Post by Rasthur Grassrunner on Jun 13, 2008 21:22:33 GMT -5
Name: Rasthur Grassrunner, 'Grassrunner' being a title granted to the swiftest of the tribe to which he originated from. Traditionally, members must earn their last name.
Gender: Male
Age: 50 years
Species: Fox
Occupation: Nothing that could be defined as a real occupation, other then ranting and walking around like he owns the place.
Physical Appearance:
A very lean gray old fox, it would seem that at one point in his lifetime Rasthur was quite the agile and swift warrior. But that lies in the past, his fur is very rough and somewhat greasy at times and unkept at best. His lips are pursed in a very stoic expression pretty much most of the time and what little control he has over his eyes is a frown.
His most obvious trait is that he is blind, he covers his useless eyes with a black sash, tied behind his head; more so to conceal the scars that frequent his brow, then any kind of shame. He wears a brown habit, not unlike that of a monk and is always haunched over, leaning on his old walking stick for support.
Beneath his habit lies a body tattered and battered with scars, marks and tattoos, almost telling Rasthur's story of how he came to be who he is.
Possessions
His walking stick, a piece of wood that one would associate with driftwood, which is more or less the truth. Rasthur's weapon/method of transport is in fact no more then an old unfinished spear, minus a fair bit of it's length and point.
Personality:
Rasthur is a very grumpy fox on the outside, his cold closed exterior is simply a primitive form of stubbornness. He refuses to accept help, or even aid for his condition; some even go as far to describe him as senile. Though he is quite the opposite, he really does care and does have a good word or piece of advice, or even a story to offer to the younger generations. However, getting him to share is like squeezing water from a rock.
Strengths:
With age comes experience and with experience comes wisdom, despite his rather harsh and primitive upbringing, Rasthur is quite the intellect. Having to adapt to a new way of life after losing his one skill; combat.
However, the loss of his sight as not rendered him completely useless, his enhanced senses do come in handy at times and he still can teach the younger generations a thing or two about fighting with his walking stick. But he is by no means, capable of fighting real soldiers.
Weaknesses:
His blindness, lack of sight, the world of darkness which he sees. It is quite frankly obvious what disadvantages this poses for him. Many a time has he stubbed a paw on a rock, tripped on a chair that someone forgot to tuck in and nearly sworn after falling into the Abbey pond.
His ranting attitude, no matter what the situation, Rasthur will always have something negative to contribute or something to criticize. Those who know him however, have learned not to take it personally, as it's just his way.
History:
Rasthur was born and raised out on the plains to the west of Mossflower, a common beginning with a not so common end. He was a member of a tribe of vermin, mostly foxes and ferrets and other more larger varieties. Whom were not unlike the Juska, fiercely tribal, following the many things they saw as signs from the higher ups and spirits of the deceased and most importantly their spiritual leader.
There were no 'true' families in the sense that they were bound by blood, they were members of the tribe, nothing more. Youths were awarded a name by the resident elders and it was up to them to earn their second. Rasthur was no different, his name, in their tongue, ironically enough meant 'gazes at the shade'. And the oddity continued as there was little source of shade in their area, but no one questioned that.
The day came when young Rasthur, a fine young kinsman of approximately twenty-three, earned his title. He had charged ahead of the group at a fleeing party of mice and voles and cut down the leader. Who happened to be out in front of the retreat. No sooner then had he wiped the blood off his spear was he awarded his secondary name and not a moment too soon. For too long the tribe had gone without a 'Grassrunner' and this was deemed yet another of the many ill omens that plagued them.
Years passed on uneventfully, until a cold winter day to which the nomadic tribe was camped at the steppes, entrance to the north lands. They looked to the skies and were horrified to find a green glow on the horizon, the tribe looked to the moon, it wasn't there! Uneasily, they slept that night, only to find a few hours into the next day, the sun hid its face from them. The tribe was horrified, this was a string of the most ill of omens and there was only one way to turn this around.
Bloodshed.
The elders divided the tribe and sent them in all directions, telling them not to return until their weapons dripped with blood of the fallen. Rasthur's group headed south and east, into Mossflower country. The group moved through the forests, unused to the shadow of the forest and the presence of many trees and water. But still they pressed on and were somewhat awarded for their efforts. Ahead lay an encampment of shrews, tiny creatures, surely not capable of putting up a decent fight. They charged forward, yelling out their cries of battle and bloodlust only to be cut down by the shrews; whom happened to be the Gousim, with the local otter holt camped nearby.
Though they killed many, their number was too few, had their whole tribe been here, they might have won. But that didn't matter now, what was done was done and Rasthur awoke. To darkness. Was he dead? No, he could hear the gurgling of the stream sure enough and the pain in his limbs was apparent. He rubbed his eyes only to be repelled by a sting of pain, feeling his way to the stream he splashed the water on himself. Still the eyes wouldn't open, yet his entire body stung furiously.
He tried again and again and a few times more, but his eyes wouldn't open. He was locked in the dark. He sat by the river, the water calming his initial urges of vengeance, flicking through his last moments of sight. He had killed...Young shrews and old, those unable to defend themselves. For the sake of what? Saving the tribe? He wasn't so sure anymore, but he did take this as his own fault.
From that day forward, Rasthur decided to repent for a lifetime of sins and murder. With the loss of his sight he saw something else, something that the rest of his tribe could not.
He traveled for sometime, stumbling through the forest until he found the Abbey, the kind creatures took him in, fed him and tended his wounds. He smiled, for the first time in a while, for something other then blood. Yes...He would repent here.
Relationships:
None
Gender: Male
Age: 50 years
Species: Fox
Occupation: Nothing that could be defined as a real occupation, other then ranting and walking around like he owns the place.
Physical Appearance:
A very lean gray old fox, it would seem that at one point in his lifetime Rasthur was quite the agile and swift warrior. But that lies in the past, his fur is very rough and somewhat greasy at times and unkept at best. His lips are pursed in a very stoic expression pretty much most of the time and what little control he has over his eyes is a frown.
His most obvious trait is that he is blind, he covers his useless eyes with a black sash, tied behind his head; more so to conceal the scars that frequent his brow, then any kind of shame. He wears a brown habit, not unlike that of a monk and is always haunched over, leaning on his old walking stick for support.
Beneath his habit lies a body tattered and battered with scars, marks and tattoos, almost telling Rasthur's story of how he came to be who he is.
Possessions
His walking stick, a piece of wood that one would associate with driftwood, which is more or less the truth. Rasthur's weapon/method of transport is in fact no more then an old unfinished spear, minus a fair bit of it's length and point.
Personality:
Rasthur is a very grumpy fox on the outside, his cold closed exterior is simply a primitive form of stubbornness. He refuses to accept help, or even aid for his condition; some even go as far to describe him as senile. Though he is quite the opposite, he really does care and does have a good word or piece of advice, or even a story to offer to the younger generations. However, getting him to share is like squeezing water from a rock.
Strengths:
With age comes experience and with experience comes wisdom, despite his rather harsh and primitive upbringing, Rasthur is quite the intellect. Having to adapt to a new way of life after losing his one skill; combat.
However, the loss of his sight as not rendered him completely useless, his enhanced senses do come in handy at times and he still can teach the younger generations a thing or two about fighting with his walking stick. But he is by no means, capable of fighting real soldiers.
Weaknesses:
His blindness, lack of sight, the world of darkness which he sees. It is quite frankly obvious what disadvantages this poses for him. Many a time has he stubbed a paw on a rock, tripped on a chair that someone forgot to tuck in and nearly sworn after falling into the Abbey pond.
His ranting attitude, no matter what the situation, Rasthur will always have something negative to contribute or something to criticize. Those who know him however, have learned not to take it personally, as it's just his way.
History:
Rasthur was born and raised out on the plains to the west of Mossflower, a common beginning with a not so common end. He was a member of a tribe of vermin, mostly foxes and ferrets and other more larger varieties. Whom were not unlike the Juska, fiercely tribal, following the many things they saw as signs from the higher ups and spirits of the deceased and most importantly their spiritual leader.
There were no 'true' families in the sense that they were bound by blood, they were members of the tribe, nothing more. Youths were awarded a name by the resident elders and it was up to them to earn their second. Rasthur was no different, his name, in their tongue, ironically enough meant 'gazes at the shade'. And the oddity continued as there was little source of shade in their area, but no one questioned that.
The day came when young Rasthur, a fine young kinsman of approximately twenty-three, earned his title. He had charged ahead of the group at a fleeing party of mice and voles and cut down the leader. Who happened to be out in front of the retreat. No sooner then had he wiped the blood off his spear was he awarded his secondary name and not a moment too soon. For too long the tribe had gone without a 'Grassrunner' and this was deemed yet another of the many ill omens that plagued them.
Years passed on uneventfully, until a cold winter day to which the nomadic tribe was camped at the steppes, entrance to the north lands. They looked to the skies and were horrified to find a green glow on the horizon, the tribe looked to the moon, it wasn't there! Uneasily, they slept that night, only to find a few hours into the next day, the sun hid its face from them. The tribe was horrified, this was a string of the most ill of omens and there was only one way to turn this around.
Bloodshed.
The elders divided the tribe and sent them in all directions, telling them not to return until their weapons dripped with blood of the fallen. Rasthur's group headed south and east, into Mossflower country. The group moved through the forests, unused to the shadow of the forest and the presence of many trees and water. But still they pressed on and were somewhat awarded for their efforts. Ahead lay an encampment of shrews, tiny creatures, surely not capable of putting up a decent fight. They charged forward, yelling out their cries of battle and bloodlust only to be cut down by the shrews; whom happened to be the Gousim, with the local otter holt camped nearby.
Though they killed many, their number was too few, had their whole tribe been here, they might have won. But that didn't matter now, what was done was done and Rasthur awoke. To darkness. Was he dead? No, he could hear the gurgling of the stream sure enough and the pain in his limbs was apparent. He rubbed his eyes only to be repelled by a sting of pain, feeling his way to the stream he splashed the water on himself. Still the eyes wouldn't open, yet his entire body stung furiously.
He tried again and again and a few times more, but his eyes wouldn't open. He was locked in the dark. He sat by the river, the water calming his initial urges of vengeance, flicking through his last moments of sight. He had killed...Young shrews and old, those unable to defend themselves. For the sake of what? Saving the tribe? He wasn't so sure anymore, but he did take this as his own fault.
From that day forward, Rasthur decided to repent for a lifetime of sins and murder. With the loss of his sight he saw something else, something that the rest of his tribe could not.
He traveled for sometime, stumbling through the forest until he found the Abbey, the kind creatures took him in, fed him and tended his wounds. He smiled, for the first time in a while, for something other then blood. Yes...He would repent here.
Relationships:
None