Finding Our Fire

{ Deliberately scribbling random characters with my friend, and ended up coming out with this }

PURPLE

Those who bear a purple soulcolor are responsible, conforming, and grounded. They prefer predictability over instability and do not take to change well. They prefer to follow a daily schedule to keep themselves motivated and on the path to success, and they don’t stray from their daily chores often.  While they don’t like conforming to society, they also don’t like to stand out.

History and tradition are a big part of their identity. They hold family close to their heart, whether they are found or by blood, and have a high moral standard of themselves. They prefer to be supporting roles in people’s lives, often doing the hard labor to make sure everything falls in place. 

Since this is a serving type, they tend to become community service members and are most likely to volunteer to help their community. Despite their need to help others, they are highly introverted and keep a close closed off circle of friends. It’s hard to break through their wall to become part of their circle, but it’s rewarding. 

Purple soulcolors are always worried about the “what ifs” and are more drawn to pessimistic or realistic outlooks on life. They are cautious around new situations and never expect they’ll succeed. They often feel misunderstood by society, since most types tend to lean on the optimistic side of life, and only want to point out things that may hurt others, but this causes them to appear like the “party pooper” of the group.

NAME:  Farion NICKNAME:  Padfoot the Ranger AGE: 23 SPECIES:  Men ( Dúnedain )

PERSONAL.

MORALITY: Neutral Good RELIGION:   Loyal to the Valar SINS:   greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / pride / envy / wrath VIRTUES:   chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice KNOWN LANGUAGES:  Westron, Sindarin, Dwarvish, Vale of Anduin Tongue.

PHYSICAL.

BUILD:  scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average HEIGHT:  6′ SCARS:  One thin scar tracing horizontally along his left cheekbone. ABILITIES  /  POWERS: Usual Numenorean/Dunedain abilities. Inspiration, piercing insight. RESTRICTIONS:  His humility borders on self-doubt, and his youth leads to many not taking him seriously.

FAVORITES.

FOOD:  Roasted meats PIZZA TOPPING: modern: Pepperoni COLOUR:  Greens, Silvers. MUSIC GENRE:  modern: Folk MOVIE GENRE:  modern: Westerns CURSE WORD:  Doesn’t really curse. SCENTS:  Earth, wicker.

FUN STUFF.

BOTTOM OR TOP: A switch. Typicall feels like he has to top, but isn’t confident in it. SINGS IN THE SHOWER:  Hums. LIKES PUNS: If they’re particularly clever.

I mean, does it need to be said?

(Responding to @amlugnis​)

“If not me then whom? My kin are leagues to the North, and Gondor cannot withstand it’s own fight as well as that of Rohan. The Mark is ablaze, and Théoden’s halls flock their people to Helm’s Deep where there is no more running.”

Farion had already prepared for his journey, sword at his side, bow on his back. He knew Magayon had seen the gruesome horrors that came from Isengard, those strange Uruk that withstand the sunlight, and had made efforts to harm the trees on the borders of their forest to fuel their fires. And he knew she had predicted this moment, for it was in his spirit to protect all that was free and good, and Rohan was in need of it.

He alone would not change much, he thought, but the very notion that he would live the rest of his days knowing he let Riddermark fall without raising but a finger, brought a great shame upon him.

“Should the Hornburg be felled, and the Rohirrim laid to waste, and it’s people left strewn upon their own lands for naught but the rain, and I walked away this day…I would not be the man you met in these woods. If I leave, yes I could die, or live, but remain Farion I shall. But should I turn without putting up a fight, I will survive, but Farion would not remain.”

He raised his hand slowly, his fingertips upon her cheek. So gentle, and so strong she was, yet fragility he could see in her eyes. He gave a sad smile, and thought of an afterlife without her light, and a fearful doubt grew in his heart. But he had long ago learned to battle such darkness within himself, as fiercely as he battled darkness around him.

(Responding to @amlugnis​)

Farion lay upon the grass, his back slightly dampened against the early morning dew. All around him the glade was filled with dancing lights, and he was curious as to their origin. Perhaps they were fireflies, here to bask in the radiant beauty that once again drew him into the depths of Fangorn, for his beloved was born of Elbereth, and her love of the natural world was aglow in places no light could touch.

The glade itself felt as though it was cleansed, purified at her touch. The trees were not filled with malice, the air did not choke at the throat. Nay, it was shining, beautiful, and the grass was encircled by many flowers. The sun could reach the young Ranger’s skin in various parts of the clearing, as the canopy opened up in sparser spots.

And her voice seemed to echo lightly against the trees, for the glade was of magayon, and she was of it. Even in betrothal, in this place it was as though Farion was meeting her from the beginning once again, stunned by her beauty and grace as she merely sat with him. Then her hands began to twirl, a rhythmic and swaying dance that beckoned flowers from her fingertips, which weaved them with an elegance only the Maia and their lords and ladies could wield. She placed the weaved crown upon his head, and the petals gently tickled at his hair, a smile beaming through his visage.

MAGAYON had not seen any Man for centuries ever since the DAWN of the Third Age. Many years she stayed within the safety of Fangorn, dwelling under-leaves or dancing in the little MEADOWS they had. She would so often sing PRAISES to Eru Ilúvatar, smile illuminating her fair face with so much JOY. So CAREFREE, like the birds of Manwë and the flowers that were GROWING STRONG even as battles and war break loose.

                                          Clothed in white, she seemed bring more LIGHT within the forest as her bare feet stepped closer to the Ranger, her linden-leaf light feet practically gliding across the forest floor. Dark hair tilted to the side as she offered him a little smile in hopes that it would give him courage to speak to her. She was nothing EXTRAVAGANT but she was a humble servant of Vána and the purpose of the Ainur were to serve the Children of Ilúvatar.

                                          She came before him and she lowered herself onto the ground so she was sitting upon it without care it may dirty her dress. She was not above him and him not beneath her.    ❝ If FAITH and HOPE resides in thine heart with LOVE, I can tell thee that thou and thy kin shall endure whatever obstacle that comes to your way. Though I cannot promise thee that thou mayest be out of harm’s way but a MIGHTY heart can win all battles. ❞

                                       A sunkissed hand reached out to touch his cheek, lifting his face to meet her TENDER and KIND gaze.    ❝ And thou dost not bow to me, Son of Men, for I am no QUEEN. ❞

A gentle touch upon his cheek, like the soft kiss of a light rainfall. No mere daughter of men could be as delicate, and the voice! The Ranger had heard the voices of elves within the last homely house east of the sea, yet even they could not match her grace!

And she knelt before him, nay sat! Upon the dirt and earth! Farion was no stranger to uncleanliness, but for an angel to stoop was unheard of!

And he felt compelled, for her words were not commands but humble, those of a friend. She spoke her mind’s truths, and Farion believed them.

Yet he could not rise, for even in her beauty there was a fear in his heart. For she was of those who the truest Men of the Westernesse served, and the weight of his life’s duty held him to the ground. He gazed upon her and felt a warmth, a light within himself not unlike her own that pushed away the shadows of doubt.