Name: Enlil Chandr
Nickname: En

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: Roshad

Appearance: Young, diminutive, and a tad on the short side, En doesn't cut a particularly inspiring figure. His lazy smile, unkept wheat-colored hair, and tendency to slouch further give the impression of someone who isn't very heroic or reliable. His golden eyes ruin the image however, sparkling with equal parts humour and intelligence. He does posses more muscle then one would expect, but it's hidden under several lays of garments that are distinctly Rochadian in design, and a size or two too big, worn loose and haphazardly. He carries with him a peculiar wooden staff, jet black in color and taller then he is. It is adorned with a twisting loop at the top and a curved base.

Psyche: Laidback and easygoing, En tends to be cheerfully frivolous, going through life at his own pace. Almost contradictory to this, he is an adventurous soul with boundless curiosity. His intelligence and skill in magic is unquestionable. He is, quite simply a prodigy the likes of which have not been seen for a very long time, although he will downplay it. Not one to grab the spotlight, he is fine with 'working in the back' as he calls it and going unnoticed. Although his definition of 'working' can differ from most other people's. If left unchecked, he can spend hours idling, reading a book, sleeping, or just doing nothing at all. He loves hot drinks, especially coffee and generally dislikes the cold. He habitually wears a heavy coat, no matter the weather.

As a person, he is very logic-driven and self focused. He doesn't extend trust easily, nor does he expect it in turn. He looks out for himself first and foremost. Still, he isn't a heartless person, nor a coward. Just like his appearance, his personality makes people underestimate him. He seems like a airheaded bumbling fool at times, and it's not entirely an act.

Skills:

En was gifted with an extraordinary mind, which was further trained by some of the finest scholars in Roshnad. Despite his youth, his academic knowledge covers a broad array of subjects, such as medicine, astrology, meteorology, herbology, biology, chemestry ect. (However, this is academic knowledge and is no master in any one of these.)

His other gift is a great affinity with the magic arts. He posses innate magic, unlike others who require an outside power or certain rituals. However, despite Roshnad's vast array of scholars and scholarly knowledge, there was only so much he could learn with much knowledge of the Art being lost. His dream is to find a teacher and become a great wizard.

[Details vague, need more information]

He can hold his own with a staff in hand to hand combat. Because the world is a dangerous place, and he can't always rely on magic in a pinch, he trains his body and learned to fight with a staff.

Equipment:

Curious Staff: A long, black stick of some unknown material, possibly some kind of wood. It's sturdy and durable and makes a nice traveling aid or weapon. The scholars believed it held some kind of magic, but what it was they where never able to find out. All they could say for certain is that it is defiantly enchanted. En 'borrowed' his for his journey and replaced it with a credible fake. They don't know it's missing yet...probably.

A large knapsack full of both useful and seemingly useless things, including ink, chalk, paper, books, unusual rocks, rings, carvings, herbs and so on. Most of these things are intended for use in rituals and spells.

Bio:

En was a young boy when his magic began to manifest. In the place where he was born, superstition ran deep as the snow drifts that never fully thawed high in Roshadian mountains. Without the knowledge to properly harness his burgeoning talent, it would build up, like pressure behind a dam until it would burst forth to cause random unnatural phenomena. At first, his family was afraid but willing to accept him. But when their secret was revealed, the people of his village feared him. Hysteria and fear spread like wildfire. They called him cursed, a monster, unnatural, and worse. His family, unable to but up with the pressure, disowned him, even removing his name from the family cloak. They drove him out into the cold and bitter winter. But as one last mercy, some of his family who were sympathetic gave him supplies and directions to the next closest village. But he never made it.

He was caught in snowstorm and lost all sense of direction. But some fortune smiled on him. When it passed, he was found face-down in the snow, nearly dead, by some strangers. They took him a hospital in the nearest city where he spent several weeks in recovery. During this time, his magical talent was discovered. But instead of being reviled, it, and he, were held in awe. He was tested by the priesthood and he was also found to have an excellent mind. The priesthood also said that his arrive was foretold by the stars and that he was destined for great things, although the truth of this was in doubt. Nevertheless, these combined made him something of a celebrity, and he was eventually given the honor of joining the library harem of the capital, Qualoktl, to be groomed for the chance to become the next great Thinker of the capital, or at the very least a high ranking member of the government.

For the next several years, he was trained and tutored nearly constantly on all manner of subjects deemed necessary. In what little spare time he had, he loved exploring the great Library and reading whatever caught his interest. He thrived here, happy to simply learn. He also discarded the name he was given at birth and named himself after something out of an old legend. As time went on he found himself disappointed with what was little was known about magic. His thirst for knowledge grew and he found himself dreading the idea of becoming the Thinker. He hated the idea of having all that responsibility. He wanted magic, not to rule. But at the same time, he didn't want to burn bridges if something didn't work out. So he devised a plan.

He convinced the current Thinker that it would be a good idea for the Thinkers-in-training to have personal knowledge of the kingdoms beyond Roshad, so why not arrange a visit to foreign lands? He agreed, so En, along with other members of the harem were taken on a journey. The night before they left, En "borrowed" a magic staff and hid it, along with other preparations. And then he waited. Biding his time, waiting for the chance to slip away. At last, the opportunity came, and with some regret, he left that life behind. When he heard about a sorcerer, a true sorcerer, he couldn't help but be intrigued. Could he find the knowledge he had been seeking there? Oh, and insane power-mad gods tend to make terrible neighbors. So maybe he should be stopped or something.

Name: Natack Onah 'The Pale Scorpion'

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: The very edge of Baccum.

Appearance:

Standing at 5ft 9in, covered in strange symbols tattooed on his body in bright red, and scars that appear to be self inflicted, at first glance Natack appears to be a traditional Baccumese presented to the outside world. Upon further examination, differences begin to appear. His eyes never stay the same color. One moment they might be brown, look away for a moment and they're blue. They appear to switch at random, and with no warning. Rather than the wiry, thin, body his fellows have, Natack's has the build of a warrior, more akin to a Kortharan than a Baccumese. Occasionally, one can catch him muttering to himself, as if holding a conversation with many other people, head twitching at times.

Psyche: (distinctive characteristics or qualities that form your character’s… character)

Skills:

Spirit Magic: Natack can use the souls in his body for a few things, like healing, scouting, allowing great warriors to possess him, or simple communication with them to see if they noticed things he did not, or could not.

Traditional healer: In addition to the healing magic the spirits of his tribe allow him, Natack is skilled at traditional healing, with herbs and wraps.

Punch knife fighter: Natack is skilled with his two punch knives, relying on agility and speed to get him inside an enemy's guard, slam a knife into their weakpoints, and then out before they can retaliate.

Equipment: Two punch knives seen in appearance, a bag of herbs (both medicinal and hallucinogenic) and ritual devices, and a small sack of rations.

Bio: (a brief account of how your character acquired their skills and became the person they are now)

Name: Alcello Bas

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: Mennon

Appearance:



Alcello is not an imposing figure at first glance. Standing a few inches short of six foot, and not particularly broad, it would be easy to dismiss the man at first. His common garb of a simple woollen cloak and hood only adds to this effect, by design.

But beneath the hood, Alcello’s face is weathered, scarred and hard-edged. His strong jaw is obscured by a thick beard, the same burnished copper as the rest of his hair, which is kept short. One of his eyes is a burning green, while the other is milky and blind, a long, prominent scar cutting across it. His nose is crooked, his lips rough and rarely curled into a smile.

Under the cloak that he wears, Alcello still wears the lamellar plate of his years as a kestaphos. Although it has been beaten, and even broken in places, leaving long, ugly scars across Alcello’s torso, he has carefully repaired it every time, and can rarely be found out of it.

His left sleeve hangs loose, a brace of chakram’s held within, and his bow and quiver are slung over his shoulder, and his bastard sword strapped across his back, and the bright ribbons of his legacy wrapped around his right arm are amongst the only sources of colour on his otherwise dull clothing.

Psyche: Alcello rarely partakes in the joy of friendship, or human company. He has spent long years on the road with no-one but his own thoughts for company, and it has left him a man who has little time for social etiquette. He speaks his mind, even it may not be welcome. He is cunning, and quick to act when it is needed. He has seen too often the corruption of souls, and does not allow himself to trust anyone, lest they cut his throat in the night.

Skills: Alcello is a skilled warrior, proficient in most forms of combat, both armed and unarmed. Although he has favoured his sword, bow and chakram’s since his hunt began, they are not the only weapons with which he has fought. He is also a skilled rider, although he has come to prefer travelling on foot, save for long journeys, enjoying the greater anonymity that a man on foot can possess.

But it is Alcello’s experience that is his greatest strength. Since he began his hunt, he has travelled to nearly every corner of the cradle, even traversing the Brimlands on several occasions, moving closer to the Deadlands than perhaps any alive could claim. And on his travels he has encountered the foulest creatures that the age of ash could ever birth. Hideous monsters, drawn from the darkest nightmares and made flesh, corrupted souls who call on magic to sate their heinous appetites, Alcello has witnessed them all, and put them all to the sword. There is little evil that roams the Cradle that Alcello has not hunted, and as the rumours of a dark sorcerer continue to spread, his experience may prove vital...

Equipment: Alcello is clad in fine lamellar armour, although it is far from the polished splendour that it was during his time as a kestaphos. Nonetheless, it is still a strong defence against the creatures that Alcello hunts.



When he does hunt, Alcello takes with him a simple composite recurve bow, well-made and carefully maintained, and a quiver of broad-head arrows. If his prey gets too close, then he still retains his chakram’s, the symbol of the kestaphos. For the killing blow itself, Alcello has come to favour a one-and-a-half hand sword, a bastard sword, forged by a fine smith and whetted with the blood of the wicked.

Bio: Alcello’s father was a kestaphos, and from as soon as he was old enough to swing a sword, and to ride a horse, Alcello was moulded for the day when he would take on his father’s mantle. His father was a proud man, and a gifted warrior, who had been given a narrow strip of land, on the far northeast border of Mennon, and ordered to defend it. Due to it’s proximity to Baccum, many foul creatures met their end on the tip of Alcello’s fathers spear.

When Alcello’s father finally passed, slain by a sickening infection that took a hold of a wound given to him by a rampaging gorrak, Alcello was still a young man. But the law was clear, and so Alcello took up his father’s spear that same day, and began his vigil. He had battled the beasts of the Cradle at his father’s side, so he was no novice, and he took to his duty with vigour. The people who called his strip of land home came to see him as a strong leader, and many of them enjoyed tankards of ale around the fire, sharing stories and laughing. But all this was to change.

A shaman, twisted by the Cult of Mara and drenched in the blood of his village, stumbled onto Alcello’s land. By the time Alcello had gathered his most trusted men and ridden out to meet the threat, three villages had been slaughtered by the foul witchcraft of blood magic, only feeding the shaman’s strength greater. When they charged to slay him, the surrounding land transformed into a hell-scape. The ground ran red with blood, flames burst into life, and the very sky was stained red. The battle was nightmarish, the shaman summoning beasts and monsters of shadow and blood to fall upon Alcello and his men. Alcello cut down all that came before him, even as his followers were slaughtered all around him. Finally, he reached the shaman himself. Levelling his spear, he let out a wordless roar as he spurred his steed forward.

With an almighty crash, the two men collided. Alcello’s spear punched through the sorcery surrounding the shaman, the tip driving through his ribs and bursting his lung. But even as it did, the weapon shattered, and Alcello’s horse screamed as it was consumed by dread claws reaching from within the pool of blood at it’s feet. As his steed was dragged down, Alcello threw aside the shattered remains of his spear, and drove his dagger into the shaman’s throat, even as the other man manically laughed and grinned, washed in his own blood. Again and again Alcello drove the blade home, until at last the roars faded, the flames died, and the rivers of blood dried.

Gasping for breath, Alcello sunk to his knees, the dagger falling from his grasp. He was soaked with blood, and as he looked around, he saw that his land was scorched and wasted, his people dead, his home gone. With a grim face, Alcello took the bright ribbons, that had adorned his spear, and his father’s, and his father’s, tied them around his arm, and then started walking.

The first village he came across, deeper into Mennon, watched the blood-drenched man with distrust, but they recognised the armour of a kestaphos, and left him alone as he washed the blood from his clothes, bought supplies with a handful of coin, and then was gone just as quickly as he appeared. The rumour of the wandering kestaphos continued to spread, as Alcello walked from settlement, seemingly without direction and without goal, until he reached the towering walls of a Roshad city. How he obtained a meeting with the city ‘thinker’, and access to the colossal library, has been forgotten, but when he emerged, Alcello no longer walked without purpose.

He began to hunt. He would trace rumours of monsters, find the trail, and then unrelentingly pursue the creature until he put a blade through it’s black heart. Whether it was corrupted sorcerer’s, rampaging beasts, or the foul monsters of nightmares, Alcello would hunt it. His pursuits took him all over the Cradle, and deep into the winding mountain passes of the Brimlands, and his exploits became the subject of great epic ballads and poems, the story of a kestaphos who purged the evil from the world and then vanished into the shadows again. No-one knew his face, few knew his name, but his legend grows with each new village that is saved by the almost silent-figure.

With the tale of a dark sorcerer being whispered around fires all across the Cradle, it was almost inevitable that the hunter of monsters would appear and lend his almost unique talents to those who have set out to hunt them down.

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