woodpaw

Mythrenathen Woodpaw, reluctant Druid of the Claw mid shift.

Part 1 - The Basics

Day 3 - Who were/are your parents?

“Mathadon and... Syndria.  Treethorn.”

Myth is quiet for a moment as he closes his eyes.  Brows furrowed, he gives his head a slight shake before giving a one-shouldered shrug.

“It’s been many, many years since I’ve seen my parents, and I cannot recall their faces clearly anymore. She was a weaver, made beautiful cloth of natural fibers woven with magic.  And my father was a merchant.  He’d travel to sell what she had created.  I believe that’s how they met.

I do remember that my father spent much of his time away and my mother was never happy while he was gone; looking back on it, I think she despised being left behind with me so often.

...the world ends.

Part 1: The Basics

2. When is your birthday?

Part One - The Basics

Day 1 - What is your full name?

“Mythrenathen Woodpaw.”

There’s a slight pause and the creases that line his forehead deepen.

“Mythrenathen…Treethorn.  I haven’t used or heard that name for many years, millennia truly, and I doubt any remember it.  The furbolg gave me my name - Woodpaw - when they thought I wasn’t listening.  I’ve used it ever since, and it fits me better than …the other ever did.  

There have been quite a few questions regarding Total RP3 lately, so I wrote up a detailed guide in a google doc.

I’d like to stress that there is no set right or wrong way to fill out a character profile, and TRP3 isn’t the be-all-end-all for RP helper addons. You can get as detailed as you like in your profile, or leave it up to the reader’s interpretation. Some people like reading your entire history, and others prefer to have it roleplayed out. There may be a few notes or suggestions in this guide to help those who’d like it, but by all means, feel free to RP however you’d like! This guide is for use by those wanting to learn more about TRP3 and what this addon can do for their RP.

http://tinyurl.com/myths-trp3-guide

It’s currently missing instructions on different settings and all of the TRP3 Extended features, but I’ll get to it as I have time.

In a world of might and magic, many of our characters have some sort of mystical power. Some have spells ranging from shape-shifting to shooting fireballs, while others have unnatural strength and agility, allowing them to perform near superhuman acts. Others have powers that are completely internal, such as mind vision.

What is your character’s power? Do they have a power at all? Are they able to control it, or does it control them? Do they enjoy using their power? How has their power affected them?

With great power comes great responsibility…

Firelight danced across the obsidian pendant Mythrenathen held between his fingers. It was a crow, strung on a silver chain dangling with glass beads, feathers, and a few black talons. Running his thumb across the pendant, he pulled his gaze away from the necklace to fall on Talandrea, curled up peacefully on the other side of the fire. There were many nights like this, more than she probably knew, when long after she had fallen asleep he’d sit by the fire keeping watch and stroking that black carving of a bird deep in thought. Sometimes, when the night was quiet and he was certain she’d never know, he’d steal away into the trees to think on his own.

This was one of those nights.

With one last glance to make sure she was still content, he pushed himself to his feet and turned his back to the fire, lifting the silver chain over his head so that the pendant hung against his bare chest. Darkness surrounded him as he moved through the trees away from the campsite, but he stayed close enough that he could hear any movement stirring through the forest around the fire.

When he was satisfied with the distance between him and his sleeping companion, he slunk down til he was sitting against the base of a tree. After scanning the underbrush around him one last time, he closed his golden eyes and concentrated on clearing his thoughts.

There was a sense of agitation in the back of his mind as he sought the quiet calm of meditation. It had been years since he had needed to heed his memories of his druidic Shan'dos, and having to recall their voices rankled. How many millennia since he had first successfully shifted his form from a stocky Kaldorei to a formidable bear? Since then he had learned to change forms as easily as it was to walk; it had been ages since he had to concentrate so fully on his own breathing to attempt shifting, and the knowledge of it was aggravating.

It took longer than he remembered to squash the irritated monologue parading through his mind. Slowly he did a mental inventory of his physical self - ten toes attached to his two feet wrapped in leather for protection, two legs folded beneath him against the cold ground, his hands laying relaxed on his thighs. Focusing so hard on his sense of self, he could feel the touch of the crisp night air across his skin, and the lack thereof around the four puckered scars on his upper arm where the slashes ruined nerve endings.

He allowed himself a brief pause in his meditation to strain his ears for a moment, listening for the span of ten heartbeats for any noise stirring from the campsite. Content that Talandrea was still asleep and nothing was about to disturb her, he went back to his thoughts.

Next he thought about his being inside his body, and all the different characteristics and failings that made him unique. It appeared in his mind as a shifting image of himself in his physical body, as if he was looking at himself from someone else’s point of view. Mentally he went through the list of words he associated with his being; he was strong, yes, resilient, formidable and protective of his own. She had told him that, and he knew it to be true.

Out of habit as he thought of himself in that way, his mental sense of self changed to that of a hulking bear sitting slouched against the tree trunk where his Kaldorei form had been a moment before. Letting his concentration wane enough that he was aware of his body, he could physically feel himself taking on the characteristics of the bear he saw in his mind - nails extending to become claws, already stocky form filling out with raw muscle, shaggy fur spreading across his body. Reluctantly he forced his mental image back to a Kaldorei male, and felt the strength of the bear’s stature ooze out of his body.

After many minutes of concentrating he was able to superimpose an image of a crow on his physical body. It was slightly larger than a normal bird, with sleek wings and too-intelligent eyes - it looked like Talandrea’s form when she shifted and took off into the sky. Nothing happened. He concentrated on how the feathers layered against each other, how the claws curled when it was in the air, and still nothing happened. Almost in a poof of smoke his mental crow vanished, leaving him fully aware of his surroundings in the physical world.

It occurred to him as he sat under the tree clutching the obsidian pendant that he had skipped an important step in his mediation when he thought about shifting to a winged form - he could hear the cold tone in his Shan'do’s voice as he criticized himself. Hurriedly he rushed through the beginnings of his concentration and began thinking of all the words he associated with a bird.  Swift. Witty. Intelligent. Curious. No wonder she was able to master the form so easily, but these were all characteristics he wasn’t.

Free.

An annoyed twinge of doubt threatened to rip this one word from his mind, but he fed it to his mental self.  Strong. To be able to fly through storms, they were.  Protective. To defend their nests. It became easier as he concentrated, and he formed a faint image of a bird above his body in his mind.

Painstakingly slowly he felt his physical form change, shrinking, sprouting feathers, and losing much of the night vision he was accustomed to. Disoriented, he hopped around on taloned feet and tried to keep his balance with wings that felt too big and awkward for his size. A glint among the fallen leaves and twigs of the underbrush caught his eye and he pecked at it with a wickedly curved beak; he had dropped the obsidian pendant when he had changed.

Home is an odd concept. It could be as simple as a building you own, or as complex as feeling safe and secure. Where does your character feel most at home? Are they city folk who enjoy large cities with too many people to count? Are they nomads and travelers who simply live by “home is where the head rests”?

Perhaps the home has been destroyed. If so what happened? Was it a physical loss or emotional?

A cupped hand wasn’t enough to keep the snow from turning purple.

Mythrenathen Woodpaw pulls his fingers away from his right shoulder enough to look at the four huge parallel gashes that stretched from his shoulderblade down to the inside of his bicep. He hisses through his teeth, fangs bared, and replaces his palm across the wound to keep the pressure applied. Behind him in the snowdrift was a set of footprints, a steady stream of violet blood drops accompanying them every few yards. He needed to keep moving, or he wouldn’t make it at all. Pushing himself off the tree he had been leaning against to catch his balance, he trudges once more through the snow.

Over the next rise he catches sight of his goal; between the trees and the wind-swept snowflakes he sees the top of a fallen log. Spaced evenly along the side of the log were small circular cut-outs, the hollow inside evident from the glass panes protecting the space inside from the elements.

Myth trods through the snow painfully, breathing heavily as he finally makes it to the cleared area in front of the doorway in the end of the hollowed log. He pushes against the wooden door until he bursts inside, collapsing into a blood-smeared heap in the middle of the floor. The rug beneath him is thick, coarse fur, but at that moment he would have been content to close his eyes and sleep in the mess of purple blood and cold sweat that soaked and stained the skin.

A primal howl echoes through the otherwise silent glade, startling the Kaldorei from his pain-ridden stupor. Of course they knew where he went; how many countless times had they visited his tiny hut after they helped him fashion it from an ancient pine tree? And if they were too distracted by their rage to remember the way - what had angered them so, anyways? - the blood trail would certainly lead them straight to where he was. Tugging a blood-soaked glove off his fingers by his teeth, he stretches his arm to rest the palm of his hand against the carved inside of the log. It was rough in the way unfinished wood is, but not jagged enough to cause splinters. Another guttural yell pierces the quiet, and he forces himself to his knees.

His gaze drops immediately to the puddle of blood on the rug, and he tilts his head when he notices seeds mixed in with the purple. Jars of all shapes and sizes were strewn across one side of the hut, knocked to the floor when he slammed through the door. Their contents mixed with broken pieces of clay, grains and dried bits of herbs and wooden beads littered across the rugs. It would be a waste to try to salvage any of the mess now; the log home wasn’t that far from the village and they’d be here soon. He pries his eyes away from the small stockpile of wasted goods, searching for anything that would be of use.

A rag blanket tied with his teeth would have to do for a makeshift tourniquet as he shuffles through his meager home. At least the constant pressure on his arm and shoulder would help him focus. He scoops up a leather knapsack and begins shoveling items one-handed into it - a small sewing kit, a block of wood the size of his fist, a carving knife, a wooden bowl, two small white fox furs, a half-filled water skin, and leather laces are among the conglomeration of knick-knacks thrown into the sack.