JORGEN – DWARF

Character Name: Jörgen 

Race: Dwarf

Age: 87

Gender: Male

Character Description: A stoic, average figure of 5’2″ with a balding head, save for the sides and back of his head and a neatly kept beard of dirty blonde. Adorned on his person are a common workers clothes, beholden to a maritime industry of handling wood, pine tar and rope, all of which mar his clothes in their respective dirt and scratches. Below, the ink of superstition and belief mark his ivory skin above his shoulder blades with the image of Bothimir on the left and on the right, Kinos. Each accentuated with further ink leading down both arms that stop just by the wrists. From his person button brown eyes hide under enlarged frontalis muscles, granting him as though a sternly stubborn expression.

Character Occupation: Shipwright

Character Personality/Traits: Jörgen is a stern believer in maintaining ones worth and respect through work. To be of service to society through the persistent, hard work of every day is what earns to himself the right to also supplement the body. He adorns a respect for creativity and tinkering, as much as all dwarves might. Although in the wake of creating something that makes a task easier to do, it should not serve to excuse the body to fall to disrepair for being able to do a task faster, only to mark efficiency. However, once he has earned his own self-served right to appeal to his body, he can be remarkably hearty and amenable to entertainment in the time needed to recover and relax the body. Though Jörgen is anxious to work hard in this way, his mind often wonders at a loss and absent to exploration. He often suppresses this part of him as something that conflicts with his inner work ethics. 

In appealing to his clan, Jörgen is also deeply pious, believing in the merits of Kinos to the yields of the sea and the abundance of the land, and how they tie to one another, as many others of his kin do. He also believes as the bestowings of Bothimir, rooted in a belief that his blood yields the ability to bestow the gift of Bothimir, even if he may not have it. Both gods are expressed by a tattoo of ink given to all clan members above the shoulderblades, and continued from there on to either the back or the arms for each ten years having lived.

Character Biography:

Jorgen hails from a clan of dwarves in the isle-capital of Thonduhm, known more for their woodworking and artisanshi than for any acts of glory on the battlefield or mining the mountain for it’s yield. Taking on ambitions beyond the norm, such as carpentry, carving, lumber, creating supplies or ship construction. Though his clan only committed only very, very few to tread outside the sea, considering their inability to tread past knee-deep water without danger. However, from those few, hailed Jorgen. 

Jorgen was born some 25 years into the great war, when the fuels of war had already been stoked and it’s desolation had already taken a toll on the realm. And so, growing up he resorted to following his kinsmen around, attempting to abide by their hard work even from a young age. For the most part, his clan was involved in helping maintain supply lines. Creating storage crates, barrels, wheels and the like that helped in the transportation. Something that was perhaps more valued than an untrained soldier on the fronts. As a young and able bodied soul, Jorgen would detest this line of work, naïve to the intent of proving oneself on the battlefield, than continue something he saw little value in at that time.

This wanton naivety is what actually drove him initially towards his line of interest in ships and the sea. As a chance to hear from the fighting from any returning vessels about, he would wander further from the mountain to wait for them. Albeit as he and his kin prepared what they could of consignment to their ships, this would happen naturally as well. Striking a fascination with ships and the water. Though such ambitions seldom agreed with his inability to swim.

Up until the very fall of the capital, Thonduhm, Jorgen knew but chagrin in being denied any chance of service in battle. As much as he was actually skilled in helping maintain supply lines, sealing planks and repairing hulls. He grew eventually hostile to the entire craft. Though when unfamiliar ships in the many legions began to show instead of said returning vessels he was so used to seeing by then, he could know nothing but terror and the intent to flee.

In the chaos, perhaps he lifted a hammer in defense. Perhaps he felled a goblin or two, or perhaps he only thought about doing so, the thought buried so beneath adrenaline and smoke that it was hard to even remember afterwards. The burning sting of sweat in his eyes, the taste of desperation. 

With the fall of Thonduhm, Jorgen fled by ship, surviving not by the sword but by toil. He’d continue to toil as a refugee in Barkamsted to the conclusion of the war. Mending, supplying, hauling, binding. Making things last. The peace that followed the final push gave Jorgen a veritable time to collect himself and to truly recognize the value in his work. Working largely from within the city of Barkamsted, where he would narrow his gaze at the reclamation of Thonduhm. Thonduhm, undoubtedly still occupied by it’s demonic invaders, festered intense anger for the dwarf which in turn would fuel his resilience when the veil of peace would be poked at in the realm of Saphriel. 

In a sense, he grew so ill-mused by the idea his own home was being occupied by something evil and otherworldly, by the time the plague had began some 9 years later, he had become veritably disconnected to Barkamsted anyhow. Rather preferring to abide his days near the coast, that he had as youngin, taking a spyglass at the mountainhold every morning and evening. Doing this, and with quarantine being imposed, he could largely avoid contact with the rest of Barkamsted. Though not without it’s difficulties or it’s toll on him.

By the time the plague struck nine years later, Jorgen had grown distant from Barkamsted. His heart no longer beat for its walls or streets. He’d taken to the coast, as he had in his youth, setting up camp with eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of Thonduhm. Each morning and every dusk, he raised his gaze toward the direction of Thonduhm — watching, waiting. When the quarantine came, it suited him fine. Solitude was already a companion. Though the isolation took its toll, it was a burden he carried with quiet acceptance.

Then came the Ca’liar. The Acaedia War. That same stretch of beloved coast that had once given him solace now echoed with terror. The assault shook him deeply, stirring the same fear he’d known in Thonduhm’s fall. For a time, his gaze shifted away from the mountain. His mind having been held away from on the desolation of war, now resurfaced that he could hardly focus on anything. Taking the time instead to distance himself from any major sites for the duration of the conflict. Reserving himself to quiet solitude once again to protect himself, in an ever selfish but self-preserving manner. 

His eyes turned homeward once peace took it’s toll. Back to Thonduhm. Always back. But always from behind the front. He never set foot on the battlefield, never followed his work to its final impact. In both wars, he remained a silent hand behind the effort. Jorgen returned to that task with weariness. The same weariness that eventually drove him from the sea entirely, as even its familiar ebb, it’s rhythmic waves could do so little to ease him.

Failure, after failure to finally victory. A momentous occasion would entail as the mountain was yet reclaimed by the dwarves. Yet Jorgen felt not joy, but emptiness. The mountain was taken back, but the fire that had kept him going, the obsession, the purpose had burned too long. Without it, he was left to wander. A craftsman without a calling. A soul that had spent a lifetime preparing for a home that had rusted, decayed and torn without him. Nothing of his old clan remaining there.

From there, he made his way to Falkvard, where he now roams. Like driftwood, ebbing on from one task to another, a dwarf of a time long past, chasing the faint shadow of old ambition. Due to the conflicts in his life, any semblance to advanced artisanship was and has so far been out of his reach. Either his mentors have gone missing, killed or any attempts to improve have been paused by the intermittent crises that have launched themselves at the realms of peace. Helping where he can to make the living of a commoner.

Other/Extra:

(Images, notes, etc.)

Magic Biography:

Jorgen’s relation to magic began by mere chance of being born to the right line of clans. Inheriting the aptness for sorcery by blood, though becoming alert about it during the great war, when a clan heirloom, a trinket necklace of a small anchor wrestled to look like a pickaxe on its other side was passed down to him. By an assembly of clan, the heirloom given to the eldest child who could wield the gift of Bothimir, as a way to make sure it would not get lost in war and that the hierarchy of the clan is restored in such an event. Hence the assembly. Though the clan and said heirloom would both be destroyed in the war, Jorgen was at least parted with the knowledge that it pertained to him and what little practice he could harness with it prior. In turn also propelling his path of piety for the god Bothimir.

Please describe the magic system, including its limitations in your own words:

Magic is ‘mostly’ a freeform systems that select characters may develope over time from weak to divine to produce wondrous effects, but is limited by a few factors. Magic begins with concentration and said concentration should be the sole thing a mage is focusing on in order to produce any assortment of effects. A mage can only cast upon what they can see or hold. A blinded mage is limited in that regard. Magic, though freeform and limited by creativity, can’t be used to ‘instakill’ or grieviously wound another living mortal creature. Altogether magic has a lesser effect on them and may sometimes do nothing at all if directly used upon another living creature.

In addition, having access to magic does not include all the aspects of it. Certain races are limited to only one whilst some may be open to multiple. Lastly, each mage comes with a limited spellcasting pool/stamina that defines the number of spells a mage can safely cast in a single day. Casting beyond this limit enables an overcasting roll dc that one must beat following each cast, which includes a stacking modifier for every subsequent casting. Failure can mean the inability to cast for the rest of the day or at the worst, even death.

(Two Paragraphs, please mention how one would cast, the limitations to casting and specific races, and the consequences of overuse)

Please describe how you would use a weak trinket with your characters first/only aspect:

Attuning with his WEAK trinket of the water element, Jorgen barely sustains a moment of concentration for his very first lessons. Attempting to manipulate the surface of a nearby barrel filled to the brim with a nights rain. He manages to make barely a single ripple ebb upon its surface. Were it any other setting one might confuse the effect for a nearby dockworker walking by.

-Please note that some aspects are set when a character is born, while others are up to practice. The number of aspects you have is limited by your character’s race, but they may have less than the max should you so choose, but they will not be able to regain that lost aspect naturally-

[ I hope this application is within acceptable parameters. Plz work with me if it isn’t]