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BazingaJoe

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  1. BazingaJoe

    Bazinga_Joe

    You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?)) Teenk takes the offer right away, jumping up onto the cushion as if it were a soap box. "Of course you were expecting Mi! The best-" He interrupts himself, suddenly deep in thought. Teenk shakes his head, and restates, "The okay-est rowboat maker this side of the world! And soon the better-est, then best captain you've seen." Teenk's chest is puffed out in pride, at this last sentence. "But, but! Humble beginnings. Born near cost, big big family. All focused on ground and little things, but not the sea!" His arms go wide to punctuate this, but not nearly as wide as his grin. He returns to his prideful stance, "So I build! And I build, and I build, and I build, and I..." He mumbles on for a good while. He catches himself, eventually, and continues. "Build a lot of little rowboats. After many, one doesn't sink! So I sail, and tip over. And I sail and sail and, stop tipping over! So I leave! And now am.." Beady eyes search around the tent, before landing on the crone. He points to the ground, and exclaims, "Here! And then I won't be here. Elsewhere. To be best with water! One day, yes."
  2. BazingaJoe

    BazingaJoe69

    Renart was born as a Far-Folk to the nomadic Rassids culture. He remembers little of his family and old life, other than that his parents had naturally passed before he began to provided for himself. After years of mediocre merchant work, he decided to become a freelance contract worker. Due to his love of history, Renart found himself working for a archaeologist. His main job was to dig for ruins and artifacts. The dig started as they usually did, lots of digging with little to no finds. But for once in his artifact finding career, a ruin was found in the first day. It appeared to be a temple, dedicated to god given magics. Renart was tasked with digging out the west-side room. After weeks of scrapping, he could barely squeeze into the room. The rubble and debris did not go past the doorway, as if it was held there by a mystical force. At the end of the long room was a book. Its first distinct feature was how it hummed and almost moved. It was nothing he had seen before. Though by instinct, he opened the book. The book was partially destroyed. Some of the pages could be transcribed with some hard work, but other parts were unlikely to be restored. Something odd that Renart never noticed, was that it was written in a common, modern tongue. When Renart touched the book, he changed. Something within him was gripped with a desire. A desire, but he did not know for what. The book spoke of a forgotten god, one of songs and words. The book ended with a prophecy, that the one who hears a secret tone, which the god hid within a sequence of words and notes, would “ascend” after their death. Renart had found what his desire was, and what he must dedicate his life to. He could not afford to buy the book from the the head archaeologist, so Renart simply walked out of the camp with it in the middle of the night. He knew he would be a criminal, so he fled to a land he only heard in passing, Arcas. Renart began to study the book in all his waking hours. Eventually, he began making his own writings and songs. At first, these works were completely legible. However, in desperation, the works came closer to gibberish. He also fought with keeping his sanity. He is still able to integrate with society be a functional person, but the study of this book has made him eccentric, and he tends to stay in solidarity, or wander with those more like him. As of now, his main goal is writing of current history and writing fiction, hoping that events that haven’t happened hold the blessed tone.
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