[Durelin]

Just putting my bio here...hope that's okay. I also hope it's okay if I get a thumbs up, down, or sideways from the mighty Anakron on my character before I finish up my first post.

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? - Yes… Wolf Run, Search for the Lost Messenger, Quest Ainereg, Truth in a Dark Place, Gondorian House Call, Dark Seduction, Corsairs and Corsets (sorta), Resistance, Brotherhood, A Story from the Last Alliance, The Ambassador’s Son (last part), Bloodstained Elanor, Land of Darkness (sorta), Red Flows the Sirannon… I think that’s it.

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? - One...Red Flows the Sirannon

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon or The White Horse Inn? – Yes, both.

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Durelin's character


Name: Valde Delego (Normally goes by his surname, sometimes by his first)
Age: Whatever suits him at the time…he can easily pass for about 30, whether he is around that age or not
Race: Human
Gender: Male

Weapons: When it suits him, he considers himself quite the secret weapon, professing that he is his enemies’ worst nightmare (so, often everybody’s worst nightmare). But other times, any talk of war makes him scoff and break off into a loud rant about how barbaric it is.

Appearance: Tall, dark, and handsome. And brooding. He is a regular Mr. Darcy on a bad day, who will never meet his Elizabeth Bennett. And though he has rather large sideburns, he does not quite have muttonchops. He also has particularly prominent eyebrows and an outstanding bird-like nose.

Personality: A self-absorbed doomsayer who always finds something to complain about. He is constantly bemoaning his situation, whether or not any normal person would find it quite pleasing. Either nothing is good enough for him, or it is too goody-two-shoes perfect for him, much to his annoyance. He is on the eternal quest for the Happy Medium, believing that it doesn’t exist and cursing it even if it does. He often has a taste for drama, histrionic to his very core, and normally exaggerates either indignant outrage at his bruised pride, or the deepest, darkest depression, that of which every brilliant mind must endure, of course. He plays the suicidal Cassius to a ‘t,’ but without his own Brutus, and, fortunately for him and unfortunately for most, without the blade to do the bloody deed.

History: Delego was born to parents both rich and famous for having done an in-depth study on the health hazards of instruction on Sunday mornings. Unfortunately for his parents, he had the inborn ability to demand people’s attention through his own version of devilish wailing, which he describes as quickly developing into the sound of the eternal anguish and torment of a demon eternally flailed, which reverberated through the woe-begotten halls of eternity. But they did not initiate a study on the effects of babies’ crying.

His first word was ‘doom,’ and his favorite phrase from a very young age was ‘go to Mordor,’ which he used not at all sparingly whenever he did not get his way (and of course the poor soul barely ever got his way). When asked why he said these things, his only response would be that the person or thing he addressed ‘belonged there.’ Several years later, when he learned of the Anakronisms and how horrid they were, he made it his life’s goal to prod as many people as he could into voicing such evils in public in order to condemn them all to Mordor. It all worked very well, and he grew healthily in confidence whenever he heard from some vigilante rumour-mongorers of the people he cursed falling down rabbit holes in Mordor in time to have tea with some very interesting residents, whom he later would have described as mad, had he gotten past guffawing at their noteworthy taste in headwear.

He wished a long journey to Mordor upon many, that is, until one day when it was brought to the attention of the Anakronism Police (by a man who was later marked for Mordor due to his skewed concept of reality) that it was indeed obnoxious that such intolerant people who would assign minor irritations to the most miserable, dangerous and evil place in the world without a moment's thought be allowed to simply roam the streets of Minas Tirith. He was carried off to Mordor in a hurry, destroying his parents’ once pristine reputation for a few weeks until they released their study on lima beans being a co-conspirator with nuclear bombs in the coming of the some-day apocalypse.

This is of course not the story he would tell anyone who asked of his origins. He would instead begin on a very detailed account of how he was playing hide and seek with all the most notable and un-Anakronistic children of Minas Tirith (of which, apparently, there were about three), and decided to hide in a large chest of drawers (he was very small as a young child, you see). He then found that he had picked the wrong drawer, and thought he had fallen through the bottom of it, when he found himself plopping down upon a pile of ash, with nothing visible around him but the distant glow of the neon lights of The Mount Doom Casino and Resort. He was not very happy to be there, in this land called Nurnia (even though the initial sight of a centre for debaucheries such as gambling was a rather welcome sight to him), and is still looking for a return chest of drawers or armoire of some kind. (Of course that’s how it happened; don’t be such an Edmund!)

He uses this story to explain his bitter hatred for all things living, suspecting them to have something to do with his transport to Nurnia; his unnatural disgust at Turkish delight; and his irrational fear of drawers and particularly handles. Even so disoriented by his new surroundings, Delego quickly adapted to his new habitat, darkening his disposition and raising it to the first power in order to maximize his resilience to the ashlands. Soon he was conjuring up a few new action phrases, such as ‘go drown in the Sea of Nurn,’ and would begin work on his autobiography as a motivational tale of a young boy torn from his roots who managed to piece them back together in a strikingly new world and save himself from the inconvenience of assimilation. Cursing his past encounters to Mordor has been conveniently removed from his memory, for the most part, as it was too much for him to consider that he belonged in those black lands, having been sent there.

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Durelin's post

From the moment her woke up, Valde knew that this day, of all days, would be different. He knew, the very second he felt his mind being dragged into consciousness, that his life would be changing very soon. It was suddenly as if this was a long day prophesized in a time long forgotten, though the memory had resurfaced in the man’s dreams. Perhaps it came from the remembrance of more pleasant mornings, when he had been wakened gently from a peaceful slumber on top of a fluffy feather mattress. He had been treated like a young prince-ling in Minas Tirith, and he had of course been as handsome as one then, too. The harsh lands of Mordor had worn him down to what he was, a man rejected by his past and constantly tortured by the present, but one who stood boldly in the face of the future. Now he was but a simple man, who yearned for more, and would stop at nothing to reach it.

Or so, at least, it was told to anyone who asked about that day.

The truth was, he had awakened that morning with many groanings and moanings, and had counted on spending his day in sorrowful meditation where of course everyone could see him. His first movement since falling asleep was to reach up and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. He then felt the pillow, found it wet, and decided that he must inform anyone who asked that he had cried himself to sleep that night, just in case anyone decided to give his pillow a feel. Stumbling out of his room, he cursed every object on the floor that he stepped on, wishing to give the sea life in the Nurn an impressive collection of ironware, quills, and empty ink pots, along with a large stack consisting of the not-yet-so-famous tragedies of Valde Delego, written for the stage.

Upon knocking down one such stack, Valde noticed a particular piece of parchment. It was larger than the rest, and the letters upon it were to match, glaring at him. It was almost as if he could see their eyebrows slanting and their lips curling, and so he quickly crumpled up the sheet to hide them. Angrily he threw it out his open window, and the falling paper was greeted with an unnaturally high-pitched squeal.

“Do not screech in my window, thee harpy!” he shouted upon rushing to stick his head outside, and then quickly he pulled the shudders shut with a slam. He regretted not saying more to the squealer, but decided that a solemn, silent curse would be enough until they met again. For but a moment he bemoaned his situation, muttering to himself, the only words audible being ‘wretched, poor, stricken, forsaken, maimed, brutal, wound, and ticks.’ Of course, he was obviously relating the Grand Anakronist and the King to parasites, or simply a good poke in the eye. And his reason for this at the moment was plain: gatherings were mandatory, and one was today.

Reluctantly, and pulling his grim cloak of sadness tighter around him (a ratty old thing of black cloth that rippled nicely in the wind, perfect for swirling, and thus perfect for either gloomy or angry brooding, depending on the occasion), Valde made his way to the Anakronist’s gathering. Just look at all these filthy people, he thought upon arriving at Caer Pairadocks, Look at that hideous orange scarf that woman’s wearing. What was she thinking? ‘Tis a Mordorian style, if I ever saw one. No wonder she’s stuck here.

Taking a position at the back of the crowd, huddled in his cloak with the tall neck pulled up so that he stared over with his dark eyes and large eyebrows as he scanned the gathering, his face frozen in what he thought to be frigid. It became obvious to him that he was trying too hard when a passing woman asked him if he needed to relieve himself. She received first a wide-eyed look of pure shock, which quickly turned to fierce resentfulness. “You would so bother a simple man, protected from the elements by only these scraps of cloth, and even less protected from the storms within the heart? There is no wondering, madam, why you are here in Mordor.”

“The same to you, chap.” And with that, the woman moved on, leaving Valde to boil in his anger. So, naturally, he did not notice when the Grand Anakronist began extracting names from the ATM machine. At least, not until he heard his own name, though he naturally wished his ears were lying to him, not knowing why on earth he was called. He quickly smoothed his cloak and gave a tug to the collar, and began to make his way through the crowd, matching every curse at him for pushing with a more iniquitous one.

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