Well, here's the role. I don't have the placeholder Nepenthe got to read early on, but this is what followed. (The first part was just a couple paragraphs about my chars philosphy of society/civilization). This part was more pertinent to the characters history and his attitudes, etc. Be forewarned the first half is rather anticlimatic, which is why the second was put in. I tried for some effect, but I'm no Thror when it comes to writing, so I had to make certain adaptations. Hope this gives some of you a bit more perspective into the char.
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The wind groaned in benevolent protest, whistling ominously though the rafters as Rithlan sits brooding, his movements and appearance decidedly pensive. His eyes gaze about with a look of quiet discontent, as he ponders the events that have brought him to this desolate Inn. Aptly named, an unfortunate product or poor circumstance and even worse coincidence, the “Weary Wanderer;” it is located within the veiled ruins just outside the thriving city of his kin.
“#####.” he offers to no one in particular, a sign of his growing irritation. “Years of training and this is all I have to show for myself; a half-full purse and an inanimate bar mocking me.” With a disgruntled snort, he downs the rest of his wine in a single gulp, throws a few copper upon the table, and lightly treads his way to the door.
“Damned if I’ll sleep another night within the confines of these wretched walls,” he utters quietly, once again denouncing the mocking coincidence doled out by the dredges of civilization. Ruminating on this as he makes his way south, heading towards the mountains, a slight chuckle escapes from him as he offer out-loud, “Do I openly denounce myself, or society?” With a cynical snicker, he adds, “Surely, if suicide is my goal…my death the culmination of yet another foolish decision.”
Shrugging indifferently, he lifts his face into the winds, his steps fast losing their dexterity as the fires of drink begin to envelop his body. Rain begins to fall delicately upon the stretch of road about him, a refreshing dampness that quickly grows into a rending gale. Pulling his hood over his head, half-blinded by stinging sheets of rain, Rithlan darts into a grove of trees just off the now slickly mudded road. Covered and protected from the wild rains by the thick canopy overhead, he sits down, huddled beside an ancient oak tree, shivering as the biting winds penetrate his soaked garments.
Removing his cloak and quickly setting it up above his head, tied between two stout boughs, he quickly makes a small camp and lays down, preparing to wait out the storm. After just a few short moments, unable to find comfort upon the soggy ground, he rolls to his feet as pangs of hunger begin to set in. “When was it that I last had a solid meal,” he wonders to himself. He quickly steps out from beneath his cloak, looking about himself furtively.
“It is uncommon for travelers to opt for the safety found here, when any of your kin surely know of the abandoned church not far down the road,” a solemn voices offers from behind a startled Rithlan. Turning about, startled and off-guard, Rithlan assumes a defensive posture, looking about tentitavely as he is unable to locate the source of the words spoken to him. An amused chuckle emanates from behind him, causing him to stumble as he once again spins about in a vain attempt to pinpoint his verbal assailant.
“Who are you,” Rithlan asks, trying to choke down the fear building within him. His words are echoed back to him, a mix of mockery and amusement evident in the tone used in the mimicked retort. The ensuing silence, to Rithlan, is indicative of both curiosity and a desire for peaceable parlay, at least for the moment.
Finally breaking the silence with a soft whisper, a smirk appearing upon his visage, Rithlan answers, “I am a weary wanderer, burdened by the monotony of predictability and expectation. I rest out the storm here because it suits me fine, and will find as much comfort here as I would anywhere else.”
“Ahh…he speaks. Well met then, weary wanderer. Your ambiguously vague answer tells me what I wish to hear, but not what I wish to know. Well spoken.” With a quiet rush of wings, an aged avian drops down from the boughs above, alighting softly and deftly at Rithlan’s feet. He bows low, extending his hand; further indiciation of his desire for a peaceful encounter.
Startled and off-guard once more, perturbed that his acute senses were unable to pinpoint the location of this aged kin, Rithlan reaches out his hand, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement to the pleasantries offered before him.
“Rithlan Cra’Shalan, son of Armerak, son of Relanin. Do not act so surprised that I know who you are, young one,” offers the aged Arial, a sparkle of humor evident in his eyes. “Even if I hadn’t guessed it when I began following you, the pendant about your neck tells me the truth.”
Still unsettled, Rithlan’s hand flashes quickly to the pendant about his neck, as he simultaneously asks the question burning in his mind. “Who are you that you know me when we have never met? Surely my ability as an assassin has no progressed to allow me such fame,” he offers with a snide smirk.
“An old friend of your fathers’, though I suspect you know little enough of him to understand the significance of this meeting,” he offers. “My name is Crenal, and I see from your lack of reaction that the name means nothing to you, and I expect it shouldn’t, yet. First, let me ask you….what do you know of your father? Do you know of his past?” Crenal gazes upon Rithlan with an inquiring look in his eyes.
Rithlan sits, allowing his gaze to return to the rustling canopy overhead. Quietly, he offers, “I know little, save that he left my mother and I when I was but a child, telling me only that he was answering and I would one day understand. All I understand is that he left us to fend for ourselves, and that his memory as a father is worth nothing to me because of it.”
A soft chuckle escapes from the lips of Crenal as he is no longer able to contain the mirth building within him. Regaining his composure, he states flatly, “So much like your father, I can already see. You carry about with you the arrogant indifference he was so well known for amongst us.”
“Us?” questions Rithlan curiously.
“Yes, us,” is the trite response. “Our family.” Looking gravely at Rithlan, Crenal asks, “What do you know of your namesake, young Cra’Shalan?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, well, that is about to change. The pendant about your neck is more then just a family trinket. It is the identity of your bloodline. It is a symbol of the spirit, well suited for the line of Cra’Shalan, in itself meaning the son of the Spirit. However, knowing this will do little unless you too have come to answer, as your father once did.”
A wry smile appears upon Rithlan’s features as he asks dryly, “And I suppose I am supposed to know the question to which I will come to answer?”
“Oh, but you do young lad, but you do. Else you would not have come here, nor would I. So much like you father, you are. Skeptical and cynical, yet I sense within you the unyielding spirit I found within your father. Do you have faith, Rithlan? Is your mind open to accepting your calling, or have years of city life destroyed your ability to be free of mind and spirit?” Crenal asks with a hint of anger rising in his voice.
“What calling would that be, Crenal?” Rithlan asks, sarcastically, once again flashing his elder a cynical smile.
“That is a question you will answer on your own, is the cryptic reponse. “What is life Rithlan? Is it the cultivation of society? The spread of civilization?”
“I do not think so,” Rithlan answers tentitavely. “It is this, all about us,” he continues, spreading his arms out in a wide arc to encompass everything about him. “It is our ability to coexist with what is natural, without disrupting the cycle that has existed since before the time of understanding, and will continue to exist after.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Crenal responds, looking pleased. “Then why do you continue to dwell where this cycle is broken,” he asks. “Has such a life not left you empty? Lacking in purpose? Are you not discontent with your existence?”
Looking at his companion both thoughtfully and with not just a little bit of wonder, Rithlan offers, “I can find no purpose to my life. I live only because it is what I know, and have felt empty my entire life. How can you know this?”
Again, a small fit of laughter escapes from Crenal. “No, Rithlan. I am no mystic. Your father was once the same. Here I can give you and answer that will help you find yourself. You understand well that life is before you, yet you’ve lived fighting against it. It has pushed the call of your spirit from your mind, disabling you from hearing the call as we do. It has not been able to defeat the call that brought you here, however, a call akin to the spirit within you.” Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he peers at Rithlan and continues, “The citybound have no place here, as I am sure you have come to understand. Do you…”
Rithlan interrupts him, quietly stating, “Yes. I think I do understand now. More so, I feel that this is somehow right. Like the last piece of a puzzle I could not finish, though even complete I cannot yet see everything that has been pieced together before me.”
“Excellent young Rithlan. The whole picture you will surely see in time. For now, I welcome you to our family, though you still have much to learn. Fortunately, I may be able to be of some assistance, in that regard. You know now where you belong, and I will teach you how to accomplish what must be done, Cra’Shalan. The call is strong within you, though how much so you cannot fathom yet. You will serve as your father and your father’s father once did, and in turn, when the truth of their lives is realized within you, you will find the truth of your own purpose.”

A year later…

A constant throb beats in his ears, his racing heart seems to be trying to force its way out of his chest, an explosion imminent. The brisk winds whip at his face, quickly dispelling the frosty plumes of fetid breath escaping from his overexerted lungs. Each time a surge of fatigue settles into his body, he allows his thoughts to return to why he is about the task before him, and a newfound strength of pure hatred, adrenalin beyond the means of many mortals, forces him to carry onward.
He pauses for a brief moment, allowing his mind to return to the delicate nature of the task at hand, knowing instinctively in his brief moment of respite that blind rage will only hamper his efforts, and that some degree of planning and proper execution will be needed to be successful. Success is necessary, the alternative is death. Surveying the plains below him, glancing about for only a moment, he discerns the quickest route to his destination. Nodding slightly, as if you reassure himself, Rithlan allows a wild cry to escape from his throat, at the same time kicking his exhausted legs into gear, beginning his descent into the plains laying in the valley below.
As he crosses the plains, he uses his innate ability of flight only once, momentarily, allowing him to manipulate the brisk draft of the nearing storm to traverse a wide river that splits the plains asunder. Alighting softly upon the far bank, he wraps his cloak tightly about himself and speeds hastily into the nearby tree coverage. He pauses here once more to assure himself that he is prepared and to catch his breath. Slowly he begins to stalk towards his enemy.
A band of no less than ten Orcs sit about a poorly constructed fire, roasting autumn fattened pheasant and deer only crudely drawn and still living tree limbs. Nearby, a small cluster of Orcs sit betting recently crafted elf skins on a game made of a young hart, a broken arrow protruding from its blood slicked neck as it tries to escape from their torments, even in the throws of death. Checking his blades quickly, Rithlan prepares himself for the task at hand.
Quietly he maneuvers into position behind the lone Orc set out upon the fringe of the encampment to act as sentry. The poorly clad brute stares down towards the fire and unholy games longingly, fully neglecting his duties as watchmen for the raiding party. Thanking the Spirit for this convenience and simultaneously admonishing the Orc race for their stupidity, Rithlan deftly extends his arms about the neck of the sentry, plants his feet into the strong sapling behind him, and throws himself towards the ground, using his strength and weight as perfect complements of one another. His effort is rewarded with a resounding crack as the Orc’s neck snaps cleanly through. Briefly, Rithlan pauses to wonder if his mentor, Crenal, could match the speed and ease of such a kill. Surely not!
Abandoning stealth now, knowing he will only leave himself open and offguard, he allows the bloodthirsty rage of a cornered beast to wash over him. Howling with a fury unmatched by even the largest bear in the forest, Rithlan descends upon his enemy with his blades singing in harmony with the song of the winds sifting through the leaves overhead. He first targets the small cluster of Orcs playing their devilish game, deftly slapping away the wild swipe from the first Orc to his feet. Reversing his swing, he brings the blade across the gut of his opponent, not wasting time to watch his enemies bowels spill forth. Taking further advantage of the unorganized party, Rithlan quickly kicks out the legs of his nearest opponent, and continues on to the next when he hears the satisfying gurgle of an Orc scream muffled by gargled blood. Lying prostrate, he arches his back and swing his leg up towards the head of the nearest Orc, laughing affably as his taloned boots slices deeply into its neck. Tearing his foot from the savage beasts torn windpipe, he turns his attention to his last foe. Without time to react differently, Rithlan throws himself back upon a rocky outcropping behind him, plants his blade over his head, and waits. Unable to stop himself, the charging Orc barrels onto the blade with all of his weight, impaling himself through his thick chest. Even in his death throws, he proves to be a threat, as he stumbles away from the rock and falls, further impaling himself and snapping the blade in twine, leaving young Rithlan outnumbered and without a weapon.
Cursing his luck, Rithlan turns, empty handed, to face his remaining enemies. The encampment is bare, save for a quick shadow darting quickly into a thicket of bushes leading deeper into the wood. A disgusted groan escapes from his lips as the realization dawns upon him that this hunt will not before over as quickly as he had planned. There would be no rest until all of them were slain. Staring at the ground, his eyes stoney and blank, he kicks softly at the ground. Looking up to locate some viable weapon, his eyes begin to focus on the scene about him. The truth of his situation astonishes him. Nine more corpses lay strewn about the camp, hacked and sliced apart with deadly precision. Just as he begins to ponder the enigma behind this, the head of the tenth Orc lands nearby, rolling to a stop at his feet. A resounding chuckle, so familiar to his ears now, eminates from deep within the wood. A moment late, Crenal steps back out from the thicket he had disappeared into, wiping his soiled blade upon the thick grasses at his feet.
“Well done, Rithlan. Executed almost to perfection. You have learned the last lesson I can teach you, though I am sure there will be many more in the days ahead of you. Our calling is not for us to answer individually, but as a pack. In unison, we can complement each others actions to perfection, as we did today. Do not ever fail to find a pack that will strike down in their effort answer the calling. We will meet again, perhaps, someday, Rithlan.” Bowing low, his mentor and friend unfurls his wings and takes flight, one last cry sounding out before he disappears from Rithlan’s view. Slowly, Rithlan turns about and begins looking for a new blade, chucking softly to himself.