This is where I will be posting the active characters!

Jean Lyfett @nameless: a robber by trade with a tragic backstory, steps off of the cart to leave his past behind him. Can he find the peace he seeks without his past corrupting his good intentions?

Voss the Barbarian @eisenhorn: A mindless savage from a far away land, sent by a mysterious woman to embark on a quest in of which he has no knowledge. Can his southern tribal strength and fearless resolve carry him through?

Adila Al Bakira @GodOfWar: a women from the wastes, given a new life from the god of death. Can she offer enough to pay off her debt, or will it be collected before she gets the chance?

Jean Lyfett

Class ▔▔▔ Highwayman ❝I'm sort of a bad person. Don't like it? Tough shit❞ Devotion ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Kessel ❝It's all just a roll of a die anyway❞ Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ❝Let me tell you a story. One ill-fated night when the air was crisp and the sky was clear, a particular wagon began a even trot through presumed 'safe' path. This road however was the hunting ground of thief and brigand alike, and on that very night, a highwayman descended upon the cart. Naught was safe from the edge of his blade nor the crack of his gun and when the powder-cloud cleared, the guards were all upon their death throes. However, as this brigand were about to claim his plunder, a faint creak emitted from the carriage. In response, the man fired into the wooden thing. A moment. Then two. He approached the coach, each bootstep weighed heavily with trepidation. Did he miss? Would they retaliate? Is this the end? As he peered through a shattered pane, what he saw chilled him to his very core. His own wife and son lay dead. He was never heard from again So to say I stopped caring about you and your feelings, well, that's a damn understatment❞ Familiar ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ❝Don't have one and don't need one❞ Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ❝Buzz off❞

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EDIT- 11-24-18
Made the tiny baby picture more visible

Name:
"Name's Voss."

Class:
"Your kind refer to me as Barbarian, so that will suffice."

Devotion:
"Many of my kinsman favor Ragnarok, but I pledge myself to Kessel."

Familiar:
"I am not Druz Tassa, it is not my place to command the beasts."

Spell List:
"I wield not the otherworldly fury of the Julda."

Backstory:
To the south east, several weeks of hard travel away, are wide and arid deserts that house various tribes of natives to the land. These men, considered little more than simple minded savages playing in the sand, maintain a proud, nomadic culture that often puts the needs of the many ahead of the few. Each tribe follows a larger, ruling caste that tend to form their own pseudo tribe to better lead their people. This is a native form of preventing any one group from holding too much power, as the warrior tribes cannot trade, farm, teach, or otherwise act as a civilized people to anywhere close to the same degree as the tribes that practice the native faiths and magics of the land. Warriors of these southern desert dwellers are trained to be light on their feet, as heavy armor would simply bog them down in the sand and open plains that break up the sand and leave them open targets. Such a life is from where Voss hails from, though why he chose to leave remains a closely guarded secret.

The reality is that Voss is under the command of one of the Julda, literally Sand Prophets, who tend to hold the real power in the society, even if the ruling caste are the faces of the tribes. As a warrior, one of Voss' duties was to protect and defend those of importance, even against the machinations of others within the tribes. He had been a skilled fighter, light on his feet and strong of arm and shield, doing the dance of war that his people practiced. Fade back, braced for the attack, and ducking forward after weathering the storm. Voss was an oddity among his kind, as most of the warrior cast followed their version of Ragnarok, while Voss favored a nameless god, one who was yet considered powerful as most would not invoke their name, and yet hope they had their blessing. Kessel, god of fortune, and given the warrior way of his people, which incorporates heavy amounts of bleeding. A man who is bleeding uncontrollably from a wound cannot readily fight.

Voss was assigned to a Vur Julda that most distrusted, if not outright reviled, as the guardian of their well being. This Vur Julda was dabbling in what was considered godless arts, yet the ruling cast deemed the efforts worthy of protection. So despite misgivings, Voss had to protect the Vur Julda from the efforts of even his own kinsman in their efforts to challenge and slay what was foreseen as a madman. Eventually, Voss would find the Vur Julda in heated debate with another of his caste, and his charge attempted to strike his fellow caste member down with powers that no god could ever grant, be it religious or otherwise. This left Voss with a dilemma, his honor demanded he protect the female Julda from his charge's attack. Yet, his place in the tribe demanded he stand by and let it happen. Voss chose to slit the throat of his charge, drawing the razor sharp steel across the stunned Vur Julda's throat. He was then taken into captivity, held while the ruling caste argued with his warrior caste.

The incident split the tribes evenly down the middle. One side, led by the ruling tribe, by their tongue the Kastan, argued he had betrayed his oaths and acted selfishly. The other, led by the warrior tribes, by their tongue the Bala Tinva, claimed that the attempt on a fellow Julda's life invalidated the oaths that Voss had been forced to swear, and he had been honor bound to act as he had. The strife was eventually ended, before it came to violence, by the Julda tribe. They decreed that the dark arts that the Vur Julda had endangered the tribes and Voss had acted justly. However, to keep the peace, Voss was oath sworn to the Julda who he had saved the life of. She had foreseen trouble in the northern lands of outsiders, and until now had nothing but her complaints to satisfy her. Now she had a oath sworn of the Bala Tinva, and she tasked him with heading north to offer his sword in preventing the madness she foresaw, and had left her unstable at the best of times. Voss would follow his orders, departing and learning the northern outsider terms and language for things along the way, and added to what his Julda had taught him, learning of a King's Call. This surely was the place that his Julda claimed he had to go and prevent disaster at. So, he went, and that was the first step on a path of redemption, according to his tribe and people.

2nd Tier ➤ "The sands will shift..."
Adila darts her hazel fingers into the pouch at her side, drawing a handful of chalky, tan rocks into her palm and crushing them with a swift clenching of her fist. A sickly green smoke arises from the gaps between her knuckles, and a sulfurous stench fills the room. The cracking and reshaping of flesh is suddenly audible, and you choke back your urge to vomit.

Minor physical injuries are mended on an ally (such as small scrapes, bruises, or fractures). Moderate to major injuries are instead transferred to another ally of Adila's choice. Any injuries on the receiving ally are, likewise, traded. This spell cannot be cast if it would cause any ally to die, unless such an ally is Adila. Adila can target herself to receive wounds. If the receiving ally is unwilling to take on wounds, such injuries are instead brought back to effect Adila.

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2nd Tier ➤ "... and the sun will set."
Adila's spear is quickly dragged across the dim cobblestone in front of her, sparks spawning from the friction between the refined Damascus steel and dirtied earth. She sprinkles the now powdered rock out of her hand and onto this line of embers, the soft, clay-like flakes catching quickly and flaring out like firecrackers. Your mind melts with the fiery display, feeling rather pleasant until you sense the clawing, inhumane thoughts of a beast suddenly slip into your consciousness. A hulking, abyssal foe behind you screeches in harmony with the intrusion, its thick fur becoming matted in fresh maroon blood.

A spiritual bond is formed between an ally and an enemy. While the two are linked, any physical injuries to the ally will also be inflicted onto the enemy, and the ally will progressively gain stress the longer the bond goes unbroken. Any damage the enemy endures will not be shared with the ally. The bond breaks only if either the ally or enemy dies, or if the ally or enemy get 30 feet away from each other. If wounds are transferred to an ally through "The sands will shift...", and that ally is in a spirit bond, the enemy will also sustain such wounds.



Sun-baked tents, huddled in a tight ring around a shallow, muddy watering hole, weather the whipping winds of the South-Eastern deserts. Their flags, skinny and dyed in weak greens and grays, denotes the authority of a small tribe. One Julda rules over the active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name. None of these individuals are present in their quarters during this blazing evening. They are out at the looming ruins.

It is an exquisite piece of architecture, the abandoned temple standing like a testament to the superiority of some long-forgotten civilization. A quiet cult inside, consisting of nearly twenty people in bumble-bee colored robes, panics in a fit of realization. They have been surrounded by a Julda ruling over an active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name.

The crude altars to Shee'l Tor are overturned in a sudden rush of men, sand being kicked up and whisked around in a room now clogged with chaotic shouts. Gold tokens forged in the god's image are ripped from velvety threads, baskets of incense crunched beneath the soles of thick leather boots. As the sun begins to rest in the crimson pool of the horizon, the remaining cultists have been rounded up and bound together with abrasive lengths of frayed rope. All robed men have been slain on the spot, their corpses now piled in a wide corner of the temple. Women are tied in a line that will make them easier for transport. Every good even remotely valuable has been seized. To the Julda, this is a righteous raid on a cult that exemplifies their evil god. It does not matter that they found no weapons.

The moon illuminates the sorrows of the survivors, their shock and despair contrasted by the cheerful drinking of tribe warriors all around them. They are constantly harassed throughout the night, their stifled sobs interrupted by the sharp quips and unwanted advances of stupidly merry men. The Julda approaches an especially fair cultist, his arrogance leading him to pull up her hood and force unto her a kiss. She, in tear-choked retaliation, spits on his face. Embarrassment seizes him as the warriors around him begin to laugh.

The fair woman, named Adila, is commanded to be made an example of, as to ensure the subservience of all her fellow cultists. A pole is quickly struck into the compact sand, and tinder from the temple is clumped around it. Adila is restrained to the pole, and watches as the bushels of dried plants around her begin to catch flame at the Julda's command. Acrid smoke surrounds her as she squirms, the heat of the fire crawling closer to her long robe. She cries out for mercy, for forgiveness, and wails as silence accompanies the crackling of the flames. Finally, with the tendrils of heat now creeping up against her reddening flesh, she pleads for Shee'l Tor to intervene.


The sensation and terror of immolation leaves Adila, and she no longer feels tears upon her face. Yet, she still sees herself, burning there, screaming out incoherently. She looks down to her body in sudden disbelief; she is a strong, tan woman in tribal warrior gear. Her grip is firm on her spear, and her feet lay solid in the loose ground. The warriors around her are silent as they continue to watch her previous body become consumed and shrivel up in a column of flames. The smell and the sounds drive her to vomit on the pale ground in front of her.

Her family and friends sold off and nowhere to be found, and having stolen a secretive call to arms from the tribe's Julda, Adila is now adamant on claiming the soul of the Mad King Osidius in the name of Shee'l Tor. For the miracle of her revival, she will present her patron with an equal payment, and secure her place as a worthy champion.

That is, if Shee'l Tor doesn't collect his debt early...