140 years ago, Ahelair Ander of Flandasyria and his wife, Flyssia Flinder of Flandasyria, left their home town, seeking adventure and new opportunities in one of the greatest metropolises in the world, the wondrous City of Light. After a decade of hopping from one adventure party to another, the two finally gathered enough funds to settle down comfortably. Their residence, located on Main street between the Merchant and Noble districts of the City, became known as the Flandasyrian Clinic and Apothecary.
Over the next 120 years, the City-folk would come to call the loving couple "Ahelair the Kind", "Flyssia the Gentle", and collectively "the Flanders", for their dedicated health and counseling services. They were well loved by the populace, both high and low: Ahelair for the donation of his time and effort to helping the poor and homeless, and Flyssia for her sage advice, mainly for but not limited to young lovers and first-time mothers. During this time, the Flanders had a son Hessyl, and daughter Lylier, who both later married and had their own children: Tineth and Timyl, and Lyssia respectively.

20 years ago, a week before Behemoth fell into the ocean, Flyssia, suffering 2 days of intense headaches that had no cure nor remedy, woke up in the middle of the night and screamed "THEY ARE COMING!" before dying on the spot, copious amounts of blood leaking from her head. As heartbroken as he was, in later years, Ahelair would count this event as a blessing. If Flyssia had survived that night she may have easily succumbed to the madness of the Dark Gods' Curse and turned into some unthinkable monstrosity.

15 years ago, in one of the many, but more successful, invasion by creatures of the Dark Gods, Ahelair's children and grandchildren were either killed, or turned into Pathfinders and then subsequently killed by the City Garrison. Since then, having lost all of his remaining loved ones, Ahelair maniacally poured all his time, money and energy into taking care of the failing City to keep himself so busy that he wouldn't have time to think of everything he's lost. The Flanders' house, and the houses of their 2 children were converted into refugee housing, with the main house still functioning as a clinic to all those in pain. Whatever money he had, Ahelair used it to purchase ever more expensive food and supplies for the downtrodden and war-torn.

Even with all this work and activity, he still couldn't fully ignore the hallucinations. Of course they were hallucinations. Phantoms of his lost family, walking up to him, talking to him as if they were whole and well.
But however much Ahelair would have wanted them to be real, he remembered all too well his own screaming as he cradled the butchered bodies of his grandchildren.
He remembered when he threw himself at the Garrison soldiers to stop them from executing the Pathfinders pretending to be his children.
He remembered cleaning his beloved Flyssia in preparation for her burial.
He knew they were gone, and that he must be mad. Ahelair had seen it happen many times and knew too well the curse of madness that would take random individuals within the City.

But there were so many in need of help. So many who weren't mad yet. So many parents with children who could still be saved. So he kept his visions to himself and promised to keep working as long as his body, and his mind were still able.
When the City Garrison came for him, Ahelair lowered his head and willingly let himself be taken.

Ahelair at his best is kind, patient, and generous. Even with the events of the last 20 years, with all the physical and emotional stress, he has managed to somehow retain these qualities. Maybe it is Ahelair's advanced age solidifying his personality, or maybe he is desperately holding onto himself so as not to disappoint his deceased family.
At his worst, he is tired, depressed and desperate. No matter how tired he is, he won't stop helping people. He feels that if he can help enough people, it might make up for him failing to protect his family.

He takes pride in his family, his people and culture, and knowing that his skill has helped a great many people throughout the years.
He is fond of taking afternoon walks by river or country side, and of gentle flute music.

In the past, Ahelair stood tall and proud, but never pompous. His large eyes were determined, almost piercing, but always had a soft gentleness. He was neat and tidy, keeping his dark hair and long beard trimmed and clean. He wore long, simply fashioned white and light green robes with a white cloak. He carried around with him a worn leather satchel that holds various herbs and medicinal concoctions, and a sturdy whitewood staff capped with silver, and a spherical, gleaming, olive-colored gem entwined in silver vines on top.

Nowadays it is not so. His old age and constant work catching up to him, Ahelair stumbles around with a hunched posture, his unkempt hair and beard a withered grey. His once gentle eyes now looking tired and sagging. His robes no longer white, but greyish and frayed around the edges. The only thing still clean and undiminished are his staff and satchel, the tools of his trade and the only pride he has left in this world.

Ahelair constantly has auditory and/or visual hallucinations. To him they are as real as the ground he stands on, almost to the point of him thinking he can touch the visions. The hallucinations primarily manifest as his lost family, which is both a boon and bane for Ahelair. Usually, the phantoms look how they did in life, unharmed, whole and happy. But when Ahelair's mood is dark or when the curse is strong they transform into dark nightmarish versions of the time they passed.

Mechanic:

Lans the Ghukzoul (orcish: terror, contextually a praise and often connotated with courage and strength)

Typical of Orcs, Lans is 6’5’’, well built, and green-skinned. His thick hair resembles more the wool of sheep than the threads of weaving.

However, Lans stands straighter and more posed than most Orcs. His braided hair and well-kept armor defy preconceived notions of Orcish brutality and barbarism. His tusks appear to be filed down but with the precision of a woodcarver rather than the typical jagged wear from harsh bites from days past.

And, certainly unlike other Orcs, he is almost never seen without his upper garments on. But if you were to see him so, you would notice the tattoos that go down his back along his spine… and if you’re lucky, you could make them out as some runes.

Lans’ posture gives off the distinct feeling that he is challenging you… that he has something to prove. But his experience in physical combat also manifests in his composure and tends to keep him free of brawls and minor altercations. Perhaps due to this, he seems to lack the scars normally found all over the tough hide of Orc warriors. And considering his age, he should be littered with dozens.

Often described as a gentleman, Lans demonstrates the best of aristocratic etiquette and mannerisms. As such, he is neither too forward nor too timid. He is courteous, kind, and listens intently to any and all conversation.

But those who know him well, know that this is just his upbringing. In a more private setting, his coarser language and fondness for crude jokes would reassure all that he is, in fact, an Orc. His appetite for direct dialogue and getting to the reason for every interaction would put off most dignitaries and guests.

And his appetite does not end there. Truly, if he were the incarnate of any sin, it would be Indulgence. Ever a champion of feasts, Lans would always enjoy the richest and most seasoned foods and drinks. Similarly, his appetite in games and entertainment reach decadent levels… within the limits of good taste, of course.

This intensity is also reinforced by his horrific temper. And perhaps it is the very fact that he attempts to resist this rage that he exhibits a far greater and unstoppable fury than even the most vicious of Orc fighters.

No one is sure exactly how or when Lord Hannery became accompanied by an orcling everywhere he went. Whispers, as usual, trailed in his wake and often surmised that he was the diplomatic hostage from a rogue Orc horde. Or maybe he was the son of an ally?

But Lord Hannery doted on Lans so much, that many soon forgot the fact that his skin more closely matched the Hannery Sigil’s colors. And as the years went on, many of their own children would befriend or rival Lans in the schoolyard. And due to his being a Hannery, Lans enjoyed many happy days of protection and privilege.

It was not long, however, that Lans broke into a fight with a rival over who received more pleasantries from Emmalise duChesse and soundly broke all his teeth and left jawbone. This savagery was not unpunished and Lans learned quickly that such actions had no place in his world. He grew more distant and frustrated as he turned 9… losing friends and any kind of pleasantry whatsoever.

And then his life changed. Lord Hannery had hoped that his son would forget his Orcish tendencies if raised properly but was not foolish enough to trust in this. He had long sent for any mentor that would be willing to help train Lans to control himself and, at the same time, be able to express himself fully. And so, the arrival of Master Tlemich, a philosopher and court sword-dancer, would begin a new part of Lans’ life.

Many years later, Lans ultimately chose to enlist with the fabled Terror Knights, the effective opposite side of the coin of Templars, and quickly rose through the ranks. His experience as a sword-dancer gave him many edges over the normally crude fighting styles of his peers and allowed him to be even more effective at ending entire battles with a single stroke of his blade. Though he never saw any real battle, the many tournaments and friendly war games honed his skills as a warrior and tactician.

Then, the Behemoth came.

Within days, Lans’ many friends and comrades fell quickly to the monsters. Many more would succumb to madness. In that chaos, Lans was quickly made leader of a crack team of Terror Knights and dispatched to a coastal area near Pioneer’s Breath to protect survivors and to survey the damage. After a few successful battles with the beasts, Lans lead his Knights towards the City of Light.

The night before they reached the City, Lans woke up knee-deep in the ocean, facing the direction of the Behemoth. He had no armor on and no weapons were present in his hands. And yet he was covered in blood. When he found his camp, he realized the horrific truth: he had torn all his allies to pieces by hand. But he did not remember any of it.

Broken in spirit, Lans entered the City of Light to find that there were no messages or envoys waiting from his garrison or home. Despite warnings, he attempted again and again to trek back to his father. The further he pushed himself, the more often he woke up in an unknown place with signs of his violent fury everywhere. Soon, he found that this rage began to overtake him even during his waking hours and decided to use it against the many Pathfinders and monsters that threatened the City. However, his rage ultimately proved too much a liability and the Guard imprisoned him. During those years in solitude, madness leaned on his wounds and would have overtaken him if it were not for Thokhruss, a shaman orc imprisoned near him. Through his counseling and lessons on Orc proving rituals, Lans learned to better control himself.

Thokhruss imparted runes onto his back to aid him in the spiritual quest that all young orcs go through. But even despite this, Lans continued to dread the cage he was in and how he could be no use to the screams and agony he heard every day and night. And on such a night, Thokhruss finally succumbed to madness. Lans ended the life of his mentor and swore that this would be the last time he ever raised a weapon against friends and allies. When the city's defenses suffered, they recruited Lans again, noting that he had not raged for quite some time. Now busy with fighting creatures once more, Lans wondered what the future held for him.

Lans, once the brave and terrible, now fears for much: the safety of his father and friends, the meaning of the Behemoth, and himself.

Lans never mastered his rage as all orclings do during their initiation and did not even start his spiritual quest at all until recently. After the Behemoth, Lans often had flashes of blackouts and would learn that he had raged during that time.

Mechanic: Whenever Lans reaches 0 SP, he can make a Orc Rage roll. If successful, Lans is protected from 0 SP penalties but cannot use magic, abilities, or his curse and MUST attack every turn until his rage subsides (if someone reads the runes off his back or is incapacitated), after which he regains full SP. Additionally, during Rage mode, Lans MUST attack the nearest target regardless of it being friend or foe.

Rehsif "Res" Thrawl

87

Elf

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Spearfisher lvl 3

Wood lvl 3

Curse of Brangog lvl 2

Res is shorter than most elves due to her experience with the plague as a child. Although she made a full recovery, she was unable to thrive physically like other elven children.

Although she dresses in very worn out clothing, she is always impeccably clean, often bathing and washing her clothes a few times every day, especially while fishing.

Her body is covered in small scars, and her teeth are yellow and cracked, all from her time with the plague. She could pay to have them fixed but she enjoys the way people shift uncomfortably around her when she smiles.

Although she likes to pretend she is well adjusted, she is a germophobe and has nightmares about her experience with the plague. She fears illness above anything else, which contributes to her loner nature.

She is a reserved and dry person, and does not tend to venture outside of her comfort zone. It takes her long periods of time to make any major changes. She has been content as a sailor and fisherman for the last 77 years and had not planned on making any life changes prior to the Behemoth’s arrival.

She prefers to avoid conflict if possible and has frequently disappeared on employers and
friends whens she felt things were getting too complicated. She keeps her connections surface level and pleasant. She has no real friendships or family left, except for her Uncle and his family. She personally does not consider them true relatives, and prefers it that way.

She hates working with others and prefers to get things done on her own at her own pace.

With all of that said, she is not afraid of fighting with people, and will do so if she has to, she would just rather take the path of least resistance.

Rehsif “Res” Thrawl was born and raised in a small coastal village near Siren’s Bay. Her family, known for their spearfishing business, were quite successful. All of the Thrawls and their children learned to fish at a young age, with the older children catching trickier prey with spears. All contributed to the family business as soon as they were able.

When Rehsif was 7 years old, a starved and sickly traveler stumbled into their village. The town folk quickly ushered the traveler to the healer, the fear of plague on their mind. Some far away cities in the human lands had been entirely wiped out, and this fellow looked human. He was diagnosed with nothing more than a head cold and sent away with some herbs to soothe him.

Although the man was deemed harmless, the others were still wary of him. Rehsif’s parents, taking pity on the man, plucked him off the streets and invited him to stay at their home while he recovered.

For their kindness, they were rewarded with misfortune. The traveler was indeed a carrier of the Yersinia Plague, a nasty illness that mimicked the cold for a few days before turning most into a bloated bag of sores. He had been ousted by his own people, their healer being far smarter than their own, but the man foolishly denied his condition. Chased away from his home, he unwittingly spread the illness to the kind family that took him in.

Rehsif and her parents were the first to fall ill, followed by their customers, and many others. The human traveler recovered, realizing what he had done he ran away under cover of darkness, leaving the Thrawls to die.

Rehsif’s extended family, sure she would succumb like her parents and siblings, had already begun planning her funeral. Hearing the plans of her family, who were unaware she could hear them, was disturbing to the young girl. She began counting and fantasizing to drown them out, humming to herself of pretending she was somewhere else. It would become a habit that she would use to help her cope with stress.

It came as a shock to her uncle when the healer proclaimed she was improving.

A few others in the town also survived the illness, but the majority were not so lucky. After the initial happiness subsided, people began to whisper. Someone heard that just because a person looked fine, didn’t mean they actually were. Their own healer, trying to deflect blame away from his failure to identify the plague, encouraged the rumor. Proclaiming that indeed it was true, the disease could hide in plain sight! Just as it did with the human traveler. A total lie as the man was quite obviously sick with something more than a head cold.

People began to distance themselves from the girl, and the other survivors too.

Her ‘loving’ Uncle, more upset about the whispers than his niece's safety, sent her to live in a small colony dedicated to carriers of the plague.

Located just outside of Chanel Town, the colony was little more than a collection of tents and shacks. Crime infested and ridden with rats, the environment was a stark contrast to the prosperous world outside. At the age of 15, Res left the orphanage, the neglectful caretakers never realizing she had gone. Setting up by the river, she grabbed a stick and sharpened it, she could barely remember how her Mother did it, or was it her Father?

Either way, she began fishing to supply her own food and soon realized she was pretty good at it. She enjoyed the silence and time alone, often finding herself zoning out to the flow of the river.

Scraping together a living by trading fish for supplies, she realized she needn’t remain in the colony any longer. Just as she was planning her escape, and after a decade of scrounging a living in the colony, healers from the capital were dispatched to dismantle the “backward, shameful remnant of a time gone by.”

Apparently, the rumors of people being able to spread Yersinia as carriers was just that, a rumor.

At the age of 17, Res was free.

The hundreds of people who had languished for decades in the rotten camp rejoiced, reuniting with family and friends as they one by one were retrieved by their loved ones.

Rehsif waited and waited. Her Uncle never arriving. Instead, she was given a letter by a Flandysrian aid worker and sent on her way.

Apparently, in her absence, Uncle had absorbed her inheritance as his own. Selling off her family home, and claiming rights to the business for himself. He apologized and assured her she would always have a place with his family in their home if she chose to come back.

Bitter, Rehsif tucked the letter away. She would pay her Uncle a visit someday, and he’d be sorry.

Hitchhiking her way to Chanel Town, she was able to secure a job on a fishing vessel, a trade she honed for many decades. Traveling around the coast, she would hop from vessel to vessel, never staying too long in one place. Her Uncle’s letter always in her pocket as a reminder.

At the age of 67, Rehsif finally felt ready to confront her thieving Uncle.

As luck would have it, and her Uncle was always lucky, the Behemoth fell. A bright light in the sky so far away, her crewmates were not worried about their imminent safety, but they all knew that it was far too bright to be a shooting star.

It was not long later when the waves came, along with the rush of wind.

The ship, finishing one last round off the coast of Lacerta, was nearly tipped over, throwing Rehsif and many others overboard.

Dizzy from being tossed around in the ocean, she watched in horror as her crewmates were thrown and pulled under by all manner of horrors. Metal, smoke, tentacles, she couldn’t tell if it was one creature or many, all she could do was attempt to swim away from the chaos, but she wasn’t entirely lucky. Perhaps it was something in the water, or perhaps it was just the proximity of one of the beasts, but Rehsif soon found herself suffering from a strange ailment.

She was eventually discovered by the city garrison after her curse manifested, rather inconveniently, during a busy day in the market. Trying to sell the last of her catch, some customers began to argue. One man shoved another and the next thing Rehsif knew, an all-out brawl had ensued. Before she could step out, someone had grabbed her by the collar and was about to land a punch before she sent the stranger flying.

It was all very dramatic, and aside from a few broken bones, the man was not seriously injured.

Rehsif felt lightheaded after the incident, crumpling to the ground as she tried to keep the curse under control. When the garrison arrived, she was too tired to fight back.

Every sanity point spent causes Rehsif to think she is displaying plague like symptoms, the lower her SP the more contagious (in her mind) she becomes. At 0SP she perceives herself to be a walking plague, and acts as if she has the symptoms (madness, scratching her skin, panic.) When using her curse, if Rehsif is able to roll a high enough number she avoids losing a sanity point, if the number is low she loses a sanity point. Rehsif must take a short rest to recover sanity points, while resting she cannot interact with other characters or help with the plot, she must roll for how many turns she will rest.

She recovers 1 SP after a successful short rest.

Mort ibn Hytham

46

Harpy - Chicken Aspect

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Al-Tahliq Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager lvl2

Air lvl3

Curse of Gammaton and lvl3

The highest echelons of Harpy Society strike with Eagleine features. Mort does not have these features. He presents as a Chicken. An overweight, depressed, Chicken.

Very quiet. Depressed. Has trouble maintaining eye contact, or maintains eye contact for way too long. Prefers reading books, though it is arguable whether or not he retains anything anymore. He is quick to violent, though never in a rage. It's all very pedestrian and procedural.

Mahboob "Mort" ibn Hytham is the son of Hytham ibn Bawma, all of the feared Makhlab clan in the southern desert peaks of Es Harpina. In these high, distant eyries, the Laws of Lasetha's Roost, under the 500-year peace, have brought order and prosperity to the pockets of violence once ruled by clans like the Makhlabs. In these good times, they no longer rule every aspect of citizen life. Rather, just some measure of money, blackmail, political leverage, and the occasional shattered ribs No big.

The Makhlab clan has long run Al-Tahliq Industries, which has its talons in everything from mining to refinement to luxury item manufacturing. After Hytham forcibly retired his father, Bawma the Slow as Clan Head, he quickly and violently consolidated power, and through his shrewd and cunning ways, elevated the clan's reputation and power considerably.

Mahboob grew up in the sheltered libraries of his grandfather, Bawma. He was spoiled with books, fermented rat delicacies, and leisure time. For a while, Hytham allowed this to be, being one of those fathers who were prejudiced against those who presented more like chickens. However, with Bawma's deteriorating health and Mahboob's blossoming into a bird reaching adulthood, Hytham decided to toughen his son up the way Makhlab birds should, and gave him his first job: extracting information from a prisoner by extracting the prisoner's nails. Mahboob found to his own horror and fascination, that he was exceedingly good at this sort of thing, and quickly climbed the ranks to become Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager, a job that mostly consisted of making numbers dance, greasing the right hands, and occasionally picking up the pliers. In a subconscious act of distancing his new identity from his old, he began to adopt the moniker "Mort", a name affectionately given to him by his thugs and minions for his way of seeing everyone as corpses, separated only by flimsy things like time.

Mort, however, was only efficient because he was deeply depressed. He sought solace in his books-- and the books gave no solace, just distraction.

When the Behemoth came, whispers reached the Eyries. Hytham, like many other elders, assumed the whispers would stay just that, and thought nothing of the event. His brother Hadi noted that in times of madness and chaos, it was most important that knowledge was preserved. Books, libraries, that sort of thing. He told Mort of the great libraries in the City of Light, and how it would be an ideal place to compile and protect the world's stories and knowledge. They planned one day to visit, to make a pilgrimage to this great bastion of knowledge.

Soon, however, the whispers grew louder, especially in Mort's head. Reality became but a weak fluid that Mort had little association with. Growing panicked and terrified, he ran to his one friend-- his brother, Hadi-- and, in hugging him, impaled him with metal spikes, now protruding from his body.

Mort was distraught, and in a fit, mangled and mortally injured a dozen more of his father's birds as they attempted to quarantine him in a locked room. Here, Mort stayed, drifting in and out of reality. Had it been days? Months? Either way, the food had stopped coming, so he broke down the door and found that no one was left. Not in the house, the neighborhood, or the entire district. There were a few bodies well into decomposition, but nowhere close enough to account for the original population.

Mort traveled to Lathesa's Roost, where his family had connections through his aunt. There, he found a world quickly going mad with chaos, fire, and pathfinder assault. His aunt, Lady Dajaja, had lost most of her holdings and wealth, with only a few servants left in her dilapidated estate. Still, the proud Harpies tried to hold on to their capital. Mort found it easier to go on living when he, once more, had a job to do. He rounded up traitors, informants, friends, enemies, and did what he did best. For a few years, he was able to restore a small nook of power and security for his Aunt. Those who had something to trade or power to share were assimilated into their growing sphere. Beggars and refugees were worthless. Mort swore to Lady Dajaja they would never be one of them.

Until they were. A renewed, surprise assault destroyed everything in one night. And in their flight towards the City of Light, the Madness took his Aunt, too. Without thinking, without feeling, he slashed her across the throat, and watched her body writhe until it writhed no more. Now completely and utterly ruined, he moves on, like a ghost in this world. After passing out on the roadside one night, Mort woke suddenly from a dream, a memory. Something about books, libraries, and the City of Light. He continued his journey, finding once more that the only way to live one day to the next was to have something to do.

This was no time for librarians and guardians of knowledge, however, and Harpies that presented with Chicken features were seldom respected and trusted, within Es Harpina and elsewhere. Still, Mort stuck to his self-appointed mission, finding knowledge and books where he could, and purchasing them-- or not-- to stockpile in nooks and crannies around the city. He looted to eat, and he looted to find more books. It went well for a while-- or about as well as this sort of life could go-- before he was seized by the authorities and thrown into a dungeon.

(Optional) When faced with bouts of madness, Mort sinks into a depressive stupor and becomes catatonic. Does this help? Why does that matter? Nothing matters.