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Author Topic: [Hobbit] Velda  (Read 140 times)

Velda

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Velda
« on: August 07, 2018, 12:18:30 AM »

Velda



NAME: Velda 
NICKNAMES (IF ANY): Vel, Vee 
TRILOGY: Hobbit
DATE OF BIRTH AND AGE (AS OF T.A. 2941/3019):Twenty six years old.
PLACE OF BIRTH: Pennath Gelin 
RACE: Man
GENDER: Female 

HAIR COLOUR AND APPEARANCE: Thick reddish hair that falls just short of the small of her back. 
EYE COLOUR: A deep, warm brown 
BODY TYPE AND HEIGHT: Mesomorph, standing at 5' 2"  
OVERALL APPEARANCE: Velda can most often be found in earthy tones. She prefers dresses, usually made in a thick, rough material, and covered with an apron dress. Shoes are a nuisance to her. She prefers to go barefoot, which at a young age gave her the nickname 'Halfling'. However, if she absolutely must wear something, she uses a pair of old leather sandals she'd stolen off a trader.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: A few burns up her forearms from working in the forge. She's quite unashamed of them, but still keeps them hidden from view when she's not working.
WEAPONS: Although she's a blacksmith, Velda prefers to use her father's morningstar. She tends to find swords 'unwieldy'. There's too much of an art form to using it, while to her, morningstars do the job much quicker. "Just bash their heads in! One quick swoop, and then crash! They're down, and you're up." That being said, she can use a sword, just very poorly. She also keeps a dirk under her skirts.   
FACE CLAIM: Kate Mara 

STRENGTHS: Making/fixing swords, building fires, moving without being noticed 
WEAKNESSES: Being told what to do (just ask nicely!), leading, organization, swimming, anything alcoholic (she'll try to out drink anyone and anything) 
ASPIRATIONS: To see the world, rather than be confined to the little place she calls home.   
FEARS: Not living up to her father's expectations. She already failed him once, being born a girl. Twice, burning the smithy after his death. All she wants is for him to have died knowing that he had the 'perfect' daughter. Tight spaces. Large bodies of water.
PERSONALITY: Velda pushes herself to her limits. Focused and determined, she blazes her way through tasks. She's worked hard to get to where she is now, and she refuses to back down. To her, promises are everything.
Velda's a bit of a Dwarf at heart. She's wildly inventive, and a little mischievous, loving to play games and mess about with others that she meets. She's shamelessly competitive (even when she knows that there's no chance of winning.), and will take up any challenge. Besides her smithy, her favorite place to be is the local tavern. 


HISTORY: Velda was born to the blacksmith of the small fief of Pennath Gelin.  Her mother died in childbirth, leaving her husband, Jokken, to tend to the child. At first, Velda's father chose to ignore the fact that his daughter even existed. She was often left alone in the house while her father was at work, with no one to keep an eye on her. It was a miracle she even managed to survive her first few years of life.

As she grew older, Velda began to get into more and more trouble. She ran wild through the streets, pelting unfortunate passerby with pebbles and wreaking havoc on the trading stalls. She befriended the worst troublemakers to raid houses and even steal horses for late night excursions.

Finally, Jokken had had enough. When Velda was twelve, he took his daughter by the hair and dragged her into the smithy. There, he taught her how to handle the forges, to understand the language of the fire, to bring ideas to life. Velda drank it all in eagerly. She was a quick learner. Within months, she'd fashioned herself a dirk. Sure, the blade was slightly crooked, but it was her own creation. She treasured it like a mother does her child.

As all things, her experience ripened with age. Dirks became sax knifes. Sax knives became swords. Swords became great swords. Her work began to move throughout the lands, becoming bigger and better.

It would be a lie to say that success didn't go to her head. From an early age, Velda had fallen in love with drink, and she squandered her pay over it. Suddenly, she was struggling to keep the smithy going. She could hardly afford firewood, much less steel. She began falling back into her old ways. A prized horse vanished. Precious belongings were lost. And the smithy prospered, all while its blacksmith drank.

And then, disaster struck. Jokken had taken ill one winter and hadn't woken up. Velda, grief stricken and drunk, accidentally set fire to the smithy. She left Pennath Gelin a few months after the indecent. Velda was nineteen.

She stumbled through the land, acting as a smithy for hire. There was a time when the Dwarves took her in, teaching her their craft. Her weapons were no longer killers. They were art.

She stayed among the Dwarves for a while, then moved on. She wasn't exactly sure what her motives were to leave, but it brought her to Bree, where she has been ever since.


YOUR NAME: Huldra
AGE: 18
COUNTRY: The Void ('Murica) 
EXPERIENCE: Eeeesh. RP wise, six years. Writing creatively...elementary school.
OTHER CHARACTERS: None yet
CONTACT: PM. Or snail mail. Just tie the letter to the snail, and we're off!
HOW DID YOU FIND US?: RPG Initiative.
ROLE PLAY/WRITING SAMPLE: 
Quote
(From a story I've been working on) A mournful howl pierced the silence. Somewhere in the distance, an answering wail rose and fell, echoing through the trees.
Dakron sat crouched in the shadows, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. It was the only comfort allowed to him in this place. The Frekigard was dangerous enough during the day, with treacherous mountain passes, crumbling overhangs, and harrowing woodlands. Once night fell, the area was overrun with half-starved wolves.
The perfect place to hide a Tracora Blade, Dakron mused, scanning the blue-black shadows around him.
An icy breeze blew past, swirling through the folds of his cloak, penetrating his wool vest and thick shirt beneath. He shivered. These lands were the strangest he’d stepped foot in. The rest of the known world was experiencing the heat of summer. Here, it was as if the heart of winter had settled in permanently.
Another howl split the air. He needed to move. The cold would overtake him soon, if a wolf didn’t get to him first. Dakron rose, stomping his feet, trying to work some feeling back into them.
His breath came in short white bursts as he walked through the woods. Frost crunched underneath his boots. Shadows danced around the trees. He shuddered, glancing over his shoulder. Having lived in the plains for most of his life, he was used to seeing danger from miles away.
No point in griping over something that’s gone, he thought sourly. He adjusted his grip on the sword and continued on.
The farther he walked, the colder it got. Snow built up among the trees. The sky had darkened, blanketed heavily by clouds. The wind grew stronger, as if it wanted him to turn back, to leave the woods, descend back down the mountain. But he couldn’t. If he didn’t return home with that blade, all would be lost.





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