Age:
23

Race:
Human

Origin:
Vernthouth

Appearance:
A young woman with rarely a smile. Georgia's hair is dark brown, often mistaken with black, with the occasional gray strand and touching past her shoulders. Blue eyes contrast her rather stark appearance. Her small figure is average for a simple worker with Georgia's wardrobe having a tendency to hide her body with ebony coat and leggings with ill-fitted boots. She seems to have a penchant for buttons, as they can be found in various unnecessary locations.

Materials are pocketed away into leather satchels that sling around her shoulder, each compartment holding a different item. Canisters and vials can be spotted along her waist and in front of her belly, some filled with various liquids and herbs. A dark wooden bow with a full quiver of arrows on her back. One last curious item is a hardbound container for a tome beneath her right arm; it has two latches for security.

Georgia has some jewelry: glass lantern earrings with a faint orange hue; a slightly loose ring upon her right thumb engraved with a guild symbol; a silver band around her right index finger fitted with a single citrine.

Personality:
Melancholy. Memories and experiences are defining traits for anyone, though for Georgia they are more than the past. She believes her future will repeat her story over again, an endless cycle of solemn hope, betrayal, and loneliness. Will her time with the Order be any different?

Empathy. A drive to improve not only herself, but the quality of life of others regardless of the misgivings of the world. She lives vicariously through the stories of others, whether they be ink upon a page, lyrics of a sonnet, or tales by the fire. Georgia prefers the excitement and energy of others, a life fulfilled or content in even a moment will be treasured for the rest of her days. When she is not actively listening to another, one may spot her huddled away with an old journal. Sometimes writing. Sometimes reading.

History:
Georgia Chandler is the only daughter of Frederik and Maxine Chandler. Frederik, like his father before him and his father before him, served the royal family of Vernthouth suppposedly since the First Era as candle makers and lighters. They have lived comparably comfortable lives, slight luxuries afforded to them for their dedication and loyalties over the years. Being the only child of Frederik, Georgia was taught from an early age to be a stewardess and chandler. Life with other castle families was good.

The death of the king and prince was grave news to the Chandler family. They had supported Queen Relia, but political intrigue reaches far into the walls. First there were subtle threats to anyone that served the Queen, some likelihood of dissent from the ranks if even simple professionals had to fear for their lives. Perhaps Maxine knew something that Georgia couldn't possibly conceive, being a confidant of the Queen herself. That was the only rationale for Georgia as a pale Frederik, quietly, aggressively, bade his daughter goodbye. He had paid for her travels from the city, much to Georgia's protests, and soon she was taken away by Henry, the family's close friend and guard of the castle.

Time passes on their journey. They arrive in the Ghenna Mountains, specifically to Farron Peak: sanctuary of the Order of the Sacred Flame. Here she trains alongside Henry, a blurry line of intimacy and dependency, and given no detail into her family's situation. She writes letters several times a week, though that too has slowed down since her arrival.

Relationships:
Frederik Chandler: Father, chandler
Maxine Chandler: Mother, stewardess
Henry Deringer: Friend (?), former castle guard
Vélaneah T'Aldannin: Friend

Skills:
First Aid
Cartography
Literature
Crafting (Candles)
Sculpting (Wax)
Basic Alchemy
Archery
Cooking

Magic:
Attuned to Pyromancy, Novice

Equipment:
Bedroll
Water Canteen
Dagger (sheathed along back of waist)
Bow and Arrows
Old Journal (tome)
Simple Amplification Ring (Citrine)
Basic Potions
Rations
Basic First Aid Materials

Age: 25
Race: Orisiri
Origin: Eroammir
Appearance:
Aelsu's appearance is what one atypically would find of an Orisiri. She stands at a reasonable five foot four, with pointed ears, bright blue eyes and the pointed teeth of her people. Tanned skin, with bright red hair though lacking most of the decorative ornamentation her people normally wears. She can often be seen wearing lightweight, colorful armor that is a mix of metal and cloth, put together over years of being a combatant in Eroammir's arena. Her body is covered in scars both new and old, and overall she can give off a very intimidating appearance. She carries with her a spear, and at her waist is a backup sword for an armament.

Her wardrobe does not vary much, and while she longs for some of her peoples more traditional garb, she realizes wishing for such a thing is folly, especially with her odd profession. She however, does wear a single decorative band of green beads braided into her hair. A final gift from her father, if she remembers correctly.

Personality:
Aelsu is a quiet person, though only by learned behavior. A slave and gladiator is not to speak, but to kill. If they must speak, it must be quietly and with purpose. She quickly learned that speaking with the mouth was not a way she should communicate. All she had to do was kill whoever was in front of her, and she'd live. Despite what one might think, Aelsu is not bloodthirsty or in any way violent. Whenever she fights, its always with a purpose. Either for a gift to the Orisiri's gods or self defense.

Generally speaking though, Aelsu is a friendly, thoughtful sort. Not great at holding prolonged conversations, but if you want to talk about weapons, how much she hates Eroammir, the people from there, and how much she'd love to see it razed and burned to the ground then she'll be an excellent conversation partner.

History:
Aelsu was taken from the Aouril Plains by a ragtag group of people seeing to make a quick buck on selling a savage Orisiri to the Arena at Eroammir. Such a long time ago she hardly even remembers anything from them. Just the breeze across the plains, the whooping and hollering of the Orisiri warriors, and the warm sun. She isn't even sure if Aelsu is her name. Its just the first thing she blurted out when asked to name herself by the people looking after her.

She quickly had to learn how to wield a weapon, defend herself if she were to survive in the Arena, eventually hopefully buying her freedom. She made both herself and her benefactors quite a bit of money, over the years, and she even became mildly famous in Eroammir for her accomplishment in the arena. So it was quite a surprise to many when she decided to attempt inciting a small rebellion among the gladiators. A small rebellion of some other prisoners and gladiators. They were going to die anyways, so why not try for their freedom? Even as ill-fated as it was, and as swiftly as it was defeated, though, they didn't kill her.

Fools.

She was to be executed publicly, an example of the feral 'Orisiri'. She waited her execution without much complaint, a reasonable outcome. She wondered briefly if her gods had been watching her entire life and fight, eager to meet whatever beings made her. It was then, she was approached by the Order, taking her into their wing without her consent.

...perhaps this was the freedom she was looking for.

Relationships:
N/A

Skills:
Minor medical practice.
Novice knowledge of medical herbs.
Swordsmanship
Use of Polearms, specifically spears
Minor leather working.

Magic:
Unknown, never tested or thought much about it.

Equipment:
Bedroll
Flint
Tinder
Water Canteen
Some Rations
An old spear in good condition
An old sword in slightly less good condition
Her armor.
20 gold
Order Emblem

Age:
76
Race:
Star-fallen
Origin:
Ioria is where he hails, but in particular in a small village many miles from the Imperium capital city.
Personality: Lunearo is a dark being, often seen as cold and lifeless as the dead he surrounds himself with. He is devoid of empathy for others, but has a moral standard he attempts to uphold. He cares little for the actions of others and cares less for actions of political bodies.
Although Lunearo is a harsh and cold man, he is not without his good elements. He is a loyal companion that will help you in your endeavors, but few achieve this 'alliance' as he calls it. He also can be manipulative when necessary, especially in bad situations. He is hard to deter when he locks his sights on something, and harder when it's power he seeks.
History: Lunearo is the former grave-keeper for a small village in the Imperium's borders. He and his family have done so for generations, protecting the dead of the village which were a mile from the village itself. The village itself was rather unlucky when it came to bandits, thieves, and greedy nobles. His father had taught him at a young age the school of necromancy and that all that were wicked deserved punishment and damnation, and that death was never the end. His family had died of a plague that swept through, but he didn't mourn, he didn't cry. In fact, he simply buried them, and went to work as the new grave-keeper.
One day the villagers came to bury many, and told him what happened. A noble was attempting to remove them from the land, and use it for tenant farming. He pretended anger, but he really didn't feel anything at all. These villagers were simply his trade partners, they give him there dead and some food, and he protects the dead and removes threats to them. He let them know he would take care of it, and grabbed his cloak and the grave-keeper's mask. He followed the roads until he came upon the noble's camp. He had hid the undead around the camp, outside of the firelight. He was about to attack when he was hit behind the head.
He woke in chains, and his face in pain. The noble was in front of him, talking to a man in armor, with the Order's mark on his plate. The man was angry, but handed the noble a bag of gold and the man un-cuffed him. Lunearo was delirious, and the events moved too fast for him. He fell asleep on a horse, and when he woke he could make more sense of things. The man was with him, and noticed Lunearo waking. Lunearo still felt pain in his face, but when he reached up to it, he felt the face of his mask instead. "I'm sorry, I got to you too late. As 'punishment' for your crimes against him, Lord Tersuon had your mask fused to your face." Lunearo simply looked at him with cold eyes. "Then blessed are the wicked, for they have made me fear. I assume I work for you now?" The man looked at him. "No, the Order is your master, and you one of its many hands."

Relationships:

• No Living Relations

Skills:

• archery(due to hunting)
• Basic Alchemy(Solvents and minor poisons only)
• Herbalism
• Carving

Magic: Advanced Necromancy(Family taught and attuned)
Equipment:

• Flint
• Flask
• Blanket
• Herb pouch
• Recovered personal belongings:
  -Cloak
  -Grave-keeper dagger
  -Notebook
• weak armor
• Bow and quiver

Age: 42

Race: Dwarf

Origin: Wandering mercenary with no fixed address, though the Kuznetzov clan’s family estates can be found in the Ghenna mountains.

Appearance: Stravi is sardonically handsome, especially for a dwarf. The effect of his dark complexion is enhanced by a liberal application of kohl around his eyes, while he wears his hair – grown long on the top of his head and shaved at the sides – pulled back in an elaborate warrior’s braid to draw attention to his high cheekbones. While his flattened nose – broken more than once over the years – heavy brow, and scarred visage might be off putting to some of delicate constitutions there are many - especially amongst the bored Ladies and Dowagers of the aristocracy – who finds that these imperfections add to Stravi’s appeal. After all, why invite a mercenary to tea if he doesn’t look at least a little dangerous?

He stands tall for a dwarf, just a shade over 5’2”, while a lifetime of wearing armour has given him a robustly stout frame. When he has the option Stravi will always choose to dress in black, though this is less a cosmetic choice than it is a marketing one. A mercenary lord can win or lose contracts depending on their ‘brand awareness’, and Stravi has chosen to tie his band to the colour black. It’s one of the first things customers recognise him for, it’s what they’ve come to expect of him, so it’s what he means to give them. The full Blackshield Brothers treatment, as it were.

Personality: Stravi, firstborn and only son to Kaltner Kuznetzov, patriarch of the venerable Kuznetzov Clan, isn’t your typical Dwarven lord. Pragmatic, taciturn, grimly charismatic and unrepentantly Machiavellian, he seems the complete antithesis to his boisterous kin. Though this is probably unsurprising when one takes into account Kaltner’s unwise spending of the Kuznetzov coffers, and the subsequent realisation that Stravi has had to do absolutely everything within his power to maintain the clan’s tenuous grasp on their holdings and estates.

Over the years Stravi and his Blackshield’s have cultivated a reputation as reliable, hardworking, and effective mercenary company, a reputation he is incredibly proud of, not half because it means he can charge a premium for their services. Another factor increasing the Blackshield’s standing is their commander’s status as an exacting taskmaster who expects the very best of his men, and in return treats them well and cares for their wellbeing. While some mercenary commanders see the men in their ranks as little more than sacks of meat to be stuffed into armour, Stravi actually cares for the men who serve him.

While all this can make it easy to view the Dwarf lord as some kind of unscrupulous rogue or villain, it should be noted that he has his own code of honour, his own sense of morality. It’s just that he places higher value on the lives of his men and of his clan than he does of the lives of others.

History: Kuznetzov was once a powerful and influential Dwarven clan, but with several failed mining enterprises to their name, and the rise of the Crestel’s, Kuznetzov watched their fortunes fall. The fall became a nosedive when Kaltner Kuznetzov rose to position of the Clan Patriarch. A notorious gambler, and terrible business man, Kaltner made bad investment after bad investment, squandering what little remained in the family’s treasury while blaming just about everyone else in the Ghenna Mountains for his failings. Stravi, Kaltner’s only son and oldest child, tried to curtail his father’s spending, but the stubborn old dwarf refused to see the wisdom in his son’s prudence, threatening his heir with banishment if he continued to question him. Refusing to watch his father continue to ruin their clan, but unable to make him see sense, Stravi decided to leave the family estates, to see if he could increase their fortunes abroad to better their standing at home.

He wandered the lands for almost a year before he came upon his solution. What did the lands never seem to lack supply of? War. And what did wars need? Soldiers. Well, Stravi thought to himself, there must be coin to be made for the man supplying the soldiers. With what little goodwill he and the Kuznetzov clan had left he scraped together enough coin to put together his first mercenary company, a twenty-dwarf band, and hired himself out to the King Hagrir, more swords to stand against the Horimir.

Nearly twenty years passed, Stravi’s company, the Blackshield Brothers, growing in fame and renown, serving in nearly every country of the known world, in some capacity or another. One job will find them acting as bodyguards to a rich merchant, another having them hunting down Imperium skirmishers who might have delved too far into Eroammir, every contract taxing their considerable skills, but filling their loot chest in return. The Kuznetzov’s benefitted from Stravi’s success, as the wayward son consistently sent back a percentage of all his bounties, never forgetting why he got into the business in the first place. It might have even helped his clan too, if it hadn’t been for his father, who was still deadest on squandering ever coin that fell into his inept hands. Things soon took a turn for the worse though.

In the intervening years Kaltner had married his three daughters, Stravi’s sisters, off to nobles of opposing families, using his children like currency in his many deals, in lieu of having any actual gold of his own. The youngest of these daughters, Annastasia, was married to Stevros Diadekt, the young head of the Diadekt clan, a family on the rise after a series of particularly lucrative investments in an Eroammir fighting pit. Kaltner was particularly proud of this investment, as it meant he could now pester Stevros for financial aid, wearing the guise of a needy father-in-law rather than a desperate debtor. However, Stevros was more underhand than anyone could have guessed, lending the Kuznetzov’s a massive sum that came with a truly extortionate interest rate, knowing that Kaltner greed would see him readily accept the terms without truly understanding the weight he was about to place upon his clan’s neck. When the first repayment came due the Kuznetzov’s were driven to the brink of beggarhood. Realising the extent of his folly, Kaltner killed himself. Some said his shame at what he had done to his family drove him to do it, while others said it was a cowardly attempt to avoid taken responsibility for his actions. Either way, Kaltner was gone, and now it was down to Stravi to save his family.

The prodigal son returned. And promptly fucked things up even worse.

Stravi approached his brother in law, and instead of asking for an extension on the loan as everyone assumed, he would have to, the new Kuznetzov patriarch challenged Stevros to a duel. Stevros refused, stating he had no need to prove himself to a pauper lord. Stravi calmly repeated his challenge, and upon being refused a second time he even more calmly stabbed his rival to death. An uproar amongst the dwarven world followed. The bounds of noble brotherhood and courtly etiquette had never been so strained. Stravi had to be punished, if not for his actions then to send the message that his heinous antics would not be permitted in a civilised world. The only problem was that he had brought his Blackshield Brothers home with him, five hundred hardened and experienced veteran mercenaries, who made it clear that they would not allow their commander to be executed. So, the issue became what to do with the noble murderer.

The solution came from the man himself. ‘Give me to the Order of the Sacred Flame’ he said. He would give away all he owned to the Diadekt’s in reparation for Stevros’ death, renounce all his claims to the Kuznetzov clan leadership, then hand over command of his beloved Blackshields to his first lieutenant, before heading to join the Order, there to find either redemption or death. All agreed it was a suitable punishment and commended themselves on a job well done. They sent the former Dwarf Lord on his way, and agreed they were all better with the unfortunate business behind them.

Relationships:
The Blackshield Brothers: Stravi’s former mercenary company.
John ‘Gentle’ Gemeal: Stravi’s former lieutenant and now acting commander of the Blackshield Brothers.
The Kuznetzov clan: Stravi’s clan. One illustrious in the Dwarven world, now fallen on hard times.
Anna Kuznetzov: Stravi’s youngest sister.

Skills:

• Warfare, specialising in small mixed unit tactics and infantry command
• Martial Arts, though he is more experienced fighting in the press of a shieldwall than he is in a one-on-one duel.
• Business Management
• Wildcraft
• Court intrigue and politics
• Noble education, so an understanding of magic, literature, philosophy, and theology

Magic: While he does have an understanding of magic and the disciplines needed to master it – the benefits of a noble education – Stravi himself has no aptitude for the craft at all.
Equipment: All of Stravi’s worldly possessions were confiscated from his upon his arrest, returned to his family for them to sell, all proceeds serving the twin purposes of paying both his father’s debts and his own weregild, so beyond those items and arms given to him by the Order at his induction he doesn’t have a single thing to his name.

• Dagger
• Arming sword
• Round shield
• Gambeson and mail
• Steel helm with visor

Age: 32.
Race: Human.
Origin: Weirn - The City of Normundr.

Personality: Einarr is a very stubborn and gruff person who prefers to rely on his own skills and abilities rather than those around him.

While his lone wolf and mostly antisocial behaviour was only made stronger by his time as a Ranger in the service of King Hagrir, during which Einarr spent most of his time alone while out on long distance scouting or hunting missions into the surrounding hills and forests, it can be traced all the way back to when he was a child living in the city slums where he had no one else to rely on but himself to provide food, shelter, clothing, and water.

Despite all of his self reliance and complete lack of a desire for social interaction with most people, Einarr has one trait that had always and will always remain engrained within him, and that is loyalty. Indeed Einarr is loyal to a fault and once carried a fellow Ranger who was fatally wounded back to Normundr, through a blizzard, by himself, simply because the man wanted to be buried with his ancestors and not in an unmarked grave out in the wilds. Upon returning to the city, the King made sure the Ranger was given a proper buriel before personally rewarding Einarr for his deed by giving him a sword from his personal armory.

History: Abandoned by his parents when he was a child, Einarr was forced to live out on the streets, stealing and fighting off the other homeless children to survive. While there were a few people who showed him compassion by giving him food, clothing, water, or a place to stay in exchange for work they needed done, most of the time he was ignored and left to fend for himself.

As he grew older, he became more and more desperate to survive in the frozen, inescapable hell he constantly found himself in by breaking into other peoples homes to look for food or to find a warm place to sleep for the night, not knowing that this habit would eventually see him crossing paths with a man that would change his life forever.

Veteran Ranger Bruin Stormblade.

~Twenty Years Ago~

It was on a particularly cold winter night that a young Einarr was trying, and failing, to get a restful night's sleep under the snow covered awning of a nearby bakery, the freezing snow filled air tearing at his ragged clothing and the cold flesh underneath. Lifting up his head, Einarr saw what he thought was a well to do man clad in chain mail, leather, and furs armed with a bow, axe, and round shield walk past the bakery he was sleeping next to and off towards the more well off part of town. Well, more well off than the slums he was accustomed to living in anyway.

Smiling to himself, Einarr got to his feet and began to follow the man, keeping just far back enough to avoid rousing his suspicions, until he saw the man arrive at a small but modest home, open the door, and go inside. Doing his best not to shiver from the cold Einarr quietly made his way round to the back of the house, unlocked a first floor window, and slipped inside. The interior of the house was dark which caused the boy to fumble around for a bit in search of a candle or other source of light when the feeling of a sharp object brushing up against his throat stopped him from moving any further.

"Don't you know it's not wise to sneak into someones house unannounced boy?" A gruff voice said from somewhere in front of him. Einarr felt his blood run cold at the man's mention of the word "boy." How did this man know he was a boy unless...

"What?" The man said with a chuckle. "Did you really think you'd be able to follow a Ranger and break into his house without him noticing?" With those words Einarr heard the man mutter something which caused a flame to materialize in the palm of his right hand. Stretching out his hand to a nearby wall the man uttered another chant and the flame surged towards it, causing a torch mounted there to ignite and bathe the small room in a flickering orange light.

Now that he could see better, Einarr's eyes went wide in shock and fear as he finally got a good look at the bear of a man holding the sword to his throat. He had long raven black hair that reached his shoulders, a thick beard tied in a braid, and a heavily scared face that made it seem as though he'd been mauled by a bear. Seeing the look on the boy's face, the man let out another, more amused chuckle, as he withdrew the blade and placed it back into its sheathe. He then walked over to a nearby chair and sat down in it before pulling out a wooden pipe from a pouch on his belt, placing some tobacco into it, and lighting it.

"Y-you're not going to kill me?" Einarr asked, his voice breaking slightly.

"Now what would that accomplish?" The man asked as he took a long draw from the pipe before exhaling a large cloud of smoke. "You'd be dead and I'd have a mess to clean up."

"Then...what are you going to do?" Einarr asked, the apprehension he felt written plainly on his face.

"I'm going to give you a choice." He said, leaning forward slightly. "You can try to steal from me and run like you originally planned and try to live your life on the streets..." He said, indicating the open window with his pipe. "Or you can become my apprentice and train to become a Ranger in service of the King and do something productive with your life."

Einarr stared at him for a while, his mouth hung open in shock. First he'd thought he was going to die and now he was being offered a chance to have a life far better than the one he had now. Effectively a fresh start. Thinking it over for a long while, Einarr finally made up his mind.

"Alright." He said, standing up a bit straighter. "I'll train under you sir...um..."

"Stormblade. Bruin Stormblade." He said, taking another draw from his pipe.

Einarr nodded in acknowledgement and dropped to one knee. "Sir Stormblade."

"Eh, get up boy. Bowing is only done before those spineless nobles or our King, of which I'm neither. Now, I've told you my name, how about yours? You got a name boy?"

"Einarr." He said, getting to his feet.

"Well Einarr..." Bruin said as he got up from his chair and walked over to Einarr. "I suggest you get some sleep. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

~Present Day~
Einarr pulled the fur hood he was wearing further down his head to keep out the bone chilling mountain wind that whipped across face as the carriage he was currently seated in rattled and creaked as it slowly made its way up the narrow path leading through the Ghenna Mountains, the team of horses at its front kicking up clouds of snow with every step they took.

Looking off into the distance he could see the imposing form of the Orders mountain stronghold rising up from the surrounding mist and clouds like the carcass of some long dead beast left over from ages that have long since been forgotten by man and elf alike.

Prying his gaze from the towering structure, Einarr turned his attention back to the letter clutched in his hand. The reason he was even here in the first place. He stared at the damned thing for a long while before tossing it over the side of the carriage. He didn't even have to read it in order to know what it was. To know what it said.

It was a letter of banishment from King Hagrir himself for so called treason against the crown, which was a load of bullshit. Einarr knew he'd done nothing wrong and so had the King, but he was forced to bend to the will of the nobles at the time which is what had led him to where he was now. Freezing his ass off in a rickety old carriage on the side of a mountain.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, Einarr turned his gaze back towards the oncoming keep, a look of stubborn determination on his face. He may have been exiled from his homeland by his enemies and stripped of his official title as a Kings Ranger, but he'd be damned if he let them break his spirit.

Relationships:

• King Hagrir - Acquaintance.
• Bruin Stormblade - Seen as an adoptive father.

Strong Skills:

• Archery.
• Hand-to-hand/Melee Combat.
• Survival (includes a bit of first aid, herbalism, etc).
• Tracking.
• Streetwise.
• Crafting (weapons and armor as well as the repair of said items).

Weak Skills:

• Pickpocketing.
• Lockpicking.
• Persuasion.
• Diplomacy.

Magic:

• Pyromancy - Apprentice (Attuned and trained as a member of Hagrirs Rangers).

Equipment:

• Leather pouch containing 145 pieces of gold.
• A small dagger.
• Good quality steel longsword from the Kings personal armory.
• Dependable steel hand axe.
• Hunting bow.
• Reinforced leather armor with furs woven into it for warmth.
• A large over the shoulder animal skin pack containing flint, tinder, a bedroll, some rope, food, an emblem marking Einarr as a member of the Order, and a water skin.

Age: 27
Race: Tiefling
Origin: No specific origin due to traveling but was briefly raised in the outskirts of Asha
Appearance:
Seiritif proves to be relatively handsome, that is if one can look past his abnormalities. Standing tall and fit at a large 6’2, with a navy-blue skin tone which sharply contrasts his red fiery eyes, all of which makes the Tiefling impossible to miss in a crowd. His slightly wavy black and brown hair barely bobs above his shoulders, often being tied behind his head in a small bun keeping it from blocking his vision. His face is seemingly cleansed of blemishes except for an old faded scare sliced diagonally across his high-rise cheekbones acting as a cursed memory of his old guardian. His tail swooshes behind him being rather thick for even that of a Tiefling, it has grown pock marked with scares from years of traveling on the road, having become the only part of him he doesn’t make an active attempt to make presentable, but rather having it swept idly behind him keeping it away from any kind of attention.

The Tiefling has always has been one to care passionately about his outward appearance, having put forward a large sum to get custom made jewelry that he wears to embellish his horns, making no attempt to hide his Tiefling heritage. Having grown a natural affinity for the colors purple and red through the colors being a part of his old show, the blue Tiefling rapidly grew an attachment to them wearing the colors as frequently as possible. Although due to his current predicament he’s been forced to relinquish many of his old clothes and trinkets he once grew so fond of in his past as they quickly became irrelevant for the journey ahead of him now.

Personality:
Tieflings tend to be considered some kind of mysterious boogeymen that are passed on as old wives tales to keep their children in bed, and Seiritif embraced all of it. Having joined the circus and forgoing any past he had before that he has grown accustomed to being the center of attention, radiating extravagance and arrogance the Tiefling holds himself high no matter who may be mocking him for his race. Seiritif has been noted multiple times to hold those he calls friends closely, as for a Tiefling such as himself he's found that allies come few and far between. Despite all of this he has always had an air of kindness and wits to the man.

Ever since he joined the circus Seiritif began relying heavily on his silver tongue that he once used to manipulate his old guardian with. Being capable of making elaborate made up stories on the spot alongside with his dexterous hands the Tiefling has managed to get himself in and out of trouble multiple times, but all it takes is messing with the wrong person for it all to come tumbling down.

History:
Seiritif's upbringing was anything but a gentle one. With having no memory of who his true parents were, or any knowledge of what happened to them. Rather he was raised by an old senile necromancer who believed that by raising a devil child he could be granted a wish from a demon without knowing how wrong he could be. Being raised by the old man was a hard time for the child as he was subjected to both his diluted mood swings and being stuck within a house cut off from the outside world. Although once he turned 17 Seiritif left the only place he's ever known to search out for something better for himself. Grabbing as many supplies he could, he made a run for it. With only two mementos from the old man upon his departure, one being his ability of manipulating the very air people breath, and a newly placed gash across his left cheek.

To be on his own after living a relatively sheltered life from the outside world; 17-year-old Seiritif was not in any way prepared for the trials that lie ahead. Facing fear and disdain from his mere existence Seiritif quickly turned to becoming a criminal, using and manipulating his Aeromancy to get away with things no man in his situation should have been able to get away with for how little he knew. Unfortunately for him, this streak of crime could only get him so far in the cities of Ashae as he was found and almost killed. Seirtif left the cities traveling onto the long dirt roads in search of any place he could call home.

luck finally began to take a turn, as the Philip Astely Traveling Circus found him lying on his would-be death bed in the middle of the road. It was there from the generosity of the ringmaster Seiritif lived on. And it was here that he found a group of outcasts, misfits, and those of interesting skills that a blue-skinned tiefling could call his home. Adding another misfit to the ranks Seiritif quickly bound himself to the role of the "Devil of the Circus" and along with it, the circuses fame skyrocketed. As it was not every day people are able to witness a tiefling, and with his acts he played on the fear and the veil of mystery that surrounded his race to keep people constantly on the edge of their seats, creating an illusion of risk and danger when there was never any to begin with. The circus, suffice to say, hit a home run by adopting the blue-skinned man.

As traveling with the circus rapidly became his new home, for the first time in his life he found a place he belonged. Seiritif spent most of his spare time in-between shows sitting at a table on the edge of the circus ground, as traversing out alone tended to be a risky endeavor as the sight of a Tiefling to many people has mixed results. But at his table, he took on any passerby who felt they had the luck and courage to gamble against the Tiefling, and it was there he sat using Aeromancy to game dice rolls or stacking decks of cards into his favor; he was one to rarely lose. But all it took was gambling with the wrong person at the wrong time for things to turn violent. Miscalculation both his own strength and a miss cast of a spell lead to an unconscious man bleeding at his feet. Not even being capable of saying his goodbyes before he was taken away.

He wasn't even capable of saying his goodbye to those who saved him before he was locked up in a cell, his normal demeanor quickly fell apart within the sell having been set for execution the tiefling seamingly lost hope for himself. Laying in a poorly made cot in a cell, the iron gates of hell creaked open,
"Finally time to take me away? Or are you just here to gawk at a teifling."
"neither, it took some convincing but your sentence has been appealed." the man standing tall above him replied, his expression exceedingly hard to read.
The Tiefling let out a sardonic chuckle out in response. "So fate still got something planned for me then, eh?"

Relationships:
N/A

Skills:

• Throwing weapons (From the circus)
• Slight of hand
• Acting
• Sword play
• Mild survival skills (From the order)

Magic: Aeromancy: novice
Equipment:

• Rations to last him a week
• 6 throwing knives attached upon his belt
• wet stone and oils for weapon upkeep
• flint
• tinder
• sleeping kot
• An old but well-kept Falchion
• Water skin
• Tarot cards

Age: 21
Race: Half-elf
Origin: The Imperium/Eroammir

Appearance:
A bright-eyed girl with a mischievous smile, Kuri is almost the spitting image of her mother. With only a set of barely pointed ears to show for her elven heritage, she could pass as a full-blooded human almost anywhere on the continent. Her amber eyes are highlighted with a light wash of eyeshadow, and long black hair is either freely let down or pulled back into a high ponytail.

She prefers outfits that don't get in the way and allow her as much flexibility as possible; her clothes are plain and usually at least a little dirty after a day of running around in the city. A belt around her waist holds most of her smaller items, while straps on her back carry her spear and short-bow. In a pocket on the inside of her belt, she stores a single ring passed down from her mother.

Kuri is always accompanied by a-- particularly friendly wolf? really big dog? She's honestly not too sure. Nevertheless, Kuma, a large white canine with a weight of around 90 kg and a height of 1.1 meters, serves as the intimidation factor a young girl like her lacks.

Personality:
Cheery, lighthearted, and at times immature, Kuri just loves life! Preferring to go with the flow, Kuri is the type to never think too far ahead. It's much more fun to just live as life comes!

She loves talking to people--especially cute ones. Anyone who starts up a conversation should expect to be greeted by a bright smile and a personalized nickname the next time they meet. Kuri has a unique but surprisingly innocent sense of humour, and will often subject the people around her to little pranks that really only she finds funny.

Has a weakness for money, beautiful people, and good food.

History:
Born in The Imperium from an illicit relationship between an elven mage and his human student, Kuri knew that she would never quite be able to fit into the pompous society around her. Her father, a notable professor at the University, could not afford the social costs that came with having a half-bred child, and left almost as soon as she was born. Her mother, an ambitious student with an interest in the lost, spent her days researching tirelessly in hopes of finding some scrap of information about the forbidden magics of Rituals and electromancy. As such, the girl spent her childhood days in almost complete freedom-- during the day, she loved to explore the busy winding streets of the historical city, while at night, she learned the arts of elementalism and warding from her mother's well-stocked collection of texts.

When she was 14 years old, the family of two moved to Eroammir. Her mother had heard of the existence of a group of scholars there who secretly worked to find the secrets that the elves so desperately wanted to keep hidden. From then on, Astrid spent less and less time at home, until one day, she never returned. Her first love had always been magic.

While her absence didn't seem to take much of an emotional toll on Kuri, the lack of any sort of authority figure would eventually lead her to trouble. On the streets, she realized that her natural talent at sleight of hand could be used to steal. At the age of 17, after years of getting away with thievery and general mischief, she grew too bold and was finally caught. A young able-bodied girl, she was sentenced to a lifetime of fighting in the Pits.

Relationships:
Kuma, companion
Astrid, mother

Skills:
Basic first aid
Basic archery
Spearmanship
Knifemanship
Sleight of hand
Thieving
Lock-picking
Pickpocketing
Flirting

Magic:
Attuned to electromancy [INTERMEDIATE]
Geomancy [INTERMEDIATE]

Equipment:
Bedroll
Light leather armour
Flint
Water Canteen
Spear
Lock-picks
Basic first aid kit

Age: Two and a half decades.
Race: Orisiri
Origin: Kerious.
Appearance:
Nazan is tall of stature and has an athletic build, honed by years of training and combat. He isn't the largest of orisiri, but he is well-built, with lean whipcord muscle and explosive energy. He has the grey-hued skin and gaunt features of orisiri of Iza. Altogether, his bearing is noble, concealing an acute readiness and predatory drive.

Personality:
Nazan had a reputation among his fellows as a taciturn, levelheaded combatant, but possessed of great mirth off the battlefield. Laughter and banter came easily to him. While that is still true today, the fate of his home city-state, Iza, and the trials he endured after its fall have changed his worldview.

Like many orisiri, Nazan is superstitious, looking to signs and portents of the gods for guidance. The fact he ran from the sacrificial altar weighs heavily on his conscience. He wants to believe his induction to the Order is the gods' way of granting him a new lease on life. However, the notion that his actions have angered them nips at his heels. Did running from certain death make him a coward? What would they say if he ever showed his face in Kerious again?

Without a definite answer to these questions, Nazan is content to do as the Order asks. There is still honor left in him, and that honor demands he repay his debt to the Order for saving his life. He's matured since his years as an ambitious young warrior of the Iza, no longer needing to prove his worth to others, save himself.

History:
Nazan was raised in Kerious. His household was in service to the city-state of Iza, a prominent orisiri stronghold. Iza combined the martial culture of the orisiri with a political structure reminiscent of the humans or elves. It was a feudal system where land was the measure of wealth, rewarded for service at arms and tended by peasantry. Nazan’s house was of the warrior class, landholders that fought for Iza in wartime and afforded the serfs who tended their lands with protection. As such, Nazan was trained to fight, but also to govern the lands that he would one day inherit.

Iza’s influence grew steadily as Nazan became an adult. It cast a shadow over many smaller states and peoples, a fact that didn’t sit well with several other powerful states. Tensions grew over the years as conflicts became less about subterfuge and cloak-and-dagger machinations, and more about skirmishes and open warfare. To keep Iza in check, the city-states of Nadir and Pesht created a military alliance and marched on their common enemy.

The fighting lasted for years. Campaigns came and gone with the seasons. Iza still stood, yet could not hold out under siege forever. A last-ditch offensive to sally out and defeat the alliance for good ended in defeat. Nazan was captured by warriors from Nadir during the battle. A person of his rank could be ransomed for a decent sum, or sacrificed as a worthy offering to the gods. The Nadir chose the latter.

Sacrifice was not an ignoble death. There was a measure of honor in joining the gods this way. The orisiri of the plain knew this and fought and died for the gods. The orisiri of Kerious knew this too, adopting sacrifice to replace - or often accompany - war. Nazan, however, felt no honor when his name was called and he was led to the altar at Nadir’s square. He felt no pride or elation that he’d see the gods at last. He felt only the twist of fear in his gut and the overwhelming instinct to run. So he did.

His escape should have been impossible, but by some miracle, Nazan wrenched his way free, leaped through the throngs of onlookers and disappeared down the alleyways and into the sewers of Nadir. He crawled through the dirt and waste as guards scattered through the streets, waving torches and shouting directions. Nazan clung to the shadows and bided his time. With the guards in meandering pursuit, he took his chance when a post of the wall was abandoned and leaped to his freedom.

Once clear of the city, Nazan fled to the wilderness. He decided to go north, out of Kerious, across the Maw and find sanctuary in the Aouril Plains. The orisiri there wouldn’t know of his cowardice, but he could prove his skill in a fight. Just maybe, they’d take him in. He spent days eluding Nadir patrols, cloaking himself with mud, sleeping only briefly and living off the land. Finally, Nazan reached the Maw and prepared for the grueling descent down its rocky face.

To his dismay, Nadir riders had caught onto his trail. Caught between the mercy of his captors and the stone jaws of the chasm below, Nazan prepared for his final moments. However, he did not anticipate the arrival of a second set of red-garbed horsemen, and neither did his pursuers, who fell from their horses full of arrows. The riders in red didn’t ask for his thanks, only for his allegiance.

Relationships:
TBA

Skills:
Nazan is proficient in Kin-jak, an orisiri martial art that combines swordplay and grappling maneuvers. He is a skilled rider and huntsman, in the orisiri style of mounted archery. His education taught him of Kerious’ courtly structure and manners, an overview of history and geography and literacy. During his escape from Nadir, Nazan was forced to learn on his feet and adopt surivalist skills, including camouflage, living off the land, making shelters, leaving no trace, etc.

Magic:
Nazan shows no sign of attunement to any forms of magic. Magic was always the domain of shamans in Iza and Nazan doesn't aim to understand its nature.

Equipment:
Nazan carries the slew of basic gear given to him by the Order: a pack containing a bedroll, flint, tinder, a mess kit, rope and trail rations, among other miscellaneous supplies.

In addition, he dons crimson orisiri armor pilfered from his dead captors, with the emblems of the city-state of Nadir chiselled off. He is armed with a broad shield strapped to his arm and an orisiri bladed club. The weapon resembles a longsword, but its edges are lined with the razor-sharp teeth of the polengo shark.

Nazan also carries small totems on his person: good luck charms and idols of the gods to keep him from harm.

Age: 24
Race: Human
Origin: Keirous
Appearance: Itkovian is a person of dark skin with a strange set of amber eyes that runs through his family, many of them saying it comes from their elvish ancestry. He stands at around six feet and three inches with broad shoulders, a wide back, and a dense physique that has some small amount of fat which serves to make him look bigger although he tries to hide the small but somewhat visible pot-belly he's earned. His hair comes in the form of dreads that fall just beyond his shoulders and a thick, but cropped and well-kept beard frames his face.

Personality: Many would say that Itkovian is a resourceful individual, and they would be right. His resourcefulness comes in the form of trying to turn everything that happens to him in his favour, whether that be immediately or slowly over time. He has an understanding, instilled in him from a young age by his parents, that life will serve him if he but only learns to grasp it by the reins and pull it along. He's stubborn by nature, and when his mind is set upon something it's almost impossible to sway him otherwise; which comes in handy when he tries to turn all the shit that happens to him in his favour. Naturally, he also has a good outlook on life. Where others may believe that life has dealt them a bad hand, he sees it as an opportunity to not only grow, but to show that he can get ahead with less.

Itkovian is also an ambitious individual. Highly ambitious with dreams of not only becoming powerful, but rich and highly respected. He's kind, but gruff and will do just about anything if the pay is right. He believes that morality is something that people restrict themselves by in order to conform with societal standards, and instead shapes the world in his own personal view of what he believes are worthy standards. That being of loyalty and trust. Those two, once earned from him are never given up, despite how much coin may be presented to him, and he is willing to go to the ends of the earth with those that have earned his loyalty and his trust. However, once they are broken they are broken forever, and if he has anything to say about it, they also end in the death of whoever betrayed his trust.

History: Itkovian was born to a powerful and prominent merchanting family in Keirous with ties extending the Kingdom of Iora and even having ties with The Order. His early childhood was spent in training as was a custom in their family, where he learned how to handle a sword, spear, and a glaive. The sword however being his best weapon, but because fighting wasn't a specialty of theirs, his skill was only passing and enough to defend himself with. Along with that, he learned commerce, business, and was put to studying the various trade routes and relationships that his family had. As he grew older, his father put him at the head of a caravan travelling to Iora.

It was during this trip, at the age of seventeen, that he met the mercenary band that he would eventually join. He talked the leader, paid him a few pretty coins and the caravan was thus guarded. During the trip, Itkovian would talk to the mercenary leader, Brush Tath, a large muscle-bound tiefling and slowly during the trip, Itkovian grew to like the mercenary lifestyle more and more. Once the caravan reached its destination, he sold their goods to several prominent merchant families within the Kingdom and more covertly, sold weapons and armour to the Order.

Once he returned home, he told his family of his desire to leave the family business and join a mercenary band. His mother tried talking out of it, but his father was all for it, saying that the harsh life would teach him to become a man. He left with a few coins and subsequently joined the mercenaries, where he expanded on his skills as a swordsman and even managed to learn some small amount of magic from one of the wizards in the band. Several years later he learned his sister was married off to a particularly powerful human legislator. He attended the wedding and wished his sister many sons and daughters before going off once more with the mercenaries; however he returned with a blazing sword several years later when he learned that his sister was being regularly beaten by her husband. He stormed their palace and hung the man at the front of his house with his bowels hanging dangling beneath his feet.

Itkovian confessed to the crime and was set for execution when he learned that his father made a bargain with The Order to keep him alive. He was let go but exiled to the north.

Relationships:

• Tanakalian - Father
• Haremiss - Mother
• Nitheria - Sister
• Vorkarian - Brother
• Brush Tath - Mercenary Leader
• Sulky - Mercenary Wizard
• Grinner - Mercenary armourer
• Hoen Vast - Seedy Merchant
• Erika Maltres - Black Market contact

Skills:

• Swordsmanship
• Diplomacy/persuasion
• Business management
• Social skills
• Basic strategy
• Hand-to-hand combat

Magic:
Unattuned - Pyromancy

• Can light his sword on fire
• Can make a small mote of fire appear on his hand
• Can manipulate a small flame, including creating and snuffing candle, lantern and small campfires

Equipment:

• Bedroll and blanket
• Torches
• Flint
• Rations
• Waterskin
• Sword and swordbelt
• Armour
• Shield
• Heavy fur-tipped cloak
• coin pouch containing 50 gold pieces
• Family ring

Age:
24

Race:
Half-Elven

Origin:
Ioria- in a section of country ostensibly claimed by the Imperium

Personality:
Sarathai bears all the misplaced confidence of one who has never faced true hardships growing up. Even presently, at a junction in life he never imagined finding himself at he still maintains an air of casual optimism. Bereft of the dark and tragic pasts of virtually everyone he now finds himself surrounded by, his naturally cheery and upbeat demeanor can strike quite a contrast to the dour, laconic folk that make up the bulk of the Order.

Having been provided with a greater degree of education than your average soldier, he is more than happy to engage in discussion on a variety of topics, even if his knowledge tends to be more generalized in any given topic and there are few things (if any) that he would consider himself to have any degree of expertise in.

When it comes to fighting, Sarathai prefers to avoid it if possible. If not possible, his go-to tactic is to try and hang out as far back as possible, taking pot shots with his crossbow while other more skilled combatants do the brunt of the work. Though he has had some measure of training since joining the order, he still lacks much of the skill of his peers. Fortunately, though he is a far cry from being the perfect soldier of the Order, every organization still needs quartermasters to keep their people fed and provided for- the sort of logistical role Sarathai would be quite proficient at.

History:
I suppose the best place to start would be at the start of the Iskadar line. Without going to much into the specifics of family trees, the important bit to know is that at some point in time the Iskadar family name belonged to a line of merchants. For generations their success was made along the road, buying from one town to sell in the next. For a time, this was more than sufficient for everything they needed to provide for themselves. Eventually, as their success and fortunes slowly grew from one generation to the next, it became apparent that this nomadic lifestyle was becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain. Eventually, ye olde Iskadar of something like a dozen or so generations ago decided that the time had come to settle down and be the ones manufacturing the goods for the other traveling merchants to sprnd their days carting near and far. Thus it was that the old Iskadar used his accumulated wealth to purchase several large tracts of land off in the Iorian countryside. According to most "official" boundary maps distributed by the more reputable cartographers in major cities this land was part of the territory claimed by the Imperium, yet it was far enough removed from any major population centers that most folk didn't particularly care who their proper ruler was- if some years the tax collectors had pointier ears than other years it hardly changed anything for the small folk. Most people couldn't even tell you the name of who was king off yonder, nor did they particularly care.

Out here, where most folk were travelers heading between the Imperium and Eroammir, people tended to care a less about the politics and prejudices of the fancy big city folk and more about making it through the next winter. As such, at least in the area where the Iskadar family had settled, half-elven families were hardly given more than a second thought. Whether the first of the Iskadar line had been an elf or a human was a matter of some debate, with opinions that could vary wildly depending on who was recounting the tale of their more humble beginnings. The only thing agreed upon was that at some point there had been a bit of mingling between the two races, so that now there was never a generation that didn't have a bit of blood from both. When it came to the Iskadar lands, large portions had been converted into orchards, vineyards and apiaries with the wines and mead produced by the Iskadar family keeping the family comfortably wealthy. In addition to the network of business connections forged during their time as traveling merchants, there was almost always a healthy demand for their goods at inns and taverns up and down the local trade routes, so business was good and the family prospered.

Sarathai was born as the fourth child of his current generation. With a slew of older siblings this meant that, barring any sort of catastrophic event (perhaps a war or plague), there was very little chance he would end up inheriting the family estates. Still, it was Iskadar tradition that all children be provided with at least a rudimentary education and some formal training in managing the family business in case it became necessary for any one of them to have to step up and take over. As such, Sarathai was one of the comparatively few among the local villages who was literate.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, if you're morbid like that), none of the Iskadar children met any unfortunate ends before reaching adulthood. For Sarathai, that meant that his eldest sibling would end up inheriting and he would be expected to make his own path in life- be it working for the family business or moving on to do his own thing. He chose the later option. Still, his family was not the sort to just turn out one of their own with no support and provided Sarathai with a decent sum of money with the implicit understanding that it be used to support himself until he got suitably situated in life and able to provide adequately for himself.

To Sarathai, this meant heading to the largest nearby Imperium city. He had entertained delusions of becoming quite the formidable wizard and to that extend sought someone to instruct him in magic. Unfortunately for Sarathai, his imagined future of flying about hurling lightning bolts didn't seem likely to come to fruition. He discovered, to his dismay, that some magical schools were harder to find a tutor for than others and that even if you could find one they were expensive. He ultimately had to settle for pyromancy, as it was the only elemental school where he could find a reasonably priced instructor willing to teach him. That didn't last very long. It turned out that Sarathai had no knack for pyromancy and gave it up relatively quickly, as it was rapidly eating into the money he needed for food and lodgings.

Eventually, Sarathai managed to find himself working for an aging shopkeeper who dealt in all manner of goods. Having experience balancing ledgers and keeping inventory from his limited experience with the family business he quickly ingratiated himself with the owner. Eventually, she even shared with him that she had her own talent in magic that she was willing to teach to her apprentice. As it turned out, she had some decent skill with restoration magic. In particular, she was talented at warding- which she used primarily as a means of detecting and deterring would-be thieves. It just so happened that she was more than willing to teach some of what she knew to Sarathai, much to his chagrin whenever he thought of how much he had spent on his previous failed education when he could have been learning for free this entire time.

With most people, this lifestyle would have been perfectly sustainable, bu Sarathai was not most people. Dspite his business acumen, Sarathai did not mirror this strength in his personal life. He had grown up accustomed to a certain sort of lifestyle and without a second thought had recklessly tried to recreate this level of comfort for himself regardless of the cost of doing so. Unfortunately, this was well beyond his means. Between this and the decent chunk of money he had invested in his failed foray at pyromancy he quickly found himself having to borrow money in order to make ends meet. Unfortunately, as he continued to borrow money without reducing personal expenses to match he found himself falling further and further into debt. Eventually, people began refusing to offer any more loans as he found himself unable to adequately repay what he had already borrowed. Around the time when the initially subtle threats started to get more poetic and descriptive he realized he might need to look into alternate solutions.

As fate would have it, the very day he had concluded that the best solution was to skip town he happened to run into someone recruiting for the Order. If he had been thinking straight, he might have wondered what kind of recruiter seemed to be primarily recruiting from prisoners, street toughs and other riffraff, but the promise of a clean slate in literally any city that was not here was too tempting of an offer for the young man to pass up while he still had both of his kneecaps intact.

Relationships:
PCs: (none yet)
NPCs: (none yet)

Skills:
Archery (crossbows)
Scribing
Accounting
First Aid
History
Geography

Magic:
Restoration (Warding)

Equipment:
Bedroll
Flint/Steel
Waterskin
Trail rations
Crossbow/Bolts
Dagger
Sheaves of Parchment/ink

Age: 32

Race: Half Starfallen, Half Elf

Origin: The Imperium

Appearance: Scarlet hair frames the pale face of the half-elf, flowing down to the feminine curve of her hips. Although she is tall and slender, her body is filled out with wiry muscles that lay beneath the purple undertones of her skin. Many can’t pinpoint the exact mix of her race, but she is very obviously elvish, from the pointed ears to her smooth complexion. Although, when she casts her spells, her starfallen glow resonates from her pale eyes and in faint patterns that appear along her skin.

Tara’s once gentle expression has been replaced with seriousness and she adopts a more assertive nature. Her bone structure matches the beauty of the female elves, while her presence is full of mystery and wonder. Tara is usually seen wearing different kinds of elven dresses that are adorned with beautiful ornaments and jewelry, since she takes pride in her noble heritage.

Personality: Tara is a woman who is constantly trying to balance the scales of her own heart and mind. Peace and harmony are what’s most important in her eyes so she tries to remain at peace with herself to allow her judgements to be unclouded and clear. While she is a protector of the innocent, she is often left vulnerable. Tara struggles with violence, but the order has been working to fix this aspect of her for her own self-preservation. Growing up as a peaceful advocate, the handle of a blade or the cry of war have always been foreign to her.

Despite her absence with battle, Tara is braver than most and will go to great extents to properly portray her courage. Growing up as a noble, Tara was often an icon for peace and safety, so she made sure to become a woman worthy of the titles she was given—brave, caring, harmonious, intelligent, wise.

History: Tara was the daughter of two renowned individuals within the Imperium. Her father, a victorious war strategist, and her mother, a professor of pyromancy. It was expected that they would meet, considering their great contributions to the Imperium and their equally matched talents. It didn’t take long for them to fall in love and for them to conceive a beautiful child that bore the many valuable traits of the elves and the starfallen. After Tara, they began to have many more, living in a calm time while raising children. It seemed as if Tara was the reincarnation of many lives of wisdom so she became independent at a young age.

Tara had a gentle heart since the day she was born, incapable of strategizing battle, and being too timid to control fire—so she decided to walk her own path that was parallel to her tranquil spirit. Her parents paid for private teachers and several tomes of knowledge that revolved around the art of restoration. Teachers came from several parts of the world, bestowing their knowledge unto Tara until her talents would follow the heels of her parents, and she was soon contributing to the Imperium and bringing honor to her family name. Becoming adept with the art of restoration was gratefully passed onto her, but the woman she became was from the purity of her heart and the future she saw for the world. Tara set off on a journey to visit the many corners of the world, all to help master her art of healing on the diversity of races that the world had to offer. This journey helped Tara to ground herself, opening her eyes to what the other cultures were like.

Tara became one of the Imperiums greatest healers upon her return, and she began to work under her father when he ignited his great work again. This is where the divide of her family began. Tara was too involved with the peace of the people, regardless of how fragile it may be, while her father intended to break it for the sake of the elves reconquering Ioria. Tara stood against her father, and she had a sum of followers that admired her stance against her own father. Many of the elves were underlyingly greedy, so they supported her father’s rise to strategize an attack against the humans. Tara, unafraid and optimistic, stood in his path as much as she could, but it wasn’t long before her rise was threatening the movement of her father.

Tara’s assassination was planned but it was poorly executed and failed. Thus, she was placed within the royal courts to ensure her safety, since the people valued and viewed Tara as an icon of wisdom and peace. The longer she influenced the people, the more she drew the hatred that tainted the people, so her enemies created a ploy to rid Tara of the Imperium altogether. Tara was framed for the successful assassination of her father as an act of revenge for her own assassination. The court saw this as a murder of one of the Imperium’s most respected and valuable assets, so they banished her from the city. Outside the city, her enemies waited with hate in their eyes and weapons in their hands—but she became saved by the Order of the Sacred Flame.

She joined and Tara struggled within the order, but she survived and she maintained her life there for a year and counting. Learning more and more about combat and the things she once hated. She struggles to keep her inner balance, but she feels she is on a path to reveal the other side of her purity that she was so blind to before.

Relationships:
N/A

Skills:
Alchemy
First Aid
Anatomy of the races
Throwing knives
Slight archery
Slight swordsmanship
Music
Cooking
Sewing

Magic:
Attuned to Restoration, Advanced

Equipment:
Sleeping equipment
Flint and tinder
Throwing knives
Bow and arrows
Dagger
Textbook of the anatomy of races
Alchemy supplies
Leather armor
Noble circlet from her heritage

Age: 34 years

Race: Elven Highblood

Origin: Ashae Imperium (north east)

Appearance: A carefully nurtured snowdrop sheathed in polished silver filigree, Vélaneah's fine features and diminutive stature (less than five feet in all) make her a rare sight in rough open-collared shirt, hooded green cloak and riding trous. Gone are the days when she wore a leafy silver tiara or star-patterned earrings about her daily business, instead her dark chestnut hair is bound back by a simple yet elegant double-strung length of auron leather.

Rapier and parrying dagger hang from opposite sides of her waist, with a simple belt pouch on her right hip that holds a number of her personal effects and... certain components. She also keeps a shoulder bag which she is rarely seen to carry, either because it is under her cloak or (more commonly) someone or something else is carrying it for her.

Personality: Vélaneah is the child of a thousand years of highblood elven aristocracy, which means she (or her kin at least) have raised the fine art of social assassination to an art form. When any given day in court could lead to a House's social (or literal) demise, one becomes accustomed to choosing one's words very carefully. The kind and the romantic called her graceful, thoughtful and elegant. Those less well disposed call her scheming, close-mouthed and languid.

Since taking the leadership of House T'Aldanai, she has shown signs of radicalism, consorting with the less well favoured elements of the court who openly advocate normalising relationships with the humans. Still she continues her careful ways and keeps up face, rarely willing to admit defeat even in the face of apparent total disaster for herself and those who owe her fealty.

She reads frequently given the opportunity; Vél's laziness (if laziness it is) is purely physical in nature.

History: Vélaneah T'Aldannin is the eldest child of her generation, daughter to Cháuntilly and Erathe T'Aldannin and older sister to Marcos and Délilah. At her birth the T'Aldanai was one of the most powerful in the Imperium beneath the Eight Houses themselves but under Cháuntilly's benign suzerainty it began to lose power and prestige at an accelerating pace. Vél's childhood at court was filled with slights from those who once called her friend until at last her parents took their family back to their estates in the north east of the Imperium.

Since her father's murder Vélaneah ascended to the ruler's mantle but not to his policies. Through slow and careful moves and two successive betrothals, the Flower of the Snows has worked to rebuild her family's fortunes, returning to court only for visits and formal court events. Through a mixture of bluff, persuasion and occasional courteous threats she succeeded in rebuilding most of her family's former fortunes, but has at last been caught red-handed conspiring against the Eight. Stripped of her rank, her House chastised and placed under her brother's aegis, Vélaneah was on her way to the executioner's block when an agent from the Order of the Sacred Flame arrived to save her by sheer chance.

At least, that was the official story.

The road to the Ghenna Mountains was arduous and (in some areas) infested by bandits, so Vél's party waited for a second to travel in more company. That was how she met Georgia Chandler and her taller shadow, establishing a casual friendship with the human woman before they reached Farron Peak.

Relationships:
Georgia Chandler: New Friend
Marcos T'Aldannin: Younger Brother
Délilah T'Aldannin: Younger Sister (7)
Erathe T'Aldannin: Mother and former Lady Consort of the T'Aldanai
Iseult Ascia: Former Lady in Waiting and mistress to Vélaneah before her downfall.

Skills:
Herbalism
Aether Studies
Riding
Literature
Sketching
Negotiation
Etiquette
Fencing
Carving

Magic:
Attuned to Cryomancy, Adept.
Attuned to Geomancy, Novice.

Equipment:
Bedroll
Water Canteen
4" Parrying Dagger (sheathed at right hip)
28" Rapier (sheathed at left hip)
Writing Papers, ink and quill
Simple silver pendant (topaz)
Basic Potions
Good Rations (enough for deployment?)