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Author Topic: Jon Smith, Helcrani Writer  (Read 1494 times)
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Jon Smith
Love’s Quill
Approved Character
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Gender: Male
Posts: 33

Human, Helcrani

« on: January 24, 2008, 02:41:27 PM »

Name: Jon Smith
Gender: Male
Age: 20
Race: Human
Tribe: Helcrani
Occupation: Every once and a while he is lucky enough to sell a piece of writing, but it is rare, otherwise he works in smitheries and lives off coin “borrowed” from his father.
Title: Love’s Quill

Height: One ped, two fores, two and a half palmspans
Weight: Two pygges and one heb
Hair color: Light brown with natural blonde highlights
Eye color: Hazel, shifting from light brown to nearly gold

Appearance: A lithe figure, Jon moves with a grace that comes naturally, one evident in his every step, his every movement. Agile, with a sense of balance to match, he moves with ease, his long strides seeming to not even touch the ground, so light is he on his feet. But moments of clumsiness are there still, arising from absent-minded dreaming, his body crashing into solid objects as his mind lurks elsewhere. With a sheepish grin and blush these mishaps are shaken off. And how he can smile, full lips curling upward at the corners to reveal a dimple in his right cheek, his entire face illuminated and eyes alight with mirth. It could almost be said that he has a hundred smiles, ranging anywhere from a sheepish grin to a coy smile, the latter creeping across his face as his flirtatious tongue compliments the beautiful maidens he chooses to surround himself with. But most notable of all, perhaps even infamous, would be an impish grin, stealing across his cheeks, nearly spreading from ear to ear, not to be denied when amusement overcomes him.

Slender fingers pass through brown locks in moments of doubt, a nervous habit years in the making. Once, his hair was well-kept and cut often to maintain his appearance, to be expected of the son of a craftsman so well off. But, as his spirit freed itself of the shackles of his upbringing, so too did his hair grow freely, falling shaggily about his face, stray bangs descending in an attempt to obscure his vision, bangs to be idly swept aside with one hand or even just a tilt of his head. Subtle copper highlights streak his otherwise dark brown hair, ever more evident in the summer months. Deep-set and dark, his eyes possess a depth beyond the physical, hinting at the plethora of emotions to plague him. Hazel eyes take on a golden cast in the light, radiant pools of liquid honey, melting should sorrow overwhelm him. Dreamily his gaze wanders, an admirer of beauty, both in nature and of women, his fingers capturing both within the movements of his quill pen.

Embarrassment is no stranger for one so inclined to flirting, his cheeks ruddy even normally, flushing a rosy hue as he blushes, the deep blush physical representation of his shame. In comparison, his complexion remains fair as finest porcelain, susceptible to the harsh rays of the sun.

Within his cheeks is the slightest hint of a rosy hue, ever more evident as embarrassment colors his complexion. His skin remains fair even after long hours beneath the sun, far more likely to burn than it is to tan. Thick stubble darkens his cheeks, hinting at a beard were it allowed to grow. Full lips often curl into the slightest of smiles or the broadest of grins, soft as finest silk. A nose only slightly crooked descends to a point just above his upper lip, perhaps marring his beauty along with thick eyebrows. But then beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

With a frame slender and tall, only his shoulders may be counted as broad, Jon appears weak, especially when compared to his bear of a father. Broad shoulders become a long torso, ending with a slender waist and narrow hips. Lean muscles extend along each arm, gracing him with a strength that belies his slender frame. Nimble fingers, long and slender, would rather grasp the end of a pen than they would the hilt of a sword. His chest is not muscled impressively so, just enough to make it apparent that he is as fine a physical specimen as any of his kinsmen. In contrast to his upper body, his slender legs possess thick, corded muscles, making their strength evident. One exception to his fitness exists, a stomach thickened from overindulgence with food and alcohol.

Clothing: His clothing is perhaps not as fine as it once was, travel stained with a mended tear here and there, but the quality of its fabric is still apparent. As protection against foul weather and bitter winds, a sky blue cloak wraps around his broad shoulders, held there by a silver clasp, its hem descending to the top of his boots. The hood of the cloak falls along his upper back when not worn over his head, casting all but the lower part of his face into shadow. A sou’cald blue shirt stretches tautly over his torso, revealing the impression of his muscled chest as the v neck reveals just a glimpse of the skin itself. Short sleeves leave his forearms bare, clinging to his upper arms with just the hem of each lined in silver. The bottom of the shirt tucks into a xazure kilt that descends midway down his thigh, tight about his hips. By a thick leather belt, black in color, the kilt is held to his waist, a silver buckle dominating the front of the belt. A palmspan long slit on one side of the kilt allows his legs more freedom of movement. Beneath the kilt he wears charcoal leather pants, fairly tight on his muscled calves and thighs, revealing their curvature. And upon his feet he wears Centoraurian riding boots, the black leather cracked where it once was supple.

Around his neck hangs a heart-shaped silver locket, descending to the top of his chest on a fine silver chain. Within the locket are three strands of brown hair intertwined, each a different shade and from the head of a different woman. With the locket, they represent the three loves of his life and how he carries his love for them in his heart always, even now after they have abandoned him. On the front of the locket, the rays of the rising sun are inscribed, symbol of hope reborn. Yet on the reverse side, the sun is seen to be setting as darkness swallows all hope and despair rules the night.

Personality: Several influences have forged Jon into the man he is today, namely the influence of his family but even more importantly that of his loves. He is not the man his father would wish him to be, if anything he is a foil of his father, Eldric. But he stands in an even starker contrast with his aggressive drunkard of a brother, Etzel. Whether or not he is better than either man Jon does not know or claim, his flaws are as real as theirs, if less noticeable.

His father and brother fail miserably to understand the gentleness that is his soul. Their ways are that of bloodshed and combat, of anger. Jon seeks to avoid conflict at all costs and refuses to even raise his voice in anger. It is cunning and guile that wins out for him as a silver tongue serves to accomplish his goals. Words are his strength, whether spoken or written, they come to him and roll off his tongue effortlessly to describe his innermost thoughts, when he chooses to reveal them. His voice is considered beautiful by those that have known him, a baritone graced with an accent by one accustomed to speaking High Helcrani. Yet doubt still grips his mind when it comes to speaking, as he remembers a time in his youth when he did not speak so well.

It is as doubt whispers to him that his nerves overcome his better judgment, causing him to appear anti-social as he becomes too nervous to even speak clearly. His worst habit would be that of mumbling when nervous, anything to actually get the words out. But his nerves may be overcome once Jon becomes accustomed to the new environment, relaxing as he allows his true self to shine forth. Even when relaxed he is not talkative by any means, preferring to listen and speak only what he considers to be the right words. But he is not always so considerate with his words; his sense of humor is twisted and sometimes cruel, yet he means it all in good humor and does not intend to offend.

Jon is a paradox unto himself. There are times when he overthinks any given situation, exploring every possible outcome in his mind before he even reacts. By no means are the outcomes he thinks up the way the events will unfold, they are merely what he thinks might happen, colored by his own perspective. And as might be expected with one so easily overcome with doubt, wasting time thinking about these outcomes prevents him from actually interacting with others and locks himself in his own mind. Yet there are other times when he thinks not and simply acts, acting on impulse alone. The results of such actions are varied, they have both helped and hindered in the past. He realizes that a combination of the two behaviors, somewhere in the middle of either extreme, would be wisest, if only he could put it into practice.

Despair will often overcome him, it is the darkness that lurks within his gaze. All hope seems lost to him as he loses faith in his own ability to do anything, withdrawing inside himself in an attempt to shut out the world. It is only then that he drinks to excess, only then that he has anything in common with his drunkard of a brother, anything to kill the pain inside. When drunk, the once soft spoken and quiet lad becomes loud and talkative, more friendly than is welcome by anyone. But, in a way, Jon cherishes his darkness, knowing it to be the source of his inspiration. Without it he could not write, and without writing he could not live.

In love Jon gives all that he is to his partner. His devotion may seem overwhelming and smothering, but he knows of no other way to be. His very heart, his soul, is dedicated to the happiness of his beloved as he is willing to do nearly anything to please her. The words hopeless romantic have never been more suited for a man, for he falls hopelessly in love each time, lost in her eyes, enchanted by them. Romance is the lifeblood on which he thrives, and it is through romance that his words find wings upon which to soar. But such devotion comes with a heavy price, evident by his heart being shattered thrice.

Three loves have blazed in his heart in his young life, and each has left her mark upon him. First of his loves was Jocelyn, whom he met at the age of seventeen whereas she was several years his elder. Before her he knew nothing of love, for she was the one to set him free, to open the cage imprisoning his heart. Long hours they spent together, content to enjoy each other’s company as is the wont of young lovers, but it was not to last. She needed more than he could offer, more than the love they shared. It was a life she needed, something beyond the intimate moments of two lovers, a life he was too young to give her.

Second to love him was Rosalyn, a noblewoman two decades his senior. Their trysts began as purely physical, just a man and a woman indulging in carnal pleasures, yet unforeseen it grew to be more. Jon could not help but give himself to his lover, could not help but romance her. So their love began, and Rosalyn healed a heart that had long been mending. She was his hope, the light that shone even in greatest darkness and gravest despair. But this love was not meant to be either; they were just too different in what they wanted out of life, his was just beginning whereas hers was well established. Her farewell broke him, seemingly beyond repair.

But there was one that cared still, a close friend by the name of Rachelle. Each night she held him close, whispering soothingly as he could not help but cry. In time she mended the heart that was broken with her love and became his third love. She was the one, or so he thought. Again he loved a woman older than himself by several years, and he drew on her experience, cherishing its guidance. Rachelle understood him and accepted him as he was, not wishing for him to be any more or any less than the man he was. Her love was the song that soothed him and the rock that held him fast, his security and safe haven in a sea of doubt. But again his experience was found to be wanting, and Jon was cast aside, heartbroken and lost once more.

Even now he has hope. Hope that he will find the one woman that will prove to be his soulmate. Despair may grip him, but it does not rule him. He would find a woman to give his love to, one that returns it in kind. To this end he is often seen flirting with women, even beyond his own flirtatious nature. But it is not for that reason alone that he cherishes women, he genuinely prefers their company to that of men, as it is far easier for him to identify with the fairer gender. His flirting may at times be more passionate than is wise, but he tries to respect women and their wishes at all times, the slightest hint of rejection will discourage him and cease his advances.


His skill with a sword was once something he took pride in, yet now it is only a source of shame. Jon would rather write than fight with a sword any day, as his nature is one that hesitates to inflict harm upon anyone, choosing to create rather than destroy. Still, his body remembers the training of his youth, and he wields the sword, when necessary, with intermediate skill.

-Writer- Most cherished of all his skills, his writing is the one thing he takes pride in these days, the one thing he truly excels at. It is through writing that he expresses himself, that he sets his chaotic emotions into ink and paper, freeing himself of them. Poetry and short stories he loves to write, but he also records the events of his journey in a journal, hoping to one day witness events worthy of being recorded as history.

-Silver Tongued- With a gift for words comes a silver tongue, a charisma Jon uses to his advantage, choosing to talk his way into achieving a goal rather than allow it to come to violence. His words serve him best when whispered softly and sensually into feminine ears, wooing women with his considerable charm.


-Hesitant- Jon hesitates to act in most any situation. Doubts plague him in anything he does, and in combat the results of such hesitation are disastrous. He would rather avoid conflict, solving arguments diplomatically if possible, and so can be seen evading a fight until the last possible moment, defending himself only after he has no other choice.

-Despairing- Often will the darkness overcome him, weighing down his limbs and mind with lethargy. Every action seems more laborious, more difficult as his mind sinks into despair. He is of no use to anyone then, moping around as is his wont, languishing the loss of his loves. Alcohol is the only way he knows to kill the pain, and he drinks to excess, even going so far as to drink until he passes out.

-Chivalric- To protect a woman Jon would give anything, even his own life. He hardly pauses to even think before rushing to safeguard a woman. He seeks to please them and thinks nothing of serving someone of the fairer gender, whereas he would scarcely offer a man the same courtesy. In a like vein, he refuses to fight a woman, not under any circumstance would he raise his blade to harm one.

The clang of steel on steel, blade against blade, greeted the morning sun as the two boys practiced on the training floor, one the elder of the two forcing his brother back with his greater strength. A cruel smile dominated his features as Etzel drove the sword from his little brother’s grasp, delivering a single cut to his cheek, a grim reminder of his superiority. Anger and indignation shone forth in Jon’s gaze as he stooped to retrieve his sword, rushing at his brother only to be chastised by a booming voice echoing off the far walls of the estate.

“That’s enough Jon  Both of you come here, there’s work to be done in the forge.” Reluctantly both boys trudged inside, taking their places as they moved to help their father work at the forge. As the older and stronger of the two, Etzel was always given the more difficult tasks as Jon was reduced to little more than an errand boy. It was a matter of trust, his father did not trust him whatsoever. Constantly the man berated his son about his many flaws and all the things that would go wrong were he to allow Jon to help with the forging of weapons. He could never please his father, no matter how hard he tried. Any hope of impressing his father as a smith seemed dashed before it ever was born, so he struggled to prove himself on the training floor, to be worthy as his father’s praise as a warrior.

“I will be the best. I’ll best Eztel and Father will be proud.” The words fell from his lips as he panted, gasping for breath, his body glistening with sweat in the evening sun. One hand gripped his sword tightly, the knuckles white, as Jon prepared to begin his exercises anew. It did not matter that his muscles screamed for rest, burning with his hours long practice. He would prove himself to his father, prove himself to be as great a warrior as Eldric himself. As his father once did, he would join the army and show himself to be the deadliest of swordsmen. But his dreams died stillborn as Etzel stepped onto the training floor, beating back his younger brother before knocking the sword from his grasp entirely. It did not end there; Etzel dropped his own sword and wailed on Jon with fists as was his wont. Vainly the smaller boy struggled to fight back, woefully overcome by his brother’s greater strength.

The beatings slowed for a time as both boys began their schooling. Despite being the elder of the two, Etzel struggled whereas Jon thrived. For the first time in his life, he found something he was not a failure at, his quick mind absorbing all that he was taught. He became enthralled listening to the history of the nation and his people, soaking up every last detail with delight. But as skilled as he was with every subject put before him, he shone in one above all others, writing. The moment he learned to write it was as though someone had released an eagle to soar high, never again to be bound to this earth. His writing was limited only by his imagination, an imagination seemingly vast beyond all reasoning. But his success soon earned him his brother’s envy, expressed in the only way Etzel knew how, with violence. And his success with his schooling seemed to mean little to his father as Eldric continued to berate him about being a failure. Before long, Jon learned to avoid both and shut himself off in his own mind, expressing his every emotion in writing.

“Good luck brother, don’t die on me.” Jon moved to embrace his brother as Etzel finished his preparations, setting out in only moments for one of the city’s forts, joining the army as their father had in his youth. Even with all that had happened between them, Jon loved his brother and would not wish for his death. Etzel had been his tormentor but also his protector, ensuring that no other ever dared to lay his hands on Jon. The youth envied his brother’s decision yet balked at the thought of making the same decision himself someday. Once, he would have joined the army if only to earn his father’s praise, but he had long since stopped seeking to procure it, as nothing he did ever satisfied his father. Skill with a sword he possessed, but he lacked his father and brother’s warrior spirit and the bloodlust that allowed them to kill without remorse.

Living alone with his father was an ordeal unto itself. Without Etzel present, all of Eldric’s ambitions were leveled upon the younger of his two sons alone. He took an interest in Jon as he never had before, much to Jon’s regret. Hours they spent on the training floor, his father berating him for the slightest of mistakes as they trained. Each time Eldric would best his son and then insult him for not being able to get the better of him in a duel. Jon began to avoid his father more than he ever had before, going so far as to range far from home into the city of Milkengrad for days on end. It was no surprise when Eldric gave up on his son entirely and sent him away to the School of the Quill in Bardavos, perhaps just to be rid of the nuisance that was his son.

By ship Jon traveled from his home city of Milkengrad to the city of artists, aboard a ship for the first time in his life. It was not long before he learned that his stomach did not fancy the rolling of the waves as many a meal was lost as the youth leaned over the railing. The merchant vessel made many stops along the way; Jon relished each and every opportunity to set his feet on solid ground once more. But finally, after a voyage of several weeks, the ship sailed into the port city of Bardavos. The youth nearly leapt onto the dock, so excited was he to be in the city of artists, the place where he believed his writing could truly thrive.

“And here are your quarters Jon. As you can see, the school is only a moment’s walk away.” The servant left him then as Jon sank down onto his new bed, gazing around at the room that was to be his new home. Simple and plain with scarcely any decorations, it was hardly a room to be proud of, yet he was all the same, proud to be on his own for the first time in his life. He reported to the School of the Quill the next morning, his young mind taking in all that he was taught in regard to writing. It was at the school that he met a young woman a few years older than himself and thus in more advanced classes, a beautiful brunette by the name of Jocelyn. They became fast friends as they studied at the school, talking for hours on end together after class. A few months into the friendship and something happened to change it forever, something as innocent as a kiss.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She pulled away after her lips had ever so softly brushed his own. Yet he leaned forward, capturing her in his embrace as his lips locked onto hers in a second kiss, more confident and passionate than the first. From that moment on, they were inseparable, sharing their love in the most intimate of moments. He knew love for the first time; it threatened to burst forth from his breast, too large for his heart to contain. And his writing gained a flowery flair it had never possessed before, guided by the inspiration he found in her gorgeous grey-blue eyes. Their evenings were idyllic, hours spent simply gazing into each other’s eyes and talking softly into the dead of night. They were in their own world, surrounded by their love, but it was not to last. Reality made itself known as she began to need more, to need a life beyond the school, a home and maybe even someday a family. But he could not give it to her, not for years yet, they both knew that. With sorrow and tears they parted, never again to console each other in a lover’s warm embrace.

Again, he drew into himself, shutting away the world as best he could. For months he pined for his lost love, his schoolwork forgotten. Days on end he would avoid his classes altogether, scarcely bothering to even rise from his bed. So the time came when the school expelled him entirely, and he returned home, even more miserable to be sailing this time around. Misery was his constant companion as he worked in the forge of his father once more, finally trusted to perform the tasks once assigned to Etzel, perhaps for no other reason than the fact that there was no one else. The tasks were mindless enough, so Jon lost himself in thoughts of his lost love, dreaming of what might have been, plagued by the infernal question of what if. But as eternal as his depression seemed, it was not to last.

“You know you want me.” Her voice called coyly to him, and so he did, seduced so easily into her embrace. She had come to the shop, a noblewoman of high renown, intent upon buying jewelry, and he caught her gaze, stripped to the waist as he worked at the forge. Moments later she had him pinned against the back wall of the shop as her lips met his, overpowering him easily despite his greater strength, for she met with no resistance. Rosalyn was more woman than he’d ever known, two decades his elder, and she put that experience to good use. Each night they met for a lover’s tryst, and the things she did to him were divine beyond his wildest dreams, enthralling him to her. What began as purely physical soon became so much more as they fell in love with one another. Jon loved her as he thought he would never love again, devoting himself to her happiness. No romantic gesture was too grand, no gift too expensive, anything to woo his beloved.

A couple of months into the relationship, Jon moved in with Rosalyn, living in her large estate with her and her three daughters. It did not matter to him that the oldest of the three was only a few years younger than him; he had no intention of being their father figure, he was simply their mother’s boyfriend and nothing more, to them at least. They were happy together, for a time, content to live with one another and share a home. He still worked at his father’s forge, but each night he would return home to Rosalyn, welcomed by her waiting arms. But again, it was not to last, their future together remained uncertain, and it was the end of them. Without a future, they had nothing and parted ways in sorrow and tears.

He returned home, again a broken husk of a man. It was then that his brother returned home from the army. A soldier now, Etzel seemed to enjoy drinking more than he did fighting, the exception being a good drunken brawl. When sober, Etzel would work in the forge as he once did, reverting Jon back to his former role as an errand boy. But Jon found himself wandering away from home once again, aimlessly, lost in his own depression. Rachelle found him that way, huddled in an alleyway corner, drenched with rain, appropriate for the depression he was drowning in. For several months she had been a close friend, there for him during the good times and the bad, but he needed her now more than ever.

“It’s okay to cry Jon. I want to know everything.” And cry he did as he wrapped himself up in her arms, consoled by her soothing embrace. He told her everything, from how Rosalyn had left him to the shattered pieces his heart had become. Every night they would talk for hours and hours, her voice soothing the sorrow that raged within him. Each night brought them closer, and before long, love blossomed in what had been a barren field. Again, Jon was inseparable with a woman, spending more time with her than he did at home. She understood him and did not ask him to be any more or less than he was, truly accepting him as no one had before.

He began to dream of a future together, of a life and love shared. Dreams of marrying Rachelle and starting a family overcame his every waking thought. Jon knew himself to be hopelessly in love yet again, and they were happy. But again, his happiness did not last, it never did. Yet again he was found to be too inexperienced, too young to deliver all that his beloved desired. A life he was ready to give her, yet even it was not enough, she desired a partner more experienced than him. For hours he tormented himself, trying to think of ways to make it work, but the cruel truth was that she wanted someone else. For the third time in his life, he parted ways with a woman in sorrow and tears. But this time he would not go home, could not return for the cycle to begin anew. It was experience that he always lacked, and it seemed as though he could not find it within the walls of Milkengrad. So he set out from the city that night, just another wanderer on the road, seeking more out of life.   

Weapon: Upon his hip in a black scabbard Jon wears a long sword. It is not the bejewelled family sword handed down in his family for generations, Etzel wields that, but rather a simple sword without decoration. Still, it is a finely crafted sword with a sharp edge, one that has served Jon well on the few occasions he has had need of it.

Belongings: Within a pack on his back Jon carries all that he possesses, save his few belongings at home, and he would not return there. Of coin he has enough to sustain himself on his wanderings, “borrowed” from his father’s coffer. Spare sets of clothing are folded in the pack as well, in case what he is wearing becomes drenched from foul weather. A wool blanket is there alongside the clothing, his only comfort each night he sleeps under the stars. A quill, ink, and parchment are all necessary tools of his trade, each earning a separate compartment. Travel rations have their own compartment as well, wrapped tightly in cloth for preservation. Along with the food there is a canteen for water. Of books he has his own personal journal and a few of his favorite books, cherished is the moment when he has time to read them. His own writings are there as well, mostly poetry and short stories he has written over the years.
« Last Edit: January 24, 2008, 03:00:42 PM by Jon Smith » Logged

Twén Aråerwén
Death's Mistress
Approved Character
Offline Offline

Gender: Female
Posts: 4928

Elf, Ifer’hém

« Reply #1 on: January 24, 2008, 02:43:26 PM »

Brought up for edits as you requested Jon. My apology for the mix up dear.
Cáo cár'tuulenís:Twen Araerwen

•º•The spell fell upon the crowd like a dragon, •º•
•º•ancient and full of death.•º•
_.·´¯) Twén Aråerwén's CD(¯`·._
Jon Smith
Love’s Quill
Approved Character
Offline Offline

Gender: Male
Posts: 33

Human, Helcrani

« Reply #2 on: January 24, 2008, 02:51:22 PM »

It's fine hon. This thread is as good as the original, considering that I never did get any comments, only approvals. ;)

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