Grenhart: Difference between revisions
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{{PC |
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|name |
|name=Grenhart woodspirt Usho |
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|status |
|status=a |
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|race |
|race=Elf |
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|gender |
|gender=Male |
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|guild |
|guild=Ranger |
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|instance |
|instance=Prime |
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}} |
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[[File:RostGrenRedBowcited.jpg]] |
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He has pointed ears and silver eyes. His blue-black hair is very long and wavy, and is worn braided.<br /> |
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He has a tattoo of a skeletal sailor adorned in rotting seaweed on his arm.<br /> |
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At first glance, he could be mistaken for a common Ranger — the folds of his desert shroud moving gently in the wind. |
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He is wearing a ghostly white jackal, an osage quarterstaff, a jade and ithridu armband in the shape of a snarling raccoon made of diamonds and onyx, with ivory teeth and glittering ruby eyes which seem to follow every move you make, an elegant arzumos-pelt journeypack, a tanned leather cloak dyed with the crest of the Rangers' Guild, a bowyer's belt crafted from red fox fur, an ornate brocade tailcoat strung with several animal tails, a small storm-bull shield with a reinforced design, some rugged leathers with gold stitching, a skull helm formed from segmented bone plates, a pair of ridged leather gauntlets with silver-wrapped cuffs,a black lacquered parry stick painted with the Order of the Apostles crest, a pair of steel-toed stomping boots, a polished belt frog with a sickle and a spiked steel mace hanging from it, some blackened steel knee spikes, some blackened steel elbow spikes, an aged red leather baldric webbed in spidersilk, a golden jackal pelt thigh bag with sinew drawstrings laced through the fur, and a sleek circular arm quiver. |
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His presence feels solid — carved out of sun and wind and will. his eyes — silver and steady — hold the hard stillness of someone who has seen too much and understood more than he wished. |
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Around his waist is a leather belt, worn and creased, with the hilt of a curved shotel peeking from its folds — a gift and a burden both. Its silver grip glints when the wind shifts. On his right shoulder rests a baldric with a longbow in it, a quiet reminder that he is also a soldier of another empire, one whose banners do not fly here. |
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There is something unearthly in him, as if the desert itself had polished him down, and kept only the necessary parts — the endurance, the quiet, the resolve. When he moves, he does so without hurry, the sand whispering under his boots. His voice, when it comes, is low and deliberate, carrying easily over the empty expanse. |
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You realize, watching him, that he wears his shroud as a covenant — a promise to the land and to the people who dwell within it. The folds around him are not costume; they are allegiance, woven in the language of heat and horizon. |
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He looks once more toward the distance, where the dunes melt into light. For a moment, the shadows of his shroud, the glint off of his black hair, and the glare of the sun all blur together, and you cannot tell where the elf ends and the desert begins. |
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Latest revision as of 19:23, 3 March 2026
| Grenhart woodspirt Usho | |
|---|---|
| Status | Active |
| Race | Elf |
| Gender | Male |
| Guild | Ranger |
| Instance | Prime |
Grenhart woodspirt-Usho of Elanthia, an Elven Ranger.
The elf before you does not belong to any one world.
At first glance, he could be mistaken for a common Ranger — the folds of his desert shroud moving gently in the wind.
His presence feels solid — carved out of sun and wind and will. his eyes — silver and steady — hold the hard stillness of someone who has seen too much and understood more than he wished.
Around his waist is a leather belt, worn and creased, with the hilt of a curved shotel peeking from its folds — a gift and a burden both. Its silver grip glints when the wind shifts. On his right shoulder rests a baldric with a longbow in it, a quiet reminder that he is also a soldier of another empire, one whose banners do not fly here.
There is something unearthly in him, as if the desert itself had polished him down, and kept only the necessary parts — the endurance, the quiet, the resolve. When he moves, he does so without hurry, the sand whispering under his boots. His voice, when it comes, is low and deliberate, carrying easily over the empty expanse.
You realize, watching him, that he wears his shroud as a covenant — a promise to the land and to the people who dwell within it. The folds around him are not costume; they are allegiance, woven in the language of heat and horizon.
He looks once more toward the distance, where the dunes melt into light. For a moment, the shadows of his shroud, the glint off of his black hair, and the glare of the sun all blur together, and you cannot tell where the elf ends and the desert begins.