IP: 66.208.250.154
Posted on February 14, 2014 at 02:24:52 AM by ROHMARR
[note: sample & history contains some potentially graphic content]
Player: Fennic
Name: Rohmarr
Sex: Male
Appearance:
- Stands 6'5" and weighs approximately 230lbs. when healthy.
- Has a very powerful build with wide shoulders, slim hips, and a lot of muscular definition. He's not so beefy that he looks like a professional bodybuilder, but he has the sort of muscle that suggests he's familiar with hard physical labor and battle.
- Extensive tattoos and scarring [more info linked below]
- Light amber eyes, dark hair (currently worn in a warhawk).
- Currently has a hollow look to him, as if he's recently lost a lot of weight and isn't very healthy. Physically, he's fine, but emotionally he's pretty messed up and it shows in the way he moves.
Defects: Rohmarr is experiencing intense hallucinations that manifest in a variety of ways (smells, sounds, visions, etc.). His most common hallucination is his daughter.
Age: Unknown, he looks to be in his early 30's.
Personality: Ro is currently going through a lot of emotional turmoil and is struggling to adjust to Shaman, and it shows. At times he seems almost catatonic, staring off into space without speaking or moving for long periods of time, and others he's manic, constantly moving and talking and forcing himself into action. When (if?) he finally adjusts to his new life, he will likely recapture the solid, steady nature that was the norm for him before everything happened. There is a high likelihood that things will need to get worse before they can get better, though, as the man has had his heart and his mind broken.
History: Rohmarr originates from a planet called Fritzlanne, which is a mix between modern and medieval times in many ways. He was born and bred to be a warrior, and he excelled at it. In his youth, he was wild and reckless and utterly fearless; his companions during the wars always had stories to tell of his daring, which usually paid off. However, Ro's mother was not content with her son's behavior and set about making a love match for him. The moment Ro saw Ellie, he fell hard. They were married just six months after their introduction, and within another year were expecting their first child. It was Hanna's birth that really changed him; he began to stay closer to home, began turning down the dangerous assignments, and settled into a very, very happy home life. But war was not content to leave Ro alone, and when Hanna turned fourteen he was forced to re-enlist. Ro left his wife and daughter with his parents, and for months things were fine. But Ro's old enemies found them, and murdered the entire household. As the mansion was almost entirely self-sufficient, the bodies were not discovered until Rohmarr's return. His daughter, Hanna, now 15, survived the attack, but had been brutalized and mutilated. Ro fought to save her, but Hanna had given up on life and could not even bear to look at herself in the mirror. Eventually, Hanna took her own life and died in Ro's arms. Though seeing the bodies of his wife and parents had been difficult, it was Hanna's death that truly set him on this path to madness.
For a time, Rohmarr lived in a place called Willowborne. There, his mental wounds had begun to heal; he'd found a place to live, found friends, found reasons to get up in the morning. But something happened to Willowborne, and Rohmarr was cast into a dark, empty place for an unknown length of time. Rohmarr had finally reached the brink of utter madness, having tried unsuccessfully to follow in Hanna's footsteps, when he was pulled into Shaman abruptly.
incomplete, it may need some revising!
The knife, it taunted. He'd noticed it before, upon his arrival to this lonely place, but his mind had been too consumed with memories to pay it much more than a passing glance. But as he walked the halls of the home he had grown up in, the place where his family had been so callously murdered, he felt it call to him. He saw it there, on the table in the hall his father had built. There, in the bed he'd been born in. Always, always, it followed him. Taunting, teasing, tempting. He had fled from its siren song, desperate to escape the keep, but beyond those towering walls waited only a foggy emptiness. This was not his home, not his world, no matter how similar it appeared. For so long he roamed those lonely halls, the only sounds his ragged, tortured breathing and the pounding of his own steps against the wooden floors. The chill was immense, sinking into his bones until he ached all over and his breath fogged in the air. He smelled the blood, saw the stains on the floors that marked each individual death, but no matter how he scraped and cleaned they remained. This place, he had come to realize, was his own personal hell.
When at last it had become too much, when the silence and the solitude could no longer be borne, he had taken that knife to his own flesh. He had understood, in that fragile moment, what his Hanna had felt when she had made her own choice. But he had watched in horror as those deep, definite wounds healed before his eyes. The knife's promises were empty. Roaring his pain, his frustration, he thrust it hilt-deep into his chest - and found it, bloodless, in his hand once more as the wound healed. Somewhere in the cold emptiness, some dark entity had laughed at his agonizing failure with cruel delight. He rebelled against this malevolent being, screaming rage-fueled taunts to that shook the rafters, but the entity gave no reply. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, he could not convince it to end him. How long he had been there, he didn't know. Days, weeks, months, years. Centuries, perhaps. When the sun rose, that cruel and taunting orb that never seemed to warm his skin, it found him broken and empty in the garden. The bloodstains there were prevalent, the stench of decay overpowering, but he could not tear himself away. It was here he had found Ellie, battered and broken and already gone from the mortal realms. There, at her side, he had found his precious Hanna. He'd thought she, too, had gone - a vacant socket had stared up at him where once a pale blue eye had been - but she had called out for him in her agony. There were days he had asked his Gods for forgiveness, pained by the thought that had crept inside of him again and again: that maybe things would have been better had she died that night, in her mother's arms. It had been there, in the gardens again, that he had found her bleeding that final night of her life. He had held her, rocked her, as the lullaby slipped from his lips and her blood stained his shirt. As that last breath slid against his wrist like a kiss and her lids fluttered shut. When the night came, and the servants dared at last to come to him, they had built a pyre for her and set her spirit free. But not Rohmarr's. No, his agony and guilt had had no end in those first dark months and now... Now he was in this place without even her ghost to console him, consumed once more by dark thoughts and darker memories. Then the storm hit. A wicked storm, full of lighting and sound. It shocked him to the core, pressed against his ears until he was certain they would bleed from the pressure. For so long he had been in silence, and now there was nothing but sound and light. Booming thunder shook the earth and sky alike as forks of lightning snaked across the clouds. Rohmarr, shaken and disoriented, leapt to his feet with a cry, stumbling slightly as his world tipped and twisted. He awoke to nightfall on a silver beach, his big frame shaking with confusion and terror. What new horror awaited him here? What new tortures had been conceived? He saw her, the child on the beach, her long silver hair flowing in the wind as she giggled. "Hanna?" he croaked, his own voice unfamiliar to his tender ears. "Hanna!" He ran then, desperate to touch her, to hold his daughter against his heart even if only for a moment. But as his hand touched her shoulder, she turned to him and he saw once more the damage that had been done. He sobbed aloud, unashamed of his grief and pain, as she crumbled to dust beneath his fingertips. Broken, emotionally and mentally, the big man lay down in the sand and waited for whatever would come next... |
Replies:
- accepted - By Georgia February 15, 2014 at 01:07:24 AM
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