My first post is in the process of being crafted, but as I've never played an RPG before, I thought I'd post the rest of the necessary info and see if LMP wants any of it drastically altered, deleted, reshaped, or hoovered.
Name: Fléin of the Ironfists living in the Orocarni
Character Description Form:
1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – NO unless you count the Green Dragon or Unforbidden.
2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? None.
List them, please: N/A
3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon or The White Horse Inn – YES
_______________________________________
TGWBS's character
NAME: Fléin son of Fréin (of the Ironfists).
AGE: 102 (and just come of Age)
RACE: Dwarf, Ironfist.
GENDER: Male
WEAPONS: Steel axe. It's double edged and very sharp, you know. A little boringly conventional, I'll admit, but quite handy.
APPEARANCE: Short and Bearded. Four feet and six inches tall. Black, curly hair not restricted to conventional hair-growing areas. Surprisingly un-ironlike fists. Has a penchant for steel chain mail. Also wears a round steel helmet. Weathered, brown skin and intelligent black eyes. When not wearing a helmet, his hear appears rather flat and therefore perfect for resting e.g. mugs upon.
PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Likes throwing Khuzdul into his sentences. Slow to make friends, quick to anger. Rather blunt, as opposed to his axe. Speaks little and with a strong Dwarvish accent. Dislikes his head being used as a table, dislikes Elves. Likes mining, crafting, selling, hoarding and hewing. Despite his quietness, an incredibly intelligent fellow. Weaknesses include being rather short. Strengths include being at a good height to remove people's stomachs with ease.
HISTORY: The tale of Fléin's coming to Mordor is a most curious one. Fréin's House, the Ironfoots, or, as some preferred, Ironfeet, traditionally dwelt at the feet of the Orocarni. Near the beginning of the Fourth Age, these were rediscovered by the Men of Gondor and thus opened up to trade.
Due to the general decline of the Dwarvish race, Fléin's father was one of the few sentient beings left in Middle Earth capable of crafting weapons so pointy that, were one to place it on the earth, it would near instantaneously submerge itself to the hilt. By the time of Fléin's coming of age, therefore, his father was a hugely successful merchant, with stalls in most major Gondorian cities.
Shortly after his hundredth birthday, Fléin's father convinced him to take a trip to Gondor to get a real feel for the business world, for though Fléin was a shrewd dwarf, he had little practicle experience, due largely to the absence of civilisation in the parts where he lived. He also intended to make pilgrimages to Khazad-Dum, Kheled-Zaram, Durin's Stone, Aglarond and the field of Azanulbizar.
His first stop, however, was Minas Tirith, to meet the family's accountant, or, as they were called in those days, computer, in those lands. Fléin's father had warned him of the accountant's somewhat... sensitive nature. "He often has breakdowns, lad, but he is a good man. Just pray you find him well."
"Where is Iorin?" he had nervously asked the maid upon finding the building.
"I'm afraid he's just had a little bit of a psychological breakdown, master Dwarf," the maid had replied nonchalantly. "Currently, he believes himself to be a duck."
The Dwarf had sworn, tugging at his beard. "Why does my
computer keep
breaking down!" he yodelled into the cold Gondorian morning.
Swiftly, two pairs of burly arms had grabbed him from behind and begun hurling him towards a cart. He had protested in the form of loud yells and attempting to remove one of the men's legs, but to no avail. And so, by a quirk of fate, he had found himself in the most inhospitable realm in Middle Earth.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the guy who be short's post:
Much as Fléin would have liked to have left Mordor, he simply didn't have enough energy to be enthusiastic. Being
woken at four ante meridian by twittering songbirds was hardly the best way to start a day, but when said awakening is accompanied by discovering you have
conjunctivitis - well, it's hard to deal with. After discovering that he was not, in fact, blind, but merely lacking in eyelid mobility due to a gooey discharge, Fléin had tried to rush blindly to the well. Unfortunately, fate was smiling down in a particularly twisted manner that day, and before he had taken five paces, Fléin was face down on the ground due to
excess phlegm coating the floor.
Life in Mordor was never easy, but people have especially bad days even in the Black Land. So far, this appeared to be one of them. He had been in Mordor for only two years, maybe less, but the longing to leave was like a manic kitten in his heart - painful and stingingly noticable.
So it was that Fléin found himself behind a large crowd at Cair Pairadocks, hoping beyond hope that he would be chosen to leave Mordor.
The noise of flugel horns startled Fléin, causing him to blink, or rather, causing him to perform half of the action that is generally thought sufficient to be considered a blink. His eyes stuck shut.
"Blasted Conjunctivitis!" the Dwarf swore. He had visited a
nurse just before coming to the docks, but she was a
know nothing and hadn't been any help at all. In a way, it was perhaps nicer having ones eyes sealed shut. One didn't have to take into account the blasted landscape, or the even more blasted aspects of civilisation that had made their way into Mordor.
"Excuse me," Fléin intoned into the air at large. I've just gone temporarily blind. Little help, someone?"
"Blindness? How positively bestial. Do stay away from me, be a good fellow," a
snotty upperclassman had replied.
The Dwarf sighed. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all. He stuck his fists into his eyes and forcibly peeled them apart.
By this time, the
Grand Anakronist had already declared the name of Alumìne Umfuìl as the first member of the
Offending Party. Though he had freed his eyes (albeit they were streaming pus all over his face and into his beard) Fléin couldn't see her through the press of human bodies around him. From what he heard, he instantly disliked the girl. Here she was, given the chance to leave this curséd land - what a chance! - and all she could do was moan about her name.
Panakeia, the next name to be selected, turned out to be a woman who sounded even more annoying than Alumìne. What a buffoon, he thought. Thank goodness I'm not her, even if my eyes are melting.
Wilhelmia Brochenbach was next. What a disgusting name. And yet another woman? Suspicions about the Grand Anakronist's honour whizzed through Fléin's mind. But then again, why would he choose a whiny child, an idiotic saleswoman and an old bat out of all the women in Mordor?
The possibility that he was being bitter about his bad morning and taking it out, completely unjustifiably, on those running into a bit of luck flittered through Fléin's mind. He tried to make it go away.
"Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfoots" the
Grand Anakronist cried, his voice rolling through the courtyard.
"Ironfeet!" injected an
annoying English teacher.
Fléin couldn't believe it. What a piece of luck! How wonderfully harmonious the universe seemed, that he should be given the chance to leave with those three fine women! "That's me! That's me!" he screamed. "Out of my way!"
The crowd parted around him, and he made his way up to the
ATM and the
Grand Anakronist himself. The latter eyed him with disdain. "It is, is it?" he intoned, looking down the length of his nose at the Dwarf.
"Er, yes, sir," Fléin meekly replied, but the Grand Anakronist had already turned to read the next card the machine had just excreted, so he stood there, smiling jovially at the whiner, the nutter and the old bat.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------