Full Name: Only known as Rägnar.
Titles/Nicknames: "The Orc", "Ironhide".
Age: 31.
Race: Human.
Gender: Male.
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.
Combat Role: Frontline Brawler/Main Charger

Hair Color: Black.
Eye Color: Blue.
Height: 1,88 Metres
Weight: 78.5 kgs.

Appearance: Rägnar is an imposing figure. When he isn't fighting with others (which is quite weird), he can be seen with rudimentary leather clothing, most of it still having the animal's head with it, which he sometimes uses to cover himself if ever in need (For example, if it rains or snows). He's obviously physically fit, his muscles are very clear and he has broad shoulders. He usually ties his hair so it doesn't bother him while fighting, a very long and thick beard making him look even bigger than he actually is.


Overview: Rägnar isn't a man of words, he thinks that everyone should approach their problems with honor and bravery, that life is too short to be afraid of nature itself and that everything can be solved if you tempt destiny and search for glory and treasure. He doesn't want to have a family, he doesn't need friends, all he wants is to be remembered as either a valiant hero, a brave gladiator, a monstrous raider or the most terrific of bandits known all across the world.

If he has to talk with someone, he doesn't run around and try to cover himself: He says what's on his mind, not caring if he insults the other person or makes them mad, often wanting to see the true colors of whom he's talking to. He hates thieves and anyone that tries to think things trough, calling them "Cowards" and "Rats", but the thing he hates the most is magic. Why the hell can a weakling like that guy throw fireballs? He only had to study a book for a few weeks and now thinks he's stronger than Rägnar...lets not talk about what he does to hostile mages, I don't want to turn this into a gorefest.



Strength: 8
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 4
Cunning: 3
Magic: 1
Willpower: 5
Endurance: 8
Charisma: 2

Weapons of Choice: Trough his adventures, Rägnar has acquired proficiencies at quite the numerous kinds of weaponry...most of the time having to use foreign weapons due to getting robbed or being in a precarious situation. When the enemy uses heavy armor or is just really tall, he can bring his steel Warhammer into battle, called "Bórnçörn" which he has to use with two hands and can be used to parry and make the enemies fall to the ground by leg-tripping them.

Rägnar also has two handaxes, always kept on his belt, which he usually tinkers with, potentially applying either poisonous venoms to them or just strange liquids and whatnot, also keeping them sharp and taking care of the wooden structure holding the blades themselves.

Armor/Combat Apparel: While fighting, his armor consists solely in either light leather armor and padded armbands, which he usually uses to parry the opponent's weapon if he isn't able to do so with his dual axes. He also wears warpaint, the most iconic of him is the red eagle, painted with a mix of real blood and sand from the place the fight is about to take place. If he feels that the odds are against him, he will also wear a helmet, but normally he can be seen without it.

Fighting Style: Rägnar goes all in, rarely doing the "intelligent" thing (which is flanking) and more than likely charging into the enemy line, attempting to cause confusion among them to shatter their defenses, which the other "weaklings" can then use to their advantage to aid him in slaughtering the opponents. Due to his hard and tough life, he quickly had to learn how to defend himself from either beasts or bad people, that tried to harm him or his (now entirely gone) family. His moderate fame ended making him dreaded, which he sometimes uses to his advantage, attempting to scare his opponents and lower their morale, most of the time playing with their allies' corpses.

Without formal or military training, this can come in handy, making him more and more unpredictable, using techniques that he had seen from multiple encounters. Without a shield, blocking can be difficult, that's why he usually dodges or parries the enemies: If he can parry someone, either with the Warhammer or a handaxe, he leaves the other person exposed to an easy attack, which usually ends in death. Although he's strong and fast, his bravery usually ends him in precarious spots which can very quickly end his life, having to be saved by an ally or a teammate...rarely learning the lesson and going in again.

He can also go into what seems to be a "rage", discerning all self-preservation and throwing himself into the heart of battle and, if the odds are very much against his favour or wants to please the crowd either more, he can and will throw his weapons aside to finish off the remaining "victim", his unarmed fighting style being a mix of Glíma and Lautasök.


Place of Birth: Torguren, wilderness.
Social Status: Exile/Criminal/Wanderer

History: Rägnar was born in the middle of nowhere (literally), his mother giving birth to him in a wooden shack near a big forest in the realm of Torguren, his father having abandoned his mother weeks ago, leaving them all alone to either die or live long enough in their modest shack. His mother spent most of the time tending to the little farm beside the forest, which they used to feed themselves and rarely sell to passing merchants. Not having a lot of social contacts, his mother taught him all the nature had to offer and what the Gods did for them: How Lopñó cried so the rivers could give life, or how Mïeìro kissed Jukle, the sweetness of their love making the pure air of the wilderness and their animals.

All of that magical infancy had to end when a bandit tribe came too close to comfort to their house, the merchants usually getting shackled for their money or captured, to be later sold as slaves or servants to a higher lord. Rägnar was 16 at that time, watching how his mother had to leave the house for a few days, later coming back with visible bruises and not in the mood to talk, starting to become more and more depressed. One day, coming back from some days of hunting, he found a bunch of the raiders waiting outside his house, seeing as their dragged his mother out of the door, exchanging her among themselves for their pleasure.

He knew he had to run, his mother even told him in case anything to her happened...but he didn't do any of that, the rage and anger was too much to handle, and so, with his hunting bow and knife, attempted to make the men pay for what they had done. Psshh, an arrow flew from his bow, sticking itself into the side of the head of a raider, the rest of them looking at their dead comrade before another arrow flew past the "leader" of the small group, penetrating another man's back, falling to the ground in agony as the remaining two looked around: They saw nothing, the forest too thick to look trough and too silent to detect anyone. They ran, ran to get more reinforcements as Rägnar got out of the bush he was hiding in, running towards his mother in shock. "Run R-Rägnar...do not be afraid of me, for I will live with Höir, the mother of all, always watching you..." she whispered to him, in an attempt to calm her son "My little Orc...don't look back a-and make the most out of all...".

Fast forward 15 years, a now mature and renowned "Rägnar Ironhide" was wandering trough the busy streets of Apulum, keeping track of all the gold he had left and how he could even go outside having finished the last "job", multiple bounties on his head. It was ironic, he was the one attacking and finishing off Bandit Tribes and Groups, but he was the one with a bounty...I guess not being a soldier made his killing spree a crime. Later on, having heard of the tournament of gladiators, something lit up inside his head "If I win...I could get famous, I could even reunite a band and finish what I started..." he thought to himself "Besides, mother surely wants me to go with her and tell her and Hoïr all the feats I've reunited..." And so, the dreaded Rägnar throws himself to the tournament: Not for gold, not for the sounds of battle, not even for the entertainment...but for glory.

Full Name: Kaseem Akz Duwabir
Titles/Nicknames: The Lord Duwabir, Thakur Duwabir
Age: 44 years since birth, died aged 29.
Race: Undead, previously Sariyan.
Gender: Male
Combat Role: Agile Duelist.

Hair Color: N/A, previously black
Eye Color: N/A, previously brown, a faint blue glow can be seen to emanate from his empty eye sockets in low lighting.
Height: 5 feet and 11 inches.
Weight: 165 pounds in life, 45 pounds in death.

Appearance: Kaseem seldom shows his face to world, only when completely alone would he ever remove the long flowing dark robes that cover his body from head to toe. A hooded veil covers his face also, leaving only the tinniest of slits for him to peer out from. His hands are covered with gloves of fine black silk, and his feet are adorned in satin slippers of sable. A silver gilt belt loosely encircles his narrow waist, studded with sapphires and jet from the mines of his homeland. Upon his brow an equally fine coronet rests again made of swirling silver and luminous moonstones. Beneath this finery however, lurks a much more unsavoury truth.

Kaseem is rotted down to bones beneath his shroud. His once tanned comely face and head of thick dark hair has all fallen away and revealed a grinning, bone white skull. His muscles have wasted away to nothing, not even sinews remain to string his body together. A darker art serves to fulfil that role, and evidence of its practice can be seen carved into what remains of Kaseem's body. Sinister runes writen in ancient Sariyan mark his lonely bones, rippling and glowing with some unnatural power as they hold Kaseem together. This is power is what sustains Kaseem, and it is also the power which curses him.


Overview: In life Kaseem was arrogant, he was flamboyant, and he was vain as he was beautiful. But death, or rather his return from it, has robbed him of much of what defined him. It has transformed a confident warrior, who would have once laughed in the face of any foe, to one who can barely look at his own face in the mirror. Kaseem is aware of his visage, and the effects it has on others outside of his distant homeland, and his internalised so much of it. He shrinks away from others, from physical contact, and hides behind masks and veils in a desperate attempt to pretend to others that he is not what he is.

He was also a sensual and passionate man once, but all pleasures of flesh are denied to those who rise from a true grave. The only thing that he has to hold onto now, is the arena. The roar of the crowds, the joy found in battling a truly worthy opponent. His loves, his pleasure, his very flesh has all been taken from him. There is only the glory of the arena, and perhaps, the promise of another death - one that is true and honourable.

But he is not a monster that cannot see further than killing and death, contrary to what many of other nations believe about the nature of the undead. He does not feed on virgin blood or baby bones. He is not cruel, but the distance that his existence has created between him and others can make it seem so. People have become almost as strange to him as he is to most people, and therefore he can seem unemphatic or inconsiderate. Kaseem is forgetting what it is like to be human, he knows this, and it is one of his greatest fears.

There is great sadness in this corpse, of what was lost, of what could have been. Unbearable sadness. But there is perhaps hope too, hope of meaning and of glory.



Strength: 1
Dexterity: 9
Intelligence: 7
Cunning: 5
Magic: 1
Willpower: 5
Endurance: 7
Charisma: 0

Weapons of Choice: Kaseem primarily uses two weapons in combat. In his right hand he wields a wickedly curved blade that broadens towards the tip with a small cross guard on its hilt. In his left he wields a short pata gauntlet sword with stiff and narrow blade. Both are richly decorated with brass work and etched blades that are kept wickedly sharp.

At his side Kaseem carries two knives, one with broad curved cutting blade, and another with a stiletto point.

Armor/Combat Apparel: When in the arena as in life, Kaseem covers himself from head to toe to disguise his condition, but is combat attire is much less flowing and more revealing of his emaciated state. In order to counteract this, Kaseem enters the arena padded with sack cloth and straw in order to give the impression of a living body. Over his black linens he wears a knee length shirt of silvery Sariyan ring mail, drawn in at the waist with a golden sash. A pair of gilded pauldrons grace his shoulders, and matching vambraces adorn his wrists. His helm is open faced in the southern fashion, with at its zenith and more golden cloth wrapped around its rim. His face is disguised by a veil of gold and silver mail that is attached to the helm's rim and rests upon Kaseem's shoulders.

Fighting Style: Kaseem as fast and as swift as any fighter. He likes to run rings around his opponents, slashing at them with curved blade, wearing them down until they are tired and injured, before rushing in for a killing thurst with his pata. He can dodge, sidestep and lunge with lightening speed and terrifying ferocity, but this masks his great underlying weakness - he will collapse under any powerful blow.

He must dodge everything, and avoid being struck at all costs, as his light and brittle bones stand no chance against a strike from a two handed polearm, a mace, an axe, or even a large enough sword. Percussive damage will destroy him. But light slashes, or thrusts are useless against him. Kaseem has to blood to spill, the only way to defeat him is to crush him or hack him into pieces. However, as long as Kaseem can dance just outside of his opponents range he has the power. He does not tire, he does not get distracted by thirst or hunger, or any other bodily function, he can be patient and wait for his opening.

He is at his strongest in a one on one duel, where he can focus solely on his opponent and does not run the risk of being taken unawares. He is weaker in mass melees, especially against long pole weapons, and if trapped against a wall or corner of the arena stands next to no chance of escaping.


Place of Birth: Ghanahdpur, an upriver city in Sariya
Social Status: In Sariya he was once a member of minor nobility and a near champion of the arenas. But he is outcast now, and is forced to hide his nature in a foreign land.

History: Kaseem Akz Duwabir was the first born son of Thakur Bruhier Akz Duwabir, a landed noble of Ghanahdpur. The city sat on the river Ghanadhd, which flowed into the Saheled and then to the sea, in the northern reaches of Sariya. It was drier and dustier than many other Sariyan cities, as it was on the southern coasts, but deeper into the interior deserts and mountains. The land was poor, and little was scraped out from it, so depite being a noble, Kaseem was not born to luxury. They were well off, but not rich, and his family had worked hard to make their lands profitable and fertile through irrigation. There were two sources of splendour in Ghanahdpur, the diamond mines, and the arena.

Slaves for the mines were always needed in Ghanahdpur and so there was never a shortage of stock for the arena. The city had one of most active arenas in all the country, and local Raja made it his business to hold some of the most magnificent games in living memory there during Kaseem's youth. And like a moth to the flame, Kaseem was enthralled by life of gladiator.

From a young age it was all he ever talked of, and fighting was all he ever trained in. His father wanted him to take up the mantle of a noble, and manage his lands and fields for when the elder Duwabir was no longer there to do so. But Kaseem wanted the arena, the fame, the glory, the title of champion. Against his father's wishes he sought it out, and he was good at it. Kaseem triumphed many times on the sands of every arena in Sariya, he became respected all, and he became adored by some. He had the makings of champion within him, it was clear, with all his speed and skill and strength, the title could have easily been his.

But it was not to be.

Kaseem died in disgrace, outside of the arena, and there was no magic to return him whole. But return he did. A sorcerer who had been one of those who adored the handsome and dashing young gladiator more than any other fan retrieved his bones and worked the ancient spells to return a living as an undead. The undead have a place of honour in Sariya, they are ambassadors of the God Akzum, proof of the love he bears his children. But Kaseem scorned his return from the afterlife. He killed the sorcerer to resurrected him, and fled to the deserts of Sariya as a wanted man.

There he lived for many years, apart from all others save the few other undead which choose to wander in that desolate place. But in this time, this retreat the world, he remember what drove him life and found new resolve to go forth into the world of men again. He would become a champion of the arenas once more, but not in Sariya, from whence he was exiled, but in another land. So he travelled north, to the Empire Venatria. He disguised himself, and bought a slave who could read Sariyan in order to communicate with the world. For the last few years he has tried to join Gladiator houses across the empire with little luck, and has fought in the arena on occassion by himself. The games at Apulum have drawn him to them as so many others have, Kaseem is still just a moth to their flame.

Full Name: Tahir
Titles/Nicknames: Slave, boy etc
Age: 14
Race: Human, Sariyan
Gender: Male
Combat Role: N/A Assistant to Kaseem Akz Duwabir

Hair Color: Dark brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5 feet and 2 inches
Weight: 110lbs

Appearance: Tahir is an adolescent boy on the smaller and skinnier end of the spectrum for his age. His complexion is relatively light for a Sariyan, perhaps hinting an ancestor to come from other shores. His hair is brown and somewhat unkempt and is not yet old enough for a shadow of beard on either is lip nor chin. He is reasonably comely for a boy his age, although this is somewhat marred by large scar red scar that runs across his nose, which has clearly been broken at some point during his past. However, his smile has warmth to it still and his eyes don't have the dull look of slave that has been beaten into nothing by their masters.

He dresses plainly in undyed linens and a red jerkin, with sandals on his feet. They are commoners clothes, but not filthy rags.


Overview: Tahir has lived a strange life, and it has left him a strange boy. He is a contradiction in many ways, a cautious and reserved boy, who can fierce and brave when challenged, and yet can open up with such endearing vulnerability in a way that only those who are not fully adults can. He has lived a hard life, from the streets of Meroa, to the slave markets of Venatria, but its has not broken his spirit or stunted him beyond repair. He should angry and enraged at this life, and sometimes he is, but it has never taken his smile nor the sparkle in his young eyes.

While he suspicious and reserved to those who does not know, there is one person he trusts absolutely, his master Kaseem Akz Duwabir, a monster who is one of the few people who has shown him kindness. He is loyal to his master, but there is an unruly nature within him, and a heart that will one day wish to follow its own path. A heart that will undoubtedly lead to conflict with his position as a slave.


Place of Birth: Meroa, Sariya
Social Status: Slave

History: Tahir was born on the streets of Meroa, the son of prostitute who's birthing bed was also her death bed. While some of the other whores did try to care for him, a brothel is no place to raise a child, and mostly he came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he would sleep on one of the pallets in the back and sometimes he would sleep on the streets. Sometimes it was safer there, because those who frequented the gutter brothels were not always picky in their partners...

He stole and he fought with the other urchins and beggars that live beneath the golden towers of the richest city of the known world. But it was not a life that could last long, not in country with so many mines that needed so many slaves. He was caught by guard aged eleven stealing fruit from a merchants wagon, he had no coin to pay the fine, so his life became forfeit instead. He would have gone to mines save for one thing, he could read and write Sariyan. Not all those who lived in the gutters had been whores and beggars, some had once learned or great men of Sariya. One of those was a blind navigator called Jarrah, he could not ply is trade with no sight, but he had scraped coppers as a teacher of the streets, and thankfully for Tahir one of the whores had once sat him down at Jarrah's side to learn what he could of script.

It saved him from the mines, but it did not save him from the life of a slave. He was taken north on a ship to Venatria, he nearly died to thirst and hunger on the journey, but Tahir made it to the market. It was there that he met the man who has owned by for nearly three years now, a man named Kaseem Akz Duwabir. Kaseem needed someone who could understand what he wrote, and Tahir was the cheapest slave that could do so. They communicate through notes upon a slate, Kaseem understands Venatrian well enough but cannot write it. He taught the boy to be his mouth, to tend to his horse, to help dress him for the arena. Slowly Tahir learned to trust this silent strange corpse, and can now speak Ventarian with a somewhat broken, yet serviceable accent. He has followed his master to the games of Apulum where fortune has taken them to seek the arena once more.

Full Name: Haljon Gunnarsson
Titles/Nicknames: Bloodaxe, Bjorn's Butcher
Age: 52
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Combat Role: Tanky Berserker

Hair Color: Brown/Gray
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 6'4
Weight: 230 lbs

Appearance: Haljon is barrel-chested, and his arms are unusually long. Possessing strong, angular facial features, he may be considered ruggedly handsome by some. His eyes are deepset and a dark brown, almost black. A scar travels from his forehead to beneath his left eye, and his nose is crooked from multiple fractures. Haljon's mouth is framed by a large beard, which is complimented by bushy black brows. He seems to be permanently coated in a layer of dirt or dust.


Overview: Haljon seems to project an air of great weariness; as if his many experiences are a weight to be constantly born. He appears to be a man who is trying to overcome a heavy past, one who must leave many regrets behind but must move forward regardless. What nuggets of wisdom he offers freely are given with the intrinsic knowledge that such knowledge was hard-won. Haljon is not exactly an affable companion, though he is a reliable and trustworthy one. He will drink and talk with all the rest, though none would ever call him boisterous, or say they were particularly close to him. Even so, few would have issue with him as far as drinking mates go, and none would dare voice a complaint when it comes to the field of battle.

Haljon is driven by the hope that he can remake himself, and leave behind his past. He knows little more than fighting, having been a man of war since his teen years; and so he decided to remake himself in the great gladiator pits of the world. He wishes for people to cheer for and adore him, not cower fearfully in his presence. Haljon seeks new brothers-in-arms, in part to honor those he has lost. The greatest of his fears would be his inability to change, or a return to his past.



Strength: 9
Dexterity: 3
Intelligence: 3
Cunning: 6
Magic: 1
Willpower: 3
Endurance: 9
Charisma: 3

Weapons of Choice: Haljon brings a great bearded two-handed axe, along with numerous daggers.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Haljon wears a cured leather cuirass and cured leather bracers, along with assorted furs. He keeps one shoulder mostly bare, while the other is covered in a bear skin.

Fighting Style: Haljon will stand at the frontline, trading blows with the fiercest of the enemy. He will defend his allies if able, but his focus will be on the dismemberment of the enemy. Haljon will work himself into a frenzy and wade into their lines without fear of attack. He is enormously strong and durable, and his long experience on the field of battle loans him many tricks he may use in order to achieve victory over his foes. However, his aging body has robbed him of much of his former dexterity, and he has little tolerance for mind-magic.


Place of Birth: Small village in the north
Social Status: Retired house carl/champion.

History:
Haljon grew up in a village located in the far north, one without a name or place on any map. Surrounded by an icy wasteland and having never experienced any season except Winter, the village survived through ice fishing and trading with the few merchants who dared venture that far north. Haljon had a normal, if grueling, childhood. As the village stayed at a nearly constant population due to the climate, children were expected to take large amounts of responsibility at an early age. They were taught that duty, particularly to the village, came before all else; that a person's word was the summation of their entire being, a terrible curse befalling all those who broke theirs.

Eventually, war came to Haljon's villages, as was common in the North. The village's carls were called to join the host of their local chieftain, and as Haljon was of age he went along as well. He remembers little from that first battle, besides screaming, blood, and his axe-arm rising and falling with disturbing regularity. Afterward, he learned that he had apparently distinguished himself in the battle and that his chieftain, a man known as Bjorn, wanted to make him one of his personal hirdmen. Seeing it as an opportunity to leave behind his village life, he agreed.

This chieftain, unfortunately, was quite ambitious. He sought to unite the North under one ruler: himself. And so Haljon fought in the numerous wars and bloodfeuds that followed the chieftain's ambition across the North. He became ever more capable and feared as a warrior, and began to be known as Bloodaxe, and later as Bjorn's Butcher. He was elevated to Bjorn's personal champion, and for thirty long and bloody years he fought in Bjorn's name. Eventually, however, Haljon had his fill. Bjorn was defeated and his head stuck on a pike, and Haljon fled the North and his fell deeds. He came to rest in a small coastal town in the Venatrian Empire, having heard tale of a tournament approaching...

Full Name: Tavrel Brahn
Titles/Nicknames: “Tav”
Age: 29
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Combat Role:Frontline Counter-Attacker/Harrier

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 153 Lbs

Appearance: Tav is built like a traveler. Lean, all hard edges and lines. His shoulders are, perhaps, less broad than that of the average Togureni, likely a result of his mixed parentage. He has the start of a beard, and a noticeable scar on his head and face. His eyes are pale and clearly observant, if not always alert. He has a perpetual ghost of a grin on his face. His posture is less than stellar, with a slight backward lean.


Overview: Tav has seen much in 29 years. From the worst of Torgureni warfare, to the savagery of wild mongrels. He’s felt love and disgust, anger and joy. He’s seen much of the world. Despite this, Tavrel is far from wise and world-weary. He looks at new things with an almost child-like curiosity, and has a devil-may-care attitude towards even the greatest of dangers. He’s a bombastic drunk, and occasionally impulsive. Some call him vivacious, others call him immature.

Tav has some growing up to do, and a lot of that stems from an innate fear of stagnation. For him, responsibility means settling down, and that is really Tav’s only real fear. He makes friends easily, but dislikes staying still long enough to create life-long friendships. Tav has a lot of people who’d drink to his memory, a few that would spit on his grave, but none that would, say, name their children after him or take up arms in his honor.



Strength: 5
Dexterity: 7
Intelligence: 4
Cunning: 5
Magic: 1
Willpower: 1
Endurance: 3
Charisma: 5

Weapons of Choice: Tav currently wields a pair of blades. One, in his off hand, is a sturdy dagger, with dull edges, a sharp tip, and a thick handguard, meant for parrying. The other, in his right hand, is a Markothi saber, meant for slashing and hacking as opposed to thrusting. Both are of fairly common make, and he’s not especially attached to either of them.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Tav wears a tanned leather cuirass, and wears metal bracers on each forearm. He wears common, rough-cloth trousers with thin leather boots. The bracers are sturdy, and quite effective at warding off blows. His cuirass is adept at fending off glancing slashes, but a solid thrust or hack would easily get through it. However, his style changes depending on what is available to him, and, excluding the bracers, he’s not attached to any of it.

Fighting Style: Tav is a mostly stationary, frontline fighter. He prefers dealing with one opponent at a time, and does so in one of two ways. Usually, he holds fast, fighting defensively by parrying blows with one of his blades, and viciously retaliating with the other. When this proves ineffective for any reason, he falls back to a vastly different style. He rains down blows with both blades, harrying his opponent ruthlessly, hopefully overwhelming whatever defense they mount. The issue with that, however, is that it’s quite taxing to swing heavy blades around that hard, that fast. If he doesn’t kill or force back his opponent with that burst, he’s likely to be killed before he can get his blades up to block. As such, he prefers to fight defensively whenever possible.

Magical Affinity: N/A


Place of Birth: Toguren (temporary encampment)
Social Status: Former Togureni Warrior, Markothi tribesman, Wanderer

History: Born in Toguren, Tav’s parents were of different heritage. His mother was a semi-prominent, Markothi Tribal Warrior, and his father was a Togureni Berserker. His early life was spent learning to fight, from both parents. Lacking the pure physical strength to fight like a berserker and the finesse to properly master his mother’s parry-heavy style, he decided to merge them both. He grew into, if not an outstanding fighter, then one who could hold his own. He earned respect on the many battlefields of Toguren, fighting alongside his parents and clanmates.

Inevitably, Tav’s parents met the end that accompanies a lifetime spent at war. He grieved for some time, but the wars didn’t stop just because his parents had died. He fought, and he became better at it. However, Tav, now a young man, liked his alcohol more than most, and was a bit of a womanizer. Eventually, he got exceptionally drunk and found his way into the bed of his chieftain’s daughter. Upon waking, he thought it best to not be around when the rest of the clan awoke.

He thought about finding refuge with another clan, but he thought about how little of the world he’d seen. So, he wandered, and found himself in Markoth. There, he proved his worth to a tribe by assisting some of their warriors with a hostile mongrel problem. He traveled with them, eventually becoming Markothi. For the first time in Tav’s life, he wasn’t constantly fighting. Markoth wasn’t exactly safe, but the bloodshed was nothing like that of Toguren. It was during this time that he received his scar, but he changes the story every time he tells it. Sometimes, he slips and slashes himself with his own blade. Once, he said that he’d bet a drunk archer that an apple can’t be shot off of his head, a bet he won, unfortunately.

Eventually, Tav grew bored. He left Markoth, with an empty promise to his tribe that he’d someday return. He thought about returning to Toguren, but decided against it. Even if the Chieftain had forgotten about him, a doubtful prospect, he wanted to go somewhere new. So, he wandered again. He found himself in Venatria, in the right costal town at the right time. Having only fought in arenas on occasion, and never in an organized tournament, he decided to try his hand at the town’s tournament.

Full Name: Dagor Weirdeye of the tribe of the Longhorns
Titles/Nicknames: Speaker of Horror, Weirdeye, He who scrambles the mind
Age: 44
Race: Mongrel
Gender: Male
Combat Role: Disruptive Mage

Fur Color: Black/Dark brown
Eye Color: One Eye Green and the other Red
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 160 lbs

Appearance: Dagor is a mongrel, his fur is of a dark brown, even black in some parts like his back and arms. His horns are enormous, each extending long behind his head. One of his most prominent features are his piercing eyes, which also gave him his name. While his left eye is green with a small piercing pupil, his right eye is pure red.
The clothes he wears are mostly tattered and ripped pieces of fabric over a simple piece of leather armor. He carries many bags and pouches around with him which he uses for his magic.


Overview: Dagor is still very new to human society and has no love for it. He really has not much love for anything, he simply thinks some things are less disgusting than others.
He sees social interactions still through the lense of a mongrel, he sees some people as Alphas to whom he keeps distance and some are Betas, he harasses and threatens those. While he understands human language reasonably well he thinks they are too weak and cuddled by civilization.



Strength: 5
Dexterity: 7
Intelligence: 4
Cunning: 7
Magic: 7
Willpower: 6
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 1

Weapons of Choice: Dagor wields a long wooden staff with a sharp piece of black metal at the end. The staff is full with talismans and trinkets that offer him support in his magical endeavours and is generally used to keep enemies at distance.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Light leather protection over the arms and the torso. His most important defensive item is a small bone medallion of which Dagor swears it deflects arrows. Well it does, some of the time.

Fighting Style: What good is an enemy when his mind is shattered in a thousand pieces? When he has lost any will to fight and is no longer with his head in the arena? The answer is that enemy is useless. And Dagors speciality is to stand in the back of the arena and curse his enemies to weaken and confuse them.

Magical Affinity: Magic of the Mind, Madness, fear and confusion.
The Roar of the Wild - After a small ritual which consists of a dance and a verse Dagor can let out a roar that grips the hearts of anyone who desires. The target will feel fear of a debilitating level. There were victims of this curse who tried to tunnel themselves through a wall just to get away from Dagor.
The Shattering - A green lightning leaves the clawed finger tip of dagor and zaps the enemy. Whoever is hit by this blast has his mind shattered in a thousand pieces. They see childhood memories as if the were the present, can remember only things that never happened and smell colours.
Fangs of Death - The sharp teeth of the hound of death pierce the enemy's heart causing it to stop for a moment. While not deadly in many cases, the victim is stopped in his tracks and paralysed. Dagor uses his hands to cast this spell.
The eye of the Beast - Dagors signature spell brings forth imaginary warriors and traps his enemies in a fake reality. When he locks eyes with a enemy he can summon deadly phantasms into that person's mind. A group of bloodthirsty mongrels seem to attack the victim of this curse but only the victim can see them. Don't be fooled though, their teeth, horns and blades still hurt.


Place of Birth: Markoth
Social Status: Shaman of the Longhorn Tribe
History: Live in a Mongrel Tribe is beyond harsh. The males fight eternally for the leadership positions and whoever wants to eat has to contribute to the tribe or starve. Children born with gifts from the spirits however have a different life. From early on Dagor was called Weirdeye, for the obvious reason that his right eye is of a pure blood red. The shaman of the tribe took him under his leadership and tutored him in the ways of sorcery. The Old Shaman of the Longhorn Tribe was a powerful mage specialising in strengthening his tribe with powerful blessings and cursing their enemies.
Dagor learned all he could from his master but he still felt to weak. So he did what many Mongrel Shamans tried to do and searched the lands far and white for better teachers, old tomes and powerful artefacts. He learned about runes and used them to strengthen his tribe and make them unquestionably loyal. In these years he found his own style of curses and magic. He learned to destroy and shape the mind of his foes and bend their will.
One year later Dagor was bored of his tribal life. He had no challenges and could not hone his magic on real enemies. And what better way to find all that than the arena? Dagor Weirdeye offered himself to the next Human tribe, suggesting that they would get his price if they would bring him to the next arena. They did sell him to slave traders from Venatria who got the same deal and eventually brought him to a small town in the west and a small tournament. They deal the slavetraders made seemed to be a failure however since nobody wanted to buy the weird Mongrel, nobody except a fearless young woman...

Full Name: Brina Kerr
Titles/Nicknames: The Vestal, That crazy nun, RuneBreaker, Honored Exile
Age: 24
Race: Human
Gender: F
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Combat Role: Front-line brawler/support mage

Hair Color: Auburn
Eye Color: Ice blue
Height: 1.6 m
Weight: 68 kg

Appearance:

A well built and muscular warrior woman from the northern reaches of the land, her appearance is most often hidden by a red hood and robes. Pull back that covering to unveil a rugged face that has seen many brushes with death and is marked with the scars to match. Most of these are small nics, where a sword blade or tendril has just barely missed her and the injury has been hastily patched back together by magic. More notable however is a trio of scars left by a claw that just failed to take out her right eye, running from her brow to her cheek. Her hairs is a dirty auburn tied back into a ponytail. In battle she seems to almost glow, the magic used to knit her body back together seems to have lingered and it resonates in sympathy to each new spell cast, giving her something of a radiant aura from the numerous scars found all across her body.

She stands with the confidence of a person who has suffered that may wounds and still stands, a steadfast presence who is generally gently smiling in all but the most dire situations. She believes she has fought and bested horrors from beyond the veil, so little in this world can faze her.


Overview:
She is rather friendly when there is no fighting to be done, a generally rather sociable person she will take any opportunity to bond with and form amicable relationships with those she meets. This is partially an attempt to replace what she has lost due to her exile, she is trying to find a new place where she belongs now that her clan, her family, is forever beyond her grasp.

She is highly spiritual and will often pray or see events as having a divine sources, though the Polytheistic nature of the Torguren religion means she isn’t the kind to look down on other people's beliefs if they don’t conflict directly with her own.

In combat she is a bit more serious but she sees arena fights as the sporting events they are and thus is there to have fun and entertain the crowds. Part of her role while fighting alongside her tribe was keeping morale up through encouraging words, giving her a strong voice that can carry above the din of battle. This can be useful for adding showmanship by calling out opponents or making grand boasts or proclamations, all done to increase the spectacle.

Having been exiled she is now seeking a new purpose. Part of this is making use of her skills in the lands beyond her homeland and the arenas are a perfect place for that. Other than that she will try to see if she can find ways to aid her clan’s fight indirectly. One way she does this is spreading the tale of her people, as a warning about the dangers of magic and a way to possibly send allies to them who seek the glory found in destroy evil.

She is a rather straightforward individual, the north is not a place for subtle words or conniving manipulations. She believes there is real quantifiable evil in the world, that dark forces are always seeking ways to enter reality and destroy humanity, so she hates the pointless petty power squabbling that others seem to be obsessed with.

She has an intense distaste of necromancy and any magic that looks evil in its application as a result of her origins.



Strength: 7
Dexterity: 4
Intelligence: 5
Cunning: 1
Magic: 3
Willpower: 7
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 6

Weapons of Choice:
Mace: A heavy spiked club that doubles as a channel for her powers and can be used either one or two handed
Tome: A runic imbued book that is used to cast spells. The thick tome has protective runes build in and can be used as an improvised shield. It is chained to her waist where it can be left hanging if she needs to use both her hands for fighting.

Armor/Combat Apparel: She wears red robes and over these she wears an iron breastplate, gauntlets and a sort of metal skirt. Her head is covered by a hood. A red sash is wrapped around her waist.

Fighting Style: A frontline support, she uses a combination of good old fashioned barbarian might alongside a selection of spells to smash her enemies and support her allies. In melee she fights with ferocity and brute strength, delivering strong blows with her mace and the occasional dazzling spell, in a support capacity she can help keep the team alive with light healing and can blind, relocate or blast their opponents.

Magical Affinity: Divine (in appearance anyway), all magics are “drawn” from the tome over a small duration. All of the effects destabilize magic briefly, which effectively stuns creatures like the undead and can cause enchantments to briefly fail to activate. This won’t really affect the arena but might be disruptive to other people using rune imbued equipment.
Spell 1 Dazzling Light: a wave of light shoots out of her mace, blinding and disorienting opponents.
Spell 2 Devin comfort: provides a small amount of wound recovery for all friendly characters.
Spell 3 Hand of light: adds a strong pushing force to the maces blows, sending opponents flying but damping most of the actual damage the blow itself would inflict.
Spell 4 Illumination: a more concentrated beam of light shoots from the mace that feels like a mace blow to the struck target.


Place of Birth: Torguren
Social Status: warior cleric -> honored exile

History: She was born to the Aurora Clan, one of the most northern clans and once a minor part of the great confederation of clans that nearly conquered Venatria. These days however they are primarily dedicated to the standard inter clan conflicts and, of much greater importance to them, the purifying of the dark one’s dungeon, a vast imposing system of caverns and structures created by a Sariyan necromancer and his cultist centuries ago.

At a point in time when the Torguren people were focused outwards, united and hungry for conquest, there came a man to their lands. That man was clad in dark robes, his face hidden by a hood that was lined with a spiked iron halo, who traveled there with his acolytes to research foul magics away from prying eyes. His expedition was funded by some of the Venatria nobles who were perfectly fine in working with rather deranged necromancer if it meant causing damage to the invading Torguren’s lands. This man became known to the Clan simply as The Dark One.

He and his followers set up a base in a cavern filled mountainside, enslaving a local swine like beast race and using them and magic to build a great fortress dungeon right in the heart of the Aurora Clan’s lands. In that place they began to work their magics in the most twisted ways, carving runs into the stone of the mountain that warped and twisted the land into a hellscape, mutating the wildlife and any who's stayed there two long into monstrous slaves of The Dark One. This corruption and the monsters slowly spread outwards from the dungeon, and drew the Aurora Clan away from the war back to their homeland to protect their civilians and hunting grounds. There they fought a desperate losing battle against the encroaching darkness, those that fell in battle rose and turned against them, the tombs of their ancestors were desecrated, their rotting corpses joining the vile horde.

Despite how nightmarish this war for the Arora’s home was it was of little concern to the other clans, there was glory and conquest to be had in Venatria and thus the Aurora Clan was left without aid. That is until one day a second mage came from Venatria. Asmodyth was a mage who was a former college of the Dark One and the was one of the few people who know just how twisted the man was. His form of magic was primarily focused on light, disruption of enemy magic and providing support to those fighting alongside him. Upon learning that his countrymen had payed for the madman to conduct his research he had made the perilous journey to the north lands with the aims of putting a stop to it. When he arrived he joined the Arora’s number and while never really fitting in with them his particular brand of magic, along with his knowledge of how the dark ones magic worked, helped turn the tide against the foul creatures.

It all came down to a dramatic confrontation between Asmodyth and the twisted thing the Dark one had become. In the warped lands before the dungeon a great final battle was fought, eldritch horrors clashing with the furious barbarian warriors in a cacophony of bloody battle cries and screams of the dying. In the middle of this battle the red robed Asmodyth was a shining beacon fighting the writhing mass of tentacles, mouths and rune work that The Dark One had become. Both great mages perished that day in twin explosions of light and darkness.

The foul armies were left leaderless, yet the dungeon still stood, it’s runework intact and some of it’s servants still maintained the defences. They are nowhere near as capable as their master and they now primarily maintain the runework already set in place, incapable of creating any new types of magic. The body of Asmodyth was cut from the bloated mass of his foe and his magical tome retrieved. The Aurora Clan had been left too weak and few in number to finish the fight and so they retreated southwards, where they buried Asmodyth with all the honors of a true Torguren.

Since that day the war between Clan and remaining cultists has consisted of sporadic raids by the two weakened sides against another and the events that lead to this sate have become shrouded in myth and sense of the divine. To the Clan The Dark One was not just a necromancer but a demonologist, a summoner of great unholy evils from beyond the veil. Asmodyth meanwhile is a legendary hero who was one chosen by the gods to strike down a servant of their most vile enemy. He was given divine powers to help in his battle and those powers have now been passed to them in the form of his rune imbued spell book.

While their understanding of those events decades ago has become clouded the clan must still contend with The Dark One’s legacy and Brina has was trained from birth to do just that. Since the day she could walk she has trained in the art of war, to fight the monsters that lie within the Dark One’s dungeon. When she became a woman she was tested and found to be able to channel magic well enough to create a replica of Asmodyth’s runic tome, those capable of doing so will create an inferior copy of it from which they can cast a number of the hero’s spells. She then fought the neighboring clans in some of those endless squabbles, defended her lands from raids originating from The Dark One’s lair and foiled attempted incursions by foreign cultists looking to learn the dark one's secrets by training with his remaining servants.

She showed enough skill to be chosen to take part of a raid upon the Dark One’s dungeon, to remove some of the unholy rune craft and weakening the place. She was the only one who returned unharmed, carrying with her a large slab of that corrupted stone, and thus the only one able to undertake the pilgrimage, hauling that rock down from the north to Venatria, too the place where Asmodyth was trained. There mages there, some descendants of the hero, help unweave the runcraft protecting the stones. They are then shattered and added to the growing pile of rubble found around a memorial to Asmodyth. Those who take the journey are said to be tainted from carrying the artifacts and may not return to the clan lest they spread the corruption. This is considered a noble sacrifice, and though none of her clan will ever interact with her again she is remembered as a hero and a martyr.

So it was that after months of travel and her duty done she found herself in the land of Venatria with no applicable skills but fighting. It was in this way that she found herself as a combatant in their arenas and vowed to spread the tale of her people so that none become as twisted and vile as The Dark One.