Full Name: Endar Ignis Drayen
Titles/Nicknames: Lord Drayen; Prince Endar; the Exiled Prince
Age: 20
Race: Human (Elf-blooded mother)
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Gold
Height: 5’8
Weight: 145 lbs

Appearance: Endar, given his upbringing, carries himself quite regally, with the pride, elegance, and grace of a young nobleman. He is usually seen wearing comfortable, if expensive, clothing. He is slender, compared to others his age, but he has lived a comparably sheltered life.

Personality: Endar lives for his little sister, Mari, despite only sharing half her blood. He tends to be quiet and keep to himself, but he takes care to be sociable when he can. He will also not hesitate if he sees someone in need of aid, and genuinely cares for the people around him. It applies to all, no matter if they aren’t human; he would be quite the hypocrite and look quite the fool if he did, after all. However, he finds it extremely difficult to trust people born or raised in Noctis. It will not stop him from working with them, but he will only do it for his sister.

Those who know him will also know that he’s a little shy, no matter if he puts on an air of confidence. He does these things because he must, and so he buries himself in another persona. And he’s taking into account personal risk and sacrifice at every moment, because he’s determined to complete his end-goal. It might get him in trouble in times to come, but that’s what he’s building a team for. He’s slow to smile, and perhaps grim, but he never lets his mood affect others if he can help it.

Other than that, he’s quite well-read, and has a passion for it, but there’s not much time for him to page through books whilst on the road. Because this is for Mari, not him. And he’s not going to lose her.



Strength: 4
Dexterity: 6
Intelligence: 6
Cunning: 2
Magic: 8
Willpower: 5
Endurance: 4
Charisma: 6

Weapons of Choice: A golden rapier that he’s carried with him since the day he turned fifteen. It is almost new, but it will not fail him. But his primary weapon is the spells that he has learned in his time - Seraphim, Draconis, and the Seal of Light.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Endar owns a full suit of armour, one of the few things that Sir Sharn brought with him when they fled. Endar could never understand why the knight had a set that didn’t fit him… until he realised that it wasn’t for Sharn. It is made from light steel with a golden enamel. It guards the majority of his body, however, and so in the arena, to appease the crowd, he bares his head, arms and shoulders, and wears leather pants to guard his legs instead of steel, with only greaves to guard his shins and bracers for his wrists.

Fighting Style: Endar takes it upon himself to be wherever he is needed most. Sometimes he will fight their strongest enemies with magic from afar... other times, he takes it upon himself to defend those closest to him with his blade.

Magical Affinity: Divine, Ancient Magic

• Spell 1: Seraphim - A bolt of pure light that arcs towards its target. It disregards simple armour, and inflicts a sort of holy magic. It can do anything from kill weaker targets instantly, to stunning them in order for an ally to get an opening. It is especially effective on Shades and the Undead. However, Rune-inscribed armour, as it is with all magic, will reduce its effects, meaning the caster must get stronger.
• Spell 2: Draconis - Reaching deep within the caster to find their inner spark, it calls it out and manifests a spectral creature; in Endar's case, the dragon's cousins, drakes. They will go about the purpose they were summoned for - but for the duration of the spell, the caster is overcome with an extreme weakness, and rendered vulnerable to attack.
• Spell 3: The Seal of Light - A spell that calms the mind and soothes the body. It can be aimed towards a singular target, or turned into an aura that sweeps the field, but no matter what, it will heal those under its influence and restore a little of their energy. Endar can only use this sparingly, but he will use it as often as he can.

Place of Birth: Ancora, Arlen.
Social Status: The rightful Prince of Arlen
Alignment: Thunder

History:Endar was born to an elf-blooded mother and his father, the future King Consort Rowan. His mother died when he was only one season old, leaving him motherless and his father a widower. A few years later, Rowan married into the royal family. Queen Liara was gracious enough to adopt Endar as her own son, but the Court accepted this only on the condition that her first blood child would receive the crown, not him. He grew up training as a prince, who would one day guard his King or Queen as tradition asked, serving as their guardian, like his uncle, Sharn, did for his mother. And when his little sister was born, he began to work harder than ever. He knew that Liara wasn’t his true mother, but she was his mother nonetheless, and so when he was asked to make a terrible decision, he had to listen.

The attack on the castle was unexpected, and truly, the residents were completely unprepared. Nobody knows to this day, who the attackers were, why it happened, or what happened to the Royal Family. None of their bodies were found. And the few battered, bleeding survivors hadn’t seen them. Queen Liara, King Consort Rowan, Lord Sharn, Prince Endar and Crown Princess Mari were pronounced dead to the world, and Pope Agnes laid their spirits to rest. Nobody knows to this day that three of the five had actually escaped, and fled to the east.

Once they found that nobody saw them for who they were, Sharn and Endar began to set up a life for the three of them. The young boy aged much in those months, and found himself always standing close to Mari. This was when he began to learn swordplay, though he couldn’t quite grasp the heavy-handed style of his uncle. Thus, he chose his own. The dance of the duelist appealed to him, and as he began to practice more and more, he found that this art was his way.

And just as their lives seemed to improve, they headed back down. Their uncle fell ill, and shortly before Endar’s fifteenth year, he succumbed to it. This left the two of them with only each other for family, and only the servants and guards for company. A poor existence for them to have, at such young ages, but Fate had not always cast her dice in their favour. Time once again passed, and the young prince found that his availability plummeted when he became the head of the household. It wasn’t long before he wondered whether he should hire a vizier to manage it instead, since he needed Mari to be happy, not him. Mari’s encouragement alone convinced him not to when she refused to let him do so.

When Ulfrur, cousin to King Venenatus of Noctis and his chief general, was given a coronation unexpectedly, news spread fast. Endar, when he heard, was filled with anger like he’d never known. It didn’t belong to him. It belonged to Mari… But now there was an idea. Someone who could have orchestrated the attack all those years ago. And in the back of his mind, Endar was forming a plan on how to get close to the pretender. Because snake or not, Ulfrur had no right to sit on the Marble Throne.

Other: Endar is left-handed, but fights using his right.

Full Name: Mari Sirea Drayen
Titles/Nicknames:Lady Drayen, Crown Princess Mari, Little Butterfly
Age: 10
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: (I mean, do you want to know?)

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Silver
Height: 4’6
Weight:72lbs

Appearance: Mari has the standard build of any ten-year-old girl, and wants to look pretty like all the older girls. Endar assures her that she doesn’t need to want, but he doesn’t quite get that she isn’t talking about the noble ladies. She tends to fidget and run around, so her clothes tend to be wrinkled in certain places, but they are immaculate nonetheless.

Personality: Mari is a child who, despite her station, is hyperactive, excitable, and enjoys playing games. She loves Endar with all her heart, and just like he would for her, she will do almost anything for him. She also isn’t as naïve as she lets on; she certainly knows more than Endar thinks. She’s not afraid of the creepers and the crawlies, nor the dark, nor for her brother. But she isn’t quite ready to grow up just yet.

Combat: N/A

Magical Affinity: Divine

• Posa – Mari manipulates light and creates things, most often bubbles or butterflies, and amuses herself with them until they fade away.

Place of Birth: Ancora, Andel
Social Status: Crown Princess of Andel
Alignment: Air

History: Mari doesn’t quite remember what happened on that terrible night; she was, after all, only a baby at the time. She knows who she is, and why she should keep it secret; but she also knows that she’s a child, and wants to remain one while she still can. She also has an inkling of why they’re going on this journey. Endar hasn’t told her yet, but why not ask one of the other people who are coming along with them? She’s charming when she wants to be.

Other: Mari’s name is pronounced with a rolled ‘r’.

Full Name: Alia Noname
Titles/Nicknames: of the Knife
Age: 22
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Hair Color: Sandy blond
Eye Color: Grey
Height: 5’4
Weight: 112lbs

Appearance:

In a word, plain. Alia is short and slender, relatively unscarred and unremarkable. Nothing in her appearance gives any indication of her more lethal abilities except perhaps the way she moves. She has a certain economy of movement that one typically only finds in cats, thieves, and expert swordsmen.

Personality:

Alia is cunning, secretive, and solitary when at all possible. She has little or no patience with others and even less trust. The knife fighter says little, and never repeats herself. Her temper is vicious and quick to appear, but then again, so is her sense of humor.

More than one person has dubbed Alia stubborn and unfriendly, and this is undoubtedly the reason she works solo rather than with a gang of thieves. Her wily intelligence would be priceless in any criminal organization if only she could compromise on a point once it's been made.



Strength: 3
Dexterity: 9
Intelligence: 7
Cunning: 8
Magic: 3
Willpower: 5
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 1

Weapons of Choice: Two wicked looking knives the length of her forearm



Armor/Combat Apparel: A leather half-breastplate, leather fighting skirt and matching bracers and grieves. Unlike the pictures, all of her armor has a stuffed, worn appearance.



Fighting Style:

In combat, Alia’s strengths are her speed, her ability to quickly assess an opponent, and her ability to attack stealthily. She is vicious with her knives but is not much of a match for anyone when it comes to brute strength. This makes her bad at defensive positions that require her to be exposed for the safety of others. She also cannot attack from a distance, apart from throwing a knife: her one magical ability only enhances her melee attacks or allows for retreat. In a team fight, Alia is best used for her cunning in the planning stages, or simply let to attack at will. Due to her speed and Cloak ability, she can also quickly come to aid other members of her team.

Magical Affinity: Shadow

• Spell 1: Cloak – For a short amount of time, Alia can make herself near invisible. This works best when not moving or when in shadowed places.

Place of Birth: Verum, Oriens
Social Status: Criminal
Alignment: Fire

History:

The first few years of Alia’s life might as well be ancient history for all she knows about them. She has no memory of either parent, any siblings or any family for that matter. The earliest memories she has are of growing up in the shadows of the prosperous city of Verum, where she joined a small roving gang of other street kids to survive.

Alia’s education started early. After becoming a member of the small unnamed group of orphans and runaways, Alia was quickly taught to pickpocket, a skill she took to with ease. Her small, lithe form and quick fingers meant that she excelled at relieving the wealthy of their purses. Fighting came much harder, and at the expense of plenty of cuts and bruises.

Over time, Alia’s stubborn, secretive nature got her kicked out of gang after gang, until she finally decided that she would be better off on her own anyway. The young woman continued honing her skills in thievery, and eventually, knife fighting, until she earned such a reputation that those on the criminal side of the law started dubbing her “Alia of the Knife,” no little feat considering her small stature and unimpressive appearance. She has little to worry about in the way of bruises these days.

The problem, however, is that stealing in the city of Verum just isn’t as profitable as Alia would like it to be. She's interested in a more comfortable way of life: fine wines and plush carpets and no more sleeping in dark alleys. So, shortly before the tournament in Risha, Alia bought a horse, stole back the money, and headed to the coast.

Now, the thief just has to convince a sponsor that she’s more than a street rat in secondhand armor. Winning should be the easy part.

Full Name: Destin Eindride
Titles/Nicknames: Erland
Age: 39
Race: Human
Gender: Male

Hair Color: Gray
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 1m94
Weight: 85kg

Appearance: Destin is a giant among men, or at least the men that aren't from Tyren. As he hails from a culture of violence and war, this has shaped him into a muscular soldier. His face is rugged and hair short. A permanent stubble is etched into his rectangular, manly chin. Due to the col, his skin could be described as a somewhat grayish white. Destin's attire back home might have consisted of furs on top of leathers, but he's learned to leave the fur part out of the mix when travelling outside of Tyren.

Despite the leathers there are some casual clothes Destin owns, but they are plain white shirts with plain, clay brown pants. These reflect his modest nature, and they remind him of the animal furs that made up his attire back at home. He is never seen without a nutty brown backpack full of supplies, as well as a zweihander either firmly in his grip or tied up on his back.

Personality: Destin is a steadfast and sturdy man in both appearance and personality. Very little humor is in his bones, but if you get him to drink one too many alcoholic beverages that could change drastically. He is well-travelled around the world and has at least some basic knowledge of each realm with the exception of Noctis. Destin has mastered control over his own mind and has an iron, unbreakable will which was forged over many years of hardship. Despite being exiled, he is still a proud warrior of his homeland. He will not tolerate insulting Tyren and despises treachery and deceit.

He is absolutely resolute to act honorably and has faced some of man's greatest fears in battle, which makes him a tad more confident than is normally healthy. There is only a single fear that can penetrate this man's locked heart, and that is one of loss. A wound that cut so deep that the mere mention could break his focus and bring him in doubt. Due to all the trials he has endured and the trials he has faced, he has seen that man is no better than what they accuse Beasts of being. Everything is an equal to him, only on the field of battle can one prove their worth to him.



Strength: 7
Dexterity: 4
Intelligence: 5
Cunning: 1
Magic: 7
Willpower: 10
Endurance: 8
Charisma: 5

Weapons of Choice: Destin is a proud and strong warrior of Tyren, which is a land that favors the axe, shield and spear. For many years he had used a combination of these three, but that changed. The mightiest warriors of his tribe were allowed to wield monstrous two-handed swords, fit to slaughter many men if you had both the strength and skill to wield it. Winning a brawl with the chieftain himself graced the warrior with such an honor, and that is just what Destin had done. This monumental event has lead to him using those monstrous blades, more akin to club than sword, ever since.

Armor/Combat Apparel: While it would not be unbelievable for him to wear full-on platemail, he does not hail from that kind of culture. Warriors were taught to survive with nothing but a few laps of a bear's fur covering and protecting them, and this has not changed. Destin likes to keep his armor at a minimum and even expose some parts of his body if the climate allows for it, revealing his muscular arms and sweet abs. Studded leather shoulderpads, chestplate and greaves is all this combatant needs. Countless injuries have shaped his body to be able to take more than a few cuts, bruises and stabs.

There is only a single oddity that he carries everywhere: An iron gauntlet on his primary sword-arm, namely the right. This gauntlet is enchanted, but not to enhance the user. It is a magical artifact meant to seal away a part of the wearer's inherent magical ability, restraining them from casting any spells.

Fighting Style: A proud warrior of Tyren fights honorably and without fear. They come face-to-face with the enemy and utilizes no dirty tricks in their fighting. Destin will always be the first to charge in and loves being in the frontlines, slaughtering the enemy while they desperately try to fight back. This style of fighting could be seen as reckless and barbaric, but it is the one true way that Destin knows to fight.

Magical Affinity: Spellweaver, but without any control over his power.

• Ragnarök – Ragnarök is the beginning of the end, and the first stage has been set in motion. Upon being cast, voluntarily or not, the user is engulfed with a fierce rage for battle. This burning hot spirit summons a singular creature, a wolf the size of a man: Fenrir. Fenrir adapts to the soul of the caster and takes form based on their affinity, and while a form of a blazing hellhound might look the fiercest, any form of it strikes fear in the hearts of many mortal men, woman and beast. Fenrir lusts for battle as much as the caster, and will not disappear if it's hunger hasn't been in the least bit sated.

Place of Birth: Teryn, in the tribe of Guldbrand.
Social Status: Exile
Alignment: Earth

History: Destin grew up in the tribe of Guldbrand in the frigid Teryn. He was raised by harsh mother and even harsher father, which was needed in that tribe. Food was always scarce and their was constant fighting among the youth. Children were taught at a young age how to hunt, kill and fight. Despite the harsh weathering conditions, the children were kept on a rigorous training schedule and had to share an equal part in the harsh labour back when they were home. This meant that some children, the weakest ones, simply did not survive. The strong enough ones like Destin, who endured the harsh training of the warriors and harsher beating when misbehaving at home, flourished. Despite what some may call as barbaric and mistreatment, Destin holds nothing but respect towards his upbringing for steeling both his body and mind for the harshness of the outside world.

Then there comes a point where a boy becomes a man, and for Guldbrand that means becoming a proud warrior. Once a boy or girl reaches the age of fifteen in that tribe they are eligible for battle. Almost immediately they are thrown into war and that becomes their next trial. Equipment was hard to come by in those frozen tundras, with the little metal they found being used on weapons and the fur of every animal slain going towards their armor. Destin was given nothing but a shoddy spear and minimal hides to cover himself against much more well-armed adults. Despite the harsh wounds he suffered, some of them life-threatening and scarring his body to this day, he always survived. For every battle you survive you get access to slightly better equipment, but the most valuable thing was battle experience.

So it was that Destin grew up to be a proud warrior of Guldbrand. For years he had known nothing but hunting and battle, becoming one of the best warriors in the tribe after the many battles he had completed, be they victory or loss. It was during this time he met a lovely maiden named Hillevi, part of his own tribe. She was aged merely seventeen when he was already twenty-three. Still, she was one of the strongest females in the entire tribe. Everyone respected her determination and strength, with some of the older men even losing to her in sparring matches.

It was fated that love struck between these two, after a particular fight in which only they made it back unharmed. This event made them respect each other more than they already had and frequently take each other as sparring partners, with unpredictable results each time. This bliss was not to last, however. At age twenty eight, long after marrying Hillevi, another fateful battle occurred. An invasion by a neighboring tribe, a fierce battle where Guldbrand was on the losing side. Just as Destin hit the snow-covered icy floor from a nasty strike, something within him clicked. The blood was staining the floor beneath him red, but the man responded with a shout of battle. He picked himself up from the floor, taking the claymore beside him steadily in his hands. A chilling wind cut through the clothes of the men around him and froze them in place. From behind Destin echoed a howl, right as a man-sized wolf came rushing in and pounced on the warriors before the man.

The majority of the wolf's fur was as white as the snow, but a few streaks of earthy brown and emerald green ran from their maw all the way to the tail. The eyes of this wolf were like two orbs of clay, and their fangs were made of metal. Destin was too engrossed in battle to pay any attention to his newfound companion as they both ran wild and slaughtered every man and woman they came across, including children. Friend or foe was of no concern to Destin as he sliced his way through fresh corpse after fresh corpse. Only two remained near the end, the chieftain and Hillevi. Hillevi proudly fought the berserked Destin and his newfound companion, but as the spell cast over him wore off he had already delivered the fatal strike, the lifeless and bloody body of his wife hitting the floor. When he turned around, the wolf had disappeared without a trace.

He did not realize at the time that what he had experienced was the spell Ragnarök.

The chieftain, both scared and angered, exiled the shocked Destin. For years after he wandered the lands, searching for a purpose and atoning for his sins. He thought of himself as no more than beast after the fact and adopted the religion of the Heart Tree. He wandered as a sellsword and eventually ended up accepting a contract from a reclusive wizard, deep within the deserts of Ashran. Risking his life, Destin traveled to Oriens to slay a minotaur, and returned successful. Destin needed guidance during this time and had accepted the contract because the Wizard could tell him how to keep the anger he felt back in the last moments of Guldbrand in check. To make sure that tragedy would never repeat itself. The wizard gave Destin a magical gauntlet, with the promise that it would seal whatever had triggered Destin to lose it. To this day, Destin still does not know it was a magic spell he cast.

He continued to wander the land with his sins, eventually deciding against the life of a sellsword. The atonement he got from that was not enough. He is now thirty-nine, looking to begin a new life. A life of combat still, but of a different kind: The gladitorial kind. He found himself in Risha, looking to enter the arena as a gladiator. Maybe here his sinning soul will find peace while doing the only thing he can do well: Fight.

Other: Destin means 'Determined', Eindride means 'To wander alone', Erland means 'Foreigner' and Guldbrand means 'Divine Sword'.

Full Name: Yasu
Age: 18
Race: Harpy
Gender: Female

Hair Color: She likes to dye it if she has the materials. Her natural color is medium auburn.
Eye Color: Azure
Height: 1m79
Weight: 48 kg

Appearance: Yasu has a sharp but youthful face, with her frilly hair being just long enough to hide her ears. Her pupils dilate like a snake's and her nose is a little too small for her face, with her lips being just as fragile and sweet. She has a few brown freckles running over her nose, making her look slightly more immature than she actually is. Her body is long, but also frail and thin. She doesn't have any talons on her hands yet because of her youth. Her wings are rather large, even for a regular harpy, which makes it hard to keep them concealed. It doesn't help she's a fan of tipping the normally earthy brown feathers with a lime green dye to pretty them up a little.

She usually travels with a full-body cloak, folding her wings in front of her body so nobody would notice them in travel. She prefers keeping her Beast nature a secret for as long as possible, even if the eyes make it a bit hard at times. When not cloaked, Yasu wears everyday commoner's clothes, often a soft gray or brown in color because they are cheaper. She certainly doesn't look like she's poor, but there isn't any grand wealth to be found in her looks. She highly prefers going barefoot, but to blend in with the crowd a little more she tends to wear shoes most of the time. She's not one for accessories, except for a small armband with three colored beads on them.

Personality: Shyness is at the core of Yasu's personality. It doesn't help that she has a soft voice, because she has trouble speaking up already when dealing with someone who seems stronger or more intelligent than her, which is quite a bit. She's always a bit on edge, scared to get jumped because of her traveling alone. While she's a very bright young woman, she doesn't think of herself like that. She tends to put everyone else on a higher pedestal. There's only two topics she's ever able to vehemently defend and speak up for against everyone, and they are Eleska and the relationship of Humans and Beast.

Once you break through her barrier of shyness, she opens up easily. She'll still be soft spoken, but loves to talk and ramble on. She's always eager to share something new she found out, given there's a person she feels comfortable talking to. Big, hulking people and Hellbloods tend to scare her and she she tries to avoid interacting with them, despite knowing better. She's also very curious and eager to learn, which helps since she's very talented with medicinal herbs.

Strength: 2
Dexterity: 10
Intelligence: 6
Cunning: 3
Magic: 1
Willpower: 4
Endurance: 2
Charisma: 4


Place of Birth: Arlen, clan of Hideko
Social Status: Beast
Alignment: Air

History: Yasu was born in the mountains of Arlen, into the clan of Hideko. They were a very small clan that managed to build their home in a small hillside forest, though it was nothing impressive. There was just enough green for them to build a home and gather a little bit of herbs but the older members of the clan still had to repeatedly go out every once in a while to go hunt for food or gather some more difficult to find plants, which they then plant in a small clearing near their houses. Because of nature's gift, they specialized in medical substances and dyes as opposed to poisons like most other clans. Due to being higher up they were out of the way of any human settlements and lived mostly in peace, away from the societies that form outside save for a single centaur tribe that they often trade with, usually in the form of dyes and herbs in exchange for food.

Yasu's mother was alone, seemingly. She never told Yasu about her father, and even though there were two male harpies among the slew of females, Yasu's mother reassured her that neither of them was her father. So, she grew up a mostly sheltered life from the outside, getting to know only the members of her clan. It was a peaceful life as she played with the only other two children in the village, Isa and Celine. Celine was always the odd one of the three, with her dark gray feathers looking out of place between the sandy to earthy browns of the other members of the clan. They would often play tag, or hide and seek, the latter of which Yasu was extremely good at. Back at home, Yasu would always watch her mother make medicine for the rest of the tribe. She admired her mom lots and lots, especially because she was doing amazing things for the rest of their clan.

The daily life continued on like this, peaceful and mostly interrupted. But then a twist of fate entered the daily lives of the Hideko clan. When Yasu was eight, she decided to wander out a bit further than just the forest. The mountains were treacherous and rigid, but the girl had already managed to fly in extremely short bursts, making traversing them a cakewalk. Surprisingly, another figure was near the mountains. They were a giant, hulking man with a giant hunk of metal laying next to them as their clothes were torn and they were bleeding from many cuts. Since Yasu didn't know any race other than harpies at the time, she assumed that this man was some rare male harpy without wings, but the various wounds made him look like a scary monster. Yasu didn't have time to be scared, though, as the man climbing the treacherous steps had collapsed in between a bed of rocks. Their eyes were closed and they didn't seem to be breathing. Scared, Yasu hurried back to her village as quickly as her lttle feet and wings would allow.

Once she warned the tribe, Yasu was both scolded for going so far out and thanked for reporting this strange case. The strongest harpies brought back the man, it took no less than three of them to carry his weight. He was laid out in the middle of their village as the many herbalists of her tribe swarmed around the man, treating up his injuries to the best of their abilities. The village decided on letting him recover inside Yasu's hut, which lead the girl to oftentimes peek on the man through the curtains separating his bed from the rest of the hut. Yasu's mother explained to her that this person was not some featherless, male harpy but instead a human. A whole new race that rejected harpies like them, but that didn't stop the clan from wanting to help him out.

It only took a few days for the man to wake up and he was much too weak to go on adventuring, despite his insistence to get up and continuing to hurt himself. Eventually he calmed down and often talked with Yasu's mother, who was his only company. He was almost depressed at first, but grew warmer with each passing conversation. The man was still solemn when he left the village after his eventual recovery, but promised to keep this sanctuary of harpies a secret as thanks for the kindness they extended. He never explained where those wounds came from, but the dangerous animals that lived in the mountains were more than likely the culprit.

After that fateful encounter, Yasu grew ever more curious about humans. While continuing her studies as another herbalist and the flying lessons from her clan, she kept asking about them. At first the clan refused to give answers, but they caved after enough persuasion. She formed a very idealistic image of the human world beyond her village, dreaming to go out and explore... but they always made sure to remind her that humans did not accept this race for who they were. Whenever Yasu asked to be allowed to go on a journey to the outside world, she was denied.

So it was that, when she turned 16, she decided to pack up some supplies and flee in the night. She wanted to experience the outside world for her own. To her surprise, a bit outside of the village, she was quickly caught up to be Celine, the harpy with beautiful gray feathers. Celine was almost embarrassed to admit she found out what Yasu was planning, but didn't have any intention of stopping her. She gave Yasu a small token as a reminder to the village, an armband with three coloured beads. One black, to remind her of Celine. One green, to remind her of the forest... and one red, to remind her of the stranger that caused this strange obsession to begin with.

So it was that Yasu began her journey. Even in a short span of time after entering the first town she found out that humans were not far from how they were described to her. She was stared at strangely and constantly kept under supervision, with people not wanting to pay a lot for her medical skills. As she traveled from town to town, she encountered that people were oftentimes wary of her or even scared. It lead to her concealing her wings whenever possible, which made the less perceptive people a bit more kind to her. She has had a few run-ins with bandits, who'm she often fled from by leaving most of her supplies behind as well as some run-ins with kind strangers who helped her despite her being a harpy. She looked up to the kindness these strangers displayed, fueling her desire to forge a bond between beast and man. Even when most of the world showed time and time again they rejected her, Yasu kept picking herself up and pressing on to fulfill that dream.

It also didn't take long for Yasu to learn of gladitorial bloodsport, but it did take her a while to warm up to the idea. At first she found it horrid, but encounters slowly made her realize just how necessary they were to prevent wars. She eventually came up with the idea of speaking to people by attaching her name to a team, hopefully a successful one so that she would be heard out. If she spoke to the public about humans and beasts behind a winning team, surely they must understand? Even if just a little change, she was sure she could move their hearts. Unfortunately, Yasu never was much of a fighter... but she was a herbalist. She could provide aid to wounded gladiators. Unfortunately, she failed many times in finding a team. None would take her simply due to being a harpy, letting their bias cloud their judgement. She was even chased out of town by a particularly aggravated team once. Now she finds herself in Risha...

Other: Yasu is Japanese for 'Peaceful'.

Full Name: Ansgar Staudinger
Titles/Nicknames: Hammerer
Age: 29
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Hair Color: Rust Red
Eye Color: Deep Blue
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 210lbs

Appearance: Ansgar seems to not overly concern himself with appearances, dressing himself in well made, if not overtly fancy, clothing. He prefers to keep his red hair worn short, to keep it out of his face whenever working or fighting. Having two human parents, though people like to poke fun otherwise due to his size, gave him a mix of his father's hair and his mother's deep, almost ocean like, blue eyes. These often peer out, taking in the quality of surrounding craftsmanship and seemingly forever curious as to his surroundings. Heralding from the coldest parts of the North means that, most of the time, he is sweating or otherwise showing signs that he is warmer than he is normally used to. Of course, the opposite is true, usually being grossly underdressed whenever in colder climates, at least as far as other people are concerned.

Ansgar is not one for showing off, being pragmatic to a fault at times, but as the Arena will no doubt show, he has seen his fair share of battles. His body is covered in burns and scars, the burns mostly from early forgework done sloppy or incautiously and he paid the price, the scars mostly from fighting off angry, hostile Tyreni kinsman during their constant infighting. His arms bear the brunt of the burns, and his body is covered in mostly minor scars. One major one that stands out is a great, deep looking scar that runs diagonally down his chest, from left shoulder to right hip, widest just below where his heart would beat in his chest. The scar shows the time he nearly died, the closest he ever came, yet he bears them with pride. He has hurt, and been hurt, and still stands proud.

Personality:
Ansgar is an honest man, something that tends to confuse a lot of people, since even many honest men in this day and age have agendas. He will tell someone precisely what he thinks about them to their face, with no sense of elegance or tact, failing to see the purpose of either of these things. He always speaks with an honest tone, the kind of tone that makes someone want to trust him, and he never sees the need or desire in using that trust against them. Of course, this blunt honesty can make him enemies as well as allies, and does not suit him well in regards to intrigue or espionage, but he does not intend to change who he is for the sake of such things. He does not see himself as some great person, just a humble former blacksmith with a great deal to learn about the outside world, but this humble nature also tends to make it easier to get along with others, mostly since he has no qualms listening and letting them talk and brag, or even not if they are not the talkative sort. He just enjoys the company of others, in every sense of the word, and one might be forgiven to think him unable to harm a fly.

Ansgar is not terribly concerned with status or power, preferring to prove himself through strength of arms over reputation and bragging, every time. As such, showering praise on him or complimenting him on this and that might, at best, fluster or embarrass him a bit but otherwise gets someone nowhere with him. He would much prefer someone just be true to themselves, and be proud of who they are, before letting the honeyed words and praise of others validate them instead. He prefers to let actions speak for him rather than boasts or bragging, and rather enjoys seeing those that brag and show off needlessly get knocked down quite a few pegs, something that he does regret after the fact, but accepts as part of who he is.



Strength: 9
Dexterity: 4
Intelligence: 4
Cunning: 3
Magic: 1
Willpower: 7
Endurance: 8
Charisma: 5

Weapons of Choice: Ansgar only ever brings one weapon along with him, regardless of whether it is in the arena or not, and that is his two handed warhammer. Having forged it himself before leaving, it followed the trend of weapons he always used to defend himself from hostilities back home, and it fit his preferences greatly. Heavy even for its kind of weapon, it takes a great deal of strength to lug the thing around, let alone fight with it, but being as stubborn as he is, Ansgar refuses to adopt a smaller, but perhaps more practical, weapon.

Armor/Combat Apparel: While Ansgar does own a breastplate, and would normally wear it when venturing out expecting trouble, he has no qualms with the fact that the arena is a different place completely. So when he goes into the Arena, he goes without a shirt or any sort of top, wearing slacks that do not restrict his movement at all but would provide no sort of protection at all. Of course, this also tends to show off the scars and muscle, something that gives an intimidation factor in favor of the young man.

Fighting Style: Ansgar isn't much of one for strategy or planning, instead hefting his hammer, roaring a cry of defiance or rage, and charging at the biggest, toughest thing the enemy has to offer. Numbers offer little solace as he will bring his hammer about in great sweeps, scattering or smashing apart foes and single targets suffering the full brunt of focused blows. Without any sort of ranged options to speak of, and not being one for the bigger picture, typically relies on others to plan around his combat style. Hit something hard enough or enough times, and it'll stop struggling. Besides that, being stubborn as a minotaur and possibly just as durable lets him shrug off blows at a surprising rate, focusing even more on the offensive. Against another foe just as tough or fast enough to not get hit could make things tricky, but all it should take is one good hit, far as Ansgar reckons.

Magical Affinity: None


Place of Birth: Anwnn, Tyren
Social Status: Craftsman
Alignment: Earth

History:
Ansgar Staudinger was born in a small village that bordered between two clans of the Tyreni people, the place only notable for its key location at the foot of a mountain pass that was a key trade, and military, route between the two clans. As such, it was a rather heavily fortified place despite its rather small population of actual residents, the warriors of the Clan on their side of the mountain pass only passing through or staying for a short time, usually in response to posturing or raids by the opposing clan. The Staudinger family owned a smithy in the village, the only one there and for quite some distance as a matter of fact, making their trade highly valuable and necessary for the village. Being the second child of the family meant he would be expected to work with his older sister, as the family didn't care for gender as long as they worked hard, in running the forge though she would be the inheritor. Ansgar saw no problems with this, as he had little interest in owning the forge once he was older, a sort of wanderlust already setting in his chest despite his families better efforts.

Raids were commonplace, something that was just an accepted fact of life, and Ansgar would always join in with the defenders once he was old enough to carry a maul into battle. His parents had no qualms with the warrior's life, being vital as it was and a showing of strength to be proud of, even if it was fueled by the wanderlust that had yet to leave the boy. Yet whenever he wasn't training and defending his village, he was still expected to be apprenticing under the careful eye of his father and elder sister, who commanded a far better grasp of forgework than he likely ever would. Ansgar was not unskilled, but he lacked the careful eye for detail that most weapon and armor smiths needed, his hand best suited for maces and mauls, crushing weapons that were particularly well suited against armor. Anything he forged was heavier than necessary, a curiosity that none of his family could ever figure out the why or even the how of.

Ansgar was in his early twenties when he was packing his things, preparing to leave for the capital when his life would change. Ansgar was forced to, alongside every other able bodied warrior the village could muster, against an actual invasion instead of a normal raid. The sheer numbers would win the day, sacking the village and seeing it raised as the force moved on, Ansgar left for dead with a rather massive axe wound in his chest. Anyone else should have died, but seeing both family and friend dead forced him to rise, to bind his wounds as best he could and shelter himself in the ruins of the village. It would take him a few weeks to recover, nearly starving as he scavanged barely enough to survive, before lighting the forge one last time. He would make the Warhammer he carries now at that point, pouring his rage and grief into its forging, pushing himself to his limits in the process of making the weapon. As always, its weight was needlessly above average, yet it was comfortable for Ansgar to carry. With that, he gathered what supplies he could manage to find, that had been missed during the sacking, and walked out towards the direction the invading clan had taken.

The young man would, having departed his ruined village at the age of 24, spend the next five years attempting to track down the one in charge of that invasion. Ansgar got a name fairly early on, having followed in the footsteps of the invading force right up to the gates of the keep that had repelled and scattered the attempt, and also learned that this individual had not yet died. The only thing he knew for certain about this person when he set out was their axe, a two handed affair that had given him the scar on his chest. He wandered south, heading into warmer climates to look for rumors of this axe wielding figure, having heard they were a Gladiator now since their stint as a conqueror failed in the end. After years of fruitless search, Ansgar's wandering led him to Risha, the timing of which convinced him that he should really try his hand at Gladiatorial combat as well. After all, he was handy in a fight these days, and perhaps the Arenas would lead him to the one he searched for more readily than just wandering about, looking for them instead.

Other:
Hopes to open a Forge one day in honor of his family
Expect a Theme Song at some point

Full Name:Kailea Arydunseyr
Titles/Nicknames: Matchstick,Tinderbox, Pyromancer, "No, not the damn tavern-"(Optional)
Age:24
Race:Human
Gender:Female
Sexual Orientation:Pansexual

Hair Color: Brown, when it isn't covered in ash or charred at the tips
Eye Color: Hazel, leaning toward topaz
Height:5 '7"
Weight: 150lbs

Appearance: Kailea could not be any less muscular if she tried. Every attempt she's ever made at growing out her auburn hair past her shoulders has met with disaster, and she keeps it singed short and out of her way. Her clothes are in a perpetual state of disrepair thanks to her mastery, or lack thereof, of fire and she chooses to wear as little as possible to avoid inadvertently igniting something on her person, though it makes it easy to see the puckered red welts of the burns she's given herself in the past from her attempts to learn how to control her magic. It's rare to see her not going barefoot, in some manner of sleeveless top. She doesn't so much walk around as she meanders around to music only she can hear.

Personality: Kailea has never been a shy person. An embodiment of confidence, she is known for shamelessly flirting with anything that has a pulse, and has a sharp tongue that gets her into (and out of) trouble almost as often as her magics do. She has something of a shopping addiction that stems from a constant need to replace her charred belongings and money will often figuratively, and literally, burn a hole through her pocket. And while she has little trouble finding things to like about anyone who crosses her path, once she has been wronged, her temper burns every bit as hot as the spells in her arsenal. She cannot stand to be cold or wet in the least, and is the most happy on bright sunny days, and insufferable on sodden rainy ones. She's rarely without some manner of company, during the night or day, because more than anything, she is terrified of being alone.



Strength: 2
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 5
Cunning: 7
Magic: 9
Willpower: 4
Endurance: 3
Charisma: 5

Weapons of Choice: While completely inept with any manner of martial weapon, Kailea is never without a small assortment of various flameable oils and powders that offer her a bit of flexability when it comes to using her magic.
-A palm-sized clay flask of plain lamp oil
-A vial no thicker than two fingers of a distilled spirit that burns vibrant green
-An old coin purse filled with a powdered mushroom that burns without smoke or residue.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Kailea doesn't bother with armor, and in her experience, it only serves as a hinderance. Her protection of choice consists of a pair of leather half gloves that protect her palms, and close, form fitting clothing that allow her complete freedom of movement. And allows her to show off a bit of any onlookers in the crowd.

Fighting Style: With little to no physical prowess of her own, Kailea fights dirty and has exactly no shame about it. She takes great delight in insulting and goading her opponents into making clumsy mistakes in a bid to shut her up. In another life, she could have been a world-class actress for all the acts she puts on in front of a crowd, often choosing to play the victim to a stronger opponent, while they take their time giving the crowd the show they paid for. She fancies herself to be better suited for the kind of explosive finale that leaves people talking, rather than meaningless fighting no one will ever remember. Both in and out of the ring, she's not shy about letting people in close, either to make them extremely uncomfortable, or burn them black. She has some ability to cast spells at range, but personally finds it boring when she can't get up close and personal. However, she's no stranger to her plans and spells backfiring spectacularly.

Magical Affinity: Fire, spellweaver

• Spell 1: Summon flame- A magically summoned fire roughly the size of a human head at its largest, and as small as a single match. Can be thrown, and will ignite flammable material upon contact. Can be shaped slightly with concentration.
• Spell 2: Overheat- A wall of fire engulfs the caster for several seconds, before expanding out from the center by 10 feet. the longer the spell is held prior to release, the hotter the flames become and can injure the caster if held for too long.
• Spell 3: Searing Pain- This spell deals no physical damage and can only be cast through skin-to-skin contact. Target feels as if they have caught fire and are burning. Caster must maintain concentration, or the spell breaks.

Place of Birth:Ashar
Social Status:Exile
Alignment: Fire

History: As traders, Kailea's parents worried for their daughter's fate. As she grew up through childhood, they learned to entrust her with nothing but the sturdiest and most resilient of goods. Expensive silks never failed to have tiny holes burned through their patterns, tool handles were left blackened charcoal, and an incident with a large crate of tobacco had her father nearly in tears as the entire lot smoldered fragrantly while he watched.

It was after a chance encounter with a traveling mage that they learned her accidents were not from leaving things out in the sun or too close to the fires, but rather were magical in nature.Desperate to help their daughter, and spare their stock, they asked him to teach her to control her destructive gifts. He spent several weeks with her, trying to find a way to help curtail her accidents and bend the magic to more constructive uses. However, it only seemed that once she'd become aware of her abilities, keeping them in check was a great deal harder to do. It was only through trial and error that they discovered she had the greatest control with magic once it was already flowing, moving from one spell into another, or once she'd managed to completely exhaust herself.

Unable to delay his travels any longer, her new master departed without teaching her any real spellcraft, leaving it up to her and the expanse of empty desert to discover ways to give her fire magic shape and form. The twins of Trial and Error weren't always kind, and more days than not she would come trudging back home, burnt and tired with nothing to show for her efforts.

Upon learning of her "talents", the other children and even adults began to avoid her when she was around. Clumsiness was one thing, but a mage with no control over their own power was another entirely. She did her best to make up for it by trying to be overly friendly and open with anyone and everyone who would give her the time of day. Even then, most didn't stay for long once they realized the danger her very presence posed. Her parents too, though they made attempts to be supportive, always seemed to keep their distance. She found some relief in turning the abundant sands of her homeland into glass beads, goblets and other goods for her parents to sell and it provided the much needed distraction from the fact she had unwittingly become a pariah among her people.

As soon as she was of age, her parents were no longer able to keep her under their roof. Without control over her magic, she was dangerous to them and to others. Kailea left the desert lands behind to find both a proper teacher for her magic and her fortune in the wider world. Though it quickly became apparent that it was the latter she'd need to procure the former. Her search for a teacher had led her to Risha and another round of disappointment, when she had nothing put lint in her pockets to pay for tutelage. Her begging and bartering did not earn her any favor, though she was told that if it was money she sought, the impending tournament could provide enough to cover the cost of her lessons.

Other: To clarify here, Kailea is often suggestive, but not outright lewd. She aims to make people uncomfortable, but enjoys her wordplay so that she has time to watch things sink in .

Full Name: Kyra
Titles/Nicknames: The Firebrand
Age: 23
Race: Hellblooded
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: ???

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 170 lbs

Appearance:
Kyra has certainly been gifted with an overt inheritance when it comes to her infernal ancestry. Thick reddish horns protrude from her temples, as long as the face they sit perched above. Her eyes are rounded orbs, shining an uncanny blue that reflects when exposed to light. The skin of her torso and thighs are a sickly green, pale to almost resemble ordinary skin tones in poor light. Her limbs and head carry a stark contrast, however, as they are all a deep red, almost scorched to a burned copper. Finally, a pointed, prehensile tail extends behind her, nearly as long as the hellblood herself.

From her decidedly more natural parentage, Kyra has earned the flowing oaken locks of her mother, a rich head of hair that cascades down over her back and around her horns, only barely contained with several strips of cloth. Kyra is built like a natural athlete, with a slim silhouette that still is nothing but muscle.

She isn't afraid of showing off her imposing form, and when allowed to dress herself often opts for minimalism, wearing only what is required to be 'decent'. A common feature is for her to be painted in gold and yellows, either by herself or others. These arcane markings decorate many parts of her body, but serve no real purpose other than aesthetics for the masses.

Personality:
Kyra has entirely bought into the stories about her, and her kind. Content to play the villain to a world that expects nothing else, she most of all desires validation through awe. Whether it be cheering, fearful silence, or cowed hatred, Kyra knows she is a force to be reckoned with, and enjoys showing others the same. Victory is important to her, whether it's a brutish beatdown or a match of wits, she is keen to prove her mettle.

She is vain, easily enticed by worship from those foolish few who'd stoop so low. Power speaks to her, and any scrap of it will be greedily accepted when given. She is envious, particularly of those who master things she never will, such as magic. With enough provocation, she will go to any length to 'outdo' someone else. Still, she remains a rebellious spirit, content to entertain as long as she feels validated. Every conversation is a scheme, another budding ambition. She might posture about honour, but is ultimately not concerned with following through. Most of all, Kyra will never be forgotten, or belittled. She will make sure of that.



Strength: 10
Dexterity: 9
Intelligence: 6
Cunning: 6
Magic: 1
Willpower: 4
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 6

Weapons of Choice: A crooked axe, and a relatively short chain with a hook. Kyra is a weapon.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Given the choice in a 'regular' match, Kyra will not wear much at all in the way of protection. In more dangerous matches, she will wear basic plates on her torso and legs, but not much else.

Fighting Style:
Kyra is a bruiser of intense strength and high-octane speed. She thoroughly enjoys whipping into the backline and sowing chaos, but is most in her element when she is able to face down a single fighter in a one-on-one bout, where she will dance around, taunt and use her immense strength to make a show of it. A favourite of hers is whipping weapons out of her opponents hands or tripping them up with her tail. She has no way to fight at longer ranges beyond running to close the distance, and has no magical abilities whatsoever. She is also relatively fragile for her impressive build, and relies heavily on hitting first, and hardest. She will use her chain oppressively to bog down her opponents, and swing in for a kill with her weapon.

Magical Affinity: None.


Place of Birth: On a wagon, on the road.
Social Status: Slave
Alignment: Fire

History:
Kyra has only ever known a life of servitude. Of chafing under chains, being ogled and gawked at between cage bars. As early as she can recall, she belonged to entertainers. Never the same troupe for long. Sold, stolen, escaped. It didn't matter how she moved, or where she went. It always ended up the same; in a cage, or made to dance. Grubby humans with fear in their eyes and desire on their mind. Though never truly allowed to be a gladiator, she was made to kill when still a teen, dropped into dark pitfight deals where her appearance was a boon.

Unlike the expectations of her masters, Kyra never stopped fighting, even when in back in her many cages. Whipped, starved, spat on. There was always another remark, another threat. She listened to the stories they told, to the bold claims of archaic power nested deep within her. As she grew, her determination and unkempt disregard for authority grew stronger. Bolder.

Word had come all the way down to Kyra about a grand tournament. Though she was not to compete - too dangerous, too expensive - she was carted to Risha for exhibitions and deals all the same. It is there she first caught her first glimpse of real warriors. The thought of fighting as they practiced was enough to make her heady.

So it was that the Hellblood escaped her bonds once more. With the tournament drawing closer, Kyra once again made her move. It wouldn't be long until someone - the guards, a cartel - found and locked her away again. But perhaps this time would be different. This time she would find a way to be free.

Other: I hope this is alright.

Full Name: Aleksander Dmitry Vadimovich
Titles/Nicknames: The Wall, The Bear of the North
Age: 26
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6’5”
Weight: 260 lbs

Appearance: Aleksander is an enormous man, all muscle and bushy blonde hair. He’s as pale as one would expect from someone who lived their life in the cold, and his long hair and beard are kept tidy and organized, usually braided so as not to get in his eyes. On his back he has a massive tattoo of a brown bear, a holdover from his army days. When he’s not in the arena he usually wears light trousers and no shirt at all, citing the southern heat as a reason for this.

Personality: ‘Relentlessly grim’ would not be an inaccurate depiction of Aleksander. The man is a pessimist and a cynic to a fault, always grumbling about the weather, the chances of dying, and basically any other annoyance that comes to his mind. He’s not without humor, possessing a very sharp deadpan wit, and he’s surprisingly quick to make friends for someone who seems so stoic and harsh. He says what’s on his mind, always, whether that’s a compliment or an insult, and he is not given to overt displays of passion or violence in the arena. Instead, his most important trait as a gladiator is his iron will, his ability to shrug off pain, and his single-minded determination to accomplish his short term goals. One could argue that his grimness and sarcasm is the result of a deeply traumatized and emotionally vulnerable man trying to seal away the world, but who really knows?



Strength: 7
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 5
Cunning: 2
Magic: 1
Willpower: 8
Endurance: 10
Charisma: 2

Weapons of Choice: Aleksander takes two tools into battle; his enormous round shield, big enough to cover much of his considerable mass, and a one-handed steel hammer that makes up in speed and crushing power what it lacks in decoration.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Aleksander still wears his old Tyrenian plate armor – a thick chunk of metal that covers his lower body and protects his legs, but leaves his arms and upper torso completely exposed. During his army days, he would normally throw some chainmail or a cloak over his upper body, to protect both from injury and the cold – he forgoes this in the arena, however. The crowd hungers for blood, and Aleksander knows he has more to spare than most.

Fighting Style: Aleksander is all defense, all the time. He keeps his shield up and his most vulnerable allies behind him, his attacks mainly limited to quick thrusts and short swings with his hammer designed to keep foes distracted and off balance. He’ll rarely ever go on the offensive unless he sees his foes in a complete rout, preferring to stay strong, stay rooted, and stay protecting those who need protecting.

Magical Affinity: None.

• Spell 1 None.

Place of Birth: Tyren
Social Status: Deserter
Alignment: Earth

History: Every now and then in the frigid land of Tyren, some tribal chieftain or upjumped Warlord manages to get enough men and momentum behind him to make a real go of unifying the warring province under one banner. Lord Kalfsson was one such man.

Aleksander was born in a remote corner of Tyren, the only child of a single mother whose husband had been killed in the tribal infighting. War was a constant danger in the village, and the young man learned how to hold a weapon almost before he could speak. It was a childhood of cold, deprivation, and hardship, and it left Aleksander with an iron will and an ability to persist past almost anything.

He was seventeen when his life changed. It was the day Lord Kalfsson came to his village, seeking men for his cause. The lord was flanked by fifty knights in heavy armor, at the head of a massive army, and he told the young men of the village that he needed their assistance to bring peace to this shattered realm. They would not be warriors, or brigands, or tribal raiders; they would be soldiers. The distinction was important to them, then.

And so Aleksander left his mother and his village, journeying off with his friends and joining the army that would bring peace to the realm. It was good, for a few years – there was victory, and companionship, and more food and plunder than he had ever seen in his lifetime. Lord Kalfsson was a genius, his leadership unquestionable, his men the finest in the land; victory and peace were assured.

Defeats started. Winters settled in, and half of Aleksander’s friends died not in battle, but of hunger or frostbite. The army moved erratically, as if unsure of its course. Tribes they had already conquered rose up in rebellion. Lord Kalfsson put a stop to all audience with his men, retreating full-time to his tent. They started raiding villages and minor tribes for supplies, acting like the same savages they had set out to put an end to. Years passed like this, and Aleksander barely noticed them as he went.

One day, while he was overseeing the burning of a peasant farm that had refused to give up its supplies to the army, Aleksander finally realized that there was no such thing as a war for peace. He was the last survivor of his friends – all the other young men who had left his village with him were dead. He rode south almost immediately, selling his horse and what few belongings he had stored in return for passage to Risha. His weapons and armor, however he kept, knowing that his ability to inflict violence was his only real skill, and that there would always be someone willing the pay for that.

Other: Ethos Music - Final Hope

Full Name: Ashley Wyatt Harper
Titles/Nicknames: The Magnificent, the Great, the Illustrious, the Wise, none of which have caught on despite his tongue-in-cheek insistence, strangely. Everybody just calls him by his last name.
Age: 24
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: To gold, mostly, and the people who have it.

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 170

Appearance: Harper is a staunch believer in the clothes making the man and is often never seen in anything less than an colorful, eye-catching long coat, a fitted shirt, dark pants, and boots shined to a blinding polish. Hailing from Noctis, Harper’s skin is rather pale and seemingly incapable of holding anything beyond a temporary sunburn. His hair is well-groomed, and he tends to leave a lingering scent of sandalwood cologne in his wake. Despite his prim and posh appearance, Harper doesn’t hold himself in any sort of kingly manner; he tends to lazily drag his body around as if his bones were made of stone. He slouches when he stands and practically fuses with the chair when he sits.

Personality: Harper is a chatterbox and a schmoozer. He can and will talk to anyone if given a chance, and has the seemingly uncanny ability to remember even the briefest of encounters. He’s confident and playful when around others, and is the kind of person who could directly insult another person without managing to offend them. He is a bit of a braggart, but in turn balances out his gloating with knowing winks and the occasional self-deprecation. Harper was largely (and still is) motivated by money, and he would unabashedly step over his own mother if she stood in the way between an easy payday. He’s fine with cheating, lying, and just about anything else as long as it doesn’t require putting in an honest effort.



Strength: 4
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 9
Cunning: 7
Magic: 1
Willpower: 2
Endurance: 3
Charisma: 9

Weapons of Choice: A crossbow, a short sword, and a bag brimming with caltrops, irritant powders, smoke bombs, and other goodies.

Armor/Combat Apparel: The only difference between Harper’s daily wear and his arena wear is his long coat, which is white instead of the usual loud colors. He states this is purely an aesthetic for the audience so they can better see the blood of his foes; he fails to mention that the white coat is about thirty pounds heavier and has been sewn around a rather protective layer of chain mail.

Fighting Style: Harper is a showman and a strategist. Before a fight he does what he can to find out information about his opponents to better prepare his team, and he isn’t above greasing someone’s palm to stack the odds in his favor. Entering into a fight he is often seen working the crowd and getting them to favor his team as if he were some gladiatorial hypeman. Despite his showiness and grandiose, during a fight Harper tends to sticks to the edge of the arena where he can get a better view of the whole picture, shouting orders and calling out opportunities to his allies and firing bolts and insults at his enemies to draw them out of position. His value diminishes fairly rapidly when he’s forced to directly enter the fray, and if he senses that his team is likely going to lose he’s more likely to throw the match and find some gruesome way to go out to entertain the audience than try and stage a desperate comeback.

Magical Affinity: None.


Place of Birth: The happy sunshine land of Noctis!
Social Status: Gambler, only because “Disgraced Gladiator” has such a nasty tone to it.
Alignment: Water

History: Harper came from a fairly poor family and grew up in the backstreets of Letum. He was made to work from a young age to help support his other siblings, and like many kids he was sent to the arenas to clean weapons, polish armor, and act as gofers for the gladiators. It was a lot of work—too much for Harper—and he would often shirk his responsibilities in favor of sneaking into the stands to watch the carnage. He was infatuated with the gladiatorial life from his first fight; he wanted to be apart of something where others would chant his name, where beautiful people would cling onto him like accessories, and where he would be paid in lots and lots of money, so much money that he wouldn’t have to clean a toilet ever again.

He trained during shift and on his breaks, but he never could fully dedicate himself to the rigamarole of gladiatorial training. Weeks would go by where he did nothing but practice his shoot and read nothing but strategy books, and then weeks would go by where he did nothing but sneak away to take a nap in an alcove. The only thing he did consistently, it seemed, was talk to the gladiators that came into his arena. Most of the other kids were too in awe or too frightened to go up to someone like Varnus the Skullcrusher and spit about the game, but not Harper. By the time he was in his teens he already knew a selection of gladiators, and more importantly he knew how to sweet talk gladiators. Eventually he wormed his way into a team, even though he wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, the toughest, and didn’t have a lick of magic in his body.

In all honesty, the team he got himself on wasn’t the best in the world. Hell, they weren’t even the best in Letum. In fact, they were more like the worst. Disorganized and more likely to fight one another than the enemy team, Harper was able to easily charm his way to a position of power within the group and then start using his influence to help them stay focused when in the arena. He didn’t give a damn if they tore themselves apart outside of the arena, but when money was on the line they needed to win. And they did, maybe...one in every ten fights. It was an improvement, but it wasn’t enough.

The turning point came when an elfblood named Allegra was roped into their team through a mutual friend. Unlike Harper, Allegra was strong, fast, tough, and she could melt someone in the blink of an eye. She was truly something else, and it was her skill alone that turned his team into Letum’s rising stars—seriously, she had won several matches after the rest of the team had been wiped out without taking away a single opponent. On her back they were carried to the finales during the Dauoa Festival. A victory meant prestige and a decent-sized payday split seven ways. The odds were heavily in their favor and they were crowd favorites.

With the blue sun peaking through the leaves a horn was blown and the final fight was underway. Allegra was charging straight into the enemy team, the sound of lightning cackling as she readied a spell, when she hit the ground like a bag of bricks, a crossbow bolt embedded between her shoulder blades. In either a genuine show of concern or a superb display of acting, a horrified Harper dropped his fired crossbow and ran forward to check on the downed Allegra. Next thing he knew he was brought back to life by the arena runes and surrounded by the rest of his visibly upset team who had fallen quickly after them. He convinced them that it had been a misfire, but knew that Allegra would have none of it. She was convinced that he struck a deal with the other team and had thrown the match.

Knowing that being on Allegra's bad side could turn fatal, Harper packed his bags and moved away. Unfortunately, this only further raised suspicions of collusion against the man, and word spread through the arena circuit that Harper was a cheat and a backstabber. He had joined a new team in Ashar, but when word got out of his little stunt they dropped him in an instant. Harper never could find another team to take him on, but he knew nothing aside from arena life. If everyone thought of him as a cheat, he might as well become a cheat. Harper spent a few months trying to fix matches to various successes, but eventually his reputation preceded him and he was quick to find himself surrounded by unfriendly and armed gladiators anytime he set foot near an arena.

Harper tried to make an honest living as a gambler, but luck was never on his side and one could only cheat so much before someone caught on and reached for a dagger. He traveled from town to town, trying to beat the spread of his name as a vagrant and a scoundrel in hopes of being able to make a few quick bucks before moving on to the next one, but it was growing more and more difficult by the day. Almost tougher than doing honest, hard work; heck, actually tougher than being a shoddy gladiator.

And that’s when luck, for once, smiles on him and gives him a second chance while he’s laying low in Risha. Some kid’s trying to put a team together and he’s desperate for help. Maybe it’s time for Harper to turn a new leaf and jump back into the ring. A little bit of redemption never hurt anybody, and people love a comeback story. Besides, he’s broke and the kid smells like money.