#Where's mama N? Out getting food for her cubs. Except both will be gone when she comes back

[minai28]

This is how N was born and you cannot convince me otherwise

[netherwar-rpg-blog]

Welcome to the Wardens, Emily! Your application for a RANGER OC has been accepted with a Keira Knightley FC.

What a gorgeous app! I was delighted to see that you had clearly embraced the lore of the world so that you could create a story for your character which would be believable in Eldris. We are in great need of a Ranger who is a master of beasts and marksmanship, as they are incomparable fighters in the wilds! Roswitha’s struggles through life - especially with her Dawnish father who is obsessed with trying to learn magic, despite not having the Spark - really makes her traumatic story full of possiblities too for future plots. It was really touching to read the friendship which Roswitha shares with her loyal bear companion; a true sign of a Ranger! I cannot wait to see how they both contribute to the world’s future and if they find the pack they are looking for in the Wardens!

The application can be found under the cut. You have 48 hours to create a roleplay account (cannot be a sideblog) for your character and we will be updating our opening date soon!

O O C - I N F O

Name: Emily

Age: 22

Timezone: PDT (UTC -7)

Activity Level: I’ll try to reply to something at least every day! I’ll be most active Friday-Sunday though.

Extra: Nothing

C H A R A C T E R - I N F O

T H E - B A S I C S

Name: Roswitha Unroh

Occupation: Bounty Hunter (former); Warden

Gender: Cisgender Female

Age: 31

Class: Ranger (Level One)

Beast: Birgir; a large brown bear, with lighter brown fur around his neck and chest. While at his shoulders he’s only 4’ 9” on his hind legs he towers above at over 9’ tall. Generally easy going, he’s reminiscent of a large, lazy dog.

Height: 5’ 5”

Weight: 146 lbs.

Status: Single

Faceclaim: Keira Knightley

C H A R A C T E R - D E T A I L S

Nationality: Siftish

Appearance:

Unassuming in appearance, it’s not until you approach her that you truly realize there’s something almost… feral in the way she moves. Her eyes are a rich brown, like the soil of the earth. But she never meets your gaze for long, her eyes are always darting here and there. Thick brown hair frames her face and hangs past her shoulders, or rather it would if she didn’t keep it tied back in a loose bun. Her hands and feet are calloused from use and have small faint scars all over them. She has a long scar on her left thigh from an arrow trick in her teens that went south. Her right leg is a little stiff from a poorly healed injury. She’s not quite tan, but the smattering of freckles across her shoulders and face show that she’s spent a fair amount of time in the sun. The faint wrinkles beginning to show around her eyes and mouth betray her years as well. Her voice is low and a little rough, like the creaking of trees in the wind. She smells of pine trees and snow.

Personality:

+ Resolute | Some call it determined, others call it stubborn, it all depends on perspective. Whatever you call it, when given a job to do, she will not stop until it is accomplished. When you have only your word, it’s crucial that you complete the task on hand whatever the cost.

+ Observant | She’s not good at implied subtleties or hidden motives when they’re obscured by fancy words. But body language is a quick read for her. A nervous glance, a tensed muscle, nothing escapes her notice. A combination of years of hunting and learning a little about the Game when she was young.

+ Self-reliant | All the years spent living alone in the words have taught Roswitha to be quick-witted and ingenious. She’s determined to have no problem hunting for her own food or building her own shelter. Except for Birgir, she’s only had herself to rely on for most of her life.

– Short-tempered | For one who values quiet and calm so much, this is an unlikely trait. But she’s ill equipped for dealing with people, even more so the greater their differences are, and this can easily result in an mistimed outburst. She’s quick to lose it, but shame usually shuts her up before it escalates too much. It reminds her too much of her father when she acts like that.

– Inhibited | Roswitha’s not comfortable around most folks, especially the Dawnish. She’s well aware of the stigmas against the Rangers and this will frequently color her interactions with more… civilized people. If she had her way she’d avoid townsfolk and live in the forest year round.

– Wary | She fidgets when standing still although you can tell she does her best to repress it. The longer she’s out in the open or surrounded by a large crowd, the more agitated she gets. Being exposed and vulnerable is her least favorite thing. She’s much more at ease with branches overhead or if Birgir is nearby.

C H A R A C T E R - B A C K G R O U N D

History:

Roswitha’s mother was a Siften hunter who lost her right arm during a solo hunting trip in the Farnill Forest. Far from home, injured and ashamed, she got as far as Stonerun before she ran out of money. Unwilling to return to Siften, she got a job as a shelf stocker in a small spellbook shop. As the years passed, she was frequently visited by a young Dawnish man. While not a mage himself, he came from a long line of powerful mages and was dedicated to the study of magics. He hoped to someday master magic through theory alone. Inspired by his dedication, the two eventually wed and Roswitha was born not long after. They were an idyllic family. Until her father’s studies resulted in failure after failure. Until Roswitha would bring another stray creature home. Until her mother tried to be more independant. Their home quickly devolved into a tense and toxic environment, with Roswitha and her mother walking on eggshells to avoid upsetting her father. The situation only worsened once it was discovered that Roswitha was a Ranger. She showed a connection to the Balance that her father envied, and yet it wasn’t even because of the Spark of a Mage. The following weeks led to some of the worse fights Roswitha had ever heard between her parents. It was after a particularly loud fight that her mother burst into Roswitha’s room and scooped her up in her arm. Eyes wide, Roswitha hesitantly reached up to touch the blood running down her mother’s face. Face strained, her mother gave her a smile, “I’m fine, little one, it’s nothing. But we have to leave now.” Roswitha squirmed, trying to look over her mother’s shoulder. “But what about papa?” Her mother tensed before picking up her pace even more. “Papa has to stay here. But we’re going on an adventure, just the two of us. We’re going to mama’s home.” It was a slow journey. Roswitha was still a young child and her mother was avoiding towns as much as possible. Eventually though, they made it to the Siften border without any incident, and then to her mother’s village.

The first few months in the village were a hard transition for Roswitha. She’d frequently get in fights with the other children and would lash out at her mother. It was decided that Roswitha would begin her lessons early in an attempt to divert her aggressions elsewhere. While Roswitha hated the daggers, she had a gift for archery. A sharp eye and a steady hand made for quick learning. The years passed by, and her distressing childhood was starting to fade from her mind. The occasional nightmare was all there was to remind her of what used to be. At the age of fourteen she decided to set off on her own. While she loved the village, the call of the forests and woods was too great to ignore. After packing some provisions and promising to visit when she could, Roswitha headed into the wilds.

She settled into a simple routine, hunting when she needed and helping creatures in distress when she could. One spring some years after leaving her mother’s village, Roswitha was cooking her dinner over the fire when she heard a creature snuffling in the bushes. To her surprise a small brown bear cub emerged. Not leaving her place by the fire she scanned the woods, trying to see where the mother bear was. A whine drew her attention back to the cub who was anxiously pacing on the other side of her fire. “Where’s your mum little one?” she asked, quickly glancing back into the trees before returning her gaze to the cub. Lost. Alone. She’s gone! the little cub bleated out. With a last cautious glance into the woods, Roswitha slowly approached the cub. It gave a squeal and shuffled away until Roswitha reached back and took the meat off of the spit. “Don’t worry little one, I won’t hurt you.” she said as she waved the meat in front of her. The cub paused and turned, its noise in the air. Hungry. it whined. After some shuffling the cub ran up, bit the meat, and ran back into the forest. Roswitha sighed, and went back to her place by the fire. It wasn’t the last time she saw the cub however. It began following her and she would feed it scraps from her dinners. Eventually the cub became a permanent fixture of her camps. “I’m going to call you Birgir now instead of cub. Do you like it?” she asked, looking down at him. Yes. he hummed as he walked alongside her. After a few years Birgir grew to be a full sized bear, but still he chooses to stay with Roswitha.

For most of the year, Roswitha protects the small forests and woods from over hunting by local nobles. It’s rarely an issue in Siften so she and Birger travel south of the Spine Mountains to the Targun and Farnill Forest. As long as the weather’s good, they’re content to stay in the forests. Especially since most towns are wary of letting a large bear walk the streets, even if he is with a Ranger. As winter approaches the pair travel back to Siften so Birgir can hibernate and Roswitha can check in on her mother. For the rest of the season Roswitha will take up residence in a nearby town and make a living from bounty hunting, since few want to wander through the cold and snow, and fewer still choose to brave the ice while tracking escaped criminals. She’ll stick around a single town until spring rolls around and Birger wakes up from hibernation. Then they return to the southern forests of Eldris.

This past year, rumors reached Roswitha as she passed through eastern Dawnstar that her father had remarried and was expecting his second child. The gossipers spoke of how good it was that he was able to be happy after his disastrous first marriage. No man should have to suffer through having his savage wife steal their child away in the night, never to be seen again. With each whispered bit of gossip, a bitter rage long since buried started to boil again. When Roswitha heard that he would be hosting a celebratory hunting party, she knew what she would do. She told Birgir to wait for her in the next town over and contrary to his objections, set out for the forest. Unlike the animals of the woods, who silently travel through hidden paths known only to them, nobles on a hunting party are loud and easy to track. In no time at all she spotted them and nocked an arrow. With the precision only a Ranger can have, she sent her arrow flying right through her father’s hand. Chaos erupted. “Run!” she commanded the horses. Immediately the already startled beasts bolted, taking their noble riders with them. Roswitha took off after her father’s mount, waiting until they had traveled a good distance before jumping out in front of the horse. A squeal sounded from the poor animal as it reared up, throwing her father to the ground. Roswitha ignored his cries of pain and watched the horse go, sending a silent apology its way. “H-how dare you!” her father weakly yelled, “How dare you attack a Dawnish Mage!” Roswitha whipped her head around, a snarl in her voice. “You. Are. No. Mage.” She stalked over to him gripping her bow until her knuckles were white. “You’re a coward.” she spat out, “A weak old man! A pathetic excuse of a father who took his insecurities out on his wife and his child!” Her voice breaking at the end, she turned away, a disgusted look on her face. Too late she noticed his move towards her, a flash of silver slicing into her leg. With a yell she retaliated, kicking him away from her and reaching for an arrow. “Wait!” he cried out, throwing his hands in front of his face, “Wait please! I have a family!” “You had a family!” she screamed as she pulled the arrow back and aimed for his eye. “There! Through the trees! I see them!” Letting out a string of expletives Roswitha turned to see the rest of the hunting party barreling towards them, swords and other weaponry at the ready. She should have heard them coming. She should have  been paying attention. She turned back to face her father but he had already gotten up and was stumbling towards the party. She hastily readied her arrow again, aiming for the chest. In her concentration she didn’t notice the enemy arrow until it whizzed by her face and in her surprise her arrow went wide, lodging itself in a tree. The party was getting ever closer and if she was to escape capture or worse she had to leave now. With a curse and a grimace she began running, in spite of the screams of pain coming from her sliced thigh. She heard shouting behind her as they scrambled to follow her, but she was already out of their range. Their noise was a faint din by the time she could see the edge of the forest.

Roswitha finally allowed herself to slow down, stumbling as the blood loss finally caught up with her. She lowered herself to the ground, and threw her head back against the tree, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. After a moment she turned her attention to her wound, grimacing at the amount of blood coating her leg. She healed what she could with nature magic, but she had waited longer than she should have and that skillset had never been her strong suit. When the worst had been healed, she leaned her head back against the tree. She had barely closed her eyes for a moment before they snapped open at the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth. Scrabbling to stand, Roswitha reached for her bow to ready an arrow when Birgir burst out from the undergrowth. “Birgir!” she gasped, “Why are you here? I told you to wait.” Didn’t leave. Smelled blood. he huffed. He lowered his head and gave her wound a sniff. Healed? She frowned and said, “Well enough.” He stared at her a moment before crouching down to allow Roswitha onto his back. She climbed up, careful not to disrupt her healing. Stupid. Birgir growled underneath her. “I know.” she sighed, hugging him tighter. Weren’t thinking. “I know.” It had been foolish and reckless and had nearly cost her her life, and all for nothing. They traveled in silence for a time, Roswitha replaying the scene over and over in her head. “Birgir, I think we should head south for awhile. It is probably best if I avoid Dawnstar for a while.” Birgir grunted in affirmation, changing his path accordingly.

Reason for joining the Wardens:

Even the strongest wolf needs a pack to call home. While Roswitha has enjoyed being on her own for most of her life (with the exception of Birgir), but recent events have her reconsidering. It’s not a bad idea to have a group that can look out for you and watch your back. However, whether or not the Wardens are the answer remains to be seen. Of course she won’t tell anyone that. Being as how she hates to look vulnerable, if pressed for her reason of joining, Roswitha will simply answer that she lives on Eldris too. The rifts affect them all and you’d have to be a damn fool to willfully ignore the signs.

Desired Connections:

Roswitha’s teamed up with a few rangers in the past. It’s not entirely unlikely that one of them also decided to join the Wardens. She’d be relieved to see a friendly face. They can reconnect and reminisce about that one time with the angry noble.

She may also have familial relationships with the Dawnish through her father’s side of the family.

R O L E P L A Y - S A M P L E

There have always been tales and songs of the walking dead. As your character huddles around a limp and fading campfire, they glimpse ghostly shapes through the forest’s trees. What do they do as the undead approach?

—

It starts with the hair raising on the back of her neck. Years of living in the forest have made her good at sensing when a gaze is upon her. From the cautious stare of the prey animals to the hungry glares of predators, each is distinctly different. But these stares… they have an almost unearthly, malicious aura to them. Undead. Birgir lets out a huff, confirming her suspicions. She slowly looks up from the dying embers of the fire, casually scanning the edge of the clearing. Birgir has an excellent sense of smell and is rarely wrong. But with the fire dying and the moon barely a sliver, a brush with the undead was risky. A cold sweat starts on her back as she begins to see flickers  of them at the edge of clearing. Keeping her breath even, she reaches for her bow and arrows, drawing them towards her as she begins to stand. A rumbling begins to emanate from Birgir as he gets up as well. Roswitha glares as the first skeleton stumbles into the clearing and braces herself. Birgir stands and lets out a fearsome roar, one that would’ve given any living creature reason to pause. But these sad creatures have been long dead.

As if on a secret command, they rush into the clearing. Their jaws gape open in wordless screams, remnants of their past lives hanging off their cracked bones. Birgir charges into the thick of them as Roswitha nocks an arrow. She fires it off only for it to get uselessly lodged in a skull. She swears placing the next arrow back in the quiver. Birgir stomps on the skulls of those he knocked over letting out a growl as more jump on his back. A grating sound behind her alerts her to a group of skeletons who had broken away from the pack attacking Birgir. Her eyes dance around the campsite looking for a suitable weapon before she locks on the fire and kicks the dying embers into their faces. The memory of fire makes the skeletons pause as they try to put out skin that no longer exists. With a grimace Roswitha tightens her grip on her bow before swinging it at the nearest skull. It collapses with a satisfying crack and she moves on to the next one. She makes quick work of them and when the last lies motionless on the ground she turns to Birgir. Skeletons still cling to his back, tugging on his fur as he stomps around trying to shake them loose. “Hold on!” Roswitha calls out as she runs across the clearing. She drags the skeletons off of him and Birgir turns to crush their skulls under his paws. The last one dealt with, an eerie calm settles over the clearing, the only sounds being the heavy breathing of the two where once there was the cracking and snapping of old bones.

“Are you alright?” she rests a hand on Birgir’s shoulder as she looks him over. My fur. he rumbles licking at one of the bald spots from where the skeletons had scraped the fur off. Roswitha smiles and gives him a pat, “I am glad that’s the worst of your injuries.” A whispered spell is all it takes to fix the wound however. She pauses before saying, “I suppose we should make camp somewhere else now.” Roswitha frowned, looking at all the skeletons and bone shards littered around the camp now. Aside from being a mess, a dark energy now clung to the clearing. Birgir butted his head against her, almost knocking her over. Let’s go. he grunted before turning towards the forest. Am tired. Roswitha gathered up her bow, quiver, and pack before following after her bear.