Post by Torn on Nov 29, 2012 21:40:36 GMT -5
GENERAL
Full Name: Torn (Tal Vashoth)
Race: Kossith
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Undecided
Birthplace: Par Vollen
Residence: Denerim, Ferelden (though not really anywhere specific)
Affiliation: NA
Occupation: Mercenary
Religion: None
COMBAT
Class: Warrior
Character Stats:
Strength: 3
Dexterity: 1
Willpower: 2
Magic: 0
Cunning: 0
Spells: NA
Gear:
Worn leather bracers, belt and boots
Canvas pants
Great sword called Ataash
Throwing Spears (10)
Small jar of Kaddis (warpaint)
A large water skin
Elfroot (5)
Salted meat (3)
CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: Torn has greyish tan skin and gold eyes. His horns are relatively well kept, though they have cracked in a few places. His white hair cascades down his back to just below his shoulder blades. His muscular body is covered in various scars and occasionally war paint. He wears not shirt, as he has not yet ventured into the colder reaches of Thedas. His pants have been patched several times, though they are still riddled with tiny holes. His nails are long by human standards and his height is that six and a half feet.
Personality: (This section is optional, as some characters develop a personality as you play them. If you want to, you may describe how your character acts and interacts here).
HISTORY
Torn was born and raised on the island of Par Vollen, just off the coast of Rivain. The closest thing he had to a mother to him was the Tamassrans. He spent the first few years of his life like all male children of the Qun did, and in time, the young Kossith was assigned the role of Arvaarad. His proficiency impressed the Ariqun, who gave him the sword Ataash before selecting him to join the Arishok as he traveled to the Free Marches. After a harsh storm left them shipwrecked, the Qunari stayed in Kirkwall for many years. He tended to the Saarebas while others looked closely for The Tome of Koslun and the pirate who had taken it from them. As they years passed, the Arishok grew more and more restless, and in time decided to seize the city. During the chaos Arvaarad was badly injured. Unable to walk, the Kossith knew his time was at hand. A Templar stood over him with his blade raised, hot blood running down his armor. Arvaarad closed his eyes, and waited for the final blow. But the blow did not come. A wave of intense heat washed over him, and a moment later, the loud thud of metal on stone. Opening his eyes, the Kossith gazed upon what was left of the Maker’s servant. Standing over the smoldering corpse was a young elf. This was the last thing Arvaarad saw before being pulled into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, he was no longer lying upon the steps of Low Town, but rather a small pile of hay within the dark passageways of Kirkwall’s sewers. His legs were bandaged, and his pride gone. He had failed in his duty and rescued by a child. The Kossith spent the next few weeks bedridden under the care of two brothers. One was the boy who had saved him, the other his older sibling. During this time Arvaarad gained a great deal of respect for the boy, despite his magical abilities. The boy’s brother was cautious and protective of the lad, but could easily be swayed by the younger. Arvaarad learned much about the boy’s lives, how they were sent to Kirkwall to escape the blight and how they came to live in the sewers. The boy claimed that he had learned some healing magic from watching a local healer and notes his mother had given to his brother incase the boy take after her.
After those few weeks, Arvaarad had somewhat regained his ability to walk. It was during this time that the eldest brother had gone missing. Having only left to find food, it was unusual for him to be gone more then a few hours. After a day had passed, the two of them grew worried. Grabbing his Ataash, Arvaarad and the boy went in search of the young man. Not long after entering Low Town, they encountered a group of Templars standing over the body of a young elf. Outraged by this, the Kossith drew his blade and set upon the knights. With his wound though, Arvaarad was easily outmatched. In a cry of age and sorrow the boy who had once saved his life changed as a blast of energy burst forth. His limbs twisted while his flesh bubbled and sagged. His eyes grew dark as his arms and legs twitched mechanically. People stared in shock and horror as the knights were ripped apart one by one the abomination. Arvaarad remembered his training and knew that he had no choice but to kill the boy. Seizing his chance while the final Templar was pulled apart limb by limb, Ataash was plunged deep into the creature’s back. It screeched in and unearthly voice made up of many before bursting. Dazed and hurt, he knew he no longer had a place with both the Qun and Kirkwall. He fled the city, eventually making his way to Ferelden as a mercenary under a new name to find a new purpose.
BEHIND THE MASK
Player�s Pen Name: Whatever my screen name is, though if you need one different then that I can go by Rowan or Row, though Torn would be the simplest.
Contact: Email mostly, though if I’m friends with you facebook works the best.
Roleplay Experience: A few years, maybe 4 or so now. Mostly I do table top and video games, but I have had some experience with text based RP.
Language(s): English
How did you find us?: Through a friend
Roleplay Sample:
The halls of the throne room stand silent at the heart of the Abyss. It's flexing stonewalls shift and sway as if breathing. They are deaf to the howls and cries of pain that echo just outside. Not even muffled, they are silenced completely, as if sound had ceased to exist within the walls. A single throne sits atop a slight rise, not a foot off of the ground. The seat is old and worn, made of simple stone without color or decoration. It is the only seat throughout the hall, though most would prefer to stand till their legs gave out than sit in it.
The floor is dark, matching that of the walls. Six stone pillars stretch upward almost out of sight to the ceiling. Time seemed to stand still here, silent and unchanged. But time had passed, as it always does. A figure now stood before the throne with quiet confidence. His crimson hair twisted into long whip like braids while messy bangs covered his dull back eyes. He stepped forward; his soft bare feet warm upon the stone. The gems and tassels on his robe swayed and dragged across the floor, though no sound came from them.
Upon reaching the throne the figure lifted a single clawed finger to the back of the chair, running it lightly down the back and arm rest. It seemed to shudder upon his touch, sending shivers throughout the stone room. Turning, the figure slowly lowered himself into the seat. Bright blue flames burst forth from the pillars, rocketing upwards before plummeting back down. The fire split into several smaller free-floating balls of flame, which gently drifted about the room. Six placing themselves in front of the pillars while two hung at either side of the throne, casting everything in a strange and eerie light. The king had returned to his throne, and it had welcomed him back.
Password: Divine
