Name: Wymond (Doran Enlil) |
Wandering Wind
Age: Don't know (21)
Gender: Male
Element: Wind
Appearance: At first glance Doran has a certain spark about him, an air that feels like electricity is hovering just above one's skin. He has star-shaped hair that juts out all around his head in thick bangs of dark brown. His eyebrows, although thin, lay above the mirrors of most of his emotions and curiosity. A deep darkness resides around the caramel color of his iris. Well, his eyes are just one of the reasons most people tend to remember him during a cursory glance. He stands at six feet exactly and has an athletic frame built for combat; he appears to be that rare type that maintains balances between the intimidating and meek, all the better for him to catch his opponents off guard.
His clothing is very simplistic. As long as its comfortable for him in most climates, durable, and cheap; he'll wear it. As of right now, he sports a white tank top with two large brush strokes coming from the lower side. It lays lethargically on a leather belt, that just so happens to holds together a light-brown leather thigh-guard for his right leg. His pants are slim, fitting, and just a tad loose near the ankles, where he usually have them folded up, so that his boots are on display. He wears but one accessory and that is a animal-skinned scarf that had been left to him as a infant. Its since outgrown its uses, so he wears it on his wrist as a warmer.
Personality: Friendly, carefree, and somewhat dense; Doran has on multiple occasions been called weird and awkward. His most evident or standoffish trait would be his breezy personality. He greets most adversities with a smile and go-with-the-flow mindset. Where others would believe that a serious outlook is needed, one would probably be able to catch Doran sleeping soundly. Most of the time he tends to be oblivious and blundering; something he sorta inherited from his adopted father. The old man was so entertaining to him as a child, that he aspired to become like him. A feat that sorta just melded with him as he became.
The only time he actually grows any kind of back-bone is when a life-threatening situation somehow comes his way. Most would notice a change in his eyes first, then a sudden and very dense air, followed by a undeniable seriousness. He tends to still maintain some form of density when feeling 'heated' as he calls it. During which he somehow still manages to be merciful against his opponents.
Far from considering himself a leader, Doran has always been the type to do what
he felt was right. Following his own personal justices. He's not above revenge either and fiercely loyal to his comrades. Which, despite his various amiable traits above, tends to take a lot to be placed into. This lack of trust stems from his nomadic heritage with his father, where the two of them had only traveled with each other.
Hometown: Abaddon| If you look on the map this place has long since been destroyed, considered an archaic ruinage pipe for thieves, killers, and psychopaths to wither off and die in. However, somewhere in its dank, fog-filled lands of dark hills was a small tribe that kept itself secret. Up until they started savagely killing each other.
History: Abandoned north-west of the forgotten land: Abaddon; Doran's first memory was the face of a elderly man. His eager grin plaster on his face so kindly that it made him curious The old man made sure to raise the boy with innocence at the forefront of his mind. Far away from the politics of any Salos nobleman. The two only walked into town when necessities were needed and even then they didn't stay for no more than a day.
The old man held great knowledge of Salos. He taught the boy how to read, write, fight, and to a degree how to invoke magic. Yes, a magician was his adopted-father and even though he refused to use his magic outside of non-harmful situations; he always taught the boy to defend himself if the need ever came. Over the years Doran took up a form of hand-to-hand combat, hoping to be capable of protecting the elderly man that he'd come to love. It was a simple adaption of jabs and kicks, that often came from a pivoting momentum.
When Doran turned sixteen the old man abruptly sent him off in search of his origins. Telling him the truth of his discovery and his own speculations before hand. On his journey, Doran helped out many towns and many villages but was often only stopping through to get supplies; the rest of the time he was traveling the lands like he was taught. He picked up some swordplay from a swordsman that rescued and traveled with him during one of his reckless acts of chivalry. He suggested getting a guarded hilt but Doran preferred the guard-less shirasaya instead.
A few years later, he was bashed against his head unknowingly entering
taken Kale territory. Apparently he had been attacking Grandora's soldiers for month without even knowing it. He had even gotten a pretty high bounty because of it. Now he rests, when he awakes he'll deal with his predicament.
Weapon: Single-edged shirasaya sword | guardless katana.
Magic:
Air Sensory [WIND] | Doran feels through the air with his naturally attuned magic. Usually innate, this magic drains him slowly but allows him to sense the presence of others around him.
Zephyr Form: Breathe [WIND] | Doran creates a powerful gust around himself that is capable of forcing people back and hits them with a force capable of knocking the air out of them. This drains his magic in a hasty manner.
Zephyr Form: Kickoff [WIND] | Doran has the capabilities of sending a high pressure of wind towards his opponents with a kick of his leg. If he has a sword this attack becomes more deadlier thanks to the already sharp catalyst. Drains him moderately with each use.
Other: Doran is very big on napping. He hates when people interrupts them, will rarely wake up without less than two hours of sleep, and more often than not goes to sleep at the drop of a dime.