OOC
Minecraft Username: The_Awkward_0ne
Are you at least 18 years old?: I'm an ancient prehistoric fossil (yes)
Have you read the rules? (Link): Indeedy!
(Optional) Were you referred by someone? If so, who: One super stinky CCARKUS
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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)? (150 words 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?)
—
Spinning splotches lined his vision upon the beckon to recall. A splitting headache. Piercing cries of the mind as it claws against an indescribable fog, begging for a solid truth. A solid grasp, a solid structure - stability. The only grace given to palm were suffering leaves. The creature winced, but froze. An urge, catching himself from initiating a further display of something undesired. "...Purpose." It growled, the voice vaguely hoarse, though too many pitches too low to seem natural. Sturdy palm pressed against the tip of the neck in wounds unseen, an unfortunate pluck of his aching branches, forever altering his tone. Said palm was quick to flinch towards the sunlight, the shift in brightness catching him off-guard. The chatter was pleasant, a distraction to soothe his aching temple. "Away, from... Tamohn."
There are many goals man can strive for. An answer to a simple question. The creation of a family. Prosperity and security. What are the prices of ambition? Of tampering with forces that were never meant to be trifled with? To play God? Geryon was the result of an ambition to train the most powerful warrior. Versatile, powerful, cunning. Any weapon, any terrain, any foe. Ethics aside, his birth in the fringes of Tamohn was considered the first step; no training can begin without an actual vessel. The academia was mostly comprised of the study of war and alkemia, subjecting him to unspeakable experiments and training. Not all studies in the university had to fall into that of corner-case magics, right? With its devolution into modernity, there were those desperate to cling to the greatness of the past. To restore its legacy - through the art of war, the greatness of old could be restored.
Geryon never met his parents, surely discarded once the researchers acquired what they desired. There were more pressing matters that took precedent over familial bonds: the protection of the neighboring Skykeep from the Valkian Realm. The insurance that it would never see a starving winter, evermore. Geryon would be their ace in the hole, the perfect soldier to at worst, make the enemy Valks reconsider their decisions... or at best, induce a surrender through display of power. If he exceeded standards, perhaps they could even counterattack and return glory to the North. For years he was honed, trained in the arts of war by those of many color and rank, yet sheltered from the outside world. Isolated. Curated. His first tests were conducted against undesirables. Prisoners, destined to execution - a false guise of hope that by killing Geryon, they would be free. A loaded promise.
These tests soon escalated. Starving, hopeless prisoners turned into multiples, turned into hounds, turned into equipped prisoners of war. All this, until the arrogance of the researchers took full swing. He was to be tested against the Jaraid. The apex predator of the mountains. Not only this, some cases he would be poised to overcome them after willingly inducing one of their traps - even if it meant great risk of getting caught in one of its many avalanche schemes. While it would be a spectacle to see... this was not a confrontation fate had in store. Yes, they had trekked all the way to the mountains, set up research camp, and waited... and waited... and waited... to be met with one of these avalanche traps in a scouting trip. In this moment, Geryon sought an opportunity, and took it. He ran, leaving his lifelong captors to their long-awaited fate.
South. Away from this nightmare, to a climate where he could survive - all he knew he could do. Time was a blur, days and nights merging together. Hunting trips - successful catches, life-threatening fails, to leave the beast to starve in the night..... Alas, his mind found what it sought. Recollection, if only briefly.
....How long was he staring? He shook his head, falling to silence as to not elaborate to the woman further. To not push his aching mind this time. He could only find himself looking ahead.
Character Name: Geryon T'exatöre
Character Race: Half-Breed (Human + Greatling)
Character Age: 24
Brief Physical Description: A towering, broad creature with a looming air to him - staggering 8'3". Adorning his head and shoulders are a vast array of tattered cloths and thick leather sheets, coalescing into a vague semblance of a cloak. Such a sorry state is kept together by various layers of what appears to be gauze, some clean where others have stains of only the Gods know what. Thin, rusted chains wrap around the torso and arms to ensure a sturdier stability to what otherwise would be an unstable leather belt that tightly wrapped around the waist, dyed black. Thick gloves and tall boots complete and conceal the rest of the figure's body, ensuring not a mote of skin is shown. Where the face would be, is instead a mask. One made of metallic scraps to create a mishmash of rusted lines and patterns along its surface. Nonetheless, it serves its purpose as it should, covering all but the eyeholes to whatever lays beneath.
