Post by Insanity on Jan 12, 2008 5:42:18 GMT -5
1) Name -
Kyre Coopersmith
Name given when asked, or "public name,": Gyrik
2) Job/Class -
A cooper by training, with some basic smithing skills as necessity for that job.
3) Race-
Human
4) Age-
23 Winters
5) Gender-
Male
6) A Physical description of your character -
Gyrik stands at about 5'7" tall, with a thin, almost starved frame. His bone structure is small as well, giving him a very wiry impression. His hair color is a mousy brown, and he wears a scrabbly beard that leaves most of his face and neck bare, not because he trims, but because it simply doesn't grow in as fully as some others will, so that the beard basically follows his jaw line and weakish looking chin.
His fingers are long and thick, standing out in contrast to the rest of his form. His grip is firm, and his hands calloused. His expression often seem dour and moody, though in truth this is simply his features and doesn't reflect his temperment. His shoulders seem rounded, almost making him seemed perpetually hunched. Though when made aware of this posture he will readjust himself to a more natural state.
His cloak is always on, and always wrapped at least partially around his form. Showing many lumps in odd places all over his person. This, as well as his boots, are well worn, but well patched as well. He keeps his things in working order, seeming not to care about their appearance at all beyond functionality. He carries a pack, as much in his hand as on his back, giving the impression that he likes to keep it where he can see it, rather than on his back where anyone might sneak up on it and explore when he's distracted.
7) Describe your character's personality -
Gyrik is the quintessence of curiosity. He is intrigued with secrets of any kind, be they great earth shattering conspiracies from within the temples or how the locking mechanism on a jeweled locket work. No area of knowledge is disinteresting to him, which has helped to amass him a wide range of knowledge in many areas, though most of it, to him at least, is useless trivia, good only for conversational quirk.
8) Fears and Weaknesses -
Gyrik is completely heretical. While he is the quiet type around strangers, nothing can draw him out like a preacher or overly zealous person making proclamations. His belief is that the gods, or god, or whatever essence the Lost believe in, is meant to be experienced personally, or not at all, and that *any* organization of religion beyond a family teaching their children,or someone who genuinely asks for the knowledge, is offensive.
9) Equipment -
Pack
•A few spare sets of smallcloths
•A heavy cloak for rain and winter
•Spare leather patches and woolen cloth for repairs on his clothing, boots, pack, etc.
•Fletching feathers
•At the bottom of his pack, beneath all else, he keeps a complete apprentice toolkit for a cooper.(Please let me know if you'd like this to be detailed)
Tied onto the bottom of his pack:
•A collapsible cooking set
•A small grapnel hook
•A travelers bedroll
•A hand axe(hatchet)
On various pouches, leather thongs, sheaths and hidden pockets throughout his cloak and his clothing he keeps:
•Two daggers
•His special draw knife(see bio)
•a pouch of dried beans
•a pouch of sand
•a roll of thin but strong rope
•a braided rope belt(that has a loop at one end, and a wooden dowel at the other)
•tinderbox
•a coil of wire
•A small split whistle(like a fife)
He keeps a curiously small bow slung over his shoulder, with a quiver of small arrows to match. The bow measures only about 2 and a half feet tall.
10) Character Biography -
As a child of about 7 winters, Gyrik was apprenticed off to a fairly successful cooper by his parents. Understanding how expensive that apprenticeship had been, he worked hard to earn his keep and learn his new craft. He found quickly that he had a special affinity for the wood, and within only a few months of learning began helping to choose woodlots from the miller for his master. It was on one such trip that he was given a scrap of wood that was twisted and gnarled, and useless to the miller, but which to Gyrik sang of strength and flexibility.
For 3 years Gyrik worked and learned the craft of his Master, achieving the skill in that short time that his master even trusted him to make small casks and such supervised only minimally, with a gentle nudge and push to correct flaws in workmanship. He looked forward greatly to the day when he would learn all that his master could teach, and strike off as a man to found his own shop, where he could marry and have sons to pass his craft on to. Already he had learned to be thrifty with his small earning, and had saved a few coins for that far off dream.
Upon telling his master of that dream, the cooper had even given him his own draw knife! Not an apprentices tool, but a well made master tool, worm smooth and comfortable by the old man's own hands. A draw knife, he found later, is useful for much more than barrel slats.
Gyrik would often secret out the back of the shop after evenfeast, for some time alone to play the split whistle his father had given him, or if he had the time, which was rare, to visit his parent's small shack in the tanning district. It was one such night that changed his fortune for good.
While wandering aimlessly, Gryik stayed out a tad later than he should, and upon coming back to reality from his daydreaming of playing his split whistle for a pretty maid, he found himself much further from the cooper shop than he should be, and immediately broke into a full out run for the shop.
Breathless, nervous, with butterflies almost making him nauseous, he stopped at the back door to allow his heart and his breathing to slow. As he did so, he heard sounds inside, banging, some yelling, and cringed. He knew he was in for it, and strained to hear what was being yelled over the pounding of his heart in his ears.
There he stood, second after second, holding his breath as long as he could so that he could hear the muffled yelling and thumps, then raggedly sucking in air to make up for doing so. It seemed an eternity before he could muster the nerve to face the cooper.
Finally, he squared his shoulders and prepared to face the consequenced of being such a block head. He knew daydreaming always led to trouble for him, he tried not to, but it never worked for too long. It's not like he *wanted* to let his mind wander, it just did! Then he found himself, usually just a little embarassed for having started to sing or some such, and sheepishly continued on. But not today.
Before he could open the door, a blinding flash of light and a loud thump, and Gyrik couldn't understand why the world was spinning. He was on his back, squished between the door and the wall of the shop, and there were rough hands yanking him out from behind the door.
"Oi! Ain't gunna be nickerin a wee one wif me on, give here!"
In those few seconds of tension the scene cleared for the small boy. The man holding him was filthy, the smell of his rotten mouth smelling of infection, the rusty knife, already dripping blood, coming for his throat. The other man, much larger, with matted, shaggy black hair and beard, tugging that knife away, before finally winning the struggle and being snatch out of the filthy man's hand.
"Like I says" he told rot mouth, his voice low and menacing, "ain't nobody nickerin a wee gip in front o us, have on and leave 'em be" His saviour then hastily grabbed him up by his hair and leaned in very close, too close.
"I aint regrettin that, now am I?" He asked, shaking Gyriks head with each word.
"No sir!" he squealed, then landed on his backside.
"Heh, Sir e says, haha, sir!" Gyrik heard his gruff laugh preceed him down the alley.
The next minutes were a haze. He stumbled inside and found the shop turned upside down. Tools, wood slats, shelves all tossed about. Then he saw the blood, and almost screamed at the vision of that bloody, rusty blade that came so close to taking his life moments ago. The old man was still gurgling and wheezing, and everything came clear all at once.
The cooper was lying in from of the blanket that separated Gyriks room from the shop. It was a simple robbery, not unheard of even in this fairly nice part of the workmans district. Simple except that the cooper wouldn't let them into his room, in his bloody hand the old man held his little pouch of coins. He's refused to let them in, refused to give the boys money to them, and it had cost him his life.
There were no last words of courage and love, as in the stories. No realization of peace in the man's eyes, only fear, panic, and the first signs of death.
He pushed that little pouch to Gyrik, then coughed up a thick, chunky mouthful of blood, and died. His screams brought the neighbors, then the guard, then a crowd. He couldn't stop screaming, crying. He couldn't describe the men well, it was dark, the door had slammed his head, he was afraid and confused.
Then the guard started asking why his feet were all muddy, where had he been. How much had the men paid him to come get them and let them in after dark. It was a woman with a kind, round face who stepped in to argue. He knew she was a neighbor, but he never knew her name or anything more about her than that she whispered to him roughly to pack his things quickly, and run.
"Don't go home" she said, "never home! I know it weren't you Kyre, get your things and run and never come back here." That was the last time anyone had ever called him Kyre, and the last time he'd seen the small town whose name he couldn't even remember...
Later, he tried his hand and fighting as a mercenary, but found he lacked the knack for a sword, but found himself again at him in the role of scout, where he carved that special piece of wood into a small bow. The arrows it shoots are very small, but his accuracy with the bow is impeccable, and it's small size lets him shoot from trees or brush were no other bow could ever hope to fire, and with great speed because it's draw is almost magically fit for his wiry arms and big hands.
Now he moves from town to town, looking for that answer to his ever questing mind, or maybe even that home that will call him to settle down again. Until then he lives as he must, scouting, trapping, occasionally taking an assistant position with a cooper if he plans to stay in a place for a while. Some day, he might even find that little town he came from, and find if he has any family left alive. Would they think him a murderer...
11) Random Extras -
Gyrik has a passion for learning new ditties for his split whistle
12) Pets! -
None, pets are the province of the settled, not the wanderer.
13)Religion
Other than his passion that religion be personal, Gyrik claims no church or temple.
!4) Location(optional)
The road and the glen
the dusty glory of both and neither
where he finds his feet this day, he lays his head this night.
(I hope this was acceptable, I tossed it off the top of my head, if you need more I'd be glad to flesh it in...)
Kyre Coopersmith
Name given when asked, or "public name,": Gyrik
2) Job/Class -
A cooper by training, with some basic smithing skills as necessity for that job.
3) Race-
Human
4) Age-
23 Winters
5) Gender-
Male
6) A Physical description of your character -
Gyrik stands at about 5'7" tall, with a thin, almost starved frame. His bone structure is small as well, giving him a very wiry impression. His hair color is a mousy brown, and he wears a scrabbly beard that leaves most of his face and neck bare, not because he trims, but because it simply doesn't grow in as fully as some others will, so that the beard basically follows his jaw line and weakish looking chin.
His fingers are long and thick, standing out in contrast to the rest of his form. His grip is firm, and his hands calloused. His expression often seem dour and moody, though in truth this is simply his features and doesn't reflect his temperment. His shoulders seem rounded, almost making him seemed perpetually hunched. Though when made aware of this posture he will readjust himself to a more natural state.
His cloak is always on, and always wrapped at least partially around his form. Showing many lumps in odd places all over his person. This, as well as his boots, are well worn, but well patched as well. He keeps his things in working order, seeming not to care about their appearance at all beyond functionality. He carries a pack, as much in his hand as on his back, giving the impression that he likes to keep it where he can see it, rather than on his back where anyone might sneak up on it and explore when he's distracted.
7) Describe your character's personality -
Gyrik is the quintessence of curiosity. He is intrigued with secrets of any kind, be they great earth shattering conspiracies from within the temples or how the locking mechanism on a jeweled locket work. No area of knowledge is disinteresting to him, which has helped to amass him a wide range of knowledge in many areas, though most of it, to him at least, is useless trivia, good only for conversational quirk.
8) Fears and Weaknesses -
Gyrik is completely heretical. While he is the quiet type around strangers, nothing can draw him out like a preacher or overly zealous person making proclamations. His belief is that the gods, or god, or whatever essence the Lost believe in, is meant to be experienced personally, or not at all, and that *any* organization of religion beyond a family teaching their children,or someone who genuinely asks for the knowledge, is offensive.
9) Equipment -
Pack
•A few spare sets of smallcloths
•A heavy cloak for rain and winter
•Spare leather patches and woolen cloth for repairs on his clothing, boots, pack, etc.
•Fletching feathers
•At the bottom of his pack, beneath all else, he keeps a complete apprentice toolkit for a cooper.(Please let me know if you'd like this to be detailed)
Tied onto the bottom of his pack:
•A collapsible cooking set
•A small grapnel hook
•A travelers bedroll
•A hand axe(hatchet)
On various pouches, leather thongs, sheaths and hidden pockets throughout his cloak and his clothing he keeps:
•Two daggers
•His special draw knife(see bio)
•a pouch of dried beans
•a pouch of sand
•a roll of thin but strong rope
•a braided rope belt(that has a loop at one end, and a wooden dowel at the other)
•tinderbox
•a coil of wire
•A small split whistle(like a fife)
He keeps a curiously small bow slung over his shoulder, with a quiver of small arrows to match. The bow measures only about 2 and a half feet tall.
10) Character Biography -
As a child of about 7 winters, Gyrik was apprenticed off to a fairly successful cooper by his parents. Understanding how expensive that apprenticeship had been, he worked hard to earn his keep and learn his new craft. He found quickly that he had a special affinity for the wood, and within only a few months of learning began helping to choose woodlots from the miller for his master. It was on one such trip that he was given a scrap of wood that was twisted and gnarled, and useless to the miller, but which to Gyrik sang of strength and flexibility.
For 3 years Gyrik worked and learned the craft of his Master, achieving the skill in that short time that his master even trusted him to make small casks and such supervised only minimally, with a gentle nudge and push to correct flaws in workmanship. He looked forward greatly to the day when he would learn all that his master could teach, and strike off as a man to found his own shop, where he could marry and have sons to pass his craft on to. Already he had learned to be thrifty with his small earning, and had saved a few coins for that far off dream.
Upon telling his master of that dream, the cooper had even given him his own draw knife! Not an apprentices tool, but a well made master tool, worm smooth and comfortable by the old man's own hands. A draw knife, he found later, is useful for much more than barrel slats.
Gyrik would often secret out the back of the shop after evenfeast, for some time alone to play the split whistle his father had given him, or if he had the time, which was rare, to visit his parent's small shack in the tanning district. It was one such night that changed his fortune for good.
While wandering aimlessly, Gryik stayed out a tad later than he should, and upon coming back to reality from his daydreaming of playing his split whistle for a pretty maid, he found himself much further from the cooper shop than he should be, and immediately broke into a full out run for the shop.
Breathless, nervous, with butterflies almost making him nauseous, he stopped at the back door to allow his heart and his breathing to slow. As he did so, he heard sounds inside, banging, some yelling, and cringed. He knew he was in for it, and strained to hear what was being yelled over the pounding of his heart in his ears.
There he stood, second after second, holding his breath as long as he could so that he could hear the muffled yelling and thumps, then raggedly sucking in air to make up for doing so. It seemed an eternity before he could muster the nerve to face the cooper.
Finally, he squared his shoulders and prepared to face the consequenced of being such a block head. He knew daydreaming always led to trouble for him, he tried not to, but it never worked for too long. It's not like he *wanted* to let his mind wander, it just did! Then he found himself, usually just a little embarassed for having started to sing or some such, and sheepishly continued on. But not today.
Before he could open the door, a blinding flash of light and a loud thump, and Gyrik couldn't understand why the world was spinning. He was on his back, squished between the door and the wall of the shop, and there were rough hands yanking him out from behind the door.
"Oi! Ain't gunna be nickerin a wee one wif me on, give here!"
In those few seconds of tension the scene cleared for the small boy. The man holding him was filthy, the smell of his rotten mouth smelling of infection, the rusty knife, already dripping blood, coming for his throat. The other man, much larger, with matted, shaggy black hair and beard, tugging that knife away, before finally winning the struggle and being snatch out of the filthy man's hand.
"Like I says" he told rot mouth, his voice low and menacing, "ain't nobody nickerin a wee gip in front o us, have on and leave 'em be" His saviour then hastily grabbed him up by his hair and leaned in very close, too close.
"I aint regrettin that, now am I?" He asked, shaking Gyriks head with each word.
"No sir!" he squealed, then landed on his backside.
"Heh, Sir e says, haha, sir!" Gyrik heard his gruff laugh preceed him down the alley.
The next minutes were a haze. He stumbled inside and found the shop turned upside down. Tools, wood slats, shelves all tossed about. Then he saw the blood, and almost screamed at the vision of that bloody, rusty blade that came so close to taking his life moments ago. The old man was still gurgling and wheezing, and everything came clear all at once.
The cooper was lying in from of the blanket that separated Gyriks room from the shop. It was a simple robbery, not unheard of even in this fairly nice part of the workmans district. Simple except that the cooper wouldn't let them into his room, in his bloody hand the old man held his little pouch of coins. He's refused to let them in, refused to give the boys money to them, and it had cost him his life.
There were no last words of courage and love, as in the stories. No realization of peace in the man's eyes, only fear, panic, and the first signs of death.
He pushed that little pouch to Gyrik, then coughed up a thick, chunky mouthful of blood, and died. His screams brought the neighbors, then the guard, then a crowd. He couldn't stop screaming, crying. He couldn't describe the men well, it was dark, the door had slammed his head, he was afraid and confused.
Then the guard started asking why his feet were all muddy, where had he been. How much had the men paid him to come get them and let them in after dark. It was a woman with a kind, round face who stepped in to argue. He knew she was a neighbor, but he never knew her name or anything more about her than that she whispered to him roughly to pack his things quickly, and run.
"Don't go home" she said, "never home! I know it weren't you Kyre, get your things and run and never come back here." That was the last time anyone had ever called him Kyre, and the last time he'd seen the small town whose name he couldn't even remember...
Later, he tried his hand and fighting as a mercenary, but found he lacked the knack for a sword, but found himself again at him in the role of scout, where he carved that special piece of wood into a small bow. The arrows it shoots are very small, but his accuracy with the bow is impeccable, and it's small size lets him shoot from trees or brush were no other bow could ever hope to fire, and with great speed because it's draw is almost magically fit for his wiry arms and big hands.
Now he moves from town to town, looking for that answer to his ever questing mind, or maybe even that home that will call him to settle down again. Until then he lives as he must, scouting, trapping, occasionally taking an assistant position with a cooper if he plans to stay in a place for a while. Some day, he might even find that little town he came from, and find if he has any family left alive. Would they think him a murderer...
11) Random Extras -
Gyrik has a passion for learning new ditties for his split whistle
12) Pets! -
None, pets are the province of the settled, not the wanderer.
13)Religion
Other than his passion that religion be personal, Gyrik claims no church or temple.
!4) Location(optional)
The road and the glen
the dusty glory of both and neither
where he finds his feet this day, he lays his head this night.
(I hope this was acceptable, I tossed it off the top of my head, if you need more I'd be glad to flesh it in...)