Post by Lavinia Lionsgrave on Nov 20, 2010 23:12:36 GMT -6
Player’s Name: Marcos
Player's Gender: Male
Roleplay Experience: Some, a few years worth, kind of rusty.
Name: Farris (Known more commonly "The Bloodletter", "The Singing Terror", or "The Crimson Melody")
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown (Last known to be 22 before his disappearance)
Appearance: He stands at an imposing 6' 10" tall, with a bulky, powerful build. His features are mostly obscured by the cloak and hood he wears, underneath which he has what appear to be robes of a sacred variety, with vague symbols, whose colors have faded over time, just like the material which is torn and tattered. What can be conveyed even with the clothing obscuring most of his form is that he is solid, massive even, judging from how the material clings to his form. His arms are long and thick-looking, the hands colored in a slightly tan hue, his middle and ring fingers missing from his left hand. All of the materials he wears are of a dark color, save for the cloak and hood which are a faded yellow, a stark contrast to his dark green robes, which have varying hues of blue and black adorning them, mostly on the symbols. Around his waist, in a sheath, is a dagger, the blade a mix of steel which also reflects a red color when inspected closely. Next to it in its own sheath is a long, tube-like pouch with the end of what looks like a flute sticking out. Adding to the whole ensemble is the large weapon on his back, which resembles a halberd, though much more ornate and menacing-looking.
Personality: Upon first meeting, he draws in his victims with promises of knowledge, power, or in some cases, wealth. His words are kind, ominous, and even charming, all at the same time. Even when he is in the middle of completing work on his latest victims, his tone never changes, save for a cold touch of indifference to the suffering of others. Those rare occasions when he is angered, his voice seems to carry a depth and boom that seems unnatural.
There are occasions in which he participates in conversation with those he finds interesting, especially if they are capable of resisting his words. He enjoys conversations about a variety of subjects, and if he enjoys himself enough, will allow those he converses with to go free, without incident. That is a rare occurrence, and more often then not, he will plunge his knife into the stranger in a non-fatal manner so as to give them a chance to find help of some sort.
He is always avoiding cities and settlements, preferring to do his work on roads and trails that merchants and travelers frequent, occasionally waiting at sites of interest, where people come to find riches and the like.
Biography: Only a few years ago did a name travel through some merchant social circles: Farris of Hawksgrove. Born to a wealthy merchant who frequented the area, his birthright was also a topic of conversation, as he was born to a peasant mother his father enjoyed taking advantage of. Only when the merchant learned that he had sired a child with her did he return in his fifth year of life to steal him away and raise him to be an heir, as the man had nothing of the sort in his middling age. He showered the boy with gifts and wealth, taking him on his rounds and travels, allowing him to see the world as he did, full of coin and opportunity. Almost like clockwork, Farris learned the trade as he grew, and proved to be savvy at the art of the deal.
Though he enjoyed his life, he also had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach: Something did not seem right about all of this. What of his mother, the lady he knew for the first years of life? Returning to Hawksgrove, he came to discover a broken woman, used for labor and for other terrible purposes. Offering a hand to her, she would recognize him as her son and having been satisfied in knowing he was safe, she took her own life the next morning, much to the dismay of Farris. What could he have done to stop this? Was there nothing his father could have done? He questioned his father only to be given a reply that forever changed and scarred his mind: "I chose not to. She was nothing but a common whore."
How could he have done this? Why? Fueled by rage, his attitude towards his father became rebellious and bordering on hostile. It wasn't more than a year after his mother's death that he abandoned his place as heir to his father's fortune and trade, and he wandered off to become, of all things, a treasure seeker.
Three years had passed, and despite pleas from his father, he never returned to his merchant way of life. He enjoyed this new-found freedom, reveling in the danger and adventure it provided him. One rainy day in a small village near Hawksgrove, he heard a tale of a system of caves that a group of bandits once used as a hide out. They had been hunted down in recent months and now many had flocked to them to pick the bones and grab what valuables they could. Unable to resist, he decided to inspect the lead. Those folks at the village were the last to see Farris of Hawksgrove, son of a merchant, treasure seeker.
There was no difficulty in finding the caves since there were tracks and signs everywhere of recent activity. Though he expected others to have been here before him, he had figured it worth at least a glance. Maybe they overlooked something of value? Slowly, he explored the caves. The smell enough was proof of the bandits' presence. He pressed deeper into the cave and, after long, came across what was the cache that was being kept here. Sadly, his fears were realized: nothing but a few broken pieces of brass and small worthless trinkets were all that remained. Disappointed, he set off back towards the entrance of the cave, when in a moment of carelessness, he kicked aside a large stone, much to his discomfort. "Ugh, damned toe!" he said to know one, and it was at that very moment that he took notice of a particular section of cave wall. Rather than being one long section of stone, there seemed to be stones, rocks, all piled up behind the cave moss. With his hopes reignited, he began to pry and pull at the stones, finding that with some effort they came apart and fell to reveal a small passageway.
"This could be it. They must have put their most valuable loot here," he thought to himself as he walked down the small, narrow passage. After a few hundred yards, it slowly opened up into another section of cave, the smell here even more putrid than the entrance. "Something must have died here," passed through his mind as he examined the room with his torch.
"Ahhggh.... Ahhhhgghh...." Farris readied his sword, the terrible gurgling having startled him greatly. He stepped cautiously forward, shining light on what looked to be a corpse. The body was severely withered, almost dried, as if it had been mummified by the conditions. Again it gurgled, shifting ever so slightly towards the torch's light. "Dear Gods.... What are you?" he exclaimed, unable to hold back his words as he saw the rotted thing move. How was it not dead? There is no way it could have survived like this. All thoughts raced through his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, until he heard it for the very first time.
"Read the words. Say them aloud. End his misery. Read the words. Say them aloud. End his misery."
He heard the words and yet did not. The poor monster was grunting and making unnatural sounds. This voice...was intelligent. Calm, even.
"What words?" Farris yelled loudly, worried that something deadly serious was about to happen. Almost as if by fate, he saw the words. Written in dried blood above the head of the broken beast, clearly written, was some sort of chant. He couldn't help himself. His mind was now consumed with only what was written. He must. He would.
"Soul that rises, soul that cries, come to me, and join together. There is no world beyond the sky, there is only power. Come together as one, and fuel the hand that rules absolutely."
The corpse cried out in a blood curdling mix of gasping and screaming before crumbling to the floor becoming nothing but dust. All that remained was a hooded cloak. There was no choice. There was nothing else. The world was black and all that was left in it was this yellow cloak. Farris had to don the cloak: it was his now. He earned it. His mind was no longer his and the voice soothed his thoughts as he wore it.
It would be five years later that the tale of "The Crimson Melody" would haunt the western lands of the Auburn Isles.
Sample: Setting slowly, the sun would soon settle behind the horizon and bring about the twilight and the dawning of the moon. Weary from his travels, the young man pressed on, continuing down the road as light began to fade from the sky. Slowly, steadily, behind him was a mule, carrying all of his belongings. "I shoulda never listened to her. I was a right damn fool t' be leavin' so late," he muttered under his breath, looking behind him to curse the slow, nearly overburdened pack mule. With a quick pull of the rope, he urged the beast on, trying to keep a quick pace. "Stupid beast. Shoulda bought myself a decent steed. Somethin' worth worryin' over." The mule let out a snort almost as a retort to the man's comment, it seemed.
Lasting only a small bit of time, the last of the warm rays of light faded into night, the earliest stars just now dotting the sky with dull light, the moon nowhere to be seen as of yet. The young man cursed and yelled at the mule which only seemed to slow its pace down. It wasn't more than a few moments after his latest tirade did a unique, tonal sound catch his ears. He shook his head. "Must be hearin' things," he assured himself, and not a moment after did the tones dance their way back into his ears. This time louder and connecting to form a melody.
He resisted the urge to follow the sound, yet the more he resisted, the more something in his mind told him that it was okay to follow, as if a reassuring voice was behind him, nudging him off the trail. The mule nervously yelled its desire to continue on, but he ignored the beast's cries and tied it to the nearest sturdy tree. "That'll hold you for now. Stop yer whinin'. I'll just need to see what that is." Slowly, he walked in the direction of the melody for what must have been ten or so minutes.
Seated on a boulder was a barely discernible, large frame from whom the sounds came from. "Greetings traveler. What brings you here?" The voice was deep, warm, almost reassuring.
"Well, I heard what must be you playin' some sort of song. I figured I'd see what it was, you know, since I thought maybe there were some other people camped nearby."
A quiet laugh came from the large figure who slid of the boulder to his feet, standing at least two heads above the traveler. "Well, I was merely enjoying the night and playing a song close to my heart. However, now that you're here, I suppose I do have something that might interest you. I recently explored a brigand's hideout, and found quite a bit of coin. I don't have a way of carrying it, so I would appreciate some help in transporting it. I will of course reward you if you're willing to help." The young man, was now able to make out some features on the larger human: torn, worn-out robes, a brightly-colored hood and cape, as well as the strange fact that his face seemed almost absent from view. Something in this man's words diffused all doubt and fear. The traveler could not help but oblige, his mind focused only on gold.
A small caravan made their way down the trail. The midday sun warmed their skin as a cool breeze blew on them. Lovely as the day was, the lead guard could not help but look worried. They had just come upon a poor mule, dehydrated and wounded at the neck. " It must have been tied up here for days," thought the guard as a couple of travelers came to the aid of the unfortunate beast, tending to its needs. The guard dismounted from his horse, having spotted what seemed to be footprints that lead off the trail. "We'll take a short rest here. I am going to go and see if I can't find this mule's owner," he announced to the other guards who informed the rest of the situation.
Not more than a few hundred yards, leaning against a tree, he found the remains of a young man. He smelled of death having been so for at least some time. What struck this guard as shocking was the sight of the surrounding area. The body, the grass, the earth was stained red, all stemming from one wound which a hand covered on his waist. There was no evidence of his struggling back to the trail, no conflict, nothing. His body seemed to have been drained of all its blood, as if it was forced from his body through one wound.
"What...who...could have done this?"
Status: APPROVED
Player's Gender: Male
Roleplay Experience: Some, a few years worth, kind of rusty.
--------
Name: Farris (Known more commonly "The Bloodletter", "The Singing Terror", or "The Crimson Melody")
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown (Last known to be 22 before his disappearance)
Appearance: He stands at an imposing 6' 10" tall, with a bulky, powerful build. His features are mostly obscured by the cloak and hood he wears, underneath which he has what appear to be robes of a sacred variety, with vague symbols, whose colors have faded over time, just like the material which is torn and tattered. What can be conveyed even with the clothing obscuring most of his form is that he is solid, massive even, judging from how the material clings to his form. His arms are long and thick-looking, the hands colored in a slightly tan hue, his middle and ring fingers missing from his left hand. All of the materials he wears are of a dark color, save for the cloak and hood which are a faded yellow, a stark contrast to his dark green robes, which have varying hues of blue and black adorning them, mostly on the symbols. Around his waist, in a sheath, is a dagger, the blade a mix of steel which also reflects a red color when inspected closely. Next to it in its own sheath is a long, tube-like pouch with the end of what looks like a flute sticking out. Adding to the whole ensemble is the large weapon on his back, which resembles a halberd, though much more ornate and menacing-looking.
Personality: Upon first meeting, he draws in his victims with promises of knowledge, power, or in some cases, wealth. His words are kind, ominous, and even charming, all at the same time. Even when he is in the middle of completing work on his latest victims, his tone never changes, save for a cold touch of indifference to the suffering of others. Those rare occasions when he is angered, his voice seems to carry a depth and boom that seems unnatural.
There are occasions in which he participates in conversation with those he finds interesting, especially if they are capable of resisting his words. He enjoys conversations about a variety of subjects, and if he enjoys himself enough, will allow those he converses with to go free, without incident. That is a rare occurrence, and more often then not, he will plunge his knife into the stranger in a non-fatal manner so as to give them a chance to find help of some sort.
He is always avoiding cities and settlements, preferring to do his work on roads and trails that merchants and travelers frequent, occasionally waiting at sites of interest, where people come to find riches and the like.
Biography: Only a few years ago did a name travel through some merchant social circles: Farris of Hawksgrove. Born to a wealthy merchant who frequented the area, his birthright was also a topic of conversation, as he was born to a peasant mother his father enjoyed taking advantage of. Only when the merchant learned that he had sired a child with her did he return in his fifth year of life to steal him away and raise him to be an heir, as the man had nothing of the sort in his middling age. He showered the boy with gifts and wealth, taking him on his rounds and travels, allowing him to see the world as he did, full of coin and opportunity. Almost like clockwork, Farris learned the trade as he grew, and proved to be savvy at the art of the deal.
Though he enjoyed his life, he also had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach: Something did not seem right about all of this. What of his mother, the lady he knew for the first years of life? Returning to Hawksgrove, he came to discover a broken woman, used for labor and for other terrible purposes. Offering a hand to her, she would recognize him as her son and having been satisfied in knowing he was safe, she took her own life the next morning, much to the dismay of Farris. What could he have done to stop this? Was there nothing his father could have done? He questioned his father only to be given a reply that forever changed and scarred his mind: "I chose not to. She was nothing but a common whore."
How could he have done this? Why? Fueled by rage, his attitude towards his father became rebellious and bordering on hostile. It wasn't more than a year after his mother's death that he abandoned his place as heir to his father's fortune and trade, and he wandered off to become, of all things, a treasure seeker.
Three years had passed, and despite pleas from his father, he never returned to his merchant way of life. He enjoyed this new-found freedom, reveling in the danger and adventure it provided him. One rainy day in a small village near Hawksgrove, he heard a tale of a system of caves that a group of bandits once used as a hide out. They had been hunted down in recent months and now many had flocked to them to pick the bones and grab what valuables they could. Unable to resist, he decided to inspect the lead. Those folks at the village were the last to see Farris of Hawksgrove, son of a merchant, treasure seeker.
There was no difficulty in finding the caves since there were tracks and signs everywhere of recent activity. Though he expected others to have been here before him, he had figured it worth at least a glance. Maybe they overlooked something of value? Slowly, he explored the caves. The smell enough was proof of the bandits' presence. He pressed deeper into the cave and, after long, came across what was the cache that was being kept here. Sadly, his fears were realized: nothing but a few broken pieces of brass and small worthless trinkets were all that remained. Disappointed, he set off back towards the entrance of the cave, when in a moment of carelessness, he kicked aside a large stone, much to his discomfort. "Ugh, damned toe!" he said to know one, and it was at that very moment that he took notice of a particular section of cave wall. Rather than being one long section of stone, there seemed to be stones, rocks, all piled up behind the cave moss. With his hopes reignited, he began to pry and pull at the stones, finding that with some effort they came apart and fell to reveal a small passageway.
"This could be it. They must have put their most valuable loot here," he thought to himself as he walked down the small, narrow passage. After a few hundred yards, it slowly opened up into another section of cave, the smell here even more putrid than the entrance. "Something must have died here," passed through his mind as he examined the room with his torch.
"Ahhggh.... Ahhhhgghh...." Farris readied his sword, the terrible gurgling having startled him greatly. He stepped cautiously forward, shining light on what looked to be a corpse. The body was severely withered, almost dried, as if it had been mummified by the conditions. Again it gurgled, shifting ever so slightly towards the torch's light. "Dear Gods.... What are you?" he exclaimed, unable to hold back his words as he saw the rotted thing move. How was it not dead? There is no way it could have survived like this. All thoughts raced through his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, until he heard it for the very first time.
"Read the words. Say them aloud. End his misery. Read the words. Say them aloud. End his misery."
He heard the words and yet did not. The poor monster was grunting and making unnatural sounds. This voice...was intelligent. Calm, even.
"What words?" Farris yelled loudly, worried that something deadly serious was about to happen. Almost as if by fate, he saw the words. Written in dried blood above the head of the broken beast, clearly written, was some sort of chant. He couldn't help himself. His mind was now consumed with only what was written. He must. He would.
"Soul that rises, soul that cries, come to me, and join together. There is no world beyond the sky, there is only power. Come together as one, and fuel the hand that rules absolutely."
The corpse cried out in a blood curdling mix of gasping and screaming before crumbling to the floor becoming nothing but dust. All that remained was a hooded cloak. There was no choice. There was nothing else. The world was black and all that was left in it was this yellow cloak. Farris had to don the cloak: it was his now. He earned it. His mind was no longer his and the voice soothed his thoughts as he wore it.
It would be five years later that the tale of "The Crimson Melody" would haunt the western lands of the Auburn Isles.
Sample: Setting slowly, the sun would soon settle behind the horizon and bring about the twilight and the dawning of the moon. Weary from his travels, the young man pressed on, continuing down the road as light began to fade from the sky. Slowly, steadily, behind him was a mule, carrying all of his belongings. "I shoulda never listened to her. I was a right damn fool t' be leavin' so late," he muttered under his breath, looking behind him to curse the slow, nearly overburdened pack mule. With a quick pull of the rope, he urged the beast on, trying to keep a quick pace. "Stupid beast. Shoulda bought myself a decent steed. Somethin' worth worryin' over." The mule let out a snort almost as a retort to the man's comment, it seemed.
Lasting only a small bit of time, the last of the warm rays of light faded into night, the earliest stars just now dotting the sky with dull light, the moon nowhere to be seen as of yet. The young man cursed and yelled at the mule which only seemed to slow its pace down. It wasn't more than a few moments after his latest tirade did a unique, tonal sound catch his ears. He shook his head. "Must be hearin' things," he assured himself, and not a moment after did the tones dance their way back into his ears. This time louder and connecting to form a melody.
He resisted the urge to follow the sound, yet the more he resisted, the more something in his mind told him that it was okay to follow, as if a reassuring voice was behind him, nudging him off the trail. The mule nervously yelled its desire to continue on, but he ignored the beast's cries and tied it to the nearest sturdy tree. "That'll hold you for now. Stop yer whinin'. I'll just need to see what that is." Slowly, he walked in the direction of the melody for what must have been ten or so minutes.
Seated on a boulder was a barely discernible, large frame from whom the sounds came from. "Greetings traveler. What brings you here?" The voice was deep, warm, almost reassuring.
"Well, I heard what must be you playin' some sort of song. I figured I'd see what it was, you know, since I thought maybe there were some other people camped nearby."
A quiet laugh came from the large figure who slid of the boulder to his feet, standing at least two heads above the traveler. "Well, I was merely enjoying the night and playing a song close to my heart. However, now that you're here, I suppose I do have something that might interest you. I recently explored a brigand's hideout, and found quite a bit of coin. I don't have a way of carrying it, so I would appreciate some help in transporting it. I will of course reward you if you're willing to help." The young man, was now able to make out some features on the larger human: torn, worn-out robes, a brightly-colored hood and cape, as well as the strange fact that his face seemed almost absent from view. Something in this man's words diffused all doubt and fear. The traveler could not help but oblige, his mind focused only on gold.
A small caravan made their way down the trail. The midday sun warmed their skin as a cool breeze blew on them. Lovely as the day was, the lead guard could not help but look worried. They had just come upon a poor mule, dehydrated and wounded at the neck. " It must have been tied up here for days," thought the guard as a couple of travelers came to the aid of the unfortunate beast, tending to its needs. The guard dismounted from his horse, having spotted what seemed to be footprints that lead off the trail. "We'll take a short rest here. I am going to go and see if I can't find this mule's owner," he announced to the other guards who informed the rest of the situation.
Not more than a few hundred yards, leaning against a tree, he found the remains of a young man. He smelled of death having been so for at least some time. What struck this guard as shocking was the sight of the surrounding area. The body, the grass, the earth was stained red, all stemming from one wound which a hand covered on his waist. There was no evidence of his struggling back to the trail, no conflict, nothing. His body seemed to have been drained of all its blood, as if it was forced from his body through one wound.
"What...who...could have done this?"
Status: APPROVED