Username:BurningCold
Character Name:Rook Lassa
Race/Species: Southlander Human (Andred)
Gender: Male
Age:Roughly thirty, give or take a year
Career/Class:Militiaman
Weapons:- A wooden crossbow of dark oak, excellent for ranged kills and punching through armor, nearly pulverising unprotected flesh. A sharp metal spike is fixated underneath and to the forefront of the weapon, deadly in it’s own right. The quiver strapped to Rook’s left hip holds six bolts, while the slightly larger quiver strapped to his left thigh can hold ten, but needs to be unclasped first.
- A wooden club with sharp studs of iron nailed into it, simple in design but wildly effective in use.
- A short but sharp knife, to be used for utility or as a last resort.
Physical Description:Athletic and loose-limbed, with a sturdy frame capable of feats of both strength and agility, Rook looks every bit a man used to taking pride in his own physical prowess. His hair, pulled back into a short ponytail, is a light brown, with streaks of rusty red coursing throughout it. While the majority of his face is clean shaven, carefully groomed mutton chops of a slightly darker brown coloration extend down his face to his jawline. Rook’s eyes are hooded with murky hazel irises, the browns and greens blending into each other, and bear a certain intensity to them. This is complimented by his lips, a thin pair of things stuck between a smirk and a frown. Set securely between his eyes and mouth is a wickedly pointy nose, small and sharp like the beak of some bird of prey.
Rook stands on the shorter side of the spectrum at five foot eight, with a canvas of pale skin covering his body. In contrast to his light skin, darker freckles pepper his face, not terribly opaque, but numerous in their quantity. His clothing suggests functionality over flare, consisting of nothing more than a pair of durable leather pants, equally durable and equally leathery boots, and a loose fitting cotton shirt, dyed red.
Armor:- Leather vest
- Leather pants
- Leather boots
Equipment/Other- Travel pack
- In the event of a deep chill or persistent rain, Rook possesses a heavy leather overcoat and a favored woolen cap, with matching gloves.
- A simple bedroll, to keep out the chill when bedding away from civilization becomes necessary.
- Some bandages to staunch the flow of blood and various pouches of remedial herbs, some to fight sickness, and others to act as pain relievers for injuries, to be consumed or applied as necessary.
- Two spare quivers, and currently thirty spare bolts, with room for more.
- A flask of something strong
Mental Description/Personality:At first glance, Rook appears to be jaded beyond his years, with a grim sense of humor that seems to crop up at the worst of times. At second glance, he seems even more so; blasé and listless at best, and intensely pessimistic at his worst. The third, fourth, or even fifth glances you might spare him will all reveal something similar. To say that Rook is motivated by coin would be vastly inaccurate, as he’s not really motivated by much of anything. He just wants to live, plain and simple.
It’s when he can loosen up over a bottle of something strong, with those he trusts drinking alongside him, that Rook is at his happiest. The melancholy loosens its grip around his heart just a little, and he can lose himself in the feeling of shared camaraderie that was lost to him. Even if there’s no one around to drink himself to hell with, he’ll probably do so anyways. This is mostly to say, that in Rook’s opinion, being drunk will always beat being sober.
Goals: Rook doesn’t exactly want for much in life. He’s looking forward to the simple things, like finding out what sleeping on a soft bed feels like. Having a friend or two to share drinks and a game of cards with wouldn’t hurt either. He figures that mercenary work can eventually get him to both things, provided he doesn’t die first. Fortunately for Rook, he happens to be rather good at not dying.
Background/History:Rook was born and raised in the town of Carver’s Bastion, an insignificant and unimportant frontier village that lacked the fortune of even being marked on most maps. A relatively isolated charter in the far north of the Southlands, contact with outsiders was frequent and very few dealings were friendly. Indeed, the rare appearance of honest traders looking to barter their goods seemed like a godsend upon each occurrence. Violent incursions into the villager’s territory by all manner of brigand and beast bred the townspeople into hardy, wary folk. It seemed that not a single man, woman, or child, went without appropriate training to defend themselves and their land. Rook was no different, joining the town’s militia at fourteen years of age, himself.
The question remains then, why did Rook join the militia at such a young age? Simply put, he had nowhere else to go. His mother died of a grave illness when he was but a babe, and his father fell in battle whilst defending the town from the notorious Cracked Shield Gang. While Carver’s Bastion was by no means a city, it was no small hamlet either. Disenfranchised children didn’t last very long on it’s streets. Militia life promised steady pay, rations, and a place to rest your head at night if one was needed. It seemed a simple choice, in Rook’s opinion. And so, with fire in his gut and vengeance etched onto his heart, he pledged allegiance and devotion to the militia and it’s captains, but within the confines of his own mind, a second, more personal vow was wrought. He, Rook Lassa, would hunt down and destroy the Cracked Shield Gang, right until the last man drew his last breath.
Life in Carver’s Bastion meant that children had to grow up tough and grow up fast, but in the militia, you couldn’t be afforded the luxury of growing up. You either were, or you were dead. However, while certainly a grim profession, battle and death did not consume a militiaman’s life. Though attacks were common, not all were extreme, and certainly there were lulls of peace at points. Gambling was a favored pastime of many off duty soldiers, one that Rook picked up right after his induction, and as a consequence, became quite proficient at. It was this steady rhythm of certainties that kept him going during his time in the militia. Fight, live to see another day, mourn those less fortunate, then drink yourself silly in celebration of managing to sustain your own life. A few would play cards, a tradition among those in Rook’s circle. A few would sneak off to relieve some tension with a mutually attracted partner, another popular tradition among Rook’s circle, for those lucky enough.
There was a certain bond that all members of the militia shared. Though they were there for wildly different reasons - in many cases, to protect loved ones - these were the brothers and sisters in arms that fought alongside you, bled alongside you, and wept alongside you whenever a sibling was felled. They were the people that no matter the case, would always have your back.
This knowledge only made the betrayal that occurred all the more painful.
Years passed since that boy with nothing but a will and a way joined the Carver’s Bastion militia, growing into a grim but determined man, the fire in his gut that got him this far now an inferno. That man was also enjoying a night of gambling and drink with those in his closest circle, unaware that in a few short hours, his entire world would be ripped asunder. Rook was grinning bitterly as his friend and captain Traz Torus laughed aloud, collecting his winnings from the center of the table. The other players of the game bore similar expressions to Rook. The captain released another laugh, more of chuckle than the bellow of victory that came before, resting his eyes on Rook. “Let me take your watch tonight, Rook.” A wry grin formed across Traz’s face. “Least I can do after bleeding you of a week’s earnings!”
The loser in question simply snorted, waving off Traz as he headed to his quarters. “Do as you like, old man.” Then, he lay alone in his bed, drifting slowly to sleep.
It was the smell of smoke drifting in through his open window that roused Rook initially, but it was the cries of alarm and terror throughout the militia headquarters that knocked sleep out of his head with all the force of a steel-cast mallet. It took him only a few moments to gear up, and then he was bursting out the door of the barracks, crossbow in hand. The sight before him was nearly too great to bear.
Carver’s Bastion was burning, the militia engaged in a desperate defense against forces unknown as the citizens themselves fought tooth and nail against the attackers. Rook thought he could see the signature marking of the Cracked Shield Gang floating amongst them; a single black line, painted in a jagged pattern diagonally across shield or shoulder pad. Tendrils of anger began to coil themselves around Rook’s heart then, constricting it until he thought it would burst. First it was his father, years ago. Then it was Jaden Kiren, only a few years older than Rook was when he first joined. Names began to flash across his mind then, each one striking him like lightning. Tarasa Yotkus, Zane Tredin, Wallum Kott, Trarm Vanders, so many friends and allies slain by Cracked Shield weaponry. Now Carver’s Bastion itself was set aflame, it’s citizens and sworn defenders alike caught unawares, to be butchered like cattle.
At that moment, Rook let out a cry of rage, so guttural and violent in its nature, that the two bandits advancing upon him gave temporary pause. An unwise decision, the bandit on the left would soon discover as a crossbow bolt found purchase in his neck, causing him to collapse to the ground a moment later. The remaining adversary broke out into a run, closing the distance between her and her target. A fire erupted in her thigh, and she stumbled as she dropped her blade in surprise. She glanced down, grimacing at the sight of the bolt lodged deep into her leg. A similar pain emerged in her other thigh, and she dropped to her knees. Osya Kalsz stared into the eyes of the red haired man advancing upon her, as he slung his crossbow across his back. She stared into his eyes as he reached for a mean looking club hanging from his waist, the fingers of his right hand curling tightly around it. She stared into his eyes even as he raised the club high into the air, bringing it down upon her head with so much force that Osya’s pretty face caved in violently, blood spurting from various fissures across the wound like water from a broken faucet. Pa had always told her to face danger head on.
Rook stared down at the corpse in disgust, kicking it over unceremoniously, before charging into the fray before him. He fought alongside the townsfolk with a ferociousness matching that of a furbolg. It felt as if they were gradually pushing the Gang back, and they were. Traz Torus had not expected the people of the village to be so effective in their defense. The militia no doubt, that was why he offered to take Rook’s watch. If he could stealthily kill the other watchmen on the southern flank, it would allow the Cracked Shield Gang an easy opening, with the militia temporarily scattered at best. Yet, much to his chagrin, Rook and the rest of the militia had rallied the rest of the town to greater effect than expected. So, hoping that enough plunder had been pilfered during the chaos, Traz sounded the horn of retreat. Unbeknownst to him as he fled into the forest alongside his company, Rook watched him depart, his mouth agape and his eyes wide in disbelief, even as he began to line up the shot.
The bolt nearly met its target, tearing an angry red gash across Traz’s throat, yet failing to find any sort of purchase. On a whim, he spared a glance back in the direction of the village as he pressed a hand against the wound to staunch the blood flow. Rook’s form was unmistakable as he fired another shot, and the man to Traz’s left dropped to the ground like a bag of stones. The traitor spared no more glances now, and increased his pace, speeding off into the night.
With the absence of the Cracked Shield Gang, everyone left within Carver’s Bastion turned all of their attention to putting out the fires burning their town to cinders. It wasn’t until dawn the next day that the last of the flames were extinguished, and the survivors met in what remained of the town center to discuss a plan of action. Uncertainty permeated the crowd like a thick fog, corpses of both friend and foe still fresh all around. It was Rook that chose to take action, climbing to the roof of a mostly intact house, he shouted down to the crowd below: “Look at you pathetic whelps! Huddled together, clinging to one another like a bunch of frightened northerners! It was only hours ago that the Cracked Shield Gang slew your families and burned your homes to ash! It was only hours ago that the Cracked Shield Gang made off with our few but precious valuables, and laid waste to our fields! It was only hours ago that Carver’s Bastion was razed to the fucking ground! And do you know who led this fierce assault? Who allowed those scum to come here unperturbed and defile our sacred land? The land that generations of brave men and women died defending, so that we may yet survive? Well, I’ll tell you who! Traz. Fucking. Torus. Even now he sits pretty with his band of thieves and murderers, profiting from our destruction! My captain, your sworn protector, has aligned himself with our worst and oldest enemy! Sons and daughters, take up your parent’s swords! Mothers and fathers, take up your children’s bows! Today, we are all men and women of the militia! Today, we hunt down and destroy the Cracked Shield Gang, right until the last man draws his last breath!”
The effect on the crowd was immediate, the power of Rook’s words tearing away any doubts they might have felt. The mob, with Rook and the remaining militia members at the lead, spread throughout the forest like a determined cancer, until at last they came upon Cracked Shield Fort. The most impressive structure was a large, but dilapidated stone tower at the center of the camp, with various huts and houses surrounding it. They were cheaply constructed, constantly torn down and rebuilt whenever the other creatures of the forest beset themselves upon the bandits. Yet again Traz Torus underestimated the resilience of Carver’s Bastion. He had expected the survivors to either flee or dig themselves in, not launch a counterattack so soon after the assault. They would certainly be exhausted after the previous melee, but, he noted with grim apprehension, so too would be his own men.
With the villagers coming at the fort from all sides, the bandits close to the flanks were cut down with ease, scattered and unprepared in the face of this fierce retaliation. Those closer to the tower, and within it, put up a desperate fight, though against the mob’s superior numbers they too fell. Rook himself went on ahead of the fighting, seeking out Traz on his own. Ransacking throughout the tower, he was discovered, unsurprisingly, upon the roof.
Rook and Traz locked eyes then, and the latter’s casual advance towards the former was stopped by the raising of his crossbow. “One more step and your death will be slower than I already plan on making it.” Traz opened his mouth to speak then, but all that came out was a garbled cry. The corner of Rook’s mouth tugged slightly at the sight of the bolt firmly embedded in Traz’s gut. “What was that, Traz? I couldn’t quite hear you.” Rook fired another shot, this one shattering Traz’s kneecap, and the former militia captain sagged to the ground. “No weapon, really? Did you think you could talk your way out of this? Or what if I wasn’t even the one to find you? Did you think you’d be taken prisoner?” Rook shook his head slowly, in what looked to Traz like disappointment. “You’re a damned idiot, Traz.” He began to advance upon the wounded man now, knocking him flat on his back with a swift kick to the face.
Traz looked at him in confusion. “You don’t… even want to know… why?” Rook raised his club high into the air, and terror encircled Traz. He began to edge away from Rook, desperate to prolong his life, praying to any god that would listen that someone friendly show up on this roof and save him- The club smashed into Traz’s groin, and he screamed in agony. Rook, wordless, with a strange mix of anger and determination, continued the assault. Again the club bore down on Traz, shattering several ribs. Again Traz cried in pain, coughing up blood in the process. Rook straddled Traz’s chest then, and raised the club above his head, clutching it with two hands, before smashing the weapon into Traz’s terror stricken face. Once, twice, thrice. Again and again the club was reared into the air before colliding with Traz’s skull. At last, when all that remained of the face of Rook’s old friend was a crushed paste, the club clattered to the ground. And, still straddling Traz’s corpse, Rook craned his neck skywards, staring at the clouds as they drifted listlessly across the air, and began to weep.
The remnants of Carver’s Bastion returned to their desecrated village, even fewer now than when they left. It was almost unanimously agreed upon that their best chance of survival would be to head north, until they discovered either safer lands to settle, or an already established community willing to take them. So their trek began.
The survivors’ desperate exodus to safer, northern lands, was plagued with hardship and loss. Many died to the various threats surrounding them at all times. Hunger, illness, and the hostile wildlife dwindled their numbers, and many, seeing the fate of their comrades, chose to peel away from the main group, they too adding to the travelers' losses, in one way or another. And so it was, over the course of many grim months, that the survivors became one hundred, then fifty, then ten, then one.
The red haired man squinted at the high-walled city in the distance, a hand shielding his eyes against the harsh sun. Rook, the last of Carver’s Bastion’s militia, and indeed, the last of Carver’s Bastion entirely, had reached the city of Starkvale.
Member
Inertia,
Neziul,
Chrys,
Ducksworth