Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread

[Dunwen]

POSTED TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO


Okay, here is my Character Description. I am adjusting my first post following some advice from Alcarillo about the origins of his soldiers, but it's nearly complete and will follow shortly.

Here goes...(deep breath)....if anyone objects, I can edit -- I can totally edit!

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? No.

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? None.

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn? Yes.


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Note on uniform: I got the idea of just having him wearing the padded jerkin instead of armour or chain mail from a description of common soldiers in the Middle Ages.

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Dunwen's character

NAME: Nimir

AGE: 17

RACE: Men, Commoner

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort.

APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry.

He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do.

Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process.

HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family.

In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away.

Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!


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NOTE: POST AND BIO PUT TOGETHER FOR EASE OF TRANSFER TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO

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[Alcarillo]

Nice post, Dunwen.

Perky, at what time of day did the king arrive at the ships? Dunwen has said in the afternoon, but I thought it was in the morning. Can you tell us for certain?

[Dunwen]

Alcarillo wrote:

Perky, at what time of day did the king arrive at the ships? Dunwen has said in the afternoon, but I thought it was in the morning. Can you tell us for certain?

Oh dear...I will edit my post accordingly...perhaps Nimir has been working so hard he only *thinks* its midafternoon?

-Dunwen

[piosenniel]

Bringing this forward:


Character/Player List


Gondorian Forces

First Ship -- The Cuivië

• King Telumehtar Umbardacil – The Perky Ent
• Advisor/Record Keeper to the King – Menelcar – Firefoot
• Sea Captain - Captain Hereric - Folwren

~*~

Second Ship -- The Ráca

• Captain - Captain Mirimon Vórimandur - Alcarillo
• Soldier - Nimir - Dunwen
  
  
• Soldier - Thinlómien - POST NEEDED
• Soldier - Kath - POST NEEDED

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Corsair Forces

Ship -- The Fame and Fortune

• Lord of Umbar - Azaryan – Hiriel
• Lord of Umbar - Sangalazin - Anguirel
• Corsair Captain - Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (Rakin) - Amanaduial the archer
• Slave - Ferethor Steele – Eorl of Rohan
• Slave - Jagar - dancing spawn of ungoliant
• Slave - Chakka - Fordim Hedgethistle

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[Thinlómien]

i think I've confused everybody with babbling about 'row soldiers'. I thought I cleared all when I PMed Alcarillo, Kath and Dunwen (who were most related with the thing), but it seems that there are also other people demanding for an explanation. 'Row soldier' just meant a common (foot) soldier. (It hasn't got anything to do with rowing, as Alca suggested.) English is not my mother tongue, so I may make more of these mistakes along the way, so please correct me

[Eorl of Rohan]

Everything is shaping up quite nicely, methinks! I'm not even the roleplay host, but I'm probably not the only one of us 'row players', or 'common players' here who is proud of seeing things clicking into their rightful place, the minor details worked out, the character bio and posts mostly done, and arguments settled nicely through good-natured PMs. (Don't ask me) So, when Aman, Fordim, Thin, and Kath supply us with their bio/posts, we're all set, aren't we?

Piosenniel, I would have changed my character description about 'blue and silver of Gondorian Guards', but it wasn't me who posted it, so I can't fix it. Will you do it for me?

Aman, as you are the third person who had specifically and completely misunderstood my meaning, I guess it is my lack of proficiency in English that hampers me. I'd talk in Korean, but I don't think any of you understand it, so... Anyway, to you and Esau and um, Someone I've sent PMs clarifying it, and in case you haven't checked it, no, it is the other way around. But then, if you don't agree, everything becomes moot anyway so it does not matter.

I really like my ship's name, by the way. Expresses the nature of the namer, and I like the sound of letter F.

[Kath]

Hey everyone I'll be getting my Bio and Post done soon but Eorl of Rohan and I have been thinking and we've come up with an idea we'd like to run past you.

You all know that his character was originally Gondorian and was captured in battle (I think was the history). Our idea was what if my character was his son. The son was a baby when his father disappeared and has only recently learnt that the body was never found and is a little suspicious of this. So we were thinking that at some point I could find out that he was on the Corsair ship - possibly due to some messenger envoy sent over to try and deal with the Corsair captain.

This is just an idea but we would like to know whether it is feasible so Perky, Alcarillo and Aman coud you just say whether you think it's ok as it will defintely involve Alc and Aman with them being our captains.

[Thinlómien]

I'll be also posting the bio and the first post soon (=before weekend).

And I think it's quite important to tell you, that I'll be away whole next week, so I'd prefer that you wouldn't start the RPG before next week's weekend. When we are actually supposed to start?

[piosenniel]

About the start of Game:

Please get your character bios and posts in by this coming Wednesday - so that Perky can take a look at them for edits needed and I can start to get the RPG Thread set up.

He will be away from the 16th through the 22nd of this month.

I 'd like to start the game the 24th.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Folwren]

Originally posted by Alcarillo:
Perky, at what time of day did the king arrive at the ships? Dunwen has said in the afternoon, but I thought it was in the morning. Can you tell us for certain?

I, too, assumed it as afternoon, actually. His councelor was sore impatient by the time the king arrived...with how Firefoot's character acted, I assumed that he'd been there all day.

-- Folwren

[Alcarillo]

Nice plan, Kath. It's fine with me.

However, there might be a single problem. You say your character was a baby when Ferethor vanished. That would make him only five or seven years old now, and I won't allow children on my ship. Eorl's character, Ferethor is 31 years old. Even if your character, Kath, is as young as Dunwen's, that means Ferethor would've been only 14 years old when his child was born. Eorl might need to make Ferethor older and have him be a slave for a longer time, just to make sure that his child is old enough to be a soldier aboard my ship.

And, pio, I have changed midmorning to midafternoon in my first post.

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Edited in to the post on the discussion thread ~*~ Pio

[Firefoot]

Also, you've got to consider that men (of Numenorean descent) were living a lot longer at that point - Perky's character is 180 years old when the RPG takes place. If you live longer, you probably aren't going to be getting married and having kids at such a young age, either. For it to be really plausible, I would think that Ferethor would be closer to 60.

Other than that, I think it's a great idea.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Herm -- for reasons that will become clear when I finally get my first post done (it's about halfway there), Chakka's story really must begin at night...

Would it be acceptable to Perky and Pio if my post began the night before the game 'begins' and concludes in the middle of the following afternoon (that is, it will begin in the wrong place but catch up and end in the right place).

Hope this is OK...let me know if it is not....but I really hope that it is....

(The only problem with this is that my post may contain events that other players feel they want or need to address in their posts -- I don't feel that this would be necessary myself, but I can't anticipate other players' feelings.)

[The Perky Ent]

Well, I just got back from buying Canoeing cloths for my trip to Utah Let's see here...

Fordim - I personally have no problem with it. I can always make your post one of the first ones on the list. Y'all also would have time to edit stuff in while i'm gone (if Pio doesn't mind approving them while i'm absent). That is, assuming other posts need editing.

Also, you've got to consider that men (of Numenorean descent) were living a lot longer at that point - Perky's character is 180 years old when the RPG takes place. If you live longer, you probably aren't going to be getting married and having kids at such a young age, either. For it to be really plausible, I would think that Ferethor would be closer to 60.

He could be impulsive

[Eorl of Rohan]

Kath, please disregard my last PM. I think I'd have to re-evaluate my status on Ferethor's age, as I replied to you without reading the discussion going on here. I'll post my thoughts on the thread itself.

I set Ferethor's age as thirty-one after much deliberation, I'm afraid. Thirty-one is the line drawn between youth and adulthood, not only in mere numbers, but a certain point in life where one passes from the first fire of youth into the more mature understanding of the world and the responsibilities one has for various social positions one plays - in his case, as a soldier, as a father, as a thrall at the oars, as a man with all his weakness and pride. That is why he is thirty-one.

Not that it matters anything to anyone but me, I guess.

A Brief History: And yes, Ferethor did marry in pure impulsiveness when he was nineteen. The young wife died soon after, sad and wasted, uncared for, because her husband knew no love but that to the king and no dedication but that to the country. She had given him a son, though. This is Kath's character. He almost shamefully neglected the child, having justified his lack of attention as the noble sacrifice to the call of duty. He wasn't a bad father. When he had time, which was not often, he used to tell the little boy stories of far lands he had traveled in and the adventure of being a Gondorian Soldier. But he was almost never home. When the boy was three, Ferethor left for a quick patrol of the Gondor boundaries and never returned...

Er, this is completely improvised, although very likely considering Ferethor's character, so if anything is not to your taste, please tell me.

As for the question, we can make Kath's character three-years-old when Ferethor disappeared, if he would consent, (That way he can remember dim images of his father - like, for instance, the rough and scratchy feel of bristles on his father's chin as Ferethor laughingly rubbed it against the boy's cheek in a rare show of affection. Babes remember the strangest of things.). I'd like him a starry-eyed young idealist, about seventeen, and as Ferethor married at nineteen, my character has to be thirty-seven, I see. I'd be willing to change his age into 37. Thanks for reading my train of long monologues.

[Thinlómien]

Okay, I'll do my bio tomorrow. Because I don't know your strange time zones, I'd say that I'll post the bio about 25 hours from now. I hope that's okay, because I don't have time to finish and post it today.

[Kath]

Ok thanks for that Eorl, I'll try and get those ideas into my bio and post, which will be up as close to tomorrow as I can manage I swear! This last week has been a bit hectic but things should calm down from tomorrow, I'll try to hit the deadline though I really will.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

POSTED TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO


Here's the bio and first post -- I may have some edits to make to it yet, but I wanted to get it up as soon as possible for people to see and comment on.


Fordim Hedgethistle's character


NAME: Chakka

AGE: 35

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None

APPEARANCE: Chakka stands well over six feet tall and is immensely strong. His features are even and graceful. He shaves his head (to avoid the vermin that infest the belowdecks) and wears nothing more than a simple pair of sandals, short trousers and a shift. His back is laced with terrible scars from a savage whipping sometime in the past; there are scars on his face too, but these are carefully inscribed lines and dots. His skin is like burnished ebony, lustrous in its blackness.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Chakka is quiet and contemplative, almost taciturn. When he does speak, his words are quiet and to the point for he never speaks before thinking. To those unfamiliar with his ways he appears to be humourless, but he takes great joy in telling elaborate comic tales of magical animals, and in listening to songs and poems of any sort. His greatest joy is the feel of the wind and sun upon his skin. Chakka is slow to anger, but when roused he becomes horrifically violent upon the instant.

HISTORY: Chakka was born upon the slopes of a great mountain far to the south of the lands and seas he now considers his prison. For a few short years he lived with his family in a great village upon the savannah where he watched the women tend the fields while the men went out to hunt. He had just begun to help his mother and older sisters with their tasks when the others came: savage men from the east who burned their village and slew the adult men. The women and children were taken captive and marched for weeks across the savannah and through the jungle to the Sea. Chakka’s mother and eldest sister died in the journey, and when they reached the coast he was separated from the remainder of his family.

He was sold to a great king who made his fortune by selling people to the sick-looking pinkmen who sailed into his harbour every spring. Hundreds of people disappeared into the black ships every year, never to be seen again and as Chakka grew he came to learn that these pinkmen, who hardly looked human with their pallid skin and hair upon their face, were from an even greater kingdom far to the north. Chakka was spared exile among these creatures and was allowed to remain in the coastal realm among normal people, but he remained a slave. He grew up tilling the king’s fields and herding his flocks. Life was hard, for food was scarce and the living conditions were cramped and unclean. The only pleasures allowed the slaves were song and wrestling, for the people of this realm were extremely fond of the sport. Word of Chakka’s prowess in the wrestling ring spread quickly and soon the king took him from the fields so that he could train year-round for the monthly exhibitions. Better food and a cleaner bed allowed Chakka to grow even stronger and more able, and the best masters were acquired to perfect his fighting skills. In addition to wrestling he was taught how to fight with bladed weapons, for the king had a fancy that such a powerful warrior would be an apt bodyguard. For years Chakka trained and fought until he became the greatest fighter anyone had ever seen. Rival monarchs would send their champions, and Chakka defeated them all.

But Chakka yearned to return to the land of his youth, and one day he sought to escape. He was captured and whipped until he was near death. It took him a year to heal and return to full strength, but at the first opportunity he made another attempt for freedom. Once more he was captured. The king, perhaps realising that Chakka could never be tamed, ordered him sold to the pinkmen the next spring. Chakka spent a miserable cold season in dread of his exile, but he found no opportunity to attempt another escape, and within a few months he was forced aboard one of the black ships and bound for a life of slavery to the Corsairs of Umbar.

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Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope.

Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder.

This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement.

The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead.

Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard.

It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan…

Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions.

He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist.

There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood.

Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!”

“Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.”

“He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily.

“Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!”

So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…


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Note: Just setting this up for easy transfer to the discussion thread ~*~ Pio

[Amanaduial the archer]

POSTED TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO


Right-o, here you are - Fordim, I hope this is alright. I am myself rather pleased with Rakin's ingenuity *takes a moment to preen*, and now that's been foiled (my master plan foiled before I even knew of it!), I'll have to think of some other way to keep you- sorry, to keep Chakka at heel...

~*~*~*~

Amanaduial the archer's character

NAME: Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (shortened to Rakin)

AGE: 48

RACE: Corsair – Black Numenorean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Rakin’s primary weapon of choice is a cutlass, not unusually for a corsair – the relatively short blade is perfect for hand to hand fighting in the narrow confines of a deck, for either a slash or thrust action, and is less likely to get tangled in the rigging of the ship than a longer, showier sword or rapier. His own weapon is fairly unadorned, an item of necessity, but he has had a few changes made to the cutlass for practicality: the hardwood handle is bound over with leather, not the usual, smooth leather used for clothes, but rougher beaten leather, so as to maintain both comfort and an all-important good grip when the weapon gets wet – this is where many seamen may fall down, for shiny leather slips easily across sweaty palms and can cost a sailor’s life. The basket, curving around to protect the fingers, is solid rather than more decorative filigree (which can cut into the hand if it is too fine when pressure is applied), but is of a strange metal that almost seems to shine black – a mysterious and rather fine touch that gives the whole sword a rather more elegant appeal, and is carved on the outside simply with his name, ‘Chatazrakin’, along the very edge of the basket. He has a second, more decorative sword – corsairs have little need for dress swords but, well, just in case. However, Rakin is not confined entirely to the sword: inside that coat of his lies a regular little armoury, ranging from a variety of small, simple, easily concealable daggers (often lost and so dispensable), to a slender link-chain, about a foot in length, to the no-nonsense knuckle-dusters in case of emergencies; the knife in his left boot is not strictly for battle, although it is easily accessible enough to be turned to the purpose.

APPEARANCE: Chatazrakin bears little similiarity to his half-brother bar the distinctive height of the Numenoreans, as he stands at about 6ft 5, an average height for Numenoreans but a feature that marks him out from others. However, he has none of the physical frailty of his brother: he is well muscled and broad shouldered with his height, but not as fleshed out as might be expected, giving him the lean, dangerous look of a hungry wolf. Narrow, almost black eyes enhance this appearance, although his face is deceptively open and honest looking, useful for gaining trust or planning deception, although it can snap shut into anger or a wicked grin or laughter within an instant. He is essentially quite fine-featured and, to some eyes, quite beautiful, although it is a beauty that has borne a hard life at sea and a harder childhood on the streets. His fine, high cheekbones are pock-marked over on the left side with the old scars of childhood pox common among street children, and his skin is tanned although surprisingly unweathered by the elements, unusual for a seaman. His long, untamed black hair is pulled back into a plait from which plenty of straggling strands escape, often restrained under a black bandana. This only serves to enhance his roguish appearance, although generally he dresses more sedately, a mix-match of clothes including a loose shirt of hard-wearing but surprisingly pricey material, usually with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows for practicality’s sake, although the colour may be less practical – the favoured white shirt makes a striking contrast against the black waistcoat which tops it, and Rakin has learnt that, far from being only a superficiality, appearance is subtly important in a trade of fear, and not to appear rather striking and wild would be almost foolishness, although such an appearance goes nicely with his own personality anyway. He will usually wear black breeches – not leather though, as this is hardly practical if they are likely to get wet – and watertight oiled black boots reaching up to his knees, with a long knife strapped down the outside of one, a must-have for sailors especially for disasters with the rigging or other ropes. Although he will be seen on the most unlikely days standing in the freezing cold with his thin shirt sleeves rolled right up, he is almost never seen without his battered black overcoat during battle; this may seem strange, but in fact the coat’s many inside pockets have served the corsair well many-a time when just a plain cutlass might not do, and the element of surprise is required, in the form of several small, well-concealed daggers, say. Plus the slim-fitting, split tailed coat looks so dashing when spun around, wouldn’t you say?

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rakin is, basically, almost faultlessly intelligent: not the book-learned cleverness of the academics and aristocrats, but the natural smartness and cunning that is learned from a hard life from birth, growing up in an underworld of thieves and then onto the streets. This life taught him early on a few skills that others learn only with a lifetime of experience – ruthlessness and hardness that many would have found unnerving in one so young, cunning and slyness that made him a perfect thief and cheat, deceptive skills that allowed him to easily trick the gullible, but never to rely on trickery too much more than is necessary – why increase the risk of being caught too far? But he has learnt other skills with the experience of being a seaman, and a Captain: for example, although it takes strength to stand and fight and to lead his crew into battle, it also takes a lot of strength to know when to turn from a battle as well. However, although possessed of a certain shrewdness and knowledge that his late mother sadly did not, Rakin is also quite a proud man, and maybe a little vain – it takes a lot to make him turn from a prize, and his fierceness can prove to be disadvantageous sometimes, when his pride gets in the way of his sense. His ruthlessness makes him an ideal corsair, although the position of Captain of a corsair ship is a precarious one: to an extent, even while he controls them, he is at their mercy – to push them too far, to make one too many unjust decisions or be just a little too ruthless, or too soft, is to sign his own death warrant. It is a fine line that he has to tread. However, after having been a corsair for most of his life, and a captain for over a decade, Rakin has some very valuable allies, and most of his crew is hand-picked, a few men loyal to him through thick and thin. Rakin is also fiercely loyal to the Castamirioni (see History), although to have the two Lords of Umbar, aristocrats far higher ranking than himself naturally, puts him again in a rather precarious position. But although shrewd and, yes, rather careful, Rakin has never been one to back down and roll over – not unless it is to dropkick his opponent. Such a strong and fierce personality could cause some sparks if his own authority is challenged too far…

HISTORY: Chatazrakin – or Rakin for short – was the illegitimate child of the House of Castamir; Sangalazin’s uncle, Sangahyando was as susceptible to a few illicit affairs and debauched pleasures as his twisted offspring, and Rakin was the product of a drunken night’s extramarital debauchery in an Umbar tavern. Unlike some of the unfortunate illegitimacies of the heirs of the Castamir, Rakin did not try to lay claim to the power of his father’s family, and so he was one of the fortunate ones – those who accused the Lords of Umbar of such discrepancies were often later ‘taken care of’ before any threat to the pure line could come about, and such a fate was to befall Rakin’s unfortunate mother when her son was barely ten years old.

Rakin, though, possessed some of the shrewdness that his mother had sadly not had, and never tried to leech of his father’s family, although they were certainly aware of his presence; he would have been immediately put to death if it had been thought that he would ever try to assert a claim to the position of Lord of Umbar over his precious half-brother. But as time passed and Rakin slipped quietly into the shadows, maybe they forgot, or simply lost interest, deciding that the illegitimate brat of a prostitute with no proof posed no threat to Sangalazin, or to Azaryan. Without a mother or father, it was a wonder that the boy managed to survive as well as he did but in fact the young Rakin found this start in life more a freedom than a hindrance. He became a proficient thief, cheat and liar, passing himself off for older than his years and getting odd-jobs in taverns so as to take a tidy helping of profits, and with an ability to quickly pick up skills that was very much to his advantage, all as a matter of survival. However, it was only a matter of time before he got pulled up by one of the Inn customers who he tried to cheat when dealing a fixed hand of cards – the Quartermaster of one of the Corsair ships. But rather than be outraged and destroying the boy (he could have had him made a slave or killed – who would have noticed a scrawny orphan boy go missing?), the corsair was actually mildly impressed with the boy and, after punishing him of course (not the last flogging Rakin would have to endure), he took him on as an extra on the ship, as a trial of sorts, on the simple basis that with one wrong move, Rakin would be off the boat – and probably not when they were near dry land either.

Rather than resent the Quartermaster, a man who went simply by the name of Dagaz, for the flogging, the punishment and the severe treatment of his mentor gave him a healthy respect for the authority of those who ran the ships – in part, because he was the only one who had ever really taken any sort of interest in him, even if it was only to give him a hard time. His quick wit and ability to gain the trust of others, to make them listen to him, was an advantage; after some brief tutoring from Dagaz, his skills with the sword also improved, and he became quite a skilful fighter, although a lot of his power lay in his cunning and skill with ‘less orthodox’ methods of fighting, well honed from years of a street existence. These advantages and traits gained Rakin respect and close allies quite quickly, and in his late thirties the crew of his ship gained a very fine Gondorian war vessel, which, as the elderly Quartermaster had no desire for a ship of his own, Dagaz bestowed on the young man. It was an unusual design of ship, bearing more similarities to the ships of the corsairs than the Gondorians, and Rakin was immensely proud of the vessel, naming it ‘Fame and Fortune’ and, unlike many in his profession, he has stuck to the same vessel for most of his career ever since, a period of just over ten years.

They were ten quite fruitful years, although like any seaman his profession has had very pointed ups and downs, but both the peaks and the troughs of his career have given him a wealth of experience that have made him a fair but ruthless captain, proud but shrewd nonetheless, and a mean fighter along with it; a man of some respect and standing, both from the corsairs, Gondorians, and even those of higher standing in Umbar. This is probably why it was his vessel that was chosen to bear the Lords; in addition, either despite or partly due to his mixed heritage, as a captain, Rakin has always made his loyalty to the Castamirioni very clear, which to an extent is probably one trait that gained him favour with the descendants of Castamir, although he has never, and would never, attempt to ingratiate himself with them as some would. Rakin largely put out of his mind his heritage, descended from the line of Castamir, as it is of little relevance or importance to a simple seaman, and even the long-winded name that his mother lavished upon him as some mark of higher breeding (although a lot of good it did her) is more often than not shortened to simply Captain Rakin; he never found out whether Sangalazin knew, although he suspected that the debauched darling of the Castamirioni is oblivious to his very being. However, it is a strange coincidence indeed that he should end up in such close quarters to his preciously spoilt half-brother, especially on the high seas when all sorts of accidents can happen…


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Amanaduial the archer's post

Even from a birdseye view, from far above the choppy waves, the Fame and Fortune made a striking image: on a clear day, proudly bestriding the waves that lapped against the side, as if daring the mighty Ulmo himself to make some challenge, when the wind leapt and blustered into those unusual, triangular sails, propelling the striking, slim silhouette forward through the waters…and with what speed! She cut through the waters so fast, so easily, the chopping motion mimicking the jolting laughter of such a ship whose pointed features were like a wicked laugh embodied. A more arresting and, aye, and more handsome ship, in its own way, was not to be found on this side of Arda. Stealthy, fast and fair. And the captain of this ship, a corsair as famed as his ship, since her very establishment as a pirate vessel loved it.

Standing on the forecastle of the ship, leaning casually against the foremast with one arm somewhat affectionately thrown around it as if around the shoulders of a loved one, Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar stared out at the open waters, the feel of the wind caressing his neck, face and bare arms more familiar and enjoyable to him that any human touch. A corsair as infamous as the striking silhouette of the ship he had commanded for a decade, this was the life that Rakin had been born for – and after a life of sailing on his precious ship, the corsair wasn’t best disposed to the likes of that silent, unsmiling snob and the debauched fop who called themselves the Lords of Umbar trying to order him around on his own ship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air, tipping his head back into the wind as the sounds of the ship’s daily life flowed around him, each sound as familiar and easily identifiable to him as his own breathing. The seabirds squabbling as they flew above, a V of them making for the Anduin, racing Fame and Fortune to it, the crewmen talking, calling to each other all the way from the Crows’ Nest to the lower decks, snatches of song and laughter, interspersed with shouts and angry voices, the cries of a slave’s pain…these vibrant patchwork of the ship’s life reverberated through her ribs from tip to tail, and the Captain drank it all in, each sound bringing memories and things to do. The sound of the slave, for example… He sighed irritably, clenching his jaw tightly as he opened his eyes once more to glare angrily out at the sea.

“They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own—”

“Cousin, cousin, please, let me get my breath first before you begin to batter me once more with your tactics…”

The first voice, harsh and solemn though with a controlled energy, was another sound which, even after a relatively short time, seemed to belong to the ship: a voice that Rakin could reason with and understand, despite its cheerless and dour owner. But the second voice, that amused drawl....well, it was a voice whose origins were familiar to Rakin’s very genetics, but one which most certainly did not belong on a ship as he did. Azaryan and Sangalazin, Lords of Umbar – and the only pair of men on this ship to whom Rakin himself was directly accountable. And Rakin did not like to be under another’s power…

“Good afternoon, my Lords,” he began, half turning his head towards them although his arm remained slung as it was around the mast. Azaryan nodded curtly, but such a simple greeting could not be enough for Sangalazin.

“Morning,” he replied simply. Rakin turned his dark, narrow eyes further towards his half-brother, raising one eyebrow carefully. Sangalaz in had his arms crossed and a smile on his full, girlish mouth. “It is still but morning, Captain Chatazrakin, give her her due and do not steal from her a good hour. You wouldn’t rob the day of a full hour of her bounty, would you?”

Ah. It was going to be one of these conversations then. How he regretted not sharing a childhood with his half-brother…or not. Apparently being an unrecognised scion had some advantages – namely the lack of comments such as these from the his inbred, spoilt, fop of a brother. Rakin bit back the reply which leapt to his tongue and instead gave a very slight smile as he straightened up and turned towards the two Lords of Umbar. “Ah, but is that not what our very aim is, my Lord Sangalazin? Thievery from even the highest powers?”

Sangalazin’s expression seemed to freeze for a split second between a sneer and a smile, then he simply shrugged and gave the Captain a lazy, infuriating grin. In order to keep up his respectfulness towards Sangalazin, the easiest response to this was simply to ignore it. After all, it was a damn sight more respectful than the sneer he would usually award to such a… Turning to the older of the two, Rakin inquired as to Azaryan’s expression of worry. “How goes, my Lord? You seem troubled – no bad tidings I hope?”

“None except that one of your slaves is potentially about to be thrashed to death belowdecks,” Sangalazin interrupted unhelpfully. His mouth contorted into a cruel grin which sat uneasily on his fine features. “Although whether that is indeed a bad thing is quite debateable.”

Azaryan did not respond to his cousin, turning expressionless eyes on Rakin for a moment with a look that made the Captain feel like a particularly unwholesome weevil. Then he looked away, glaring, as Rakin had done, over the sea. “It is nothing, Captain,” he replied shortly. Ever eloquent, the corsair commented mentally, then felt the usual stab of guilt. His loyalty must lie with the Lords of Umbar, always, no matter how surly – or superficial – they were… Deciding not to try to get water from the stone on this particular afternoon – or, let Sangalazin have his way, this morning – Rakin excused himself from the pair and, bracing himself, started down the stairs to the lower decks, from whence he would go to the slave deck. This morning he had other affairs to deal with – namely, the dawn escape affair of the previous night. A slave escape, now of all times, and from Chakka – hardly surprising, bearing in mind the brute itself. But I thought I had him under control… He fingered the vial of bitter, mustard-yellow liquid in his pocket: in an hour it would become useless to its intended drinker. Unless the slave was more devious even than Rakin gave him his due for; but then, in the mind of a desperate man, even the best formulated plan often had a slip up - and in this case, one slip-up was likely to make the slave very uncomfortable indeed... A grim smiled twisted Rakin’s handsome features and his hand clenched tight over the vial. Well, if Chakka intended to make life difficult for him now of all times, he had better stop by his own apartments to retrieve a few items from the vicious little armoury of his coat pockets…


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Just setting this up for easy transfer to the discussion thread. ~*~ Pio

[The Perky Ent]

*Stares at Aman and Fordim for 1 second*

...



*twitch*



....







/approve

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

"armoury of his coat pockets".... ooooooooo


*rubs hands eagerly*

[Eorl of Rohan]

+choke+ Aman, you haven't lost your touch in the past two years. In fact, you've gotten better. Now it's up to me to catch up, I guess. A fantastic post. And, to everyone else, I see there are lots of events so early in the game. Do I have the timeline right?

Ferethor's assassination attempt on Aman (Years before the roleplay) -->
The rumor of Gondor vs Umbar war -->
Thistle's escape attempt (Day before the roleplay starts) -->
Ferethor hears about the war and drops the oar (The day the roleplay starts) -->
Fame and Fortune sets off.

Oh, and Thistle, this would presumably give our characters a chance to interreact - although Ferethor's going to be out cold most of the time. They'd throw us into the slave quarters for recovery, right?

[Folwren]

You need help, Perky.

Those posts looked excellent, Aman and Fordim. And Eorl...don't think yourself too far behind. I thought your writing excellent, too!

I'm getting very excited about this game...if only to read other people's writing!

-- Folwren

[Thinlómien]

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – No

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? - None

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn – Yes
_______________________________________

NAME: Lingwë, son of Laurendil

AGE: 20

RACE: gondorian human (with some númenórean blood in his veins)

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Lingwë has a long sword. It's not a very fine or beautiful sword, but well-balanced and well-made. Besides the sword, Lingwë has a spear and bow and arrows.

APPEARANCE: Lingwë is 6'3" tall. He is slim, but muscular because of his soldier training and work.
Lingwë has a long face. His nose is long, straight and quite narrow. His relatively small eyes are in a long distance from each other. He has also quite narrow mouth.
Lingwë's hair is so dark brown that it's nearly black and he has bluegrey eyes. He has quite fair complexion, but he is tanned of spending so much time outdoors.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lingwë is mostly quite quiet and obsersive; he listens more than he speaks. He is usually serious, but likes playing friendly jokes on his friends. He's a bit of a pessimist and has an ironic sense of humour. He is perhaps more mature than many other young men of his age. He is loyal and hard-working and keeps usually the complaints - which he usually has lots of - to himself.

Lingwë is a trained soldier, so he knows how to fight. He is equally good in using sword, spear and bow. Lingwë is an exellent swimmer and diver and can hold his breath for a long time. For his serving time on a ship called Gaerandir he has a bit of seafring skills. He is that much educated that he can read and write.

Lingwë's not very quick-witted and sometimes he might by carried away by such a little things as the cry of seagulls or a beautiful horizon. He has a bit of claustrophobia and dislikes sleeping in such a tiny space belowdecks. It's the thing he hates the most about ships. He has no natural leading skills; he is not charismatic or even empathethic. Some people think that he is cold.

HISTORY: Lingwë was born in autumn of 1789 T.A. He was a strange-looking baby with eyes in a big distance from each other. The midwife playfully called him 'Little Fish'. His parents agreed that their second son looked like a fish and named him 'Lingwë', which means 'fish' in quenya. Later, Lingwë has proved that the name is more than suitable to him; he's an exellent swimmer and diver.

Lingwë's father was a succesful glassblower in Pinnath Gelin and he taught his profession to his elder son. Lingwës mother was a honourable housewife. Because of his father's succes their family was quite rich for an artisan family when Lingwë was a child. Lately, the family has losed much of its wealth because of an competent glassblower who moved to thecity five years ago.

Lingwë was the third child in the family. The eldest child, a daughter, had died right after her birth, so Lingwë had only one elder sibling to couple with. His elder brother Ciryandil, five years his senior, was a real nuisance to him in the days of their childhood. Ciryandil kept telling Lingwë that he was a slimy little fish capable of nothing and made his little brother's life difficult by all means he knew.

Luckily, Lingwë had a little sister, Eärelen, whom he played with. The biggest tragedy of Lingwë's life took place when Eärelen died to a sickness in the age of eleven. Lingwë still remembers his lively little sister with warmth and longing, though she has been dead for seven years.

Lingwë's father wanted his second son to be a soldier, and though Lingwë would have preferred to be a sailor or a clerk, he agreed and was sent to a training camp to Lossarnach. There he studied the arts of war. He received his fighting skills rather by hard work and natural dexterity, strengh and stamina than by being gifted with a blade.

After his training he went to serve as a guard soldier on a merchant ship called The Gaerandir. He served on her half a year until he was sacked because the merchant had had so good fortunes that he could afford hiring more experienced and skilled soldiers.

So Lingwë was very happy, when he was accepted to serve on Ráca, a vessel captained by Vórimandur. He looks forward to this mission in the sake of the king.


I don't have time anymore so I'll write the first post tomorrow. I hope that it's okay...

And I think there'll be edits, so tell me if there are mistakes or some things that should be cleared.

[Thinlómien]

One thing - should I read the character descrptions or the first posts of the characters that are not on the same ship as my character?

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ahhhhh, hubris thy name is Fordim.

I utterly neglected the following from my submission. Apologies to Pio and the other gamers.

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – A Land to Call Their Own; Wilderness, Weathertop and Wild Things; The Search for Rhun; Bloodstained Elanor; Land of Darkness; Shadow of the West

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? - None

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn – Yes

[Anguirel]

Thinlomien, I would. We're all part of the same RP. Who knows, you might even enjoy them!

[Folwren]

Alright, I've finally figured out the names for my ship and sword. Should I post them somewhere in my character bio?

--Folwren

[Amanaduial the archer]

Oh, and now I really need an evil smiley...

Thanks for the positive comments - aww Just one thing, Eorl:

Ferethor hears about the war and drops the oar (The day the roleplay starts) -->
Fame and Fortune sets off.

Just one point: the Fame and Fortune has actually already set off, as mentioned, however briefly in Fordim's post, my post and the posts of Hiriel and Anguiriel, and she has already begun her voyage an unestablished amount of time before the RPG starts. Maybe just a few days? Just to clarify that. Otherwise, chuftie

[Kath]

OK I've got the bio done, first post WILL be up by tomorrow. I was going to use lunch today to do it and then stuff happened

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – Yes

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? - Red Flows the Sirannon

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn – Yes

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Kath's character

NAME: Curamir

AGE: 17

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He always carries a small dagger, as it was a present from his father when he was very young. He has used it as a hunting knife for many years and treats it almost as a good luck charm, sure of success if he hunts with it, which he hopes will apply for fighting as well. He also carries a rather battered though perfectly good sword. His family is not rich so he did as many odd jobs as possible for the people in his town and used the money he got from that to obtain an acceptable sword. Both sword and dagger are kept in sheaths on his belt, the sword on the left hand side and the dagger on the right. For armour he wears that which he was given when he joined the army. He has the helmet with its protective cheek and nose guards, a leather jerkin with the Tree of Gondor on it and a chainmail shirt.

APPEARANCE: He has dark hair that resists even the most persistant sun and hangs to his shoulders when loose, so he usually has it tied back out of the way. His eyes are dark but it is difficult to determine the colour as they change with shifting light and emotions. He is tall at 6 foot two and always carries himself to his full height. He has a strong build developed from years of working to repair buildings and helping with the farming in his area, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has proud features, but thanks to his height and almost regal way of carrying himself they suit him and he does not look cruel. His skin is naturally pale but years of working outside have tanned him to a light brown pretty much all over. Being proud of his uniform he wears it almost constantly, and merely exchanges his jerkin and chainmail for a shirt if he wishes to appear in civilian clothing.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: He is very friendly and makes friends at the drop of a hat, having an easy confidence about him. He is honest and well mannered, without much of a temper to him. He tends to think clearly and logically, though in the heat of the moment his tongue may get the better of him. Having been the man of the household for most of his life he can seem older than his years, but he is still a child and if things don't go the way he expects or wants he can sometimes behave like one, though his army training has helped with this a great deal. He is eager and willing to learn, so he studies and practises hard, gaining his skills with relative ease. Though he has no particular speciality in any kind of fighting, he is good at all the basic skills and shows great potential as a swordsman. He does become very engrossed in things he cares about, and this can sometimes cause a problem as he does not notice the effect his relentlessness can have on others.

HISTORY: Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something.

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Is that ok? Yell if anythings out of place or just plain wrong and I will have that post up tomorrow. Also, ideas on name would be greatly appreciated as I'm not sure about Curamir.

Set up for easy transfer to the discussion thread ~*~ Pio

[Eorl of Rohan]

I'd read it in a moment, but I'm posting this now because Kath is on and I don't want him to go off while I'm still reading. ^^;

[Eorl of Rohan]

Er, Kath, obviously our perceptions are different. My faults. I did mention that the mother died soon after birth, methinks. Anyway, here is how I view our history -

Ferethor hit the streets when his father died, at the age of twelve. He didn't miss him, a cruel and brutal man who couldn't afford his own whisky, let alone feed and clothe his son decently. He was picked up by a gondorian guard, who adopted him into his household. Ferethor was not a model son, he drank, he swore, he habitually left home. Then he fell in love with the eldest girl of the household and ran away and got married despite the foster's parents immense disapproval. They had a son, but the girl died soon after childbirth, and when Ferethor disappeared, your character were left in the grandfather's care - the very one that were against his daughter being married to such a vagabond as that (despite the honor and rank he earned in the military profession, he still thinks that) and thinks that his daughter's death was due to Ferethor's neglect. Actually it was one of the indirect causes, but anyway. The grandfather would be viciously against you ever finding your father or be a military man, and under him you would still be.

But then, AND THIS IS IMPORTANT, you don't have to follow my way of thinking. If you don't like it, if it does not fit in with your character, it would be easy enough for me to change. Okay?

[piosenniel]

Folwren

Please post the ship name and the sword name on this thread and not as an edit to your character bio. I'll put them on the Discussion Thread.

~*~ Pio

[Folwren]

I'll get those here tomorrow. Sorry. I left them on the computer at work, and I'm afraid I don't know either of them well enough to try to remember them now.

It'll have to wait.

Till later, all!

-- Folwren

[Kath]

Ok Eorl I'll pop a couple of changes in. To be honest I think I had read that and just plain forgot So, mother dead and raised by grandfather. Grandfather blames you for mothers death, BUT others in the area don't which and my character remembers vague bits of you and thinks you've been painted too much as the evil villain. Grandfather allowed my character to go into the army because the arguments caused so much strife at home.

That all sound fair? Oh and Eorl, I'm a she!

[Eorl of Rohan]

Originally Posted by Kath

Ok Eorl That all sound fair? Oh and Eorl, I'm a she!

Why do 'she' people use masculine names? +grumble+ But then, people sometimes mistake me, too.

[Kath]

How on earth can you consider Kath a masculine name!?! What male name do you know that can be shortened to that? And are my changes ok, do they fit with your idea better now?

[Eorl of Rohan]

+puts up a spirited defense+ Unless your real name is Katherine, I see no feminine name that could be shortened to Kath either! Eorl, on the other hand, is a real feminine name, e, o, r, l, all soft consonants and vowels, but K, TH, those are hard consonants, right? They are usually reserved for masculine names. +gets confused herself+ But anyway.

Oh, you edited your last post! I didn't see it there, my apologies. My comments are bold.

Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. Er, your mother was a manic depressive (I did mention that in the post I showed you, I think.) and Fere hardly ever showed up at home, so, a happy childhood? Not likely... However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after Mother died soon after childbirth, that is why you only remember your dad, and the reason that after Ferethor's disappearance you were sent off to your only surviving relative, your grandfather. and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. As you wish. Specifics would be nice. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son Who'd say that is a liar. True, Ferethor did love your character, but he was the kind of person who'd die with mortification if anyone, and that includes you, ever thought that he felt any kind of affection toward anything at all. He'd never have let his feelings show in front of anyone else... Except for his drinking partners. That's one weakness of his. He talks when he drinks, and so the people at the tavern might know. and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. Yay! You're learning to use commas! At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something.

Yep, this is it, folks, and eru-speed with all your posts!

[Firefoot]

So, Eorl, you are a she? And on the topic of genders... I don't think there's anyone on this thread who has my gender confused, but I am a she.

[Folwren]

Eorl, you're a she?! Man. I thought for the longest time you were a guy. You write like one. Hmph.

I'll have to get used to that.

I still don't have the names, everyone, but I'm about to leave for work, so I'll be posting when I get there.

-- Folwren