NameTristan Black
RaceHuman
ClassSal
ProfessionBlacksmith
BirthplaceVestri
Age29
GenderMale (He/Him/His)
Sexual OrientationBisexual
Audsalir ∀50
Activity10 posts [Find All Posts] / 4 threads [Find All Threads]


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- 6’ 1”
- Brunette hair
- Cerulean eyes
- Gentle, boyish visage
- Soft spoken



Standing at 6’ 1”, Tristan is a little taller than the typical races of his birthplace. He has an average build with a lean musculature from his days spent working Marthul’s forge, the skin of his forearms variously pockmarked after being burnt by rogue sparks and stray embers day after day. Long brunette hair is often left down and messy, windswept and untamed as frames his face and hangs down past his shoulders, but he wears it in various styles depending on the circumstances; while working a forge it is bound up in a messy bun to be kept well out of the way of any flames, when cleaning or tending to errands he pulls it back into a low tail at the base of his neck, but more often than not his hair is left loose, sometimes adorned with braids and various colorful beads.

Tristan’s eyes are a brilliant, sharp cerulean, crisp and warm in their shine. They sit nicely on a boyish but handsome face, matching perfectly against the man’s tan skin and broad, white-toothed smile. Unlike some of Drekhjarta, he isn’t incredibly beautiful, instead holding a boyish, average sort of masculinity that will certainly grizzle with age.

Typically Tristan sports a warm, easygoing smile. There is a joy that radiates about him, a warmth and acceptance in his expression and genuine mannerisms that tend to instantly put people at ease. He carries himself in a confident, laid-back sort of movement, walking casually as though not in much of a hurry. It’s a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the big city of Kastali, but Tristan truly believes in living his life at his own pace.

Perfection definitely does not exist here. The tops of Tristan’s hands and his fingertips are scarred from a terrible injury received in the war, and his palms are rough and calloused from days swinging a hammer, smelting metal, tanning hides, and sharpening blades. Beneath the clothes he wears reveals an alarming number of small, needle-like scars caused from a spray of shrapnel, mostly concentrated around his left pectoral and down to his left thigh.

Outfits:

Casual wear: Due to his history Tristan doesn’t own a lot of clothes, and the ones he does have are thin and weathered from continuous use. The total number of garments within his wardrobe are rather abysmal, all of his shirts sticking to a simple assortment of colors like off-white, brown, or black. Each one is long-sleeved, the sleeves loose enough that he can push them up around his elbows if need be. Tristan typically wears a pair of well-fitting cotton pants that have been dutifully mended when needed and a pair of brown or black worn leather boots.

Winter wear: During the harsh season of Ventra Tristan’s assortment of clothes typically remains the same. He owns an old brown leather coat lined with sheep wool, a wool scarf dyed a moss green, and two pairs of thick leather gloves.

Work wear: When working the smithy, Tristan takes no risks. Knowing well how certain fabrics and materials can catch flame from a single spark, the brunette has a designated outfit that he wears when spending a day at the forge. That outfit consists of thick cotton pants, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, a pair of thick tanned leather gloves, and a very heavy, thick leather apron that is stained, pockmarked, and singed in places.

Formal wear: None.

Jewelry:

Feather pendant: Although he doesn't know its meaning or who the pendant is from, Tristan religiously wears a burnished silver pendant of a feather on a thin leather chord, the metal seeming to shift colors as it is moved in direct sunlight. 
 
- 6’ 1”
- Brunette hair
- Cerulean eyes
- Gentle, boyish visage
- Soft spoken



Standing at 6’ 1”, Tristan is a little taller than the typical races of his birthplace. He has an average build with a lean musculature from his days spent working Marthul’s forge, the skin of his forearms variously pockmarked after being burnt by rogue sparks and stray embers day after day. Long brunette hair is often left down and messy, windswept and untamed as frames his face and hangs down past his shoulders, but he wears it in various styles depending on the circumstances; while working a forge it is bound up in a messy bun to be kept well out of the way of any flames, when cleaning or tending to errands he pulls it back into a low tail at the base of his neck, but more often than not his hair is left loose, sometimes adorned with braids and various colorful beads.

Tristan’s eyes are a brilliant, sharp cerulean, crisp and warm in their shine. They sit nicely on a boyish but handsome face, matching perfectly against the man’s tan skin and broad, white-toothed smile. Unlike some of Drekhjarta, he isn’t incredibly beautiful, instead holding a boyish, average sort of masculinity that will certainly grizzle with age.

Typically Tristan sports a warm, easygoing smile. There is a joy that radiates about him, a warmth and acceptance in his expression and genuine mannerisms that tend to instantly put people at ease. He carries himself in a confident, laid-back sort of movement, walking casually as though not in much of a hurry. It’s a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the big city of Kastali, but Tristan truly believes in living his life at his own pace.

Perfection definitely does not exist here. The tops of Tristan’s hands and his fingertips are scarred from a terrible injury received in the war, and his palms are rough and calloused from days swinging a hammer, smelting metal, tanning hides, and sharpening blades. Beneath the clothes he wears reveals an alarming number of small, needle-like scars caused from a spray of shrapnel, mostly concentrated around his left pectoral and down to his left thigh.

Outfits:

Casual wear: Due to his history Tristan doesn’t own a lot of clothes, and the ones he does have are thin and weathered from continuous use. The total number of garments within his wardrobe are rather abysmal, all of his shirts sticking to a simple assortment of colors like off-white, brown, or black. Each one is long-sleeved, the sleeves loose enough that he can push them up around his elbows if need be. Tristan typically wears a pair of well-fitting cotton pants that have been dutifully mended when needed and a pair of brown or black worn leather boots.

Winter wear: During the harsh season of Ventra Tristan’s assortment of clothes typically remains the same. He owns an old brown leather coat lined with sheep wool, a wool scarf dyed a moss green, and two pairs of thick leather gloves.

Work wear: When working the smithy, Tristan takes no risks. Knowing well how certain fabrics and materials can catch flame from a single spark, the brunette has a designated outfit that he wears when spending a day at the forge. That outfit consists of thick cotton pants, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, a pair of thick tanned leather gloves, and a very heavy, thick leather apron that is stained, pockmarked, and singed in places.

Formal wear: None.

Jewelry:

Feather pendant: Although he doesn't know its meaning or who the pendant is from, Tristan religiously wears a burnished silver pendant of a feather on a thin leather chord, the metal seeming to shift colors as it is moved in direct sunlight. 
There are many different words that someone could use to describe Tristan Black. Although he is far from perfect and prone to a good number of shortcomings, perhaps it is best to start with the positives.

First, he is generous and charitable, believing that giving is to receive a greater reward. There isn’t much that he knows about himself and before being taken in by Marthul, a former crotchety old blacksmith in Kastali, Tristan lived on the streets. He relates and sympathizes with those who cannot help themselves, and so oftentimes when he’s not working at the forge he is out trying to help those less fortunate than himself.

Tolerant and open-minded, Tristan believes in equal rights for humans, Fae, and dragons alike. While not terribly familiar with Fae or dragons, he is patient and thoughtful when engaging other species, treating everyone with fairness, dignity, and respect. Of course that can be somewhat problematic given the lingering stigma regarding almost every species in the wake of the war, a view in which Tristan is very much torn on. While he believes that the King was right in marching for the war, he sees the mistreatment of all races and struggles to accept it.

Cordial and courteous to people he doesn’t know, which due to his memory loss is almost everyone, there is almost always a warm, jovial smile on the young man’s lips. He is full of dashing grins, soft glances, and sheepish gestures, laughing easily and often and in general is full of good spirits and affectionate, friendly tendencies, relying heavily on physical touch to help convey how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking, especially if it’s with someone he knows.

He is passionate and fierce, and while very much a pacifist who does not believe in pointless slaughter or violence, Tristan won’t hesitate to pick up a blade to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is why he hires himself out as a sell-sword, not minding the less than savory title of ‘mercenary’ if it means saving someone’s life or doing good in a world that can be so bleak and cruel.

Tristan’s voice is gentle and soft, almost melodic in the way that he speaks. Rarely will his voice ever be raised in aggression or dislike.

Now, onto the less favorable…

First and foremost, Tristan is forgetful. Due to the injury obtained a year ago at the end of the war, Tristan struggles with amnesia and remembering people’s names and faces. He forgets things like what groceries he stepped out for, what supplies he needed to fetch from the trade stalls, who someone might be, or where a location is. Despite it he hasn’t let it knock him down or weaken his spirit, and instead has taken up to carrying a journal with him wherever he goes, jotting down pertinent information or even, on occasion, doodling someone he meets and writing their name next to it.

Regardless of his seemingly infinite patience, there are times when Tristan lacks that stalwart tolerance. Sometimes the aches and pains from his old injuries flare up, turning that patience into agitation and frustration. On rare occasions he snaps, barking remarks or lashing out verbally with small things, only to turn around moments later and apologize profusely for such untoward actions.

Perhaps it’s due to his old injury or maybe it’s simply a way that he’s always been even before that, but Tristan does have moments of laziness and lethargy, choosing to laze about in his abode with a good book and a cup of tea rather than tend to the forge or go out in public. This has instilled a bit of procrastination in his daily routine, but he’s conscious of the change and is struggling to overcome it.

When alone for too long Tristan suffers from moments of self-deprecating thoughts and reclusive behaviors. Prone to bouts of anxiety and depression, whenever things get too bad or overwhelming he locks himself away in his home and closes up shop for a few days. However, on the opposite end of the spectrum whenever the emotions become too much to handle, he tends to overwork himself, forgetting to eat or really take care of himself and instead spending entire days and nights slaving over the forge, nearly frantic to ensure that every blade or armor crafted is nothing less than perfect.

Oftentimes when his emotions run too rampant or he’s too stressed, Tristan is plagued with terrible, vision-altering headaches. They can last anywhere between a few hours to a few days depending on their severity.  
Various excerpts taken from the journal of Tristan Black, blacksmith and mercenary;

“Year 500, Spretta 10th;
Black.

That’s all that I can truly remember. So much black, even before I awoke. It’s an inky sort of abyss, reminding me of the first time I tried to write within this journal. I spilled the ink pot and covered the page in black ink.

Everything is fuzzy and I find myself exhausted more often than not, forced to sleep away the constant aches and pains of my injuries, but the medics insist that keeping this journal will help me recall everything from before I woke up. When I can muster the strength, I write, but I worry it will do me little good.

I find that even after repeated introductions, I struggle to remember the names of the kindly medics that have been helping me. They aren’t offended, to which I’m incredibly grateful, but I can’t help but feel guilty. They saved my life and I can’t even remember their names.

I suppose it’s fine, though; I can’t even remember my own.

I was handed a mirror and I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. The team of kind medics entrusted to my care told me that I was found in the wake of the war but I bore no colors of the army of the King. It’s nice to have a little bit of information in regards to who I might be, but even that meager bit of information won’t do me any good. Perhaps with more time I’ll figure it out, or maybe someone will recognize who I am and be able to help. I can only pray.”


“Year 500, Spretta 13th;
Everything hurts and I can’t sleep. All I can do is listen to the sounds out my window, but even those are wretched and bring me no comfort. Please, please… Anything.”


“Year 500, Spretta 14th;
My name is Tristan. Or at least I think it is. I had a dream last night where I was talking with a woman and that’s what she called me. It’s the only thing that I can remember from my dream, but it’s an accomplishment, right? An achievement. The medics asked if I remembered my surname, but it’s just as blank as everything else. When I tried to focus to see who was speaking to me all I could see was black.

They aren’t too concerned. They say that my memories will come back, given time. I pray that they’re right.

My injuries are beginning to heal, but I’ll carry these scars for the rest of my life. I just wish that the headaches would stop. Yesterday my injuries ached so terribly that I couldn’t sleep. Despite the best efforts of the medics, nothing helped. I think I might have been delirious but I swear that I heard singing, almost like a lullaby. Strange as it might sound, the singing helped to dull my pain and I was able to fall asleep. I have no idea who it was. When I awoke this morning and asked the medics, they claimed that no one had visited me during the night.”


“Year 500, Spretta 18th;
The medics allowed me out of bed unassisted today and I was able to stretch my legs. They were weak and could hardly hold my weight, but I was determined to move around at least a little bit. I was able to take only a few steps before stopping to rest, but it helped to bolster my spirit. If I can keep getting stronger then soon maybe I can leave.

Even though I don’t know where I would go once I do leave, I’m excited and ready. Something inside of me needs to leave this tiny hospital behind, even if it’s just to step into the unknown. The only way I can describe it is as if my soul is being pulled in another direction, and I know deep within my heart that it has nothing to do with the injuries I sustained. Try as I might, the only thing I can remember from ‘before’ is the now familiar blackness that came with my memory loss.”


“Year 500, Spretta 25th;
I spent the day trying to regain the strength in my legs and I’m exhausted, but the medics insist that I’ll be able to leave soon. I’m elated. The pull within my chest has grown stronger and as I’m falling asleep at night, I continue to hear that soft, feminine singing. Oddly enough, whenever I focus to try and understand the words being sung to me I can’t figure them out. It’s not so much a song with words as it is a song with feelings, and I can’t help but feel as though whoever is singing is so terribly sad. I want to help them, and so I’m trying to get stronger so that I can.”


“Year 500, Spretta 33rd;
Today I left the hospital. I gathered the meager belongings that had been found with me in a small bag and stepped outside for the first time in weeks. I recognized nothing of where I was, nor did I recognize any of the passing faces that I saw on the streets, but the feeling of the sun upon my skin made me feel as though I was home.

Before I left, the medics insisted that I would need a surname to go by as I ventured off on my own. Apparently it’s uncouth for humans to not have surnames to call their own, so after a brief deliberation I took the name of the only thing that I could truly remember; Black.

There was no better familiarity to me than that.”


“Year 500, Sumra 15th;
A few days back I met an eccentric old coot named Marthul who’s quite good at working a smithy. I think he saw something in me, because he decided to take me in as a pupil of sorts.Or perhaps he was just taking pity on an unfortunate soul. Maybe it was the rags I was wearing, or the fact that I clearly needed a bath and a hearty meal. Regardless, he took me in and now I’ve begun working the smithy alongside him. It’s familiar work and I find it both soothing and rewarding.

The repetitive motions of working the forge keep me focused, and there’s nothing more satisfying than polishing a perfectly tempered blade. Marthul is rather protective of his wares and his forge, but I quite enjoy his cantankerous attitude and sharp wit. Despite his age, I’m fairly certain that his tongue is sharper than any blade he’s made.

I hope he doesn’t read that, because I’m fairly certain I’ll be losing a few fingers come morning.

Even after all these months I still feel that strange sensation within my chest, that weird yearning, pulling feeling as though there’s somewhere I need to go or something I need to do. Over a mead I explained it to Marthul and he grew very quiet and proceeded to shut me out of the forge for the evening. The following morning he let me back in with a gruff apology but offered no other explanation. Assuming that I’d misstepped my boundaries I decided not to question it again, but I couldn’t miss the look of a terrible sadness that plagued him throughout breakfast.”


“Year 500, Falla 18th;
Marthul is sick. He explained to me last night that it was an incurable illness and one that he had been inflicted with for a long time. ‘Since the war’, he said, but that timeline was vague at best, and now I find myself terrified of losing him. Despite the short time we’ve spent together I view him as a dear friend. Not quite a father figure, but his presence is an insurmountable comfort when my memories have yet to return.

Not only did he tell me that he was sick, that he was dying, but he told me why. He’s a Sal. Many years ago his soul was bound to a dragon, but that dragon was slain in the war, its essence stolen by the Fae. He explained to me that once, he also felt the ‘pull’ that I had told him about months ago. It was the need to go to a soul-bound dragon, to return to them, but then when his dragon had been slain the feeling had ended. Over the years the void had manifested itself into a terrible cancer, and finally it would get the best of him.

So overcome with the fear and pain of soon losing Marthul, I didn’t give the underlying hints any notice. It isn’t until now as I write by candlelight that I realize what he might have been insinuating; that maybe I was a Sal, and that perhaps I also had a dragon out there waiting for me.

The emotions from the night have left me with a terrible headache and even now my vision blurs. I think I need a good night’s sleep to figure all of this out in the morning.”


“Year 500, Ventra 67th;
So much has happened in the last few days. Marthul passed, succumbing to his illness. Even though I can hardly remember the people I see every day or the groceries I need to retrieve from the market, I’ll never forget the last words he said to me. “I wish you the world, boy. Find your dragon.” So terribly weak he was, but still he looked upon me as a father would a son and he smiled.

Even now I can’t stop the tears. It isn’t fair. Even when I woke up in horrendous pain with no memory of who I was, not even capable of remembering my name, was it this hard. I feel as though the ground has been pulled out from beneath me, like I was tossed into the ocean and left to drown. It’s like suffocating, and there’s nowhere I can turn my rage or my sorrow.

What do I do? Where do I go? The smithy became a home, but it did not belong to me. It was put up for sale and while I’m inclined to purchase it and truly make it mine, I don’t know if I’ll be able to.

Marthul was buried. It was an arduous task given the frozen ground but one that needed to be done. No one came to his funeral. As sad as it was, I couldn’t help but think that’s how he would have wanted it, reclusive old fool as he was. Now I just need to figure out what to do next. Marthul made certain that I had enough coin after his passing to take care of myself for awhile, but it won’t last. The tavern I’m staying in isn’t cheap, but I should be alright for a few weeks…

As I pause in my writing, I hear a somber, mournful song in my head. Perhaps Marthul was right. Perhaps there is something -- someone out there, someone waiting on me.

If only I could remember them.”



The eldest son of a Vestrian noble, Tristan's original surname was 'Cadfael'. He spent his youth in the Vestrian town of Bargskora, living with his family in a modest, comfortable manor. Tutored at home by a teacher from Kastali City, the youth was raised to be eloquent, charismatic, and quite a charmer, learning to express himself at a young age with thoughtfulness and consideration. While there was no profession set in stone for him, he was a quick learner and surprisingly mature for his age, eager to assimilate with the ways of the adults that surrounded him.

Shortly after Tristan's tenth birthday he nearly drowned in the waters of the Trident River, but was rescued by a white Wyvern named Laerune. Despite his fear of the massive creature he felt intrigued by her, comforted by her presence and crooning words. To calm him, she sang a gentle song, the words echoing in his head with a melody that only he could hear. With Laerune near, the boy felt complete, as though some missing piece of himself finally fell into place. The white Wyvern took the boy home to his family, and they were inseparable since.

It took no time at all for Tristan to discover what he was; a Sal. It was strange considering that neither of his parents had soul-bonds with dragons, but his family accepted Laerune without question, indebted to her for saving the life of their son.

Over the years, Wyvern and human grew closer. Tristan grew into a handsome, noble, determined young man who wanted nothing more than justice and peace for all races. Almost voraciously he learned the ways of the blade and how to shoot a bow, wanting nothing more than to protect those who could not protect themselves. When news broke that the King was searching for more souls to help him in the war, Tristan readily agreed to offer himself and his sword to the cause. It was noble, right? Fighting for peace and liberation. Or so he thought.

The war was not something that Laerune wished for her bonded-child to get involved in, but she knew that she could not stop him. His heart yearned to assist, and so she let him go, but not alone.

While storming the city, Tristan and a number of soldiers were caught in a terrible explosion, leaving the young man terribly injured. As the battle raged further into the city a team of individuals searching for survivors found him and took him to the nearest medical wing, where they nursed him back to health.

When he awoke, he remembered nothing; his name, his family, or Laerune.
 
Laerune the Forgotten : White Wyvern
Age: 458
Passive Magic:Vetna - When the moon is full and the gravitational pull of the world urges the ocean tides higher, the blues of Laerune's scales glow softly beneath the moonlight, the colors shifting like the very tides of the ocean. During the phase of the new moon when the oceans neap tides are soft and low, Laerune's scales do not glow.

While Tristan currently does not remember her, Laerune knows that her soul-bound human will one day come looking for her and they'll be reunited. During the perils of the war she lost him, a young human - so frail they are, so tender and delicate - so noble and ambitious and desperate to do what was right that he charged headlong into the fray without a care for his own fragile mortality, his body made of naught but feeble bone and flesh.

It was the last she saw of him. Their souls were linked and they were bound and so Laerune knew that he had no perished in the battle, but some things were worse than death. Being forgotten by one who shared such an intimate bond was a travesty, but oh, she was determined. She would not lose faith, and even though he didn't understand or remember her voice, she sang to him the sweet melodies that she had sung since their first meeting when he had been but a youngling, scared and alone and in danger.

The current of the Trident could be far too strong for a human child, and Laerune had been soaring overhead when she had heard him cry out for help. It had not been with words, no, but with feeling, his desperation, fear, and the feeling of drowning overtaking even her, and she had been powerless but to assist him. Sweeping down, Laerune pulled the youngling from the river, feeling herself drawn to him as others of her kind were to the occasional human. From then, they were inseparable.

At least until now.

Appearance: Laerune is as white as the moon she often glides beneath, her smooth scales mottled with the occasional blemish of faint blue. Perhaps a bit smaller than her wyvern counterparts she is nimble and quick, capable of carrying her bonded child at high speeds through the air without the need of constant rest. Her sharp, cunning eyes are a pale ice blue.

Personality: At her age, Laerune has had quite enough of the headstrong and brazen attitude that comes with the youngsters of her kind. She is matronly and maternal, doting upon Tristan endlessly, whom she has dubbed her 'bonded child', 'chosen child', or even proudly, 'kin'. She does not care for the opinions of her kind, for she believes it's her calling to spend the remainder of her life assisting, protecting, and caring for her human. She is typically charismatic and jovial, enjoying a good song or poem, and has a soft spot for human sweets and pastries.

 
 
Leather journal: A worn leather journal given to Tristan by the team of medics responsible for saving his life. They claimed that perhaps his memories would return should he keep track of them, and while his memories haven't returned, it has helped in other ways.

Simple dagger: Just as it sounds, a simple dagger with a leather-bound pommel that rests on his belt.

Marthul's Sword: Crafted by Marthul, this sword is rather simple in design but a masterfully crafted weapon, perfectly balanced and incredibly sharp. It rests in a scabbard with Marthul's signet stamped into the leather.

Feather pendant: A burnished silver pendant shaped like a feather on a thin leather chord. Tristan doesn't remember where this came from but wears it religiously.