Old January 3, 2019, 03:27 PM   #1 (permalink)
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Roost Verynn

Roost Verynn
Slave by birth. Axeman by trade. Drinker by consequence.

Race: Human
Age:Likely in his thirties, but looks older
Orientation: So long as they have a heartbeat
Birthplace: Unknown land across the sea

Character Voice: Tom Hardy as Alfie Solomons (Example 1 | Example 2)
Character Inspiration: Sterling Archer | Bronn of the Blackwater

A man whose appearance is carved by his experience. His lifetime in lumber camps makes him broad shouldered and barrel chested. But that same lifetime spent in slavery curses him to a face as gaunt and it is weathered. Atop a nearly two-metre frame, his thick mane and full beard, once dark as burnt umber but slowly fading to winter slate, attempts to cover a thousand different scars and scratches; and not always to greatest success.

The only feature undisturbed by experience are deeply set eyes, green like the spring grass. They're covered by thick brows on a sharp ridge, between a pronounced jawline and long, slanted forehead, and separated by a nose at least once-broken. Those calm eyes are sharp in contrast to hands and forearms, with every day under a master's whip remembered by scars here, cuts there. Calloused hands weren't the most pleasing to look at it, but they helped gripping an axe against a strong tree, or a stronger man.

Trite and tawny skin hosts worn leather come winter and loose linen in summer. You'll find no precious metals, gems or jewellery here, and armour was a thing reserved for those far beyond his financial standing. His only accessory is a small leather pouch, strung across shoulder and tucked beneath his left arm, carrying contents known only to its carrier.

Ask a dozen men what he's like, get a dozen answers. A charmer to some, quick with a joke and faster with a pint. Also a deliberate antagonist, who takes perverse pleasure from coaxing the worst from a person on the slightest whim. He talks extremely slow, with the thickest of accents, perhaps subconsciously making it more difficult to understand and therefore more like to become frustrated by his company. He's not a complete jackass, mind. He's happy to kill someone if you ask politely, and will share a drink with a mate for as long as no one's become arrested or pregnant.


Wealth tier - Sterling
A leather surcoat reaches wrists and knees, with buttons to fasten from waist to chin. It's only lightly tanned, with stitching along the hem and the cuffs blotted with indelible blood... don't ask whose blood. It can be tough as cardboard come winter, but at least it keeps the chill out. Elsewhere he sports dark, knee-high boots, despite their thin soles, and broadcloth trousers of similar colour.

In the summer months, his succoat and broadcloth are stuffed in a denim satchel and replaced with thin, linen breeches and vest. Regardless of the season, however, armour is not something within Roost's financial grasp.

Basic Axe | 2 Experience Points (Starting Package)

Last edited by Roost Verynn; January 15, 2019 at 10:10 PM.
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Old January 9, 2019, 02:59 PM   #2 (permalink)
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Introductory Post

A distant land across the sea, name unknown, built upon chained men. This is Roost's home. For him and his twin sister, slavery was all they knew since the womb. Funny to have such a life, given their father was Theas, a wealthy lord of the salt mines. Too bad their mum only herded goats. A young and pretty girl, they were always told, who had the misfortune of taking not one but two of Theas' seeds. Birthing twins amongst the mountain ibexes delivered her to an early grave. Theas already had a wife, a male heir named Zerna, and six decades of honoured life to preserve. And buggered if he were to give it all up for twin bastards. Mum's fellow herders sold them to slavery not long afterwards.

Still young and with indifferent masters, the siblings chose each other's names. The boy named the girl Chrysa, for the orange chrysanthemum flowers in the woodlands, as bright as her smile. The girl named the boy Roost, for he was always up with sun and loud as the rooster announcing its arrival. Roost cut timber, Chrysa weaved baskets, but for the little time of freedom at night, they were inseparable. Their only welcome guest was Zerna'theas, their trueborn elder brother, who came now and again with good cheese and even better wine.

They grew older, and Chrysa grew prettier. She was always fairer in her tone, both physically and personally, but with the same intense green eyes as her brother. That caught attention of the wrong men. Made her popular in the wrong way. She always hid the truth, the pain, the desecration of her body when Roost returned from the mills. Roost's temper is always short, she would remind herself when there was doubt. The less he knows, the better.

.... Until the day Roost comes home early. It's the only day he's ever come home early; high winds that day sent falling timber everywhere, and slaves dead under logs were bad for business. A woman's scream in the mills, he hears. Feet in full stride, axe in both hands. The door slams open for Roost to find Chrysa, dishevelled and bruised, dagger in hand. One man is racing out the back door, stuffing a bloody tunic into his trousers. A second man lies on the floor, his cock dismembered, blood rushing from groin and soaking the floorboards.

Don't say a word, he remembers Chrysa saying, gently cupping his jaw. They'll come for me now. You need to go. Roost objects but she's undistracted. Her hands lift blood from a deep gash on her cheek, placing it on her brother's forehead. Mum tended goats, just as you've tended me. But no longer. She's using her blood to paint the ridges of a goat's horns on his forehead. She's so calm, even when Roost can see the man with the bloody shirt returning to the mill, a dozen armed guards at his back.

Run now. Theas knows a ship captain named Lorank who can sail you to Aelyria. Even if it takes you years, promise me you'll leave this place. You can do it; the blood of the ibex runs in you, as it runs in me.

Go. Leave before it's too late. And know that I love you, my brother... my protector... my Red Horn.............

He can't remember running from the camp. He only barely remembers sneaking back days later, to retrieve and seal his sister's ashes. But the memory of that final day with his sister is crisp as the first frost. Many night's sleep ends with Chrysa painting those bloody ridges, sometimes so vivid he can almost feel fingers upon his forehead in the morning.
Story dedicated to my sister, wherever you are. You live with me forever.

Last edited by Roost Verynn; January 15, 2019 at 10:07 PM.
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