Wyn
Oct 6, 2017 11:54:25 GMT -5
Post by Wyn on Oct 6, 2017 11:54:25 GMT -5
Character Name: Brenwyn, usually goes by Wyn, Wynnie, or "alag zholan vaudhomug staz"
Name Meaning: "That mangy sneaking rat"
Age: 20
Date of Birth: 2090
Race: Man
Residence: Vagabond, usually found in Mordor or the surrounding wilds
Profession: Thief, saboteur, renegade
Appearance:
One could be forgiven for mistaking her for a particularly small orc or goblin at a distance. It's not just the tattered leathers and scavenged bits of rusty uruk armor she wears, she moves almost like one too--furtive and sly, with a twitchy awareness that can be somewhat unsettling. A lifetime of hard labor and poor feeding has reduced Wyn to little more than skin and bones. Already somewhat small to begin with, barely 4' 10", she cuts a harsh silhouette against the horizon, all hard edges and wiry muscles. She is stronger than one might expect someone of her stature to be, but tends to neglect her own wellbeing, seeing her body as little more than a tool to lead others to safety and wreak what havoc she can in the process. Sunken hazel eyes, dull and flinty, glare out from under a mask of grime. While shaven heads were the norm among the slaves of Mordor, Wyn has been free long enough to have a full, if rather short, head of hair. A striking raven-dark in color, it is usually hidden under her hood, and kept cropped at an almost boyish length.
With high cheekbones and a slim form, she might have almost been pretty if not for the many marks life has left upon her. Most noticeable is the ugly scar running diagonally across her face, from right brow to the left side of her jaw. Without sufficient medical attention, the wound never healed properly, leaving a jagged slash of twisted, inflamed tissue. The mark narrowly misses both of her eyes, but the left side of her mouth has been cut badly, leaving her already-somber face with even more of a scowl. Her nose has obviously been broken at some point as well, possibly from the same blow that scarred her so. The result is a face she is loathe to share with the world, and almost always kept obscured beneath a masked hood. Dozens of smaller marks score the rest of her body, put there by a variety of sources. Though she often gave just as good as she got, over the years Wyn has been slashed, stabbed, flogged, mauled, and, once, almost stomped by a graug.
Wyn tends to clothe herself in castoff articles stolen from uruk garbage piles, often in poor condition and far too big for her frame. She mends them as much as she can, tightening straps and cutting leather to fit her spindly form. She still has her old slave tunic, used occasionally for disguise, but the telltale slash across her face announces her presence to any who might be looking for the little rabble-rouser. Her most valuable possession by far is a stolen cloak with a hood and mask, in surprisingly good condition. Formerly owned by an orc with a penchant for stealth, the cloak is dyed in mottled shades of grey and green, obscuring her in the wilds and protecting her from the elements. She has learned how to drape herself in this shroud and go still as stone, becoming invisible against the rock and scrub, and this has saved her hide on more than one occasion.
Wynn keeps a pair of short blades, which are in truth likely just old butcher's knives pilfered from an uruk camp. One hangs at her hip, while the other is hidden inside her right boot in the event she is ever deprived of the first. Both are kept honed to a near-surgical edge. Wyn is not a natural fighter, however, nor is she an enthusiastic one. She much prefers to run and avoid trouble, but when cornered can become positively vicious. There's no flash or grace to her fighting style, only an animalistic go-for-the-throat ferocity.
Personality:
A glance at this girl can often remind one of a particularly-mangy fox or coyote. She exists in a state of constant alertness, unsurprising given how low humans are on the Mordor food chain, always ready to fight or take flight. She has put up a wall of thorns between herself and the world--no matter how dire the circumstances, she will face any danger snarling and bristling like a mad dog, with the ferocity and unpredictability of one as well. At times she seems to keep herself alive by spite alone, withstanding hardships that should have killed her long ago. The girl has a will of iron. She has to, otherwise she would have never survived this long.
This driven nature, however, means that she has greatly neglected any kind of self-discovery. She has bundled herself away, refusing to be reminded of the people she lost and the hopelessness of her cause. Brenwyn the girl is long gone, seemingly replaced by the haggard wraith she now is. Under the sarcastic, half-feral hostility, though, she is scared and lonely, with little idea who or what she is beyond a tool of vengeance. She yearns for the companionship she never got to have, and may never have. She wants desperately to be friendly, at least with other humans, she just isn't sure how to go about it.
Wyn is an excellent survivalist, due to both years of experience and her sheer tenacity. She is cautious, but grasps new concepts quickly and is capable of planning and strategizing on the fly--one might even call her crafty. While her primary language is Westron (speaking, not writing, as a former farming slave she is illiterate) she has a fair understanding of Black Speech from her days as a slave and will often utilize this knowledge to eavesdrop on her enemies. Physically, she makes up in agility and endurance for what she lacks in raw strength, and can go long periods without much rest or nourishment.
However, life as a fugitive means that Wyn has all but lost the ability to truly lower her guard and relax, making it difficult for her to function in a non-wilderness environment. She does not trust easily, even with other humans, and while she means well, her social skills are virtually nonexistent. She possesses a simmering resentment towards authority and has absolutely no sense of decorum whatsoever. The girl is roughshod and half-feral, if only because she knows no other way to be.
Parents: Alvar and Veldra, both deceased
Sibling(s): None
Spouse: Probably not happening
Children: Also probably not happening
History:
An army has to eat. Contrary to common belief, not all of Mordor is a volcanic wasteland--only most of it. Around the inland sea of Nurnen, the land becomes surprisingly vibrant, fed by fertile volcanic soil and heavy rains. Vast tracts of farmland are maintained here, feeding vast herds of animals, which in turn feed vast hordes of orcs. The keepers of this farmland, however, are not uruk at all, but instead men, enslaved for generations. Brenwyn was born into this life, knowing little else beyond the craggy valleys and plains of Nurn. Whispers existed of a world beyond the mountains, where Man ruled instead of Orc, but to speak of such things meant a savage beating. 'Wynnie', as her exhausted but caring parents called her, learned to keep her head down and work without complaint, as they had done for centuries. And she never did complain, until the day her mother took ill. The woman had quite literally been worked to death, and when her father appealed to their orcish overlords for medicine and mercy, his wife was instead given a blade to the throat. When Brenwyn, then barely thirteen, threw herself upon the orc in a kicking, biting fit of grief and rage, she was struck across the face with the same blade.
She survived--somehow--but was never the same, and neither was her father. Something had broken within him that would never heal, much like the scar his child now bore. Against the advice of his fellow slaves, he attempted to make a run for freedom with his daughter in tow. Their escape was unplanned and desperate, and of course they were chased down. With warg and orc bearing down on them, the man shoved his daughter into a crevice in the rock and turned to face his death.
The fitful morning light saw a newly-orphaned girl emerge from her hidey-hole, stranded alone in the wilderness. She had a choice--return home to face certain death for daring to run, or stay in the wilds and risk only almost-certain death. Swallowing her tears, she chose to stay, if only so that her father's death would not be in vain.
The next seven years were a veritable trial by fire. Used to subsisting on almost nothing, she nevertheless found the Mordor wilderness to be a cruel and unforgiving world. Survival demanded that she become a scavenger, relying on small game and the scraps of other beasts' kills. When she grew bold enough or desperate enough, she stole from her former captors, haunting the fringes of their settlements and prowling about under cover of night. What she couldn't steal, she sabotaged--ruining equipment and fouling supplies, making life as miserable as she could. She gained a reputation as troublemaking vermin, little more than the rats that rummaged through the garbage. As she matured, however, she grew bolder. Orcs out alone at night ran the risk of a brief and violent ambush, a blade across the throat before they could raise the alarm. She came to know the wilds like the back of her hand, avoiding roaming beasts and disappearing into thickets when her foes tried to give chase. She was a thorn in the side of Sauron's army, however minuscule, and fiercely proud of it.
Though she has ventured outside Mordor in the past, whether to hunt, escape pursuit, or help others to safety, she never strays far from the black lands. Despite her hatred of the place, she is bound to it as much as any orc, and cannot bring herself to leave for good.
Name Meaning: "That mangy sneaking rat"
Age: 20
Date of Birth: 2090
Race: Man
Residence: Vagabond, usually found in Mordor or the surrounding wilds
Profession: Thief, saboteur, renegade
Appearance:
One could be forgiven for mistaking her for a particularly small orc or goblin at a distance. It's not just the tattered leathers and scavenged bits of rusty uruk armor she wears, she moves almost like one too--furtive and sly, with a twitchy awareness that can be somewhat unsettling. A lifetime of hard labor and poor feeding has reduced Wyn to little more than skin and bones. Already somewhat small to begin with, barely 4' 10", she cuts a harsh silhouette against the horizon, all hard edges and wiry muscles. She is stronger than one might expect someone of her stature to be, but tends to neglect her own wellbeing, seeing her body as little more than a tool to lead others to safety and wreak what havoc she can in the process. Sunken hazel eyes, dull and flinty, glare out from under a mask of grime. While shaven heads were the norm among the slaves of Mordor, Wyn has been free long enough to have a full, if rather short, head of hair. A striking raven-dark in color, it is usually hidden under her hood, and kept cropped at an almost boyish length.
With high cheekbones and a slim form, she might have almost been pretty if not for the many marks life has left upon her. Most noticeable is the ugly scar running diagonally across her face, from right brow to the left side of her jaw. Without sufficient medical attention, the wound never healed properly, leaving a jagged slash of twisted, inflamed tissue. The mark narrowly misses both of her eyes, but the left side of her mouth has been cut badly, leaving her already-somber face with even more of a scowl. Her nose has obviously been broken at some point as well, possibly from the same blow that scarred her so. The result is a face she is loathe to share with the world, and almost always kept obscured beneath a masked hood. Dozens of smaller marks score the rest of her body, put there by a variety of sources. Though she often gave just as good as she got, over the years Wyn has been slashed, stabbed, flogged, mauled, and, once, almost stomped by a graug.
Wyn tends to clothe herself in castoff articles stolen from uruk garbage piles, often in poor condition and far too big for her frame. She mends them as much as she can, tightening straps and cutting leather to fit her spindly form. She still has her old slave tunic, used occasionally for disguise, but the telltale slash across her face announces her presence to any who might be looking for the little rabble-rouser. Her most valuable possession by far is a stolen cloak with a hood and mask, in surprisingly good condition. Formerly owned by an orc with a penchant for stealth, the cloak is dyed in mottled shades of grey and green, obscuring her in the wilds and protecting her from the elements. She has learned how to drape herself in this shroud and go still as stone, becoming invisible against the rock and scrub, and this has saved her hide on more than one occasion.
Wynn keeps a pair of short blades, which are in truth likely just old butcher's knives pilfered from an uruk camp. One hangs at her hip, while the other is hidden inside her right boot in the event she is ever deprived of the first. Both are kept honed to a near-surgical edge. Wyn is not a natural fighter, however, nor is she an enthusiastic one. She much prefers to run and avoid trouble, but when cornered can become positively vicious. There's no flash or grace to her fighting style, only an animalistic go-for-the-throat ferocity.
Personality:
A glance at this girl can often remind one of a particularly-mangy fox or coyote. She exists in a state of constant alertness, unsurprising given how low humans are on the Mordor food chain, always ready to fight or take flight. She has put up a wall of thorns between herself and the world--no matter how dire the circumstances, she will face any danger snarling and bristling like a mad dog, with the ferocity and unpredictability of one as well. At times she seems to keep herself alive by spite alone, withstanding hardships that should have killed her long ago. The girl has a will of iron. She has to, otherwise she would have never survived this long.
This driven nature, however, means that she has greatly neglected any kind of self-discovery. She has bundled herself away, refusing to be reminded of the people she lost and the hopelessness of her cause. Brenwyn the girl is long gone, seemingly replaced by the haggard wraith she now is. Under the sarcastic, half-feral hostility, though, she is scared and lonely, with little idea who or what she is beyond a tool of vengeance. She yearns for the companionship she never got to have, and may never have. She wants desperately to be friendly, at least with other humans, she just isn't sure how to go about it.
Wyn is an excellent survivalist, due to both years of experience and her sheer tenacity. She is cautious, but grasps new concepts quickly and is capable of planning and strategizing on the fly--one might even call her crafty. While her primary language is Westron (speaking, not writing, as a former farming slave she is illiterate) she has a fair understanding of Black Speech from her days as a slave and will often utilize this knowledge to eavesdrop on her enemies. Physically, she makes up in agility and endurance for what she lacks in raw strength, and can go long periods without much rest or nourishment.
However, life as a fugitive means that Wyn has all but lost the ability to truly lower her guard and relax, making it difficult for her to function in a non-wilderness environment. She does not trust easily, even with other humans, and while she means well, her social skills are virtually nonexistent. She possesses a simmering resentment towards authority and has absolutely no sense of decorum whatsoever. The girl is roughshod and half-feral, if only because she knows no other way to be.
.The Blood.
Parents: Alvar and Veldra, both deceased
Sibling(s): None
Spouse: Probably not happening
Children: Also probably not happening
History:
An army has to eat. Contrary to common belief, not all of Mordor is a volcanic wasteland--only most of it. Around the inland sea of Nurnen, the land becomes surprisingly vibrant, fed by fertile volcanic soil and heavy rains. Vast tracts of farmland are maintained here, feeding vast herds of animals, which in turn feed vast hordes of orcs. The keepers of this farmland, however, are not uruk at all, but instead men, enslaved for generations. Brenwyn was born into this life, knowing little else beyond the craggy valleys and plains of Nurn. Whispers existed of a world beyond the mountains, where Man ruled instead of Orc, but to speak of such things meant a savage beating. 'Wynnie', as her exhausted but caring parents called her, learned to keep her head down and work without complaint, as they had done for centuries. And she never did complain, until the day her mother took ill. The woman had quite literally been worked to death, and when her father appealed to their orcish overlords for medicine and mercy, his wife was instead given a blade to the throat. When Brenwyn, then barely thirteen, threw herself upon the orc in a kicking, biting fit of grief and rage, she was struck across the face with the same blade.
She survived--somehow--but was never the same, and neither was her father. Something had broken within him that would never heal, much like the scar his child now bore. Against the advice of his fellow slaves, he attempted to make a run for freedom with his daughter in tow. Their escape was unplanned and desperate, and of course they were chased down. With warg and orc bearing down on them, the man shoved his daughter into a crevice in the rock and turned to face his death.
The fitful morning light saw a newly-orphaned girl emerge from her hidey-hole, stranded alone in the wilderness. She had a choice--return home to face certain death for daring to run, or stay in the wilds and risk only almost-certain death. Swallowing her tears, she chose to stay, if only so that her father's death would not be in vain.
The next seven years were a veritable trial by fire. Used to subsisting on almost nothing, she nevertheless found the Mordor wilderness to be a cruel and unforgiving world. Survival demanded that she become a scavenger, relying on small game and the scraps of other beasts' kills. When she grew bold enough or desperate enough, she stole from her former captors, haunting the fringes of their settlements and prowling about under cover of night. What she couldn't steal, she sabotaged--ruining equipment and fouling supplies, making life as miserable as she could. She gained a reputation as troublemaking vermin, little more than the rats that rummaged through the garbage. As she matured, however, she grew bolder. Orcs out alone at night ran the risk of a brief and violent ambush, a blade across the throat before they could raise the alarm. She came to know the wilds like the back of her hand, avoiding roaming beasts and disappearing into thickets when her foes tried to give chase. She was a thorn in the side of Sauron's army, however minuscule, and fiercely proud of it.
Though she has ventured outside Mordor in the past, whether to hunt, escape pursuit, or help others to safety, she never strays far from the black lands. Despite her hatred of the place, she is bound to it as much as any orc, and cannot bring herself to leave for good.
