Post by SnickersPods on May 19, 2012 10:42:02 GMT -5
What would you like to be called OOC? Snickers
Recruited by: Proboards Support!
Email: Pm me!
Character Info:
Name: Briac
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Rank: Candidate
Family: Please refer history. [Open for sub-plots, PM me]
Mother: Bitra Drudge, cracked/deadglow, name unknown.
Father: Technically unknown, rumoured minor holder.
Siblings: Unknown, possible half-siblings
Appearance:
Personality:
Hobbies/Skills:
Pets:
N/A
History:
Color Preference
Brown please!
Recruited by: Proboards Support!
Email: Pm me!
Character Info:
Name: Briac
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Rank: Candidate
Family: Please refer history. [Open for sub-plots, PM me]
Mother: Bitra Drudge, cracked/deadglow, name unknown.
Father: Technically unknown, rumoured minor holder.
Siblings: Unknown, possible half-siblings
Appearance:
At 17 Briac has more or less reached his full height, much to his chagrin. 5'7" is not the height he once envisioned for himself, but growing up short can make you dream big. He has rather unimpressive black hair, a shaggy mop that can never sit flat. His eyes are brown, a simple dark chocolate colour unimpressive unless one looks closely and notices the caramel spikes radiating from the centre. His eyebrows are thick and flared, giving him a perpetual frown. His nose, despite the multiple breaks, is somehow still relatively patrician and tend to flare when he is truly angry. His mouth is full and sensual; something hiding in the slight smile he rarely gets that suggests at something sweet and soft. He has a square jaw, matching his broad square frame. His neck is thick, corded heavily down to his giant shoulders, torso, thighs, and calves. His frame is somewhere between svelte athletic and strangely Grecian, a combination that reminds one both at once of an angry bull and a graceful panther. Of course the effect is somewhat ruined by his lack of height, making him look more like an angry dwarf all the time.
His hands are thickly calloused; though they do not seem to diminish his sense of touch any. He does not move with grace, exactly, but instead with an efficient fluidity of movement. His hands are large, almost too large for his body. His nails are short, often ragged and unkempt. He has sparse hair on his body, with his chest only lightly marked, he wonders if this will change, as he grows older. He must shave daily however, despite his youth he usually ends the day with a heavy shadow of stubble. His favoured clothing runs towards the muted earth tones of brown, with some muted shades of green thrown in for the occasional hint of colour. He is not particularly fashionable, mainly due to a lack of style rather than funds.
Personality:
Angry and prideful are two of his most defining characteristics. When asked to describe him after an encounter they often say, "He was a small angry man." His pride is often what triggers the anger, and the pent up emotion tends to roar into a wildfire once lit. Due to this, he is perhaps a tad quick to take offence, and usually the first to throw a punch. Strangely, once you get past the initial hostility, he is amazingly good-humoured with a quick wit and sense of loyalty not often found in men of his age. His quickness to fight is also amazingly quick to burn itself off, when he stops indiscriminately wailing on whatever fleshy bodies are in his nearest vicinity and starts to think about his punches.
He loves to work with his hands, sinking into a state of calm he cannot normally achieve he lets his hidden passion and kindness take over as he creates his colourful hand-blown glassware. He is massively protective of those he loves, and is attracted to those that need compassion and protection like a moth to a flame. He discovered his homosexual preferences relatively young, and to his vexation, Pern is not as accepting of the tendency as they once were. Maybe because of this he has a decidedly masculine facade, though he believes he is just naturally manly. He does not make friends easily, and is aware of this failing like a burr in his side. He desires friends and companionship, but cannot seem to get past the defensiveness he holds close to himself like a shield. Always at his back is a sense that he must keep going, to outrun his past and his blood.
Hobbies/Skills:
- Senior Apprentice Glass-smith, specializing in blown glassware.
- Glass-sculpts as a hobby.
- Fighting, if you could call it a hobby.
- Singing voice, not wonderful but relatively pleasant, he knows some of the older Harper ballads.
- Tends to kick things as he walks.
- Hates green fire-lizards, they are to Pernese what little yapping dogs are to Terrans.
Pets:
N/A
History:
Briac was born the bastard son of drudge. By some miracle, they allowed him to live and he grew into an underfed favourite wiping boy of the fosterlings at Bitra Hold. His mother, or at least the woman that birthed him, was more of a deadglow than most of the drudges and not long after his 8th turn, she took ill and passed. Naturally, his life experiences conspired so that he grew up angry, feeling betrayed and picked-on by the people around him. Many supposed, behind closed doors in hushed whispers, that Briac had inherited the quick wits of his father for he possessed none of his mother's dimness.
He suffered at Bitra, beaten and degraded by every inhabitant whether they be of drudge or lord station, considered lower than the very lowest. It took him four more turns to finally run away slipping away during the last Gather he would ever attend. He still remembers the smell of the straw and burn of the manure in his nostrils, as he fished out his pitiful provisions in the wherskin sack, from beneath the pithy concealment. He ran fast and hard, weedy calves burning from the unrelenting pace. Fearing the retribution that was sure to follow his minor theft of his provisions and even the sack he carried.
His rations barely got him to Igen, where he encountered a gang of urchins, having no hold or weyr and being of no one [beget by]. Logically, they fought and Briac, despite his stunted size, managed to defend himself; a necessary skill developed at Bitra. Finally, they knocked him unconscious. Curiously, this small display of spirit endeared him to the urchins and within a number of months, he found himself back on the road with a much better provisions sack and sad to leave the first friends he had ever known.
By the time, he made it to the coastline his feet were raw, and stung terribly in the salty air. He had nothing to barter his passage to Ista onboard the many fishing vessels, driven onwards by a never-ending need to get far away. Invariably he found himself indebted to a Glass-smith Journeyman returning to his craft hall, loading the man's precious cargo and staying with it below decks to make sure it made the journey across safely. Returning with the Journeyman to his Craft Hall Briac come upon a very different type of people, even the drudges treated him better here. He was quick to realise this was because no one knew who or what he was. Within the following 4 turns, he became adept at piecing together a false life-story with barely a moment of preparation. Innately knowing when to give details and how to judge his audiences thought processes. With this method, he quickly became a Glass-Smith Apprentice. Learning the craft with a flair for creativity that took him rapidly to Senior Apprentice and finding a specialisation.
At the age of 16, shortly after Briac earned his Senior knot a temporary position became available at Southern Boll Hold, to assist in some specialized work that suited his talents. Pushed onwards by that persistent need to be still yet farther, despite the passage of time, Briac jumped at it. He left Ista onboard with a number of other men from the craft, also enlisted for the same job. Unfortunately for Briac, these were men he had made special enemies with over the years; his deep seeded anger and pride resulting in some really very violent clashes since their first encounter.
Briac remembered that day as clearly as when he first ran from Bitra, like a mantra running around in his head. He was perhaps two years into his apprenticeship when he had seen a boy in the court just after supper. The blonde child had been picking something up off the ground. Curious Briac had approached, and seen that this boy was a delicate creature. Two years of rigorous lifting, exercise and a half decent diet had resulted in Briac going from spindly to stocky very quickly. He had not put on much height but had gained solid muscle; his hands heavily calloused from his work with the blowpipes in the forge. This kid in comparison was almost elfish, delicate to the point of femineity. Crouching down Briac had watched those soft hands pick brightly coloured shards of glass from the cobblestone, carefully piling them in a white handkerchief. The little blonde boy had ignored him and continued his quiet task; Briac kept watching. At some point, he cut himself on a thin sliver, yelping with a bright voice like a silver bell. Without thinking, Briac had reached forward and grabbed the wounded hand, pulling it to his mouth and closing his lips around the bleeding finger. Both of them had frozen, staring at each other as what he had just done penetrated. From somewhere behind them a snigger had curled from the darkness, "like little boys do you Brag." The nickname was a tasteless one, but rankled non-the-less. Instantly Briac had ended all contact with the boy, still frozen, and jumped to his feet. The rest of that evening passed in a blur, of fists that is. He remembered afterwards that the blonde boy had helped him back to his room and cleaned him up, and he had learned his name was Ryal. Ryal had been his first Love, and his last.
They caught Ryal alone a few months before Briac was named a senior; they beat him so bad he had not survived the night.
It took barely three hrs after the coastline had disappeared on this journey to their new assignment for the fight to erupt. Badly outnumbered Briac blacked out with a particularly vicious blow to the head after only a few minutes and went overboard with the momentum of his sudden drop. He does not know if they attempted to fish him out, for his next memory was of waking on a hot beach, his mind a deep fog with a desperate need to throw up. Rolling over he emptied the salt water onto the sand, his vision slowly clearing as he stared at the sparkling white particles directly beneath him. He did not know how long he stared like that, but slowly he became aware of someone standing not too far away. It was a girl, from the CotHold up the beach. At first, he was unable to tell her anything about himself, the dark bruising on his temple convincing the girl enough to lead him back to her parents at the CotHold. Over the next few days, his mind slowly returned to him, and he was able to tell his hosts what had happened to him, with enough editing to make them suitably sympathetic. Briac learned he was on the southern continent, and he quickly picked up a tan and grew svelte in the extra cruel jungles of the surrounding country. No glass-smiths had come over in accordance with the new arrangement yet, their skills not considered 'essential'. No sooner had Briac jerry rigged a forge than his blown glassware was in demand.
Months passed, and Briac became a fixture in the hold, living with his hosts but never really feeling like he belonged. Always, somewhere, in the back of his mind and itching at the base of his spine, was that constant need to get still farther. He let his 17th turn pass without tribute, and then a blue rider found him on search.
Color Preference
Brown please!
