Guy d'Yood of Mann

Berilac wonders who this miraculous Jawn may be and whether someone has something to do with J names, only to fall to his knees and thank Creator that Praedium doesn't have any libraries they could've burned and Shame of Praedium's history is preserved for posterity at civilized places.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1XLyEDZYfk, Atherans one and all that may have stumbled

over this wee pile of absurd and nonsense -

say 'friend' and enter, as me ol' lass would say.

T'was... a tough decision to write this scribbly dibbly little thang, but, alas, if I did take the effort ta write anything past the application, then why should I not poke this into living. One's in for a penny, one's in for a pound. Enough with philosophy. So read up me hearties.

Now, darlings, be careful, for this is gonna be a wee traumatizing for ye all trying to read it. The name's gonna be presented in the longest fashion I can usher into living, and if you can spell it correctly on the first try, I'll bloody send you a strawberry pie over the Pacific or die trying (from TSA).

Name's Krystyn Szymon Hieronim Kos, on mother's side Drapik, further Kniaziewicz, titular count von der Amsel, with the amount of names that'd give a Dixie's terrier a solemn headache. Ah, genealogy. But aye - fresh graduate of 'liceum' (from lykaeum) or for all you chubby lads, high school, for any of you Google-totting maniacs, namely being the ZSG-E in a wee mining podunk called Konin (If you wanna be a dyke, translate it to Horseville) proudly totting the patronage name o' Stanisław Staszic whom you needn't bother knowing. As per me request, me Polish GCSE or whatev you call it in your *tries for the best impression o' phlegm in his voice* bachvata kantry, around these parts known simply as the Matura, I'll be writting it in the next year, leaving me with a year to spend chucking witty remarks, exercisin'  me sorry excuse of a wit and joinin'  the army reserve (NSR) for materialist reasons called "I'd rather not starve to death when I'm finally at the uni." Eighteen years old and proud, step by step pacing over to the nineteenth at the October, and with the Summer to spend exchanging references with a bunch of fellow edgies and mandalorian wannabes.

I've been here for, what? Something alongside three weeks by now, and, I did consider taking my leave several times over. Not because things happened poorly to me fortune, but, rather because being green doesn't help me nor does it me character's profession. First days I was like a bloody magpie, mind you. "Ooh, pless."  "Oooh, another pless."  "Oooooh, shiny roof." or " Ooooooh, giraffes." alongside of countles mythical critters like Hanging Leaves Monster or Physically Impossible Roof, also known as Newton-is-rolling-in-his-coffin. Then me Polish inferiority complex kicked in at the sight of some of the jaw-dropping constructions (shoutout to christian2142 bb~) and coolio people using four emotes to emote placing their arse on a barstool (hey nolan bb~), and combined with being shy like a virgin on a wedding night, I pretty much was just... wandering. Probably including some places that ET didn't really want me to see, but, shh, darlings. What happens in Athera, stays in Athera.

Then came a discovery of a small griefed village, and a chitchat with Berilac's guide, then the guide's actual employer, and things escalated so fast I still could probably benefit from a t-shirt saying "I don't know WTF I am doing". I met some awesome folks, I had some wondrous ventures. Had me ups and me downs and that's not even a sexual innuendo you buggers.

Some of you already know me by the terribly intrusive emotes. Some by me horrible accent classified as something inbetween Irish, Scottish and Italian crossed with a coughing cougar and a yodeling calamari. Some just 'ave been 'seen in Athera' and to all of you, lads and lasses, my sincere thanks for putting up with the greenie bs of me own (shoutout to darlin's like Rhewen (I owe you a beer for that argument, lad) and the two wayfaring elves amazed by a halfling's skellington-slaying-skills whose kindness and awe left me just as confused as it left Berilac) and I wish you all good luck and good fortune. May you hold on tight to your shereshoy, ner vode.

Oh. And, of course. See you in Athera.

((Wuvwuvs to all who didn't get a direct shoutout - a certain midget wuvs you all, amazing bbs~

8/10. For the courtesy of cutesy.

+1. 'nuff said. Good luck darlin'.

[Dlt]

~ Application Format ~
(IC Information)

Exitus Acta Probat?

[!] First Name: Berilac

[?] Last Name: Goldworthy

[?] Nickname: A Certain Midget

[!] Age: 41

[!] Race: Halfling

[!] How did you find out about Sylverport?

Chitchat in the Lotus.

[!] Do you associate, or familiarize yourself with any current citizens?

Vast majority. Although there's still quite a few unnamed

new faces in this book.

[?] If yes to the above question, who?

• Most of the older industrial union members, vode an.
• Themba Zuberzuri, ner vod.
• Sentries Nightingale and Nightgrove - ori'vode an.
• Alyssia Nightgrove and Mira Caswell - ori'vode an.
• Maxwell R., al'verde.
• Sentinel Driscoll, ner vod.

[!] Do you hold any non-Union specialities (Magic, Doctoring, etc.)?

As filed under [Classified]. I definately make great noodles.

[!] Do you hold any military experience?

None to count.

[?] If yes to the above question, what (rank, regiment, etc.)?

---

[!] Are you willing to live with other citizens (will be necessary for prioritized, comfortable housing, and will be matched as appropriate as best possible):

Yes.

[!] If yes to above, do you have any particular preference to a citizen, respective Union, etc.?

None over general trustworthiness.

[!] Do you hold housing/citizenship elsewhere?

((I haz a batcave.))

Small hermitage in the wilds, open for all.

[!] If yes to the above question where, and would you be willing to relocate your primary citizenship to Sylverport?

Not the matter.

(OOC Information)

[!] IGN:

Fetching_Ghost/Ranby

[!] Timezone:

CEST UTC/GMT

[!] Days most active/hours per day average:

Currently most of the week/12h a-day when necessary.

[!] Do you have a Teamspeak (PM if yes, or include here for IP)?

Known well enough.

[!] Do you have a Skype (PM if yes, or include here)?

PM'ed.

Welcome, darlin', and see you in Athera.

[Dlt]

+1 Pretty please, with sugar, cream and candized cherry on top.

Ibrahim bint Isaias al'Bastura
 

Basic Information
(UPDATED)

Nicknames: Berilac I. Goldworthy/Isaac Longshanks/Sibbe Gerest

Age: On the way to his Fiftieth Seed (On human physicality basis - around "thirties")

Gender: Male. At least t'was in proper place last he checked.

Race: Halfling/'White-Washed' Halfling

Status: Single! I mean, still kicking. (Alive)



Description

Height: Three and half a foot. (1,06 meters)

Weight: 59 lb/27 kg

Body Type: Thin/Slim for a typical Halfling's anatomy.

Eyes: Unusual shade of brown/hazel, easy to notice in halfdark

Hair: Brunette/Brown

Skin: Tanned

Markings/Tattoos: Several scars scattered across the body - most

noticeably three scars on his left arm that appear to have been bone-deep wounds.

A large, scar from a deep cut that may have torn the vein sits on his right arm.

Similarily, there's a grievous, still healing wound on his shoulder, where

an arrow tore through the flesh and subcalvian, damaging the bladebone on the way.

Health: Not in the best mental shape. Currently suffers from insomnia that

he treats with large doses of pale ale. Believed by some to be a sociopath.

Twigs o' legs he had have been put into some good use now, that

with miss Beth's help, he no longer has to worry about them.

Personality: A compulsive liar, Ibrahim remains an enigma to some,

a headache to others and infinite source of confusion to most, operating,

across the Athera alongside of his "lads and lasses" inbetween

cooking and writting yet another romantic novel. Very few

have proven capable of looking through his countless masks

to see the "true face" of his, or through his bluff, even though

as a somewhat green operative, he drops quite a few bits of

evidence (like accent) that can be used to drill through the bitter,

chocolate layers of fake and deceiving and onto

the delicious, orange-flavoured jelly of horrible truth.

Rest to be discovered IC. ((Na, na, nanana. *sticks tongue*))

Inventory: In his backpack he appears to be stowing enough the paper, quills and

jars of resinated ink to make half the bookstores in land bankrupt. 

Usually carries around a fair share of food provisions for the longer journeys.

A long, butchering knife that can be used as a short sword rests

on his hip. Sometimes he is seen with a halfling-sized walking stick.

Further Details:

- Insomnia-riddled nights have rendered him rather weary and tired

- Has a thing for one-night ventures with men and women alike

- Cooks an amazing beef broth. With homemade noodles.



Life Style

Alignment: Chaotic evil/Chaotic neutral. Somewhere inbetween marmite and Ciaphas Cain.

Deity: Creator/Allfather

Religion: Canonist

Alliance/Nation/Home: Familia de Den/Oren/Aesculus

Job/Class: "Halfling extraordinairé, visionary, cook, actor and tonsureless priest"/

Wandering  scholar of St. Elam's College/

Annoying, eavesdropping schweinhund.

Title(s): "Longshanks", "Minister of Truth", "Ranger"

Profession(s): Chef/Miner/Breeder/Farmer

Special Skill(s): Really annoying adorable. Known to be pretty good at

reading people's emotions. Gained a good knowledge of human and halfling anatomy.

Practicin' medicine and learnin' more 'bout the fields.

Flaw(s): Still as green as his author. Greatly enjoys sweets. Also is very

awkward at family reunions.



Magic

Current Status: None. Unlikely to learn. Lacks the magipotence.

Arch-type:

Sub-Type:

Rank:

Weakness(es):

Strength(s):

Current Spell(s):

 

Weaponry

Fighting Style: "Sociopathic frenzy"/"Stab a meatman"/"Crouching chinchilla, hidden halfling"

Trained Weapon: Butcher knife, many years in usage and practice.

Favored Weapon: Butcher knife/Bare hands.

Archery: Little to no training, never used in any form.



Biography

Parents: Biological unknown/Farfolker parents:

- Tal'aran (lit."Ship-king/mn. Leader of a single ferry") Isaias bint Rasviel al'Bastura

- Tal'aresa Halena bint Etesan al'Bastura

Siblings: Biological unknown/Farfolker siblings:

- Desperan bint Isaias al'Bastura (Adoptive older brother)
- Halesia bint Isaias al'Bastura (Adoptive younger sister)

Children: All strangled at their birth. Nah. None yet. (OR IS THERE?) ((Na.))

Extended Family:

- al'Basturan people/Basto'ada an.

- His friends, compatriots and Familia members

- Aesculians and Orenians one and all

Pet(s): Does an olog BFF count?



History ?

Learn in character, you lazy bastards.

Artwork

To be added.

Out-Of-Character Information (etc)

What’s your Minecraft Account Name?: "Fetching_Ghost". It's a long story.

How old are you?: I am eighteen going on nineteen, baby it's ti... Pardon my sixties.

Are you aware the server is PG-13?: It has me mildly concerned, but aye.

Have you applied to this server before?: Didn't have the pleasure before.

Have you read and agreed to the rules?: 'course officer.

What’s the rule you agree with the most?: Ain't no rest for Batman skins.

Are there any rule(s) that confuse you or don’t make sense: Not as of currently.

How did you find out about Lord of the Craft?: Call it a fool's luck. Or, as we say in those parts, "blind hen's grain". Toplists in other words.

Definitions

What is roleplaying?:

noun
1.

Jokin'. Depending on who's talking, that's either a enjoyable form of entertainment and social interaction related to popular idea of role-playing, ranging from vast quantities of tabletops and books through more outside and lively activities to the very games of each and every ilk - or a much more vast term that I'm not going to bore you with. Plus an hour o' lecture's twenty dolla's. Nah. Ain't no professor's pay for me yet.  

What is powergaming?: Matt Ward. In other words, act of either creating an OP character, or of abusing the game's crooks and creaks for own interest in order to win. Also, Matt Ward.

In-Character Information

(yay)

Character’s name: Berilac Ibrahim Goldworthy, ser or ma'am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Character’s gender: Fancying a pair the last he checked. Yes, male.

Character’s race: Halfling. Like a certain lass once said, "I like them chubby and hairy".

Character’s age: Thirty eight seeds. That sounds dirty. Unless it doesn't. Forget I said anything.

Biography: Ahem. "Once upon a time, on a dusty, little field road, a group of wandering vagabonds discovered something most unusual, at least on the fairy tale standards. Amidst the trampled remains of rags and luggage, there laid a child, as far as eyes could say, nearly starved. T'was not a prince nor a bastard the lovely people discovered, neither did the Farfolkers find any mythical swords in the baby's vicinity, nor bearded foresters flying over the horizon. The lucky little brat was a mundane halfling, and at that, the extraordinairé part would usually be slapped aside by the biography's step-mother, Licentia Poetica. Not much of a problematic child, the little halfling quickly took the trade after his new parents, living for the excitement of tricks and adorable errands of ferrets, for the gleeful laughter of children and surprised gasps of the adults - for the cheer of the crowd, as one could say. A cunning lad born and an actor bred, t'wasn't much of a surprise when yet another travel across Oren ended up more complicated you, kind reader, could assume - a misfortune of his own forced him to flee both his previous life and his human compatriots. And that, curious reader, is where the Longshanks' story began."

- ... you misbegotten, lowbred cur! - furious insults echoed serenely in the night's depth, as if the very echo itself tried to chase across the quiet footsteps on the wet flowerbeds of Variela Garden. The owner of these wary feet carelessly trotted across the microcosmos of roses, belldandies and other lackadaisies like an overgrown lizard stomping through a Kharajyr city. Apparently yet unnoticed by anyone awake enough to hear thane Alois Bergeren's tumultous rage behind the daisycutter, shady champ did soon reach the gates bordering orchards and flowery gardens - the jewel in Bergeren's imaginary crown - only then taking the brief moment of reprieve, his breath barely masked by the windy weather and his heart pounding in small chest like a terrifically stupid fly trying to escape through a room's roof. His shaky hands delicately unveiled a small package he held through his escape, as if to reassure himself with a brief glance at his loot. Aforementioned was a small, leather-clad book, tightly sewn and obviously well made. Lad's lips moved following his thought when his eyes met it's front page.

- "Verites."(*) - he read upon the title. With some unexpected confidence, he snapped the thin, velvety rope that held the book's edges together and carefully pulled a number of pages from within. With those snatched deeply into his coat, he quickly pulled out a little flint and placed the remains at a relatively dry bit of the fence, lighting them up soon after. By the time it's owner happened to notice the little wildfire, shadowy visitor was long gone. 

Sunrise, for once, came as an unexpected visitor. Brief, dim glow seeping through the room's dirty, dusty curtains tickled back of a small male, who, after an observation, could be identified as a man of the wee folk. A quiet grumble could be heard, eventually becoming a harbringer of awakening. Having finished his titanic ordeal of pulling own head off the grimey blankets, his hazel eyes quickly wandered across the room, until they'd set on a number of pages strewn all over a wooden cupboard. Only then did he smile, that wicked little grin running across his face like an escaping viper. He was back on the track. Maybe the Allfather still had a small bit of favour left even for his kind. Now, he thought, to less pleasant mattter of jumping through the window. That is, unless he'd be able to woo his way out of the little shebeen without paying. A man can hold his dreams, now, can't he?

Personality Traits: As a self-proclaimed "Halfling extraordinairé, wayfarer, visionary, rhetorician, actor and a tonsureless priest", Berilac is, obviously, a man difficult to put in a single shelf. The few people he willingly met see an eccentric scholar, some others a drunken roadsman. A fellow wholeheartedly loyal to his cause and the few compatriots he has left, he rarely is seen without the myriad masks he wears, to ensure his doings remain well hidden behind numerous impressions and appearances. Considering himself a rather compulsive liar, he still follows an unusual honor code, well in spite of the sincere disgust he seems to hold for the men and women and chivalry kind. Always curious, always forward-minded and dedicated, it is without any doubt that he isn't going to give up on his search, and, perhaps, on his little crusade of redemption.

Ambitions: ((OOCs))

- Studies of the Aengul and search for knowledge of the old realms.

- A redemption through fullfilling the duty he was burdened with.

- Kindhearted loyalty to all whom he considers to be fellow souls.

((IC))

- Seemingly travelling across the human lands in search for archives both private and public.

- Usually avoiding heavily populated places.

Strengths/Talents: In spite of the popular Halfling stereotypes, Berilac's well-shaped and sporting a good condition, even if admittedly more so due to his lifestyle then intentional doings. He can hold his own in a fight, even if he'll always prefer to avoid it, and he is to be expected to play dirty whenever it seems necessary and possible. His childhood did hand him a witty mind and silver tongue, and as much as he can be persuasive, the actor's tropes sometimes fail him, revealing a guilt-driven man. He also has a good knack of mathemathical studies as a man always forced to take good care of his little mobile finances, and learned how to write and read in his travels. 

Weaknesses/Inabilities: The terrible events of his mysterious, earliest days, left his legs disfigured, making him rather clumsy for a Halfling, and rather half-arsed excuse for a burglar, even though he has relayed on illegal means several times in order to learn the knowledge he seeks. His mind also seems affected by the shadows coating the memories of his past, and these memories tend to lash his body and soul much more then any true harm would. He also seems surprisingly protective of children, having ushered a number of brawls even with folks twice his size in order to save them from real or imaginary danger. He also has a very creative tongue when it comes to insult, coming both as a value and as a fullblown curse, where it may even turn an argument into a literal combat on rare occasions. 

Appearance specifics: About three and half a foottall, the man has earned himself an ironic nickname "Longshanks" referring to his apparently thin, long and relatively feeble legs. He's a brunette and has similarily dark, hazel eyes. Every now and then he seems to fancy himself a dwarf's worth of facial hair, both for the ladies' appeal and professional usage, when an escape plan seems like not enough of a way to knock others off his trail.

Appearance ©: