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{Introduction Section}
Minecraft Username: IncognitoOtter
Age: 19
Country & Timezone: UTC-6
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Metagaming: Use of knowledge obtained by unfair means outside of roleplay to determine actions of one's character in roleplay scenarios. Powergaming: The act of preforming something your character would realistically not be capable of, as well as forcing actions or happenings on another player characters.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Greetings. I am Incognito, Otter, or "IncognitoOtter," yet I'm rarely known as the latter. I've been on the mineman roleplay scene for nearly three years now, I think, and have seen my fair share of servers rise and fall and players come and go. Put simply, I like to tell and write stories. Whether it's leading a handful of players through an event, participating in one myself, or even simple slice-of-life, I enjoy most roleplay. I won't say I'm the best writer when it comes to lore and actions/emotes, but it's something I'm working on and something I hope I can work on here.
Referral: Galokin
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{Character Section}
Character Name: Kestimir
Age: 25
Race: Human
Appearance: Kestimir has short, dark hair and dull blue eyes, often the likeness of a cunning smirk or contemplative frown upon his tanned visage. The young man stands a few inches shorter than six feet of height. Wearing a long cloak to combat harsh weather, Kestimir seemed to possess more of a strange road-wanderer's garb; flat, earthy tones mixed with various bandoliers and small pouches. Resting at his side is that of an arming blade, with a particularly hefty tome strapped underneath one arm—complete with charcoal and a writer's quill.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin: (Do not have yet! Here is an example of a previous skin):
Written Test (Min: 400 words):
The darkened clouds moved from the horizon now to the eastern forest, spewing forth thunder and spittle from its kindled maw above. The harsh wind caused even the sturdiest of trees to bend in its wake, howling in vengeance. Many would deem this weather too dangerous to occupy the stone roads, too perilous to sit by the roads awaiting a caravan to rob, and indeed too treacherous to even think of traveling to the next city; the wilds and untamed beasts seemed to agree with these sentiments, for their presence along the forest-path was naught but absence.
However, it was, after all, for these reasons the Wanderer trekked the path near the height of the menacing storm. Cloak and hood pulled tightly over his form, the Wanderer clung to the reins of his mount, guiding it on foot along the cobbled road. Atop the miffed steed was the smaller form of an elderly man, draped in cloaks and hunched over on the saddle. He desperately grasped at the edges of the saddle, teeth chattering as cold bit into him despite the dense layers he wore.
“I-I beseech thee, 'O w-warden 'ov this path,” the Elder spoke, his shallow breaths accentuated in the chill air before his cracked lips. “W-Weh must f-find shelter!”
The Wanderer himself found his steps in the wake of the storm arduous, his boots finding little purchase upon the mud-soaked stones. A mutter of his horse remaining upright despite the tempest escaped him as he trudged on. The Elder cried once more to the hooded one.
“Let us venture out 'ov this road,” he spake, raising his voice to combat the wind's own voice. “And b-bring ourselves forth unto a shelter. The rain cast daggers 'ov ice unto m-mine eyes. I beseech thee—Loft thine sight, 'O keeper 'ov roads, and inquiry a place that may govern our mortal shells 'til the storm's passing.”
Yet, it was not so that the Wanderer could not hear, his jaw clenched as he continued to step. No, for he knew the town was not far off, and the journey nearly done. Would it be the usual traveler's the Wanderer guided through the mountainous pass, perhaps he would feign ignorance of the Elder's complaints for longer. With thunder crashing upon and shards of cold penetrating the cloak and skin, the Wanderer then decided against such a course of action; much to his own dismay.
The hooded one paused his walk, halting the mount whose reins he clung to as the rain fell upon the three. He lifted his gaze about the road, the towering trees and swirling storm looming above. The wind clashed at his form and flapped his cloak. The Wanderer then cast his sight down towards the crag nearby, and spotted what seemed to be a cave within the mountain's edifice.
“There,” came from the hood, a soft yet rough speech with the cadence of a march. It was as if the wanderer's voice was scarcely used. A coarse tone.
Whether the Elder heard the voice of he who guided him or not, the Wanderer began his steps once more and guided the mount from the path. After a few short minutes later, the three departed from the hateful embrace of the storm and into a calm cavern. The mount seemed the most pleased, promptly stalking further into the dark cave. The Wanderer pulled back his hood, striding over to aid the Elder off the irritated steed. A saddle-bag was likewise removed, and the hooded one turned then to investigate the cave.
It was not long before they were seated beside a fire. Much of the cavern held pockets of soil upon its floor, so creating a pit and governing flame was but a trivial task. The Wanderer had pulled back his hood and remained seated across from the Elder; the aged man of whom resided within a sleeping roll. The cloaks he had worn now cast beside the flames to dry, the old man's curly hair long since grayed. The wind continued to howl outside, echoing about the cavern, yet no rain found itself entering due to how deep within they now rested. The Wanderer held a piece of wood in his hands, carving and whittling its form idly; the scraps of which were fed to the fire, reused as kindle.
“Thy mind is known unto me not,” spoke a tired voice. The Elder rolled over to face the Wanderer's exposed visage. The once-hooded one had tanned skin and short, dark hair. His eyes a dull yet odd blue. For one such as himself, indeed an oddity yet nothing particularly special.
“Why did thou venture unto the storm's embrace? I know I voiced unto thee I sought to enter town to see the resting places of mine father, and mine sister,” murmured he of whom was aged.
The Wanderer set aside his whittling, lofting a stick to stir the flames and embers with an arm folded and clutching at his side. “I was hired,” he offered simply in reply.
The Elder shook his head. “Nay, I sayeth unto thee—Thine mount held but one saddle, and such was given unto me. Thine possessions were but a few cloaks, and such were laid upon mine back. I rest now within thine sleeping roll. From mine life, I know the other guides and wardens 'ov these roads show these courtesies not. Now, I—”
A crash of thunder sounded, causing the steed nearby to release a wry whinny as both the men jolted at the sudden voice of the tempest beyond their cavern. Light shone on the far wall, the rain hammering now into the ground like smiths within a forge.
“Mine mind sees you as a warden not, nay a guide,” the Elder continued after a few moments of silence. “I shall ask again: Why did thou venture unto the path beneath the storm? For what purpose did thine eyes gaze upon a decrepit one such as I and possess compassion unto me?”
Sight locked, the orbs of the Wanderer blinked once as a frown tugged at his lips. He maintained his silence, though the intense gaze of the Elder finally prompted him to speak. “Kestimir,” the Wanderer sighed, tearing his eyes away from the Elder to glance upon his stubborn mount. “I am called Kestimir. What name shall I know you by, 'O aged one?”
Perhaps in some semblance of defeat, for Kestimir did not answer his pressing question, the Elder frowned and likewise a sigh escaped from his maw. “Witgard,” he uttered in a soft tone.
The evening lulled on, the wind seeming to howl endlessly outside Kestimir and Witgard’s stay. Yet, despite the sounds of thunder and chilling cold, rest and sleep for the shells of the two travelers were found. When Kestimir awoke, the sun not yet risen to birth the day anew, he stepped towards the opening of the cave and found the stars blissfully looking back upon him. The storm had passed, and they were likely to make it to the town within a few hours.
As the Wanderer went over to Witgard to awaken him, he found the Elder no longer breathing. The aged one’s shell spent, it seemed, from the journey and long since empty of Witgard’s soul. With a bowed head, Kestimir covered the Elder with the now dried cloaks and took to his steed. In silence did the warden of the roads mount his steed and trot away.
“Fate guide you, Witgard,” the Wanderer offered simply in parting. |
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