(Posting for a friend, since they don't have a Minecraft Forums account~)
-Minecraft IGN: HollowGold1
-Skype name (Optional, for server OOC chat): N/A
-Do you have any prior roleplay-related experience, if so could you give an example?: Extensive experience in D&D and MCRP as well as having owned my own server in the past
-Define Power-gaming in your own words: Power-gaming is forcing actions on another character, not allowing them to react or emote. (As an example, it would be like stabbing a character without allowing them time to even dodge or emote.)
-Define Meta-gaming in your own words: Meta-gaming is using information that you learned OOC to benefit yourself IC.
-Define Role-Playing in your own words: Role play is adopting the life of a character, much like acting, the character existed in the world before you played them and, as long as they don’t die, will exist after you leave.
-Character name: Rivan Talrythin
-Character race: Human
-Character gender: Male
-Character age: 35
-Character Occupation: Blacksmith and Swordsman, with minor experience in mining.
-Character description: Short, brown hair frames a narrow, tense face. Wide blue-green eyes full of weariness and longing are set symmetrically into his tanned, scarred face. A narrow line of scar tissue rests near his temple, along with a few other smaller, less significant scars along his cheek and face, a token of battles won and lost. He stands six feet, five inches tall, blending well into a crowd despite his muscular frame. He wears a loose shirt and coat, and a sheath at his belt that holds a sharp blade.
-Character personality and traits: Rivan is a gruff but kind man, with gentle eyes that hold only the slightest edge to them. His demeanor is strong and he stands tall and proud, and he is courteous and reckless, jumping at any chance to fight or defend a true purpose. He is rarely an affectionate man, excluding those that he becomes close friends with. Rivan is bad with emotions, and even worse with comforting people he doesn't know very well. He's outgoing and witty, and speaks with a lilting tone, often calling people "lad" or "lass".
A soft, lilting hum filled the cool autumn air. Heavy footsteps follow the voice, soft thuds connecting with the ground as the man walks. With each soft step, the man's voice grows a little louder, a little more sad.
"If you keep humming like that," the boy next to him spoke up, his own footsteps accompanying the first set, "you're going to scare off all the game. I would like to eat tonight." The boy was his apprentice, a man of simply twenty years old. He was young, and much shorter compared to Rivan. He was training the young lad in the way of the sword. As a young boy, Rivan was taught by his mother to wield, and has since become a near-master in the art.
"Oh, please," the first grunted, voice deep and gravelly, "if a little singing scares the deer away so much that you can't catch one while it's runnin', you don't deserve to eat, lad." A small smile tugs at the man's lips, head cocking to the side.
"You know that you wouldn't be able to get it either, Rivan," the younger said, looking up at the man in front of him. Rivan was taller than him by a long shot, eyeing the younger boy that he had taken as a travelling companion. The two had grown closer over time, but their friendship still remained playful and competitive.
The peace between the two men was cut short, sliced with an arrow through the younger's neck. The seconds passed like years as he watches his companion's body drop like a doll to the ground, fragile, his pale skin as if it were made of porcelain. Rivan felt his arm jerk to the side as another arrow buried itself into his arm. However, he did not feel the pain; instead, he felt a soft rush of darkness lulling him to sleep.
His lips curled into a deep, grating snarl, hands moving toward the nearest pickaxe- a simple tool with a handle carved of ash wood, the head made of a heavy steel. That had been their first mistake; they had assumed that the men that they held in cages, branded with their irons, beat with their whips, were broken. That they had broken them long ago and had not a thing to worry about. Besides, they thought; what could a slave do with a simple pick, when we have swords?
The small slaving caravan ran under the false title of a trading company. Under this guise, they captured younger, susceptible men from the roads by luring them in with food and drink, before drugging and kidnapping them. Each young man was branded between the back of his shoulders with a deep circular mark burned into the skin.
The mark was thought to discourage them from escaping or rebelling, as it was easy to tell previously-owned slaves from the rest. His skin was worn and leathery, but he retained his youthful features, albeit je appeared a bit older due to his now-growing beard. The guards of the caravan didn't expect a man to trigger an explosion in the mine they were forced to work in, however. The explosives were used for controlled demolition. In most situations, the explosives were locked in the back of the caravan, only retrieved by the caravan's guards when needed for demolition. However, with a bit of work at the lock with one of the pickaxes, it was easily broken into by two of the larger slaves.
Rivan's fingers clasped around the handle of the pickaxe and he hefted it, resting it over his shoulder with one hand. Two years of mining, two long, pained years of being whipped, starved, abused. It was a wonder how much he managed to keep fit and healthy, regularly stealing portions after everyone had gone to sleep. It had been easy, nearly effortless to sneak past the guards - he may have been a large man, but they weren't particularly attentive.
He weaved his way through the crowd of slaves and slavers, the group stampeding like a mad herd of deer toward the nearest fence that lined the outskirts of the mine. Rivan shoved past a guard or two, and when one placed his hand on the slave's shoulder, he jerked his shoulder back, swinging the blunt edge of the pickaxe into the man's head. Of course, were he in any other situation, he would have simply knocked the man out instead of likely killing him. But this was a mad dash for freedom, a mad dash to get himself and his companions out of their prison. A mad dash for revenge for the young boy he had become so close with those years ago.
The stampede split into three different directions once out of the gate with few straying from different paths. Those that were mad or sick in the head ran toward the rising sun. The others carried malnourished, ill slaves, sprinting down the roads while the others behind them fought off the guards. The heavy smell of smoke and gunpowder clung to Rivan's beard, filling his lungs. You would think, after time, your body would grow accustomed to the poor conditions of the mine. But even months later, he was still coughing up dust and ash from a previous collapse that had taken three men in his squad. Blood slipped down his back, down his forehead and hand from where he was snagged by a guard's blade and hit in the head. Driven by an unknown force, his legs dragged him along, arms pumped by his side, as it all became a faint blur.
A man has to make a living to eat, and when you are an escaped slave, word among others spreads quickly. His work was simple work; the blood spilled by his hands no longer phased him; at least, he didn't yet allow himself to realize what he had done. It was the purpose, the job of a mercenary to do what he was told in order to make himself a living. Even with a heavy purse at his belt, he felt no joy, no confidence. The man felt like an empty shell, and he hadn't the faintest idea if he could be fixed. But as he boarded the ship, something ached in his chest. Hope? Fear? He could no longer recognize the feelings, but it was something. And so, gripping his chest, he looked into the water with resolve.
-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.
Rivan would chase after the child for a short time before sighing and letting him go, a pickpocket probably needs it more than he does and there’s always coin to be made elsewhere. He’d wander the streets and alleys after, half hoping to find the thief and half hoping to find some trouble to get into. After an hour or two he’d pull the secret stash of coins from his boot and buy some food, sitting down somewhere shady to enjoy it.
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.
Rivan is too much of a soft heart to let the wolf die. He’d take his time to show her that he means no harm before releasing her and stepping away from the puppies. Once the wolf is gone he would destroy the trap and search for others, they are cruel and he hates them.
Extra notes (Optional, could include theme songs, pictures, etc.): Skin: