Gan Mann
09-06-11, 02:02 PM
Smokestack
Name: Smokestack
Age: 30
Race: Human/Dwarf
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Green
Height: 2.01 meters
Weight: 180 kilograms
Occupation: Forger
Languages: Common, Drow
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Country of Origin: Alerar
Personality:
Smokestack is a grim, serious guy and is not easy to befriend. He basically assumes the worst when he comes in contact with people he hasn't met before, therefore creating a distance between them and himself. Once you've befriend him, he becomes a more jolly guy with a weird and morbid sense of humor.
He is usually pretty introverted and chooses most of the time not to get involved with other people's business. This changes when he gets drunk; he becomes more talkative and more aggressive. Smokestack is not smart, so when a conversation is too difficult he assumes you're only want to outsmart him. Which happens a lot, and aggravates him quickly.
Smokestack is also very quickly offended about his appearance: especially his face. He has low self-esteem concerning his body and face. Once in a bad mood he won't get out of it easily; he is then very aggressive and he can attack randomly.
Appearance:
Smokestack is a monstruous appearance, the one a child is easily scared by. With his height of two meters and his massive weight, because of his mixed race, makes him ugly in anyone's eyes. Smokestack himself can't even stand his own reflection. He tries to hide his hideous body by buying very expensive and fashionable clothing, never leaving the door without it.
Also, Smokestack is a heavy smoker, always found with two cigars in his mouth at any time.
History:
Smoke. Everywhere where he sniffed, looked and even felt there was smoke. He remembered it oh so clearly, the day the smoke began perfuming his nose. The day his torment began; the day he was born. The day he earned the name Smokestack.
He could still see it in his memories; a dirt old shack. The wooden planks had soaked in as much smoke as they could. There were two small windows on opposite sides and one small door, one which he had outgrown at an early age. The room consisted only of a small bed and a small desk. He was surrounded by the scent of tobacco, for the small shack was inbetween two large tobacco fields. He remembered the first time he saw light, right in this very room. He saw men smoking, laughing hysterically, as two big hairy hands grabbed him tight and yanked him out of his warm, cozy bed. His former home was torn away from him, to a place he would only go to once in his life. One of the men that was laughing, in fact, the man who so eagerly cut his former lifeline, was supposed to be his father. He did not see his face that day; he could only see the faint glow of a cigar, covered in a thick, sticky cloud of smoke.
He had lived in solitude for the most of his childhood. His father ignored him. His father only acknowledged him when they had to eat, as by looking at him in disgust. There were no mirrors in his room nor in the house of his father; he only assumed he was ugly. Later in his life, when he finally mustered the courage to look into a mirror, he had proven this assumption. The first time he spoke, was, in fact at such a dinner. His father was smoking his cigar, as he always had done and can never do again. His father had invited some friends; people who dressed in rags, filthy clothing which had been unravelled in many places. That dinner was the first time he spoke; he was laughed at, ridiculed even, for people hadn't assumed he would ever had the brain capacity to even function normally. He never knew why, until that fatal day.
Years had passed. The tobacco fields were still profitable pieces of land, but even a fool could see his father smoked too many cigars to earn a decent upkeep. Smokestack, as he had outgrown his small and fat, dwarfish figure, had become strong but slow. His father showed him the tools of the trade: how to plow the land and to harvest the plants which spawned the infinite and infamous clouds of smoke. Soon enough, workers were fired. Smokestack was so strong, that he could do the work of three men in the same time. For the first time in his life, his father looked at him as a son. Be it a dreadful, abonimable and unspeakable son, but a son none the least. His father eventually showed him his real business; the tobacco was just his father's cover and for his enjoyment only. His father showed him the massive machines, which only Alerar knew. Hidden up north, not far from his own dreary shack, were they hidden; monstruous machinae slamming worthless metal in coins worth thousands each day. Brilliant forgeries, forgeries his father had lived for. Smokestack now realized his way out.
One problem. He had unfinished business. Night after night he slaved at a giant club, one that none had seen the like. He had pushed down a tree with his plow and coated it with more steel every night, using his father's hammer and anvil deep in the mountains. When his father was busy smoking cigars with his friends, he was planning to visit someone. His mother. After that, he was free to do as he pleased. Free of the pledge a son makes to his mother. To take good care of her.
This was the night he had prepared for. He had made the most finest clothes for himself from rare minerals of the caves, the old rags from his father and the many coloured plants around his shack. He wanted to look at his best for his mommy. His mommy had to see him as a good son, not some monstruous abomination who had just crawled from the black depths of the lagoon. He was ready. His father had invited his friends for dinner again and was waiting for his son to cook the dinner. His father was busy smoking. As always. He entered the house. Asked his father where is mother was. He was laughed at, by both his father and his friends. They told him they'd show him.
He followed the men through the twilight of the evening; at dusk they arrived at a small cabin. The cabin breathed sickness, as if the world itself had poisoned the earth the cabin settled itself on. This was the place he had spawned, the dawn of his dreadful face. He sniffed. This place... a black scent entered his nose. This was the place.
His father himself opened the door. As the little light that was left from the day drove the darkness away, he could vaguely discern a plump, impish figure in the darkness. As he came closer, he saw that it was a female dwarf; a dwarf that was in the worst shape he had ever seen. Age and starvation had degraded this creature to a form that was not supposed to exist. Her eyes, seen only from behind bars, had a bitterness that he had only seen in the eyes of dying animals; they passed on the wish to be killed. The men behind him, including his father, were crying from laughter; their thick cigars falling out of their disgusting, foul-smelling mouths. His father loudly and proudly exclaimed it was a bet; a bet to have sex with a crazy old dwarf found in the mountains. A bet he had won. A bet he had now pay the consequences for.
He tightened the grip around his self-made, heavy as cast-iron club. Mommy. With one swing the door of the cage flew open. With a second swing he crushed the creature he had once called his mother. With three more he had claimed his father's life and those of the three others who were equally guilty of the same crime. Their cigars fell from their mangled bodies, torching everything that had been in his miserable life. He was just in time to grab a big bag of his fathers finest cigars, planning to sell them on the market in the nearest town.
He ran away from the desecrated place he had called home, in his own, slow, pace. When he had left the burning smoke of the tobacco crops behind him, he washed his clothes, as to cleanse them from the putrid smoke in their veins. But the more he washed, the stronger the scent got. The more he bathed, the more he was covered by a greasy cloud of smoke, leaving behind a trail of a black scent. The smoke lingers within him, not without.
He lit up a cigar on his way to his new home, one founded in ashes and forgery.
Skills:
Monstruous strength: Born as a mix between dwarf and human, Smokestack has the height of a human and the strength and figure of a dwarf. This, together with working his whole life pulling plows through fields and mining in caves, makes him very muscular and very strong. (3x human strength)
Masterful forgerer: As he has learned from his father, Smokestack can make excellent forgeries of every kind of money. When he's traveling, he can only make money in small amounts, because his forging equipment is at his own home.
Farmer's life: Smokestack knows how to farm and thereby to sustain himself and does so in his everyday life.
Uneducated: Smokestack has had no education whatsoever and isn't born a smart kid. He is not smart; some call him extremely dumb.
Slow as a snail: Due to his extreme weight and immobile body, Smokestack can only move very slowly and has extremely low fatigue and stamina. This is also due to him constantly smoking two cigars at a time. (0.2x human speed)
Abilities:
Keen Eye: Smokestack has a keen eye. He can see through clouds of smoke and mist, and can see through most forgeries and disguises easily. This also allows him to see great distances.
Smokescreen: Smokestack can, because of his magic and his affinity for magic, create smoke within his body let it escape throughout all his orifices. This includes his mouth and his pores, effectively creating a smokescreen to confuse and hinder enemies.
Equipment:
Giant club
Fashionable clothing
Forged money
Forging hammer
Bag of cigars
Lighter
Weaponry:
One giant, heavy as cast-iron club. Once made out of strong wood, now enforced with thick plates of metal.
Armory
One very fashionable set of clothing, enriched with expensive metals which provide some extra durability, armor and sturdiness.
I'm new here, so this is my first profile. Please, correct me if have done something wrong or if I have misread the rules somewhere. Also, mind that English is not my native language: please forgive me for any spelling mistakes or other lexicographical errors. :)
Name: Smokestack
Age: 30
Race: Human/Dwarf
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Green
Height: 2.01 meters
Weight: 180 kilograms
Occupation: Forger
Languages: Common, Drow
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Country of Origin: Alerar
Personality:
Smokestack is a grim, serious guy and is not easy to befriend. He basically assumes the worst when he comes in contact with people he hasn't met before, therefore creating a distance between them and himself. Once you've befriend him, he becomes a more jolly guy with a weird and morbid sense of humor.
He is usually pretty introverted and chooses most of the time not to get involved with other people's business. This changes when he gets drunk; he becomes more talkative and more aggressive. Smokestack is not smart, so when a conversation is too difficult he assumes you're only want to outsmart him. Which happens a lot, and aggravates him quickly.
Smokestack is also very quickly offended about his appearance: especially his face. He has low self-esteem concerning his body and face. Once in a bad mood he won't get out of it easily; he is then very aggressive and he can attack randomly.
Appearance:
Smokestack is a monstruous appearance, the one a child is easily scared by. With his height of two meters and his massive weight, because of his mixed race, makes him ugly in anyone's eyes. Smokestack himself can't even stand his own reflection. He tries to hide his hideous body by buying very expensive and fashionable clothing, never leaving the door without it.
Also, Smokestack is a heavy smoker, always found with two cigars in his mouth at any time.
History:
Smoke. Everywhere where he sniffed, looked and even felt there was smoke. He remembered it oh so clearly, the day the smoke began perfuming his nose. The day his torment began; the day he was born. The day he earned the name Smokestack.
He could still see it in his memories; a dirt old shack. The wooden planks had soaked in as much smoke as they could. There were two small windows on opposite sides and one small door, one which he had outgrown at an early age. The room consisted only of a small bed and a small desk. He was surrounded by the scent of tobacco, for the small shack was inbetween two large tobacco fields. He remembered the first time he saw light, right in this very room. He saw men smoking, laughing hysterically, as two big hairy hands grabbed him tight and yanked him out of his warm, cozy bed. His former home was torn away from him, to a place he would only go to once in his life. One of the men that was laughing, in fact, the man who so eagerly cut his former lifeline, was supposed to be his father. He did not see his face that day; he could only see the faint glow of a cigar, covered in a thick, sticky cloud of smoke.
He had lived in solitude for the most of his childhood. His father ignored him. His father only acknowledged him when they had to eat, as by looking at him in disgust. There were no mirrors in his room nor in the house of his father; he only assumed he was ugly. Later in his life, when he finally mustered the courage to look into a mirror, he had proven this assumption. The first time he spoke, was, in fact at such a dinner. His father was smoking his cigar, as he always had done and can never do again. His father had invited some friends; people who dressed in rags, filthy clothing which had been unravelled in many places. That dinner was the first time he spoke; he was laughed at, ridiculed even, for people hadn't assumed he would ever had the brain capacity to even function normally. He never knew why, until that fatal day.
Years had passed. The tobacco fields were still profitable pieces of land, but even a fool could see his father smoked too many cigars to earn a decent upkeep. Smokestack, as he had outgrown his small and fat, dwarfish figure, had become strong but slow. His father showed him the tools of the trade: how to plow the land and to harvest the plants which spawned the infinite and infamous clouds of smoke. Soon enough, workers were fired. Smokestack was so strong, that he could do the work of three men in the same time. For the first time in his life, his father looked at him as a son. Be it a dreadful, abonimable and unspeakable son, but a son none the least. His father eventually showed him his real business; the tobacco was just his father's cover and for his enjoyment only. His father showed him the massive machines, which only Alerar knew. Hidden up north, not far from his own dreary shack, were they hidden; monstruous machinae slamming worthless metal in coins worth thousands each day. Brilliant forgeries, forgeries his father had lived for. Smokestack now realized his way out.
One problem. He had unfinished business. Night after night he slaved at a giant club, one that none had seen the like. He had pushed down a tree with his plow and coated it with more steel every night, using his father's hammer and anvil deep in the mountains. When his father was busy smoking cigars with his friends, he was planning to visit someone. His mother. After that, he was free to do as he pleased. Free of the pledge a son makes to his mother. To take good care of her.
This was the night he had prepared for. He had made the most finest clothes for himself from rare minerals of the caves, the old rags from his father and the many coloured plants around his shack. He wanted to look at his best for his mommy. His mommy had to see him as a good son, not some monstruous abomination who had just crawled from the black depths of the lagoon. He was ready. His father had invited his friends for dinner again and was waiting for his son to cook the dinner. His father was busy smoking. As always. He entered the house. Asked his father where is mother was. He was laughed at, by both his father and his friends. They told him they'd show him.
He followed the men through the twilight of the evening; at dusk they arrived at a small cabin. The cabin breathed sickness, as if the world itself had poisoned the earth the cabin settled itself on. This was the place he had spawned, the dawn of his dreadful face. He sniffed. This place... a black scent entered his nose. This was the place.
His father himself opened the door. As the little light that was left from the day drove the darkness away, he could vaguely discern a plump, impish figure in the darkness. As he came closer, he saw that it was a female dwarf; a dwarf that was in the worst shape he had ever seen. Age and starvation had degraded this creature to a form that was not supposed to exist. Her eyes, seen only from behind bars, had a bitterness that he had only seen in the eyes of dying animals; they passed on the wish to be killed. The men behind him, including his father, were crying from laughter; their thick cigars falling out of their disgusting, foul-smelling mouths. His father loudly and proudly exclaimed it was a bet; a bet to have sex with a crazy old dwarf found in the mountains. A bet he had won. A bet he had now pay the consequences for.
He tightened the grip around his self-made, heavy as cast-iron club. Mommy. With one swing the door of the cage flew open. With a second swing he crushed the creature he had once called his mother. With three more he had claimed his father's life and those of the three others who were equally guilty of the same crime. Their cigars fell from their mangled bodies, torching everything that had been in his miserable life. He was just in time to grab a big bag of his fathers finest cigars, planning to sell them on the market in the nearest town.
He ran away from the desecrated place he had called home, in his own, slow, pace. When he had left the burning smoke of the tobacco crops behind him, he washed his clothes, as to cleanse them from the putrid smoke in their veins. But the more he washed, the stronger the scent got. The more he bathed, the more he was covered by a greasy cloud of smoke, leaving behind a trail of a black scent. The smoke lingers within him, not without.
He lit up a cigar on his way to his new home, one founded in ashes and forgery.
Skills:
Monstruous strength: Born as a mix between dwarf and human, Smokestack has the height of a human and the strength and figure of a dwarf. This, together with working his whole life pulling plows through fields and mining in caves, makes him very muscular and very strong. (3x human strength)
Masterful forgerer: As he has learned from his father, Smokestack can make excellent forgeries of every kind of money. When he's traveling, he can only make money in small amounts, because his forging equipment is at his own home.
Farmer's life: Smokestack knows how to farm and thereby to sustain himself and does so in his everyday life.
Uneducated: Smokestack has had no education whatsoever and isn't born a smart kid. He is not smart; some call him extremely dumb.
Slow as a snail: Due to his extreme weight and immobile body, Smokestack can only move very slowly and has extremely low fatigue and stamina. This is also due to him constantly smoking two cigars at a time. (0.2x human speed)
Abilities:
Keen Eye: Smokestack has a keen eye. He can see through clouds of smoke and mist, and can see through most forgeries and disguises easily. This also allows him to see great distances.
Smokescreen: Smokestack can, because of his magic and his affinity for magic, create smoke within his body let it escape throughout all his orifices. This includes his mouth and his pores, effectively creating a smokescreen to confuse and hinder enemies.
Equipment:
Giant club
Fashionable clothing
Forged money
Forging hammer
Bag of cigars
Lighter
Weaponry:
One giant, heavy as cast-iron club. Once made out of strong wood, now enforced with thick plates of metal.
Armory
One very fashionable set of clothing, enriched with expensive metals which provide some extra durability, armor and sturdiness.
I'm new here, so this is my first profile. Please, correct me if have done something wrong or if I have misread the rules somewhere. Also, mind that English is not my native language: please forgive me for any spelling mistakes or other lexicographical errors. :)