Age: 18
Race: Ghostwise Halfling(Telepathic)
Height: 3'6"
Weight: 35lbs
Eyes: Piercing blue
Hair: Golden blond
Class: Warrior
Orientation: Gay (Sorry ladies, not sorry!)
Body: Slender and toned with sinewy muscle.

Eighteen years is not considered particularly young among halflings, but neither is it considered wise.

In the quiet burrows of the Greenhollow Vale, where the days were measured in meals and the nights in laughter, he was known simply as a restless soul. While others found comfort in routine, tending gardens, brewing ales, telling the same old stories by the same old hearth he found himself staring past the hills, wondering what lay beyond them.

He was not dissatisfied.

That would have been easier to understand.

No, he loved his home. The smell of turned earth, the warmth of crowded tables, the soft hum of a life without fear. But something in him resisted it all the same, a quiet, persistent pull that whispered that the world was larger than comfort, and that he was meant to see it.

It began with a hammer.

Not a grand weapon, not some relic of legend. Just an old warhammer, rusted along the head, found half-buried near the roots of an ancient oak at the far edge of the Vale. No one knew how it came to be there. Most would have discarded it.

He didn't.

He cleaned it. Balanced it. Practiced with it in secret, far from watchful eyes and well-meaning laughter. What began as curiosity became obsession. The hammer moved with him as though it belonged there, as though it had always been meant for his hand.

When traveling mercenaries passed through the Vale one autumn, he watched them, not their boasts or their stories, but their movements. The discipline. The precision. One of them noticed.

An aging sellsword, scarred and quiet, who saw something unusual in the way the young halfling held a weapon.

He stayed longer than the others.

Lessons were never offered outright. They came in passing remarks, corrections disguised as insults, demonstrations given only once. Footwork. Timing. Patience. The difference between swinging a weapon and mastering it.

By the time winter came, the mercenary was gone.

But the lessons remained.

And so did the hunger.

He did not leave in the night.

There was no grand escape, no dramatic farewell. Halflings do not abandon their homes, they walk away from them slowly, hoping their feet will change their mind.

He packed lightly. Too lightly, his mother said.

His father said nothing at all, only placed a hand on his shoulder, a quiet weight of understanding and worry.

"Come back," was all his mother asked.

"I will," he said.

He believed it.

~Lights~

Red: Females/vagina, she males, herms in ERP, the usual suspects like potty and anything against server rules. Orcs, vore excessive gore, permadeath or changing anything about my character without my OOC consent, OOC drama. Leaving his handkerchief at home!

Green: Males in ERP, long term developmental RP, adventuring, cottage core hobbit life.