Username(s): Anoron (only one)
IM: I have --- AIM: Ranger Anoron , YIM: ranger_anoron
Character Name Anoron Duir'nach
Race: Dunedain - father originally from Dol Amroth and of Dunedain descent, and her mother an elf from Rivendell
Age: 50 but appears around 30 in looks, due to the tint of immortality in the blood
Nationality: From Minas Tirith, Gondor - of Dunedain descent
Home: When not travelling, Anoron lives just outside Buckland in the Old Forest
Occupation: She is a Dunedain Ranger of the North, travelling in a small guild occasionally
Weapons of Choice: Longsword
Starting Weapon: Two elven throwing knives
Possessions: Her small home outside Buckland in the Old Forest, a horse named Amcar, and a necklace given to her long ago from her father; a wooden pendant, with a steed carved into it, and some elven lettering around the bottom which roughly translates into: Strong Heart
Military Skills: She has a good development of technique in terms of swordfighting and even some hand-to-hand, or even smaller knife-like weapons --- she also has some leadership experience in small numbers for other guilds of rangers
Other Skills: She has some skill in basic healing and mixture - she is an excellent tracker and knows the lands well from her years of surveying them with fellow rangers - Anoron is a fairly good rider also and her endurance level is quite high for a woman during such a time period.
Languages: Rohirric, Silvan, Sindarin - and basic english
Psychological Description: Anoron follows her heart to adventure; for the call of the wild, and title ranger, mean most to her. She's pretty agressive and determined to live the life of a ranger -- rather than a life behind Minas Tirth's walls. She can sometimes come off as a bit sarcastic and testy, but it's more of an act she puts on for people. Anoron fears to let her guard down; never wanted to appear weak or vulnerable to anything. When Anoron feels weak, she thinks she is letting those she respects and admires down. Not wanting to disappoint, Anoron pushes herself harder and harder. Though now, leaving her family behind, Anoron has found some peace among the Dunedain. She's been labelled mysterious, but has a strong and nobel heart, and carries on with her duties as a ranger, even if it means hiding emotions from others.
Physical Description: Her hair is a dark reddish/brownish, with lots of curls (loose and tight, that hang slightly in her face), in great contrast to her eyes of forest green. She is of a slender build, yet strong and resiliant. In terms of clothing, she has a long, dark brown/black jacket, accompanied on colder days by a dark green cloak. Her lace up boots come just below her knee, along with dark breeches for riding and combat. Her garb has an Elven quality to it. Although the rangering-clothes she wears were initially for men, they hug to the curves of her body excellently, giving her the dark, silent ability she needs to travel. She is about 5'7 in height and weighs around 128 *see sig for more of a facial detail*
From a young age, Anoron was taught how to speak both Elvish, Rohirric and English very well, since her father resided among elves during a large part of his life since he was one of the Dunedain, and some of their ties were close with that of elven kind. Her father, Garin, was from the North, but had settled within Minas Tirith with his new wife, and daughters. He insited on teaching Anoron all he knew about being a ranger: fighting technique, skill, horse riding, scouting, knowledge of the lands, plantlife, and animals, and skill of healing. She grew up with several sisters. Although they loved each other, Anoron always seemed to be a little less approachable. She kept to herself mostly; never wanting to play games with her siblings. Often, she would lock herself in her room, reading, or staring out the window. The best part of her day would be the time she spent with her father. Whether she was being trained and educated by him, or simply just watching him while he had council--Anoron adored him.
She has been brought up to ride and brought up to fight. As she grew older, Anoron trained with her father -- basking in his love, encouragement, and wisdom; pushing harder and harder to impress him. He wanted Anoron to be trained, so when she struck out on her own, she would be able to defend herself. Garin always made sure to remind her that the forests and wilds were no place for a woman, whenever she would speak of being a ranger. He taught her these things so she could protect herself, or survive in the wild should she be forced to out into the wilderness because of danger. Yet Anoron soon found that life behind the city walls of Minas Tirith were unsatisfying. She had no interest in life at court or council....and longed for adventure. Anoron became accustomed to sneaking out of her room at night, and riding across the plains surrounding Minas Tirith, seeking adveture, yet finding none.
Growing up, her father and mother never really expected their eldest daughter to be a ranger. Through the years she'd managed to repress such anxieties and feelings; making her able to live the life of solitude--the life of a ranger. Learning to become desesitized in a way, made it easier for her to leave home. Garin was not impressed, nor happy with her decision. They did not part on good terms.
Her history is fairly muddled from that point on, yet sad in a way. Not much is known about her life after she left home. Being alone for such a long time has had a dreadful effect on the mind of this woman. She slowly begins to slip into a false control of her mind. But Anoron is not insane, and she is not crazy; merely damaged from some events in her life, which make her more viable to such a profession for battle and such, more than most women. Anoron is still quite able to press on, and live the life of a ranger -- but every so often she will slip into an odd and questionable state. In her damaged-mind she came to believe that the seduction her family tried so hard to protect her from has passed. Her father's admission of error might have embittered a more independent Anoron. The love of travel and adventure keeps her going -- both constant, will keep her from slipping into a further state of darkness.
Shapes in the distance enveloped the sunlight and splayed whitish-light fingers over the valley. The sky darkened as far-away lightening crackled. A mist of rain fell in the distance, like an inky blanket covering the valley as the storm unfurled. The late summer thunderstorm was gathering its dark forces over the edge of the usually sunny dale.
Carelessly through the valley under the storm - over hillock and through the meadows - a once well-traveled roadway wound, up alongside the Weathered Hills. A few yards from both sides of this passage ran two short walls of moss-covered stacked rock, crumbling and in disarray. On the road, patches of green grass pushed through cracked stones and worn gravel to welcome the spell of rain.
Years had passed since men had walked the stones of that ancient road. Greater and nobler men than now had laid it - stone by stone in long lost times. It was once a proud way traveled by Elves, Dwarves, even Men, during the Lem-Noran, the Days of Light, in the years that followed the creation of the One Ring and the ruin of the foul servant of Morgoth. The High King of Nýmenor, his great-grandsons now long passed and his dictates near forgotten, had once graced its seamless cobbleways. The roadway now lay lonely through the lush valley, a silent reminder of a grander age of grander men. And now its course was quiet. Rarely did any save bird or beast walk upon it. But today, as greyness swallowed the sunís warmth, a lone figure trudged over its stones.
She walked South on the road ahead, leading down towards Weathertop where she planned to stop before pressing further towards Bree. She was garbed in a dark green cloak, stained and tattered in places, and her hair was a brownish black; dark and rich with curls that hung about her face wildly. She held a long bow in her left hand, and a quiver of arrows hung across her back. She wore black riding boots to her knees, and worn breeches. A long knife was strapped to her leg. As she walked, three times she stopped in mid-step, crouched to the ground, and peered this way and that, surveying the road.
One had to be cautious in times such as these. She would stop on occasion, perhaps coming to a small stream or spring under the looming willows to which she could rest. Alone she was now, where just a month ago, she had been surrounded by elves. New friends, or allies at the very least. But those days were gone, as was their quest....as were many quests.
It seemed all had failed, though it had really succeeded. Anoron watched friends leave, old allies die or disappear, and spirits drop. But in her mind, she knew there had to be a spark. One little spark, that could rekindle the hope of many. Or at least, the determined few.
The stale bread she picked at gave little satisfaction to her hunger. But it was hunger from the soul, which no food or drink could quench. She missed her company, and her men. She missed the travel, and was now closer to her home than she ever had been. Ah.....her home. Outside of Buckland, in the remote woodlands there. Anoron often thought of simply travelling back and returning on her home. But to what? To sit idly by while the earth continued to have it's share of problems and triumphs between good and evil? She saught adventure. Evil. Anything to get the blood pumping or the spirits raised.
Standing, Anoron tossed the remainder of her bread aside into the pale grasses. The winds were picking up and the sky was clouded. It was warm, but a cool breeze which came from the North made heat impossible. Anoron preferred this weather -- easier to travel in. Her dark curls blew lightly in the wind, as did her cloak and coat as she slid her pack on once again, and continued to head towards Bree.
By the time she reached Bree it was evening; clouds still present and now, a chill in the wind. Great....more rain. This place always seemed damp, each time she came here. Entering the Prancing Pony, she gazed around, her green eyes connecting with the tender. He nodded to her in recognition, and she gave a slight nod back before continuing into the establishment. She stopped here often, whether it involved meeting a new ranger, or simply getting some rest. Tonight, it was neither.
Reaching her usual table which was a small wooden booth, close to the window, Anoron slid in. A pint was set before her; as her eyes drew up the tender was already walking away. Small rain droplettes were already beginning to spatter the glass.
Hello, and welcome to Middle-earth!
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I like your writing style but there are a few things that I need to adress.
1) I know for a fact Ary would not let you have an Elven mother and a Dunedain father. Though I personally see nothing wrong with it, he would kill me if I allowed to happen while he was absent. You can still have strong Elven ties and such, but I would prefer if you made your mother of the human, or Dunedain, race.
2) Your father would not possibly know how to teach you Rohirric, since he himself is not Rohirric, thus your character shouldn't be able to know it. The lesser Elven languages I do not have a problem with, since any Elf-friend would have the chance to learn it, but I do have a problem with her knowing Rohirric.
I love the length though, and the writing is good. Just fix these things and keep up the good work.
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