FrostGuardian
Legend
Glorious picture of Nwalme.
Medieval & Fantasy Minecraft Roleplaying
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Nwalme Fuvur
- Thread starter blargtheawesome
- Start date
*Nods approvingly*
apollo6000
Lord of Altera
#Firsteverselfie
HE IS REPAAAAAAIRED... MOSTLY!
FrostGuardian
Legend
Excellent... *Does Mr. Burns thing*
Made it look more better with less run-on sentences and figured out/decided on his birthday, etc, etc.
Two things!
One, Nwalme's quarterstaff had some issues with it related to me and the gentleman making it not knowing some things at the time. Its 'new' weight is ~100 pounds, and it handles slightly slowly in combat due to such. Not overly noticeable, and Nwalme is also a tad heavier from muscles.
Also, theme song finally found.
One, Nwalme's quarterstaff had some issues with it related to me and the gentleman making it not knowing some things at the time. Its 'new' weight is ~100 pounds, and it handles slightly slowly in combat due to such. Not overly noticeable, and Nwalme is also a tad heavier from muscles.
Also, theme song finally found.
Story time! Please do critique, BLarg enjoys writing, but is no means practiced or even good at it.
The sun was falling in the western sky, as a sharp wind whistled through the shattered windows of the desecrated, once-grand manor. Perhaps not the final resting place of its owner, but his home. His fortress against the world outside, which he all but ruled during the height of Riddleport through puppets. Nwalme was one of those puppets. He didn't believe it or accept it at the time, but he had come to realize it later; well over a decade after Riddleport's fall. He trudged past over broken glass, and it quietly crackled beneath his feet. Rats scurrying about as he continued down the hall, many of their nests destroyed or uncovered from Nwalme's relentless search of the abandoned home. It was almost paradoxic. He had found nothing valuable whatsoever within chests that had locks it took him almost an hour to get open, but he found many pieces of jewelry that the initial looters had failed to come across despite this. A necklace behind a brick in the remains of the ashy fireplace; a ring within the false bottom of one of his cabinets; and a scarce handful more. But, he expected such from the Mogul. A trickster and a knave, liar, cheat, a man who did no good for the world; a man who said world was better off without.... A man Nwalme respected, who had given him a chance, despite the man he himself was at twenty five. Nwalme finally found what he was looking for, a thick heavy-set door at the end of a hallway. Some of the floorboards had been ripped up near it, providing Nwalme with enough room to hold his glowstone lamp under and peer about for hidden things. None of which were there.
Nwalme kneeled in front of the door, his nimble, gloved fingers fishing about his satchel for what he knew would be there. He removed his pair of locksmith's tools, and he inserted said tools into the lock carefully, testily running one of the tools over the lock's tumblers a few times. A ritual he had learned from practice, the tools from a long-dead friend. His thoughts briefly strayed to the martyr Elrohir, and how he ended up raising the Elf's son himself, as he died before Light was born. An errant though which did not distract himself for long from the irony of Elrohir giving him the same tools he used to break into his workplace, then his personal library, in search of knowledge. If I were to die, and he live, I would have him do to me what I did to him. The thoughts of Light then brought on thoughts of his unborn children. Whether or not they would be his firstborn was subjective; his firstborn was never born in the first place, and his only blood relation in terms of a child was brought on by depression and alcohol, eighteen long years ago. The lock was a complicated one, and it took him the better part of ten minutes to even figure out how many tumblers it had. But this did not discourage him, it would open in time, as all locks do. The glowstone lamp, soon to be his only source of light in the rapidly darkening dusk, down by his side and making eerie shadows of the scene. But Nwalme did not live to see sixty four by being afraid of real shadows, and the broken glass behind himself would alert himself to anyone who took a liking to the thought of sneaking behind him, or so he assured himself.
His thought strayed to his children again, as they often did since Sybbyl was well into her ninth month of pregnancy, with only a little over five to go. Nwalme didn't hate the man he was robbing, if he did he wouldn't be naming one of his sons after him. The fact that Marcus either took all his more incriminating paperwork with himself, or destroyed it, seemed to imply he might one day come back. If he didn't hate Marcus, then why did he hope this is not the case? Nwalme was grateful, there was no doubt. But he was also beyond a doubt fearful, Marcus was born and bred a liar, and a much better one than Nwalme. While Nwalme was just now becoming skillful with intrigue and subterfuge, Marcus built an empire off of it. An empire made of glass, that few noticed unless they were the ones who helped built it, but an empire regardless. Nwalme knew he would never admit to it, but this fact disturbed him. He sat in both mental and physical silence for a long time, before finally the final lock on the last door in Marcus's abandoned manor clicked as he turned it. Standing, he allowed himself a faint, wide smile as he pocketed his tools and lifted his lantern. He took a deep breath of the dusty air, placing his hand on the doorknob. He could feel its cold through his thin leather glove, Riddleport was a remarkably frigid place during the winter; especially in a drafty building with no windows. He allowed himself another pause to build up his nerve, suddenly filled with excitement and a faint nervousness to see what lie beyond the last locked door of his former mentor's home. Before finally, he turned the knob and let it swing open.
... The room was empty.
The sun was falling in the western sky, as a sharp wind whistled through the shattered windows of the desecrated, once-grand manor. Perhaps not the final resting place of its owner, but his home. His fortress against the world outside, which he all but ruled during the height of Riddleport through puppets. Nwalme was one of those puppets. He didn't believe it or accept it at the time, but he had come to realize it later; well over a decade after Riddleport's fall. He trudged past over broken glass, and it quietly crackled beneath his feet. Rats scurrying about as he continued down the hall, many of their nests destroyed or uncovered from Nwalme's relentless search of the abandoned home. It was almost paradoxic. He had found nothing valuable whatsoever within chests that had locks it took him almost an hour to get open, but he found many pieces of jewelry that the initial looters had failed to come across despite this. A necklace behind a brick in the remains of the ashy fireplace; a ring within the false bottom of one of his cabinets; and a scarce handful more. But, he expected such from the Mogul. A trickster and a knave, liar, cheat, a man who did no good for the world; a man who said world was better off without.... A man Nwalme respected, who had given him a chance, despite the man he himself was at twenty five. Nwalme finally found what he was looking for, a thick heavy-set door at the end of a hallway. Some of the floorboards had been ripped up near it, providing Nwalme with enough room to hold his glowstone lamp under and peer about for hidden things. None of which were there.
Nwalme kneeled in front of the door, his nimble, gloved fingers fishing about his satchel for what he knew would be there. He removed his pair of locksmith's tools, and he inserted said tools into the lock carefully, testily running one of the tools over the lock's tumblers a few times. A ritual he had learned from practice, the tools from a long-dead friend. His thoughts briefly strayed to the martyr Elrohir, and how he ended up raising the Elf's son himself, as he died before Light was born. An errant though which did not distract himself for long from the irony of Elrohir giving him the same tools he used to break into his workplace, then his personal library, in search of knowledge. If I were to die, and he live, I would have him do to me what I did to him. The thoughts of Light then brought on thoughts of his unborn children. Whether or not they would be his firstborn was subjective; his firstborn was never born in the first place, and his only blood relation in terms of a child was brought on by depression and alcohol, eighteen long years ago. The lock was a complicated one, and it took him the better part of ten minutes to even figure out how many tumblers it had. But this did not discourage him, it would open in time, as all locks do. The glowstone lamp, soon to be his only source of light in the rapidly darkening dusk, down by his side and making eerie shadows of the scene. But Nwalme did not live to see sixty four by being afraid of real shadows, and the broken glass behind himself would alert himself to anyone who took a liking to the thought of sneaking behind him, or so he assured himself.
His thought strayed to his children again, as they often did since Sybbyl was well into her ninth month of pregnancy, with only a little over five to go. Nwalme didn't hate the man he was robbing, if he did he wouldn't be naming one of his sons after him. The fact that Marcus either took all his more incriminating paperwork with himself, or destroyed it, seemed to imply he might one day come back. If he didn't hate Marcus, then why did he hope this is not the case? Nwalme was grateful, there was no doubt. But he was also beyond a doubt fearful, Marcus was born and bred a liar, and a much better one than Nwalme. While Nwalme was just now becoming skillful with intrigue and subterfuge, Marcus built an empire off of it. An empire made of glass, that few noticed unless they were the ones who helped built it, but an empire regardless. Nwalme knew he would never admit to it, but this fact disturbed him. He sat in both mental and physical silence for a long time, before finally the final lock on the last door in Marcus's abandoned manor clicked as he turned it. Standing, he allowed himself a faint, wide smile as he pocketed his tools and lifted his lantern. He took a deep breath of the dusty air, placing his hand on the doorknob. He could feel its cold through his thin leather glove, Riddleport was a remarkably frigid place during the winter; especially in a drafty building with no windows. He allowed himself another pause to build up his nerve, suddenly filled with excitement and a faint nervousness to see what lie beyond the last locked door of his former mentor's home. Before finally, he turned the knob and let it swing open.
... The room was empty.
Oh hell yeah PMs.
Megadonkey30
Lord of Altera
MD30
I loved the ending..
Two things!
Foremost, I found a much more entertaining (and therefore accurate) version of the theme song.
Second, updated the profile a bit. Dunno whether or not expanding on the strengths was a good idea, but hey-ho.
Foremost, I found a much more entertaining (and therefore accurate) version of the theme song.
Second, updated the profile a bit. Dunno whether or not expanding on the strengths was a good idea, but hey-ho.
.. I got bored so I rewrote the whole thing over the course of 3-5 hours.
pyrocide
The Mogul of Cromarcky
Brilliant and correct as always.
Gonna go about re-adding people as I RP wif 'em.
Welp.
He's single again.
(and reeeeeally depressed.)
He's single again.
(and reeeeeally depressed.)