[hider=Lambin Hemming] [center][h3]Lambin Hemming[/h3] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/0d/34/d4/0d34d4f69357eb63cbf1d7e3126ca5d0--character-portraits-character-ideas.jpg[/img][/center] [b][u]Name:[/u][/b] Lambin Hemming [b][u]Age:[/u][/b] 27 [b][u]Race:[/u][/b] Human (Bree) [b][u]Sex:[/u][/b] Male [b][u]Personality:[/u][/b] Though often accustomed to finding himself in the spotlight, performing with flute and fiddle, conjuring up cheap tricks, and challenging those that think themselves of fine wit to games of riddles, Lambin is dubiously unreliable when matters of his personal life are brought into question. It would be no secret that he tells any who ask an entirely different falsehood. It would be no secret, provided that Lambin didn’t have the unique gift of remembering each and every tall tale and who exactly is privy to each alteration to the story. Lambin is a pathological liar, and makes no attempt to hide it, simply because he’s so damn good at it. Everywhere he goes, he’s wont to change his stage name and his costume, becoming an entirely different individual on complete whim, easily remembering the appropriate alias for return visits. [b][u]Appearance:[/u][/b] Of slight build with little muscle and far less fat, Lambin barely scrapes past five foot six inches. He sweeps his darkish, mousy hair off to one side, exposing a face of fine features one would be more likely to call pretty than handsome. His cheekbones are high, resting above a sharp jawline that tapers into a similarly sharp chin. A gently sloping nose rests between grey eyes that seem to know more than they tell. [b][u]Backstory:[/u][/b] While accounts differ across the board, as to Lambin’s true story, those persistent enough, or crafty enough - and none are - would be able to gather little, but perhaps enough. They would know that in a sense of things, his upbringing was an unhappy one, he left home, and somehow took up the trade of bardship. However, anyone brazen enough, or wily enough - and none are - to steal Lambin’s journal, would likely find the truest account of Lambin Hemming that exists to date. It reads as such: [i]I normally wouldn’t bother with this. It seems a pointless endeavor to jot down one’s history when the only reference I need is my own memory. Completely frivolous, but Callum says it’s important. He says there’s something to be said about being honest to oneself, especially if one cannot cease lying to the world. Maybe there’s some amount of truth in that, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue. I’m worldwise, and Callum deals in all abstracts. Though I suppose he’s fairly worldwise too. Anyone that knows the man like I do can see that clear as day. Anyways, I suppose I am digressing. Where to start? Well, I’m Bree-stock, through and through, yeah? I was born in an alleyway to a mother that died before the process was quite done. Somebody had to cut her open and pull me out, she couldn’t manage to contract just a little longer. I reckon that the man with the awfully sharp knife was my Pa, though I’ve been wrong before. We didn’t really talk much, on account of him not having a tongue and me having to pick up speech from the nice folk of Bree. Mostly helpful phrases like “off with you!” and “scram!”. All useful words in their own right, but only in certain choice situations. The kind that I was usually on the receiving end of. Luckily, not too many years into my prestigious life, my most likely father brought home a sweet looking girl that introduced herself as my “sister”. And when I say “sweet looking girl”, I mean a buxom tavern whore that couldn’t have been more than ten years my senior, aged five as I was. She taught me my words, but unfortunately my letters would have to come at a later date, from a different teacher. She was kind to me, and got kinder still as I began to grow into boyhood, and then manhood. Not that I was ever much of a man. I stopped growing around fourteen years of age and never got much more than a bit of lean muscle. Clearly, however, that didn’t seem to matter to her in the slightest. Eventually it got to the point where I wasn’t sure who bedded her more often. Me, or my Pa and all the rest of Bree combined. Something tells me that she preferred younger meat over an old man missing three quarters of a tongue and more than a few teeth. Her name was Halla. Well, old tongueless died eventually, and it really was just me and her at that point. Unfortunately for me, whoring around wasn’t enough to support a family of two, not without the financial support tongueless brought to the table. I’d like to say that we parted amicably, but really, she kicked me to the streets without a second thought as to whether or not I appreciated the sentiment. I looked her up years later, you know, on one of my first return trips to Bree. Spent a night with her in the same tavern tongueless found her in. She didn’t recognize me, and never before had I fueled so much hatred into one night of lust. I didn’t look for her again after that, and I never found her either. Anyways, so there I was, yes? Alone in an unforgiving city with not much going for me besides what too many drunk men would call a “pretty face”. So I suppose I took to whoring myself, no? I took their coin purses if they happened to be especially tilted. Men and women alike sought me out, and barring the exception of Halla years later, I could never bear prolonged physical contact. That’s why I never sing and I never dance during my performances. Nobody wants to disturb a flutist while they’re playing, or interrupt a magician’s trick. Those two years were perhaps the worst of my life. I left Bree eventually. Found a place with a little caravan. Riddlers, merchants, magicians and musicians, and that’s how I picked up my trade. That’s where I learned my letters too. Compared to the first seventeen years in Bree, travelling with the caravan was a significant improvement, and I can’t help but to look upon my memories of those times with fondness. As a young robin must spread its wings and flee the nest, so too did I feel the urge to part ways with the caravan and make my own way in the world. Notice how poet is not my vocation of choice. I had funds, so I got myself a horse, a wagon, and some hired help in the form of Callum. His formal title is Spouter of Rot Advice and Ponderer of Existential Nonsense. Alright, I think I’m done now. My hand is cramping. I don’t know why I wrote this all down. -Lambin Hemming[/i] [b][u]Reason for investigating the silent colony?:[/u][/b] Dôr-min-Taur was simply the next stop on Lambin’s travels, and he was not expecting to find the colony in the state that he did. [b][u]Other:[/u][/b] He has a bodyguard named Callum, (an additional npc that I’ll be playing) a skilled swordsman and passable marksman, though he carries no bow Lambin prefers to get himself out of trouble with a silver tongue, but has no issue with avoiding conflict altogether, suited to stealth and skilled in the art [hider=Callum] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/0a/b7/90/0ab7906e01796f9f5e04eeb5f0c5ce52--fantasy-men-fantasy-artwork.jpg[/img] [/hider] [/hider]