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Howler

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Bio

Name: Arthur Harker
Age: 37
Race: Human
Profession: Mage

Personality:
"Every man is guilty of the good he did not do."

If you had to come up with a word to capture Arthur, it would be dedicated. Arthur believes firmly in the precept that one should never ask of another what one wouldn't do oneself--if you need to press the advantage, you press. If you need to hold the line, you hold. Not one to be concerned with popularity or pride, his pragmatic and joyless disposition hide a rare kindness--the mage would give you the jacket off his back if he thought it would help you make it through the night. It is this kindness and willingness to take on the job himself that prevents him from being overly disliked by the young-bucks who find him a grueling and merciless taskmaster. Arthur doesn't expect people to work as hard as he does only because he knows betters. Instead, he expects them to work harder than they ever have in their lives because he wants them to survive to live them.

Patient to a fault, Arthur is a conservative defender and a believer in defense as the best offense. Never one to rush into a situation without understanding it, Arthur preaches luck as the moment when opportunity meets preparation and teaches those he works with to think similarly. Dying for what you believe in is easy--waking up tomorrow to fight again is harder, and Arthur has never been one for the easy road.

Backstory: 

Maer is a small nation compared to the powerhouses of Ilyra or the Ironhoff Dominion, but it survives because it plays to its strengths. Such was the nature of the Harker family who for generations capitalized on the magic that threaded its way through their bloodlines. While not all members of the family have the gift there are enough of them that any given generation can be expected to produce a few mages of quality; Arthur is one of them, as was his father.

Professor Isaac Harker was a talented mage in his own right, but his sons were brighter and more talented than he could imagine. His first son, Dorien, was a veritable genius in a way that few men are. Magic was a gift to him and came naturally, spontaneously, and inflated his ego in much the same vein. It was dour young Arthur who took to it with effort and force of will, but through his studies and his works he acquired a mastery of barrier magic and defensive tactics second to none. Dorien jokes even now that his brother's 'turtle-shell' was an early innovation to prevent any number of pranks that might have been played upon him as a child, in truth Arthur has simply always been a young man with an instinctive knowledge that the world is not a kind place and that if one is to survive it, one must be able to endure it.

Both brothers were accepted to The Academy at young ages and distinguished themselves even outside of their relation to their father (who had for many years been the Dean of Projections and the foremost authority on energy distribution). Dorien's theories on magical density and the manipulation of the coiled-energy projectile were instrumental in developing a more efficient network of basic defense spells, while Arthur's application of Deghast's Fourth Theory of Binding quickly became worthy of more advanced study. While Dorien jumped eagerly at an early acceptance to a doctorate program and the promise of a Professor's position within a few scant years, both he and Arthur were instead proposed as research assistants to a particularly prestigious program geared towards the New Frontier and the understanding of its' Shamans' nature magic. In tow of a proper professor and a few other prospective students, they made the journey across eleven years ago.

Of them, only Arthur and Dorien lived to regret it.

Not even a year after they arrived the calamity occurred and monstrous creatures descended on the town they pursued their studies in. As magical adepts they fared better than most and managed to make their way back to the ships, surviving side by side to make their way onto the only ship to return from that awful endeavor. Arriving at port and quickly drawn away to the Academy to report their findings, it was there that the two finally parted ways as Arthur... got back on the ship. Having seen what was there, having watched it tear through villagers and soldiers and friends, he could not in good conscience allow others to go where he himself would not. If they were to stand a chance against the threat they would need all the help they could get, and with so few of the survivors of that lone ship willing or able to return... Well. Some things are best done oneself.

The first years were a learning experience for Arthur. Though his magical arts had always included combat applications it was the day in, day out maneuvers and life of a soldier that took getting used to. Unwilling to simply advise, he preferred instead to put himself through the paces any other soldier would be expected to. He hadn't returned to research, he had come back to save lives. He didn't cut corners and he didn't rush through it, and when the time came to step into a leadership role there was no question that he had earned it.

Lieutenant Arthur Harker now serves as a squadron commander in the New Frontier. His mages, known as the Wallmakers (or, more colloquially, Wallers) are well renowned for their dedication under fire and their grim but resolute nature. They have higher mortality rates than most thanks to dangerous relief operations and a position that frequently places them under fire, but more than once a Waller has made the difference between a position overrun and a line held. Though there have been attempts made to promote him to a larger commanding position Lt. Harker has refused them all--his mind, he says, works best in small unit tactics and he has no desire to be taken out of the field.

Skills and Abilities: 

The Wall
Arthur's primary expertise lies in his arcane magic and the creation of energy barriers of various shapes, forms, and sizes. As the foremost practitioner of his art Arthur can create sizeable barriers capable of withstanding tremendous punishment for an impressively long time. These range from defensive ramparts of pure energy to screaming barriers of lightning or fire to personal defense spells that outpace even the strongest armor. The larger the barrier the more energy and concentration it requires to maintain, as one might imagine, and so Arthur is careful to measure his magics.

Battlefield Manipulation
Arthur's secondary expertise is in the use of magic to manipulate an environment. A believer that magic should be used to support cheaper, more mundane methods of victory, Arthur has a gamut of abilities that most would consider supportive in nature--from stasis fields that can slow or stop an advancing force in its tracks to accelerant schemas that empower etherbolts that pass through them to greater effect, Arthur is a team player and tries to use magic as a force multiplier rather than a show-stopper.

Soldiery Most Fine
Unlike most mages, Arthur believes that magic should be relied upon to do what strength of arm can't rather than replace it entirely. As such he is well practiced with a rifle and bayonet, a capable swordsman, and a proficient tactician favoring defensive tactics and counterattacks. He's neither a marksman nor a duelist, but his level-head and dedication to competence puts him cleanly above your average rank-and-file. His technique is clean and practical, with heavy favor towards middle-ranged engagements.

Equipment: 
Arthur's equipment is largely standard issue--able to provide much of his own armor, he prefers to demonstrate and master the weaponry that any given soldier can be expected to have rather than rely on fancy or enchanted equipment. That being said, one of the first things he teaches new mages is how to make waterproof, fireproof jackets and boots, and so he sports a pair of both.

His primary weapon is a New Rune Pattern Ethergun. He carries a short, heavy back sword at his waist alongside a dagger in case an engagement pushes to close range.

Hidden 8 yrs ago → 8 yrs ago Post by An Outsider

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An Outsider A Glorious Failure

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A Glorious Failure

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Bio

Nah, I don't hate the Gods. I just think they got a real shitty sense of humour, and I'm getting damn sick of being the butt of all their 'funnies'.

Appearance:
Physically Roland is of average height with a slender build, however his slight frame boasts a wiry strength that's surprised many a larger man who expected him to be an easy conquest. His fingers are long and slender, equally adept at jimmying locks, picking pockets, or curling into respectfully sized fists.

He wears his dark hair long, just past his shoulders, using leather thongs to tie his tresses back at the nape to keep them out of his eyes. His face is narrow and sharply angled, too severe in countenance to be considered handsome, though striking in its own way. His eyes are easily his most notable features, being an uncommon ice blue in colour, lending a fierce intensity to his gaze that many find discomforting.

Name:
Roland Axis

Age:
24

Race:
Human

Profession:
Conscript

Personality:
Roland’s personality is somewhat at odds with his criminal past. While he looks little more than a violent delinquent, he is actually a deep-thinking man, one who finds himself constantly wrestling with the morality of his own actions. 

He still remembers the stories his mother used to tell him, the ones about noble heroes resplendent in shining armour, doing great deeds and saving princesses. He’s grown up to realize that those stories were nothing more than the fantasies of a woman who was trapped in a desperate situation, but that can’t stop him wishing that he could be a little more like the heroes of those tales, to be a man she could have been proud of. Life’s not like that though, and he’s a realist, not an idealist. He’ll do what it takes for him to survive, even if that means somebody else doesn’t get too. That’s just the way things are. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s got to like it.

He can be charming and personable to those around him, even complete strangers, but has been known to fall into bouts of intense brooding, and during these periods he can be cold, even hostile, to those he loves best in the world.

He prefers to solve his problems without violence, but life has taught him that a man who isn’t willing to fight for those things that are his isn’t going to keep those things for very long, and as such he is ready to resort to brute force when he’s forced to.

He's got an impressive temper, one that he struggles to control at times. He doesn't fly off the handle at small things, but once his danders up it's hard to get him back under control, not before he says or does something incredibly stupid anyway. He realizes it's at moments like that he becomes his own worst enemy, but regardless of how hard he tries to get a reign on his emotions it still feels like he's pissing into the wind.

Backstory:
Roland was born in the Ilyan city of Holden, the only child of Garett and Cecilia Axis. His mother was a fragile and yet uncommonly graceful woman who served as a laundress to a prestigious merchant family. She worked hard, and dreamed of raising herself and her family up from their humble beginnings towards something better. Unfortunately, the Gods conspired against her to make her aspirations unattainable, throwing obstacle after calamity at her, each one conspiring to push her face further back down into the gutter. Chief amongst these misfortunes was her husband, a small-minded, loudmouthed drunk who worked as a dock worker during the day, and a leg breaker for a local gangster through the night. Every penny he made ended up being squandered, either on poor bets, cheap liquor, or cheaper women, and invariable he’d end up taking his wives earnings to settle his ever present debts. Being a man of consistency he quickly wasted those monies too. 

To supplement their meager incomes Garett sent his young son to ‘apprentice’ under an old work colleague of his, Hemsey Geance, better known in Holden’s criminal Underworld ‘The Ratcatcher’. Geance was once a talented pickpocket, but after having his fingers broken by a rival he was forced to retire. However, nobody pays a pension to a retired sneak-thief, no matter how good he used to be, and so he began to train the street orphans and unwanted waifs of the city in the fine art of larceny, taking a large cut of each child’s takings as his ‘mentorship fee’, and keeping them all in line through a mixture of violence, cunning, and emotional blackmail. Roland became one of Geance’s ‘Rats’, and that small portion of his spoils that he didn’t pass onto the Ratcatcher was taken home to give to his father. 

Cecilia hated the path that her husband had set Roland down, but she’d ever been a meek woman, unwillingly to argue with her volatile husband, and never quite mustered up the courage to disagree with Garett. Instead she worked as hard as she could to bolster Roland’s moral education, trying to teach him the differences between right and wrong, encouraging him to go to the local church-run Sunday school, and filling his head with stories featuring great heroes of the past. Roland enjoyed the tales, but never quite grasped the lessons his mother was trying to impart to him, not at the time. His father thought it was all a waste of time, thinking that there was no use filling the boys head with nonsense when life would beat it out of him in due course, but as long as it didn’t affect him he was happy to let his wife continue the ‘lost cause’. 

Things continued that way until Roland was fourteen years old. One day, after finishing work for the Ratcatcher, he returned home to find his mother dead, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle and her body cool, while of his father there was no sign at all. There was no explanation for the scene, no broken furniture or signs of struggle. Despite all the years of taking her for granted and the scorn and verbal abuse he had heaped upon her, Garett had never so much as raised a hand against his wife in the past, and while the town watchmen who were eventually called to investigate the scene could find no evidence of violence the fact that Roland’s father had apparently fled was too much to ignore. They began a man hunt for Garett, but never found him. Reports would eventually come in that he had booked passage upon a ship that was sailing from the docks earlier that day, but by the time they came in it was too late to stop him.

Roland’s mother was dead and his father was gone. He was on his own.

Roland ran before the authorities made any plans for him. He didn’t know where and at the time he didn’t know why. It was an animal reaction, a young boy fleeing a situation that he wasn’t equipped to deal with. Truth be told the watch probably could have stopped him, or at least found him, if they’d wanted. But what did they care about him? Just one more orphan on the streets of Harndon. ‘Let him disappear,’ they thought, ‘less work for us to do’.

When he eventually stopped running he realized he couldn’t go home. No, not just couldn’t, but wouldn’t. It was a tainted place for him now. He had no other family, and no one he could turn to. So, he did the only thing he could think to do. He returned to the Ratcatcher and went to work. Geance was only too happy at this turn of events. Roland was a good earner, a hard worker and a damn fine thief. One of the best he’d ever trained. The money fairly flowed in after Roland lost his home, as there was no real reason for him to stop working, other than the occasional breaks to eat and sleep. In fact, it would have been accurate to say that the job became Roland’s whole life, but as the time he spent separating honest people from their coin grew, so too did his passion for the craft. His grafts became ever more elaborate, more sophisticated, and Geance watched on in something akin to awe as, in two short years, his student became a better thief than he ever was in his prime. Roland was made too work in the shadows, and that wasn't just because of his ability to see in the dark. It came as no surprise to the old pickpocket when he heard that Roland had captured the attention of Theron Kingmaker. 

Theron Kingmaker. So named because everyone knew he was the real power in Holden, whether the politicians and nobility wanted to admit it or not. Theron had come out of nowhere about fifteen years prior and through the use of bloody violence, crooked deals and underhand tactics, he had forced the disparate gangs and criminal families of the city into something almost resembling a sophisticated hierarchy, featuring himself sitting pretty at the top of the lot. Ever since then everyone knew almost nothing happened in the city of Hardon without his says so. It was whispered that 'he had the power to turn paupers into kings, and kings into corps', which,while not quite true, went a long way to illustrating the fear and respect people held for the criminal lord. The Kingmaker virtually owned Holden in all but name, but he was no longer a young man, and his mind had started to turn to such nebulous things as ‘legacies’. He wanted to ensure that when he was gone that control of his city would go to someone worthy of it. Unfortunately, he had no sons or daughters of his own, no family of any sort, and what friends he did have had all been buried on his way to the top. He began a search to find a candidate to pass his power to, but no one suitable presented themselves. No one, that was, until Roland began making waves. 

Stories of the young man’s exploits had begun to filter through the taverns, gambling dens, pawnshops, whorehouses and all the dens of iniquity of Holden, and when Theron heard them he brought the young man in for a meet. For his part Roland had heard of the infamous Kingmaker, after all, who that ran in his circles hadn’t. The young thief figured that he’d crossed the wrong man somewhere in the course of one of his heists, and now Theron was going to snuff him out. Terrified he was going to die, he still endeavored to go out like a man, refusing to show Theron the respect he was due, refusing to show just how terrified he was. It worked in Roland’s favor though, as his iron-necked tough guy act, and young mans bluster in the face of the most dangerous man in the city, went someway to impressing Theron, who decided then and there that he’d found the heir he’d been looking for. 

There was still tests to pass and hoops to jump through of course, but Theron was certain that Roland would pass them all, and pass them he did, not always easily as the trials were designed to test his limits, but always with an innate self-confidence that said the young man was born to the life of a crook. He had the skills to go far, and Theron, a man who believed steadfastly in the values of a good education, spent a considerable sum to make sure that his protégé had the proper knowledge to match his new position. Subjects such as mathematics, politics, history, and refined etiquette were all thrust at Roland, while renowned pugilists and fighters such as Rabon “The Rabid” Smith were called in to test his physical prowess. While Roland could usually manage the “higher” lessons, he struggled to keep up with the professional fist-fighters and toughs that constantly challenged him, though that just encouraged Theron to increase the tutelage in that particular area. After all, practice made perfect, and the Kingmaker was adamant that his student would become perfect, even if it killed him.

Years passed, and by Roland’s twenty-third birthday it was fair to say that he was finally becoming the man Theron wanted. True, there were still rough edges from his days as a foot-pad that needed smoothing, but on the whole he was beginning to resemble what the Kingmaker liked to call a ‘Made-Man’. Which was just as well, as there was a new up-and-comer in Holden’s underworld, calling himself Caleb Losthill, who was getting ready to challenge Theron for control of the city. Many of the cities’ leading nobles were getting tired of Theron’s shadow-rule over them, and were willing to back Losthill’s play if it meant they could get rid of the old man. Theron’s power had never been more precarious, and he needed all his men at their best if they were going to weather the coming storm. Unfortunately, Roland wasn’t paying the attention that the matter at hand demanded, owing to the fact that word had just come in that his father had returned to Holden.

Garett hadn’t just sauntered into town and expected everything to go back to the way they had been nearly a decade before though. He’d slunk in the back door as it were, with a new name and look, a thick beard and died hair to cover his identity. He’d hoped it, and the time he’d spent away, would be enough to fool the town’s guard. And it had been. Things don’t change that much though, and the old fool had gone and gotten drunk one night to celebrate his return to the city of his birth, and in his stupor started blabbing about who he really was to a cheap hooker. The hooker told his story to her pimp, who worked for Theron Kingmaker, who told Roland. The young man didn’t know what he felt at the return of his father, but knew he had to go and see him. He travelled to the tavern where Garett was staying almost straight away.

Upon seeing his father, slumped at the bar and half unconscious with drink even though it was only mid-morning, Roland felt nothing. Then he remembered the body of his mother, cool to the touch with her delicate neck twisted at that unnatural angle, and a cold fury over took him, something primordial and savage. There was no controlling himself after that, but, if the truth was to be told, he didn’t want to control himself. He let himself walk towards his father, his hand dropping to the knife he wore concealed in his jacket. Somehow Garett must have heard him coming and twisted in his seat to face his son. The drink that clouded the older man’s senses, nor the years that had separated them, didn’t delay his recognition. Nor did it stop him identifying the obvious intent in his son’s eyes. 

“Now son, we can speak. . .” he began, but he never finished, not before he was interrupted by the knife that plunged into his throat. 

“Speak to that.” Answered Roland, his voice cold yet measured, his rage controlled yet unleashed. It was in that moment that he truly became on of the hardened criminal community, a man willing to take a life if it suited his needs. It was also in that moment that he got himself arrested. A squadron of guardsmen trooped into the tavern from the streets outside and summarily shackled him at rifle point. Roland quickly realised that he’d been set up, as the timing of guardsmen was just too convenient to be a coincidence. Later, while in the town cells, he received a message from Theron stating that he’d uncovered evidence that Garett Axis had only returned to Holden under Losthill’s urging, and it looked like Losthill had used the whole thing as a gamble to remove Roland from the board before he began his strike against Theron. The Kingmaker also told him not to worry, as now they knew Caleb’s plans, and that he would use his connections to get Roland out of prison, and together they would strike at their rival. 

The chance never came though, as Losthill’s agents struck first. A crooked prison guard captain was payed a handsome sum to kill Roland in prison and make it look like an accident. The guard in question was a scumbag, but not the kind of scumbag who was comfortable with murdering someone, nor did he like the thought of ordering Roland killed by one of his men then having a potential loose end. Instead he forged expedition conscription papers for the young thief, before smuggling him out towards the nearest expedition barracks, who was then shipped out before he got an opportunity to escape, thereby disposing of Roland without ever having to wet his blade. 

So, there it is, Roland’s story, and the reason why he’s part of the expedition. He’d dearly love to abandon his new comrades and return home to Holden and Theron, but as a conscript he’s watched far too closely by his suspicious officers to just run away clean, and even if he did manage to escape there’s an ocean that separates him from home now. Save the advent of a miracle it’s looking more and more like that he’s just going to have to survive this New World now, and wait for his tour of duty to end before he can make his return. But make no mistake, he is going to survive, and he is going to get home. 

There’s some scores that need settling, and Roland ain’t the kind of man to let a thing like that lie.

Skills and Abilities:
Nightvision: Roland is capable of seeing in the dark. It's a passive ability that he's had for as long as he can remember, and in fact when he was a child he just assumed it was something everyone was capable of. It's proved to be a massive boon in his adult life, but years on the street have taught him to keep the ability to himself. Theron Kingmaker is one of the few to know about it, and theorises that it may be a rudimentary manifestation of some kind of Natural magic that courses through Roland's veins.
Stealthy: Most of Roland’s best work gets done in the dark, out of the light of day and unseen by decent people, and so he’s learnt to move silently. Ghosts and shadows could learn a thing or two from him when it comes to skulking around.
Career criminal: Picking pockets, lifting purses, extortion rackets, conmanship, bribery, mugging, robbery, arson, insurance fraud, smuggling, littering, you name it and Roland’s done it. His favourite acts are those were nobody has to get hurt – physically speaking – but that doesn’t mean he’s unfamiliar with clubbing a man over the back of the head. . . or knifing a rival while he sleeps.
Athletic: Fast, strong, young, and physically capable, Roland is probably as physically ready for the tasks ahead as it is possible for a man to be.
Intelligent: Contrary to his rather humble origins, Roland has been given a rather extensive education by his patron, Theron, receiving the kind of tutoring that is usually reserved for the sons and daughters of wealthy middleclass merchants and noblemen. That’s not to say he was always the keenest of students, but that when he did apply himself to his studies his quick and able mind was usually able to quickly grasp the information presented to him. He prefers to play to the role of being a typical street dunce though, as he’s found that it’s to his advantage if people assume that he’s uneducated, and therefore less of a threat.
Street and knife fighting: Running with street gangs isn’t anyone’s idea of a soft life, the kind of life that if you don’t get tough you end up getting dead. As a child, Roland was smaller than most of his contemporaries, and quickly learnt that a fair fight wasn’t any kind of fight at all. Dirt slinging, eye gouging, ball kicking or neck biting, if it helped him win a confrontation, didn’t matter how dirty the tactic, he was gonna do it. He’s since bolstered those hard-learnt skills after being trained by the best wrestlers, pugilists, and knifemen that Holden has too offer.
Marksmanship: Not a skill he’s been forced to utilize as often as his others, nevertheless Theron would have been remiss if he hadn’t ensured that his protégé can handle a gun when it’s called for. However, his schooling has only really incorporated pistol wielding, and so Roland is a rank novice when using a musket. . . you know, like those etherguns that are going to be all that stand between him and a messily gory death by demonic dismemberment.
Woodcraft and Tracking: Virtually non-existent. Rolands only ever left the city of Holden twice in his life, and even then he never went far. Put him in the woods on his own and he’s liable to starve to death within the week.

Equipment:
Standard Expeditionary kit and uniform
Rune Pattern Ethergun and bayonet
A wickedly sharp, bone handled long-dirk
A set of exceptionally fine lock picks
Collapsible spyglass
Compass
Hatchet
Tinderbox
A battered hip-flask, still half full of some amber gut-swill that has a brass-neck to call itself brandy
A small silver pocket watch, engraved with the words 'To Stevros, Come back to me safe, Yours forever, Love Molly'

Hidden 8 yrs ago Post by Atrophy

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Atrophy Meddlesome Kid

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Meddlesome Kid

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Bio

Name: Vashti Lestil

Age: 160

Race: Elf

Profession: Priest - Inquisitor

Personality: Vashti, if anything, is a woman of conviction. She fails to see the grays in the world, finding life much simpler if she just qualifies everything as either black or white. She is extremely hard on herself. Vashti doesn’t make excuses for her failures, which have been aplenty, and constantly seeks new challenges to prove her devotion. While this devotion to the gods and her faith is unquestionable, her motivation and methods are dubious at best. One doesn’t have to spend much time around the elf to realize that she enjoys being the one who holds the power. She’s a decisive leader, to be fair, but is way too damned stubborn and refuses to listen to people who disagree with her. It doesn’t necessarily stop there at decision making, either. Vashti is one of those people who is convinced that everything she likes is right and everything she dislikes is wrong. It’d be incorrect to say that an air of superiority surrounds the woman; it’s much more like a choking, poisonous miasma. 

That’s not to say that she’s a wholly unpleasant person to be around. She’s polite to strangers, usually, and people who stay in her good graces are often surprised by the wide range of topics she is willing to discuss—including ones that aren’t often touched by seemingly stuffy church types like her. As well, she is an astute observer of people, and has made better efforts to go out of her way to help those who seem to be distraught or defeated. Yet she isn’t one to get distracted, and if going out of her way to be a good samaritan prevents her from completing her duty she will often choose to ignore suffering if doing so serves what she sees as being the greater good.

Backstory: Vashti can still remember her youth in vague pictures that have been obscured by the passage of time. She had a mother and a father that loved and supported her, brothers and sisters that played with and watched after her, and lived in a verdant forest in Ilya where they were free from want. She wasted time painting pretty portraits, gathering bouquets of flowers with her mother, or sneaking behind bushes with boys after nightfall. She would go sell flowers with her mother in the neighboring city, see how humans live, and laugh at their backwards, uncultured way and wonder, ‘What kind of idiots would live in a place lousy with crime and disease, where it was so loud that one couldn’t hear their own thoughts, and it always smelled like a dirty latrine?’ It was no wonder her family’s flowers were in such high demand, even though someone could get them for free just by searching the prairies and forests outside of their “protective” walls. Today, Vashti could only look back in disgust at what a worthless little shit she had been as a youth, wasting her time peddling pointless potpourri to poor, pea-brained pissants. Then again, it was only because she was selling flowers in the city that she came to be the person she was today.

She was in her twenties, a child still by elven standards, but Vashti was in search for some fun and decided to slum it in the city and gawk at the desolate. However, she need money since humans were fascinated with useless metals, for some reason, so she gathered some flowers in hopes of making a quick buck with which she would use to blend in with the crowds and pretend to enjoy food made on the streets and juice that had been spoiled. Vashti quickly sold her bouquets and, with pockets full of coin, began her night on the town. Of course, human cities were always prone to danger, or so she had heard, but that’s why she carried a knife like all smart forest elves travelling into human territory did. However, apparently this information did not go both ways, because the look of surprise in the eyes of the cutpurse that had tried to jump her told Vashti that he had expected her to be an easy, unarmed target. He certainly hadn’t expected her to catch him right in the throat, but, then again, she certainly hadn’t tried to kill him.

Vashti would suppose that she should’ve been in shock, or a panic, or sorrowful, but instead she felt a catharsis, as if a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. It was as if in that moment she both realized that her life had been missing its purpose and had simultaneously found it. Now, Vashti had always been a vaguely religious person, praying to the gods for good fortune and damning them for stubbed toes and thorn pricks, but they had never really been that important. Yet, while she would never claim that they had spoken directly to her, she did believe that day they had acted through her. She was no fighter, her knife could’ve landed anywhere, probably would’ve even dropped from her hand for it had been shaking so much, but instead it had been guided directly into that thief’s neck. It had to be divine intervention, right? The man had intended to do evil, and in doing so she been directed to smite him. Perhaps Vashti would’ve had her doubts about all of this—the notation that some normal girl was used to invoke some divine retribution was something found in the human plays that she so often scoffed at—if she hadn’t developed a potency for divine magic shortly thereafter. 

Her eyes opened for seemingly the first time, the girl had to make a choice. She decided to pursue this new awakening. Vashti left her family behind with little ceremony, believing that they would do nothing but question her calling, and began her life anew. Her philosophy was an alarmingly simple, almost naive, one—do good by hunting evil—but her path would be more complex than just that. Sure, she could head from town to town slaying killers and bandits like some kind of unhinged vigilante, but there were a few problems with that. For starters she was untrained, and as proven later by the monsters across the ocean it was obvious to her that the gods don’t always step in. More importantly to her, however, was the simple fact that not all killers and bandits were evil, and not all seemingly decent citizens were good. She could sense the corruption on people, feel it in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn’t do anything about without the backing of an institution. Thank the gods for the church.

It wasn’t hard to find acceptance into a monastery in Yggdra. She was young, determined, magically capable, and smart enough to keep her mouth shut about certain things that would raise eyebrows and bring her character into question. Vashti trained for years in the monastery to master her command of divine magic and her skill with a blade, eventually moving from being a neophyte to becoming an inquisitor. No longer bound to the monastery, Vashti wormed her way into being tasked with investigating crimes against the church and the gods. Her work gave her the liberty and materials needed to execute on her philosophy, and with the gods guiding her actions through her sixth sense she found that she was quite a natural at all. 

It also provided her with a challenge. Despite having the backing of the church and the insight from the gods, she had to still prove that someone was a heretic. Often enough she had seen some wet behind the ears inquisitor act on a hunch without coming forth with real evidence and end up burning an innocent. Mistakes like that often proved to be the end of an inquisitor’s career depending on how public it was, so Vashti acted with patience and always went out of her way gather the necessary evidence before an arrest or execution. It should’ve always been easy with the gods guiding her senses, but the gods are gods, and Vashti found that they often get bored and enjoy playing with mortals. There were times that they would lead her astray while on a witchhunt; testing her by muddling with her senses, forcing her to determine if she was truly following the gods or just her gut. Yet even in these trying times she would be able to root out evil, and with each wicked person she condemned she could feel her magic occasionally grow stronger—a divine reward, surely.

Even if Vashti was truly being gifted by the gods, it did not prevent her from being despised by mortals. They saw an inquisitor and assumed it was her duty to bless their harvest, or cure their sick, or officiate their weddings and bless their wives so they can spit out even more babies despite not being able to take care of the ones they already had. Vashti paid little mind to the whispers or curses she heard whenever she refused, which was almost always, and she turned her cheek when angry gentiles spit or hurled rocks as she dragged their wicked cousin or sister to the hangman’s perch. She didn’t raise a finger against them; it wasn’t evil to be ignorant, even if their ignorance did get in the way of her doing her damn job. So Vashti ignored the pleas, the bargains, the insults, the criticisms; after all, they were words coming from stupid simpletons, while she was acting directly as the hand of the gods. It was clear which side was the right one.

However, while Vashti was unwavering in her ways, the church had been changing over the years and they had been receiving complaints about one of their inquisitors for over a decade. There was no one single infraction that pushed everything over the edge, but when tens to hundreds of their flock demand the excommunication of one of their inquisitors they are forced to listen. However, Vashti had served them for over a century and her record, outside of her poor public relations, was rather spotless—the only skeletons she had were the ones she had made in the name of the church and the gods. Still, the leaders of the church knew that they had to get rid of her, or at the very least get her out of the public’s eye, so they ‘promoted’ her. Vashti was recalled to the monastery that she had studied at, where she would now act as one of the head trainers. 

Vashti saw through the ruse and was upset, naturally, but she was no idiot. It was better to be kept in the fold of the cloth where one day she could perhaps return to the duty that she had been born for than to be completely shut out without any hope of ever returning. She expected that she would teach swordsmanship, magic, or even forensics, anything to help the new recruits combat the creatures that were appearing across the sea. Instead, she was made to teach history of the church. It was obvious that the church was trying to make her resign out of boredom, but the only resignation that came from Vashti was the acceptance of her fate. She taught glassy-eyed students about Cardinals So-and-So and Bishops Doldrums while her sword hung on her wall, untouched except for the times she took it down to the training yards to take out her frustrations on wooden dummies that bore the faces of the snot-nosed brats she taught. Still, as the years began to pass she did not question the church for removing her or the gods from letting it happen, at least not until her divine magic began to wane in power.

At first she was distraught, knowing that divine magic was related directly to how favored one was by the gods. Vashti firmly believed she had done no wrongs and that she had willingly followed the path the gods had sent her down, but regardless she was losing favor. Slowly a revelation came over her: her magic had waxed and waned before when she was an inquisitor, growing when she had being challenged and diminishing when she was slogging through easy foe after easy foe. Vashti realized that the gods had once again been testing her by leading her astray, and she had failed to recognize it for years. A life spent behind a podium was an easy one, a safe one, but it was the wrong one, and for that her power had been greatly crippled. If she wanted to appease the gods and win back their favor she would have to do something magnificent, something absolutely herculean; wringing the necks of a few sinners like she had before wouldn’t make the cut, it had to be something grander.

Vashti knew the way. She shirked her responsibilities and left her post at the church under the cover of darkness and, with a few personal effects, made her way to her homeland of Ilya. After all, the institution would do nothing but question her new calling and hold her back, and she did not need their protection where she was going. Her philosophy had not changed, it was still the simple ‘do good by hunting evil’, but her path had taken her across the sea to the New World. Vashti knew she should’ve been full of doubt, having abandoned the life she had lived for years on a personal whim, but when she stepped on the boat to the Expeditionary Camp she felt a weight lift from her shoulders, quite similar to the first time that she had dispatched wickedness. It was as if strings had been attached to her limbs and, like a marionette, she was being moved once again by the gods. She could feel the divine magic blooming like a flower inside of her, and knew for certain that she had made no mistake when it had come to her decision to crusade against the evils of the New World. In fact, to call it her decision was incorrect; she was just following the will of the gods.

Skills and Abilities:
Intuition - Sixth sense, second sight, clairvoyance, detect evil, call it what you will, Vashti will sometimes get hunches that something isn’t as it seems, that there is danger afoot, or that someone is clearly evil. The accuracy of this ability is faulty at best, but she’s convinced that this is the way of the gods guiding her so that she can act in their stead. Still there’s no actual proof in any of this being more than nonsense, but who needs proof when you have faith? 

Investigation - Okay, well, some people do require proof, especially when you are accusing their loved ones of high heresy, and Vashti has spent decades training her eyes to spot the things most people don’t see. There’s nothing magical about her abilities, she is just uncommonly observant and patient when it comes to spotting things that should or should not be. She’s no tracker, however, and even in the old days she would tend to outsource to third-party help to find someone who had gone into hiding. 

Close Combat - Vashti has a century of training underneath her belt, and her physical prowess on the field has not dampened over the years. She can go blow for blow with the best of them, and her divine magic gives her the edge she needs to win fights with what would otherwise be equal or better opponents. That said, her fighting style is that of rigid church discipline and fairly one-note, leaving her to be rather predictable while in a scrap and susceptible to dishonorable techniques. 

Divine Magic - Vashti specializes in spells that destroys her enemies and strengthens herself through prayers. Each prayer requires constant channeling through chants, so she cannot cast prayers simultaneously or if she has somehow been silenced. The gods enjoy hearing their praise, after all. As well, prayers are spiritually draining, and how long a inquisitor can pray without becoming completely exhausted is determined by how much favor the gods show them. Currently, Vashti is fairly limited in how long her windows of prayer last.

Prayer of Exorcism - The first spell an inquisitor learns, and the only one they ever really need. Vashti can call forth the heavenly power to bring down holy light that smites the enemies of the gods in an area. Stories have told of inquisitors who could lay waste to entire towns of heathens in one blinding blast, but even at her best Vashti could only hope to erase a large orc in one blow. Now, she can probably just punch some rather painful holes through the enemies of the gods. It’s still effective in combat, sure, but she misses being able to exorcise an evil being completely from existence.
Prayer of Vigor - Vashti can beseech the gods to help her exert herself physically that comes in a form of a dull light that surrounds her body. While in this state she can easily shrug off some hits that would’ve normally knocked her off her feet, strike with a strength unnatural for her size, and push herself to fight harder for longer. It also temporarily eliminates the need for what a body naturally requires to survive. Stories tell of inquisitors who went years without having to eat or sleep in their quest to destroy evil, but at her peak Vashti has only gone a week (and the week after was rather unpleasant).
Prayer of Mending - An inquisitor’s line of work is dangerous, and those who aren’t partnered with a cleric or chaplain often find themselves stuck in a bad spot unless they learn how to take care of themselves. Vashti can use the favor of the gods to heal herself or others of physical wounds and to expel some toxins from her body. Stories tell of inquisitors who could survive deathblows and resurrect themselves in the middle of combat, but even at her best Vashti could only heal light wounds while being active. Now she could probably stitch together herself or someone else if given the time and place to meditate, but in the heat of the moment it’s practically useless.

Equipment:
Inquisitor’s Claymore - The standard two-handed sword of an inquisitor are often engraved with runes and blessed by chaplains to keep the blade sharp and to help inquisitor’s complete their duty of smiting evil. The runes and blessings on Vashti’s sword have long since faded and the blade has grown somewhat dull and misshapen, but it is still her most trusted tool. 

Inquisitor’s Breastplate - Resistant to blades and infused with a brass alloy to dissuade those pesky mages, an inquisitor’s armor is quite something even before it gets heavily blessed. For decades an inquisitor has to watch out for brigands who would kill them just to steal their armor, but its ineffectiveness against firearms has thankfully seen this trend fade. Vashti’s armor is a bit weathered, but it still holds up. 

Expeditionary Uniform - Vashti would’ve preferred her coat in red, but apparently the expedition quartermasters don’t take special orders.

Short Rune Pattern Ethergun - Vashti’s supposes that it’d be pretty hard to miss with a gun if she fires it point blank. Otherwise, maybe it can serve as a bludgeon if she loses her sword.

Leaf of the Great Tree - A brass religious pendant shaped like a leaf that is worn around the neck by a beaded chain. They’re a fairly commonplace item and actually offer no real benefit to the wearer, although people like to convince themselves that the gods will cast a protective eye over wearings of the necklace as if it were some kind of good luck charm.

Hidden 8 yrs ago Post by Eponymous

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Eponymous Infrasound

Member Seen 7 yrs ago

Infrasound

11 posts

in 3008 days

Seen 7 yrs ago

Appearance: Hassan stands at about six feet tall, dark goldenrod skin with black hair and dark, slightly sunken brown eyes. Athletically built, thin but with prominent muscle definition. An unassuming and fairly typical Akivirian male. A thick, wiry beard covers the lower half of his face with only his mildly crooked teeth showing on occasion to prove there is a mouth amongst it. A very closely shaven head save for a dark stripe of hair down the middle adorn the upper half. And finally a thick black line in the form of a tattoo around each wrist symbolic of shackles and his debt to certain traders.

Name: Hassan Tzenker
Age: 31
Race: Human, Akivir
Profession: Conscript
 
Personality: Hassan is a generally calm man with a very soft demeanor, he is however wary of people initially and not quick to trust others. In spite of his often relaxed manner, Hassan has a short temper under the right conditions. And if something bothers him enough he becomes furious, but is often quick to calm back down if reasoned with. Always very aware of his surroundings and is mindful of tact in most situations be it speaking or acting. 
 
Backstory: Hassan was born to work, like many in Akivir, he was born into a family of traders and as such learned the tricks of the trade from youth. As he grew older he managed to get work with various trading caravans, protecting the trade routes, scouting ahead and fending of undesirables. 

As time passed he gained the respect of many traders, one in particular, a merchant named Casper Alborz who had suspected ties to the black market of the lands took a shining to Hassan and they ended up working together quite often. Hassan was aware of Casper's notoriety as a supposed criminal but had yet to see it with his own eyes. For a few years Hassan worked with Casper and his men doing work he was already accustomed too, guarding trade routes and ensuring Casper's wares were up to snuff, his men were a little more heavy-handed than he was used too but not so much to worry Hassan. There were many things that Hassan was excluded from that bothered him, jobs he had done before with ease but Casper assured him he would do much more for him soon enough...

After about a year of working with Casper, Hassan was captured in his sleep and had his wrists tattooed with the symbol of shackles and Casper's Merchant seal, (A simple square chest with a symbol representing fire on it.) enslaving him to Casper. Usually these are done willingly showing you serve a certain merchant and his men but marks you as the given merchants until death. Hassan fought against him for as long as he could but in order to keep his life and protect his family he was required to do less than savory work. And his new tattoo didn't allow him to simply leave as it was a culturally symbolic show of ownership. Casper's men always kept an eye on him weather he was awake, asleep, no matter how far he went or the time of day. They followed to ensure he would follow through with his jobs, Hassan had become what he once attempted to prevent, he assaulted caravans and enforced trade routes. Robbing, fighting and doing the all the dirty work while Casper remained untouched and Hassan had no easy way out.

Now with a substantial amount of infamy on his back, Hassan had seemingly no safe way out. One night on a raid on small village to obtain a menial amount of owed money Hassan and small band of men were ambushed by Akivir soldiers and he was subsequently captured. Fortunately for Hassan Akivir government do not usually kill on sight and will listen to most forms of pleading. Hassan told the Akivir government what had happened how Casper had tattooed him against his will and he was forced to work for him. Weather they completely believed him or not there must have been some tenuous belief amongst them to allow him to be conscripted to an expedition so he may absolve himself in someway. They couldn't assure his family would be safe in the mean time but would investigate further into Casper. It wasn't much but it was the only hope he had at a free life again. 
 
Skills and Abilities: 
Close combat: Hassan has spent a large amount of time either fending off raiders or being one. He is quite capable with a sword or knife.

Trader: Having grown up a merchant and his tact when speaking allows Hassan to appraise many items and talk easier with merchants and traders.

Poor Marksman Hassan has very little experience with firearms and wouldn't attempt to make long distance shots if his life depended on it. However he attempts to use them and as such preferred the short rune pattern Ethergun upon conscription as he doesn't nee to aim all that much, 
 
Equipment: Akivir Saber: A nearly 3-foot long blade that curves toward the tip. Ornate yet sturdy.
Akivir Katar: An 10-inch dual edged Katar, meant to be plunged or "punched" into something.
Standard Issue Short Rune pattern Ethergun.
Whetstone.
Canteen and various dried foodstuffs.
Light Chain-mail armor with hardened leather, cheap and mildly efficient.

Hidden 8 yrs ago Post by Oni_

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Oni_ Moment In Flux

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Moment In Flux

380 posts

in 3837 days

Seen 5 mos ago

Name: 
Ceridwen "The Firehawk" Phrys  
Age:
29
Race:
Human
Profession:
Mage
Personality:
As people come, Ceridwen is one of the more arrogant ones, especially due to her gift and talent with magic. It's given her the inclination to cut the planning phase out completely and to rush into things - granted it's worked for her so far. Can you blame her, though? They say with power comes responsibility, but Ceridwen says with power also comes a sense of immortality. 

When it comes to other folks, Ceri is a conversationalist. She wouldn't go so far as to say that people are what make her tick - sometimes she does appreciate a moment of quiet and solitude. Whether or not her comrades are quite as extroverted as she doesn't particularly matter to her, she'll still try and start up a conversation regardless; a party with no solidarity are no better than bandits. 

Now, when it comes to beliefs, be it personal or towards the mission Ceri has an iron will. She won't stray from the mission, whether it is the right thing to do or not. She signed up to complete a task - a contract which she will complete despite the costs. Personal beliefs mean nothing to her, that's not to say she doesn't have them. More that she keeps them to herself. No one has a right to know, and if they don't know, then they won't hold anything against her.

Backstory:
One, two, three... gunshots rang out, not far away.  ...four, five, six  this was his chance, she was out of ammo. The bandit leapt up from behind his cover, rifle in hand. The bounty hunter greeted him with the barrel of a pistol, and a smiling visage. The bandit was calling her bluff; he aimed his sights at her, she had no hope. A trigger clicked. No shot fired.  Half a second later a plume of fire exited the barrel, engulfing him in flame. This bounty hunter wasn't just anyone; this was the Firehawk. 

Born in Ilya to a loving mother and father, that's how Ceridwen always begins tellings of her childhood. Is it true? Well, sure it is her, parents loved her a whole bunch. It was each other they couldn't stand. Her father ended up leaving them early on, maybe five years after she was born, leaving her mother to cope with raising Ceridwen alone. Other than that interesting factoid she doesn't like talking about her childhood. It's not what defines her - well that, and it was incredibly standard and boring as far as they go. Maybe the most exciting moment of it all was her skill in using magic. But all that changed was a new need for study and control.

What? Do you want to know about her learning to cope with magic? That's new. No one ever intends to hear about studying. But alright, buckle up, and we'll get back to the interesting stuff as soon as possible.

So how did Ceridwen find out that she could use magic? Well, in the same way as every other damned mage of course! She did it by mistake. In her case, it might have involved freezing the tail of the neighbour's cat. And then everyone else found out when she burned down their shed. Of course, it was on purpose. Mr Jenkins had always looked at her like she was a waste of time. 

So what followed was the usual. Lectures on burning down sheds (It had happened before, and no, you can't ask about it) followed by as previously mentioned - studying. Everyone's favourite activity and when it came to magic an absolute waste of everybody's time. You see, Ceridwen became something of a kinesthetic learner when she took up the arcane arts. Textbooks on process became an excellent source of practice with fire. That puddle the school bullies were stood in? Well, what better time to practice cryomancy? And of course, metal fencing became charged with a shockingly large amount of static electricity.

It might surprise you that even with such an adventurous way of discovering magic it took many a year for Ceridwen to become any good at it. It was the same year she left home on her own for the first time. Carrying nothing but the coat on her back, and a hat on her head. Two pieces of clothing which later became synonymous with The Firehawk. You see, travelling to meet a tutor in magic was the last ditch attempt at her completely control her ability. She was slowly becoming more potent but at the same time more reactive. She couldn't control it and what used to be mostly harmless bursts had become a somewhat dangerous affair.

So was it years of studying that helped her control her magic? No, it was the same thing that drove her to such great levels of control and power as The Firehawk. It was a fight. You see, as we'll cover later bandits in Yggdrasil were a problem and even worse than the bandits? The squirts that wanted to join them. Usually had to take some mark to prove their worth if they wanted to join an already established group and Ceri must have seemed like a damn easy target. To be fair to them, she almost was. Until she blew up.

Yes. Blew up. That is what I said. No, I don't mean from anger. Yes, I do mean she was the epicentre of a quite literal explosion. There were three bandits, and two of them were engulfed. What did the third do? Stand there for the most part while the easy target stood up from the flames, coat burning behind her. Looked like a flaming pair of wings to him. Before Ceridwen did the natural thing and rolled the fires out that was, that one kid's account is a story Ceri still remembers fondly to this day. 

That explosion was the first step after that magic clicked for her. She needed intent behind it. Every time she tried before it was because she was told to. She didn't want to do it so the magic never really worked. The explosion? Oh, she didn't want an explosion, but it was close enough for a starting. She wanted those bandits to set alight. Just maybe a little too hard.

After the whole flaming girl incident, Ceri decided to follow through with studying for once, it took a few years, but she mastered the control part of the magic. It did what she wanted all the time now just not always as powerfully as she might hope. But everything in it's own time, that isn't even the interesting part of Ceridwens backstory.

No, as far as Ceridwen is concerned, her story begins later on in her life, when she took up bounty hunting.

As much as the nations of Yggdrasil liked to think bandits weren't a problem, you always had a few camps. And even if you didn't criminals were always trying to run from the law. That's where people like Ceridwen came in. Remember her childhood finding of magic? Over the years she became exquisite at using it. She was never one for the fancy pillars of magic that other mages used, though, she was always one to enhance her weapons with it.  Flaming bullets were a staple of her arsenal as was using her magic to sling her bullets back into the cylinders of her pistols. 

Of course, she didn't start out being the Firehawk. Back in the day, she was a nobody, taking on contracts to bring in people who'd run away from curfews and other menial crimes. Even then people fought back, and even then she came back home worse for wear, bleeding, bullet holes the whole shebang. 

Over thew years though the Firehawk became a known name among bounty hunters and their marks alike. Known for swooping in, taking her mark and leaving nothing but flames behind. She wasn't the most legendary bounty hunter to have ever lived, but Ceridwen was happy with the name she'd made for herself. No one knew how mortal she was, how even still she'd return to her life burnt, beaten and bloody. Just like those early days. It was part of the reason why the Firehawk worked so rarely, and in extension why she only took on big targets. 

Then she got wind of the New World, how for some reason they were sending out a new expedition there. They'd been doing it for years. They were looking for a new wave, and if Ceridwen told the truth, it piqued her interest. It was kind of like a bounty contract. Only really, really big. Perhaps this was the next step for her, a new frontier. A new adventure.

Skills and Abilities:
Fire Magic: Ceridwens most adept use of magic from years of practice which is typically applied to her guns. It can be used without them, so she isn't wholly useless without her pistols, but it's more of a style choice. Skill level wise? Heck Ceri would consider herself a true expert, but thats only because she hasn't found anyone better than her yet.

Gunslinging: Ceridwen was never good with a rifle, pistols, though? Those she could shoot with; she ain't half bad at it either, but she ain't the best around. Probably just as good as your average Joe, she can hit things, but never in the right places.
Cooking: Ceri can't cook for shit. Simple as, if someone ain't there to help her she won't be eating anything wholesome.
Tracking: Ceridwen is an above average tracker, she needed to be as a bounty hunter. Still, loads of people out there who're better than her.
Close Combat: Close with guns and magic? Ceri will do just fine. Close with knives and sword? Oh, she's certainly screwed.
Gun Manipulation - Ceri never knew what to call it, but she's a dab hand at using her magic to reload and automatically turn her guns should the need arise. 
 
Equipment:
Twin Tri Barrelled Pepperboxes -Not high end enough to be turned using enchantments but still two decent bits of equipment.
Coat of the Firehawk - brown material, just as thick as the standard expeditionary coat, although well worn and in places very charred.
Hat of the Firehawk - Same brown material as the coat, also very burned.
Throwing knives x5
Hunting Knife - Never used, only bought because a melee weapon is mandatory.

Hidden 8 yrs ago Post by Dead Cruiser

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Dead Cruiser Dishonour Before Death / Better You Than Me

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Dishonour Before Death
Better You Than Me

4211 posts

in 3993 days

Seen 4 days ago

Appearance: Identifying as "Two-Spirit," Honihaka is outwardly extremely androgynous. Soft features, with feminine proportions, but  a tall and strongly-built body make it impossible to readily identify them as male or female. Their thick, brown hair is worn in long braids, and their clothes are usually sensible rough-weaves and leathers in earthen colors, though they do own some more vibrant garments from the Old World. Haka has a fondness for such trinkets as baubles and feathers, and also hangs a variety of shamanic fetishes from their clothes and hair. Their dusky skin is often painted with chalk and various other natural pigments. Haka's bright, blue eyes are the only indication of their Ilyan heritage, and alienates them from other natives of the New World.

Name: Honihaka Prendergast ("Haka" for short)

Age: 22

Race: Human/Beastkin

Profession: Shaman

Personality: Haka strikes most as being austere and emotionally detached, indifferent to the horrors plaguing the New World. This is quite far from the truth, as Haka feels the pain of the land deeply, as well as their own personal grief, but they have built up a thick shell around themselves to shield their emotions and control their magic. Depending on whether Haka's human or beast spirit is more in control, they may be submissive and helpful, or ruthless and savage. In this way Haka can be somewhat mercurial, as having lived as an outcast for most of their life, their reaction to further mistreatment is difficult to predict.

Backstory: Honihaka was born the child of a young woman of a Mohe tribe, a native of the New World, and an Ilyan colonist. Their parents met as their father traded pelts with the tribe, and the two formed a strong attraction to each other and eloped. They lived together happily in a remote cabin in the forest, their father working as a trapper for a living, and trading his catches for goods at the nearby settlement. While their existence was remote from both of their parents' ancestral homes, Honihaka was brought up on both the legends of the Mohe, and the history of Old Ilya, making them very much a child of two worlds. Given their isolation, Haka was allowed to express themself as they saw fit: neither boy nor girl, but both at once.

Sickness took Haka's father's life when they were only eight, and the grief of his loss awakened a power inside of them. It was this time that Haka first took on their beast shape, revealing their Two-Spirit nature. Their mother had suspected as much, given their strange identity, but this confirmed it beyond all doubt. Haka and their mother tearfully left their remote and happy home, returning to the Mohe so that Haka could learn the ways of the Shaman and control their power.

They were accepted back into the tribe with great trepidation, as Haka was seen as a half-breed outsider, and their mother a runaway and iconoclast. Despite the prejudices they faced, Haka learned dutifully under the master Shaman of the Mohe, practicing both the secretive arts of nature magic, and the power inherent to the Two-Spirit. However, as their affinity for magic grew, the spirit of the beast inside of them grew stronger. Their personality would often fluctuate, depending on which spirit grew more dominant.

When the tide of monsters descended on the New World, the Mohe were one of the first tribes to be attacked. While their tribe barely survived the first few years, they were pushed to the very edge of their ancestral territory, bordering the Old Worlders' colonies, and they had taken many losses. Haka's mother had been among them, slain by a vicious beast, and the grief of losing their last remaining parent completed Haka's transformation as Two-Spirit, allowing their twin souls to meld and become more powerful together. Haka seeks to avenge their mother and their clan by halting the onslaught of monsters, and has joined an Expedition as guide and mystic.

Skills and Abilities: A native of the New World, Haka is one with the land and can survive in the wild with ease. Whether hunting a wild animal for a meal or sleeping under the stars, nature is Haka's home and provider. As they were raised this way among others that lived much the same, they are more self-sufficient than Old World rangers, and are not predispositioned to aiding the survival of their fellows. That said, Haka is strong and healthy in body, clever and resourceful, and has great knowledge of the wilderness and their peoples' customs and legends. They have decent skill as an archer and horserider, and can hold their own in bare-handed wrestling.

More notable is Haka's status as Shaman. Their dominion of the powers of nature is great, able to divine secrets from the land and bend natural forces to their will. Haka has a particular affinity for communing with spirits, which inhabit every aspect of the natural world. As Two-Spirit, Haka is both human and beast at once, and can assume both their man-shape and the form of a great wolf. In beast-shape Haka's connection to the world is stronger, but they have less direct command over it. By allowing their spirits to meld, they can take the shape of the man-wolf, a powerful and aggressive creature, and the power of their magic is boosted immensely.

Equipment: Haka carries numerous basic survival implements passed down among their people, such as a bone knife and waterskin. They carry a willow bow with stone-tipped arrows, a variety of herbs and poultices, and numerous shamanic charms and fetishes. Haka's primary focus is their shaman's staff, carved from a lightning-struck tree and adorned with sacred bones and symbols.

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