nethgros

Srry, the holidays have been real hectic, I'll post something decent before I run out of time. But not tonight.

When they had finally entered the gates of Orzammar Oren breathed a great sigh of relief, it was not very often anyone lived to tell the tale of an encounter with so many darkspawn, let alone four people. Yet he could see this elf and man were quite well equipped, so it didn't surprise him they could be so capable. This woman on the other hand was very, very lucky. He had almost taken them into Dust Town to see the local healer when he remembered just who these people were; there was no way they would be welcome. Instead he took him to the strangest place in the city, right where these strangers would fit in, the new Chantry building. He had never actually been inside, but he had seen it several times, and heard more griping about it than anything else in his life, even though it was relatively new. He didn't consider his veneration of the Stone to be a religion, so the concept of what the Chantry was outside of this building was very foreign to him. But he did know a little something about his companion's affiliation, which was literally engraved on his chest. Oren didn't learn much about the Templars, except that they were related to the Chantry through their policing of magi, they were very capable fighters, and it was best to go for the legs first to cripple them before delivering a deathblow past their plate. His other companion was very obviously an Antivan Crow, from his thick Antivan accent to his Crow blades everything about the elf screamed assassin. He thought an assassin might hide his affiliation a bit more, but further thinking would lead him to realize with the skill this Crow had employed against the darkspawn nary a soul could best him if they decided to do something with that information. The woman on his shoulders was a different story, he knew nothing about her. He hadn't paid her much mind on the journey, only noting her looks and her robe, which he had mistaken for a dress. In Oren's mind, Celeste was some sort of average human woman whos interest in something in the Deep Roads had misplaced her here, which would surely become her tomb. The Chantry itself felt very uninviting to Oren. The idolatry within was bizarre, and the only familiar sight was this white sun he had seen so many times that almost served as the Chantry's symbol. He turned over Celeste reluctantly to the single dwarf here, who took her aside so she could rest. He tried not to think too much about what possessed this dwarf to bring the surfacer's gods down here, and sat out in the hall. He felt very awkward until Abraham took out his pipe and began filling it with his tobacco. He thought it very strange that he found the smell pleasant, as the smell of his own lichen he smoked was noxious and repelling, though he was used to it now. Oren brought out his own stone pipe and after packing it filled with his treated lichen he began filling this temple with smoke of his own. Contrasting with Abraham's graceful plumes he expelled, Oren violently coughed up many small, thick tufts of smoke. He nodded slightly with his eyes closed and his head down when Abraham left to check on Celeste, deciding to wait here. He wished to meet this woman he had helped saved before even thinking to return to Dust Town.

I edited mine to fit with yours :thumbsup:

Sorry about that :sweat: Got kinda carried away :facepalm:

Oren knew that this venture was full of sod the second he heard about it, and the current situation had been on his mind the whole time. Every dwarf knew better than to set out into the Deep Roads unprepared. Yet, here they were prancing about without any members of the Legion of the Dead, or the Grey Wardens. Every sell-sword was a skilled expert of combat in their own right, but none here were ready for this, Oren himself included. He had stayed toward the back of the caravan the entirety of the trip, fully prepared to run for his life, which he valued much more than fulfilling a favor for his father. Though, he almost seemed extra twitchy this trip, which he could usually attribute to his smoking habits, but he kept occasionally hearing faint music... Then, minutes before the onset on the massacre, he became absolutely sure he heard the music. He opened his father's lucky ring to find a small glowing red stone inside, which he had never seen before, from which a strange melody came forth. It was not altogether unpleasant, but the increase in tempo left him with a new-found sense of urgent dread. He looked at those nearby, who seemed not to notice the sound, before he stopped walking with the group. He decided to sit behind a fallen pillar and "soothe his nerves". Rather he found that his break did not only clear his mind, but open it to the sound of the dread melody. He began to really listen, and almost appreciate the angry, violent song; it almost reminded him of rising up against all odds. However this was cut short when a loud cry echoed throughout the passageway. He turned to find himself facing a great horde, a dwarfs first nightmare, and he did not wait for Abraham's call for retreat to start running. Much to his dismay, his dwarven legs, even in this hour of great necessity, could not carry him as fast as he needed. Others began to pass him, and he looked around to see his fellows falling like flies. But his golden opportunity was at hand, closing in on the bottleneck that could very well give them the fighting chance they needed to escape this futile mission. That was when he saw Abraham tumble some ways in front of him, succumbing to his wounds. As the templar fell to his knee, Oren found a new golden opportunity to win the affections of a beautiful woman. He moved very quickly, kicking him in the leg shouting, "Get your arse moving! I'd carry ye too if I had anymore arms!" he moved through, dropping a small healing potion next to Abraham and scooping Celeste's delicate frame from the the templar's shoulder, over both his own shoulders. Surely watching Oren carry this mage would've been funny, if not for their current circumstance. He continued the mad dash, struggling to keep up with those who still lived. Had he looked behind, he may have gone a bit faster, what with the threat of incoming genlocks imminent...

I've been waiting for this since Inquisition came out :tongue: Admiral reporting for duty! Hopefully you find this excellent, took me damn near three days. Oh and any solid info you got on dwarf heights would be greatly appreciated, I can't tell if I went too short or not. Name: Oren Cadash Gender: Male Age: 20 Race: Dwarf (Casteless) Class: Rogue (Duel-Wielding) Specialization: Duelist Appearance: Oren is stout and muscular, as most dwarves are, and stands 4'9. He has a swarthy, dirty look to him, and bears his title of duster proudly. He keeps his beard trimmed close to his face, perhaps 3/4ths of an inch or so. His stern, listless eyes are a deep brown, hardly differentiated from black, and ringed with a dark color of deprivation. He is not altogether comely or attractive; rather his most defining trait is the look of a wearied man lacking luster, though his intimidation factor can't be scoffed at. On his right cheek he bears the mark of the casteless. Armor/Clothing: Very typically Oren will wear his signature coat made with purplish-grey deepstalker leather and lined with bear fur; with the collar popped of course. Under this he wears a black brigandine vest. A thick leather belt with a simple square buckle keeps his nugskin pants from falling down. His boots are extremely sturdy brontohide mining boots, built to withstand a lifetime of grueling labor. Weapon(s): On the back of his belt, under his coat, Oren has two blades he keeps sheathed for "special occasions". The steel daggers have the look of bowie knives, with spiked knuckles extending from the cross-guard for extra tactical usage. Accessories: In a hidden pocket inside his coat Oren keeps a stone pipe. This pipe is quite hard, and engraved with runes, as well as having a generally angular profile (as opposed to an average organically curved pipe). In addition to this he has a pouch filled with lichen that has been coated in a thick viscous substance not unlike honey, though inhalation of smoke from this substance produces an effect rather enjoyed by casteless lowlives and Cartel members. His teeth have also all been painfully replaced by Aurum subsitutes, having a golden color. Prior to embarking on his mission to the Deep Roads, Oren was given his father's lucky ring: an onyx ring with a white circle painted on it. Using negative space, the onyx creates a black sun in the center, a sign of the Cartel. The ring opens, revealing a small red stone... Personality: Oren is very withdrawn, though this is mainly from his time spent handling raw lyrium, which has left his memory a few notches above goldfish and his hearing a few notches above Mr.Magoo. He is actually a very thoughtful and open-minded dwarf, even if his mind is dulled; and he is almost incapable of being stubborn as most dwarves are, as he can hardly remember a bottom-line to stick to. He is naturally quick-witted, and independant, but capable of doing what he's told when he can remember and the cause is "just". In actuality, his morality is functionally nonexistant, and a cause is only just on his arbitrary whim. He is the type to do as he pleases. Family/Relationships: Irtumal Cadash (Father, Employer), (Mother, Estranged, Status Unknown), Very strong Cartel ties. Background: Oren was born to Irtumal Cadash and a member of the mining cast after a plan to illegally acquire lyrium led to Oren's father seducing his mother. As a boy, he was fated to join his fathers caste, or lack thereof. He was abandoned in Dust Town and quickly found by his father's men. As the son of a very influential member of the Cartel, Oren was significantly better off than any other child in Dust Town, and likely even more so than if he was raised by his mother. The only cost to this power was that he work for it; Irtumal refused to raise a helpless pampered nug like the nobles. He was a courier shortly after learning how to walk, but before he could understand just what he was doing. After becoming a bit more capable, Oren was put to work refining the lyrium his father's men brought in. In his free time he enjoyed making the most of his influence over his fellow casteless, and the lack of authority in Dust Town. Over time his father instilled a few main values in him: the importance of the Stone, protecting his fellow casteless, and loyalty to the Cartel. He began doing more physical tasks for his father, such as lyrium robbery, extortion, enforcement, and the like. Through the web of the Cartel "bureaucracy", an exchange of favors led to his father sending his most capable bruiser on an expedition into the Deep Roads, his own son..

I hope this RP is still going Name: Faolan the Shade Race: Reachman Gender: Male Age: 28 Birthsign: The Shadow Appearance: Faolan stands at 5'10 and is built with the lean muscle of a predator. His complexion is haggard from many years of gritty work, and his lidded blue eyes are listless and dead. His jet black hair is cut mid-length, just out of his eyes, in such an unkempt, bizarre fashion that it would be obvious to all but the oblivious that he cares naught for his appearance. He has thick black scruff that covers his squared, angular jaw, but it would seem that it grows no longer since he never shaves it and it hasn't changed. Skills: One-handed, Mysticism, Alchemy, Sneak, Athletics, Acrobatics Equipment: Black fur parka, sack cloth pants, and dark leather boots. For a weapon he carries a Dragonbone sword. On his hip he has a leather pouch embroidered with a blood red rose that seems to always be filled with a thick, strong, sanguine alcoholic beverage. Homeland: The mountains seperating the Western Reach, High Rock from The Reach, Skyrim Personality: Typically Faolan is rather withdrawn, contemplating any number of things. But when the time arises, he completely unwinds himself and gives into the passions of debauchery, taking his fill of drinks and women, and letting loose his particular brand of humor. This brand of humor is very dark, born from a cruel mind and a broken soul. He is the type of man who does horrible things in the name of his people, and looks to dark gods to relieve him of the burden he carries, as well as aid him in what must be done. Though he finds death to be a necessary, and occasionally amusing thing he finds Necromancy to be a twisted, unnerving practice. Background: Faolan grew up high in the mountains, away from civilization. His father, a powerful warrior and head of his clan, taught him to defend himself like any good father would, but all too often Faolan was be nowhere to be found. From a young age he had a knack for hiding and prowling around, getting into all sorts of trouble. Where many saw a problem, the Hagraven of his village saw a great gift, and took Faolan under her dark wing. She groomed him into an efficient killer, and gave him the tools of the ultimate hunter, such as the ability to sense the life force of others and eventually to differentiate targets. He was sent out into The Reach to join the Forsworn and take back the land that once belonged to his ancestors, killing, robbing, and pillaging in the name of retribution. And he had a great deal of fun. That is until news of his father's death reached him and he was called back to his clan in the mountains, likely to take his father's place as leader. However, when he returned he found that his father had been recreated as a Briarheart. While this is typically one of the highest honors a Reachman fighter could receive, Faolan was horrified by his fathers fate, as was his mother who left to the Western Reach some time before. He refused to take his father's place and returned to The Reach to live a robber's life while sinking in grief. The Reachman follow many different, enigmatic and ancient old gods, as well as daedric princes; Faolan himself always felt a kinship to Hircine and Meridia. Yet, sinking in grief, a power had seeped into Faolan's heart, preying on his weakness. This was the daedric prince Sanguine, offering gifts of spirits and secrets to unlocking women's hearts; everything he might need to overcome the emptiness in his heart. In return, he began to trap his victim's souls in black soulgems and offered them up to his patron in dark rituals. This continued on for some time until chance brought a tired, worn Reachman to him who complained of the difficulty in finding him and offered him a gut-wrenching note. It had the location of his mother, and described a dark affliction that had taken her as well as many others in High Rock. He could not bear to lose the only family he had left; he had no choice but to find out what was wrong.

Everyone had shuffled out of the room to witness some commotion and Nydeshka took this opportunity to collect himself for his departure. To his great relief his mask was nearby, but he decided not to don it out of respect for his host; it was more for bloody vengeance type situations anyway. Picking up the mask revealed a small spark hovering just underneath the mask, which brightened and grew upon 'seeing' Nydeshka again. It flew around his head, and he chuckled slightly; it seemed he hadn't lost his companion either. Lastly, his weapon sat propped against the foot of the bed, and that too he left in the room before going to see just where he was and what was going on. The common room sported the largest crowd of people he had seen in a long time, and frankly it was rather overwhelming; all the chatter, hustle and bustle. He sought refuge by making his way to the only familiar face in the room, the half-elf that had saved him. He spoke with a heavy Rashemi accent, betraying his origins to all but the thickest, "I just wanted to thank you again. It's not often I come across such kindness. I'm Nydeshka." He offered a large, glowing, rune covered hand to Amendale.

Nydeshka awoke after many days of painfully vivid fever dreams, the runes covering his body flaring to life in a luminous emerald flash. He was drenched with sweat and had a wild confused look in his eye as he quickly took in his surroundings. It only took moments to realize he was safe and healthy. It seemed as though he was to continue for now. Addressing the visibly surprised attendants at his bedside all he had to say was, "Thank you. I thought since there are monks who could live without water I could too..." His voice trailed off and he put his head in his hands and sighed; only now was his own stupidity evident.

I for one would like to resurrect this RP :thumbsup:

Nydeshka's quest had taken a turn for the worst. Growing up in such a cold inhospitable climate did not at all prepare him for the heat of Mulhorand. The last thing he remembered was walking, sweating, and intense thirst before his vision faded. Carrying Nydeshka on a stretcher by Manarses' aids they shouted directions as they hurried him through the common room, pushing chairs aside as they rushed him into a room in the back for treatment.

Here's the return, only thought of one for now. Figured I'd do one good one rather than a bunch of mediocre ones. Name: Nydeshka

Ur awoke facedown in a puddle, just as he had passed out. Some drunken night in some god-forsaken pirate town on one of the Barachan Isles. However, as he drug his head up out of it's soggy resting place he realized he was in fact not in the middle of the road outside a tavern, but in the middle of a forest. Not only that, but these trees were nothing like anything that grew on the Barachan Isles. Instead they were far more akin to the great primeval trees of his home in the Pictish Wilderness. He sat up slowly, nursing his throbbing, hungover mind as he struggled to determine just how it was he came to this place. After several moments however he gave up on this foolish endeavor, as he recalled wistfully just how much trouble he had gotten into before when he had blown a few hundred coin on a night of debauchery, and just how difficult it was to discover what the night had entailed. Instead he stood up groggily to his feet, swaying slightly before checking his person to see what he had left. All his gold trinkets were with him, but his pouch of gold was missing. This realization took several seconds to register, after which Ur began howling like a rabid animal that had just lost its quarry. "I'LL KILL YOU FOR STEALING FROM ME! NO ONE STEALS FROM UR!" He screamed to the sky due to lack of an actual target. Luckily they had left him his steel knife, so that he might just make good on that promise. With little else to do, Ur chose a direction and started walking. If this was the Pictish Wilderness hopefully he would come upon something familiar, and if not at least something sentient.

Not my best work, and might not even fit in, but I've had this lil bastard on my mind for days. :confused: Name: Ur Race: Pict Age: 21 Class: Savage / Assassin Alignment: Chaotic Evil Deity: Jhebbal Sag Place of Origin: Pictland, Hyboria (Primeval Earth) Appearance: Ur has a very primitive humanoid appearance, reminiscent of a small brutish caveman, or a large pygmy. He stands at 5'2 with a weathered complexion and leathery, tanned skin. He is stocky and built like a jungle predator: barrel chested with long muscular arms. His face is comparatively "scrunched up" with a small amount of stubble, likely all he is capable of growing seeing as he never shaves. Ur has small beady eyes with only the slightest fragment of intelligence, and a great deal of apathy akin to a murderous beast. His hair is black, long, and dirt, blood, and whatever else he's gotten into it. Armor/Clothing: Golden wristbands, golden anklets. a black silken loincloth, and a gold chain with a gold medallion adorned with the mystic symbol of Jhebbal Sag dangling from it. Weapon: A small steel knife kept tucked in his loincloth Personality: Ur is a very simple, basic creature. Compared to his fellow Picts he has a great deal of intelligence and ambition, yet it really can't compare to the average human. He completely consumed with selfishness, placing himself before absolutely everything. He has no pride, or shame, and would not think twice about stabbing anyone in the back or running away if it meant he was going to live. Of course, if survival requires it he isn't adverse to working with others, so long as they do not hold him back. History: In his youth Ur was a scrawny runt of a Pict, destined to a lowly position in his tribe. Yet, Ur always dreamed of something more; perhaps becoming Chief or ascending to some great station. Though as he grew up he realized he had no great future in Pictland, and decided to sail away with Zingaran merchants to find a new life in the world. This life came in the form of a Mercenary Band. In his travels, roaming the world and killing for money he realized that money was power, but to show others he had money he need finery, which he got. After falling asleep in a tavern in Stygia he awoke to find himself in a forest much unlike the swamp he had remembered...

Is this still active? It seems interesting, and I would love to join.

You may have noticed I never post. I'd love to, but my life is terribly busy. Consider this an official, regretful, resignation; for the time being.

Name: Renalt Grimtooth

Horo nodded, now noticing the small wolf Nawen spoke of. "Well good luck with training, I'll see you later," he said making a mock tip-of-the-hat movement before walking into the inn. He entered just in time to overhear Rhaine speak of the important quest they were undertaking, and of which he wasn't certain of the details. He took a seat not too far from Rhaine, who was speaking to a woman who seemed to be of drow descent. He was under the impression that drow were rare above ground, yet it appeared as though this group had at least three... "So when do we set out to hunt down this dracolich? I am loathe to stay in such a populated area for a lengthy amount of time."

Worry flared up only momentarily in Horo as he noticed Nawen's hand move to her sword, but it was only momentary. He had to remember that these people were his friends, and she was likely startled. He would have done the same. Her leaving just as Conall arrived with the ashen figure did seem more than coincidental however. "On your way out? How are things in there? I was really never one for staying in an inn."

Horo's time on the boat was spent in isolation. His life was full of many comrades and few friends, and as such he never really learned to intermingle with those he worked with. He was now bound to these people, but for the time being he couldn't see them as anything more than necessities. Getting off the boat he made his own way, taking note that his companions had moved to a nearby inn, but choosing not to join them so soon. Old habits die hard, and he had a very old and deeply ingrained habit of scouting his surroundings before settling down. He began the scouting post-haste, walking through the streets and taking into account everything he saw. It was very unlikely he would've been offered and respite or comfort from the inn had he chose not to look around, as his paranoia had become very much a part of him from many years of being chased. Passing through the market, he could not help but feel his hunger swell as he stomach grumbled viciously. With a practiced guile. he subtly swiped a bun from a bakers stall without breaking his pace, 'earning' his dinner for the night. At some point he came across a rather large crowd, denoting something of interest just beyond the wall of bodies. He chose to lean up against a nearby building rather than pushing his way to the front, opting to wait for the crowd to disperse. As they did he spied one of his new companions, a man named Conall, speaking with another man with a rather sickly build and morbid complexion. It seemed to him it was the latter that the crowd had gathered around, as he had a rather unsettling vibe to him. When the two walked away in the direction of the inn Horo decided to follow at an unnoticeable distance. Just as he thought, the two were going into the inn, and just as he too was about to enter he found himself face to face with the drow he hat met so long ago in a tree. He extended his hand to her with a light smile on his face, "Hello again. Your name is Nawen, yes? I really can't remember if you told me in that tree... My life has been rather eventful since that pleasantly peaceful exchange."

Horo nodded as Rhaine walked off to tend to her horse, and followed the others as they filed out of the house and onto the boat. He went below decks and found an unoccupied area to rest: legs crossed, sitting against a wall, with one hand on his sword.

To the drow, Horo could only manage a quick exhausted reply, "Yes, that was me. From the tree." With everyone leaving, and Rhaine asking for his identity he had came to the conclusion that now would not be a time for rest. He stood up, fighting the strain of fatigue, so that he might speak in a more official manner. "I am Horo Matsuma. We did indeed meet in Impiltur, and I made the mistake of not explaining myself thoroughly; I will not do so again. Those men were my old comrades, whom sought me out for this sword," he said, directing their attention to his black sheathe, "and I fear they would have caught me had it not been for the refuge you've all offered me. I would ask if I could accompany you, for protection for myself, and to aid you in your quest. If I remember correctly, it was rather important, was it not?"

Horo took a deep breath in as he looked up from his tired, bent position to see the great man standing before him now offering him the exact help he needed. "I'm being chased by three men who seek my head. If you truly offer to "crack some skulls" on my behalf, I'd like that very much," he managed to force out before slipping past the large man and slumping down the wall not far from the door in exhaustion. He looked around slowly, taking in his surroundings. Partially to see just who he would be dealing with, and partially to look at the layout of the room, all as according to his training. His eyes looked more intently at the two people he remembered seeing such a long time ago: the armored, red-haired elf and the drow woman he dealt with at the fair.

Name: Saint Hegrim the the Indomitable (Hegrim Shemov) GENERAL INFORMATION: Gender: Male Race: Human Age: 37 Class: Monk, Martyred Champion Alignment: Lawful Good Deity: Ilmater APPEARANCE: Height: 6'1 Weight: 262lbs Hair: Shoulder-length, wavy, and jet black. Paired with a large bushy beard. Eyes: Green Skin: Peachy Handedness: Right Scars/Tattoos: A large horizontal slash mark across the abdomen marking the wound that killed him. Heavy callused feet from many years of walking barefoot. General physical description: Hegrim is a burly man of exquisite physique, earned from a lifetime of physical training. His face is covered with dark facial hair, but with sufficient examination it can be seen that he is not altogether repulsive, and yet he is not an extremely attractive man. His hairstyle could be reminiscent of Jesus, if the people of Faerun knew of him. Voice: He speaks with a deep, monotonous voice that rarely betrays his emotion. Never does it waver. The only instances it changes is when he is filled with righteous anger, changing to a booming, humbling, and thunderous roar. Disabilities: None EQUIPMENT: Clothing/Armor: Simple grey robes, discarded when entering combat. He wears a white breechcloth underneath. He always adorns himself with red cord bound to his hands and forearms, and wears no shoes. Weapons: Unarmed Other magical equipment: None PERSONALITY: General personality traits: Grave, observant, noble, valorous, pious, masochistic, compassionate, solemn Likes: Aiding the suffering and weak, taking others pain unto himself. Dislikes: Sadists, torture Fears: Failing Ilmater Attitude towards friends/strangers: Hegrim treats all people, known or unknown, with the same amount of respect, and to a certain degree love. It may not be a cuddly love, but it is love nonetheless. Opinion on the world: The world is a cruel place that needs people to care for it, and it's denizens. HISTORY: Birthplace: Heliogabalus, Damara Family/Relationships: Church of Ilmater, Monastery of the Yellow Rose Friends: Ilmater, The Adorned (followers of Ilmater) Enemies: Most evil beings. Background: Hegrim was born a sickly child to a poor family that could not afford to keep him. To save their child, his parents gave the Church of Ilmater custody over him shortly after his birth. He was raised in a orphanage affiliated with the Church until the age of three, when he was delivered to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose. He spent the next fifteen years in training to become a monk, quickly overcoming his former sickly disposition to become one of the largest, most physically capable monks in the monastery. At the age of twenty three the monastery came under siege by heathen bandits seeking to defile its hallowed ground. To save the monastery, Hegrim was dispatched along with fifteen other monks to defend the monastery from this throng of seventy six bandits. The battle raged across the mountainside for three days, with the monks losing men daily, and the bandits losing far more. The monks led the bandits away from the monastery and into a pass on the final day, culminating with a last stand by Hegrim in which he killed twenty two bandits before one spilled his intestines into the snow. Knowing he would die, and that they no longer had the numbers to overcome the monastery, the bandits were routed, leaving Hegrim to bleed out. And bleed out he did. However, in a strange twist, the breath he breathed before his death would not be his last. It was never found out how he came back, but Hegrim found himself resurrected. Not only that, but he was Championed by Ilmater for his part in saving the monastery. As a Martyred Champion, the newly sainted Hegrim now answered only to Ilmater himself, and would find himself travelling the world in service to his god. OTHER INFORMATION: Languages spoken: Common Pets/Animal companions: None

Welcome back stew