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About Biffsquiggled

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    Newly Spawned
  • Birthday January 18

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    aUrthUr (G3RN)#5515
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  • Character Name
    Thorodhuin Laica
  • Character Race
    Wood Elf

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  1. at first thought the idea of farming would be best for welves, but this is cooler so +1
  2. We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood; Fear the old blood.
  3. TOOLS FOR MURDER [THEME] “You'll use it, boy, and as long as you hate using it, you would use it more wisely than most men would. Wait. If ever you don't hate it any longer, then will be the time to throw it as far as you can and run the other way.” It finally had come to it. Weapons, tools for murder, had been commissioned. Thoroduin stood before the anvil, hammer in hand and stared at the wrought steel with a drifting look in his eyes. The pale white cray sketches, that crumbled off of his workplace’s countertop, depicted two simple weapons. He bit onto his pipe and blew a long bloom through his nose. Wolves have fangs, bears had claws, mortals had knives. Thorwen didn’t like it, but it was a reality he had to come to grips with. Through another cloud of billowing smoke, he summoned from the depths of boxes and crates, three long bars of steel, one hard two soft, kept together like a sandwich. Thorwen kept a ruler on hand, in the pockets of his apron. With a sniff, he emptied his pipe and realised he was procrastinating his craft. It drew a growl from his lips, and he got himself to work. Two hammers, one pair of tongs, and a rounding implement for the socket was to be done. He took with him a placebo for the Ahlspiess’ shaft. Noting down the measurements, he checked through the compendium of various crafts, slipped on some gloves and went to sandwich the hard steel between two softs, before plunging it into the flames. The bellows roared, and took away part of his worry. The first craft was basically a long nail, with a socket and a disk for a guard. It wasn’t anything complex, or difficult, but it was as deadly as an eagle’s talon. When a flaming orange star glimmered between the black embers, he gripped it with the tongs, by the tang, and brought it to the anvil. The rest was just muscle memory. Focus, clarity, vision… Thorwen let the tool’s weight do the rest. What he started with was a long spike, much akin to a nail. He twisted his wrist between each hit to give the hot steel a rectangular silhouette. Eventually, the spike grew in length, and in correct shape. He had been afraid he might have undershot, though Thorodhuin soon realised this particular craft would have an ellongated socket. Longer than he anticipated, which wasn’t a bad thing. He led the spike cool down, and held the piece by that spike, before plunging what the tang would be into the flames. Half an hour afterwards, he rose the piece from the anvil, a faint red glower still ran like veins across the langlets. The socket had been done by flattening, and then applying the steel against the anvil’s horn to curve it into shape. A final delve into the flames returned it burning like a devil, and he plunged it from the furnace into the fine quenching oïl that rested in a vat by his side. Tongues of fire licked his gloves, and forced the spike into shape, treating it until it held and showed promise of integrity. Next came the indentations at the ahlspeiss’ base, four marks for the rondel guard to be hammered down into. Which he did, a piece of hot iron he went to grind into a circular shape, with a four pronged star chisel punctured through. After a few moments, success came within reach, he made sure the guard wouldn’t fall off at the slighest nudge and went to give it an edge to catch other stabs on. It didn’t seem the most useful weapon, mostly a long nail – too long to retrieve properly – on a stick. After a few other moments later, it had been cleaned, the edges slightly sharpened, and the guard properly affixed in place. Thorodhuin let that be wrapped up in linen, in his tent. He’ll have to turn a pole for later. For the next craft, all he had to use was an old scythe head. A fine thing, turned into a weapon of war. He snarled – more than he was already – and brushed it clean of rust and impurities. When that was done, it was time to reshape it into something more appropriate. You won’t be seeing any rest yet. The red hot blade was straightened and brought out of the flaming embers. He progressively rectified it back into place, and wrought it until it was the proper length. Now came the bevel, using the edge of the anvil to place it at a slant. The socket for the blade was going to prove a greater problem than he anticipated. Thorodhuin wiped some sweat off his brow. The tang he had used for the smithing of the long axe would thus become the socket. In a similar manner to the ahlspeiss, Thorodhuin went to heat it and curve it in such a manner it could hold onto a long wooden shaft. The Elven blacksmith went to brush the blade of residue. With the axe’s head done, he submitted it to the flame once more. With the final plunge into the quenching oïl, he retrieved it and sharpened it against his grinding wheel. Two poles had been spun in the meantime, then handed over to him. He paid the poleturner, and went to affix both heads on their accompanied foundation. Each was nailed into place, and were done so well. For a ‘first attempt’ it didn’t seem so bad. Nothing fancy, no need for filligrees, or ornamentations. Claws didn’t have any such things anyway. He had begun at dawn, and a new dawn had begun to rise again. Thank Ceridwen, some peace.
  4. HUMBLE BEGINNINGS [THEME] Nails, chassis, rods and horse shoes, all simple crafts. Years on the road had honed a man’s mind to focus on a single thing at once. A clear vision, a clearer mind and a simple path to follow. A cartwright had come to Thorodhuin for a slew of different items, though more importantly he had given him a reason to stay grounded. Every time Thorodhuin put the hammer down, it was the wild that called him next. Two mistresses, one was capricious and adventurous, the other was reliable and secure. The flames and embers of the forge licked an ingot of mellow-grey iron. Its smooth surface heated up under the hefty blow of whining bellows. He’d have to oil its hinges later on. Funnily enough, the hammer in his hand had a lighter weight than any other quarterstaff or sword he had ever carried. It was a bizarre feeling, to have attachment for something else than his habit. Regardless, the sharp glower of a bright red ingot caught his eye, and he rolled into motion. The tongs clamped onto the hot iron like a snake, and with repeated blows he mauled the material into shape. Something simple, something precise. Thorodhuin let the hammer fall and rise, sparks broke the midnight air, the rain sizzled and rose in plumes of smoke. With a clenched jaw, he frowned as he rebuked some violent memories. He thought he heard a roar behind him. Focus on the task at hand, don't turn back. His scar grew numb, his jaw ached, he blew out a sigh and twisted the tongs in his hand. It was essential to get the size right, perhaps even overreach, a chassis was the core for carts and carriages, if it was too short or misplaced that was somebody’s livelihood gone for a month at best. Thorodhuin focused, his snarl grew and he placed the iron back into the fire. He worked the bellows and consulted the list. He’ll likely be done by this morning, and following that another commission was going to be required. He breathed out, and thought he saw a hulking shadow in beyond the glare of the forge. Hesitantly, the mali’ame smith scratched his nose. His grip choked up the hammer’s head, though the flaming glare of iron brought him back to reality. It wasn’t here, not within these walls. Over the course of the night, he went to form out the core parts of a carriage, from the rods to the nails needed, and the pivots. He didn’t understand how those things worked, and was sure the cartwright was good at his job, but the cash was there. Well, more importantly, the peace of mind came with it.
  5. THORODHUIN LAICA -= [Theme] [Theme] [Theme] =- Name: Thorodhuin Laica Meaning: Turbulent river / Verdant Nicknames: Thorì Thorwen Traveller Race: Wood Elf Apparent Age: 30~ ish Age: 240 Years Old Occupation: Trapper / Vagabond / Tor Elder’s blacksmith Appearance / Mindset: Hardy shoes make for a happy traveller, Thorì is no different. He cherished simpler, more convenient and comfortable clothes rather than lavish garments full of gold and glitter. A warm fire, a good cloak against the rain, and a sturdy quarterstaff was all he needed to wander the wilds. Travel-wise, Thorì wore thick and supple layers of padded garments, that had proved their worth time and time again. A rain cloak, that also doubled as a coat, was wrapped around his shoulders. A hood shields his face from bad weather and accusatory glances alike. Beneath the hood laid a distinctive visage, with roughly kept bark brown hair and tanned olive skin adapted to the outer regions of the world. More importantly, a gruesome scar marred the elf’s left cheek, distorted his left eye, and forced his lips into a perpetual snarl. Finally, druidic tattoos mark his body. Inscriptions run down his spine, on his arms, chest and legs. Meant to be symbols for protection, they hold little value other than superstition. A wolf brooch on his chest, he kept as the sole artifact of metalwork in truly cherished. Physical Attributes: Height: 5’7”ft. Weight: 188 lbs. Body Type: Mesomorph. EDC / Inventory: Thick rain cloak, efficient traveller’s clothes, a waterskin (1 weeks travel), rations (1 weeks travel), a game bag (3 hares), a trapper’s backpack (rope, bait, etc) a woodsman’s axe, a hunting knife, a 7ft walking staff (doubles as quarterstaff), and an old map. Faith: The Father (Cernunnos), The Mother (Ceridwen) & the Moon (Nemiisae). Mani: Thunderbird, Wildcat & Wolf.
  6. Biffsquiggled


    Thorì wasn’t born out of terrible parents, or despicable stepmothers; his father Hràvanen was an old sellsword who could sustain most expenses off of the coin he had gained here and there, and his mother Elisseae was a weavess who occasionally spoke of her adventures back when she had no one to bind her home, together their wealth made for a common lifestyle. In his own grove, a small Seed of huntsmen and trappers known for good linen clothing, Thorodhuin grew up alone or with friends, drifting away in wanderlust and returning to his home with a hare, or a larger game. Eventually, his father died and his mother followed within the month. Having nothing else to stay for, the elf became a vagabond, and put to use the skills and tools his father had taught him to survive. Remembering the teachings of his two parents, Thorodhuin came to embrace the Mother, Father, and Moon as patrons of his travel. Eventually, he became aimless, the pathways ahead was the sole purpose he had attained. A state of constant wandering, roaming, without ever drowning from the lack of a goal. Whenever he found game, he hunted; whenever travellers came to his campfire, he welcomed them. Good hardy boots, a walking staff, and a thick cloak was all Thorodhuin needed in life.
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