RE: Villagers
03-26-2013, 06:42 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-27-2013, 02:28 AM by SupahKiven.)
Name: Bogroth Ederfecian
Gender: Male
Race: Trog
Skill: Metallurgy
Flaw/Fear/Negativity: Obsession
Bogroth is obsessed with making metals. But his obsession goes further than that. He has a dream. That dream is to make a Trog. But not out of earth or rock or even gem. Oh no. Bogroth will make a Trog made of metal. And there is nothing that will stop him from completing his goal. He'd rather die.
Backstory:
Bogroth was an okay miner. Sure his people lived for a long, long time. But as his 'father' said, 'You can never be too prepared'. So Bogroth spent much of his early life mining. He dug up sizable rocks and some strangely shaped crystals. Nothing special. Until the day his father took him to the third tier in the town mine.
Bogroth's first ore was iron. He had taken his time with slowly picking away at a rock that was too big to haul up the shaft. When the rock split, the Trog noticed something different about it. He called his father over to inspect it. The rock man simply patted his son on the back and said 'Nice job son. That's a good chunk of iron you've found there'. Iron...
The next day, Bogroth voiced his intention to work in the metal refining section of town. His father, although reluctant, let him go, as helping the community was important and his son was willing to help there. The refining building, where they smelted and forged the metals, gladly accepted Bogroth after seeing his natural talent with working the metals. So the Trog worked, learning as much about working metal as he could. Over time, it became an addiction of sorts. Bogroth needed to forge, to smelt, to create. He became cranky and unhelpful otherwise. As all great things come to an end, soon did Bogroth's work in the refinery. He began to become bored with the limited schematics that the town provided, only tools and bars and the occasional minecart. He began slacking off, making little creations on his own time and sometimes even on work time. The other workers let it go for a while, for he could whip up five pickaxes faster than the average Trog could make a simple shovel. Then they started noticing a pattern in the things he made. It started with shapes like spheres and pyramids. Then it progressed to inanimate objects. Then plants, animals, other species, and finally...
The day they banished Bogroth was the day they found something that was forbidden, for none of the Trog would even fathom to try and create one of their own out of anything but the regular materials: stone, dirt, soil, mud, even a few gemstones peppered in there. They found a figurine, a tiny statue of a Trog made of polished silver. The worker who found it was thrown into an outrage! 'This is a forbidden act!' he proclaimed angrily, showing the figure of silver to the others. The gasped and growled and stared. Why would he do such a thing? They marched to his house, the crowd growing from the villagers that saw and disbelieved or those that did not see, but heard. They gathered, a shouting, writhing, offended mass of Trog. Bogroth opened to the door and feared, for the crowd seemed to thirst for his life. He turned to his father for help. The Trog tried to help Bogroth, up until he heard the offense. He was so ashamed of his son, felt so betrayed that his own son, the one he made, would do something so... vile. That was the last Bogroth saw of his father, through sad eyes as he was given to the mass. They beat him with sticks, with metal bars of his own making and shovels and pickaxes and other unidentifiable instruments until he could only run from his village.
Bogroth fled his home town, never stopping to look back. He clumsily patched up his wounds, stumbling along with nothing but his knowledge of metallurgy and a pickax that was stuck into his back as he escaped. But that event didn't phase him. It only did one thing to his already working mind. It set it into overdrive. He was free. Free from the taboos and rules of his old life. He could... he could do anything he wanted. And as the image of the silver figurine welled up in his pain addled mind, he knew what he wanted. He wanted a village. A village he would make. His village.
Gender: Male
Race: Trog
Skill: Metallurgy
Flaw/Fear/Negativity: Obsession
Bogroth is obsessed with making metals. But his obsession goes further than that. He has a dream. That dream is to make a Trog. But not out of earth or rock or even gem. Oh no. Bogroth will make a Trog made of metal. And there is nothing that will stop him from completing his goal. He'd rather die.
Backstory:
Bogroth was an okay miner. Sure his people lived for a long, long time. But as his 'father' said, 'You can never be too prepared'. So Bogroth spent much of his early life mining. He dug up sizable rocks and some strangely shaped crystals. Nothing special. Until the day his father took him to the third tier in the town mine.
Bogroth's first ore was iron. He had taken his time with slowly picking away at a rock that was too big to haul up the shaft. When the rock split, the Trog noticed something different about it. He called his father over to inspect it. The rock man simply patted his son on the back and said 'Nice job son. That's a good chunk of iron you've found there'. Iron...
The next day, Bogroth voiced his intention to work in the metal refining section of town. His father, although reluctant, let him go, as helping the community was important and his son was willing to help there. The refining building, where they smelted and forged the metals, gladly accepted Bogroth after seeing his natural talent with working the metals. So the Trog worked, learning as much about working metal as he could. Over time, it became an addiction of sorts. Bogroth needed to forge, to smelt, to create. He became cranky and unhelpful otherwise. As all great things come to an end, soon did Bogroth's work in the refinery. He began to become bored with the limited schematics that the town provided, only tools and bars and the occasional minecart. He began slacking off, making little creations on his own time and sometimes even on work time. The other workers let it go for a while, for he could whip up five pickaxes faster than the average Trog could make a simple shovel. Then they started noticing a pattern in the things he made. It started with shapes like spheres and pyramids. Then it progressed to inanimate objects. Then plants, animals, other species, and finally...
The day they banished Bogroth was the day they found something that was forbidden, for none of the Trog would even fathom to try and create one of their own out of anything but the regular materials: stone, dirt, soil, mud, even a few gemstones peppered in there. They found a figurine, a tiny statue of a Trog made of polished silver. The worker who found it was thrown into an outrage! 'This is a forbidden act!' he proclaimed angrily, showing the figure of silver to the others. The gasped and growled and stared. Why would he do such a thing? They marched to his house, the crowd growing from the villagers that saw and disbelieved or those that did not see, but heard. They gathered, a shouting, writhing, offended mass of Trog. Bogroth opened to the door and feared, for the crowd seemed to thirst for his life. He turned to his father for help. The Trog tried to help Bogroth, up until he heard the offense. He was so ashamed of his son, felt so betrayed that his own son, the one he made, would do something so... vile. That was the last Bogroth saw of his father, through sad eyes as he was given to the mass. They beat him with sticks, with metal bars of his own making and shovels and pickaxes and other unidentifiable instruments until he could only run from his village.
Bogroth fled his home town, never stopping to look back. He clumsily patched up his wounds, stumbling along with nothing but his knowledge of metallurgy and a pickax that was stuck into his back as he escaped. But that event didn't phase him. It only did one thing to his already working mind. It set it into overdrive. He was free. Free from the taboos and rules of his old life. He could... he could do anything he wanted. And as the image of the silver figurine welled up in his pain addled mind, he knew what he wanted. He wanted a village. A village he would make. His village.