Michael Whitblade

During early years (12-15), Michael was a planned servant to the house. When he was with his mother watching her serve the proper nobles, he would be there next to the door eating his loaf of bread and whatever alms the nobles hadn't the stomach to eat that day. Barely a thought was directed to him, with the most memory someone knew of him was 'that kid who poured my ale once'.   One day, though, a rare event presented itself in form of a basic test for aptitude of magic potency for all in the house... which included Michael. In surprise to all who turned around to see a positive result, he was quickly given proper royalty accommodations, opposed to his servants room being a straw bed and hard sponge for a wash. His future was rethought by the 5-7th in line, knowing and planning around that they now have a mage in the family that they could use... yet also the proper tests for becoming a mage is often Fatal upon failure.   Michael was given a deceitful choice. If he willingly proceeded with the test, his noble name would be given to him by the head of the house, marking him as officially part of the lineage, and assuming the other 9 successors die somehow, he would become the head of house. If he didn't want to take the tests he would be 'taking a trip to the holiday house to rethink his decision'. Of course this is a lie to where he would be kidnapped by a hired bandit & forever abandoned as an lower-than-dirt slave. There is no need for those in the noble house for people with power yet no ambition. Both options serve to take care of problems, being that the house would either gain a valuable Mage in their grip or they would dispose of a bad servant. The fifth, sixth, and seventh were quite happy with their planning, knowing it cannot backfire and only benefit.   Fortunately Michael chose to Learn magic, thereby unknowingly saving his life until much later in his life.   He had a few options of who to have teach him & where to be taught. The Noble house unanimously didn't like the idea of mingling with the empire during studies, as it may give Michael the idea to detach himself from the family and run somewhere else as if he were some sort of wild animal. A compromise was made for the safety of the family, he studied at one of the rare academies in kingdom territory. Unlike what the teacher sage at this academy had said for how many students he usually had whilst in doomsayers keep, there were only six students to teach here, including Michael. No wonder these private academies are rare.   He wasn't sure why he had this potential for magic. He was told it was entirely random, chosen only by the gods themselves. Since he was so young when he first started his study, he held onto a foolish ideal which persisted even till present day, of which only the haughtiness of a noble could conjure up. "I was destined for greater things! Im certain my mother's lineage goes far back, so far that even books have forgotten, and somewhere along the way there was someone amazing. I'm the one in a million from a far-off time that, out of sheer luck, was born into this noble family". This is entirely fantasy, but in a world where magic exists as certain as horses tow carts & the recent discovery of dragons being real? This fantasy is something he holds onto quite strong in this world, even if in secret.   Once he became a mage, he was sent out from the house multiple times to small skirmishes, battles, wars for the kingdom! The easiest way to gain prestige is to participate in war and gain accolades, especially when the person who told you to go there takes the credit. He has his own thoughts about this, but often tells himself that gaining so many small favours from his brothers and sisters higher on the succession line will be useful, should he eventually desire to be the head of the house, or a wizard so great that he gets given his own noble title from the current royals. And yet despite how unlikely it is, That's Michael. Chasing after better times.   -----------------   In recent events, he had mercenarily been put to the noble-offending role of Arcane miner, foreman, labourer... in any case, embarrassing to his house, though empowering to the inexperienced knights and ravagers seeing their first fight on field, who had beheld him fight to work so much for such dirtying jobs. Then next he was, by request of the family following the stunt, practically self-demoted by asking his supervisor if he can stay in the back and help the medics. The request was accepted, but as any military goes... he was quickly thrown into the front knowing that he is indeed at least a half-competent scion even if the job is entirely wrong. Any mage who passed their tests should know how to create fire and cauterise wounds. if they couldn't do something so simple... In any case, during this medical escapade he had met however briefly with the Sage, cooped up in a tower, in the Tumbling towers mountain range. Being the first to, regrettably, break into their inner sanctum as they were reading, he pleaded to the sage, knowing of the destruction caused (Near, if not exclusively) by... due to his current position, Superior, but magically more inexperienced Firestarter. What did Sir Whitblade plead? as they spoke, he could hear the banging of heavy axes, hammers, and all kinds of weaponry. He, knowing of the basics of the arcane whilst appealing to the more understanding, deliberately inferior side of himself as a bastard, knowing peasantry for his child days. He begs the sage to "Please, just keep helping everyone as you have been for so many years. i wont ask you to only assist the Kingdom, I simply wish for your mercy like ive heard in stories long past. Continue healing all whom may be Sick, ailing, ease the pain of the dying, guide the dead to their grave. I simply do not wish foolishly for destructive wrath."   Whitblade, bad judge of character as he is, believes that perhaps... the sage may have taken these words to heart... But that's simply the delusion he found himself believing once more as he blinked and found himself back in the war-barrack with a sickness in his stomach. Once he was reprimanded by somehow being back early, he rode back out as far as he could, re-joined the fight attempting to continue the perhaps too one-sided conversation, or accurately "Beseeching" a better resolution.   Whilst fighting, he found himself burnt, lacerated... The light almost leaving for another day, praying to the god he knows most intimately, Fallen-king Allard, that he may once more be mercifully whisked through space back to his bed, uncomfortable as it was. as though a dying flame finding charcoal-mixed timber, he was ignited with unknown power, his core swirling with almost familiar warmth... Curative powers of a saint. His eyes open, looking around, seeing a glimpse through a window of the saints cloth, but no more. He runs far back to recover and restore his wounds.   Later that day? week? period of wartime, he runs into the saint once more with doors open, and now that they aren't reading, the kingdom decided now the best time to do something. To escort the troubled sage, contemplating so deeply that they know not who takes their shoulder and guides their path away from the focal point of battle, the tower. Sir Whitblade even guides her to their camp a few times as she disappears back into the tower amidst battle somehow, explaining each time the good they may do with their safety built higher with the support of the kingdom, and the people they may save, especially with the Eryax in the north slaughtering so many. Ironically, these wounds despite his defiance of death, would persist for quite some time even with the clerics and paladins looking at it. There is a drawback to such resurrections of spirit, or, there was this time where the magic was weaved in odd ways. Sir Whitblade had to take a step back for a few weeks, extending perhaps into months...