Questions? Interested in OOC chat? Click here to come join us on Discord!

Torwiike

Saturn Girl
 
    Sun Aug 05, 2018 8:27 pm
  • Link

Torwiike

Torwikke
Image


BASICS

RETIRE INFO: Adopt Dragon, Retire Character
NAME: Torwikke, but answers to “Tweet” and “Wikke” (pronounced 'VEEK-uh'), from home
GENDER: Male.
PRONOUNS: He/him/his
ORIENTATION: Homosexual, Homoromantic. Finds hats to be very attractive on men.

BIRTHDATE: Late Spring 2747
AGE: 20
LOCATION: Landed at Fort Weyr
OCCUPATION: Candidate, aspires to Starcraft.


APPEARANCE
EYES: Bright blue
HAIR: Sunlight blond, very choppy, usually just wash and wear, even if it sticks out in places. Cowlick victim.
HEIGHT AND BUILD: 5' 8”, but he slouches, so he looks about 5' 6”. Otherwise, he is fair with a kiss of sun on the nose, cheeks, and shoulders. An average build, if a bit soft.
PLAY-BY: Kurt Cobain
FULL APPEARANCE: Under the loose shirts, pants, and haystack of golden blond he hides himself in, Torwikke has an almost angelic face. He has a permanent tremor, which often results in small stains (usually ink or klah) about his person. Most of his shirts have thumbholes in them, poked or bitten or otherwise just rubbed and fidgeted into existence, which he prefers for hiding his shaky hands. He doesn't have a lot of muscle definition, from his previous work as an aspiring scribe, so there is a layer of softness to him, most notably in the lower half, which is belied by a thin frame and loose clothes. He has two nasty scars at his left hip, where he was ripped from the fangs of a venomous tunnel snake, and reddish-purple streaks around them from where venom burned through surrounding blood vessels.

PERSONALITY
PERSONALITY: Torwikke is a shy, sort of paranoid, mild-mannered fellow, who just wants to be part of a gang of supportive individuals, and would much rather follow orders than give them. He'll laugh with a group and nod while people talk, but tries not to give too much input of his own, namely for fear they'll notice his twitches and stutters. These are mostly under control, but exacerbated by his habitual consumption of klah, lack of sleep, and less than healthy dietary preferences. A serial fidgeter, he is often found rubbing smooth stones, snapping his fingers, playing with his hair, messing with his clothes, or scribbling. He has a knack for music and dancing, but does not share this often, wanting to avoid the attention or criticism. He is a fearful person, but he always does the best he can to do the right thing, if he knows what it is. Unfortunately, sometimes he relies on others to tell him, which can end badly.

Formerly a talented, up-and-coming scribe, he lost his abilities as a scrivener with the tremor that came from a near-fatal snakebite in his past. Over the years, it has settled, but not enough that he could go back to his trade. He misses that life, sometimes, but would rather focus on making a better one for himself now. Knowing he can't do the kind of study or writing that comes with being a real Starcrafter, he aspires to ride so he can see for himself the movements of the stars, and bring back that information for others to work with in a way he no longer can. He's determined, really, to contribute, even without the promise of fame or fortune (which just sounds like another headache). He values his friends and connections more than being top of his class, so if he finds a group and they want to hang out, he'll ditch his homework in a heartbeat.


HISTORY
FAMILY: A Harper father, and a mother he wasn't particularly close to. No siblings.
SIGNIFICANT OTHER: None yet.
BIRTHPLACE: A Harper Hall
HISTORY: Born in a HarperHall, Torwikke had a normal childhood. With no siblings, he was friends with many of the children in his age group, and his worst sin was following some of the pushier boys for the sake of not being in front of them. A quiet boy, things he liked to do included throwing rocks, running through fields and beating the crops with sticks, making up pointless songs and plinking at a lute, and saving small animals from apparent danger. His father had high expectations for his son, and his mother, a baker for the Hall, never really got close to him. She was a quiet woman, happy to let his father do the talking, and while she brushed the boy's hair and prepared the day's food, she was more of a stranger he talked to when he came back from lessons and going out to play. She recognized Torwikke's role as his father's protege before he did, and took her place accordingly. Her life and her joys were in the kitchens, and that was the way she liked it.

As it came time for Torwikke to decide on a trade, he chose (with heavy urging from his father) to be a Scribe, which would help immensely. They would be a team; father telling the histories, and the son recording them. This was more than agreeable, and Torwikke began an apprenticeship at a Crafthall as a Scrivener, where he flourished. With beautiful handwriting and a delicate hand with the records, it was said he would make a very successful Scribe. He became friends with a few craftsmen, namely because he would always bring klah to artisans in need on late nights. One of Torwikke's better friends was apprenticed to a Glasscrafter named Frodi, the brother of a Vintner who often got the bulky, unsold ends of his brother's product. He liked to drink and talk about Starcraft long into the night. While Wikke's friend worked, Frodi liked to talk about the stars and the way the skies moved, and Wikke got to play with flawed lenses and lumps of glass, which he sometimes used as paperweights for his many pages. Mostly he smiled and nodded sweetly to get wine out of the old man, but he really was interested in the stories, and liked that whenever he said something, the other listened, a rare treat.

During Torwikke's 15th turn, a very wet, hot summer came to the halls. Wikke and a few of the other boys had gone outside to skinny dip in a pond, to cool off from the close heat of the cramped workspaces. Storms were common, quick to come, quick to go, and thunder seemed to just rumble darkly for most of the day. Sneaking past the watch-wher had been as easy as getting it food (Old meat scraps in gravy), and they didn't plan to travel far; the pond was within sight if anyone looked. It was a perfect dip, and the other boys and their problems had seemed to fade away that day, as he watched little creatures dive to the bottom. He'd gone underwater, to dredge up a smooth stone from the lakebed, and stayed for a long moment where it was cooler. That little move cost him, as he was bitten by a venomous tunnelsnake when coming up for air. He would later learn that the other boys beat it to death with sticks and rocks, and ran away.

Waking didn't hurt too much. The wound hurt, but wounds always hurt. His head ached, but he was able to get to sleep. It was the days that followed that revealed the worst of it. After a few days, everything hurt, and his vision faded in and out with splitting, fiery headaches that pounced on him without warning, and he shivered uncontrollably through the reassurance of various healers. The wound burst its stitches a few times, oozing and weeping through sets of dressings. For a week he didn't think he would live, as the headaches and convulsions worsened, and the wound festered before it began to heal. There was a string of days he didn't remember, but after that, it got easier. For the first time in the passes of his apprenticeship, he saw his mother, sitting with pursed lips at his bedside. He hadn't a clue how long she'd been there, and she never visited for long. Blearily, he thought he saw her cry once, but never trusted his memory on the subject. The tremors lessened in severity, and the first day he went without a headache was one he celebrated with a small, sweet cake she baked for him. She stopped visiting him when the healers assured her he would be alright. The coming months got better, and he was able to resume life outside the sickroom.

Regaining himself proved a Pyrrhic victory. The wound at his hip was making a nasty scar that made dressing very difficult. All the boys that had once been his friends were afraid to speak to him for fear of hurting him, or looked on him with pity, which hurt even more. Worse, the quality of his work as a scribe plummeted. Reading for too long brought on painful headaches. Though the convulsions had ceased, his hands shook, and writing his beautiful little letters in straight lines became a near agonizing chore. The Master tried to be kind, but there was no way to keep him. His father was outraged, that his son could no longer do as they had planned. The only person that seemed to care about him in a genuine manner was his old friend Frodi, who encouraged him to pursue other interests, answered all his questions about the sky, and addressed many of his fears. For another few passes, Wikke worked largely as an errand boy between the Crafthalls, for Crafters who did their best to veil their pity.

Grudgingly his father took him back home at the Harperhall, where he tried to teach the boy Harpercraft. Torwikke languished; even though he liked music, he had little interest or success in the subject the way his father taught it, mostly due to the fact that his father did not hide his lack of faith in his own son, and made no pretension about essentially disowning him. He had him doing chores in the Hall with the servants, and continued his lessons minimally and without conviction. The once happy blonde now suffered mostly in silence, his nervousness addling his memory and halting his songs and stories. As he spent more time in the Kitchens, he thought to talk to his mother. However, when he addressed her, her face seemed to fall. She was never cruel; always performed her motherly duties, but she didn't bother to hide her disappointment in the way things had turned out, and didn't wish to talk about it. Without announcement, his father took on another apprentice, one similar to Wikke in appearance, and close to his age, which confirmed the Harper's true feelings on the subject. After that, Wikke turned in on himself, and didn't bother with much more than his chores during the day.

He spent his evenings making small talk with some of the younger apprentices, save for the one his father had chosen to replace him. Drinking klah to stay awake at night, he retreated to the roof of the Hall, where the Starcrafter had once put his telescopes before he'd gone on to another Hall, for the Scribes to bind his work into books. Torwikke had wanted to be one of those Scribes; His father could only have so many books made, and Wikke had thought about making the maps and charts that Starcrafters took from their telescopes. He remembered Frodi's many stories, and wanted to take one of his telescopes into the sky, over the storms and through the clouds that hid the stars. Torwikke knew he could never be a real Starcrafter, with the equations, the patterns, the predictions and the strict recording, but to fly up into the dark and really get a good look....he would see storms and stars, planets and their many moons...his notes didn't have to be beautiful, just accurate, and that he was more than ready for, given his training. He just wanted to do something useful and fulfilling, preferably far off where people might give him a chance, and his tremor wouldn't define him.

When the dragon came, then, to Search the Hold, Torwikke's father told the Master that he wouldn't be sending him out with the other apprentices. He even tried to ensure that the boy didn't show up at all, considering him to be largely an embarrassment. Wikke was told sternly to remain in the kitchens until the Searchers had gone. Sullenly he agreed, and got to the dishes. His mother came up to him, and she asked him, sternly, what he was doing there. When he relayed his orders, she took the dishes he was carrying, and ordered him to go right back out, and stand in line, reminding him that he'd better not slouch in front of the dragon. She didn't know her son's dreams, but she disagreed with his father in barring him outright from going to a place where he might have potential. She'd rather he try there than stay here and be miserable. In disbelief, Torwikke kissed her cheek, something he'd never done before, and bolted out into the hall as they were calling people to line up.

The dragon went down the line, seeming to stare meaningfully at some of them, and snort at others that tried too hard to grab its attention. Wikke's eyes darted, studying the dragon, taking it all in, fascinated with the creature. He caught his father's wide eyes, furious as he realized that Torwikke had disobeyed him, and the boy locked his jaw. The Harper, in that moment, seemed much more fearsome than the dragon, and if Wikke could stand in front of that, he could certainly face a dragon that didn't know him. As he worked to calm the frantic doubt, the thought of how stupid a move this could be, he didn't notice the dragon come upon him. He let out a squeak in his throat, but he didn't slouch, and watched intently as the dragon turned to its rider. Among four others, Torwikke was called, and he looked his father straight in the face when he said he'd love nothing more than to go to the Weyr.
Last edited by Saturn Girl on Mon Aug 06, 2018 5:29 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Saturn Girl
 
    Sun Aug 05, 2018 8:53 pm
  • Link

What type of candidate is your character: Dual, but would very much like a dragon (intends on flight)

What color/s are you willing to impress to?: Any color if the match is good.
What color/s does your character want?: My character would be fine with probably any but gold (that's a lot of pressure and responsibility; he really just wants to fly) Garnet, blue, green, or white; something zippy that likes flying high, perhaps something that works well in a team setting. Probably green or blue, but again, not picky at all.
Do you/your character have any personality preferences or concerns?: Preferably something gentle, nothing TOO high energy, as he already is that.
Do you/your character have any other preferences or concerns?: Perhaps something protective is ideal, as he's already paranoid.
Why do you think these choice/s would be a good fit?: Something that will help him maintain his focus (hoping to collect information for Starcrafters) while also not drawing unnecessary attention would be ideal.

Do you have any preferences about the conditions of your character’s impression?: No preference. I prefer to let things happen as they will. If it happens, it happens, and if it doesn't, we're told to expect that. There are always things to do.
Are you alright with your character getting hurt? What injury level is acceptable/what should be avoided?: Hurt him. He'll struggle through it and come out more developed.
Is there anything you will ABSOLUTELY NOT accept?: Fire away!
phpBB Appliance - Powered by TurnKey Linux