shark_desu
Villager
- Pronouns
- They/Them
shark_desu
Minecraft Username: shark_desu
Age: 22
Country & Timezone: Korean Standard Time (KST), but will be back in Eastern United States Standard Time (EST) by mid-December
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Using out of character knowledge gained from talking with people, looking at the forums, or other out-of-game sources, to give your character knowledge they wouldn't know. EX: character not knowing a certain important item, but the player reading about it on the forums, and then making their character know it. Big no no, just kinda makes gameplay lame.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Hello! I'm M, my pronouns are they/them, and I'm a university student studying biology, paleontology, and photo/video. I was actually on this server YEARS back in 2011/2012 or so, but haven't been back in a hot minute. Over the past few years, I've gotten a lot deeper into TTRPG's like Dungeons and Dragons and have DM-d a campaign or two, and so wanted to try out a different avenue for RP. This return is a mix of nostalgia, intrigue, and wanting to have fun with some new and different folks! ^^
Referral: Returning member from a long time ago!
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Iris Cartwright
Age: 23
Race: Human, Anhalder
Appearance: Long, black hair, purple eyes, dark tan skin with a burn scar on their right forearm. Almost six feet tall and built very broad. They usually wear a set of white, gold, and purple robes made of fine cloth, but has recently dressed down a bit more.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin: (not picture of the skin, but I attached a rendering of them I made on a picrew lol)
Written Test (Min: 400 words):
((Hope this isn't too much! I had some fun with this haha! I'd like to use this character for RP on the server if I'm accepted, so if there's anything that needs clarification or modification, just let me know!))
Iris was named by their mother and their father. Their father named them for the flowers that bloomed along the road to their small house, bright purple and yellow just like their eyes. Their mother named them with quicksilver spite, a jab at the countless eyes that rested on her for her life that would now turn to her child.
Iris was born to the small, little known village of Aestr. The town sat by a waterfall that forever chilled the homes and hearts of it’s nearby residents. In this cold dissolution, they worshipped the Divine that they prayed would bring light to the sky and warmth to their hearths: Ignis Synnove, the Dawnbringer. Through Her radiance and the never ending fires that She supplied them, they remained unfrozen in the frost.
Studying and worshipping the Divine allowed the townsfolk to learn and put Her ways into practice they deemed fit to keep the light within their village and the fires burning strong. Following the Tenets shouldn’t be hard. So when it was, it only showed their deficiency of light, and straying towards shadow. These impurities, they believed, were best dealt with in inferno. “Burn out the impurities. Dawn only comes through ash.”
Though rare does anyone visit the small town of Aestr, a smell of burnt hair and roasted flesh is smelt throughout the pinewoods.
Iris was a child under a prophecy, foretold generations before her mother that they were destined to be a “Vessel of Divine Flame”. The members of the worshippers had strived for centuries to get closer to their “God” and finally, through Iris their work would come to fruition.
Iris was trained their entire life under the teachings of their village, knowing every verse, every Tenet, every word in explicit detail. By age 19, they had become a powerful Pyromancer, able to control the flames of the village with the in and out of their breath. They were kept separate from the other children of the town, prioritized over others for their importance, and earning a level of scorn for the great amount of attention they received from those older. Eyes watched them constantly, namesake after namesake.
Their father was a trader. Plain and simple, just a traveler, a man name Lowell Cartwright, caught amidst a clan of Truth he didn’t quite get, and fallen for one who came to him like an angel and burned him just as violently. He held asylum among the village, though remained an outcast as he refused the kiss of Ignis Synnove’s light. He cared for Iris where their Mother did not, teaching them the wonders of the world, the breath of the flowers, the kind silence of a first snowfall. He showed them bird calls and spider webs, little things that made the world shine for Iris in a light they didn’t realize could be more than what their books had taught. He taught them to care for the world outside of Order and things that can be categorized and made law or justice. Cornealia wished she had killed him sooner.
Cornealia was a teacher to Iris more than a mother. She taught with a whipstick in her hand and a sharp eye on her child, ready to scold when their gaze wandered out the window to the snowy tips of the pine trees. She wasn’t supposed to have this halfbreed, this child impure. It was her child that was supposed to be that of the prophecy, and she had messed it up with some lowly merchant. With every word of a lecture, every reprimand from the Elders that she wasn’t doing enough, Cornealia worked even harder to make this child the perfect mirror she knew she’d already cracked the moment her and Lowell had made eye contact.
Perfect. Iris needed to be perfect. The Elders thought they were, and even, in the end, so did Cornealia. The nuisance that was the childs father was taken care of years before the Right (Cornealia still remembered the smell of the fire, tinged with the scent of pine that made her eyes sting). Surely in the time that had passed, after the child had retreated from puffy red eyes and no longer waited for the daffodils to bloom in the Spring, that “mirror” Cornealia had relied on had mended?
The night before the Ceremony, Iris dreamed of spiders. This wasn’t a rare occurrence, the nagging fear of those things that creep and crawl and seem to be the only of their kind to persist in the wintry climate, constantly resting on their shoulders. But that night, there was no crawling feeling, no dark mass of eight legged things crashing over Aestr like a tidal wave. Only a single spider, hung from a web, hover in front of their face. It’s eyes held intelligence and before Iris woke, they remember it smiled at them. They awoke to a single strand of spidersilk resting down over their face before they rose.
The day of the ceremony was overcast, the air sharp with the smell of approaching snowfall. The roar of the waterfall in the distance seemed louder in the still, dry air. No one locked eyes with the now 23 year old as they walked through the village, but as soon as they passed they felt the people’s gazes stinging on their back.
They approached the center of the town, a meeting square now littered with pews that ended in a semicircle. Twelve elders now stood in that circle, set around a tall, white pillar. Though there was no sun, less so as it sunk invisible beyond the horizon, the pillar seemed to glow. Even now, even before everything shattered, Iris has a hard time remembering the exact events of the Ceremony. They had known, accepted, and grieved from miles away in their head the exact process and happenings that would prepare them to become the Vessel of Divine Flame. They spoke verses with practice, and did not flinch when hot iron was pressed to their skin. They only faltered through this Right in a single moment: they approached a podium set in front of the tall pillar, a still-hot brand and a bundle of daffodils gripped carefully, and found there a small black dot. They placed the items and the small black dot grew legs, skittering quickly out of the way and disappearing behind the divots in the pillar. A streak of fear had gripped Iris then, a reaction to years of disdain for the little arachnids that they’d find under their bed. Cornealia saw them falter and looked away, trying not to let her agitation show.
In that moment, glimpsed from the corner of their eye, the mirror that was Iris and the crack that had not gone away, fractured.
A smell of sickness replaced the smell of cold and ash, washing over the assembled in a noxious wave. The Elders paid it no mind, beginning their chanting in front of blazing braziers. As they chanted, the flames grew and Iris doubled over where they stood now facing the crowd. The village people they had known their whole life, looked on and over their fear and pain without care. Iris cried out, gripping their chest and falling to their knees. Their eyes were rooted to the ground, focusing, focusing, on the on the light, on the people, on their mother on anything but the flame that they felt was consuming them from the inside out. They looked up, the smell of disease hitting them, and froze. Down the center of the pews full of those who watched on, on the edge of the shadows, stood a figure. Iris could not describe this figure, their mind not sure what to decide on, the figure’s form shifting aimlessly between that of a man, and that of a giant spider. All Iris could describe, was the overwhelming feeling of terror that swept over them when they made eye contact with the figure, and it smiled the same knowing, intelligent, awful smile as the spider in their dream.
Upon that exchange of eyes and souls, the Divine did touch upon the small town of Aestr.
Iris does not remember much. They remember sickness, the fires around them turning putrid just as did the faces and viscera of the people who sat before them. They remember the figure walking forward slowly, towards them, only them, continuing that eye contact to where Iris could not look away. Iris remembered the pain of inferno growing, the chanting of the Elder’s getting louder, more desperate, fearful. They remember village guards surging forward to attack this newcomer only to shrivel away on their feet as they got near.
The figure passed through this fray with a deliberate and gentle stride, before coming to rest at the ground in front of the Prophesied Child. The figure, a man, a spider, a Divine, Iris now knew, smiled, resting a gentle hand on Iris’s chin.
Iris does not remember the words spoken to them, but they do remember the hot, scalding tears that poured from their eyes that the Divine’s words. They remember only three words that they spoke between their boiling heart and scorched lungs.
“Please, help me.”
Iris woke to snow falling on their face. The sky was pale gray, streaked with a soft auburn that peaked between gentle clouds. The waterfall rumbled, and all was still.
The scent of blood was what hit them first, quickly followed by the smell of disease, decay, and disruption. The fires were gone, embers fading in the braziers, put out by the chilly breeze and the pooling crimson that fell sluggishly from the Elders that now decomposed laid across them. In the pews sat the procession, contorted into various faces of suffering and corruption, laid across each other like piles of rotting leaves and mold. Iris’s mother laid propped up against the tall pillar, her own spill of red dashed across the grooves of the smooth limestone.
What hit them second was the lack of burning magic that had scorched their lungs, but had also been their constant companion through their growth. They felt empty, and for the first time, truly, bitterly cold.
Iris did not breathe, but their screams could be heard through the pinewoods just as far as the smoke of their village reached. The dawn rose, and Iris did not for a very long time.
When they did, they did so followed by a small, smiling, spindly legged spider.
Age: 22
Country & Timezone: Korean Standard Time (KST), but will be back in Eastern United States Standard Time (EST) by mid-December
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Using out of character knowledge gained from talking with people, looking at the forums, or other out-of-game sources, to give your character knowledge they wouldn't know. EX: character not knowing a certain important item, but the player reading about it on the forums, and then making their character know it. Big no no, just kinda makes gameplay lame.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Hello! I'm M, my pronouns are they/them, and I'm a university student studying biology, paleontology, and photo/video. I was actually on this server YEARS back in 2011/2012 or so, but haven't been back in a hot minute. Over the past few years, I've gotten a lot deeper into TTRPG's like Dungeons and Dragons and have DM-d a campaign or two, and so wanted to try out a different avenue for RP. This return is a mix of nostalgia, intrigue, and wanting to have fun with some new and different folks! ^^
Referral: Returning member from a long time ago!
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Iris Cartwright
Age: 23
Race: Human, Anhalder
Appearance: Long, black hair, purple eyes, dark tan skin with a burn scar on their right forearm. Almost six feet tall and built very broad. They usually wear a set of white, gold, and purple robes made of fine cloth, but has recently dressed down a bit more.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin: (not picture of the skin, but I attached a rendering of them I made on a picrew lol)
Written Test (Min: 400 words):
((Hope this isn't too much! I had some fun with this haha! I'd like to use this character for RP on the server if I'm accepted, so if there's anything that needs clarification or modification, just let me know!))
Iris was named by their mother and their father. Their father named them for the flowers that bloomed along the road to their small house, bright purple and yellow just like their eyes. Their mother named them with quicksilver spite, a jab at the countless eyes that rested on her for her life that would now turn to her child.
Iris was born to the small, little known village of Aestr. The town sat by a waterfall that forever chilled the homes and hearts of it’s nearby residents. In this cold dissolution, they worshipped the Divine that they prayed would bring light to the sky and warmth to their hearths: Ignis Synnove, the Dawnbringer. Through Her radiance and the never ending fires that She supplied them, they remained unfrozen in the frost.
Studying and worshipping the Divine allowed the townsfolk to learn and put Her ways into practice they deemed fit to keep the light within their village and the fires burning strong. Following the Tenets shouldn’t be hard. So when it was, it only showed their deficiency of light, and straying towards shadow. These impurities, they believed, were best dealt with in inferno. “Burn out the impurities. Dawn only comes through ash.”
Though rare does anyone visit the small town of Aestr, a smell of burnt hair and roasted flesh is smelt throughout the pinewoods.
Iris was a child under a prophecy, foretold generations before her mother that they were destined to be a “Vessel of Divine Flame”. The members of the worshippers had strived for centuries to get closer to their “God” and finally, through Iris their work would come to fruition.
Iris was trained their entire life under the teachings of their village, knowing every verse, every Tenet, every word in explicit detail. By age 19, they had become a powerful Pyromancer, able to control the flames of the village with the in and out of their breath. They were kept separate from the other children of the town, prioritized over others for their importance, and earning a level of scorn for the great amount of attention they received from those older. Eyes watched them constantly, namesake after namesake.
Their father was a trader. Plain and simple, just a traveler, a man name Lowell Cartwright, caught amidst a clan of Truth he didn’t quite get, and fallen for one who came to him like an angel and burned him just as violently. He held asylum among the village, though remained an outcast as he refused the kiss of Ignis Synnove’s light. He cared for Iris where their Mother did not, teaching them the wonders of the world, the breath of the flowers, the kind silence of a first snowfall. He showed them bird calls and spider webs, little things that made the world shine for Iris in a light they didn’t realize could be more than what their books had taught. He taught them to care for the world outside of Order and things that can be categorized and made law or justice. Cornealia wished she had killed him sooner.
Cornealia was a teacher to Iris more than a mother. She taught with a whipstick in her hand and a sharp eye on her child, ready to scold when their gaze wandered out the window to the snowy tips of the pine trees. She wasn’t supposed to have this halfbreed, this child impure. It was her child that was supposed to be that of the prophecy, and she had messed it up with some lowly merchant. With every word of a lecture, every reprimand from the Elders that she wasn’t doing enough, Cornealia worked even harder to make this child the perfect mirror she knew she’d already cracked the moment her and Lowell had made eye contact.
Perfect. Iris needed to be perfect. The Elders thought they were, and even, in the end, so did Cornealia. The nuisance that was the childs father was taken care of years before the Right (Cornealia still remembered the smell of the fire, tinged with the scent of pine that made her eyes sting). Surely in the time that had passed, after the child had retreated from puffy red eyes and no longer waited for the daffodils to bloom in the Spring, that “mirror” Cornealia had relied on had mended?
The night before the Ceremony, Iris dreamed of spiders. This wasn’t a rare occurrence, the nagging fear of those things that creep and crawl and seem to be the only of their kind to persist in the wintry climate, constantly resting on their shoulders. But that night, there was no crawling feeling, no dark mass of eight legged things crashing over Aestr like a tidal wave. Only a single spider, hung from a web, hover in front of their face. It’s eyes held intelligence and before Iris woke, they remember it smiled at them. They awoke to a single strand of spidersilk resting down over their face before they rose.
The day of the ceremony was overcast, the air sharp with the smell of approaching snowfall. The roar of the waterfall in the distance seemed louder in the still, dry air. No one locked eyes with the now 23 year old as they walked through the village, but as soon as they passed they felt the people’s gazes stinging on their back.
They approached the center of the town, a meeting square now littered with pews that ended in a semicircle. Twelve elders now stood in that circle, set around a tall, white pillar. Though there was no sun, less so as it sunk invisible beyond the horizon, the pillar seemed to glow. Even now, even before everything shattered, Iris has a hard time remembering the exact events of the Ceremony. They had known, accepted, and grieved from miles away in their head the exact process and happenings that would prepare them to become the Vessel of Divine Flame. They spoke verses with practice, and did not flinch when hot iron was pressed to their skin. They only faltered through this Right in a single moment: they approached a podium set in front of the tall pillar, a still-hot brand and a bundle of daffodils gripped carefully, and found there a small black dot. They placed the items and the small black dot grew legs, skittering quickly out of the way and disappearing behind the divots in the pillar. A streak of fear had gripped Iris then, a reaction to years of disdain for the little arachnids that they’d find under their bed. Cornealia saw them falter and looked away, trying not to let her agitation show.
In that moment, glimpsed from the corner of their eye, the mirror that was Iris and the crack that had not gone away, fractured.
A smell of sickness replaced the smell of cold and ash, washing over the assembled in a noxious wave. The Elders paid it no mind, beginning their chanting in front of blazing braziers. As they chanted, the flames grew and Iris doubled over where they stood now facing the crowd. The village people they had known their whole life, looked on and over their fear and pain without care. Iris cried out, gripping their chest and falling to their knees. Their eyes were rooted to the ground, focusing, focusing, on the on the light, on the people, on their mother on anything but the flame that they felt was consuming them from the inside out. They looked up, the smell of disease hitting them, and froze. Down the center of the pews full of those who watched on, on the edge of the shadows, stood a figure. Iris could not describe this figure, their mind not sure what to decide on, the figure’s form shifting aimlessly between that of a man, and that of a giant spider. All Iris could describe, was the overwhelming feeling of terror that swept over them when they made eye contact with the figure, and it smiled the same knowing, intelligent, awful smile as the spider in their dream.
Upon that exchange of eyes and souls, the Divine did touch upon the small town of Aestr.
Iris does not remember much. They remember sickness, the fires around them turning putrid just as did the faces and viscera of the people who sat before them. They remember the figure walking forward slowly, towards them, only them, continuing that eye contact to where Iris could not look away. Iris remembered the pain of inferno growing, the chanting of the Elder’s getting louder, more desperate, fearful. They remember village guards surging forward to attack this newcomer only to shrivel away on their feet as they got near.
The figure passed through this fray with a deliberate and gentle stride, before coming to rest at the ground in front of the Prophesied Child. The figure, a man, a spider, a Divine, Iris now knew, smiled, resting a gentle hand on Iris’s chin.
Iris does not remember the words spoken to them, but they do remember the hot, scalding tears that poured from their eyes that the Divine’s words. They remember only three words that they spoke between their boiling heart and scorched lungs.
“Please, help me.”
Iris woke to snow falling on their face. The sky was pale gray, streaked with a soft auburn that peaked between gentle clouds. The waterfall rumbled, and all was still.
The scent of blood was what hit them first, quickly followed by the smell of disease, decay, and disruption. The fires were gone, embers fading in the braziers, put out by the chilly breeze and the pooling crimson that fell sluggishly from the Elders that now decomposed laid across them. In the pews sat the procession, contorted into various faces of suffering and corruption, laid across each other like piles of rotting leaves and mold. Iris’s mother laid propped up against the tall pillar, her own spill of red dashed across the grooves of the smooth limestone.
What hit them second was the lack of burning magic that had scorched their lungs, but had also been their constant companion through their growth. They felt empty, and for the first time, truly, bitterly cold.
Iris did not breathe, but their screams could be heard through the pinewoods just as far as the smoke of their village reached. The dawn rose, and Iris did not for a very long time.
When they did, they did so followed by a small, smiling, spindly legged spider.
