Anarchles, Pale Nomad

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the pale Nomad with the realm of Abraxas, 2018

Fighting Name: Anarchles, Pale Nomad, Voice of Abraxas

Real Name: Olof

Race: Human

Realm: Abraxas

Retainer to Smiley

Realm Rank: Voice of Abraxas

Fighting Style: Sword/Board, Single Sword, Spear/Sword

Started Fighting: 2016


Events Attended:

  • Kill Grill & Chill 2018

Early life and path to ABRAXAS

Anarchles, the Pale Nomad, Voice of Abraxas is a man wholly devoted to walking the path between the darkness and the light. A warrior mystic, a philosopher and tactician the pale Nomad has ventured near and far, tireless in his pursuit of balance between strength and vulnerability, enlightenment and ignorance, truth and lies.

The child who would someday forsake his given name, title and holdings was born to a noble household in the borderlands of the Highlands of the Great Plains. Being born of a noble house, he was afforded great privileges in his upbringing. A proper education, time to explore the equestrian pursuits, the handling of a sailing ship and the social skills to navigate the social dealings his family had with traders, other noble holds and moreover their lowly peasant subjects.

This idyllic and relatively peaceful upbringing was shattered many years before the young prince's first beard by the violent and untimely death by assassination of his mother. The boy's mourning lead him down a path of melancholy and deep spiritual reflection well into his young adulthood. Becoming disinterested with the goings on of his family's hold, or his growing responsibilities the fledgling instead choose to pursue lost, often esoteric wisdom which inevitably set him at odds with his family.

Exiled to a lighthouse at the border of his family's realm that was occupied by his elderly grandmother, a woman who had been queen and had been forced to retire after the loss of her only daughter, followed by her husband the king of the realm, had brought her to the brink of insanity, and the bottom of many a bottle. Her's was a life of duality, she was often kind but also cruel, wise but also lost, a leader now dependent upon the aid of her woefully mistreated serfs and her grandson in her lonely lighthouse estate.

It was here where the man who would come to call himself Anarchles delved deeply into the forbidden and often nigh maddening chaos magics, but also the white-healing magics and alchemy he needed to preserve what little was left of his ailing grandmother. For many years he tended the lighthouse, in something of a hermetic exile, bound to the duality of the sun and moon, light and dark and finding solace in tending to the beacon, and his family's matriarch.

It was many years before the elder queen was taken, quietly into the night after battling her own daemons to the last, and when she passed there was a time of mourning in the kingdom and a mass held at the lighthouse estate, now empty of housekeepers, white-mage attendants and petitioners seeking the elder queen's favor. The young nomad remained, tending the lighthouse and bringing in folk from his mystic and martial circles, the estate soon being overrun with artists with styles too obtuse to be commissioned now that the eccentric queen had passed, philosophers and writers with no patron to pay them for their contributions to academia, wandering mercenaries disenfranchised with fighting noblemen's battles for them, jesters who pushed their lords patience for their playful joking too far, youthful nobles that fancied themselves duelists, and even a Belegrim known as Zenith Darkheart of House Hellhammer.

The two warriors stood in stark contrast, but soon found brotherhood and lifelong friendship. They shared much of what they'd learned from their very divergent paths and at the lighthouse estate began organizing the band misfits and outcast that had taken up residence on the estate grounds. For a time they lived and worked, protected by their walls and the overgrowth of the ancient estate, preforming esoteric rituals, combat trials, charting the movements of the stars and communing with the great old ones.

On the shores of the lake next to a great pyre and beside all the warriors and mystics he could rally to his banner the man who'd watched his mother die a decade before, cared for his ailing grandmother, studied the lost arts and trained for war tore down his family crest and set it to the fire. He would no longer live for the vain betterment of his family's interests in the game of political power over the old realms of the great plains and instead lead the fight to take his family's holdings for the betterment of all people. Casting his name aside and taking up the mantel of Anarchles, pale Nomad as a symbol of his inability to ever return to his family's holds, but instead a hold governed by the enlightened and mystic traditions where all are equal and free.

Anarchles' uprising was over before it could begin in earnest as in the wake of a great celebration their defenses were best by a loyalist army comprised of men-at-arms, mercenary crossbowmen and an armor clad behemoth that retook the lighthouse estate by land in the small hours before first light. Those who escaped did so by sea, some rowing to safety though the wee hours of the morning, others attempting to out-swim crossbow bolts as the fighting continued into the dawn. Luckily Anarchles had survived and although separated from his warband and friends and with nothing but his skills to his name set out to find his way.

It was on this long and arduous journey through the wilds that the haggard and lost Anarchles came upon a small shrine. A old stone dome over a large bronze statue dominated a clearing in a deep wood, overgrown by sunflowers. It was with great care that Anarchles approached the baleful metal demon in the center of the moss covered stone floor. "ABRAXAS: Archon of the 364 spheres" the tarnished plaque read before a figure of a man, with the head of a rooster, wielding a switch of many branches each with one leaf on the end and a kite shield, with long winding snakes where his legs should have been protruding from beneath his armored skirt. In that moment all the duality he'd lived up to that moment came flooding back to him, first as a trickle, then in waves. All the joy, all the pain, the consuming darkness and the blinding light, the order and the chaos, the agony and the ecstasy.

The Founding of Abraxas

After coming to Abraxas, Anarchles resolved to return to civilization after his long exile during his hermetic studies, failed uprising and his sojourn into the wilds of the Highlands of the Great Plains. He worked many jobs, sometimes as an alchemist, other times a butcher, other times a dock/ship hand and other times as a commissioned artist, and occasional bard.

A mysterious letter was delivered by a courier dressed in black and gold informed the listless Anarchles that his lost friend Zenith Darkheart had indeed survived, and had, though his contacts, found him and requested an audience post-haste. Anarchles quickly departed on the journey, taking with him a fellow warrior and friend to Zenith, Zeratul. Swords in hand the two struck out to find their lost friend and compatriot in the mass of tents and battle that made up Oktoberfest.

The reunion was sweet and well deserved but all too short and before long the season was over and the winter set in. Winter can be dark times for fighters without hearth and home and so the pale Nomad returned to the sprawl of the iron-city.

It was during a bardic performance that Anarchles came to reconvene with a dear friend and survivor of the attack on the lake estate. This bard offered the pale Nomad a place to live and introduced him to Yaswhea Shusef, mercenary bard and battle heckler. The three became fast friends and together they occupied the estate of a noble of some far off land.

Taking up near the heart of the Iron City and nearby the great walled fortress of the kingdom Anarchles began again to organize the disenfranchised and lost folk of the realm. After being introduced to the industrious and skilled Tome Skookum and the biggest damn dwarf he'd ever seen Bigby Hammerfist the whole crew set out to train in weaponry but also the skills of Realm building without knowing quite where to start. Zenith would though his many connections the pale Nomad in the same caravan as the renegade Squire Smiley, and on the way to Armageddon the stars aligned and so was formed an unhallowed pact between the first Voice of Abraxas and the first warlord of Abraxas.

In the manner of weeks after Armageddon a realm had been cut out of the wilds. With the help of the roguish squire Smiley and his many connections Abraxas was armed all while it's bylaws were forged in the fires of discourse. Through an immense collaborative effort the founding members of Abraxas had founded a mystic warrior lodge under Abraxas.

Before long, Anarchles, pale Nomad, the Voice of Abraxas was retained by the devilish squire Smiley of the Wolfpack line of knights. To date he serves his squire humbly and with the same thirst for knowledge that has always guided the nomad's path.


The Pale Nomad's Wanderings

My fighting began in earnest in 2016 at Okfest. Since then I have gone to all the events I've been able to make, making it a goal to better my garb, camping, fighting and understanding of Belegarth and it's community every event. In the present tense I'm fighting more than ever, having recently founded a realm and maintain two practices a week while the seasons allow. Currently I and my realm-mates are preparing to debut our realm at Okfest, I hope you are prepared, dear reader, and I beg you remember...

"There is a God about whom you know nothing, because men have forgotten him. We call him by his name: Abraxas. He is less definite than God or Devil.... Abraxas is activity: nothing can resist him but the unreal ... Abraxas stands above the sun[-god] and above the devil...

That which is spoken by God-the-Sun is life; that which is spoken by the Devil is death; Abraxas speaketh that hallowed and accursed word, which is life and death at the same time. Abraxas begetteth truth and lying, good and evil, light and darkness in the same word and in the same act. Wherefore is Abraxas terrible." -C.Jung


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