Jarckow
Legend of Altera
{Introduction Section}
Minecraft Username: Jarckow
Age: 25
Country & Timezone: United States
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Metagaming is using information in role play that was obtained out of character, such as names that are above player's heads, OOC information in Discord or OOC chat. Powergaming is the abuse of actions made in role play to make one's character powerful at the expense of fairness and other players.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Howdy, I'm Jarckow. I'm a former role player from some older servers looking to step back into the medieval-fantasy RP world. I role played for a lot of my spare time, but life took precedence and I had to step away for a good while. I'm hoping that now with more time on my hands, I'll be able to join a new community and get back into an old hobby.
Referral: Found the site on Planet Minecraft
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Gerai
Age: 33
Race: Sooleran Human
Appearance: Gerai shares the same physical traits as many other Soolerans: dark skin, worn down by years spent under the light of the Sun, and gray eyes. As he no longer belongs to a caravan, Gerai dresses in garments standard of other human cultures, being that he lacks access to the rare dyes that are commonly used in colouring Sooleran clothing. Gerai stands at a modest six feet, weighing in at just under 180 pounds. Since having left his caravan, Gerai keeps his hair buzzed, but maintains a somewhat scraggly beard.
Picture of the Skin:
Written Test (Min: 400 words): For once, Gerai knew little of where life would take him next. Forcefully removed from his caravan after making a decidedly terrible decision, he left with what few belongings were in his name: a cloth sack that held no more than few day's rations, the non-distinct tunic, trousers and shoes he wore, a small handful of Radiants, and a torn map with a location and sparse direction scribbled on it.
"The East is all that remains for him," were some of the last words spoken to Gerai before he had been expelled from his caravan.
He believed, at least for a time, that they may very well let him rot in that dry, lightless pit. Yet someone chose mercy. He had taken life, and thus expected his own to be forfeit. Gerai wondered who it was that granted him life. It was no divine intervention, no stroke of luck (for he did not believe in it), nor pure happenstance. He wasn't entirely sure if this is what he wanted.
Gerai knew that what he had done was an act so deeply terrible that there would be no absolution. This he had accepted, but had committed the act anyways.
Did he regret it? Would he feel remorseful? Likely not. There was no redeeming oneself for taking life, unless the action was just. The life he had had taken, according to those of his caravan, was not.
Gerai recalled the scuttling of feet and hushed voices above his covered enclosure. Whether they were real or pure imagination, he didn't know. Dehydration does funny things to one's body. Sunlight flooded in as the wooden canopy was lifted from his pit. Gerai groaned, his head pounding. He did not feel in any shape to move from where he sat.
"Get up," a male voice ordered. Gerai did not move, merely lifting his head to squint at whomever was giving the command. He could not make out a face through the haziness of his own mind, and being blinded by the Sun.
"Up!" The same male barked louder. At the same time, a rope was lowered into Gerai's pit. Gerai slowly climbed to his feet. His body wailed in protest as he latched onto the rope, his grip loose.
"You pull yourself out, or you die in this hole. Your choice." Gerai heard the scuffling of more feet around the rim of the pit as more people gathered around to watch him struggle. He strained with effort in his attempt to climb the rope.
Gerai was far from weak, but his current condition did him no justice. He had barely made it halfway. Groaning and sputtering, he collapsed back into the pit.
Pain shot through him as his head hit the ground. Gerai wanted to scream in a mix of agony and frustration, but he made no sound.
There were no laughs or curses from the gathered crowd above. Only whispers as the pit was covered once more.
Gerai awoke some time later alone, outside of his pit, with a sack and waterskin next to him. It was dark and the moon was bright overhead. Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he was very thirsty. He rolled over onto his back, reached for the waterskin, only to find it empty.
Minecraft Username: Jarckow
Age: 25
Country & Timezone: United States
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Metagaming is using information in role play that was obtained out of character, such as names that are above player's heads, OOC information in Discord or OOC chat. Powergaming is the abuse of actions made in role play to make one's character powerful at the expense of fairness and other players.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Howdy, I'm Jarckow. I'm a former role player from some older servers looking to step back into the medieval-fantasy RP world. I role played for a lot of my spare time, but life took precedence and I had to step away for a good while. I'm hoping that now with more time on my hands, I'll be able to join a new community and get back into an old hobby.
Referral: Found the site on Planet Minecraft
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Gerai
Age: 33
Race: Sooleran Human
Appearance: Gerai shares the same physical traits as many other Soolerans: dark skin, worn down by years spent under the light of the Sun, and gray eyes. As he no longer belongs to a caravan, Gerai dresses in garments standard of other human cultures, being that he lacks access to the rare dyes that are commonly used in colouring Sooleran clothing. Gerai stands at a modest six feet, weighing in at just under 180 pounds. Since having left his caravan, Gerai keeps his hair buzzed, but maintains a somewhat scraggly beard.
Picture of the Skin:
Written Test (Min: 400 words): For once, Gerai knew little of where life would take him next. Forcefully removed from his caravan after making a decidedly terrible decision, he left with what few belongings were in his name: a cloth sack that held no more than few day's rations, the non-distinct tunic, trousers and shoes he wore, a small handful of Radiants, and a torn map with a location and sparse direction scribbled on it.
"The East is all that remains for him," were some of the last words spoken to Gerai before he had been expelled from his caravan.
He believed, at least for a time, that they may very well let him rot in that dry, lightless pit. Yet someone chose mercy. He had taken life, and thus expected his own to be forfeit. Gerai wondered who it was that granted him life. It was no divine intervention, no stroke of luck (for he did not believe in it), nor pure happenstance. He wasn't entirely sure if this is what he wanted.
Gerai knew that what he had done was an act so deeply terrible that there would be no absolution. This he had accepted, but had committed the act anyways.
Did he regret it? Would he feel remorseful? Likely not. There was no redeeming oneself for taking life, unless the action was just. The life he had had taken, according to those of his caravan, was not.
Gerai recalled the scuttling of feet and hushed voices above his covered enclosure. Whether they were real or pure imagination, he didn't know. Dehydration does funny things to one's body. Sunlight flooded in as the wooden canopy was lifted from his pit. Gerai groaned, his head pounding. He did not feel in any shape to move from where he sat.
"Get up," a male voice ordered. Gerai did not move, merely lifting his head to squint at whomever was giving the command. He could not make out a face through the haziness of his own mind, and being blinded by the Sun.
"Up!" The same male barked louder. At the same time, a rope was lowered into Gerai's pit. Gerai slowly climbed to his feet. His body wailed in protest as he latched onto the rope, his grip loose.
"You pull yourself out, or you die in this hole. Your choice." Gerai heard the scuffling of more feet around the rim of the pit as more people gathered around to watch him struggle. He strained with effort in his attempt to climb the rope.
Gerai was far from weak, but his current condition did him no justice. He had barely made it halfway. Groaning and sputtering, he collapsed back into the pit.
Pain shot through him as his head hit the ground. Gerai wanted to scream in a mix of agony and frustration, but he made no sound.
There were no laughs or curses from the gathered crowd above. Only whispers as the pit was covered once more.
Gerai awoke some time later alone, outside of his pit, with a sack and waterskin next to him. It was dark and the moon was bright overhead. Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he was very thirsty. He rolled over onto his back, reached for the waterskin, only to find it empty.
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