Ayrmidon Nahos is the captain of the Lost Legion, a sellsword company composed of those with the blood of Old Valyria.
Appearance[]
Ayrmidon is tall, with long, dark curly hair that falls almost to his shoulders. When in combat, he often ties these locks back so as to keep his peripheral vision clear. His skin is tanned from the Essosi sun, his form is rugged and muscular from years of hard living.
Though his hair does not suggest it, he is of the blood of Old Valyria, and his violet eyes dare anyone to suggest otherwise. Too often, they have been the last eyes a man has seen, that fatal hue taken to the grave.
Volantene sellswords are known for their tattoos, and Ayrmidon among them. Few, however, are the complex and brutal patterns that adorn the many, for the majority of Ayrmidon's markings are of an altogether more arcane nature - protection, from the unknown terrors of Valyria.
Biography[]
Born the second son of a Volantene nobleman, Ayrmidon grew up with all the trappings of an aristocratic upbringing. The blood of Old Valyria flows in his veins - not as thickly as in others, true, but enough for him to claim descendancy to that ancient empire, and the dragonlords who ruled it. His father is a rich banker and a merchant, his mother was a drinker with expensive taste. Ayrmidon held both of them in disdain - and his older brother, too. With little chance of inheritance, and little desire to stick around long enough to accept it, the Volantene youth looked to other avenues for occupation.
“The army!” some said. Ayrmidon declined. For a youth who spent most of his time racing around the city on his horse, or climbing the city’s steep bell towers, or sneaking into the manses of beautiful, wealthy heiresses, a life of regimented drudgery held little attraction. Sure, he knew his way around a sword, and what of it? He would not bleed for his city… not when there were far more interesting paths to take.
Sellswords. Now there was a word that invoked mixed reactions, if ever there was one. Met with scorn as often as grudging respect, the ever defiant Ayrmidon was enticed by the promises offered by the Lost Legion - promises of riches and enough blood to fill the Rhoyne. How could he refuse? He was one of more than two hundred men, rubbing shoulders with deserters from the army, rogues from the gutters, and sons of noblemen such as himself. Before long, he rose to command his own contingent, and after that, the entire legion.
And what an ascension! The former leader, Morazzo, grew too greedy, too bold, and sought to line his own pockets by accepting a contract to do battle with a small khalasar. Fool. There were many who would not stand for it, including Ayrmidon, though there were none who called Morazzo a lackwit and a Morazzo goat-fucker to his face. Blades flashed, Ayrmidon bled, but not as much as his former captain. For Morazzo had underestimated the skill with with the youth wielded his two forecurved blades, as at home in one hand as the other, and had paid the most terrible of prices.
Ayrmidon was no stranger to battlefield injuries, and soon became adept at healing his own wounds, and, in turn, those of his men. From lancing abscesses, to splinting broken bones and removing arrows, the sellsword captain earned the respect and gratitude of many serving him.
From town to town the Essosi warlord travelled with his men, navigating roads - established or otherwise - between the Free Cities and to Slaver’s Bay, picking up a variety of colourful tales on the way. This uncanny knack for finding the right path served him well on his foray to Valyria, in his youth. When merely a lowly sergeant, a greedy Volantene nobleman approached the Lost Legion looking for an escort into the ruins of Valyria, those terrible ruins. Morazzo eagerly accepted the man's coin and bade Ayrmidon go, threatening him with dismemberment if he refused. After seeking the attentions of a Red Priestess, Ayrmidon did as he was bade. While his employer searched among the fallen pillars and twisted forests for he knew not what, they were beset upon by a flock of stone men. The Volanene succumbed to their onslaught and Ayrmidon was forced to survive in the wilderness, subject to the horros of the Doom. It was several weeks before he would leave that terrible place, by which time Morazzo had spent the Volantene's coin and thought nothing of it. In time, Ayrmidon would know the eastern continent as well as the inside of a whorehouse, or the floor of a tavern…
And so it was that he found himself between jobs with his men in Volantis, through no fault of his own. When the triarchs wished him among their forces, Ayrmidon refused, unless they could produce not one, but two Valyrian steel swords from among their stores. No? So be it. He would drink to his heart’s content, as his fellow Volantenes marched under the banners of a woman to throw themselves on Ghiscari spears. There was nothing quite like freedom, after all.
Timeline[]
- 333: Born
- 351: Joined the Lost Legion and left home
- 357: Became leader of the Lost Legion
- 370: Refused the offer of the triarchs to join the war against New Ghis
Family[]
Benerro Nahos - father, 58, merchant, banker, and prospective triarch (Businessman, wealth, old age)
Larra Nahos - mother, deceased
Navar Nahos - brother, 40, merchant (Sums)
Pyraeos Nahos - brother, 35, captain of a Volantene war galley sponsored by Benerro (Leadership)
Araea Averillos - sister, 33 (Vitality), married to Vaenar Averillos