The apprentice's awakening. (open Rp)

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by The Fox and The Spider, Oct 29, 2012.

  1. It was just a normal day; the cerulean skies were clear as usual. A fair breeze swept across the land providing comfort from the suns beating rays. And the market place was crowded as usual. The small town of Breezehelm could be likening to a group of refugees. A melting pot where Dwarves, men and elves lived in the delusion of harmony. Far from the troubles of the world. It was a simple life, good for starting a family and having dinner with your neighbors. The atmosphere inviting as the people laughed and idly bantered amongst each other. The faint but welcomed orchestra that is the wild birds reverberated throughout its walls. Here anyone was welcomed and accepted. The taint of the empire or the rising drow was notions which seemed like alien concepts to the local populace.
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    However soon this peace would be shattered for no season, no matter how long can endure without change. A truth many have neglected as they enjoyed the scent of springs intoxicating spice. This small world was the world of Ulfric. A blacksmiths apprentice no older then 17, though his appearance seemed more aged. Standing 6’ 3” and built like a brute, he worked relentlessly through the day and night shift. However despite his monolithic shell he possessed a heart of gold. A kind soul which never used his strength to harmothers, only to protect those dear to him. When he wasn’t at work he could be found home taking care of an elven woman he found injured outside of town. And though they were not related by blood, they quickly forged a bond. One similar to that of siblings.
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    Wearing nothing but some wooden sandals, sack cloth pants and an apron he could be found at the forge. Swinging hammer against a heated blade. Sparks dancing in the air with each clash. As the hoarse clanging of steel fractioning against steels resonated within the shop. His body littered in scars, scars he endured due to the beatings he took as a child and adolescence.
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    His long brown hair obscuring his robust facial features as he peered down at his work. Sighing heavily before tossing the blade into a bath of water. A hissing sound now tickled his senses as steam drifted skyward before dissipating. The half Asian half Spanish male would raise his head, wiping both sweat and hair from his face. His eyes drifting toward a nearby window as h observed the suns position. His shift was almost over. Yet instead of feeling relieved he somehow felt a sense of dread. Something foul and insidious by nature burdened him. Weighing Ulfric down despite sensing this he could not deduce why. With a shrug of the shoulder he would brush it off. Making his way toward the brick table where a glass of water awaited him.
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    Most would find his existence and very being to be of no import. Insignificant like the ants scurrying across the woodlands earth. Even Ulfric himself being humble and reclusive by nature thought little of himself. But if one were to look hard enough, they would sense there was more to him then met the eye. More to him than even he himself was aware of or could perhaps fathom. A power slumbered within his body and soul. One which neither he nor another could fully explain. It was this power which granted his body resilience and endurance beyond that of most mortals. This power which granted his fist strength, strength to dent objects no normal person could damage. Without fracturing their hand.
  2. The forest was dense; the heart of the woodland a bit hot, even though the canopies were thin.

    With a creak and a crash, the final cut had been made and the victim lay prostrate on the forest floor. Thessalus D'Angeli let the head of the axe fall into the palm of his free hand, examining the convex edge. It was newly made; only a night old -- one of his best yet. As an artisan, he took pride in his blades.

    He let the head of the rather large axe bite into the ground, walking over to examine the stump left behind. The cut was uneven -- an error on his part, but it didn't matter. Looking closely, he traced the jagged edge of the stump. With a light frown, he continued to study his work. The natural deformation wasn't the problem -- the trunk wasn't smooth all around to begin with -- but he knew the way his axes cut. It wasn't perfect yet, but he was getting there.

    The rather tall man got to his feet and brush sandy sweat-logged hair out of green eyes. It was getting late, and who knew what Hyosun would do if he didn't get back to the workshop before sundown.

    Thes heaved the axe-filled, triple packed sack on his back with a grunt. As a mason, he had learned to craft most things from metal and sometimes precious gems -- if the request and supplies had ever come by. But his favorite of the bunch was the axe. It got things done, in his opinion.

    After all, not many are told to have survived the mighty blow of the axe. Swords, yes, even if the chances were slim. Axes?


    Hyosun, the one who runs the workshop, was an Asian descendant. Short, but commanding. Often, Thes would use his Greek-given ethnic characteristics to get on the other's nerve. And although they argued more often than not, they were like brothers.
    And that brother was going to feed him tonight, he thought with a grin.