Clumsywordsmith

The Guardians of Dara [Sheets]

Name: Sher'Fon'ahn

Age: Forty-One

Gender: Male

Race: Human, Desert Tribesman

Introduction:

The dull red of a dying sun fades away into blackness, allowing the steel-grey of twilight to finally beckon the night to her side; there are no stars in this sky – only the gaping black of an empty void, an endless horizon of jagged teeth framing the light's decay: peaks seeming wrought of the darkest obsidian – though were it a trick of the eyes or their true nature might be hard to tell – while perhaps the only sign of life in all that stretch of silence rests in a small figure, standing erect, upon a distant outcropping.

Features lost in shadow – the expanse of a cloak covering face and form alike – he stands unmoving... stands for such a length of time indeed than an observer might well begin to think him nothing more than another feature of the rock itself.

But I am no rock. I feel the cool winds of the young night tugging at the hem of my cloak – pawing insistently at the brim of my hood – the urge to reach up a hand, to swipe away at the searching fingers as though they were something more than sighing whispers. A man's mind will invent many things in the depths of such a night. This, perhaps, were no exception. I turn my head, ever so slightly – to the vibrant lands far, far to the west: my eyes, perhaps (or just as well the imagination) can make out the faintest shades of gold and umber red beyond the sun's last rays... and then... and then nothing... Only waiting. Waiting as the winds rise, and the fingers scratch, then claw and – finally – blow into a frenzied gale of rage; silence now replaced with tortured screams, every needle's edge of rock becoming a portal to some long-forgotten depth of pain. Still, I wait.

Wait as the pale silhouette of an eager moon throws its light across the darkness, gentle rays scattering into a thousand facets of mirrored silver as they bound and play about the craggy surface of the rocks. But more striking still the reflection from below: for what once was vanished into a murky pool at dark, now shimmers into view... an open sea of shifting sand, fading away into the curve of the world far beyond the furthest point the eye might see. Grey, now blue – caught somewhere half between – an ocean of silver right to the looming black of the encroaching range, driving a jagged slash between the eastern light and western dark.

But then I finally move, shift a hand beneath my cloak and reveal what I had been holing there – tightly clenched – all along; a small phial of darkest onyx, and pulling forth the stopper I release its contents to the winds... a spray of sand, glimmering at once gold and amber, flashing in a twinkling before vanishing to the unknown. The words, though unbidden, come in a quiet stream – quiet and snatched at once, taken by the greedy wind and borne far, far aloft and away. Stretching over the lands I once called home.

“Take me with you, when you go,
through legends, lore and lands untold:
Your home is lost, your people gone,
the last since slipped behind the sun;
yet you are here, and with me now...

So take me with you, when you go...”

I could go no farther. The sand now stung at my face, burned my eyes as the wind spat laughing in my face. I swept my cloak about me, turned and began the perilous descent... the last few trailing words seeming to echo behind me with each step:

“Take me with you, When you go...”

Physical Description:

A harsh steam rose from the fire between us; I brushed away at the smoke and vapour alike with the edge of my cloak, revealing for a moment the young man seated opposite me: slim, serious, erect and alert... I closed my eyes for but a moment and almost imagined that I might see him as he was long since: Taller, by a small margin. But still slim, lithe and brown-skinned, long dark hair tied back in the manner of our people... but the attire – and the eyes!-- the eyes; they were a strange grey... and so I opened my own. Looked into his. Brown, as they ever were. A strange chill tore its way down the back of my neck. I proffered Fon'ahn the bowl, waiting. Watching to see if he would partake.

Skillset/Far Ancestry (Wound up kinda merging themselves into one):

“Some stories, young Fon'ahn, have no end – they go on and on and on – wrapping around themselves over and over again, until perhaps as the sand itself they might roll over all that once was and begin anew...” The young boy frowns at this, places a slender brown finger against his lower lip – both eyebrows are etched into a graven line of thought, and with the sudden exhalation he seems upon the verge of speaking....

And then old Da'fur laughed. I remember he laughed! I saw him laugh, the lines of care and pain smoothed in an instant – smothered away by the crinkle of brown skin, the glimmer of white teeth. Laughed even as a man I did not know sat in a cold tower of lands beyond... drew and scrabbled at some thin bit of... of what might have been cloth with a grey feather. A thin flame, somehow, burned in a shallow basin behind him... and I found myself so caught by its gentle wavering. Quietly, swaying... to and fro as an adder prepared to strike... and without warning he lunged!

I was almost caught off guard, the sweeping shimmer of a brazen blade slicing past the air where my neck had been mere moments before... a distant voice broke forth in my head “For when the mind comes to fullness with the body, and the body to fullness with the mind.... then might the two strike as one. Look outside the immediate! See what is beyond!”

A young man whirled to the side, lithe figure of brown skin and taut sinew dancing through the air as though their form held no weight; another blow, and then another – one sent skating across the surface of a small buckler, the other singing with a quiet call of dismay as it met the haft of a spear... but both were such a burden. Not the light hide of a shield that I had been accustomed to. Not the perfect balance of a lance that I had trained with. And yet in that moment I was aware – aware of myself, the man upon the arena sands. Aware of the crowds, the crowds screaming and crying for blood... blood... blood...

Aware that I was watching myself. A surely as I was myself. And with that it ended all in an instant. The searing heat of the desert sun as it parches the last of an oasis pool. The wretched cry of a dying creature as it embraces finally the eternity of death. The rush of air against the tip of a spear as it plunges into the dark hole of an endless plummet... I fall and fall, images and thoughts piling one atop the other at such a rate that I finally cease to even attempt to parsing one from the other. Rather I simply am. And fall.

And with an undignified thud the nude figure of a man lands unceremoniously upon the edge of a dune; a groan follows, one bloodied eye cracks open... and then gravity takes its turn, the body tumbling, tumbling down the embankment, spray of sand and dust flying in its wake. All finally comes to rest at the edge of a perfect pool: pristine, its surface marred only by the mirrored image of dunes and blue sky and endless, golden sand.

But I am thirsty. So thirsty! And bend to scoop water from the pool, to drink... to drink! Only to cough and splutter, choke on each drop as the water turns to sand in my mouth, the burning force shoved down my throat, burning through the depths of my bowels. I collapse to the ground, crawl to the pool. Cast myself in. Only to sink in a constant depth of burning sand, each breath a tearing rasp upon my lungs. Each clawing effort to escape only sending me further... further into the abyss.

And then Fon'ahn awakes. Awakes to find the impassive face of the old Shaman watching him; he struggles, moves his lips as if to speak – as if to convey in words the thousand impossibilities that have since crossed his mind – only to have his attendant shake his head several times, to mouth the word 'Sleep' before adding:

“Remember, young adder... remember that as many tales might have no end, just as many might have no beginning: to seek answers in such regard might be as foolish as to seek guidance from the stars themselves...”

But I could sleep only poorly. And in my dreams the countless numbers of our kind threw themselves heedlessly into a pit full of obsidian daggers... and at the end only I was left – and the last of them it was who tried to drag me down as they jumped.

Character History:

I rubbed at my temples. The night was wearing on me, and no matter how I struggled it seemed the greatest wealth of words might never suffice to describe it all. The Elder Shaman's words to me – mere moments before my initiation all those years past – had stayed with me ever since... and in truth, I do not suppose I truly could remember my story's beginning. Only the years since that moment. The changes in the skies, the drying of the oasis...

It had been years since any Shaman had pierced the time beyond veiling; gazed across the vast expanse of sand and known for a surety that what he saw was to come – I believed it myself no more than anyone else might have, and so kept it to myself. Only to question the visions for all the years afterward. The Great Exodus, the descent from the mountains... the reception our combined tribes met at the hands of our more 'civilized' counterparts.

Perhaps it was mere luck. Perhaps it was skill. Perhaps it were fate that had kept me alive all these years; from the battles with the strangers, to the final defeat of outsiders in a foreign land... to the eery moment of reliving those moments upon the arena sands in the flesh, to now. Now as I sit and write out every word by hand, the flickering light of a low lamp hanging behind me. Did I see myself then, as I am now? Or... did I merely imagine such things by a freak of circumstance?

Psychological Profile:

Such thoughts came often – often and unanswered – until that moment when an outsider was given the chance to help shape the fate of his captors. Not that I was still a captor at such a point. It would be a difficult matter, indeed, for any man, beast – elf or dwarf – thrown to the gladiatorial pits to survive an encounter with a Shaman of the Shifting Sands... half trained as I was... even lacking every last ounce of power that our tales have told of the heroes of the past. Still, there is something to be said for the adroit study of body and mind alike, and the simple power of reflexes well honed, combined with a mind well sharpened... well, at times this is enough.

But something more to be said for the sights I saw with my comrades then. An opening of awareness, as if all the tales I had been told as a child suddenly were to gain new life. Things I had long since ceased to question once again opened to inquiry. Perhaps there -was- a truth to be found in the uncertain tales of the sand.

Equipment:

I paused for a moment in my thoughts. They were running amok again. A swift swallow from the decanter near at hand settled the nerves a bit... memories running too close to certain occurrences in the past were bound to bring forth such a feeling. I sighed. Wiped my lips. Brought my hand to my breast... encountered the phial; there was still a bit of the sand from my homelands left – carried all this way, emptied to the winds every seven years. Emptied and then filled again. Filled in memory and in hope. Hope... such a thin, word – that. More often still I found myself relying upon the spear that always rested just behind me; a thin and wondrously balanced piece of deadly artwork – bladed on both ends, detachable in the centre... a gift from that rare moment where I had been a hero. Or, at least, respected. That along with the shield. My cloak, also, was slung over the back of my chair. As dull as the desert sands themselves, yet I bore it with pride.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

A pride some might think baseless, when I consider my current lack of any grand title or position here – save as once-hero... yet where others might have permitted their memories to shift away into nothingness... I... I have been left to ponder it all these long years. Thrice since my capture now I have visited the Obsidian mountains... thrice have I revisited the years of my youth – the lost traditions of my people. And though the powers that once may have been remain – perhaps – forever dead to me... still I search. I write. I seek endlessly for any last shred of knowledge. What I saw upon those fateful days has remained a part of me, and together with the long and historied myths of my lost people... well, perhaps it truly is a story that has no end.

Or at least, if it does, then I mean to find it.

Relationships:
Will work on this as I see more Character Sheets and send out a few PMs.

The Guardians of Dara [Fantasy]

Word up. Not really messing around and letting this one to languish forever in interest check. Excellent.

I'll see what I can bust out for you in the next few hours before my self-appointed nightly curfew.

The Guardians of Dara [Fantasy/City Governing]

Aight then, let's do this!

Iron Stripes [A sci-fi RP of mechanized warfare]

MmmHmm... Late to the party, despite that, you might count me in on a character/crew application.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Sorry all -- it's been a good run, but the real world has been fast sneaking up on me of late, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to call it quits; a better option, I think, then lingering on and halfheartedly tossing up posts when I happen to find the time.

It's been a real pleasure writing with the lot of you.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Still here, but just got wrapped up in an armour project that consumed me more than expected. Should be writing again tomorrow, Thursday.

Enthralled in Ice (Clumsywordsmith x Igraine)

Hah, sorry to disappoint... well, in a way. I wrote a great deal more, but in the interest in letting you and your character keep pace with the story, I thought it would be more polite to pause and let you get a few words in edgewise before charging ahead. It did seem it would be marginally rude, to dump everything down at once!

Enthralled in Ice (Clumsywordsmith x Igraine)

“Hmm... interesting. Sometimes I forget myself, you know? That I ever had a childhood, that is; memories can be funny things – always running afoul of one another, getting mixed up and lost somewhere in the strange little back corners and alleys of one's mind...” Nestor pauses here, raises his hand toward the moonlight – clenches his fist, peers at the palm as though inspecting it – not that there is anything strange to see. Just a hand. Giving a surreptitious cough, the Demonspawn seems to stiffen ever so slightly; his attention is distracted by the next question, some moments following before his eventual response:

“Names, Lady Wilde – you do seem so very interested in names; perhaps there is a greater power in the absence of one. A lack of identity. Who might we be, could one choose to live a life bereft of a name entirely? Would it make us... something less than human?” I laugh suddenly here – lightly, catching the irony of the comment: turning to glance toward my new chance companion, I offer a bemused sort of smile before adding: “Imagine namelessness to be a gift! The gift of no expectations, no preconceived notions. To simply exist, and to be to others precisely what we are... it is the whole lie – the whole lie of personality, you know? The absurd idea that any one being – man, woman, natural or supernatural – is infallible in nature. To be 'true to oneself' when 'oneself' is nothing more than a coincidental concoction of experiences which lead to memories which lead to expectations.”

The words halt then – I rein myself back a bit, before I go to far. Not that my words are harsh, or in anyway meant poorly... just spoken as thoughts would chance to take me. I glance again at the dog. The dog stares at me; stares with the same baleful blue of its questioning eyes. Shifting from one foot to the next, I politely do my best to keep my gaze and attention well-averted from the Vampiress and her toy as they part ways. There was something strange, striking – disturbing, almost, in the way she looked as she turned and made her way back to where I stood. It was then that I realised in something akin to a panic that she not only intended to come within a hairsbreadth of me, but to touch me – the sensation was jarring. (Though Nestor shows little of his sudden awkwardness outwardly – perhaps the faintest flinch, quickly hidden.)

My nerves tingled at the intrusion, and it was everything I could do to keep my manners – it was not as if her proximity would kill me. Not even that it truly bothered me... just...

“Just what, Nestor dear? Hmm?” The voice tickled in the back of my head – goading, chiding. Scraping against the back of my spine like an unexpected blade; I did not respond – rather, I offered a smile, put one foot before the other, and began to stroll off into the night – Vampiress at my side – whilst remarking:

“It is a place only a little ways from here – a curious place, and curious people... though perhaps others might find them as dull as I do interesting... tell me, Lady Wilde: do you often pause to ponder the passage of -time-? A strange thing, maybe ( here I paused for a moment... I had to admit, the nature of Vampires at once confused and intrigued me, and for that instant I could not help but wonder if I were about to tread on sacred ground, so to speak – but I blundered on anyway): you were not always in the past who you are now, and even in the past, no doubt, you noted the ever-shifting movement of time. Speeding, speeding – faster and faster as weeks become days and days become hours and hours minutes....” Nestor tilts his head a little to the side, staring more pointedly at the woman before continuing:

“And then so suddenly – like that!(he snaps his fingers)-- it ends; you go hurtling off into the unknown, and wake to find yourself a creature who has managed to take a few steps beyond the whims of time entirely. Or... perhaps... just as much a slave to the concept as ever – worse now, even, since in death the human escapes and death for you – well – it could very well never come unless you choose it. Nestor halts here, pausing before an unassuming door in an equally unremarkable street. The windows beyond are dark; glazing gleams dully in the dim light, empty eyes leading to seeming nothing beyond. The dog gives a soft whine, settles back on its haunches and thumps a miserable tail several times against the dirty cobbles.

“I find this place... refreshing...” The Demonspawn remarks, before pushing open the door and leading Jerusha into the strange expanse of the room beyond. Ticking – the constant ticking and buzzing of winding gears and clacking cogs; the steady rhythm of a few dozen clocks all chanting away the time in harmony – and upon hearing the sound, Nestor might be seen to smile...

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

I completely understand where you're coming from -- I've made it a few posts into an RP before, only to dip out when I realised it didn't quite suit the character I had in mind at all. Even with this one my initial idea for the character was not half so absurdly powerful as he ended up being... but it's the fun of the action here in Pieces of Eight, as I see it -- ridiculously powerful characters fighting against supernatural odds so massive that the balance between the two manages to even out.

If that doesn't work for you, then best of luck! (Though I don't see any reason you or the character wouldn't work -- of course, that's all for you to decide)

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Not ready for heroically useless deaths just yet. Slipped out before shit got too hot.