Isayn Bartuin
Feb 22, 2014 3:26:32 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 22, 2014 3:26:32 GMT -5
Full Name: Isayn Bartuin
Ethnicity: Mayener
Age: 23
Hair colour: Black
Hair type: Thick, flowing and unruly
Eyes: Pale blue
Height: 5’10
Build: Muscular and stocky, built for the sea and pulling ropes
Noteworthy features: A jagged scar running about 5 inches down the far left side of his face, visible when his hair is pulled back or on a windy day
Noticeable items: A wooden handled hammer hooked to his belt and a poorly made shield strapped to his back
Social status: No special status, has a small bit of wealth left over from working on fishing boats, the passing of his father, and the assistance of a few family friends
Family: Father – Dasyn (deceased), Mother – Elen (deceased), Grandparents on the Father’s and Mother’s side (both deceased), cousins, uncles and aunties (had little contact), no brothers or sisters
Other key relations: Friend of his father, an elderly loner – Artain, best friend, another lad who works on the ships – Kalentis, a ship owner – Nomasin
Core concerns: Deeply scarred by the manner of his familial losses, despises those who profit from the cheap labour of sea fisher folk, wants to stay far away from Mayene and the other coastal nations, looking for work
"Flaws": Stubborn with what he thinks is right, would quickly speak out, prefers the comfort of a hammer to the greater guile, length and utility of the sword and can be slow to act if a situation seems unclear to him, very reluctant to enter water or even go aboard ships, never wants to see an oil fish again, despite his apparent strengths (below) – does not have a huge reserve of knowledge about the world, is a thinker speaking very much from deep reflection on mostly his own conditions of existence
"Strengths": Quick to speak out, an otherwise principled and reflective thinker - shaped by his past experiences in the world, physically fit, taught the basic letters by Artain, taught how to work a ship and fish by Dasyn, though by no means a pilot or navigator
History: Beads of sweat blend into drops of rain flowing down cracked skin, emphasising the jagged contours of an elderly man heaving at a slick length of rope. "Isayn!" bellows the elder, his voice a coarse yet powerful tone slicing through the humid and wet atmosphere. "Isayn!" comes the call again. "Isayn!" once more, insistent now, beginning to form a rhythm articulated with the elements of coarse fibre scraping away the skin, the breaking of water upon wood, the cries of birds peeling away, and the first rumblings of the sky. "Isayn!" comes the voice, hoarser now. Everything seems to centre solely on this man whose task it is to pull at the rope, causing the sails to respond. "Isayn," the man shouts more desperately, the slackness of his grey hair, heavy with liquid, seeming to embody the growing loss of hope present in his voice. After a final few tugs, the sails are made fast and the strained man rushes below deck!
Where was the boy? Why was he not helping secure the ship against the storm? Increasingly stiff legs carry him up to the port bow. Old eyes, pale and blue, but as if the colour was stretched thin, flicker over the roiling waters. "Isayn..." he utters, the rhythm of his voice now spent. His eyes suddenly dart to movement, but it is only the last remnants of the oil fish shoal they had been chasing darting into safer depths. Dasyn then crosses to the starboard bow, poring over the maw of the surface that threatened the vessel. Still no sign of Isayn, his boy with fine locks of black hair and clear blue eyes. His shaking hands, from exertion, adrenaline and no small measure of fear, reach out, testing the texture of the lacquered wood adorning the tip of the bow. The fingers and palms flex together in perfect harmony with the creak of bent knees and the momentary tightening of muscle. And then Dasyn is airborne, the atmosphere becoming a spinning haze revolving around his battered form. He hangs in the air for some moments before entering the water below. Then down he goes, aching limbs stretched out, searching, attempting to sweep aside vast tracts of water.
More shapes catch the attention of his eye, but again they are only the taunting silhouettes of oil fish - so precious, the very prize they had come to claim. Many leagues away from the safety of the harbour in Mayene they were, and his boy was surely lost in the murky blue. Dasyn pauses. His eyes move to the features of a curious object being thrown around by the swirls of the current. Dasyn’s limbs strain with each sweep as they take him closer and closer, his vision blurring. What is that shape? It's Isayn isn't it? It must be! Yes! But it was not him. Drained and exhausted, the water carries him further toward a large knot of sea kelp swirling around and around, its oily texture draping over and catching upon Dasyn's exhausted form. The whole scene seems to waver before him, his eyes closing tightly against the onslaught. Then suddenly from above, a dark shape swoops towards the grey haired being quickly becoming entombed in the slimy cords. Thick youthful arms slip around the broad expanse of Dasyn's chest and violent panicked kicks propel them up toward the barely brighter surface.
Isayn thrashes toward the sky. His eyes would seem fearful orbs of blue, setting off wild strands of black hair flying in all directions. The lad's will urged their forms onward, blending them together. The first thing to break through the uneven and angry barrier into the air, now thick with rain, is a cavorting mass of black hair framing an anguished set of eyes, lips, flared nostrils, and open mouth, as he rapidly sucks in air. Almost in the same moment another object appears with much less vitality - a slumped oval, draped in sticky shocks of grey, nothing to animate them, not even the currents of air, which too, now, seemed to ignore him. Isayn glances around quickly, his eyes blinking away large droplets of water. They moved down, taking in the form resting in his arms. "Father!" Isayn cries, his voice cracking against the elements which resumed in their assault after that single moment of sheer emptiness. The boat was nowhere to be seen. What will Isayn do now? Suddenly everything goes dark.
---------
He wakes up on a white shore. Vermillion crabs scuttle back and forth some distance away, making tiny tracks in the sand. Frothy white waves gently play. Looking up, one’s horizon becomes coastal inland greenery, though all is shrouded in a faint dullish mist. A small boy and an older man walk along this beach looking intently at the ground. The black haired man points toward a piece of wood with a slightly crooked finger. “Ah, that is an interesting shape. Look at how the sea has wrought it so finely.” The smaller boy dashes over and runs his hand along the contours of the wood confirming its texture.
---------
The lad now stands on a ship, slightly larger hands struggling to grasp the beech wood tiller. His brow knits in a worried line, as the waves to which they speed toward rise up and then crash against the prow. They smooth at the briefest of touches upon the shoulder by a larger presence with brown and grey streaked hair. A faint mist seems to loom closer and closer.
---------
Isayn is at a desk, peering over dark black cuts made in coarse paper. “Each of these strokes forms the basic letters of the alphabet, boy,” says a deep voice. Isayn glances at the windows which seem to shimmer with early morning sun. “Pay attention now, this is important. Fundamental to everything I can teach you. Listen now, won’t you,” chides the man, adjusting his seat by the still warm coals.
---------
Isayn is at a desk, again, not much older, looking confused. “Why are we ruled as we are, lad?” asks the old man again. The entire room seems misty now, as the young man hesitantly responds “what do you mean? What other way is there? Hasn’t this always been so.” The wise man frowns faintly, replying calmly “for our lives this might be true, but there are many different ways of ruling and being ruled in the world. One only need look beyond the walls of this city to find difference.” Isayn looks somewhat perplexed, but nods as if understanding the point.
---------
A man blinks awake, lying on pale sand. His eyes creak open, struggling against salt and the flare of the last sun above. Something warm trickles down his neck. Suddenly, a shadow crosses his stretched out form and a cold sensation replaces the warmth. A woman bends down pressing something to the left side of his face. And then all goes dark again…
Ethnicity: Mayener
Age: 23
Hair colour: Black
Hair type: Thick, flowing and unruly
Eyes: Pale blue
Height: 5’10
Build: Muscular and stocky, built for the sea and pulling ropes
Noteworthy features: A jagged scar running about 5 inches down the far left side of his face, visible when his hair is pulled back or on a windy day
Noticeable items: A wooden handled hammer hooked to his belt and a poorly made shield strapped to his back
Social status: No special status, has a small bit of wealth left over from working on fishing boats, the passing of his father, and the assistance of a few family friends
Family: Father – Dasyn (deceased), Mother – Elen (deceased), Grandparents on the Father’s and Mother’s side (both deceased), cousins, uncles and aunties (had little contact), no brothers or sisters
Other key relations: Friend of his father, an elderly loner – Artain, best friend, another lad who works on the ships – Kalentis, a ship owner – Nomasin
Core concerns: Deeply scarred by the manner of his familial losses, despises those who profit from the cheap labour of sea fisher folk, wants to stay far away from Mayene and the other coastal nations, looking for work
"Flaws": Stubborn with what he thinks is right, would quickly speak out, prefers the comfort of a hammer to the greater guile, length and utility of the sword and can be slow to act if a situation seems unclear to him, very reluctant to enter water or even go aboard ships, never wants to see an oil fish again, despite his apparent strengths (below) – does not have a huge reserve of knowledge about the world, is a thinker speaking very much from deep reflection on mostly his own conditions of existence
"Strengths": Quick to speak out, an otherwise principled and reflective thinker - shaped by his past experiences in the world, physically fit, taught the basic letters by Artain, taught how to work a ship and fish by Dasyn, though by no means a pilot or navigator
History: Beads of sweat blend into drops of rain flowing down cracked skin, emphasising the jagged contours of an elderly man heaving at a slick length of rope. "Isayn!" bellows the elder, his voice a coarse yet powerful tone slicing through the humid and wet atmosphere. "Isayn!" comes the call again. "Isayn!" once more, insistent now, beginning to form a rhythm articulated with the elements of coarse fibre scraping away the skin, the breaking of water upon wood, the cries of birds peeling away, and the first rumblings of the sky. "Isayn!" comes the voice, hoarser now. Everything seems to centre solely on this man whose task it is to pull at the rope, causing the sails to respond. "Isayn," the man shouts more desperately, the slackness of his grey hair, heavy with liquid, seeming to embody the growing loss of hope present in his voice. After a final few tugs, the sails are made fast and the strained man rushes below deck!
Where was the boy? Why was he not helping secure the ship against the storm? Increasingly stiff legs carry him up to the port bow. Old eyes, pale and blue, but as if the colour was stretched thin, flicker over the roiling waters. "Isayn..." he utters, the rhythm of his voice now spent. His eyes suddenly dart to movement, but it is only the last remnants of the oil fish shoal they had been chasing darting into safer depths. Dasyn then crosses to the starboard bow, poring over the maw of the surface that threatened the vessel. Still no sign of Isayn, his boy with fine locks of black hair and clear blue eyes. His shaking hands, from exertion, adrenaline and no small measure of fear, reach out, testing the texture of the lacquered wood adorning the tip of the bow. The fingers and palms flex together in perfect harmony with the creak of bent knees and the momentary tightening of muscle. And then Dasyn is airborne, the atmosphere becoming a spinning haze revolving around his battered form. He hangs in the air for some moments before entering the water below. Then down he goes, aching limbs stretched out, searching, attempting to sweep aside vast tracts of water.
More shapes catch the attention of his eye, but again they are only the taunting silhouettes of oil fish - so precious, the very prize they had come to claim. Many leagues away from the safety of the harbour in Mayene they were, and his boy was surely lost in the murky blue. Dasyn pauses. His eyes move to the features of a curious object being thrown around by the swirls of the current. Dasyn’s limbs strain with each sweep as they take him closer and closer, his vision blurring. What is that shape? It's Isayn isn't it? It must be! Yes! But it was not him. Drained and exhausted, the water carries him further toward a large knot of sea kelp swirling around and around, its oily texture draping over and catching upon Dasyn's exhausted form. The whole scene seems to waver before him, his eyes closing tightly against the onslaught. Then suddenly from above, a dark shape swoops towards the grey haired being quickly becoming entombed in the slimy cords. Thick youthful arms slip around the broad expanse of Dasyn's chest and violent panicked kicks propel them up toward the barely brighter surface.
Isayn thrashes toward the sky. His eyes would seem fearful orbs of blue, setting off wild strands of black hair flying in all directions. The lad's will urged their forms onward, blending them together. The first thing to break through the uneven and angry barrier into the air, now thick with rain, is a cavorting mass of black hair framing an anguished set of eyes, lips, flared nostrils, and open mouth, as he rapidly sucks in air. Almost in the same moment another object appears with much less vitality - a slumped oval, draped in sticky shocks of grey, nothing to animate them, not even the currents of air, which too, now, seemed to ignore him. Isayn glances around quickly, his eyes blinking away large droplets of water. They moved down, taking in the form resting in his arms. "Father!" Isayn cries, his voice cracking against the elements which resumed in their assault after that single moment of sheer emptiness. The boat was nowhere to be seen. What will Isayn do now? Suddenly everything goes dark.
---------
He wakes up on a white shore. Vermillion crabs scuttle back and forth some distance away, making tiny tracks in the sand. Frothy white waves gently play. Looking up, one’s horizon becomes coastal inland greenery, though all is shrouded in a faint dullish mist. A small boy and an older man walk along this beach looking intently at the ground. The black haired man points toward a piece of wood with a slightly crooked finger. “Ah, that is an interesting shape. Look at how the sea has wrought it so finely.” The smaller boy dashes over and runs his hand along the contours of the wood confirming its texture.
---------
The lad now stands on a ship, slightly larger hands struggling to grasp the beech wood tiller. His brow knits in a worried line, as the waves to which they speed toward rise up and then crash against the prow. They smooth at the briefest of touches upon the shoulder by a larger presence with brown and grey streaked hair. A faint mist seems to loom closer and closer.
---------
Isayn is at a desk, peering over dark black cuts made in coarse paper. “Each of these strokes forms the basic letters of the alphabet, boy,” says a deep voice. Isayn glances at the windows which seem to shimmer with early morning sun. “Pay attention now, this is important. Fundamental to everything I can teach you. Listen now, won’t you,” chides the man, adjusting his seat by the still warm coals.
---------
Isayn is at a desk, again, not much older, looking confused. “Why are we ruled as we are, lad?” asks the old man again. The entire room seems misty now, as the young man hesitantly responds “what do you mean? What other way is there? Hasn’t this always been so.” The wise man frowns faintly, replying calmly “for our lives this might be true, but there are many different ways of ruling and being ruled in the world. One only need look beyond the walls of this city to find difference.” Isayn looks somewhat perplexed, but nods as if understanding the point.
---------
A man blinks awake, lying on pale sand. His eyes creak open, struggling against salt and the flare of the last sun above. Something warm trickles down his neck. Suddenly, a shadow crosses his stretched out form and a cold sensation replaces the warmth. A woman bends down pressing something to the left side of his face. And then all goes dark again…