Artur Redrain

Artur Redrain
Social Rank 3
Fealty Redrain
House Redrain
Gender Male
Age 25
Religion Pantheon / Shamanism
Vocation Knight
Height 6'0"
Hair Color Dark Blond
Eye Color Warm Brown
Skintone Fair
Parents Bjerarg Redrain, Ilene Laurent
Siblings Gwenna Redrain, Bellamy Redrain
Uncles/Aunts Torix Redrain, Edmund Laurent, Shae Fortier, Kedehern Fortier, Marcus Laurent, Torrud Redrain, Sondra Laurent, Sherrod Redrain, Drea Redrain, Lir Redrain, Vigsi Redrain, Timothy Laurent
Cousins Darren Redrain, Deva Velenosa, Kieran Redrain, Fergus Redrain, Hildegard Redrain, Rohkir Redrain, Bradan Redrain, Freja Acheron, Anze Malvici, Leo Fidante, Calista Fidante, Cristoph Laurent, Jael Laurent, Cassandra Laurent, Jaromir Redrain, Vallen Redrain, Eiran Laurent, Naka Laurent, Klaus Thrax, Aeryn Laurent, Otakar Redrain, Toste Redrain, Jarel Redrain, Kace Redrain, Nuala Redrain, Fiachra Redrain, Conn Redrain, Baelos Redrain, Colette Laurent, Constance Redrain, Keirlys Fortier, Kristoph Fortier, Rawen Redrain, Abby Laurent, Grimgar Redrain
Authored By / Featured In


Artur is narrow, slender and lanky, with a sharp bite to the angle of his hips. Everything about him is long: long legs, long torso, long arms, long, slim fingers. Energetic, dynamic in motion and closely muscled, his lanky height is wiry and tight, rather than built heavily or bulky. Freckles spatter his high-boned, sharply angled features. His brown eyes are striking in clarity and color, their warm hue suggestive of cinnamon. His hair is kept short, neatly trimmed and darkly golden. There's a suggestion of coltish youth and abounding energy to his body and carriage.


Artur struggles with directed focus on many things in his life because there is so much to do and learn and be. Fancies tug at him like will-o-the-wisps, and he'll chase them with all the energy of an overgrown fleethound until the next one catches his attention and turns him after it. He can frequently get cheerfully lost down logic trains that make little sense outside his own head, and also, he's very bad at jokes, not because he doesn't enjoy humor but because he tends to "get" them about twenty minutes after everyone else in the room, sometimes with a loud "Oh!" and then a now-completely-inappropriate chortling laugh. Warm and friendly, frequently hyperactive almost to a point of manic in his energy, he can be contagious in his enthusiasms, and it's very easy to get caught up with him in his energy. Sometimes people go along with his ideas only -- once out of his company and no longer subject to the Arturian common sense jamming field -- to stare around and wonder what happened.


Artur was a happy child, with the joy and energy of a young boy raised by parents with a good balance of benevolent distance and bland-edged discipline. His closest supervision was from a crotchety old shaman whose stories evolved as Artur aged, retaining his attention cleverly by incorporating more boogers and farts once Artur reached a certain age, and peppering his storytelling with blood and guts liberally throughout his childhood. Indoors, Artur had a little sister to equal parts torment and defend; outdoors, he had worlds to conquer, many of them entirely fueled by his own mind.

As a boy, every day of his was filled with imagination games. One day he would be an evil wizard bent on world domination -- "please make sure you clean your hands and wash behind your ears when you're done building your sorcerous tower, dear" -- and the next day, a shining beacon of purity and light, showing the world the benefits of a true paladin -- "what a clever sword, Artur, did you make it from a stick?" -- and the day after, a secretly infiltrated dwarf agent, stealthing through the manor with daring surreptitiousness -- "we can see you hiding under the table, my prince, as I'm afraid your boots are sticking out." As he grew and learned his lessons and studied with swordmasters and trained in (oh no) etiquette like a good prince, his imagination games grew no less colorful, if they grew subtler; in his teen years, his flights of fancy he kept to scribblings in his journal, artistic translations of this visiting diplomat into an elven infiltrator bent on seducing his mother, or that complex arithmetic economics problem being illustrated with dragons and eggs instead of sacks of grain. He doodled constantly, and made stories in his head, and although he wasn't secretive about them, he became aware as he moved towards adulthood that they were -- if not childish things to be put aside -- private treasures to be kept to those he trusted. "Today, I shall go on a hunt," would be his itinerary, and then instead, while hunting pheasant he would imagine himself agriffonback, chasing the winged terror of a dragon marauding the countryside. "Today, I shall go with my father to an important meeting," would be the plan, and in his head, one of the councillors was replaced by a luring mirrorborn with destuctive appetites (the drawing from that day was paticularly spooky and splendid).

Yet still, even as he grew to adulthood, his imagination pictures stayed with him. Even today, as he rides towards the capital, he imagines himself alive with derring-do, questing for adventure, rather than doing what he is supposed to do exactly, which is go to Arx and support the North's political, economic and military goals potentially by securing an alliance somewhere in the Southlands.