Post by Torn on Dec 8, 2012 5:27:16 GMT -5
GENERAL
Full Name: Torn
Race: Kossith
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Undecided
Birthplace: Seheron
Residence: Not really anywhere specific
Affiliation: Fog Warriors
Occupation: None
Religion: None that he specifically follows but he does his best to learn from them all.
COMBAT
Class: Warrior
Character Stats:
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 1
Willpower: 1
Magic: 0
Cunning: 2
Spells: NA
Gear:
Qunari style armor
Great sword called Ataash
Large water skin
Elfroot (5)
Salted meat (3)
CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: Torn has tan skin and blue grey 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 and is usually kept in neat braids. His muscular body is covered in various scars but is otherwise normal. He wears his father’s armor, a very basic, yet sturdy form of the Qunari garb. 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: Will develop through RP.
HISTORY
Torn was born and raised in the humid jungle of Seheron, an island directly north of the Tevinter Imperium. His parents were Tal-Vashoth who worked closely with a group of rebels called the Fog Warriors. In time, Torn’s father died defending a Fog Warrior camp against several Qunari, and in return his mother was taken in as one of the Fog Warriors. She died shortly after while giving birth. Out of kindness and honor to the memory of his parents, the Fog warriors raised the baby as their own. They named the boy Torn, a name many would use to describe their homeland.
As a young boy, Torn knew that he was different from the humans with which he stayed. With each passing year he grew to look less and less like them in more ways then just his skin tone. Though this did not bother him until he got older. He felt as though he was special and one of a kind. But then he realized he was not as unique as he had thought. In fleeing a Qunari raid Torn realized that he was not human at all. He felt as though he would grow up to become just as scary and evil as those who had killed many good men.
Torn spent the next day brooding and crying over this, ripping apart branches and throwing whatever he could find. But one woman spoke to him, and held him as he wept. She was called Amina, and she was the closest thing Torn ever had to a mother. She told him about his parents and that what he looked like did not determine the path he would take. Over the next few months Torn studied the Qun as to better understand not only those that they were fighting against, but who his parents were and why they left. In time, Torn developed a fascination with religious beliefs, studying the Chant of Light and whatever else he could about the outside world and why it was the way it was.
While his nights were filled with study, Torn’s days were filled with training. Under the tutelage of the Fog Warriors Torn grew to become a both formidable and honorable opponent. His natural strength made wielding even the largest weapons easy and his resolve kept him from falling in even the most difficult of battles. Upon his first time leaving the camp to scout ahead Amina gave to him his father’s armor and sword, saying that she knew he would be proud.
At seventeen a stranger came into their midst. A slave covered in strange markings and badly injured. The Fog Warriors took him in, treating his wounds and offering food. The elf stayed with them for many months, helping and learning from the warriors. During this time Torn spent most of his days outside of camp, preferring to scout ahead and stand guard while others rested. One day he came across a group of humans he had never seen before along the coast. They claimed to be sailors on their way to trade and restock in the city. Fascinated by this, Torn ended up talking with them for hours, eager to learn about their travels across Thedsas. Before he knew it night had come and reluctantly Torn bid farewell to the sailors before heading back to camp. He did not know the path well enough to traverse it as quickly as he did that night, and so he tripped. Tumbling over roots and plants before landing in a dark and shallow crag.
Dazed, injured and unable to see in the dark, Torn groped and crawled across the rocks in confused panic. Finally, he managed to find his way out and back to the coast where he spent the night under the care of the sailors. The next morning, Torn made his way back to camp. His discovery upon arriving filled him with rage and sorrow. Bodies lay everywhere, torn apart as if by some horrible animal. Amina lay lifeless with a hole in her chest the size of a fist. Scavengers hand already shown up and were sticky with dried blood. In a rage Torn killed the animals, tearing them apart with his bare hands and screaming as he did so. He felt sick and vile about what he had done. He hated himself for not being there and for being childish enough to loose track of time. His eyes still flooded with tears, he gathered up the bodies and built a funeral pyre. One by one he wrapped his teachers, caretakers and friends in blankets and burned them. The task lasted four days. By the fourth day Torn could cry no more.
Torn found the sailors again, just as they were about to leave for Tevinter. He asked to go with them, which they allowed under the condition that he help them unload when they got there. Torn agreed and made his way to Tevinter. On his way however, something nagged at him. The elf had not been among the dead at the camp, and the Qunari would have taken at least some prisoners before killing everyone. He didn’t know what had become of the elf, but what he did know was that if he found him he would have his answers.
Torn spent the next two years searching for the elf, but to no avail. In time he believed the elf to be dead, his body hidden away in the Seheron jungle. Without hope for closure or revenge Torn was faced with the question of what he would do with the rest of his life. The lost Kossith would spend the next few years wandering Thedas in search of a purpose. While sympathetic to the mages plight, Torn wished to remain as uninvolved as possible with not only the religious state Thedas was in, but also the political. The only organization for which Torn has any kind of real admiration for is the Wardens, but with the Blight ended he could see little purpose in him joining. But he knew his place in the world would not be found easily amidst the chaos, and that his path would become clear in its own time.
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 four 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
