Scrub Mage — Roleplayer Guild

Had my eye on this for a while, figured I'd give it a shot. The concept I was going for was difficult to capture in my standard writing style, so I used the opportunity to explore something a bit different. 

[		"Portrait of a Lost Northman"		]
DIJ

{{  Male || 28  }}

APPEARANCE
As far as Northmen go, Dij is exceptionally “stocky”. Short, even amongst his kin, Dij has grown horizontally rather than vertically throughout the entirety of his life. His face is tired, but almost soft, and his beard is curly and lacking a moustache. His ears are large, and his eyes are focused on distant horizons. The man lacks even a single hair on his head but in their place bears numerous sunspots (a badge of his time spent away from home, no less). His clothes are simple, but tailor made. His nose is round, almost like a gourd. His lip is marked by a single white line, earned from the last vestiges of a dead tribe when he went to them to learn their lore.

His beard is a dark brown, nearly black, with bulky, curly hair and numerous rings to secure the thing into straight braids. His eyes are the same shade, though less intense. His body is hairy, as evident by the patches which run down his bare arms. Beneath his beard, rolls of skin betray his most obvious vice, but the calloused side of his right middle finger’s knuckle betrays a subtler one. His jaw, should one stare long enough to pick apart where the beard begins and his face ends, is strong and muscled, but the features which denote emotive actions are dull and subject to the same rules as the rest of his form. His legs are strong, but even then, it seems a miracle that they can support him. 

He uses a cane, but it is less for obvious reasons and more for a would-be crippling scoliosis which makes his form even more awkward. He carries with him a satchel of books, each more esoteric than the last, and the sheer weight seems to balance his stride. Still, he hobbles with a left-step and must constantly readjust himself, lest he veer off the road. His face shows no relief, but the height of his pain is past, with only vague squints to denote the occasional discomfort.

BIOGRAPHY
Dij Second-Name-Struck was born to a certain house on a certain day and has a certain lineage, but his second name was struck by both himself and those who decide such things in slower amounts of time. But such things did not define Dij Second-Name-Struck, and instead his life begins a mere six years ago, near immediately after departing his ancestral home of Braldurheim.

The world outside had much to show the young Dij, and its first lesson was just how big it was. Without a plan, without an aim, without even a map, the foolhardy creature had set out to view the world in all its splendor, crooked spine, and all. Hobbling in mindless circles occupied the Northman for a year or two, before drawing him toward the Free Cities. Imperfect and terrible for the most part, but with arts he had never seen. Nothing could keep him, except for the cuisine. So alive and so thorough, so red and so lovely. Meals which could not be found anywhere save for that one specific home belonging to the woman of mixed Wrelmsman/Northman descent. Such a lovely woman, though only the first of many folks he would study.

HER word was law in this house. Her visage tough and insolent, but with a hungry heart and a willingness to teach for a meal. Her servant was just like the Frog. A hot pot gave rise to steam and from steam came a special type of rise. Dough dancing up, but never able to quite escape its legless form. Even with breath given to them freely, they could not see they could not hear, they could only inch toward their own dissolution. Dij wondered if she was teaching him metaphor, but the lowborn woman only taught him how to taste and how to cook. As a token of his time, he was given a ring for his beard. In a way, she taught him how to love, but not really. 

HIS word was unbroken, and meals only fueled an unstoppable frenzy of words poured out into inkpots and translated onto paper imperfectly. Symbols became truth to others but nothing quite captured Dij’s own heart, even though such was the source, Swirls became essays and critique, while his hands learned the humble job of preparing things for others to eat. In a way, they had always known, but not really.

These were the lessons of the Free Cities, but Dij cared little for them, and abandoned them in pursuit of a growing hunger reaching from stomach to grip heart and using this grip to direct brain. The nose and tongue became scouts for a worthy sort of knowledge, and the old historian that Dij once was fell victim to his own new lessons. Forget the past, he reminded himself that it would only serve to anchor him to the land a while longer. His stomach replaced his heart and joined his brain in chorus.  Dij studied the things which branded him fool – the parallels between architecture and the flavor of a meal, how a diet would enable someone to control the Aether with more efficiency, how to become what you eat, and how to eat the gods – but he never saw it with eyes not his own until he met the Frog herself.

His return to Baldurheim was quiet and unceremonious, but he had no intention of reawakening his past. He only needed a few books for the Frog, and in return she promised him the secret of eating an abstract. She wanted esoteric titles regarding the Aether and Dark Aether, the Shadow Legion, and obscure titles regarding the gods in heaven above and the gods in hell below. Dij himself knew the titles (he was the reason she knew they were at Baldurheim), and knew better than most that they went unread. He took the books and she taught him the secret, and after eating them he shared their knowledge with her. Thus Dij learned the first of many secrets, and was given the task of eating something more powerful than his current hobbling, little form.

SKILLS
 – Food for Thought 
Dij is no brilliant tactician, nor is he a phenomenal warrior. He is a philosopher of some renown, though he is more famed for his recipe books than anything else. The world of the culinary arts opens many doors to those who know how to bake a key, and he tends to use such doors to meet with thinkers of worth. A meal in the right mouth can open the door into a castle, but it can also help stir the pot of revolution. Of course, such things are easy enough for mere chefs to indulge in, and Dij’s true skill comes from his work to push the field of such arts. While his appetite is voracious, he thinks in terms of leaps and bounds, and is very skilled at hunting down leads to research his points. His latest studies are knocking on the door of the dark arts, following queries such as, “How to Become What You Eat”.

 – A Proper Glutton
Dij’s hunger is near impossible to satisfy, but such a thing extends to his metaphorical hungers as well. Not only does he eat faster than most others, but he learns new concepts at somewhat accelerated rates.

WEAPONS
 – A Simple Quill
The pen is mightier than the sword, a man once said. Dij himself carries a quill simply because he is incapable of wielding most arms, but is an avid writer.

 – Silverware
A well-worn fork and knife, simple in their design but obviously forged by a master in his prime. Not bad for cutting the flesh of men.

OTHER
– Collector of Folklore
Dij collects any and all folklore that he can to satiate a long-time curiosity surrounding other cultures. His next goal is the folklore of the Wrelmsmen.

[		"Mythical Depiction of the Omnivore"		]
ANOIL

{{  Female  }}

TOTEM
A single ring in Dij’s beard, nestled away in a less-than-obvious bundle on the lower-left side of his beard, is meant for a finger but instead whispers thoughts into Dij’s head.

PERSONALITY
Time has worn her feats down to mere memory, wisp-like tethers which are only vaguely connected to her form. The most accurate myths are from the mouths of Folk, but even then, she is depicted as a Bullfrog in many of their morality tales. Her actions have dribbled into metaphor, for many are too absurd to be taken literally. Such is her legacy, just as obtuse and obscure as she.

To those who were unfortunate enough to know her in life, it is no wonder that she became a frog in folklore. The aggressive creature who ate everything in her path – including her own dissatisfaction – and who leapt towards goals instead of walking. She ate more than she should handle, but only grew. But even past the metaphor/literal, she was intolerable in her desires. Her goals and motives were clear, not anything like herself. She wanted power beyond what she had, and she detested any sort of hunger. She was always digesting new information, using it to pursue something further. She hated words more than anything and chose to go without them when she was able. She took no servants, nor did she desire them. Hers was a dream of solipsism forcefully realized. Among the Shadow Legion, her role was strange - one of the most prominent stories about her is in regards to devouring the entire fighting spirit of an army, allowing them to be culled with ease.

To those who knew her in “death”, things were hardly different. The only thing that changed was her metaphorical stomach, hungering for something but given nothing. Time has not treated her kindly and has whet her appetites fiercely. The contradiction of her solipsist dream became known in her ring-time, and she realized that hers was a life only sustained by the outside. Autosarcophagy was the answer to her problem; each of these outside things were a part of her, but they had to be reclaimed by force. A piece of the Self isolated for so long grew thoughts of its own, thought itself an I-Apart. Her eyes turned inward-outward, and her appetite is no longer satiable by mere gods.

SKILLS
 – Vorare
Anoil knows the secret of eating anything and everything, including abstracts. She devours contempt just as easily as she devours rice, and she devours stone just as easily as she devours stoicism. A will is eaten along with the man who possesses it, and the soul is used to fuel the only I which is true. Eating a book is eating knowledge, and Anoil literally digests the knowledge within. A man is memories and eating him can teach one everything he knew in life. Eating the sin from a soul purifies it but can make an untrained stomach sick. But Anoil knows the secret to clean eating and shares it only with her Self. 

All things take time to digest, and so one cannot eat the world until after its contents.

Anoil once knew the secret of eating time, but she never had the stomach for it. Space is easier, and even an abstract can be chewed within the confines of time. But eating time takes time and is impossible unless one knows the secret. She tasted it once but knew that swallowing time would mean swallowing the gods before-and-after they are, which might mean that she might swallow them before or after they had flavor to impart.

Dij is a strong stomach but is yet to fully join Anoil in communion. She taught him how to eat an abstract but has not yet taught him any secrets beyond this.

 – Ruminate
One secret Anoil knows and uses often is how to become what you eat. Eating a man lets you take his form if you know how. Eating a plant lets you better eat the light. But for a thing's form to know what it is, it must usually be alive. Eating meat does not let you become the elk; one must eat the essence of a thing to understand it, and it must know how the thing dresses and walks before it can walk as the thing does. A dead thing seldom remembers these things, and even then, it cannot remember how to grow.

But when you have eaten a thing and know how to grow as it does, you can grow like that thing at will. Eating a bear lets you take its claws and its hide while keeping your own form, and eating a fish teaches you how to breathe water like air.

@Sierra

The Witnessed Day turned his topmost left eye toward this Whisper – an apt name for something which would be lost upon the tides of noise – but did not react aside from a simple, subtle nod toward the inferior being. He angled the left side of his head toward him, a sign of disregard among the Nebula Shaman. To be disregarded was generally considered worse than having death wished upon one – to be disregarded meant to have no value, at least the dead could feed the earth. Only a carefully trained eye could catch the motion as something more than an accident, but The Witnessed Day did not even grace the voice with a response. Had the thing really been worthy of fear, it might have tried weaving a phrase of True Speech (though, admittedly, if it were reduced to vocalizations from flesh, it probably wouldn’t be able to find the proper “channels”, even if it knew where to look). Then the thing began to speak again, its voice much less hostile. With that, The Witnessed Day’s eye returned to its normal position as he took in Golby’s words.

Well, he did not sleep, and he did not eat (not physically, at least), and he did not like the stiff environments of rooms. Ever the arrogant, he decided that he would roam the ship at his leisure, though when he meandered into the ship he narrowed his eyes. Noisy was the only word which came to mind, but he decided he would find the most organic part of the ship to meditate. He hoped that he would be able to have a conversation with The Helium Frightful, so he decided to sit in the engine room. The stomach was where energy flowed from, and thusly was one of the most intimate places to commune with a person. Energy flowed from the engine, and so the same reasoning was to be applied here. Form a bond with the ship, probe its mind, and learn its architecture – when dreaming himself anew, he could more perfectly mimic its form that way. But for learning to be effective, there must be a bond.

The engine room was a bit too warm for his liking, of course, but conditions must be learned to be tolerated lest he waste time dreaming himself luxuries. But still, the warm threatened to lull him to sleep, and if he dreamt in such a state… The Witnessed Day dared not imagine it, lest it creep into his daydreams. Now was not the time for such worry, but rather to make himself at home. The room itself was noisy, though a different sort of noise – instead of the constant mumbling of voices, it was the constant hum of The Helium Frightful’s belly. He dug around in his robes, shuffling around for trinkets he had brought along. Mostly twine and beads, the same used to adorn his horns. They held some esoteric significance to him, though it was more ritual than meaning. Had he remembered to bring rugs with him, he would have laid them out on the floor, but figured that he did not need them so long as he had his robes.

The Witnessed Day placed a hand on the wall to feel its heartbeat. Funny, for its grandeur, it still carried a primitive set of organs. Melded with machinery, to boot. He mourned to himself over this simple fact, but quickly got over it. It still had parts of use, and there was always something to be learned. To disregard its errors would be childish – everything must be improved upon if even a fraction of a fraction (and so on until near infinity) were to be taken into one’s being. It was a long way off being home, but it would be his study for the time being. Satisfied with his read of the room, he began to place ropes of bead wherever he felt it would be appropriate. He adorned doorways with numerous strings of bead to alert him to the entrance of others. Then he hung beads in a circle pattern to form a faux wall around what would eventually become his place of meditation. Spent, but unwilling to sleep, he sat down in the center, his robes spreading out to create the illusion of a mound topped by his head. He placed his HOBO on the ground outside of his sacred circle as his thoughts lingered on Whisper, trying to make connections to any figures from his past, slowly raking over every leaf of his past in an attempt to place the unfamiliar voice.

Scrub Mage Member

Ascended Sleeper

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts