Rocher
07-19-11, 01:13 PM
Rocher (surname abandoned)
Gender - Male
Age - Middle
Hair - Auburn
Beard - Same
Height - Short
Build - Stocky
History
A mine's a mine. We'd have ye believe the rock is clandestine, but the rock is rock. Stone is stone. Silt is dirt. Dirt is silt. Its all the same - Especially when you live in it. More tons than ye can believe, waitin atop yer head to come crashin down.
So many people that ye just learn to live without breathin too hard. More oxygen for te forges. Asides, that's really all that matters anyway, in'it? Long as there will be forges to burn coal, there'll be dwarves to run 'em. Ye might think its te other way aroun', but it ain't. Let me tell ya.
Rock is rock, a forge is a forge, and a dwarf is a dwarf.
Tried.
Tested.
True.
A human's not just any human though. Sure, a human can run a forge. But a human can also be a wizard. Or a gardener. Or a whore. A human can be whatever he wants... But a dwarf is just a dwarf.
Our city ain't no bigger than a house that a human builds for his god. Here's the god's honest truth. We, as a people, we stink. Like sweat, and like our neighbours. Gets to a point where we can't tell our own stink from our mother's. We all smell like the forge. Like the mine. Like the rock.
And a rock is, after all, just rock.
Ach, see? I'm goin' round in circles again. Always do. Story o me life.
I ain't no taller than me da. I ain't no skinnier than me ma. I got three sisters who look just like me, and if I die, I got three brothers to replace me.
So what if i find a bit o solace in te bottle? What business is it o yers? Or anyone's?
I'll tell ye what, if i smash this here bottle on the stone, and the light catches it just so, I can see the stars in it. Twinklin on those wit-sharp needles. Keen, like te perfect edge. Te edge me da tries for on his blades, but can't because he's just another dwarf. We ain't perfect. We just... Are.
Don't it just make ye sick? Sure as stone, does me. Here I sit, with this length in me hand, and I'm dreamin about te stars? Can't even see 'em. Saw em once, just long enough te make that comparison just now.
Heh... Sure as stone. That's a good one. If this don't pan out, I might just have to write that down. Somethin' clever to say to me nephews and neices.
"Bein a dwarf is the most borin' thing yer ever gonna have to do, sure as stone kiddies. Don't get too excited bout it, 'cause ye'll be doin it for a long, loooong time."
You'll mine te rock. Ye'll smelt te ore. Ye'll hammer te anvil. You'll eat bland dwarf food, wear bland dwarf clothes, make bland dwarf love, and have bland dwarf babies.
And then ye'll die.
Hah!
Rather skip to te last chapter on this one kiddies.
So it's to be goodbye then, is it? Well good riddance. Wasn't fun, and sure as stone, it wasn't interesting.
Yer pal,
-Rocher
PS. If ye bury me under this mountain, I'll haunt ye good.
3 days later...
A magpie pecks at fresh soil. It spies a glint of gold reflecting the light of high noon. Its eyes are greedy and it unleashes a triumphant cry, not unlike a piercing dagger of sound. Triumphantly, it snatches up its treasure: a golden ring. The ground shivers, as if cold in spite of beating sun. The magpie tries to flee as the earth shivers again. And again. But the ring is far too heavy to carry with such urgency. The thief abandons its bounty and takes to the sky calling again, this time angrily.
Clumps of soil begin to part as a new, strange, growth rushes up to meet the sun. It is brown, almost black, but surely, it is no plant. Five branches, but it is no tree either. The growth feels about frantically - a disembodied hand, grasping blindly for something. Anything!
Another growth emerges to lend the other support. Now the two work as a team with efforts redoubled, hauling their charge from the depth of what seemed like hell itself. Finally, the first hint of colour emerges. A shock of what, in the glaring sun looks fire caked with dirt, emerges. Following the blades of hair is a filth-caked forehead, and not long after, a bulbous nose.
The earth giving birth to the dead.
Just as soon as cracked lips meet summer breeze, they emit a sound - a haunting bellow - that could be heard for miles in every direction of the compass. It goes on for a minute. Then two. Then it ceases, and the crickets are afraid to resume chirping. The dwarf that not even the worms wanted, faints, half exhumed as if a lazy grave digger thought the afternoon sun too hot to work in.
Night sets in.
Water has not touched his lips in half a week. A human might have died. Any other dwarf might have died.
This one, however, was pickled. It was not water he craved, but the sweet relief that only a draught of scotch (thick as molasses) could deliver.
How? How was it possible?
Rocher pulled himself from his unmarked grave a quarter mile away from the mountain that was never truly "home". He winced as his swollen fingers traced the cherry-red choker around his neck. It burned. It might have been infected. He didn't care.
He failed.
Yet, there was something else, concealed in the failure, like a crumb in the sheets. What was it?
Uncertainty?
The dwarf stretched his limbs. They were also swollen. Stiff and aching, he took a few shaky steps before falling to his knees roughly. His head lolled back onto his shoulder blades. His grey eyes looked up. His gaze tracked tiny pinpoints of light an unfathomable distance away.
He felt that unidentifiable something stir within his failure once again.
Was it...
Hope?
Mechanics
Abilities:
Endurance - A grim outlook on life, combined with his people's noteworthy hardiness, makes for a tireless worker. Rocher can perform strenuous tasks for twice as long as the average person, and can bear heavy loads without complaint for a near inhuman amount of time.
Regeneration - Rocher's constitution is almost incomparable. His wounds heal fast (days where the average person would require weeks) , and injuries that might be fatal in time to some, require simple prolonged bed-rest for the dwarf. For all intents and purposes, few things short of decapitation or gross blood loss can actually slay the dwarf permanently. Anything less merely “puts him out of commission” for an appropriate period of time.
Combat - Rocher is strong and robust, but lacks all the finesse of a seasoned warrior. He knows that the sharp part goes into the squishy bits.
Skills:
Grappling - Thick legs and a low center of gravity make Rocher a natural wrestler. His above average strength combined with his almost supernatural endurance are tools that make him an unshakable assailant, although his technique is raw and unrefined.
Possessions:
-Drab, earth tone clothing.
-Heavy work boots plated in nickle
Gender - Male
Age - Middle
Hair - Auburn
Beard - Same
Height - Short
Build - Stocky
History
A mine's a mine. We'd have ye believe the rock is clandestine, but the rock is rock. Stone is stone. Silt is dirt. Dirt is silt. Its all the same - Especially when you live in it. More tons than ye can believe, waitin atop yer head to come crashin down.
So many people that ye just learn to live without breathin too hard. More oxygen for te forges. Asides, that's really all that matters anyway, in'it? Long as there will be forges to burn coal, there'll be dwarves to run 'em. Ye might think its te other way aroun', but it ain't. Let me tell ya.
Rock is rock, a forge is a forge, and a dwarf is a dwarf.
Tried.
Tested.
True.
A human's not just any human though. Sure, a human can run a forge. But a human can also be a wizard. Or a gardener. Or a whore. A human can be whatever he wants... But a dwarf is just a dwarf.
Our city ain't no bigger than a house that a human builds for his god. Here's the god's honest truth. We, as a people, we stink. Like sweat, and like our neighbours. Gets to a point where we can't tell our own stink from our mother's. We all smell like the forge. Like the mine. Like the rock.
And a rock is, after all, just rock.
Ach, see? I'm goin' round in circles again. Always do. Story o me life.
I ain't no taller than me da. I ain't no skinnier than me ma. I got three sisters who look just like me, and if I die, I got three brothers to replace me.
So what if i find a bit o solace in te bottle? What business is it o yers? Or anyone's?
I'll tell ye what, if i smash this here bottle on the stone, and the light catches it just so, I can see the stars in it. Twinklin on those wit-sharp needles. Keen, like te perfect edge. Te edge me da tries for on his blades, but can't because he's just another dwarf. We ain't perfect. We just... Are.
Don't it just make ye sick? Sure as stone, does me. Here I sit, with this length in me hand, and I'm dreamin about te stars? Can't even see 'em. Saw em once, just long enough te make that comparison just now.
Heh... Sure as stone. That's a good one. If this don't pan out, I might just have to write that down. Somethin' clever to say to me nephews and neices.
"Bein a dwarf is the most borin' thing yer ever gonna have to do, sure as stone kiddies. Don't get too excited bout it, 'cause ye'll be doin it for a long, loooong time."
You'll mine te rock. Ye'll smelt te ore. Ye'll hammer te anvil. You'll eat bland dwarf food, wear bland dwarf clothes, make bland dwarf love, and have bland dwarf babies.
And then ye'll die.
Hah!
Rather skip to te last chapter on this one kiddies.
So it's to be goodbye then, is it? Well good riddance. Wasn't fun, and sure as stone, it wasn't interesting.
Yer pal,
-Rocher
PS. If ye bury me under this mountain, I'll haunt ye good.
3 days later...
A magpie pecks at fresh soil. It spies a glint of gold reflecting the light of high noon. Its eyes are greedy and it unleashes a triumphant cry, not unlike a piercing dagger of sound. Triumphantly, it snatches up its treasure: a golden ring. The ground shivers, as if cold in spite of beating sun. The magpie tries to flee as the earth shivers again. And again. But the ring is far too heavy to carry with such urgency. The thief abandons its bounty and takes to the sky calling again, this time angrily.
Clumps of soil begin to part as a new, strange, growth rushes up to meet the sun. It is brown, almost black, but surely, it is no plant. Five branches, but it is no tree either. The growth feels about frantically - a disembodied hand, grasping blindly for something. Anything!
Another growth emerges to lend the other support. Now the two work as a team with efforts redoubled, hauling their charge from the depth of what seemed like hell itself. Finally, the first hint of colour emerges. A shock of what, in the glaring sun looks fire caked with dirt, emerges. Following the blades of hair is a filth-caked forehead, and not long after, a bulbous nose.
The earth giving birth to the dead.
Just as soon as cracked lips meet summer breeze, they emit a sound - a haunting bellow - that could be heard for miles in every direction of the compass. It goes on for a minute. Then two. Then it ceases, and the crickets are afraid to resume chirping. The dwarf that not even the worms wanted, faints, half exhumed as if a lazy grave digger thought the afternoon sun too hot to work in.
Night sets in.
Water has not touched his lips in half a week. A human might have died. Any other dwarf might have died.
This one, however, was pickled. It was not water he craved, but the sweet relief that only a draught of scotch (thick as molasses) could deliver.
How? How was it possible?
Rocher pulled himself from his unmarked grave a quarter mile away from the mountain that was never truly "home". He winced as his swollen fingers traced the cherry-red choker around his neck. It burned. It might have been infected. He didn't care.
He failed.
Yet, there was something else, concealed in the failure, like a crumb in the sheets. What was it?
Uncertainty?
The dwarf stretched his limbs. They were also swollen. Stiff and aching, he took a few shaky steps before falling to his knees roughly. His head lolled back onto his shoulder blades. His grey eyes looked up. His gaze tracked tiny pinpoints of light an unfathomable distance away.
He felt that unidentifiable something stir within his failure once again.
Was it...
Hope?
Mechanics
Abilities:
Endurance - A grim outlook on life, combined with his people's noteworthy hardiness, makes for a tireless worker. Rocher can perform strenuous tasks for twice as long as the average person, and can bear heavy loads without complaint for a near inhuman amount of time.
Regeneration - Rocher's constitution is almost incomparable. His wounds heal fast (days where the average person would require weeks) , and injuries that might be fatal in time to some, require simple prolonged bed-rest for the dwarf. For all intents and purposes, few things short of decapitation or gross blood loss can actually slay the dwarf permanently. Anything less merely “puts him out of commission” for an appropriate period of time.
Combat - Rocher is strong and robust, but lacks all the finesse of a seasoned warrior. He knows that the sharp part goes into the squishy bits.
Skills:
Grappling - Thick legs and a low center of gravity make Rocher a natural wrestler. His above average strength combined with his almost supernatural endurance are tools that make him an unshakable assailant, although his technique is raw and unrefined.
Possessions:
-Drab, earth tone clothing.
-Heavy work boots plated in nickle