Occupation: Rightful heir to the throne of Varyon & leader of the Fangs, the most powerful rebel group opposed to Dagon, which operates in the wilderness of Varyon, amid the vast forests and vales of the Godsfang Mountains.
Religion: A nominal worshipper of the Little Sisters, the trio of goddesses whose cult was widely followed in Varyon before the coming of Dagon. They were taken to be patrons of the Varyonite Monarchy.
Nationality/Nation Description The Highland Clans of the Wounded Mountain
The northern part of the Godsfang Mountains surrounding Varyon is home to a particular peak named the Wounded Mountain. Its name is derived from the majestic glacier that extends down its frosty slopes, which assumes a deep red coloration near the top that narrows down into trickling streams or veins of red inside the ice until finally petering out to indistinguishable fibers. Seen from afar, it would appear that the mountain carries a mortal wound, perpetually bleeding. The glacier and mountainside feed into a lower plateau where the air is cool and game is rich in the dark pine forests dominating the zone. In its center is a sizeable, cold lake with fresh mountain water whose taste carries a hint of iron.
The region is large enough to provide ample living space for multiple little hamlets that have sprung up around the lake and elsewhere underneath the protective boughs of the ancient pine woods. Often referred to as clans, the villages are mostly just isolationist communities who chose a life away from the hustle and bustle of the southern kingdoms. That said they did not completely break contact when they built their settlements, and frequently send trade caravans down the mountain to barter for products they have difficulty producing themselves and supplying high quality lumber, iron, steel and artisanal goods in return.
The mountainfolk gradually adopted a new religion centered on the Iron God, a nameless, formless deity that apparently dwells in any and all iron – including that in the blood. To outsiders it would seem that this faith is the result of minds addled by decades of consumption of their strange tasting water which, judging by the glacier’s appearance cannot be healthy. And perhaps these outsiders have a point, but no missionaries who tried showing them the path to another religion were ever truly successful in toppling their beliefs. Although the Iron God does not truly have a church or a clerical organization, there is an old temple high atop the icy mountain, near the glacier’s origin, where a handful of ascetic monks and the sage – their leader – live in isolation from even the isolated hamlets. Generally seen as aloof by almost everyone, their council and their blessings are often sought by mountainfolk who would ask for mediators in difficult disputes, blessings for their children or fortune in battle. Rumor has it that the monks know a secret path that leads inside the glacier’s heart, to where the mountain’s blood flows free and undiluted, yet none could confirm that rumor to this day, nor has anyone ever found out where exactly this “blood” comes from. Some take the name quite literally and assume that the mountain is alive and sentient, and indeed has a wound from which blood flows as from any man’s wound. Others assume that it is not the mountain proper but something inside of it. Something old and nameless that is trapped or buried underneath the glacier and keeps bleeding into it.
When God Emperor Dagon IV rose to power and crushed the adjacent kingdoms, it was only a matter of time until his inhuman legions would climb the Godsfang Mountains and invade the plateau surrounding the Wounded Mountain. And so they did, leaving naught but misery, smoke and ashes in their wake. Survivors tell of a particular village by the lakeside that took the brunt of the assault and which was pillaged and raped over a matter of multiple days. So great was their misery that the sage in the mountain temple could watch no more and did the inconceivable: he drank the mountain’s blood, greedily, until his body could take no more. The rest is highly speculative and highly exaggerated, but as the tale goes, the entire plateau echoed with the alien screams that boomed down from the frozen peak of the Wounded Mountain, as if some antediluvian demon had been roused from its slumber. A formless monster composed of rage and blood descended upon the lakeside, obliterating any of the invaders that stood in its way and routing the rest into the woods where it followed them and murdered them one by one. Those who claim they had seen the beast can no longer be considered sane of mind, their account made dubious, but it is true that the great sage no longer dwells among the monks, and they speak no more of what happened on that day.
Occupation Vagrant Warrior
Religion The Iron God
Belief in the nameless Iron God is restricted mostly to the small northern region around what is known as the Wounded Mountain. According to the lore, the god is not only nameless but also faceless; he is in everything that is iron, most obviously the ore found in the earth and mountains, but also in the blood. That there is power in iron ore and thus weapons is uncontested (who would argue, after all, that might does not make right?) but believers hold that by drinking blood and/or eating the raw flesh of things, they can acquire part of that being’s power, while others say one simply gains the Iron God’s favor. Either way, the ritual eating of their enemies is widely spread among the mountain folk in this region, a practice that used to be considered barbaric by the more civilized kingdoms to the south in the old days. Eat your enemy and you eat his strength, so the saying goes.
Appearance Ask a hundred men to picture a woman, and you will hear a hundred different descriptions – but none will fit Serilda. She is tall, almost uncannily so, easily standing shoulder to shoulder with most men. Her face a perpetual grimace veering between pained anger and a disapproving frown. Even a stranger will recognize that no smile has graced her colorless lips in what must be years. Where her left eye should be there is only a dirtied, brown bandage from underneath which a trail of old, caked blood paints her unwashed cheek, past the puckered mouth and down to the chin. The remaining eye, encircled by a dark tone and amber in color, stares cautiously, perhaps disdainfully from one corner to the other, always watching for danger, for something to kill. Her head is crowned by a wild mane of unkempt black hair whose tips end just above her chest.
A coarse, dark gray linen hood covers her head and hair at most times to shelter her from the weather and shelter others from the displeasure of seeing her more clearly. The hood itself is part of a wide cape, embellished by a simple coiling pattern of black lines, which is slung around her shoulders, concealing a large part of the armor that she wears underneath. A harness made of hard boiled leather protects the chest and abdomen, while plate gauntlets protect her hands, forearm and elbow and additional plates which form part of her well-worn boots cover her kneecaps and shins. The rest of her arms and legs are clothed in simple, faded hemp fabric that looks to have stiffened with layers upon layers of dried sweat and blood. A simple necklace produced from animal sinew, pieces of bone and wood hangs around her neck. Various utility pouches and bags are fastened to her belt containing a variety of necessities like compact food, bandages, rope, a whetstone and more. When travelling from place to place, she additionally carries a decently sized knapsack on her back and underneath the cape, bearing supplies for herself and her companion for the journey.
Personality In a world of monsters, only a monster can thrive.
At a glance, Serilda is cold, gloomy and full of bitterness. Although her demeanor can be offputting, she is not one to reject the company of others if they appear trustworthy. She may not reveal much about herself or her companion, but is willing to at least be a good listener to anyone who shares her manic hatred for Emperor Dagon and his fiends. Catch her on a good day and give her a strong drink and maybe she is willing to tell a story or two. For the most part, however, it appears Serilda is too absorbed in her own sorrows to care much for life – except, of course, towards the one person in the world she cares about, more so than for herself.
Nitsa, her fourteen year old daughter, is the only reason Serilda has not yet thrown away her life by doing a death march to Kuranes. To those who merely know Serilda as a stone cold butcher of all that is evil, it comes as nigh a shock to see her being warm, tender and caring when interacting with her child. In truth, the lass is the source of her every emotion. She is the reason she can feel warmth and happiness, and she is the reason for her constant depression. An unknown amount of years prior, Nitsa bore witness and possibly became subject to such heinous events that they have traumatized her. Ever since, she’s not spoken a single word and is deathly afraid of everything besides her own mother. Serilda fears that her daughter may never recover, may never speak or laugh or love in her young life. That fate would spare her child only to cast it down with madness is the true reason why Serilda has given up on her humanity and decided to become just another monster in a world of monsters.
Understandably, her outlook in life is bleak – she is pessimistic, distrustful, hopeless and if there is any humor left in her it is of a deeply cynical sort. That said her sober view of the world has made her very conscientious. She’s honest, having nothing worth lying for. She’s industrious and pragmatic, seemingly channeling her frustration into physical labor and exercise. When she’s not training her skills or her body, or caring after her daughter, she is most likely doing work of some other kind like chopping fire wood, maintaining equipment or preparing food. Although she is brave to the point of recklessness, she has also become extremely stubborn and set in her ways. The only one who could conceivably talk her out of a given course of action would be Nitsa, and she speaks no more. Fortunately, at least, she still values living more than dying a hero’s death, if just to continue protecting her fragile child.
Secretly she harbors the dubious hope that Dagon’s death by her hand will cure Nitsa of her mental ailment.
**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**
Story
Serilda’s earliest memory is of soldiers, laughing and drinking on an open field covered in tents. The band of the Valiant Heart was a well-respected group of mercenaries operating in the kingdoms of Varyon, Aldebaran and other nearby nations, never taking a political side and simply fighting for whoever happened to offer the best deal at the time. One summer they might be skirmishing against Aldebaran’s forces, trying to disrupt their attempts at conquest, the next they might be laying siege to a fortress in Varyon and indeed, rarely, they were simply asked to raid and pillage some nation’s countryside to ruin their harvest. They cared little for honor and even less about tomorrow. So long as kings and nobles could fund their merrymaking, their drinking and their whoring, they would fight anything and anyone.
Not everyone was a warrior, however. Many travelled with them as part of their entourage; friends and family, plenty of loose women, the occasional priest (especially if they brought some barrels of beer), blacksmiths, carpenters and more. In a way, the mercenary camp was just some farmlands shy of being an autonomous village. Only the laughter of children was practically unheard of in camp – it simply was no place for the young ones. Loud, vulgar, violent, filled with people unfit to be responsible parents. This is where Serilda grew up, the only child raised by a soldier of the Valiant Heart.
Her father, Armin, was no exception to the rule. Instead of playing when she was a child, Serilda was instead made to polish weapons, sort equipment in the barracks and cleaning out whatever mess the men left behind. Not that there had been any other children to play with anyway. To say he was unloving would be too harsh a criticism, but it was true that he was needlessly stern with his girl. Most thought that it was simply his nature. A man who lived and died by the sword had little patience for weakness or negligence. Others, however, claim that he would have much preferred a son to a daughter, and thus decided to raise her as one. Armin never spoke of Serilda’s mother, at least not to his daughter, and the other soldiers would claim ignorance all the same. To this day, Serilda has no idea whose womb she had sprung from. Was some kind of tragedy and love involved? Was it simply another whore? The truth would most likely forever stay with Armin in his grave.
One winter, while the band was laying siege to a Varyon fortress, Armin took a nasty arrow wound to his thigh that left him bedridden for days. Even though the wound itself was nothing too severe at first, it became concerning when even a week later it was still filling up with pus. A priest who was helping treat the wounded said that something must have gotten in the blood, that it was a bad omen. He tried to ease Armin’s pain as best he could, but alas he could only pray for a safe journey in the afterlife when the soldier passed away. A ten year old girl cried over the dead body of the man who never once told her that he loved her.
Having little choice in where else to go, Serilda remained with the soldiers who, surprisingly, took care of her. She had been part of the camp for so long that they could almost not imagine how it had been without ‘that lass’. The older she became as a teenager, the more they began treating her like a sort of girly brother. With fifteen they let her drink with them, sharing bottles over a long night, though she would often pass out much more quickly than the others. There were some who thought to take advantage of her but most were upstanding and forbade it, not only those who had been friends with Armin. Merrymaking or not, however, her chores remained much the same for some years – cleaning, sorting, supplying. Helping to treat wounds was added to the list when she was no longer a child. She would, out of her own volition, pester her comrades to teach her their ways and thus received sporadic and rudimentary battle training and exercise. They mostly did it to humor her, not thinking that a woman was cut out for actually fighting. Besides, giving her a bruise or two with a dull-edged training sword always made for great taunting material when next they drank.
It wasn’t until her late teens, early twenties that she became more earnest in her training. When she did what they did, and began outdoing them, the others began to take notice. She ran laps around the entire camp until she collapsed. Pulled herself up tree branches until her arms were too worn out to lift a tankard. She watched her brothers train and imitated what they did, seeking to at least match if not outdo their routine. When she actually beat Hairy Gustaf in arm wrestling at twenty-one years of age, though drunk as he might have been, her brothers agreed to take her seriously and train her like they would if she’d been a man. Told her that she would not receive extra treatments, not for her sake and not for Armin’s. She agreed and a great toast was had all around camp.
For the next three to four years she was rigorously exercised in swordplay, archery, running in armor, spear throwing, the theory of operating siege engines and of course the fundamentals of battle strategy and warfare. Although she was told that she would not be receiving any special treatment, this was in fact a bit of a lie. Only, instead of going lightly on her, they instead decided to push her extra hard after they had seen that she was not struggling enough after a year – and she still wasn’t, or at least not enough to fall behind. As a result, in a little under half a decade she was able to handily match and defeat over half the camp in sparring, could run farther and longer than most on account of her lighter frame and had a kind of hardheaded determination that not even Armin had.
With twenty-six they took her on her first battle; a raid on an Aldebaran supply convoy headed to reinforce their latest land grab into some adjacent kingdom. The defenders were heavily laden with supplies, unprepared for battle and in a weak formation, marching in a column. By all rights it was an easy battle and the mercenaries, who had laid an ambush, crushed and routed the Aldebarans in no time. To the men, a great victory and a reason to celebrate, but Serilda felt different that evening. She shook all night, drank little and spoke even less. Sparring with some friendly banter was one thing, but looking a man in the eye as he bled out onto your blade, well, that was entirely another. They humored her for it, mocked her for getting scared by a bit of bloodshed, but she knew they had been no different when they had first killed a man. It was not only disgusting but also morally questionable to kill with so little hesitation. Her comrades, however, reminded her that the food she ate, the beer she drank and the clothes she wore were all paid for in blood. Life without regrets at the expense of others – that was the mercenary way, after all.
After this, she continued campaigning with them for a few years, eventually getting used to the bloodshed but never liking it. Part of her wondered if they had been right all along, that this was not a life cut out for a woman. It was also at this time that she realized that, in spite of approaching thirty years of age she was in fact still a virgin, had never experienced anything close to love. Life was passing her by quickly, and all the while she had pretended to be a man for all intents and purposes. It was a good life, but it was not for her in the end. On her thirtieth anniversary she announced her decision to leave the band and settle down, much to the disappointment of many. They respected her choice and supported it, but lamented that the camp would feel awfully empty without their special little flower around. The company leader, a lion of a man called Hagan, saw fit to see her leave with a hefty payment as a sign of farewell and her close friends among the soldiers also pitched in to see her off well to her new life. With a teary face she left camp that day, often looking back and wondering if she had made the right decision.
Shortly thereafter Serilda settled down in Varyon in one of the larger cities where few would bother asking where she’d come from. She met an old lady whose house, which was relatively spacious, was now awfully empty after her husband had died and the children all left their home. The lady was willing to rent some of the now derelict rooms to Serilda for practically a token payment, and so it was done. More than just live there, Serilda helped to keep the house in shape and repaired some of the more dilapidated parts that the old woman had no way of fixing on her own. She was surprised that a lass was so apt with a hammer and so strong, but never received a straight answer. Better if she did not know – Serilda could not know for sure that she or at least her company hadn’t gutted one of her boys sometime in the past. It was a good thing too that the old woman asked so little money from Serilda because she had difficulty finding a job; she was completely unfit for any of the work women did and not being considered for any of the work men did. The savings and goodbye gifts from the band would last her years as it was.
Two years later she met a tradesman from the northern mountains by pure chance, peddling his goods on the market square. He was a lad by the name of Justus, a handful of years her junior by the looks of him and even though she was only perusing his wares at the time she could not help but notice that he had been staring at her the entire time, even after she’d moved on. Later when she confronted him, he stumbled over his words, more than a little embarrassed, admitting that he had never seen a woman like her in all his life, and he’d seen many folks. It was true, there was no woman in town who was as tall or as muscular as her. As if he had not embarrassed himself enough already, he then asked her if she’d like to see him again later when the market stalls close up. It caught Serilda so off guard – she’d never been asked out before – that she simply laughed and blushed. Justus quickly apologized but, to his surprise, she agreed. That afternoon, waiting for the sun to lay low, she felt more nervous than she ever had facing a battlefield full of men who wanted to kill her. It was also the first of two times in her life that she had her hair dressed up as anything other than a wild, free flowing mess.
They spent the evening together, having fun and getting to know each other. Justus was the first person she’d opened up to and told of her past as a mercenary which would explain her unusual stature and demeanor. He actually knew the band by name too, saying that where he came from it was not unusual for men wander southwards to serve as mercenaries for a while, only to return years later and share tales of their glory. Justus told her of his home, the isolated hamlets of the Wounded Mountain, and Serilda told him of her days as a brother to the band of the Valiant Heart. They talked and laughed until the sun came up again, and he was significantly more drunk than her. He stayed for a few more days before business called on him to move on again and with a heavy heart he left town, promising to return on his way back to the mountains.
When he did, he found that Serilda had already packed her things and was ready to leave. After he wondered where to, she said she wanted to travel with him. There was nothing for her to do in this town either way, and a travelling merchant was bound to need some protection during these trying times. Her decision came as a shock to him but he was overjoyed to have some company on his journeys. Serilda left some of her savings with the old lady as thanks, making sure she would not succumb to poverty on her own and left town for good.
The next few years were the most peaceful and blissful Serilda’s ever known. When the two of them were not travelling in Varyon to sell goods from the mountain hamlets, they lived in the latter, in a particular village by the lakeside, surrounded by ancient pine woods. It was an idyllic and quiet place, only sometimes disturbed by rows between men or children, or in the worst case an animal going berserk and attacking a man. The people in particular were oddly welcoming of her; usually such villages were distrustful of outsiders, but the natives told her that these hamlets were founded by people like her, folk who’d come from outside and were looking for a quiet place to call home. Here in this village even more so than in the bustle of Varyon’s town where she lived before, Serilda realized that she had no idea how to talk to women her age. Their lives had been entirely different to hers, they shared almost no experiences. As a result she spent more time with the men with whom she chatted while helping them chop up lumber or smelting iron from the nearby mines. At least she did until she bore Justus a child: Nitsa, a lovely little girl.
Serilda didn’t want Nitsa to have the same kind of childhood that she had endured and so she spoiled the girl as well she could, asking the other local women to help her manage. Years went by and Nitsa turned into a playful little rascal who seemed to be taking after her mother in height. It filled Serilda with unprecedented pride that she had given life instead of taking it and she often teared up watching her daughter sleep.
During her time among the mountain folk she learned more about their customs and their faiths. In particular she observed a coming of age ritual among the men which they called the Hardening. Every spring, a handful of young men decided it was time to stop being children and become full adults by undergoing the Hardening, for which they make pilgrimage to the high temple far above in the mountains near the red glacier’s peak. There they spend a full year with the monks and the old sage who teach them ancient methods in training specific muscles in their body, in suppressing pain, in gaining harmony of body and soul. As their belief is that the god of iron dwells in the blood, the saying goes that “Men go to the sage filled with iron, but they return filled with steel”. The Hardening is amongst the primary reasons why mountainfolk warriors are so fierce combatants and make such fine mercenaries. As it turned out, Justus was one of the few who did not undergo the rite and was often looked down upon by men who did, though few wanted to get into trouble with Serilda and so only did it when she was not around. The perceived shame Justus bore grew even greater, however, when Serilda became the first – and only – woman to ever make pilgrimage to the temple. The monks were quite perturbed when a woman showed up and demanded to undergo the Hardening and refused at first, but the sage reminded them that the tradition was never decreed to be exclusive to men. He deemed her fit of body and mind and accepted her into their tutelage. A year went by and they turned a now forty year old Serilda into a woman whose veins coursed with liquid steel. As a gesture of respect and token of good luck, the sage handed Serilda a flask of undiluted mountain blood, warning her not to even consider touching without diluting it. If ever trouble should find her, she had only mix a few droplets into a tankard of water and drink it. The rest would follow.
One had only look southwards to see that trouble was indeed approaching. It was now 3 years after Dagon IV had become the monster he is today and although the mountains were thus far spared, tales of horror swept the land and merchants travelled out to Varyon no more. Everyone knew that their peace would not last forever, but where were they to go? The steppes beyond the mountains were fabled to be inhabited by bloodthirsty savages, the desert kingdoms known to be a place inhospitable to life and the kingdoms were doomed. It was a time of fear and worry. Men sharpened their swords and axes, women worried and clutched their babes. Serilda did both.
Years of anxiety gnawed at the people who watched Dagon devour one kingdom after the next, village by village. It wouldn’t be until two years after Serilda’s Hardening that Dagon’s soldiers would finally climb the mountain slopes and invade the old forests near the Wounded Mountain. The mountain men had ample time to prepare for this day and gave them hell; traps, ambushes, skirmishes, the once quiet woodland became a killing grounds where men killed another with abandon and hatred in their hearts. Yet their attempts did nothing but delay the inevitable. Too numerous, too inhuman were Aldebaran’s soldiers to be stopped by a few dozen angry men. By the time that the defense was broken, the soldiers were out of their minds with anger at the bloodbath they had to endure in that forest, but the villages – the villages would pay the price for their menfolk’s bravery.
The great pillage lasted for days, almost none of the villagers survived it, women and children included. By the time that the mountain sage had sacrificed his humanity to save what was left, it was far too late. The less said about these tragic events the better; suffice to say that Dagon’s monstrosities stole from Nitsa her childhood, joy and some teeth and from Serilda they stole a husband, the ability to feel mercy as well as an eye. After they had been routed by whatever it is that the sage has become, Serilda and her daughter spent five arduous years surviving in the wilds of the mountains, avoiding mutant beasts, starvation, disease and marauding men and monsters. Five long years of bitter survival and bitterer violence. The woman who once despised killing men and gave up a career of doing so now butchered gladly and gratuitously if these men were guilty of destroying her life. Nitsa barely recognized her mother, and she barely recognized her daughter. They held on to one another all the same, survivors of the end of their world.
It was at this point that the two women happened upon a chance encounter in the misty woods of the Godsfang Mountains: they met the Scarred King and his band of insurgent warriors. To say that Serilda had the capacity for trust would be a gross overstatement, but something about the King’s speech moved her. Her desire for change, for a chance to fight back in earnest and make a difference, mixed with a looming sense of nostalgia for her younger years when she saw a camp full of warriors with tight bonds convinced a now 47 year old Serilda to join his ranks. In truth she’s become too jaded to care for the world anymore; if she died in battle it would not faze her, but her daughter deserves better, deserves the life that was stolen from her. So to give her daughter the gift of a world worth living in, Serilda fights, fights until Dagon and every last bit of his filth has been cleansed from the face of the earth.
Equipment • Cleaving Sword The cleaving sword is a local oddity, used primarily by the tribes near the Wounded Mountain. Although it is technically a sword, it is used more like a halberd than anything else. The most unusual part of this weapon is its abnormally long handle which measures just about 70cm (27.5 inch) and is made of hard, heavy oak wood. The grip is wrapped in hemp rope to provide a better grasp. Affixed atop the long handle is a 90cm (35.5 inch) long, straight and 15cm (6 inch) wide blade with a single edge and which narrows down to a point at the tip. At the bottom of the blade, a rudimentary iron cross guard is in place. Typical use of this weapon involves chopping motions in an attempt to dismember opponents (very effective on horse legs), although the pointed tip allows the weapon to be used as a heavy spear as well.
• Hand Axe Intended as a tool, not a weapon, this hand axe has a length of 45cm (17.4 inch) and features a simple iron head while the handle is made from sturdy oak wood. Largely used to chop wood, but if it can split a log it can split a skull, can it not?
• Flint and Steel A chunk of flint stone and a small, irregular block of steel to start fires.
• Knife A small, iron knife not intended for combat.
• Whetstone A worn whetstone to keep all of her blades sharp.
• Oil Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.
• Rope About 9 meters (30 feet) of hemp rope.
• Blankets Four rolls of wool cloth that can be used as sleeping mats and blankets.
• Bandages A few old rolls of coarse linen cloth that can be used to treat wounds.
• Curative Salve A herbal salve with a strong, alcoholic smell contained in a small wooden jar.
• Blood of the Mountain A sealed iron flask containing about half a liter of undiluted blood from the Wounded Mountain’s glacier. Can be mixed into water in small quantities to create a sort of battle potion that increases aggression and lowers inhibitions, or be ingested pure… even if the consequences might be catastrophic.
Skills • Devour the Strength of thy Foe Most civilized folk would easily dismiss the old mountainfolk claim that blood and flesh is power, and thus eating it strengthens the self. But perhaps there is truth to the ramblings of the old folk, or perhaps it is a property unique to these people whose bodies and minds have been addled by generations of living near the infected waters of the Wounded Mountain. Wherever the truth might lurk, it cannot be denied that the mountain tribes can whip themselves into an unearthly battle rage if they gorge themselves on the taste and smell of fresh blood. If the legends are true, then they can even gain a portion of their prey’s strength by eating them.
• No Hatred is greater than Mine There can be no doubt that most free men and women hate Emperor Dagon IV with a passion, but there is a difference still between their unbridled hatred, and the violent turmoil that boils in Serilda’s heart. It has deadened her sense of mercy or compassion. Anyone and anything that she even suspects of being tainted by the emperor can expect to fight or flee for their life. While this makes her a ruthless and efficient killer in battle that leaves no loose ends, it can be a liability all the same. She makes no prisoners, does not differentiate between voluntary and forced servitude, absolutely does not negotiate and has no interest in liberating slaves or improving the state of the world.
Motivation Wants to kill Dagon and everyone related to him, willingly or unwillingly. She has no interest in liberating others, or improving their lives. She cares only for the total destruction of Dagon and his taint, wherever and in whomever it might be. Revenge is the likely motive.
As a minor motivation, she also hopes that Dagon’s death will cure her daughter of her trauma, though this is doubtful and she knows it.
Name Nitsa
Race Human
Appearance Taking after her mother, Nitsa is taller than the average fourteen year old girl and more akin to what a boy her age might be. In spite of this she appears very diminutive, instinctively sagging her shoulders and lowering her head to lower her profile. Her dreamy eyes also have the same color as her mother’s, but unlike her she keeps hers constantly cast downwards, regardless whether or not she is currently working on something in her lap. Almost nobody knows that behind her soft, pursed lips she is missing two teeth. She keeps her dark auburn hair at chin length, trimming it herself when necessary. Years of a life in the wilderness have not been kind to her, she is meager and dirty, but not altogether malnourished.
Her clothing is plain, a simple brown linen dress with dull white overlays that would be common in any peasant community in the lands. The most expensive thing on her might be her boots, which are of solid quality and keep her feet comfortable and warm even on daunting marches. She wears a self-made necklace from natural materials (sinew, wood, feather and bone) and a bracelet of similar make on her right wrist. A travelling bag is slung around her shoulder and rests comfortably at her side, containing some food and drink, a handful of personal affects (a doll from her childhood) and materials and tools necessary for knitting yarn and working with fabrics in general (knitting needles, scissors).
Personality Nitsa has closed herself off to the world; something unspeakable must have occurred to her in the unknown past and it defines her very being. Ever since that incident, she speaks no more. She’s not stupid, understands others perfectly well and communicates as well as possible without words, but simply refuses to talk. Often it’s not an issue because she is incredibly afraid of everything foreign, a disposition that makes her disinclined from conversing with others anyway. There are only two things she is not frightened by: her mother, and children below her own age. While her travels rarely take her to children, she has shown a real knack for getting along with them, speaking to them on a more primal level than mere words can convey. She could sit down and play with any child and gain its trust in a heartbeat. Perhaps this is because she herself has remained somewhat childlike in spite of her growing age, playing with a doll every now and again, sleeping in her mother’s embrace and seeking her approval on everything. A part of her wishes she could be this open towards adults too, but every time she sees one a knot forms in her stomach and she feels insurmountable dread and panic.
For the most part she keeps to herself, is shy and reserved and bothers no one. Similar to how her mother tries to forget through physical labor and exercise, Nitsa tries to forget through creating new and pretty things using cloth or impromptu jewelry. Often she can be found sitting by herself, knitting something of her own design or repairing a piece of clothing she or her mother wears. Deep down, there is a Nitsa who wants to be happy and live the life she was meant to have, but the shadow of dread has completely engulfed this version of her, hiding and muting it.
Name: Hadar Mizrahi - The Scholar Swordsmaster - Hadar the Windwalker. Age: 40 Gender: Male Race:Human Nationality: Nomad of the Sand Kingdoms
The Sand Kingdoms are less a collection of monarchies as they are a vast expanse of dust, stone and sand, buffeted by wind and scorched by the sun populated by warmongers and warrior tribes. Thousands of years ago the desert peoples have studied alchemy, astronomy and mathematics, and have erected mystifying structures in the sands of their homelands. In the times now, they are a far cry from the once genial people, eager to trade and share with outsiders, and are now a region with such a long history of harsh conflict and grudges held. Bitter, bloody war of centuries-old transgressions is common among the Sand Kingdoms; the insurmountable pride of its people the only thing stronger than the harsh conditions of living in such a barren land. The arrival of Dagon of Aldebaran has been met with mixed feelings by the inhabitants of the Sand Kingdoms. Many warlords join the Aldebarans in return for power and conquest, while others resist him for the same reason, all the same, the people die.
Occupation: Wanderer Religion: The Pursuit of Knowledge
Hadar's calling is arguably the simplest- the pure pursuit of knowledge of any kind. Hadar is not satisfied unless he has learned at least something new each day, and as a result scours the world for books he can read, people who can teach, and things he can learn. This knowledge is not limited to scholarly learning either- Hadar also has interest in learning different forms of swordplay, different types of cuisine, dialects. In particular Hadar has the desire to explore the world to rediscover the lost and dying arts of the world.
Appearance: A tall and lean man, Hadar is a man in his prime. His posture is decidedly casual, but his build is obviously of one used to travelling. His coarse, dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, his tanned skin is set off by his hazel eyes, his beard is rough, but maintained, and his mouth is often curled into a wry grin. His body is marked by numerous scars, the most obvious of which crosses his face. His garb is comprised of white and purple robes, loose fitting and easy to move in, and of the traditional Old Sand Kingdoms style. However, during his time outside the Sand Kingdoms, Hadar occasionally dons leather and steel to protect himself.
Personality: Confident and charismatic, Hadar appears outwardly jovial and warm-hearted. His lazy and carefree demeanor, combined with his near perpetual times of thought is occasionally mistaken for a lack of spacial awareness and carelessness. Underneath his relaxed persona lies an innate brilliance, a highly intuitive and calculative mind. Highly perceptive and logical, Hadar shows an almost insatiable appetite for knowledge and learning of any kind, be it scholarly or practical to the point that his lazy and carefree demeanor is broken by a manic, almost obsessive disposition when presented with relics or tomes that are magical in nature. Despite his lazy demeanor, Hadar is a dedicated scholar boasting considerable knowledge of geography, mathematics, and alchemical theory. Hadar possesses a well developed moral compass, and can be fairly protective of his students.
History:
Hadar was born the second son to a petty warmonger in the lawless wastes of the Sand Kingdoms. Of his many siblings, only Hadar and his older brother lived past their childhood. His childhood was tumultuous and chaotic, their tribe wasn’t large enough to control any of the major remaining settlements, and were stuck constantly waging war against the other small tribes for the desert’s rapidly dwindling resources. As soon as he could walk he was put to work, gathering what little plant matter there was and helping out his family and other tribe members however he could. As a youth, Hadar was forced to the sword in order to fight for his family and for their collective survival.
As Hadar and his brother grew older, they were brought along with their father and the other men of the warband as they raided and skirmished with other tribes for control of water and resources. As their father and the other men waged battle against the warriors of the other tribes, Hadar and the other youths would make a beeline for the opposing tribe’s valuables: water, food, livestock; and steal them. As Hadar and his brother grew older they were taught in the way of the blade in order to further aid their tribe.
Showing considerable promise as a swordsman, Hadar proved to be quite competent with a blade, and would eventually be regarded as one of the most talented swordsmen in the tribe. He showed considerable promise as a combatant and joined the ranks of his tribe’s warriors. Extremely proud of his skill, Hadar quickly propelled himself to be among the most prominent of his tribe’s warriors, and eventually became known throughout the deserts. Taking victory after victory for his tribe, Hadar would eventually become well known throughout the Sand Kingdoms as the 'Windwalker', for his near inhuman dexterity and grace. So inhuman was his speed, it was as though he could control the wind at his back, or he could he could detect a man's movements before he even made them. With his skill with the blade, and his fearsome reputation, Hadar helped take his tribe to glorious, heights smaller tribes surrendering outright rather than face down the man that was worth a hundred men.
Hadar led his tribe across the deserts, his tribe believing him blessed by the gods, and following a path of fate. Hadar eventually led his tribe to a secluded shrine that historians had once referred to as Al-Kibrit, the temple in which the original Philospher's Stone was first created. The inhabitants of this shrine were a cabal of warriors possessed of an obscure and and mystic power, claiming to have guarded the temple for the past century. As Hadar led his tribe into the battle, he found himself fighting those who seemed to wield the powers of the gods themselves, faster and stronger than mere mortal men. As his kinsmen struggled to fight off the cabal and were slain, Hadar found himself in single combat with the leader of the strange warriors.
Only through his own inhuman speed and reflexes was Hadar able to survive the encounter, receiving a gruesome facial and chest wound as the enemy champion seemed to cut into him despite being several feet away. With every ounce of Hadar's skill, alongside considerable amounts of luck, the Windwalker eventually bested the cabal's champion, after a full hour of fighting on the last strands of his life. Claiming the cabal champion's blade as his own, Hadar found himself in possession of a magical weapon, a blade whose edge never dulled, and could cut through the very air around him, maiming men from distances out of his reach. With help of this blade, Hadar managed to return to his tribe, injured, but alive.
Though family, he and his brother often times butted heads. His brother, while a capable warrior in his own right, paled in comparison to his brother Hadar- a mere spark in comparison with a raging inferno. With their father making plans to have Hadar succeed him as the next warlord; Hadar’s brother was wracked with jealousy. Hatching a plot, Hadar’s older brother overthrew him, blaming Hadar for the loss of so many of the tribe's warriors, and accusing him of treason and attempting to lead the tribe towards destruction. Cast out and exiled, Hadar left his tribe, and wandered the desert sands.
Though he had been abandoned by his tribe, it appeared that those whom had granted him his unique abilities had not. The same wind that propelled his motions guided him forward through the desert. However, still suffering from his wounds, and With little more than his swords and the clothes on his back, Hadar didn’t last very long in the desert and an untold amount of time fending for himself, he finally collapsed.
Hadar awoke to find himself in the care of a hermit, weakened and sick from the desert. Nursing Hadar back to health, Hadar stayed with the hermit for a while-he had nowhere else to go, and the Hermit was kind and knowledgeable. Hadar learned much from the hermit, the cave in which he lived was devoid of the constant conflict that characterized the desert, an oasis of peace in an otherwise lawless land, affording Hadar a taste of peacefulness and calm that he had never before experienced. Hadar learned how to read, and how to write, he learned of compassion, humility and slowly learned the value of human life. The hermit taught Hadar how to read ancient texts and alchemy, and while Hadar never had any talent for the craft himself, he was content with learning about it for the sake of scholarly pursuits. Now able to read the ancient runes inscribed upon his sword, Hadar learned of the powerful spirit that resided within his blade. This spirit was of the same power that guided the wind at his back, and now that they had been united, the wind pulled even stronger. The ancient hermit eventually grew old, and died peacefully in his sleep.
After burying the hermit, Hadar took the hermit's texts, and works of knowledge and set off back into the desert as a changed man. Following the pull of the wind Hadar ventured west, eventually arriving in the Kingdom of Varyon. For the next several years, he traveled through the lands of the Varyon, seeking knowledge and teaching wherever he went. At times he drew his blade in the defense of the weak, and often stepped up in the name of defending knowledge and learning. His appearance, and swiftness in combat and his near inhuman speed spread across the realms of Varyon and it's neighbors. Similar to the stories of the Windwalker, a swordsman believed to be born of demons that tore his way through the Sand Kingdoms, word spread of a swordsman who could move faster than the wind, a near peerless swordsman, who instead of blood, glory and gold sought out books and dusty trinkets.
Known as the Scholar-Swordmaster, Hadar has been sought out by many across Varyon seeking to prove themselves against him in single combat, or enter his tutelage and learn the ways of the sword. He rarely drew his blade, and often turned potential students down, only choosing those who he believed were of pure body and soul to learn from him.
Since the destruction and take over of Varyon be the Aldebarans, Hadar and his cohort have gone into hiding. Hadar has temporarily pledged his service to his old friend and colleague, a man known as the Scarred King.
Equipment: A traveler by nature, Hadar holds a precious few things. On his person he carries a satchel, filled with various tomes, scrolls, artifacts, and objects of knowledge and learning, several are of magical nature, others are of more mundane. Also contained in the satchel are the necessary tools for weapons and armor care.
Steel Saber - For arms, Hadar carries with him two sabres. The first, is a mundane saber, crafted of fine steel and well balanced. It is a long, thin blade with a slight curve, and is kept in a sheath of fine, black coated oak.
Zulfiqar - The second saber, is Hadar's most prized possession, a sabre taken from an arcane foe from the ruins of Al-Kibrit, an ancient Sand Kingdoms temple. Known as the Zulfiqar, the blade's silvery sheen reflects brightly in the dimmest light, and is near blinding in the harsh desert sun. Capable of cutting through the air and maiming men from several feet away, its blade is inscribed with ancient runes and grant Hadar even greater control over the winds that guide his movements. The Zulfiqar is sheathed in a scabbard of fine white ivory and its hilt and pommel are adorned with gold.
Pupil - Not technically holdings, but accompanying him is his student Emil, a Varyon orphan that Hadar had come across a few years prior. The young Varyon peasant is just over 18 years of age, and is Hadar's first and only student to be taught in the way of the blade.
Beast of Burden - Collectively, the two of them share a large beast of burden (imagine large water buffalo) named Clavat, which they use for transport and to carry their more mundane belongings- spare clothes, food, water, cooking implements, and trade items.
Skills:
The Winds of Fate - Present with Hadar since his birth, strange winds follow Hadar wherever he goes, pushing him ever forward. They guide him in a never ending journey towards a goal Hadar will never discover. In return for his eternal following, the winds grant him great speed, pushing his arms and legs forward when he strikes, and allowing him to sense the minute vibrations in the air and predict the motions his enemies may make.
Force of Knowledge - Years of studies and research have made Hadar very well versed in the ways of the world, both old and current. His base of knowledge is only surpassed by his thirst for more knowledge.
Motivation: Hadar values knowledge, learning, and personal growth. He constantly seeks to better himself, and encourages those around him to do so as well. While outwardly lazy and carefree, Hadar holds compassion towards those who also embody his values. Though selective in his students, he believes teaching to be one of the ultimate methods of learning.
Hadar also values freedom, and the ability to pursue growth at ones own pace. He doesn't like the idea of being stuck in any one place for too long, and is commonly afflicted with wanderlust. This is occasionally attributed to the fact that he follows the pull of the winds, following what he calls the Winds of Fate.
Compassion and humility are also core values of Hadar. While one can argue how much compassion a man who so easily fights with a sword may be, Hadar truly values human life and dignity- though his displays of 'compassion and dignity' may not always coincide ideals held by others.
Name Bekter Ovan-Shar - Ovan Khan - of the House of Touman
A curiosity of the Yagar naming tradition is that the father’s name is used as a prefix to the given name, or in the case of girls, their mother’s name is used. As such, Bekter is the name of Ovan’s father. The “Shar” suffix, meaning “yellow”, is an honorific indicating his descent from the legendary Yellow Khan of two centuries past. Those close to him would simply call him Ovan.
Age 31
Race Human
Nationality Yagar tribes
North-east of the Godsfang Mountains lies a vast expanse of open, untamed land stretching for thousands of miles. Sometimes called the Land of Winds, due to the the harsh gales that whip across the open plains ceaselessly. Thunderstorms appear with startling suddenness, turn the ground to mud with torrential rain, and then end as abruptly as they started. Winter’s inevitable march shrouds the plains in frozen white, the biting cold a deathly trial for even the hardiest of beasts.
These are the Steppes, and their harsh conditions have forged a tenacious people: the horse nomads, some call them; barbarians, others say; the Yagar, they call themselves. Throughout the ages the names of the tribes have changed, as have their customs and faiths, but their nomadic way of life has remained true for as long as history has been written. They are the people of the horse and bow, hunters and herders, their children taught to ride from the moment they can walk and to shoot from the moment they can hold a bow. They enter and leave the tapestry of history as suddenly and unpredictably as the thunderstorms sweep the plains. Normally, the tribes turn their weapons against each other and feud over centuries-old transgressions, giving the settled kingdoms little more trouble than occasional raids into their border territories. But occasionally, a great figure emerges and unifies the tribes, and with newfound strength sets their eyes on the riches of the sedentary world. When they are weak, they are little more than a pest. But when they are strong, the tribes pose an existential threat to those who border the steppe, something the kingdoms felt dearly when the Yellow Horde of two centuries past emerged to subjugate all at the behest of their Yellow Khan. Such empires have never lasted, rotting from within with the tensions of power-lusting men and unrevenged grudges.
Military expeditions by the settled kingdoms into the steppes have only ever been partially successful at best: there are next to no settlements to pillage, no cities to capture, and the food is scarce. The tribes know this and simply pack up and retreat into the vastness of the steppes, goading invaders to pursue them, harassing them all the way and striking when they are tired and hungry. Many an over-eager would-be conqueror has lost his armies this way, and the kingdoms have learned that the best way to handle the nomads is to fight them with their own, pitting tribe against tribe through the use of cunning diplomacy to prevent them from uniting in the first place.
The Yellow Horde was a great confederation of tribes centered around the Shargal tribe and its legendary Yellow Khan, who united the tribes and brought them to bear against the settled kingdoms two centuries ago. They conquered the peripheral lands with bow and lance, and used captured engineers to tear down the walls of the great cities. Those who submitted willingly were spared. Those who resisted were often mercilessly slaughtered as examples to others. It was a time of misery for the kingdoms and of glory for the tribes.
In his later years, the Yellow Khan distanced himself from the task of administering his empire. His descendants would say that he dedicated himself to spiritual matters. Others whisper that he went mad, twisted delusions perverting his mind. When he unexpectedly died with no appointed heir, chaos ensued. The eldest son, Altan, was assassinated, some say by his younger twin brothers’ conspiracy. The descendants of Touman, first of the twins, would forever blame Zasag, the second twin, whose descendants would in turn point their finger at Touman.
Regardless of what actually happened, the younger sons would soon turn on each other and drag the empire into a long and bloody civil war that wrought pain and misery upon all the conquered lands. The conquered kingdoms rebelled and rose in coalition against the tribes, reclaiming their lands and driving the nomads back to the steppes. The Yellow Horde was no more, breaking once again up into myriad tribes. The Shargal tribe would forever be split in two: the Zasag tribe and the Touman tribe, whose mutual hatred burns hot still.
The Touman Tribe of today is but a shadow of the Yellow Horde of times past, yet it has still managed to remain one of the dominant tribes of the steppes, along with their bitter rival. Dagon IV, eager to extend his influence and to end the raids at his borders, set out to subjugate the steppe. The Zasag tribe was bribed with power and brought to bear against the Toumans, and with Dagon’s unholy blessing the once-proud tribe was hounded across the steppes until only a few remained. Those who survived have sought protection under the Scarred King, pledging their bows to his cause.
Their bitter rival, the Zasag Tribe, would wear painted masks of wood and bone in battle to frighten their enemies and in ritual to honor their god. After forsaking their faith for Dagon’s promised power, the designs of their masks have become increasingly perverse, as if to mimic the twisted, inhuman things they have become underneath their false faces, which they now wear at all times as if to hide away their true visage. It is whispered across the steppe that their transformation is not due to Dagon’s corrupting influence, but the result of a curse cast upon them by their vengeful god for their transgressions.
Occupation Khan of the Toumans
Religion and customs Heaven, Earth, and the Ancestors
Life originates from Earth, and Earth is nurtured by Heaven: therefore it is said that Heaven is the Father and Earth is the Mother. All life is governed by the laws of its parents and dies by the laws of its parents: such is the way of things.
The soul is created from the unions of Man and Woman and Heaven and Earth, and the soul resides in the blood: therefore it is said that a part of Heaven and a part of Earth resides in all beasts and men. The soul, residing in the blood, can be shared in ritual to form a bond of souls: in this manner the souls of man and woman are linked in marriage, and fragments of ancestors’ souls are passed down from parents to children, and to the children’s children.
When a life ends, the flesh and the blood are reclaimed by the Earth: therefore it is said that the souls of the dead return to the Mother. The dead are brought to the place beyond where they may rest with the ancestors, but those who have unpaid debts or grudges unrevenged are made to walk the land at the precipice of Life and Death until wrongs are made right.
The pillars of the Yagars’ faith are the worship of Heaven and Earth, and the reverence of the ancestors. The Toumans and the Zasags, being the successors of the Yellow Horde, put particular emphasis on the Earth and on the divinity of the Yellow Khan, who was said to carry the Blood of the Earth in his veins. The Yellow Khan derived his title from the association of the Earth with the color yellow, which was traditionally viewed as a feminine color symbolizing life and birth. The color is frequently used in the symbols and clothing of the Khan’s descendants to show their heritage.
When the Houses of Yellow have elected a new Khan from among the old one’s sons, the Rite of Khans must be performed. It takes place on a barren plain in a location kept secret from other tribes, a place entirely flat with not a hill on the horizon. There grows a White Tree the height of a horse, its trunk crooked, its branches bare. When struck, the tree bleeds black blood, called the Blood of the Earth, which the new Khan must drink after offering his own blood to the soil. In this way the Khan forms a soul bond with the Earth itself, and he takes up the mantle of the curator of the Earth. This is a hot point of contention between the Toumans and the Zasags, who each consider the other’s claim illegitimate, but this sacred ground is the one place where they are willing to put their differences aside, if only momentarily. The Rite is said to give the Khans magical powers, allowing them to see outlines of things unseen to normal men, an ability that can be enhanced by entering a trance-like state through the consumption of certain herbs. With an offering of the Khan’s blood, he can borrow the power of some of these beings that reside at what is believed to be the border of life and death, sometimes with traumatic consequences for the channeler. It is said that old Khans are never truly sane.
Debts and grudges are immensely important to the Yagar, with repayment and revenge both being popular themes in their folk tales and legends. As it is believed that dead men’s grudges must be avenged for them to rest peacefully in the afterlife, it is not unheard of for centuries-long tribal feuds to be started over something seemingly trivial, offence piling atop atrocity in an unending spiral of violence. When the House of Zasag made their unholy pact with the Demon King they committed the greatest atrocity of all: perverting the laws of Heaven and Earth, thereby offending against all living things.
Appearance Roughly human-looking
Personality • Lived a pretty carefree and adventurous youth, never expecting to claim Khanship of the tribe as both his older and younger brothers were favored over him for the position by their father the Khan. The mantle of responsibility forcibly thrust upon him has made Ovan a more serious person, but the adventurer's spirit lurks just beneath the surface still.
Biography
• The tribe is a remnant of the infamous Yellow Horde of centuries past, which united the tribes and swept the settled eastern kingdoms. Upon the death of the Yellow Khan, a civil war broke out over the succession and the Horde was fractured as a result, and the fractured tribes were driven back to the steppes. Two branches of the royal family formed new tribes and have been bitter rivals ever since. (Touman tribe/Zasag tribe)
• Dagon moves to subjugate the tribes near his borders. My rival tribe submits in exchange for corrupted power and are tasked with hunting down my defiant tribe to the last man, woman, and child. Weakened after engagements with Dagon’s armies, my tribe is no match for the Zasags and our rapidly diminishing numbers are hounded across the steppes, denied even the time to perform rites for their dead who are left to rot on the steppes.
• My father, the Khan is killed in a raid. My brothers and sisters are captured. My pregnant wife is mortally wounded. We escape and head to the plain of the sacred White Tree with a small cohort. My dying wife volunteers her life in sacrifice to the earth. She is fed a concoction to render her delirious, and in an attempt to save the child it is cut from her womb. Her blood seeps into the earth as she draws her last breath. The underdeveloped child is held in my arms; unmoving, unbreathing, void of life.
• The Ritual of Khans is performed, with the last remnants of my tribe as my witnesses. The blood of my wife and stillborn child is offered to the earth so that their souls can return to the soil. I give my blood to the soil, and in turn I drink the Blood of the Earth. I am made Khan of the Toumans.
• A rib is taken each from my dead wife and stillborn child to be made into an amulet.
• I take the remainder of my tribe and seek the Scarred King’s protection.
Possessions • Book of Grudges: A dusty leather-bound tome passed down since Touman’s time, written in the Yagar script. It is simultaneously a dramatic narrative of the tribe’s history as well as a detailed account of all wrongs committed against the House of Touman. It opens with a vivid retelling of the massacre at the grand assembly after the Yellow Khan’s death, in which Zasag’s assassins butchered Altan and his supporters.
• Bone Necklace: The tips of two human ribs attached to a string of horse hair. The ribs belonged to Ovan’s deceased wife and stillborn child, and serve as both a memento and a connection to their unrevenged spirits.
• Yagar Bow: The Yagar recurve bows – wood, horn, and sinew held together with animal glue – are claimed to be the finest in the world. The tribesmen, who train archery from a young age, are capable of shooting these heavy bows with great accuracy even from atop a galloping horse. Ovan’s current bow was a wedding gift from his wife’s father, who was a bowmaker famed for his skill, and as such this bow is of particularly fine quality.
• Hashad's Saber: This curved sword design of the desert nomads is beloved by the Yagar for how well suited it is to be used from horseback, so much so that it is often imitated by their own weaponsmiths. This particular specimen was a prize won in a bet with a prince of a desert tribe, its high quality workmanship, golden inlays, and intricate engravings a testament to its previous owner's wealth and status. Engraved on the bottom of the blade is the name "Hashad" in the script of the ancient desert kingdoms.
• Ulaan: The Yagar horse is a hardy breed accustomed to the temperamental weather and harsh winters of the steppes. Ovan’s steed is a red-coated mare with a white teardrop spot on her forehead.
Skills • Shooting • Riding • Slashing • Some shaman mojo magic • Playing the horse-head fiddle
Motivation • Ensuring the survival of the remainder of his tribe • Destroying the Zasags for their transgressions against the Toumans • Destroying Dagon for his transgressions against the Toumans
Name: Elaeria Fendril Age: 153 (barely an adult in the eyes of her race)
Race: Elfin Seelie
Nationality/Nation description: Seelie Court of the Ghostlight Forest
The Seelie are split up into individual 'Courts' and adhere to a belief of belonging to a single nation, one that encompasses all land where Seelie live as well as everything in between. Within this grand 'nation' each group of Seelie operate a 'Court' which oversees the running of their particular surroundings. Most will be found in forests, mountains or caves where nature is abundant and far away from other races and civilizations as the Seelie are not overly fond of involving themselves in the struggles of less cultured nations. Within these enclaves they will adapt to leave as little a footprint on the environment as possible. As such it is often difficult to locate a Seelie settlement and most will stumble across the Courts by accident rather than by design.
The Seelie Court of the Ghostlight Forest, named for obvious reasons and located far to the South in an area of a temperate climate and swathes of woodland, is predominantly made up of Elfin Seelie who can be found in their greatest numbers in woodland areas. According to ancestral lore they are descended from the huntress Brindel Fendril whose name the leaders of the Ghostlight Forest court bear and to whom they can trace their ancestry directly. Within this Court, Brindel is honoured as a veritable deity even by those who do not claim direct ancestry due to her woodland craft which is still observed rigorously by the Elfin Seelie.
Now the Ghostlight Forest is almost empty of its Seelie caretakers. All but the very young and injured left to aid a Seelie Court within a country neighbouring Aldebaran threatened by the encroaching forces of the crazed Emperor. Now they remain to fight alongside those survivors of that Court, their homes destroyed and most of their clansmen dead from the crushing defeat they suffered in the initial defence. Even the Chief Fendril has been terribly wounded and many suspect that his days are numbered, looking to any potential successor.
Naturally that would be his daughter, the only surviving clan member to bear the name Fendril. However, with exposure to heavily patriarchal practices in other races and the perilous situation they face, many have begun to question whether such a young woman could lead the combined Courts better than a male. This would mark a break from an aeon old tradition with an indirect descendent of Fendril usurping the position of a direct, main line family inheritor. The divide between the two sides is hidden but behind closed doors and in the shadows plots and schemes are conjured and before long it will no longer be a conflict that can be contained, concealed or delayed.
Occupation: Chief's daughter/heiress
Religion: Ancestor worship
Unlike most other races, the Elfin Seelie do not practise a Monotheistic or Polytheistic religion. Rather, they turn to their long and meticulously recorded family histories for guidance. Prayers for guidance, protection and strength are offered to famous members of their dynasty or the most celebrated of deceased leaders from aeons past. Songs and dances are attributed to their ancestors and form an integral part of their worship; celebrating in the accomplishments of their ancestors and commemorating the feuds long since ended.
When the first leaf falls for Autumn the Elfin Seelie gather to toast their predecessors and many believe it is the time in which it is easiest to commune with their ancestors; seeking guidance and wisdom from those whose name echo down the aeons.
A consequence of this religious adherence to their ancestral lines, and to maintain their diversity, is the avoidance of all inter-marriage amongst the Elfin Seelie. Instead, to maintain their ancestral identity, they will take mates from other, compatible, races (often humans) but rarely will they choose a lifelong companion. As such the families of the Seelie will not mix and lines are only lost through infertility or premature death. The children will almost always show traits specifically of the Seelie rather than the other races but there are occasionally those born displaying traits of the mate's race; these children are disowned by the Seelie.
Appearance:
Lithe, tall (approximately six foot) and toned from two lifetimes of hunting and arms training, Elaeria walks with the stalking nature of a panther. She is light on her feet and has an air of perpetual grace as if every movement is to a rhythm audible to her alone. Her limbs are largely in proportion with nothing especially notable although she is very slightly long-legged but this is more apparent in her stride length than in an aesthetic sense.
In the traditional style amongst Seelie, especially those Courts based in woodland areas, her glowing red hair has grown exceptionally long to rest barely above the back of her knees. In a more formal setting this might be braided painstakingly in whatever fashion is currently in favour by one of the branch families charged with the care taking of the head family but in these troubled times it is usually pulled back into a carefully tied ponytail (or one long braid when there is the time to do so).
At all times she will be found with her long hunting spear, an heirloom said to have been wielded by Brindel herself and often only used as a ceremonial item due to its unwieldy nature. However, Elaeria has fallen into the group of those few of Brindel's descendants who had a natural affinity for utilising the spear as it is: a deadly weapon suited only for a master in spearcraft. Along with this she will almost always be found in hunting leathers dyed a deep green, perhaps with a royal blue cloak when she is acting in an official capacity or is on the battlefield.
Personality:
Despite her many years, Elaeria is young in age for her kind and this is partially reflected in her manner. She is cheerful in a manner only the young are capable, seemingly unperturbed by the horrors of war. Fond of celebration, dancing and singing with others given even half a chance, Elaeria is one who will take the spotlight at any festival. Her other love is of men. Specifically human men. She revels in their company and enjoys their determination to make a mark with their short lives, in sharp contrast to the cautious manoeuvres of the Elfin Seelie One should not be fooled by this carefree exterior, however. Raised to lead the Court from birth she has a mind for politics and is both cunning and strong-willed, the steel of her conviction something those attempting to subvert her birthright will find unexpected.
Biography:
Born to her Seelie father and human mother whom she knew only 'briefly', Elaeria has two half-brothers and one half-sister, all many years younger than her but still all of fighting age. She was raised exclusively in the Court with an education fit for a leader. War and conflict were far away events, the Seelie not involving themselves in other conflicts unless requested by another Court to join their fight, but this was not a reason for relaxation in her father's eyes. As such she has been trained relentlessly in the art of hunting, both animals and sentient species. Constant training has left her with a lithe frame and toned body and she will be rarely found without her elaborately carved hunting spear, an heirloom from several generations past.
The spear had seen plenty of conflict before it came to Elaeria and has seen much since. When the Court responded to the plea for aid from another under threat from Dagon, Elaeria accompanied the warriors and most of the Court to battle. They arrived late to find most of the threatened Court dead or missing and instead evacuated those left and beat a fighting retreat from Dagon's forces, eventually meeting up with the Scarred King and his forces by sheer coincidence. Now Elaeria, and the Court, accompany the Scarred King, but the situation is fraught due to her father's wounded state. There are rumblings within the Court of choosing a more battle-hardened warrior to lead them during the conflict before allowing Elaeria to resume her father's position but few see this as nothing more than the power grab that it is.
Partly due to her status as the heiress of the Court, partly due to her natural charisma, Elaeria has a strong cohort of friends and companions of her generation who hunt and revel together. For decades she has built lasting connections with almost every family in the Court and so, whether by deliberate action or not, has ensured that any attempt to deprive her of right to lead the Court would not pass easily.
Equipment:
Brindel's Cloud Piercer - This exceptionally long spear, just over eight foot in length, is made of a single shaft of wood with a still unblemished steel blade at its head. Crafted originally as a hunting spear, the head has two hooks to prevent the more combative prey from being able to slide up the shaft and attack the wielder. The rest of the blade is engraved with swirling patterns surrounding the story of an unnamed hunter and of their battle with a huge, twisted creature long since sunk into mere legend. The shaft is also intricately carved but this time the tale being told is that of its first wielder, Brindel, and her struggles to unite a small band of followers and end a civil war amongst the Seelie Courts.
The weapon itself looks to be a merely ceremonial hunting spear, longer than the usual but more of a peasant's weapon than that of an experience warrior who might otherwise choose armour and a sword. However, somewhere amongst the legend of its owner the spear gained some kind of enchantment. Not only is it unbreakable but the spear appears to 'choose' who is worthy of it. In the hands of those it has 'accepted', few and far between in its longer history, the spear becomes unimaginably sharp and will cut through all but the thickest of steel should the wielder wish it. Such magicks have long since been lost to the Seelie, indeed, it is unknown whether they were truly commonplace amongst the ancestors, and so little is understood about Brindle's Cloud Piercer beyond the history which has been passed down generations.
Silver circlet - an ornate, interwoven and delicately designed circlet of shining silver rests upon Elaeria's head as a sign of her heritage. Like the spear this is an heirloom although with no illustrious past, it is merely a piece of jewellery that has been passed down and used to signify a female heir to the current Chief Fendril.
Skills:
-Exceptionally skilled in spearcraft -A good huntswoman (of both beast and man) with a bow -Passable with other arms -Diplomatic - living longer than most other races gives one a long time to learn how to deploy tact -Charismatic - Elaeria has a reputation amongst her Court for being a skilled warrior with a quick wit, with the enthusiasm of youth to boot, making her someone to follow for those not already opposed to her leadership -Happens to be a rather good dancer (even without a spear in her hand).
Motivation:
The Court answered the call for aid from another and that makes her, as heir to the Chief Fendril, duty bound to help. The encroaching threat of Dagon is one that Seelie Courts within close proximity to the expanding emperor acknowledge and are beginning to understand the need for cooperation and Elaeria is amongst them in this regard.
Also she has a mild desire for vengeance duty the injuries her father has sustained as well as brethren from both her own Court and the one they had come to aid.
Oh, but you must travel through the woods again and again, and you must be lucky to avoid the Niifal every time.
But the Niifal… the Niifal only needs to find you
once
R a c e
N i i f a l N i g h t T r o l l
The Niifal, otherwise known in the Human tongue as the Night Trolls are a clandestine and loose collection of highly specialised predators. In their formative years the Night Trolls had gained a somewhat legendary reputation among human populations of Aldebaran (and perhaps Kingdoms further afield) as creatures of the night who would stalk the darkest recesses of lonely villages, waiting for days for the perfect time to strike; the result often led to entire communities being silently eradicated before the signal for help could be sounded. However, the prime of the Night Trolls has long since passed, and as communities of Humans grew larger, more complex, and better organised, the Niifal have subsequently been pushed back further into the remote areas of Aldebaran. Some scholars consider this once proud -and universally frightening- race to be statistically extinct, with no reported cases of their attacks upon population centres since the inauguration of Dagon IV. Most equate this to the systematic culling of the hunters in recent years to nullify the threat that they pose to isolated communities. Since the Red Night began and the lands of Aldebaran have begun to twist and deform to the will of the Demon Emperor and his Perfecti, those few who still survive have had to stalk the noxious bogs and decrepit forests of the once-proud Aldebaran, subsisting not on the flesh of Men, but the decaying forms of the otherworldly beasts that have taken residence in the deepest corners of this dying land.
Night Trolls are terrifying to behold by the standards of Humans, and are often seen as animalistic, primal creatures. On average, they stand at eight feet tall reared to full height, with the tallest recorded individuals reaching dizzying heights of eleven feet. That said, they do not often stand to full height, nor do they walk bipedally in most cases. It is much more comfortable and efficient for these creatures to move on all fours, affording them a greater running speed and a much lower profile: perfect for hunting. Niifal are adapted for hunting in the same sense that a wild predator is adapted for the kill; they are immensely strong, dexterous, and are infamous for the lack of sound they produce even during the most intense chase. It seems as though every aspect of a Niifal's physiology is precision engineered for the sole purpose of stalking man and his ilk, and making the absolute most of the physical advantages that such a creature wields.
...At least once they were proud hunters of man. Now, they face extinction; man is no longer the focus of their wrath. Survival is now the priority, and they will forge alliances where they had once never expected in order to stand against the Demon Emperor for perhaps a few more years, postponing the inevitable...
N a t i o n a l i t y
A s i r i i A n c e s t o r ' s T r i b e
The Asirii is the collective name for the last known community of Night Trolls left extant in the world. Their ancestral home was the sprawling Nightlock Forest due North of Kuranes. It was here that their influence was at it's most extreme, with even armed and prepared contingents of soldiers refusing to march within a hundred miles of it's border for fear of incurring the wrath of the Niifal watching from within. Now, though, given the systematic culling of their species and the bastardisation of Aldebaran by dark forces from the South, there is little left of this influence. The Asirii represents perhaps a hundred individuals, though such a number is declining daily, leaving the Night Trolls no choice but to venture forward into the rotten domain of Dagon to carve their place in this new world by force. Each member of the Asirii hunts alone, stalking the dead forests and fens of Aldebaran and giving the inhuman beasts that wander something new to fear. They strike fast, and they strike with fury, cleansing the lands one monster at a time. The Niifal know that these corporeal intruders are not the top of the food chain, that they are not the apex, for that honour lies with the Niifal alone. The Night Trolls know that they are doomed, and they will fight until every last one of them has been slain in order to prove their dominion of this dying land.
R e l i g i o n
The Night Trolls do not subscribe to any of the Human religions of the land, if their spiritual nature can even be called religious. While they do not worship an anthropomorphised deity of any kind, they do revere the stars and their patterns, and attribute certain natural phenomena to the movement of the constellations across seasons and years. It is often believed within the Asirii that births that align with powerful constellations will yield powerful Niifal, leading influential and glorious lives. It has been said, but never truly confirmed by Human scholars, that the Niifal use the stars to guide themselves to their next targets, following a favoured star for weeks until they find a suitable population of their favourite targets -humans- to prey upon. Apparently a Niifal will honour the stars with a kill by draining the blood of the last victim in a hunt and drawing the symbol of the leading star into the dirt with it.
All Night Trolls aspire to one thing: to be the Apex of the World, to be the greatest predator the world has ever seen.
So it is said, anyway...
A p p e a r a n c e
Harsiil is somewhat typical of the Night Trolls in appearance alone; ten feet tall, ragged fur as dark as the night, a fearsome set of jagged horns angled back away from his head, and vicious teeth lining his mouth in droves. He speaks his native tongue in tones reminiscent of thunder, dons plates of darkened steel over vital areas, and gazes out of jet black eyes punctuated with a pinprick pure white pupil nestled within. Such a creature instills fear not just in men, but in beasts and demons alike as though they were his prey of years gone.
P e r s o n a l i t y
Harsiil's unusual nature belies his nearly standard appearance; this hunter wishes to prove the dominance of his near-dead people, but not through fighting until the last. From a young age, he has been time and time again proven to be nothing short of ingenious, out-hunting even his most experienced peers with apparently minimal effort. He sees alternatives to the pervasive idea that he must die fighting for the glory of his ancestors; news of the rebellion of the Scarred King spreads fast, conveying a message strong enough to stir his mind and heart into joining the number who desire the same as he: to dethrone the Demon Emperor and take back the land from the darkness. This is his goal, his utter imperative, but such an honourable goal is studded with sheer impatience and contempt at the Humans who lead the revolution. It was they that culled his people in days of old, fuelling a feud that has lasted generations. He feels somewhat superior to any Human peers he may encounter, naturally seeing them as prey and not as allies; leading to heated encounters and occasionally brutal fights that leave him with fewer allies than before. He is a solitary creature, and such social commands are alien to him; while he tries to adhere to the Human code of honour whilst in their presence as a mere courtesy, he often undermines command and respect to further his own goals, whether they be shared by the collective or not.
B i o g r a p h y
It is said that every Niifal's life is determined by the position of stars upon the night of their birth; for some reason unknown to human scholars, Niifal cannot be birthed on clouded nights where such positions cannot be determined by any reasonable means. Any gentle-mannered Night Troll (as rare as they come and as loose this term may be) will tell you that this is due to the fact that the soul of the Niifal comes from the cosmic realm itself, their primal souls projected from the stars and embedded within their bodies prior to birth.
There is, however, apparently one exception to this near-mythical rule. Upon one darkened night exactly one full cycle before the inauguration of Dagon IV -roughly sixty six years- there was recorded a storm with clouds so black that no stars could be seen, but that scintillated the darkness with flashes of lightning as blue as the ocean itself. It was during this legendary deluge that a rogue, runaway Niifal and a Star Shaman of the Asirii clan witnessed the birth of their firstborn whilst being pursued by a specialised contingent of elite Night Troll hunters from the South, intent on putting down the heavily pregnant rogue. It was in a small clearing in the sodden forest that the first starless Niifal was born, and it was here that the thirty pursing soldiers were encircled by a pack of Niifal loyal to the Shaman and his newborn and consequently slain to the last.
It was not until many years later that this newborn earned a name through the hunt.
The legend of the Unkillable Man was one that has stayed with the Niifal for many generations, and referred to an undying human of considerable might who found solace within a fearsome dungeon of ice in the far Northern reaches of the land. Many Night Trolls had attempted and failed, for some reason, to successfully hunt this most dangerous of Men. The young and unnamed, starless Niifal, perhaps in a brash display of confidence, heard this tale and solemnly travelled North for sixty six days. It was within the icy reaches of the blizzard-raged land that he found the ancient dungeon. He descended.
Many considered the starless Niifal to be dead as months passed with no word of success. His self-appointed task was nearly forgotten about by his clan.
But, on the clearest night of the generation, where every star could be seen with astounding clarity, the Niifal returned, the heart of the unkillable man lashed into an amulet and worn around his neck. The blood had long since dried on the long journey back, but upon presenting it to the Asirii, they burned the heart upon a bonfire and six years of clear nights followed. The hunter earned himself a name: the Seeker of Hearts.
In the native Niifal tongue, this is pronounced 'Harsiil'.
E q u i p m e n t
M o r t a n i i s T h e M o r t a l F a n g
Mortaniis is Harsiil's favoured weapon for close-to-mid range fighting, or rather, hunting. It is a nine-foot long pole arm weapon that resembles a fearsome spear; a shaft of blackened steel with a straight Niifal horn -an object of incredible natural strength and keen sharpness- fused to the end. It is both aerodynamic and balanced, allowing for a combination of striking and slashing attacks to be performed by a skilled user such as Harsiil; though he is rarely forced to engage in such brash actions, as the first attack tends to be a killing blow upon unsuspecting victims.
It is said that this weapon has been dipped in the blood of the mythical Niifal immortals, granting it a deadly touch, inflicting wounds that simply do not heal. The validity of such claims, however, err on the side of hearsay as nearly all notable cases of attack from various holders of this weapon through the ages have unanimously been fatal. A spear of this kind allows one to kill silently, and from great distance. Coupled with the immense strength of the Niifal in general, Mortaniis is simply an extension of the brutality of the Night Trolls.
K a r n i i s C o w a r d ' s L a m e n t
If the classic description of a Night Troll Greatbow could be given form, it would take the exact image of Karniis (The Niifal native term for Coward's Lament). Closer to a ballista than a bow, this savage weapon is larger than a fully grown human, and requires the immense strength only held by the Night Trolls to even lift, let alone draw with any accuracy. However, the effectiveness of such a construct cannot be denied once it is seen functionally in action. Firing huge, weighty greatarrows across vast distances, a well aimed shot can split a man in half from a hundred yards, pin him to a tree from five hundred yards, and kill him reliably at a thousand. Truly a weapon to be feared by any known to be in the sights of the Night Troll hunters. However, it is rare to see Greatbows being used, as the impact from the arrows cause such deafening impact sounds that they can be heard from across valleys, resembling the sound of thunder striking; this eliminates the advantage of the element of surprise - they are also cumbersome to draw, and the arrows are so heavy that very few can be easily carried at any moment, even for an experienced Night Troll hunter.
S k i l l s
T e r r i f y i n g
Night Trolls are gigantic beasts, to say the least. They stand occasionally at twice the height of fully grown men, have muscles many orders of magnitudes larger than the aforementioned, are lined with innumerable teeth, don fur as black as the deepest night, and Harsiil is no different. It is entirely natural for weak-willed men and mer to be entirely and instinctively terrified by the mere sight of a Night Troll, and for the stout and steadfast of them to be uneasy at best. It may be due to appearance alone, or the booming tones of their voices and warcries, or perhaps the way they slink and skulk through the shadows and the trees without a single sound that makes them so universally an object of contempt and fear in the domains of men.
This can often be an advantage, sometimes a disadvantage, but never inconseqeuntial.
P r e d a t o r
In every single aspect, Harsiil and his kin are highly evolved predators; the stuff of nightmares. Despite his size, he is capable of moving extremely quickly on all fours, and is highly dexterous to boot. Part of his exceptional hunting ability stems from his ability to reposition rapidly, and with almost no restriction. His powerful arms and claws allow him to climb walls, towers, trees, and almost any obstacle quickly and gain height, or perhaps give chase where no other predator could. This lends him an exceptional advantage over traditional fighters who excel in prolonged combat. He is capable of breaking off when compromised and reappearing once more where he is least expected.
The other part of his exceptional hunting ability is due to his natural stealthy tendencies, especially during the night and in darkened areas. He can move undetected to even the most astute listeners; move subtly but extremely quickly, and close distances with enough speed to catch any planned target seemingly without any prior warning. Once he has found a target and engaged from the safety of his target's blindness, it is simply a matter of the kill; the easiest thing in the world for a beast of this ilk.
U n r e l e n t i n g
Harsiil is more animal than civil, and does not let a simple wound or trap slow his progress. Pain by human standards is but a scratch for such a gigantic creature, and even more severe injuries can be shrugged off at least for a while until they can be treated.
...And treated they can be. Combined with incredible resilience, a Night Troll knows the fauna of the land well enough that primitive herbal remedies can be concocted on the fly, allowing for minor symptoms to be stemmed. Bleeding can be stopped, healing can be quickened, and otherwise fatal injuries can be stemmed just long enough for survival.
M o t i v a t i o n
Revenge? Glory? Necessity? Perhaps all of these factor in to Harsiil's decision to attach himself to the Scarred King's rebellion. Perhaps it is true that if he simply allows the reign of the Demon Emperor to continue then he, his clan, and alas the entire world either bend the knee or die. For such a proud member of such a proud species, this is simply not an option. If he must ally himself with his natural prey, and generational enemies, so be it. The world will not be the plaything of Dagon, he shall not be the Apex of the World; such an honour should lie with Harsiil and no other.
