Though more often than not caught in his full plate armor when one does get a glimpse at what Arthur looks like under the silver plate they are treated to a view of a beaten and nearly broken man. Laced with both scars and wrinkles Arthur has lived a hard and unrelenting life of military service, and bears the marks to prove it without shame. His body is angular and sharp, almost even elven, standing at six feet and eight inches and with thin wiry muscles. He wears his straight hair long and flat, while his hair was once a dim brown, stress and age has drained his hair of color. Sporting a hearty and long goatee with pride Arthur, on the rare occurrence that he isn't marching around in full plate, can be found in an equally intricate uniform befitting his noble upbringing.

Arthur is a man bound by his honor. Many years ago he swore loyalty to Tarkus, and while his master has been warped, his oaths have not. Everything Arthur does is for Tarkus, his armor kept clean, his weapons sharp and his skill in battle honed so that he may uphold his oaths. Because of this Arthur often has a case of tunnel vision, thinking of nothing but how best complete his most recent orders, though perhaps this is simply because Arthur is avoiding thinking too hard on what he has done already in Tarkus' name.
In his years of war, especially the most recent years, Arthur has done many things that conflicted greatly with the codes of honor that his family imparted to him, and if not for his oaths to Tarkus Arthur would have attempted to run away years ago. Arthur was praised for his sharp wit from an early age, and learned speech craft and the sciences as a part of his noble upbringing, however as of late such skills has rusted, as Arthur slowly works to distance himself from reality.
Overall Arthur is an intelligent man, ever loyal, but cold as he tries to forget his bloody life.

Born the third son of the Wick noble family during the rule of Caesius, Arthur was taught the noble arts befitting his station. As such he was made to learn the ways of combat, so as to join the Legions as a knight. With knowledge of fighting, strategy, and to a lesser extent the arts and how to conduct oneself in the courts Arthur was sent off to join the military. Distinguishing himself on the field of battle Arthur rose through the ranks, coming so close as to even become friends with Tarkus, before Caesius died.
With the death of the Emperor and the rise of the Hand came great turbulence. Tarkus maneuvered to fight the usurpers, and Arthur swore his eternal loyalty to Tarkus and his goal. At first it seemed that Tarkus and the legion would win, beating down the anthem of rabid murderers and monsters at every turn, however Tarkus was captured, and with him the conflict ended. Warped and defiled as his commander was however Arthur's oath of fealty still stood. The first order of the Legion of the Hand, now Endless, was to destroy the final few who rebelled, and among them was the Wick family in their fortress home.
It pained Arthur so much so that even still his dreams are haunted by that battle, Arthur had killed many members of his family, and their screams and final curses still ring out in his mind. After that red night Arthur became desensitized, and for several years lived simply to carry out his orders.
It has been many years since, and Arthur has still yet to fully accept his unfortunate fate, but knows of no way to change it while maintaining his vows and so simply carries on with his orders.

Arthur is a master of the spear, and as such tends to frequent the front line. His fairly tall and lanky body mixed with his quick wit affords him great natural skill with such weapons, and the years of training and experience have only compounded this. Often marching into battle with a spear a foot taller than him he controls any conflict he enters, often outwitting his foes with feints and quick precise movements of his far reaching weapon.
While on a open battlefield Arthur can be found commanding phalanxes from the front, leading his men to pin enemy formations and tear apart cavalry regiments. Though due to the nature of the dwindling Legion Arthur has also had to ride into battle on horseback, favoring a lightly armored horse, dancing around enemies with speed and grace, shifting from his fairly reactive combat style on the ground to a heavily aggressive style in the saddle.
Not only does Arthur fight on the front lines though. Due to his acute mind and years of experience he has been known to frequent the general's tent, drafting plans and strategies though Arthur prefers to command from the field. And of course with the dwindling numbers of the Legion Arthur has been forced to act in the capacity of a quartermaster.

Myaenthar'Sul: After an incident in which the kobold nearly impaled itself on Arthur's spear he has decided that the creature was more an annoyance more than an ally. While Arthur was amused by the possible uses that the creature's exploding bolts could serve it saddened the knight that such a potent weapon laid in the hands of a coward and a tripping hazard.

Reika: A powerful comrade, who is worthy of respect. Arthur knows that should Reika be nearby on the battlefield that Arthur wouldn't be required in that area. Reika made for an interesting distraction outside of battle, and while Arthur wouldn't make an effort to seek him out, he did value the conversations and sparring sessions the two shared from time to time.

Magatha Toil: Arthur highly respects Mag's skill with her chosen weapons, and appreciates the existence of such a skilled battlefield messenger and mage slayer, however her open and negative views of Tarkus are unforgivable. Luck would have it that the two rarely have need to converse off the battlefield.

Aeudla Vesnat: Arthur distrusted her. She was a half decent archer, but aside from that she lacked much in the way of practical combat skills. And on top of that she used magic. As Tarkus had been warped by magic, Arthur held no great love for it and as such no great love for mages.

Saga-Hanir: Hanir was an interested character. While Arthur enjoyed having someone to converse with regarding the finer points of life and the nobler forms of combat Hanir was at times far too much. While Arthur enjoyed the taste of fine wine and the luxury of fine cloth this other noble appeared to be obsessed with the stuff. He also made a great effort to hide his scars, which struck Arthur as wrong twice over, once for the shameful act of hiding a scar and again for the inconvenience it cost the army to maintain Hanir's beauty supplies.

Andrea Albane: A great pity. Arthur respected her skill at arms, but her lack of appreciation of any other art was a great pity. She was of great use on the battlefield, and perhaps that was all that mattered. Arthur merely accepted the fact that she was a byproduct of the world that they lived in, and hoped that few would follow the silver champion's example of wanton destruction.

As a Kobold --and thus, the Goblin-kin equivalent of a Halfling-- Sul stands at a height of six heads, or roughly four feet by the human standard. He is of the usual grey hue possessed by most Kobolds (with rarities being born a parched white, though these subjects do not often survive much past birth and are naturally weaker), with black hair displayed in abundance throughout his short, rough-cut hair, side-burns and goatee. He is of an average muscular build for a Kobold, which, while lesser compared to the likes of Dwarves and their subsequently taller counterparts, is still capable enough to be made proper use of in times of hardship and conflict. Sharp, protruding "dag-teeth" poke outward from beneath his thin upper-lip in an overbite common to all of his kind, accentuated only further by the strength of his cheek-bones and chin. Sunken, beady eyes greet the world with steeled suspicion under the shade of their angular brow, with full eyebrows further expressing this sentiment...and acute ears perking skyward of the elongated skull they perch themselves upon, always open to the slightest confirmation of their paranoia.

Sul, like many of his kind, is pragmatic, erratic, skittish, craven and notoriously preposterous when under the influence of stress and paranoia...arguably posing the most threat to his allies --rather than his enemies-- when frightened. He is neither the weakest nor the strongest of mind, and thus as prone to foreign manipulation as any other commoner (little about the Kobold has ever been found noteworthy, even among their own "Great Musing Ones"). Like many of his kin, he is wary about naming a human god amongst their pantheon -- especially so, given that Kobold society worships principles rather than figureheads, and is in that way closer still to the Goblin spectrum of their lineage; Fortune, Luck, Wit, Strength and Cunning rule in place of beasts or seasons, reflecting their inherent distaste for most things natural and elemental. For that reason, Sul is in line once more with his battle-brothers, seeing Tarkus as the ultimate incarnation of the raw natural state...though they dare not speak out against their superiors. Such is another aspect of Kobolds, and subsequently Sul -- loyalty to the self and those affiliated with it is paramount, even at times causing him to force himself though situations he would otherwise CERTAINLY avoid. In short, Sul is a born Kobold, or in other words, an odd little rat wishing only to live in contentment -- with this in itself consisting of good fortune, a fufilled history, and the odd scrap through misfortune. As the adage goes: "Strength builds Kobold, Misfortune builds Strength!"

As with many of his kind, Sul was born to a series of contradicting elements. He was lucky enough to be an only child in a Name of poverty, but was always envious of those who had been born to siblings -- the lack of a proper enough figure-head in his Name-hold being the most prominent cause of this spite. Though he was born under a lucky star, he never strode to be much more than he already was. He never excelled in a fight, nor was he particularly good at working in a unit -- and yet besides this, he still enlisted to seek his fortune abroad in the form of divided spoils, hard-fought for with the blood of many a soldier. Perhaps his greatest stroke of luck was being born on the winning side, and thus spared of the treatment inflicted upon so many by the Anthem; Or, perhaps, his greatest stroke is yet to come...only the leaves of history may tell.

Compared to the strength, reach, mechanisms and arcane power provided by the various other murderers of both the Legion and the Anthem, one would at first think the Kobold --and those lesser of them in combat-- to be a poor choice for a warrior, especially when placed on the front-lines. It appears that years of thought and experimentation proved self-awareness by the Kobolds in this respect, and they have thus honed their technique down to two categories: Sûwar & Tîrevan -- or, "Rider & Archer" in the wizened tongue of the elders of this race. Sul is of the latter, equipped with a crossbow, bronze long-knife with an obsidian edge, wood&bronze conical-shield (with a small bolt-sized hole in its tip), light armor, two metal canisters attached to his back, and a decent knowledge of alchemy...though this last tool is, perhaps, rendered inadequate by the fresh terrain his auxiliary unit found themselves upon. Within both canisters are a host of the Kobolds' finest invention, a chemically-designed crossbow-bolt that explodes with concussive force *upon impact* -- one such bolt need not *penetrate* its target to achieve maximum damage potential. And though the conical-shield may find purpose in most any scenario, including during orders to loose, the obsidian-edged long-knife is purely secondary, with its feather-fine edge providing an almost unfair ease to thrusts, cuts and slashes against un-armoured sections of its victims...a handy advantage for those of lesser strength. Chiefly, the Tîrevan tactic is to advance under cover of stronger soldiers as well as their own shields, loose a volley or two to suppress and severely weaken the front lines of an enemy (or to discourage sudden charges -- be they by foot or hoof) before retreating with the speed granted to them by their fairly light load-outs. A Kobold 'retreat' never fully becomes one until the battle is entirely lost, however -- instead, they've the capacity to regroup and return again and again and again...perhaps motivated by the thought of being the first to reach potential plunder, or just of the consequences of being the first to leave the battlefield amongst behemoth-sized allies.

(WIP -- to be completed at a later date.)

Arthur Wick: Having nearly impaled himself on the end of the human's spear, Sul isn't exactly fond of Wick. However, the man's loyalty to the legion was nonetheless to be held in high regard, and it is for this reason in particular that the Kobold tolerates having to work alongside him. Near anything for the sake of survival, yes?

Reika: This man wasn't a man at all; Rather, he seemed the distant kin to Orcish kind. Big, Mean and always pushing smaller lots around like sacks of moldy potatoes -- no more words for him!

Magatha "Mags" Toil: She looked like a ram, and Sul happened to like rams. Rams were cuddly and warm, with strong horns to hide behind and a keen survival instinct; Additionally (like many things Kobolds came across) they could be ridden -- how could she possibly get any better?

Aeudla Vesnat: An elf of odd complexion (though to be fair, few elves differed from that distinction), Sul hadn't *initially* ever had to come in contact with her. And yet, his first experience within her presence seemed to chill the very blood within his veins; It was as if she somehow...knew him. Terrifying to say the least, and a sure-fire way to soak his pants in panic...he'd try his best to avoid that one at all costs.

Saa...Sag...Sag-Hadir: Another hulking man with armor to match, Sul has become especially fed-up with the warrior's obnoxiously pompous behavior. Were it not for the scintillating coins he offered, Sul would most assuredly NOT be employed as the occasional greave-polisher. Kobolds are better than such derogatory stereotypes.

Andrea Albane: The presence of this woman confuses Sul; On the one hand, she was the perfect counter to the natural world; On the other, she was also the second being capable of freezing him in place just by walking past. For his part, the Kobold was beginning to wonder if he should stay away from females...perhaps the ram-fur fantasies weren't worth it after all ...-- at least, not when compared to the possibility of being impaled and dumped in some unseen ravine, late into the hours of the night.

Reika is slender and muscular, standing tall for a human at six and a half feet. A mane of long black hair is often kept loosely tied back on his scalp, and his face is kept clean-shaven. His eyes, dimly amber and disinterested, are narrow, creased, and tired. Reika has straight, angular facial features, and pale skin marred with dirt and old blood. He can usually be seen wearing the loose, flowing garb that is traditional in his tribe, bright clothes since faded and tattered, with a brown hooded cloak, a plain sword belt, and a pair of leather shoes bound with cord against his shins.

Reika comes from a clan that worships battle and holds a high standard of honor. Such honor comes with a strict code: one should not kill unjustly, one should find peace in the way of the sword, and one should not fear death. However, Reika was born cursed with the clan's most disdainful aspect: Reika was born with overwhelming, uncontrollable wrath. Reika will generally attempt to maintain his clan's doctrine of honor, but that doctrine quickly slips away in the face of threat or insult. Otherwise, Reika is typically thoughtful, inquisitive and somewhat detached, but, being a still-youthful man, is prone to competitiveness and arrogance as well. His tribe is primitive, and so he does not know many things about the world at large. He does not speak the common tongue entirely fluently, and has a strange sense of humor, seeming to often misinterpret what others are saying for something amusing. Reika holds surprisingly existential views on life, leading to baffling behavior at times, but equally as often can lead to bouts of wisdom.

Reika's people are a nomadic tribe travelling freely within Nurban's southwestern grasslands. The tribe existed close to nature, self-sufficiently taming and feeding off the land. A small tribe, they were mostly untouched by the Endless, though they pay their tribute when required to maintain their freedom.
Among the grasslands were several other tribes, and whenever their paths met, feuding was inevitable. One point of conflict stood taller than the rest: the sword of the Wind Spirit, Sanmeogan. When Reika was seventeen years of age, his tribe possessed the sword of worship, and another tribe sought to take it. Reika's people were ultimately defeated in that battle and Sanmeogan was taken, and though the tribes' collective code of honor prevented any needless casualties, the humiliation was too great for Reika to bear. Reika followed the other tribe back to their dwelling, and whilst they celebrated, stole the sword back.
At the edge of the dwelling, steps away from returning home, Reika heard a warrior boasting about the victory. Something snapped in his mind. He drew Sanmeogan from its sheath, stalked back to the dwelling, and slaughtered everyone in sight with the Wind Spirit's power.
Sanmeogan was tainted on that day. The spirit dwelling within the sword became hungry, craving blood, the wind aura around it taking on the color of that which it desired. Reika, disgraced, knew he could never go back to the village. After wandering for a time, he offered himself to the Second Legion, Sanmeogan in hand.

Reika is often dispatched to the front lines, wherein his specialty lies: anti-personnel, slaughter-en-masse. Being an expert and agile swordsman, he is at his strongest in single combat, but Sanmeogan's power lends him terrible abilities. By using his own blood, or the blood of his enemies, Reika can propel forward blades of crimson wind so sharp they can slice apart several fully-armored men at once. Beyond this ability, Reika has little use in the field, being not a man of strategy nor possessing any particular technical skills, though he is also a capable hunter.

@neogreggory Arthur Wick: Arthur's sense of honor and duty was immediately admirable for Reika. Reika knows him best from the occasional sparring session, and enjoys pestering the man whenever he can catch Arthur in one of his usual melancholy dispositions.

@Virgil Myaenthar'Sul: Reika did not know what the small creature was, but was deeply resentful of the way it skittered around the battlefield, cowering behind a crossbow. He could recall kicking such a creature several times in the past, but could not be certain it was the same one.

@Lexicon Magatha Toil: When Reika first saw the demon as she made her way through the encampment, he was visibly unsettled by her appearance. The horns of a beast, eyes aglow like a cat's - she seemed to manifest from the stories elders told the children to put them to bed at night. Her gaze locked at his as he stood in the throng of legionnaires, white-knuckle grip on his sword, before she moved away. Later in the night, Reika would learn that the demon's name was Mags, and that she regarded her fellow soldiers amicably, joining in their merriment and on occasion drinking them under the table. Reika chanced a conversation with the demon, which carried pleasantly, and decided afterward that she was not very different from most others, for a demon. Still, he could not help but continue to watch her warily whenever she was around. After their first battle together, a quick battle in which Reika was able to use the full extent of Sanmeogan's slaying power, he had seldom seen Mags again. She seemed to be avoiding him, but it made little difference to him. He was glad to be rid of her.

@Iuniper Aeudla Vesnat: Reika had always been drawn to the elven woman. He had felt a kinship toward her, though whether it was this kinship or simply lust that drove his attraction he was not certain. She was definitely comely, as was true of most elvenkind. She seemed similar to him in many ways, though his own attempts at conversation were usually met with some cryptic response or just a penetrating gaze.

As most elves, Aeudla stands at around six feet tall, with long, jaunty legs that have only (within the past thousand years) become used to walking. Curved, arched feet help this estimate, as do rounded albeit pointed ears (interbreeding, no doubt). Her skin is a strange mesh of light and hazely patches of tanned skin that betray the years wandering in the full glory of the sun. Patches are strangely sunburt while others are clear. There are the familiar patterns of light scarring on Aeudla's extremities, callouses especially present on her legs and feet after a partial life of nomadacism. Dark hair, eyes hazelly, high elven cheekbones, but nothing particularly sharp or soft to suggest power or otherwise. She is lightly muscled, enough to pull a longbow but not without some strain. If not barefoot, she wears extremely thick, woolen socks, in addition to swaddling cloaks typical among tribespeople.

Shaped by a rich - yet mangled - view of her race and tribe, Vesnat is particularly prideful of her kind, though this has come into question and ebbed over the years. No longer is she surrounded by others who share her amazement with the Old Gods, the ancestors, and various Elven mythologies. No more prideful leaders that value the idea of power and tradition over any semblance of sense. There is small sample of elves in Legion - most, one would imagine, in a similar position as Aeudla. Isolation and a heathly dose of self-pity (what could an uneducated, blood-magic-using, barbarian elf do outside of fighting?) has lead her to gradually become more accommodating of others, and more skeptical of Elven culture as a whole. She can be impetuous between her mixed values, when she engaged - skeptical, and bitter.

She is extremely spiritual in a way that is not particularly Elven, or aligned with any other specific system of beliefs. The vicissitudes of life are often lost upon her, as supposed commune with the souls - afforded by blood magic - has led to a diminished care for life. There is not much remorse in killing; but not out of love of death, or any sort of personal viciousness. There is no sadism involved. Souls moved, and that was that. Simultaneously, she is fascinated with blood-reading and the body, which is able to sustain its movement off of its own, internal blood magic. A contained system, cyclic magical energy. Aeudla is droll, if not somewhat inspiring in her odd fascinations, a bit of a mystic.

Otherwise, asides from some prejudice towards some races, she is fascinated those she considers to be of "strong spirit". Tarkus is such a person. But fascination does not equal loyalty, only passiveness or fondness. With no formal education, she is not particularly bright, but is sensitively intuned to those around her which offers some semblance of sharpness. Aeudla has an emotional and physical fixation on blood magic, and the supposed euphoria brought on by it. Whatever stretches of clarity she has are punctuated with periods of internal mania rendering her unable to carry serious conversations, and the like. In speech, she is at times irreverant and direct, and other times bubbly with intoxicated wonder. She lacks social graces and her prejudices belie the insularity of her upbringing.

Perhaps once an honorable thing, to be born intuned to the thrumming of souls when the Old Gods still breathed alongside the elven. Less malignant, in those times, was the ability to sense out the feeling of soul, perhaps gaining some deeper understanding of the heart, and other meaningless sentimentalities. No longer - inclination towards the blood arts was a threat - even if minor - to the dwindling peace among the nomadic elvish tribes, though this was something unspoken. Pride did not diminish with the coming of the dark times - something so foundational to tribe Vesnat could not simply abate with the coming of the dark times. Circumstance - as the elders likened fate to - ate away at the old way of life, and a great race turned into a smattering of roaming tribes. Still not lacking pride for some emaciated vestige of a past life, clutching to the hackles of the old ways.

There were other tribes, maybe, hidden in some nook of the mountainside. Conflict with the flat-footed human tribes occurred more than once, one day over access to trading rights with some forgotten merchant somewhere, a fortnight later over some stupid relic believed to possess some minor spirit or the other. The flat-foots were especially baneful. They had named her Aeudla, loosely after the primordial cow that had suckled the first elves to emerge after the destruction of the First War. Her feet were purplish and bruised-looking, not unlike its teats. The irony was not lost when she showed an inclination towards blood magic, the veins under the thin layer of skin swelling in her palms, singing against that of fresh game. This fact was not particularly monumentous, but proved a minor strategical boon to tribe Vesnat. It was good, to have one or two magically-inclined clansmembers - give pause to another tribe in negotiations over land use, maybe. They certainly had their value, but in a tribe the size of theirs, too many could perhaps threaten the power of the head family, the elders. Particularly with age, skill. Blood magic was sickly and unnatural, especially the strange euphoria it presumably invoked. It was with great pride that an elf serve its tribe in any way they saw fit. So it was precedent that Aeudla be sold as a sorcerer, to be a mercenary of some sort, or what have you. This was fine. True to her name, a chattling.

She had hoped to end up in Belyss, which sounded quietly resplendent in its mysticism and beauty, behind the curtain of the Black Mountains. Do your crevasses sing like blood, behind the jeweled skirts? Instead she ended up in the Legion, somehow still kicking its heels at the sky, desperate for anything to populate its dwindling ranks.

Aeudla has an acute attunement to the movement of blood in those around her, claiming to be able to hear the spirit crying from within - though whether this is true, or some side effect of the high she gets from using blood magic is unclear. Adept as any other blood sorcerer at actually using soul, she is most skilled manipulating blood - through the air and under her feet, using runes. In and out of bodies, in a manner that could be described as artistic (if one could even liken blood magic to art). Fluid movement, like a river, or a symphony. It is no trouble, especially should she have access to exposed skin, to pull the blood from one's veins, stop oxygen from moving to the heart or brain. Drowsiness, then death.

She is, of course, not nearly as effective as anyone else in killing, lacking real mastery of any sort of close-range weapon. Though good against one or two enemies at most, blood magic does not defend against waves of swordmen. Best, probably, against prisoners and the like. She is adept enough - for the Legion, in any case - at range with an eighty-five pound yew-cherry longbow. At that poundage, even her small bodkin-tipped arrows were capable of puncturing armor, even at range. It was later into battle, when the air was rich with blood, and there remained a scattering of soldiers, that the blood magic was acutely useful.

Arthur Wick: Some guy in armor, with horn-things on the top, almost like rabbit ears. Aeudla wondered if he ever got them caught on anything - her assumption was that it was a man, anyways. Probably a human, or one of the larger races, under that hulking mass of armor. He would show up here and again sometimes, should there be a scrimmish and spear-throwers sunk back into the line of archers. He had a beautiful horse, but quite unlike some of the horse-riding archers her tribe had come across, out of the mountains near The Edge. Those archers had been magnificent creatures, with short, tapered horsebows that bent gracefully at the slightest tug. This man was orderly and with some amount of grace, prancing around on horseback. Just like with the rest of the lugs who coated themselves in metal and were perhaps too haughty to show their faces, there was a fair amount of extrapolation. Aeudla painted pictures of him in her head - his blood was heavy but slightly melodic, jumpy. Like a batallion of ogres skipping through a field of flowers, making detours to chase butterflies. Maybe he was sentimental and enjoyed poetry, and wore stupid armor because he wished to be a rabbit, or a songbird. Maybe it did not have a head at all, and was waiting to run into a tree so the helmet could fall off, revealing a flowerpot. Aeudla could only wait to see.

Myaenthar'Sul: Some sort of Goblin or gnome hybrid, she hardly knew the difference and cared even less. Actually, Aeudla wasn't really sure if gnomes were real, or just akin to fairies - whether that was real knowledge, or something from some Elven folktale. He was small and grey, like a statue - which was interesting to consider. Did his blood move quickly, like the flutter of a bat's wings (he certainly had the eyes and teeth for it)? Or was it slow and steady, like subterranean dwarf-blood? There was something very approachable about this one though, if you ignored the resemblance to a rat. Sort of flighty and not brooding all the time like some of the others, who seemed to linger in their own melodrama. He seemed intelligent, not just throwing himself in the line of fire - a skirmisher of sorts. It endeared him to Aeudla in an odd way, as she too was not desperate for some lion's share of 'glory' or what have you. He acted with purpose, and not reckless abandon. A curiosity.

Reika: A pretty one, with long hair. Tall, with high cheek bones. Relaxed, flowing clothing would suggest he was from a tribe. He seemed somewhat distinctly Elven in aspects of his appearance, and stirred in Aeudla a sense of romantic sentimentality for her people. Yet he was a flatfooted human, with hard, angry eyes and the same sort of brooding intensity that was not uncommon among warriors of the Legion. He was both appealing and off-putting. Easy to romanticize, yet looked like he would gladly rip out the eyesockets of the next unfortunate soul who dared look at him. That he could use some blood magic was interesting, but his blood magic was so forceful. He would needlessly (she thought) form massive shards of blood to turn his enemies to wine, when only a slight tugging would suffice. Perhaps he knew little sorcery, and this was the only thing he could do, so he just forced all of his unabashed rage into it.

Magatha: Elvish ears and ram's horns, ashy complexion and salamander eyes. There were old tales of ageless mages with bodies a mishmash of beasts. One, Koshchei, rode on a talking horse quicker than the sun (there was a kidnapped elven princess, too - Magatha could be their odd-looking child). She had seen some like this woman, with horns. Consistently good mercenaries, inconsistently pretty to look at. She didn't seem like one of those brooding types - quite pleasant, and present - drinking ale, or commisserating. Memorable. Yet any time Aeudla might approach her - or any other sorcerer, for that matter - Magatha's nose would wrinkle and she would huff out of sight. Obviously some problems, that one. Perhaps her and the other pretty one could commisserate on the (she assumed) virtues of undue anger and stony melodrama. The woman fought sort of frenetically, but in a way that was somehow ordered for someone so tempestuous. One could only wonder about the rhythm of her blood - few times had Aeudla had a chance to study a godling, nevermind such a spirited one. It was quite sad, actually, that Aeudla would never have a chance, at least without active opposition. If she even had the opportunity to draw so close, the only self-sustaining thing to do would be to stop the woman's bloodflow, stutter her heart. Aeudla had little doubt that a close encounter with the woman would result in some bodily harm, Legion or not.

Hanir: Nice-looking, but hairy and distinctly human. Upon first seeing him in camp, Aeudla found that he smelled wonderful. She imagined he was superstitious, like one of those frail priests that powdered themselves with dried lysander every morning and made tinctures out of frogspawn. That was an amusing thought. He threw himself into battle as if he had nothing to live for. This seemed stupid, but he was somehow still alive. Probably because of his size. Perhaps sometime or another she had been sent to out-magic some blood sorcerers with him. And on rare occasion, bring someone back, as things became more desperate. Maybe stop the blood from flowing to their heart just long enough to make it back to camp so they could be tortured, or interrogated (was there any difference?). Hanir smelled nice.

Andrea Albane: One of the many decked in layers of metal. Gave off a sort of holier-than-thou art attitude, which was somewhat hilarious given that he was a member of the Legion, not some templar fighting for one of the jeweled cities. Aeudla hardly knew anything of him, as there was nothing distinctly noticeable about him other than that he seemed to be everywhere, though this could as easily be something else. Because, again, forgettable. Perhaps he had showed his face in camp, before. Who knew.

A tall and powerfully built man with tanned skin and coal black hair, Hanir takes great care of his appearance. To the point of being considered vain by the others. His hair is cut at a medium length, usually tied back inside the helmet or braided depending on the situation, while his jaw is covered by a carefully trimmed beard. And his forehead is marked by the tattoo of his family's heraldry, a black sun.

Despite his obsession with maintaining appearances, Hanir has his fair shares of scars, which he more often than not tries to hide with a multitude of powders, oils and other products that are frustratingly hard to in campaign.

As befitting of his aristocratic upbringing, Hanir is a firm believer in Order and Hierarchy. That is, for the world to work properly, power must be held by those of superior breeding and skill. As they are the only ones capable of ensuring the continued survival of ordered civilization. Needless to say, Hanir sees himself as one of these "Leaders". The fact that he has been disowned and is technically not part of the Saga clan anymore is but a minor obstacle. Once he finds a way to prove himself in battle again this mistake will be easily corrected. You just wait.

Hanir's beliefs also state a clear code of behavior, duties, rights and privileges that come with rank. For example, a nobleman may live in wealth and opulence, but he also must prove himself worthy of the total obedience of his inferiors. While the serf must show total loyalty to his master in exchange of protection. Failure to follow these rules, at least according to Hanir, should be met with severe retribution.

As a member of an esteemed and revered noble bloodline (never mind what the folks back home say, it was just a silly misunderstanding) Hanir believes that he deserves the privilege that come with rank. He also realizes that his current reality makes it impossible for him to fully enjoy his deserved rights. Likewise, if he's sometimes forced to behave in a way unfitting with a man of his status and breeding, well, the circumstances forced his hands. Adding yet another shame that will he will have to purge from his name.

This need to wash his honor and regain his lost status are one of the main motivators for his devotion to the Legion. The other being the fact that as befitting his own code of honor,Hanir owes Tarkus and by proxy the Undying his total obedience as their servant

The Saga Clan was once one of the most influential and wealthy families of the Ilanid Confederacy, controlling the wealthy trade port of Tar-Mirish, a mighty merchant fleet and vast estates in the countryside. Then along came Caesius and his legions. The slaves rose up and burned the estates and farms, and the golden host outfitted by Saga-Mahur was slaughtered and routed.

The Saga barely survived the war by switching sides, with vastly reduced prestige and wealth. Still they lingered, working with shrewdness and cunning to gradually restore their standing.

By the time Caesius died, Tar-Mirish had yet to recover from the sack. Its walls decayed in disrepair (actually, one of the clauses of the treaty stated that the walls were not to be repaired before a century had passed)but the Saga had started to pick themselves up.

It's here that Hanir comes in. The nephew of the current family head, he was sent to join the ranks of the Legion once he reached appropriate age. Both as a way to gain more prestige and connections and to act as a hostage to ensure his clan's obedience. When the civil war started, the then young man found himself fighting for Tarkus and the Imperial heirs against the Undying, while the rest of his clan pledged allegiance to the usurpers (the humiliation suffered in the hands of the Legion would never be forgotten).

Unwilling to desert, for it would bring shame to his name, Hanir was officially disowned and cast away from the Saga Clan, never to return to their halls under pain of death. Usually this exile is a final sentence in Ilanid culture, though history and folklore are filled with tales of great heroes who manage to reverse their banishment after doing some grandiose deed and covering themselves with glory. Hanir has latched to this goal, convincing himself that he just needs to do enough to wash his honor and be accepted by his Clan.

Wearing plate armor and welding a thick shield and heavy morningstar, Hanir fights alongside the shock troops of the Legion. Oftentimes leading a wedge of soldiers to break an enemy shield wall or charging their flanks while they are pinned in place by the phalanx. Hanir fights aggressively, trusting his brute force to overwhelm the enemy and his plate to protect him while he does so.

As befitting of his noble origins and training, Hanir also has a decent skill as a rider and with the lance. And though sometimes he is called upon to ride down the enemies of the Undying, Hanir is an infantryman through and through.

His size has also meant that sometimes Hanir is called upon to take part in certain jobs that are, frankly, below someone of his breeding and rank. Such as carrying heavy loads, helping the sappers and whatnot. Still, he obeys, for this is his duty.

TBD