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      WANTED: ROLEPLAY-ERS   09/04/18

      A new roleplay section has been added to the forum.  Jump back into Naerath in a whole new way!
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Character App Template

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To submit a character application for approval, please make sure you fill out all of the following: 

What you need for a Character Application...



Age Allegiance (If they belong to one of the factions, or are a devoted follower of one of the gods, here is where to mention it)

Weapons and Magical Abilities, if any

Appearance  (hair, face, clothes, distinguishing marks, etc.)PersonalityOther Info

Backstory (At least 10 sentences)

Roleplay Example  (At least 10 sentences)

An example is below:


Name:  Hyperion

Age:  194

Allegiance:  White Wyrm Tribe

Weaponry:  Hyperion is usually seen wielding a wand and a charming smile; he utilises Elemental Magic, with specialization in Fire, Cold, and Temporal 'flavours'.


Appearance:  Steel blue eyes sit a little over six feet above the ground, constantly moving around the environs that surround the lanky frame in which they are set.  A roughly cut hairline makes the end of a blonde cascade tumbling down, neatly tucked behind the swept-back, pointed ears.  The elf's angled cheeks, gangly elbows and rushed gait all bespeak themselves of grace.  His clothing, always of finest silk, is full of muted colours - mostly blues and greens interrupted by white tracing up, up to the neckline so often crowned with a mischievous grin.


Attitude:  Despite being an elf, Hyperion is always willing to take a matter seriously, but never for an extended amount of time.  Even his magics, some of the more formidable among mere mortals, are developed in spurts and bursts.  Everything has the potentiality to be  a joke, which earns him the scorn of many more serious sun elves and the business end of a variety of objects wielded by Dwarves and Tul'Rahx (quantitatively, in that order).  In his mind, sleight of hand is always preferable to open aggression; if the latter must needs be used, the biggest fireball summonable is the best answer.  Loyal to his Tribe and people, he is at the same time easygoing, quick to forget offences and almost as quick to forgive them (even nearing two centuries, memory is not a strong suit).  Once he decides something is necessary, though, he will go to any lengths to obtain it.


Background:  Growing up in Elmethil Do'Naerath is a unique experience for anybody.  As a child, Hyperion's time was spent either studying, running errands for the White Wyrm Tribe's Elmethiliac Embassy or watching the greatest of Naerath's adventurers as they came in and out of the flourishing elven city.  It was here, too, that he was noticed by the more sage among the wandering heroes.  For an elven child to be fascinated with a Human Paladin or a Dwarven Berserker was unusual; for him to be able to shadow a Wayfinder was astonishing.

  While Hyperion had not been raised in the racism of his more isolated kindred, it still rankled to see the title of the Lands' Greatest Sorcerer belong to a human.  Fastolph Danderfluff, leading Incantrix among the Iron Alliance, could be an object of admiration to aspiring finger-wigglers or an uncomfortable impetus for others' betterment.  For Hyperion, studying Danderfluff's battle tactics, victories and defeats, he was both.

  As the young elf's age and abilities grew, so did the 'errands' he would run for the Embassy.  As his travels took him further away from home, he realized the burden that is an adventurer's.  Further from the Eye, a hard life made hard people.  Danger dogged his journeys.  And as he learned his magics in various corners of the land, the creeping awareness of a looming danger slowly thrust itself upon him...

Roleplay:  The endless snowfall drifted down across a perpetual winterland of biting chill and clawing ice.  The land, such as there might be, had long been buried  underneath its hoary armour.  Nothing could be seen as far as the falling snow permitted sight to stretch.  Any sounds that might have been were deadened, even to the elf's heightened perception.  If this wintry fortress were anything to judge by, he was alone in all the world.  For not even the beasts and trolls that lived here, or fought for what passed as living in these harsh environs, were foolhardy enough to venture to this place.  This was a place where the dead had been stripped of their rest.

  Immense, stalagmitic icicles rose about him, each higher than the next.  The steps and towers that they had been were buried far beneath the thick shell of ice that came to coat them over the centuries since their completion.  He climbed them, fighting his way up the slippery surfaces foot by foot.  Inch by inch, sometimes.  It would have been easier to melt his way up through the immense, vaulted chambers and sparkling courtyards.  It would have been a swift death.  The world around him was devoid of life.  But for all its emptiness; because of the abandoned stonework and ghastly history of the mournful ruins which surrounded him; a multitude of eyes were watching for the slightest snowflake to fall out of place, or the shallowest indentation to appear in the snow.  In this world of death, there were yet many sentinels.

  This was why Hyperion had been chosen to come.  There were many real dangers here.  The goblins, the wandering packs of wolves, the deathly cold would all kill an ill-prepared traveller in hours, or in minutes.  None of these warranted him.  It was the invisible sentries in the white night, looking for the tiniest perturbance in the abandoned landscape.  The focus of interest here was the secret they sought to guard.  But for all their watchfulness, they did not see the signs of Hyperion's approach, for there were none.  The snow he bid harden in support of each step he took.  The precipitation fell so close to him that the gap where he stood was a mere thickening of snowfall.  Even the light around him was warped, showing what had been a few seconds before or what would be in the moments after he left.  The only trace that could have given him away, the pulse of power that his magic exerted, was covered by the foul aura of necromancy that lay heavy upon the towers of Flamefrost.  Those who sent him were right, and something wicked was afoot.

  A gargoyle's eyes, only possibly unseeing, stared blankly through him as he neared the pinnacle of what once was the Flamefrost clan's great edifice of might.  Ahead, a piercing shriek echoed impossibly loudly through the crackling towers.  Even the thickening snowfall around him did not serve to deaden it and the noise made him buckle in pain, only a supreme effort of concentration keeping the many cloaks around him in place.  Very few beings could put that much power into a cry, and none of them were still living in this plane.    A slight grin spread across the elf's face, invisible to even himself.  Finally, he thought.  Something interesting.


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