Post by V i ð a r r on Aug 1, 2014 3:43:07 GMT
Introduce Your Character
Name: Viðarr (Pronounced Vee-Thar as ð makes a th sound.)
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown (Around 250 years)
Species: Fenrir's Blessed - Werewolf
Occupation: Wild, Wanderer.
Personality: Intelligent, cunning, easily angered, feral.
Viðarr is a strange one. Ever since his first transformation when he was a young man, he's rarely ever transformed back into human form. He enjoys his wolf form far better. According to him, it is true freedom.
More like a wild animal than man, Viðarr lives in the deep forestland of the valley, often venturing into the mountains in search of isolation away from the human race and hunters, but prey is hard to find in the mountains, and he's often forced to return to the valley to hunt. Deer and elk are his favorite prey, but when the herds move out, he will resort to smaller prey like rabbits and other small mammals, sometimes even fish.
His life of wild isolation has made him unpredictable. His mood can change in the blink of an eye, but he has not completely forgotten what life was like before the blessing. In fact, that memory is part of what drives his hatred and mistrust of mankind. More recent events have lead to him taking revenge upon the people of the village in the form of cursing.
--------------------------------
Physical Description
Appearance / Markings / Body type: Viðarr's wolf form is tall and well muscled. Far from something you'd want to mess with. A thick black pelt covers his body. The ruff of fur around the sides of his neck grow long, hanging over his shoulders like a mane. He has bright yellow-amber eyes.
Nobody knows what his human form actually looks like.
Height: Wolf form : 8ft // Human form : Unknown
Weight: Wolf form : 300 lbs. // Human form: Unknown
Scars or Tattoos: Two long scars run from the bridge of his nose, below his right eye, to the side of his cheek. A long scar runs from just under his ribs on his left side, to the small of his back on the same side. -- No tattoos.
Pic:
______________________________
History: Mistreated as a boy by his parents, Viðarr took to wandering, leaving his family home at the age of 10 years. He joined up with a band of local thieves, who were more than happy to take on such a young member, and taught him the art of stealing. He was pretty good at it, given that not many people suspected someone so young. The small group became like a second family to the boy, taking care of him, and feeding him. They were also avid followers of Fenrir.
They had planned on making the journey to receive Fenrir's blessing, taking the items that they needed from people around the village (Strunhold, at that time, was the only thriving village in the area, well off from the trade of silver mined from high mountain caves.) It took them seven years to gather all of the items, but finally they made the journey to the top of the tallest peak, and preformed the ritual asking for Fenrir's Blessing.
Having been heard, the group returned to the valley, hoping that their chance to prove themselves would arrive. It didn't take long before the white stag appeared... But that was the start of the problem. Only one stag had appeared, meaning that only one of them could strike the killing blow and prove themselves worthy. All of them went after the stag. The chase lasted hours, but most of the group had kept up. Finally it had turned, as the legend predicted, and charged after the men. Thinking quickly, the now 17 year old Viðarr climbed the nearest tree, preparing himself to drop onto the stag's back as it passed. His plan succeeded.
Once on the stag, he was able to get his hands around it's neck. Using all the strength he could muster, he tightened his grip on the creature's neck. It struggled, but he clung on. He could feel the stag's blood pumping beneath his arm. Without thinking he leaned over, swinging from the creature's back, ignoring the pain as sharp hooves collided with his legs. He reached up, sinking his teeth into the stag's neck where he could feel it's heartbeat. Blood sprayed his face and mouth, but he kept biting, pulling at the vein until it broke loose. Blood poured from the wound. The stag shrieked in both pain and fear, his struggles slowing as more blood soaked the boy's chest, drenching his body in bright crimson. Finally the great white stag collapsed. Viðarr stumbled to the ground with it, still clinging to it's neck as it took it's last, shuddering breaths.
The others, still following the trail, came into view as Viðarr leaned in and bit at the exposed flesh around the stag's neck wound, ripping a chunk of meat from it's body. He swallowed. The taste was sweet on his tongue.
Pain seared through his body as the transformation began.
One of the men pulled the silver dagger from his satchel, unwrapping the bindings and holding it out towards the newly transformed werewolf. All of the men, his friends, seemed angered by his victory. They hadn't taken into account that this would happen. He wasn't supposed to have won.
As Viðarr regained his senses, and inspected what had taken place, the men circled him, the one holding the blade drawing in close. They were turning on him. Scared, Viðarr tried to flee, but his newly transformed body felt awkward and strange.
Fierce burning pierced his left side, just under his ribs as the blade was driven into his body. He howled in pain and struggled to get away. The man clung to the blade, dragging it around his side and carving a long wound. The flesh around it seethed, poisoned by silver. Thankfully he was able to throw the man off, pull the blade from his flesh, and stumble into the forest.
Time passed, and the wound healed, but time and time again the violence and savagery of humans showed it's ugly head.
He's been attacked in his own den, had arrows shot at him while hunting, been tracked down, poisoned, chased off from his own kill, stabbed in the face twice.
At one point he'd began trailing a pack of wild wolves, sticking near them in hopes that he might be able to join the pack. It was a distant hope, but his persistence seemed to get through. They became used to his presence, and even allowed him to spend time with them when they weren't hunting. The greatest show of acceptance came in the form of a female bringing her pups right up to him, and allowing some light interaction... But that didn't last long.
A new village had been built in the valley, taking the place of the now storm-ruined Strunhold. Grohiikfel, they'd called it. But the people didn't like having a pack of wolves so close to their village. Hunters came into the forest, and attacked the pack.
By the time Viðarr had returned from hunting, the only thing left were skinned bodies. Even the pups were murdered.
Viðarr retreated high into the mountains for many years, only coming down to hunt when hunger drew him from his den... but even there he could not escape their savagery. Some idiots called Odin's Just came searching for werewolves, having heard stories of a beast that lived in this area. He trailed them for miles, always keeping a good distance, but always staying within watching distance. They didn't find what they were looking for that day, but they did make their intentions clear.
If they wanted monsters, they could have them... He'd be glad to give them something to keep themselves busy.
Now, from time to time, wild animal attacks are reported, and sightings of monsters haunt the local village on the night of the full moon.
______________________________
Sample RP Post:
I'm the admin, I know how I RP.
Name: Viðarr (Pronounced Vee-Thar as ð makes a th sound.)
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown (Around 250 years)
Species: Fenrir's Blessed - Werewolf
Occupation: Wild, Wanderer.
Personality: Intelligent, cunning, easily angered, feral.
Viðarr is a strange one. Ever since his first transformation when he was a young man, he's rarely ever transformed back into human form. He enjoys his wolf form far better. According to him, it is true freedom.
More like a wild animal than man, Viðarr lives in the deep forestland of the valley, often venturing into the mountains in search of isolation away from the human race and hunters, but prey is hard to find in the mountains, and he's often forced to return to the valley to hunt. Deer and elk are his favorite prey, but when the herds move out, he will resort to smaller prey like rabbits and other small mammals, sometimes even fish.
His life of wild isolation has made him unpredictable. His mood can change in the blink of an eye, but he has not completely forgotten what life was like before the blessing. In fact, that memory is part of what drives his hatred and mistrust of mankind. More recent events have lead to him taking revenge upon the people of the village in the form of cursing.
--------------------------------
Physical Description
Appearance / Markings / Body type: Viðarr's wolf form is tall and well muscled. Far from something you'd want to mess with. A thick black pelt covers his body. The ruff of fur around the sides of his neck grow long, hanging over his shoulders like a mane. He has bright yellow-amber eyes.
Nobody knows what his human form actually looks like.
Height: Wolf form : 8ft // Human form : Unknown
Weight: Wolf form : 300 lbs. // Human form: Unknown
Scars or Tattoos: Two long scars run from the bridge of his nose, below his right eye, to the side of his cheek. A long scar runs from just under his ribs on his left side, to the small of his back on the same side. -- No tattoos.
Pic:
______________________________
History: Mistreated as a boy by his parents, Viðarr took to wandering, leaving his family home at the age of 10 years. He joined up with a band of local thieves, who were more than happy to take on such a young member, and taught him the art of stealing. He was pretty good at it, given that not many people suspected someone so young. The small group became like a second family to the boy, taking care of him, and feeding him. They were also avid followers of Fenrir.
They had planned on making the journey to receive Fenrir's blessing, taking the items that they needed from people around the village (Strunhold, at that time, was the only thriving village in the area, well off from the trade of silver mined from high mountain caves.) It took them seven years to gather all of the items, but finally they made the journey to the top of the tallest peak, and preformed the ritual asking for Fenrir's Blessing.
Having been heard, the group returned to the valley, hoping that their chance to prove themselves would arrive. It didn't take long before the white stag appeared... But that was the start of the problem. Only one stag had appeared, meaning that only one of them could strike the killing blow and prove themselves worthy. All of them went after the stag. The chase lasted hours, but most of the group had kept up. Finally it had turned, as the legend predicted, and charged after the men. Thinking quickly, the now 17 year old Viðarr climbed the nearest tree, preparing himself to drop onto the stag's back as it passed. His plan succeeded.
Once on the stag, he was able to get his hands around it's neck. Using all the strength he could muster, he tightened his grip on the creature's neck. It struggled, but he clung on. He could feel the stag's blood pumping beneath his arm. Without thinking he leaned over, swinging from the creature's back, ignoring the pain as sharp hooves collided with his legs. He reached up, sinking his teeth into the stag's neck where he could feel it's heartbeat. Blood sprayed his face and mouth, but he kept biting, pulling at the vein until it broke loose. Blood poured from the wound. The stag shrieked in both pain and fear, his struggles slowing as more blood soaked the boy's chest, drenching his body in bright crimson. Finally the great white stag collapsed. Viðarr stumbled to the ground with it, still clinging to it's neck as it took it's last, shuddering breaths.
The others, still following the trail, came into view as Viðarr leaned in and bit at the exposed flesh around the stag's neck wound, ripping a chunk of meat from it's body. He swallowed. The taste was sweet on his tongue.
Pain seared through his body as the transformation began.
One of the men pulled the silver dagger from his satchel, unwrapping the bindings and holding it out towards the newly transformed werewolf. All of the men, his friends, seemed angered by his victory. They hadn't taken into account that this would happen. He wasn't supposed to have won.
As Viðarr regained his senses, and inspected what had taken place, the men circled him, the one holding the blade drawing in close. They were turning on him. Scared, Viðarr tried to flee, but his newly transformed body felt awkward and strange.
Fierce burning pierced his left side, just under his ribs as the blade was driven into his body. He howled in pain and struggled to get away. The man clung to the blade, dragging it around his side and carving a long wound. The flesh around it seethed, poisoned by silver. Thankfully he was able to throw the man off, pull the blade from his flesh, and stumble into the forest.
Time passed, and the wound healed, but time and time again the violence and savagery of humans showed it's ugly head.
He's been attacked in his own den, had arrows shot at him while hunting, been tracked down, poisoned, chased off from his own kill, stabbed in the face twice.
At one point he'd began trailing a pack of wild wolves, sticking near them in hopes that he might be able to join the pack. It was a distant hope, but his persistence seemed to get through. They became used to his presence, and even allowed him to spend time with them when they weren't hunting. The greatest show of acceptance came in the form of a female bringing her pups right up to him, and allowing some light interaction... But that didn't last long.
A new village had been built in the valley, taking the place of the now storm-ruined Strunhold. Grohiikfel, they'd called it. But the people didn't like having a pack of wolves so close to their village. Hunters came into the forest, and attacked the pack.
By the time Viðarr had returned from hunting, the only thing left were skinned bodies. Even the pups were murdered.
Viðarr retreated high into the mountains for many years, only coming down to hunt when hunger drew him from his den... but even there he could not escape their savagery. Some idiots called Odin's Just came searching for werewolves, having heard stories of a beast that lived in this area. He trailed them for miles, always keeping a good distance, but always staying within watching distance. They didn't find what they were looking for that day, but they did make their intentions clear.
If they wanted monsters, they could have them... He'd be glad to give them something to keep themselves busy.
Now, from time to time, wild animal attacks are reported, and sightings of monsters haunt the local village on the night of the full moon.
______________________________
Sample RP Post:
I'm the admin, I know how I RP. 
