Post by sophia on Jan 4, 2015 8:01:11 GMT -6
My idiot knucklehead of a wild child. Hopefully she'll find someone to knock some sense into her!
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Character Name: Charrick Vasker.
Age: Charrick never made a habit of counting birthdays: honestly, she thinks the whole concept is a little ridiculous. A prison registry in a certain mountain town, however, records her as being twenty-three years old.
Sex: Female.
Race: Human.
Class: Warrior.
Specialisations: Reaver.
Favoured skills: Ring of Pain, Terrifying Fury, Devour.
Hobbies: Sparring with all and sundry, picking fights, drinking, collecting teacups.
Background: Charrick doesn’t remember much about the place where she was born. She doesn’t recall her parents, and certainly not anywhere that any civilised person would call a home. For the most part, her memories are filled with sand: unstable, shifting dunes, the tell-tale heaps of disturbed grit that had to be avoided at all costs unless you wanted your leg ripped off by a fanged horror, the iron towers, tracing a path through the wastes. Morsels of lizard-flesh, trapped between her teeth, searing days and freezing nights that bubbled and puckered her skin by turns until she no longer felt any discomfort at all.
Needless to say, she grew up quickly.
But most of all she remembers the aurora, how at night those curtains of blazing light would dip out of the sky and trace ribbons of frost across the sands. She remembers shivering on a dunetop all evening, just to see the first prismatic flare kindle in the heavens. She remembers the –thing- that attacked her, and the flurry of pain and laughter and blood that followed, black droplets of ichor set aflame by the colours dancing overhead.
And she remembers that it was worth it. One of the good nights. Anything was better then going to sleep, back in the beginning. For, as long as she could remember, Charrick had been unable to dream. Nothing waited for her behind her eyelids but narcotic oblivion, free of thought and movement, feeling and time. Her greatest nightmare was that she never had any, and that terrified her more then she could put into words.
So the wild girl from the deserts began to search for ways to fill up her nights. She ran from tower to tower, clambering over each and every one. She searched out mountains just so she could climb them, oases to swim in for the sheer pleasure of movement, predators to mock and fight and kill, anything to feel her heart racing, her blood singing, her eyes open. And why not? Nothing excited her more than a new challenge to overcome.
When she saw the caravans rumbling up the road towards the greener lands to the north, filled with people like her and yet not-like, swathed in brightly-coloured cloth and bathed in strange scents that prickled at her nose, she wanted to know more, and immediately went over to introduce herself.
It didn’t go well. Later on, she discovered that the guards had probably thought she was a type of Darkspawn, but at the time all she knew what that they’d drawn their swords without so much as a hello. It was the first time she’d discovered an enemy that couldn’t be defeated with a few quick punches. Their armour bruised her fists, and despite the fact that the men were exhausted from the relentless daytime heat beating down on them, their weapons snipped ribbons of blood from her seemingly at will, forcing her to beat a hasty retreat. However, instead of being disheartened by her defeat, the wild girl laughed to herself as she ran. Here, at last, were creatures worth fighting, that made her blood thunder like nothing else! Creatures that could think and feel and adapt and duel.
She returned many times after that. And each time, she became a little stronger, a little wiser. Whenever it looked as if she’d lose, she simply fled back into the dunes. Eventually, the day came when she managed to crush every one of the men who stood before her and stood amid their crumpled form, laughing in delight. Frightened eyes stared out of the caravan at her.
“Wh-what do you want?” One of them asked.
The girl stared at him, non-plussed, the laughter dying on her lips. She’d already got what she came for. Besides, it was a long time since she’d heard any speech other than her own. Usually she just talked to herself as a way to fill in the time. This was new. And their expressions were spoiling her fun. She was happy, why couldn’t they be happy too? It wasn’t as if any of them looked as though they were going to give her a good fight.
“Here,” He said, rummaging in his vest. A leather pouch flew from the window, clinking softly. “Take my money. Just let us go in peace.”
“Hah? Don’t want it. What’d I do with that?”
The man, a tea-merchant from Orlais, told her. His words painted such a compelling picture of the world beyond her desert home, filled with colour and life and weird green sand made out of -swords,- that her curiosity got the better of her. She clambered into the back of the wagon, and let it take her away from the aurora she’d loved so much. The merchant’s wife washed her hair for the first time, leaving it a creamy white, and dressed her from the trunks of silk and leather strapped to the side of the wagon. Over the countless cups of tea she shared with them, the world began to open up before her. Every cup held a new aroma, a new taste, a new place, and the merchant was extremely knowledgeable about his wares. The girl was spellbound, both by his stories, and the fact that each and every variety was called something different.
“But they’re all the same drink, aren’t they?” She asked.
“Well, yes.” He stammered, hastily pouring her another cup. “But there are so many different kinds of tea…”
“They’re like the names of people.” His wife explained. “Each blend has a different personality, so to speak, so we call them different things.”
The girl nodded. She’d learnt something important: these people from the green lands had names, just for themselves. So she listened carefully to the merchant’s stories, and chose one for herself. By the time they crossed the border, the girl and the merchants were practically family.
Well, except for the part where they turned her in to the guards the instant they reached civilisation, but the girl forgave them. It was an excellent fight, and she’d learnt what the green sand was. Well, it was called ‘grass,’ and it wasn’t something she could fight, but the feel of it under her feet was… intriguing, to say the least. Strangely, though, by the time she was finished with her new batch of opponents the tea-maker and his wife had vanished, leaving their baggage behind. Shrugging her shoulders, she took what she liked and left the rest behind. She was sure she’d see them again, somewhere.
After all, they’d told her so many wonderful stories. Now, to track down each and every one, to see those places with her own eyes…
The girl’s eyes glittered.
Now. Wouldn’t –that- be a challenge?
Personality: Charrick might come off as aggressively obnoxious and crude (which to be fair is a pretty accurate assessment,) but the truth is that she’s simply passionate about living every moment she has to the fullest. Every day is an opportunity for a new challenge, and if she doesn’t get to push herself until her heart races then she considers it a day wasted. Proud of her strength, she constantly wants to test herself, and she isn’t above starting a brawl with a strong-looking opponent as a way of saying hello. However, despite being a loudmouthed, muscle-headed moron, Charrick can be fanatically loyal. Charrick doesn’t have many friends, but she protects those she does have without a second thought and will never, ever let them give up if she thinks they’re capable of doing better than they are… even if that motivation takes the form of a constant stream of jibes and mockery. She rarely admits her affection, more often then not thinking herself unworthy to even think about such things until she’s at least as strong as the person she’s attracted to, but her word is her bond: if Charrick gives an oath, she’d rather die than break it.
However, Charrick is still suffering from a severe case of culture shock regarding the world outside her desert. A lot of social conventions and niceties simply don’t make sense to her, and unfortunately a stressed Charrick responds to these situations in the same way she does to any other challenge: with a fist, or the first verbal equivalent she can think of. It’s gotten her thrown in jail more than once, and burnt bridges that she would have rather kept intact.
She hates sleeping, often exercising to extremes to keep herself awake.
Weapons/Armor: Charrick fights with her fists, and over many years of constant use they’ve become potent weapons. Her fighting style is self-taught, swift, brutal and nasty, focused on bringing her opponents down as quickly as possible. Trying to land a blow on her is infuriating, to say the least. The cocky fighter ducks and dodges as if her hefty frame weighed nothing more then air, calling out mocking advice and laughing, laughing, constantly laughing. To a less disciplined fighter, trying to keep their temper under control is almost impossible… which is the whole point. An enraged fighter is more likely to make mistakes, errors which Charrick is an expert in exploiting.
In addition, Charrick’s inability to dream hints at a disturbing singularity: she has no connection to the Fade whatsoever. While this doesn’t lend her the same resistance to magic that a dwarf has, she’s still capable of pushing through spells that would normally incapacitate her and shrug off minor hexes entirely. On the other hand, her lack of connection makes healing her with magic rather difficult.
Appearance: Lithe and muscular, Charrick is immensely proud of her body and is more than happy to show it off. Despite the relative cold of her new environs, she’s never been able to quite get used to multiple layers of clothing, preferring to wear a simple cloth binding to support her chest and soft breeches that don’t restrict her movement. She detests shoes. Her skin is a dark tan from spending so many years in the sun, but her hair and eyebrows are relatively fair, with a strong jaw and an oddly delicate nose. It’s slightly crooked from a badly-healed break.
Trivia:
- Charrick named herself after a variety of rooibos tea her reluctant rescuers gave her on the road back to Orlais. The rich, smoky flavour reminded her of the desert. However, she’s never been able to find a cup of it since…
- She likes colourful teacups, and once wanted to collect one from every place she visited. This has since expanded to include beer mugs, plates, coffee-brewers and (on one occasion,) half a horse trough that she was forced to leave behind after she broke it over a dwarf’s head.
---
Character Name: Charrick Vasker.
Age: Charrick never made a habit of counting birthdays: honestly, she thinks the whole concept is a little ridiculous. A prison registry in a certain mountain town, however, records her as being twenty-three years old.
Sex: Female.
Race: Human.
Class: Warrior.
Specialisations: Reaver.
Favoured skills: Ring of Pain, Terrifying Fury, Devour.
Hobbies: Sparring with all and sundry, picking fights, drinking, collecting teacups.
Background: Charrick doesn’t remember much about the place where she was born. She doesn’t recall her parents, and certainly not anywhere that any civilised person would call a home. For the most part, her memories are filled with sand: unstable, shifting dunes, the tell-tale heaps of disturbed grit that had to be avoided at all costs unless you wanted your leg ripped off by a fanged horror, the iron towers, tracing a path through the wastes. Morsels of lizard-flesh, trapped between her teeth, searing days and freezing nights that bubbled and puckered her skin by turns until she no longer felt any discomfort at all.
Needless to say, she grew up quickly.
But most of all she remembers the aurora, how at night those curtains of blazing light would dip out of the sky and trace ribbons of frost across the sands. She remembers shivering on a dunetop all evening, just to see the first prismatic flare kindle in the heavens. She remembers the –thing- that attacked her, and the flurry of pain and laughter and blood that followed, black droplets of ichor set aflame by the colours dancing overhead.
And she remembers that it was worth it. One of the good nights. Anything was better then going to sleep, back in the beginning. For, as long as she could remember, Charrick had been unable to dream. Nothing waited for her behind her eyelids but narcotic oblivion, free of thought and movement, feeling and time. Her greatest nightmare was that she never had any, and that terrified her more then she could put into words.
So the wild girl from the deserts began to search for ways to fill up her nights. She ran from tower to tower, clambering over each and every one. She searched out mountains just so she could climb them, oases to swim in for the sheer pleasure of movement, predators to mock and fight and kill, anything to feel her heart racing, her blood singing, her eyes open. And why not? Nothing excited her more than a new challenge to overcome.
When she saw the caravans rumbling up the road towards the greener lands to the north, filled with people like her and yet not-like, swathed in brightly-coloured cloth and bathed in strange scents that prickled at her nose, she wanted to know more, and immediately went over to introduce herself.
It didn’t go well. Later on, she discovered that the guards had probably thought she was a type of Darkspawn, but at the time all she knew what that they’d drawn their swords without so much as a hello. It was the first time she’d discovered an enemy that couldn’t be defeated with a few quick punches. Their armour bruised her fists, and despite the fact that the men were exhausted from the relentless daytime heat beating down on them, their weapons snipped ribbons of blood from her seemingly at will, forcing her to beat a hasty retreat. However, instead of being disheartened by her defeat, the wild girl laughed to herself as she ran. Here, at last, were creatures worth fighting, that made her blood thunder like nothing else! Creatures that could think and feel and adapt and duel.
She returned many times after that. And each time, she became a little stronger, a little wiser. Whenever it looked as if she’d lose, she simply fled back into the dunes. Eventually, the day came when she managed to crush every one of the men who stood before her and stood amid their crumpled form, laughing in delight. Frightened eyes stared out of the caravan at her.
“Wh-what do you want?” One of them asked.
The girl stared at him, non-plussed, the laughter dying on her lips. She’d already got what she came for. Besides, it was a long time since she’d heard any speech other than her own. Usually she just talked to herself as a way to fill in the time. This was new. And their expressions were spoiling her fun. She was happy, why couldn’t they be happy too? It wasn’t as if any of them looked as though they were going to give her a good fight.
“Here,” He said, rummaging in his vest. A leather pouch flew from the window, clinking softly. “Take my money. Just let us go in peace.”
“Hah? Don’t want it. What’d I do with that?”
The man, a tea-merchant from Orlais, told her. His words painted such a compelling picture of the world beyond her desert home, filled with colour and life and weird green sand made out of -swords,- that her curiosity got the better of her. She clambered into the back of the wagon, and let it take her away from the aurora she’d loved so much. The merchant’s wife washed her hair for the first time, leaving it a creamy white, and dressed her from the trunks of silk and leather strapped to the side of the wagon. Over the countless cups of tea she shared with them, the world began to open up before her. Every cup held a new aroma, a new taste, a new place, and the merchant was extremely knowledgeable about his wares. The girl was spellbound, both by his stories, and the fact that each and every variety was called something different.
“But they’re all the same drink, aren’t they?” She asked.
“Well, yes.” He stammered, hastily pouring her another cup. “But there are so many different kinds of tea…”
“They’re like the names of people.” His wife explained. “Each blend has a different personality, so to speak, so we call them different things.”
The girl nodded. She’d learnt something important: these people from the green lands had names, just for themselves. So she listened carefully to the merchant’s stories, and chose one for herself. By the time they crossed the border, the girl and the merchants were practically family.
Well, except for the part where they turned her in to the guards the instant they reached civilisation, but the girl forgave them. It was an excellent fight, and she’d learnt what the green sand was. Well, it was called ‘grass,’ and it wasn’t something she could fight, but the feel of it under her feet was… intriguing, to say the least. Strangely, though, by the time she was finished with her new batch of opponents the tea-maker and his wife had vanished, leaving their baggage behind. Shrugging her shoulders, she took what she liked and left the rest behind. She was sure she’d see them again, somewhere.
After all, they’d told her so many wonderful stories. Now, to track down each and every one, to see those places with her own eyes…
The girl’s eyes glittered.
Now. Wouldn’t –that- be a challenge?
Personality: Charrick might come off as aggressively obnoxious and crude (which to be fair is a pretty accurate assessment,) but the truth is that she’s simply passionate about living every moment she has to the fullest. Every day is an opportunity for a new challenge, and if she doesn’t get to push herself until her heart races then she considers it a day wasted. Proud of her strength, she constantly wants to test herself, and she isn’t above starting a brawl with a strong-looking opponent as a way of saying hello. However, despite being a loudmouthed, muscle-headed moron, Charrick can be fanatically loyal. Charrick doesn’t have many friends, but she protects those she does have without a second thought and will never, ever let them give up if she thinks they’re capable of doing better than they are… even if that motivation takes the form of a constant stream of jibes and mockery. She rarely admits her affection, more often then not thinking herself unworthy to even think about such things until she’s at least as strong as the person she’s attracted to, but her word is her bond: if Charrick gives an oath, she’d rather die than break it.
However, Charrick is still suffering from a severe case of culture shock regarding the world outside her desert. A lot of social conventions and niceties simply don’t make sense to her, and unfortunately a stressed Charrick responds to these situations in the same way she does to any other challenge: with a fist, or the first verbal equivalent she can think of. It’s gotten her thrown in jail more than once, and burnt bridges that she would have rather kept intact.
She hates sleeping, often exercising to extremes to keep herself awake.
Weapons/Armor: Charrick fights with her fists, and over many years of constant use they’ve become potent weapons. Her fighting style is self-taught, swift, brutal and nasty, focused on bringing her opponents down as quickly as possible. Trying to land a blow on her is infuriating, to say the least. The cocky fighter ducks and dodges as if her hefty frame weighed nothing more then air, calling out mocking advice and laughing, laughing, constantly laughing. To a less disciplined fighter, trying to keep their temper under control is almost impossible… which is the whole point. An enraged fighter is more likely to make mistakes, errors which Charrick is an expert in exploiting.
In addition, Charrick’s inability to dream hints at a disturbing singularity: she has no connection to the Fade whatsoever. While this doesn’t lend her the same resistance to magic that a dwarf has, she’s still capable of pushing through spells that would normally incapacitate her and shrug off minor hexes entirely. On the other hand, her lack of connection makes healing her with magic rather difficult.
Appearance: Lithe and muscular, Charrick is immensely proud of her body and is more than happy to show it off. Despite the relative cold of her new environs, she’s never been able to quite get used to multiple layers of clothing, preferring to wear a simple cloth binding to support her chest and soft breeches that don’t restrict her movement. She detests shoes. Her skin is a dark tan from spending so many years in the sun, but her hair and eyebrows are relatively fair, with a strong jaw and an oddly delicate nose. It’s slightly crooked from a badly-healed break.
Trivia:
- Charrick named herself after a variety of rooibos tea her reluctant rescuers gave her on the road back to Orlais. The rich, smoky flavour reminded her of the desert. However, she’s never been able to find a cup of it since…
- She likes colourful teacups, and once wanted to collect one from every place she visited. This has since expanded to include beer mugs, plates, coffee-brewers and (on one occasion,) half a horse trough that she was forced to leave behind after she broke it over a dwarf’s head.