Lon sits in the center of a tavern that he found in a small, small village just on the outskirts of the city that he found throughout his travels. Well, calling it a tavern was generous; It was more like a slightly-larger-than-average hut where the men (and the occasional women) came to drink after a hard day’s work.
Lon has his lute across his lap and the meager, battered case sitting at his feet, the tatty flap open. A few coin sit in the case; Nobody liked to be the first one to ‘donate’, his mother had always said. So you lay out a handful of coin ahead of time and everyone thinks they’re just following the example of someone else. People liked following, after all. Lon is many things tonight, but most of all he's a very hungry bard.
A smile too broad flits across his hungry lips and a chord hums from the bowl of his lute. The noise is supposedly pleasant, in-tune and soon falling into a steady pluck of strings and his voice soon to follow.
♪“Oh, folk of the ci--” Pause. “Village fair. What is it that I see over there?”♪
For effect, the music halts and he places a hand to his brow. Typically this is where someone in the crowd would call out an object. Nobody does. Without missing a beat (in actuality he does miss a few), the music picks back up.
♪“Well so it does seem that tonight shall be a scream. Now let us...”♪
He trails off into a sullen silence. It turns out the song doesn’t work when the crowd is non-reactive. The handful of tired folk in the bar are seemingly just that and where a smile once was there’s no a massive frown plastered onto his lips. Pleadingly, the brown-haired man looks to the faceless woman sitting in a corner.
“Oray,” he mouths and stage-whispers. “Help me out!”
Nationality/Nation description: Raised in various villages throughout the Marches.
Occupation: Bard (Self-proclaimed).
Religion: Wherever the wind goes, so too go his beliefs.
Appearance: Lon is a man of small, inoffensive stature and dark skin and often has a toothy smile plastered onto his face. With little in the way of muscle or fat, one could mistake the poor man for a starveling from the streets of any given city. The mop of dark, dark hair atop his head, perpetually mussed and tousled and looking like he won a battle against a particularly brittle comb, lends credence to this idea.
But then you get to his clothes. Or more accurately, his cloak. It’s a cloak made for billowing if one was ever seen. Grand, green, seemingly made of material that’s lustrous and bright while retaining the toughness to rival the sturdiest of canvas, it seems likely that it could swallow him whole if he let it. Other than his cloak, the man dresses sensibly most times. Most being the operative word here.
Personality: Chatty is what his friends might call him but he’d call himself personable. What others might call him is best left unsaid in polite company. Lon’s the sort of fellow that’s friendly to a fault and has no problems striking up a conversation with just about anyone or anything.
It’s all something of a front, unfortunately. While he’s got a smile for everyone he sees and he’s more than willing to lend an ear to any and every tale there is to be told, Lon’s friendliness comes from a desperate place. It’s easy to forget one’s woes when you drown yourself in other people. Beneath the jokes and the songs that inevitably find their way to his lips there’s a loneliness that runs deep and chasm-like. The moment you think you see it, you’ll be told about that one time in Kragthorne where he saw a man ride a flying pig--yes, a flying pig! If only you’d been there.
Biography: Lon was born to a traveler, a woman by the name of Taryn, and she was someone who roamed the countryside with a song on their lips and a tune in their heart. The first thing he remembers is hearing a bawdy song while bouncing on a sailor's knee while his mother crooned filthy words to the crowd. In this way, he was a child of the people. In every town they visited there was a grandmother that would inevitably fawn over him, as he was a cute and curious child, or a mother that would scold him for sprinting through their laundry while chasing the wind. He learned his letters from a teacher in Stratam and his numbers from a farmer in Loti.
He never knew his father nor did Taryn ever speak of him, but the child wasn’t ever wanting for one. He had several, after all. Why, there was the man in Tust that frequented their camp and brought Lon wooden toys before slipping into his mother’s tent for the night. Or there was the one in Marchome that always brought him sweets and told him stories before Taryn would put her hand on his arm and tell Lon to be a good boy and go play with the other children on the village green. The number of fathers Lon had grew and grew. It wasn’t until he was older that he learned that they were often someone else’s father as well.
They never stayed in one place for very long--even if they did visit the same villages on occasion. More often than not they’d travel with a caravan that was leaving town; Merchants, soldiers off to be trained by one of the lords. This allowed them to survive the harsh wilderness where bandit attacks and mutterings of nearby orcs would bring any lone traveler little more than fear. Whenever the weather turned, Taryn would offer her voice and poems to the local tavern keeper for a night in the barn, next to the horses. Needless to say, neither of them ever knew luxury.
Taryn raised the boy to be keen and to be wary of the help offered by another when they claimed said aid was out of kindness and kindness alone. She taught him to sing, to poke fun in such a way that leaves a man’s ears burning but his temper stamped out by the ribbing of his friends. She taught him how to talk without saying much and not talk while saying a great deal. She taught him a great, great many things but the most important thing she taught him how to do was to live; Not in the ironic way that most people live. Day-to-day, dawn-til-dusk, a home, a family, a dog (though he’d not be opposed to the dog), but rather the way that the stars do. Bright and moving through the night sky, dazzling those who care to look.
Seventeen years did he live with his mother, wild and free. On the eighteenth day of his eighteenth year she told him that it was time to fly. Knowing the day would come, Lon packed his meager belongings, kissed his mother on the cheek and stepped out of the nest to fly on his own. It’s been another four years since that day. Taryn’s still out there, he’s sure, but he’s content enough to not go looking.
Equipment: Despite all appearances, Lon is far from unarmed. Within his cloak there are many things hidden within many pockets. They range from knives to explosive pellets all the way down to a handful of incredibly sharp rocks.
Within those pockets are other things, like very nice cheeses and crusty bread and maybe even an apple or two. A waterskin is surely in there somewhere.
A ragged lute is strapped to his back. Despite it’s appearance, he’s meticulous about keeping the strings fresh and well-tuned.
Most importantly, a small flute that’s carved of some sort of bone is perpetually at his side. A family heirloom, passed down through generations upon generations. Or so he’s told. The few times he’s used it the people who heard the tune became all too eager to get into a fight. Lon is loathe to play any songs on the flute these days and is convinced that it’s just horrendously out of tune.
Skills:There are few things in this world that Lon is truly proud of; Two of them are his singing voice and his quipping wit. With a voice like a choir, he’s able to belt out a song with the best of them. It’s a voice that’s suited to every and any song, brilliant trebles and deceptively low bass. The quickness with which he can turn anything into a song is both a boon and a way to bring harm to his and himself. In your average traveling group, Lon tends to fill the role of the talker.
Beyond those two things, he’s relatively decent with a knife. A life growing up inside of taverns that ran the gamut from ill repute to the sort of place where rich men “buy” favours from young boys led to the child becoming well acquainted with sinking a blade into the soft spots between another person’s joints. He’d not hold his own in a fight against a soldier, but your typical brute might find themselves with a nimble and slippery target that’ll probably shove a knife into their brain.
He’s also not too bad a survivalist and field medic. You pick things up on the road; Like which mushrooms you can eat without keeling over or how to stitch a wound up.
Motivation: Lon wants to hear your story. Yes, yours. He hikes along pathways and cliffs to travel from city to town to the smallest of farmsteads to entertain and catalogue the story of everyone he’s ever met.
Hi @Flagg. Are you still accepting characters? I'd like to throw my guy in this if you are.
Name: Lon
Race: Incredibly human
Nationality/Nation description: Raised in various villages throughout the Marches.
Occupation: Bard (Self-proclaimed).
Religion: Wherever the wind goes, so too go his beliefs.
Appearance: Lon is a man of small, inoffensive stature and dark skin and often has a toothy smile plastered onto his face. With little in the way of muscle or fat, one could mistake the poor man for a starveling from the streets of any given city. The mop of dark, dark hair atop his head, perpetually mussed and tousled and looking like he won a battle against a particularly brittle comb, lends credence to this idea.
But then you get to his clothes. Or more accurately, his cloak. It’s a cloak made for billowing if one was ever seen. Grand, green, seemingly made of material that’s lustrous and bright while retaining the toughness to rival the sturdiest of canvas, it seems likely that it could swallow him whole if he let it. Other than his cloak, the man dresses sensibly most times. Most being the operative word here.
Personality: Chatty is what his friends might call him but he’d call himself personable. What others might call him is best left unsaid in polite company. Lon’s the sort of fellow that’s friendly to a fault and has no problems striking up a conversation with just about anyone or anything.
It’s all something of a front, unfortunately. While he’s got a smile for everyone he sees and he’s more than willing to lend an ear to any and every tale there is to be told, Lon’s friendliness comes from a desperate place. It’s easy to forget one’s woes when you drown yourself in other people. Beneath the jokes and the songs that inevitably find their way to his lips there’s a loneliness that runs deep and chasm-like. The moment you think you see it, you’ll be told about that one time in Kragthorne where he saw a man ride a flying pig--yes, a flying pig! If only you’d been there.
Biography: Lon was born to a traveler, a woman by the name of Taryn, and she was someone who roamed the countryside with a song on their lips and a tune in their heart. The first thing he remembers is hearing a bawdy song while bouncing on a sailor's knee while his mother crooned filthy words to the crowd. In this way, he was a child of the people. In every town they visited there was a grandmother that would inevitably fawn over him, as he was a cute and curious child, or a mother that would scold him for sprinting through their laundry while chasing the wind. He learned his letters from a teacher in Stratam and his numbers from a farmer in Loti.
He never knew his father nor did Taryn ever speak of him, but the child wasn’t ever wanting for one. He had several, after all. Why, there was the man in Tust that frequented their camp and brought Lon wooden toys before slipping into his mother’s tent for the night. Or there was the one in Marchome that always brought him sweets and told him stories before Taryn would put her hand on his arm and tell Lon to be a good boy and go play with the other children on the village green. The number of fathers Lon had grew and grew. It wasn’t until he was older that he learned that they were often someone else’s father as well.
They never stayed in one place for very long--even if they did visit the same villages on occasion. More often than not they’d travel with a caravan that was leaving town; Merchants, soldiers off to be trained by one of the lords. This allowed them to survive the harsh wilderness where bandit attacks and mutterings of nearby orcs would bring any lone traveler little more than fear. Whenever the weather turned, Taryn would offer her voice and poems to the local tavern keeper for a night in the barn, next to the horses. Needless to say, neither of them ever knew luxury.
Taryn raised the boy to be keen and to be wary of the help offered by another when they claimed said aid was out of kindness and kindness alone. She taught him to sing, to poke fun in such a way that leaves a man’s ears burning but his temper stamped out by the ribbing of his friends. She taught him how to talk without saying much and not talk while saying a great deal. She taught him a great, great many things but the most important thing she taught him how to do was to live; Not in the ironic way that most people live. Day-to-day, dawn-til-dusk, a home, a family, a dog (though he’d not be opposed to the dog), but rather the way that the stars do. Bright and moving through the night sky, dazzling those who care to look.
Seventeen years did he live with his mother, wild and free. On the eighteenth day of his eighteenth year she told him that it was time to fly. Knowing the day would come, Lon packed his meager belongings, kissed his mother on the cheek and stepped out of the nest to fly on his own. It’s been another four years since that day. Taryn’s still out there, he’s sure, but he’s content enough to not go looking.
Equipment: Despite all appearances, Lon is far from unarmed. Within his cloak there are many things hidden within many pockets. They range from knives to explosive pellets all the way down to a handful of incredibly sharp rocks.
Within those pockets are other things, like very nice cheeses and crusty bread and maybe even an apple or two. A waterskin is surely in there somewhere.
A ragged lute is strapped to his back. Despite it’s appearance, he’s meticulous about keeping the strings fresh and well-tuned.
Most importantly, a small flute that’s carved of some sort of bone is perpetually at his side. A family heirloom, passed down through generations upon generations. Or so he’s told. The few times he’s used it the people who heard the tune became all too eager to get into a fight. Lon is loathe to play any songs on the flute these days and is convinced that it’s just horrendously out of tune.
Skills:There are few things in this world that Lon is truly proud of; Two of them are his singing voice and his quipping wit. With a voice like a choir, he’s able to belt out a song with the best of them. It’s a voice that’s suited to every and any song, brilliant trebles and deceptively low bass. The quickness with which he can turn anything into a song is both a boon and a way to bring harm to his and himself. In your average traveling group, Lon tends to fill the role of the talker.
Beyond those two things, he’s relatively decent with a knife. A life growing up inside of taverns that ran the gamut from ill repute to the sort of place where rich men “buy” favours from young boys led to the child becoming well acquainted with sinking a blade into the soft spots between another person’s joints. He’d not hold his own in a fight against a soldier, but your typical brute might find themselves with a nimble and slippery target that’ll probably shove a knife into their brain.
He’s also not too bad a survivalist and field medic. You pick things up on the road; Like which mushrooms you can eat without keeling over or how to stitch a wound up.
Motivation: Lon wants to hear your story. Yes, yours. He hikes along pathways and cliffs to travel from city to town to the smallest of farmsteads to entertain and catalogue the story of everyone he’s ever met.
Hi there everyone! My name's Kelso and I'm (apparently) a Doctor. I've got a M.D. in uh...
Alright, enough of that. As I'm sure you've all guessed I'm not doctor. I am, in fact, a writer that likes to do the writes with other people online. I'm also a 28 year old guy that's struggling with the concept of the constant spiral towards the abyss and nothingne-- Alright, no. That's melodramatic. Let's start over.
Hi! I'm Kelso. Nice to meet all of you. I'm recently coming off of good ol' MMORPG roleplay and I'm looking to get into something a bit more regular-but-lax all at once. By that I mean my schedule best allows me to do forum RP. Hooray! I'm generally a pretty open guy that's pretty easygoing with regards to roleplay schedules--and most things.
I prefer to be friendly, if not outright friends, with the people I roleplay with; So if we wind up RPing expect a bit of OOC chatter! I can be a bit of a chatterbox when I'm comfortable or excited about something but occasionally I go pretty quiet, too. My only immediate limits (that can't be talked over in private) are that I won't play with people under the age of 18. I'm not super comfortable with that; Sorry! I typically stray towards fantasy settings but a good SciFi game can get me interested.
Beyond all of that, it's nice to be here and I'm looking forward to getting to know some of y'all through roleplay.
Member
