Scars
04-07-06, 08:27 AM
The sun’s shape was lost upon its descent, its circular outline blurred by the clouds that hung on the horizon before it, which were a collage of fiery colours. The sky that hung above the sea between the island of Corone and the mainland was clear, the moon lifting and letting tumble a steady flow of gentle waves heading eastward as it rose to greet dusk. Its reflection stained the waters an icy blue; a streak of pale light that stretched from one horizon to the other. What was left of the battle between light and dark was shadow, though little matter stood to cast silhouettes upon the water. Small islands – little more than the tips of underwater mountains – penetrated the surface here and there, but no boats ploughed the divide, and no gargantuan sea creatures – or smaller fish - broke the surface. Only the shadow of a cross, that danced like it was alive upon the water’s surface, was to be of note. The cross that cast that shadow stood at the height of three men, built of dark oak and mounted atop a well-constructed raft that seemed to be anchored down, or at least weighted, for it did not drift with the coming of waves. Its presence was a curious one, for there was no sign of its creator, and its form was constructed of a wood that could only be harvested in a place unknown to most away. Nothing had grown upon the crosses’ base, suggesting that the strange object had not been in the water for a long period of time. Still, it seemed differently for the silent figure whose limbs were bound to it.
His head would not lift, despite his wishing of it. A lack of food and water had drained all the strength from his body, the salty air still leaving a bitter taste that he lacked the energy to spit out. The wind was similarly bitter that far out to sea, though his body had numbed and he could not feel it – something that he could be thankful for, though it was the only thing that came to mind. Thoughts came few and far between, the most common of which being a question which he could not answer, and a part of him wanted not to know that answer: How long have I been here?
He had been slipping in and out of consciousness, he knew, and so had no clue as to how many nights he had spent tied to this floating… prison. They had left him far from any trader’s route on which he might have been discovered. Death was coming slowly; agonizingly. He wished for a knife to slide across his throat; to end the agony that gripped him more mentally than physically. It was absurd. At least that recognition stayed with him; the only thing that kept him confident that sanity had not wholly left his being.
A slight bump and a gull’s call alerted him to the fact that he was not alone, and prevented him from leaving consciousness once again. It sat above his head for a second, and then took flight once more. A sudden urge caused him to slowly lift his chin from his chest, and half-open eyes – crusted together so that any farther was painful - gazed out over a spectacular sunset that filled his vision completely.
The world was on fire.
He closed his eyelids, and a pained smile found its way to his parched lips. Then his head thudded back down, and Ferael Finn slept.
- - - - -
Name: Ferael Finn
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Height: 6’ 1”
Weight: 185lbs
Physical Appearance: Hailing from a reclusive forest town, Ferael’s skin appears naturally pale. His eyes, set under a rigid brow, are the colour of polished iron; white specks dotted within his irises like stars against a pale night sky. His nose shows signs of repeated breakage, its natural straightness lost to a shallow curvature both horizontally and vertically. A short, scruffy beard – a tangle of wiry black and grey – grows from his flat chin, his cheeks and philtrum shaven with an oyster shell to leave black stubble. Various small scars line his weathered features, the most obvious of which marking the right side of both his top and bottom lip in an inch long vertical line. Thick hair sits untamed upon his head, of medium length and midnight black in colour. Ferael shows no signs of having extra weight, his whole body toned and taut with muscle, though not to a degree as to make his physique seem irregular. As with his face, his body is lined with countless scars, some larger than others; in places overlapping almost as if they were inflicted deliberately to form a crosshatched pattern upon his skin. His torso is practically hairless, barring a line running down from his belly button.
Clothing: Ferael was left with only a pair of torn black pants to clothe him, faded to grey with the running of dye.
Arms: None.
Protective Gear: None.
Items: None.
Skills:
Knowledge of Sea Vessels and the Ocean - A life upon open waters has given Ferael Finn sufficient knowledge and skills to sail a wide variety of boats, and he boasts great knowledge of many of Althanas’ seas and ports around the globe. He’s also accomplished at geography.
Minor Swordplay and Melee Skills – Various sea battles, raids and barroom brawls have given Ferael a general understanding of swordplay. He’s also accustomed to the use of pole arms from time to time, though his skills are with them nothing more than simple. He throws a good punch.
Personality: Ferael is a relatively calm and slow to anger, though his temper, when it does escalate, is rather wild. He’s not one for subtlety, in any situation, and he’s not the sharpest of swords. Still, Ferael carries a loyalty to those he feels have earned it, and a recklessness that may one day see him dead. Such thoughtlessness, however, invites a ferocity that makes him one to be wary of should someone give him cause to dislike. Compassion is a word that those who know him would guess he misunderstands, and conscience, too, is something Ferael seems to express little of.
His head would not lift, despite his wishing of it. A lack of food and water had drained all the strength from his body, the salty air still leaving a bitter taste that he lacked the energy to spit out. The wind was similarly bitter that far out to sea, though his body had numbed and he could not feel it – something that he could be thankful for, though it was the only thing that came to mind. Thoughts came few and far between, the most common of which being a question which he could not answer, and a part of him wanted not to know that answer: How long have I been here?
He had been slipping in and out of consciousness, he knew, and so had no clue as to how many nights he had spent tied to this floating… prison. They had left him far from any trader’s route on which he might have been discovered. Death was coming slowly; agonizingly. He wished for a knife to slide across his throat; to end the agony that gripped him more mentally than physically. It was absurd. At least that recognition stayed with him; the only thing that kept him confident that sanity had not wholly left his being.
A slight bump and a gull’s call alerted him to the fact that he was not alone, and prevented him from leaving consciousness once again. It sat above his head for a second, and then took flight once more. A sudden urge caused him to slowly lift his chin from his chest, and half-open eyes – crusted together so that any farther was painful - gazed out over a spectacular sunset that filled his vision completely.
The world was on fire.
He closed his eyelids, and a pained smile found its way to his parched lips. Then his head thudded back down, and Ferael Finn slept.
- - - - -
Name: Ferael Finn
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Height: 6’ 1”
Weight: 185lbs
Physical Appearance: Hailing from a reclusive forest town, Ferael’s skin appears naturally pale. His eyes, set under a rigid brow, are the colour of polished iron; white specks dotted within his irises like stars against a pale night sky. His nose shows signs of repeated breakage, its natural straightness lost to a shallow curvature both horizontally and vertically. A short, scruffy beard – a tangle of wiry black and grey – grows from his flat chin, his cheeks and philtrum shaven with an oyster shell to leave black stubble. Various small scars line his weathered features, the most obvious of which marking the right side of both his top and bottom lip in an inch long vertical line. Thick hair sits untamed upon his head, of medium length and midnight black in colour. Ferael shows no signs of having extra weight, his whole body toned and taut with muscle, though not to a degree as to make his physique seem irregular. As with his face, his body is lined with countless scars, some larger than others; in places overlapping almost as if they were inflicted deliberately to form a crosshatched pattern upon his skin. His torso is practically hairless, barring a line running down from his belly button.
Clothing: Ferael was left with only a pair of torn black pants to clothe him, faded to grey with the running of dye.
Arms: None.
Protective Gear: None.
Items: None.
Skills:
Knowledge of Sea Vessels and the Ocean - A life upon open waters has given Ferael Finn sufficient knowledge and skills to sail a wide variety of boats, and he boasts great knowledge of many of Althanas’ seas and ports around the globe. He’s also accomplished at geography.
Minor Swordplay and Melee Skills – Various sea battles, raids and barroom brawls have given Ferael a general understanding of swordplay. He’s also accustomed to the use of pole arms from time to time, though his skills are with them nothing more than simple. He throws a good punch.
Personality: Ferael is a relatively calm and slow to anger, though his temper, when it does escalate, is rather wild. He’s not one for subtlety, in any situation, and he’s not the sharpest of swords. Still, Ferael carries a loyalty to those he feels have earned it, and a recklessness that may one day see him dead. Such thoughtlessness, however, invites a ferocity that makes him one to be wary of should someone give him cause to dislike. Compassion is a word that those who know him would guess he misunderstands, and conscience, too, is something Ferael seems to express little of.