I've decided to try something a little different with this RP, and it is thus;
Could you please write about your character in prose form, it can be as long as you like, but must include the important details – those being things such as their name, possibly their age, what they look like (clothes, weapons, etc), belief systems, where they come from (feel free to make up countries, regions and so on), and anything else you feel might be important.
You can simply write about them, include everything in a short story about them, however you see fit really.
Please PM them to me when you are done, and I look very much forward to reading them.
Eōrwīga Æsctīr, nicknamed Felafrēcne (lit. very wild/savage) because of his righteous anger in battle, is a living example of a 'hard' man in both character and looks.
His upbringing made him able to receive punishment in large doses both mentally and bodily and this led the way for the development of his personage into a sometimes cold seeming adult though, like all Rohirrim, he is swift to forgive and even reward those who fight alongside him and not against him. Born into an advantaged position, son of the kings armourer, he received three full meals a day and accommodation in the inner part of Aldburg.
Growing to imitate his father in appearance, he wound up spurting to a height of six feet and two inches by the time he was fifteen, broad shouldered and thick-set with his muscles clearly visible beneath his thick limbs and fair skin.
In spite of this he is not all that physically daunting which is primarily due to the volume with which he smiles and thus disperses any fear of himself amongst others although, to enemy and ally alike, he comes down like a screaming demon if angered.
He is similar to most Rohirrim in that he is fair of face and could even be considered handsome, his pale skin broken up by a pair of piercing eyes like shards of glacial ice and framed by long blonde-brown hair though he prefers to keep his face free of hair and therefore is commonly clean shaven. On his left hand the index finger is missing and an aged slash to his thigh causes him to limp slightly but hardly hinders him more than that.
Garb-wise Eōrwīga is one of the better equipped riders of Rohan, thanks to his rearing, not quite given the raiment of a noble of Rohan but certainly more well-equipped than your average rider.
Most of the time he can be seen in a hauberk of well maintained chain-mail, one with sleeves to the elbows and reaching down to just above the knees, his lower body is simply clothed in a pair of trews and animal-skin boots held tight with broad criss-crossing leather straps winding up his lower-leg although his shins are somewhat better protected by a pair of hardened leather greaves.
A helmet is usually covering his head and obscuring his face (think 'Sutton Hoo' helmet) protecting his neck, head and cheeks as well as his face with a visor shaped like a snarling man's face. It is finely crafted, complete with scenes and horse-hair plume added, most likely the greatest gift he ever received from the king.
In armament he is plainly arrayed, with a sturdy round shield painted with a backdrop of red and a pair of swiftly running horses painted in white on the upper and lower sections. In the dead centre is a thick iron boss. As for more offensive weapons he carries a plain sword with a good quality blade and stout gold pommel and hilt, undecorated, alongside both a hand axe and a larger two-handed axe of much better quality than both the former weapons. On his horses saddle hangs usually a quiver of arrows and one of the short composite recurved bows that the Rohirrim favour when riding into the attack.
All-in-all he is a warrior of his people first and foremost, a skilled rider and horse-archer capable of going toe-to-toe with most foes and triumphing, a hardy mentality and mastery of both Rohirric and Westron also making him a helpful translator when he is needed to be. Friendly, stalwart and merciless in battle it is a good thing he is on the side of men and not against them.
Look at Éolan! – a young lass whose dreams and stoic perseverance are her weapon of warding off the darkness of misfortune that seems to follow and shroud her every step ever since the night of her birth, 2493 T.A. She is beautiful in face, slender, healthy-looking, green-eyed, her cheeks often rubescent, lips full and naturally pink. There is a small almost unseen beauty mark next to her left eye. Her coiffure simple: blonde hair reaching the middle of her back, with a braid or two to keep it tight. Her arms are long and pale, hands usually scarred by thorn, dust and soil adhering to her nails. Her ragged green dress covers her frame, a yellow horse skillfully sewn on it just above each of her firm breasts, and a leather belt to hold it. In her leather boots are tucked woolen trousers with a pocket on each side. Not rarely a lad’s eyes would follow her.
In her 19 years – for that many have passed since she was found screaming and bloody in a basket under the storm that beat upon Greenhoof, the mountain above her village – Éolan has worked as a baker with the couple who adopted her and raised her as her own, as a gardener for the neighbors, as a hewer of wood with the men thrice as hard and strong as she, as a drawer of water, as a horse-tender in stables, as a maid, as a cook’s apprentice, as a field worker.
Twice she broke her ribs, once her left elbow; countless times she fell and just as many she bled. She had a man she called brother in this world but she had seen him last before her breast grew. The kind man she calls father lost a hand to a wolf carrying her freezing infantile body to his home. The woman she calls mother suckled her from her own bosom and is now in tears with each dying sun for her firstborn.
She had never learned save from experience. She can neither read nor write. Her Westron is limited and broken, but she does not feel ashamed of it; her prejudices she does not hide, for her experiences is lacking in friendship with folk outside her village. She is cautious of strangers, yet soon friendly once names and stories are shared; she is innocent of many dark secrets in the hearts of men that Illuvatar did not intend, but curious to know the wishes and dreams of those who grow close to her; she is shy, yet speaks in words shaken by awe and delight when her muscles relax in new company, and listens carefully.
Joy she finds in finding herbs and brewing tea, in cooking and baking, and in watching the riders sweep across the plains whose trails she daily treads. She watches them fight and spar, and learns by observing. She understands cavalry formation and battles stances, remembers all the advice captains shout to their men. Of horses she is fond, and they of her. She learned to ride but never had a chance to own a steed of her own. Jewelry and pompous trinkets displease her, and so do the tales of evil sorcery and unnatural power she hears by the fire – she prefers tales of valor and wisdom of the ancient knights of the houses of men whose glorious deeds echo in tongues of their descendants to this day.
When alone, she clads herself in her father’s old armor, for he is a man of smaller stature than other of the Rohirric race, and his gear fits her perfectly. During rare sleepless nights, she swings his cold sword and ax in the woods, pretending to slay the phantoms who took her brother away. She then drops her shield and sits on a stump and watches the stars fall through her hair swirling in the nightly breeze. A torch on a caravan or a merchant’s wagon passes through the darkness, the sound of wheels an whistling wakes her from her fantasy, and she departs to her home and waits awake until the shrill cry of the cock sounds sunrise.
The mercenary called Saptheth was not born from the lines of Gondor or Rohan, or indeed of any such Westron nation. His is the lineage of the Easterlings, of the lands called Rhûn by the elves, and in particular of the nation of Balchoth, which at the date of his birth (TA 2484 by Westron measurements) was one of the strongest of those lands to the East in both war and politics, savage and pseudo-primitive as they were, and growing stronger by the year. Thus was he blessed, as those of his race typically were, with olive skin the envy of many other Eastrons with more sallow complexions, eyes darker than coal that revealed nothing of his soul to those who might seek to gain information by gazing into them, similarly dark hair of straight growth, in Saptheth's case most often grown out and cut to below his shoulderblades during his adulthood in emulation of an older style from centuries back, and ultimately a tall figure that was subsequently layered with muscle in a manner that little else than training as a soldier can provide.
Yet at the same stroke, his blood was cursed by his lineage, for the Balchoth race had long been in thrall to the mysterious necromantic master of Dol Guldur in the Mirkwood, a trait that would bring him and many others of his country to invade Gondor by the year TA 2510. Though all of the Balchothi, man and woman alike, were drafted as soldiers for several years at the age of twenty one, most would soon return to their respective positions as dictated by the social caste of their birth, be it as lowly as the labourers and farmers, as middling as the artisans or merchants, or as high-up as the priests and teachers of the nation's faith; Saptheth's family were specifically a part of the nation's second-highest caste, that of the rulership and military both, and as such he was for the duration of his childhood drilled in what would be expected of him as a soldier, then integrated into the Balchoth military at the age of fifteen, when the rites of passage from boy to man were bestowed upon him in addition to his new responsibilities. Full training as one of Balchoth's elite fighters and leaders took another six or seven years - when the basic troops of many Eastlands were themselves trained to be more than a match for most Westron knights, and in a formation of shieldbearers, chariots or kataphrakts could decimate substantially larger knight battalions, a high-class Easterling fighter was both a long-term investment who required much input and forging, and an extremely valuable asset to their armies.
The year TA 2505 came and went, and by its end Saptheth had been granted the full honours that came with leadership over his fellow men. This would grant him his usual dress and equipment for much of the seven years to come - his clothing was loose red and black wool designed to cover most of his body and insulate it from the Eastlands' daytime heat and occasional abrasive sandstorms, over the top of which lay stylised bronze plate engraved in multiple locations with the image of a rising sun, complete with a crested full helm designed to invoke the image of a dragon, a design not too dissimilar from the armour of various other Easterling nations both before and since; his weaponry and equipment included a wood-and-bronze shield with a similar solar design to his armour on its front, two halberd-like pikes of five and nine feet in length for the purposes of anti-infantry battles and porcupine or phalanx formations respectively, a three foot steel scimitar as effective as any Westron sword and particularly well-suited for mounted attacks, and a composite recurve bow that any Easterling archer could aim and fire with unique skill, in time proving more accurate even than Rohan's horse archers for their techniques. All of this was supplemented not by the usual chariot of a Balchothi, but a heavily-armoured horse of Saptheth's own, that he might ride ahead of his troops as a kataphrackt and inspire the bulkier horse-drawn chariots and wagons to crush all opposition beneath their wheels and hooves.
Yet even at the earliest dawn of his captaincy, he had begun noticing the increasing rate at which Balchoth was gathering its troops, and the fact that many of those drafted soldiers who ought to have returned to their rightful positions by that time were instead being kept in ranks, and trained ever harder, and sent into battle against their fellow people to gather the peoples of other lands as their slaves for those lesser positions which suffered for lack of manpower, as fewer and fewer native Balchothi were left to plow the fields and labour for their betters. In secret, he wondered what, if anything, might be prompting this recruitment drive: a full-blown war, certainly, but would skirmishes against the other Easterlings escalate until all of Rhûn was subjugate to a newly-forged Balchothi Empire, or would this force be turned against the West to try and eliminate the supposedly-free peoples of Endor?
As it transpired, the latter turned out to be true: by the year TA 2510, Saptheth had acquired many ranks over his original position of leadership, and it was from this posting that he led quite a substantial portion of Balchoth's forces against the nation of Gondor at the behest of Dol Guldur. Yet it would happen that this was not the grand takeover of Endor by its future Eastron masters, but merely the latest, albeit one of the last in the Third Age, in a series of attempts to defeat the Free Peoples for their dark master. Some might have proposed after the fact that it would have been better for Balchoth to head East instead, and expand their power before attempting Gondor's subjugation, but all knew that the Dark Lord's word was not to be disobeyed; as it was, the Balchothi chariots succeeded in destroying the realm of Rhovanion entirely, eliminating it as far as civilisation went, but were halted in the Gondorian land of Calenardhon by a force of soldiers from Gondor and Éothéod both, the latter in particular surprising the Balchoth's forces with riders and archers alike partway through the skirmish. In fact, the Battle of the Field of Celebrant would prove to be the race of Balchoth's undoing, for they were forced back into Rhovanion after their orcish complement was destroyed, and then again were pursued far into their own lands, the Westron knights proving more than willing to end the lives of Balchoth's civilian population; trained as they were, a civilian is no match for a fully-armed knight.
And at some point in this heedless retreat, Saptheth became unreasonably incensed with a great deal of things. It was customary that commanding officers below a certain rank, Saptheth's included, be executed by their superiors should they fail in battle and be forced to retreat, and though some such officers chose to break tradition, Saptheth was quite sure his would not, despite a perceived lack of fault by his own examination. And it seemed this failure, which had so quickly seemed to transform into an extinction event for the Balchothi, was greatly the fault of the magician of Dol Guldur, for who else had made this race of men march toward Endor, into a battle that they lost for reasons that were perhaps those of their incompetent orcish allies? And then again, how many Balchothi draftsmen had failed in their duty, who despite outnumbering the Westron knights in that instance had once again failed as Easterlings to capture any significant portion of Endor, and in this case ultimately doomed themselves? And so on and so forth did these negative thoughts pass through his mind repeatedly, until all of a sudden his rage boiled over, and he determined that his doom would not be that of the rest of Balchoth. With not as much as a farewell to his friends and allies in the unit, he deserted his people in the dead of night on the back of his stallion, maneuvered his way around the advancing forces of Gondor, and fled back to the lands of Rhovanion and ultimately Gondor, leaving his own to whatever fate might hold in store for them. For this treachery, his name would be cursed by those few Balchothi who were not slaughtered, until it was all but forgotten as the sands of time erased the remnants of his former people, their blood folded into the other Easterling nations thinner and thinner, until it was as though it had never been introduced at all.
Naturally, even the mere presence of an Easterling would be taken very poorly by any well-meaning Westron, so Saptheth took it upon himself to "acquire" a suitably bulky disguise from a passing traveller for his horse as well as himself, and then proceeded to partake in mercenary work for the next couple of years. Not because he liked the Westrons, not at all, for in his mind they were heathens and scoundrels who did everything in the wrong fashion, be it farming or fighting, and deserved little more than to grovel at the feet of his people; it just happened that he needed Endor's money to buy Endorian goods and services, in exchange providing his own combat talents to slay those who needed slaying. Indeed, skilled as he was, tales soon began spreading throughout Gondor and the surrounding lands of an Easterling who descended upon his foes in a torrent of gleaming death, and vanished like a snake in the sand (since, naturally, an Easterling caught in the act of murder would be killed very shortly afterward); this was oft misinterpreted by uneducated peasantfolk as meaning he was literally a giant snake made of metal, and with the colour of his armour, he had gained the epithet of "The Golden Serpent" by Autumn of TA 2511.
However, all the reputation in the world cannot prove itself as a shield against those who really want you dead: in TA 2512, Saptheth was given a task that, even with a certain amount of preparation just in case, proved itself an insurmountable ambush instead. His horse, loyal to the end, was shot out from beneath him as he attempted to escape, and though he played dead just long enough to turn his axe and scimitar upon his foes, felling a great many of those who would have killed him if less time had passed, he was ultimately captured, and returned to Minas Tirith, there to be held sans armour and weaponry until such time as he would be executed. And yet his earlier rejection of his fate had not seemed to anger samesaid fate unduly, or else it still saw fit to push him further and see whether he'd end up in a better place than he had earned for himself at the time: the day before his planned execution, a message from very high up came to Minas Tirith, asking that "the Golden Serpent who hails from across the Sea of Rhûn be escorted to Aldburg, there to function in service of the Kingdom of Rohan until further notice." Though his captors saw issue with this request, and Saptheth certainly had no desire to actively work for his sworn enemies, he was ultimately chained up tight, weapons and all, and transported by horse and cart to the town in question, there to be returned his equipment and kept on a leash as tight as a noose. If fate did favour him after all, he noted, it had a funny way of showing that this was the case.
Coleman Cutleaf was born in a simple home to a simple family of farmers in the secluded village of Archet, on the eaves of the Chetwood in eastern Bree-land. Cole, like most Bree-folk, is short in stature, but broad, with calloused hands and hardy disposition. Of plain features, with a square jaw and a wide nose, he is not a face that would stand out in a crowd. A patchy beard covers a few scars earned in the wild, the same colour as his short, brownish hair. His hazel eyes are often thoughtful and reveal a keen mind, despite his otherwise gruff appearance.
Growing up on his father’s farm, along with his brothers and sisters, taught him the value of hard work and provided him with an enduring stubbornness, common in village folk. An inquisitive lad, Cole kept pestering elders and what few travellers passed through Archet for stories of faraway lands and the “old days”. Much to the dismay of the whole village he once stopped a travelling Watcher, one of those mysterious woodsmen, to ask him about the lands north of Bree! Not particularly impressed, his parents dismissed these oddities as childhood fancies and were certain that in time Cole would see the right of it.
The years rolled on, one day much like the other and Cole grew ever more restless with the quiet, mundane life. Whenever he had a free moment of time, he’d disappear into the hills and woods surrounding Archet, seeking out ruins belonging to the old kingdoms. He’d often drag other boys into his adventures, luring them with promises of ancient treasures and legendary weapons, but as they grew older, less and less people paid him any heed. This did not deter Cole in the least bit, though he now had somewhat of a reputation as a peddler of tall-tales and a hopeless dreamer.
When Cole had seen his sixteenth winter, his parents decided that it was for the best to send him to Bree. It was now obvious that the young man would never grow accustomed to a life of tending fields and raising animals, so they hoped he would pick up a craft in the big city. Brimming with joy, Cole moved in with his mother’s brother - a dour cooper, who had no children of his own. His uncle quickly understood that Cole was not suited for a craftsman, instead he bid his nephew to join the Town Watch, which Cole immediately accepted.
Life as a watchman proved interesting at first. Cole trained with bow and spear each day, eager to prove himself to his instructors. He patrolled the streets of Bree and, when he had some more experience under his belt, his superiors began sending him to the other settlements in the area, including Archet, where his family finally looked at him with pride. The lad worked on his skills diligently and, in time, began besting some of the older watchmen. Though as Bree-land is a place of farmers and not warriors, it was, in truth, not that great a feat.
Cole’s enthusiasm didn’t last for long, however, as he eventually realised that guard work was just as boring as peeling potatoes back home. During these times Bree-land was peaceful and the most Cole and his comrades had to deal with was an unruly patron at the inn or petty thievery. Still, it was better than life in Archet and his position allowed him a greater measure of freedom to travel around. Over the next five years, he earned enough to acquire a small home of his own in Bree and used any opportunity to explore the lands of Eriador. Whenever a task required someone to travel far afield, Cole was the first to volunteer. He’d often find an excuse to linger abroad for longer than necessary, though by now the other watchmen had grown accustomed to his quirks.
When he wasn’t working, he spent the evenings at the Prancing Pony, talking with traders and travellers who chanced to pass by. With every tale and song, his mind painted a vivid picture of what the broader world was like - the rolling plains of the horse-lords, the mines of the dwarves under the mountain and the great white city far to the south. Alluring images that called to him, seemingly so close, just beyond the horizon and yet they always remained out of reach. Cole took an interest in books and scrolls, which were not common in Bree, and would often spend his entire pay on them. He couldn’t even read, but his uncle knew some letters and, more importantly, introduced Cole to an old, learned man. Weak from age and with waning sight, the man lived alone and offered to teach Cole what he knew, in exchange for help around his house. He passed away before he could teach the lad much, but thanks to his lessons and determination, Cole is able to read most texts and can even write some simple sentences.
As a result of his wanderings, the young Bree-lander could boast of having seen the dreaded Barrow-downs, the smials of Buckland, the ruined visage of Weathertop in the east and even Deadman’s Dike far to the north on the Greenway. During his travels he attracted the attention of the Watchers, or Rangers, as they called themselves; though a rare sight, he chanced upon a number of them in the wild. Cole pleaded with them to take him on, but the rough men would sadly shake their heads and urge him to return to his simple life. Needless to say, the Bree-folk thought him to be an eccentric, even slightly mad, but his friendly demeanour and interesting stories prevented them from truly scorning him.
By the time Cole had turned three and twenty, he had mostly resigned himself to his fate. Perhaps, contrary to what folk believed, the places from the stories and books were real or maybe they were not. Whatever the case, it was not meant for a simple man like him to witness - he had accepted that. This all changed on one fateful evening, when Cole was returning from a regular patrol on the southern Greenway. He found tracks and blood, which lead him to a dead Ranger, torn apart by wolves. Surprise was quickly followed by shock – to Cole these stoic men seemed nigh invisible, immortal even and yet his curious mind couldn’t help but investigate.
Among the man’s meagre belongings he found a letter. A summons to a place called Aldburg, somewhere in the vast lands of the south. It was obviously addressed to the dead man or the other Watchers. In this, Cole saw his chance and he leapt to seize it. He hurried back to Bree and in the dead of night packed his things, taking with him supplies for a long journey. Before the morning light shone on Bree’s rooftops, Cole was gone, leaving behind no trace. It took him at least a week to realise that this was a fool’s quest. How could he compare to the fallen Ranger? The man no doubt had skills that Cole could only dream of. He didn’t even know where Aldburg was! It was too late to turn back, however, so he pushed on.
Cole took most of his possessions for the journey, for he didn’t have much in the first place. Simple clothes of earthen colours, a pair of sturdy boots and an old map he had bought from a merchant some time before. He took his spear, which doubled as a walking stick, and bow as well - for protection and to hunt once his rations ran out. Additionally, despite the pangs of guilt, he had taken some of the dead Ranger’s things: a leaf-green cloak and mask, a masterfully-crafted hunting dagger and, the most awe-inspiring of all, a sword! He had never handled a real one before. The Bree Watch had some blunted ones for training, but he’d only seen travellers wearing them.
With the help of the map, no small amount of luck and his wits, Cole managed to traverse the wilds of Eriador and pass into the lands of the horse-lords. Though not a true hunter, his aim was steady enough to provide him with meat, and a life spent on a farm meant he could recognise a variety of plants and roots for when the need arose. A chance encounter in the region known as Dunland resulted in him acquiring a horse. He was no rider, but it was yet another skill he had to learn during his journey. Many long weeks after setting out from Bree, he found himself on the road to Aldburg – his journey’s end.
Little did he know that the journey was just beginning…
Ah, the tales of woe from Branack's father's father's father of the time when the shadow was cast upon the whole of Khazad-dum. That was where the story of the Dwarf's kinsfolk began. For the great grandfather Narin of Khazad-dum and his group of Dwarves fled to the Lonely Mountain, accompanying the honorable Thrain I.
Laden with sorrow and defeat, the hearty Dwarves nevertheless set to work almost immediately, building their Kingdom that not only began to grow, but thrive! Branack was born in this Kingdom, rife with commerce, crafts, and the hewing of rock. It was in the latter that he began his career, starting his long history of wielding the pick at age 30 (still quite young for a Dwarf, mind you!).
For thirty winters after his thirtieth year, he hacked and carved the stone, finding precious minerals for his Kingdom and Kin alike. Branack was found to be a tireless worker, as well as a fine song writer all things considered. His father made him a special war mattock on his fiftieth year of life, the year a Dwarf's beard reaches his belt. Oh, and this Dwarf had a great black beard that blended into his dark tunic.
Branack never thought he'd need to use his father's weapon, but it was a call from his 3rd cousin Galin in the Grey Mountains that sent word of a great incursion of Goblins that had arisen deep in the mountains. No call to war was raised by Erebor, but volunteers could be sent over to help quell this threat. With the pride of a son of Aulë, the young Khazad and a force of 300 rough and ready Dwarves marched to the Grey mountains night and day.
It was a brief but dark struggle under the halls of the Grey Mountains. With Axe and Hammer and Pick and even Sword did they fight! Cleaving and dying in the darkness of the tunnels against the foul Goblins of the mountain. Branack made a fine accounting of himself, having slain near a dozen over the course of the fighting, and two years later the small war had ended. The Goblin chieftan Nazruk had been slain by Thrain's cousin Fwalin of the Longbeards.
Branack was seventy two now, and as he made his way back to his home, he realized just how wide the world was outside of the Lonely Mountain and the halls he hewed rock in. He began to visit the men of Laketown, and began to help in trade between them and the Lonely mountain, selling his father's wares and learning a bit of his father's craft. It was nearing his 90th winter when he received word of a great threat in the south, and a letter to visit Aldburg.
With an unerring sense of duty, and his desire of travel being sated with this mission, he set out at once, his War mattock at his shoulder and a firm look of rock and steel in his eyes. "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
