OOC
Minecraft Username: Ramana
Are you at least 18 years old?: Yes
Have you read the rules? (Link): Yes, thoroughly
(Optional) How did you hear about Avalore?: Through a friend
(Max. 1) Were you referred by someone? If so, please provide their in-game username: Yeehawboot
(Optional) Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins): Hi!! I'm Ram, I've been roleplaying in some form or fashion for over a decade, the past three years focused on minecraft rp and DND. I'm a skinner, artist, and (on occasion) a pretty decent builder!
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In-Character
Read the following prompt:
The rhythmic lull of hoofbeats are a marching drum to the small group of pioneers and variety of folk you have found yourself amongst, packed into a wobbling wagon. The rolling plains of the Southern Reach and a clear sky stretch out all around you, the buzz of excited chatter a dull wash in your ears as your mind strays to your former life and what has led you here to new lands.
“Nervous?”
You blink, returning to the present moment. A kindly older woman sat near you is smiling warmly with a crinkle to her eyes.
“I can tell it’s your first time. Still remember mine,” she flashes a grin and leans in.
“Tell me my dear, why have you come to the Reach?”
How do you respond (in character)? (250 word minimum - please make sure to include at least three references to our lore in your response, with two coming from different pages in the Compendium. Two of the three selected should also be in-depth, avoid simply name-dropping lore terms. Tie the terms into your character's backstory. Why are they important to them?)
Eyelids, heavy with sleep, threaten to weigh shut as the Fey-Cursed is lulled to rest by the rhythmic hoofbeats of horses. It's a nostalgic, comforting sound, in a way - a reminder of his home nestled deep within the swamps and marshes south of The Wall. The veil of imagination puts in place the sounds of the mud squelching and lowland water splashing that come with the memories. The Bogstriders with their thick, strong legs. The bayou.. Momma...
The tall one only realizes he'd been fixin' to fall asleep with his eyes wide open when a pleasant little voice cuts through the cacophonous ensemble of speech and marching - both that of man and beast. His empty eyes flick swiftly over to the small woman hunched at his side, smiling up at him with an unfamiliar warmth. There's a long, drawn out moment of silence that hangs between the two, marred by the ongoings about them, that follows her question. Acadian ain't ever been one for mild chit-chat, nor one to so easily speak of himself. Growin' up 'round them Jacks'll teach you to keep your mouth shut - at least those outside his own pact of swamp-dwellin' Fey-Touched and the like. Then again, there's something to this little ol' woman. Something comforting.
"...Well, I do reckon I'm just a Fey-cursed looking fer some proper work up in the drylands - I mean, uh.. the Spire Town. I done grown up on a ranch sort, y'see? We'da breed them big ol' bogstriders n' sell to just 'bout any ol' Walljack that came up with the coin. They make damn good transports for them trader goods through all the muck, if y'can stand it." He'd ramble off, his deep voice lightly rasped by the shift in setting. From the moggy, humid swamp to the open plains... the air is different. Dry. "The point bein', I'm awful strong." He continues, "If I'm lucky, maybe I'll find myself some ol' farmer needin' a farmhand. Er maybe I'll go n' pick up a sword 'n swing it around. I done heard a thing or two back at that er.. Albern Crossin' 'bout some "Militia of the Spire" from a couple'a human fellas talkin' just a bit too loud fer a public place.. Them Valks ain't ever been the quiet ones." He chuckles, recalling the few occasions upon where Valkyian traders came to inquire about transport through the swamp... Damn near blinded the Bogstriders with their righteous sense of self. "I ain't got much combat experience, but I reckon I could learn just 'bout all I needed.." As he speaks, there's something missing - something unsaid and unwilling to be shared. Luckily, at about that same time, the wagon comes to a screeching halt, course dirt and dust from the path kicking up into the air. It's not much, but it's enough to cause the man to begin hacking - as if the dry air itself wasn't bad enough. There's a call from outside; time to water the horses. Catching his breath, the Stone-Fey glances out from the wagon at the grassy plains. Far, far in the distance, a monument only familiar through words gazes back. There's a sharp pang in his chest, his hand creeping up to press over his heart. Had this been the right choice..? It ain't like he has much choice in the matter now...
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Character Name: Acadian D'Alcé
Character Race: Half Fey-Touched, Half Greatling
Character Age: 22
Brief Physical Description: Acadian is, in essence, built odd. He has the height of a greatling, standing at about 7'1", with lean muscle to match. Even so, he's remarkably lanky, sickly looking pale-gray skin pulled tight over muscle and bone, giving him the outward appearance of a stickman. His facial structure, however, is remarkably more approachable. Soft jaw, pursed lips, full cheeks - the stereotypical features expected of the more attractive fey-touched. Then you reach the eyes. Wide, and rounded, Acadian's eyes are two pits of blue charcoal, nearing black in certain lighting, and emanating a particular brand of unease - whether it be his or your own. His hair is long - a cascading curtain of black that begins to fray near the ends as if left uncut for a very, very long time.
