OOC
Minecraft Username: mtior
Are you at least 18 years old?: Yes.
Have you read the rules? (Link): Yes.
How did you hear about Avalore?: See below.
Were you referred by someone? If so, please provide their in-game username: ArgetAdurna
Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins): Hi, I am Meteor. I used to rp under the user 'Duckweather' and I know some members of the overall MC-rp community from that. I've taken some time away trying to diversify my interests offline, but I feel I am ready to return to roleplaying so here I am!
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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?)
Mervyn blinked once more.
The woman’s words hadn’t quite pulled him from the depths of his mind but rather, they spat him out. His fingers shifted, long and pale and nervous, clutching tight at the spine of his journal. The pages were swollen from elements he wished not to name, because that was to gratify their weight in the world.
He looked up.
“I, uhm,” he stumbled with his words. “I remember there was this cliff near my village,” he said, giving her something less than a nod, “where the other boys would throw pebbles and pretend they saw sails drifting back from Pyo. Some teeth poking out from the mouth of the sea.” He paused, his voice carrying this sing-song cadence he couldn’t shake. “I would sit there and wonder what would take me first, the winds or the tides. Neither chose to.”
He coughed in his sleeve, a diversion that allowed him to rest his eyes away from hers. They pivoted to the grasslands passing at the feet of the wagon, then to the sky above, and back to her. “My family, we weren’t much.” He paused to breathe. “A shell in the Moon Clan’s wake at most.” Another beat. “We kept books for a village only known in the salt-deposit ledger. No stronghold or port-town, just a hut and a family blade rusting above the hearth.” That blade. He could picture it, short and ceremonial. It was the one his father would polish with fine cloths though it had never faced another man. But it wasn’t around now. Was it stolen? Who knows. Probably left behind from a choice he once made under some misled notion of courage. “The people back home, they always said to carry a sword with you when travelling to new lands. A clean start, I think?” He asks, not awaiting a response. “I didn’t. I brought the dearth of one. That’s more truthful, I suppose-"
He was interrupted by the wind on the canvas above. It groaned like the hull of a cargo-ship as it went cutting through freezing water. Mervyn glanced at it with anticipation. He expected something to come. A bird, a voice, a fable. Nothing chose to. “I didn’t want to leave home,” he muttered, his nails tracing a page over and over. “I just woke up one morning and was tired. Tired of this feeling that the sea was taking parts of me away. And here? I mean, in the Southern Reach, they say the hills roll on far enough to forget. I suppose I came to see.” He tilted his head back; whatever faint smile he might’ve been holding fading away. “Or, perhaps, I came to see if my feet will keep trembling beneath me like they did on Paksan– where I used to sleep and the sea dreamed with me.”
—
Character Name: Mervyn Galley
Character Race: Human
Character Age: 41
Brief Physical Description:
Mervyn can be construed as somewhat frightening at first glance. He is tall and worryingly thin; his skin is quite dull. Some would say he looks almost as ghostly as an Arsa Sidhe. His face is fairly angular and stuck in a state of perpetual longing. That is to say, his face isn’t really where his emotions reside. That’s more so his body. He walks with a twitching gait and has a tendency to shake, clutching his hands to a journal where he records his thoughts. The man’s hair is cut short, badly so, and is a pale black with grey poking out at his temples. It’s not a healthy head of hair by any means, but it is unobtrusive enough to where he doesn’t have to mind it often. His attire is eclectic, an odd mix of robes as well as other trashed and worn garments.
