A Scion Story: The Doom of Michael Celevos
He's stuffy and should probably get drunk a few times to loosen up.
|Epic Strength||5||Epic Charisma||4||Epic Perception||4|
|Epic Dexterity||5||Epic Manipulation||5||Epic Intelligence||4|
|Epic Stamina||5||Epic Appearance||3||Epic Wits||5|
|Brawl||2||Command||3||Control – Motorcycle||3|
|Craft – Ice||2||Empathy||1||Fortitude||1|
|Frost Immunity||Uller’s Stride||Hrimthurssar’s Touch||Frozen Panoply|
|Vigil Brand||Warning Line||Aegis||Ward|
|Heroic Stature||Giant Among Men||Form of the Giant||Gift of Blood|
|Giant Among Demigods|
|Judgment||Guilt Apparitions||Guilt of the Damned||Shield of Righteousness|
|Dream Wrack||Scarlet Letter|
|1 – Ariadne’s Thread||1 – Peaceful Meeting||2 – Legendary Surge|
|Unerring Orientation||Where Are You?|
|Weather Witch||Wind’s Freedom||Storm Augmentation||Wind Grapple|
|Penetrating Glare||Divine Radiance|
|Blessing of Bravery||Battle Cry||Warrior Ideal||Battle Map|
|Detail Variation||My Eyes Are Up Here||Game Face|
|Blessing of Importance||Charmer||Final Countdown||Inspirational Figure|
|Never Say Die|
|Legendary Parry||Lightning Sprinter||Perfect Parry||Untouchable Opponent|
|Blockade of Reason||Fight With Your Head||Teaching Prodigy||Axiom|
|Blurt It Out||God’s Honest||Stench of Guilt||Takes One to Know One|
|Clairvoyance||Predatory Focus||Scent the Divine||Telescopic Senses|
|Body Armour||Damage Conversion||Impenetrable||Regeneration|
|Armour Crusher||Holy Bound||Holy Rampage||Hurl to the Horizon|
|Adaptive Fighting||Cobra Reflexes||Instant Investigator||Jack of All Trades|
|Monkey in the Middle|
Born on the 15th of June, 1973, Rufus was for a long while quite unaware of anything highly unusual in his heritage. His father, a man named Nigel Scrivner, served London as a high court judge. His mother, Madeleine nee Spencer, spent most of her time socialising and networking. Although he lived a very privileged life in the London borough of Chelsea, it was also fairly lonely. His mother was remote and disinclined towards showing much affection. His father was never outright cruel to him, but Rufus learned early that he was looked upon with some measure of disdain. Eventually, Rufus left behind his private junior school and, at the age of eleven, he was shipped off to an elite, private boarding school in Surrey. He sat his GCSEs, scored well, and later he sat his A Levels and did even better. Rufus was a brilliant student, with his favoured studies centred around history, law and Latin. He scarcely neglected sports, often found playing football (soccer to you Yanks) and practising his fencing.
He went on to university, using his father’s money and his high marks to obtain a place in Oxford. He continued his studies in law, continued his fencing to keep himself from drowning in academia and eventually left, passed his examinations and began his apprenticeship in a solicitor’s office.
He was contemplating becoming a barrister when he received word from his father that his mother had suddenly passed away. Rufus’ life changed overnight. At the funeral, his father informed him that he was more or less disowned and had been written out of his will. Then he met Tyr.
The god revealed himself to be his true father, and a sceptical Rufus took quite a bit of convincing before he would believe any of it. His mother had a brief affair with him, and his true father had left her when she began talking about leaving Nigel for him. Nigel, meanwhile, had discovered the truth of the affair and knew that his son wasn’t truly his own. He never revealed his knowledge while Madeleine lived, unwilling to raise the issue and bring about a scandal. Tyr then gave the young man his birthrights – a longsword and a torque to be worn around his bicep.
Rufus, finding life in London no longer quite to his liking, left it behind. The man obtained a visa, travelled to America and again went back to school. This time, he had to pay his own way through an American law school in New York. But he finished, and he entered into a partnership to start up a law office that is affiliated with the British consulate in New York, specialising in assisting British nationals who’ve landed into trouble while in America.
Around six and a half feet in height, Rufus Scrivner is a tall man, and his build is one of lean muscle rather than sheer bulk. He’s pale-skinned and fair-haired, a natural shade of blonde that often makes his eyebrows seem non-existent in bright sunlight. His hair has been cut fairly short, with just enough length for bangs to brush across his forehead, clipped shorter at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a very pale shade of blue, and they have a tendency to narrow in concentration or whenever he’s feeling moody. Judging by the wrinkles just starting to creep in at the corners of his eyes and lips, his age is somewhere in the mid-thirties.
When out and about, his attire is usually appropriate for casual business. The man opts for slacks in dark, somber colours with button-down shirts in white, pale grey or sky blue. Very rarely is he without a slim, black nylon carrying case that looks long enough to hold a longsword.
One thing definitely sets him apart from the typical American; he has a very thick, prim English accent. It’s the sort of accent that places him from London’s west end.