thkaal`s Introduction

[thkaal]

First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player.:
Wow, to talk about myself. First of all, I'm old and ancient. 38...I guess that's not so old anymore. After finally figuring out what I want to do with my life, I've returned to school and am working on a computer programming degree with an emphasis in gaming. I have this idea for an MMO, but I need to learn how to code it first.

Let's see, I'm also writing a small chronicle that should encompass three books. Though one of my proofreaders has seen the outline and suggested I expand to five.

Um... I started roleplaying when I was ten years old. Yes, I was there on the frontline of the RPG/Fundamentalist wars. Harshness.

My dad was in the navy, so we moved around alot. I did spend 3 years in Japan.

Um...I'm open about my gender identity issues, but I'll leave that for pm's since there might be children present. (Yes, I admit, Vlajean is a bit of a Mary Sue because of my GI.)

Uh....I guess I'll move on to the next question.

What country do you come from? What is your primary language?
United States is the country. I speak Amerlish (it's rather like English, but there are some weird differences). Okay, yes, that was a joke. I speak English natively, a bit of German, some Latin phrases, and a spattering of a few other languages.

How did you get into Warcraft?:
Wow, this girl I worked with played it. I was more into CoX games, but she got me hooked. Sadly, she was more of a grinder and I'm more of a RPer so it didn't last long.

What made you seek our server over others?:
ROLEPLAYING!!!!!!1111!!!111 ZOMG!!!!

Sorry, did I yell that? Um, yeah. I enjoy rp. I actually have had several characters on official servers remain below fifty because I spent more time rping than levelling.

What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
Oh, court intrigue, backroom deals, political espionage. Something along the lines of the Dune series. I'm not too interested in combat. Combat should enhance, not be the sole purpose.

What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
Man, this is generally a mood thing. It depends really.

If I'm in an apprentice style rp, any of the casters (save priests and paladins).

If I want epic questing, or fraternity/sorority style rp, then I go for the P&P combo (as stated above).

If I want shady lone wolf stuff, I go with the rogues and hunters.

But for the political stuff, I prefer warriors, casters (all kinds), and "non-class" characters

Races, High Elves (the Sin'Dorei are the Scourge of the living!!!!), Draenei, and on occasion, humans and night elves. Once in a great while I'll play a dwarf.

What are your expectations of this server?:
Roleplaying. Lots and lots of roleplaying. That's the thing that will get me off a server fast is the lack of rp.

Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
People have to follow lore.

I can't tell you the number of times I've seen bs. "Oh, my character is half demon half vampire." WTH?!?! How did that happen?

Now, there is also the anti-Mary Sue rule. However, on some level ALL characters are Mary Sue's. It's just how they go about doing their thing.

Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
Prologue
Caught in an unseasonably torrential downpour, the hunched figure staggered down the now muddy road. Each step seemed to sap more of the cloaked figure's strength while the mud offered up squelching protests each time a foot raised in an attempt to take just one more step. Gnarled fingers, joints swollen with arthritis, curled weakly about the figure's staff. Hair, too long ignored, hung in muddied, oily knots peeking from the cloak's cowl.
The figure stopped, weary grey eyes peered from be-neath the cowl of the cloak. Crooked fissures deepened when lips spread thinly in a smile. A face which had seen summers, both jubilant and desperate, momentarily be-came visible with the flash of lightning. The figure's clouded eyes gazed beyond the insect-like swarms of raindrops. A slow, assured nod acknowledged the fig-ure's realization of a street rowed by several cottages which peppered the sides of the muddy road.
Wood and thatch buildings covered in dirty plaster to keep out such elements as the rain which currently poured from the skies lined the road spaced only a few yards from one another. Barrels to capture the rain water were at the front of each building, quickly being filled. Tufts of smoke rose from the chimneys and pale light danced shadows within several. The occupants of a few had ob-viously retired in an attempt to wait out the storm as evi-denced by the lightless windows.
A handful of the buildings were adorned with over-hangs which protected from the downpour the trade tools of the occupants. One covered a forge still glowing from the coals which had only an hour before been used to mend the pots and pans of the local baker. Another housed the tools of the local carpenter. And beside one home was a stable from which could be heard the occa-sional muffled sounds of distracted horses.
One cottage however seemed to stand out from the rest in this wanderer's eyes. Bright windows and chil-dren's laughter hinted at a family home. The white smoke billowing through the storm suggested a defiance of the angry elements. No attachment through an over-hang or any other addition either was connected to this dwelling. Yet, there was something less tangible about this home. A compulsion that tugged deep within the lonely traveler's spirit demanded obedience.
Shifting its weight, the figure loped slowly towards the door of the cottage, favoring its left leg. Water rushed from the eaves, adding to the weight of the rain which befell the aged traveler. Pulling from the protection of the cloak the hand free of possessions, the figure rapped at the door. A low, deep, rhythmic sound which broke the raucous hush of the rain quieted the occupants of the cot-tage.
Moments later, the sound of bolts being unlatched could be heard from the other side. A sliver of light shot through the door, lighting the wanderer's face. A woman's head, framed in raven hair gazed out at the fig-ure, careful not to let in the rain. Deep green eyes searched the traveler's form for any threats.
“I bring a Gift,” spoke a raspy voice from behind the cowl.
The woman's eyes lit up in surprise. The ancient greeting was met with a barely audible gasp. Quickly, the woman opened the door and light poured out into the storm. Then eagerly she returned the greeting with a bowed head.
“You honor us with your Gift.”
The weary traveler, careful not to befoul the home of the hostess with the accumulated filth of stormy travels, stepped in and stood just beside the door in a slowly forming puddle of muddy water.
Inside the cottage, the furniture was sparse consisting of little more than the barest of necessities. Driven into the wall which housed the hearth were pegs from which hung the pots, pans and wooden utensils used to prepare the family meals. The stone work of the wall protected the wall and floor from the assault of heat and sparks from the fire. In front of the fire which had a pot of broth hanging over it were two three-legged stools.
Along the wall to the left of the door was a bunk bed. The mattresses on each of the two levels of the bed were barely covered by quilts obviously passed from one gen-eration to the next. Two boys lay upon the top bunk and a girl sat on the bottom.
Against the opposite wall was a wooden table with five wooden chairs about it. One end of the table was flush with the wall while at the other was placed a chair larger than the other four. A few feet from the table were three low shelves with folded clothing waiting to be used.
“Quickly, to the fire. No need for formalities in this weather.” The woman of the house ushered the traveler to a stool by the fire.
Though she had seen a few years of hardship which hid in the few lines of her brow and lips, she remained a comely woman whose beauty lay within the love she held for her children. With no apparent husband, she was the provider of both meals and protection for her offspring. As such, her own needs were simple which was reflected in her clothing.
Without pretension she wore a simple blue linen blouse and white linen skirt. Her hair was cut short about the shoulders in an effort to be utilitarian rather than vain. The only vanity with which she adorned herself was a locket of a bright red metal which hung over her bosom from a golden chain.
“There is always time for formalities, but I shall not argue with a generous host,” conceded the weather beaten figure.
“Let's get you out of that wet cloak; it must be heavy on your back.”
Peeling back the cloak, the figure of an ancient man was slowly revealed. Waves of hair matted with days of travel fell to the in a cascade of weathered grey. Eyes clouded and nearly blind with too many years of living lent to the effect of a wizened old hermit. Dusky grey skin wrinkled so deep his skin appeared cracked, gave him a nearly translucent appearance. The old man's back, broken from a lifetime of regret and the burden's of others carried a large hunch between the shoulders. The traveler held his trembling hands to the fire, reservedly easing the pain from arthritic joints.
Three children, nowhere close to their apprenticeship, stared in wonderment at the figure before them. The two eldest were like their mother, hair as black as night with deep green eyes. Both were boys with the oldest about eight and the other just a few years younger who could easily be expected to be tumbling together in the storm. The youngest was a girl of no older than the charming age of three with hair the color of the morning sun before a storm. Bright, orange-red locks coiled in waves over her shoulders while hands clutched a rag doll to her chest. All three were in long linen shirts, dressed for bed.
“Ask him,” whispered the eldest.
“Nuh-uh. You ask him,” was the other boy's reply.
The boys obviously thought their attempts at a whis-pered conversation hid what was an apparently rude ques-tion both wanted to have answered. Gentle pushes would place one, then the other before the old man who ap-peared to ignore their antics.
For her part, the red headed girl rolled her eyes and stood. Stepping towards the relic of a man who warmed his hands at the hearth, she curtsied.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you one of the Giftless?”
The sudden silence was deafening. The boys who had begun to shove each other more fervently suddenly stopped and stared at their young sister. Their mother, who had been hanging the cloak by the fire and gathering a bowl of broth and some bread for her guest dropped the bowl hearing her daughter's words and clutched at her locket. Even the crack of the fire and the pelting of the rain seemed to stop at the child's words.
The barrage of apologies from the boys and the woman suddenly exploded into the single room dwelling. Through the din of their attempts nothing could be under-stood. The man who had seen and heard so much in his life allowed them their attempts before he straightened his back as much as he dared.
The boys backed away now silent, unsure of what to expect. The woman came forward and knelt, clutching her daughter to her bosom.
“Please, she meant no disrespect. She is but a child and doesn't understand what she is saying.”
Defiantly, the girl tore herself from her mother's grasp and looked to the man expecting an answer.
With weary eyes, the disheveled ancient laughed. A knowing smile was given to the woman. Reaching down, he lifted the girl onto his lap and nodded.
“It's quite all right. We were all young once, and I would often turn back time to have your daughter‘s strength.”
Then to the girl his eyes warmed to the girl. “Yes. Yes I am a Giftless.”
“Told ya so,” said the younger boy whose courage was returning.
“But the Giftless are not without Gifts. Each has a Gift unique just as each of you has a Gift.”
“Mine's a sword,” chimed in the oldest boy, proud of the martial nature of his Gift.
“Don't lie,” began the younger boy. “It's just a knife.”
“Well, it'll be a sword someday,” sulked the eldest child.
“Sh,” responded the girl with a finger to her lips, scolding her brothers. She returned her attention then to the man upon whose lap she sat. The old traveler chuck-led at the wisdom of the child.
“As I was saying, the Gifts of the Giftless are unique. No one knows from where they gain their Gifts, only that no two are exactly the same. However, their Gifts all do the one thing that the Gifted's cannot do.”
“What's that,” asked the girl.
“Perhaps, if it is all right with your mother, I can show you.”
All four turned towards the woman who was now cleaning the mess of broth from the floor. The woman stopped a moment and appeared to consider briefly their request. Her children begged and pleaded to be allowed a reprieve from their usual bedtime.
A smile crossed over the lips of the children's mother. With one of the Giftless wishing to bestow upon her children his unique ability, who was she to refuse?
“Oh, alright, but I expect the chores to be done to-morrow. All the chores.”
In unison, the children responded, “Yes, Ma'am.”
With a chuckle, their guest adjusted the child on his knee and beckoned to the boys. Considering for a mo-ment each of them, his aged eyes looked at each of the children, and though the Gift would be given to all three, he was certain only the youngest would make use of it.
“I freely give to you the Gift of my heart.”
With the symbolic wording spoken, the children cupped their hands and replied just as solemnly as the antediluvian, “Your Gift is safe in my hands.”
There was another smile on the weathered and worn face. The archaic man knew they would not comprehend the full meaning of the words they spoke for several more years to come, but he said nothing. Soon enough the deepest meaning of the ritual would be understood and they would pass on their own Gifts.
“Unlike other Gifts which are forged from the soul and spirit, this one is forged in words and granted to those with the ears to hear words of great import. Many speak, but few have much to say. Pay heed to this what I tell you this night, for your eyes will see and your mind will understand.
The children settled in, knowing this would be unlike any story they had ever heard before. The boys rested their chins in their hands while lying upon the bed. The young girl chewed innocently on her lower lip, somehow sensing this was for her and her alone.
“Let us begin.”

Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Okay, that was the prologue to the book I'm writing.

Um, gender concerning any of my characters, I put "Appears as..." I hope that is okay. Like I said, that is generally the most Mary Sue I'll go. Sure, on occasion I might push for more, but it's a sensitive topic and I am well aware of the whole G.I.R.L. (Guy In Real Life) phenomenon.