Alzear's Biography

[Gillard 18]

Out-Of-Character Details

Minecraft Account Name: My Minecraft username is Alzear.

How old are you?: I am 14, turning 15 on Christmas day.

Time-Zone/Country of Residence: I live in Australia.

Do you have a good grip on English grammar and the English language?: I have excelled in the works and I like to write often.

Have you had any previous experience in roleplaying?: I used to role-play on forums but I quit after trolls wrecked topics.

Have you read and understood and agree to the rules?: I have read them and I do agree to them.

How did you hear about the Lord of the Craft?: While browsing Planet Minecraft, two good skinners caught my eye, Roxthesox and Lirinya, the both seemed to be a part of some sort of server which I later found out to be Lord of the Craft.

Link any previous applications you have made to the Lord of the Craft: I have not created any applications previous to this one.

Have you posted this application on Minecraft Forum? If not, post it here: http://www.minecraftforum.net/topic/832121-the-lord-of-the-craft-enter-the-world-of-asulon-o-f-f-i-c-i-a-l-l-y-t-h-e-n-o-1-r-p-s-e-r-v-e-r-100-unique-gameplay/! : I cannot register to the Minecraft Forums, though I could try later, perhaps?

Definitions

In your own words, define what the act of roleplaying is: Role-playing is to take on the life of a character and to act as they would in the given circumstance.

In your own words, define what the act of meta-gaming is: Meta-gaming is to take information learnt outside of your character and use it in-character even though your character would not have gained that knowledge themselves. Meta-gaming is frowned upon.

In your own words, define what the act of power-emoting is: Power-emoting, or power-gaming is emoting without letting the other player have the chance to act and it is highly frowned upon.

In-Character Details

Character Name: Alzear

Character Race: Human

Character biography - Make this at least 2 paragraphs long, which must explain your character’s history, appearance, personality, age and any other details you deem necessary:

As the serving wench dumped a steaming wooden bowl in front of Alzear, its contents spilt onto the bar. Alzear grunted his thanks and threw the wench some money. He wasted no time dunking his bread into the stew.

He indicated to the bar man to get him a third ale. As he washed a particularly grisly piece of meat down his throat with his ale, his eye caught what had spilt from his bowl onto the bar.

He almost choked in disbelief. ‘Hey!’ he yelled at the barman. ‘What is that?’

The barman scurried over to study what lay at the end of Alzear’s accusing finger. The barman smirked, no doubt glad the offending bit of organic matter was firstly organic, secondly not something recognisably the body part of a rat or cockroach and thirdly, something that he could indeed provide the answer to. ‘That, my good sir, is a bit of mushroom. Freshly picked by chef to enhance the flavour of the.. ah… lamb’ he said. The barman couldn't remember whether the cook had told him the meat he had found to add to the pot that week was crippled donkey or dead dog.

Little could the barman have known that mushroom was the worst answer he could have given. Alzear would have preferred the rotting corpse of a senile badger who had died of a disgusting fungal disease to the seemingly harmless fungi, otherwise known as a mushroom.

With a single sweep of his arm, Alzear sent his bowl flying across the room.

‘I specifically asked the serving wench if the stew of the week had mushroom. She said no. When asked her if she was sure and would swear on her granny’s grave, she just rolled her eyes at me.’ Alzear stood up to his full height, not quite six foot, ‘which I took to mean there was no mushrooms in the stew. Where is she? I’ll make sure she joins her granny in her grave!’

Sensing this was not a man to be made angry, the barman, who was also the owner of the tavern, told Alzear he could have another meal, on the house, and insisted he would supply him all the ale he could drink until closing time, on the house. When Alzear sat back on his stool, the barman scurried out to the kitchen.

The cook served up another bowl of stew from the same large pot he served all his meals from. He picked out the mushrooms and chucked them on the floor. ‘Give that to his Lordship!’ he scoffed.

After eating his bowl of stew, which he had been assured had never had a mushroom come within a mile of and drinking his fifth ale, Alzear began to feel sheepish about his earlier behaviour.

‘You see,’ he said to the barman, ‘it’s not that I dislike the taste of mushrooms.’

The barman leaned on his elbows and gave his full attention to Alzear. He’d been in the tavern business long enough to know that a story was coming.

‘It’s just that mushrooms made me an orphan.’

The barman continued to top up Alzear’s ale cup as he told of how as a boy of ten or so, his mother had sent him, unwillingly, to pick mushrooms in the forest. They were to go with the rabbit his father had said he would bring

back from his hunt.

Picking mushrooms had been something his mother had always done while she collected herbs. She was one of the few women in the village who knew which herb cured what ailment. But in the last few years, her eyesight had been failing. She may have been completely blind but for the strange smelling concoction she drank every morning for her eyesight.

Alzear was hungry after a meagre meal of stale bread for breakfast. He did not feel like getting up at dawn and collecting mushrooms but did as he was bid for fear of his father’s wrath. He could think only of succulently roasted rabbit as he snatched at the mushrooms in the morning darkness, only half heeding his mother’s advice to carefully check the undersides for poisonous gills.

He returned home and found his father in a quiet and uncommunicative mood. He always took it as an slight to his manhood if he came back empty-handed. He’d caught nothing more than a chill.

‘It’s just the mushrooms for dinner son,’ Mother said.

Alzear glared at his father. ‘I hate them! I want rabbit!’

‘Off with you! Cheeky scoundrel!’ said his father, who raised his hand, though he had never struck his son.

Alzear skulked off to the corner of their hut, which was his bed, and lay down on the straw mattress. His dog curled up next to him, and whined in sympathy. It too was hungry. They shared each other’s warmth and despite wishing for roast rabbit, Alzear’s mouth watered at the smell of mushroom cooked in duck fat with wild garlic and herbs.

He drifted off to sleep hearing his parents planning yet again, for his future. His father wanted to apprentice him to the blacksmith, his mother wanted him to be a healer and had been teaching him the names and properties of herbs. His father thought healing was women’s work. Alzear did not want to do either. He wanted to spend the day in the forest hunting, so that there was always fresh meat to roast and eat.

Alzear was woken by the sound of his dog barking and his parents screaming at each other. He was deeply shocked by what he saw. Both his parents were naked and scratching and biting at each other, their eyes rolling in their heads. He was deeply embarrassed by seeing them naked but also shocked at the ferocity of their fighting. His parents deeply loved and respected each other and he had never heard them speak a word in anger to each other. He screwed his eyes shut, put his hands to his ears and turned to face the wall. It seemed like for hours the dog howled while his parents, became calmer, made strange gibberish noises. When they became silent, Alzear turned over and studied them in the candlelight. His mother was on the table twirling around, her long dark hair flying around her head. His father was doing a head-stand against the wall.

What strange dream is this? Alzear thought. He pinched himself, hoping he would wake up from the nightmare.

‘Mother! Father!’ What has been going on?’

They both turned to stare at him but without recognition of who he was. And then they seemed to come out of their strange trance-like states. Mother sat at the table and put her head on her arms and his father lay down on the floor. They both appeared to be sleeping. The dog was only whimpering now as he licked Father’s face.

When Alzear woke up, he was frozen to his bones. His dog lay dead by his side. The front door was open. Neither of his parents were in the hut.

His mother and father were not found until the snow thawed and another search was made for them in the Spring. By the time their bodies were found, huddled together, on their backs, staring up at the sky, Alzear had been sent away to work in a hospital for the insane.

‘Don’t mind mushrooms myself,’ said the barman. ‘Bar’s closed.’

Alzear nodded goodnight to the barman. He swirled his tongue around his mouth, tracing the unfamiliar bitterness left by his drink. He stumbled light-headed out of the tavern and into a cold dark night, illuminated by a pock-marked moon close to the earth.

He had almost forgotten that tonight was meant to be the start of his journey but he had been stood up, yet again, by his unreliable friend Gale.

The ale had dulled his senses more than usual and he was beginning to suspect not only had he eaten some mushroom, it had perhaps been the same type that killed his parents. At least that was the excuse he made to himself as he was grabbed from behind and felt and cold metal against a beating vein in his neck. "Ish musch easier

to do'et when I am been drinking, ye'idiot," Alzear croaked.

The man with the knife chuckled, "That’s a point to me. How’d you guess it was me?"

Alzear nodded towards the ground, indicating he had seen Gale’s golden boots. Even at night, they seemed to have an unearthly glow.

Alzear smirked, "Fine, but I'm still ahead."

The man frowned, "Is that so Mr. Alzear?"

Alzear jabbed him with his elbow and the man let him go.

Gale moaned. "We bet'er get goin'."

Twelve elven-days had past since the friends had left the city of Arethor. The wind bit at their unprotected skin like snake bites. Most of their food had been spoiled and their clothes were mildewy and not even fit for beggars, except for Gales golden boots that still looked as new as the day they were made. A storm had brewed for days and now its full force was unleashing.

Alzear lay shivering under the narrow ledge of rock, the stench of his rank clothes and even ranker body making him gag and wondering if he ever going to reach his destination? He curled himself into a ball to preserve his core body temperature and fell into a state of semi unconsciousness from cold, lack of food and pure physical exhaustion. Gale sat beside him, almost unaffected by the long distance they had walked and the bad weather. Alzear knew it was something to do with those boots that never came off Gales feet.

Alzear was woken by the smiling face of Gale. He was pointing as something beyond him. The sunshine illuminated a trail before them. Alzear got to his feet, though he could not feel anything below his knees and stepped, squinting into the sun.

Alzear forced one leg in front of the other. After a while, his legs seemed to do his bidding without a conscious effort from his brain. The branches of lush willows caressed their faces as they walked along a trail that so few men had travelled. Alzear peered deep into the vegetation surrounding him. He thought he saw movement and gripped his sword tightly.

After hours of silent walking, the friends turned to face each other, wordlessly agreeing to take a break. Gale was sorting through a kerchief of mushy bread riddled with mould when before Alzear's eyes his head was removed from his neck. Alzear stared down at his friend's bodiless head, a piece of bread still lodged in the corner of its mouth.

His attacker laughed.

Alzear's survival instinct kicked in. His sword was not yet raised to receive the blow from a large broadsword crashing down upon him. He felt a searing pain in his thigh.

This sound of the attacker’s laughter at his poor friend’s death, summonsed within Alzear a massive surge of strength. Despite his wound, he raised his sword to defend himself against the next blow. This time it only glanced off his chest.

The laughter died down. "Y'e realise y'ar far dead too? How much gold ya got, besides on the boots?"

How could he and Gale have let their guard down in such a place? Gale had paid for this oversight with his life.

"Rest in peace," Alzear said, though he meant it for the bandit, and not his friend, who was staring at him with the blank stare of the dead. Alzear launched himself forward, slashing at the bandit.

His attacker's face went from smiling to grimacing as Alzear's sword found its mark. The attacker gurgled incomprehensibly and his body slumped to the ground. A pity, Alzear would have liked to have prolonged his attacker's death until he screamed for his mother in hell and begged to join her.

Alzear closed his friend's staring eyes. He picked up his friend's head and tenderly placed it on the body. He would bury him and say a pray. "Rest well, brother,' Alzear said staring at the makeshift cross. He picked up Gale's golden boots and pack, taking all the last of the rotten food.

He also emptied the pockets of the bandit. He would not waste his time giving him any burial rites. The ferocity of attack was likely due to the bandit's desperation. He did not have a single penny on him and his clothes were in a worse state than Alzear's. He wondered if the man had been trying to feed his family. If only the bandit had asked them and he and Gale would surely have found something to give him. A saying came to his mind - I owe a lot, I have debts, I give the rest to the poor.

Alzear bandaged his leg and studied the path ahead. He hesitated to put his friend’s boots on himself. Not only because he knew his friend’s feet were so much smaller than his, but because they did not feel like his. However, the moment he slipped his feet into them, they felt like he had worn them for years. They moulded to his feet perfectly. And now, whenever he looked down, he would sense his friend Gale was near him.

Bandits were not the only danger that lurked along this path. He would not let his guard down again. Every step he took was agony. Unless he could find an apothecary, infection from his wound would eventually overcome him. His mother had taught him what healing forest herbs would help with infection but it would be suicide to go into the forest to search for them. No better he died from his wounds on the open road.

He limped along, feeling like the last human left on earth. The birds screeched. Flies teemed over the blood seeping from his bandage. The wind gusted and he was forced to walk into its force. It was like an unseen enemy pushing him in the chest, mocking his puny efforts.

Voices drifted from the trees, in his delirium, Alzear could not tell if they real or a product of his imagination. "His is weak, he is weak!" they whispered. "His father would be ashamed!"

Alzear shook his sword at the trees. The forest's creature erupted in panic when he howled like a madman.

He saw a human form beckoning him from between the willow branches. He hobbled as fast as he could to catch up to him. As he approached, the figure dipped out of the site but he caught glimpses of him running into the trees. Alzear had left the path, something he knew he should not do. But to follow any human would be better than the intense loneliness he experienced on the Path of Madness.

He again caught sight of the figure and made a huge effort to ignore the pain in his leg and catch up to the man. He was overcome with joy when he realised the figure was his friend Gale. His brain tried to reconcile the man before him with the man he had buried, his head separated from his body. "Not possible, my friend" Alzear said to the man. "Is this another one of your tricks."

The Gale figure grinned and lifted his hands to his head, which he then removed. The face still animated, the mouth gaping open, a black hole sucking at Alzear's mind, draining of his sanity.

What are your characters ambitions?: Alzear hopes to begin a family by his name and bring it great honour.

Please provide an in-game screenshot of your skin here:

http://postimage.org/image/vmzi9dpdz/

Is there anything else you would like to say about your character:

Open-Response-Questions

Each question here must be answered with a minimum of one full paragraph, and detail the scene you are given in the way it would happen in roleplay. These questions should be answered in first person. Be detailed, not short.

Upon entering the Mighty Human City of Arethor, you come across a shop-keeper calling out to sell his wares to passers-by. The shopkeeper is not a Human, he is a poor dwarf looking to make a living in a new city. What is your response?

Alzear glances at him and the look is returned by the dwarf. The continue looking at each other for a few seconds before the dwarf begins to speak, "Hrm, 'ello 'ere friend, wot cannae get f'e ye today?" Alzear simply shakes his head and the dwarf speaks again, "No? Wot'a pity." Alzear nods to him before taking his leave.

You’re wandering the Oren Road late at night, when a large Orc begins to threaten a nearby dwarf. There is no help nearby, and the situation looks like it will escalate into violence soon, what does your character do?

Alzear quickly notes that none of his brethren are in trouble and decides to stay out of the fight. A quick swing from an Orc and it could all be over. Alzear knows this. The Orc becomes agitated and lashes out at the Dwarf. The blow was not too powerful but it was enough to knock the Dwarf from his feet. The Orc spits at the dwarf and trudges off.

Whilst walking down the road to Malinor, you stumble upon an old man. His walking stick , looks weak and frail, and just as you are about to ask something, the stick breaks, and the man falls to the ground. As he falls down, a bag of Minas falls to the ground, and splits open. As you watch the multiple coins spill out, you peer down at the defenceless man. What does your character do?:

Alzear jumps back, "You fool, watch yourself!"

The old man croaks in pain, and his hands tremble. Alzear does not have time to help, he kicks some of the coins back next to the man and wipes his hand across his nose, "There may be more people coming, they will help you." Alzear turns, and walks away.

[Skippy 2466]

Accepted

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Welcome to Asulon, a GM will soon implement you and you will be able to role-play.

[Skippy 2466]

Moved to Accepted Forum