OOC
Minecraft Username: Jordankeeper
Are you at least 18 years old?: Yes
Have you read the rules? (Link): YesHow did you hear about Avalore?: From a mutual friend Were you referred by someone? If so, please provide their in-game username: BmZuzu
Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins): The name's Jordankeeper, 22 year old from Malta currently doing a culinary internship in the country of France. Been doing MCRP since around 2016 which means its been about 9 years now, as I've been active on various different servers prior to this one. Mainly looking for a chill server as I was told Avalore is, something to do in my free time. Despite never doing D&D properly, my main area of interest are combat related mechanics, which this server seems to have a nicely fleshed out system which I'm eager to explore.
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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)?
A cocky smiled appeared on the man's face as she asked him about his situation, after all everyone is unique to the reach or so he has heard. As Tyrnir began to mentally collect his path to such, he idly reached out for the cigarette behind his ear, playing with it as he rolled it between his fingers. A short exhale soon followed..
"You see ma'am some parts of the story are a bit fuzzy as one can only suffer so many knocks to the head. Ever had your brothers shove your head into the bog just to see if the drowners ’ll bite??"
The man cackled at the memories of such, shaking his head and slapping his thigh as if it was a normal occurance back then.
“Me and my pact, we had dealings. Smuggling, scouting, guides. We split ways for now but we’ve planned to meet - The spire. Hopefully more than a few jobs there to line our pockets.”
He paused, his eyes drifting to it - towering in the distance.
“They should be there already. I’m the one who’s late. Had some affairs to tend to.”
“Well, not affairs - don’t know what you’d call it actually but I sought out the Portents.”He raised a brow at her, gauging her reaction. “People say they’re just ghost stories. I say they’re cheap if you’re desperate enough, and I was.”
“Unfortunately, I still am desperate. Tsk,” he grumbled, and kicked at the ground, a self deprecating laugh all the while. “Didn’t find them, not yet anyways. They say the Portents always take something you don’t realize you’re giving up. Maybe they realised I don’t got nothing so they wouldn’t even see me. Damned witches”
He let the cigarette rest behind his ear once more, exhaling slowly as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Made my way to the Valkians after that. Did some shipping work between them and the Ko’ram. Sailors are always looking for someone good with their hands. Picked up enough coin and now I’m here. Making good on the plans I made with my pact.”
“If you’re planning on staying long enough, Im certain you'll hear more of me and my merry band in the news once the entire circus is together. We always tend to make a bit of fun noise for the locals once we're around.. A quiet life is a boring one after all."
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Character Name: Tyrnir Tyllwir
Character Race: Human (Walljack)
Character Age: 26
Brief Physical Description:
Standing about 6 feet tall with a lean frame but wiry from years of tracking prey through thick, treacherous swampland. His skin is weathered bronze, sun-kissed and roughened from constant exposure to the elements, with a few faint scars tracing across his arms and collarbone—marks of close calls with gators, branches, and worse.
His face is sharp and rugged, with high cheekbones and a jaw that always seems set in quiet determination. A scruffy beard clings to his chin, uneven and flecked with bits of mud or reed when he’s fresh from a hunt. His eyes are emerald green, keen and alert, always scanning, always calculating—like he’s sizing up everything he sees as either threat or opportunity. Tyrnir's light brown hair is usually tied back with a leather cord, though strands often escape and stick to his forehead in the humid air. He's often seen with an unlit cigarette perched behind his ear, and his fingers nearly constantly smell of tobacco.
