mature

Full Name: Rohierim
Nick Names:  Roh

Age: 27
Race: Aquilonian
Gender: Male
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Skin: Light Tan
Height: 5' 5''
Weight:197 lbs

Place of Residence: I do like spending my down time on a bench in the common area of Old Tarantia.

Place of Birth: Old Tarantia
Known Relatives: Mother Celia

Group/Guild Association: Cymbrogi
Guild Rank: Knight, Patrol Leader, Recruiter

Religion/Philosophy: Praise the Mitra for the strength given to me!
Occupation: Soldier/Guardian

Weapons of Choice:  Short Sword and Shield. Sometimes a spear does the job well.
Enemies: All followers of Lol.

The Wedding Reception

The stink of the seashore loomed heavily in the humid night air as Neverlin took another long swig from the bottle of blackberry wine. Smacking his lips, he slunk against the side of an abandoned warehouse. He strained to keep his eyes open as the soporific effects of the sweet liquor dulled his senses.  Normally, he did not condone drinking to excess, being a firm believer in keeping one’s facilities optimal.

But it had been a particularly tough week and the life he led now seemed a grim caricature of the one he envisioned.  So he sighed and indulged himself with another swallow.

Hot Gardack Nights

A mosquito zipped and buzzed about the mammothskin tent, bumping up futilely against the soot covered ceiling searching for an escape.  Neverlin sighed, dabbing the moister from his forehead with a silk napkin and sunk deeper into an arrangement of satin pillows.  Even in the late evening the sticky hot weather was intolerable, and he was sweating like a virgin in the Pyramid of Ancients.  A pile of searing red coals in the center of the tent certainly didn’t help matters either. The mosquito dove towards him suddenly, perilously close, but still just out of the Necromancer’s grasp. With a blink, Neverlin snuffed the life force out of the tiny insect and watched it spiral downward onto the smoldering coals, incinerating it with a faint sizzle.

He really hated the swamps.

The sky was obscured by a dense arboreal canopy; the stars and full moon, in turn, were largely obscured by thick cloud cover.

Beneath it all she lay. Still. Ears imagined as twin vessels into which liquid sound would pour. The soundscape clicked and popped with the rustle of foliage and howled with the frigid winds. Beasts stalked prey; the insects sang paeans to would-be mates. Alien noises in an alien place.

The soft rasp of slumbering bodies also could be heard, plaintive and oddly comforting.

The darkness was receding now, and she turned her head, peering over at the Mitran. He had promised to be up for the final watch, a promise now as ethereal as his dreams. Not that it mattered. Unused to the nighttime cacophony of the Cimmerian lowlands, Axun had laid awake for most of the night, drifting in and out of fitful slumber. She had woken the bald pale-skin at one point, only to find him sound asleep again when next she woke.

The river’s gentle pulse very nearly drowns out the small clacking of the prayer beads. Tk-tk-tk, they are chiding.  The Mitran – Cleric, more technically – intently regards the archer bathing there in shallows. She has gone under thrice now and for a third time she rises up from the water, head flung back and then forward, sunrays catching silver strands of riverwater thrown in lazy parabolas from her cropped dark hair.

Act 3: Love and Bloodshed

Begin here listening to the soundtrack: Deathbed and Maelstrom by Bear McCreary, click this link to begin listening now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi3cvpILRr8

Act 2: I’m falling…

(Mirnea’s origin story, parts of which are still a mystery to Mirnea herself. I hope you all enjoy it and there is more coming as I begin to articulate her story on in text that is all my mind at the moment. I am looking for constructive criticism, encouragement and whether you like it or not!