Deorwine

Character Name: Deorwine

Name Meaning: Deor's Friend or Dear Friend

Nickname or Alias: Deorwine the Bull (as in 'Bullseye')

Race: Man (Rohirric)

Age: 22

Date of Birth: 2989 TA

Place of Birth: Edoras, Rohan

Current Residence: Edoras

Occupation: Bowyer, Rider of the Eored (Ceolmund's command)


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Not exactly the ideal of a Son of the Mark, while Deorwine carries the iconic flowing flaxen hair of his sires he is not quite the picture of stocky strength one would conjure when considering the Rohirrim. Shorter and more lithe than many a Rider of Rohan, his slight frame belies a strength hard won through years of hard craft and stringing of many a mighty bow. Perhaps a better indication would be the markings of his hands stung time and again by the snap of those same strings, or else from picking across those of a harp.

Bright eyed and with a strong jaw, but for his small, slight stature there is no question that to look upon Deorwine is to see one of Eorl's folk and in the saddle with hair a'streaming behind there could be none at all. Though he might stoop and shuffle on his own feet he holds himself upon his horse with mien of the highest Lord of Edoras such that one would never think him merely the boyer's boy.

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When you look at me do you see some Man of legend? I don't want to be the hero, I just want to be in the story.

Loyal and forthright, like the very arrows sung from his bow, Deorwine holds only three things sacred in all the world. In no particular order, what remains of his family, his fellow Riders who became his surrogates and finally his homeland. If no oath bound him then this would be enough to see him sally forth into the Shadow. No dauntless hero by any means, he knows well his own limits but would never see them keep him from a brother in arms or a fellow in need. Common courtesy that and too often forgotten in uncertain times.

Seemingly gifted with a character much larger than his outward appearance, the young Man seems always whether at work or war to have a song ready at his lips or tickling across his harp and makes no issue of sharing it round Edoras or in the camp of the Eored. In victory or defeat it is usually Deorwine who will first raise his voice to recount the deeds of the day, keeping his brothers morale always at the fore of his thoughts. Indeed though there may be more merit in singing the deeds of Princes and Kings, there is more honour to be had in marking those near deeds that others might soon forget, he feels.

For what is a Man but the culmination of a hundred-hundred stories? And who shall tell them if not he? Deorwine loves stories all, great and small and would give voice to them all had he the time. Certainly he makes a good effort of it, interrogating and queestioning every facet of a stranger laid before him and wishing always to know more or far flung people or places. For one so inquisitive he is much more reserved of himself, a matter he rarely addresses but for the surety with which he declares himself amongst the greatest bowmen in the Mark, as cocksure as he is in this respect he rarely talks about himself directly.

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Parents:
Leofric, father, deceased
Aelfreda, mother, alive, midwife and 'healer'

Siblings:
Hereward, elder brother, deceased

Spouse: None

Children: None


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The second of two sons, Deorwine was a late, unexpected addition to his family, but a joy nonetheless. In his early years he was a regular sight trailing after his much older brother Hereward. He would also spend much time watching his father at work, though his brother had little enough time for their father's craft, favoring instead to stride across the fields of the Riddenmark as one of the King's men, young Doerwine perceived almost a kind of magic in the bending and the shaping of wood and he learned the rudiments of his father's craft quickly.

Such a life, perhaps assured by fate, was soon to be struck by tragedy. The other Riders, when they bore Hereward's body back to Edoras called him a hero, Leofric called him a fool even as he stooped to weep over the ruin of his son. Even after burning his body and giving up the ashes to the wind, Leofric felt no sense of closure with his errant child, he had been dealt a mortal wound surely as Hereward and grief took him in its turn. Deorwine, having seen no more than seven winters, was now left with only his mother to console him.

So now to set his mind from grief and sorrow Aelfreda would each evening tell him far flung stories from the history of their people and where the memory of them faded into the distant mists of time she would tell at length the histories of the tall men who had come over the sea in their white ships and even before them her stories were of the far forgotten Elves of her namesake, those first Children that had walked upon Middle-Earth. Though he knew very well what she intended, Deorwine loved her stories; but he loved better her songs, sung softly in the fading light which splintered over the high wooden walls of Edoras. The idea took him soon after that with what scant scraps there were in his father's workshop he should fashion himself a crude harp and having begged what lessons he could from passing musicians who wound their way up the hill to the King's Hall, he would accompany her with what rustic music he could.

Without his father to court custom life was lean and hard, for only such hunters and trappers that could afford to go nowhere else would come to buy his work. As for his mother, folk would oft only come to her as a last recourse against disaster or death, being that many shunned her for her craft and whispered ill of it behind her back.

So he practiced, he practiced shaping and shooting the bow until he could feel its taut and flex as surely as he did the muscles of his own arm. With practice came skill at both and soon not only could he supply for himself and his mother selling bows to the Riders of the Mark, he could out shoot near enough any one of them at the gallop. It was a skill which did not go unnoticed and the lanky bowyer of sixteen years was offered a place as one of the Riders of the Mark. Though his mother dissuaded him from that course, the proffered pay in addition to his trade was too much to turn down for any man of humble birth, even one who knew well where the end may be.

Riding was not difficult, all the Men of Rohan were born to the saddle and the thrill of the wind, the pounding of hooves in the wide open spaces of the world; shooting was second nature by then, fighting? Fighting was difficult. Deorwine was not a natural warrior by any estimation and progress in his knowledge of sword and shield, spear and axe were slow, but as he grew more in to his own self there were marked improvements. Though he may have sat short in the saddle still, he stood tall as a proud member of the Eored and rode his share of battles in good time.

Such a life, he thought, was not so bad. There was nothing quite so fine as to return in victory and sing the deeds of ones companions to their smiling faces and even where the songs were so bitter as to honor the victorious dead the shared pride of the Riders gave even that music its own sad, strange beauty.