[Tevon's Scrapbook] A cheat? Me?

[Tevon Blackwell]

You're supposed to hate Tevon Blackwell. I created him that way. And should you stumble upon him in the sort of bar you'd never hoped to find yourself in... well, you'll probably hate him, too.

Problem is, I love him.

Enough rambling.

Interview with Tevon Blackwell: Part 1

"Don't you believe in love?"

He replies with a smirk, a scoff, and a sneering, “Loving someone.” A long pause. “Is the most selfish thing you can do.

“My mother loved my father. Loved him right into the grave. He’d go out drinking, come back all his sailor’s wages blown, and beat her. Sometimes if he wasn’t too drunk to stand he’d beat me too. When I got older, I realised that if I let him beat me he wouldn’t hit her. So did I sacrifice myself? No. I sat in the closet, cringing, while she screamed and begged and told him that she loved him. I told her she should leave him. Move away or something. She smiled and shook her head and said, “That’s just his way.” When he left, she’d smoke herself into someone else and sit there, staring at the wall. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave us with enough, and I had to pick pockets for money to feed us. Had to shovel food into my mother’s mouth while she sat there, too f**ked up to do anything but wait for him to get back.

“I always thought that one day, when I was big enough and strong enough, I’d make him regret ever hurting her. That one day I’d stand up to him, tell him everything he’d put us through, and beat him until he didn’t get up again. So did I? No. I let him beat my mother until one day, he left. Left and never came back. My mother killed herself once she’d realised he’d gone. Left me to clean up the mess.

“I hate her. Once I pitied her, but now I despise her. Hate her for being so weak. For not taking care of me. For loving him.”

He sits back in his chair, throws his head back, and laughs. “That’s love for you. Love someone? Even I’m not a bastard enough to do that.”

[Tevon Blackwell]

A Family Heirloom, of Sorts

"Characters are free to pick one family heirloom (value no more than 50 gold mizas) and include it as a 'personal touch' in their starting package... Family heirlooms are as unique and varied as the characters that carry them around. The one hard and fast rule is that it should be personally meaningful to the character."




It is a beautiful sword. To be more exact, it is a rapier. A long, thin blade ending in a deadly point designed to drive into an enemy’s heart, as it has done on more than one occasion. It is dull on both sides, more common to an estoc than to a rapier. A bold choice, even for a sword designed for thrusting and not for slashing. But Tevon has been grateful for the dull blade on multiple occasions, when he’s stumbled home drunk, and would have cut himself on a sharper blade.

The sheath, too, is beautiful. Handworked leather caresses the blade as a lover would - well, a fond, gentle lover, at least. Hardly Tevon’s style. The sheath is black, with a storm of red leaves swirling down its length, down, down, ending in a point sharp as the sword itself. It hangs at Tevon’s side at every moment, speaking volumes more about his wealth, and his danger, than anything else he owns. The sword is the most valuable thing he owns.

But it is the hilt that Tevon loves best. Intoxicating, breathtaking, delicate, swirls of metal caress the air around the hilt, weaving through each other in a dance of deadly beauty. It fits Tevon’s hand perfectly, protecting his immaculate nails from the potential harm of a duel. The silver metal, coupled with the red leather that surrounds the hilt itself, is a rare combination, and one that Tevon finds rather dashing. The sword is a song in itself. Move a hand near the hilt, that’s the whisper of a warning. Grasp the hilt: now that’s danger, there. Draw the sword halfway, hear the metal sing as it breathes a sigh of relief: the sword shouts its warning. Draw the sword, point it at your enemy: a scream, a cacophony of blood, and elegance, and cold steel.

Tevon loves his sword. Fancy as it looks, it’s not made by the best craftsman. It’s not perfectly balanced. But he’ll never sell it. He’ll never risk it gambling. He polishes it every night that he doesn't come home stumbling drunk. He won it in his first card game, around seven years ago. It’s his most prized possession: threat, and accessory, and protection, all wrapped into one. He calls it Gnosis. It’s the only god he needs.