Post by sue on Jul 22, 2011 12:48:38 GMT -5
Username: Sue
Character Name: Merrik Brighteyes (Vyth’miirik)
Race: Human, formerly Silver Dragon
Age: 97
Sex: Male
Patron God/dess: Altana
Gift: Music
Weapons: Longsword
Occupation/Class: Merchant Trader, occasionally Bard
Appearance:
Merrik is tall and of medium structure – toned and slim, but by no means delicately built. In some ways, he’s a man of two faces – in cities, he’s the captivating, fair-skinned young man swathed in a dazzling array of silver, blue, and black brocades and silks. He keeps himself immaculately groomed, either letting his waist-length dark hair hang free, or tied loosely. He keeps his nails long and glassy in appearance. He goes to great pains to always present himself as a very open and earnest individual – all the better for business.
When not within the safety of a city’s walls, he appears as a less desirable target for bandits, taking on the guise of a man rapidly nearing middle age. He’ll wear a scavenged assortment of traveling clothes that are old, but acceptably serviceable. He trudges along stoop-shouldered, his back apparently bent from years of work. He would be improved by use of a washtub, and his hair is an unkempt, ragged knot. The beginning shadow of a beard darkens his face, disguising its highborn bone structure, while the dirt of the road – in some cases, intentionally and artfully applied – serves to mask the tone of his skin.
The common thread between the two, and the only remaining hint of his previous identity, is his eyes. Blue, interspersed with rays of white, they’re nothing unusual until light hits them directly. Like a cat’s eyes, they reflect light, although Merrik’s darkvision was lost with the rest, so this occurance is as blinding for him as it is startling for anyone who happens to see. For this reason, he’s taken to wearing a hat outdoors, and avoids looking at light sources straight-on.
Personality:
Merrik is quick to smile, and just as quick to frown, careful to present himself in whatever manner the situation would most benefit from. He is adaptable, and manipulative.
Ultimately, he is self-interested, though not self-absorbed – he can appreciate the value of working in a group to achieve a goal that a lone person could not. He’s a swindler and a wheedler in matters of money, but his word, when given, is good.
Though he makes it a point to learn about others to his advantage, on the subject of himself, he is guarded, but not overtly defensive. He carefully shields the truth of his past, immersing himself in the role of a human and sharing the fact of his Draconic origins with nobody. He is far too proud to seek help, especially from his own kind.
He distracts himself from his condition with the unceasing pursuit of coin and gem, growing brooding and angry when he has access to neither.
In spite of this, he is no thief – all his gains must be freely offered, although he has few qualms about acquiring them through deceptive means. This isn’t usually a problem for him – he’s found his calling in the role of a merchant trader, a part he played even before the curse. He takes immense pleasure in buying and selling goods, keeping mind-numbingly detailed notes on where and when to procure and offload certain items to maximize his profits.
Since the curse, he’s grown wary in his new vulnerability. Where before he’d have hired guards in his travels, loss of access to his hoard forces him to practice increased frugality, and in the end, the option he chose was to personally take up a sword and affix himself to other traveling caravans. This doesn’t particularly please him, but he sees no point in complaining about things that have become unavoidable.
He hopes to return someday to his proper species, but in the meantime he’s determined to make the most of a mortifying situation…although he lives in terror of another dragon finding out what’s befallen him.
History:
If that bastard had had any idea of whose hirelings he’d been rooking, doubtless he’d have conducted business in a more scrupulous manner. More importantly, and as if the regular fleecing weren’t enough, that merchant hid one hell of a loud mouth behind his smug grins.
It was about damn time that someone politely suggested that he keep it shut.
The subject in question was presently deeply asleep, well-saturated on spiced wine and snoring with a gracelessness that belied the image he was so careful to present. At a nod from their leader, one of his hired muscles stepped forward, thrusting out a hand and heaving the merchant from his bed. With a startled cry, Merrik struck the floor, landing on his hip, cringing in pain and raising an arm defensively. He blinked and squinted, trying to make out his attacker in the dark, “What in the name of-“
He was seized by his outstretched forearm and hauled to his feet, the second man stepping up to take his free arm in a vicelike grip. He drooped awkwardly between them, naked and still dazed from drink and sleep as he faced their leader, who was lost entirely in shadow but for a grin that shown white in the moonlight filtering through the window.
“Ahaha, Vyth’miirik,” he chuckled, pronouncing the man’s name in the Draconic tongue. “Allow me to say that you’re a far more impressive figure by day.”
“And who the hell are you?” he demanded, clarity beginning to set in at last. He balled his fists, arms tensing with muscle that this body did not typically possess. The cowled figure only flashed his smile again, then began to chant in an undertone that was just below Merrik’s hearing.
Knowing a spell when he saw one, Merrik struggled to break free, his skin shuddering and hardening, splitting into metallic plates. His limbs thickened, carefully kept nails stiffening into the beginnings of claws, spine bulging the shape of his back before piercing it bloodlessly, pulling the once-human skin into a frill. Even when the thick bones of the wings began to stretch the remaining skin away from a body that was rapidly altering to a reptilian form, the two hitmen held him firmly, and their leader grinned even as he continued to intonate the words.
The dragon’s head began to deform the human skull, rising on a lengthening neck, sweeping to the side as he opened a sharp-toothed mouth. Caught midway between forms, he drew breath deeply, the uttered a guttural growl in preparation to breathe frozen death upon his assailant-
Then, the man simply stepped forward and clapped once, sharply, inches before the captive’s face. Merrik’s vision exploded into whiteness, and he knew no more.
--
Morning broke with the cries of birds and men alike. Merrik found himself curled on the floor beside his bed, a headache gnawing away at his skull. Blearily, he rose on one arm, squinting in the merciless light as he looked towards the door with flutterings of near-panic in his gut.
It was latched still, and with his trunk slid in front of it, as was his custom. The merchant sighed deeply. It had only been a nightmare, brought on by the previous night’s overindulgences.
Even so, he couldn’t quite shake his rattled nerves, and decided that a few nights in his lair would not be unwelcome.
He was quick to settle his tab with the innkeeper, and began to smile at his own anxieties once he’d noticed that the common room held no wondering discussion of odd noises the night before. Renting a cart for his belongings, he set out along the road, aiming to be well away from the town before beginning the actual trip to the mountains.
No need for anyone to know what he truly was, of course. It could be bad for business.
--
It was a week before he was next seen in town, reinstated in the inn, too vexed to do much else besides sit and stare into oblivion, lost in thought as he clutched a solitary silver coin in his fist, half-heartedly worrying it with his front teeth, to the other patrons’ mild bemusement.
He was far more afraid than he was willing to admit to himself. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he’d been cut off from his natural shape with no apparent recourse, but accepting the situation had been another matter entirely.
One could not truthfully say that he’d accepted it even now, but at least the black rage had passed, taking with it the urge to drink himself to unconsciousness and thereby circumvent the problem entirely, at least for a time. Ultimately, he realized that he could sit and stew over it, or he could plan. Productivity had ever been something that he’d valued, after all.
No; this would not stand. For the time being, he decided that he would resume business as usual, until he was better equipped to do something about this disaster.
Even with that resolution made, mentally, he braced himself for the worst. The truth of it was that he was now a once-dragon in possession of exclusively human faculties, with no means of doing even something so simple as reaching – or guarding, he realized, cringing – his hoard. Furthermore, he had not the slightest idea who his attacker had been. He could well be in this situation for years.
Still, he was no tender wyrmling to sit idle and cry about it – for gods’ sakes, he was on the very cusp of adulthood, and fully capable of taking matters into his own hands. He would damn well do so.
Feeling reassured after this internal pep-talk, he absently slipped the coin under his tongue (eliciting a few sharp, baffled glances from the few patrons that happened to notice the gesture) and rose from his seat at the bar, drifting up to his room to take stock of what small personal inventory was left to him.
Character Name: Merrik Brighteyes (Vyth’miirik)
Race: Human, formerly Silver Dragon
Age: 97
Sex: Male
Patron God/dess: Altana
Gift: Music
Weapons: Longsword
Occupation/Class: Merchant Trader, occasionally Bard
Appearance:
Merrik is tall and of medium structure – toned and slim, but by no means delicately built. In some ways, he’s a man of two faces – in cities, he’s the captivating, fair-skinned young man swathed in a dazzling array of silver, blue, and black brocades and silks. He keeps himself immaculately groomed, either letting his waist-length dark hair hang free, or tied loosely. He keeps his nails long and glassy in appearance. He goes to great pains to always present himself as a very open and earnest individual – all the better for business.
When not within the safety of a city’s walls, he appears as a less desirable target for bandits, taking on the guise of a man rapidly nearing middle age. He’ll wear a scavenged assortment of traveling clothes that are old, but acceptably serviceable. He trudges along stoop-shouldered, his back apparently bent from years of work. He would be improved by use of a washtub, and his hair is an unkempt, ragged knot. The beginning shadow of a beard darkens his face, disguising its highborn bone structure, while the dirt of the road – in some cases, intentionally and artfully applied – serves to mask the tone of his skin.
The common thread between the two, and the only remaining hint of his previous identity, is his eyes. Blue, interspersed with rays of white, they’re nothing unusual until light hits them directly. Like a cat’s eyes, they reflect light, although Merrik’s darkvision was lost with the rest, so this occurance is as blinding for him as it is startling for anyone who happens to see. For this reason, he’s taken to wearing a hat outdoors, and avoids looking at light sources straight-on.
Personality:
Merrik is quick to smile, and just as quick to frown, careful to present himself in whatever manner the situation would most benefit from. He is adaptable, and manipulative.
Ultimately, he is self-interested, though not self-absorbed – he can appreciate the value of working in a group to achieve a goal that a lone person could not. He’s a swindler and a wheedler in matters of money, but his word, when given, is good.
Though he makes it a point to learn about others to his advantage, on the subject of himself, he is guarded, but not overtly defensive. He carefully shields the truth of his past, immersing himself in the role of a human and sharing the fact of his Draconic origins with nobody. He is far too proud to seek help, especially from his own kind.
He distracts himself from his condition with the unceasing pursuit of coin and gem, growing brooding and angry when he has access to neither.
In spite of this, he is no thief – all his gains must be freely offered, although he has few qualms about acquiring them through deceptive means. This isn’t usually a problem for him – he’s found his calling in the role of a merchant trader, a part he played even before the curse. He takes immense pleasure in buying and selling goods, keeping mind-numbingly detailed notes on where and when to procure and offload certain items to maximize his profits.
Since the curse, he’s grown wary in his new vulnerability. Where before he’d have hired guards in his travels, loss of access to his hoard forces him to practice increased frugality, and in the end, the option he chose was to personally take up a sword and affix himself to other traveling caravans. This doesn’t particularly please him, but he sees no point in complaining about things that have become unavoidable.
He hopes to return someday to his proper species, but in the meantime he’s determined to make the most of a mortifying situation…although he lives in terror of another dragon finding out what’s befallen him.
History:
If that bastard had had any idea of whose hirelings he’d been rooking, doubtless he’d have conducted business in a more scrupulous manner. More importantly, and as if the regular fleecing weren’t enough, that merchant hid one hell of a loud mouth behind his smug grins.
It was about damn time that someone politely suggested that he keep it shut.
The subject in question was presently deeply asleep, well-saturated on spiced wine and snoring with a gracelessness that belied the image he was so careful to present. At a nod from their leader, one of his hired muscles stepped forward, thrusting out a hand and heaving the merchant from his bed. With a startled cry, Merrik struck the floor, landing on his hip, cringing in pain and raising an arm defensively. He blinked and squinted, trying to make out his attacker in the dark, “What in the name of-“
He was seized by his outstretched forearm and hauled to his feet, the second man stepping up to take his free arm in a vicelike grip. He drooped awkwardly between them, naked and still dazed from drink and sleep as he faced their leader, who was lost entirely in shadow but for a grin that shown white in the moonlight filtering through the window.
“Ahaha, Vyth’miirik,” he chuckled, pronouncing the man’s name in the Draconic tongue. “Allow me to say that you’re a far more impressive figure by day.”
“And who the hell are you?” he demanded, clarity beginning to set in at last. He balled his fists, arms tensing with muscle that this body did not typically possess. The cowled figure only flashed his smile again, then began to chant in an undertone that was just below Merrik’s hearing.
Knowing a spell when he saw one, Merrik struggled to break free, his skin shuddering and hardening, splitting into metallic plates. His limbs thickened, carefully kept nails stiffening into the beginnings of claws, spine bulging the shape of his back before piercing it bloodlessly, pulling the once-human skin into a frill. Even when the thick bones of the wings began to stretch the remaining skin away from a body that was rapidly altering to a reptilian form, the two hitmen held him firmly, and their leader grinned even as he continued to intonate the words.
The dragon’s head began to deform the human skull, rising on a lengthening neck, sweeping to the side as he opened a sharp-toothed mouth. Caught midway between forms, he drew breath deeply, the uttered a guttural growl in preparation to breathe frozen death upon his assailant-
Then, the man simply stepped forward and clapped once, sharply, inches before the captive’s face. Merrik’s vision exploded into whiteness, and he knew no more.
--
Morning broke with the cries of birds and men alike. Merrik found himself curled on the floor beside his bed, a headache gnawing away at his skull. Blearily, he rose on one arm, squinting in the merciless light as he looked towards the door with flutterings of near-panic in his gut.
It was latched still, and with his trunk slid in front of it, as was his custom. The merchant sighed deeply. It had only been a nightmare, brought on by the previous night’s overindulgences.
Even so, he couldn’t quite shake his rattled nerves, and decided that a few nights in his lair would not be unwelcome.
He was quick to settle his tab with the innkeeper, and began to smile at his own anxieties once he’d noticed that the common room held no wondering discussion of odd noises the night before. Renting a cart for his belongings, he set out along the road, aiming to be well away from the town before beginning the actual trip to the mountains.
No need for anyone to know what he truly was, of course. It could be bad for business.
--
It was a week before he was next seen in town, reinstated in the inn, too vexed to do much else besides sit and stare into oblivion, lost in thought as he clutched a solitary silver coin in his fist, half-heartedly worrying it with his front teeth, to the other patrons’ mild bemusement.
He was far more afraid than he was willing to admit to himself. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he’d been cut off from his natural shape with no apparent recourse, but accepting the situation had been another matter entirely.
One could not truthfully say that he’d accepted it even now, but at least the black rage had passed, taking with it the urge to drink himself to unconsciousness and thereby circumvent the problem entirely, at least for a time. Ultimately, he realized that he could sit and stew over it, or he could plan. Productivity had ever been something that he’d valued, after all.
No; this would not stand. For the time being, he decided that he would resume business as usual, until he was better equipped to do something about this disaster.
Even with that resolution made, mentally, he braced himself for the worst. The truth of it was that he was now a once-dragon in possession of exclusively human faculties, with no means of doing even something so simple as reaching – or guarding, he realized, cringing – his hoard. Furthermore, he had not the slightest idea who his attacker had been. He could well be in this situation for years.
Still, he was no tender wyrmling to sit idle and cry about it – for gods’ sakes, he was on the very cusp of adulthood, and fully capable of taking matters into his own hands. He would damn well do so.
Feeling reassured after this internal pep-talk, he absently slipped the coin under his tongue (eliciting a few sharp, baffled glances from the few patrons that happened to notice the gesture) and rose from his seat at the bar, drifting up to his room to take stock of what small personal inventory was left to him.