Emtea
Lord of Altera
1. What is your Minecraft username?
Emtea_
2. Where is your last approved Whitelist Application?
[Here.]
3. Have you re-read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides again?
Yes.
4. Tell us about yourself!
Nothing particularly exciting. I thought about seeing what things are like here again, since things have settled down a bit in my life and I've had a creative itch that needs scratching.
About Your Character!
Character Name:
Deacon
Character Age:
Late teens.
Character Race:
Human
Appearance:
Deacon is a scruffy, but otherwise unremarkable young man. Muddy brown and dim blue eyes frame somewhat gaunt features, and his skin is tinged by many a long hour toiled away under Ignis' gaze. He stands at a modest height, and isn't particularly stocky. With little coin for a wardrobe, Deacon most often wears a shabby grey tunic with faded stripes, sometimes adorned with a traveler's mantle of similar make. A cursory scan would deem him uninteresting, but in good health.
Written Test!
There was, Deacon decided, something almost pitiable about Storm’s Landing.
It wasn’t in the scale of the city, or even its present state. The port city was as lively as ever, merchants and laymen bustling through the streets as always. Busy folk were the same everywhere, but in the Landing especially, life never seemed to hold still.
Which was, of course, the trouble. Life trudged on, but to Deacon’s eyes the denizens of the Eastern Kingdoms’ largest city always carried the weight of anticipation about their shoulders. Most folk dressed simple, and darkly; they sought no second glances, and their eyes were sharp, even as they lived a day as mundane as any other. It wasn hardly surprising, in retrospect, when one considered the city’s consistent entanglement with the bizarre and dangerous—and that was before one wondered what crept through the bowels of the city.
Storm’s Landing was anything but mediocre.
That suited Deacon just fine.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tavern was as lively as he expected. An assortment of townsfolk and travelers, southrons to northerners and everything between, decorated the stools and seats in a familiar cacophony; voices pitched to overtake one another, lest they drown themselves in the jovial din. Flames crackled merrily in one corner, while the faithful barkeep tended to his guests with a practiced ease as though they weren’t a stray insult away from getting blood in his floorboards. Again.
Deacon smiled. It was a wild thing, and laughter danced in his eyes. He’d always been a festive sort.
He strode in and hailed the barkeep—Jack, he thought—with a wave of his hand, drawn out from his travel cloak. The cloth still felt damp when it brushed against his knuckles; the rain could be heavy in the midlands. Commiserating as much with Jack, he sought his warmth in a mug of ale, and reached for his faded deerskin purse. It was lighter than he remembered, but it was never clear whether a clever urchin or his own spending habits were to blame for that.
With an easy smile, Deacon paid and thanked the man graciously. Only after Jack turned to fetch a bottle did he allow himself a silent, inward sigh.
A look around the room unveiled little in the way of familiar faces, but that was fine. For better or worse, they lived in interesting times, which meant there was always something to talk about.
And if they knew anything about finding some work? All the better.
Emtea_
2. Where is your last approved Whitelist Application?
[Here.]
3. Have you re-read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides again?
Yes.
4. Tell us about yourself!
Nothing particularly exciting. I thought about seeing what things are like here again, since things have settled down a bit in my life and I've had a creative itch that needs scratching.
About Your Character!
Character Name:
Deacon
Character Age:
Late teens.
Character Race:
Human
Appearance:
Deacon is a scruffy, but otherwise unremarkable young man. Muddy brown and dim blue eyes frame somewhat gaunt features, and his skin is tinged by many a long hour toiled away under Ignis' gaze. He stands at a modest height, and isn't particularly stocky. With little coin for a wardrobe, Deacon most often wears a shabby grey tunic with faded stripes, sometimes adorned with a traveler's mantle of similar make. A cursory scan would deem him uninteresting, but in good health.
Written Test!
There was, Deacon decided, something almost pitiable about Storm’s Landing.
It wasn’t in the scale of the city, or even its present state. The port city was as lively as ever, merchants and laymen bustling through the streets as always. Busy folk were the same everywhere, but in the Landing especially, life never seemed to hold still.
Which was, of course, the trouble. Life trudged on, but to Deacon’s eyes the denizens of the Eastern Kingdoms’ largest city always carried the weight of anticipation about their shoulders. Most folk dressed simple, and darkly; they sought no second glances, and their eyes were sharp, even as they lived a day as mundane as any other. It wasn hardly surprising, in retrospect, when one considered the city’s consistent entanglement with the bizarre and dangerous—and that was before one wondered what crept through the bowels of the city.
Storm’s Landing was anything but mediocre.
That suited Deacon just fine.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tavern was as lively as he expected. An assortment of townsfolk and travelers, southrons to northerners and everything between, decorated the stools and seats in a familiar cacophony; voices pitched to overtake one another, lest they drown themselves in the jovial din. Flames crackled merrily in one corner, while the faithful barkeep tended to his guests with a practiced ease as though they weren’t a stray insult away from getting blood in his floorboards. Again.
Deacon smiled. It was a wild thing, and laughter danced in his eyes. He’d always been a festive sort.
He strode in and hailed the barkeep—Jack, he thought—with a wave of his hand, drawn out from his travel cloak. The cloth still felt damp when it brushed against his knuckles; the rain could be heavy in the midlands. Commiserating as much with Jack, he sought his warmth in a mug of ale, and reached for his faded deerskin purse. It was lighter than he remembered, but it was never clear whether a clever urchin or his own spending habits were to blame for that.
With an easy smile, Deacon paid and thanked the man graciously. Only after Jack turned to fetch a bottle did he allow himself a silent, inward sigh.
A look around the room unveiled little in the way of familiar faces, but that was fine. For better or worse, they lived in interesting times, which meant there was always something to talk about.
And if they knew anything about finding some work? All the better.
