Post by Rory Fergus Hewitt on Dec 25, 2011 7:18:57 GMT -5
Rory Fergus Hewitt.
Busker,, Other ,, Ambiguous ,, Amicable ,, Jamie Bell
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Rory Fergus Hewitt was born in the Scottish Highlands on the 23rd of August. He is currently twenty-two years old. He is not, in fact, a student at LCU, but a vagrant that likes to hang around there a lot, usually making music for a bit of money.
Rory is always a bit scruffy looking. His hair is perhaps just a little too long, grown out of any cut it might have had, and always ruffled. His clothes are usually rumpled, and maybe a bit stained and mismatched, but it doesn’t bother him. Rory has no piercings, but he does have a three bands tattooed around his left bicep.
Personality
+/ Friendly
Indiscriminate about his contacts, Rory will have a good old yack with anyone. And if you want to do that more than once, he’ll certainly be open to it. Though he needs a lot of help himself (whether he admits it or not) he’s always willing to lend a hand to others. With no real occupation, he’ll do chores for a small fee…but more likely he’ll walk away having done it for nothing at all.
- / Private
Rory can talk to anyone, and have a reasonably good conversation with them. He’s the sort of guy where within five minutes of talking to him for the first time, you feel like you’ve known each other for years, that he could be your best friend…but when you walk away and have a think, you realise that you don’t know anything about him. He keeps a lot of stuff to himself…and it’s not even ever for any good reason, mostly just because he can.
+/- Independent
Rory isn’t really the sort of guy who likes to accept charity…even if he needs it. He’s been roughing it for a while, now, his current residence being his own corner of an abandoned warehouse. It’s a pretty sweet digs, but it gets awfully cold in winter, and there isn’t much by way of facilities – getting access to a shower or even a toilet can be difficult…and you can forget a kitchen…and the food that goes with it.
-/ Transient
Though Rory is a friendly and helpful young man…he might not be where you need him to be. He goes where he pleases when he pleases, and doesn’t really like having a schedule. He’ll turn up if you make plans…probably…but if you’re just looking for him, the Scot can be a bit slippery. Dropping off the face of the known earth for a few days isn’t beyond him. In fact, it’s quite common. Considering what a private bloke he is, he probably wouldn’t like me saying where he goes…around will do, for now.
+/- Non-confrontational
Rory doesn’t like fighting. Perhaps it’s due to his tumultuous relationship with his father, but Rory likes going with the flow and keeping things running smoothly. He’ll shrink away from a fight (though he can be pretty scrappy if it does come to fisticuffs) and try to settle things with words, by walking away, or just by weathering whatever you’re throwing his way.
-/ Stubborn
Even though he doesn’t like to fight, Rory will do what he wants no matter what. He might stand there and let you yell at him, or tell him what to do nodding his head the whole time…before going off and doing things his own way, anyway. Though he’s well out of his teen years, the young man is quite pig-headed and unruly…he’s just quiet about it…and it’s not about to change any time soon.
History
Rory was born to Conall and Seana Hewitt, a couple with a lot of old money who lived in a big, old house on a hill in the Scottish Highlands. Being the only child in a rich family meant that Rory had a childhood of indulgences. He was doted on by relatives, given the best things that money could buy…and just suffered from general only child syndrome. Ruining the sweetness of this upbringing, however, was the austerity of his father. Conall Hewitt thought that things should happen a certain way, follow a certain plan (his plan, to be exact) and if they didn’t, shit would go down. The older he got, the more and more Rory seemed to like deviating from this plan. The pair had a very tense relationship, that was filled with many fights that could probably be heard in the village below their big house on a hillside. Speaking of which, from a young age Rory liked to wander down to the village to hang out with the local urchins. It was there that he first picked up a guitar, as well as a few other instruments, and learned to pay. He was a musical lad and was soon playing with a few townsfolk in the local pub on weekends.
Conall did not approve.
He approved even less when his son picked up a girl when he was seventeen. And not just any dalliance of a pairing, either: Rory was convinced that it was love. Effie was his soul mate and they were going to get married and have lots of babies and…well, that was perhaps where the young man ran out of plan. No, babies weren’t even included! Or marriage! But he was dead set on spending the rest of his life with this girl.
This dirt poor girl with nothing to add to the gene pool.
Unforutnately, times were rather tough in the farming community, and with a father who was a struggling farmer, it didn’t take much money at all to have Effie drop out of Rory’s life without a word. Not hesitant to throw his money around, and get his son back on the path, Conall did just that.
This time, Rory was the one who didn’t approve.
To put it lightly.
When he couldn’t get his girl back, and learned the truth of what his father had done, the young man packed his bags…stole quite a bit of money…and disappeared. Distraught, he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, but knew he wouldn’t stop until he was at least out of Scotland. The young man wasted some months in London, before feeling it was too close to ‘home’ still, he set off for ~America~.
These days, after many years of travelling, Rory has settled somewhat. He can usually be found busking somewhere around campus (hey, pretty girls usually have some money they can spare on cute foreigner who can sing and play guitar) or doing gigs at Quigley’s for food. It's a simple life, and it might be difficult, but he manages to scrape on by...and anything is better than being back in Scotland under his father's thumb.
hey, so i'm El. i've been roleplaying for AGES now. as well as this character, i also play other characters you play. you can reach me by pm is fine if you need me for anything. i found HAZED AND CONFUSED by / on / from my future wife >U and i'm pretty glad i did. here's an example of mah skillz. (:Wind was not the only thing to bluster through the tall windows that morning. In a rustle of feathers and clacking of claws on stone, a large purple crow settled on the sill of a northern window. It sat and preened at itself for a moment or three, before disappearing in a puff of smoke and stray bits of plumage. The smoke wafted off through the bookshelves, while the stray feathers fluttered to the ground – the first of much mess to be brought by this unusual guest. Left in their wake was, of course, a druid. A night elf druid. Not a common sight in the floating city, let alone in a library. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to approach the tower by flight, as opposed to striding through the front door.
Prideful wretch that he was, the elf would deny it until he was even darker purple in the face. Why walk (up countless stairs, no less) when you could fly? Few things were more breathtaking than joining with the sky, especially in the early morning when the air was so crisp it almost snapped.
The library, even with its open windows, was stuffy in comparison. The scent of paper and books and fading ink caused the man to wrinkle his nose. As he sprang down from the sill, he growled a little at the strange feel of a plush rug under his feet. A bounce or two on the soles of his feet only increased the male’s displeasure. It wasn’t natural. He didn’t like it.
It made Valren Wellspring long for the spongy moss one found underfoot in Zangarmarsh. That felt right.
Grass, dirt, sand, fur or even living stone felt better than this.
It was as artificial as the city that he disliked so much…though he had only been there a day. This city of mages did not sit well with him, but he had to concede it would be the best place to begin looking for answers…or, more realistically, for clues and hints on where to go. Ancient lore was rarely definitive. He was not a scholar, but his knowledge of oral tradition…and its subsequent translation to text…led him to believe that stories twisted and changed over time – that many versions could spring up…and none of them could be true.
Finally moving from the window, the druid stalked his way to one of the many shelves filling the large room.
It was difficult to be inconspicuous when you were just over seven feet tall, but for all that muscle bulk being propelled by those muscular legs each step didn’t make a sound. Yet he left a trail that any layman could follow. The city of Dalaran with its polished stone and glass, was nearly void of dirt, but each of Valren’s footfalls left grains of soil in their wake. Even a couple of leaves seemed to drop from his rugged, teal hair! As his fingers traced over the spines of books he past, they left a series of grimy marks. More dirt.
He did not really notice. Had he been looking at anything, it would be the titles of the tomes. His eyes glazed over even them, while his thoughts wandered. He had been travelling for a few weeks, and yet still the events precipitating his exodus galled him. The voice of his mentor still rang in his head.
You are a good druid, Valren.
They were words of praise that the night elf had heard often. Never before, however, had his name teetered on the end of a void, waiting to be filled with other words.
…But…
Never before had that segue to a backhanded compliment followed the familiar sentence.
You lack experience…
There had been more, but the large ears on the sides of his head did nothing to aid him in hearing it. It was all just as well, because the words to come would have pleased him even less. An admonishment for his sense of duty? His devotion to their cause? The next phrase to filter in had only added to his building vitriol.
You are still very young…
Age should have nothing to do with it! Was he not the most attuned of the students in the marsh? He was an accomplished fighter, and herbalist! He had mastered shapshifting and was quickly progressing in the art of healing! Nature consorted with him, flowed through him. His eyes were amber! He…he…
…still clearly had not done enough for them.
It burned, no matter how softly spoken the words were. Things only got worse, too.
You have much to learn, and we feel that you could better accomplish it beyond the borders of Zangarmarsh…of Outland.
They hadn’t just kicked him out of the town…or the region…but the fucking continent! Out of the DIMENSION.
His ego, however, could not help but be placated. They had sent him away, but with a task. A mission. One that only he could do. Of all the young druids, they had chosen him! They could have sent someone older, or more experienced…anyone…but they had chosen HIM.
Alas, it was yet to occur to the hot blooded night elf that they had invented the quest for his benefit. That perhaps they expected him to return in some months time, with empty hands but a full heart and a head stuffed with epiphanies of maturity. Wise though the leaders of the expedition were, they did not know young Wellspring well enough. Were it ever to come to him…it would not be a happy realisation.
But for now, he was innocently browsing books. Insulted and betrayed though he felt, Val would still complete his quest. He would show them! They predicted a long journey, but he would surprise them all by returning within the year! He was sure of it.
Suddenly spurred on by his own foolish thoughts, the druid plucked book after random book from the shelves. With a hefty pile in his arms, he headed for a table and dropped them down with a thud. After appraising his collection, he frowned for a moment, before returning to take a few more. Seemingly satisfied, Valren plonked himself into a chair and grabbed a book at random…toppling the rest of his pile in the process. This drew his attention for a moment…before he returned his amber gaze to the page between his broad fingers.
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[/justify]template credit to JACK of H&C.
