Pryderi ap Lugh

Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 9 Wins!


Alignment: Hero

Team: Reavers


Strength: Standard

Agility: Supreme

Mind: Standard

Body: Standard


Personal Wins: 9

Personal Losses: 3

Vedran Cole

The dreams of man have a certain power to them, a dynamic vibrancy that when applied correctly, can alter the very fundamental nature of reality. On a hundred hundred earths, and across a hundred hundred times, this concept was most strongly represented in the symbiosis that magic itself existed in with those dreams. The wonder of magic would shape the hopes, ideals and imaginations of humanity, and in turn would be shaped by its contact with them. Trying to untangle where the effects of each on the other began and ended would often prove impossible at best, and maddening at worst. Yet there were always constants that the perceptive knew to watch for. Of the dreams of grace and nobility, and of the limitless potential and eternity of magic itself, a race would always be born to live alongside man, if perhaps just slightly above them. Whether called sidhe, elves, vadhagh or a hundred other names, they strode over their worlds like titans, serving a the very primal personification of the mingling of mortal dreams with immortal magic. Of course, there was always one other unavoidable constant as well...magic always died, and the races of wonder always vanished. The dreams of man would turn to science and reason, the world would shine in different and new ways that could not accept those of old. And so the last elves would sail across the sea, or the sidhe would close the gates of Arcadia behind them, or the last of the vadhagh would die, or any other sort of bittersweet departure or tragic death that could be imagined would occur across those hundred hundred worlds, and the races of wonder would then be remembered only in legend, song or story. And many, in their grief, will stop to ask "why did they leave?" or "what could we have done to keep them here?" or even "how can we bring them back?". But no one ever asks the right questions.. no one ever asks "where did they all go?" and "what will they do once they get there?" or.. best of all.. "what would happen if they all ended up in the same place?" For on a fundamental level, all those races are all the same, are they not? Why would there be a problem with the notion that eventually, they all reunite? Immortal, powerful, noble and magical, beings of wonder and glory. Surely their contact with humanity could not affect that.. hell, it was the dreams of man that gave them such commonality! But the dreams of man, if sharing in certain common themes, vary infinitely in their unique details.. and as a very apt mortal once put it, it is the Devil himself that lies in those details. After all.. mortal religions so similar in their core themes scream for each other's brutal extermination over difference in detail. Why should it be so different with races shaped by the dreams of those mortals? Aloof and near emotionless demigods rubbing shoulders with tempestuous and primal tricksters do not make for peaceful relations, and in the land where magic withdrew, war became the one common theme. Immortals can war for aeons before they tire of it, and eventually, most did, managing to find some accord and peace among themselves. Two groups however...did not. Each was possibly the most extreme manifestation of a certain idea, a certain dream, and there could never be peace between them, not until one admitted total surrender. The elves of the house of Frost personified the dream of unchanging eternity, of immortal stasis, of frozen, aloof and unyielding power, with the grace and beauty of a snowflake and the chill lethality of ice. The sidhe of the clan of the storm were the spirits of change itself, a roiling, boisterous tempest of life and passion, their natures shifting with the wind as they hurtled across the land with the speed of a hurricane. Each would have exterminated the other with a savage glee, had not the Lord of Storm carried with him one lingering ideal from his time among mortals, that of compassion. He saw that both peoples would die unless one backed down, and he knew that would never be the action of the Queen of Frost. And so, to save his people, he surrendered them, offering himself as a concubine to one of the queen's daughters as a symbolic gesture of their admittance of defeat. Frost was satisfied and Storm, too stunned to react otherwise, simply departed for another part of the land, leaving their former Lord in what would be a hell of his own making. Quickly chafing within the bonds of his new life, he would often try to lose himself in hunting or swordplay, or art, or anything at all that could divert his attention for even a moment. This would change with the birth of his son, Pryderi and the death of his mother in birthing him. He lavished his attentions and time on the boy as much as he could, providing a counter to the notably.. well.. cold.. upbringing he received from the rest of the household. When they were not simply at play, and at times even then, his father would train Pryderi ceaselessly in swordplay and athletics. What his father would not admit to anyone, especially to Pryderi himself, was that such training was in the hope of Pryderi being able to escape his house one day, where his father would always be bound there by his surrender. As for the nature of the boy himself, well, it seemed he was his father's son, and that the vibrant storm within him simply overpowered the frost that tried to grip his heart. His wild laughter would often echo down otherwise cool and silent halls as he ran from one youthful escapade to the next. The only outward appearance of his mother's heritage was the unthinking, effortless grace in his every movement and his command over the wintry chill that was the birthright of every elf of the house. All this, along with his favouring his inherited control over tempests instead was noticed by the Queen of Frost with no small amount of dissaproval. This was his father's plan all along of course. His heart leapt for joy as the arrows of his arranged "hunting accident" pierced his flesh, for he knew the chain of events that would free his son had begun. His family's attempts thereafter to try and raise Pryderi "properly" failed miserably. He clung fiercely to the memories of his father and his lessons, all the more fiercely now that he was dead, and resolved to become his legacy to the world. Not that a boy fresh into adolescence was able to quite puzzle out how he was going to do that just yet, but it was an important resolution to cling to, regardless. Ironically.. it was the unyielding legacy of his mother that prompted him to remain so stubbornly unchanging in the face of so many attempts to do otherwise. He became wilder, more reckless, and perhaps even primal in his attitudes and beliefs, to the cold rage and frustration of his family. They eventually took to trying to beat the storm out of him, which in and of itself proved difficult, since between his father's training, his innate skill and the desperate motivation to avoid such pain, he was easily a match for at least ten of the finest armsmen his house possessed. It became a perverse sort of game to Pryderi, seeing how far he could push his kinsmen and then seeing how long he could frustrate their attempts to punish him for it. Finally, after one too many chandeliers swung into a ballroom gala of foreign dignitaries, the fifth threat of total war after yet another Lord complained of a daughter seduced and abandoned, and the 23rd mob of vengeance seeking relatives after just as many duels to the death, it was decided that more permanent measures had to be taken. After some effort, Pryderi was dragged, beaten and bleeding before his grandmother and his assembled house. He spat in their faces as they hovered over him, screaming curses as he felt a chill frost shearing a part of his soul away, as he felt something within him grow brittle, and shatter. His family had robbed him of his control over the storm without, thinking that without it, the legacy of ice within would overcome him in time, that he could act however he liked for now, but in time, he would be theirs. And indeed, Pryderi could feel an icy chill growing in his heart, dulling his emotions, killing his compassion. He ran across the length and breadth of the lands before him like a man possessed, maddened with grief and pain, anguished at the fate before him. He calmed after a time, and realized his family had not taken from him the storm that was within him, that this excess of emotion was proof enough of that, that they had only taken away that which overtly balanced the frost of his mother. If he was to remain his father's son, and live his father's legacy, he would simply have to find some other way to balance the dual aspects of his soul. He recalled his father's compassion that was neither of the raging storm, nor emotionless ice, and he sought it within himself. He traveled, and continued his swashbuckling antics as before, but this time, by and large, they were for the purpose of rendering aid to those in need. A princess rescued here, a fortress of bandits stormed there, and he could feel heroic inspiration within him keeping the chill at bay.... most of the time at least. It lent something of a desperate edge to his deeds, even as his reputation grew over time. Soon he found that even this routine that he'd adopted was of little help for it had become just that, routine, and the chill within him grew once more. However.. in his travels, he had heard of a place where all possible realities intersected, and where a band of heroes lived and fought and died in a style that much suited his own and where the potential for heroism and daring was so dizzyingly varied as to forever keep his spirit alive, vibrant and warm. And so it was that Pryderi came to Khazan

Picture a tempest blasting across the land in a burst of passion and life. Yet where it passes, it does not destroy, instead it invigorates those affects with the self same exuberance that drives it, life flourishing in its wake. Yet a chill begins to overtake the tempest, slowing it and changing it to the harshest and most unfeeling of blizzards, bringing only the cold and lifeless beauty of eternal stasis to the land before it. As though the storm itself is aware of this oncoming change, it rages all the more furiously, in sheer defiance of its fate. That this brings the storm dangerously close to expending itself totally in one final rush of glory.. well.. perhaps it is fully aware of this, perhaps it hopes to burn itself into the memory of the world for all time, before it finds itself in the eternal grip of an unavoidable winter. Pryderi's father never quite understood the nature of the vision that his wife had screamed out on the day she gave birth, the life ebbing from her. As he watched his son grow, he then found clarity, and resolved to free his son from his house and his fate. The course of action he set into motion in the name of his son has brought forth into the world a hero who's wild abandon, swashbuckling antics and battles against those of malign darkness both petty and grand are all manifestations of a war that he wages against half of his very soul. For Pryderi is a man of two natures, one that he abhors, and the other that he clings to as a legacy of his father. Though he has had his moments of cold rage and vicious, emotionless cruelty, they have been only that, fleeting moments. For now the storm within him still rages, and he laughs and revels in it, his joy in his life almost infectious. Pity the day he ever loses himself to the cold, none will mourn what he loses more than he will, and the world will be less brighter for it.

Tempest of Steel

     Sword Master: Supreme


From a balcony, the former Lord of Storm watched his son in the courtyard below as he sparred with 5 of the Queen's personal bodyguards. A proud smile lit up his features as he saw how spectacularly outmatched they were. The smile soon became a teasing grin as he called out to his son. "Hey boy! What say we actually make this one challenging for you?" With that, bolts of lighting and boulders of hail blasted into the courtyard, forcing the combatants into a much smaller area in the center, surrounded as they now were by deep gouges in the earth. Pryderi was now surrounded, with no room to maneuver, and barely any at all to swing his sword. His father grinned wildly "If they so much as cut you or nick your fancy outfit there, I'll consider this a loss!" Pryderi laughed as a chill wind picked up around him. 5 minutes later, with neither a thread of fabric cut, nor even a hair out of place, he bowed theatrically to the applause of his father, then proceeded to kick the crippled and unconscious armsmen off the courtyard.


Dancing on Storm's Edge

     Acrobat: Supreme


They always went to the same ruined city to practice these days. On the one hand, the collumns at so many jarring angles, the precipices, and the dangers of buildings that would collapse if lingered on too long made for great acrobatics routines. On the other hand.. the same place for so long is just plain boring. The Lord of Storm could see the ennui in his son's expression as he flipped and twirled about, the very picture of grace without thought, precision without effort. He grinned, chuckled and then laughed at his son's yelp as he barely managed to leap out of the way of the lighting bolts impacting into the ground before him, swearing all the while. "Hey! what the hell is that?" His father just laughed harder, then called out "I'm sorry, did I say you could stop?" Pryderi's grin matched his father's as he leapt off through the ruins, a storm chasing him all the while.


A Chill Wind

     Super Speed: Supreme


Pryderi's training was nearing an end, and it was just getting harder and harder to credibly challenge the boy. The problem was worsened by the boy coming into the preternatural speed of the wind from his father, and the cold, precise acuity of thought and reflex from his mother. Unfortunately, Pryderi knew this too, as evidenced by the extremely cocky grin that never quite seemed to leave his face lately. It was thus with unrestrained glee that his father took him to a rather wide chasm, a group of narrow, rather spaced out collumns spanning from one side to the other. "leap across huh? no problem, 30 seconds tops" The Stormlord gestured, and a house armsman appeared on each collumn, taking up most of the space therein. "Bah, that's still a joke" His father raised his hand to the heavens, and thunder began to boom, and lightning began to crackle. Pryderi took off like a shot, his father shouting after him with a cackle "you've got one minute boyo, after that it's a hurricane!" 59 seconds later he knelt on the other side of the chasm, gasping for air, but grinning triumphantly. He then looked up and saw his father standing before him, a blade levelled, his smile and gaze fierce with pride. "En guard lad" With a wild whoop of joy, they lunged at each other silmultaneously


The Frost in his Heart

     Cold: Supreme

  • Ranged Attack Only
  • Area Affect
  • Target Seeker
  • Multi-Attacks
  • Ranged and Melee Attack


They told stories of Pryderi that night in the tavern, a regular custom in that land. One spoke of his duel with the bandits of the southern wastes, of the weapons and armour of his enemies growing so brittle from the cold around him that they would simply snap and shatter. Another spoke of his confrontation with the warlord of the tower infernal, of the chill the numbed that brute's reactions and the frost that slowed his movements to the point where he was handily dispatched. No one however, spoke of the town of Angref, who's townspeople had gathered to stone to death an innocent girl who's only crime was looking different than they did. A town where Pryderi had arrived a fraction of a second too late to save her, and could only hold her as she died in his arms. It was not that they wouldn't have spoken about it if they could have, after all, who doesn't like a good tragedy now and then? It was simply that when an entire town is flash frozen, there aren't exactly any witnesses to relate what happened.


The same damn hilt...

     Slicing Attack: Standard

  • Ranged and Melee Attack


Pryderi had a bit of a sheepish expression as he walked into the weaponsmith's shop for the third time that week. The smith, on seeing him, groaned in exasperation. "What happened now?!" "well.. there was this dragon see.. and I froze this bit over it's throat.. and well.. stabbed my sword through" he paused to sigh embarassedly "well how was I supposed to know it had acid for blood?" The smith simply sighed. "It would be easier just to give you a new blade Pryderi" "I know.. but.. look, just put a new one on this hilt ok? I'll pay double this time." The smith simply took the aged hilt from the young man, muttering to himself and walking off. Pryderi's gaze simply lingered on the patterns of lightning bolts etched into the hilt, the runes that named the blade as that of the Lord of Storm, and he whispered quietly to himself "I miss you dad.."