Name: Untirr Taskim
Age: Thirty-four
Race: Human
Nationality: Sarifen
Allegiance: Himself, The Sarifen People - and, by hoping he will be a better leader than his father, Royal Prince Bahramesh Azad Aryanpur II.
Appearance: Untirr stands at a fairly average height of 5’10”, with the olive-coloured skin and curly dark hair that is to be expected of someone who has been born and raised in Sarife. The man’s facial structure is typical of his race: slightly raised cheekbones, almost hawk-shaped eyes, and a slightly-pointed chin.

Untirr can immediately be recognised as a warrior - or at least a man who has been in a few fights - because of the slight crookedness of his nose, and a number of small scars scattered around his cheeks and forehead. However, despite these imperfections, he’s still a handsome man - with neck-length curly dark hair, often pulled back with the use of a headband. His eyes are a dark shade of brown - and, despite often being distant, Untirr lost in thought - have the depth and clarity of a clearly intelligent individual.

He has the slender - although muscular - frame of a naturally gifted and experienced athlete, and when he walks he stands straight and tall: exuding an aura of self-confidence and proven authority.

The Sarifen is lean and wiry, with not a pinch of unnecessary fat upon his hardened frame - and if the scars on his face did not give away his occupation, those on his fists certainly did: calloused knuckles and extremely powerful hands for such a slim and nimble man making it clear that he has trained extensively with the sword and various other weapons.

Untirr’s attire depends on where he is, but he always dresses practically: he will never be seen in gaudy or expensive clothing. He can usually be seen wearing riding boots and leggings, and chainmail or a hardened leather jerkin of some kind beneath one of the flowing, white, long-sleeved robes that his people are known for.

In the way of weapons, a plain, undecorated scimitar always rests at his right side, a pistol on his right. A double-curved bow can usually be seen on his back or tied to his saddlebags, and a number of daggers and throwing knives are often hidden on his person.

Profession: Paighan-Salār (Middle-Ranking Officer) in the Nezām-e Jadīd.

Biography: Taken from his biological family at birth as a form of punishment for late taxes, Untirr never knew his parents. He was raised by the Nezām-e Jadīd in one of their many martial Academies - trained to fight from the very day that he could walk: by countless grim-faced, scarred and harshly spoken instructors. Untirr never knew the loving touch of a mother, or the kind and mentoring words of a father - he lived only to please his mentors, to reach the demanding standards that were set for him and his brothers-in-arms from an incredibly young age.

Deprived of a normal childhood, by the time he was twelve, Untirr had become something of a martial protege. He had already far surpassed the fighting capabilities of a regular Sarifen soldier as a result of his astounding dedication and commitment to the rigorous training regime set for him by his teachers, and his grasp of other military concepts - such as tactics, logistics and diplomacy - were incredible for a boy of his age, even by the standards of the elite Nezām-e Jadīd.

At the age of fifteen, Untirr, and a class of two hundred similarly-aged young warriors whom he had grown up with and trained alongside, graduated from the Nezām-e Jadīd Academy which they had called their home for as long as they could remember. Having forged unbreakable bonds of brotherhood with these now fully-fledged Nezām-e Jadīd, it was hard for Untirr to leave them - but, when he received orders detailing his first posting, he did as he was bid and departed for the frontier lands near the border with Valania - to serve his beloved Sarife.

Untirr spent five years as a border guard after graduating from the Academy, serving with a small unit of twenty-five Nezām-e Jadīd alongside hundreds of Sarifen Conscripts. Despite having left the brothers with whom he had grown up behind, Untirr found that he easily bonded with the older Nezam on the frontier, because of their shared experiences and mutual respect for one another’s abilities. For the first few years serving on the border, he found it hard to relate to normal people, but gradually learned how to interact with non-members of the Brotherhood.

During his years on the border, (which was quite an easy job, as nothing ever happened, save for the occasional run-in with smugglers trying to make it across without paying taxes), Untirr spent a lot of time observing the way that his normal countrymen lived. He noticed the struggle that regular people went through on a daily basis, trying to make enough money in order to provide for their families: and saw, in his unbiased eyes (having spent most of his life behind the walls of an Academy), the shocking contrast between this and the wasteful, expensive way with which the aristocracy lived. It struck him as disturbing that so many Sarifen suffered while a handful lived in opulence, but would continue for many years to keep these thoughts strictly to himself - as to speak them out loud would be treason against the very State which had raised him.

Just before Spring in the year 2985 UC, Untirr and the other Nezām-e Jadīd with whom he served received orders to ready themselves for war: and, over the coming weeks, thousands of soldiers arrived and set up camp near and within the small border town where they were garrisoned.

These new arrivals coincided with reports of the Valanian King’s assassination, and it was only a few months after his death that Untirr’s Commanding Officer yet again received new orders: to launch an attack into Valania alongside the other troops which had arrived - and were to continue arriving - from the heart of the Sarifen Empire.

The prospect of war was an exciting one, for Untirr: finally, he had a proper chance to serve his country - fighting someone other than poorly trained smugglers. He had been told since childhood by his superiors that one day Valania would crumble beneath the might of Sarife, and that day had finally come. And, so, the day after receiving their orders, the Nezām-e Jadīd spearheaded a lightning offensive into the weakened, corrupt and relatively leaderless kingdom of Valania.

It was a swift and bloody campaign - the Valanian Military falling like wheat to the scythe beneath the relentless onslaught of the Sarifen Military. Untirr killed so many Valanian men during those few weeks that he lost count, and by the Battle of Vercelli Heights, he already knew that his people would be victorious. Alongside hundreds of warriors from the Nezam Brotherhood, Untirr fought in the Sarifen Army’s Vanguard - personally helping in the rout of Valania’s famed Cavalry Brigades.

Since the Battle of Vercelli, Untirr remained in Valania, as part of the large occupying force ensuring the annexed country had no chance to mount a rebellion against the Sarifen Empire. Over the next fourteen years, he earned himself a number of promotions, and made a name for himself and the Nezām-e Jadīd in Valania through the brutal and public suppression of resistance members - reminding the populace, again and again, what happens to those who resist the might of the Sarifen Empire.

However, despite his promotions and dedicated service to the State which raised and taught him, doubts have begun to form in Untirr’s mind about the Sarifen Aristocracy and Emperor over the past few years. He has witnessed - and inflicted - untold amounts of needless suffering in the name of his country, but for what? The way that Sarifen Commoners have been living has not improved at all, in fact, it has deteriorated - while the aristocracy continue to live in opulence and gorge themselves on riches that could be used to feed the starving masses. He’s growing tired of butchering and raping civilians, and his patience is wearing thin. Untirr only hopes that his Crown Prince will be a better ruler than his father, and care more for the plight of the Common Man.

Currently, he’s stationed in Voltas - in command of one hundred Nezām-e Jadīd, who make up an elite component of the occupying City Guard.

Notable skills/abilities: Untirr is a member of the Nezām-e Jadīd - as such, he has been trained in the Art of War since infancy. He’s an extremely gifted warrior - especially with the sword - and supplements his hand-to-hand prowess with the use of single-shot pistols: the signature fighting style of the Brotherhood to which he belongs. He also has a very good knowledge of theoretical warfare: and is well-versed in things such as tactics, logistics and minimising casualties. Untirr also understands how to intimidate people, which is why he has done so well at keeping the Valanian Populace suppressed beneath Sarifen rule.

Other Notes: Untirr cares deeply for the other members of his Brotherhood, and for the men under his command. Unlike many Sarifen Commanders, he will not needlessly throw away the lives of those who serve beneath him - preferring, instead, to get to know each of their strengths and weaknesses, and to keep as many of them alive and well as he possibly can.

The Nezam is also extremely charismatic, and although he has not yet acted on it, has a strong concern for the plight of the common man. He would never voice his opinions on matters that do not concern him, but he believes that there should be more equality between the commoners and aristocracy: and, if given the opportunity, would certainly try to improve the quality of life for his common countrymen. On the other hand, he's extremely loyal to the Sarifen Empire, and owes everything to the men that raised and taught him - who were allowed to do so by the good grace of the very Emperor who has caused the unjust inequalities which plague his mind on a daily basis: leaving the poor man in a moral dilemma, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Untirr would never betray his homeland, and can only hope that his Crown Prince will be a better and more just ruler than his father.

Name: Uriel ('flame/light of god') Le Crosse (Aryanpur)

Age: 23

Race: Human

Nationality: Sarifan-Valanian half-breed

Allegiance: Questionable-if any

Appearance: I will get a piece of artwork here later; until then, of medium height and a thin build and profile. His appearance looks more Valanian (caucasian) with darker skin for his Sarifan heritage. His hair is dark brown with a copper-gold sheen, cut roughly an inch-and-a-half long and his oblong face is clean-shaven.
In terms of garb, he usually sports a red and black leather vest atop a thinly sleeved, hooded black tunic, grey pants and knee-high black boots. At his belt is a bastard sword of a quality far exceeding the rest of his attire, it's gold-colored Sarifen and Valanian designs and massive blood-red gem set into each side of the guard leading many to think it is stolen, and at his back is a satchel and a rather rugged bow and quiver.

Profession: Occasional thief and/or bandit, occasional mercenary, aristocrat, mage-for-hire

Biography: Uriel is, put simply, a bastard. Born of woman from a side-branch who survived the genocide of most of the Le Crosse family, he is one of Emperor Anush Arash
Aryanpur I's rumored illegitimate children. This alone damned him as subject to political intrigue and a complicated family ere he was ever born, nevermind the ramifications of
his Le Crosse heritage.

Raised early alongside his doting mother, a concubine to the Sarifan Emperor and possessed of an instinctive ambition-perhaps inherited from his father-, he developed a myriad of prideful, arrogant traits so characteristic to royal brats-too, though, a certain level of respect for gentleness and kindness. He, as per his mother's relative wealth and
position, was educated extremely well. Particularly of note was his apparent talent for magic bordering on prodigial.

However, such men are want to lose interest in their paramours and whores-and, eventually, Anush did. Uriel's mother's favor began to wane until he eventually lost all interest in her. The funding for raising Uriel evaporated and, over the course of a few years, lost nearly everything-their estate taken in the conquest of Valania, her title given to another and all means of wealth gone, they became little higher than beggars in the street. For all her doting upon her 'little angel', Uriel's pride took more than a blow, having fallen from the son-even if an unrecognized bastard-of the Emperor to an outcast. Even during their time so poor, she idolized him; however, only to her was he the center of the world any longer, thrust into a city that did not care for him any longer. The sheer disparity was maddening and inset a strong doubt in him regarding his assumed place in relation to others. As he entered early adolescence, he began to suspect many things about his mother-and, by extension, himself. He began to respond to her praises and
kisses with silence.

Eventually his concerns seemed to be confirmed; she grew ill and soon thereafter died to a disease especially common among prostitutes. His sweet, weak mother had been selling herself to support them. His bitter shame and anger at her festered as he finally was thrown into the street in full, no longer having even the money to stay their landlord.

Effectively an orphan, Uriel fell in with the other children of the street and left to survive a harsh life of stealing and running; he quickly learned to dart and run through the city, to speak with the foul-tongued and fight with what had previously been called 'dirty' tactics to endure.

However, to one born and trained so strongly, he came to dominate within a few years, and his arrogance again began to grow. While generally kind and caring, there was unquestionably a certain self-righteousness in him and an unrelenting belief-and constant need to prove-his own self-worth. He ruled as a king among the other young thieves and orphans for a time.

Yet, never was he content. While he felt much empathy amongst the others, he was always plagued by a sense that he did not belong. Often he would go and listen to traveller's tales of the world beyond the filthy back-streets, of other grand nations, of magic and of the workings of the world. It reminded him of what he had fallen from and of the few happy days he had thought he had belonged somewhere-his rightful place. These feelings weighed on him for several years before he finally heeded his craving. With only brief explanation, he prepared supplies and left the Sarifan city to see the other half of his heritage-Valdania.

It was far, far different from what he expected-the only culture he had seen in full was Sarifan before. The difference was striking-yet, somewhat familiar, akin to his pale, fair mother. It was here that he met a mage, to whom, after a time, convinced him to take him on as an apprentice. For three years, as he neared twenty, he studied under the genial old man-and again his pride was assaulted, for the strange old fool would have none of it. He schooled Uriel in philosophy and morality as much as magic, and Uriel, with such great respect for the man, listened enough to fall into deep confusion again. A certain kindness that had left him when his mother died began to wake again, a softness, a gentleness. It put him at great unease.

So, after three years, confused and seeking answers, he decided to seek audience with his father-to solve the aching madness in him that asked who and what he was. He returned to Sarifan and, surprisingly, was actually granted audience-even a bastard had some of his father's attention, it seemed. When asked, he showed his father his abilities who was much delighted and gave him a title and issued a smith and tailor to garb him as befitting a prince with such promise.

He had difficulty at court though-bastards are rarely popular, even with their parent's favor. And, too, there was something about his magic that upset the other court nobles and even mages-and even the Zendricaanist Inquisition. Eventually, a conflict of some sort took place in the open between them and Uriel fled, returning to Valdania to seek his mentor-only to find him gone, having suddenly left and with virtually no trail to follow him by.

Once again lost and with so many conflicting emotions, he began to travel Valdania on foot. His purse ran out and bandits were plentiful-he again resorted to thievery or even armed robbery to avoid sleeping in the dirt again. After one bandit attack while he was travelling with another group, he was hired as an escort to their destination-it was easy money and less shameful, if more bloody. He soon found that such mercenary odd-jobs-escorting, retrieving and so on-were a lucrative market that funded his travels well and was soon ensnared in it and, before he knew it, several years had passed, only for him to snap awake and realize that in his search, he had stopped truly searching for his answers. All he had to show for it, in the end, was blood on his hands and unanswered questions. Truly, he seemed damned to this aching emptiness inside him.

A bad peace is perhaps the worst kind of war.

None are loyal to me within the city; beyond ten miles out, I am become their target.

To place the common good before one's own is to be tyrannized by the masses.

And all things come to this...