Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:14 PM

Dunwen's character

NAME: Nimir

AGE: 17

RACE: Men, Commoner

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort.

APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry.

He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do.

Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process.

HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family.

In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away.

Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

10-14-2005, 08:14 PM	#16
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Dunwen's character NAME: Nimir AGE: 17 RACE: Men, Commoner GENDER: Male WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort. APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry. He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do. Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process. HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family. In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away. Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dunwen's post Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks. What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.” However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things. That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships. Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin. A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!