Thread: Fellowship Of Forodwaith - LotR Group RP character profiles

The Basics Name Bremven Nickname Ven Gender Male Age 24 Birth Location Rohan Race Human Class BardRogue Appearance Hair Color Black Eye Color Hazel Weight 169 lbs Height 510 Basic Physical Description Sinewy, dexterous, and rugged with long, spidery fingers Other Features A wolf-bite scar on his right leg and a couple dozen thin cuts over his fingers. Visual Representation Background Personality Resourceful Perceptive World-wise Evasive Cunning Easily Startled History Like any tale, this one begins with the end of that which comes before. And so my story will begin with that of my father. Abad-miir, known by most simply as The Black Rider, was allegedly one of Rohans finest sons gone awry. His exact reasoning remains largely unknown, but he took nothing with him when he left his fathers home save his horse and his sword. By the time I was born he had become something of a living legend, tales of the swiftness and loyal secrecy of his men spreading far and wide. His attacks were sporadic, unpredictable, and as easily come as gone. Abads troupe relied too heavily on the speed of their horses to march slaves by manacles beside them, and so typically took only the slaves willing enough to ride the horses with their new masters, toying with the rest as they liked before leaving them in the dirt, alive or dead. My mother was a reluctant member of the former. When I grew old enough to learn language, my father assured me it was because she was so bloody terrified of the blade that she would do anything, stoop down to any length, to avoid it. Naturally, he would torture her for it, tormenting her each day like a twisted experiment, wondering how long it would take until she wished herself dead. My father would make me watch from time to time, during the less sexual of his torments, or during the reprimands or executions of guilty or disloyal slaves and horsemen. He said it would make me a stronger man, desensitize me to the brutalities and hardships of violence. He was right. And for the longest time, I thought he was right about the rest of it as well. I had come to see my mother as, in a word, pathetic. As for her thoughts on me, Adrianna never enjoyed the idea that I was living proof that he had raped her, but, oddly enough, she never overtly denied me her breast or her lap. For some reason, the simple fact that I was her blood, her son, was enough. Of course, I was too young to actually remember it myself, but Abad told me the truth, especially since he could say it with enough spite to make it look like a bad thing. To him, and for the longest time, to me, it was a defeat proof that she had succumbed to her new role as if she had never known anything else. By the time I was old enough to fit into stirrups I had become a scout, honing my eyes and my reflexes to staying perceptive and elusive. It didnt pay well in either rewards or prestige, but the perk of not having to charge into a pike was definitely one of the better job benefits. All in all, I was good at it. I had a mind that worked rather naturally with numbers and distances, so my approximations and estimations were usually on-point. As I grew I found myself additionally in the slightly more grizzly position of a silencer fast-riding assassins in charge of, as the name implies, silencing those who would seek to alert any nearby kingdoms on the movements of the Black Rider. Of course, it didnt bother me. By that time killing was as natural to me as riding. The enormous reliance on speed meant that a silencer was not allowed to take a slave on his horse the way the rest of the bandits were, and the need to cover as much ground as possible meant we never really worked in teams. As a result, my life tended to be a silent, lonely one for the most part. That was, until I met him. Ilvrim. They said a silencers mark was already dead. Its a wonder how much you can learn from a dead man. By the end of our discussion, he told me he didnt want to die quickly. I granted his wish, and he granted me his legacy. It was his voice that compelled me to speak to him, but it was his strings that intrigued me the most. I would spend nights on end simply playing single chords, perceiving, absorbing, and understanding the nature of the building blocks in and of themselves before I began. He had taught me a couple tunes, but the heart of a bard lies in expression, not in repetition. They were his words, his weightless sounds, and yet I found myself holding meaning in them. I wanted to be that To pacify and agitate, to inspire hope and fear, to instill adoration or spite. So I learned, on my own at first, as each successive nights campfire attracted more and more listeners. Like all men, Abad had to die. My father had ruled through a simple agreement that might was right. It was a law even the most primal of beasts could comprehend, so it served him well for a time. But the moment he passed over the hill, the moment his strength began to wane, so too did his horde. There was Trenoth the Fierce, Margil the Vile, about a handful of other contenders, and me thrown into the ring because I had both the charisma and blood to turn myself into a walking bullseye. Kill a man and everything he owns becomes yours. That was our way. And I was not having it. So, naturally, I ran. Well, rode. The most rational thing to do would be to go south to Gondor. Gondor had strong walls, a bustling economy, and a fair king. It was common sense, really. Common enough, in fact, that Trenoth and Margil and the rest of them would have figured it out, too. So I decided to do the exact opposite, travelling north through Rhovanion, travelling from village to village, wandering as I plied my craft and learned the ways of the world. Step by step I travelled further north until I made my home in the town of Dale, making ends meet as a minstrel and a comedian. It was a quiet life, but I made my own music, so it worked out. I had a home, a woman. Miira. Things were good, and I had finally thought Id beaten my past until they came. Bandits. No organization, no in-and-out. Hell, they were destroying more than they were pillaging. This wasn't a robbery, this was cruelty for the sake of cruelty. And I snapped. I was a boy again, unfazed, unfettered. I can still hear her screaming my name and I didnt even so much as look back. I didnt need to think because I couldnt. Run, kill, ride. So I rode the same direction I always had North. The Forodwraith. Land of the cold and unforgiving. Perfect. Id fit right in. Family Adrianna, Milkmaid Mother, deceased Abad-miir, Bandit Lord Father, deceased Miira, Seamstress - Lover, deceased Likes Music of all kinds, stories of all kinds, riddles, mind-games, and alcohol. Dislikes Stubbornness, valor tends to equate this with stupidity, being called a coward. Fears Overwhelming Odds, Magic Ven has never interacted with genuine magic before, so hes going to be incredibly shaken up by it on first contact, and incredibly skeptical until Best Memoryies Meeting Ilvrim Worst Memoryies Abandoning Miira Sack of Dale Favorite Colors Teal, Turquoise, Silver. Sexual Orientation Experimental. He is a bard, after all. Still mostly straight with dominant tendencies. Very Experienced.