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.

Roland Axis

24

Human

Conscript

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.

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.

Prince Faen Lokison

He hasn’t picked one. The media calls him the Asgardian when they’re being complimentary, or Kid-Loki when being scathing.

21

Faen's greatest weapon is his genius-level intellect. While having about an average knowledge of technology and science he is an incredibly cunning planner and manipulator.
Due to his mixed parentage, he possesses enhanced strength, durability, stamina and resistance to cold. While nowhere near superhuman levels he is physically more powerful than an average human.
He has also become a keen student of magic and the mystical arts, with an affinity for illusions. Due to his youth and the fact that he is entirely self-taught he is by far from the most powerful mage in the world, but with training and guidance he has the potential to become incredibly powerful.

Faen, while not quite a coward, detests being involved in a physical battle. He will do everything within his means to keep the fighting at a polite a distance as possible. Couple this aversion for a fist fight with a complete lack of close quarters combat training and you have the recipe for quite a liability in the front lines.
He is also in the habit of overestimating his abilities, especially dangerous with the potentially destructive magics he manipulates. He often underestimates the intelligence of those around him, which can quickly lead to his downfall.
Faen plays his cards close to his chest. A good trait for a poker player, a poor one for someone on a team. Faen will formulate then act on a plan without telling his team-mates, treating them like pawns in his machinations.

Cunning, Cocky, Witty

About six months.

Born the son of Sarah Johnstone, of Midgard, and Loki, god of trickery and mischief, Faen was always going to struggle in our world. He was conceived twenty years ago, when Loki was hiding out on earth after failing once again to usurp the throne of Asgard. The God grew weary of licking his wounds, yet wasn't ready to begin his schemes once more. To alleviate the boredom, he decided to emulate his brother Thor, and take up with a mortal woman. He found Sarah, a waitress living in Los Angeles. She was a weak-willed woman, more than willing to receive Loki, who enjoyed wrapping her around his little finger. Soon she fell pregnant. Loki stayed with her the entire time she carried the babe, until the day of birth. As she lay in the hospital bed Loki declared he was leaving her. She begged him to stay, but nothing she said could dissuade him. The only concession he would give is that he would name his son – "Prince Faen Lokison," before disappearing down the hospital corridors and out of Sarah’s life.

Weak and broken hearted she may have been, it was obvious Sarah still loved Loki. She told the boy, and anyone else who happened by, that he was the son of the God, and destined to rule both Asgard and Midgard. Most didn't believe her and mocked mother and son for what they seen as her mental instability. Those who did believe her either hated or feared the boy for his heritage to evil. The children were the cruellest, constantly mocking or attacking Faen. Despite being stronger than all but the largest of men he was never a fighter, and accepted the beatings and took their taunting to heart. Despite these hardships, it wasn't all unhappiness. His mother loved him, and encouraged him in all things. At a young age, he realised he could affect cosmic energies, what his mother called 'magic'. He had a voracious hunger for knowledge, and he would devour any tome or textbook he could get his hands on (admittedly very little, but he made up for that shortcoming with boundless enthusiasm) He started supporting his mother’s small wage packet by performing small magic acts or sleight of hand tricks for tourists. It was a hard life, but they got by.

The years past and Faen grew to become angry at the father he never met. He was still taunted by others, but he no longer meekly accepted their abuse, meeting it instead with a caustic wit and a skill for illusion. While Faen became a powerful young mage, his mother wilted, due to her broken heart. She became ill, but the doctors couldn't find a cause. Then, sometime after Faen’s twentieth birthday, she passed from this life to the next. Faen sat at her bedside the night she died. Just before the end she elicited a promise from her son, for him to do something good with his life, just like she always knew he could.

To complete the promise Faen has decided to defend the world that his father has long sought to conquer. He has decided to become a hero, in the vein of Thor or the Avengers. Only time will tell how this will work out for him.

To be fair I don’t know much about the Asgardian of comics lore, or what’s going on with the canon Loki just now, so I’m assuming there’s gonna be a lotta differences here.

Faen has to fight his dad. Maybe dealing more heavily with Asgardian stuff. If there’s no other applicants for mystical characters I could also do a storyline where he inherits the title of Sorcerour Supreme from an aged Dr Strange.

Loki, other Asgardian threats.

Faen is Norwegian for devil, or in some places bastard. Loki obviously meant it as a joke, but to his son it seems a strangely fitting name as he is the bastard of a devil.

Faen has no secret identity as he has no one in his life he feels he needs to protect. His alias, Kid Loki, comes from when on his journey to New York he stopped in at a gas station. The station was being held up by an armed robber. Thinking quickly, he illusioned an image of an angry hulk standing outside the station, roaring at the thief. The thief instantly dropped his weapon, surrendered and wet himself. The security videos of the incident, and the eventual reveal that it was Faen and not the Hulk who was to thank for the save, went viral. On one message board they called Faen 'Kid Loki’.

◼ HEIGHT | 5'2"

◼ WEIGHT | 106 pounds

◼ BUILD | Curvaceous yet athletic

◼ HAIR COLOR | Dark brown to auburn

◼ EYE COLOR | Summer blue

◼ OTHER | N/A at the moment

◼ TBD | Test

◼ WEAPONS | She carries a stun gun and pepper spray on her, useful for those times that she isn't at higher level strength. Mostly she ignores melee weapons as even things like the hurt caused to her knuckles by punching someone can give her some sort of gain at lower levels of durability, and when she is at higher levels were knuckle strain is no longer an issue the weapons are no longer necessary.

◼ ATTIRE | At the moment she just wears black combat trousers, boots and gloves, along with a dark hoody. Over the hoody she dons a ballistics vest she purchased using money she had 'borrowed' from her step-father. She uses a dark face buff and the hood to conceal her identity. All this is just for the moment though, as she has big ideas of how she would like her alter-ego to eventually look while on patrol, once she manages to assemble the funds necessary.

Nike, daughter of Hippolyta

Wonder Girl

17

Wonder Woman

Headstrong, compassionate, honest

Full seventeen years training as an Amazonian, eight months as a superhero

Since he was born so long ago, Herakles life has gone in cycles. The cycle goes crime, punishment, then redemption. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it always will be. Crime, punishment, redemption. He is as much victim of this cycle as anyone else. Perhaps this, more than any other reason, is why Queen Hippolyta forgave the demi-god for his past wrongdoings when her daughter Diana found him supporting their island of Themyscira, penance for his offences against her people. Whatever the reason for her forgiving him, the two eventually fell into an ill-fated and ill-advised relationship. It wasn’t to last though, and it wasn’t before long before the God of Strenth left the Queen of the Amazons, in search of adventures new.

Little did he know that Herakles had left Hippolyta with a gift to remember him by: a daughter. The first child born on Paradise Isle since Diana herself. Many of the Amazonians who had yet to forgive Herakles were incensed at this turn of events, even if the father had no inkling as to the child’s existence. They insisted that she be exiled from the island. However Hippolyta overruled the dissidents, and declared that her second daughter, who she named Nike, would indeed live upon Paradise Island as one of the Amazonians. Yes, there were grumblers, but most were wise enough to keep their grumblings out of earshot of the Queen.

For the next seventeen years Nike was raised by not just one mother, but a whole island of them. Nearly all of Themyscira’s inhabitants loved her, and were more than happy to work together in raising the Amazons youngest daughter. Philosophy, science, arts, war, she was trained in it all, though truth be told it was the martial disciplines that interested her the most, with many noting that was a trait clearly inherited from her father. Whatever the reason, Nike excelled at combat, and longed for the day that she could swap training swords for true steel, though she imagined that day would still be years away.

So imagine her surprise when her sister and mother approached her one day, and asked her to travel with Diana to man’s world, to help her in her fight against crime and injustice, to join her in her crusade for peace. At first Nike was hesitant, wishing to remain on the Paradise Isle with the other Amazons, but eventually Diana and Hippolyta convinced her that travelling into the unknown world around them would be an adventure like no other for the young woman, and would give her many opportunities to test her mettle against foes both powerful and numerous. They appealed to her warrior’s pride, and she was quickly all too eager to leave.

For several months she served as Diana’s second, lending her any and all aid in pursuing justice, while also learning valuable lessons about being a hero from her older, more experienced sister. It wasn’t enough though, not according to Diana. Man’s world was so different from Paradise Isle, and there were so many new rules to learn, codes of conduct that she struggled to make Nike comprehend. Eventually Wonder Woman realised that as an outsider herself, she would never be able to instil all the finer points about living in Man’s World to her younger sister. To do that, one would have to had lived there their whole lives, to understand the modern world as only one born and raised there would.

That was when the League decided to instate the Young Justice programme, and Diana knew just where her younger sister could learn those lessons, and make herself some friends in the process.

The swords came together with a metal clang, sparks dancing as the blades scraped together. The two warriors grunted as their bodies slammed together, and they each jostled for position.

”I still don’t understand why I must join this group of children,” Nike growled through grit teeth as she used her free hand to grab the other fighters wrist, and tried to use that to leverage her opponents blade away. “I am a more experienced fighter than any of them. All of them combined, even.”

At that moment the other fighter reversed the grip that Nike was trying to complete, and used that hold to flip Nike up and over their shoulder, slamming the young Amazonian onto the floor. Before Nike could make another move her opponent’s sword tapped against her throat.

“Not so experienced that you couldn’t use a little more training.” A face came into view above her, a familiar face. Smiling, beautiful, dark locks framing an olive tanned face. The world knew her as Wonder Woman. Nike knew her as Diana, her older sister.

“Not fair, you’ve been doing this far longer than I.” A frown worked across Nike’s features, and if she wasn’t mistaken that just made Diana smile all the wider. “Besides, all that shows is I need more training from you. Help me up?”

Diana grabbed Nike’s outstretched hand and hauled her back to her feet, before wiping non-existent dirt from her younger sister’s armour. Nike squirmed at the fussing, forcing Diana’s hands away. The older Amazon grinned again at her younger sister, before hooking her foot under Nike’s dropped weapon and flipping it over to its owner. The young warrior caught it expertly, and dropped into a fighter’s crouch, though Wonder Woman didn’t look like she wanted to go back to sparring yet. Looked more like she wanted to continue talking. Great.

“I won’t suddenly stop training you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Said Diana, gesturing with her sword point casually. ”But I think that you would benefit having some friends of your own age. I have the Justice League, after all.” Nike’s face screwed up. Friends? With these inhabitants of Man’s World? Thieves and criminals. That was the calibre of people who lived in these lands. And Diana wanted her to make nice with them?

“I know that face Nike. I know what you’re thinking. They’re not all like that. Our adventures make you see them at their worst. I think it’s time for you to see them at their best. This team will allow you to do so. Please, join them. For me.”

Nike groaned aloud, turning her face up to the heavens. Hera, give me strength. Diana knew that she could deny her nothing, not when she asked like that.

“That isn’t fair. Emotional blackmail is a dirty tactic.” She groaned. Diana chuckled, deep and throaty, full of life and good humour. As well it should be, though Nike, seeing as the woman was getting her way. Again.

“All things are fair in love and war little sister. Does this mean that you will go to the Team?”

“Only if you can beat me.” Responded Nike, launching into another attack, sword a blur. The clashing of steel rang out alongside the laughter of the two sisters, the outcome of the fight, and Nike’s future, already settled.

Far too many to list, as he creates new aliases as and when he needs them to facilitate whichever con he is either running or planning.

Werewolf

Male

29

Opportunistic

Volais

Born in La Lament, his only allegiances are to himself and the witcher Kieran.

Con-man, who dabbles in petty thievery on the side.

Greedy. Dishonest. Pessimistic. Cowardly. Fridolf is all these things and more, as petty a criminal as they come. So far in his life he hasn’t come across a con he wouldn’t run, nor a mark he wouldn’t fleece. Old Ladies, crippled veterans, war orphans, they’re all fair game in Fridolf’s eyes. Life isn’t fair, he’s fond of saying, so why should he be?

It’s perhaps worthy of note that he prefers the act of crime itself to the dividends it pays. He loves the thrill of a grift well played, liking it to a hunter taking down a magnificent stag. Even if he ever did become rich (unlikely, because he spends coin almost as fast as he ‘earns’ it) he would still commit crimes. The adrenaline rush is just to addictive to give up.

He isn’t entirely without scruples however. He’s never even considered committing a violent crime, and in fact is rather opposed to violence in general. To his mind it’s never accomplished anything of note, and he’d rather just stay as far away from it as possible. He’s also … no, that’s it. Non-violent is about all you can say about him where virtues are concerned.

Oh, he’s loyal to his friends too, but that’s a new development as he’s never had one before Kieran. Still, he worries that friend might be too strong a term for what Kieran is to him, and sometimes wonders that if it wasn’t for the curse hanging like a weight from his neck if he wouldn’t have long ago abandoned the youthful witcher. Only time will tell.

---

_NAME
Gentle

_AGE
128

_RACE
Minotaur

_CLASS
Cleric/Barbarian

_OCCUPATION
Lay Brother of the Temple of Apollokeos

_{ORIGINATES FROM}
Achea

_{IF OUTSIDE TORVELT}
The Human Republic of Achea is a loose collection of city states far to the South-West of Torvelt. The climate is hot, and the terrain mountainous, though the people have risen to the challenge of taming such an arid land, becoming famed for their exports of grapes, olives, gold, and marble. The Achean’s stand proud of their achievements, proclaiming that their society is the greatest in all the wide world, pointing to their democracies, philosphies, music and art as evidence of this, though it is whispered in courts around the lands that the prosperous country wouldn’t be half as impressive as it is if it wasn’t for the broken backs of the monstrous slaves it has all been built upon.

---

_{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Large even by Minotaur standards, Gentle stands taller than eight-and-a-half feet, over nine if you included the tips of his gently curving horns, which you probably should when measuring a Minotaur. He’s broad too, as the ‘proverbial’ bull in fact, and hasn’t he heard that one more than once since coming to Torvelt. His once bulging muscles and steely thews are running to fat a little in his old age and relative indolence, but he still possesses the kind of physique that would give even the most confidant pitfighter cause to pause.

To his intense consternation his lustrous black pelt is being invaded by unsightly streaks of iron-grey. Swirling blue-grey patterns are tattoeed across his arms, shoulders, chest and back, intricate patterns of some hidden meaning which Gentle hasn’t shared with anyone since arriving in Torvelt. Age has also stolen some of his vim, and the spring from his step, but his hands are still strong and his horns still sharp. It will do, he tells himself.

_STRENGTHS

• Physically powerful
• Experienced combatant
• Access to divine magic
• Rough wisdom

_WEAKNESSES

• Large and heavy
• Moderate rheumatoid arthritis
• Fading eyesight
• Rage

---

_PERSONALITY
Pragmatic – Melancholy – Ponderous – Wistful – Studious – Mercurially violent (though working very hard not to be)

_SEXUALITY
Pansexual

_FEARS

• Heights
• Deep, fast moving waters
• Large canines
• Small, enclosed spaces
• The ghosts of his past

_GOALS
To find the prince, stop the Fog, and achieve personal salvation.

---

_{Labyrinth Recall}
He can perfectly recall any path that he has taken.

_{Great Weapon Fighting}
Perhaps unsurprisingly giant bull-men are pretty good at swinging large, sharp pieces of metal with the intent of hurting people. Who knew?

_{Sense of Smell and Hearing}
A Minotaur’s sense of smell and hearing is several times more advanced than that of a humans. Gentle has found himself relying on his more and more since his eyes started failing him.

---

The Minotaur known only as Gentle first walked into Torvelt about fifteen years ago, with nothing more than the clothes on his frame and a rolled bundle of leather upon his back. From there he wound a slow and gradual path towards Koprust, eventually arriving in the capital city and taking on a slew of odd jobs, seemingly happy with working hard manual labour for minimal pay, simple food and somewhere dry to sleep. On those rare occasions that he was approached by those not intimated by his monstrous visage he was found to be polite, but distant, seemingly happy to nurse his ghosts in solitude.

He eventually found himself working for the Abbott of the Temple of Clean Waters, a holy place that venerated Apollokeos , Lady of Dawn and New Beginnings. Gentle quickly fell into life at the Temple, becoming a lay brother and settling in for what he imagined would be a life of quiet contemplation and honest labour.

The God’s, it seemed, had other plans.

He’d had nightmares for as long as he could remember, horrible and twisted visions from his past that tourtured him nightly without reprieve. However one night, when the horror had reached its zenith, he found salvation. The Lady Apollokeos visited him, in all her golden splendour, and explained that his redemption was in reach. She tasked him with joining the quest to find the Prince, and that through that labour he might just find the peace he so desperately desired.

When Gentle awoke he thought the dream no more than that, the fantasy of a tired mind, but later that day he met a man who introduced himself as Minoas, the fabled absent father of the Minotaur race. Minoas reinforced Apollokeos commands, urging Gentle to join the quest before disappearing.

One visit from a God he could ignore. Two would have been pushing it. Collecting his belongings and making his farewells, he made his way towards thee castle.