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Steam Name: Das Haus
Steam ID: STEAM_0:1:21918654
Why do you think you should get this whitelist?: Because I've been playing on the server for quite some time (about a month, now.), and I think that a werewolf blacksmith would fit nicely into the 'honor and brotherhood' theme of the werewolves.
How long have you been roleplaying?: Four, to five years. I've got lots of experience in both Gmod, and Text-Based roleplay, in categories such as fantasy, sci-fi, modern, so on and so on.
**Before you is an aged leatherback book in the style of a journal, the pages somewhat yellowed with time and the corners worn down. The text inside is written in Swedish, and you would require a translator should you not know the language. The text reads as follows:
"Should you ever visit Sweden, make sure to stop by a small fishing village in the far north known as Hovden, and give my parents my regards. It has been so long since I last saw them, and I frequently find my mind drifting to the all too familiar scent of the salty ocean, and smoked fish. It is this peculiar, distant settlement that I, Iris Ulfur was both born in, and taught the values and skills of which today I hold dearly to me.
As I said before, it was this 'Hovden' that I was born into. In particular, the year 1976. Growing up in a small village centered around fishing meant lots of hard work, and this was no exception what so ever in my family. Mother and my younger sister and brother would spend all day washing clothes, cleaning the house and preparing meals, while father worked the forge to create sturdy tools and components for the fishermen of the village. As the eldest son of the family, I was chosen as my father's apprentice in smithing, learning to work the forge from the young age of eight. In the time I was not shaping steel with my father, I was at school, learning the basics of what I would need to function in the world. And in the rare case I was not doing either of these, I was resting in my bed, or eating a dinner that mother had prepared for us. Although life was all about hard work in the village, it was all I had, and so I appreciated it.
Once I was old enough, around the age of fourteen (at my own request, of course) my father began to teach me the ways of forging more complicated forms, and I gained a level of appreciation towards blacksmiths that I never had before, as I had crafted my first sword. Flimsy and poorly balanced; such is the work of an apprentice. After that experience, I spent nearly all my spare time through the day and night crafting swords, determined to perfect such a fragile art, and have a blade to call my own. At first my father was hesitant to let me pursue a lost art so deeply such as that of the swordsmith, but once he noticed the gleam in my eye, he reluctantly obliged.
In the years that followed that pivotal point in my life, my father spent much of his free time educating me on how to forge a sword properly. As my skills as a blacksmith were honed, father taught me more and more advanced smithing skills, and I began to create swords not as a piece of sharp metal, but instead as a piece of art, pouring a bit of my soul into each blade I created. Etchings and carvings along the blade told stories, while a balance between the point and pommel met perfectly at the hilt.
As I got older and made my way into adulthood, I began to sell my art to make a living on my 20th birthday, finding a decent amount of money in the smithing of swords. It was a way to get by, and it was surely better than forging tools for fishermen all year round. I had long since moved from my home town, instead travelling from village to village, town to town. My life seemed to continue this way for quite some time, until I reached the age of thirty-five. In the time that passed I created hundreds of swords and sold just as many. It was my career as a travelling swordsmith across Sweden, and I was happy.
Such success of any man, however is bound to come to an end at some point. Three years ago I had just left the small town of Ivanhelm with less profits in the sale of my blades than I'd like to admit. Along the road I drove my car (A worthy investment for a traveller!), swords in their cases in my trunk and backseat, when I spotted a large, hulking tree downed in the middle of the road. It was probably too late, the downed titan of a pine no further than twenty feet from my rapidly approaching car. With all the strength I could muster I pressed my foot against the brake pedal, tires screeching as the car slowed down rapidly, halting completely as it impacted the tree that was nearing so rapidly. The windshield crunched and shattered, and the front of my car crumpled from the impact. My airbag deployed almost instantly, although I was already out cold from hitting the tree alone. Little did I know, stopping in the middle of a forest in the dead of night, is not ideal unless one is looking to be preyed upon.
What happened when I was unconscious is something you should have figured out by now, but the exact parameters of how it happened, and when it happened is a mystery. I awoke with the sizeable bite marks of a Lycanthrope in my forearm, dragged from my car and lying sprawled out in the center of the road. At the time I was more than confused, as I had never seen a werewolf before, and thus had no reason to believe in one. The closest conclusion that I could've hoped to draw at the time is that a bear found me and mauled me accidentally in search of food, leaving the scene shortly after.
I did not learn of werewolves until a few weeks later, in which I lost control of my body and went on a rampage, my limbs and form disfiguring into something foul. It was at that point that I realized the horrid curse placed upon me by the wound in my forearm, and I began to search for those who were similar to myself, possibly in search of a remedy for this hellish punishment I was not deserving of. As the months and years ticked on however, I found myself sitting around with an ability that I had not honed, one that I was given and was wasting. An urgent call for brotherhood and loyalty called out deep within my heart, and set my mind towards the life of the wolf. I travelled from country to country in search of a pack to attach myself on to, only finding criminals and psychopaths, interested only in the massacre of innocents. Although I am hesitant to travel there, perhaps America will offer me this companionship that I seek, and allow me to use this ability of mine honorably."
**The rest of the book is blank, and the author may intend to continue writing in it. It would be best not to steal this from his nightstand while you so rudely intrude upon his place of living.
Steam ID: STEAM_0:1:21918654
Why do you think you should get this whitelist?: Because I've been playing on the server for quite some time (about a month, now.), and I think that a werewolf blacksmith would fit nicely into the 'honor and brotherhood' theme of the werewolves.
How long have you been roleplaying?: Four, to five years. I've got lots of experience in both Gmod, and Text-Based roleplay, in categories such as fantasy, sci-fi, modern, so on and so on.
**Before you is an aged leatherback book in the style of a journal, the pages somewhat yellowed with time and the corners worn down. The text inside is written in Swedish, and you would require a translator should you not know the language. The text reads as follows:
"Should you ever visit Sweden, make sure to stop by a small fishing village in the far north known as Hovden, and give my parents my regards. It has been so long since I last saw them, and I frequently find my mind drifting to the all too familiar scent of the salty ocean, and smoked fish. It is this peculiar, distant settlement that I, Iris Ulfur was both born in, and taught the values and skills of which today I hold dearly to me.
As I said before, it was this 'Hovden' that I was born into. In particular, the year 1976. Growing up in a small village centered around fishing meant lots of hard work, and this was no exception what so ever in my family. Mother and my younger sister and brother would spend all day washing clothes, cleaning the house and preparing meals, while father worked the forge to create sturdy tools and components for the fishermen of the village. As the eldest son of the family, I was chosen as my father's apprentice in smithing, learning to work the forge from the young age of eight. In the time I was not shaping steel with my father, I was at school, learning the basics of what I would need to function in the world. And in the rare case I was not doing either of these, I was resting in my bed, or eating a dinner that mother had prepared for us. Although life was all about hard work in the village, it was all I had, and so I appreciated it.
Once I was old enough, around the age of fourteen (at my own request, of course) my father began to teach me the ways of forging more complicated forms, and I gained a level of appreciation towards blacksmiths that I never had before, as I had crafted my first sword. Flimsy and poorly balanced; such is the work of an apprentice. After that experience, I spent nearly all my spare time through the day and night crafting swords, determined to perfect such a fragile art, and have a blade to call my own. At first my father was hesitant to let me pursue a lost art so deeply such as that of the swordsmith, but once he noticed the gleam in my eye, he reluctantly obliged.
In the years that followed that pivotal point in my life, my father spent much of his free time educating me on how to forge a sword properly. As my skills as a blacksmith were honed, father taught me more and more advanced smithing skills, and I began to create swords not as a piece of sharp metal, but instead as a piece of art, pouring a bit of my soul into each blade I created. Etchings and carvings along the blade told stories, while a balance between the point and pommel met perfectly at the hilt.
As I got older and made my way into adulthood, I began to sell my art to make a living on my 20th birthday, finding a decent amount of money in the smithing of swords. It was a way to get by, and it was surely better than forging tools for fishermen all year round. I had long since moved from my home town, instead travelling from village to village, town to town. My life seemed to continue this way for quite some time, until I reached the age of thirty-five. In the time that passed I created hundreds of swords and sold just as many. It was my career as a travelling swordsmith across Sweden, and I was happy.
Such success of any man, however is bound to come to an end at some point. Three years ago I had just left the small town of Ivanhelm with less profits in the sale of my blades than I'd like to admit. Along the road I drove my car (A worthy investment for a traveller!), swords in their cases in my trunk and backseat, when I spotted a large, hulking tree downed in the middle of the road. It was probably too late, the downed titan of a pine no further than twenty feet from my rapidly approaching car. With all the strength I could muster I pressed my foot against the brake pedal, tires screeching as the car slowed down rapidly, halting completely as it impacted the tree that was nearing so rapidly. The windshield crunched and shattered, and the front of my car crumpled from the impact. My airbag deployed almost instantly, although I was already out cold from hitting the tree alone. Little did I know, stopping in the middle of a forest in the dead of night, is not ideal unless one is looking to be preyed upon.
What happened when I was unconscious is something you should have figured out by now, but the exact parameters of how it happened, and when it happened is a mystery. I awoke with the sizeable bite marks of a Lycanthrope in my forearm, dragged from my car and lying sprawled out in the center of the road. At the time I was more than confused, as I had never seen a werewolf before, and thus had no reason to believe in one. The closest conclusion that I could've hoped to draw at the time is that a bear found me and mauled me accidentally in search of food, leaving the scene shortly after.
I did not learn of werewolves until a few weeks later, in which I lost control of my body and went on a rampage, my limbs and form disfiguring into something foul. It was at that point that I realized the horrid curse placed upon me by the wound in my forearm, and I began to search for those who were similar to myself, possibly in search of a remedy for this hellish punishment I was not deserving of. As the months and years ticked on however, I found myself sitting around with an ability that I had not honed, one that I was given and was wasting. An urgent call for brotherhood and loyalty called out deep within my heart, and set my mind towards the life of the wolf. I travelled from country to country in search of a pack to attach myself on to, only finding criminals and psychopaths, interested only in the massacre of innocents. Although I am hesitant to travel there, perhaps America will offer me this companionship that I seek, and allow me to use this ability of mine honorably."
**The rest of the book is blank, and the author may intend to continue writing in it. It would be best not to steal this from his nightstand while you so rudely intrude upon his place of living.
