Island of Sorrow Planning/Discussion Thread - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 05-18-2005, 02:39 AM

DEDICATED CHARACTER

3.) Envinyatar’s character – Rivendell Elf

NAME: Orëmir (to the Elves of Rivendell known as Curuma)

AGE: Born in the Age of Trees – 1400; Endamir’s twin brother

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Bears a sword identical to his brother’s; The scabbard also is the same. A long, oaken spear, too, with a sharp iron tip. He is skilled in the use of these two weapons. A short dagger in a dark leather holder hangs from his belt. Unlike his brother, he is not much interested in the bow. He still has a heavy oaken cudgel, well balanced so that his arm might swing it easily and with great force.

His armour consists of a short sleeved light chain mail shirt beneath which he wears a thick soft padded shirt. A thick, waist length, boiled leather vest serves as another layer to protect his upper body. Boiled leather vambraces without device protect his forearms. There is a plain helmet and a small round metal shield.

APPEARANCE: Dark grey eyes. Black hair cut very short. Tall, 6’5”. Broad shouldered, lithely muscled. Graceful in his movements. Ambidextrous, though prefers using his right hand.

His brown breeches are held up by dark brown leather belt. Tends to favor tunics in shades of grayish green. His boots are knee high, of supple, dark brown leather. He has a hooded, grey-green cloak woven in Imladris.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Orëmir is a softspoken, gracious man. Unlike his brother, he is not reserved or withdrawn. He enjoys the company of others and is the sort who with a few light words and a quick smile can draw one out. He is well liked by his fellows and often sought for his companionship.

He has taken on the role of healer with such naturalness that it would seem his hands and mind had been schooled from the first in the arts of gentle touch and healing words; that they had never been put to use with sword, and spear, and cudgel - with the multitude of cruel ways that one person can kill another.

Unlike his brother, he has come to terms in his own way with the bloodshed done by his hands. In part, perhaps, because he feels he has made some redress of his actions through his skill as a healer. It grieves him deeply that he cannot lighten his brother’s burden.

HISTORY: His history, of course, is much like his brother’s. Though it was not for love of Fëanor and his sons that Orëmir joined them in their pursuit of the Silmarils. Not that he thought them wrong in their choices. Truth be told, he really did not care much one way or the other. He simply did not want to be apart from his brother.

And once the battles and the war were done, he supported his brother’s choice to stay in Middle-earth and to see of it what they could. They wandered long in distance and in years before coming to settle in Imladris.

During their travels, it was from men that he gathered much of his knowledge of the healing arts . . . the uses of herbs in different combinations to ease pain or to restore the sick and injured body to its normal courses. From his fellow Elves met along the way were the deeper lessons of using thought to probe the illness or injury and speed the course of healing. Death, too, he found to be an exacting teacher, coming as it did despite the skills used to hold it in abeyance. And often he wondered at this Gift of Men, how some welcomed it and others were frightened.

In the long course of this last war, that which brought about the fall of Sauron, Orëmir had much to do, especially among the Rangers who dwelt south of Imladris, in The Angle. His skills were often called upon to heal the wounds made by the Shadow and his foul creatures. Even now that the victory has been won and there is peace, there is still much to be done.

The call from Malris was not a welcome one for Orëmir. It brings into sharp relief an ongoing dialog between the two brothers. Endamir grows weary of Middle-earth. Orëmir can see him withdrawing more and more as the years pass. There is a longing in Endamir to return to the West. It is there he feels he will be at peace. Orëmir does not share his brother’s longing. Malris, it seems, has also turned his thoughts to the journey home. Being so close to the sea, and with his old friend wanting also to go West, Orëmir knows will be hard to dissuade his brother. Impossible, perhaps. And if he cannot change Endamir’s mind, then what is he to do?

~*~

Will also play a contingent of Orc houseless spirits if needed

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Envinyatar’s post

The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll.

Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food.

His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading.

It had not proved so.

And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made.

In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys.

‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound.

05-18-2005, 02:39 AM	#9
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	DEDICATED CHARACTER 3.) Envinyatar’s character – Rivendell Elf NAME: Orëmir (to the Elves of Rivendell known as Curuma) AGE: Born in the Age of Trees – 1400; Endamir’s twin brother RACE: Noldor GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Bears a sword identical to his brother’s; The scabbard also is the same. A long, oaken spear, too, with a sharp iron tip. He is skilled in the use of these two weapons. A short dagger in a dark leather holder hangs from his belt. Unlike his brother, he is not much interested in the bow. He still has a heavy oaken cudgel, well balanced so that his arm might swing it easily and with great force. His armour consists of a short sleeved light chain mail shirt beneath which he wears a thick soft padded shirt. A thick, waist length, boiled leather vest serves as another layer to protect his upper body. Boiled leather vambraces without device protect his forearms. There is a plain helmet and a small round metal shield. APPEARANCE: Dark grey eyes. Black hair cut very short. Tall, 6’5”. Broad shouldered, lithely muscled. Graceful in his movements. Ambidextrous, though prefers using his right hand. His brown breeches are held up by dark brown leather belt. Tends to favor tunics in shades of grayish green. His boots are knee high, of supple, dark brown leather. He has a hooded, grey-green cloak woven in Imladris. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Orëmir is a softspoken, gracious man. Unlike his brother, he is not reserved or withdrawn. He enjoys the company of others and is the sort who with a few light words and a quick smile can draw one out. He is well liked by his fellows and often sought for his companionship. He has taken on the role of healer with such naturalness that it would seem his hands and mind had been schooled from the first in the arts of gentle touch and healing words; that they had never been put to use with sword, and spear, and cudgel - with the multitude of cruel ways that one person can kill another. Unlike his brother, he has come to terms in his own way with the bloodshed done by his hands. In part, perhaps, because he feels he has made some redress of his actions through his skill as a healer. It grieves him deeply that he cannot lighten his brother’s burden. HISTORY: His history, of course, is much like his brother’s. Though it was not for love of Fëanor and his sons that Orëmir joined them in their pursuit of the Silmarils. Not that he thought them wrong in their choices. Truth be told, he really did not care much one way or the other. He simply did not want to be apart from his brother. And once the battles and the war were done, he supported his brother’s choice to stay in Middle-earth and to see of it what they could. They wandered long in distance and in years before coming to settle in Imladris. During their travels, it was from men that he gathered much of his knowledge of the healing arts . . . the uses of herbs in different combinations to ease pain or to restore the sick and injured body to its normal courses. From his fellow Elves met along the way were the deeper lessons of using thought to probe the illness or injury and speed the course of healing. Death, too, he found to be an exacting teacher, coming as it did despite the skills used to hold it in abeyance. And often he wondered at this Gift of Men, how some welcomed it and others were frightened. In the long course of this last war, that which brought about the fall of Sauron, Orëmir had much to do, especially among the Rangers who dwelt south of Imladris, in The Angle. His skills were often called upon to heal the wounds made by the Shadow and his foul creatures. Even now that the victory has been won and there is peace, there is still much to be done. The call from Malris was not a welcome one for Orëmir. It brings into sharp relief an ongoing dialog between the two brothers. Endamir grows weary of Middle-earth. Orëmir can see him withdrawing more and more as the years pass. There is a longing in Endamir to return to the West. It is there he feels he will be at peace. Orëmir does not share his brother’s longing. Malris, it seems, has also turned his thoughts to the journey home. Being so close to the sea, and with his old friend wanting also to go West, Orëmir knows will be hard to dissuade his brother. Impossible, perhaps. And if he cannot change Endamir’s mind, then what is he to do? ~~ Will also play a contingent of Orc houseless spirits if needed* ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Envinyatar’s post The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll. Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food. His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading. It had not proved so. And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made. In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys. ‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound. Last edited by piosenniel; 05-19-2005 at 08:40 PM.