Difference between revisions of "Jack Scarthe"

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(Created page with "{{Character | faction = Neutral | status = PC | species = Half Giant (Unconfirmed) | player = dutychef | nickname = Northern Jack | image = Half-giant.jpg | organization = The...")
 
 
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{{Character
 
{{Character
−
| faction = Neutral
+
| faction = neutral
 
| status = PC
 
| status = PC
−
| species = Half Giant (Unconfirmed)
+
| species = Human
 
| player = dutychef
 
| player = dutychef
 
| nickname = Northern Jack
 
| nickname = Northern Jack
−
| image = Half-giant.jpg
+
| image = NorthernJack1.png
−
| organization = The Council of Walkers
+
| organization = None
−
| job_title = Walker
+
| job_title =  
 
| aliases = None
 
| aliases = None
 
| twitter = None
 
| twitter = None
 
| gender = Male
 
| gender = Male
−
| age = 121 (Unconfirmed)
+
| age = 35
 
| nationality = English  
 
| nationality = English  
−
| residence = North Yorshire
+
| residence = Darkside
 
|}}
 
|}}
  
  
  
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=• Evidence 1 - Physical Description from Lord [REDACTED]  •=
+
=• Lore Entry 1 •=
−
Jack Scarthe is a giant of a man. He stands at seven foot tall. His size is matched by his breadth, he's a barrel chested, musuclar man. He has long, black, unkempt hair and a wild beard. His body bears many scars, particularly his face and knuckles. His nose is that of a brawler, bent and mishapen from being broken. His eyes are blue.
+
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
  
−
He's often seen carrying a shotgun and a smith's hammer. His dress is often practical and similar to that of a gamekepper; stout boots, waxe cotton cap and jacket. It's always stained though, and has clearly seen rough usage.
+
TRANSMIT - initiate the Óðinn call - RECEIVE - heed the skald's tale -FROM THE FURY OF THE NORSEMEN, GOOD LORD DELIVER US - cast the rune stones - WITNESS - Northern Jack.
  
−
=• Evidence 2 - Witness Statement from Jim Cook, Landlord, The Black Horse Inn, Whitby •=
+
=• Lore Entry 2 •=
−
There's folk who no one knows where they've been or where they're going. They keep their own counsel, come and go like the wind, and folk no more then their name. Even so, when they're around they're a fixture of the place. They fit right back in, rousing no more than a pasing comment noting their presence. Big Jack Scarthe's one of those fellas. I'll open up on day and there he is waiting, ready to fill up the corner by the fire again. Sometimes he'll have company, all sorts of folk, but oft times as not he's alone.
+
The tasters of blood whisper of the hero of old. He that wades into battle, clad in wolf skin. The shield biter, the red hand... the Berserker.
  
−
Big Jack's a big fella, there's nowt ironic about his name. Seven foot would be a fair reckoning of his height and he's as wide as a barn door. Gentle bloke, never causes trouble and keeps to himself. I've only ever seen him with his heckles up once. A trio of odd fellas came into the bar. They were right queer, a sort of chill round them. Fair made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.  When Big Jack saw them he growled, low and deep it was, and he stood up. He didn't run across the bar, he just walked slowly. The three fellas looked at each other and started backpedalling. Jack followed them out the door and that was the last I seen of him for six months. I didn't dare ask him what had happened when I saw him again. Some questions are just best left unasked.
+
=• Lore Entry 3 •=
−
+
Initiate the Danelaw.
−
=• Evidence 3 - Extract from a 1916 Templar Post-Mission Report •=
 
−
Background: On [REDACTED], 1916 I ordered Agent [REDACTED] to Catterick to assist assets embedded in [REDACTED] Regiment with a threat. A platoon had been reported missing a week before. When they were finally discovered, they had been decapitated. A report by Dr. [REDACTED], a coroner sympathetic to one of our cover organisations, determined that the wounds were consistent with extreme force, as though their heads had been torn off. Extensive searches of the area turned up no evidence of the heads.
 
  
−
Agent [REDACTED] began his own investigation. One area of particular interest was the local tale of "Jack-in-Irons", a giant who wandered the lonely roads of the Moors. He was said to be wrapped in iron chains, from which hung the heads of his victims. Agent [REDACTED] enlisted the aid of Lord [REDACTED] to assemble a search party. Through the use of divination, they managed to trace "Jack-in-Irons" to a cave in the side of a barrow. Agent [REDACTED], Lord [REDACTED], and twelve stout, loyal men set out to slay Jack-in-Irons. Upon their arrival they found a large, bloodied figure sat upon the corpse of a giant, wrapped in iron chains. Lord [REDACTED] named the man as Northern Jack, a vagabond well known around the area. The figure greeted Lord [REDACTED] and most of the men by name and tossed the head of Jack-in-Irons to Agent [REDACTED]. What follows is as faithful a transcription of the meeting as is possible from the memory of AGENT [REDACTED].
+
Norsemen took the city in the eleventh month. In the years that followed they left their seed and their beliefs, beliefs that lingered on. As the Attende Domine bellows, the All Father whispers.
  
−
NJ: I reckon I'v done thee a favour
+
=• Lore Entry 4 •=
−
AS: How so?
+
Skip forward enough centuries and the echo of the skald's songs still whispers:
−
NJ: Seeing as how you's are all here to have a set to with old Jack-in-Irons and now he's dead
 
−
AS: That's one way of looking at it. Indulge me; the beast you're sat on killed ten men. How were you able to best him? Why did you get involved?
 
−
NJ: Don't you worry your about that, I've got my own way of doing things. You just lay those young lads of yours to rest and let them know they can sleep easy. I made the bastard suffer for what he's done over the years. These are my moors and all those who walk upon 'em do so under my protection.
 
  
−
Agent [REDACTED] returned to the garrison and contacted me for further orders. I instructed Agent [REDACTED] to make discrete overtures to "Northern Jack". It was my intention to assess this new player on the board, I wished to determine if he was an asset to be utilised or a threat to be neutralised. Agent [REDACTED] spent two weeks searching for "Northern Jack" to no avail. According to Lord [REDACTED] this is par for the course as "Northern Jack" is rarely seen in the same place for longer than a few days. I ordered Agent [REDACTED] home. At Darlington Station however there was a surprise awaiting Agent [REDACTED]. "Northern Jack" was sat on a bench, waiting. He told Agent [REDACTED] that he serves none but the Council of Walkers and as long as we left him be, he wouldn't take up arms against us.
+
ōs byþ ordfruma ǣlcre sprǣce
  
−
Conclusion: I feel that this "Northern Jack" character is one best watched from afar. By all accounts from Lord [REDACTED], he's viewed locally as a good natured vagabond, a fighter of half-mythic ability, and generally a force for good. I think that as long as we eliminate any outside players attempting to sway him, we can leave this "Northern Jack" in place. As evidenced by his neautralising of Jack-in-Irons, he clearly has no love for monsters. With all the current turmoil in Europe and the subsequent strain on our resources, I'm quite content to chalk this case up as one of the strange mysteries of our fair isle.
+
wīsdōmes wraþu and wītena frōfur
  
−
Further Action:
+
and eorla gehwām ēadnys and tō hiht
−
To Action (No Pending Completion Date)
 
−
-Search case files & archives ref/ "Northern Jack"/"Big Jack"
 
−
-Search case files & archives ref/ "Council of Walkers"
 
−
-Question Lord [REDACTED] ref/ "Northern Jack"
 
−
-Question Lord [REDACTED] ref/ potential leaks
 
  
−
=• Known Associates/Affiliations  •=
+
=• Lore Entry 4 •=
−
The Council of Walkers (pleged loaylty), The Templars (loose affiliation)
+
The youth seeks the path to glory. He answers the call to arms. He earns his dagger and adorns himself with the globe and laurel. His battlefields are a divided kingdom, the cradle of civilisation, and the graveyard of empires. He fights a dozen skirmishes in between each campaign, never resting.
  
 +
=• Lore Entry 5 •=
 +
Despite the hard won glory the warrior senses something amiss. On the battlefield, as death looms, he is truly alive. Yet, in times of peace, he feels the death of his spirit keenly. He discusses his problem wth neither kin nor friend. At night he drowns the black dog that haunts him, only for it to return when he awakens the next day.
  
−
=• Special Notes  •=
+
=• Lore Entry 6 •=
−
Jack Scarthe is half-giant. He's not a Bee, and is quite mortal. Indeed, he's came close to dying sveral times. He does have the extended life span of his giant-kin though. His personality is friendly; he'll help anyone in trouble, is quick to laugh and slow to anger. His alignment would be Chaotic Good.
+
In desperation the youth turns to the faith of his fathers, the faith of the cross and the candle, the prayer and the penance. The gloom of the confessional gives voice to his dark thoughts. He confesses. He sings a song of glories, of facing death with a laugh upon his lips. He tells of the faces of those that have fell before them. There is no remorse, no words of contrition. He honours the dead but does not mourn them. The priest recoils from the violence, horror upon his face. Our Father provides no comfort.
  
 +
=• Lore Entry 7 •=
 +
High upon the windy tree Huginn and Muninn watch. They see the warrior mount Yggdrasil. The body is battered but willing, the mind is truly spent.  Jörmungandr coils about his neck, ragnarök of the mortal soul. As the light of Valhalla plays upon the warrior´s gasping face, Geri and Freki howl.
  
 +
=• Lore Entry 8 •=
 +
The flies dance
 +
The wind blows
 +
The body turns
 +
The rope gives
 +
The soul lives
 +
The fire burns
 +
The path opens
 +
 +
=• Lore Entry 9 •=
 +
He left upon a sunlit morn.
 +
To cross the Northern sea.
 +
My dark headed Yorkshire boy,
 +
Never said goodbye to me.
 +
 +
He went up to the mountains,
 +
To see what he could be.
 +
My dark headed Yorkshire boy,
 +
Never said goodbye to me.
 +
 +
He went into the forests,
 +
To finally be set free.
 +
My dark headed Yorkshire boy,
 +
Was forever lost to me.
 +
 +
=• Lore Entry 10 •=
 +
The snow falls. Geri and Freki stand mute witness as he hunts their kin. The hunters circle each other. The wolf leaps as the man charges. Spear meets flesh. A howl splits the silence. The man honours his kill. He wears his bloody raiment. Úlfheðinn. Odin's man. Huginn and Muninn caw his victory.
 +
 +
=• Lore Entry 11 •=
 +
The man walks amongst the living once more. He is flesh and blood but fire courses through his veins. Neither blade nor spell tell upon him when the fury seizes him. The All-Father sends him forth. Before he can sup his mead and sit besides the fire once more in the long hall there is work to be done. Myths and legends walk unseen upon the land. The old tales are the new secrets. The Úlfheðinn must follow the Whispers. The old threats are the new disaster. The Úlfheðinn follow the Ur-Druag.
 +
 +
<section begin=fcb />
 +
<div id="fcb">
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<div id="fcb_image">[[File:NorthernJack1.png|x300px]]</div>
 +
<div id="fcb_text">He left upon a sunlit morn to cross the Northern sea. <br />
 +
My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me. <br />
 +
<br />
 +
He went up to the mountains to see what he could be. <br />
 +
My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me.
 +
</div>
 +
</div>
 +
<section end=fcb />
 +
[[Category:Featured_Characters]]
  
 
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Latest revision as of 15:36, 2 November 2017

'Northern Jack'
Played by: dutychef
NorthernJack1.png
INFORMATION

Human, Male, 35

Aliases: None
Nationality: English
Residence: Darkside
Employer: None
Function: Unknown



Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate the Óðinn call - RECEIVE - heed the skald's tale -FROM THE FURY OF THE NORSEMEN, GOOD LORD DELIVER US - cast the rune stones - WITNESS - Northern Jack.

The tasters of blood whisper of the hero of old. He that wades into battle, clad in wolf skin. The shield biter, the red hand... the Berserker.

Initiate the Danelaw.

Norsemen took the city in the eleventh month. In the years that followed they left their seed and their beliefs, beliefs that lingered on. As the Attende Domine bellows, the All Father whispers.

Skip forward enough centuries and the echo of the skald's songs still whispers:

ōs byþ ordfruma ǣlcre sprǣce

wīsdōmes wraþu and wītena frōfur

and eorla gehwām ēadnys and tō hiht

The youth seeks the path to glory. He answers the call to arms. He earns his dagger and adorns himself with the globe and laurel. His battlefields are a divided kingdom, the cradle of civilisation, and the graveyard of empires. He fights a dozen skirmishes in between each campaign, never resting.

Despite the hard won glory the warrior senses something amiss. On the battlefield, as death looms, he is truly alive. Yet, in times of peace, he feels the death of his spirit keenly. He discusses his problem wth neither kin nor friend. At night he drowns the black dog that haunts him, only for it to return when he awakens the next day.

In desperation the youth turns to the faith of his fathers, the faith of the cross and the candle, the prayer and the penance. The gloom of the confessional gives voice to his dark thoughts. He confesses. He sings a song of glories, of facing death with a laugh upon his lips. He tells of the faces of those that have fell before them. There is no remorse, no words of contrition. He honours the dead but does not mourn them. The priest recoils from the violence, horror upon his face. Our Father provides no comfort.

High upon the windy tree Huginn and Muninn watch. They see the warrior mount Yggdrasil. The body is battered but willing, the mind is truly spent. Jörmungandr coils about his neck, ragnarök of the mortal soul. As the light of Valhalla plays upon the warrior´s gasping face, Geri and Freki howl.

The flies dance The wind blows The body turns The rope gives The soul lives The fire burns The path opens

He left upon a sunlit morn. To cross the Northern sea. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Never said goodbye to me.

He went up to the mountains, To see what he could be. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Never said goodbye to me.

He went into the forests, To finally be set free. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Was forever lost to me.

The snow falls. Geri and Freki stand mute witness as he hunts their kin. The hunters circle each other. The wolf leaps as the man charges. Spear meets flesh. A howl splits the silence. The man honours his kill. He wears his bloody raiment. Úlfheðinn. Odin's man. Huginn and Muninn caw his victory.

The man walks amongst the living once more. He is flesh and blood but fire courses through his veins. Neither blade nor spell tell upon him when the fury seizes him. The All-Father sends him forth. Before he can sup his mead and sit besides the fire once more in the long hall there is work to be done. Myths and legends walk unseen upon the land. The old tales are the new secrets. The Úlfheðinn must follow the Whispers. The old threats are the new disaster. The Úlfheðinn follow the Ur-Druag.


NorthernJack1.png
He left upon a sunlit morn to cross the Northern sea.

My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me.

He went up to the mountains to see what he could be.
My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me.


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