Syrenia of Myrándais

24

Female

Clerical Ranger

Pride.

Syrenia is a descendant of Myrándais, although which dynastic line is particularly unknown due to the effects of her rebirth. Syrenia is a descendant of Myrándais, although which dynastic line is particularly unknown due to the effects of her rebirth. With flowing pink-colored hair and blue eyes, Syrenia has a naturally soft appearance; though she is not as petite as she appears. Standing at 5’3”, Syrenia is shorter than most considering the average height of a woman of Myrándais was nearly three or so inches greater. In her time as a clerical knight of Myrándais the training Syrenia was forced to endure has given her a physical conditioning that has shaped her physique to be durable yet flexible, though her training like many others did not block her from an early demise.

A written description of your character’s personality post-death. This should implicate more of your root virtues than your past sinful desires and ideals; after all, you’ve been resurrected by the gods to save humanity. But will your sins come out as you remember more of your memories?

Skilled Archer: The clerical knights of Myrándais were capable archers as well as swordsmen and priests. During her lifetime Syrenia was trained as an inquisitor; the formal title given to apostles of the Grand Cleric and guardians of peace.

Inquisitor's Quiver: Syrenia’s quiver, blessed by the High Priestess herself, still hangs off her back without little decay or damage. Although Syrenia has been separated from her bow and the quiver itself has long since been stripped of arrows, it serves as a unrelenting memento of a time long lost.

Clerical Armor: Syrenia’s armor as a clerical knight was crafted for a mobile fighter that could allow quick movement with limited but sufficient protection. However much of it has been lost to time and by the thieving hands of fallen humanity. What remains of her armor has been restored from the decay of time, but it is apparent that she is missing a shoulder spaulder. The cloth underneath the armor remains though its color has faded.

Satchel: With her backpack stolen, it is a surprising relief that Syrenia has anything to hold scattered potions, coin, and objects at all. A small holding capacity, but it is better than nothing.

The divine ability you were given by the gods upon resurrection. You don’t know how to use it (or even are aware it exists), so keep that in mind. This will be the central point on if I think your character fits what I’m looking for.

Mimrin of Draethir

Early Twenties

Female

Agile Duelist

Mimrin isn’t an entirely imposing person. She is of average height, but lean and boyish, lacking bulk. Her hair has faded to a pallid white, with only the faintest wash of pink dye remaining in a handful of strands, suggesting a more bombastic life. Her eyes are a burning emerald, miraculously untouched by the resurrection.

The mark of her death is fairly evident: from the ugly scar running the whole of her neck, it’s fair to assume she was decapitated, and not cleanly.

There are two sides to Mimrin. The one who awoke would have been considered a disgrace to her warmongering homeland. She is reserved, timid, and shies from violence out of fear. Her Draethir blood has cooled, congealed, and left her with a worried, caring attitude. Some might even say Mimrin is friendly.

Then there is Mimrin, the Undying.

Most of those brought back from the grave may feel within them a tug towards their old ways. They may fight urges or give into impulses reflecting who they once were. True to the title once bestowed upon her, the Mimrin of old did not truly die. This past self still lurks in the depths of her mind, not a mere collection of impulses and memories, but a personality all its own. This Mimrin is vile, sadistic, hungry for violence and revels in coaxing the worst out of her compatriots.

And so the Mimrins, Redeemed and Undying, remain in constant struggle. While the former enjoys more frequent and complete control, as they say, old habits die hard. When backed into a corner, like any animal, instincts take over.

Helvete Solon The Wise, of Brightwood

Fifty One

Male

Druid Priest

As caretaker of the Wood, one of the Druid's duties is to protect nature from those who would do it harm. Helvete, lost in his zeal to defend what mattered the most to him, committed heinous acts against his fellow man- the same people who, ironically, belong to the natural world he's meant to safeguard. In the twisted logic of his mind, men are but parasites. Entities of hate who cannot appreciate the world the gods built, only tearing it apart to fuel their endless wars and bloody conflicts. He sealed himself within the root walls and twisted bark of his homeland, slaying all who so much as entered it, in some horrific crusade to cleanse the natural world of what he saw as leeches and vagabonds.

Before his soul passed on and his remains tossed in a ditch to rot, Helvete covered himself in parts of the Forest. A deer's skull was shaped into a rough mask to hide his hideous man-flesh, antlers protruding from his head. A coat of leaves, vines and thickets made him look larger and more menacing to those who trespassed in his home, serving the duel purpose of keeping him warm in the winter.

But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.

Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.

Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.

How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.

The man that rose up from the grave exists in a strange state of halfness. In part he is like he was when he passed from this world: strange in his speech patterns, prone to muttering to himself to hear the sound of someone's voice, and insistent that he is not, in fact, a man. Rather, Helvete believes himself a spirit of the Wood. A wisp of the Forest given form. It's the only explanation for how he hears the trees whisper to him, after all; even if he doesn't understand a lick of what those damned things are saying.

Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.

When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.

"Nature is the great provider!"



"Suck on this frog."



"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"



"Come, monster-beasts, taste the fury of the Wood!"

Audhild of Skogar

Twenty Five

Female

Barbarian

Filled with an ecstasy from feeding into fury, rage, and bloodlust. While for many the thought of entering battle captivates them in a wide range of emotions — from fear to honour, from servitude to freedom — Audhild feels as though her desire to fight is for a much more selfish reason, perhaps a thrill? At times she feels as though she was born to live and die on the battlefield with a destiny to soak the soil in the spilt blood of her enemies, and this confusion of her innermost malefic desires is what currently drives her to explore the depths of her enigmatic self.

Audhild's long, wavy hair compliments the soft, textured tones of her freckled skin; a sandy, buttermilk blend which creates a sense of warmth and beauty. Most people won't usually see this alluring grace as it hides itself well under the war-paint, the layers of dirt, and the grime of the earth. She stands at a height which can be considered tall for her kind, but strangely eye to eye for those who come from other lands.

To cover her youthful and distressingly scarred body Audhild wears a tattered, hazelnut tunic, a linen dress which lightly rests upon her shoulders. Laying atop of these shoulders and the clothes she wears so often is the thick coat of a great beast's fur — the source of such an animal has been long forgotten. Her leggings are bone in colour, a durable woollen blend once crafted with skill, now haggard and in need of some care. Finally across her waist and extending up to her belly is a hickory coloured, animal skin and animal hide war skirt; an item of attire made from a similar creature to the ones which was once hunted for the crafting her boots.

One look into Audhild's eyes and anyone can see the flame burns deep within her soul; a flame of passion, fury, love, and loss. She is a woman with a fierce temper and quick thinking, but lacks the logical finesse for which the more educated hold so dear. Much like a wolf against a bear she understands the limits of her own strength, the extent her skills, and her underlying weaknesses; recognizing as a warrior everyday has the undeniable potential of twisting her fate into a lamb of the slaughter.

Out of the red mist of battle and beneath the darkness of the evening sky, Audhild has been seen to display emotions of silence and spirituality. Her lack of longing for a meaningful companionship and confusion about her place in the world holds back her ability to trust and sympathise with others. This odd trait is what ultimately defines her, and is the root cause of her inner anguish and desolation. She is a woman without a family, and a warrior without a tribe.

Fierce like Fire: For Audhild nothing is more invigorating, or more enthralling, than being one on the battlefield; she is a warrior, a survivor, and a force of absolute power. To fight alongside Audhild is to be compared to witnessing a painter with a badger bristle brush. Each stroke is meticulously accurate, a sweep with absolute beauty and confidence as she paints the scene with her blade — one can only admire the artist that she truly is.

To Chant & Charge: A bellowing roar, the pounding of soles, a heated blaze that sweeps across the scorched lands. There can be nothing described as more anxiety creating or fear inducing than the frontline sights of a screaming banshee masked in the blood of her fallen victims. With an inner willpower which can be seen driving her immense reserve of stamina, Audhild ensures death will come fast, painful, and filled with copious amounts of terror.

To Survive in Sickness: The key to one's survival lies in the preservation of life. A simple wound — shallow and uninteresting — can be so easily neglected and left to linger to a point where it may fester and evolve into a disease. Audhild's own knowledge in treating and mending these ailments, using elements of nature as ointments and bandages, helps to improve the chances of prolonging one's survival. If it's worth treating, it's worth trying.

A Trail Never Forgotten: A musty odor, a broken branch, and a ground crushing footprint — the subtlest changes to the nature's order are often noticed by the Skogarian woman. These are the marvelled skills of tracking, honed over the years and mastered into a collaborative collection of all five senses. Spend enough time with Audhild and any companion will soon understand what it is that she sees, what mysteries are left by those who travel the lands.

Oyen’s Edge: An old timber handle axe, made from a carved length of golden oak with a blade that appears to be forged out of iron. The bevel of the blade appears to have lost its once sharp edge, coated in a fine layer of rust, forever embedded with the remains of a deep crimson bloodstain. An engraving of a name or a symbol can be seen on the poll of the head, but age and deterioration have taken over, hiding the truth to this mysterious identity.

Stohl’s Round Shield: Measuring at a weighty two feet in diameter, edged with a thick, pitted steel band, and lined with dry lengths of cedar timber, is Stohl’s Round Shield. This shield of immense defense rests at bay upon the back of Audhild and in older times it was once a reliable device of war; a banner for troops to rally under. Nowadays the face shows nothing more than flaking paint and weathered timber scars; a old companion who became complacent in the cemetery of slumber.

Life Vision: Audhild has been blessed, or cursed, with the ability to see the flowing life force of any living creature within her surrounding area. Much like a sonar pulse, Audhild’s vision will change for a brief period, desaturating the world of all its natural colour and beauty, while in turn displaying the glowing auras of those who contain a living souls. Able to see through objects of stone, timber, and steel; this gift improves her skills of perception and observation tenfold with the main drawback being her inability to see monsters of the undead, certain cursed beings, and creatures not of physical form.

Ulric the Wanderer

29

Male

Fallen Soldier

Ulric can remember the anger, the greed and the cowardice of his past life; but only the simple emotions that were so powerful in his past life. He remembers his home of Galfia, a small agricultural nation; a place where he grew up as a commoner who fought his way into fighting in a powerful mercenary army. But beyond that? It's murky. He knows he has done evil, but the main feeling he has towards that period is shame and regret. He lacks the specific memories but he knows that he has much to regret.

Ulric is a medium-sized, stocky man. His build, which is quite muscular, is indicative of his line of work in his past life. His torso has scars from past battles. Ironically, he bears no scars from how he died. His hair is a shock of short, black hair, and he sports a thick beard which covers most of his face.

Ulric is quiet and introspective, who spends his time thinking more on the bigger details of the world beyond the smaller details. Beyond the quiet, keen eye, Ulric is kind and warm, and willing to throw himself into harms way to help others. While he has a kind smile, Ulric is not extremely extroverted. He’s a quiet, introspective warrior; a man with a poet’s soul who has been denied the chance to explore his inner feelings. This is a far distance from Ulric the Wanderer the boisterous, violent soldier.

While usually cool and collected in combat, helping control the front line with his skills; he is constantly on the line of bravado and placing himself into extreme danger. Ironic, since in another life he was the man sending so many young soldiers to their own deaths.

Even before his rebirth, Ulric was a powerful warrior, wielding most martial weapons with each. When heavily armored, he is capable of challenging many foes with many weapons. His skill with a blade and in combat is what made his past life rise from common obscurity to some noble strength.


Ulric is capable of seizing the moment in a fight, and figuring out where his blade is best spent. He has an uncanny knack for eyeing up an enemy's weakness and attempting to exploit it.


Even without armor, Ulric is quite large. He lacks the agility of smaller fighters and instead focuses on his sheer strength and skill with weapons to keep him alive.

Broken Zweinhander: An rusted greatsword which has been broken halfway down the blade, forcing it to be an awkward and unweildy longsword instead of an actual hand and a half sword.

Commoner's Rags: Due to his station in life and the sad aspect of grave-robbing, most of Ulric's armor is gone; leaving him in nothing more than peasent's clothes. He still has thick leather boots, but lacks anything that will stop a sword or arrow from piercing his heart.

Ulric's gift is a powerful but dangerous gift; allowing his soul to project out of his own body and deliver a follow-up strike after he hits an enemy. While this allows him to do a delayed copy-strike; this leaves his physical body open from the moment he projects to the moment it returns to him. The attack is also physical in nature; allowing it to be blocked or dodges.