Post by tr on Oct 25, 2010 15:08:56 GMT -5
Name: Trakaen Ragaenson (Trakine Rag-ain-son)
Age: Nineteen years of age.
Race: Human male
Occupation: Drone
Allegiance: The Hive
Physical Description: Trakaen has a slight frame, with toned but slim muscles. He’s not overly tall, but stands at a slightly larger height than is average among most people.
His body isn’t made for bulk or fat, and only has thin, toned muscle upon it. This doesn’t allow much in the way of strength, but gives him the speed and agility his occupation requires.
Trakaen tries his best to change his appearance as regularly and as much as is possible. Things like his hair and beard change regularly, but are always the same light brown colour, with a few streaks of white appearing already. His eyes he cannot change, so are always a light blue, and wide, in a childish sort of way. The rest of his face structure is as far away from childish as possible, however.
His face is hard and looks as if it is carved from a block of wood. Like the rest of his body, not an ounce of fat hangs from any part of it. A thin scar follows his chin from behind his ear to just above his Adam’s apple, something which puts off some prospective employers in his line of work.
For one with such a hard, brutal face, Trakaen has a soft, slight voice. It’s oily sound is hated by most people, as they find it sly and shifty. Most people find it hard to trust him due to this, and that united with his personal nature, make for a very untrustworthy person.
Personality: In his earlier years, Trakaen always had troubles with his conscience. His mind always had an ongoing battle within it; that between his desires and his conscience stopping him. He often beat his conscience into submission, and did as he liked. These were minor things such as thievery or something of the sort. It wasn’t that he needed the money, it was just that he wanted it.
His conscience did niggle at him at times; though it mustn’t have troubled him too badly, else he wouldn’t have turned to the profession he did. He was recruited by a scout from The Hive, sent to recruit new criminals into their empire. When he finally was given his first assignment, the killing of the noble didn’t leave much regret upon his mind.
Trakaen doesn’t value the company of others very highly; he sees friendship as an unneeded hinder of his progress through life.
History: Trakaen grew up with his mother, who wasn’t the greatest up bringer in existence. She was employed as a prostitute for most of her life, and all of the time Trakaen stayed with her. She was an aggressive, impatient woman and often beat Trakaen for being in her way. Trakaen never struck back, save for the one time he hit her the day he left her company.
He was often called the ‘soldier’s bastard son.’, referring to the fact his father was a soldier, and had only been to the village where Trakaen lived once, whilst ‘visiting’ his mother. He had only stayed long enough to impregnate his mother, and Trakaen has no idea who or where he is.
Trakaen left just after his seventeenth birthday; when his mother struck him after a dispute. He only landed one strike in return, but it was enough to knock her unconscious, leaving him with time to leave his home.
Trakaen was employed by The Hive after he got talking to someone in a tavern, by the city of Tierm. The man took him to one of their headquarters, and his whole life stemmed from there.
Roleplaying Sample:
Thick droplets of rain pounded upon the earth, creating a loud drumming sound as they bounced off of various roofs and cobblestone roads. The moon cast rays of light onto the surfaces of puddles, creating an eerie glowing light.
The streets were empty; everyone had retired to their rooms for the night, pushed in by the ferocious weather. It was relentless, pounding everything into submission. Even the stalls that created the market in one of the wider lanes of the city had been abandoned, the forlorn tables lining the road casting shadows in the night.
One lone figure was the only one out in the rain; a man, dressed in dark colours. Nothing gave away the fact he was there, apart from the slight silver sheen given off from a dagger at his belt, every time it caught the light. The figure was unmoving, his cloaked head turned upwards across the street, staring at a glowing upstairs window. He waited for a couple of minutes, totally still, until the orange light slowly flickered and was snuffed, and he started moving.
His legs moved fast, carrying him along the street, his cloak flapping behind him in the moonlight. His boots slapped upon the wet ground, creating small splashes of rainwater that landed on his leggings.
Suddenly, he dived into a small crevice in the side of a wall. The cause of his hiding was anonymous, until a lone cat appeared around the corner of a road. A sigh came from underneath the hood, and the man set off again.
He travelled through the city for half an hour before he reached his destination; a large townhouse towards the inner circle of the city. It towered above the other buildings, and all of the lights were off, save for one of the lower ones, the servants quarters, the man knew. He knew the servants had to stay up for their master, in case any business happened to come his way late at night.
A bell hung by the front door, and Trakaen slowly raised a gloved hand to ring it. His other hand fell to his belt, and silently drew his dagger. As the door was opened, Trakaen barely had time to register the confused face of the answering servant slowly change to horror, before he stepped forwards, driving the dagger into his chest and holding onto his shoulder.
He slowly laid the blood-soaked figure on the floor, and without looking at his staring, glassy eyes, stepped over his lifeless form. He made his way quickly but silently, being careful not to make any unnecessary noise. He arrived at the top of the stairs before long, and made his way along the landing.
He stopped every few feet and listened at a door, his gloved hand resting on each doorknob. He did this to each one, before he finally rested on the fifth one along. A smile tugged at his lips, before he silently turned the knob. He sheathed his dagger as he walked through the door, and instead drew a thin, long sword from a sheath on his back. The blade was painted black with something, causing it to be unseen in the night.
“Wake up, wake up, little man...” He muttered in his singsong voice, making his way to the edge of the bed, where a small, plump man was sleeping. His arm suddenly shot forwards, and grabbed the front of his nightclothes, shaking him awake.
“Wha, whatsgoingon?” Mumbled the man, the whites of his eyes flashing as he was violently shaken awake. “Who are you?” He suddenly exclaimed. “Where do you keep your coins?” Said Trakaen, ignoring his question and pulling him further up in his bed. “I’ll not tell you, you wretch! Do you know who I a-“
“I know perfectly well who you are, m’lord. I’m here because you are who you are...” He issued a light laugh, sending chills down the man’s spine. “Where are your coins?” He asked again, and this time, the man complied. “On the drawer,.. in, in the chest!” The man shrieked, actually shaking. “Take them, but you’ll not get away! I’ll have your hide hanging from the noose by morning, mark my words!” He roared the last few words through the darkness. Trakaen dropped the man back onto the bed, before whispering, “thank-you, Lord. I shall not be bothering you again.” He then raised the darkened blade above his head, before burying it in the mans chest.
Two minutes later, Trakaen ran back along the street, a bag of coins jingling in his pocket. He was paid well for his work, but any spoils he gained were a bonus. He smiled, and continued on his way.
Age: Nineteen years of age.
Race: Human male
Occupation: Drone
Allegiance: The Hive
Physical Description: Trakaen has a slight frame, with toned but slim muscles. He’s not overly tall, but stands at a slightly larger height than is average among most people.
His body isn’t made for bulk or fat, and only has thin, toned muscle upon it. This doesn’t allow much in the way of strength, but gives him the speed and agility his occupation requires.
Trakaen tries his best to change his appearance as regularly and as much as is possible. Things like his hair and beard change regularly, but are always the same light brown colour, with a few streaks of white appearing already. His eyes he cannot change, so are always a light blue, and wide, in a childish sort of way. The rest of his face structure is as far away from childish as possible, however.
His face is hard and looks as if it is carved from a block of wood. Like the rest of his body, not an ounce of fat hangs from any part of it. A thin scar follows his chin from behind his ear to just above his Adam’s apple, something which puts off some prospective employers in his line of work.
For one with such a hard, brutal face, Trakaen has a soft, slight voice. It’s oily sound is hated by most people, as they find it sly and shifty. Most people find it hard to trust him due to this, and that united with his personal nature, make for a very untrustworthy person.
Personality: In his earlier years, Trakaen always had troubles with his conscience. His mind always had an ongoing battle within it; that between his desires and his conscience stopping him. He often beat his conscience into submission, and did as he liked. These were minor things such as thievery or something of the sort. It wasn’t that he needed the money, it was just that he wanted it.
His conscience did niggle at him at times; though it mustn’t have troubled him too badly, else he wouldn’t have turned to the profession he did. He was recruited by a scout from The Hive, sent to recruit new criminals into their empire. When he finally was given his first assignment, the killing of the noble didn’t leave much regret upon his mind.
Trakaen doesn’t value the company of others very highly; he sees friendship as an unneeded hinder of his progress through life.
History: Trakaen grew up with his mother, who wasn’t the greatest up bringer in existence. She was employed as a prostitute for most of her life, and all of the time Trakaen stayed with her. She was an aggressive, impatient woman and often beat Trakaen for being in her way. Trakaen never struck back, save for the one time he hit her the day he left her company.
He was often called the ‘soldier’s bastard son.’, referring to the fact his father was a soldier, and had only been to the village where Trakaen lived once, whilst ‘visiting’ his mother. He had only stayed long enough to impregnate his mother, and Trakaen has no idea who or where he is.
Trakaen left just after his seventeenth birthday; when his mother struck him after a dispute. He only landed one strike in return, but it was enough to knock her unconscious, leaving him with time to leave his home.
Trakaen was employed by The Hive after he got talking to someone in a tavern, by the city of Tierm. The man took him to one of their headquarters, and his whole life stemmed from there.
Roleplaying Sample:
Thick droplets of rain pounded upon the earth, creating a loud drumming sound as they bounced off of various roofs and cobblestone roads. The moon cast rays of light onto the surfaces of puddles, creating an eerie glowing light.
The streets were empty; everyone had retired to their rooms for the night, pushed in by the ferocious weather. It was relentless, pounding everything into submission. Even the stalls that created the market in one of the wider lanes of the city had been abandoned, the forlorn tables lining the road casting shadows in the night.
One lone figure was the only one out in the rain; a man, dressed in dark colours. Nothing gave away the fact he was there, apart from the slight silver sheen given off from a dagger at his belt, every time it caught the light. The figure was unmoving, his cloaked head turned upwards across the street, staring at a glowing upstairs window. He waited for a couple of minutes, totally still, until the orange light slowly flickered and was snuffed, and he started moving.
His legs moved fast, carrying him along the street, his cloak flapping behind him in the moonlight. His boots slapped upon the wet ground, creating small splashes of rainwater that landed on his leggings.
Suddenly, he dived into a small crevice in the side of a wall. The cause of his hiding was anonymous, until a lone cat appeared around the corner of a road. A sigh came from underneath the hood, and the man set off again.
He travelled through the city for half an hour before he reached his destination; a large townhouse towards the inner circle of the city. It towered above the other buildings, and all of the lights were off, save for one of the lower ones, the servants quarters, the man knew. He knew the servants had to stay up for their master, in case any business happened to come his way late at night.
A bell hung by the front door, and Trakaen slowly raised a gloved hand to ring it. His other hand fell to his belt, and silently drew his dagger. As the door was opened, Trakaen barely had time to register the confused face of the answering servant slowly change to horror, before he stepped forwards, driving the dagger into his chest and holding onto his shoulder.
He slowly laid the blood-soaked figure on the floor, and without looking at his staring, glassy eyes, stepped over his lifeless form. He made his way quickly but silently, being careful not to make any unnecessary noise. He arrived at the top of the stairs before long, and made his way along the landing.
He stopped every few feet and listened at a door, his gloved hand resting on each doorknob. He did this to each one, before he finally rested on the fifth one along. A smile tugged at his lips, before he silently turned the knob. He sheathed his dagger as he walked through the door, and instead drew a thin, long sword from a sheath on his back. The blade was painted black with something, causing it to be unseen in the night.
“Wake up, wake up, little man...” He muttered in his singsong voice, making his way to the edge of the bed, where a small, plump man was sleeping. His arm suddenly shot forwards, and grabbed the front of his nightclothes, shaking him awake.
“Wha, whatsgoingon?” Mumbled the man, the whites of his eyes flashing as he was violently shaken awake. “Who are you?” He suddenly exclaimed. “Where do you keep your coins?” Said Trakaen, ignoring his question and pulling him further up in his bed. “I’ll not tell you, you wretch! Do you know who I a-“
“I know perfectly well who you are, m’lord. I’m here because you are who you are...” He issued a light laugh, sending chills down the man’s spine. “Where are your coins?” He asked again, and this time, the man complied. “On the drawer,.. in, in the chest!” The man shrieked, actually shaking. “Take them, but you’ll not get away! I’ll have your hide hanging from the noose by morning, mark my words!” He roared the last few words through the darkness. Trakaen dropped the man back onto the bed, before whispering, “thank-you, Lord. I shall not be bothering you again.” He then raised the darkened blade above his head, before burying it in the mans chest.
Two minutes later, Trakaen ran back along the street, a bag of coins jingling in his pocket. He was paid well for his work, but any spoils he gained were a bonus. He smiled, and continued on his way.
