Falshier
Posted: Thu Dec 10, 2009 3:58 pm
Name: Falshier
Gender: Male
Height: 6-2'
Weight: 165
Age: 22
Race: Albino Human
Physical Appearance: Falshier standing at 6-2' 165 pounds. Is a stringy mess of limb and bone,But those stringy limbs are covered With muscles hardened from months at a time spent in arctic tundra. With a long and purposeful stride, and jet-black eyes he is often mistaken for “evil ” ( which is not a bad guess in and of it’s self) but his unnerving, lopsided smile has gotten him out of many tight situations. A large tattoo of a wild polar bear crushing a skull covers his Snow white forehead, the symbol of the northern tribes of Tiag Xia. A pair of intimidating scimitar hilts stick up above his shoulders each with a white bone worked pommels and a impressive dead black cross bar.
Possessions: Hard leather boots, Large bear fur coat with matching leggings, A pair of black and bone scimitars, Cross draw scabbard strapped on his back. A massive backpack to carry the necessities of living in the arctic. Including a sleeping bag, along with traps and sharpening stones for his swords.
Strengths/Good Qualities: Quick and agile, Knows how to use both his swords simultaneously. Good climber, not a fast sprinter but has enough endurance to run for many miles.
Weaknesses/Bad Qualities: Over-thinks situations very often, not very strong, uses agility and quickness to overcome his enemies. Has many enemies from the northern region that would pay to see him dead. Has no foot speed in the short distances. Has no knowlage of the “civilized” world and its religions and currency
Character History:
The wind outside howled with a ferocious insanity that could freeze bare skin in seconds. This winter had been the hardest anyone had ever known. Even the elders believed their gods had abandoned them. The low bear hide tents sheltered the remaining survivors of the Fia’gu tribe. This winter had been hard on the Fia’gu tribe, the elk were scarce and remaining rations were running low. Most tribe members were convinced that they would not make it through the winter.
Guska hurried towards the center of the encampment, eager to tell the chief his news. Quickly ducking under the flap he entered the tent, the smell of a freshly brewed pot of stew hit him. Immediately suppressing to urge to gaze for the source of the smell, he planted once head firmly on the bear skin rug while dropping to his knees. Looking straight down he intoned the ritual phrase.
“Does the keeper of the tribe wish to hear me?”
After a moment a gruff reply came from the dark corner of the tent.
“Speak what must be spoken”
Rising cautiously from his kneeling position he began his report.
“ I found them!” He spoke, and with a obvious struggle to control his voice continued on.
“ They have sheltered on the far side of the mountain. The snow there is not deep and it is sheltered from the wind”
The gruff voice in the corner was silent, after what seemed like a hour the voice replied
“ Then we must move at once, prepare the people to move, we will set out tomorrow at daybreak”
Guska hurried out of the tent, running to the middle of the camp he sounded the horn of summons. A rams horn about 2 feet long. The boom echoed across the camp and overlapping it’s self several times before fading into the wind. Slowly people began to trickle out of their tents, reluctant to leave the warm safe haven they had created. As the crowd grew around Guska he couldn't help but wonder, “This is all of us that are left? We were once a powerful tribe, inspiring fear at the very mention of our name”
At last the final stragglers came from there tents. Guska motioned for silence, and began his speech.
“The elk have been found! And we are moving at once. We leave at daybreak tomorrow”
There were murmurers and exclaims of surprise. Guska pushed his way through the crowd, heading for his own tent as a hand grabbed his arm. Instantly alert he spun away from the grip, or tried to. This man had a grip like iron. Turning to confront this new threat he found himself staring directly into the chest of a mountain of a man. The smell of sweaty bear skin pounded in his head and he squinted because he was forced to look into the sun to see the man’s face. It must be Threashr, nobody had a grip like that.
“Can I help you” Guska asked in a exasperated voice while attempting to wrench his arm free. Quickly noticing that Threashr’s face was a very extravagant shade of red.
“YES you can help me!” practically shouting at Guska “ I would like to know why we are moving camp locations when my wife has just given birth!”
Racking his brain he then recalled that Threashr and his wife Feaghis had just birthed a baby boy. It was rumored that the baby had skin as white as snow. He wondered whether or not this could be some way to hide the fact that their baby was not normal. They couldn't keep him inside the tent forever.
“We cant forgo this opportunity!” Starting to raise his voice also
“ Rations are running low, people are getting thinner everyday, we can not go on like this. Our scouts found where the elk have bedded down and nows our chance!”
Threashr stared at him, a blank stare, devoid of all emotion. Then the words came, not ferocious nor hard in anyway, but emotionless. Softly spoken these words shook Guska to the core.
“If you go, you will die. There is a death waiting all those who follow to the elk. I will not subjugate my family to that fate. If you go, I will stay here.”
Some call it “The Sight” The shaman of the village says it is when one being has a link, if only for a second directly to the astral plane. Threashr never knew how he did what he did, but he knew that under any circumstance would he ever willingly do it again.
Threashr watched as his tribe moved on without him. The horn of summons echoed across the open, windblown field, fading into the distance. A slow tear slide down his cheek as he watched them go. Not for them, but for his family. From no on they would have to work for their lively hood. No more days off, no more breaks half-way through the day for food. This was it.
Threashr had been right, the Fia’gu tribe had never been seen since that fateful day. Everyday the cold seeped into his bones, just a little further everyday. He was getting old, and he knew it, everyday tasks now seemed harder then before. And daily chores taking just a little longer. Hearing the crunch of snow he slowly turned to find Falshier, dressed and ready for the days work. Falshier was almost 8 now, approaching the day of the weapon. As it used to be called in the tribe, the day when a boys father would give him his first set of practice sticks.
Falshier was good, no, he was a natural. Falshiers father watched in amazement as he worked his way through the forms. Slowly increasing speed and intensity, Falshier continued picking up speed, flowing through the forms with a grace Threashr had never seen before. At his climax Falshier was nothing but a blur, hands moving in lightning succession as he flashed his sword in sequences slowly getting more and more complicated. With a jerk he came to a stop, sweat pouring from his face even through the mid morning chill. Gathering his stuff and sheathing his scimitar Falshier quickly redressed, set off at a jog to gather and reset his traps for the day.
There was a cold, crisp wind as he jogged out to his first trap. cracking the lid of the box trap, he snaked his hand in, there was a quick, pinching pain in his middle finger. With a string of curses he grabbed the furry animal by the ears. A fine specimen, a rabbit on the plump side, this would make good eating tonight. Quickly slitting its throat and hanging it off the edge of the box trap to bleed out while he reset the trap.
As he approached his last trap a faint sound, that might not have been a sound at all caught his ear. A voice, as if carried on the wind through the hills. Slowly drawing his scimitar, clipping his black fur veil across his eyes while pulling his hood up he crept closer. Crawling the last couple meters up the hill he slowly peaked his head over, showing just his eyes. Two men were standing around his last trap, pointing and arguing, as if deciding who would get the contents of the trap. Both men were short and stocky, with elk capes and face masks, with bear fur coat and leggings. These men were dressed for warmth. “Who would come all this way just for a elk?” He thought while slowly stalking around the backside of the hill.
After a couple minutes he reached the far side of the hill, the men’s backs were turned still arguing over the contents of the pit. Slowly, as if he were sneaking on the god of death himself, he left the cover of the hill. Staring holes through the men’s backs as he moved step by step closer. 15 meters, the men still intent on their argument, he could now hear that they were speaking in a language he did not know. 10 meters...Crunch, to intent on the argument he forgot to navigate around the ice patches that dotted the ravine. Both men whirled around struggling to pull their swords out of their heavy fur coats. In a blur Falshier covered the last 10 meters, slashing the first foe across the throat. Blood dotted the fine crisp of snow and ice, quickly he regained his balance ready to face the next foe. The other man was ready, holding up his short sword in an almost dopey way. Thinking to himself “ This man does not know how to use a sword” he then noticed that this man did not have the traditional thin eyes and hooked nose of the tribes people. He was from the south! The thought echoed through his head like a horn of summons, “what could this mean for the tribes? Were the legendary southerners, with their armies numbering in the thousands finely coming for the allegiance of the tribes?”
Falshier edged himself slowly over to the edge of the pit, the southerner, almost shaking (whether from the cold or not is debatable) followed Falshier with his eyes, sword point following suit. Flashing that lopsided grin of his Flashier turned and in one smooth motion jumped over the pit landing on the balls of his feet lightly and grabbing the southerners packs (which they will not survive long without), set off at a quick jog directly the opposite way of his family's hut. Intending to double back after a couple miles.
Gender: Male
Height: 6-2'
Weight: 165
Age: 22
Race: Albino Human
Physical Appearance: Falshier standing at 6-2' 165 pounds. Is a stringy mess of limb and bone,But those stringy limbs are covered With muscles hardened from months at a time spent in arctic tundra. With a long and purposeful stride, and jet-black eyes he is often mistaken for “evil ” ( which is not a bad guess in and of it’s self) but his unnerving, lopsided smile has gotten him out of many tight situations. A large tattoo of a wild polar bear crushing a skull covers his Snow white forehead, the symbol of the northern tribes of Tiag Xia. A pair of intimidating scimitar hilts stick up above his shoulders each with a white bone worked pommels and a impressive dead black cross bar.
Possessions: Hard leather boots, Large bear fur coat with matching leggings, A pair of black and bone scimitars, Cross draw scabbard strapped on his back. A massive backpack to carry the necessities of living in the arctic. Including a sleeping bag, along with traps and sharpening stones for his swords.
Strengths/Good Qualities: Quick and agile, Knows how to use both his swords simultaneously. Good climber, not a fast sprinter but has enough endurance to run for many miles.
Weaknesses/Bad Qualities: Over-thinks situations very often, not very strong, uses agility and quickness to overcome his enemies. Has many enemies from the northern region that would pay to see him dead. Has no foot speed in the short distances. Has no knowlage of the “civilized” world and its religions and currency
Character History:
The wind outside howled with a ferocious insanity that could freeze bare skin in seconds. This winter had been the hardest anyone had ever known. Even the elders believed their gods had abandoned them. The low bear hide tents sheltered the remaining survivors of the Fia’gu tribe. This winter had been hard on the Fia’gu tribe, the elk were scarce and remaining rations were running low. Most tribe members were convinced that they would not make it through the winter.
Guska hurried towards the center of the encampment, eager to tell the chief his news. Quickly ducking under the flap he entered the tent, the smell of a freshly brewed pot of stew hit him. Immediately suppressing to urge to gaze for the source of the smell, he planted once head firmly on the bear skin rug while dropping to his knees. Looking straight down he intoned the ritual phrase.
“Does the keeper of the tribe wish to hear me?”
After a moment a gruff reply came from the dark corner of the tent.
“Speak what must be spoken”
Rising cautiously from his kneeling position he began his report.
“ I found them!” He spoke, and with a obvious struggle to control his voice continued on.
“ They have sheltered on the far side of the mountain. The snow there is not deep and it is sheltered from the wind”
The gruff voice in the corner was silent, after what seemed like a hour the voice replied
“ Then we must move at once, prepare the people to move, we will set out tomorrow at daybreak”
Guska hurried out of the tent, running to the middle of the camp he sounded the horn of summons. A rams horn about 2 feet long. The boom echoed across the camp and overlapping it’s self several times before fading into the wind. Slowly people began to trickle out of their tents, reluctant to leave the warm safe haven they had created. As the crowd grew around Guska he couldn't help but wonder, “This is all of us that are left? We were once a powerful tribe, inspiring fear at the very mention of our name”
At last the final stragglers came from there tents. Guska motioned for silence, and began his speech.
“The elk have been found! And we are moving at once. We leave at daybreak tomorrow”
There were murmurers and exclaims of surprise. Guska pushed his way through the crowd, heading for his own tent as a hand grabbed his arm. Instantly alert he spun away from the grip, or tried to. This man had a grip like iron. Turning to confront this new threat he found himself staring directly into the chest of a mountain of a man. The smell of sweaty bear skin pounded in his head and he squinted because he was forced to look into the sun to see the man’s face. It must be Threashr, nobody had a grip like that.
“Can I help you” Guska asked in a exasperated voice while attempting to wrench his arm free. Quickly noticing that Threashr’s face was a very extravagant shade of red.
“YES you can help me!” practically shouting at Guska “ I would like to know why we are moving camp locations when my wife has just given birth!”
Racking his brain he then recalled that Threashr and his wife Feaghis had just birthed a baby boy. It was rumored that the baby had skin as white as snow. He wondered whether or not this could be some way to hide the fact that their baby was not normal. They couldn't keep him inside the tent forever.
“We cant forgo this opportunity!” Starting to raise his voice also
“ Rations are running low, people are getting thinner everyday, we can not go on like this. Our scouts found where the elk have bedded down and nows our chance!”
Threashr stared at him, a blank stare, devoid of all emotion. Then the words came, not ferocious nor hard in anyway, but emotionless. Softly spoken these words shook Guska to the core.
“If you go, you will die. There is a death waiting all those who follow to the elk. I will not subjugate my family to that fate. If you go, I will stay here.”
Some call it “The Sight” The shaman of the village says it is when one being has a link, if only for a second directly to the astral plane. Threashr never knew how he did what he did, but he knew that under any circumstance would he ever willingly do it again.
Threashr watched as his tribe moved on without him. The horn of summons echoed across the open, windblown field, fading into the distance. A slow tear slide down his cheek as he watched them go. Not for them, but for his family. From no on they would have to work for their lively hood. No more days off, no more breaks half-way through the day for food. This was it.
Threashr had been right, the Fia’gu tribe had never been seen since that fateful day. Everyday the cold seeped into his bones, just a little further everyday. He was getting old, and he knew it, everyday tasks now seemed harder then before. And daily chores taking just a little longer. Hearing the crunch of snow he slowly turned to find Falshier, dressed and ready for the days work. Falshier was almost 8 now, approaching the day of the weapon. As it used to be called in the tribe, the day when a boys father would give him his first set of practice sticks.
Falshier was good, no, he was a natural. Falshiers father watched in amazement as he worked his way through the forms. Slowly increasing speed and intensity, Falshier continued picking up speed, flowing through the forms with a grace Threashr had never seen before. At his climax Falshier was nothing but a blur, hands moving in lightning succession as he flashed his sword in sequences slowly getting more and more complicated. With a jerk he came to a stop, sweat pouring from his face even through the mid morning chill. Gathering his stuff and sheathing his scimitar Falshier quickly redressed, set off at a jog to gather and reset his traps for the day.
There was a cold, crisp wind as he jogged out to his first trap. cracking the lid of the box trap, he snaked his hand in, there was a quick, pinching pain in his middle finger. With a string of curses he grabbed the furry animal by the ears. A fine specimen, a rabbit on the plump side, this would make good eating tonight. Quickly slitting its throat and hanging it off the edge of the box trap to bleed out while he reset the trap.
As he approached his last trap a faint sound, that might not have been a sound at all caught his ear. A voice, as if carried on the wind through the hills. Slowly drawing his scimitar, clipping his black fur veil across his eyes while pulling his hood up he crept closer. Crawling the last couple meters up the hill he slowly peaked his head over, showing just his eyes. Two men were standing around his last trap, pointing and arguing, as if deciding who would get the contents of the trap. Both men were short and stocky, with elk capes and face masks, with bear fur coat and leggings. These men were dressed for warmth. “Who would come all this way just for a elk?” He thought while slowly stalking around the backside of the hill.
After a couple minutes he reached the far side of the hill, the men’s backs were turned still arguing over the contents of the pit. Slowly, as if he were sneaking on the god of death himself, he left the cover of the hill. Staring holes through the men’s backs as he moved step by step closer. 15 meters, the men still intent on their argument, he could now hear that they were speaking in a language he did not know. 10 meters...Crunch, to intent on the argument he forgot to navigate around the ice patches that dotted the ravine. Both men whirled around struggling to pull their swords out of their heavy fur coats. In a blur Falshier covered the last 10 meters, slashing the first foe across the throat. Blood dotted the fine crisp of snow and ice, quickly he regained his balance ready to face the next foe. The other man was ready, holding up his short sword in an almost dopey way. Thinking to himself “ This man does not know how to use a sword” he then noticed that this man did not have the traditional thin eyes and hooked nose of the tribes people. He was from the south! The thought echoed through his head like a horn of summons, “what could this mean for the tribes? Were the legendary southerners, with their armies numbering in the thousands finely coming for the allegiance of the tribes?”
Falshier edged himself slowly over to the edge of the pit, the southerner, almost shaking (whether from the cold or not is debatable) followed Falshier with his eyes, sword point following suit. Flashing that lopsided grin of his Flashier turned and in one smooth motion jumped over the pit landing on the balls of his feet lightly and grabbing the southerners packs (which they will not survive long without), set off at a quick jog directly the opposite way of his family's hut. Intending to double back after a couple miles.