Post by hammurabi on Mar 2, 2011 9:39:40 GMT -5
CAN WE PRETEND
that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars i could
really use a wish right now wish right now wish right now
that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars i could
really use a wish right now wish right now wish right now
HAMMURABI ARKEEN*
HISTORY - Little is to be said of the youthful years of the young Hammurabi he was raised as all men of the sea are raised… Upon the deck of a boat. Born amidst a sea-storm, his birthing took the life of his mother while his father was out to sea on one of many Umbar raids of the port-cities of goodly men. When his father returned to find his wife dead he was stricken of grief but vowed to raise well the son she had sacrificed herself for. So he did… The captain of one of the great-ships of Umbar, he was allowed leeway and much respect, but even so when he first brought his boy aboard his ship at the age of four many thought him hard-of heart… But the man loved his boy dearly and taught him much of the sea and he gained a crew of fathers. Though he was often whipped for errors he was the apple of the eye’s of the men aboard the ship. Such that he soon became one of the finest sailors in the fleet. As the years rolled on and he fought in battle after battle his skill grew until he was appointed to replace his ailing father at nine-teen. The youngest man ever to sit on the council of the fifty-grand ships of Umbar. His career was illustrious among his peers and infamous amongst his victims with over a hundred sunken vessels in his wake throughout his career and plunder enough to please a red-dragon. His rise came to a crashing end after the declaration of Umbar's allegiance to Sauron. Though most men of Umbar thought it a brilliant move he fought tooth and nail to say otherwise, thinking it ill to devote their raiding fleets to as he called it. “A fruitless war upon the lands, not of the seas.” or to allow “Orcish Filth” to pollute the waters. When the other captains ignored him he rose up in open rebellion and along with his ship and the fleet under it attempted to flee the waters of Umbar, his flight though daring was costly and all save his own vessel was sunk when the other grand-captains managed to force his ships to the rocks and cut them down with fire and siege engine. His ship, despite escaping the battle, was badly damaged and forced into port in a hidden cove of Ice far to the north. The crew has since spread to various hiding-places about the land rebuilding their captains fleet ship by ship crew by crew and awaiting his call.
He now wanders the shores searching out he knows not what. Visions of horror fill his dreams, visions of war to come and his beloved sea writhing in the tormented grip of the dark lord. He seeks to offer his aid to anyone standing against Mordor, for now is the time to put aside crimes of men and embrace the doom of a darker evil.
Clothing - Dressed in few layers Hammurabi is garbed with a flash of eccentricity that matches his personality perfectly. His prime and first piece of clothing is a great-cloak, that he wears draped over his shoulders in a kingly manner. The cloak itself is a deep black meant to blend into the darkness and cover, it is none-the-less decorated lavishly. ruffled with dark purple-to-black feathers from some exotic avian, one is given the illusion of dark brooding rain-clouds looming in a bruised sky, the breakup of his outline the feathers cause making him almost insubstantial. The center of the cloak and the hood are embroidered with thin red-thread and supple bronze wire woven together into such manners as to form various runes of power and warding that help to dissuade the wary. The wire itself is made up of several smaller strands woven into one, to make It supple and prevent it from interfering with the movements of the cloak and allow it’s grandiose effect to linger should he choose to make a quick entrance or retreat.
The next part of his clothing would be the second layer on his chest, a billowy sleeved shirt, a dark charcoal black like the inner layer of his great-cloak, the shirt flows about and hugs his body at just the right spots to tease the looker and impose an image of fluid grace upon their minds.
Crossing diagonally to the left over his chest beneath the great-cloak and tight against his body is a leather bandoleer, a bruise-blue in color it’s about four inches wide with roughly ten pouches spaced evenly across it to contain various supplies and the other necessities of the road. His hands are covered by thin black cloth gloves, open at the finger tips and with an iron plate sewn into the back of each, meant to reduce weight for ease of swimming while still providing some protection.
His trousers are the norm of middle-earth, functional and meant for the wear and tear of every-day life. Indeed against the grain of his garb his trousers are rather simplistic, inlaid with jade colored thread depicting the same runes upon his cloak. His boots are a dull leather, worn and beaten by years of use and reaching high on his calf so that he may wade through low water with ease.
Facial/Hair - Facial Structure and Hair - Burning eyes, fiery and intense in the manner of a caged storm waiting to be unleashed. Hammurabi's eyes are his most stunning feature, hypnotic in their intensity they seem to encompass all, to draw in everything, both magnificent and terrible to behold all at once. It almost hurts to look into them... Into the intensely deep black pools of his eyes, not flat but bright with vivid darkness. His eye's have a soul within them, a soul so passionate and hungry that one can practically see the need reflected in them. They are simply eyes... But the feelings they impose, the will that they seem to possess is so disturbing in magnitude that they seem charged with the passions of his life. The hunger within them is a thing alive, seeking to consume and to extinguish all before them. Inviting all to spring into their depths and to become fuel for the fire within, to fill the gaze with further life and emotion.
His face frames these eyes, his face is an incarnation to them more than anything else. Expressive and emotional, all his thoughts and emotions are shown upon it in clear relief... Happiness, Sadness, Anger and Lust... They are all obvious upon his angular, wolfish head. His ears are small and pierced along the upper edge and the lobe, in each a brightly colored jewel is studded, on both ears the colors change in method of order but the universal scheme is continued in both ears. "Obsidian, Jasper, Malachite, Sugillate, Pearl and finally Pyrite" His forehead is high and proud with eyebrows that arch imperiously above his hypnotic eyes, his eyelashes are long and full, the kind that women would kill to have, his nose is arch-angular and sits above a pair of soft, slightly thin lips, wet by saliva from a tongue that constantly slips out to caress them. His chin below that is sharp but is formed from a broad jaw that gives his face it's beautiful if not slightly wolfish and untrustworthy shape. His face is clean-shaven and unmarked by the ravages of life.
His teeth are ivory-white and straight, an oddity amongst his peers. Contrasting nicely with the soft black lochs of his hair. His bangs hang in loose strands like tendrils across his face fluttering in the slightest wind and the slightest movement. Along the sides of his head a few thick strands of hair are braided tight and weighted down by gems of the same kinds as those on his ear, they don’t flutter in the breeze as much as his bangs but click together dully, creating a music that seems to compliment his fluid motion. The back of his hair is taken up by a thick French braid that lays casually over his left shoulder, laced into the braid is a thin vein of spun gold.
Personality - Over-bearing Philosophy
A great woman once said,
"One ship sails East,
And another West,
By the selfsame winds that blow,
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go." (Quote from Ella Wheeler Willcox)
This quote rings clearly midst a world of clutter and despair, yet so few truly understand what is screams, what it burns to tell humanity. Struggle, speak no words of action... Simply act, make no thoughts of doing, simply do. As the proverbial saying goes, actions speak louder than words. A man must reach out, slap away the hands that attempt to push him back and seize upon the heart of the world and squeeze. A man must act for good or ill as his soul dictates, a man must not worry about consequences or morals, a man must do only as his true-soul dictates. A man must have no regrets, East or West, good or evil a man must set his course and propel himself through the raging sea of humanity without fear of the mighty waves, without knowledge of the end, only knowing that he must not stop that he must not sail for safer waters. He must grip the gods by their ears and toss them down to kneel at his feet. Man is all encompassing, man is the master of himself and of the world, man need only take a stand, scream his defiance into the sky and beat his chest with the fury and passion of all his self.
Quirks – Hammurabi is a man who follows the above as best he may… It just so happens that his soul isn’t so noble. It must never be forgotten that he is a man who has done and will continue to do many horrible things in his own self-interest and that he makes no excuses for it. His heart is shriveled with self-pleasure and his mind sharp and cruel. He holds no use for the fate of man as he can not spend it and he holds even less use for the meek. If it would serve him he would sever ties with humanity and sail the oceans for all eternity, sadly that is not his lot. To great are the pleasures of land for his vile heart and calculating mind to escape and in a way it brings him great sadness, knowing that his years are numbered and that he must such take from life what he will now.
Though not a racist per-se Hammurabi holds a long-standing hatred of the elves and their god-gifted life-spans, which he covets for himself as his most sacred and private dream. Escape from the ravages of time, perhaps his only true terror over all the worlds is high on his list of dreams, copious as that list may be.
Everyday- Hammurabi is a rouge in the essence of the word, quick to the company of beautiful women and quicker still to slip a blade into the back of a rival. His tongue is of silver and his manipulative powers superb enough to coerce the purse from a noble-lord or village head-man as well as to sooth the tempers of those he finds himself incapable of facing in direct battle.
Although by no means a cowardly man when in his element, Hammurabi is naturally prone to paranoia and mistrust that can often lead him to cut and run when faced with steep odds. With a hull beneath his boots and the wind at his back Hammurabi will take on all comers, but on land without his crew and far from what he knows he's edgy and alone, surrounded by people he imagines would cut his throat as soon as look at him. This feeling does not engender feelings of loyalty towards his comrades and thus chalks them up as more than mildly expendable in his eyes. Likewise when faced with a foe he can not outsmart or best in combat he is prone to panic, Hammurabi fears death more than anything else and will always put himself before others in a pinch.
Weapon - In battle Hammurabi wields a one-handed flanged mace made of steel with a braided leather loop that can be slipped around his wrist so the weapon is in easy reach or if he needs to use his hand for anything without actually putting the weapon down. This is often paired with a dagger worn on his hip or in cases where he is able to pick and choose a weapons a small buckler.
I COULD USE A
dream or a genie or a wish to go back to a place much simpler
than this cause after all the partyin' the smashin' and crashin'
than this cause after all the partyin' the smashin' and crashin'
hey there. so my name is Hamma. i also play none. i happen to be male and i've blown out so many candles. if you want to contact me, no sweat. just PM me! but check me out in action. I would like my character to be human and he/she hails from Umbar. My final last words are edited by admin
!
thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you
*sample from an OLD lord of the rings rp I was part of*
The night grew longer with each shrill note in the cricket-song, the soft bay of the wind did little to assuage the coming of day, the slow drip of wax from the candle echoed in the cavernous room. How strange that night was always at it’s deepest just before dawn. Not so strange perhaps for the man who sat before the desk of the mighty lord of Imraldis, a man so out of place here that one would be harder pressed to find a dwarf bedfellow of a dragon. He was a man of ill-gain and less repute… And he was welcomed in this the last homely house. He was a man keenly aware of this darkness before dawn, he was a descendent of men all the darker than this the darkest hour. Black Númenorean blood ran thin in his veins, outweighed by the mingling and bastardized blood of the near-haradric and others. He was a man of Umbar, a corsair who knew this darkness of dawn as he knew the opacity of the sea at high-noon, as he knew the glare of glassy ocean on a windless morn. All the little did such things pain his eyes, for here in this moment cast in the stark glow of a candle he felt more isolated and alone then if he were tossed within the darkest cell in the darkest land. Gems of many hues danced in his hair as he shifted, his strong but exceedingly articulate hand coming to rest upon the book that had sheltered him through the tribulations of this night. It was elvish, though he recognized the fine engraving of the cover as a scene from the tale of Earindil the mariner. It was not strange to find the tale of an elven sailor, especially that elven sailor in this the homely house of Rivendel but it was strange that Hammurabi had found it so quickly midst the great libraries of Elrond. He had felt drawn to the thing before he had even seen it's cover. He closed his eye’s and let out the soft breath he didn’t know he was holding, the wind vanished… In the distance he could hear the steady slosh of the waves…Beating in time like the heart of existence.
He let loose his breath again and thus fell away the chirp of the crickets, replaced with the sing-song voice of a hundred sailors raised in a rolling dirge of lament, not for themselves… But for the crews of other ships they knew would die in the coming storm, bad luck and ill-gain was it for a sailor to think in the face of a mighty gale that his doom was at hand. Another breath and away went the candle… He could feel the roll of the deck beneath his feet and the strange tingling along his spine that told him a storm was brewing. He could hear himself calling out orders though, his lips did not move… He could taste the salt on his tongue though his mouth did not open and he could feel his hands working the rudder, turning the mighty ship that was his own in concert with the other rudders upon the vessel. He knew his course was true, though he dare not open his eyes lest the illusion be dispelled. Illusion? For what else could this be but an illusion? Another breath and he could see the storm approaching, plum black was the sky and lightning flashed above with the same fervor as a fire across grassy-plains, water spouts a hundred feet high danced a maddening spin about his vessel… He grit his teeth and bellowed into the wind, defying it… Though even as his heart roared he felt his mind tremor in terror… Rising from the waves like a black leviathan, greater than any he had seen before and many be that number for their bones girded his vessel like armor, this beast of terror rose like a spire, all about it and from it sludge of dark ilk oozed, sludge filled the water-spouts and spattered his sails, looking with horror upon the sludge he found it moving… Crawling… Clawing… Orcs and goblins and things whose names he dare not mutter even within the sanctity of his own mind.
The monstrous creature opened it’s maw and dived upon the ship with a roar that sounded more akin to a horrendous chant then any form of bestial howl. It crashed upon his ship… Now he was falling… Drowning… A weight was dragging him down, an unfarmilier weight that was not physical but yet *WAS* all the same… A strange weight, that didn’t just pull him down… But pulled his consciousness towards it. Like a sweetly whispered promise of survival, like a hand just tantalizingly in his grasp, waiting to pull him from the murky depths before he drowned, before the sludge found him… A final breath… The sea was gone… The storm was gone, his hand gripped the book all the tighter and cold sweat beaded his brow. Vo’ciaphas Bellah, former Grand-captain of Umbar and lord of the grand-ship Seaeagle felt his blood run cold and the sweat bead upon his brow.
His hand shook as he glanced about his surroundings, what had happened? A pleasant dream turned nightmare? Most assuredly, but why had it felt so real? “Damn elves… Tricks of the mind their lands play upon mortal men.” He rationalized but even as his hypnotic rolling voice purred the words he felt them ring hollow in his ears. A trick not of the mind then? But of magic? Some form of design cast upon him by the wizard Incanus he had met mere hours before? Or mayhap some design of lord Elronds, who had insisted he stay in the lore-house until he thought the guests might be better acclimated to his appearance. He stood slowly, the book that he knew not how to read but knew by instinct and the later admission of Elrond himself to be a book of the sea, a book of Eärendil the Mariner. He was slightly short for a man of his presence but he still managed to cast a roguish and powerful image upon those who faced him, little did that avail him against the unseen foes of his mind.
The gems in his braided hair danced in the flickers of the candle and moonlight that washed in from the mighty hole cut through the ceiling… The moon-beams fell like rain upon a small reflecting pool in the center of the study, small mirrors of polished silver sent the light to other mirrors about the room, bathing the mighty shelves in moonlight to spare them the risk of an open candle-flame held to near on a dreary night. Seven circles in this circular room… The center of the room was the pool, and spreading out from it were the mighty shelves, equipped with texts and scrolls in all manner of language. His hypnotic eye’s traversed the nearest of the shelves again… He brought the book before his eye’s again, longing to return it lest it be the cause of his strange vision, but reluctant to let it go, as he held the book he felt the sway of the sea in his step and tasted the salt in the air… So sweet... So wonderful… Perhaps he would ask Elrond this one boon and take this book as his own?
He moved with a strange grace that came only from the life on the sea, and carried himself with a regality that came only from being the master of a ship. He was a raiding butcher… A self-gaining coward to many… But he cared little for them, he was a man in love with sea and wealth… He was a corsair, true to the name and prideful enough to rebel against his homeland and fight tooth and nail with the black-lands… A man so driven he even came here… Came here to offer his services to this council of goodly men, a council that at any other time would be all to happy to take his head and probably still were. He missed the weight of his weapons, still in the keeping of the elves till they were sure of his intent beyond doubt. Doubt… Funny thing that… When he’d come here he’d had doubts, but now, in the face of that strange dream and in the meeting with Elrond, a being he hated by principle, he felt calm… Like he’d made the right choice.
He let loose his breath again and thus fell away the chirp of the crickets, replaced with the sing-song voice of a hundred sailors raised in a rolling dirge of lament, not for themselves… But for the crews of other ships they knew would die in the coming storm, bad luck and ill-gain was it for a sailor to think in the face of a mighty gale that his doom was at hand. Another breath and away went the candle… He could feel the roll of the deck beneath his feet and the strange tingling along his spine that told him a storm was brewing. He could hear himself calling out orders though, his lips did not move… He could taste the salt on his tongue though his mouth did not open and he could feel his hands working the rudder, turning the mighty ship that was his own in concert with the other rudders upon the vessel. He knew his course was true, though he dare not open his eyes lest the illusion be dispelled. Illusion? For what else could this be but an illusion? Another breath and he could see the storm approaching, plum black was the sky and lightning flashed above with the same fervor as a fire across grassy-plains, water spouts a hundred feet high danced a maddening spin about his vessel… He grit his teeth and bellowed into the wind, defying it… Though even as his heart roared he felt his mind tremor in terror… Rising from the waves like a black leviathan, greater than any he had seen before and many be that number for their bones girded his vessel like armor, this beast of terror rose like a spire, all about it and from it sludge of dark ilk oozed, sludge filled the water-spouts and spattered his sails, looking with horror upon the sludge he found it moving… Crawling… Clawing… Orcs and goblins and things whose names he dare not mutter even within the sanctity of his own mind.
The monstrous creature opened it’s maw and dived upon the ship with a roar that sounded more akin to a horrendous chant then any form of bestial howl. It crashed upon his ship… Now he was falling… Drowning… A weight was dragging him down, an unfarmilier weight that was not physical but yet *WAS* all the same… A strange weight, that didn’t just pull him down… But pulled his consciousness towards it. Like a sweetly whispered promise of survival, like a hand just tantalizingly in his grasp, waiting to pull him from the murky depths before he drowned, before the sludge found him… A final breath… The sea was gone… The storm was gone, his hand gripped the book all the tighter and cold sweat beaded his brow. Vo’ciaphas Bellah, former Grand-captain of Umbar and lord of the grand-ship Seaeagle felt his blood run cold and the sweat bead upon his brow.
His hand shook as he glanced about his surroundings, what had happened? A pleasant dream turned nightmare? Most assuredly, but why had it felt so real? “Damn elves… Tricks of the mind their lands play upon mortal men.” He rationalized but even as his hypnotic rolling voice purred the words he felt them ring hollow in his ears. A trick not of the mind then? But of magic? Some form of design cast upon him by the wizard Incanus he had met mere hours before? Or mayhap some design of lord Elronds, who had insisted he stay in the lore-house until he thought the guests might be better acclimated to his appearance. He stood slowly, the book that he knew not how to read but knew by instinct and the later admission of Elrond himself to be a book of the sea, a book of Eärendil the Mariner. He was slightly short for a man of his presence but he still managed to cast a roguish and powerful image upon those who faced him, little did that avail him against the unseen foes of his mind.
The gems in his braided hair danced in the flickers of the candle and moonlight that washed in from the mighty hole cut through the ceiling… The moon-beams fell like rain upon a small reflecting pool in the center of the study, small mirrors of polished silver sent the light to other mirrors about the room, bathing the mighty shelves in moonlight to spare them the risk of an open candle-flame held to near on a dreary night. Seven circles in this circular room… The center of the room was the pool, and spreading out from it were the mighty shelves, equipped with texts and scrolls in all manner of language. His hypnotic eye’s traversed the nearest of the shelves again… He brought the book before his eye’s again, longing to return it lest it be the cause of his strange vision, but reluctant to let it go, as he held the book he felt the sway of the sea in his step and tasted the salt in the air… So sweet... So wonderful… Perhaps he would ask Elrond this one boon and take this book as his own?
He moved with a strange grace that came only from the life on the sea, and carried himself with a regality that came only from being the master of a ship. He was a raiding butcher… A self-gaining coward to many… But he cared little for them, he was a man in love with sea and wealth… He was a corsair, true to the name and prideful enough to rebel against his homeland and fight tooth and nail with the black-lands… A man so driven he even came here… Came here to offer his services to this council of goodly men, a council that at any other time would be all to happy to take his head and probably still were. He missed the weight of his weapons, still in the keeping of the elves till they were sure of his intent beyond doubt. Doubt… Funny thing that… When he’d come here he’d had doubts, but now, in the face of that strange dream and in the meeting with Elrond, a being he hated by principle, he felt calm… Like he’d made the right choice.
this application was made by two birds. of caution. steal and her hoard of zombies will come and eat your brains.
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