Everett

Everett Jor’son Bryn’hur

Everett Bryn’hur was born into a legacy of steel. His family, part of the Bryn’hur Herd, had long since abandoned the wandering ways of their plains-dwelling ancestors in favor of city life, trading open skies for towering walls, the endless horizon for the constant clang of industry. Among the Rhu’thor, they were known as builders and blacksmiths, the ones who crafted the tools and weapons that shaped civilization itself.
Everett’s father is a master weaponsmith, respected across the region for his craft. Kings carried his blades, generals rode into battle wearing his armor. His name is whispered in mercenary camps and noble halls alike, a mark of prestige for those who could afford his work. And one day, it was expected that Everett would take his place.
He has the talent. That was never the issue. From a young age, he took to the forge with natural skill, his hands shaping steel with the kind of intuition most took years to develop. His father was proud, his kin certain of his path. But Everett feels the weight of it all pressing down on him—the certainty of a life spent in one place, repeating the same motions, shaping weapons he would never wield, outfitting warriors whose stories he would never live.
He is Rhu’thor, bound by duty and expectation. His father has no patience for dreams beyond the anvil. Their family’s craft is their honor, their trade their birthright. But Everett’s restless heart aches for something else. He envies the travelers who passed through their doors, warriors with stories of distant lands, mercenaries who bore the scars of battles fought beyond the walls of this city.
For now, he remains where he is expected to be, working the forge alongside his father, shaping steel with hands that long to do more. But he is waiting.
Waiting for the moment.
Waiting for the excuse.
Waiting for anything to finally pull him away from the life he was born into and into the one he has yet to forge for himself.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Everett grew up in the heat of the forge, surrounded by the scent of hot metal and the steady rhythm of hammer on steel. His father, Jorrek Bryn’hur, was a master weaponsmith, renowned for his fine craftsmanship. His mother, Sella Bryn’hur, was a leatherworker who supplied scabbards, saddles, and armor fittings to some of the wealthiest patrons in the city.
It was never a question of what Everett would become. He was born into the forge—expected to inherit it, to uphold the Bryn’hur name and keep their legacy alive. And in truth, he loved the craft. As a child, he would sit at the edge of his father’s workshop, watching the flames dance, mesmerized by the way raw metal could be bent, shaped, and reforged into something useful.
But even then, there was a part of him that longed for something more.

Training & Adolescence: Restless Hands, Restless Heart

Everett was a natural with metal, quickly surpassing his peers in skill and precision. By the time he was twelve, he was already forging small tools and fittings for the shop. By fifteen, he could craft a blade that would hold its edge against any seasoned warrior’s steel. His father saw this as proof that Everett would one day take over the family forge.
But Everett saw it differently.
The forge was all he had ever known—but outside its walls, the world was moving. Traders came and went with stories of distant cities, mercenaries brought in battered armor from wars he would never see, and travelers spoke of lands far beyond the borders of the kingdom.
Everett listened. And with each story, the forge felt smaller.
He began taking any excuse to leave the workshop—running deliveries, fetching supplies, listening to the talk of the taverns, watching the warriors train at the barracks. He became fascinated with the people who carried his work—the ones who took his steel into battle, who wore his armor into the unknown.
His father saw the change in him and grew frustrated. He warned Everett that a sword-maker had no business wielding the blade—that their duty was to build, not to break. But Everett wasn’t interested in war. He wasn’t looking for battle or bloodshed—he was looking for purpose.
At nineteen, Everett is at a crossroads.
His father expects him to stay, to take over the forge and continue their legacy. His people expect him to honor their craft, their name, their duty. Everything he has ever known is here, in the forge, waiting for him to settle into it.
But Everett is not content. He is restless. He is waiting.
Waiting for a reason to leave. Waiting for a chance to step beyond the anvil and into the unknown. Waiting for something—anything— to finally pull him away.
The city is safe. The forge is stable. His life is already laid out before him.
But deep down, Everett knows: he was meant for more than this.

Social

Speech

Everett speaks with casual confidence, a man who doesn’t waste words but always knows how to use them. His tone is relaxed, teasing, and a little cocky, but never without purpose. He’s not a braggart, nor does he posture—he doesn’t need to. His confidence is earned, not forced.
He’s quick-witted, sharp enough to get under someone’s skin if he wants to, but always leaves room for someone to wonder if he’s serious or just messing with them. There’s a rhythm to his words, a deliberate way of speaking that makes it clear he’s always thinking, reading the room, deciding how much of himself to give away.
Everett doesn’t dress up his speech with unnecessary words or flowery talk. He says what he means, but how he says it depends on his mood—sometimes smooth, sometimes edged, always carrying the weight of a man who knows exactly what he’s capable of.
He’s the kind of person who can turn a casual remark into a warning, a joke into a challenge, and trouble into a game. He might not always be looking for a fight, but his words? They make you wonder if he’d mind one.

I’m not sayin’ I’m lookin’ for trouble… but if it’s lookin’ for me, I’d hate to keep it waiting.

— Everett Byrn'hur

Species

Rhu’thor

Date of Birth

Aurumeth 3

Year of Birth

483 HE 19 Years old

Pronouns

He/him

Sex

Male

Gender

Man

Eyes

Pale Blue

Hair

White and black. Short-to-medium, concentrated into a styled mohawk

Height

7’2” (2.18m)

Weight

340 lbs (154 kg)

Quotes & Catchphrases

"You swing that sword like you’ve never had to fix one before. Don’t worry—I’ll have a new one ready by the time you crawl back."
“Go on, keep talking. I wanna see how deep a hole you can dig before you figure out you’re in one.”
“I don’t start fights. I just make sure I’m the one walkin’ away from ‘em.”