-Minecraft IGN: Broken_sky
(this is subject to change. I've had a hack attempt on this account and may be forced out of it eventually.)
-Skype name (Optional, for server OOC chat): grz_art
-Do you have any prior roleplay-related experience, if so could you give an example? I do in fact have prior role-play experience; Though I do not know what be a sufficient example. Here's one of the last posts of one of the RPs I was in on these forums some years ago; I doubt my writing has improved much since then.
Tirsen named the plant as he saw it, making sure his memory was still sharp. He bent over and dug his fingers into the soil around the plant, loosening the dirt around the plant's deep roots. He gently pulled it up from the ground; the long, red, subterranean branches that gave the plant its name coming forth. He brushed the plant clean, and gently tucked it into his bag.
Looking up into the sky, Tirsen realized he did not have enough time to continue searching for reagents, so he settled for what he had and began the return into the city.
"Which way to Leoch's?" Tirsen repeated, over and over; and again again he went unnoticed. The people, either too busy or too racist to give him the time of day, would not answer his simple question. He attempted to read several signs posted in hopes of some direction, but after so long he still did not know how to read well enough to determine what "Leoch" would look like written down. So he continued to ask around, hoping someone would show mercy. In the back of his mind he regretted leaving the city at all; he should have stayed to keep following the man. Tirsen was too embarrassed to have mentioned his lack of literacy to his bandit companions, not that he thought they could read either; but now he was certainly stuck.
Finally, a young boy pointed in the direction of the inn, much against his mother's wishes, who quickly snatched him up and ran off. But Tirsen had enough to work with. He drifted in the general direction of the inn long enough to catch wind of the smell of alcohol, vomit, and sweat. He calmly walked into the establishment and braced himself.
As he expected, the patrons of the bar quieted themselves for a moment, staring at him. Probably wondering what he was doing there, and where the rest of his clothes were. He stood there and stared back at them briefly, then sat himself down where it was empty. He glanced around the room and noticed the man from before, along with lizardmen and that...odd lynxwoman. He decided against approaching them, since they seemed to be amidst conversation. Instead he decided he would wait for his bandit friends and let them do all the talking...if they ever managed to show up.
Just in case they wouldn't, Tirsen went over in his mind ways to prove himself for the man and seem worthy to be taken along in the quest to claim the bounty.
-Define Power-gaming in your own words: Power-gaming is when someone is behaving "unrealistically" or otherwise uncharacteristically for the purpose of "winning" or achieving their desired goals, instead of allowing events to unfold naturally or realistically. For example, always going for the killing blow in combat, or always being able to avoid capture. It is unrealism for the sake of being right or exceptional. And it's rather childish.
-Define Meta-gaming in your own words: Meta-gaming is using OOC knowledge IC; it is taking information that you, as a player, are aware of and applying it to your character. For example, understanding a language that is not common that your character is not learned in, or using information you read through the Lore that your character would have no real way of knowing.
-Define Role-Playing in your own words: Roleplaying is the nearly lost art of storytelling and character development from multiple authors, each one writing and creating from the vantage of his own character. Like an unscripted play where every actor is a playwright, it is fully adopting the character you have created in a created world, and allowing the genuine interactions between other characters and the world around them to develop into its own unique story and style of gameplay.
-Character name: Veras Vayrderoth
-Character race: Half-Elf (Human and Dark-Elf)
-Character gender: Male
-Character age: 24
-Character Occupation: Hunter / Poacher (this occupation is a ruse to divert attention)
-Character description: Veras appears more dark-elf than human; his complexion is an almost purplish-grey, his eyes are a reddish brown, and his hair is bleach white. He stands at approximately 5'10, with a thin but lean physique. His humanity manifests itself most innately: he does not possess the same low-light vision or metabolism that his mother had; he is much more like an average man in prowess and ability.
He keeps his hair cut long; not that it is seen often. His typical outfit consists of cloaks and hoods, and very often face masks, to shield his face as much as possible from the elements of magic that mages would hurl at his head to blind or scar. He is always dressed ready for battle, with leather armor, boots, and strappings both light and flexible; with little regard for protection from weather. He retains a sword given to him by his father, used by the elder during his time in the Hunters' Guild, and a bow given him by his mother; a weathered remnant of a time long past.
-Character personality and traits: Veras is a stoic man; hardened by the training and experiences he endured during childhood. His ultimate drive is one of a very skewed perception of justice and religion. He exists to persecute magic. His father, a madman, instilled this in him, and he would show no remorse over the corpse of a mage of any age or race. His hatred is intense and his purpose is clear, but in his own mind, he does all of this out of duty and service to Aderoth; a god usually attributed to healing rather than death. His beliefs are thus cultish and specific to his family (and whatever madmen would believe his words). He is also thus a very religious man, venerating Aderoth and deifying angels. He sees the act of magic persecution as a service to Aderoth, and as a "healing of the land."
Outside of these inexplicable beliefs, however, Veras would not be considered as mad as his father. He is calculating and practical, perhaps, but not without mercy and goodness to others. His strong religious convictions mean that he is kind and generous to the common man, but in the absence of a smile and without a need for thanks. On a personable level, he is reserved, seemingly always focused on his mission. Internally, however, he struggles with doubt; plagued by the memory of his forgotten sister, a mage slain by his brother's hand in the sight of their father. Sometimes, it would appear as though he buries himself in his work and excuses his actions with religion in an attempt to bury her memory.
Lastly, Veras has a love for book-knowledge. He has collected numerous tomes and holy scrolls and will pay dearly for any writings pertaining to Aderoth. He has been known to write himself, though mostly for documentation of his exploits and travels.
Blood is everything.
In order to understand the man that Veras has become, one must understand the heritage of his blood. It started years ago, with the unheeded march of the Pact. Forced to flee Manadh Calad, a Dark-elven woman sought succor in the city of Barkamsted, a refugee from the raging war. On her way into town she came upon a young human man, shouting on about Hunters and recruitment. She didn't hear his words, only his lovely voice. She often whispered that they two were fated to meet there. He was young and she was forward, and neither of them had care for the stigmas placed upon such relationships; war gives way to recklessness. And unbeknownst to her, he was a man of war and devotion, in service to the Hunter's Guild for which he had become a recruiter; the old men of the Guild wanted a younger face to attract more younger faces, so he never saw real battle, but he was trained in their ways and taught their secrets.
Years passed and battles were waged, and a time came when whispers of the fabled Blighted Weapons reached the Hunters' ears. Whether devotion or madness drove him, none know, but he became so obsessively devout to Aderoth, and to light and purity, that it became this lowly Hunters' self-proclaimed mission to find these artifacts: not for use, but destruction. He began to ramble on upon the evil of the forbidden magic that formed them, and of the evil of all magic (a belief either propagated by his Dark-elf lover, or perhaps the belief that drew him to her). In the last years of his life he shut himself and his lover up in their home, and while they dutifully observed the law they were scarcely seen or heard from again. In seclusion he created his own dichotomy of religion, a cultish understanding of magic as being the antithesis of light and holiness (despite the fact that holy magic exists; a colloquial "grey area" of the madman's own headcanon), and in seclusion he taught this knowledge to his sons.
Veras was not the eldest. His elder brother was Verildar, whom Veras did not truly know. He was given the name Vayderoth, in honor of Aderoth, and instructed in the art of the hunt as his father knew. After Veras was born, he remembers that Verildar would come home many a night with a trinket in hand: the trophy of a different kind of hunt. Veras only understood this truth when his younger sister was born. At a young age, Verildar held some sort of trinket close by her, a ritual that he supposed that both brothers had undergone when they were too young to remember. One by one, a series of trinkets were held to her, and at the last, it glowed and sparked. She had manifested a talent for magic. After a moment of silence, Verildar killed the young girl with his own hands, as their father watched and was made proud. Veras was too young to understand and screamed and cried, but this family-cult assured him that their sister had become an abomination and a blight; the curse of the world. One night soon after Verildar did not come home, and the vigil to Aderoth lasted a week after his death; reportedly at the hands of a master mage.
Veras' duty became all the more clear that day. He has come to understand magic as a blight itself, whether it is used for good or for evil. It alone is the reason for the cracks between hell and earth. Veras has adopted his father's hatred of Bothimir, equaled only by a hatred for Udero who keeps Aderoth and Behmos in balance. Shrines to these "false" gods are desecrated in Veras' sight, as is the life of any would-be mage, as he now travels to and fro seeking to end the lives of the next would-be arcanists, under the guise of a poacher selling game. Veras has sworn an oath by Aderoth to deliver holy and pure justice, whether or not the common folk understand his goals, and to never forget the sacrifice Verildar made to keep the world safe from evil; a sacrifice paid in blood.
Blood is everything.
-Please give us a short RP response to these two scenarios. (At least one paragraph for each):
You’re walking around the markets at around noon. There’s a lot of people around you, still gathering their items as they prepare to shut down their many stands. Suddenly you feel a gentle lifting of your coin purse as a child graces you and soon after they take off sprinting. You have been robbed.
"You rotten little..."
Veras muttered in Elvish under his breath as he realized what had just occurred. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, he pounced and began to pursue the child through the markets. The chase was natural; instinctive. The prey was different; perish the thought at considering the child such, but in its own way, the cat-and-mouse game they played was its own kind of hunt. Without a second thought, Veras whispered a silent prayer to Perities; not for the grace of truly hunting the boy, but the grace of catching him. Though in his mind he understood that he was simply retrieving his purse, Veras soon began to experience the all-too familiar flashes that came with the chase;
With each step he saw the terrorized faces of young mages, looking back at him in horror as they realized their fate. With each market stand that made wind as he rushed past, he heard the cries of the arcanist as they struggled to conjure some spell to defend themselves with. Suddenly, he was no longer pursuing a young thief. He was the witcher, and the child the monster; he the huntsman, and the child the prey. His eyes narrowed, his stride expanded, his gait quickened as he tightened his limbs and became like a deer galloping through the forest of stalls and stands. And now, he was upon his prize.
He reached forth and snatched the child by his garb, yanking back with enough force to tear the cloth. As the child fell, he spilled the coin in every direction. His eyes met Veras', and a familiar terror his countenance. The child was a young girl. Veras had taken the life of innocence before, though to call a mage innocent was a foreign notion; but never could he bring himself to bring judgement on the young girls. They were too much like...her. The one he lost to evil. The one taken from him, just as he had taken from others in the name of Good. In the eyes of the young thief, Veras saw his sister. Her cold and lifeless corpse staining the ground with the pestilence of magic; her blood redeeming man of sin.
His vision ended, and the child had gone. A crowd gathered as Veras stood motionless over the pile of coin, and a beggar crept ever closer to try and take some for himself. Veras knelt down and gathered what he could before turning to go. To hide.
You’re heading back to the city through the woods when you hear a whining coming from nearby. Upon further investigation you come across a grey-coloured wolf that appears to have its leg caught in a bear trap. Around it is three smaller lumps of fur, obviously puppies belonging to the trapped mother. Without help, they’ll all die, but wolf skins are quite valuable too, not to mention that the nearby farms suffer quite a bit from the wolf population.
"And so," Veras muttered in the Elvish tongue, "The mighty hunter becomes the prey."
He knelt down beside the injured creature, and it snarled; unable to discern his motives. Truthfully, he could do no better. He simply did his best to assess; could the creature survive? Probably. But that would require more effort than he had to give. The likelihood is that the creature would die; the mighty hunter felled by man's poor attempt to be like her.
The animal yelped in pain, and the pups around her barked and howled, one of them gnawing at Veras' boot.
"Your time has come, hunter," he whispered to the wolf, "rest from your chase."
With one swift motion he drew his sword and plunged it, with both hands on the hilt, into the creature's eye. It gave a final shriek before curdling, twitching as its nerves reacted to the final moments of death. Immediately, the pups viciously attacked Veras, and he had no choice. He knew that they were but protecting their caretaker, but they were no hunters of their own that they could withstand him, or the wilds of the woods, alone.
With three twists of his wrists, they all lay in the grass, lifeless. Veras carefully undid the bear trap holding the creature's body, and he skinned it for its pelt. He took no pleasure in the act, but saw the befitting cycle represented by hunter and hunted. He slung the fur over his shoulders, saying a prayer to Aderoth to accept the hunters' souls as he carried his earnings into the village. In a way, the she-wolf served a higher purpose. Her skin added to his guise so that his mission could continue unnoticed; and in her own way, she was helping rid the world of its gravest sin.
Or so he convinced himself.
Extra notes (Optional, could include theme songs, pictures, etc.):