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Topics - Ristiinna

Pages: [1]
1
Further Afield / Tumbling Out Of Control
« on: July 23, 2020, 08:46:19 PM »
The world was whiter than usual, and soft, and she knew it must be deadly cold. But the cold felt good. It eased some of the deep ache in her bruised and battered body. Might as well embrace the cold for what good it does, Ristiinná thought, as I can't do anything about it. She moved slightly to peer inside the precious heavy iron cookpot that she was wrapped around, but simply moving her left arm elicited a cry she felt sure could be heard all the way in the northern reaches. It was probably broken. Another thing I can't do anything about, she thought. Gingerly moving the pot only with her right arm, she peered into it. Though the storm was breaking, there was very little light within the bubble of air in the snow she had formed when her fall had ended; she was cut off from the outside world on all sides but one, in what was very nearly a cave of snow. As good a shelter as she could have made. Well, at least I have plenty to eat, she thought as she surveyed the plentiful supply of smoked and dried fish tucked into the bowl. This elicited a manic laugh, which broke into a fit of agonized coughing, as the bruises and aches all over her body caught up with her. That was the nearest she'd came to a lucid thought for a while, and it would be the last for even longer.

- - - - -

Some of her dreams were simply echoes of the expedition setting out. Time and again she could hear her mother exhorting her to volunteer for the journey, doing what she herself would have done, supplies and provisions, were she young enough to go on so long and arduous a road. The little song she'd made up to memorize the provisions list kept coming from the air around her, as if it were being sung by a hundred breathless spirits, or the winds themselves. Even in her pain-wracked hallucinations, she could look at each of the three sleds and see, as if her vision could penetrate the hides and furs bound tightly over them, everything in its place, carefully organized so that things needed earlier would be at the top.

But even when her delirium took her on the long sloping paths from her village, alongside sleds and a dozen others of the tribe, the pains of her body and those of her heart entwined together and drew her imaginings into darker places. The others of the tribe plodded on through the snow, faint and almost transparent; she waved her arms at them, shouted, ran back and forth between them, but nothing she could do would rouse any reaction. Slowly the chill in the air made her realize they had all died, they were merely ghosts, walking because they knew nothing else to do, and they could not see her. She stopped to wail and sob, at how she must have failed them, at how she would now certainly be forever alone, only to notice their footprints in the snow… and the lack of her own. And her cries would turn to gasps of shock as she realized she was the ghost.

- - - - -

She lifted her head and looked out of her snow-cave, blinking at the brightness. The storm was gone; she'd been dazed and dozing, battered and nearly broken, for hours, perhaps longer. Perhaps they will be looking for me, she thought, though the idea felt completely uncompelling; they'd never really seemed much inclined to notice her, save to be annoyed by her. "Just be yourself, only not as much," her mother had told her, but it had never worked. Being sure not to move her left arm, she pulled herself up. It took a dozen tries; the snow was packed hard beneath her from her tumble finally coming to an end, and there was nothing to pull herself up by. She had bundled herself in three layers of furs before venturing from the tent to try to get food and a cookpot in the middle of the storm, and this made her even more clumsy, especially with all the bruises. Though those extra layers was probably why she hadn't already frozen to death, and no doubt saved her even worse breaks and bruises, they weren't helping her get out of the snow-cave.

The sun was blindingly bright on the smooth expanse of snow before her, leading up, up, so far up. Presumably to the road where the expedition had hastily stopped and quickly put up the three tents as the storm had blown in, making vision impossible, the keening wind drowning out all but the loudest shouts. Somewhere, far above her, they had probably awoken, miserable and hungry. (Had someone else tried the same insanely risky thing she had, plunging out into the blinding storm to try to get food for everyone, and a pot to melt snow for water, when she hadn't come back? For a moment she wondered if someone else was in similar straits to hers.)

But even if they had chosen to try to find her, when they'd shaken the snow from the tent and packed the sleds again, they would have no way to do so. She had wandered blind, trying and failing to find the tent in the storm, for some time, her prize clutched to her chest, before she'd stumbled, then fallen, tumbling for an unimaginably long time down this slope before she finally stopped in a bank of snow deep enough to stop her fall. Leaving a huge scar in the snow, no doubt, but the storm had erased all traces of it; the surface was now as smooth as freshly tanned hide.

Well, I may be the least capable of all the Lumi-väki to survive like this, with no skill or weapon for hunting, no hatchet for cutting wood, and no idea where I am, she thought, but at least I have plentiful furs and plentiful food. And a pot for melting snow. And I am no southron who knows nothing of the cold. I am Lumi-väki. She turned slowly, still favoring the broken left arm. Climbing, though it might lead closer to her company, seemed impossible; and there was surely no wood there anyway. She turned to the downslope. "Perhaps I can find the road and then meet them there," she said with a cracking voice to no one, and was shocked by the sound of her own words, or rather, by the fact that she hadn't said anything aloud in at least a day. So unlike her. She scooped snow into the cooking pot; without fire, it would not melt easily, but the pot was dark and the sun was bright, and so, some would melt. She would need water to drink; she already did. She ate some fish; it invigorated her more than she expected. She stretched, wincing at every bruise and pulled muscle. And then she started plodding on heavy footfalls down the hill towards what she thought might be the road to the trading post village where the expedition would be stopping soon, hoping to meet them on the road, or in the village.

2
Men / [LotR] Ristiinná
« on: July 22, 2020, 09:44:58 PM »

RISTIINNÁ



NAME: Ristiinná
NICKNAMES (IF ANY): none (that anyone's admitted to her)
TRILOGY: LotR
DATE OF BIRTH AND AGE (AS OF T.A. 2941/3019): born summer of T.A. 2999, currently age 20
PLACE OF BIRTH: Forochel
RACE:  Man (Lossoth aka Lumi-väki)
GENDER: Female

HAIR COLOUR AND APPEARANCE: Dark brown, curly, shoulder-length
EYE COLOUR: Dark brown
BODY TYPE AND HEIGHT: A little shorter and more slender than average
OVERALL APPEARANCE: Dresses, typically in sea blue or sometimes crimson and gold; in cold climates, furs of white with accents dyed in deep blues and reds.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Brown skin with dark brown freckles. Her left arm is very slightly misshapen at the middle forearm due to a break that didn't heal that well. (more accurate depiction than the face claim here, or an artistic version here)
WEAPONS: Small knife with carved bone (scrimshaw) handle; crude spear for hunting and fishing
FACE CLAIM: Lulu Stone

STRENGTHS: A minstrel and storyteller of the Lumi-väki with a good voice (particularly for harmonies) and an expressive style. Has learned how to provide for herself in the wilderness, with the help of her sled dog. Is skilled in the making of candles, soaps, perfumes, and other things made from animal tallow, as well as those basic cold-weather survival skills all of her people know, and basic hearthcraft that almost any woman of the Lumi-väki would know (like mending clothes or basic healing). Also good at organization, taking after her mother's talents at organizing the supplies and needs of her tribe. Can read and write. Has mastered a skill of making up little songs to memorize things when she can't write them.

WEAKNESSES: Talks way too much, too enthusiastically, almost faster than her own thoughts, in an way that many people find off-putting (especially amongst her tribe). Over-eager to make friends, and hurt too much when people are mean or curt with her. Has a poor sense of direction and easily gets lost. Has very little experience with the ways of survival in warmer climates, though she's learning. Has no particular ability or experience at battle. Other than their language, she knows almost nothing of the people or places of southern lands. Has very little gear or supplies.

ASPIRATIONS: Beyond the basics of survival, she longs to find a place where she feels like she fits in and is appreciated, and to make friends who appreciate her -- ideally, just as she is. Perhaps to go back to Forochel one day, when she feels like she'll be welcomed. To learn more stories and songs. To feel loved. To see places and people she's never seen.

FEARS: Loneliness. Being excluded or disliked. The idea that who she is, no matter how carefully tempered, is unavoidably 'too much' for her to ever make friends, and she will have to choose between being herself, and being cared for. The fear that even her family couldn't bear her.

PERSONALITY: Most of the time, Ristiinná is bubbly, cheerful, optimistic, and very gregarious, prone to chattering every thought as it crosses her mind, straining to make friends with everyone, and always finding the glitter in everything whether it be gold or not. She's not brash out of any desire to push anything on anyone; she's simply carried along by an inner well of enthusiasm that never stops bubbling.

At least until, as happens all too often, someone finds it all 'just too much' and snaps at her, and then, like a sled dog puppy whose nose has been struck, she slinks back and becomes maudlin, morose, and withdrawn, trying (and entirely failing) to hide how hurt she is. Particularly by how much it hurts her to be excluded, to not make friends of everyone she meets.

But the well still bubbles and before long, without really choosing to break out of the gloom, or being pushed out of it, she simply moves past it as if she forgot that she was saddened, and is again cheerful and too warm.

Ultimately what she wants more than anything is friendship, a connection to those around her, feeling like she fits in with people, but that's just what she's always struggled to find, since her effusive nature turns away so many people, particularly amongst her laconic, severe tribe-mates.

HISTORY: Ristiinná was born in the snowy north to the Lumi-väki, or Lossoth (as they were called by the southerners who sometimes came to their lands in summer to trade, especially for bone carvings). Her father was a clan storyteller and minstrel, while her mother, the more practical one, oversaw the provisioning and supplying of the clan. Though she learned her father's trade somewhat, she also trained in the making of animal fat and tallow into candles and soaps, useful things the clan would need, especially in winter when it was dark most of the day.

One day the chieftain was sending out an expedition to a distant camp from whom no word had been heard in some time, and Ris's mother urged her to volunteer to be part of it, and do what she herself would do if she weren't too old to go: make sure the expedition had everything it needed. Ris's bubbly, over-cheerful personality put off most of the others in the expedition. They were stopping for the night when a blizzard swept in and they had to set up tents quickly, so much they didn't get any food or cooking pot from the sleds. Ris ventured out, in three layers of furs, to get these needed supplies, but got lost in the blinding winds and tumbled far down a long slope, breaking an arm. She could not get back, and attempts to cross to the road to meet up with them led her the wrong way. One of the sled dogs found her, but she ended up curled up in the snow, spent, freezing to death.

Passing merchants who felt robbed by the Lossoth, finding her, decided to take her and see if they'd be able to sell her as a hostage to a servant of the Shadow that they knew of in the lands near Lake Nenuial, who was trying to put pressure on the Lossoth for reasons unknown to them. All they cared about was getting some coin. Just before the trade, she was able to break free, killing one of them, the dog injuring another. This left her lost in a green and warm land totally unfamiliar to her, with no way to get home, nor any reason to think she would be welcomed if she did return. She was fortunate enough to be found by a Dúnadan who helped her learn some basic survival techniques like spear-fishing, before he had to move on. She's been fending for herself, with the help of her dog, afraid to try to go north and re-enter Forochel, and has finally decided to cross south to the lands she sometimes glimpsed in the distance, where smoke rose from chimneys.

YOUR NAME: HunterGreen
AGE: 53
COUNTRY: United States
EXPERIENCE: First roleplaying game was in 1980. First play-by-forum game was 1988, on Quantum Link. Have been roleplaying (tabletop, play-by-post, voice chat, MUD, MUSH, and/or MMO) for 40 years.
OTHER CHARACTERS: None yet
CONTACT: Discord HunterGreen#5163 or PM
HOW DID YOU FIND US?: Google
ROLE PLAY/WRITING SAMPLE:

Quote
(Ristiinná had lain down to die in the snow, but is now coming through muddled, comatose dreams to gradually awaken finding herself in a wagon, being cared for by strangers.)

The storm was full of thunder, and the ground was angry. It lurched and tilted and yelled back at the thunder, until both the ground and the clouds grew tired. Still they argued, still the ground tilted and jostled, still the clouds swayed and grumbled, but the sound was subdued, like an old couple long married who still argue but have no heart in their words. Sometimes, the sky and the ground, the quake and the thunder, changed places, though only briefly.

There was a boy, and sometimes Ristiinná thought it was her brother, but no, he was away at the camp on the western glacier, and in any case, he didn't make soup, and if he did it would taste like fish, but this soup tasted like something Ristiinná had never tasted. Did it have a name? Maybe it was the flavor of dreams. No, that doesn't make sense. Dreams would taste better than this, and you wouldn't make them into soup, and they wouldn't be served spoonful by spoonful, by a boy who is not your brother, but could be. Perhaps they were on the western glacier, and there was a kind of fish there that had a different flavor. But surely something of glaciers was missing here, and not just her brother. She couldn't decide what.

Then the thunder and the quake would argue again, but after a time, she would dream of the boy, and the soup that was not fish. One day she asked the dream of the boy, "What kind of fish is this in the soup?"

The boy looked impatiently at her and said some sounds that were not words. At least not at first. Then they gathered like birds and hopped over one another, finding the right place to stand in a line, and she knew them as words at last, but in the southron language they called Westron. "I don't know your language, but it's not fish, it's chicken, and your people don't have anything like chicken so I can't tell you what it's like," the boy had said wearily. "You always ask, but then you fall asleep again and forget, and I'm tired of answering."



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