Biers

History

• Playing: New Times
  Having settled easily into a life of luxury and of respect given freely, the past truly crept up on Biers. A tiger can't change its stripes. Over time, Biers's ego grew and rendered him blind to the dangers of his profession. One tragic day, a call from the Underhall had Biers investigating, finding one of the Tether's most rebelious slaves ready to submit, to be allowed to return to the main hall of the establishment. Following his ego, believing it only natural that she submit to him, Biers entered the cage. Immediately, she liberated of his cane, and proceeded to bash his head in.
  
  When he woke up, days later, the world was dark. The trauma of the impact had robbed him of his sight, and worse. Trying to tap into his other sight, he found that to be disfunctional too, the light burning with a blinding intensity. If it weren't for Elvyra, this'd be the end of the man. The former slave, however, did not allow him to mope around, but rather enticed him to learn new skills, so that his handicap would not hold him back. He couldn't tell her in so many words, but he loved her for it.
  
  A few months after the tragedy, we find Biers blind, but functional, knocked to the ground but climbing back to his feet. Grateful of the people in his life, but a lot less trusting of those his employment thrusts in his way. Slowly accepting the limitations of his new handicap, and - in moments of genuine happiness - learning that his aura sight will slowly return...
  
  Played: Quiet Before the Storm
  And so, life took on a tranquil sort of routine. Biers settled in his mansion with his slaves, and whenever he frequented The Golden Tether - as a handler or as a private person - the slaves had begun to call upon him, instead of the other way around. Of course, life threw the occassional curve-ball, catching Biers off guard, but all in all, he continued to live his happy life more or less undisturbed. A storm was kicking up dust on the horizon, though, but for now, he truly was none the wiser.
  
  Played: Established
  Guildereim was home. That was how it felt. Biers had lived in the place for years, and had been working there for almost an entire year as well. His time was spent in a luxurious suite, rented from the establishment. But when a man decides to settle down somewhere, a man needs a place of his own. Biers ordered Elvyra to purchase him a house, and she found him a plot of land with a rundown old mansion. It was perfect, except for the fact that bandits squatting there almost killed him and Elvyra. In return, the Golden Tether handler rounded up a posse of men, and reclaimed the house. Rebuilding and customisation of the place took months as well as a small fortune, but eventually, Biers and his own were able to move in. The former artist's life was considered very much on track right then, and he was generally happier than he had been in the latter years before coming to Guildereim.
  
  
  Played: Spring
  Spring typically means rebirth, and in the case of Biers, this seemed to be very true indeed. As the cold of winter gave way to the typical heat of the tropical island, things returned to a somewhat normal state. Sleep returned to normal the exact day that Biers gave in to the voices in his mind, and cut the palms of his hands. The new ability he gained from this, the new line he could use, was powerful indeed, and he vowed to use it as little as he possibly could. Relationships with the others in the Golden Tether stabilised, and in some cases, things were starting to look up. Given the events that had ended the winter, and Biers's own near-death experience during it, had caused him to pick up the crossbow and train. Slowly but steadily, he was getting better at it. Having decided that the Tether was now truly his home, he left the island briefly, to have the remains of his parents buried again on Guildereim. And since the Tether was now his home, the next step was very simple indeed. It seemed only logical that he returned from retirement to help advance this place he'd lived in for over a year now. In the spring, the artist was reborn as a handler. Certainly many adventures still awaited him.
  
  Played: Winter
  The cold that has the island in its grasp has not left Biers unaffected. Insomnia had over the course of the month gotten worse and worse, to the point where the artist simply wasn't sleeping at all any more. This left an irritable Biers to roam the halls of the establishment, and if one were to look at him, and judge his behaviour, one might doubt if the artist had nothing to do with this winter. The fatigue brought on by his lack of sleep, however, seemed to be only a conduit between Biers and the voices in his head, because as of late, these had returned, whispering things to him, promising him things again. Biers knows these voices, and knows that they deliver on what they promise, however, they had yet to tell him exactly what it was they wanted from him. He did not doubt he'd give it to them, if only so he could sleep again. Personal relationships also seemed to shift without a fault, the winter quite possibly heralding in the end of some of his closest connections. Though winter is always followed by spring, and hope still persists...
  
  Played: The House Always Wins
  There are days Biers wondered if he's made the right choice, leaving his life behind, and coming to the island. There were many aspects of it, he discovered, that he did not care for. However, during his time there, Biers has formed strong bonds with many people. Deep friendships, and more, even. The edges were even coming off of the interactions with some he would have never thought would become friends. On a professional level, Biers has been presented with a great challenge, and has been working to acquire the tools to complete it. Even with the stress the island presented him with, the verdict was that his life there was better than his old one ever had been. He would stay, at least for a while longer. As magic continued to find its way into the artist's life, something inside of him had been straining, though. It wouldn't be long before it snappped.
  
  Played: Temptation
  Magic had seeped through the cracks of Biers's reality. No matter where the artist turned, he was confronted by it. A series of events had lead to the temporary healing of the man's hip. The fact that magic had been forced upon him in order to achieve this, had Biers rattled for a while. But he soon rediscovered the events had had no negative effects on his powers and abilities. This new found strength had the artist in a good mood, but slowly and surely, pain was creeping back in his life. On top of this, he was making a name for himself. He'd overheard his name mentioned by people he did not know. Ah, the joys of being a celebrated artist.
  
  Played: The Recluse
  Being in the spotlight has its advantages, anyone who's been there will tell you this. There are women, drink, drugs, everything you might desire. Most of who've been there, will tell you that every advantage in the end winds up working against you. Money and fame will buy acquintances but not friends, women but not love, drink and drugs, but not satisfaction. And what it will definetly not buy, is peace and quiet, nor health.
  
  After being in the spotlight, Pearce desired the anonimity. Leaving his public life was challenging, but feasible. An island, far away from where he led said public life. The decision was long in the coming, but quick in the making. Assets were sold, ties were cut, life was moved, name was changed. And most importantly, art was abandoned.
  
  But a leopard can't change his spots. On this new island, The artist now known as Biers still spends most of his time sketching, painting, and even working on the True art, Auramantic painting. Rumors were already bubbling up, and it would only be a matter of time before people caught on to the artist, and his particular set of skills.
  
  Backstory: The Artist
  Over a period of two years, Pearce's name became more and more known. After a while, he was able to buy a place of his own. Then a bigger place. Fans flocked to the artist's shows, friends to his parties. But throughout this period, the voices never ceased. Pearce did not wish to ignore them. After all, all he had, he owed them. But what else could they possibly offer? What skill did he not already possess?
  
  Pearce was drunk when he put the blade to his eye a second time. He passed out, and awoke to a darker world, filled with pain, smelling of anti-sceptic. A hospital then. He'd done it. The voices had left him his final gift, then departed. After a few days, the sight to his maimed left eye even returned. And more, much much more. Instinctivly, Pearce knew what would happen when he twitched his eye. Colors swam into vision whenever he did, radiating from the people around him. Pearce knew what these colors meant, and how he could use them in his paintings. Overnight, Pearce had become the world's first, and, to his knowledge, only Auramancer.
  
  Filled with instinctive knowledge, Pearce set to painting like a madman. One Auramantic painting after the other was produced, incorporating a wide range of emotions and effects. And if his paintings had made him moderatly wealthy, the Auramancy had made him filthy rich. He advertised the effects of the paintings he made, and almost every time, a hefty amount of money would be paid for the privilige of owning a True Pearce. Soon, the artist could afford about everything he'd ever wanted, and more.
  
  In this early experimentation, he grew careless. Rage is an intriguing emotion, and drawing it out of someone can be dangerous, as Pearce found out when the man he had been provoking attacked him. The painter now owed his life to the quick intervention of the people in his entourage. But not without some battle scars, the only ones that were not self-inflicted. The broken hip was set, but not properly. It would get better, but never completely heal, leaving the equine with a permanent limp.
  
  "Oh, we were so sorry to hear about your accident."
  "Let me help you up these stairs."
  "Thank goodness you're still alive."
  The sycophants'... excuse me.. the fans' never-ending stream of pleasantries and offers of help soon started to grind away Pearce's nerves. Not. A. Fucking. Invalid.
  
  He grew more and more distant, skipping most of the parties, painting less and less, increasingly indulging in pain medicine to dull away the pain his hip caused on a daily basis.
  
  Backstory: The Madman
  When mad people hear voices, do the voices use words said mad people did not know? Pearce didn't think so. Ergo, he was not mad. Simple. He had no idea what perspective meant, or shading, but comprehension of these things were promised to him. But of course, no reward ever comes without sacrifice. He thought he knew that then, but he had no idea.
  
  A man can go by with one eye. It was a small tribute, considering the things he would gain. Pearce did not immediatly follow the command to cut out his eye, and maybe that was the reason the rest of it came so difficultly. On a winter day, the soon-to-be ex-street rat picked up a knife and put it to his eye. Blood flowed, but the knife was dropped before it could damage the eye. Pearce found himself surprised by how he was unable to bear the pain, and was certain that the voices would turn their back to him, now that he'd proven he could not do what they had asked.
  
  But they didn't. Pearce did not know what they saw in him, but they must have seen something. Their tune changed, assuring Pearce that he would get there, but that there could be steps along the way. A small cut on the arm, and he'd be able to reproduce reality so much better with his pencil. Another cut, and more skill would open itself for him. Pearce found that he was indeed capable of taking these steps, and that whenever he took them, his skill did indeed improve. He knew he was not mad.
  
  After a while, Pearce's improving art made him enough gold to rent a small room in an inn, living more comfortably than he ever had. He was able to buy supplies, and dabble in more refined form of art, such as painting. He was not good at it. The first large cut to his chest had changed that, overnight. The pain was intense, but he no longer felt it in the same way. Eye on the prize. And such a prize it was. His paintings, now of undeniable artistic value, made him a moderatly rich man, very quickly.
  
  Backstory: The Rat
  Humble beginnings. Pearce was born as the son of a nameless factory worker and a nameless waitress, a nameless urchin. He loved them very much, so he knew them as Vic and Dar. They loved him, and so they knew him as Pearce.
  
  But, as happens so often to the nameless and the famous of this world alike, Pearce was soon confronted by his parents mortality. The teenager soon found himself, alone, on the street. Begging, doing an odd job, here and there. Getting by. Also, doodling on the "Change" sign he placed in front of him. And that is how the dice were cast, how this street-rat who would have certainly died very soon, attracted the attention of the voices.