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Old December 31st, 2012 (08:08 AM). Edited December 31st, 2012 by Claire*.
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Claire*
Here's to the crazy ones.
 
Join Date: Jul 2012
Location: USA
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Nature: Sassy
*Gulp* I always get nervous when posting new SUs... I hope everything is okay, please let me know if it's not. I'm so stressed over getting the details right so as not to clash with anything in the world's background. Ack...
Name: Bofvar Blyr

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Race: Dwarf

Country of Origin: Mindirion

Appearance: As with many of his kind, Bofvar retains his people’s thick, stocky and stout build. His small stature and impressive musculature lend him what looks to be a great center of gravity. In all his best attempts at great posture, he still stands no more than five feet tall. He recognizes this as a curse of his people, and has slowly come to accept the fact over the years. So much so, that he often jokes that good things come in small packages. Even though not much height rests on his body, his legs are thick and powerful, just like the rest of his densely packed being. Although most of his weight is muscle, he would be remiss in not stating that some of the bulge in his midriff came from a bit..ok...a lot of a beer belly.

Possessing a rugged and stern face, one could see that it had been crafted over many years of hardship and battle. It could not be said, however, that Bofvar was handsome, not that many would say so in regards to Dwarves anyway. His bright, deep green eyes seem to pop against the suntanned tone of his skin, an obvious giveaway to many hours of hard labor. The faint traces of a now long healed wound can be seen running across his left eye. This vertical slash is slightly different in color than the rest of his face, being just a shade paler. A stubby nose sits just above a grandiose mustache and beard. This facial hair, crimson red in hue as to match the medium length hair on his head, comes braided all the way down to his waist line. Long enough, that if he so chooses, it could be tucked into his belt. He takes great pride in his beard, keeping its naturally thatchy appearance well groomed and free of any disgusting particulate.

His battle attire, a source of great pride for the mercenary, is well maintained and a reflection of his own persona. A thick, sturdy helmet, sits squarely on his head. Its sides come securely over his ears and a thin strip comes down to rest over his nose. Two bone horns run from the top, curving slightly to opposite sides the higher your eyes travel. These bright white bones contrast neatly with the rich, dark metallic coloring of the helmet and gold inscription of the Dwarven words: “Hard as stone.”

In regards to body armor, a light interlocking chain mail is seen just peeping out from under the thick plated armor of fine, handcrafted, dwarven heavy armor. A small, rectangular buckler is seen attached to his right shoulder, providing further protection for his offhand. Although his heavy armor serves its purpose and protects the vital organs of his chest, his muscular and rugged arms are left free from its services. Where the silvery, ornate armor ends, only two fur straps serve as clothing for his wrists. In the center of his armor, there stands an engraving of a great mountain, many think this depicts his home, but he never seems to give a clear answer when pressed about it. Just above his hips, a wide band leather belt, with numerous pockets, holds whatever he may need to carry. It also doubles conveniently as a beard holder when things get...hairy...

If one could sum up his armor, his furry bear clad shoes and leather pantaloons included. Most would describe it as practical. Where he lets himself be distinguished from most dwarves and really most others, is his weapon. In his left hand, can typically be found a long, gleaming golden trident. This three pronged weapon has served him well over the years, its thick shaft giving it freedom from easy breakage and sufficient weight so as to serve as a decent enough projectile. Each prong is serrated and quite vicious in appearance. Where as many dwarves would be seen with heavier weapons, Bofvar did not underestimate the importance of versatility and speed. When not in combat, this weapon can be seen strapped across his back, a proud symbol for all to see.


Personality: A rogue, rebel, meticulous, honorable, blunt, greedy. Just a few adjectives many use when they speak of Bofvar in passing. Like most living beings, however, one is never who they are in fleeting first impressions. Granted, bubbling on the surface are all these things, a surly rogue who values honor and a good bust line, but beneath the layers, something more lurks. Something that causes this warrior’s heart to beat with a lifetime’s worth of determination and steely resolve. A childhood of his father’s constant disapproval has planted in him a desire to prove his worth, to others, or maybe really to himself. Deeper feelings are usually masked by a flamboyant and sometimes overbearing facade. One that keeps people at arms length and never lets them see the “real” Bofvar.

Flashes of the real “man” within can be seen once and a while. When he is not drinking away his life or regaling others with his obviously exaggerated stories, one could probably see the tinge of insecurity that creeps into his complexion. That one little glimmer in his eyes that happens when he really starts to care for somebody and is scared of losing them. He is profoundly protective, like a ferocious little papa bear if anyone were to come after people he considers “family”. This protection might not be seen in noticeable ways, because his fake personality prevents it.

Bofvar values verbal banter, in fact, he seeks it. He often jokes that there is nothing sexier than an angry woman. Petty debates about religion, politics, even the weather. It matters little to him. If there is an opportunity for him to get into a verbal sparring match, he’ll take it. The same goes for real sparring. Viewed as an opportunity to prove himself, he’ll never back down from a challenge, ones issued or otherwise.

Severely stubborn and set in his ways, he’ll die preaching that he was right. (Even if he secretly admits to himself he wasn’t.) He’s also a bit spontaneous, but not so much as not to weigh the costs of his actions or prevent his meticulous attention to detail. The devil is in the details after all.

Despite his attraction to petty bickering, he flees from any form of deep conversation or drama. When conversations get heavy, he grows more and more uncomfortable. If somebody were to pour their soul out to him, he would most likely attempt to make light of the issue and brush it aside with a joke or two. It is this fact, that sometimes leads others to believe he is unintelligent or insensitive. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Although not a genius, he is sharp as a sword and it only gets smarter as his BAC gets higher. And underneath it all, he does care, he just doesn’t know how to express it. Unsurprisingly, he shies from father figures, even if he unknowingly were to become one himself.

Overall, he appears cheerful. A stupid smile plastered on his face that tells the world: “All is okay, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.” When the going gets rough, Bofvar always tries to stay positive. ‘Scared’, isn’t in his dictionary, not that he would read one. Physical pain and even death have no hold over him. His lack of faith keeps him grounded, free of the worry that eternal torment might bring, or whatever else the religious types might preach about. Everybody dies, no use being scared about it.


History: The son of a blacksmith, as many Dwarven children can claim, Bofvar grew up in a semi-traditional Dwarven manner. From a young age, Bofvar was accustomed to the heat of a forge. His father always encouraged him away from such things that were deemed trivial or of no use to a “real” Dwarf. Powerful muscles and a fascination for riches were instilled in his heart from a young age. Tradition, if he had to remember one thing from youth onward, it was the beating drum of tradition in a Dwarf’s life. One did not go against tradition. In his family, were one to go against tradition, they were better off dead to them.

Everyday, scrupulous attention was given to the crafting and design of numerous pieces of armor and weapons. It wasn’t uncommon for many hours to be spent hard at work, only for his father to come by and deem it a travesty and cast it away. Days like those, only turned into night and even day once again before he was allowed to leave the smith. Bofvar was not permitted to leave until something was done right and that took time. Lots of time. This attention to detail did carry over into adulthood. As many who are raised in such a domineering and overbearing manner, Bofvar came to resent the many tasks assigned to him by his family.

Bofvar did not long for an existence at a forge. To be shackled to the fiery embers and clanging of steel. He wanted adventure and glorious tales of battle. But his family did not come from warriors, the caste system of Mindirion was quite stringent this way. He probably would become and always would be a smith. Toiling away making weapons and listening to the harrowing tales of the many warriors at distant taverns. He was enraptured with the tales, every conquest of these warriors, both of battles and foreign women, gave him further love of such a life.

There had been stories of Dwarves who were called “Surface Dwarves”, unlike those who dwell in his home of the mountains. They spread throughout the lands, taking with them the culture and spirit of Mindirion. How he longed for such a life, but there was a catch. Surface Dwarves were banned, shunned from ever returning to their motherland. Could he ever bring such dishonor to himself and family, even if he considered himself an honorable Dwarf at heart? Apparently, he could.

After many months planning, a night came where he could depart from his home. Cloudwalker mountains, his home for twenty four years, still quite young for a Dwarf, was finally left behind. A tumultuous journey brought him down from the mountaintop. Including a tumble from a cliff that now forever marked his face, that was previously free from blemish. To this day, when asked, Bofvar will claim the scar across his eye to be from a great battle, him and an orc wrestling between life and death. Never would he let people know it was from a careless misstep that ended with a face-plant to a rock.

For years he wandered the expanses of Aerion, his journey for discovery, glory and riches carrying him from one corner to the next. It wasn’t until he had been resting at a nearby port, that Bofvar found the path he had been looking for. Deep in the night, pirates assaulted where he had been slumbering, the port ripe for their pillaging. The crew, mainly composed of Highmen, made quick work of many locals, taking for themselves countless prizes. They were not prepared for Bofvar’s surprising strength, honed from years spent with hammer and anvil. He dispatched three of the pirates with nothing but a fire poker, when they came to his inn. Bofvar refused to lose. He still remembers the sharp whistle that ceased the attacks on him, the one that issued forth from the captain as she strode into the room and eyed him curiously. She had been watching him without his notice, impressed by his strength and determination. Captain Amma Egileif, of the pirate ship “Aifor”.

It was unusual for a Highman to take interest in another from outside their culture. They had a stigma of being elitists and refusing to lower themselves to the stature of others. In reality, not a great deal separated Highmen and Dwarves in Bofvar’s eyes. Both desired glory and respected tradition. And as a pirate crew, well, they always desired riches. He must have made an impression on the captain, because he was quickly offered a spot in her crew. A rare exception that she didn’t make for many others. He accepted hesitantly, but it turned out to be one of the best and worst decisions he ever made.

Turns out, the pirates had their own moral code and really acted more like mercenaries when the time called for it. The sea was an odd place to see a Dwarf, there was no hiding that. But, his sea legs quickly came to him. It was here, that he developed an affinity for the trident. Not unlike the fire poker with which he dispatched those pirates, the weapon’s speed and multifaceted capabilities quickly made it his favorite. It was an oddity for even the ones on the ship, who favored more traditional weapons.

Many years passed again, the years passing more enjoyably this time. Fighting, conquering, pillaging, looting, riches, glory and tales worthy of a brew every now and then. Never rape, his ingrained morals prevented such a thing. Sure there were “conquests”, but never in such a way as to what -he- considered dishonor. Maybe this trait is what gave him such high esteem in the Captain’s eyes. That and his excellent attention to detail and battle prowess. She surprisingly promoted him to first officer, even above equally qualified others. He was taken aback, never thinking he would be more than another mate on the ship. Some came to accept his position, but others secretly loathed him for it. They deemed him unworthy, that a Highmen should have received the promotion. One night, after an abundance of drink and debauchery, Bofvar was stabbed in his sleep and cast overboard by his former “mates”, pajamas and all.

He lay adrift at sea, his consciousness coming and going like the tide. It was fortunate for him that he was cast not far from land. Bofvar had already known over the years that Dwarves did not make skilled swimmers, this further cemented that belief. Washing up on the shoreline of Cape Falcon, he was found by a group of a well educated lot. The people of this peace loving and artistic nation, brought him back from the brink. Upon waking, after several weeks of being removed from the world, Bofvar refused to linger there long. This was not a place for him. His desire for adventure, and riches was unending. With nothing to his name once again, he fled from the savior nation only to arrive in Eveamoor.

Here, he laid low. Rehab and plotting was his game. It was also that here, he finally reentered a forge for the first time in over a decade. The memory of his father playing through his mind as he begrudgingly picked up a hammer again. There simply wasn’t decent enough armor for his kind around. His current attire and weapon, the pieces he so proudly bears, were forged in a smith that had long been deserted on the outskirts of Curilan. The materials were not easy to come by, but he persuaded the few traders that came along to see things his way. Reequipped and lust for glory still in his heart, Bofvar reemerged on the mercenary scene, but with a new group, a wandering band if you will. This was his new home, a home for glory and riches.

Weapon Preference: Trident

RP Sample: From RHCP's very excellent RP, MAO.
Spoiler:
Ripples formed on the surface of the water as the Magikarp went to work playfully nibbling the air above it. Umbra leaned over the edge of the minuscule lake, her mouth agape as she stared in wonderment at the little fish. It was odd for Solomon, the whole world seemed new again when watching Umbra react to it. Every little thing garnered a reaction, no matter how small it may seem to him. She wasn’t unlike a baby in that way, often dashing off without his notice, only to come back with some new “discovery” of hers. He humored her of course, often pretending to have interest in whatever it was that second. It didn’t much bother him, sometimes the little treasures she brought back had some use. The occasional berry or what have you.

Umbra reached out with one of her tiny, two clawed hands towards the Magikarp. The fish didn’t seem to pay her the slightest bit of attention as she extended herself precariously over the water. Solomon knew exactly how this was going to end; a wet Sneasel. He didn’t intervene, you learn by the consequences of your actions. One quick swipe of her palm and Solomon’s prediction came true. With an unceremonious splash, she fell head first into the water. The Magikarp that once held her rapt attention, scooted safely away as she doggy paddled just to stay afloat. Umbra let out a devious and cheery laugh as she climbed her way back up the embankment. She was soaked, the water cascading off her body and further drenching the marshy ground below.

“Happy now?” Solomon asked her with a self-knowing smirk on his face. Umbra only looked up and beamed him a radiant little smile before nodding. “I’m afraid we would need a fishing pole to have any hopes of catching such a Pokemon. You aren’t exactly the greatest swimmer.” Umbra took to resenting that comment and seemed to give off an indignant little pout. “Anyway, we really need to keep going. It shouldn’t be much farther now. You’ll dry while we walk.”

The dense trees and luscious grass provided nice cover for the wild Pokemon of this route. So far, they had only encountered a Caterpie and a few Weedles. All things considered, he was pretty fortunate not to have Umbra be poisoned yet. In the portable games, their dreaded poison sting never failed to inflict his Pokemon with its insidious toxin. Hopefully they would find this Mr. Pokemon and his cottage soon enough. The route was massive in comparison to its former incarnation. What used to take seconds to traverse, now took a much greater portion of time.

“Snea, Sneasel!” Umbra shouted, her lithe figure jumping up and down excitedly, faint remnants of water still flying off her body. She pointed at something in the distance, it was hard to see exactly what she was trying to tell him. It seemed like a tree, no different than any of the others in the area. He was just about to tell her to calm down and move on before he spotted what she was so excited about. A little Hoothoot lay nestled on a branch within the safe confines of the tree’s reach. Its eyes were closed, only the black rings around them were visible as it snored the day away. Another perfect chance to get some more experience, just like the Pidgey on route 29.

“Ok, Umbra. Let’s keep this short and sweet, we have a quest to finish after all.” Solomon and Umbra approached the tree, stopping but a few meters away. “Let’s take it by surprise,” he leaned down and whispered into Umbra’s ear. “Faint attack, now.” Umbra seemed to disappear into darkness, almost as if she began to melt into the scenery that surrounded them. She appeared right near the Hoothoot, and hit it squarely between the eyes. The bird fell from its perch, hitting the ground below it with a sickening thud. Faint attack wasn’t an overly powerful attack, that was for sure. But its strength came through its accuracy. It never failed to make an impression. This battle would be over before you know it.

Hoothoot jumped to its feet, large red eyes glaring at its assailant and her human. “Okay Umbra, let’s finish this. Icy Wind.” The same gale from route 29 gathered itself, even Solomon felt the chill as his digital skin reacted with goosebumps. Umbra sent the wind rushing toward her opponent, only for the Hoothoot to go flying and dodge the attack with surprising agility. “Huh... Seems the little bird has some fight in him. Umbra, again.” Another wind built, only for the same result to happen. The Hoothoot simply dodged and circled Umbra, almost as if he was taunting her. It swooped in quickly, its beak glowing as it crashed into the Sneasel and began to peck like mad. Umbra tried in vain to wave off the pecking ball of feathers, her health falling little by little. “Come on, shake it off,” Solomon called out to her, trying to shake some sense into his Pokemon. “Quick attack.” Umbra launched at her attacker, connecting but not knocking it out. It only seemed to further infuriate the owl as it hovered above her and began to inhale deeply, its body seemed to swell with air. It opened its beak and Solomon doubled over as he covered his ears. An eardrum shattering cacophony was let loose, nailing Umbra and sending her to her knees.

Solomon recognized the attack, Uproar. Once started, this Hoothoot wouldn’t be able to stop itself for a little bit. He had to do something. At this stage in the game, Uproar could be incredibly powerful, even knocking out Umbra and causing him to white out. Not a horrible consequence in a normal game, but here, it was game over...forever. He reached into his bag and pulled out a pokeball. Before this fight started, he had no intention of catching this Hoothoot. Due to necessity, it looks like he would need to however. “Umbra, faint attack.” It took a second for Umbra to recover from the attack, but she responded dutifully as she was trained to do. Again the attack connected, but the Hoothoot remained living. The second wave of sound had to be coming soon. Umbra probably wouldn’t survive such a strong attack a second time, not at her current level at least. He threw the pokeball with all his might, the little ball growing as it sailed through the air and made contact with the owl. Hoothoot disappeared into a beam of light, only to make the pokeball shake ferociously in its attempt to escape. Solomon hoped he had weakened it enough, or they could be in serious trouble. Finally, the shaking stopped. The little menace was caught, securely locked away.

“You okay, Umbra?” She simply nodded her head and walked over to grab the now full pokeball. Handing it to her owner, she sat down with a sigh and rested while Solomon looked on with curiosity. “Good fight, little bird. I guess you’re part of the team for now,” he grumbled, his voice directed at the pokeball. “You’re either very scrappy or very lucky. Maybe both.” He stuck the pokeball next to Umbra’s inside his coat, clipping it securely in place. “I guess we’ll find out.”


Other: What’s up, Doc?

Side: Mercenaries
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