phases ran through and sentiments soured. Their over-protective nature had not helped the boy, for he had with time become anxious, isolated, lonely and suffocated. He wanted to be free.
And freedom he got, pawning his paintings from years past and running away from home not a week after his 18th birthday. Ironically, a boy coddled his entire life, who was reliant on the care and medication of his family, and had developed little in the way of social skills was not cut out for a life of travel, and he promptly collapsed on the side of path leading to the next large town, a dozen miles over ; Steinsbýr.
So back to his family he was sent. The entire episode had proved to his parents that their protectiveness was hurting him more than it was helping ; and so they asked one simple question,
" What do you want to do with your life ? "
Now with the support of his parents, Alrex entered into the art-scene of Khaenri'ah with a sunny-orange fury, taking to his passion with renewed vigour, producing noted works like 'Hákonungrinn í Hásætinu' and 'Særinn í Áslágr', alongside portraits of noted local individuals, producing the official portrait of the local jarl.
The popularity of his work did not go unnoticed in places far beyond his scope of view, his shock was palpable when he was offered a Konungasamningr ; a royal contract to produce pieces of art, a position at the royal court. He was reaching high, into the sky, reaching dreams he never thought he would, never thought he could. Not even 25, surely, he would find his place yet in life.
And that's when things became so, so much worse.
His mother's curiosity was something inherited by her solar-haired son, and Khemia was a longstanding fascination of his. A fascination that became a disturbed obsession after he learned of it's capability to produce an artificial body. Convinced he could finally find a way to heal himself, he could finally be free from the shackles of weakness that held him his entire life, shackles he had come to view in increasingly self-despising and neurotic ways.
This was a mistake.
He would not be the architect of a new him, as he so hoped to be.
Pouring months of feverish study and income into this new goal, Alrex practically disappeared from public life except when absolutely necessary, descending into a reclusive mania as he tried, and tried, and tried again, and again, and again to make what he wanted. He devolved back into the anxiety-fuelled erratic, angry at the world and himself, of his mid-teens.
When he 'cracked the code', he did so without precision, nor knowledge of how he did so, and the creation was similarly faulty, faux, fake, fraudulent. Khemic artifices require a form of energy to live. Some use the outside would, like Albedo, drawing energy from without.
Alrex's chose him reaching out to touch his creation as an offer of his own essence.
The screams were horrifying, the feeling of 'dying', of one's soul being slashed sundered from the form, grasped and clawed into another. To pass on from one body and wake in another, just soon enough to watch the original curl up and perish, turning to ash.
He did not recover. His mind fractured.
The kingdom fell not much longer. His mind fractured.
He found kinship within that empty sea. His mind fractured.
Fractured, evermore?Alrex currently 'operates' as a 'member' of the Abyss Order, those shady remnants of his people that now skunk in the deep darkness below, although he is commonly treated by it's members as a joke and a pariah for his comparative weakness. His position as a scribe is one of mercy, granted so he may stay protected and have use to the Abyssal princeps. Perhaps they see him as someone easily to control, best kept close. Perhaps they pity him, and have thrown him a bone of protection. Or perhaps this is some sick game of control where his nature can be mocked and ridiculed.
Whose to say?
Certainly not him. Never him . . .
SIGNATURE WEAPON;
Valblóm ; a strange and utterly baffling weapon, Valblóm is a large sunflower that appears to have been mutated or 'corrupted' by the energies of the Abyss, causing it to become free from biological needs such as sunlight and water, an eternal monument in a way, much like it's owner. Valblóm's head hardens when swung, acting like a large cudgel.
ELEMENTAL SKILL;
Vánabani ; twisting what little, broken knowledge of Khemia he still possesses around him, Alrex smashes the head of his weapon down, dealing a cone-shaped Area of Effect of Hydro Damage to his foes, whilst also inflicting the Sólblómabölvan status effect upon those hit. Foes inflicted with Sólblómabölvan suffer from a flat 10% more Elemental Damage from all sources and move at a significantly more sloth-like pace, comparable to the slowing effect Cryo has upon player characters.
The Sólblómabölvan status effect lasts for 8 seconds.
Vánabani has a 15 second cooldown.
ELEMENTAL BURST;
Stjarnnanáttin ; show the world what you're made of, Málarakonungr. Taking upon his Abyssal visage for a moment, in order to better control his limited capabilities, Alrex surrounds the area in a large Area of Effect. All foes within this Area of Effect take constant Hydro Damage that ignores Elemental Resistances and are inflicted with the Gandsógn status effect. Foes inflicted with Gandsógn are unable to attack, suffer a flat 15% more Elemental Damage from all sources and have their resistances and / or immunities to types of Elemental or Physical Damage nullified.
The Gandsógn status effect lasts 6 seconds.
Stjarnnanättin has a 22 second cooldown.
WRITING EXAMPLE;
Copied from solo piece 'A Miserable Pile of Secrets',
made Mar 25, 2022.What did he love more than anything in the world?
He could not remember.
Why did he love that thing?
He could not remember.
Where was that thing which he so cherished?
He could not remember.
The hail and snow poured down evermore, like a blanket of everfrost upon the rock and stone, here stood Vindagnyr, a ruin of civilisation, impaled by the heavens, a victim of the toyings of the celestial strategy; the obedience of humanity under the starry sky. With empty eyes and bony fingers, a figure stood betwixt the gale and sleet, neither flake nor droplet seeming to disturb their focus or spoil their goods of creations, for this was not an ordinary person;
warped tenfold upon himself, and warped ten-dozenfold upon that, here stood a testament to the cruelty of those above, a mortal soul, who relished in the joy of creation, who pierced the mind with colour and brush; producer and conductor of canvas and portrait, mind given painted form, scarlet, azure, gingernut and more.
Why now, do you roam a graveyard of the aeons,
Aðalbjartr Eiríksson af Útgarðr,
ye of Þjóðríkr,
why do you roam?
The eerie draught of sound, of silence foreboding forthwith, across the hills and spires,
beyond the growl of wind, of Anemo, the world’s rage in cumulistic form, was simply breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out, occasionally weary, occasionally calm, occasionally panicked. It had no rhyme nor reason, no consistency in flesh and mind, it flipped between three choruses with no cue nor counter nor pride.
Before him stood a testament to his pride, to his life’s all consuming work, art, glorious art. With a marehair brush held daintily between thin, pale fingers, and a mahogany palette rested upon his other arm, thin and scrawny of build. Movements made upon the topic at hand appeared as a dance, a single minded goal, a disciple wherein he was the master.
“She requests, r - requested, requests I t - to take . . . time, time to, time to think and breathe. I - I don’t understand, no, understand? not at all . . .”
Stepping away, feet wettened, forgoing shoes even in the dampness of snow, the artist
wiped his brow, smearing lines of mixed tones upon his forehead in delirious inattention. Turning, the theoretical butterfly, sunflower of antiquity gazed forward, those empty blue orbs barely able to take in the sights before them. A puff of icy air, a hum of melancholic melodies, a step backwards to get a better view,
and a trip.
It all seemed to rip away, tear away in layers and pieces, as if torn off by some outer force, poking and prodding his past thoughts and experiences to see what it could do to torture him; time seemed to stop, slow, halt in hubris, as the pictor, the distraught desirer of home and peace was brought back unwillingly to a memory hazily reawakened by the situation of stimuli he had found himself in.
Agony, unbearable agony, the gasps for air and inability to breathe, the clamouring, the clinging, scratching at his jaw, sobbing . . . tripping, weakness, flatline. Step by step, terror by terror, maddening machination by cogs of calamity, the noble and bright, son of the ever-ruler, traced his steps upon the day of his current body’s creation; this accursed, synthetic prison, eternally ill, broken, defective, pathetic in it’s failed design.
Remember, so vividly, did he the feeling of losing control; to lose to that which he had produced the life which he himself had cultivated, the court, the festivities, the friends, it all fell away. His fame and fortunes, his status and occupation. They meant naught as the Khemia consumed and consumed and consumed like a mass of writhing blades, a million-billion little agonising bites and tears, as if torn apart at his very threads of being, only able to scream and beg for it to happen faster, to sob and cry, and for those wails to wither and wilt, slowly, into silence.
Time returned. His surroundings surged back to him, his mind was coherent for the first time in many moons; thud, upon the icy soil, a rush of blood to his horribly twisted ankle, producing only a strained and weak groan from the Abyssal. With a push and roll, the ginger twisted onto his back, his anxiety abated for the moment, those shards of his soul aligned, like he was all those centuries ago; alone and injured, himself only to blame.
The snow felt nice on his face.
Perhaps he understood what she meant, to think and breathe.
He was broken, there was cogs within that were rusted,
others clogged with the many traumas of his past. He was utterly defective in every manner of the word, from how he saw himself, to how he acted. Yes, now he saw what she meant. He needed to mend himself, for his own good and the good of those few who still breathed, who still possibly cared about him.
Just how would he fix himself,
then?
EXTRA DETAILS;
► 'Abyssal Visage' ; Alrex is capable of taking on a second, more combat orientated form if need be, which is shown to the left. This form is notable by a trio of aspects ; the fact it is activated by intense emotions of stress / survival instincts, it's remarkable if not impressive power considering the combatant and it's intense strain upon Alrex's already frail physique and health. If a fight wherein he has been forced to take on this form drags on, he is at an increasing risk of collapsing from exhaustion and will often be found retching up blood. If pushed beyond his limits, there is a considerable chance he will perish or be put into a prolonged state of unresponsive, fevered sleep that can last for longer than 24 hours. Regardless of usage length, Alrex will generally require a period of rest and recuperation after utilising his Abyssal Visage, and as such often chooses to avoid situations where it may be brought to bear for his own safety.