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[color=fff200][b]Given Name:[/b][/color] Rook

[color=fff200][b]Appearance:[/b][/color] Rook is by no means a large man only standing at an average height for his age with a medium frame with toned muscles gained from years of hunting game. He’s gained many scars calluses over his arms and hands from the same practice. His hair is a light brown color with tinges of red and hangs down to his shoulders when he chooses not to tie it back out of his face. His broad chin and cheekbones are covered in a short, brown-red beard. Beneath thick eyebrows the same color as his hair, Rook has a set of mismatched eyes; one is a light golden brown while the other is a mossy green color. His wide-nostrilled nose is slightly off center and looks as though it was broken at some point in his life. He looks to be in his early twenties. Rook awoke in this unknown land wearing a plain, longsleeved linen shirt dyed a faded grey, a set of dark trousers with a few patches sewn on here and there, a pair of durable boots made of a cracked leather, a pair of thick leather gloves, an animal call made of a light-colored wood hanging by a leather thong, and a cloak dyed a slate grey color on the outside and a deep crimson on the insider.

[color=fff200][b]Equipment:[/b][/color] Rook awoke with a crossbow made of a dark wood with a lever attachment, a dirk with a handle made of stag horn and a blade measuring about half a foot in length, an axe measuring about two feet in total, a pouch containing roughly thirty crossbow bolts, an animal call, and knapsack filled with: snares for trapping, a bedroll, spare string for his crossbow, a needle and thread, a whetstone, a few pieces of dried meat, and a half full waterskin.

[color=fff200][b]Memories:[/b][/color]
[color=fff200][u]A Broken Flight:[/u][/color] He was running through a forest, a shrill laugh coming from him. Branches snapped back from the force of his body as he ran, the wind blowing through his hair and over his face. His footfalls were not heavy, and his strides did not take him far; he must be young, very young. He ran his hands along a large tree he skidded to a halt in front of. His hand was small, round, and slightly plump. The bark was old, like the loose skin of old men. Keeping his hand firmly on the trunk of the grandfather tree, he ran around it with more shrill laughs escaping his tiny mouth. He soon grew dizzy and decided to collapse where he started, landing in a soft bed of dirt and twigs. The world spun overhead, the leave soon becoming a green wheel. He continued watching the world spin until it came to a slow halt. Then, very suddenly something came crashing through the branches overhead and landed in a pile of bramble to his left. Getting up slowly to regain his balance, he stumbled toward the brambles to see what had fallen. At the bramble bush, he stepped through it gingerly, doing his best not to get stuck, but his clothes inevitably got caught on the brambles. Pulling them loose from the clutches, he continued on to find the thing that had came tumbling down to the earth. When he found it, he bent and scooped it up as carefully as he could. He set it on the bed of dirt and twigs he had fallen in himself; it was a bird. It sat shaking and terrified where he laid it; its right wing was broken and bloody. It wasn’t very old at all, like him. He stroked the bird’s head softly in an attempt to comfort it. Once it had settled down, he gathered two twigs and tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and then bound the bird’s wing in the makeshift splint. He picked the bird back up easily and made his way back to the cottage. There, he showed it to the man there, his image blurred and distorted. He spoke, but he could not hear it; though, somehow he felt the man approved of the injured hawk.

[color=fff200][u]The Painted Forest:[/u][/color] He was in a bright forest, surrounded by trees with leaves of vermillion, but everything was blurred like a painting dipped in water before it had a chance to dry and set into the canvas. He hefted the same crossbow he awoke with up to his shoulder; it was so heavy his arms shook slightly as he held it up. Turning his head to the left, he saw someone standing there, but their face and image were blurred like the rest of the painted forest. The man, he wasn’t sure how he knew it was man, said something to him. Something about looking down the crossbow. Obeying the words he felt more than heard, he turned back to look down the crossbow at what he had raised it to. Off in the distance was stag so much more in focus than the forest that he could count all six antlers atop its head and see the rich brown fur covering its body. He took aim at this stag and then squeezed the trigger of the crossbow, sending a bolt flying from the crossbow and through the air to embed itself in the heart of the animal.

[color=fff200][u]The Blurred Man’s Gift:[/u][/color] He was in a field behind a small cottage, and everything was blurred just like the forest. Everything except for a stack of hay painted with a large target in the center. He hefted the crossbow up to his shoulder like he did in the forest and took aim at the hay target. He squeezed the trigger and sent a bolt sailing into the hay a ring from the center circle. He shot three more bolts into the hay, all landing in a small grouping around the first. A noise behind him caused him to lower the crossbow and turn to see the blurred man from the forest walking toward him. He felt the smile beneath the blurred image that was his face and saw the thin box he carried in better focus than his surroundings. The man held the box out to him as he neared. He took the box and opened it to see it held a knife with a newly forged blade and a handle made from the antler of the stag he killed in the forest. He lifted the knife from the box tentatively and examined it, feeling a smile spread over his face. Then, he dropped the knife back in the box and jumped into the blurred man’s arms, wrapping his own around him in a hug. The man smelled of the forest.

[color=fff200][u]The Pyre:[/u][/color] He was standing before an inferno, the smell of smoke and burning flesh reaching his nostrils and causing them to flare up. Everything but the inferno was blurred and distorted. He stared at the flames intently, watching the body in the midst of the pyre slowly disappearing as tongues of fire flicked up and consumed it more and more. His eyes were wet, and his nose was running. An overwhelming feeling of sadness swept over him and refused to let go. So he stood and watched the pyre for hours until it completely consumed the body and the entire pyre crumbled to ash.

[color=fff200][u]The Final Hunt:[/u][/color] He sat crouched in the midst of a close grouping of trees and bushes, his crossbow held toward the ground but ready to aim if he spotted his quarry. With a whistle he summoned Artimus to him; she came swooping down from the trees and landed on his outstretched arm. He stroked her head softly, causing her to closer her eyes and rub his finger a little. With a command he could not hear leave his lips, the red tailed hawk took back to the skies. He stood from his crouching position and followed under the bird back to the camp he had made. There was another man there chopping wood for a fire, his features just as blurred and distorted as The Blurred Man’s. The Woodcutter said something to him, but his voice did not escape the man’s mouth, but he somehow understood what he asked and replied with a shake of his head. He continued on to his own tent in the small camp, leaning his crossbow against the side of the tent and went inside to collapse on his bedroll. Some time later there was a noise from outside. He leapt up and ran out of his tent to see the camp ablaze. The flames and smoke limited his vision. He saw a dark shape moved toward him.

[color=fff200][b]Awakening:[/b][/color]
He awoke to a soft pecking on his cheek. He opened his eyes slowly to see Artimus perched on his shoulder and pecking him to wake him up. He sat up with a groan and looked around; he was what looked like a forest made of stone and ruins with moss and vines creeping up the stones. His head pounded as he tried to remember coming to this place, but it was no use. Artimus flew up to one of the stones and looked around. He couldn’t recall anything about himself really, but he remembered the bird as clear as day. With a whistle he used on instinct alone, the bird fluttered down to perch on his arm. He stroked her head and peered around the stone forest himself. He and his familiar were the only ones present at the moment. He directed his gaze back to the bird and watched her for some time, trying to remember anything, but it was useless. He could not even remember his own name, but the bird caused a word to surface in his mind; “Rook”.

[i]”Rook? It’s as good a name as any,”[/i] he thought to himself.

Rook lifted his arm up slightly, and Artimus took flight once more, this time circling overhead several times. He looked down at his own body, examining it; he was wearing the knife with the handle made of antler, the dark wooden crossbow, and an axe. He pulled the knife up to look at it, hoping it would bring back more memories, but alas his hopes were in vain. He sheathed the knife and turned his head skyward toward his feathery companion. With another whistle, Rook began walking with Artimus following him overhead and keeping watch for anything he could not see. He pulled his crossbow up but kept it pointed down instead of fully in front of him. He ran his gloved finger along the wood, barely feeling the old notches there.

He walked through the stone forest until his body began to protest going any further without nourishment. Rook chose to obey his body’s protests and found a smaller stone to sit on while he pulled his knapsack off and rummaged through it to see what all he had. Within the leather bag, Rook found a few pieces of dried meat and a waterskin half full. Taking these out, he ate one of the pieces of dried meat and threw half of another one to Artimus. He washed the salt from his mouth with a small mouthful of water. Somehow he knew to ration what he had and what to do to find more food, at least he would know what to do if he were in a normal forest in a location he knew of, but he didn’t know much of anything anymore other than the memories he awoke with and the name of the red tailed hawk with him in this strange land.

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