**Name:** Jeraur Kindlespark **Age:** 24 **Gender:** Male **Class:** Performer **Origin: **Uellia **Skills:** -Tiberius Locus: An enchantment Jeraur normally casts under his breath. The initial spell enchants his words, it is released when he speaks a horribly corny joke. At first, it seems just like a joke, until everyone in ear shot Jeraur deems as a threat finds themselves encased in ice from the waist down. *Now that's what you call getting cold feet.* -Soporo: Beginning with the original incantation, Jeraur sings powerful melody that will cause those in earshot, friend or foe, to begin becoming drowsy. This is due to the fact Jeraur begins depriving them of oxygen, which will cause them to pass out after too long. This typically leads to Jeraur himself becoming drowsy because of the sheer amount of energy it takes. It's often an ability only used to sing a group of restless friends to sleep. -Argentum Loquela: Another under-the-breath incantation Jeraur favors, it gives a pleasing tint to his vocals that aids in persuasion. Those who aren't familiar with his quick tongue are easily fooled, those who aren't suspecting his silver tongue at the moment are easily fooled, those who are suspicious are much harder, but with the right amount of time nearly anyone can be swayed. *Nearly.* -Anguis Loquela: A variant of Argentum Loquela, but requires an alchemical aid to release into the air. It's a wind spell that acts as a verbal truth serum. Those he speaks to lose an ability to lie, they don't lose the ability to hide truth with fancy words and circumvention. -Agilis Pede: Jeraur uses a wind rune to heighten his acrobatic prowess with the aid of air lifting him. This allows him to make insane jumps and cartwheels, but sometimes it can carry him too far, leading to some more than clumsy accidents on occasion. -Lux Obsidio: A quick flash of light characterized by the laughing matter in which he speaks the words, it's a white wall of light that flashes on for about 20 seconds and obscures vision beyond the wall. -Adamanteus Hit: A rune in Jeraur's guitar creates a magical reinforcement that makes his guitar hard as steel. **Sample:** A typical day inside a tavern normally meant you'd find a bunch of drunks, near drunks, and men with naggy wives, drinking their sorrows away in rivers of spirits and whiskeys and wines. It also meant a sassy bartender and some entertainment. Entertainment would be a performer of some kind... a clown, an exotic dancer, a bard... Someone a bit like our unlikely hero Jeraur. But does that mean you ever see Jeraur in one? HA! Hell no my dear. Jeraur is beyond the trivial pursuits of the mere mortal and the drinking and making merry of men. He's all about traveling the world, performing his little tricks and songs for the occasionally by-passer on the road for some extra money. Of course, if they didn't give him any money forthright, they'd give some to him without thought. Oh deary no... he'd never take too much though. Everyone's gotta live right? Jeraur is man of honor, knowledge, adventure, and bardic sarcasm. He doesn't take too kindly to societal functions and chains, but he doesn't take too kindly to those who refuse society completely either. He's the jester at the noble's court one day, and the cheap trickster in the alleyway a week later. He can be the most noble man you've laid eyes on in one minute, and hold your coin purse in one and a knife to your throat in the other hand in the next second. It's impossible to say one could ever truly be a good judge on Jeraur's moral code and intentions, because he always seems at odds with figuring himself out anyway. Good thing is there's one thing about Jeraur that's always set in stone, and that's his unwavering loyalty to his friends and those who have been hospitably to the needy. Among all these travels and all these misadventures, Jeraur has learned how to defend himself. Thing is, he doesn't do it with the brute force or flashy magic spells... he does it by being slippery, quick witted, and owning the knowledge needed to smack someone over the head with a fancy guitar. A magic spell or two helps, which is why kept under his often billowy or loose clothing is a chain mail fitted with runestones. It helps lead to the illusion that Jeraur has never needed runestones, which often surprises those he first meets. The secret normally isn't secret for long, people are intelligent, but it's fun seeing an initial shock. That's what Jeraur is there for in the first place, to cause questions to be asked!

**Name:** Malcador of Arroyo **Appearance:**  To look upon Malcador is to see the stereotype of a mage: pale skin from a lack of sun, darkened eyelids from a lack of sleep, and a perpetually stern look from a lack of smiling. Clad in the standard navy-blue robes of alumni of the University of Saint Thomas, always seen on his person are his wand, his spell reference book and scrolls, and his dagger; in that order of personal importance to him. With lean muscles that lack exercise and a thin body, and of average height at 5'8", he is in no way physically imposing. While perpetually under the shadow of his hood, his brown hair is short, not reaching his shoulders, and is combed neatly to the side. His eyes are of a bright teal: a feature he particularly likes. When he blushes, his ears fluster along with his cheeks. For casting enchantments, he has a wand fitted with two runes, one earth and the other fire. **Gender:** Male **Age:** 26 **Origin** Kassingo **Class:** Mage **Skills:** Being a native mage of Kassingo, Malcador is adept in pyro- and terramancy, and his diploma, gotten through years of academic toil under the stern gazes of maestros and maestras at the University of Saint Thomas should be proof enough of it. A bookworm now, transformed as he was by the demands of campus culture, he knows more of magical lore than is required by the curriculum to pass, and with many singed robes and citations on the bulletin boards to show for it, also of application – but only in the controlled, sterile environments of the lumen crystal-lit ritual chambers of the University. While he may not be able to make the stars fall yet – and he’s aiming for that, mind you – he can certainly try to emulate that with a barrage of arcing fireballs. While he may not yet quake the earth at his will and voice, he can take a huge boulder and smash it on the ground for roughly the same effect, if not one that lasts a great deal shorter. Malcador can do mid-level spells very well and has a license to teach elementary-level magic, but his might and knowledge are not yet sufficient for anything further. Being a studious mage, Malcador knows a library of spells, but is particularly fond of and proficient at the following: - _Igneus Carnifex_ – Releases a large wave of heat and flame in a semicircle, enough to set alight a damaging forest fire. - _Ignis_ – Releases a fireball the size of a fist at a high velocity. - _Petra Pupam_ – Creates little clay figures. - _Petrosa Confoderetur_ – Releases large, impaling spikes of rock wherever the mage wills. Malcador accidentally bisected a landing bird with this spell once, and he regrets it. - _Tempero Terra_ – Small-scale, freeform control of the Earth. Useful for hurling a rock to break someone’s skull. Or for other purposes requiring a rock. - _Tempero Ignis_ – Small-scale, freeform control of Fire. Useful for lighting utility fires. The stars are the limit for a mage. Lacking experience in applying magic under times of stress outside of timed practical examinations, perhaps the myriad experiences of adventure can further forge his magical potential into something more concrete? He is not too good with the dagger he always carries with him, as one might expect from a mage. While useful as a tool, it cannot really be considered a weapon in Malcador's hands. **Connections:** Acquaintances with Violet Jurfang. **Sample:** The man, at first glance, is relatively unassuming. A thick robe, dyed in a navy blue color, shrouds him from foot to head, hem to hood, and his face is duly shadowed in part by the hanging cloth. Teal eyes stare out forth, piercing the shallow darkness, and are alight with and energetic with the confusion of indecision. “Well,” he leans back against the table and pulls back his hood, revealing first and foremost a bush of wavy, brown hair with its moderately long locks combed neatly to the side. Pronounced cheekbones make slightly triangular a rather pale face. Lips of a malnourished shade of pink are quickly pursed and wetted as he noticed their being chapped the moment he spoke. Darkened eyelids accentuate the brightness of his irises and imply insomniac nights, in addition to underlining the paleness of his skin. This is a man the Sun doesn't get to kiss often. “There isn’t all that much to tell,” his voice is at a moderate pitch, its monotony hinting at boredom, disinterest, or simple disuse. Shrugging, he continues: “I am Malcador of Arroyo, born to a milkmaid and a merchant in the town of Arroyo as a bastard, hence my lack of a proper surname. Studied for five years here in the University of Saint Thomas, three of which I was apprenticed to Maestro Domino Domine. Graduated, currently am teaching a batch of fresh youths on their first year, and planning to devote my life to the pursuit of arcane knowledge.” Then, he smiles a bit. “Probably because I’ve got no ambitions. I'd actually like to stay here, sheltered in the University, till I get fed up of it for some reason.” The curve on his lips quickly flex straight at the next question. “Hmm? Likes and hobbies? Well,” he pinches his hairless chin with his thumb and index finger, and lets his eyes wander towards the ceiling. “First and foremost, I love reading and literature, be they pertaining to matters magical or not. I also love the arcane arts, for all their risks and dangers. It is power, an overt expression of the usually passive might of our Earth. Other than that, I guess I like… hmm… good food and good drink. Like anyone else, really.” He hears your response, and raises a brow as he places his hands on his hips in a defensive contraposto. “What, not exciting enough for you? Well, what else would you expect from an academic? I’m a mage! But you know what? I think it’s my turn to interrogate. First off: what are _you_, of all people, doing in my room? I have class early tomorrow. God knows I need more sleep.” **Other:** Malcador is a virgin.

**Name:** Cara. No surname. ![] (http://i.imgur.com/HDJAbI5l.jpg) **^^Cara @20 years old ^^** **Appearance** Cara is a slim, slightly underfed looking woman. Her skin is pale and dotted with freckles and her cinnamon red hair is long and usually held back in a braid. She dresses very plainly, partly by choice and partly because her clothes are provided by the merchant caravan she lives and works with and they are frugal. She wears undyed rough cotton peasant garb and during the winter a dull brown wool hooded cloak. While her clothing is very basic it is surprisingly sturdy; a good thing since she owns exactly two dresses, one pair of walking boots, one belt, and a cloak. All of which are in uninspiring shades of cream and brown. The most interesting part about her appearance is her gray eyes which spark with intelligence. Of course most people never notice that, or her. She is just one more person in a mass, unremarkable in every way. **Age:** 37 (she doesn't know exactly as she is an orphan) **Origin:** Uellia (no home city/town). She is part of a nomadic merchant caravan. **Class:** merchant **Skills:** Nullified: Cara has no ability to use or understand magic at all. Not only can she not use it, it has no affect on her. Neither harmful or beneficial spells affect her in any way. If there is something that cannot be seen except through magic she will never see it; conversely if magic is hiding something from others it will not be hidden from her. For Example: a fireball spell will not affect her however the fire that it starts is a normal non-magical file and will burn her just like anyone else. A magical poison will not affect her however a dose of mistletoe will kill her as normal...with the added disadvantage that she cannot be healed magically so she must find a non-magical antidote. In a world where magic is literally in the ground people walk on she always feels insecure, despite her intelligence, because she cannot understand what others do. Cartography: Cara has traveled extensively around Uellia, in fact he has no home save with her merchant caravan which is nearly always on the move, and has mapped every inch of where she has traveled. Her maps are extremely detailed, well drawn, perfectly scaled, and of the highest quality. It is one of the few reasons her presence is tolerated in the caravan. They fetch a very high price and even with her “cut” the profits for the caravan are still extremely high. Eidetic Memory: She has a phenomenal memory for places, able to remember down to the very last detail. She can recite back to you exactly what she saw in a certain place, down to the bugs on the ground if she noticed them, as well as size, shape, dimensions, etc. It's what makes her such a skilled cartographer. The odd part is she has trained her eyes to notice surroundings, places not people, what she reads, what she hears, etc. She could, if given the proper motivation and time, force herself to be more observant but as a cartographer at heart she focuses only on the things that go into her mapping. She could tell you how wide the road was, but not if the people she passed on her journey were male or female. Unnoticeable: It is partly her eye for her surroundings and her skills at observation and partly her paranoia that make her so good at this. She is terrified of getting hurt, injured, etc. She cannot be healed by magical means and therefore every injury is a serious thing. When her caravan is attacked, as it is from time to time, she hides. She is very careful, and often able to hide in places no one would ever notice her in. She walks in a manner that makes people not notice her. She never draws attention to herself and has actually become spectacularly good at being completely ordinary to the point of being ignored. Herbalisim/Healer: While unable to tap any magic she has taught herself a variety of non-magical techniques for healing. Mostly herbal remedies, she can also stitch a basic wound and set a broken bone. All this is done non-magically and it took her years to learn what she knows. She still doesn't have any knowledge beyond some basic common ailments but she works to study new methods. The problem is that lacking magical skill, or understanding, finding anyone to teach her is hard. She has had to teach herself from books and when she can observe healers without drawing attention to herself. Naturally she only treats herself, no one would ever ask her to treat them...not when better options are available. Much of what she learned she has never had a chance to practice so she doesn't even know if it works, just stores the knowledge up as a squirrel stores nuts. **Sample:** “Cara!! Get over here now!” The voice carried across the still camp like the sound of a thunderclap. Cara knew immediately to whom it belonged. Drekthenor. He was her former merchant master, now the head of the caravan, and she still had to cow-tow to his yells. The sun wasn't even up yet, it was still that eerie gray pink predawn light, and already he was yelling at her. “It's gonna be a fun day” she muttered under her breath, her tone dripping sarcasm. Fortunately no one really heard or, or paid attention to her. Hooking her skirts through the skirt-hikes on her belt she jogged across the camp. What could he possibly want this early in the morning, she hadn't even finished milking the three goats that were her responsibility. When she reached him she knew immediately what he wanted. A high-quality folding desk was set up, parchment and all her map making tools laid out, and Drekthenor waiting impatiently nearby. Still, this early in the morning, who the hell would want maps drawn this early in the morning? “Sir?” she asked politely as she looked around for a sign of anyone who wasn't part of the caravan. She was wildly curious about the buyer who could throw off the caravan routine. “I need six maps drawn, as quickly as possible” barked the leader of the merchant caravan to his best cartographer. Indeed she was one of the best cartographers in the land; he was lucky to have her skills available and sometimes he even remembered that. Cara goggled at the man. Six maps at once was unheard of. It would take the full day, if she was very very lucky. She actually figured it would take 2-3 days. The buyer must be very wealthy, or very powerful, to hold up the caravan for that long. Time was money when you were a traveling merchant, and they would be loosing a lot of money while they waited for her to work. “Yes sir” she said when she could hide her startled expression properly. “What maps do you wish?” “The list is on your desk” Drektehnor said, his tone calming down. “Get to work.” With that he strode off into the camp to inform everyone they would not be moving this day. Cara watched him walk away then turned her eyes to the list. With a curt nod at the paper she hitched up her sleeves, tucked her long braid down the back of her dress, and set to work. Map-making was her passion, and it was way better than milking goats. It took only moments to call up the memories required. She was under-confident in other areas but this was her arena, her strength, and she was damned good at it. She moved to the blank parchment with perfect certainty, her hand holding the charcoal easily, supremely confident in her skills.

**_Name:_** Dante Fernshaw **_Age:_** 30 **_Origin:_** Drupali **_Class: _** Assassin _**Skills: **_ _Physical_ Fighting prowess: His fighting style rests of the principle of formlessness, that there is no fixed stance but an adaptive and fluid one. So long as the death can be dealt as effectively as possible, the technique need not be a focus. However, this will mean he is not adept in any one style, of whose counterparts are masters of, and may lack the physical attributes such as an increased musculature. The lack thereof may result in swift and decisive blows and movement, but again pale in comparison to that of practitioners. Top-notch in daggers and blades: With his bare fists, Dante will not last a fight for long without fighting “unfairly” for the sake of survival. However, give him a blade, and he will fall any who stand his way. He possesses an excellent aim with throwing knives, delivering them at blinding speeds, in rapid succession, and with enough strength to pin a person to an object - should the blade be long enough, that is. When they are not being thrown, dual-wielded blades make the mark of Dante’s flexible fighting style. Blades will not provide the hefty weight that a strike of the sword will provide, but blades offer nimble and accurate precision to the deathly weaknesses of the human anatomy, quick strikes from both hands, mastery with both hands accomplished from years of practice. Phantom-like stealth and movement: This is an umbrella term that extends and relates to all his abilities as a master assassin. Firstly, his silent movements and honed training and understanding of his physical capacities allow him to deaden all possible sounds to be emitted. His breath is even as smooth and shallow as a slight blow of the wind, his senses perfect and tending to detail, perpetually aware of his surroundings, and obsessive to surveillance and reconnaissance before going in for the kill. While practically invisible in the dead of night and darkness, he is just as deadly in the daytime, as a competent master of disguise with an acute intuition of blending and moving in the crowd. A naturally friendly person that builds healthy relations with others is the type that the unwise are able to realize a lethal blades-man. Sensitive to the environment, Dante is able to utilize it and turn it to his advantage, be it a smoke-cloud, rope, stones, and even the Sun – his collected, intelligent mind not cunning, but calm and attentive, adaptive and innovative. Dante is agile, swift and a fast runner, whose stamina and flexibility allows quick manoeuvrability, dodge and scaling high walls, ledges, and uneven terrain. His lack of armour and resistance in exchange for smooth, quiet and disguising clothing are made up for his versatility. His style of hit-and-run, hanging, jumping and cover kills makes up his repertoire for his being practically unseen. Extensive knowledge of poisons and antidotes: His knowledge of poisons and herbal treatments comes from his mother’s line of work – said poisons varying from deadly concoctions from many virulent plants, or the chemical secretions of animals. Dante carries several vials of several types of poison, some lethal, which he coats his weapons with; depending on style of kill he wants to commit. A gangrenous, debilitating effect is seen sprawling from the wound to the rest of the body until the person dies from the inside-out; a fast-spreading anaesthetic which puts the person to sleep, or a small paralysis depending on dosage (which can be delivered from a prick of a pin); and hallucinogenic and enraging effects to the point of berserk. Survivalist: Adept at maintaining his own in the wild, hunting and trapping skills more than sufficient, efficient in living life away from civilization for a considerably long time, should the circumstances require him to. A point which may not be properly stressed. A people's person: A trait that is so natural and exemplary of Dante is his naturally positive emanating charm, enabling him good relations with anyone he meets with a good way of words, silver-tongued and not lacking in appeal in the physicalities. _**Connections:**_ The_written_John - Antricanto Vindictus - close friends A normal day in the store where Dante and his mom worked selling herbs and medicine was the first time Antricanto and Dante had first met. Antricanto, who had seemed like a normal, average customer at the time, had an acute sense of awareness and observed Dante, Dante himself noticing his being observed. When Dante was called out, he led him to a secluded part of the store and drew his blade right at this stranger. A quick observation into the eyes and demeanour of this stranger showed no immediate harm to himself, and therefore he introduced who he was and what he was very much capable of doing as an assassin for good. After Antricanto's story of his adopted son Alexander going mad, Dante offered help and the two set off. The two set off for weeks, getting to know each other more extensively as they pursued Alexander, and almost eliminated him before a mysterious force caused them to fail. The trail went cold, but the two knew that they got close, thanking each other for their assistance and the time. Should it be required, the two will join forces again in the hopes of helping put evil to rest. Dante understands Antricanto's happiness and giddy personality on an intimate level, understanding him like no other could, or allowed to. Genkai - Mela - childhood, long-time friend Dante met Mela through their parents, meeting up often to help the Fernshaw family grow accustomed to life at The Waterfalls. Young Mela and Dante spent their free time playing around in the water and climbing trees, a view at the top so spectacular of the enclosed forest, they would spend most of the next few years with each other, as they grew in skill and in friendship. Even when Dante and his family moved away to inner Drupali to open up a store, they would still maintain their friendship, a serendipitous moment every time. Dante had long revealed to Mela of his life choice as an assassin, but she understood him, as too he she. _**Sample:**_ [This is from the view-point of a new acquaintance, whom Dante had started a friendly discussion with over in a pub.]  “You a family man, my friend?” said the man to Dante, whose smile was as contagious as his snarky smile that hinted a friendly sarcastic tone, as if anyone who he’s just met, he’s known for the longest time. His clean, dark hair, short and maintained at the side whilst the top is allowed long and puffed enough to be a lion’s mane, short of covering his eyes, curling rightwards, made him look like a young experimental man, yet the look of concentration in his eyes, and his poise and seeming alertness reveals more to see a sharp, attentive, perhaps intelligent and worn man who has been through life in a way fewer men have. He was of an above-average height, perhaps a good six feet, a lean but muscular body it seemed by the control and articulation he has with his movements. His clothes gave out a sort of mysterious air to him, on most days – not the common man’s daily wears, not all the time anyway, sometimes of the kind that a traveller, or a wander, would don, as if one were always on the move. It would be a sleek coat, not a sight of ruffles about him. Dark coloured too, and entrenching him, concealing a lot of him, but allowing still the freest of movement. Tonight, he was dressed in his usual wears. “Yes, my good man. I come from Drupali, and my mother and I have been there for the longest time. I leave every now and then to go on business trips. They don’t take long, and I usually come back in time for dinner time with mom!” “What sort of business do you do? I see you ‘round here but no one seems to know what you do?” “Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you this… But, for you, I’ll indulge you with the secrets of my life. You see, I’m an assassin. I started when my father died and I took out the BloodHyres single-handedly. The local authorities got word of it and while they don’t exactly tell me who it is they want me to off, they… leave clues around and I just follow them. I also do political assassinations should the leaders bode poorly for the innocent folk like you all.” “Wait, the BloodHyres? The group of no-good bastard thugs and murderers that has been around for the last decade or so that suddenly happened to have died all at once in one night? You’re telling me you did that?” “Yup.” The two maintained their stares at one another, silent in the middle of the bustling bar and music, then the two burst into laughter, the man more uncontrolled the Dante, cackling away, his beer spilt, Dante ordering another round as he struggled to hold back his giggling. “Oh, my friend! You are good, you are good! You really had me going there with how you shifted your head around, looking at me serious-like, intending murder at Shaunder over there,” the man said as he nodded his head towards the portly man, the same one Dante had looked at during the “declaration.” “Please, I would like to invite you over to my home. I’m sure my family wi-” Dante held up a finger, a gentle smile spread across his face, polite and collected as a gentleman, “Please hold that thought.” In a blindingly swift move, Dante flung his right hand from the left side to the right, his right arm extended and flexed, his hand open. The man tried to follow the direction of his hand in motion, and at the end of the point saw Shaunder, the butt-end of a knife protruding from a bleeding hole in the front of his head. His mouth agape, eyes wide-open in shock at the last second of life he had had left. His table companions started, and soon the whole bar erupted into chaos as fear and shock took over and everyone treading over another to flee for their lives. The man, however, remained where he sat, and Dante leaned forward to his ear and whispered: “Filiph Shaunder had bludgeoned his two servants to death and threw their bodies in the river nearby. No one could found a good enough reason to convict. Take care of your family, my friend.” As fluid as his death blow was, his escape seemed far too natural for anyone to suspect him. It all seemed easy to him. “An assassin… well how about that?”