Post by Ornaga on Oct 19, 2014 22:23:31 GMT -7
Character Name: Makoa (Formerly of the Grafgan)
Character & Description: Makoa is small for a half-orc, but light on his feet because of that fact. He stands at 5'6" and has storm grey eyes, black bristly hair, and only slight tusks that protrude from his lower lip. He is garbed usually in a brown cloak over his scale armor, because when you live in the slums, you live a life where some tusker'll shank you for a copper piece. Duel crossbows ride his hips next to folded nets, a shield on his back, and a menacing whip on his belt keep the ruffians away. It's only when he's working at the forge is there a chance to notice the strange tribal tattoos that have been carved into his skin, tribute to his time spent in his homeland, Tog Nar. He always has a distant look in his eyes, like he's listening to a conversation a hundred feet away.
Background Information: Makoa was born into the Orc Grafgan tribe of Tog Nar, chosen by his status as a halfbreed to be a candidate as a Shaman for his people. He was beaten along with the others, starved, and watched as the others failed, ran, or died. He was chosen in the end, and the sigils and brands of his master and clan were carved into his flesh, to serve as a eternal reminder of who he was, and to bring the spirits voices to him with their power. He grew and developed his magical skills along with the crafting of weapons, a eternal duty for a tribe always bent on war. Eventually though the beatings, the constant disdain, and the harsh lessons brought Makoa to a breaking point. It was only when his master spat upon him that he snapped, driving a knife into the Shamans heart as he slept. He left the tribe then in the middle of the night, and wandered for a while until coming to Rook. Now in the eastern slums, he has made a name for himself as one who will make arms and armor for anyone who'll pay. If they pay the gold they get what's sold. Whenever he makes a actually good work, he has to disguise himself to sell it in the Arms district proper, though there have been two occasions where he was thought to have stolen the work that he himself had made. His Blacksmiths mark is a linnorm skull wreathed by two wings. The spirits still whisper the blood songs of his people into his ear every night, and he always desires to bring the spirits fury behind the weapons he forges. Someday, he hopes to make a blade worthy of the ultimate warrior. A conqueror. A king. But until that time, he'll hone his craft and try to survive in a city that seems hell-bent on keeping him small.
Character & Description: Makoa is small for a half-orc, but light on his feet because of that fact. He stands at 5'6" and has storm grey eyes, black bristly hair, and only slight tusks that protrude from his lower lip. He is garbed usually in a brown cloak over his scale armor, because when you live in the slums, you live a life where some tusker'll shank you for a copper piece. Duel crossbows ride his hips next to folded nets, a shield on his back, and a menacing whip on his belt keep the ruffians away. It's only when he's working at the forge is there a chance to notice the strange tribal tattoos that have been carved into his skin, tribute to his time spent in his homeland, Tog Nar. He always has a distant look in his eyes, like he's listening to a conversation a hundred feet away.
Background Information: Makoa was born into the Orc Grafgan tribe of Tog Nar, chosen by his status as a halfbreed to be a candidate as a Shaman for his people. He was beaten along with the others, starved, and watched as the others failed, ran, or died. He was chosen in the end, and the sigils and brands of his master and clan were carved into his flesh, to serve as a eternal reminder of who he was, and to bring the spirits voices to him with their power. He grew and developed his magical skills along with the crafting of weapons, a eternal duty for a tribe always bent on war. Eventually though the beatings, the constant disdain, and the harsh lessons brought Makoa to a breaking point. It was only when his master spat upon him that he snapped, driving a knife into the Shamans heart as he slept. He left the tribe then in the middle of the night, and wandered for a while until coming to Rook. Now in the eastern slums, he has made a name for himself as one who will make arms and armor for anyone who'll pay. If they pay the gold they get what's sold. Whenever he makes a actually good work, he has to disguise himself to sell it in the Arms district proper, though there have been two occasions where he was thought to have stolen the work that he himself had made. His Blacksmiths mark is a linnorm skull wreathed by two wings. The spirits still whisper the blood songs of his people into his ear every night, and he always desires to bring the spirits fury behind the weapons he forges. Someday, he hopes to make a blade worthy of the ultimate warrior. A conqueror. A king. But until that time, he'll hone his craft and try to survive in a city that seems hell-bent on keeping him small.
