Age: 20

Height: 5'10

Weight: 212 lbs
167 lbs Without Gear

Class: Wizard (See below)

Race: Human

Weapons & Equipment:
Apothecary Encounter Suit - This is the uniform of a true Apothecary of the Guild. These enchanted leathers riddled with attachments, hinges, and tubes allow for its wearing to work in any fundamentally toxic environment, rending them immune to the effects of gas, spores, and other foulness. Additionally, the suit actually pierces the wearers skin with tubes that circulate the blood through various enchantments and filters, which flushes the system constantly, rending the wearer immune to hostile poisons and diseases. Indeed certain entrance ports allow the wearer to freely inject other drugs for enhancement and healing, but other methods simply fail. Most amazingly is that the suit repairs itself after damage, though this is mostly for the convenience and safety of their wards. The bird mask is part of the suit and can be opened slightly for eating purposes.
The Apothecary's Martial Arms - Apothecaries are expected to get into dangerous situations, and sometimes the best way to keep their clients from harm is to remove it. Darts (12), Simple fire (2), smoke (5), or choking (2) Grenades, and Knives (4) are their main defenses. Light, fast, and capable of being poisoned if need be (Currently has about 12 doses of a paralytic venom). Pox himself keeps a crossbow (15 Bolts) as well, for long distance problems.
Field Surgeon Pack - Sutures, Bandages, Scalpels, Salves, Disinfectants, and Leeches. Everything the bleeding body needs!
Alchemists Kit - For all your chemistry and potion making needs.
Camping Gear - Lanterns, rope, tent, and a bed sack. Its a real wonder how he's able to move around.

Skills and Abilities:
Pox's expertise is specifically in the realms of the medical arts. Healing Magic, Enhancement Drugs, Curing Potions, Medical Devices and Techniques, all are taught, practiced, refined, and utilized. Indeed, the Apothecary Guilds believes itself the pinnacle of modern doctoring. Having a brilliant natural and progressive mind himself, Pox is essentially a poster boy to this ideal.

Pox's magic is centered almost exclusively into the purview of Life, Enchantment, Entropy, and Death as the spells that deal with biology and chemistry touch on these magical disciplines. He can heal at a distance, curing light wounds and drawing poison from a victims pores, but actually potions and medical techniques are necessary for more mortal injuries, with magic coming to help the wound heal quicker once the victim is stabilized. Indeed, he is more likely to use alchemy and his mind for problem solving than any simple trick. Indeed he is actually quite brilliant when it simply pertains to factual knowledge. He has always been curious, and always eager to see how things work which has served him well in the past.

He also knows a useful arcana spell of telekinesis. Without a nurse to aid him, he sometimes needs to do several small things at once. There are no excuses for being too slow and not having help when lives are on the line.

Despite all this, Pox is no warrior. He received training to be a combat medic, but in terms of raw skill he'd rather not hurt anyone if he didn't have to. His tactics would be setting off a smoke bomb and legging it to a more advantageous position, maybe cursing an aggressor with coughing fits in the process. Pox knows of particularly damaging curses and afflictions he can wrought on an enemy's body, but again, last resorts and sticks to strictly non-lethal options. A sleeping, vomiting, or paralyzed enemy is a defeated enemy.

Additionally as actual, formal training, Pox is expected to lead the Apothecaries one day when he comes of age, and part of his job functions are to act as mediators to nobility. Pox is expected to uphold any culture mannerisms and social protocols. Despite his monstrous attire, he can kneel and flatter, and rub elbows with the upper echelons of society. In fact, Pox enjoys this facet of his life the most, as he's a regular social butterfly.

Bio:
The academies of Ispar in the icy North have a very rich variety of backgrounds and histories. Many of whom take pride in such things that their legends are known throughout. This is not always the case. The Apothecaries, the Vultures, as they are known stand for all the world to see, not on a great history, but on a great contradiction. They are terrifying images of plague and death, with rumors abound of what they hide behind their bird like masks and what goes on in their charnal houses, but they always come bearing the greatest of gifts. A life saved, and pain spared. For this reason, they are accepted, even sought after, but always kept at arms length, and the Apothecary like it no other way.

Apothecaries exist as researchers, provisioners of magical substances, undertakers, and most importantly, hired doctors for the wealthy, and quarantiners for outbreaks of plague and disease. Their skills are second to none and many a noble felt the assassins touch but walked the next day, with nary a worry save the Apothecary's growing bill. They are open, but secretive, dodging questions and neither accepting nor rejecting any accusation against them. The imagination can be a powerful deterrent. They have grown in such power that they have their own code and structure of social order. This is where Pox comes in.

Born within the Guild, he was trained from a young age to become an Apothecary, and due to his particular talent and eagerness to please his parents, was chosen to become heir to the Guild, a position always reserved for the most capable of their number. The Guild could not ask for a better student. He would never ask more than once for anything he didn't want to do, and he would never make the same mistake twice, under the consequence of traumatizing pain. Such was the effectiveness under the tutelage of the Guilds Master Chirurgeon Typhon. For the Guild, there was no such thing as special treatment, even for nobles; only special training.

Through grit, intellect, and various chemical enhancements (and dependencies) he managed to live up to the lofty expectations of his family and guild, with the forgivable side effect of OCD, Neurosis, and potentially self harming phobias when when it came to the details and success. The ends always justified the means afterall, and the Apothecaries always did have a results first mentality. And with that, his final test had just begun, a decade long quest as a fully fledged Apothecary out in the field. He was expected to gain clients, acquire fame, favors and fortune, uncover arcane secrets, and come home to take his mantle as leader of the Guild with years of experience under his belt.

However while he is only two years into his task, the Apothecaries would be remiss to find out just how unlike them Pox really is. Out from under their cruel thumb, Pox had learned just how effective a caring bit of bedside compassion could work more wonders than any draught or pancea. Pox learned to love people. Helping them, healing them, always willing to surround himself with those that may look upon him with fear and always trying to show them that there is nothing to fear. Still, he is an Apothecary, and thus still has a task to do and secrets to keep, thus as eccentric and opens he seems, Pox will avoid things about himself or his Guild, dodging the question or coming up with an explanation that seems a little too practiced to be taken at face value. There is no way he could abandon his own family... could he? The more he speaks, he teaches, he discovers, he becomes painfully more aware of just how isolated he is from the rest of the world, a world he can only see through lenses, and touch through thick leathers. His own kind only wants expectations from him, and the rest of the world wants him far far away. What is the poor prince to do?

Keep smiling. Everything will be okay if he just keeps working at it... Just keep smiling.

Character Sheet

Name: Master Mortirmir
Age: 26
Height: 5'11
Weight: 145 lbs
Appearance: A young-looking, rail-thin man with bookish features and heavy spectacles.

Class: Mage/Scholar
Race: Human
Weapons & Equipment:

• a muted brown scholar's robes
• a half-satchel with his current grimoire attached by strap and buckle to his belt
• various writing utensils, including those used for runework
• an impressive assortment of magical scrolls and tomes
• a small eating knife
• a rather light purse of gold
• occasionally a sturdy walking stick he brandishes as a staff

Skills and Abilities:
Ward Abjuration Mortirmir is a master of creating magical wards and barriers, though his skillset is ill-suited to the creation of such powerful mana-draining spells. He manages to get around this limit by casting small, light barriers at the precise time of impact, and then rapidly extinguishing the spell before it drains too much of his power.
Elemental Evocation The most recognizable form of magic, elemental evocation focuses on so-called "battle magic": flashy and destructive spells such as bolts of lightning and balls of fire. Though he laments this type of magic becoming the stereotypical face of all that is arcane, Mortirmir secretly finds immense satisfaction in using this school. And he is quite good at it, too.
Polymorphic Transmutation More commonly known as "runework" or "enchanting", polymorphic transmutation creates such well-known effects such as ever-sharp swords, magically-hardened armor, and other wonders. Mortirmir is an able practitioner, though this is far from his specialty.
A Scholarly Education Mortirmir is first and foremost a scholar. He is an accomplished historian and mathematician, and dabbles a bit in physics and astronomy, too. He speaks several languages fluently, and is capable of writing and reading in three.
A Quick Study Mortirmir prides himself on his intellect, and for good reason; he is able to pick up most subjects rather quickly, and his memory is second-to-none.

Personality:
Mortirmir can be at times insufferably arrogant; he is often prone to speaking cryptically and lathering his words with heavy condescension. This relates back to his sometimes crippling insecurities - although he possesses a remarkable intellect and astonishing grasp of the hermetic arts, his direct magical power is sorely lacking. He is forced to rely on various crutches in order to compensate, and this fact galls him. Besides these obvious character flaws, Mortirmir is a genuine, even chivalrous person at heart. He is driven by an unquenchable and rapacious thirst for knowledge, as well as a curious wanderlust.
Bio:
The son of a wealthy merchant, Mortirmir's upbringing was one of comfort and occasional luxury. He spent most of his youth in Alvion and Ispar, travelling between the major commercial centers of the region on his parent's caravan. Thus, he had ample opportunity to pursue his fascination with a wide variety of academic subjects, becoming a staggeringly well-read individual. Mortirmir found his true calling, however, in the hermetic arts - that is to say, magic. He impressed his tutors with his natural aptitude to the arcane, and soon found himself looking abroad for further study.

And so Mortirmir, at the tender age of sixteen, found himself travelling far, far away from his home to study at the illustrious Imperial University, the premier academy in Naveroth for the hermetical and arcane. There, his studious intellect and natural talent propelled him to the coveted rank of professor a mere five years later. Though his raw magical strength was severely lacking, the fineness and precision of his control was without rival anywhere. After another five years of rigorous study and occasional lecturing, Mortirmir departed the University to seek the sort of practical knowledge that cannot be obtained from ancient libraries and dusty tomes.

Name: Rhiannon
Age: Unknown
Height: 5’0
Weight: 105
Class: Druid
Race: Demonfolk/Dryad

All demonfolk are of some mixed bloodline or another, bound together by the taint that runs through their veins though they may have little in common individually. Perhaps one of the strangest of this varied group are those whose ancestry includes another long lost people. So far as anyone today knows, the only remnants of the dryads of Terraxia exist in their part demon descendants.

Weapons & Equipment:

Ancient Dagger: a short, wicked blade Rhiannon keeps belted to her waist for the sense of security having a weapon provides, despite her lack of any skill to use it.

Blowpipe and Darts: In a small pouch on Rhia's belt, there are a blow pipe and a handful of darts, few in number because of the difficulty of making the non-lethal poison within. The sleeping draft wouldn't stop a charging berserker, but it could be useful nonetheless.

Sling: A simple, practical weapon Rhia uses with good accuracy. Sure it's not as deadly as a bow, but sometimes all you need is a small rock flying fast enough.

Clothing: Rough spun tunic and trousers, soft boots, a thick cloak, and a simple rope belt.

Skills and Abilities:

Woodlore: Rhiannon possesses a deep understanding of and communication with the flora and fauna within the lands of Terraxia.

Suggestion: The beasts of Terraxia remember the dryads even if the people do not. They will answer Rhia's call.

Bio:

On the day everything changed, Rhiannon was woken by voices so far off as to be a whisper growing slowly into a hum that made her ears twitch, the sound annoyingly indefinite with distance. It was several long minutes before the trees noticed this intrusion, sighing in their shushing cries and trembling against her skin where she curled hidden between their roots. The ones nearer the edge of the wood did not mutter at the presence of men or elves, but these ancient oaks so close to the center shuddered with timeless fears of fire and the death of saplings.

When the travelers grew close enough to make out their words, Rhia cracked her eyes open, the orbs kept half-lidded to reduce her chance of being spotted, though she needn’t have bothered. The pair stayed blissfully unaware of their observer, deep in a conversation full of names Rhia did not know and places she had never seen.

The two men spoke easily, comfortable and familiar with each other and as she watched, Rhia felt a familiar pang of longing. Why should she not have a people like beasts and men and even trees? She felt as though nothing might be better than having something understand, something feel as she did.

Indecision kept her rooted as the men passed mere feet in front of her, however, their heads bent together, never once glancing into the foliage below. What she longed for could not be found in the wood, Rhia felt certain, and yet the idea of leaving her home filled the druid with an unease she could not easily ignore. What if she would find no companionship? What if she truly was alone in all the world? What if she left and could not find her way home?

As Rhiannon mulled this over, the men moved on, stepping down a distant slope until even their voices began to disappear once more. Suddenly afraid that she might lose them, she slipped languidly from her hiding spot, leaves rustling faintly at her passage. She supposed that if there was truly no one in the world for her, she was no worse off than she was now, and when had she last gotten lost, anyway? At least she would know, might even understand. With on look at the great forest around her, Rhiannon set off in the direction the men had gone.

Name: Malakaus Ralthavar Vorinclex

Age: 25
Height: 5'10
Weight: 212lbs
Class: Berserker
Race: Demonkin
Weapons & Equipment:
Battle Axe - A steel bladed weapon with a three-foot long handle. Quite lengthy, but can be handled with one or both hands for flexibility or strength.
Iron-bound Shield - An oak-and-iron shield capable of withstanding heavy blows, a rain of arrows, and a light splash of magical artillery. It is a large shield capable of also being used to bash and smash into enemies.
Short Sword - Mainly a sidearm should Malakaus be depraved of his axe. Light and easy to handle in any situation, can be thrown akin to a dart should there be a need.
Iron Plate - Sculpted and shaped iron metal plates to provide the most protection without compromising too much flexibility. Malakaus made it himself, and his skills are most apparent in it's craftsmanship.
Hand Crossbow - A light and easy to handle crossbow. Its penetration power isn't as great as some variances, however it's true advantage is the "safety lock" built into it, allowing one to always have a bolt loaded into it without worrying about it going off on it's own. Great for sneak attacks and quick draws.

Rucksack - A hardy hide bag used to carry most of Malakaus's belongings. Comes with smaller pockets to hold smaller objects as well as straps to carry larger ones.
Smithing Tools - Basic smithing tools including a hammer, tongs, calipers, and a ten pound anvil. While not enough to forge anything larger than a dagger, it can be used to help maintain or repair most metal equipment on the go.
Cooking Tools - A field kit for cooking which includes a metal pan, pot, one bowl, one plate, a fork, spoon, knife, and cup, all which can be attached together through a hole in the handle and some string. It also comes with a collapsible three-legged stand, a cutting board, a metal skewer, and a thin mesh grill. Malakaus keeps a small box containing bags of spices and other herbs he may find useful for cooking.
Tent - A medium sized tent large enough to fit two people. It can be set up on a fairly flat area or hung from a sturdy branch or piton.
Bedroll - A rugged bedroll made of furs and hide. Large enough to comfortably fit one person.
Rope - Roughly 50 feet of rawhide rope.
Malakaus's Special Shovel - Malakaus's Special Shovel. To a regular observer, it's just a shovel. But one edge of the shovel is sharpen enough that it can also be used as a woodcutting axe, and hidden in the handle is a knife which can be used for skinning, carving, shaving, or butchering.
Charcoal - A dirty sack containing 2 pounds of charcoal, either to start a fire or deal with toxic gas in the air.
Rations - Malakaus keeps provisions he can use to feed himself or others. While most can be eaten as is, with some time and effort he can cook them and make them more palatable and nutrition.

Skills and Abilities:
Smithing - Despite his origins, Malakaus is a highly skilled smith. He has seen and replicated techniques from various craftsmen to create his own equipment, some which would catch a fortune in certain cities. He likes to work with metal the most, seeing it melted down in a forge or shaped into it's final form, though he can do a bit of tanning and woodcarving too, such as stitching together leather and making crossbows.

Cooking - Man's gotta eat. And while most demons might be fine feasting on cadaver or even cannibalism, Malakaus prefers a bit more class. Learning mainly through his time as a slave, he stole much of his expertise watching his masters cook and replicating those skills himself, then improving and working on his cooking on his own time once he managed to free himself. He enjoys grilling meat and baking.

Endurance - Malakaus was always made to burden heavy responsibilities and punished for whatever reason his masters felt like, so he knows the main of carrying a great weight on his shoulders as well as the lashes on his body and face. He wears armor to protect himself, but even without it his skin is as hard as stones, and his will like iron.

Combat - As a slave soldier Malakaus was made to fight, learning through success. He quickly found himself attached to using axes since they provided the right amount of strength to simplicity compared to most blades, but also picked up a shield too. Seemed easier than dodging his enemies who often outnumbered, out ranged, or out sped him. Another trait he picked up: sneak attacks. Because no matter how powerful your foe, an unseen blade is most dangerous. A decent shot with range weapons though certainly not a sniper. Prefers close range.

Bio: Malakaus was born a slave in Naveroth, a spawn in some experimental pit. He never knew who his family was and maybe it didn't matter; those in his litter were his family now. His earliest memory was of a wretched looking woman feeding him through some sickening looking bottle, which was bitter but nutritious. The first bitter taste of medicine. Since then Malakaus was shuffled around the home slowly growing wiser and more cunning with each passing year. By the time he was five years old, he had already given himself a name and learned how to read. When he was ten, he learned that the best place for him was to slave in the kitchen, where he didn't need to do any dangerous work and was kept clean so the food was delicious. It was also there that he learned how to cook, since it made the slop he and the other children were fed easier to eat.

When Malakaus was thirteen, he was sent to his first battle. He didn't know why he was fighting or against whom; they gave him a shirt like the rest of his kin and a club, and he had to go kill others who didn't look like him. It was kill or be killed and Malakaus wasn't one of the fallen. Here he quickly learned how to fight and more importantly, he needed better equipment. He looted armor and weapons, broken and battered as they were. He had a certain cunning that helped him not just survive but rise above the rest of his siblings; they were brave but foolish. Most died on the initial charge. But Malakaus cared enough about his own being that he could survive, and lead others to do the same. As long as they did what he did, most survived the fights. They still died, but not without great effort.

But fighting wasn't something Malakaus wanted to do forever, and he wanted to escape. His kin didn't understand; all they knew was the cold walls, closed doors, and bloodied battlegrounds they couldn't even name. So when he was sent to fight, he didn't return. He left behind his weapons and armor, stained with blood, as if he had been killed. In truth he was simply hiding among the corpses; when his kin left, Malakaus just stood up and ran away from the battlefield. Since then he lived on his own in the wilds, stealing and forging to get by. He tried to join others like him, but for some reason even most demonfolk didn't want anything to do with him. He blamed his greenskin.

But a bit of solitude wasn't going to put Malakaus down. He continued to learn, to improve, and to become stronger despite the odds. Even when others expected him or even demanded him to falter, he struggled on. He would loot battlefields for weapons and wealth, steal from homes to feed himself, and even killed innocents to get what he needed. Whatever it took to survive. But survival was just a minor step: he wanted to live. He wanted to become a legend. Malakaus didn't escape his masters just to live and die unknown in the woods. He wanted his name to be echoed throughout time. So, gathering what he could, he set off on an adventure.

[⇹]_Name
Garret F. Alester
[⇹]_Age
Twenty-seven
[⇹]_Gender
Male
[⇹]_Height
6'0
[⇹]_Weight
190lbs.
[⇹]_Class
Knight/Mercenary/Sellsword


[⇹]_Equipment

⇹ Coat of Arms
-Resembling a plaque, it is small and meant to be worn at all times. The Knight his/herself choose where to have it fashioned; usually the pauldron. Amongst criminals, having one in your possession gains respect, for defeating one of Alvion's Elite Mercenaries.
⇹ Guild allowance of 100 coins.
⇹ The Light, A blessed sword.
⇹ Serim Armour, of the Guild's Smith make.
⇹ Map
-Of the area he may be traveling to

[⇹]_{Skills/Abilities}

⇹ Knowledge of Most criminal and mercenary groups.
- Gained through either bloody encounters or as the result of multiple groups hired for the same task.
⇹ Serim Swordsmanship
-Unique to the Guild, consist of unorthodox movements of the blade and Knight.
⇹ Of Knight's and Men (GEDDIT?!)
-He's a rather imposing figure when clad in armour. Naturally, lesser people(Peasants, common folk, lower mercs) will be intimidated.
⇹ Moderate survival Experience
- Being a full-time mercenary, you do have to venture into rather unsavory places.

[⇹]_Biography

The Alvion kingdom nestles a myraid of cultures, people, and guilds within the imposing white walls. Perhaps the most prominent of the guild's is the Serim Order(Known as either the Serim Knights or Alvion's Elite). The guild is a highly militaristic mercenary band. Though the term 'mercenary' has been dragged through the dirt by other, less morally focused groups, The Serim Order is one of the few, if not the only one that offers services for noble causes. They actively deny quest to ransack villages, murder the innocent, and other morally wrong task that other guild's would happily accept. Amongst the Alvion court, they're highly respected and act as a PMC for the region. Though the exact number is unclear, it is estimated that some 600 knights are with the Guild. One cannot join the Guild, rather, they must be selected. The selection process is held once every year and tests a man or woman's combat prowess.

Garret was the first and only son born to a well-respected Serim Knight. His mother, a seamstress, died whilst giving birth; Which left his father distraught for some time. Gerrett spent most if not all his childhood within the Guild's hall, hearing the revered tales of many a veteran. The Serim are a respected mercenary group; often mistaken for Alvion Knights, with the innumerable members, Uniform..well..uniforms, combat prowess, and rigid class structure. Not only are they mistaken, but the Alvion court often employs them for high-risk missions. Each member has 'Honor, Duty, and Devotion' instilled into their mind during the rigorous training one must undergo to join.

At around 10 Garrett began as a squire, running small task for his Father and occasionally tagging along with a Clearing Party. Clearing Parties are groups of Serim Knights(of no less than 2 and no more than 5) hired to exterminate undesirables, in the form of brigands, murderers, etc. Squires are only allowed to accompany them for missions with little to no threat. The relationship between He and the Knights was good enough for them to -through the Grandmaster's approval- allow him to not only carry a weapon but undergo more dangerous missions. One such mission, a 17 year old Garret and his Father were tasked to clear what was seemingly an dull group of brigands. However, upon arrival they discovered a plethora of mercenaries, an obvious setup. They engaged in combat. The battle ends with men slain along with his Father; Garret seriously injured. As per tradition, his sword was returned to the guild to be stored amongst the other blades in the 'Hall of Honor'. This encounter inspires Garrett to be a better man, a better Knight for his Father.

Honor. Duty. Devotion. Exactly what they put into Garrett, as he came of age to formally join(that age is 22 and he were allowed to bypass selection). The training was fraught with difficulty but through determination, grit, and blood(quite a bit actually), he prevailed. The ceremony for accepted individuals is held within the halls and before the Grandmaster, whom bestows the Knight with his or her armaments. Garrett, upon stepping to pedestal instead received the blade of his late Father,dubbed The Light, which he accepted with teary eyes. Since that day, Garrett has underwent numerous missions and gained renown equal to if not above his father.

[⇹]_{Known Allies/Enemies}
Knight Epiher of The Serim Order
Knight Lae of The Serim Order
'Black Beak' Mercenaries