Post by Durmot on Jun 16, 2017 14:54:51 GMT -6
Name:Durmot
Class:Fighter
Age:22
Born in:Ryerde
Appearance:Durmot is a pretty big fellow, standing at a height of 6’2” with broad shoulders and a well-maintained athletic build. His purple hair is cut fairly short (except for the sideburns), and he makes little effort to style it beyond simply parting it back so his hair can be messy at times. He has dark brown eyes and thick eyebrows, one of which is split with scar tissue. Another, larger scar can be seen on Durmot’s left cheek (a reminder of a fight in which a too-hasty Durmot nearly had his head bashed in) and he’s grown out a small patch of facial hair on his chin.
Durmot wears a light leather breastplate with an iron pauldron over a faded blue tunic with sleeves that end at his elbows. On his legs are a pair of loose black trousers that tuck into his heavy leather boots. Both of his wrists have boarskin-padded leather armguards on them that leave his fingers and palm uncovered. A thick belt holds up the tail half of a boar pelt, which is wrapped around his waist and serves as a sort of half-kilt (with the front open, and the longer part behind him at just below knee height).
Personality:Durmot is an exuberant mercenary, with an eager and overtly friendly nature. Even people he’s just met will be treated like an old friend. His face and body language are both very expressive, though he is aware of this and compensates when he doesn’t want to be a completely open book. Occasionally he forgets the concept of personal space, and his warm disposition can sometimes lead others to believe he’s naive or not very bright (those people who assume the latter aren’t too far off). However Durmot also displays traits that align with signs of ADHD, such as lack of focus, memory issues, and restlessness.
In combat, he’s committed. He’s not the type to let an opening slip away even if that opening is risky, and that brashness can be both a strength and a hindrance. Durmot’s also slightly callous, with few qualms about killing, which is a sharp contrast to his usual friendly nature. All said and done, he’s a high-spirited fighter who finds purpose in his axe and won’t let the present pass him by.
History:Durmot was born in Ryerde, part of an insignificant forest hamlet in the already insignificant march. He never knew his mother, while he, his twin sister, and his younger brother were all raised by their father. Durmot’s father hunted and skinned animals for a living, though gossip around the village always held that he was a reformed bandit of some sort. Whether he truly turned his axe on innocents or not, he still taught the twins how to fight with one starting at a fairly early age. Personally, Durmot never found those rumors hard to believe.
He worked with his father at hunting and skinning throughout his childhood, but he doesn’t look back on that time fondly. If Durmot’s father was a “reformed” brigand, then whoever did the reforming didn’t do a great job since he was never a nice guy, not even to his children. Durmot chafed under his authority and grew resentful over the years. But Durmot didn’t only grow resentful, he also grew increasingly restless at the prospect of being stuck in his small town for his entire life.
He finally got the push he needed when a band of mercenaries came through the town, looking for shelter and a place to heal a few of their number who had been injured in their most recent battle. For such an isolated village, this was an exceedingly rare event, so naturally everyone and their grandmothers took time out of their busy days to talk – and to spread more than a little gossip, too – with the fighting men and women who had just arrived. Durmot, who was about 18 years old at this time, was quickly infatuated with their tales of adventure and danger. One of the younger mercs developed a little crush on the earnest village boy, and ended up inviting Durmot to come with them when they eventually left (he hadn’t cleared this with the merc group’s captain beforehand, but when she did find out she just laughed and gave her assent). Durmot enthusiastically agreed.
Durmot probably would have left even if it meant abandoning his siblings to his father, but thankfully his siblings had already escaped from underneath their father’s thumb. His sister had established herself as the butcher in the village and was able to support their younger brother without having to rely on their father at all. So after a tearful goodbye with lots of sniffling to his siblings and a not-so-tearful one to his father, Durmot left the village.
He traveled with that mercenary company for a time, and though he didn’t start out as a full fighting member, he trained under some of the mercs to the point where he could fight alongside them. But the group splintered after their captain was slain in battle, and after that Durmot drifted between companies in search of mercenary work.
The merc company Durmot was with most recently suffered heavy casualties after a failed retreat. They had been hired to fight alongside troops from Tania against some of the brigands overflowing from Caelin, but the battle turned in the bandits’ favor. While the Tanian troops and their griffons managed to make a safe retreat, Durmot’s company had a much harder time doing so.
The pointing fingers and blame-dodging between mercs in the aftermath eventually led their company to dissolve. Some of the remaining mercs left for Worde, others even turned around and joined the bandit clans in Caelin. Durmot was one of a handful that traveled to Laus, where he and many other mercenaries were recruited to clear out the monsters and undead roaming the countryside.
NPC fight:Durmot whirled backwards, skidding in the mud a little. He hadn’t expected to get separated from the others, but none of them had expected to come across such a large group of Revenants. Durmot had already taken out one of the two walking corpses that had pursued him, but the one that kept reaching for him with poisonous claws was turning out to be much more tenacious.
“Would be great if you could stand still, you know.”
Durmot swung at the undead with a diagonal cut, but of course it didn’t. The monster dodged with more grace than a shambling corpse had any right to, then lunged at Durmot before he had a chance to draw back from his swing. He grunted in pain, feeling the monsters claws rip through his tunic and enter his side.
PC fight:For a moment there, Durmot looked confused. It had become abundantly clear that the person in front of him meant him harm, for whatever reason. The confusion on Durmot’s face vanished, now replaced by a worried smile and a little laugh as he reached one hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t see what this is all about, but I’m sure we can work it all out. Just–” As he continued talking, Durmot brought the hand on his neck down to unclasp his axe from its place on his back as inconspicuously as possible. Once done, he quickly grabbed his axe by the handle and swung it, aiming right for the stranger’s left shoulder, still talking in that same even tone as he did so: “–tell me what you’re really here for, friend!” Sure, it wasn’t as smooth a movement as it could’ve been, but he’d hopefully end the fight before it began, or at least put them on the defensive long enough to turn around and make a break for the trees.
Class:Fighter
Age:22
Born in:Ryerde
Appearance:Durmot is a pretty big fellow, standing at a height of 6’2” with broad shoulders and a well-maintained athletic build. His purple hair is cut fairly short (except for the sideburns), and he makes little effort to style it beyond simply parting it back so his hair can be messy at times. He has dark brown eyes and thick eyebrows, one of which is split with scar tissue. Another, larger scar can be seen on Durmot’s left cheek (a reminder of a fight in which a too-hasty Durmot nearly had his head bashed in) and he’s grown out a small patch of facial hair on his chin.
Durmot wears a light leather breastplate with an iron pauldron over a faded blue tunic with sleeves that end at his elbows. On his legs are a pair of loose black trousers that tuck into his heavy leather boots. Both of his wrists have boarskin-padded leather armguards on them that leave his fingers and palm uncovered. A thick belt holds up the tail half of a boar pelt, which is wrapped around his waist and serves as a sort of half-kilt (with the front open, and the longer part behind him at just below knee height).
Personality:Durmot is an exuberant mercenary, with an eager and overtly friendly nature. Even people he’s just met will be treated like an old friend. His face and body language are both very expressive, though he is aware of this and compensates when he doesn’t want to be a completely open book. Occasionally he forgets the concept of personal space, and his warm disposition can sometimes lead others to believe he’s naive or not very bright (those people who assume the latter aren’t too far off). However Durmot also displays traits that align with signs of ADHD, such as lack of focus, memory issues, and restlessness.
In combat, he’s committed. He’s not the type to let an opening slip away even if that opening is risky, and that brashness can be both a strength and a hindrance. Durmot’s also slightly callous, with few qualms about killing, which is a sharp contrast to his usual friendly nature. All said and done, he’s a high-spirited fighter who finds purpose in his axe and won’t let the present pass him by.
History:Durmot was born in Ryerde, part of an insignificant forest hamlet in the already insignificant march. He never knew his mother, while he, his twin sister, and his younger brother were all raised by their father. Durmot’s father hunted and skinned animals for a living, though gossip around the village always held that he was a reformed bandit of some sort. Whether he truly turned his axe on innocents or not, he still taught the twins how to fight with one starting at a fairly early age. Personally, Durmot never found those rumors hard to believe.
He worked with his father at hunting and skinning throughout his childhood, but he doesn’t look back on that time fondly. If Durmot’s father was a “reformed” brigand, then whoever did the reforming didn’t do a great job since he was never a nice guy, not even to his children. Durmot chafed under his authority and grew resentful over the years. But Durmot didn’t only grow resentful, he also grew increasingly restless at the prospect of being stuck in his small town for his entire life.
He finally got the push he needed when a band of mercenaries came through the town, looking for shelter and a place to heal a few of their number who had been injured in their most recent battle. For such an isolated village, this was an exceedingly rare event, so naturally everyone and their grandmothers took time out of their busy days to talk – and to spread more than a little gossip, too – with the fighting men and women who had just arrived. Durmot, who was about 18 years old at this time, was quickly infatuated with their tales of adventure and danger. One of the younger mercs developed a little crush on the earnest village boy, and ended up inviting Durmot to come with them when they eventually left (he hadn’t cleared this with the merc group’s captain beforehand, but when she did find out she just laughed and gave her assent). Durmot enthusiastically agreed.
Durmot probably would have left even if it meant abandoning his siblings to his father, but thankfully his siblings had already escaped from underneath their father’s thumb. His sister had established herself as the butcher in the village and was able to support their younger brother without having to rely on their father at all. So after a tearful goodbye with lots of sniffling to his siblings and a not-so-tearful one to his father, Durmot left the village.
He traveled with that mercenary company for a time, and though he didn’t start out as a full fighting member, he trained under some of the mercs to the point where he could fight alongside them. But the group splintered after their captain was slain in battle, and after that Durmot drifted between companies in search of mercenary work.
The merc company Durmot was with most recently suffered heavy casualties after a failed retreat. They had been hired to fight alongside troops from Tania against some of the brigands overflowing from Caelin, but the battle turned in the bandits’ favor. While the Tanian troops and their griffons managed to make a safe retreat, Durmot’s company had a much harder time doing so.
The pointing fingers and blame-dodging between mercs in the aftermath eventually led their company to dissolve. Some of the remaining mercs left for Worde, others even turned around and joined the bandit clans in Caelin. Durmot was one of a handful that traveled to Laus, where he and many other mercenaries were recruited to clear out the monsters and undead roaming the countryside.
NPC fight:Durmot whirled backwards, skidding in the mud a little. He hadn’t expected to get separated from the others, but none of them had expected to come across such a large group of Revenants. Durmot had already taken out one of the two walking corpses that had pursued him, but the one that kept reaching for him with poisonous claws was turning out to be much more tenacious.
“Would be great if you could stand still, you know.”
Durmot swung at the undead with a diagonal cut, but of course it didn’t. The monster dodged with more grace than a shambling corpse had any right to, then lunged at Durmot before he had a chance to draw back from his swing. He grunted in pain, feeling the monsters claws rip through his tunic and enter his side.
PC fight:For a moment there, Durmot looked confused. It had become abundantly clear that the person in front of him meant him harm, for whatever reason. The confusion on Durmot’s face vanished, now replaced by a worried smile and a little laugh as he reached one hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t see what this is all about, but I’m sure we can work it all out. Just–” As he continued talking, Durmot brought the hand on his neck down to unclasp his axe from its place on his back as inconspicuously as possible. Once done, he quickly grabbed his axe by the handle and swung it, aiming right for the stranger’s left shoulder, still talking in that same even tone as he did so: “–tell me what you’re really here for, friend!” Sure, it wasn’t as smooth a movement as it could’ve been, but he’d hopefully end the fight before it began, or at least put them on the defensive long enough to turn around and make a break for the trees.
