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ee-OH-lah-nell, or sometimes eye-OH-la-nell EFF-riss
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Race: Gemmenite
Age: 18 (just barely)
Element: wind
Height: 5'3"

Bio:
Originally from a village among the windy cliffs and terrace farms of northwestern Gemmenia, Iolanel and her family moved farther south following the outbreak of a crop blight that took several very hard years to contain. With two little girls to worry about, the family's priority was on making sure they would grow up healthy and strong. A few other families with young children also relocated, though none to the same place.

Even though Iolanel had to leave all her friends behind, she consoled herself by writing letters and quickly made new friends. Her new home was a larger town, but still close enough to wild areas that she was allowed freedom to wander. In fact, there were fewer large predators to worry about compared to her old home.

Iola was a cheerful child that grew into a bright, smiling young lady. Her closest friend was her cousin Viorel, an earth gem learning animal husbandry with her parents. These two were thick as thieves, and Iola often ended up helping look after various injured animals, including the songbird that would refuse to return to the wild once healed. It was not uncommon to see her with some animal or another, even though she had no earth magic and could only communicate with them as a simple Gem.

The girl had no exceptional skills of her own, not in terms of a specific profession, though she picked up various bits and pieces of knowledge from different people. She often asked questions, but rarely had the dedication to pursue more than a single interesting aspect of a thing at any given time. However, Iola was good at working out disagreements between her friends, and always willing to listen when someone was upset.

Iola was Reaped very shortly after her 18th birthday, and it came as a huge shock. She's terrified and struggling to find something positive to hold onto about the whole mess. Indry she managed to hand off to her cousin. The very last thing she wants is the beloved bird dragged off along with her, or even worse, caught and killed by the Drakken.

Other:
Iolanel has a pet bird, Indira -- or rather, Indry refuses to leave and so has become a de facto pet, even though he's a wild bird.

She has gained skill with both plants and animals, just from exposure via her family. She never saw either as the sort of thing she wanted to do as a job, however.

Violet eyes run in her family. Pryllia and Viorel both have them, and her mother Yandra's are particularly vibrant.

Family:
Nephanyel Efris is her father, a potter and sculptor.
Yandra, her mother, is an herbalist specializing in ornamental and aromatic plants.
Pryllia is her younger sister, currently sixteen.

Viorel Efris is Iolanel's cousin, an earth gem and the child of two earth gems who work with animals.

Adult Content Preference: I don't mind reading whatever. I have few limits on violence, most of them falling under deliberate torture and extreme sadism; I've a preference for keeping things classy, if that makes sense. I cannot write smut of any kind and I don't care to try, so for any sort of sex I'd prefer to fade to black. Any sort of nonconsensual intimacy short of overtly sexual acts I am willing to try to write, but may struggle, and there's a possibility I'll ask to fade. Did I miss anything?

Race:
Drakkan
Age:
182
Element(s):
Wind and Earth
Height:
6'9''

Bio:
Ordric was born to an old nomadic order of the Drakkan people, seekers of the will of the gods, or what was left of it. Practitioners of shamanism and old Drakkan customs, they refused to bend the knee and submit to anything but the gods themselves, believing such servitude to be a distraction from their holy quest and tending of the old shrines. This led to their open defiance of the newly crowned king during the time of the Anathosian wars and later their opposition to the union of the Drakkan and Gemmenite people earning them the ire of the royal family, who no longer able to dismiss them as a nuisance, diverted resources and warriors into seeking out these communities, slaughtering the masses and chaining the survivors in fetters, throwing them into dungeons to rot while they awaited their fate.
Upon his return from the war victorious, the king pardoned those who survived the catacombs of Harand Kor, allowing them to go free and resume their way of life under the condition that they swore fealty and received a brand that would mark them out and serve as a reminder of their transgressions. Many accepted these terms, and instead of returning to their old lives, melted away into the newly forming communities, eking out what miserable existence they could. Yet a few took this brand and resumed their pilgrimage, turning the mark of shame into their own symbol, later using it to mark initiates in their order who showed skill and promise.

Ordric shares many of the orders views, much of which has drastically changed in their time under a king, their disgust of Drakkan interbreeding with Gemmenites still remains, but the order over time had become more royalist in nature, realizing the true strength that comes from a united people. Keeping what grievances for the crown and its practices aside, the order did its best to become the leading group on all matters religious and spiritual in the courts they traveled between, transforming into wandering, warrior priests that dabbled in healing and soothsaying. Although many utilized their talents, the order still found itself ostracized and abused by its kinsmen for the next 100 years or so, til finally they were granted the kings protection, an act that saved them from the brink of ruin and ultimately bound them closer to the royal family. However their numbers still dwindle, as few elect to join them and fewer still survive the trials of priesthood.

Ordric has a bitter and grim view of his fellow Drakkan, but does well to mask his disdain, often appearing to be enigmatic. Carrying the memory of his orders past has also made him more morose and at times even wistful in his private moments, believing himself apart from his own kind. Although often vocal of his misgivings of the Drakkan Gemmenite relationship, Ordric only half shares the sentiment of his order, curious to find out for himself just who the Gemmenites are as a people.

Other:
Ordric has his orders mark branded on his right cheek, and possesses a Black ridge fox, called Ripper as a companion.

Adult Content Preference: Fade to black.

Kagan Galegar

Race: Drakken
Age: 145
Element(s): Air and Water
Height: 7’8

Bio:
Kagan was raised in the monastery Krenta’s Crest, deep in the heart of the Salshee salt flat near the center Drakka. A massive structure of hewn stone and sunbleached glass, jutting defiantely through the salt and scrapping the sky high above, it is considered a marvel for Drakken of a religious nature, though few have braved journey for purpose of pilgrimage. No, Krenta’s Crest is where young Drakken boy of brighter minds go to be carved into the noble servants of the death god.

Kagan speaks rarely of the 50 years he spent as a neophyte, in part because it bores him to tears. But on the occasions he does, he opts to be deeply sardonic, indulging in extravagant aesopic tales of torture and theological meditation. Days spent chained to a stone, screaming the writings of Hiolic the sage as the sun burned lay lines of pain across him. In reality, the worst he can remember was being forced to recite scripture while a saw was dragged across his horns should he slow or quote a passage incorrectly, feeling the reverberations deep in the quick of his horn and skull.

While it is an endless joy to horrify young secular Drakken (and Gems of all ages) with horror stories of self-flagellation, Kagan would be the first to admit that his upbringing was almost...painfully tranquil. Neophyte's more likely to self-flagellate for want of something to do beyond learning yet another one of several dozen funerary rites they were expected to know.

At 112 Kagan was deemed theologically competent enough to granted the rank of acolyte and, by extension, the right to leave Krenta's Crest and go wherever he wish in Drakka. After a year of homelessness, he managed to become an apprentice Kinner in the city of Jerun, a small satellite city of the capitol.

When a child of the Drakken is found to be unfit for survival or a Drakken becomes feeble of mind or body due to age or illness, a Kinner may be asked to kill them in ritual combat in exchange in steep tithes to the church. If the target dies at the hands of the Kinner the victim is buried with the full honor as a member of the Drakken, regardless of what sort of shame they brought upon themselves in life. If the target lives, the Kinner is left for the birds to consume, shamed beyond the point of deserving even the most basic funerary rights and the tithe returned.

Of course, with the Drakken being a waring peoples, the position required he learn to fight, at least on the level of most common warriors. Kagan took the training well, the nuances of a blade coming far more naturally to the young man than theology ever had. And, if nothing else, there was an indescribable joy to be found in the eyes of a man or child as they fell into Krenta's embrace.

His apprenticeship came to a sudden end with the arrival of local warlord, Krisov Harin, an elderly Drakken pushing far into his 650th year. The man was a prodigious warrior, having killed Warlord Kalix during the Fourth War of Succession and claiming his position as warlord some 400 years prior. However, shortly after the war, his mind began to slip slowly into dementia, and the once fine example of Drakken kind was little than a quietly ignored (often confused) voice in the court. And while his mind had dulled, the mans fighting edge was a sharp as ever, a considerable pain for his sons who were eagerly awaiting end to claim his estate for themselves. To that end, they promised a tithe of a gem bride in the coming to Kagan and his master, should they succeed in ending Krisov with the dignity they felt he deserved.

Krisov, for his part, ardently objected to the ceremony. Or, at least, thats what Kagan guessed as he watched his master be decapitated with a swiftness that seemed almost unnatural coming from such an elderly source. Kagan almost doubted the state of the mans mind, for he'd never seen a Drakken who commanded death with such fluid ease.

He remembers feeling his knees quiver beneath him, over joyed that (despite the forth coming shame) he would be killed...no. SLUAGHTERED by such a heavenly example of his own kind. He eased forward, blade almost shaking and his mouth twisted into a manic smile before Krisov eased as his mind once again betrayed him, asking the young priest where he was.

Kagan could only feel cheated as he drove the blade into the elders throat, who stood staring with honest confusion as to what was going on while his life dripped slowly onto the floor. They stayed that was for a few moments, Kagan's aborted high evaporating into the aether as Krisov breathed his last. He was tempted to leave the bastard to the birds, the fury of being robbed of such a challenge burning in his chest like nothing before. He swallowed bitterly as the sons of Harin pushed a letter into his hands. The Choosing was in but a few days, and he'd have to be quick if he was to collect his tithe.
Adult content preference: Move to PM.

Race: Drakken
Age: 249
Element(s): Air, Earth
Height: 6’7”

Bio: Long ago, there lived a great Drakken warrior famed for his skill, cunning, and cruelty, even by the standards of his race. His birth name has been lost to annals of time; he is simply known as “The First Black Blade.” His was a legacy to rival Drakken royalty, and for his long service to the crown he was granted lands to call his own. In time his descendants would inherit his land, his infamy, and his title, each of his heirs being trained in his ways and training their own heir in return. Today, the lands of Castle Nachtstone belong to Wilhelm.

A Drakken every bit worthy of his ancestor, Wilhelm is a lethal swordsman and a devilish man, both in battle and out of it. He is a cruel, vindictive man, but as all of his line before him he follows a strict code of morality that he refers to as “the Old Ways.” These ways may seem no different from any other Drakken ethics to an outsider, but to Wilhelm the difference is as night and day. He looks with disdain on what he perceives as senseless antics of those more youthful than he, and while they in turn may think him behind the times or foolish, few dare say such to his face; aside from his vindictiveness, Wilhelm is a feared combatant and his dueling record speaks for itself.

However, he pays them little mind. Some Drakken, particularly those of greater years, have earned his respect by word or by sword, but most others he barely acknowledges. The change for his people that brews in the winds are of far greater concern, and Wilhelm must ensure that he is prepared to face it.

Despite his intimidating pedigree, little is known of Wilhelm's household. Only his servants and brides are permitted entry to the castle proper, and each of the former seems unable to speak save for a few specific words. Some speculate that there is some grand secret he hides within its walls; Wilhelm rebukes such supposings as drivel, and while some have either been brave or foolish enough to try to sneak in, none of them have ever emerged again from Nachtstone's walls...

“You draw your breath against me freely, yet will not draw your weapon in kind? Pathetic. Before you speak ill of me, look upon yourself and question just when it will be that all you have ever been is forgotten.”

Adult Content Preference: Fades to Black.

{Aryll Imaali}



(Art isn’t mine. Definitely not. Many thanks to the artist.)
Race:
Gem
Age:
18
Element(s):
Earth
Height:
5’ 3”

Bio:
Aryll was born in the (CAPTIAL) to a pair of unscrupulous merchants from a long line of even more merchants of questionable business ethics. Though it was often spoken with distaste, anyone who did business near the capital knew the name Imaali. She grew up comfortably, and received the best education that her parent’s money could buy. She became proficient with numbers and coin, and a skillful barterer.

Despite her parent’s best efforts to ensure the contrary, she made friends among the rabble that congregated in market places. She knew the farmers and the fishermen, the smiths and the artisans. Naturally, she grew, and around the time she turned seventeen she’d found a lover in a skinny potter’s apprentice named Sigmund.

For a year, her biggest worries were her father finding out about Sigmund, or the price of fish rising, or an especially taxing history lesson. Though she knew of the reaping, and feared it, she never dreamed it would happen to her. There were thousands of girls in the city, but she was unfortunate enough to catch a reaper’s eye and was immediately grabbed, a last minute addition to the girls taken that year. There was no time to say goodbye, not to her parents, not to any of her friends in the markets, and certainly not to Sigmund.

At the time, it seemed surreal. It couldn’t actually be happening, not to her. As the journey east dragged on, the more real it started to seem. The realer it seemed, the more worked up she got. She was scared, terrified. But mostly angry, pissed. What right did these brutes have to take her from the life she’d been so happy in? None at all, so far as she’s concerned.
Other:
N/A
Adult Content Preference: Willing, but not experienced.