Etheryn
06-01-11, 06:11 PM
Name: Dan James
Age: 22
Race: Human
Hair Colour: Dark brown, but remains shaved bald
Eye Colour: Brown
Weight: 90kg (200lb)
Height: 5’10”
Description
Dan started his working life at a fisherman’s labourer at a young age. Long days and hard slogs have developed a solid frame and “working man strength” about him. Built more like a fridge than anything else, he has the kind of quiet, slow, discrete muscle associated with a life of labour, even though he’s still young.
Solid hands, knuckles like golf balls and thick forearms are the first things people notice about him. People assume his trade as a blacksmith upon a handshake. His shoulders are broad and his chest pronounced, but again in that dormant, not-so-defined sense. He doesn’t have the flashy, lean and quick muscle of a sprinter or a bodybuilder, but his strength is significant.
He lost his once thick head of dark brown hair at an age early enough to make anyone self conscious. He has that sort of ‘Friar Tuck’ bald patch if he lets it grow out. Fortunately, he has facial features and a head perfectly fit for shaving short with a cut throat razor. Appropriately proportioned ear-to-head and nose-to-head size ratios, and just the right amount of bushiness in his dark brown eyebrows are the key to his chrome-dome look. People who meet him can’t imagine him ever having hair.
His work on the water gives him a deep, all year boaters’ tan. It creases and fades to a regular, if not olive skin tone on those areas that aren’t exposed to the elements. His tan line gives him a distinct two tone look when out of his work gear. Those bits that aren’t bronzed are dotted with infrequent freckles and sunspots.
He has a few scars on the forearms, and one particularly nasty scar on the bottom of his chin that curls up to the left corner of his lip. All of them came from work related injuries. His chin was opened up badly by an out of control hand winch and poor footing in rough seas. No facial hair grows over that scar. He doesn’t like growing a beard anyway.
There’s no particular ‘outfit’ he confines himself to, but Dan is most often seen in olive drab half length work overalls (the old kind with two shoulder straps that rise to mid waist, belt loops, bronze buckles and plenty of pockets) and a plain white or grey long sleeved work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has tannin brown, steel toe work boots that could pass as combat boots with an accompanying uniform. He always wears a simple brown belt with a silver buckle.
If he didn’t wear a belt, there’d be nothing for him to tie his father’s leather bag to. Despite all his manly features and a somewhat old-workhorse look which just doesn’t match his young age, he carries this arguably ‘fancy’ leather bag at all times on his hip.
There is something important to him in that simple accessory. Just over a squared foot in surface area of leather, cured from some unknown animal, and a white-yellow and thin drawstring cord made in a triple braid.
To anyone else but Dan, that little bag would be entirely insignificant.
History
The earlier childhood years were unremarkable ones in a small, nameless port town at the bight of the Bradbury River on Corone. His working life started at the age of thirteen on a trawler, under the lead of local hard man Ross. He hadn’t a choice but to contribute. His mother Julia had intermittent bouts of pneumonia and much to the confusion of any treating doctor, seemed especially susceptible to the illness. As a single income earner, it made things tight.
Roland James, his father, had been a well-respected guardsman and something of an impromptu ranger in the outlying areas. To Dan’s knowledge he died from arrow wounds from an encounter with a roving bandit group weeks before Dan was born. He knows the story and knows the score was evened, but the topic is a sore one and the no one dares bring it up. He received the story in pieces from Julia, but never forced it with respect to her continued grief.
Dan’s brother Aaron, older by six years, had already shipped out to join the city guard of Radasanth with dreams of climbing ranks and becoming a lauded high ranking official with ambitioned drummed up from stories about his father’s exploits.
“Nice one, bro. Leave me and Mum to chase a friggin’ rank. Good job.” Julia was proud and by proxy so was Dan, but he felt somewhat alone in the port town.
Things changed while fetching medicine for Julia on a rainy afternoon from the port town’s equivalent of a trading square. Ross approached young Dan directly. Ross knew of the plight, and despite being known as one of the hardest men who drank at the port's local tavern, he had an absolute soft spot for widowed Julia. She could melt his cold façade with ease.
Dan was vaguely aware of Ross, but never spoke to him. Ross was tall, solid, with a granite beard and steely blue eyes deep as the oceans he worked. He wore a fisherman’s navy blue overalls, and long sleeved work wear of dark and thick cotton with full length pants. There was something about him. You could call it a boy’s awe at a powerful man, but when Ross pulled Dan aside day and looked him straight through that day, Dan felt a subtle strumming in the air. It was something slightly intangible and hard to describe but definitely there. He continued to feel that same sensation whenever Ross was close by, for all the years onward he knew him.
“Son, your mother’s sick. I don’t have enough coin to give you to get by, but I can give you a chance to make it. You’re going to come and work for me.”
Dan took up the slack and tried his level best. He had to be man of the house at a young age in the absence of anyone else to support Julia through her protracted illness. It wasn’t something that he complained about. He laboured under Ross, or to the other deckhands “Boss”, on his nameless trawler through some vicious seasons, raging storms and massively profitable catches. Dan didn’t complain. An honest-to-goodness reliability must have been bred into him, because the hard work took no prompting at all. He never complained about the cold, about the sea sickness, or about being tired and hungry. He was first deckhand to start work and the last to finish. Some of that prosperity from a good season flowed down to him, even as a young and unskilled labourer who didn’t do all that much fish-catching. Ross recognised his efforts.
Five years rolled on. Roland's son grew strong. Julia’s sickness never did quite get better. She was a battler, and Dan had been earning enough to let her be around home and around town without actually working. She had to cope with the sickness and some level of permanent damage it left her. There was enough coin and enough food. Aaron came home every few months, and did bring money to contribute his bit. He cheered Julia with stories of his slow but successful climb through the ranks of his guardsman station. Dan quietly resented him for chasing glory and fame and not staying around to help, but couldn’t fault him for chipping in and chasing something outside the port.
The 18th birthday came around. Dan had been playing the role of man of the house for quite a while, but only now the other deckhands would consider him an adult. They all knew he was a solid worker, but like some tired old tradition, he’d still be ‘just a boy’ until he turned eighteen. It didn’t bother him. Dan knew his place. Still, he’d been silently looking forward to joining in the afternoon ritual of sinking way too much ale and staggering home merry. It was just wasn’t proper among the fisherman’s tradition to join in until reaching the ‘official age’. Dan obeyed that tradition and toed the line. If he didn’t the port guard surely would have given a hard lesson.
Ross stood on the dock with his crew, passing out some home-brewed, cheap ale and unceremoniously threw a bottle to Dan, newest man of the worker’s circle. Dan looked like he’d sucked a dozen lemons dry while he upturned the bottle. Ale was a new taste to him. A raucous cheer and heavy shoulder slaps followed. “Good on ya mate!”
The crew separated and went home. Dan and Ross remained. The sun had begun to set on the lonely, sheltered port town, and a baleful pink glow coated the clouds. The almost dusk became cold very quickly.
“Son, you grew strong like your Dad. Knew him well, I did. Had a lot in common, too. A lot more than you know. There was something we both set aside. That was a long time gone, a long time gone.”
Dan was surprised but remained silent. Today, although special, was just his birthday, and although more important than the others he hadn’t expected this much emotion from Ross. No one raised Roland’s story. Like it was a shared pain among the community, that little splinter that no one wanted to dig at. Dan never asked for more than what he already knew. There was nothing to remember and nothing to gain. The last thing he wanted was for something to twist his heart strings. Dan wasn’t around when that little splinter settled beneath the skin.
“We came here around the same time. Both came here for the same reasons. You didn’t know your Dad and that’s up to your Mum to tell you ‘bout. That’s her job. I’ve got something of his for you.”
Something in Dan’s mind clicked, and he noticed it. That strumming in the air returned and somehow centred on Ross, like he was personally emitting a hovering bass note. That thickness was hard to understand with no reference to anything Dan ever experienced elsewhere. Something of it amplified in correlation to Ross’s entirely uncharacteristic show of, well, personality. He’d always been a tight lipped man and it was difficult to get this many words from him in a year, let alone a few sentences.
He realised that subconsciously, he’d felt it in the air every time Ross spoke to him with some showing of human emotion. A bit of anger for ropes not getting coiled properly, frustration at mechanical failures, and boat-wide cheer among the crew at good catch results. Even during the suspense from the signs of an oncoming storm. Usually, too many things were happening for Dan to take it in and really perceive that aura about Ross. Now, on the quiet dock, Dan had all the time in the world to let it settle to his forethought.
“Saw you chug that ale. Dirt stuff, dirt stuff it is. Try some good stuff. Your Dad’s, mate. Here.”
Dan was quietly overwhelmed. He considered this new realisation, new awareness of that feeling in the air. Instead of being a background sensation, something that barely registered, it was starting to occupy his thoughts. Ross held over a pouch of brown leather with tripled braided white-yellow draw string. There was something inside it. Dan was suddenly very distracted now by the feeling. It was like that mind blanking effect of a stubbed toe, without the unpleasantness.
For the first time in this exchange, Dan spoke. “Boss, no one’s spoke to me about Dad. It just never happened. We just don’t, that’s how it is. Why this, now? What’s it got to do with today?” It didn’t make sense for Ross to unearth some connection with a father Dan never met.
“Son, today I call it quits. There’s something your dad and I put aside when we came here. Your Mum knows, but don’t you dare ask her. It’ll hurt her and she’s already hurt enough. We put it aside, ‘cause we didn’t need it no more. Always kept it, though, just in case we did. Dad kept it in this botte. Never did need it again. Said it yourself, son, that’s just how it is. Just take it.”
Dan reached out his right hand. That tingling in the air, the heavy feeling, coalesced into something that felt like a static discharge as Ross dropped the leather bag. There was something cylindrical inside it. There was tightness in Dan’s muscled arm, like exertion from hard labour, and then cessation to that strange aura. It just went, gone, like that.
“Respect to you, boss, but you gotta know you’re confusing me and I don’t have a damn clue where this is going. You’re getting like this over Dad’s whiskey?”
Dan looked down and saw a small bottle of some expensive brand, something-something ‘Red’s Glen’. The label half torn off with age. The remainder was in cursive, elaborate script. Made it look like the good stuff. The really expensive high-brow stuff.
“Drink it. This is what you’re supposed to do. You don’t know your Dad, but I did. This is what he wanted you to do on your birthday. Have a drink with him.”
“Why? I’m supposed to get drunk?”
“Drink it!”
Dan popped the small cork and choked down the hot, burning fluid. How anyone could enjoy it was beyond him. Dan coughed and spluttered.
“Hah! One day, son, you’ll get it. Sorry I gotta be about riddles and spooks, but one day it’ll all fit.” Ross’ voice was gravely as usual, but seemed someone relieved. He finished his sentence with a long exhalation.
“You said… more words… last five minutes, damn it… gonna be sick....” Dan involuntarily gagged with the burn in his gut, and felt like he was about to spew. Moments later he did, a second taste of that top shelf poison and stomach acid. A quick hurl into the water and Dan was done.
“You said more words to me in the last five minutes than in years, Boss.”
“All I needed to say to ya, I couldn’t say ‘till now. Not till you were old enough. Just isn’t right and that’s not how it works.”
“How what works?”
“What your dad and I put aside. What he left for you. You got it now, son.”
“All I have is a bad taste in my mouth.”
“You’ll see it soon. You’ll know. You’re gonna have to learn.”
“Boss, respect again, but don’t be so god damned weird. Tell me straight.”
“I can’t. Again, that’s not how it works. I’m done now. I get to hang up the hat. I gotta get home.”
Dan succumbed to a second wave of instant nausea, introduced to him by the effects of the foreign drink, and resumed throwing his guts up into the water. By the time he sat up Ross had put fifty yards behind him. Dan reeled through a quickly forming headache. He didn’t open his mouth and call out because he knew he’d just buckle over and vomit.
Ross wasn't seen again by anyone who knew him.
Dan stumbled in to the port tavern a short time later, now actually intoxicated, and withdrew the emptied fire whiskey bottle from his Dad’s pouch. He was the only customer. Dan held it up and showed the barkeep. “You got any of this stuff?” He didn’t know how finding more of the drink would help, but perhaps it would assist him in finding a connection to Roland and a whole label. The barkeep took it over and looked.
“Boy, you ain’t old enough. Pull your head in. No airy-fairies put that swill down in my bar.”
Dan was already frustrated enough with Ross’s ambiguity in explaining the intent behind the belated hand-me-down-gift. It was enough for Dan to decide the barkeep (who Julia worked under and said was a right bastard anyway) had thrown his condescending opinion the wrong way, and it was Dan’s place, full of a drunk’s courage as he was, to defend his father’s choice in whiskey. It seemed only right.
Dan put the empty bottle back in the pouch, and drew the string tight. While thinking about his choice of rebuttal, and how he’d victoriously claim he’d come of age and the barkeep can shove certain things in certain orifices, that reverberating tension he’d sensed around Ross returned. It was different, somehow. Like it was his own breath fogging in front of him, something that he could almost see instead as a shimmering heat wave before his eyes.
Dan reached down with his left hand and gripped his Dad’s pouch. It was an involuntary reaction. He felt a measure of focus and things took on a pinpoint clarity. There was a subtle cracking, like a releasing of tension in a spring, and then simultaneously every glass bottle behind the barkeep violently exploded.
The confused young man, still so much a boy, sprinted out as best he could, legs pounding and burning almost as much as his throat, until he made it home.
He tried to calm himself, although his laboured breathing couldn’t be controlled. He knew Julia would be asleep, and didn’t want to wake her. Since being sick she always slept early. She suffered a lingering pain in her chest and weakness of the limbs and mind since an almost fatal battle with the repeated pneumonia illness months before.
Dan noticed her chest wasn’t rising and falling. He came to her side and shook her. She was clammy, cold and absolutely quiet. It was plain to see she’d passed and finally succumb to her sickness. No one could be that still and still living.
It hadn’t registered yet. The impact would be a delayed one. The last few hours had brought several uncertainties to his otherwise straight-forward existence. They were all unwelcome, but their combined weight hadn’t yet been felt.
Unwelcome mention of a father he’d not met and not had to suffer losing. Then there was the undisclosed, new (but old to everyone else) connection between his father and the concrete hard boss. The boss who’d never been anything but a straight shooter and now spoke in absolute riddles that bordered on silly.
Ross had held on to his Roland’s simple pouch and his whiskey since before Dan was born, it seemed. Ross hinged on seeing Dan take it as a gift today, and somehow was convinced that it was absolutely necessary to see Dan imbibe it and then throw it all back up as his first act as an adult. That particular exchange, weird as it was, was made all the more weird by that energy that permeated from Ross as he spoke. The same strumming, bass note that was alien to Dan entirely yet caused a physical sensation in him. The aura that he felt from Ross, but never acknowledged, whenever some facet of human emotion showed in Ross’ words.
That aura disappeared when Dan drank his father’s whiskey, which Ross strangely kept for so long. It was like Dan throwing it all back up into the ocean water, with all the grace of a colt who couldn't find his legs, was the closing of a chapter, a final deed for Ross to be check off the list, and the aura left. Just went somewhere else. It didn’t make sense. Dan had brief knowledge of old mystic traditions passed around in idle stories from deckhands he worked with on Ross’ trawler, and the significance of coming of age. He’d heard about ‘power’, about how it had many names. Chi, mojo, even magic… It was rubbish talk and meant to pass time.
Dan thought about the shattering glass in the port tavern. How the aura returned, the commonality of the glass bottle rested in Roland’s pouch and the glass behind the barkeep, the frustration he felt at the barkeep’s needlessly dismissive words, the feeling of ‘unleashing’ that tension, and the resulting effect. The glass bottles nearby had shattered as if Dan had caused his frustration to manifest into something physical. The simple thought chain of cause and effect didn’t work in this case. What had caused that to happen? Dan returned to the commonality of his father’s whiskey bottle in his pouch, the nearby glass bottles exploding. It was like it almost made sense but at the same time was ridiculous. The words to explain it were almost there, like Dan was chewing all the consonants and vowels but couldn’t put them together.
This all seemed too symbolic, too coincidental. All of these events, taken on their own, could perhaps be explained away and rationalised. They were happening to close to each other for Dan to avoid drawing some line of logic through them, to link them together. He knew he’d come of age today. Ross gave him an old token gift, like it was a passing of a torch, and walked away as if rid of a burdensome task. Dan’s mother finally gave out, like Ross passing the torch, or in this case the whiskey, finally let her die. There were too many connections for Dan to honestly believe the events were unrelated.
Dan’s thought swam, and his head reeled again, and suddenly the world was sideways. He laid and seemed to choke on air as an electric feeling ran through him. Some realisation, a distant recollection of more stories passed among the deckhands of powerful man in far away lands who could use ‘power’ to do things no simple fisherman’s labourer could ever do, popped into the Dan’s mind. There was a repeat of that shimmering of the air before his eyes, and he touched his father’s leather pouch. His vision took that sharp acuity and his senses elevated briefly. The smell of the floorboard polish was stronger, and Dan could hear and almost count individually the droplets of rain that began to fall.
There was another feeling released tension and another powerful crack, followed by the sound of glass shards falling all around him. The windows in his home had blown out.
Dan sat confused and eventually fell asleep. A solid, dreamless sleep for the truly exhausted. He woke hours later. Ross’ fishermen had propped him up. They’d spent a night on the drink, and Dan could smell it. Two of them stood near the door. One was near him and spoke in rapid fire slurring.
“Your mother, man, we’re sorry... You gotta get up. Man, you gotta get up now. Weird stuff’s going on. Ross is gone.”
He stood up, wavered a bit, and took a knee. Visibly ill, he remained motionless for a moment and tried to stop the room from spinning too much. It was like an instant hangover. Not that he had any previous experience for comparison, but that just wasn’t it. There was a physical drain that he correlated with the effort of will and breaking of his home’s windows.
“I’m sick. Man, give me a bit here, I’m gonna be sick.” Dan couldn’t form any more words before vomited over himself again. He got up, took a small rucksack, and bolted. He was unsure what he was running away from, or perhaps running towards. Straight out the door, up the hill, and onwards. Ross’ home was smouldering and an emaciated frame remained. The smell of smoke was thick. Dan ran out of the port town, and just onwards and away from whatever it was that happened to him that day.
Four years passed. Dan remembered what Ross said. “We put it aside.” Dan didn’t know what ‘it’ was, or how drinking Dad’s whiskey, like it was some symbolic gesture of accepting a family rite, had caused him to receive ‘it.’ But Dan put it aside. He thought not to put anything in that bag, because he had a vague acceptance of the potential result when he did. He always wore the leather bag but kept it empty. He traded his simple life as an honest, hard working, reliable fisherman’s deckhand for one of a wandering ‘hand for hire.’ He worked seasons as a fruit picker, on plantations, in a smithy, and other jobs where he could use the muscle he’d developed through his youth of labouring under Ross, before everything became upside down and out of order.
Time passed on, and through curiosity and even temptation Dan stopped ignoring this power. He turned to it when he needed and could be reasonably sure of it not causing others harm. He developed a small understanding of how it works, but not of the abstract reason and means by which he obtained it. Somewhere in Radasanth, where his brother Aaron first set off to join as a guardsman, may be home to someone who can offer guidance, an explanation, and perhaps help Dan resume that sense of order and routine purpose which shaped his early years. Perhaps someone could help him develop this ‘spark’. The prospect excited him.
Now he’s even toying with the possibility of embracing the alien power within himself. He’s been mulling over thoughts between his transient jobs, as he travels from town to town, that the talent seemingly awakened on his coming of age could have a purpose. He second guesses and thinks that perhaps this is something Roland experienced, and set aside for a good reason. Dan is unsure of where his purpose lies but seeks to find it.
His first step is to seek out Aaron and develop contacts within Radasanth. The city is strange to him, too busy, but vibrant with a pulse the old port town never had. The city guard is a stalwart group, with many members, and no friendly face to approach. They would be wary of outsiders. If reached, Aaron could direct Dan to other people with similar ability. Dan secretly hopes his talent isn’t such an uncommon thing, and the port town was simply too sheltered from the rest of the world.
Perhaps in the future, Dan will understand the link between Ross and Roland, and a little more about what was said to him when he came of age. Dan has arrived at Radasanth. He’s not there as a fisherman looking for work. The city doesn’t run on good intentions, and there are plenty of dangerous people who would take advantage and harm him.
Personality
Dan is first and foremost and honest man. He grew up thinking, and wishes he still could think today, that hard work and is all he needs to have a good life. He continues to live with a worker’s ethic, with the added assistance and associated complication of his unknown ability that seems channeled through his father’s pouch. He deeply wants the peace of knowing all he has to do is go to work and earn his wage.
He prides himself in having a strong moral compass. Honest in that all-the-time good guy sense, and reliant upon it, not just when the good guy mantle is convenient and easy to wear. He remains honest when honest gets difficult. He just won’t tell a flat out lie, no matter how low the risk of being found out is. It just doesn’t sit right with him, like a sharp rock in the shoe.
In fact, Dan’s solid morals are something that most people recognise and even admire. It shows a level of personal strength that other young men lend upon, even look for in a leader. That go-to guy when things are getting tough and you want to ask a big favour with nothing to really pay it back. The guy who will try hard as anyone could to get it done, and if he can’t, won’t make excuses.
He’s easy to approach and presents as trustworthy, which lends himself to his semi-nomadic current lifestyle where most friendships are temporary. A few of those temporary friends, demoted to temporary acquaintances, have taken advantage of this in the past and left Dan short changed for favours. He never loses sleep over it. Dan believes in karma, too. What goes around comes around, and you can’t get out what you don’t put in.
Dan doesn’t mince words. That being said, he has recently learned (more ‘made progress through trial and error’) to engage in ‘subversive’ conversation if needed. Having a backbone and some integrity doesn’t make him a sucker. If someone tries to play games, he’ll have a go and play it right back. He might substitute some choice points of conversation with a right hook. Not good form, one could say. He’ll get better with practice as long as his up front what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude doesn’t upset the wrong guy and get him shanked. He'll have to improve his 'tactical talking' if he wants to get by in modern society.
Skills
Dan has retained particular skills from his years as a deckhand. He is proficient at tying different knots, and adapting ad hoc pulley systems with rope and rigging gear to move heavy objects. His ability to tie knots has given him an understanding of how to untie knots as well, which could give him an edge if bound or restrained by attackers.
His last four years spent working as a nomadic ‘jack of all trades,’ landing temporary jobs as he spends a few weeks to months in different towns, has given him a basic mechanical aptitude and knowledge in ‘fixing stuff,’ through exposure to repeat exposure and use of equipment in different sections of industry.
He has no particular combat training, but decent awareness of his body, and some innate balance and coordination. His time spent working on rough seas has assisted this. If needed, he could swing a shovel or claw hammer to decent effect. He has been involved in fistfights, but not any of significance and often enough to call him self even close to experienced.
Abilities
Dan’s leather pouch acts as a focus point for the undefined ‘talent’ or ‘energy’ within him. He doesn’t understand it very well, but is aware of how it functions. He is not aware of how far his abilities stretch and isn’t likely to push them. His potential is underdeveloped and prevents him from being a serious threat to any other spellslinger.
Through trial and error, Dan knows that if he places a personal token item, something that belongs only to him, within the pouch, and focuses an effort of will through it, he can channel his ‘talent’ to directly affect or alter a part of the environment or thing that has a common link with the token item.
In the case of his first, accidental use of the power in the port town’s tavern, Dan unknowingly channeled his talent through the glass of his father’s whiskey bottle, to cause the very glass bottles behind the barkeep to expand and explode to pieces.
The use of this talent causes a physical drain, which Dan found out later when he again inadvertently used the energy, fueled by his confusion and emotion in his home. He found himself on the ground and ill from the exertion, when he splintered the glass windows through force of will.
Dan hasn’t used the talent enough to know how it will behave in all situations. This causes it to be something of a wild card, and may have the potential to somehow backfire upon him without proper knowledge or some form of training.
Some examples of how Dan may use the potential: a pinch of dirt from the front yard of his port town home in the pouch allows his focus to move earth and dig a trench without physically touching it. A smoldering ember from his last cigarette dropped inside could let him amplify the smoke from a fire pit and create a screen for escape. Dropping his shaving razor into the pouch could allow him to cause nearby metals to bend.
Using the token item as a focus causes it to physically degrade or wither away through the trauma the potential causes to its physical form. This means that the same focus cannot be used repeatedly.
Dan doesn’t know how to combine different token items at the same time in the pouch at this point. It may be possible for him in the future, given appropriate training and control. For example, combining the dirt from his front yard and some ocean water to clear a path through a muddy bog by manipulating it with a kinetic exertion of his will.
Possessions
Dan carries only the clothes on his back, a small amount of coin, a personal rucksack with a blanket, a shaving razor and a few small screwdrivers. The shaving razor could perhaps be adapted to a weapon in a pinch, but he doesn’t carry it on his person for ready access. Perhaps he’ll find himself some kind of weapon in Radasanth's bazaar, if his gut feeling about the city being dangerous still remains after staying a few nights.
I haven’t had the chance to really read through and take in most of the
Handbook due to internet problems, but I’ve managed to type this on a word document and put it down for approval so I can get RPing while I fix it. If I’ve broken any particular rules I’ll fix them as quick as possible. I’ve tried to keep the OPness low while keeping Dan’s mechanics somewhat interesting.
Just quietly, I am extremely pleased to see that Althanas still exists and is going strong. I remember years when it had sort of just started and I had my first character here, even doing a bit of mod work in The Bazaar as ‘Etheryn’, just how much fun I had with it. I hope I can repeat the same experience this time around. Shout out to anyone who is still around from back then and remembers me! I think I’ll even try find my old avatar. :D
Also, forgive the wall of text that this character profile is! I’m sure some of this could have been adapted or explained in further RPs, but I haven’t done this in a long time and sort of flowed out of me in one sitting.
Age: 22
Race: Human
Hair Colour: Dark brown, but remains shaved bald
Eye Colour: Brown
Weight: 90kg (200lb)
Height: 5’10”
Description
Dan started his working life at a fisherman’s labourer at a young age. Long days and hard slogs have developed a solid frame and “working man strength” about him. Built more like a fridge than anything else, he has the kind of quiet, slow, discrete muscle associated with a life of labour, even though he’s still young.
Solid hands, knuckles like golf balls and thick forearms are the first things people notice about him. People assume his trade as a blacksmith upon a handshake. His shoulders are broad and his chest pronounced, but again in that dormant, not-so-defined sense. He doesn’t have the flashy, lean and quick muscle of a sprinter or a bodybuilder, but his strength is significant.
He lost his once thick head of dark brown hair at an age early enough to make anyone self conscious. He has that sort of ‘Friar Tuck’ bald patch if he lets it grow out. Fortunately, he has facial features and a head perfectly fit for shaving short with a cut throat razor. Appropriately proportioned ear-to-head and nose-to-head size ratios, and just the right amount of bushiness in his dark brown eyebrows are the key to his chrome-dome look. People who meet him can’t imagine him ever having hair.
His work on the water gives him a deep, all year boaters’ tan. It creases and fades to a regular, if not olive skin tone on those areas that aren’t exposed to the elements. His tan line gives him a distinct two tone look when out of his work gear. Those bits that aren’t bronzed are dotted with infrequent freckles and sunspots.
He has a few scars on the forearms, and one particularly nasty scar on the bottom of his chin that curls up to the left corner of his lip. All of them came from work related injuries. His chin was opened up badly by an out of control hand winch and poor footing in rough seas. No facial hair grows over that scar. He doesn’t like growing a beard anyway.
There’s no particular ‘outfit’ he confines himself to, but Dan is most often seen in olive drab half length work overalls (the old kind with two shoulder straps that rise to mid waist, belt loops, bronze buckles and plenty of pockets) and a plain white or grey long sleeved work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has tannin brown, steel toe work boots that could pass as combat boots with an accompanying uniform. He always wears a simple brown belt with a silver buckle.
If he didn’t wear a belt, there’d be nothing for him to tie his father’s leather bag to. Despite all his manly features and a somewhat old-workhorse look which just doesn’t match his young age, he carries this arguably ‘fancy’ leather bag at all times on his hip.
There is something important to him in that simple accessory. Just over a squared foot in surface area of leather, cured from some unknown animal, and a white-yellow and thin drawstring cord made in a triple braid.
To anyone else but Dan, that little bag would be entirely insignificant.
History
The earlier childhood years were unremarkable ones in a small, nameless port town at the bight of the Bradbury River on Corone. His working life started at the age of thirteen on a trawler, under the lead of local hard man Ross. He hadn’t a choice but to contribute. His mother Julia had intermittent bouts of pneumonia and much to the confusion of any treating doctor, seemed especially susceptible to the illness. As a single income earner, it made things tight.
Roland James, his father, had been a well-respected guardsman and something of an impromptu ranger in the outlying areas. To Dan’s knowledge he died from arrow wounds from an encounter with a roving bandit group weeks before Dan was born. He knows the story and knows the score was evened, but the topic is a sore one and the no one dares bring it up. He received the story in pieces from Julia, but never forced it with respect to her continued grief.
Dan’s brother Aaron, older by six years, had already shipped out to join the city guard of Radasanth with dreams of climbing ranks and becoming a lauded high ranking official with ambitioned drummed up from stories about his father’s exploits.
“Nice one, bro. Leave me and Mum to chase a friggin’ rank. Good job.” Julia was proud and by proxy so was Dan, but he felt somewhat alone in the port town.
Things changed while fetching medicine for Julia on a rainy afternoon from the port town’s equivalent of a trading square. Ross approached young Dan directly. Ross knew of the plight, and despite being known as one of the hardest men who drank at the port's local tavern, he had an absolute soft spot for widowed Julia. She could melt his cold façade with ease.
Dan was vaguely aware of Ross, but never spoke to him. Ross was tall, solid, with a granite beard and steely blue eyes deep as the oceans he worked. He wore a fisherman’s navy blue overalls, and long sleeved work wear of dark and thick cotton with full length pants. There was something about him. You could call it a boy’s awe at a powerful man, but when Ross pulled Dan aside day and looked him straight through that day, Dan felt a subtle strumming in the air. It was something slightly intangible and hard to describe but definitely there. He continued to feel that same sensation whenever Ross was close by, for all the years onward he knew him.
“Son, your mother’s sick. I don’t have enough coin to give you to get by, but I can give you a chance to make it. You’re going to come and work for me.”
Dan took up the slack and tried his level best. He had to be man of the house at a young age in the absence of anyone else to support Julia through her protracted illness. It wasn’t something that he complained about. He laboured under Ross, or to the other deckhands “Boss”, on his nameless trawler through some vicious seasons, raging storms and massively profitable catches. Dan didn’t complain. An honest-to-goodness reliability must have been bred into him, because the hard work took no prompting at all. He never complained about the cold, about the sea sickness, or about being tired and hungry. He was first deckhand to start work and the last to finish. Some of that prosperity from a good season flowed down to him, even as a young and unskilled labourer who didn’t do all that much fish-catching. Ross recognised his efforts.
Five years rolled on. Roland's son grew strong. Julia’s sickness never did quite get better. She was a battler, and Dan had been earning enough to let her be around home and around town without actually working. She had to cope with the sickness and some level of permanent damage it left her. There was enough coin and enough food. Aaron came home every few months, and did bring money to contribute his bit. He cheered Julia with stories of his slow but successful climb through the ranks of his guardsman station. Dan quietly resented him for chasing glory and fame and not staying around to help, but couldn’t fault him for chipping in and chasing something outside the port.
The 18th birthday came around. Dan had been playing the role of man of the house for quite a while, but only now the other deckhands would consider him an adult. They all knew he was a solid worker, but like some tired old tradition, he’d still be ‘just a boy’ until he turned eighteen. It didn’t bother him. Dan knew his place. Still, he’d been silently looking forward to joining in the afternoon ritual of sinking way too much ale and staggering home merry. It was just wasn’t proper among the fisherman’s tradition to join in until reaching the ‘official age’. Dan obeyed that tradition and toed the line. If he didn’t the port guard surely would have given a hard lesson.
Ross stood on the dock with his crew, passing out some home-brewed, cheap ale and unceremoniously threw a bottle to Dan, newest man of the worker’s circle. Dan looked like he’d sucked a dozen lemons dry while he upturned the bottle. Ale was a new taste to him. A raucous cheer and heavy shoulder slaps followed. “Good on ya mate!”
The crew separated and went home. Dan and Ross remained. The sun had begun to set on the lonely, sheltered port town, and a baleful pink glow coated the clouds. The almost dusk became cold very quickly.
“Son, you grew strong like your Dad. Knew him well, I did. Had a lot in common, too. A lot more than you know. There was something we both set aside. That was a long time gone, a long time gone.”
Dan was surprised but remained silent. Today, although special, was just his birthday, and although more important than the others he hadn’t expected this much emotion from Ross. No one raised Roland’s story. Like it was a shared pain among the community, that little splinter that no one wanted to dig at. Dan never asked for more than what he already knew. There was nothing to remember and nothing to gain. The last thing he wanted was for something to twist his heart strings. Dan wasn’t around when that little splinter settled beneath the skin.
“We came here around the same time. Both came here for the same reasons. You didn’t know your Dad and that’s up to your Mum to tell you ‘bout. That’s her job. I’ve got something of his for you.”
Something in Dan’s mind clicked, and he noticed it. That strumming in the air returned and somehow centred on Ross, like he was personally emitting a hovering bass note. That thickness was hard to understand with no reference to anything Dan ever experienced elsewhere. Something of it amplified in correlation to Ross’s entirely uncharacteristic show of, well, personality. He’d always been a tight lipped man and it was difficult to get this many words from him in a year, let alone a few sentences.
He realised that subconsciously, he’d felt it in the air every time Ross spoke to him with some showing of human emotion. A bit of anger for ropes not getting coiled properly, frustration at mechanical failures, and boat-wide cheer among the crew at good catch results. Even during the suspense from the signs of an oncoming storm. Usually, too many things were happening for Dan to take it in and really perceive that aura about Ross. Now, on the quiet dock, Dan had all the time in the world to let it settle to his forethought.
“Saw you chug that ale. Dirt stuff, dirt stuff it is. Try some good stuff. Your Dad’s, mate. Here.”
Dan was quietly overwhelmed. He considered this new realisation, new awareness of that feeling in the air. Instead of being a background sensation, something that barely registered, it was starting to occupy his thoughts. Ross held over a pouch of brown leather with tripled braided white-yellow draw string. There was something inside it. Dan was suddenly very distracted now by the feeling. It was like that mind blanking effect of a stubbed toe, without the unpleasantness.
For the first time in this exchange, Dan spoke. “Boss, no one’s spoke to me about Dad. It just never happened. We just don’t, that’s how it is. Why this, now? What’s it got to do with today?” It didn’t make sense for Ross to unearth some connection with a father Dan never met.
“Son, today I call it quits. There’s something your dad and I put aside when we came here. Your Mum knows, but don’t you dare ask her. It’ll hurt her and she’s already hurt enough. We put it aside, ‘cause we didn’t need it no more. Always kept it, though, just in case we did. Dad kept it in this botte. Never did need it again. Said it yourself, son, that’s just how it is. Just take it.”
Dan reached out his right hand. That tingling in the air, the heavy feeling, coalesced into something that felt like a static discharge as Ross dropped the leather bag. There was something cylindrical inside it. There was tightness in Dan’s muscled arm, like exertion from hard labour, and then cessation to that strange aura. It just went, gone, like that.
“Respect to you, boss, but you gotta know you’re confusing me and I don’t have a damn clue where this is going. You’re getting like this over Dad’s whiskey?”
Dan looked down and saw a small bottle of some expensive brand, something-something ‘Red’s Glen’. The label half torn off with age. The remainder was in cursive, elaborate script. Made it look like the good stuff. The really expensive high-brow stuff.
“Drink it. This is what you’re supposed to do. You don’t know your Dad, but I did. This is what he wanted you to do on your birthday. Have a drink with him.”
“Why? I’m supposed to get drunk?”
“Drink it!”
Dan popped the small cork and choked down the hot, burning fluid. How anyone could enjoy it was beyond him. Dan coughed and spluttered.
“Hah! One day, son, you’ll get it. Sorry I gotta be about riddles and spooks, but one day it’ll all fit.” Ross’ voice was gravely as usual, but seemed someone relieved. He finished his sentence with a long exhalation.
“You said… more words… last five minutes, damn it… gonna be sick....” Dan involuntarily gagged with the burn in his gut, and felt like he was about to spew. Moments later he did, a second taste of that top shelf poison and stomach acid. A quick hurl into the water and Dan was done.
“You said more words to me in the last five minutes than in years, Boss.”
“All I needed to say to ya, I couldn’t say ‘till now. Not till you were old enough. Just isn’t right and that’s not how it works.”
“How what works?”
“What your dad and I put aside. What he left for you. You got it now, son.”
“All I have is a bad taste in my mouth.”
“You’ll see it soon. You’ll know. You’re gonna have to learn.”
“Boss, respect again, but don’t be so god damned weird. Tell me straight.”
“I can’t. Again, that’s not how it works. I’m done now. I get to hang up the hat. I gotta get home.”
Dan succumbed to a second wave of instant nausea, introduced to him by the effects of the foreign drink, and resumed throwing his guts up into the water. By the time he sat up Ross had put fifty yards behind him. Dan reeled through a quickly forming headache. He didn’t open his mouth and call out because he knew he’d just buckle over and vomit.
Ross wasn't seen again by anyone who knew him.
Dan stumbled in to the port tavern a short time later, now actually intoxicated, and withdrew the emptied fire whiskey bottle from his Dad’s pouch. He was the only customer. Dan held it up and showed the barkeep. “You got any of this stuff?” He didn’t know how finding more of the drink would help, but perhaps it would assist him in finding a connection to Roland and a whole label. The barkeep took it over and looked.
“Boy, you ain’t old enough. Pull your head in. No airy-fairies put that swill down in my bar.”
Dan was already frustrated enough with Ross’s ambiguity in explaining the intent behind the belated hand-me-down-gift. It was enough for Dan to decide the barkeep (who Julia worked under and said was a right bastard anyway) had thrown his condescending opinion the wrong way, and it was Dan’s place, full of a drunk’s courage as he was, to defend his father’s choice in whiskey. It seemed only right.
Dan put the empty bottle back in the pouch, and drew the string tight. While thinking about his choice of rebuttal, and how he’d victoriously claim he’d come of age and the barkeep can shove certain things in certain orifices, that reverberating tension he’d sensed around Ross returned. It was different, somehow. Like it was his own breath fogging in front of him, something that he could almost see instead as a shimmering heat wave before his eyes.
Dan reached down with his left hand and gripped his Dad’s pouch. It was an involuntary reaction. He felt a measure of focus and things took on a pinpoint clarity. There was a subtle cracking, like a releasing of tension in a spring, and then simultaneously every glass bottle behind the barkeep violently exploded.
The confused young man, still so much a boy, sprinted out as best he could, legs pounding and burning almost as much as his throat, until he made it home.
He tried to calm himself, although his laboured breathing couldn’t be controlled. He knew Julia would be asleep, and didn’t want to wake her. Since being sick she always slept early. She suffered a lingering pain in her chest and weakness of the limbs and mind since an almost fatal battle with the repeated pneumonia illness months before.
Dan noticed her chest wasn’t rising and falling. He came to her side and shook her. She was clammy, cold and absolutely quiet. It was plain to see she’d passed and finally succumb to her sickness. No one could be that still and still living.
It hadn’t registered yet. The impact would be a delayed one. The last few hours had brought several uncertainties to his otherwise straight-forward existence. They were all unwelcome, but their combined weight hadn’t yet been felt.
Unwelcome mention of a father he’d not met and not had to suffer losing. Then there was the undisclosed, new (but old to everyone else) connection between his father and the concrete hard boss. The boss who’d never been anything but a straight shooter and now spoke in absolute riddles that bordered on silly.
Ross had held on to his Roland’s simple pouch and his whiskey since before Dan was born, it seemed. Ross hinged on seeing Dan take it as a gift today, and somehow was convinced that it was absolutely necessary to see Dan imbibe it and then throw it all back up as his first act as an adult. That particular exchange, weird as it was, was made all the more weird by that energy that permeated from Ross as he spoke. The same strumming, bass note that was alien to Dan entirely yet caused a physical sensation in him. The aura that he felt from Ross, but never acknowledged, whenever some facet of human emotion showed in Ross’ words.
That aura disappeared when Dan drank his father’s whiskey, which Ross strangely kept for so long. It was like Dan throwing it all back up into the ocean water, with all the grace of a colt who couldn't find his legs, was the closing of a chapter, a final deed for Ross to be check off the list, and the aura left. Just went somewhere else. It didn’t make sense. Dan had brief knowledge of old mystic traditions passed around in idle stories from deckhands he worked with on Ross’ trawler, and the significance of coming of age. He’d heard about ‘power’, about how it had many names. Chi, mojo, even magic… It was rubbish talk and meant to pass time.
Dan thought about the shattering glass in the port tavern. How the aura returned, the commonality of the glass bottle rested in Roland’s pouch and the glass behind the barkeep, the frustration he felt at the barkeep’s needlessly dismissive words, the feeling of ‘unleashing’ that tension, and the resulting effect. The glass bottles nearby had shattered as if Dan had caused his frustration to manifest into something physical. The simple thought chain of cause and effect didn’t work in this case. What had caused that to happen? Dan returned to the commonality of his father’s whiskey bottle in his pouch, the nearby glass bottles exploding. It was like it almost made sense but at the same time was ridiculous. The words to explain it were almost there, like Dan was chewing all the consonants and vowels but couldn’t put them together.
This all seemed too symbolic, too coincidental. All of these events, taken on their own, could perhaps be explained away and rationalised. They were happening to close to each other for Dan to avoid drawing some line of logic through them, to link them together. He knew he’d come of age today. Ross gave him an old token gift, like it was a passing of a torch, and walked away as if rid of a burdensome task. Dan’s mother finally gave out, like Ross passing the torch, or in this case the whiskey, finally let her die. There were too many connections for Dan to honestly believe the events were unrelated.
Dan’s thought swam, and his head reeled again, and suddenly the world was sideways. He laid and seemed to choke on air as an electric feeling ran through him. Some realisation, a distant recollection of more stories passed among the deckhands of powerful man in far away lands who could use ‘power’ to do things no simple fisherman’s labourer could ever do, popped into the Dan’s mind. There was a repeat of that shimmering of the air before his eyes, and he touched his father’s leather pouch. His vision took that sharp acuity and his senses elevated briefly. The smell of the floorboard polish was stronger, and Dan could hear and almost count individually the droplets of rain that began to fall.
There was another feeling released tension and another powerful crack, followed by the sound of glass shards falling all around him. The windows in his home had blown out.
Dan sat confused and eventually fell asleep. A solid, dreamless sleep for the truly exhausted. He woke hours later. Ross’ fishermen had propped him up. They’d spent a night on the drink, and Dan could smell it. Two of them stood near the door. One was near him and spoke in rapid fire slurring.
“Your mother, man, we’re sorry... You gotta get up. Man, you gotta get up now. Weird stuff’s going on. Ross is gone.”
He stood up, wavered a bit, and took a knee. Visibly ill, he remained motionless for a moment and tried to stop the room from spinning too much. It was like an instant hangover. Not that he had any previous experience for comparison, but that just wasn’t it. There was a physical drain that he correlated with the effort of will and breaking of his home’s windows.
“I’m sick. Man, give me a bit here, I’m gonna be sick.” Dan couldn’t form any more words before vomited over himself again. He got up, took a small rucksack, and bolted. He was unsure what he was running away from, or perhaps running towards. Straight out the door, up the hill, and onwards. Ross’ home was smouldering and an emaciated frame remained. The smell of smoke was thick. Dan ran out of the port town, and just onwards and away from whatever it was that happened to him that day.
Four years passed. Dan remembered what Ross said. “We put it aside.” Dan didn’t know what ‘it’ was, or how drinking Dad’s whiskey, like it was some symbolic gesture of accepting a family rite, had caused him to receive ‘it.’ But Dan put it aside. He thought not to put anything in that bag, because he had a vague acceptance of the potential result when he did. He always wore the leather bag but kept it empty. He traded his simple life as an honest, hard working, reliable fisherman’s deckhand for one of a wandering ‘hand for hire.’ He worked seasons as a fruit picker, on plantations, in a smithy, and other jobs where he could use the muscle he’d developed through his youth of labouring under Ross, before everything became upside down and out of order.
Time passed on, and through curiosity and even temptation Dan stopped ignoring this power. He turned to it when he needed and could be reasonably sure of it not causing others harm. He developed a small understanding of how it works, but not of the abstract reason and means by which he obtained it. Somewhere in Radasanth, where his brother Aaron first set off to join as a guardsman, may be home to someone who can offer guidance, an explanation, and perhaps help Dan resume that sense of order and routine purpose which shaped his early years. Perhaps someone could help him develop this ‘spark’. The prospect excited him.
Now he’s even toying with the possibility of embracing the alien power within himself. He’s been mulling over thoughts between his transient jobs, as he travels from town to town, that the talent seemingly awakened on his coming of age could have a purpose. He second guesses and thinks that perhaps this is something Roland experienced, and set aside for a good reason. Dan is unsure of where his purpose lies but seeks to find it.
His first step is to seek out Aaron and develop contacts within Radasanth. The city is strange to him, too busy, but vibrant with a pulse the old port town never had. The city guard is a stalwart group, with many members, and no friendly face to approach. They would be wary of outsiders. If reached, Aaron could direct Dan to other people with similar ability. Dan secretly hopes his talent isn’t such an uncommon thing, and the port town was simply too sheltered from the rest of the world.
Perhaps in the future, Dan will understand the link between Ross and Roland, and a little more about what was said to him when he came of age. Dan has arrived at Radasanth. He’s not there as a fisherman looking for work. The city doesn’t run on good intentions, and there are plenty of dangerous people who would take advantage and harm him.
Personality
Dan is first and foremost and honest man. He grew up thinking, and wishes he still could think today, that hard work and is all he needs to have a good life. He continues to live with a worker’s ethic, with the added assistance and associated complication of his unknown ability that seems channeled through his father’s pouch. He deeply wants the peace of knowing all he has to do is go to work and earn his wage.
He prides himself in having a strong moral compass. Honest in that all-the-time good guy sense, and reliant upon it, not just when the good guy mantle is convenient and easy to wear. He remains honest when honest gets difficult. He just won’t tell a flat out lie, no matter how low the risk of being found out is. It just doesn’t sit right with him, like a sharp rock in the shoe.
In fact, Dan’s solid morals are something that most people recognise and even admire. It shows a level of personal strength that other young men lend upon, even look for in a leader. That go-to guy when things are getting tough and you want to ask a big favour with nothing to really pay it back. The guy who will try hard as anyone could to get it done, and if he can’t, won’t make excuses.
He’s easy to approach and presents as trustworthy, which lends himself to his semi-nomadic current lifestyle where most friendships are temporary. A few of those temporary friends, demoted to temporary acquaintances, have taken advantage of this in the past and left Dan short changed for favours. He never loses sleep over it. Dan believes in karma, too. What goes around comes around, and you can’t get out what you don’t put in.
Dan doesn’t mince words. That being said, he has recently learned (more ‘made progress through trial and error’) to engage in ‘subversive’ conversation if needed. Having a backbone and some integrity doesn’t make him a sucker. If someone tries to play games, he’ll have a go and play it right back. He might substitute some choice points of conversation with a right hook. Not good form, one could say. He’ll get better with practice as long as his up front what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude doesn’t upset the wrong guy and get him shanked. He'll have to improve his 'tactical talking' if he wants to get by in modern society.
Skills
Dan has retained particular skills from his years as a deckhand. He is proficient at tying different knots, and adapting ad hoc pulley systems with rope and rigging gear to move heavy objects. His ability to tie knots has given him an understanding of how to untie knots as well, which could give him an edge if bound or restrained by attackers.
His last four years spent working as a nomadic ‘jack of all trades,’ landing temporary jobs as he spends a few weeks to months in different towns, has given him a basic mechanical aptitude and knowledge in ‘fixing stuff,’ through exposure to repeat exposure and use of equipment in different sections of industry.
He has no particular combat training, but decent awareness of his body, and some innate balance and coordination. His time spent working on rough seas has assisted this. If needed, he could swing a shovel or claw hammer to decent effect. He has been involved in fistfights, but not any of significance and often enough to call him self even close to experienced.
Abilities
Dan’s leather pouch acts as a focus point for the undefined ‘talent’ or ‘energy’ within him. He doesn’t understand it very well, but is aware of how it functions. He is not aware of how far his abilities stretch and isn’t likely to push them. His potential is underdeveloped and prevents him from being a serious threat to any other spellslinger.
Through trial and error, Dan knows that if he places a personal token item, something that belongs only to him, within the pouch, and focuses an effort of will through it, he can channel his ‘talent’ to directly affect or alter a part of the environment or thing that has a common link with the token item.
In the case of his first, accidental use of the power in the port town’s tavern, Dan unknowingly channeled his talent through the glass of his father’s whiskey bottle, to cause the very glass bottles behind the barkeep to expand and explode to pieces.
The use of this talent causes a physical drain, which Dan found out later when he again inadvertently used the energy, fueled by his confusion and emotion in his home. He found himself on the ground and ill from the exertion, when he splintered the glass windows through force of will.
Dan hasn’t used the talent enough to know how it will behave in all situations. This causes it to be something of a wild card, and may have the potential to somehow backfire upon him without proper knowledge or some form of training.
Some examples of how Dan may use the potential: a pinch of dirt from the front yard of his port town home in the pouch allows his focus to move earth and dig a trench without physically touching it. A smoldering ember from his last cigarette dropped inside could let him amplify the smoke from a fire pit and create a screen for escape. Dropping his shaving razor into the pouch could allow him to cause nearby metals to bend.
Using the token item as a focus causes it to physically degrade or wither away through the trauma the potential causes to its physical form. This means that the same focus cannot be used repeatedly.
Dan doesn’t know how to combine different token items at the same time in the pouch at this point. It may be possible for him in the future, given appropriate training and control. For example, combining the dirt from his front yard and some ocean water to clear a path through a muddy bog by manipulating it with a kinetic exertion of his will.
Possessions
Dan carries only the clothes on his back, a small amount of coin, a personal rucksack with a blanket, a shaving razor and a few small screwdrivers. The shaving razor could perhaps be adapted to a weapon in a pinch, but he doesn’t carry it on his person for ready access. Perhaps he’ll find himself some kind of weapon in Radasanth's bazaar, if his gut feeling about the city being dangerous still remains after staying a few nights.
I haven’t had the chance to really read through and take in most of the
Handbook due to internet problems, but I’ve managed to type this on a word document and put it down for approval so I can get RPing while I fix it. If I’ve broken any particular rules I’ll fix them as quick as possible. I’ve tried to keep the OPness low while keeping Dan’s mechanics somewhat interesting.
Just quietly, I am extremely pleased to see that Althanas still exists and is going strong. I remember years when it had sort of just started and I had my first character here, even doing a bit of mod work in The Bazaar as ‘Etheryn’, just how much fun I had with it. I hope I can repeat the same experience this time around. Shout out to anyone who is still around from back then and remembers me! I think I’ll even try find my old avatar. :D
Also, forgive the wall of text that this character profile is! I’m sure some of this could have been adapted or explained in further RPs, but I haven’t done this in a long time and sort of flowed out of me in one sitting.