- Messages
- 108
- Race
- Sofontti
- Profession
- Vagabond
- Location
- Arcanis
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
✦ Tom Trite ✦
The Worst Paragon Candidate
- Male, 22 Years Old, Kettu, 4'3"
- Languages: Fluent in Sofonic and Common, Influent in Jinnic and Crudish.
- Occupation: Vagabond, Lower Class
- Arcana: Terra, Abation, Zephyr, Aqua, Fulgur, and Exodus
History
Days of Yore
"Hwæt! Here was the son of a travelling merchant, bushy-tailed and full of life! Tom left Kalevala with his father when he was just a kit, though his mother remained. He was taught many superstitions in those days: don't look anyone in the eye, and keep hooded! None could know that he was a Kettu, only trouble could come of it for the world thought of their kind as liver-gnashing Inari.
Tom believed in the Kalevalan Gods, namely Kärkitar the patron of Kettuja like him. Their travels were blessed, surely, bringing with them Kalevalan fur to Dullahan. Yet, Tom's father was lain low one day by a cane. Injured, he could not tend to the wagon, and from hence it was stolen, and with that their stock and pride as merchants.
Crippled, Tom's father chose to sell his son into indentured servitude so that the both of them might survive. He bartered passage to Kalevala, and Tom was left to clean an inn with the promise that his father would one day come for him. A year went by, and that day never came whilst his senses grew dull in that foul, crowded throne of humanity."
WANTED
"Approached by a strange man in a hooded cloak, Tom turned his gaze away from a fierce gaze. A hand shot out, grabbing him up by the paw as he was looked over like an object. The man remarked for his lack of Witchmarks; apparently there was a profound potential within him. He offered to buy Tom's contract, if only to take him on his travels.
This was something Tom regretted dearly.
The man was a Galsterei, one with a smattering of illegal Witchmarks. One night he thrust one upon Tom, leaving him frightened and confused while strange things began to happen. He ran, blasting flames to cook an innocent man dead. The smell lingered in his sensitive nose. In a daze he stumbled through alleys, hearing his master's voice call to him, hiding, running again, until his heart beat so heavy that he felt it might pop.
Through the maze, he curled up and slept beneath grungy metal tubes. Crying that he had killed a man, he soon fell to an uneasy slumber and awoke to tour the markets in search of food. Yet, he drew strange stares and whispers. Others ran away, and he sat it: the poster scrawled with his image, contorted and nefarious wit flame in his paws!
A tall man approached Tom with the click of a pistol, and he turned about with wide eyes. Turning tail, he tried to run, but something bit him with a loud bang. Bleeding and hot, he screamed and threw himself through a small vent just narrow of a swiping hand. Climbing through the murky dark, he held his paw over his shoulder and burned the wound with this power of Fulgur thrust upon him.
Emerging into the sewers, Tom stumbled weakly towards the ports. Emerging, he stumbled before a woman barely alive, and she sheltered him. The daughter of an Artificer, she arranged for him passage back to Kalevala. Thanking her, he departed for home at last . . .
Forsaken
Months later, upon the borders of Kalevala a great voice boomed through the trees.
"Thoma Älykäs," the voice said through rattling leaves, Tom's given name. "The mark upon your back is forbidden, here. Go, and never speak to your father or mother again. So say Kärkitar, your god. Find your calling elsewhere, little one, or be smited from these lands."
Panic filled Tom. At first he pleaded to the voice, yet the caravan driver grabbed him up and silenced him. "This is as far as we go, Tom," said the human merchant. "I will not have this journey jeopardized by your witchmark, so begone." He pushed Tom off the wagon into the mud, where he watched the man go in a stunned silence.
Abandoned in the wilderness, sore and rejected by his own god, Tom decried his fate a wretch and did his best to follow the wagon trail back towards Dullahan. Soon he grew hungry, and the scent of cooking meat drew him through the woods towards a camp of beastly creatures. Vokhai. Gnoll, Orks, Goblins, and Trow. As he stared, the twigs snapped behind him, and a club came down on his head.
Hanging limp as he was pulled up by an ankle, a smiling Trow greeted his bleary eyes. It spoke in a strange tongue before shoving him in a cage where he lay there. He was sure these Vokhai might eat him, yet they took him through a cave and down into the dizzying dark of the world below to meet a shaman of their ilk who spoke the common tongue.
The ork wore a smattering of Witchmarks. He informed Tom that he would be his new "experiment," and that if he survived, then he would be allowed to live as a member of a Vokhai Warband. Having no other choice, Tom nodded as that green hand fell upon him and pulled his ear.
"This one is Loved by Aether; will it survive?"
Tom was initiated next into Aqua by the shaman. Little time was wasted in giving him two more marks, Terra and Zephyr. The second pair, Exodus and Abation were given after some months in captivity, and by the time it was over he felt as if his mind had been ground down to a fine paste while the glittering marks trailed down his back.
He should have died, Tom had come to find out. That he lived came as a surprise to the shaman and his cult. They allowed him time to rest, and then began to train him as one of their own. Stricken and reprimanded for every minor slight, Tom grew bruised while he learned both their ways, and their tongue.
Then they took Tom to war. He collapsed a tunnel during a skirmish, cutting off a group of short-statured mages who fought with his hold over the rock, but he could only watch as the dwarves were cut down. Feeling ill to be the cause of someone's demise again, Tom ran deep into the caverns beyond.
The shaman pursued Tom, seeing through the reflection in his eyes. Yet, Tom threw out a great wind and crushed them all against the rocks, impaling some in a great mess. Pulling at his fur, he walked through those dark groves lost and confused until he came across a dwarf who spoke no tongue of his, but seemed kind.
Today
Given food, Tom made water, and the pair travelled quietly towards the surface. Yet, it was every bit as dangerous there as Dullahan, and strange warriors sought to "hunt" him when he slew another in his defense, not yet knowing how to control the magnitude of Galdr thrust upon him with minimal insight into the workings of Arcana.
One day Tom met a travelling Jin'Norai who invited him to sit by a fire where they traded stories; the words of that long-eared man who took an interest in him seemed compelling. He could go south. Towards Bast, where he might find a place for himself at the Academy of Bastion. Yet he didn't trust the man not to kill him in his sleep, so he left rather than accept the aid of a guide.
It wasn't long before Tom grew lost, and soon he found himself wandering through the ruins of a strange place: a Mirage Kingdoms of old, Old Amduat. There he hid from Ghosts, Dragons, and those strange spirits that seemed to crop up in the corner of his eye. Exploring here he found an old knife stuck through the bones of a long-dead corpse, possessed by a Rakshasa yet he did not know this at the time.
Traversing across floating streets in the starry void, Tom fled this place when the spirits grew violent and all sorts of odd happenings began to take place. The first exit he could find, he took, blowing back the flooded gates and tunneling through the dunes until he emerged to the windy deserts above.
Getting to Bast and making a name for himself was his priority, yet every turn he took only saw him getting lost once more. One day, however, he stumbled upon a caravan and by its graces he finally found himself on a path to Bast. Arriving there, Tom wandered for the academy where he sought admission; could these Jin'Norai clans so far away from home accept him as one of their own?"
"Hwæt! Here was the son of a travelling merchant, bushy-tailed and full of life! Tom left Kalevala with his father when he was just a kit, though his mother remained. He was taught many superstitions in those days: don't look anyone in the eye, and keep hooded! None could know that he was a Kettu, only trouble could come of it for the world thought of their kind as liver-gnashing Inari.
Tom believed in the Kalevalan Gods, namely Kärkitar the patron of Kettuja like him. Their travels were blessed, surely, bringing with them Kalevalan fur to Dullahan. Yet, Tom's father was lain low one day by a cane. Injured, he could not tend to the wagon, and from hence it was stolen, and with that their stock and pride as merchants.
Crippled, Tom's father chose to sell his son into indentured servitude so that the both of them might survive. He bartered passage to Kalevala, and Tom was left to clean an inn with the promise that his father would one day come for him. A year went by, and that day never came whilst his senses grew dull in that foul, crowded throne of humanity."
WANTED
"Approached by a strange man in a hooded cloak, Tom turned his gaze away from a fierce gaze. A hand shot out, grabbing him up by the paw as he was looked over like an object. The man remarked for his lack of Witchmarks; apparently there was a profound potential within him. He offered to buy Tom's contract, if only to take him on his travels.
This was something Tom regretted dearly.
The man was a Galsterei, one with a smattering of illegal Witchmarks. One night he thrust one upon Tom, leaving him frightened and confused while strange things began to happen. He ran, blasting flames to cook an innocent man dead. The smell lingered in his sensitive nose. In a daze he stumbled through alleys, hearing his master's voice call to him, hiding, running again, until his heart beat so heavy that he felt it might pop.
Through the maze, he curled up and slept beneath grungy metal tubes. Crying that he had killed a man, he soon fell to an uneasy slumber and awoke to tour the markets in search of food. Yet, he drew strange stares and whispers. Others ran away, and he sat it: the poster scrawled with his image, contorted and nefarious wit flame in his paws!
A tall man approached Tom with the click of a pistol, and he turned about with wide eyes. Turning tail, he tried to run, but something bit him with a loud bang. Bleeding and hot, he screamed and threw himself through a small vent just narrow of a swiping hand. Climbing through the murky dark, he held his paw over his shoulder and burned the wound with this power of Fulgur thrust upon him.
Emerging into the sewers, Tom stumbled weakly towards the ports. Emerging, he stumbled before a woman barely alive, and she sheltered him. The daughter of an Artificer, she arranged for him passage back to Kalevala. Thanking her, he departed for home at last . . .
Forsaken
Months later, upon the borders of Kalevala a great voice boomed through the trees.
"Thoma Älykäs," the voice said through rattling leaves, Tom's given name. "The mark upon your back is forbidden, here. Go, and never speak to your father or mother again. So say Kärkitar, your god. Find your calling elsewhere, little one, or be smited from these lands."
Panic filled Tom. At first he pleaded to the voice, yet the caravan driver grabbed him up and silenced him. "This is as far as we go, Tom," said the human merchant. "I will not have this journey jeopardized by your witchmark, so begone." He pushed Tom off the wagon into the mud, where he watched the man go in a stunned silence.
Abandoned in the wilderness, sore and rejected by his own god, Tom decried his fate a wretch and did his best to follow the wagon trail back towards Dullahan. Soon he grew hungry, and the scent of cooking meat drew him through the woods towards a camp of beastly creatures. Vokhai. Gnoll, Orks, Goblins, and Trow. As he stared, the twigs snapped behind him, and a club came down on his head.
Hanging limp as he was pulled up by an ankle, a smiling Trow greeted his bleary eyes. It spoke in a strange tongue before shoving him in a cage where he lay there. He was sure these Vokhai might eat him, yet they took him through a cave and down into the dizzying dark of the world below to meet a shaman of their ilk who spoke the common tongue.
The ork wore a smattering of Witchmarks. He informed Tom that he would be his new "experiment," and that if he survived, then he would be allowed to live as a member of a Vokhai Warband. Having no other choice, Tom nodded as that green hand fell upon him and pulled his ear.
"This one is Loved by Aether; will it survive?"
Tom was initiated next into Aqua by the shaman. Little time was wasted in giving him two more marks, Terra and Zephyr. The second pair, Exodus and Abation were given after some months in captivity, and by the time it was over he felt as if his mind had been ground down to a fine paste while the glittering marks trailed down his back.
He should have died, Tom had come to find out. That he lived came as a surprise to the shaman and his cult. They allowed him time to rest, and then began to train him as one of their own. Stricken and reprimanded for every minor slight, Tom grew bruised while he learned both their ways, and their tongue.
Then they took Tom to war. He collapsed a tunnel during a skirmish, cutting off a group of short-statured mages who fought with his hold over the rock, but he could only watch as the dwarves were cut down. Feeling ill to be the cause of someone's demise again, Tom ran deep into the caverns beyond.
The shaman pursued Tom, seeing through the reflection in his eyes. Yet, Tom threw out a great wind and crushed them all against the rocks, impaling some in a great mess. Pulling at his fur, he walked through those dark groves lost and confused until he came across a dwarf who spoke no tongue of his, but seemed kind.
Today
Given food, Tom made water, and the pair travelled quietly towards the surface. Yet, it was every bit as dangerous there as Dullahan, and strange warriors sought to "hunt" him when he slew another in his defense, not yet knowing how to control the magnitude of Galdr thrust upon him with minimal insight into the workings of Arcana.
One day Tom met a travelling Jin'Norai who invited him to sit by a fire where they traded stories; the words of that long-eared man who took an interest in him seemed compelling. He could go south. Towards Bast, where he might find a place for himself at the Academy of Bastion. Yet he didn't trust the man not to kill him in his sleep, so he left rather than accept the aid of a guide.
It wasn't long before Tom grew lost, and soon he found himself wandering through the ruins of a strange place: a Mirage Kingdoms of old, Old Amduat. There he hid from Ghosts, Dragons, and those strange spirits that seemed to crop up in the corner of his eye. Exploring here he found an old knife stuck through the bones of a long-dead corpse, possessed by a Rakshasa yet he did not know this at the time.
Traversing across floating streets in the starry void, Tom fled this place when the spirits grew violent and all sorts of odd happenings began to take place. The first exit he could find, he took, blowing back the flooded gates and tunneling through the dunes until he emerged to the windy deserts above.
Getting to Bast and making a name for himself was his priority, yet every turn he took only saw him getting lost once more. One day, however, he stumbled upon a caravan and by its graces he finally found himself on a path to Bast. Arriving there, Tom wandered for the academy where he sought admission; could these Jin'Norai clans so far away from home accept him as one of their own?"
✦ One day, I will find a place to call home. ✦
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