Former Title: (Optional)
Nickname/Alias: (Its not likely anyone will know you're lying)
Name:
Age:
Pronouns: (Such confusion)
Race: (Elementals even including Demons/Angels will have their powers significantly impacted)
Personality: (Not super essential. I'm sure it'll come out in the wash)
Appearance: (Pic or description)
Abilities/Powers: (Their effects are profoundly suppressed at the start, but you're welcome to write out the big nasties about them)
Equipment: (At the start of the thread, you have been relieved of all equipment. Sorry :C ) (This spot would be for armaments and armor)
Inventory: (See above) (This spot is for non-combat related items you're carrying (Not wearing. See appearance))
Origin: (The world you came from before...well...tell us about where you're from! ^^; )
Backstory: (What lead up to current events?)
Other: (Miss anything? Phobias, likes, quirks that don't somehow fit into personality, maybe a theme song?)

Former Title:
'The First'

Nickname/Alias:
Primalia/Lia

Name:
PR-71A

Age:
Ten years of uninterrupted operation.

Pronouns:
Female

Race:
Clockwork Automaton

Personality:
Once upon a music box's chime, a bright and playful tune.

Recent events have turned her into a mildly morose being. While some of her old personality is still buried under a face and mask of melancholy, Lia has become a more reserved and sullen person. Losing your friends, and being helpless to stop it tends to take something from a person, be it their soul or spirit. Whatever a person calls it. After all, she wasn't even supposed to be a hero. She was just a maid. Why did she live? Why? She would have gladly given her short life for those of her friends.

Now all that is played, is a soft clockwork elegy.

Appearance:
A surprisingly human looking Automaton.

Where others might have an entire body with gears and cogs showing, spinning and ticking away, Lia has a surprisingly human build. She could likely even pass for a heavily modified cyborg of sorts, if she wanted too.

Made mostly of highly magnetic Cobalt alloy, Lia's frame takes a blue, silver, and gold finish and is always cold to the tough unless having recently been under high or intense functions (When of which, she becomes a walking heater). The only non-metal part of her, would be her silken dress and artificial hair. A gift from Master Baylock which she holds dearly.

A large windup key can be seen sticking out of her back, though its function seems to be just decoration.

Abilities/Powers:
Not a combat model, rather a servant robot Lia doesn't have much in the way of fighting capabilities. Even so, she still has some formidable fighting ability compared to your average human. Perhaps additional abilities could be gained over time with a few upgrades. She is of average strength when compared to a human, though she can lock her frame and body making her have quite the gripping strength.

• Magnetic Body: A powerful magnetic force is generated by Lia's core, and flows through most of her body. It can be turned on so her entire body becomes magnetic, and thus capable of pulling all items to her or drawing herself towards something, or it can be used in a more directed manner.
  
  This ability alone affords her many different uses and abilities. Levitating metal objects, flight via magnetism, disrupting electronics. She can even detach certain parts of her body and control them at a limited range. Most often used with her arms and legs for easy repair.
  
  However, some interference seems to be messing with her power output making it less powerful than what it once was.
• Coilgun: A powerful high powered magnetic rifle is build into Lia's right arm. Though currently she has no ammo for it, its a basic function of her construction and it should still function as soon as she figures out this interference which is messing with her power output.
• Manufacturing: An ability all Automatons have on some level in order to maintain themselves like a human would brush their teeth or wash their hair. She can manufacture some metal objects with the right components. She knows the rough specs and sizes of certain things, and could fairly easily pick up the dimensions of other items.

Equipment:
N/A
- Once upon a time she had a multi-tooled blade armament used primarily for construction and repair work, but also doubled as a rather effective fighting mechanism. Was taken whens she was captured.

Inventory:
N/A

Origin:


Backstory:

The Ivory Empire was a peaceful place. A place of learning, education, peace, and understanding. Where robots and humans lived in relative harmony, aside from the occasional scuffle with the outland barbarians and conflict with a neighboring country. It was indeed, an unprecedented time of peace for the people who lived in Ivorthain. And perhaps this complacency, is why it fell so easily.

It was unprepared for the tide of malevolent machines, led by a creature simply calling itself 'The Second'. It was an old machine calling itself a god, and wielding one of its worlds legendary powers it quickly subjugated the nearly half the empire over a few short weeks. It's goal? Nothing more than the enslavement of humanity.

Where does Lia fit in, in all of this?

She wasn't a hero. At least, she wasn't supposed to be. She was a simple pile of scrap. A non-functioning automaton that had been rusting and decaying for an unknown length of time. It wasn't until one of her worlds actual heroes, a man by the name of 'Baylock Glass' found her in that forgotten scrap heap did she regain any semblance of consciousness.

Baylock was an inventor. Sailor. Explorer. Liked to gallivant off to unknown parts of the world inhabited by the barbarians with his 'crew' of merry misfits. To be clear, when she was repaired whoever she was before - the automaton she was before, was killed. She may have the same materials and construction pieces, but whoever they were died ages ago. Baylock fixed her, repaired her and gave new life to an old dead machine. Some might have said it was simply him wanting old technology for himself, but he treated her just as a friend, or perhaps one might their daughter.

For ten years she traveled with him as his caretaker and attendant.

When The Second made his appearance, Baylock and his crew was asked to form an army and deal with it. Gladly, he went, fully believing they could handle it. At least, Primalia herself had faith that they could.

It went so horribly wrong.

Perhaps in an act of desperation, or familiarity she picked up an old weapon. She, an automaton with almost no offensive capabilities compared to the rest of her more battle ready kin was the last to stand against the machine. A machine who wasn't likely to be remembered by the rest of the world.

Other:

Former Title: Defender Damion Dire

Alias: Derek 'Dirk' Donovan

Name: Damion Dire

Age: 27

Pronouns: he/him

Race: Human

Personality: At one point he was a bitter man, but then he changed. He became an altruistic Defender of the Magus House after he vanquished the Cult of Crucifer. He became a good man, compared to the dubiously legal private investigator he'd been before. He's always been pragmatic, willing to take any advantage, and a tad amoral, or at least operating within his own moral scale. He is generally a bit gloomy, or at least darkly realistic about things. Still, with his friends, he knows how to enjoy himself. Ever since he became a Defender of the Magus House, he's carried himself with a sort of pride, as if he finally believes he has some importance in life. He cares for his animatrons, such as his golems (which are now all destroyed after Kazzok came).

Appearance: He's a tall man with pale skin and spiky black hair. His eyes are

Abilities/Powers:
•First of his tricks is Fire magic. This encompasses many things, mostly pertaining to heat, explosions, and flames (obviously). While it can be used in a large variety of ways, the more spectacular the feat the more draining it is. People in his world known to overuse magic can even die, so he tries to avoid straining himself. He can shoot fireballs, heat things up by touch, spew forth flames, and, as a last resort, cause miniaturized explosions with a concentrated beam.

•Second of his tricks is Animation magic. Heavily regulated in his homeworld, most people with it never get to legally use it unless licensed by the Magus House. It can be used to make inanimate matter come to a sort of life, with the amount of matter used deciding how long it takes and how much focus and energy is required. Animation does not work on living matter. Animation also does not work on certain objects, such as an entire house, a table, or a lamp. Mostly it works on things that can be molded into a shape capable of moving by itself. Sometimes blood is needed to power larger creations.

Equipment: Well, nothing at the time.

Inventory: Nothing as of this moment.

Origin: Cavenia. A world of magic, though with at least some technology to go with it. Magic is heavily regulated and watched by the Magus House, lead by a ruling Council of nine Magi. The capital of Cavenia (the world was long ago united by the First Magus) is Darrington City, a large city that contains an administrative sector where the Magus House officials live. The nine Magi are chosen primarily from mages who are both adept at leadership and supremely skilled in their field of magic. Successors are selected by the Magi themselves, and the successor is generally one of their Defenders, the people who serve as the agents of the Magi. Cavenia is primarily forest and plains, with mountains few and far between and considered places of misfortune and monsters.

Backstory: Damion, raised in an orphanage, did not have the most pleasant childhood. He wasn't bullied or anything, he merely did not enjoy it, and he saw some things that children shouldn't see. The second he turned 18 he was out to offer his services to whoever would pay (he knew someone would, because even at that age his talent was obvious). His first client was a man named John who was a low ranking Magus House official. It was by pure coincidence that John was offering to pull strings and get a willing Animationist a license if they would simply animate one strong golem that would follow orders for him. Damion did, and received his license (though it was later discovered that the golem was used for... less than legal reasons). Now fully 'legal', he went from client to client, performing questionable activities for hire.

He was 24 and had gathered quite a reputation as a freelancer when the client that would change his life approached him. A House official by the name of Quinn. Quinn was put in charge of an investigation into the murder of one man, a Frank Cassan. Frank Cassan had been ritually sacrificed after being knocked unconscious, or at least that's what they assumed happened. Quinn had grown frustrated with the investigation, and he knew of Damion's reputation for getting jobs done.

To summarize a long, long story, the trail led to a Cult whose membership consisted of certain higher-ranking officials in the House, who planned to resurrect the Painbringer, Crucifer (Crucifer having been killed long ago by the First Magus). The final fight pushed Damion to his limits, and it was only when Quinn arrived that they had even a small chance. Still, with the help of some golems and Quinn, Damion eventually subdued the Cult of Crucifer. And, with some vacancies in the Magus House, both Damion and Quinn were made Defenders of the House. In the years afterward, with Damion's dubious past forgotten, he now works for the betterment of the city, helping the authorities catch criminals.

Nickname/Alias: The Star-Winged Archer
Name: River Fein
Age: 23
Pronouns: Female
Race: Winged-People

Personality: Although she’s perfectly happy being on her own, she always feels more at ease when she’s among other people. She’s been a wanderer for several years at this point and has trouble settling down anywhere, and she gets restless when she nowhere to go or nothing to do. She’s always taken pride in her skills and in her family, even among people who wouldn’t recognise either. Since her capture, she’s somewhat more irritable. She doesn’t understand why she, of all the people of her world, would be spared. There’s nothing left for her to go back to anymore.

Appearance: River is about average height, and has a trim, muscular build. She keeps her auburn hair tied back and has two feathers, a loon’s and a snowy-owl’s, tied into it in memorial of her parents. Her own wings are those of a common-loon and they’re large enough that the tips reach near her ankles. She has red-ish eyes and brown skin. Her clothes are plain and unadorned.

Abilities/Powers: Has no skill in magic. Although, if she’d bothered to study it she would have found an affinity with magic based in water or ice manipulation. She is skilled in archery, using it primarily to hunt for food, although the potential for winnings from a competition would easily draw her in.

Equipment: A hand-made bow and quiver of arrows, along with a chest guard for archery, and a multi-purpose knife.
Inventory: A flute, a coin purse, and a small bag of miscellaneous tools. All but the flute was taken when she was captured.

Origin: The Republic of Ferriveil, one of several countries on the continent, had known relative peace for years. Although River’s uncle would occasionally tell her of his time as a soldier, he had only seen small skirmishes. The majority of the populous were either Winged-People, or Humans, but with the wars in the southern Kingdom of Eryllan, the population of the Animal-People grew steadily over the years.

Backstory: River’s parents were merchants, although she was raised by her uncle from a young age when her parents were killed in a massive storm that also destroyed her childhood home. He taught her everything she knows about archery and living off the land. They lived on their own in his home in the mountains that bordered the country.

When she was a child, they moved to one of the major cities while her uncle was recruited as a body-guard. While there, River be-friended a young page along with some of the other children. She honed and refined her skills with a bow. After they left that job, River began her life of wandering, and her uncle returned to his mountain home.

It was only by chance that she encountered Kazzok.

Name: Gangraena.
Age: No one knows.
Pronouns: She/her/it.
Race: Reanimated.
Personality:

She is a friendly and optimistic war machine of a being.

Between the process of dying only to return again and her time spent beneath the waves she's definitely become what some would describe as "Odd". She almost never lets grim or depressing matters lower her spirits. Rare are the times that she isn't smiling and even then she is quick to snap back to her chipper self. The only thing that could really bring her down is boredom, something she's well acquainted with from her time at the bottom of the ocean.

Despite generally meaning well and generally being quite high in spirits there are times where her training as a paladin along with her history of combat definitely show. For her violence is always a ready solution and though she never holds too much hatred in her heart she'll quickly smash those who get in her way. She has never been the sharpest tool in the shed either and the reanimation followed with her time below certainly didn't help speed her wits up any.

Appearance:

She stands at an even six foot tall and weighs a solid one hundred and ninety pounds though most wouldn't be able to tell since she looks like she weighs half that. Most would assume a warrior such as herself would have sizable muscles but her body looks soft and feminine, at least the parts that remain. Given the fact she's animated with dark magic muscles are hardly necessary since biologically speaking she has no right to be moving at all, let alone with such strength.

Her skin is a blue tinged grey like that of a drowned corpse. Her body might be a bit less bloated than the average floater but she looks no less drowned. Her hair is a murky dark green, not unlike kelp. Her hair is straight albeit messy more often than not and cut just above her neckline. Her face while bearing some slender femininity is a bit rounder, a softer jawline with cheeks that are more full with a lower cheekbone that accentuates the eyes which... Well, require some explanation.

The sockets which once housed eyes are empty now. More than that the eyelids themselves are missing as well, leaving the eye sockets open up to the edges of the skull, leaving only the eyebrows. Inside the hollow apertures her eyes once occupied is a deep darkness, an abyss so black staring deeply into them can leave one's grip on sanity loosened. As though swimming in the shores of the fathomless darkness which appears to stretch on for eternity are two spheres of winding light in an unearthly yellow hue, one mote for each socket.

For attire she's clad in fighting garments. She wears a pair of brown animal hide pants and dons a tan hide tunic which comes down to her hips. Her tunic is tied with an off-white sash. Having seen much combat her clothes have a number of cuts and blood stains, most of the blood not being her own. Ordinarily she would be clad in a heavy assortment of armor but that's been taken from her after her recent post-post-mortem imprisonment.

Abilities/Powers:

She's been reanimated by a dark power that calls her physical form home. As such there's a number of changes to her, some simply being facets of being undead and others brought upon her by the dark one's power.

Firstly as a member of the undead she no longer holds the needs of the living. She does not need to eat, sleep, drink or even breath. Diseases and poisons sit idle in her flesh for her blood had ran still long ago. She no longer experiences fatigue and can exert herself endlessly without fail. While she no longer feels pain nor the comforts of warmth she still holds a dim sense of touch.

She has no eyes of the tangible variety but she can see perfectly fine, not only in the light but also in the darkness no matter how tenebrous it may be. This comes at the cost of being able to see in color, leaving her only able to see in shades of grey. She no longer holds any sense of taste or smell either.

In addition to the traits of her undead are the dark gifts bestowed upon her. She holds a strength far greater than any mundane man or beast. The entirety of her body is connected by this strange power so that even if an arm, a leg or even her head is removed she can control them no less than when they were still attached to her. Not only does this dark essence keep her flesh from rotting like some mere cadaver but it also protects her from the harsh tolls of the water. What else this power she's given entails is known only by the one who gave it to her.

Though sometimes a boon undeath carries a number of drawbacks as well. The most notable drawback is that as she is no longer alive her flesh does not knit together over time like the living do. While she may not decay every wound she receives never recovers. Her only means of maintaining structural stability is to patch together the skin with thread and, in more severe cases, to nail metal braces to the bone.

Equipment:

- Her weapon, A large ship anchor which has been covered with more than few centuries worth of rust, wielded by the loop it's tied by. It's attached to a chain which is wrapped several times around her left arm which is her dominant arm. Despite the endless years of rust the old makeshift weapon's thickness had ensured it's survival so far. It may be pocked and riddled with old barnacle shells but it still holds up to both the rigors of travel and the trials of combat. The chain attached to it's ring is a recent addition, the original one having broken apart deep below the waves quite a while ago. (Removed)

- Her armor. A collection of borrowed pieces from foes she has slain. Some parts are even segments of armor that have been strapped or crudely nailed onto preexisting articles. She tends to show preference towards heavier, more protective gear. (Removed)

Inventory: An old fishing rod. (Removed)

Origin:

Hers was a violent land. A land where sword and sorcery reigned supreme. Throughout the ages kingdoms rose and fell. One noteworthy group was The Order of The Divine Concord, humans who served the wishes of angels in exchange for their divine gifts. Those who were trained to fight for the order, by the order, were known as "Paladins". Throughout the years the order changed, growing and shrinking with the whims of fate but they clang ever tight to their sacred duty to serve the Divine Concord.

In this medieval stage of their world war was ever constant and life was never easy for those who called this world home. Peasants toiled, merchants traveled to sell their wares, knights fought almost constantly and priests were required to uphold the mandates of their divine benefactors. Not even kings had life easy for they still needed to earn the respect of their knights and the loyalty of the nobility.

Needless to say these lands were never short on strife.

At least there was always hope...

Backstory:

Her name was not always Gangraena. What it was has been forgotten for a very long time.

Her memory of her past is foggy, incomplete in parts. She remembered training. She recalled how to fight. She recalled the paladins, the holy order, the order her family belonged to. Their lessons, their tenets were lost to her. All that remained was that she loved her family. Her father was a proud paladin. He had taken it upon himself to personally train her over her other sisters. Her brothers all trained under the order itself but she trained under him.

Those were happy days. It had all come to a dead halt with the storm. She was on a ship, that much she remembers. There was a storm. Her trip had a purpose. She was to fight something, somewhere. What else there was to it escapes her.

It mattered little after it all went dark.

When she awoke she felt different from before. She hadn't noticed her lack of breathing nor the rest of her changes for that matter but she did notice she was in an unfamiliar place, underwater no less. She didn't know how to swim but even if she did it wouldn't have mattered. Her dominant arm was tied to her boat's anchor by it's very chains, weighing her down so she may walk instead. It was large but it was no effort to lift for her. Without paying it much mind she simply rested it on her shoulder like any old axe.

She had found herself in a temple of some sort, long sunken below the waves. The only evidence as to what was worshiped in these halls was shattered long ago, by who she did not know. What history these halls held was lost to her, lost beneath the waves where the world did it's best to forget it.

All she knew was that she was different now. She was never a sharp one but the reanimation process had effected her mind, damaging it to an extent in the process. Things that were once certain seemed hazy now. Faces, dates, goals and other such things were now harder to grasp. Her memory was fractured, partly on purpose and partly as a result of the flaws that occurred in her psyche.

Thanks to her special eyes she could see quite fine despite the fact she was in a pitch black temple so far below the ocean's surface that light no longer reached the trenches it sat within. She explored around until eventually she happened upon the exit. It was time to return to the world she knew... Or at least she would. Eventually.

_
From then on she simply walked about the ocean floor. She had no direction to follow so she'd simply walk until she ran into something and then try to walk around that. This continued for thousands upon thousands of years. Though long as such a trek might be it could of been shorter but she had a terrible sense of direction and often wound up walking in circles for countless years at a time. Sometimes she would fall into pits that could swallow mountains and occasionally she'd run into mountains that make those of the surface world seem pitifully small by comparison. Being a realm vastly larger than the surface land it's features often dwarfed those that appeared above

After such an unfathomably long time spent wandering the vast sea floor she eventually came upon a shore. Trudging up this deep sea creature of undeath continued along the sandy coast until she found a quaint little fishing village. At first the locals were terrified of her but after a while they came to accept that she meant no harm. She spent a fair amount of time among them, slowly learning their language and how to fish. Over the course of many generations she eventually got the hang of both.

Such was life until a humble mercenary company came through one day. They were a respectable bunch of warriors who needed a place to stay and restock their supplies. When they saw how strong Gangraena was they were thoroughly impressed. They offered her a place in their company if she wanted to fight alongside them. She accepted the offer and went along with them the day after. Since then she's fought many battles, now wielding her anchor as a tool of death rather than just an old keepsake. Over the years they'd lose men both to battle and to sickness. Eventually after a few bad bouts of combat the company was all but wiped out. It was just her and the captain who had suffered severe wounds towards the end of their last contract. He decided if he did survive his injuries he was just going to retire on what funds they had left. Unfortunately survival just wasn't in his cards this time.

Since fighting was what she knew best she decided to just keep up what she'd been doing so far. She traveled the land now a lone mercenary, killing for coin if only to afford repairs on her armor. In time however she soon found the days were growing shorter, even in the summers. The night started to claim the day and while she had no issues about it everyone else was in a panic. The Order of The Divine Concord served as a beacon, everyone flocking to their churches. They gained almost complete control of the kingdom in the wake of these apocalyptic times.

_
She began to see undead wandering the land as she traveled. They left her well enough alone so she did the same since they weren't much for conversation. The paladins didn't leave her quite as well alone however. Fight after fight she found herself attacked by unfamiliar paladins of an order now foreign to her. Their divine magic and arms were not enough to prevail over her superior strength and skill in combat. She felled all who sought to slay her, all the while confused as to why so many people with the same heraldry wanted her dead.

Before long she found herself constantly getting stuck in the middle of battlefields, caught in battles between the armies of man against legions of shambling dead. She was often times getting attacked by the side of the living on account of her being rather undead herself. Before she knew it she had unknowingly become the spearhead that would pierce the ranks of mankind and lead the undead into the heart of the kingdom, one victory at a time.

Not really aware of the fact that the people believed her to be the commander of the undead on account of her being the most intelligent and noteworthy of the undead hordes she continued well ahead of the army that was marching on the grand chapel. She didn't really see herself as apart of any force so she figured she'd traipse into town and maybe see about scoring another job for some more coin. What she wasn't aware of was that the high priest of the chapel had assembled a team of heroes chosen by the angels of the Divine Concord to go forth and slay her in an attempt to cripple the forces of darkness in their advance.

Upon her arrival the village was empty save these divinely appointed individuals. They proclaimed that she needed to die for the good of all mankind and thus they fought. It was a bloody battle and she had killed four of their team of eight, maiming another two before they finally overcame her. They had to hack off her head and all her limbs before they able to subdue her for good. Despite all their efforts however it seemed she would not die no matter how great their divine rites were.

Ultimately they were forced to drag her remained back to town. The chapel sealed her dismembered body away in a big ornate sarcophagus engraved with holy wards to trap her within. This sarcophagus was then locked deep within their reliquary, the safest vault they had left which they kept their holiest artifacts within. It was their hope that the presence of said artifacts would keep the forces of darkness from reaching her current prison.

_
It was no use. Though they no longer lost any more men to the cruel edge of her anchor they had experienced losses too great as it stood. Half of the great heroes of their order were slain by her and of the four that remained she had crippled two of them so badly they were of no use in battle. Worse yet the sun had ceased to rise and the undead seemed to rise endlessly, swarming the chapel which served as the last great bastion for humanity. No matter how many battles the paladins won the undead always returned in greater numbers with each passing of the moon. Little did they know the ancient temple had risen from the sea. The darkness it contained was pouring out freely across the land and sea now. Their world was being consumed, it was only a matter of time.

In the wake of their final battle the paladins and their heroes fought harder than ever before. Their darkest hour was punctuated with the greatest of their determination. No matter how hopeless the odds they cleaved into the hordes whilst unleashing bolts of destructive light upon the shambling cadavers. All in vain, their efforts wasted as one by one they fell only to join the forces they once fought. The heroes which remained lent all of their great power to aid in this last fight but they were too few and too late to stop the forces of darkness.

The ending was written well before this battle had even begun, they had only just begun to realize it as their forces were crumbling all around. In losing half of their team in taking down the undead general the heroes no longer had the means of fighting through to the heart of the darkness. The two of them could not have taken the fight back to them, not without the other six.

Once the last of the paladins fell humanity quivered in fear behind their walls. It was barely even a speed bump as the undead simply piled onto each other forming hills large enough for the rest to walk on over the walls upon. Once inside the final throes of mankind were far from quiet. As expected none were spared.

_
She did not know any of this however. Having been sealed in the box for humanity's final hours she only remembers waking up in a dungeon cell with her limbs reattached somehow.

Now she stands before her door eager to get back out there and have more fun.

Former Title: Ranger Captain of Istvargrad

Nickname/Alias: Walker

Name: Jericho Cross

Age: Early forties

Pronouns: He/Him

Race: Human

Personality:
Having been the leading man in a crime ring of thieves, bandits, thugs and assassins turned into a commissioned Captain of the Monarch when Kazzok and his forces invaded, one might think that he was either a piss poor thief, or a god awful Captain, but that is not the case. Well spoken, fluent in several languages spoken among his people, and clever to a fault, one could easily mistake him for a noble playing at crime. Indeed, some rumors are that he was a noble ousted from his family for being too vicious in the court intrigue. Whatever the truth, he hides it behind a facade of feint smiles, blatant lies, and constant distrust of any and all around him at all times. This leaves a great deal in dispute among his (former) peers as to who he is. Exiled noble, jumped up gutter rat, disgraced officer, rumors swirled wherever he walked.

What isn't in dispute is the level of pragmatism that Jericho displays on a routine basis. It served both him and his own well during the conflicts and problems leading up to the eventual loss of his world. Of course, the arrival of Kazzok and his forces should have had quite the detrimental impact on Jericho but, on the surface and as far as he'll let anyone see, he took it in stride. "A gods damned shit stain cleaned, and without a coin paid, what's the bother, eh?" Of course, one cannot seriously believe this to be the truth, and while he doesn't expect anyone to buy it, he also won't be sharing lightly what the truth of the matter is. Not so much sorrow, but a mix of regret and rage, mixed into a dangerous bundle waiting to simmer to the surface. Regret over what was left undone and of redemption lost, rage over being denied all that he had earned with his own two hands, and of any chance at redemption, being stolen away.

Abilities/Powers:
- (Reluctant) Leader of Men -
Between his own ring of criminals, bandits, and thugs to when he was drafted to be a formal soldier, and a Captain no less, of soldiers of dubious reputation, Jericho has proven to be a surprisingly effective leader in small, urban brawls. Organizing and tactically deploying small bands of disparate thugs, thieves, and specialists of all sorts tends to come second nature, even if its something Jericho is not fond of. Too much attention, and too much riding on his shoulders. Of course, when Kazzok arrived with his legions, reluctance was no excuse for not applying what skills were useful in fighting back.

- Resilient Physiology -
A life of crime tends to lead one to exposure to all sorts of nasty things, from the obvious such as blades and bludgeons to the not so obvious, poisons, toxins, and various diseases, illnesses, and injuries that were never treated by completely competent healers. In such circumstances, one either becomes resilient to physical traumas, or becomes crippled in a hurry. Fortunately for Jericho, he proved to be rather resilient, even by the standards of his world, bouncing back from most physical ailments alarmingly quickly, and shrugging off injury through will, quick bindings, and a touch of liquid courage when needed.

- Dirty Fighter -
It should come to absolutely no surprise the crook plays dirty when it comes to a fight. While he is certainly a skilled swordsman, and competent archer, he chooses to "enhance" his ability in a fight with cheap, underhanded methods. Poisoned blades, barbed arrows, a bit of sand in the eye and a brisk blow beneath the belt, anything to give him an edge and come out on top, or at least survive to see another day. He is also alarmingly creative when it comes to preparing an area for a fight, when he has time to, lacing traps and patches of unfortunate terrain for whoever isn't ready for fighting in such conditions.

Equipment:
- Personal Arming Sword (Stolen) -
A personal, well worn, and tried and true sword that Jericho has had for most of his career. Lacking any real ornamentation anymore, besides the remains hinting at a noble owner in the past, it remains his personal choice of weapon. Well balanced, and honed to a razor edge with a hardened tip, it is capable of cutting down lightly armored foes, and thrusting through medium armor and the weaker joints on heavier armor.

- Composite Bow (Stolen) -
Mostly what he had on hand during his last stand in his world, Jericho's bow is a rather plain example of a composite bow. With a quiver full of various arrows, some for armor, some for flesh, and even a few for utility, it rounded out his toolset in a fight, giving him options to face a foe on footing that was not in their favor.

Inventory:
- Lucky Pipe (Stolen) -
A hand me down from father to son for quite some time, the battered old pipe still functions as a pipe, and is often used as such, even if the remains of ornamentation hint that it was, once upon a time, a symbol of status and nobility.

- Trappers Kit (Stolen) -
A small bag of lockpicks, springs, spare parts, and other bits of metal and leather designed to let a man put together, or disarm, traps, locks, and the like without needing a dedicated workshop following him around. Often times added to with scrap and salvage from fights and thievery, one can be surprised at what might be found in its contents from time to time.



Backstory:
Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.

Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.

This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.

Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.

Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.

It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?

Former Title: Apothecary Heriphox, Chirurgeon Prince of House Apothecary

Nickname/Alias: Pox, The Plaguelord, The Father of Crows

Name: Pox

Age: 33

Pronouns: He/Him

Race: Wood Elemental - Ashwood Line, signified by darken charcaol black skin with very bright willowy hair that grows long and quickly.

The Caleondian Empire was a major power on a world known only as Creation. The older sentient races blood mixed with that of spirits, gods, and elementals producing races that have a touch of magic in their form. Caleondia was built on a culture of arranged marriage and carefully managed eugenics, producing scions that further expressed the powers of the spirits and even reaching to tap into the power of ancient gods, draconic beings of pure elemental power. Every major house is said to have expressed one of the five elements with a long history of ancestral bloodlines.

Personality:
Pox is a man of contradiction, much like his House but there is something about him that remains genuine. He wants to bring some light back into this dark world. He flatters, he encourages, he studies and shares, bringing a sense of child like wonder with him. He loves to laugh and loves to bring cheer and loves to always learn. His curious mind will allow for nothing else. At the same time however, his look and position as an untouchable makes that quite difficult and he is evasive at best when it comes to questions about himself or House Apothecary. Indeed, he gets quite chatty when the conversation goes somewhere he'd rather it didn't, a tell tale sign that he's hiding something. His words are so prepared and reflexive that there is almost something uncanny about them, something unsettling. He can't help but sometimes giving into Gallows humor, considering how he is surrounded by pain and death for most of his life. Gotta stay positive in the face of horror.

Abilities/Powers:
As an elemental blooded, Pox gets some benefits as a results of his blood line, essentially his elemental nature expressing itself in a myriad of ways.

Racial Abilities:

• Sap Blood: Since most poisons and diseases are designed for an inherently animalian system, physical corruption finds little purchase in his partly plant like biology, making him extremely resistant to poisons and diseases.
• Photosynthetic: Sunlight and other sources of strong light are absorbed as nutrition, keeping him going for longer periods without eating. He cannot go without food indefinitely and he still needs water, probably more than a normal person does.
• Lifegiving: When Pox is healthy, his body gives back to the world like a tree or vine baring fruit. He grows edible flower buds in his hair, seeds flake off his skin, and fluids such as tears or blood taste as a very sweet nectar which is nutritious. These components are useful in draughts that are designed for healing or to produce wellness

Magic: Pox comes from a world of spirits and magitech. Magic is a very real and almost every day occurrence. It's study and use are practiced and institutionalized, and becoming a sorceror is an accepted occupation, if branded with a set of stigmas. Pox comes from one of the richest families in Creation and is himself a prodigy.

Support Magic

• Mend the Broken Flesh: A channeling spell. Pox motions his hands as if he is sewing a garment, carefully weaving, threading, knitting. While he works, wounds heal much much faster before parties very eyes. It is not an instant healing, but it is much more thorough that fast healing magic.
• Flawless Diagnostic Technique: With a few seconds of checking the pulse, looking into a patient's mouth, tapping a joint, and other mundane checkup tasks, Pox gets intuitive knowledge of what is exactly effecting the patient, even if its internal. Mundane afflictions are immediately understood but exotic or magic conditions require more study, he just knows that something is wrong and gets some idea of how its effecting the body.
• Contagion Curing Touch: With this lengthy ritual, Pox can attempt to rid a patient of a disease, even without the aid of medicines or instruments. Using acupuncture, he condenses the disease to a single point to be excised or expelled. The disgusting ball of corruption can be seized for other purposes, provided there is a way to store and preserve it...

Offensive Magic

• Choking Gas Cloud: A think bilous green vapor is expelled from Pox's mouth. It makes for great cover as it conceals him, and those within find breathing difficult. Lungs and eyes itch generally forcing organics to flee the area. This gas will not kill targets, only sending them into coughing fits until the gas dissipates.

Mundane Skills

• Medicine:
• Chemistry:
• The Healing Arts:
• Herbalism:
• Social Protocols:
• Academia:

Equipment:

• Tattered Leather Robes
• Sharp Shard of Glass wrapped with linens
• The Plague Lord's Mask - Synonymous to his being, Pox is not far from his stylized birdlike mask. It offers some protection from the outside world in the form of gases and such, but other than that it only stands as an unnerving reminder of the horrors of the days of the Contagion. Only time will tell if there are any additional enchantment imbued into such a legendary object.

Inventory:

• Some Empty Pouches
• Some Empty Glass Vials
• Needle and Thread
• Old Bandages

Origin:



Backstory:
The little lordling grew up the apple of his family's eye. Brilliant, clever, and a willing student, he excelled in his primary and secondary schools and seemed to be an exemplar for House Apothecary. The House was minor compared to the main Noble Houses but provided the alchemical reagents that went into the creation of artifiice. The House owned all the premier hospitals and medical churches and made fortunes on longevity drugs. The young lord took to these trades like a bee to honey.

He however was unskilled when it came to the cutthroat politics of the Noble Houses and slowly distanced himself from the meaningless power plays and red tape. A marriage was arranged, and while he liked his bride to be well enough, she didn't, finding the odd and cryptic tendencies of the apothecaries to be quite revolting. Finding very little acceptance at home, Pox went abroad on 'field surveys' for new magics and new reagents for their trade. While in the 'threshold' Pox experienced life and the suffering outside of the civilized and rich land owned by the Realm. Disease was everywhere, with causes blaming the taxation of the Realm that left its satraps starving. Creating an artifact of his own, his signature mask, he walked with pride among lepers and plague, tending to whomever needed him.

Then the darkness came. An invading force without number that stormed in from the far flung reaches of Creation towards the center. Pox found himself out of the healing houses and onto battlefields, refining his healing magic to something akin to the spread of poison, disease, and entropy. Pox himself even organized an operation meant to inflict a terrible pandemic on the invading forces. This Contagion felled legions, enemy and ally alike, earning him the cruel and fearful names that would haunt him to this day.

It only halted the advanced, delaying them. It wasn't enough, and instead put a target on his back. He defended his triage tent like a demon, felling dozens with medical implements and forgoing his magics to prevent more harm. He was overwhelmed.

And fell. Another feast for the crows.

Other: Pox's coping mechanism is to talk alot and have a hopelessly optimistic disposition. Despite being a lord, he is quite servile when it comes to the health of those around him. Despite the need for him to perform his atrocities, he cannot come to grips of the evils he had committed, and thus is seeking atonement. He wears the mask as a reminder of the horrors he had wrought.

//will get a theme soon.

Former Title: Knight Captain of the Holy Order (Former), The Most Wanted Man in Averne (former), Chief Strategist of the Resistance (former)
Nickname/Alias: Uriel the Flame Witch
Name: Uriel Cartur
Age: 37
Pronouns: He
Race: Human (Witch)

Personality: A man who has risen, fallen and was raised again, Uriel has experienced much hardship in his life. Made a pariah by the very laws and beliefs he used to enforce, forced to hide his nature for so long or face death, he has been made cautious and distrusting; it has been a long time since Uriel met someone he felt he could trust.

Though once bright eyed and hopeful, time and experience has made him cynical; he has seen what those things he used to believe in are really like, what the people he used to trust were really capable of and what he was willing to give his life to uphold was really worth. He has little faith in people and even less in organisations or systems.

This does not prevent him from trying to help people however; he was once a knight after all and his reasons for doing so have not changed. Uriel will not suffer injustice to happen, nor will he watch idly by when someone needs his help.

Appearance:


Abilities/Powers:
Witches Pact - Uriel is a Witch. He is a human who has made a pact with a demon in order to gain the ability to control magic; through his connection to his demonic familiar he is able to cast spells, sense and absorb mana, see in the dark and understand the language of demons. Witches do not always have a choice when a demon wished to make a pact with them, in fact most Witches are created against their will when a demon takes a liking to them; Uriel is one such Witch. Due to their demonic patronage Witches have certain weaknesses, vulnerabilities to sanctified substances or objects with holy properties; one of the measures often used against captured Witches to keep them confined is to soak their bindings in holy water, which burns their skin and works to suppress their magic.

Flame Magic – Each Witch has a magic specialty, determined by their demon familiar and influenced by their own nature. Witches can generally only cast magic related to their specialty meaning that no two Witches are ever alike when it comes to what they are capable of. Uriel’s specialty is fire, as determined by the demon he is linked with, Ignis. This specialty is further influence by Uriel’s vast experience as a soldier patrolling the frontiers of Averne meaning that his fire magic often takes the shape of an animal; a flock of flaming birds or a pack of fiery wolves chasing his target down for example. Ignis likes to call this magic “Wildfire”.

Military Experience – Before he became a Witch, before his secret was revealed, Uriel was a captain in the Holy Order. He was knighted by the King and the Church, appointed to a leadership position and tasked with tracking and capturing suspected Witches all across the kingdom. He has picked up many skills from his time in the military, from swordsmanship, horse riding, tracking, wilderness survival as well as leadership, military strategy and tactics. When he became a fugitive, it was these qualities that made him the most wanted man in the kingdom. And it was these qualities that made the resistance seek him out.

Equipment: A simple trousers and tunic, along with his leather boots, were all that they left him after his capture.

Inventory: None

Origin: Averne. A kingdom of religion and darkness; the king rules over a nation of pious and fearful people while the Church rules over the king. Wild magic has returned to the world, leylines bursting with mana as demons return to the plane of mortals in droves and the number of Witches explodes beyond control. The Holy Order seeks to drive out this evil plague, conscripting as many young men as they can into the army and sending their knights out into the kingdom to hunt down as many Witches as they can. Results are rewarded and failure is punished, leading to a zealous witch hunt that claims many more innocent lives than it does demons.

Years pass and things slowly improve. The flow of demons and the number of new Witches seems to stabilise, yet the Holy Order finds fewer and fewer Witches during its hunt; it seems this will be the new way of things from now on. Those who live outside of the larger cities are fearful and paranoid, wondering whether it will be the Witches or the Knights who come for them first; everyone knows they don’t particularly care about finding Witches anymore, not real ones anyway, so long as they can keep up the appearance of meeting their quotas. Those in the cities are safer and have a much better image of the Church, but even they fear the imminent threat of Witches attacking that the Church protects them from.

Word spreads of a resistance, someone opposed to the Church and their puppet king, someone who wants to put a stop to the futile hunts and restore some sanity to the kingdom; it would almost be something people could celebrate if it wasn’t run by the very Witches the kingdom seeks to eliminate. Even so, people join them; whether because they fear the church and its Witch hunters more than the Witches themselves, or because they fear what the Witches will do if they don’t, they join. What’s more, word is they’ve managed to recruit the former Knight Captain turned Witch, the most wanted man in Averne, Uriel Cartur to their cause.

Backstory: Uriel spent his entire life in service to the Church of the Holy Order. His father was a Cardinal, a high ranking official in the Church, and as a young boy he would attend services frequently, as was expected of him. When he was old enough he began lessons to become a knight; history, etiquette, swordsmanship, horse riding and so on. As a teenager he was squired to a knight to continue his training, leaving the capital city for the first time in his life and going on missions for the Church and the crown.

As a young adult, after eight years faithfully serving the knight he was appointed to, Uriel earned his own knighthood. Standing before the king and the Churches highest members he swore his oaths and was knighted, given command of his own regiment of soldiers and tasked with hunting Witches in the furthest reaches of the kingdom, where the wild magic was strongest. It was a difficult task, and daunting, but he accepted it gladly.

The next few years were arduous and dangerous; the furthest reaches of the kingdom were a perilous place and he spent as much time fighting off bandits or wild animals as he did hunting Witches. No matter how difficult though he was steadfast in the performance of his duties, tracking any rumours of the use of magic, any hint of witchcraft to their source, and dealing with whatever he found. Finding a Witch was rare however, they are not as numerous as the Church had led him to believe, and unlike other Knights he was unwilling to condemn innocents just to make himself look better. Over the years he received many reports from the capital stating their displeasure with his results; it was likely only his connection to his father, influential as he was, that protected him from greater reprisals.

At some point, Ignis found him. Whether he was a demon new to this word, or perhaps the demon linked to one of the Witches Uriel managed to capture, the fire demon latched onto Uriel without him knowing, forming a pact between the two and forever sealing Uriel’s fate. At first he began having dreams, dark and disturbing dreams, with visions of fire and pain and a whispered voice he couldn’t understand. He thought it was merely stress at first, his mind finally succumbing to the pressures of his duty and the harshness of his environment, but then he started hearing the whispers when he was awake as well.

Just when he thought he was going mad, Ignis appeared to him. A small, imp-like creature with a twisted grin and horribly evil eyes, intelligent and malicious; the demon promised him power, promised him freedom, promised him everything, promised him lies. There wasn’t even a deal to be made, his soul had already been sold, the demon had already won; Uriel had become a Witch and had all the power that came with it, but he chose to deny it. For almost a year he kept his nature hidden from everyone, from the soldiers under his command and from the people he tried to help; even from the Church.

Everything went horribly wrong when they found the leyline well however. Leylines are concentrations of mana that form naturally along the alignment of significant landmarks; where these lines cross over each other they form wells of immense magical power found in the world; as Witches are able to draw on the ambient mana in the world to fuel their magic, these leylines and especially the wells can greatly enhance their magical abilities. And in the case of an inexperienced Witch, or one such as Uriel who tries to suppress their power, it can cause their magic to run out of control.

When Uriel finally managed to get his magic under control and the flames died down most of his men were dead and his secret was exposed. A few managed to escape and survive, spreading the word of what had happened; this news soon made it to the capital and the Church and the King and soon Uriel Cartur was known as the most wanted criminal in the entire kingdom. A former knight, the son of a Cardinal, one of the kingdoms most trusted members revealed as a Witch; the man who’d sold his soul for power. The man who’d laid in hiding for years, worming his way into a position of power, before slaughtering the very men who trusted him most.

Or at least, that was how the Church told it.

For another two years Uriel survived as a fugitive, with his face posted in every town or village for everyone to see; everyone knew his face and his name and either feared or hated him in equal measure. For two years he hid his face, kept to the shadows and did whatever he needed to survive. And, reluctantly, he learned how to control his magic; he couldn’t afford another loss of control and, if he was to survive, he needed to be able to use it as a weapon. He tried to ignore Ignis’s gloating as he practised.

Despite his best effort however, he couldn’t evade the Holy Order’s Witch hunters forever. He was captured, thrown in a cramped cage on the back of a cart, chained with specially made iron binding that kept his wrists in contact with holy water, and carried towards the capital alongside all the other “Witches” they had captured.

The caravan never made it to its destination however; while stopped in a town for the night, Uriel’s personal cage strung up in the middle of town to scare or reassure the locals, the resistance came for him. Witches attacked the soldiers while they rested, killing many of them and releasing the other prisoners from captivity. The town was thrown into chaos and amidst it all Uriel’s cage was opened. He was carried to the woods outside of town against his will, his “liberators” transporting him to their camp in order to make a proposition; there he was introduced to the resistances leadership, small though it was, and tried to recruit him. The kingdoms most hated fugitive, a former knight and Witch hunter with all the military experience that suggested; he would be a great asset to them.

Reluctantly, he joined them. He didn’t believe in their cause and even if he did they were Witches, they weren’t to be trusted; a bit hypocritical maybe, but he knew better than most what it felt like to have a demon whispering in your ear. He didn’t trust everyone to remain innocent under that kind of influence. He joined because he had no other choice, nowhere else to turn, and a part of him didn’t think they would allow him to say no anyway. Maybe a part of him thought he could do some good for the people as well.

For another year and a half he worked with the resistance, helping them strategize and helping the carry out missions to weaken the Church. He saw them help people, he met people who were thankful for the help, he met a lot of people who didn’t like the Church or the King and heard their reasons for it. Occasionally it was necessary to fight those he used to call comrades, even to kill them; his conscience told him it was wrong while he reason said he had no choice. To be honest, it wasn’t hard not to have any sympathy when he’d seen first-hand what the Witch hunters did to a town and its people; he wasn’t blind to the crimes the Knights committed in order to protect the people. He tried to ignore Ignis’s opinions on the matter.

Over time he began to see what the Church was really like. He knew that the Witch hunters could be… overzealous at times, but he had been in their position and knew what it was like. He knew how much of a threat Witches could be and could understand their methods, even as he condemned their results. But seeing it from the other side, he saw how little the Church actually cared for the people outside of the capital, how they did more harm than good in their war against Witches. He began to agree with the idea of overthrowing them.

The resistance slowly worked its way closer to the capital. Along the way they captured, or freed depending on your stance, towns and villages on the way; more and more people joined their side in opposition to the King while the Church tried to crack down harder on those remaining to stay loyal, their enforcers only becoming more brutal, if anything making people more willing to abandon them. Eventually the resistance even made it all the way to the gates of the capital itself and laid siege to the city.

Uriel was to lead a group into the city via the sewers, to strike from the inside and open the gates to let the rest of the resistance in while the others drew the army’s attention to themselves outside. This plan was successful and Uriel was able to let everyone into the city so that they could begin their march on the throne itself.

Then the black tower fell on the city, and everything became meaningless.

Former Title: Nale the Fate-seeker
Name: Nataniel Molinero
Age: 24
Pronouns: Male
Race: Hero, formerly human
Personality: Though not as easily excited as in his youth, the mysteries of the world continue to fascinate Nale. He’s curious and inquisite, wanting to know more of that which he doesn’t. During the mission he takes a serious attitude and will save any ally and innocent he can. He prefers studying a situation over jumping into danger, but can throw caution into the wind, if an opportunity to be the hero of the hour presents itself.
Appearance: Short and scrawny Nale ain't that impressive in appearance, but appearances can fool you. He has a tanned skin, short black hair and brown eyes. Nale's body has over the years been filled with scars from confrontations with monsters. Nale wears a Heroes’ Guild uniform of brown leather trousers, jacket, boots. gloves and a capotain hat. Nale also has a necklace with a golden circle, a symbol of he Guild’s membership.
Abilities/Powers:
Strenght
+ Arete of Hiding: Nale can hide himself so well that he literally can’t be discovered. As long as he is in a spot that can conceal himself completely (in a corner, behind a rock etc.), it will be almost like he wasn’t there at all. Nale can’t hide, if there are no hiding spots, and disguises work only as well as they would on a normal person. He is also visible when he attacks from his hiding spot, though he knows how to take down a target quickly before hiding again. Objects and people he holds cannot be spotted either, provided the hiding place can conceal them, but they can be spotted if Nale leaves them.
Weakness
- Hamartia of a Gloryhound: Ironically for someone who is good at hiding, Nale graves attention. Being praised as a hero is like a narcotic to him, and if a chance to gain fame presents itself, Nales takes it.
Other Abilities
Besides Arete, Hero trained by the Guild needs to be a jack-of-all-trades. Nale is a skilled knifefighter, though no duelist. He is observant and good at listening, which is useful for spying. He knows how to climb mountains and buildings, as well as jump far and ride a horse. Nale possesses great knowledge of the supernatural, necessary for a hero. He knows how to cook and speaks five languages (Metamundian tongues, though).

Equipment: None at the moment. Before their cofiscation, Nale mostly used seven daggers, each made or coated in one of the seven alchemical metals (lead, tin, iron, gold, copper, mercury and silver) as weapons against creatures. He also has an eight, steel dagger, to use against normal enemies.
Inventory: None at the moment. Before capture Nale had a wide variety of survival equipment. Rope, lint, eating utensils, a small pot, bedroll, a small tent and some travel rations. He also had a compass and a book of different kinds of creatures of Metamundus.
Origin:
Backstory: Nale wanted to be a hero as long as he can remember. The opportunity came when an Oracle visited his home village. However, Nale was shocked to discover that his destiny was not to be a hero. In fact it appeared he had no destiny at all. The Oracle, fascinated by the theoretical impossibility that Nale was, requested that the boy joins her on the Journey to Malana's capital, not to become a student at the Hero Academy he had wished, But to the Grand Temple of Order for studies. Later one night, unwilling to spend the rest of his life being researched by the oracles, Nale attempted to do something none had done before, sneak into the Hero Academy and study being a hero in secret. He managed to get in, but eventually was intercepted by the guards. The Grandmaster of the Heroes' Guild was impressed by the fact that Nale could get even to the walls of the academy, and let him join the other apprentices. It was then that Nale learnt his Arete of hiding, and gained the Hero's Name, Fate-Seeker, after the fact that his destiny has not been seen.

Over the following years Nale learnt how to be a hero. He has been an Apprentice at the school, Sidekick to professional adventurers, and now, having graduated from the academy, a Journeyman. He has fought vampires, faeries, witches, spirits and creatures stranger still, and travelled all across the lands of Metamundus. But the reason why Nale seemingly has no destiny has remained a mystery.

But then a new enemy appeared. seven alchemists, who called themselves the "Body of Kazzok", declared their intention to take over the land in the name of "King Kazzok"

Nale joined other Heroes and Creatures in saving the land from this strange alliance and their servants. Nale, master of hiding, infiltrated the base to spy on the Body’s plans and capabilities. It was then that he discovered Kazzok’s plan. As a spirit without body he needed a vessel to enter a realm, which would make him invincible. The Body intended to sacrifice themselves to give Kazzok an actual body. Using this knowledge Nale sneaked into the portal room just as Kazzok was about to appear. Before the Body could finish the ritual, Nale took out his mercury dagger and plunged it into Kazzok’s spiritual essence, vaporizing him. The Body, bound to Kazzok, died with their master. Nale walked out of the base into the crowd of celebrating people…

…And woke up to find himself in a pillory inside a dungeon of some kind, Kazzok’s Brain looking at him mockingly. The Brain revealed that the whole opportunity to kill Kazzok was only in Nale’s head, an illusion designed to take advantage of his Hamartia. Kazzok’s Brain thanked Nale for allowing them to finish their real job and left the broken hero to wallow in his misery.