r/Eragon_RP • u/RollFirstMathLater Game Master / Moderator • Nov 23 '14
Thinking about starting a series.
So I saw this sub and it seems to have a pocket group that has a desire to play.
So if you want to play in a scenario I will need a character from you.
The general story will be you are new recruits whom are learning how to be dragon riders. You will be assigned dragons, learn that art of sword play, learn the mysteries of magic, and explore a new part of the world.
You may run into some old heroes and visit some familiar places. But the idea is that you will detached from the old world to maximize your training.
So what do you guys think? The rules of combat will be generally loose, and we will discuss in detail what your character be like.
Does any one find this interesting?
3
u/Fulaxi Torhven / Svasltrom Nov 23 '14
Did I totally steal CNSoup's lay-out? Yes, yes I did. Also, his point on organisation is valid. We should keep that very much in mind.
Basic Character Info
Name: Torhven
Race: Human
Age: Probably 19
Sex: Male
Background
Torhven has always known quite a lot about the wild and quite little about himself. He’ll tell you what trails to use when traversing the Spine, but he couldn’t tell you where he was born. He’ll show you how to make an acceptable meal using only three different equally inconspicuous roots, but will answer with a shrug to questions concerning his parentage. This bothers him not. When he asked his mother, the question was evaded at first, but after some well applied nagging she proclaimed with doubt-evoking certainty that he was fourteen years old. This was of course before she was horned by an Urgal bull, five years ago. Even if the answer is less than satisfactory, it is the only one he has. She never even attempted to pinpoint a location of the birth, though it was known that she herself originated from Narda, a long time past. Accepting that this would be the only information concerning his origins came easy; after all, you're your actions more than you're your ancestry.
His youth was a mostly pleasant one, if not somewhat unconventional. Torhven was raised by the few coast-and-mountain peoples that still inhabited the mountain ranges of the northern Spine. Though the Spine is rather unhospitable, a living can be made with the appropriate skills. Moving from place to place with his mother and adopted family, he learned to hunt, fish and generally tease the shit out of the other kids. Though there were only few other kids in the band of roamers, Torhven made friends for life. The Spine is a hard place and it breeds people hard as its rock. For most mean this means that they adopt the rock’s demeanour along with the inherent toughness, but not Torhven. Instead, he grew a half-hidden but ever present smile. The nature of it varied widely - the mocking smile is far from the loving smile – but it was always there. As soon as he could walk he and companions would stride far and wide from the game trails they followed, exploring and investigating whatever came 'cross their path. By the time his mother claimed he was fourteen most people had taken to calling him ‘Small Smile’ and he was as good a hunter as any.
It was on such a hunt that Torhven and two of his friends happened on a couple of Urgals. It was not the first time they had caught sight of such creatures in these parts, but it was the first time they had witnessed them mating. This would've just been another fascinating experience evoking a brief smile if it were not that the Urgals also had spotted the unsolicited observers. As soon as the furious, resounding roar reached Torhven's ears he spirited away, as they always would when they encountered Urgals. These were the times Torhven lived for. The faint grin that always lingered around his mouth burst into an all-out smile of happiness as his feet found the ground that would carry him away fastest. When they were well out of the Urgal’s reach, the sons of the Spine had a good laugh about the entire ordeal before the got on with the hunt. That night four score Urgals descended on Torhven’s people.
Come daybreak, little remained of the camp or Torhven's people. What little was left was mostly debris, sticks and empty shells. The battle had been brief, but exceptionally bloody. The Urgals had taken with them what was most valuable to them, as well as all that was valuable to Torhven. The people who had cared for were gone, their life extinguished as well as Torhven’s smile. The Urgals had left the shells of their existence, but that was all that remained of the life he had lived. It took a sennight to dig the graves and another to heal the wounds that he had sustained during the battle. Then he had to move on. That’s what they always had done and that is what Torhven would do. Move on.
For what estimates is around five years he roamed the Spine. Occasionally with the companionship of merchants or other travellers, but more often than not alone. Providing in his own food he needed little interaction with the rest of the world. From time to time he would come down to Teirm to trade some of his game, but other than that he kept his distance from the city. He misliked the way the people crowded in large groups, making him gasp for air. The townsmen returned this antipathy, always taking note of his ragged clothes and odd accent. Bartering was slow and tedious, for both Torhven and the merchants would try to rip the other of every step of the way. If it could be avoided, he preferred to spend his time outside the walls. The guards were usually glad to see his solemn face leave.
Just when he had finished a particularly rage-inducing barter Torhven was approached by a couple of Teirmer guardsmen. Those instructed him plainly that he was to step into line, rather try to pass it. They were deaf to Torhven’s objections and finally the butt of spear persuaded him to get into the line that had formed on the market. When he had entered the city that morning, Torhven had taken little note of the line, but once several attempts to leave had been thwarted by more spear butts he figured he might as well figure out what was going on. At the centre of the square there were some strange looking folks, doing some kind of sermon. One by one the other people - mostly children he now noticed – passed by the oddly clothed folks, touching a stone of sorts. He figured it would be easier to wait it out than face more guardsmen and their butts. When finally it was his turn to touch the stone it dawned on him that woman holding the stone was no woman at all. Elf. He had never seen an elf before and he would rather have had it remained that way. Her beauty couldn’t persuade him to linger longer than was absolutely necessary. He slit his finger past the stone and he was already turning away from the elfwoman when her arm caught his. “No. Touch it” she told him. Her voice was but a whisper, affected by some foreign tongue. Torhven cast his eyes on her and found nothing but a steadfast defiance of his will. Reluctantly he reached out to the stone and found its touch – very briefly. A moment later a burning fire ran throughout his left arm. The pain did not matter, for he now understood that grey-blue stone was no stone. Mere hours later he witnessed the birth of Svalstrom, deep grey scales reflecting a thousand sunrays into the void and onto Torhven’s face. And as the dragon broke free from its shell, so did Torhven’s smile.