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Arlen
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2020 2:30 pm
by Arlen
ARLEN ZALTAR
Details
Full Name: Arlen Zaltar
Race: 1/2 Human, 1/2 Hytori
Sex: Male
Age: 88 (looks late 30s)
Height: 6'5 (195cm)
Weight: 198lbs (90kg)
Birthdate: 40th day of Searing, 32nd year of the Age of Steel
Birthplace: Somewhere near a Free City of the North
Profession: Hunter, mercenary (Base salary 1,000df/day)
Housing: Duedrop Inn, Loras, Atinaw
Partners: Up for taking
Titles: The Chronicler
Factions: N/A
Fluencies: Elathee, Common
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: Kokalath
Appearance
At first sight, Arlen looks like your normal, tall human man. Very well-groomed and always clean. To some, it may seem as though he is maintaining his physique with obsession. To him, it’s a way of life that he grew up with. Either way, each muscle is worked to perfection but not for aesthetic, but for efficiency and power.
Next to the curves of flesh under the skin, there are then two other features which set him apart from humans. The first one is a a lightning-like, golden streak that splits his chest. It is not as rich in hue as it would be with a pure-blooded Hytori, but it is noticeably there. The second one was studded into the middle of his chest between his pecks. It is a gem with the colour of morning sunshine. The rest of his body is then peppered with scars. Some are clean and others jagged and there is no rhyme or reason to them. There is only one scar he gives more attention to than others. It is jagged and faded with time on his left palm which he sometimes takes to rubbing when in thought.
Arlen always wears the upper portion of his hair pulled back and out of his face. This for convenience, but it also effectively hides the more sharp and pointy ends of his ears. It is a habit learnt from childhood. His face is then framed with a whisper of a beard along the jawline and a moustache.
His eyes are dark brown. The Jastai in his tribe often told him that they look like smouldering coals, ambers that are the last breath of a dying fire. And that becomes true especially at night where his vision disappears.
Arlen keeps two sets of clothing. One that he wore when he left his tribe. A two-layer silk vest robe of red and gold with high collar and open front tied around the waist with a wide belt. This is coupled with like pants of similar colours and no shoes. The other set is human clothes of wool and cotton, blander in colours and uninteresting. He wears the latter daily. The former he keeps should a reason or opportunity arise.
Scars: Left palm, top of left hand and wrist, nasty scratch like scars on the right shoulder
Body modifications: a gem studded into the middle of his chest
Personality
Arlen grew up with the Jastai and as such was raised with the mentality that is identical to their core beliefs. He values strength above anything else. Physical prowess bears respect as it takes hard work to cultivate and maintain. He also recognizes the strength of the mind. He believes the two have to go hand in hand in order to reach success. However, he doesn’t look down on those who are weak as he can empathize with them due to his past. On the flip side, he will judge those who refuse to change their circumstances out of fear of failure or for fear of leaving their comfort.
Unlike Jastai, Arlen has no drive to die an outrageous death. Due to that, as those around him started to die away Arlen noticed the difference in ageing and this caused him to withdraw into himself. He grew more observant, pensive, less flamboyant and extravagant.
He tends to ruminate over things. Like a lump of smouldering coal, he would chew over ideas and thoughts for periods of time before reaching a decision. And just as a lump of smouldering coal with enough wind, Arlen can burst into flames. Whether those are of anger or passion that depends entirely on the wind.
Arlen also has a great memory of almost all the people who interacted with him and based on that he will decide how to treat others. And unfortunately, because of it, he will also hold grudges.
He is a lover of many and partner to a few.
Alignment
► Show Spoiler
True Neutral
A true neutral character does what seems to be a good idea. He doesn't feel strongly one way or the other when it comes to good vs. evil or law vs. chaos. Most true neutral characters exhibit a lack of conviction or bias rather than a commitment to neutrality. Such a character thinks of good as better than evil after all, he would rather have good neighbors and rulers than evil ones. Some true neutral characters commit themselves philosophically to neutrality. They see good, evil, law, and chaos as prejudices and dangerous extremes. They advocate the middle way of neutrality as the best, most balanced road in the long run. True neutral is the best alignment because it means a character will act naturally, without prejudice or compulsion. However, true neutral can be a dangerous alignment when it represents apathy, indifference, and a lack of conviction.
Alignment test
1 basic 20x20 single room cottage (400 sq. ft.) complete with a hearth (or heat source equivalent), bunk, chest, chair, small table and rug.
Re: Arlen
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2020 2:38 pm
by Arlen
HISTORY
Everyone grieves in different ways.
“Tora, I really don’t think this is a good idea.” He cast a look around, not sure how to react.
The way others cope with loss doesn't always make sense.
“Arlen,” Tora said.
“What?”
“I heard the name means pledge.” The bundle in her arms stirred. She held it closer to her chest. It nearly disappeared in her embrace.
“Tora. Seriously—-“
But she was already walking away, cooing back at the child in her arms.
But oftentimes, grief makes us painfully aware of the things we wish we could forget.
Arlen didn’t remember Tora much. She died when he was still quite young. But others told him of her and howshe gave him life. Not in the Jastai way.
They say, she found him abandoned, certain to die by the elements or the predators. He was crying it out and the desperate call stirred something inside Tora. Something she felt materialized in his existence. Apparently, that’s why she was so adamant about keeping him and raising him as a Jastai. He was the flicker among fire giants.
He didn’t remember how she died either. Only that at some point all he had left of her was a lemon quartz gem. He was told that she picked it when he was still a babe. It matched the strange yellowy lines across his chest. So throughout the years, to this day still, Arlen held onto it. Out of gratitude. Out of respect. For memories, he didn't have of her but wished he could.
Instead, other Jastai filled his life. Where Tora saved him, the others formed him to what he became.
“Oi! Zapling!” A group of Jastai children called out to Arlen. They towered over him despite all of them being a similar age.
"You didn't grow much, did ya?" One of them squared against the boy who had to crane his neck up to see the face. They were friends and Arlen sensed a bout incoming.
"What of it?" He replied, sticking his chin out, craning his neck even further.
"Well, look at us. Full-grown men," another one side smacking his chest. They all laugh whilst Arlen's smile got soiled with bitterness.
"When are you gonna grow?" One of them pushed his shoulder making Arlen take a step back to balance.
"Yea! Or are you always going to be so small?" There came another push. Arlen swung at the hand. The shots were called.
The group erupted in a melodramatic 'o' before launching into a push fest. Arlen dodged, balanced, tried to meet force with force. But his young, thirteen-year-old body could only hold on for so long.
"Aha! There you go!" The boys erupted in cheers as Arlen fell to the ground. He hissed, pain zipping from his palm, through his wrist all the way up to his arm. The fight was done. Arlen lost.
"Better luck next time, Zapling," one of the boys said, tracing a finger in the air in mockery of the mark on Arlen's chest.
"Next time. Sure," Arlen replied, face twisted in a grimace of determination to mask the stinging pain in his palm. His fingers curled around the stone that was buried in his flesh.
Next time, he'd be stronger.
The night has fallen but he still waited until the firelights in most of the windows went out. When everything around him was pitch black, he held a log from the fireplace to help him see his way. The weapon maker was asleep. As he should be.
Arlen went around the back where there was an open workshop. Many weapons were laid there still in making. Sure Arlen could borrow one of the swords.
And sure enough, there was one resting in a trough full of water. Arlen laid down the log which immediately lost its shine and instead he gave it to the sword.
"Here it comes," he mumbled. His arms strained and complained as he started lifting the piece of metal which was almost as tall as he was and certainly twice as heavy. He didn't even lift it upright before the tip plummeted to the floor.
Thud! The shockwave rattled the metal on a nearby table and Arlen froze. His heart was suddenly in his throat.
But there was silence and darkness all around him.
Again, Arlen thought, fingers around the hilt relaxing before he gripped it even tighter than before. Let's go for a swing.
The tip dragged across the floor before the boy mustered enough energy to lift it, pulling hard on the hilt, towards his centre. It was too much. The weight, the direction, the lack of control, it all coupled in the boy losing balance, falling against the table.
The sword fell out of his hand with a bang. The light disappeared. The table above him rattled, things falling on the ground. The heartbeat in his throat was suffocating him and somewhere through the house, the weapon maker was stomping towards the workshop.
But Arlen couldn't move. He couldn't see anything.
"Who's here!" The weapon maker burst into the workshop. "Arlen?" It didn't take him long to notice the heavy breathing youth pressed against the leg of the table.
Arlen squinted through the darkness, trying to see the man. The weapon maker knew and so he lit a candle putting the boy at ease.
"I see you've helped yourself to some of my things?" The weapon maker said, lowering himself into a crouch.
Arlen nodded, holding his left palm. The scab opened.
“It’s the young ones isn’t it?”
Arlen gave another nod, lips still tightly pressed together. The weapon maker sighed, laid the candle on the ground and started putting the scattered things away.
“You know they’ll keep coming. We all will. You know it’s our nature," the weapon maker said as not even a muscle twitched when he picked up the sword.
“It’s mine too!” Arlen blurted out, hands in fists, chest out, face red from anger and embarrassment.
The weapon maker laughed a hearty laugh, one that only a bellied man should be able to produce. “Oh I know, Arlen. Don’t I know.” Still shaking his head, the weapon maker retreated into the darkness. When he came back he was holding a smaller weapon. A dagger.
Arlen took in a breath, ready to fight for his right with the sword. He could make it! He wouldn't be denied again to fight with a proper weapon!
The weapon maker stilled Arlen's unspoken defiance by placing a heavy hand on Arlen's shoulder. It was more, however, then the hand on the shoulder which quietened Arlen's mind. The weapon maker's gaze was now stern and decided.
“We will keep coming. We won’t stop because we know you have it in you Arlen. We know because you are still alive despite everything. Keep fighting boy. But fight smart. With things that you can handle. There will be a day when you can swing a sword. But first, practice with this. Once you build your strength up, then I might think about having you try out some of the other weapons. But," he raised his voice just as he raised the blade of the dagger to call for attention. "I won’t have you injuring yourself or others out of stubbornness. That’s not who we are,” the weapon maker squeezed the boy’s shoulder with each of those last words. “Isn’t that right, Arlen?”
The boy pulled in his cheeks, staring at the dagger before giving one strong nod. “That’s not who we are,” the boy repeated and reached for the blade.
“That a boy.” The weapon maker smiled, clapping the child on the shoulder, forcing it to reach to the ground in order to balance the force.
Then the flick came.
Sharp momentary pain spread through the somewhat pointed tip of his ear. Arlen sucked in the air and shot a stare up at the weapon maker. The man had a wide smile across his face.
“Now go, Arlen. I’m not gonna have you knocking things over here whilst I try and sleep. Scoot.”
No one really knew what Arlen was. He wasn’t fully human but he wasn’t fully something else either. Despite clearly not being one of them, Arlen was brought up as Jastai. He grew up with their habits, mannerisms, and beliefs. Since that day, Arlen did what the weapon maker told him. He got smart about the way he continued his life with his tribe. And throughout his life in the tribe, through the wars with the Imperium and through the times of peace, Arlen grew stronger. By the time he reached his own maturity, he was a considerable sparring partner to most of his peers that were still alive.
“You little!” Rook shouted, turning towards where Arlen landed.
Black hair hanging in sweaty strings framed a knowing smirk on Arlen's face. Tips of his ears poking through the strands. He let out a slow breath, eyes pinned to his opponent.
“Not my fault you’re fat and slow, Rook,” Arlen taunted his sparring partner. Rising to his feet, Arlen brought both hands to the grip of his sword that the new weapon maker let him test. Even at distance, Rook stood a few heads taller over Arlen. But that was Rook's disadvantage.
“I swear to the Mistlord, I’ll give you a glorious death,” Rook growled, charging Arlen. Their swords rang the song of damnation.
Arlen could never take on the full strength of Jastai blow, not even with his physique worked to equal standards. Instead, he deflected the strike and let Rook’s weapon slide off the edge of his weapon as he sidestepped. In a sweep, the tip of Arlen's sword cut through the air whining for blood, eager to cut into the side of his sparring partner.
The dirt around Rook’s feet rolled. His side bent into a crescent and he hopped out of the blade’s reach. No more words or taunts. Just fight. To the first blood drawn. Rook pushed off his back leg, launching like a snake.
Arlen never lost the smirk, his attention never wavered. He rooted his feet in the ground, bent his knees. It seemed as though he was ready for a collision. Then at the last moment, he shifted his weight to the left. Rook followed.
A whisper of teeth showed between Arlen’s lips as he pushed off the left foot to the right. His sword thrust forward.
A scream of pain filled the sparring ring.
Both men fell to the ground, dropping their weapons.
“Mother of God!” Rook exclaimed holding his side.
Arlen hissed through his bared teeth. His face was a grimace. His hands were clutching the left thigh.
They both laid on the packed dirt, staring at each other with fire in their eyes. Without a doubt, they were still fighting each other inside their heads. Until Arlen’s grimace of pain disappeared and he started laughing. They both did.
Fighting the other Jastai wasn’t the only thing Arlen did to keep up with his tribe. Since before he became an adult, he joined the hunting party too. Chasing the prey at full speed in the open plains, releasing an arrow with a whistle like an extension of himself, it made him feel alive. But it wasn't the violence or the rapidly beating heart. It was the care that came with the hunt. It was the care for the killed animal and then for those with whom he shared the meat. By mindfully skinning the game, he paid his respects to the animal's strength. For there had to be a strength in a creature in order to survive. But of course, he had his limitations with hunting too. Forests especially were not the ideal hunting grounds for him.
“Honestly? You made a poor choice, Fow,” Arlen whispered, moving forward a step at a time.
“Shut up, Arlen. Try not to make much noise,” Fow, the hunting party leader, said. His attention was straight ahead as they moved through the forest. Fow was in the front with one more from their hunting party. They were moving through young undergrowth.
Snap!
“Ah! Goddamnit! Who put it there?!” Arlen growled, blinking. A young twig slapped him in the middle of his forehead as it released from the man before him.
The sun has already descended from its afternoon heights and so the shadows in the woods grew longer. Or at least that’s what the Jastai in the hunting company saw. For Arlen, he struggled to see five feet ahead of himself.
“I said shut up!” Fow growled at him.
“And I’m telling you, you shouldn’t have brought me. I hunt in daylight when I can actually see!” Arlen shot back.
“Frickin, blind as a bat you are. Just let’s get to the place alright? Somebody just take his hand already.”
“Oh hell no.” Arlen’s hand jerked back when he saw one of the hunting companions reaching for it. “I’m not a kid, nor disabled. Keep your hands to yourself.” He swatted at the offered arm as if it was a fly. From the way it moved, Arlen guessed the Jastai shrugged.
"I just need..." Arlen whispered to himself looking around almost getting to his knees until he found what he needed. A stone.
"What are you doing idiot?!” Fow swiftly moved in front of Arlen to block the light coming from the stone. “You wanna scare the game?!”
Arlen held the stone close to his chest. He could see! And he saw Fow's very pissed off face staring back at him. “You know you’d look better if you smiled…” Arlen said trying to lighten the situation with humour, if not the stone. “Frowning will make you age fas—-“
Fow made one threatening step towards Arlen, squaring his shoulders. Arlen didn’t cower. Instead, his face grew still. The rest of the company followed in fashion.
“I’ll die first before I grow old. Now dim that stuff down at least.” Fow cast a wary look at the glowing object before turning away to continue.
Back then, they reached the hunting ground alright without scaring the game. It was in an opening in the forest, with prey that was swift and agile. Jastai could not approach it for their size. But Arlen could.
Fow did indeed die before he grew old. Arlen didn’t know how glorious the death was, but not even his body was brought back. Apparently there wasn’t much left of it or the company that went hunting the beast.
“I can’t believe you still look as you did a decade ago,” Rook said as they sat together, leaning against a tree and letting the summer rain fall around them.
Arlen turned his head to face his friend. One of the only few that was still alive. One of the few who made a rare decision to stay behind and become a storyteller for their youth.
Even in the dim light, even with Arlen’s poor vision in such conditions, he saw the few silver strands already showing on Rook's temples. Pressing his lips together, Arlen did not answer. He didn’t understand the difference in ageing himself and no one in the tribe had satisfying answers.
“You’ve grown quiet, Arlen. Why?” His friend turned to him with concern in his eyes.
Yet again, Arlen did not speak. He only shook his head, staring at his palms, at the scar from childhood. That was now the only reminder of those who pushed him.
The silence stretched. Rook gave up and settled back, not hiding the frown of dissatisfaction.
One day, you’ll be gone as well and then this tribe will be full of strangers for me, Arlen thought, unable to bring himself to say those words. He looked through the rain at the silhouette of the houses where their tribe lived. Arlen knew everyone in those houses and they knew him regardless of the generation.
One day, there will be no one left but me. His hands balled into fists at the thought to stiffen the surge of conflicting emotions that had been stirring things he didn't yet understand.
And so many years later, his friend did die. Arlen was there by the bedside feeling the shame of dying on one’s back, shaken with utter sadness and desperation at witnessing Rook’s last breath.
We all grieve in ways that make sense to us. For some, loss opens up recesses of the mind we never knew were there. For others, it pushes them to do things they wouldn’t usually do.
Arlen never imagined himself leaving the tribe. He never thought he’d live to outlive all his peers.
The Jastai fire tribe would always be his family, always a home to return to. He knew where he belonged, but he had to find out where he came from. He had to understand if and how he could break his own vicious cycle of death.
Re: Arlen
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2020 2:40 pm
by Arlen
S K I L L S
| Skill | Skill Level | Proficiency |
| Strength | | |
| > Blades | 81/100 | Expert |
| > Unarmed combat | 15/100 | Novice |
| > Running | 15/100 | Novice |
| Dexterity | | |
| > Ranged weapon | 30/100 | Apprentice |
| Perception | | |
| > Appraisal | 28/100 | Apprentice |
| > Hunting | 23/100 | Novice |
| Craft | | |
| > Trapmaking | 15/100 | Novice |
| Intelligence | | |
| > Tactics | 23/100 | Novice |
| Charisma | | |
| > Storytelling | 12/100 | Novice |
Re: Arlen
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2020 2:42 pm
by Arlen
Re: Arlen
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2020 2:53 pm
by Arlen
Ledger
| Item | In | Out |
| Starting package | + 15,000df | ... |
| Cloak | ... | - 50df |
| Riding boots | ... | - 100df |
| Shirt | ... | - 10df |
| Belt | ... | - 20 df |
| Pants | ... | - 80df |
| 1 pair of leather gloves | ... | - 100df |
| Kukri | ... | - 800df |
| Lunch at Duedrop Inn on Searing 33rd | ... | - 50df |
| Total | 13,790df | ... |
Re: Arlen
Posted: Thu Jun 25, 2020 6:39 am
by Arlen
Re: Arlen
Posted: Tue Aug 04, 2020 1:02 pm
by Arlen
