Post by Essien on Mar 23, 2009 16:08:04 GMT -5
Name: Hamund the Kind
Class: Magus
Rank: 6
History:
Hamund Knessler was born into a devout Sigmarite family in the Nordland countryside. His father was a thick-hewed farmer who settled matters of religion and morality with the doubled leather of his belt; his mother was seen and not heard; and his brothers and sisters embraced the coarse faith and limited aspirations of the local peasantry. Hamund proved to be both less sturdy and more clever than Kurt Knessler's other boys, which earned him special attention from the lash as well as the village tutor.
When the boy reached adolescence, the village dignitaries were able to impress upon his reluctant father that Hamund belonged in the study and not behind the plow. Already thoughtful and literate, Hamund might have gone a clerk to one of the Empire's noble families, or studied the winds of magic in one of its celebrated Colleges. However, there was only one course of study for which Kurt Knessler would open his fist and dole out the family gold; accordingly, Hamund was packed off to the Temple of Holy Sigmar in Altdorf, with instructions that he would one day take orders as a priest.
Hamund proved a gifted student. He could enter into a question without prejudice, bias or self interest; he possessed the clear vision of the scholar, the sojourner for knowledge. His masters thrilled to the wholehearted arias of erudition he was able to produce upon the rites of the Sigmarite church, but they did not know that Hamund's adventurous mind was also chasing implications down more shadowed and troubling corridors of thought.
It seemed to Hamund that his father had never been more zealous, more possessed of joy in his religion, than when he was punishing one of his children for perceived vices-- the greater the vice, the more grueling the castigation, the more satisfied Kurt Knessler seemed. The young scholar noticed that the illiterates who came as supplicants to the holy temple stood in awe of its soaring buttresses of marble, the organ music that shook them during services, the bejeweled goblet, the sumptuous and priceless white vestments of Sigmar's highest functionaries. At the roadside shrines those same people left offerings that would please the eye or the tongue: a beeswax candle, perhaps, or wildflowers, or a bowl of apples. And Hamund's own masters seemed more delighted by the reverence in which they were held, and the deference shown to their will, than they were with the rectitude of their flock. Sin, it would appear, created a dependence that they did not find unwelcome.
These rich and varied joys of the flesh were the very things against which the Sigmarites preached, and yet there they were, spun like golden thread into the fabric of religious life. Surely, Hamund thought, if man were so constituted as to find his happiness and peace in these things, then the god who fashioned him must be a god of the flesh as well as the soul. Surely there must be a religion of pleasure, older perhaps than the man-god Sigmar-- older, and more true.
Hamund's studies became more arcane. He left the Temple Library for the Library of Altdorf, left that for the private collections of men and women in the more remote reaches of the Empire. He passed from The Plain Duty of Man and Anselm's Confession of Faith to Treatise of the Spiral and The Grey Book of Kavzar. At last, in the scribblings of geniuses and madmen, Hamund found what he sought: a way to contact the angels of his newfound faith, to touch the divine. When he scrawled his first chalk circle onto the flagstones of his priestly cell, and brought into that holy place the fanciful daemonette of Slaanesh, he knew the bliss of truth. His sojourn was at an end, and a new life had begun.
From that day to this, Hamund has followed the path of the Magus with the same wholehearted enthusiasm he once dedicated to the study of Sigmar's priesthood. He found himself among the northern barbarians who devote themselves to Chaos Gods, then among the abominations of the Inevitable City itself. By degrees, he drew to his side other devotees of Slaanesh who found in him an intellectual substance, and an intercourse with the divine, that they could not match. Recently, his deference to the wishes of the Dark Prince has brought him to the shores of Nordland once more, where he has pledged himself and those under him into the service of Lord Essien Semedi-- for a time. Hamund waits patiently for the day when Slaanesh will inform him that their Druchii master no longer suits his purposes. It will be a bloody glorious day.
Personality and Quirks:
Hamund seems a genial sybarite, even an avuncular figure. He presents the gentlest possible face for such a cruel, dissipated and debilitating cult. As a true believer, he enjoys peace of mind and an unruffled conscience; he might perform or endure the most unspeakable acts, but the Magus reasons that he is merely doing as all men do-- only more intelligently and directly, without guilt or self-deception. One could not ask for a better Slaaneshi proselyte, but for those few who have plumbed the intellectual depth of his depravity, he can be a terrifying individual.
Years upon the Disc of Slaanesh have atrophied the muscles in Hamund's legs. He is spindle-shanked, and when not on his 'pet,' he walks with the aid of a staff. Hamund explains that his halting gait is the result of a childhood illness.
Class: Magus
Rank: 6
History:
Hamund Knessler was born into a devout Sigmarite family in the Nordland countryside. His father was a thick-hewed farmer who settled matters of religion and morality with the doubled leather of his belt; his mother was seen and not heard; and his brothers and sisters embraced the coarse faith and limited aspirations of the local peasantry. Hamund proved to be both less sturdy and more clever than Kurt Knessler's other boys, which earned him special attention from the lash as well as the village tutor.
When the boy reached adolescence, the village dignitaries were able to impress upon his reluctant father that Hamund belonged in the study and not behind the plow. Already thoughtful and literate, Hamund might have gone a clerk to one of the Empire's noble families, or studied the winds of magic in one of its celebrated Colleges. However, there was only one course of study for which Kurt Knessler would open his fist and dole out the family gold; accordingly, Hamund was packed off to the Temple of Holy Sigmar in Altdorf, with instructions that he would one day take orders as a priest.
Hamund proved a gifted student. He could enter into a question without prejudice, bias or self interest; he possessed the clear vision of the scholar, the sojourner for knowledge. His masters thrilled to the wholehearted arias of erudition he was able to produce upon the rites of the Sigmarite church, but they did not know that Hamund's adventurous mind was also chasing implications down more shadowed and troubling corridors of thought.
It seemed to Hamund that his father had never been more zealous, more possessed of joy in his religion, than when he was punishing one of his children for perceived vices-- the greater the vice, the more grueling the castigation, the more satisfied Kurt Knessler seemed. The young scholar noticed that the illiterates who came as supplicants to the holy temple stood in awe of its soaring buttresses of marble, the organ music that shook them during services, the bejeweled goblet, the sumptuous and priceless white vestments of Sigmar's highest functionaries. At the roadside shrines those same people left offerings that would please the eye or the tongue: a beeswax candle, perhaps, or wildflowers, or a bowl of apples. And Hamund's own masters seemed more delighted by the reverence in which they were held, and the deference shown to their will, than they were with the rectitude of their flock. Sin, it would appear, created a dependence that they did not find unwelcome.
These rich and varied joys of the flesh were the very things against which the Sigmarites preached, and yet there they were, spun like golden thread into the fabric of religious life. Surely, Hamund thought, if man were so constituted as to find his happiness and peace in these things, then the god who fashioned him must be a god of the flesh as well as the soul. Surely there must be a religion of pleasure, older perhaps than the man-god Sigmar-- older, and more true.
Hamund's studies became more arcane. He left the Temple Library for the Library of Altdorf, left that for the private collections of men and women in the more remote reaches of the Empire. He passed from The Plain Duty of Man and Anselm's Confession of Faith to Treatise of the Spiral and The Grey Book of Kavzar. At last, in the scribblings of geniuses and madmen, Hamund found what he sought: a way to contact the angels of his newfound faith, to touch the divine. When he scrawled his first chalk circle onto the flagstones of his priestly cell, and brought into that holy place the fanciful daemonette of Slaanesh, he knew the bliss of truth. His sojourn was at an end, and a new life had begun.
From that day to this, Hamund has followed the path of the Magus with the same wholehearted enthusiasm he once dedicated to the study of Sigmar's priesthood. He found himself among the northern barbarians who devote themselves to Chaos Gods, then among the abominations of the Inevitable City itself. By degrees, he drew to his side other devotees of Slaanesh who found in him an intellectual substance, and an intercourse with the divine, that they could not match. Recently, his deference to the wishes of the Dark Prince has brought him to the shores of Nordland once more, where he has pledged himself and those under him into the service of Lord Essien Semedi-- for a time. Hamund waits patiently for the day when Slaanesh will inform him that their Druchii master no longer suits his purposes. It will be a bloody glorious day.
Personality and Quirks:
Hamund seems a genial sybarite, even an avuncular figure. He presents the gentlest possible face for such a cruel, dissipated and debilitating cult. As a true believer, he enjoys peace of mind and an unruffled conscience; he might perform or endure the most unspeakable acts, but the Magus reasons that he is merely doing as all men do-- only more intelligently and directly, without guilt or self-deception. One could not ask for a better Slaaneshi proselyte, but for those few who have plumbed the intellectual depth of his depravity, he can be a terrifying individual.
Years upon the Disc of Slaanesh have atrophied the muscles in Hamund's legs. He is spindle-shanked, and when not on his 'pet,' he walks with the aid of a staff. Hamund explains that his halting gait is the result of a childhood illness.