Name: Vyri Underfoot
Age: 19
Gender: Female
Species: Human

Background

Kingdom of Origin: Nepharie
Parents: Mari Underfoot
Alanan Underfoot

Backstory: Vyri is a servant, or rather, was a servant. The National Academy of Sorcery is a huge institution, and like all huge institutions, has a great deal more below the surface than most are aware of. Dozens of forgotten corridors honeycomb the ancient buildings, forgotten except to the legions of servants, footmen, maids, cooks, deliverymen and other staff without whom the Academy would swiftly grind to a halt.

It is much the same in all of the institutions upon Creation, for every opulent feast there are a dozen cooks sweating over the ovens, for every alchemist’s accident there is a maid scrubbing the soot marks from the walls. They are the people who make the world go round, but they are never particularly important in the grand scheme of things, content simply to go home after a job well done. The world does not rest on their shoulders, and the fate of nations does not depend on their decision. It is, for the most part, a peaceful life.

It is about this time that Vyri is dearly wishing she had never wanted something more. The life of a servant in the Academy of Sorcery is simple. They are well looked after, with adequate servant quarters and pay that is to be expected, plus free access to any leftovers from Academy meals. The Underfoots, as the name suggests, have served at the Academy for as far back as the family can remember. Vyri’s father was a servant, his father was a servant, and his father before him. It was the same for her mother’s family.

Vyri didn’t want that, she wasn’t content, she wanted to leave, to adventure, to live the life her parent’s had never had an interest in. They told her it would just be a phase, to just stay for a little longer. There was not really anywhere for her to go anywhere, they were paid, but not enough that she could simply go adventuring.

It was stupid, how could she have been so stupid? That one decision that changed her life had to be the most foolish thing she had ever done.

The National Academy of Sorcery contains perhaps the premier collection of sorcerous artefacts in the world. Though each of them pales in comparison to Godbane they still represent power unmatched by an private collection. The most powerful artefacts are locked behind sealed portals, access available only to the most senior of the Academy’s mages and the Council themselves.

Other items are kept in various strong rooms, their magic faded or the purpose long since forgotten. Vyri stole one.

How she wishes she could put it back. It appears to be a simple ring made of iron, clearly of magical origin to those with the sense, but with no apparent power of its own. Such is often the case when things are not truly understood. Though the Academy has long forgotten the rings origin, the ring has not. It has lain undisturbed for centuries, even millennia, until finally it found someone to bear it.

Vyri took something that she though would not be missed. She only wanted a thrill, that sense of adventure she was denied within the walls of the Academy. Had she committed her act of rebellion a year earlier then perhaps she would have remained there. Things are changing in Tithe, the dead roam the land, and it has stirred other things that lie just beyond the veil.

The being that dwelt within the ring awoke when she placed it upon her finger, and Eleuril, ancient Sage of the Faefolk, a figure forgotten by history and legend, spoke into her mind.

Vyri is stuck with the ring. She cannot remove it from her finger, try as she might, and she cannot ignore the voice that speaks inside her head. That and it was only a matter of time before someone realised that the ring was missing. She stole what little money she could, and fled the Academy, heading north towards Talbor, following the hordes of the undead.

Physical Appearance:

Height: 5'7
Weight: 90lbs
Appearance: Vyri is relatively tall for a servant, standing a slightly gangly 5’7. She has the sort of form that suggests she is wanting of a few square meals, but is rather a product of a hyperactive metabolism instead of a lack of food. She bears the typical complexion of those of Nepharie, swarthy, though only particularly dark when exposed to the sun for long periods of time. Her hair is dark, too frizzy, and usually pulled back into a ponytail for convenience.

Her eyes are large, green, and not unattractive, though often too expressive. She’s not a natural liar, and catching her off guard can often lead to her giving away the truth through her expression.

She was raised a servant, has lived as a servant, and, in her mind, will probably die a servant. She has that uncanny knack that servants acquire of simply fading into the foreground, being so much a part of the situation that they are almost unnoticeable. She walks hunched over, trying to make herself as small as possible, even more so in the time since she stole the ring, terrified of what might happen should someone discover what she hides beneath her gloves.
Attire: Solid and serviceable clothing is the order of the day for Vyri, with a long dress of cheap woollen cloth covered by an apron. She has acquired a cheap second hand cloak of heavy, faded wool and a pair of leather gloves that she rarely takes off in company.

Personality:

Personality: The spark of adventure is still alight in Vyri, she loves to visit new places and meet new people, and has an almost insatiable curiosity when it comes to either of those subjects, perhaps to the point of annoyance. With that spark of adventure comes a rebellious streak, and she has an embarrassing (for her parents) habit of answering back, with little patience for arrogance, especially in her ‘superiors’. Still, there is a part of her that regrets the road she has taken, and wishes that she could simply go home to her parents, to the life that was a lot simpler and a lot safer, without a sarcastic, grouch fairy in her head.

She doesn’t want fame, or recognition, and will happily pass the credit onto others if they want it. It helps that she has no desire to draw attention to herself, fearful that the Academy will find her and remove the ring by force, as every other technique she has tried has failed. Other than her habit of arguing with arrogant noble children she is mostly a kind and patient soul, though her patience is wearing thin now that her own head is not private. She has a tendency to irritability of late, though it is not her true nature.

She can be sarcastic, and has a rather sarcastic sense of humour, as well as a somewhat pessimistic outlook on life. Since taking the ring everything seems to have become a lot more complex and difficult, and she really sees no reason why it would possibly get any better.
Hobbies: The life of a servant, even in the Academy of Sorcery is hardly filled with thrills, and having long since grown out of childish games she has instead acquired a taste for games of the mind, riddles and such.
Skills: Vyri was raised the daughter of a footman and a cook, and as such has acquired a number of skills from both. Though she would not be ready to serve food at a banquet, she knows her way around a cooking fire and can recognise and make use of natural herbs and seasonings. She also knows all she could ever need to know about maintaining cooking equipment, including sharpening knives, which could be extended to weaponry, though it is unlikely any warrior would let her near their sword.

She is also a gifted needlewoman, when clothing is supposed to last a long time you become accustomed to repairing tears and even adding simple embroidery. She could not match the skill of a professional tailor, but has an undeniable talent.

Abilities/Combat:
Abilities: As a servant, Vyri is comfortable blending into crowds, even in places she shouldn’t be, taking advantage of the fact that most of the higher classes wouldn’t even deign to notice her presence, let alone question it.

Eleuril however, is a very different matter. An ancient Sage, he remembers magic that has long since been forgotten, and is capable of wielding potent sorceries from eons past. Once a great academic, he became obsessed with the thought that his knowledge and understanding would be lost and dedicated what remained of his years to prolonging his life indefinitely. The amount of God-blood that would have been required to accomplish such a task would have been impossible to acquire, even so long ago, so he sought other routes, and eventually fell into darker studies, exploring the tenuous link between the soul, the body, and magic. The art of necromancy was still a fledgling branch of sorcery so long ago, and Eleuril remembers a magic that did not hold the negative connotations it does now. Unfortunately, the fact that it is no longer his body means that his abilities are incredibly reduced from their great heights, and a Sage who once would have dwarfed even members of the Council is now brought down to what he considers a demeaning level.
Weaponry: A handful of knives for preparing food, a frying pan, and a saucepan, in as much as they can be quantified as weapons. She also has a small sewing kit, and though thread is hardly lethal, the needles are wickedly sharp.
Weaknesses: Vyri is no warrior, she is a servant. Any fight with someone of actual skill will lead to her loss without a severe handicap to her opponent, and even then, she’d have to be lucky. Also, although the magical abilities Eleuril can wield through her would best most living sorcerer’s she has little fondness for them, disliking the sensation of being worn that comes with the ancient Sage’s will. He seems to require her permission in order to utilise magic, or at least has so far shown no ability to override her own free will, or no reason to.
Mount:

Other:

EDITS:

• Changed intellectual to methodical in describing his fighting style.
• Emphasized that he doesn't care about the machinations of the realm.
• Removed unintentional implied statement that he is a godly tactician.
• Emphasized that he spends little time in the capitol or among the nobles.
• Emphasized character's size.
• Increased weight.
• Emphasized that the common folk like him because they've seen him do right by them, and not because he's good at speeches.
• Described his attitude towards his squires.
• Increased age slightly.
• Increased height slightly. Character is now taller than I am.
• Finished background. Not perfect, but deadline met. Sort of.
• Emphasized that Royce and Kane are two different people in "Other" section. ;)

Name: Sir Royce Agathon of Debbens
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Species: Human

Background

Kingdom of Origin: Talbor; Debbens Shire
Parents: Lord Jurel Agathon of Debbens, and Lady Carol Danes of Maceron.
Backstory: From the first time young Royce Agathon could speak, he made it known that he wanted to become a Knight of the Ram. Practice with wooden swords began long before he'd turned eight, and Royce had always been large for his age. Thus, it was no surprise when he was accepted to be a Page. In his training, the young page never stood out in the classroom. In fact, in the eyes of his teachers he was a middling student at best. However, he shined in the practice rings, and after a few years was beating pages and young squires alike to a bruised and bloody pulp. He was not a quick child, the instructors noted, but he was a vicious one.

There were times during his studies when the teachers were reluctant to move him ahead, but his sheer prowess on the training field, coupled with pressure from his noble father kept him on schedule. At the age of fourteen, Royce was considered ready to assume the rank of squire, and was given to Sir Valentine of Draco for the remainder of his training. Sir Valentine was, in many respects, the catalyst that turned Royce from an arrogant young noble into a man who exemplified the qualities of a knight. He allowed Royce the chance to make mistakes, and rather than insulting him for them, he used them as teaching moments.

But most importantly, Sir Valentine cared for his men. Where many of the other knights Royce had seen chose to stay above and separate from the commoners in their host, Sir Valentine went out of his way to care for them. In his words, the Knights of the Ram were servants of the realm. "Servants," he stressed. "Not overlords."

The common folk loved the man, and it was no surprise that his demeanor rubbed off on young Royce over the years. Royce's apprenticeship to Sir Valentine lasted five years, during which he was crafted not only into a man, but into a weapon of the realm. The tricks and ferocity that earned Royce praise in the practice rings were not all that there was to being a knight.

Those years were happy times for Royce, but like all things, they had to come to an end. In his fifth year of squireship, Royce was told that his knight had been taken captive, and was being held in a cave guarded by a flight of harpies. He'd heard of these types of missions before, in campfire whispers from the other squires. He knew it was his test, and he was ready for it.

When he reached the cave, Sir Valentine came out to meet him. Without a word, he drew his sword and flourished, signalling for a duel. The fight was hard won, but Royce came out the victor - and with his victory, his knighthood was earned. His journey of five years with Sir Valentine was at an end.

It wasn't long before Royce found himself in the service to Commander Knight Alric of Ferdinand. Sir Alric was everything that Sir Valentine wasn't. He was older, ruder, and more arrogant to an extreme. Royce had to bite his tongue more times than he could count, resisting the urge to draw his blade at the Commander Knight's constant barbs.

He kept to Sir Valentine's teachings, always having a kind word or encouragement to offer, offsetting his commander's toxicity as much as he could with the common born soldiers in Sir Alric's host. In the battles to come, that rapport was worth earning. Soldiers came to the Commander Knight's aid because they had to; they came to Royce's aid because they wanted to. When Sir Alric found himself surrounded by brigands after being forced out of formation in a charge, Justiciar Knight Royce and the rest of the host stood by and let them take him.

No one ever spoke a word of what had happened. Sir Alric's host was transferred to the command of another, newly promoted Commander Knight - Sir John of Jessup. Shortly after the change of command, Royce was put in charge of a new squire. Squire Kristof of Draco was a fiery youth that reminded the aging Royce of himself in many ways, except for one: Squire Kristof was smart as a whip. No Knight of the Ram is stupid, but Squire Kristof was an intellectual jewel by the standards of the tutors - qualifying in the top single digit percentages in every single one of his classes.

The boy proved himself quickly, and Royce was soon taking him by his side on every battle and mission. Bravery and talent such as that - Royce knew he was training the next Grand Master; but it was not to be. Sir John's host was marching to the supposed location of a large pack of Orc mountain bandits in Talbor's north when they were ambushed. Before Royce could react, they were already upon his squire - hacking him to pieces even after the blood had stopped spurting. The rest of the column was able to reform and repel the attack, but their casualties were staggering.

Royce's own horse was shot out from under him, and reluctantly he took the reins of his fallen squire's horse - Victory. He personally led the charge into their den, and cut down their chieftain in single combat.

The death of his squire, the first he had ever lost, sparked a fire in Royce. Sir John quickly acquiesced to his demand for an element of the host. Then he went hunting. In battle after battle, he sought out the strongest of opponents and hacked them to pieces. It was many, many months before the rage quieted down. In that time, a dozen bandit clans had been annihilated, and Talbor's northern mountains knew true peace for the first time in years.

It wasn't long after that Royce found himself in the position of Commander Knight. Word had gotten around the upper circles of the knighthood and nobility. They called him a class traitor, whined that he was too close to the peasants; but they couldn't deny his achievements. Royce's service record was nearly impeccable, and the body count attributed to him staggering. When the common folk started rumbling about corruption, his appointment was seen as a way to appease them.

In assuming the rank of Commander Knight, Royce was able to finally use Sir Valentine's teachings to their fullest extent. In his host, all men were treated with dignity, and he held his knights to the highest standards of decency. Over the years he took on other squires, and trained them well, but he never forgot his first.

Physical Appearance:

Height: 75 inches
Weight: 217 lbs
Appearance: Royce is physically imposing man, with a large black beard and a wild mane of hair that stands in stark contrast to his polished suit of knight's armor and noble clothing. His frame is huge, and thickly muscled. He has wide shoulders and powerful legs, his physique equally as resultant from his training as his genetics. He has little of a dancer's poise, or a duelist's grace.

His eyes are hetero-chromatic, with one being brown and the other blue. His face has never been renowned for its beauty. His nose is hooked, and has been broken more than a few times. Several old wounds mar his complexion, some of which look to have been very deep. His right eyebrow is parted, and a scar leading up from the left corner of his mouth gives his face the appearance of a constant, grim smirk.

The rest of his body is similarly weathered. Royce is a veteran of many battles, and although he is a fearsome warrior, even the weakest of men can wound a dragon. He walks with a slight limp, the memory of a when his left leg was stabbed clean through with a spear, and his right hand is missing the last segments of his two outer-most fingers - caused when an enemy lance pierced the wood and metal of his shield.

Even in the clothing of the nobility, he looks like more of a mountain barbarian than a knight, and as such many in the noble class find him unsettling. This often causes him to be their first choice to send on patrols or missions, preferably the most dangerous they can find.

Attire: On the battlefield and during ceremonies, Royce is garbed in the armor of the Knights of the Ram. His tabard is decorated in the colors of Talbor; gold, blue, and white, and along his lance run streamers of the same. The armor is typical, although modified to accommodate his large frame. Bright, polished steel edged with brushed brass, the crest of Talbor inlaid and lacquered into the breastplate. The suit is heavy, although not by the standards of comparable armor found in the rest of Tithe. Nevertheless, the steel is segmented and hinged in such a way as to allow the most movement possible, and Royce wears it as a second skin. His sword is belted to his right side, and in war he is rarely without a shield slung across his back.

When in conditions of relative safety, Royce wears the silks and fine cotton of a Talborian noble. They are typically coordinated in his house colors of red and white. However, he also maintains a wardrobe of commoners' clothes for situations in which he wishes to avoid the attention typically given to nobles seen wandering the less savory areas of the kingdom. He also wears a medallion with his mother's personal seal at all times - a gift left for him to remember her by when she died giving birth to his youngest sister.

Personality:

Personality: Though Royce's face may be terrifying, his demeanor does not match it. Beloved by the men under his command, the Commander Knight finds himself more at home among the commoners of the army than in the marble halls of the nobility. Royce is a man of boisterous humor among his friends and terrible rage at his enemies - but this is cut by an understanding of their humanity. He does not allow his men to loot the farms and villages of the territories he is ordered to seize, and he has personally executed those who would rape the wives and daughters of even the kingdom's most bitter enemies.

Royce cares for his men in a way that few of the Kingdom's nobility do. At all times, he keeps a ledger with the names of the men who have died in his service, and is sometimes found poring over it, trying to figure out how he could have done better - how he could have saved them all. Whenever the situation permits, he takes the time to personally deliver news of their passing to the families, often gifting them a sum of coin from his own substantial personal coffers.

This all has led him to have a reputation as one of the Knights of the Ram's most noble warriors - if not in appearance, in deeds. However, Royce does not have a reputation as one of the Knighthood's greatest intellects. Perhaps due to disinterest, or perhaps due to sheer lack of scholarly talent, the Commander Knight was never known for his grasp of political machination, or the history of the realm. Royce prefers to live in the here and now, and as such the majority of his education that remained with him was for things he considered to be important. He has a keen grasp of tactics, and is very capable of organizing and leading an effective fighting force.

In training squires to take on the mantle of Knighthood, Royce has tried to engender a sense of humility and humanity. He does not expect his squires to wait on his every need, and forgoes the need for a constant guardian while he sleeps. He emphasizes dealings with the common folk, and tries to force his squires out of their comfort zone. He has been known to leave squires on farms in the middle of nowhere, expecting them to help the families with their tasks. To a particularly snotty squire, Royce once said, "There are enough preening pricks in the Rams. You're not going to be one."

Royce's steadfast support of his men, coupled with his willingness to meet them at their level has endeared him to the common folk. However, this very same demeanor does little to win him the love of the nobility. Because of this, a career that should have led him to the Crown Officers or above has stalled at the rank of Commander. This does not bother him, however, because he believes that the battlefield is where he can do the most good - leave the politicking to the spineless cowards. He cares little for the machinations of the realm.

Hobbies: Royce is a man of simple things. He is most at home on the battlefield, or in the training square. He takes great pleasure in turning green village boys into deadly warriors. But not all of his interests lie in martial fields; Royce is often found drinking among his men, or helping widows with the farm work. On other, quieter days, he can be seen sitting outside his tent nursing a flagon of ale, lazily whittling a block of wood, or poring over his terrible ledger.
Skills: Royce is a hero of the common folk, known for his deeds and not for idealistic speeches. As such, he finds very little trouble winning the willing cooperation of the lower classes. That said, he is a singular man. Outside the realm of combat and command, Royce is capable of little more than dumb labor.

Abilities/Combat:

Abilities: As a Knight of the Ram, Royce Agathon is a master with sword and lance. He is also left handed, which often catches his foes off guard. The Commander Knight is strong, but not particularly quick, and as such he is more of an methodical fighter than a savage one. In battle, Royce will often fight defensively, watching for the right moment to use his superior strength to level foes in a single hit. However, Royce is capable of flying into a black rage in battle if enough of his men are murdered, or upon viewing instances of particular cruelty. Under these circumstances, his normally defensive style of combat turns towards the offensive. Utilizing the superior quality of his armor and blade, he hammers his opponents into dust.

While skilled on foot, Royce is also a talented lancer. While not always the champion, he has won his fair share of jousting tourneys against the knights and noblemen of the realm. On the battlefield, Royce has no qualms against lancing the mounts of his enemies and leaving them for foot soldiers to kill afterwards.

While Royce is a fearsome opponent, his primary value is as a symbol and as a commander. The men he leads fight harder than any other, partially due to the time he spends training them but primarily due to a desire to live up to his example. He has an unparalleled ability to rally common troops and lead them to victory - even if he relies more on his nature than on clever battlefield tactics.

Weaponry: When mounted, Royce wields a long lance. He also carries a bastard sword on his right hip at all times, both as his primary weapon and a mark of his station. He also wears a knife at his belt, but it is more of a tool than a weapon.
Weaknesses: While trained in the use of ranged weapons, Royce was never of any particular talent and makes little use of them. As such, he lacks any ability to harm foes that he cannot physically reach. His left leg is also somewhat weaker than his right, the result of a wound sustained many years ago. This causes a visible limp which could be exploited by his enemies. The rage into which he sometimes flies leaves him with tunnel vision, unable to comprehend the wider situation. As such, he is useless as a commander under these circumstances and easily drawn into traps.
Mount: Royce rides a great black warhorse, named Victory. Its namesake was the mount of a squire killed during his training. The boy's family wished for Royce to keep it. While the name was a bit more ostentatious than he would have chosen, Royce considers the mount a reminder of his greatest failure. When it grew too old to ride to war, Royce retired it to his manor. Knowing he could not be without a horse, Royce took another and gave it the same name, never to forget his fallen squire. The horse is well trained, and in battle it is barded in steel and caprisoned in the colors of Talbor.

The horse's chanfron is mounted with a pair of ram's horns identical to those on Royce's own helm, and the steel of its barding is made in the same manner as Royce's own armor. It is a veteran of many battles, and one of the Commander Knight's most beloved possessions.

Other: Royce and Kane are two different people.

Name: Skrala Helocke
Age: 17
Gender: Female
Species: Human

Background
Kingdom of Origin: Haderlock
Parents: Hinter Helocke the Fifth(Father), Unknown mother
Backstory:
Skrala was born in the region of Haderlock, a vicious frozen wasteland more fit to be a depressing icebox rather than habitable space for humans. And yet humans still eked out their existence here, and surprisingly well at that when considering the economic boom generated from the diamond mines. Truly, then, Haderlock is a nation that expresses human perseverance to its fullest.

Yet even among these remarkable people, there existed a family that took to the art of survival with extreme gusto. It all started when a lone magic practitioner came to Haderlock. None knew where exactly he hailed from. None knew the details of his life before he came. People only saw a haggard looking wizard in flowery robes all too unsuitable for the wintry void around him. Even more oddly out of place was that he was carrying an infant with him. Needless to say, this man did not fit in with the Haderlock bunch, and it seemed he had no desire to. Some theorized that he was a recluse because he held forbidden secrets. Perhaps he was a criminal on the run, having stolen or drunk too much of the sacred blood of the gods. Perhaps he had committed some heinous crime with his magic. There was no substantive answer, but plenty of insubstantive rumors that clouded the man's reputation in an unapproachable shroud. He became the boogeyman to keep the children away from - the outcast referred to only in hushed whispers.

He kept to himself in a society where communication and community were upheld. As a result, he was rejected, and he did not mind. He had had enough of people and their silly machinations anyway, and so he took to what best suited him: nature. Once he spent a few initial years understanding the lay of the land, how trade worked, and how the people around him operated, he left civilization and traveled West. When he came upon tundra so brutally harsh that it lay untrod upon even by the inhabitants of Haderlocke, he knew he had found the solace he wished for.

He survived well. He knew how life worked. How the plants around him danced and died in a cyclic prance of life and death. How the prey and predators, so pitted against each other and yet so reliant on the other to survive, walked their tenuous paths of life. Gathering the rare and mystical plantlife sequestered away by frost's firm lock, the man created marvelous potions and concoctions that he gathered en masse and sold every three months to traders to sustain himself reliably.

Through all this time, he continued to raise the child he had brought. He taught her all the ways of life in the wild untouched by mankind, but oddly he never taught her magic. Rather, he actively sought to conceal the fact that he practiced magic to his child. So the child grew up attuned more with the solemn drone of winter winds than the bustle of a marketplace. So their lives continued in a monotonous, difficult, and yet beautifully simple manner.

Time flowed, and years passed. By the time Skrala was eleven, she had knowledge of trading routes and how to conduct her father's minor business in his stead. It was during one of her excursions to a trading post that she stumbled upon an odd sphere of chromatic black, hidden under piles of muddied snow. Ever curious, she brought the object with her to the small wooden cabin she called home. Her father appraised it, and yet could not identify it. Skrala had thought that was odd, her father seemed to know everything. Nevertheless, she decided to keep the strange thing as a nifty trinket after her father determined it posed no threat.

Several days later, the thing shattered apart, revealing that it was an egg. Within it was an enigmatic creature that she immediately became captivated with. She nurtured the little hound like thing as a substitute mother as well as she could, guessing its needs as even her father could not discern what manner of creature it was. She named the beast Thel, and from then on the two became inseparable.

More time swam by. When Skrala was fifteen, her father left. At least, this is what Skrala thinks is what her father did. There was no chance in the world that someone as larger than life as her father could simply succumb to winter's bite when he had already tamed it. This is what she believed, and yet when she attempted to find her father by asking those at the trading post for clues, they merely could give her pitiful looks for what was, to them, an obvious case of a parent making just one slight mistake in the dangerous wild and falling to either weather or beast.

She did not accept that such an end had happened, so she continued to live in hopeful wait for her father's return. He had left behind a vast storage of strange liquids and remedies, and Skrala understood their value enough to ration them for supplies every few months when the traders came to the nearest post. She lived day by day, week by week, until finally a year had passed and her father had not returned.

That was when she decided that she was done waiting. She never did accept the possibility that her father had simply died, which let her live everyday with a strong will and hope - two traits essential to the physical and mental health of any human. So she acted on what was missing from her life. She decided she would set out to find him herself. Taking well stocked packs and as many odd metal circles that her father had called "currency", she set out into the world of the unknown with Thel.

In a year, she has traveled through much of Haderlock, and has learned, due in part through many honest and helpful individuals that did not exploit her cluelessness, how to live by herself among other people. Her journey has not ended by any means, and she presses onward at a leisurely pace, enjoying all things new.

Physical Appearance:
Height: 170 cm
Weight: 60 Kg
Appearance:
Skrala is a lean and wiry young girl with a slender, agile physique. Her bony features and long limbs cause her to appear somewhat sickly and awkward physically, but a more keen observer could perceive that her body is practically designed for dexterous movements and running. Skrala's skin is of a light ocher brown and often is splotched by the wear of a harsh outdoors environment: dirt, mud, frost - all take harmonious company about Skrala's complexion. Her hair holds a lively auburn hue, extending down to her jaws in an untamed and unkempt explosion of waves. Skrala bears a copious amount of scars that have left their marks on her skin in the form of distended lines for lacerations and dark botches for more expansive wounds. Her hands are amply calloused and worn, bearing the proud marks of survival amidst adversity. Skrala's facial features are youthful and expressive, with dark eyebrows and piercing olive green eyes that give life to all her reactions and thoughts. Skrala exudes a feral feel about her with her unkempt and yet hardy appearance: an untamed visage of the wild.

Something like this would be a good representation of her.

Attire:
Skrala is dressed in the fruits of her labor. All of her clothing is created from the fur and skin of animals she has hunted down or traded for, providing her with thick and insulating clothing fit to shield her from the chilling grasp of Haderlock. She wears a tight fitting and lightweight fur skin shirt as her undermost layer, and tops it off with a thicker, more protective upper layer while also wearing a thickly furred parka over both initial layers. For leggings, she wears fir lined trousers. She prefers to move about with fur boots that shield her feet from icy or snowy grounds. To keep her hands warm, she dons either mittens or fur lined gloves depending on the situation at hand. None of her clothing looks particularly well made, considering they were made mostly by her own hands. Her clothing is more like practical patchwork that focuses entirely on pragmatic usage instead of having any sort of consideration for aesthetic appeal. There are no patterns or distinguishing features dotting her clothing, exacerbating their bland appearance.

Personality
Personality:
Skrala is a lively and energetic persona, fueled by an endless curiosity. She naturally inclines herself towards wonder and wanderlust, constantly striving to make known what is the unknown. As a result, she can seem fearless, and in many instances, headstrong. The fact that she possesses a strong stubborn streak does not help in making herself seem more meek. Skrala holds an inexhaustible ocean of interest for all things around her, but at the same time she is a tried and true pragmatist. When the situation calls for sound reasoning and when times turn tough, Skrala wields a mind's eye that is exceptionally perceptive. She can shut out any semblance of idealistic fluff or obstructive mental barriers in constructing the utilitarian way out of adversity's most devious mazes. In this regard, Skrala can be seen as cold, and indeed she is not one inclined towards empathy, which too is a product of her difficult life. It is not so much that she actively holds any ill against others, but rather that she is simply incapable of relating to the emotions of others simply due to not having had much contact with people other than her father and traders so winded from journeys and struggles that any elegance of world would long be beaten out of them. Even so, Skrala finds that she would much rather live in the idyllic and infinitely more interesting pace of life characteristic to regular people; a lifestyle she is just now attempting to acclimate herself into. She is also still young and impressionable, and thus does not have much experience in worldly ways.

Hobbies:
Skrala's hobbies are now mostly whatever she wants to try out. She had little luxury to have anything close to a "hobby" before her journey, and most of what she could even remotely classify as hobbies would be better served as skills instead, considering their practical usage.

Currently, Skrala is engrossed with music of any kinds (though as a practitioner she is rather lacking), having experienced little of it beforehand. She is also interested in all things magical, as well as the general bustle and flow of city life. Essentially most anything outside of what she had experienced in her own bubble of an existence would be things she would be interested in enough to practice as hobbies.

Skills:
Survival
Skrala is incredibly hardy in both body and mind. She is completely built around survival against the wild rather than against fellow men. If wizards practice the mystical art of magic, then Skrala practices the wondrous but not at all flashy art of self-sufficient survival that those living in cities would never have learned. She is able to track and hunt down the most elusive of game, set up the soundest of shelters from the shoddiest of materials, and intuitively tell the distinctions between harmful and beneficial flora. She is an expert in using the bow and in stealth maneuvers, though these skills have only been honed against beasts. She is also quite skilled in utilizing daggers, but once again she has only had experience in matters of basic survival such as hunting, skinning, construction, and so on. Skrala is also a quick learner in matters of survival, having been hardened by the harshness of her own environment. As a result, she can easily adapt to foreign conditions and cross apply skills she already knows to the most far flung of wildernesses.

Taming
Skrala is surprisingly good at reading the language of wild animals such as beasts. She can perceive their movements and state of mind, allowing her to avoid them or comfort them. Even beasts that should be unfamiliar to her, such as the strange mounts that many traders rode on, find a kindred soul within Skrala, whose perception in regards to the wild's heart is as piercing as the finest of blades. As a result, she is quite skilled in taming wild beasts, especially if they are more intelligent.

Abilities/combat
Abilities:
Bow and Arrow/Dagger/Hunting/Etc.
Skrala is an expert in using the bow. She uses a longbow and serrated arrowheads designed mostly to take down large beasts. She has no experience in shooting down men, but her innate experience with the bow would allow her to do so at quite a practiced level. Mostly though, Skrala can't be said to have "combat" skills. She is a survivor, not a warrior of any sort. None of her skills have been honed against men, warriors, brutes, and so on. Although many of Skrala's skills, such as her knowledge of deadly flora and wieldiness with the bow and dagger, can be used to be combat abilities, they are inherently survival abilities, and Skrala herself would be hesitant to use them in pursuit of another sentient life.

Weaponry:
Bow and Arrow
A longbow along with thirty arrows in a woven quiver. She can certainly make more arrows, but none of them would have the tempered steel arrowheads that her original thirty arrows possess.

Haderlock Flora
A huge amount of specimens of Harderlock's flora kept in pouches on a belt that Skrala wears. She is knowledgeable about the usage of all of the plants she carries, allowing her to create both medicinal and toxic products out of them. Complements Skrala's arrows well, as their serrated heads are designed to stick into a target, thus causing any poison on the arrows to spread quite deep.

Daggers
Two chipped daggers with worn handles that Skrala mostly uses for practical means.

Weaknesses:
Skrala has absolutely no experience with magic aside from being awed by performances from the occasional trader. She would very much like to practice it, but she has no idea how. As a result, she possesses no means to cast magic of any kind, nor is she familiar with it to recognize its limits and usages. She's also unused to most types of combat at large, as her only experience in life or death struggles is through the hunt. She does not know the range of swords, nor does she know how they are operated. The same can be said with really any man made weapon such as spears and the like. Really, the only weapon she'd be familiar with to a fault would be the bow, but even that knowledge would be much negated against a crossbow, which she has never seen in her life. Her absolute inexperience and unfamiliarity with the world at large, despite granting her immense advantages against the ills of nature, leaves her very susceptible to the malice of human made combat.

Against any real fighter or soldier, Skrala would lose in most cases. She does not have the right mindset and experience to deal with an intense combat situation revolving around war.

Mount:
Thel
An odd beast hailing from the northern edges of Silvestre. So far, none have been really able to identify what kind of monstrosity Thel is, with the name simply being what Skrala calls the thing. It is a repulsive, sinister looking monster that glides along darkness, with a form that seems to waver as if it was darkness manifested. The creature's shape is vaguely reminiscent of a hound, but the similarities end there.

It is a mass of black, rigid flesh that resembles bone. It is quite large, being more than three meters in length and almost a meter in height. The beast's head does not really seem to have a defined shape. Instead it would be more accurate to say the beast's body ends in a gigantic, tubelike mouth with several dozen circular patches cut into it like boils riddling a plague ridden body. Underneath these circular cuts there seems to emanate an ominous red radiance that is sickening to take in. The light must shine from something within the creature's body, and yet one would find that the body is actually empty like a shell.

In fact, calling it a "body" is somewhat misleading in of itself. Rather, its basic appearance is simply the form the creature had from birth and which it chooses to continue to hold simply out of Skrala's wishes. The creature has no defined shape or mass. It's serpentine, hound like figure can morph and twirl and contort freely, shaping itself into any manner of object whether it be creature of item. It's body can also expand and contract with almost supernatural efficiency, allowing the creature to flatten itself out into a huge pancake shape or condense itself into a sphere the size of a basketball.

Most of the monstrosities in Silvestre possess massive strength and magical prowess, but this creature is rather odd in that it seems to be rather on the weaker side of the monster scale. Of course, being weak when compared to the top dogs of Silvestre would be a resounding compliment for the capability of most other monsters. But this creature is by no means outclassed by the regular brutish lot of beasts.

Instead, it is more attune with deceit and the mystical. It can blend its body inside darkness, allowing it to dissipate into an invisible, smoky pitch black form that would be nigh impossible to make out in the night or in any area secluded from light's grace. It is incredibly quick and agile, capable of running up walls and adhering to surfaces like a gecko. Its capability to change its form is also not one that requires much effort, and it can do so rapidly and on the fly, expanding and contracting and twisting and curling while leaping about from wall to wall, making it a difficult target to hit. It's strength is also nothing to scoff at, capable of crushing an unarmed and untrained man into a bloody pulp in a manner of seconds. However, it has difficulty in breaking through hardened flesh and armored targets.

The most distinctive feature of this creature is its tongue. A long, slithering ghostly blue appendage that is prehensile and flexible. It can be shot out rapidly from the body, and can also be morphed into different shapes. The tongue is directly linked to the creature's thoughts, allowing it to transfer its stream of consciousness to those it wishes through piercing others with its tongue. It can also drain thoughts from others or even alter them, allowing it to learn from sentient minds. In its natural state, the creature would have used its tongue to cause potential prey to suffer mental breakdowns due to memories being altered in terrifying manners, but due to it being raised away from its natural environment and in one where it has received more stimulus than a simple desire to survive and reproduce, the creature can use its tongue in more varied and helpful manners, such as in aiding psychological torment, soothing pain, and so on. Due to the complex nature of this organ, the creature is quite intelligent, and can also leech off the knowledge of others to become even more perceptive.

The creature naturally regenerates what it has lost in scuffles over periods of days, but can speed up this process by consuming flesh. To kill the creature, fire or some corrosive substance would be most effective as its malleable body that holds no vitals means that conventional weapons do little to impede it. The creature's disposition is peaceful and reserved with a somewhat shy streak. It is comfortably mostly only around what it considers its mother, which would be Skrala. However, Thel is also a predatory hunter by heart, so it by no means would be hesitant to strike down threats without mercy.

Something like this would be what Thel appears to look like.

Other: None

Name: Vyri Underfoot
Age: 19
Gender: Female
Species: Human

Background

Kingdom of Origin: Nepharie
Parents: Mari Underfoot
Alanan Underfoot

Backstory: Vyri is a servant, or rather, was a servant. The National Academy of Sorcery is a huge institution, and like all huge institutions, has a great deal more below the surface than most are aware of. Dozens of forgotten corridors honeycomb the ancient buildings, forgotten except to the legions of servants, footmen, maids, cooks, deliverymen and other staff without whom the Academy would swiftly grind to a halt.

It is much the same in all of the institutions upon Creation, for every opulent feast there are a dozen cooks sweating over the ovens, for every alchemist’s accident there is a maid scrubbing the soot marks from the walls. They are the people who make the world go round, but they are never particularly important in the grand scheme of things, content simply to go home after a job well done. The world does not rest on their shoulders, and the fate of nations does not depend on their decision. It is, for the most part, a peaceful life.

It is about this time that Vyri is dearly wishing she had never wanted something more. The life of a servant in the Academy of Sorcery is simple. They are well looked after, with adequate servant quarters and pay that is to be expected, plus free access to any leftovers from Academy meals. The Underfoots, as the name suggests, have served at the Academy for as far back as the family can remember. Vyri’s father was a servant, his father was a servant, and his father before him. It was the same for her mother’s family.

Vyri didn’t want that, she wasn’t content, she wanted to leave, to adventure, to live the life her parent’s had never had an interest in. They told her it would just be a phase, to just stay for a little longer. There was not really anywhere for her to go anywhere, they were paid, but not enough that she could simply go adventuring.

It was stupid, how could she have been so stupid? That one decision that changed her life had to be the most foolish thing she had ever done.

The National Academy of Sorcery contains perhaps the premier collection of sorcerous artefacts in the world. Though each of them pales in comparison to Godbane they still represent power unmatched by an private collection. The most powerful artefacts are locked behind sealed portals, access available only to the most senior of the Academy’s mages and the Council themselves.

Other items are kept in various strong rooms, their magic faded or the purpose long since forgotten. Vyri stole one.

How she wishes she could put it back. It appears to be a simple ring made of iron, clearly of magical origin to those with the sense, but with no apparent power of its own. Such is often the case when things are not truly understood. Though the Academy has long forgotten the rings origin, the ring has not. It has lain undisturbed for centuries, even millennia, until finally it found someone to bear it.

Vyri took something that she though would not be missed. She only wanted a thrill, that sense of adventure she was denied within the walls of the Academy. Had she committed her act of rebellion a year earlier then perhaps she would have remained there. Things are changing in Tithe, the dead roam the land, and it has stirred other things that lie just beyond the veil.

The being that dwelt within the ring awoke when she placed it upon her finger, and Eleuril, ancient Sage of the Faefolk, a figure forgotten by history and legend, spoke into her mind.

Vyri is stuck with the ring. She cannot remove it from her finger, try as she might, and she cannot ignore the voice that speaks inside her head. That and it was only a matter of time before someone realised that the ring was missing. She stole what little money she could, and fled the Academy, heading north towards Talbor, following the hordes of the undead.

The ring has its own history. Once a great academic, Eleuril became obsessed with the thought that his knowledge and understanding would be lost and dedicated what remained of his years to prolonging his life indefinitely. The amount of God-blood that would have been required to accomplish such a task would have been impossible to acquire, even so long ago, so he sought other routes, and eventually fell into darker studies, exploring the tenuous link between the soul, the body, and magic. He came across a text, something old even in his time, but preserved far beyond its natural end by the sorcery of its author. It spoke of the soul, and the body, and how to manipulate and separate the two. These petty manipulations and pursuits of power held no interest for the Sage however, he wanted something far simpler, and perhaps far more costly. Though he succeeded in prolonging his life far beyond what it should have been he could still feel his strength seeping away, his life gradually ending. A slip, a misbalance of power, and he ripped his own soul from his body, binding it within the ring he used as a foci. When the Council realised what one of their most prized Sages had been doing they obliterated all record of him, and now only brief mention can be found of him in the footnotes of history, much to his chagrin.

Physical Appearance:

Height: 5'7
Weight: 90lbs
Appearance: Vyri is relatively tall for a servant, standing a slightly gangly 5’7. She has the sort of form that suggests she is wanting of a few square meals, but is rather a product of a hyperactive metabolism instead of a lack of food. She bears the typical complexion of those of Nepharie, swarthy, though only particularly dark when exposed to the sun for long periods of time. Her hair is dark, too frizzy, and usually pulled back into a ponytail for convenience.

Her eyes are large, green, and not unattractive, though often too expressive. She’s not a natural liar, and catching her off guard can often lead to her giving away the truth through her expression.

She was raised a servant, has lived as a servant, and, in her mind, will probably die a servant. She has that uncanny knack that servants acquire of simply fading into the foreground, being so much a part of the situation that they are almost unnoticeable. She walks hunched over, trying to make herself as small as possible, even more so in the time since she stole the ring, terrified of what might happen should someone discover what she hides beneath her gloves.
Attire: Solid and serviceable clothing is the order of the day for Vyri, with a long dress of cheap woollen cloth covered by an apron. She has acquired a cheap second hand cloak of heavy, faded wool and a pair of leather gloves that she rarely takes off in company.

Personality:

Personality: The spark of adventure is still alight in Vyri, she loves to visit new places and meet new people, and has an almost insatiable curiosity when it comes to either of those subjects, perhaps to the point of annoyance. With that spark of adventure comes a rebellious streak, and she has an embarrassing (for her parents) habit of answering back, with little patience for arrogance, especially in her ‘superiors’. Still, there is a part of her that regrets the road she has taken, and wishes that she could simply go home to her parents, to the life that was a lot simpler and a lot safer, without a sarcastic, grouch fairy in her head.

She doesn’t want fame, or recognition, and will happily pass the credit onto others if they want it. It helps that she has no desire to draw attention to herself, fearful that the Academy will find her and remove the ring by force, as every other technique she has tried has failed. Other than her habit of arguing with arrogant noble children she is mostly a kind and patient soul, though her patience is wearing thin now that her own head is not private. She has a tendency to irritability of late, though it is not her true nature.

She can be sarcastic, and has a rather sarcastic sense of humour, as well as a somewhat pessimistic outlook on life. Since taking the ring everything seems to have become a lot more complex and difficult, and she really sees no reason why it would possibly get any better.

Eleuril is equally as sarcastic, making them the perfect match. He is bad tempered though, and has none of her patience, especially for her and her unwillingness to allow him to use magic. He is cantankerous and ill-tempered, with little time for the foolish and even less time for those he considers beneath him, which fits just about everyone short of royalty. He does however, have some enjoyment of the debates of magic and magical theories with others of sufficient understanding. Unfortunately Vyri is not someone of sufficient understanding.
Hobbies: The life of a servant, even in the Academy of Sorcery is hardly filled with thrills, and having long since grown out of childish games she has instead acquired a taste for games of the mind, riddles and such.
Skills: Vyri was raised the daughter of a footman and a cook, and as such has acquired a number of skills from both. Though she would not be ready to serve food at a banquet, she knows her way around a cooking fire and can recognise and make use of natural herbs and seasonings. She also knows all she could ever need to know about maintaining cooking equipment, including sharpening knives, which could be extended to weaponry, though it is unlikely any warrior would let her near their sword.

She is also a gifted needlewoman, when clothing is supposed to last a long time you become accustomed to repairing tears and even adding simple embroidery. She could not match the skill of a professional tailor, but has an undeniable talent.

Abilities/Combat:
Abilities: As a servant, Vyri is comfortable blending into crowds, even in places she shouldn’t be, taking advantage of the fact that most of the higher classes wouldn’t even deign to notice her presence, let alone question it.

Eleuril however, is a very different matter. An ancient Sage, he remembers magic that has long since been forgotten, and is capable of wielding potent sorceries from eons past. Unfortunately, the fact that it is no longer his body means that his abilities are incredibly reduced from their great heights, and a Sage who once would have dwarfed even members of the Council is now brought down to what he considers a demeaning level.

When Vyri grants Eleuril permission to wield his powers then he effectively takes over control of her body, she can take it back, albeit it can take some effort. She also still retains some limited degree of control even after the fact, for example interfering with any spells or gestures he may make, throwing his aim or the predicted effect wildly off. It is possible that the two could come to something of a compromise, though neither is anywhere near such an event. His presence behind the spells becomes more or less apparent depending on the level of power they require. It can vary from simple incantations in which his control will simply cause her face to take on an expression of complete serenity, to mighty spells in which the presence of the Fae sage is tangible, even visible, a faint shadowy figure surrounding her, mimicking her movements.

The first element Eleuril mastered was that of air, long before he became a Sage, and it is still the element which comes to him easiest. It could be called instinctive, if it weren’t for instincts being long since forgotten along with his mortal remains. He is capable of a whole multitude of feats, from the simple task of an unexplained wind casting aside arrows, to more complex weavings that could pull the air from about a target, leaving them to gasp desperately at the vacuum that now surrounds them. He can shape the air about Vyri’s limbs, allowing her to move far more swiftly than she would otherwise be able to, and even achieve the same effect with allies should he wish, while hindering the motions of opponents. A simple application of basic meteorology also allows him to generate lightning bolts, hurling them like an angry god.

Though as a Sage he has an understanding and mastery of the other elements, and it is this that truly proves his greatest weapon. He was a learner first and foremost, someone who sought the deepest secrets of magic and wished to understand the workings of the world itself. As such he has a talent for understanding the spells of others, for deconstructing them and redirecting them. Though this can theoretically be applied to any spell, it isn’t much use if it is hurtling at Vyri at speed, greater workings, or enchantments however, will swiftly receive the scalpel like curiosity of his mind.
Weaponry: A handful of knives for preparing food, a frying pan, and a saucepan, in as much as they can be quantified as weapons. She also has a small sewing kit, and though thread is hardly lethal, the needles are wickedly sharp.
Weaknesses: Vyri is no warrior, she is a servant. Any fight with someone of actual skill will lead to her loss without a severe handicap to her opponent, and even then, she’d have to be lucky. Also, although the magical abilities Eleuril can wield through her would best most living sorcerer’s she has little fondness for them, disliking the sensation of being worn that comes with the ancient Sage’s will. He seems to require her permission in order to utilise magic, or at least has so far shown no ability to override her own free will, or no reason to.
Mount:

Other: