(This is a long read)
Application:
Name: Brutus
Age: 28
Race: Dwarf
Sex: male
Occupation: Former blacksmith
Backstory: Brutus lived among his people for many a years. Simple heritage brought him up as a blacksmith. His father was hard. Always expecting him to forge the best weapons. The best armour. Such was always expected of first born and Brutus showed immense potential; however, Brutus never felt like the ring of hammer was attuned to his ears. He preferred the clash of swords. The cries of battle. The clanking of armour. The cracking of bones. His father would often catch him swinging the sword Brutus had just made and attacking dummies in a flurry. "A fighter" whispered Brutus' father. As he grew older, Brutus was still taught the ways of the blacksmith from his father. He could forge a sword blindfolded that could cut through armour like papyrus. He could forge armour that hugged the skin and could protect from blows of a hammer. Brutus could still always be caught swinging his hammers and swords on the dummies. As he came of age to begin his own life, his father approached him. "I've watched you all your life, my son" he began. "I've always known you were a fighter. When I learned this, I was upset that our traditions would be lost, but I know who you are, son, and I know who you want to be." Tears began to form in the corner of his eyes. "As our only child. I know that you must live your own life. My father forced me to be a blacksmith. I always preferred weaving clothing but he would not have it. So this is your chance to live your life. I have prepared a wagon that will take you to the surface. You can begin your life there." Brutus began to speak "But Father. Who will take care of you and mother?" "Do not worry about us, Son. We have enough gold to last us through the rest of our lives." There was a silence for minutes. Minutes that felt like hours. "Before you go, I want you to do one last thing for me." Brutus' father pushed onto the wall. A loose brick pushed back and slipped to the side. Out of the wall he pulled a bag. "Take these. Fashion yourself the armour of our ancestors." Out of the bag, Brutus' father pulled bars of Mithril. "Your grandfather used to wear mithril armour. It's very rare. I need you to keep it close. Make yourself some armour. Make yourself a battle hammer and a shield. Your grandfather’s blood runs thick through you. Forge yourself the armour of a true warrior." Brutus' eyes widened as he looked at the shimmering bars. They shone so bright streams and ribbons of light would dance across its edges. Brutus took the bars as if he was handling crystal. He knew the procedure well. Now this wasn’t a job. This wasn’t for money. This was for him. He knew that this would tell him he was a true warrior.
He began melting the metal. So pure was the metal, it shined even in its melted form. Like mercury, or quicksilver, it poured from the pot and into the ancient mold. Brutus worked for hours, but to him. Minutes. Finally the work was completed, and Brutus let out a sigh. Not of relief, but sadness that such a beautiful and delicate work was over. He took the hammer out. Inscription in the hilt read the words and blessings of a warrior. “Strength will take you only so far. Honor will purify the soul.” The armour was delicately crafted. Was so light, it was like wearing crystal, but so strong it was like wearing diamond. The shoulders pads had the designs of eons of warriors clashed in permanent battle. Orc and Dwarf fighting along side each other against human and elf. Blood seemed to trickle out of the drawings. The chest had a hammer, with the blades of a thousand swords sticking behind it as if the sun were to rise with the hammer blocking its view. Two dwarfs were drawn on the back, clashing hammers. The armour shined like the brilliance of a thousand suns. The shield had the sketches of ten thousand dwarves holding the city and their honor atop of their heads. The set hummed with the constant echo of thousands of hammers. A constant reminder of home and of a father who worked him to the bone to help him achieve his goal of life. He set off then, wearing his freshly crafted armour. His father had prepared him a pack for his adventure while he had worked: Two handfuls of gold, food for a week, enough ale to last a month for an average man, but for Brutus? About a day. Clothing, armour and weapon polish, a small painting of him and his family, and something he held close to heart. The first dagger Brutus had ever made. It was rusted now. Small indents had been made in the blade from the clashing of it on the cobble. Brutus tucked the painting and the dagger into a pocket close to the heart. As he said his goodbyes and hopped onto the wagon, his father paid the wagon driver and said a final word to his son. “Remember the inscription on the hilt. Remember you’re a warrior with honour. Not a thief or a brigand.” “I will” replied Brutus. The cart started with a jolt and traveled up the deep slope to the surface.
The wagon driver spoke, trying to make conversation, but Brutus’ mind was off in another world. Dreams of: Adventure. Glory. Women. Fame. Wealth. But there were also dreams of: Loneliness. Homesickness. Death. Brutus must have been off in his own mind for a long time when he finally returned to his world, the sun was on his face. His armour lit up like the flames of the forge, and the reflection could be seen for miles. It slowly dimmed, as if knowing it had left the dark dim city of dwarves, and had now returned to its true belonging. The land. “The nearest town is Dragonspoke.” The wagon man said “I’ll take you there and this is where we part. Lot’s of bandits on the road. Have to return quickly before nightfall” “Ok.” Brutus became alert. What the man had just said alarmed him. His eyes were ever watchful. Thankfully no bandits could be seen. The town was just up ahead. Smoke from the bakery filled the air and the screams of laughter could be heard up ahead. Clanking of mugs and explosions like fireworks could be heard. “Must be festival season” Muttered Brutus. The wagon slowly dragged to a stop. The wagon man sat hunched. “Driver! We’re not quite there yet. My legs do not want to carry me as the sadness of leaving home has left me empty of energy.” The wagon man had not spoke. Something was off Brutus thought to himself. Something is not right. As he began to move and check the drivers status an noise, almost like a whistle, shot by his ear. He ducked and pulled the drivers body over with him. An arrow stuck in the drivers throat and heart.
Slowly the realization dawned him upon him. DragonSpoke wasn’t having a festival. It was pillaged and in ruin. Brutus prepared himself. He laid the body of the driver on top of himself and prepared. Cautious steps could be heard as he waited, without breath. “Do you think I got him?” “I rarely miss Tal. Don’t underestimate me. Did you see that driver? Down without a sound.” Brutus’ heart rate increased. The smoke from the bakery was the fire from the bandits. The laughter? Screams as children watched as their parents were cut down without mercy, knowing they were next. The clanking of mugs were fathers who were prepared to die before letting their family be killed. And the fireworks? Brutus could only imagine it was the bombs his father once spoke about. “See? Dead.” “I don’t see the arrow.” “You worry too much. Now help me get this corpse off him. I want that armour as mine.” As the hands reached for the drivers corpse. Brutus tensed. His father had prepared him well. Many years of lifting heavy ingots had toned his muscles so that he was like the iron he forged. The years of working with lava had improved his reflexes so that an arrow that ‘never’ missed, would miss. The years of crafting such delicate swords had honed his hits to a perfect precision. The hands grabbed the corpse now and pulled. In a moment Brutus was up in a flash. His hammer, like the fury it was designed to be, cracked the soft skull of the archer. The hammer swung down and brought the archer down to the ground. The other bandit, startled, drew for his weapon, but it was already too late for him. Brutus was up in a flash, using the hammers previous momentum and brought it upwards into the jaw of Tal. Tal was thrown into the air and was dead before he hit the ground. Skull and jaw shattered like candy. The bandits were not yet aware of his presence. He had finished the fight without a noise. A small smirk appeared on Brutus’ face. He grabbed his shield and prepared himself. A direct charge? A sneaky attack? No. He was a warrior, not a coward. A frontal barrage would be his attack. He brought his shield up and turned around from the cart. He began to run at the walls of the village. Two bandits, who stood guard, caught the glimpse of a shining mass of death run towards them. The lifted their bows and shot without thought. The arrows hit the shield and bounced off it like simple punches. They turned and ran, knowing their fate was inevitable. Brutus caught the closest one. The hammer drove like a spike into the spine of the first bandit. He slammed into the ground like a dead pig. His own arrow he had prepared fell into his heart and killed him. Brutus recovered from the swing and began to charge, his feet moving like a horse. The other bandit had alerted his fellow brigands, and like flys, they were upon Brutus. Arrows were shot at him. He dodged without effort to the side, keeping his shield in front of him. A fatal blow struck the archer in the ribs. He fell and gave his life without fight.
Brutus turned. Ten bandits now surrounded him. All ready with their weapons at hand. Brutus let out a laugh. “Next!” He screams in valiance to the band or brigands. One steps forward. Sword in hand. Shield in the other. Walking forwards without fear he looks at Brutus. Fire burns deep in his eyes. Brutus could not tell if it was the evil that had burned deep in this character soul, or the wall of flames the spun in a circle around them, almost creating a circle arena. It does not matter, Brutus thought. He will die like the others. The pair spun around the group. Cheers could be heard from the other bandits. Brutus struck first. He let out a yell a charged. The bandit, nearly having his skull caught, steps to the side and delivers a blow to the back of Brutus’ neck with the hilt of his blade. Brutus lands on his face. Dirt and blood mix together like a concoction. He spit the dirt from his mouth as blood slipped from his lip. It now collected in a pool. He got up and looked at the bandit. The bandit was smiling. “Good hit.” Brutus said aloud. They stood facing each other, admiring the skill they both possessed. Brutus again took charge running at the bandit. He wailed his hammer above his head and went to strike down. The bandit saw this and dived to the side, but Brutus had expected his move. He swung the hammer down, but before hitting the ground turned it to the left, spinning Brutus almost semi-circle. The hammer clipped the bandits leg. A snap was heard. The bandit fell to the ground. Crying in agony. Brutus stood over him. “Weak” He whispered. “Get up and fight me like a man.” Brutus spit the fresh blood into the bandits face. The bandit struggled using his shield like a crutch. He stood and stumbled. His body shook. Blood slid out of his nose and mouth and dripped onto the armour. He wobbled his sword in his hand and rose it to Brutus. Brutus, once again, took charge. He smiled. He knew this hit would be the last. He closed his eyes and let the hammer take full control. It slammed. Something was amiss. The hit was soft. He opened his eyes. “Dirt?” The bandit was gone. Brutus jumped, only too late, and felt the cold, deathly feel of sword slash into his hand. A finger dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from the amputated finger socket. Brutus looked in terror. His shield dropped. The bandit stepped forward. “You fool. Think this is my first fight? You will die, and I will take your armour as my own.” The bandit swung forwards. Brutus struggled to lift his hammer. The blade closed in and drew nearer. Brutus closed his eyes and waited for the warm embrace of death. A scream echoed from the bandit in front of him. Brutus opened his eyes. The bandits sword had dropped. Both the shield and sword danced on the ground, circling it until they finally stopped. The bandit’s face portrayed fear and pain. An arrow stuck out through the chest of the bandit. The bandit fell on top of Brutus. He pushed him off with ease. He watched as each bandit panicked and grabbed their swords frantically only to have an arrow shot through their gullet and throat and drop to the ground in a gurgling scream. Brutus stood, clutching his wounded hand. He grabbed both his hammer and shield and placed them down neatly. He ripped his pack and took a slice of the side, wrapping it around the wounded hand. His savior dropped from her perch on the wall beside him. Brutus grabbed the hammer and prepared for death. “Shh. Ease. I’m a friend” She whispered. Brutus lowered his guard and dropped the hammer. He never realized how tired he was. In fact, he didn’t realize how dark it was getting or how fast everything seemed to close in. The ground reached up and greeted him.
He awoke hours later. The moon was up and wolves were heard in the distance. The wind gave a gentle breeze and brushed the hair across his brow. He looked at his finger. “Heh. I look like I lost me finger in the flames of de’ forge.” He looked around for his accomplice. She sat by the fire cooking a small pig on a spit. Brutus realized his armour was now packed neatly beside his accomplices bow and dagger. Slowly, Brutus got up and dragged himself to the fire. His whole body ached of the fresh battle. His muscles were tense, and bruises, cuts and gashes marked the glory and humiliation of the last battle. “You need rest” Brutus was startled. He was a quiet as a mouse. “I knew you were there. After all, you learn how survive when you live on your own. Sit.” She beckoned Brutus to sit on the log. Brutus stumbled and sat. The smell of cinders and smoke filled his nose. Not from this fire, but the town. “I rescued as many children as I could. The parents did not survive, or not for very long anyways.” She said in a voice of disgust. “The sick pigs.” She spat into the fire. A gentle tear ran down the side of her face. Brutus was watching her intently. Her golden hair gently wavered with the wind and glistened with the reflection of the fire. Her eyes were a deep green, so deeply the seemed like forests. Her ears were pointed. “An elf” He quietly thought. She caught the tear with the side of her hand. “I used to trade with that town. I knew so many of them. I was considering moving in there with them. Not anymore huh?” She let out a slight laugh as more tears quickly escaped her eyes. Brutus tried to comfort her. She moved and stiffened slightly as he got closer. “Your pack is by your armour. I took some of the ale.” Smiling, Brutus teased her. “That’s mine and ye know it” giving a slight knock on her shoulder. She passed him a mug of the ale. They sat together, closely, enjoying the fire, chatting the night away about their lives and eating the pig piece by piece. “I appreciate what you tried to do, Brutus.” She softly said. “ ‘Twas Only the right thing to do, Elizabeth. Strength will only take you so far. Honor purifies the soul.” They sat quietly. A breeze rustled the leaves. Elizabeth stood up along with Brutus. “We should catch some sleep. We’re going to have to dig some graves early morning.” “Yeah. We will wont we? I’ll be such great help with me finger in such a good shape.” They both laughed. They were friends. “Goodnight Brutus.” Elizabeth took Brutus’ face and gently kissed him on the lips. “I’ll see you in the morning” Brutus blushed deep red and almost lost words “go-goodnight. Elizab-eth.”
Both knew that when morning came, they would set out on their life together, traveling the roads.
What kind of bard is the best kind of bard?: Spooney Bard
Anything else?: I’m going to use the backstory in a book possibly :3 I put a lot of effort into it and I think I did a good job.
