[GhostSunShadow] Malacath Peryite

Name:
Malacath Peryite

Nickname:
Malik

Age:
23

Gender:
Male

Species:
Shapeshifter

Allegiance to House:
Brotherhood of the Night’s Watch

Role to House:
Initiate seeking to become Wandering Crow

Personality:

Malacath is a pureblood casanova and pretty boy from Crakehall and it shows; somewhat vain and superficial he goes through life as a charmer by trade and a romantic as profession with flattering words and amiable touches that leave women with just that deep crimson blush on their cheeks. He’s player in the game of love wooing ladies wherever he goes with his smooth ways and fascinating stories of victories in tournaments and the conquering of ladies viewed as unattainable. He’s sly and intriguing, providing the best of two distinct worlds; on one side he’s got that adventurous look going with some scars to prove his exaggerated tales of military successes whereas on the opposite end he can play the handsome nobleman that courts the ladies. Often he’s seen as a fraud and liar but oddly enough the stories he tells are always the truth just slightly enhanced for theatrical purposes…

Confidence is his strong suit yet often gets viewed as arrogance for pride and personal delight do make him walk through the cities with his head held high; often does he look down on commoners even if he’s one of them but that’s simply the result of his idea of grandeur. Due to his background Malacath has been honed his freedom and with a wild untamable spirit he goes where he wants when he wants which does explain his shapeshifting form of a raven. Rules and laws however are his greatest problem as he rejects any form of authority in the most rebellious way possible; whenever one tells him to go left, he’ll refuse and turn right; if said he can’t have someone, his days will be dedicate to getting just that which he’s denied. This evidently clashes with the lords of the cities he’s visited, most of them seeking to get his head on a pike or his neck tied firmly in the hangman’s noose…

Beside of being a free-spirited rebellious casanova known throughout central Westeros there are a handful of less flattering traits to be found in Malacath’s personality. One obvious characteristic to be detected is his cocky overzealous attitude towards people especially for behind the pretty boy expression he’s addicted to the thrill of being challenged to do things none dared before him. The sentence ‘You Don’t Dare’ can trigger a self-destructive tendency in Malacath to embark of ridiculous ventures to prove his worth eventually having that become the end of him. Another trait that could lead to his inevitable downfall comes in the shape of a woman: the married lady of high standing. Whenever he sees a woman that he’s interested in, married or not, Malacath will go for it, resulting in a wide list of enemies and enraged husbands seeking revenge on the charmer that bedded and occasionally impregnated their trophy brides. The last feature of severe gravity to his person is Malacath’s vanity; being so caught up in his physical appearance one might see just how vain and narcissistic this lad truly is…

Physical Description:

Malacath can be defined as the classical Adonis personality wise as well as in physical appearance for with shoulder length dirty blonde hair and a perfectly groomed beard; tea green eyes and a general athletic build he’s got that casanova appearance with the distinct broad shoulders, toned muscular build and most of all just a manly yet elegant facade. Prominent are the definitions of his muscular build that are shown in the tight abdominal muscles shaped in a perfect six-pack, distinguished broad shoulders and that masculine bulked V-shaped frame. One can easily see there’s much time and effort spend in staying in shape and remaining fit and healthy for the ladies for Malacath is neatly groomed, absent of even the slightest hint of body hair and always carefully maintained with rich natural oils that give a healthy shine to his skin complexion…

Malacath has an eminent sense of fashion that blends the rugged masculine side of the rebellious adventurer with the charming prestigious features of a knightly advisor from the big cities. Thick linen cloaks draped across those broad shoulders give him that almost mysterious aura when walking through the town whereas his preference to walk around shirtless grants him that provocative nature that woos women and makes men envious of his presence. He always tucks his pants in his knee high riding boots of sturdy tanned leather while his slender waist is emphasized by a series of thick belts that host his sword, horn and satchels filled with lockpicks and smoke poaches used in his dubious activities…

Lately due to certain events (see background history) in his past Malacath has sustained a dreadful injury that left him maimed physically; across his chest from below his right flank up to his left shoulder runs a massive gaping wound nearly two inches wide and an inch deep. The wound was sustained by one of his wagers gone wrong for the theft of Gregor Clegane’s horse resulted in him colliding with the ‘Mountain That Rides’ greatsword. In order to save his life he burned the wound shut leaving him now with a massive black lesion that’s still healing from the grave infections that festered in the fissured injury…

Powers and Abilities:


Part of the Shapeshifter kind, Malacath possesses the unique ability to take the form of a pitch black crow. Seeing the subtle hint of wings remaining hidden beneath the skin of his back, he can transform into a black bird free to go wherever and whenever he pleases without being considered suspicious. The transformation is near instantly and completely painless for the darkened feathers sprout from underneath his skin, he shrinks in size and takes for the skies.

Another trade he picked up along his many adventures beside of an aptitude to pick up women is Malacath’s expertise when it comes to locks; hand him a needle and a hairpin and every lock and vault in Westeros will open for you after a handful of tedious minutes tumbling and fiddling with the mechanisms within. Usually this talent was only practiced to get in and out of guarded homes and keeps to bed the wives and mistresses of nobles and knights but occasionally when his purse approaches his last coin he does crack a vault or two for some snatched gold. The talent however transfers properly to prison locks that lead to him becoming a notorious escape artist to slip through the bars of his cell or simply fly away when a window is available; simply ask the jailors of the Eyrie who discovered his cell vacant with only a single crow’s feather to prove Malacath’s brief stay in their inescapable dungeons…

Strengths:

• Charming
• Rebellious
• Disobedient
• Free Spirited
• Adventurous

Weaknesses:

• Laws & Rules
• Trophy Brides
• Married Women
• Unbridled Horses
• Impossible Challenges

Weapons of Choice:

Avoloch is the peculiar blade hanging sheathed on Malacath’s belt; asymmetrical by design and of an abnormal bronze alloy the sword it serves more an esthetic purpose rather than being a deathly weapon of war. Almost looking as if the blade is fully rusted and corroded by the testament of time, Avoloch does prove to be a worthy sword to be wielded by a man of common background for its steel is hard and resilient and its edges remarkably sharp for being crafted by a blacksmith of the Eyrie. Curved steel with a recurve hilt make for an aerodynamic blade capable of swiftly cleaving through the air whereas the skull-like grip shows off a brilliant quality of craftsmanship. It’s somewhat of a turbulent weapon for its sharpness is often dubious and the chips already cut from the blade prove it wouldn’t be a surprise of Avoloch would one day simply shatter clashing against a shield too sturdy to breach.

Armor of Choice:

Malacath was an individual of common background so what little coin his family owned went into the supplies desperately needed to stay alive; this however doesn’t mean they went through life without a set of armor to pass down from father to son; his great-grandfather was a soldier before, a sellsword properly equipped with a blackened tanned suit of leather armor, crafted by a blacksmith of his time yet that very protective gear would long outlast its initial wearer…

Darkened leather, remarkably sturdy for the amateurish hands that crafted it was adjusted to Malacath’s measurements to fit him perfectly as layers over layers of reinforced leather guards the vital organs hidden underneath. Its resilience to enemy attacks is thanks to the chainmail weaved beneath the leather’s inner layer while each cover is separately attached with straps…


Background History:
Born and raised in Crakehall as the second son of a local fisherman and bar wench whom found comfort in eachother’s arms after tragedy tore their former lovers from their side; it wasn’t a loving family to come home to, just two parents living alongside eachother, tolerating eachother while their hearts continued to grieve over their losses from before. His father was a hardworking man, one of those scarce individuals strictly loyal to his lord Roland Crakehall who often indulged in freshly caught fish his father pulled out of the water. His mother, well she was a story entirely her own with countless promiscuous escapades on her belt, various men to having shared her bed with in the days her husband was out to see all for the boy to witness. Malacath often watched his mother’s extramarital relations through the peep hole he’d pried in her room, wondered often what magic these men possessed as they charmed their ways into his mothers skirts; the flattery, the temptation, the charm, all those manly trades fascinated him even at an early age as he began to mimic their actions to the girls of his age. Most laughed, unaffected by the sweet talking youngster he was, yet Malacath noticed the effects of the verbal allure weren’t in vain; the most mature and higher classed of women fell for his sweetened words even if he was still a teenager as his first seduction’s conquest was none other than the first handmaiden of the lady of Crakehall herself…

Since the day he first managed to talk his way into a lady’s bed, Malacath’s life as a casanova began as he took every opportunity he was given to tempt the ladies and daughters of this small port city; at the young age of fifteen he’d bedded more women with his flirtatious manners than the wealthiest noble could finance in the brothels of Westeros and with each lady added to his list he took a souvenir to remember the day. They were often gifts, small trinkets these women had to spare to compensate him for the time, effort and attention he’d paid them in his seductive ways; rings, necklaces, bracelets and others delicates were handed to him before being exchanged for ale, meat and a bed at the local tavern. In a way his tempting ways were his way of earning his coin, though his father frowned upon this way of making a living; there were often disputes and arguments, occasionally some punches were thrown between father and son in order to settle the lingering question yet never did it accomplish anything more than two broken individuals drinking away their misery. His mother had died in the years past, illness claiming her life as it did so often for the residents of this city yet Malacath had mourned the loss in his own way. Now he’d simply discovered another side to him, a daredevil nature that surfaced whenever enough ale found its way into his mouth…

Every night when his worries were attempted to be solved by what lies on the bottom of his glass, the daredevil nature of him surfaced; when the alcohol took hold of him and a challenge was made Malacath complied with great enthusiasm no matter how ridiculous or dangerous the given tasks would be. Countless times he found himself brawling against overpowering numbers in the dark alleys of the city, there wasn’t a tower high enough for him not to scale while risky amorous quests were made to the beds of ladies in very high places. When the challenges became repetitive in Crakehall, he turned to horse and rode out to the next city for new adventures and beds to conquer; first he’d ventured north along the coast to the capital of this kingdom, Lannisport, the place of opportunities and possibilities where the women were prestigious and the purses spilled with the coin of lions. His drunkenly accepted dares here got more bold and reckless as according to the rumors of the city he’d stolen the undergarments of Lady Cersei Lannister, whispers spoke of his naughty escapades with Lady Sybell Spicer, a married woman of esteemed position whereas hundred fables went around from his casanova conquests. The city rapidly came to remember the name of Malacath Peryite, the fisherman son who wooed the ladies and challenged the men…

Like all lucky streaks Malacath’s was doomed to come to an end and on the most unfortunate of days when he reached the age of 21 his adventurous spirit would lead him to a quest that would end life as he knew it. The challenge came in the euphoria of yet another married woman to have fallen in his lap as the celebrations of that conquest left him blind to the apparent signs. One of the husbands whose wife had resided in Malacath’s bed, Lord Gawen Westerling had plotted an elaborate plan to claim his revenge for the shame brought to his family; having send one of his servants to the tavern Malacath frequented, a bold dare was made to his drunken ears: steal the horse of ser Gregor Clegane. Malacath blinded by arrogance and pride accepted the challenge, rode out that same night to the Clegane's Keep and stole two of the fiendish tournament stallions the Clegane house had bred. The cruelty of ser Gregor Clegane was notorious and his temper of infamous status so the manhunt began for the horse thief that had taken his precious tournament stallions. With hounds and trackers in pursuit, Malacath began a race that would still be the elusive tale to be told about in the taverns of the Westerlands as he’d first double-backed to Clegane's Keep where he’d become truly legendary; rather than attempting to escape from the Mountain Malacath decided to at least make his death earn a place in history by bedding ser Gregor Clegane’s wife in the man’s own chambers…

The insult led to an enraged behemoth Clegane who’s fury suddenly became like a lit fuse to a barrel of wildfire; the Mountain lost all sense of self control when finding his latest wife’s innocence being taken by the thief that held his horses hidden from him. With a wrath unbridled, rage taking over from rational thinking as ser Gregor Clegane drew his six-foot greatsword Malacath faced a force only a handful of men lived to speak about. With tremendous force the blade struck down towards him, cleaving the bed in half just a scratch away from the young Casanova who swiftly dodged the heavy blows of his latest aggrieved husband. Almost like a dancer Malacath mockingly dodged the blows, drawing Avoloch in defense yet the rusted sword stood little chance against the crushing strikes of ser Clegane. Managing to maneuver his way away from the Clegane's Keep continuously dodging each strike the Mountain threw at him, this uneven duel drew attention towards him from a hooded figure. To his best attempts Malacath with Avoloch in hand did his best to fend off the massive beast yet few could ever block such vicious relentless swings of a heavy greatsword that had his name written on the blade. Death was inevitable, that much the young man was certain off but at least he’d give the Mountain a fight that forever would become a moment of shame to him. With one well-aimed counter Avoloch slipped between the plated cuirass and the defensive shield, cutting the Mountain rather deep in his lower arm. That attack however would have been Malacath’s last as his blade slipped away and the greatsword ripped through his chest…

That savage blow would have interluded the end for most as ser Gregor Clegane’s greatsword carved deep and hard through his chest from the shoulder down all the way to his side; ribs were grazed by the ravishing blade, flesh ripped apart with blood spilling out in massive amounts that send Malacath falling to the ground. The fight was over, his life forfeit to the absent mercy of the Mountain That Rides if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the shrouded figure on the sideline of this ferocious battle. With a swift strike that threw a buckler shield in between ser Gregor Clegane’s greatsword and the body its steel was devouring with such ease. The blow was intercepted bringing the mountain to a stop and the Mountain pushed back as the cloaked character discarded his shrouding hood in the air. Yoren, a Wandering Crow from the Night’s Watch has seen the potential in the horse thief just struck down, a promise of another able sword to defend the wall since few were able to stand up against the daunting aggression of the Mountain. With the black cloths and sacred vow registered by the company of ser Gregor Clegane, the man backed down and permitted Yoren to take the man who’d likely die from his injuries. That however would never be true as with red-hot iron they burned the massive wound shut and maggots were used to prevent infection from claiming Malacath’s life. Now they began their journey North towards the wall where he’d have to swear an oath to protect and serve the Wall on the last route Yoren would finish…