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Thauvin Longstrider

'Wage a war unrivaled', eh? I'd like to see you top the War of the Gods.

0 · 349 views · located in Tane

a character in “The Stonetree Guild”, as played by Cypher


Name: Thauvin, surname unknown. He is registered in the Stonetree Guild ledgers as "Thauvin Longstrider", and that has worked for clerical purposes; although his names vary from place to place--Thauvin Longstrider, Thauvin Twelve-Fingers, Thauvin the Bard, Thauvin the Faithless, Thauvin the Wanderer, or just an angry stare and dismissive noise and flip of the hand at mentioning him.

Race: Human. More specifically, a member of the Eillken, a nomadic people of caravaneers, merchants, troubadours, tinkers, tailors, bards--gypsies, really, only with better hygiene. Generally frowned upon as vagrants and thieves, Elken are nonetheless renowned for their advances in the performing arts; indeed, many of the greatest songs and plays in the realm have been composed or re-envisioned to greater result by a member of an Eillken caravan.

Class: Bard

Age: 32

Eillken are generally red-haired and green-eyed, with some deviations from the norm, due to their sometimes mingling with elven women (or men!) or with particularly attractive members of other caravans. They are ruddy-skinned, short, and well-built, but still handsome; albeit usually in a rugged, road-worn way, as opposed to what is normally viewed as 'beautiful' by society at large.

In a surprising turnabout, Thauvin is none of these things. Due to his mother being from one of the cities as opposed to the caravans, and Thauvin earning a fairly large portion of her genes, the bard is something of an extreme oddity in his close-knit party. Thauvin stands at an incredible (for his people) 6'3" and weighs in at around 150 pounds where the average is around 5'7" and 190 pounds. His skin is as pale as freshly-drawn milk, his hair as dark as midnight, his eyes like deep-blue pools of ocean blue. Or at least, that's how Thauvin would put it. In reality, his hair is a little tatty and overlong, and his eyes aren't quite so dark, and while his skin is incredibly pale, it is still dark by normal folk's standards, and he has a light dusting of freckles on his high cheeks and long, flat nose.

Thauvin dresses comfortably but stylishly; wearing a high-collared tunic or silk shirt in combination with a black cloth waistcoat, with calf-length black trousers and black high-boots. Over his right shoulder and across his chest is tied his caravan's colors, a long sash pinned with an heirloom brooch signifying his membership of an Eillken caravan. About his waist is a pair of long brown belts, from one hanging his blade; from the other a variety of pouches and other pieces of equipment including herbalist's pouches and a set of pipes (his coinpurse is tied to a length of rawhide about his neck). He carries his lute slung across his left shoulder. Sometimes, if necessary, he will plop a soft felt peaked cap onto his head and draw a blue cloak about his shoulders.

Level: 1


Personality: Thauvin is well-spoken, levitous and jovial, the picture of the village fool most of the time. I mean, true; he's a braggart, an on-again-off-again thief and a nigh-on pathological liar, but he is a good man at his core. Although he frequently butts heads with William over his concepts of honor and truth, the truth is that he values honor as well. Although he does lie occasionally, he is nothing if not a man of his word--once a contract is made with him, he is yours for the duration. His loyalty, surprisingly, isn't to the one holding the coin, but to the person with the best case. He's often turned down an assignment in favor of a worse offer because "This one deserves it more", in his own words. That said, he isn't one to pass up an incredibly lucrative opportunity--he'll just request that he be paid beforehand.

He isn't much of a fighter, although he is fairly competent; and as such prefers to talk his way out of most battles; a skill he's become quite good at. He is adept at playing the mind-game with his enemies, or calming them with a song--or inciting them to rage, if need be. His tongue flows like quicksilver when the pressure is on, and some of his greatest stories and songs have been written under incredible duress (at least once, at knifepoint).

Deity: The Eillken have a great number of their own deities and saints, some of which he frequently prays to (a popular one is Krast, the god of musicians; and Saint Ulir, the patron saint of travelers). He has been known to call upon Shakkel occasionally, nevertheless.

- Wine, women, and song, as the saying goes.
- The jingling sound a full coinpurse makes when you walk.
- Music; especially his.
- The stories people tell about him when folks think no-one is listening. They're interesting.

- Seeing his own blood.
- Being hurt.
- Dying; especially his friends doing so.
- Not getting paid, or being shortchanged in general.

Life Goals: Food on his table, roof over his head, money in his pocket. Maybe find a woman and start a caravan of his own some day.

Fears: He's not fond of swimming; he has a distinct fear of being underwater, in fact. Also, he really doesn't like bleeding. He is superstitious of powerful magi.

Quirks: When worried or stressed, he bites his lips and rubs the brooch on his shoulder. When truly annoyed or angry, his voice tends to rise in pitch before dropping down to an acceptable level. He wrings his hands occasionally, and habitually picks at the dirt behind his fingernails.


Primary: Thalien's Blade, a basket-hilted broadsword, so named because it was the sword of his father, Thalien. Heavy blade with distinctive forward balance; good for slashing or chopping, bad for thrusts. Basket hilt aids blocking and parrying.
Secondary: Nimble, a pogniard, sheathed behind his broadsword. Used for close fighting or against lightly armored opponents; good for thrusting attacks, bad for slashing. Balanced for throwing should it come to that.

Armor: A thick quilted cloth gambeson (overcoat); rarely worn (unless he expects some serious trouble).

- Seven-stringed lute.
- Reed pipes.
- Navy blue cloak.
- Eillken worry token (a flat disc of burnished copper with a rune for 'calm' inscribed on both surfaces)

Animals: None.

Magic Items: None.

So begins...

Thauvin Longstrider's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Thauvin Longstrider Character Portrait: Ruin
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#, as written by Cypher
Thauvin was immediately assaulted full-force with the smell of Ruin's chambers. Even on slow days, it smelled like a forest glen had crashed into an herbalist's shop and a professional kitchen. When Ruin was in the midst of one of his druidic rituals, the entire Guildhall could stink with his poultices and mixtures, especially if they were burnt or generally just went wrong. Thauvin recalled one occasion when he had used a few doses of snakeroot that had gone just a bit over the hill and were no longer usable. Thauvin usually considered the druid infallible when making his wondrous concoctions, but that didn't mean that he would ever live down the day that the thatch roof of the Guildhall had caught fire when Ruin's alembic had spat fire into the rafters and nearly burned the place to the ground.

The thought brought a chuckle to the bard's lips, but he choked it back. He was an actor first and foremost, and he was an expert at keeping his poker face when necessary.

"I cannot think of anything more than the usual load of health poultices, painkillers, injury kits, et cetera..." Thauvin scratched his chin briefly, then--"Actually. So long as you're thinking about making potions... Failing the necromancer, we may need a truth serum. If she is truly at work here; she may have placed a charm on her victims, or at the very least scared them into not talking." The bard thought a moment longer, scratching his chin, and then finally shook his head.

"Nope, that's all." Then the antidotes came out. Thauvin eyed them warily, but then the moment passed and he placed the potions into his belt pouch. "Thank you, my friend." He added quickly, careful not to tread on the fact that Ruin had just mentioned the antidote he'd handed the bard was for a poison that Ruin had made himself, and then taught Krista to make. There was no place for such a thing.