Appearance: If you look there, yes, there. You will see a young woman. No, not that one, don’t let your eyes be diverted to beauty and a buxom hourglass figure. Look past her, there, see her. The freckled lanky brunette with her hair up in a black velvet band, that is her. Sure, she is nothing spectacular to look at, is she? Just look at her clothes. Dime a dozen knee high boots and a simple tunic. Perhaps a little flair with those beads in her hair, but altogether unspectacular if not a little eclectic. But, that is all the outer shell. Look closer. See it? Well of course you can now that I point it out, that spite and fire lurking behind the dark brown of her eyes. That is what we call spirit, grit, gumption, and many other words, and that is exactly what makes her story interesting. -Freckles -Brown Hair -Dark Brown Eyes -Eclectic (odd) tastes -Beads & A black velvet band in her hair -Knee high boots -Fire in her eyes
Personality:
“I’m a powerful wizard, or at least I’m going to be. No, I don’t have any training for it, and no I don’t have any connections. But I just know it. You know that feeling you get when you fail miserably and you look around and you see no reason why you should keep trying, but you pick yourself up again anyway because that little twinkle? That is the same thing, magic to me is just like that. Also, you know that feeling when you succeed (well I haven’t really experienced this much but I’ve heard plenty of people who have) and you look around and you have everything you could possibly want, and you look to the future and you see that dark little twinkle? That’s because the wonders that are supposed to happen don’t. It is fake, which is the opposite of what my relationship to magic actually is. Basically, that whole “Hero of magic” thing, I’m pretty sure that’s me. I’ve got ten times the drive of anybody who has ever set foot on the planet to master this stuff. I mean, I’ve broken into places, I’ve managed to get just about anywhere I’m blocked or prohibited to go. You might call me a “thief” but I’m no thief. I don’t steal. That’s actually a reason why I am called “Arrow.” It’s short for “Straight Arrow.” People were trying to hurt my feelings by nicknaming me that, but I didn’t let it get to me. See, I don’t need their approval because I am absolutely positive I am supposed to be capable of making wonderful things happen through magic. It’s just... there are so few actually good people in the world. I mean, I know I’m not one of them, but I try to be. That’s gotta count for something.
-Obsessed with becoming a powerful wizard -Knows “stage magic” aka sleight of hand -Follows her own rules -Has a moral code that she absolutely won’t cross -Weird -Talks without thinking -Impulsive -Unlucky
Hero of choice: Hero of Shadow
Notes: While she was raised and trained to be a candidate to be “The Hero of Shadow” she has no clue that she was. To her, that is normal life.
Also, don’t feel like you need to place me in the role, I am open to taking another one and discovering it as we go along. All I ask is that it is hidden or recently revealed. This is because these heroes could possibly be in danger if their destiny is discovered.
Also, you will note a strong "I'm a powerful wizard" theme here. Please note that I am totally giving you an excuse to crap all over my character repeatedly on this aspect since I am purposely not trying for the "Hero of Magic."
As the melodious voice rolled about the darkness without any epicenter, leaving the party glancing about in caution. However, then, then it happened. Something no one had ever seen before. Surely it would be a legend or myth or fanciful tail that everybody would have blown off as complete nonsense. But there it was, and no one could deny it. In the faint light, Emmett blinked, his eyes closed, and then they opened... like never before glowing out as though white hot or replaced with a shaft of dim sunlight streaming through.
This is entirely impossible
The though stopped Rook in his tracks
What in the world! Run you fool, this isn't normal! Run!
This has got to be a dream! This isn't happening, you're just losing your mind!
I was wrong about everything! I have to be!
I have to find out the source of this!
Magic, real magic without smoke and mirrors, without subtlety, isn't possible!
The bombardment of thoughts blasted through his mind in an instant. It was like a lightning bolt of second-guessing, doubt, and amazement arched off of his cranium, and quite a spectacular sight it might make, if people could actually see such a thing.
He stood in awe, no, shock. Who couldn't?! His nephew walked away and he did absolutely nothing. Compelled to stay by his courage, restrained from following by instinct. Then the specter appeared, and sent a cold chill down his spine that would have enabled him to challenge the desert and the sun for decades. For a moment sheer terror gripped him, but only for a moment. Had he been his former self, he would have fled, not caring what was happening in front of him, or to whom it was happening to. All of this was before the scream. Yes, the scream. It echoed through his head, it was as if he was completely alone in a world of nothingness, just him and that one harrowing, abysmal, wailing, shriek.
He knew it. He knew that kroo. It was as familiar to him as his own hand. He knew not what was behind it, but he wanted to, more than anything.
And then he came charging, full force back into the rest of the world where people stab you in dark pits in the middle of the desert unprovoked. However much he would have preferred a stimulating conversation with tea over the events that transpired, he doubted that the charging rogues would be willing to consider it.
"I have tea, perhaps..." He was cut off by two sharp blades. They would have pierced his heart and gutted him in an instant if he were not practiced in the carnal arts. The downward thrust was parried by his war-hammer. The studs in the haft were not only to give added support, give grip, and prevent the head from being chopped off, but also to cause damage. The blow and the block were so powerful and sinister, that the fool chipped off the bone cap in his wrist when he struck. The slice across his belly was countered by Rook diving backward.
Wait and reveal it in game. That way we don't have that "oh, I'm supposed to team up with you" temptation. Likewise it will be fun if people are posting in the OOC their shock (if it is shocking.)
The pack weighed a great deal, but fortunately, the tent and garments had broken his fall. In the collapse, even then, Rook had managed to pull out his two military picks and claw onto a chunk of sandstone. Pieces were raining down on him as he frantically clung to life. Bruised and battered, sand grating in his eyes and causing him to cough, and above all else a weightlessness surrounded by acceleration. Falling. It seemed like he had toppled a thousand feet before he suddenly became aware of himself as Emmett cried out.
For a moment, Rook was stunned and paralyzed, unsure if anything was broken or anything had impaled him. Pain told volumes of his body still functioning, but it wasn’t anything serious. Twisted joints, a contusion here from his tent pegs, a number of bruises, and a fun scrape on his forearms.
He tried to hurry to his feet, but the added 90 pounds of equipment weighed him down enough to prevent that. Hurriedly, he unfastened his pack, and rolled over. His hand made contact with his warhammer, and he instinctively grabbed it. The environment was so radically different from the world above that it made Rook dizzy. Cold where there was blazing heat, dark where the eyes had grown accustomed to blinding light. However, death was everywhere just like before. Only whereas the desert was the land of bleached bones, this was a grave.
Standing was difficult, and almost sent Rook tumbling backward, as his feet dug deep into the slope of soft ash. The disorientation didn’t help. However, he fought it still, moving as fast as he could on three limbs. It was an awkward and slow gate. Twice the distance could be covered in half the time should it simply been a floor instead of a dune, but he was there by his nephew's side shortly enough. At that moment, nobody else even existed. At that moment he was back in his sister-in-law’s house, climbing from the wooden floor where he slept, hearing the cries of his nephew about some unknown threat or injury. But this was more than night terrors. Something did go bump in the night, and it was more than an overactive imagination.
In the dim light (if you could call it that, for it was more like the dead light, that had lost its vibrance and will to illuminate) he identified the form he was very familiar with.
Rook’s calloused hand grabbed tight to the still bound hands of Emmett. He paid no mind to the stinging pain of scraped flesh and sand still embedded in the wound.
“I’m here.” was all he said. He glanced about, looking for salvation, for wounds, for foes, and for any threat, any hope, any insight no matter how small or insignificant.
Uh oh, the storm is raging. Although Rook feared Callan considerably more, he had full confidence in Othen's ability to exterminate his nephew (or anyone for that matter) out of sheer power. While Callan held ruthlessness and skill to deal doom to any opposition, Othen had indomitable strength that could most likely kill in one blow if he truly wanted. A combination of the two would be terrifying. There was indeed one such villain, a slaver, who held such a reputation. Fortunately to all present, they had not encountered him.
What was Rook to do? If he did nothing, Emmett likely would be snapped in two by the giant. On the other hand, did Emmett actually think so low of him, even after his explanation? How could he be so incredibly wrong about his nephew? But then again, those eyes boiling with rage, pink as the heart of a grapefruit. Those were not his nephew's eyes. Even in fights he had seen the young man engage in at the tavern never held so much viciousness and rage.
This gaze was something he had not even really encountered in conflict with those who truly hated him. It was almost like the boy had become part animal. The decision had to be made. If Emmett had lost his mind and was merely a creature at this point, he had to be put down. If they let him go, he would be back on them in an instant. If they restrained him, then they might not be able to make it to the cashe, and that would likely be death for everyone. But who would be the executioner? It was reluctant, but Rook felt the responsibility to do it.
Now he was up, and quick as could be he dashed to Othen's side. Two brilliant a flashes of steel sliced through the desert reflecting the dawning sun. First one and then the other. The daggers Emmett kept on his person were out. But they did not land the death blow. Instead, each made a *clank* and a *piff* as they landed across camp.
“Be careful! I don’t know what witchcraft has beguiled him, but that is not the mind of my nephew. He is mad from more than just the heat.” Rook warned, poised and ready to help restrain him.