---

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Name: Drayson Alestal _{~Fey Dragon Son - Angel Soul~}
Physical Age: 19
True Age: 24
Gender: Male
Race: Human (Maybe with a little something else.)
Subspecies: -
Description: As per picture.

Likes:

• Books
• Silence
• Puzzles
• Technology
• Religion
• Personal space
• Patterns

Dislikes:

• The Ocean
• Tight spaces
• Big crowds
• Loud people
• Violence
• Arrogance
• Bullies
• Chaos
• Reoccurring Nightmares

Strengths:
Fears:

• Drowning. Fuck the ocean!
• Claustrophobia
• Dying alone
• The end of the world
• Losing faith

Flaws:

• Socially awkward
• Non combat trained
• Mild anxiety
• Slightly OCD

Hobbies:

• Reading & studying
• Sorting things
• Puzzles
• Agriculture / gardening.

Secrets?: Nope, there is nothing to read here. No sir-ee _{For unknown reasons his true heritage has been suppressed and hidden from even his own memory. While it has left some blank holes and confusion in his past, it has allowed him to infiltrate the WDL. He should look something like this.}
Affiliation:
Moral Alignment: Lawful good


Major Abilities: More of a ritual Mage he gathers power from careful preparation and immaculate detail. His Faith in the greater good is far stronger than the faith in himself. Raw fearless desperation, determination and desire make up for what he lacks in experience and training.
+ Demonic magic - Demonic pacts
+ Summoning magic - Demon summoning
+ Wards magic - Defensive and traps.

Minor Abilities:
-Information gatherer

-Low maintenance

-The sixth sense

Special Ability: Friends in low places.

Boundary:

Equipment:

• Cloak and gun
• Retractible Chain daggers
• Books and alchemical ingredients.

Minor Skills:

• Linguistics
• Negotiation & bluffing
• Sense motive
• Electronics
• Alchemy
• Medicine
• Knowledge runes
• Subterfuge

Willpower: B
Faith: C
Mana Capacity: D
Magickal Proficiency: D
Physical Competence: D


Faction: WDL _{Mirage Orchestra.}
Rank: Subordinate _Operative
Class: Librarian _Infiltrator.
Title: Book keeper _Spy
Loyalty Level: 8 ₁₀


Biography/History:
For many years the term 'parents' was a foreign concept to the young orphan. Raised in a strict school, even now he doesn't realise how unusual and unorthodox it and it's practices actually were. As the smallest and youngest he often caught the disgruntled brunt of the older children and never really understood why. They bullied him a lot making him feel weak and helpless as he was tortured for their amusement. Eventually he graduated and couldn't be anymore eager to get away from that horrid place. He found a more caring family environment but wasn't adopted by the standard parent figures instead more of a cult community.
Finally though he found people who cared. Here, they were happy to teach him all they knew, and it is where and how he developed his deep love of reading and learning.
Following that passion as he grew he took his skills to the WLD were he found a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Other: Bit of a wimp, easily scared, low confidence.

Description:

Name: Captain Howell Carver
DoB: 2939 (56)
Gender: Male
Rank: Commander
Bio: Growing up in the colonies he was a talented mechanic from a long line of proud Navel men. Learning to fly at a young age he became an ace pilot during the colonial war, however Howie Carver was fighting on the wrong side. The losing side.
For six long years he fought fiercely for the colonial republic against the empire. He believed in what he fought for, thought it was the right thing. He learnt the hard way that there's no justice in this universe except only that which you make for yourself. The war was unsustainable, lives and resources became scarce for the republic while the empires wealth seemed endless and their reach near limitless.

Like many others he eventually gave up, salvaged what he could and slipped away into the darkness of the edge of space. Regrouping with friends, family and other survivors.
The next 10 years were hard, barely scraping by, living in hiding and on the run. Howie's natural skills as a mechanic, pilot and leader were put to good use as he helped move goods and people about. Smuggled them into or out of planets. Salvaged wrecks. Tracked down those lost at war and reunited families, or at least gave closure.

He built grateful contacts from both sides of the war and found a new focus and reason to fight upon the discovery of the insectoids.
But by the time he gathered a team, got the permission, acquired the resources and was given the OK, it was already over.

Now with one of the earliest incarnations of the modern mercenary factions, his specially acquired team was quickly snatched up into the chaotic corporate wars. Things got bloody and messy, money is a powerful motivator that led to backstabbing and betrayal.

Even though nearly dying and being out of the game for quite some time while recovering and adapting to his new cybernetics, flying was all he had and all he had known. He quickly put together a new team and eagerly joined in under the newly forming, much approved, Mercenary Federation.

He is an old man that has played a part throughout much of modern mercenary history. He is known by many and a strong believer and bastion of the republic. Despite his age he is still one hell of a pilot with an invaluable wealth of knowledge based on personal hardships and experience.

---

Company Name: Lantallian Mercenaries guild.
Specialty: Ship to ship / stealth.
Bio: Carver believed in quality over quantity and built his team from the best of the best that were available after the end of the colonial war. A special op's team. Their reputation only grew as their corporate achievements amassed. Their wealth became blatantly visible along side their companies 'unusual' success.
Having reached the top of their game it was no surprise that they had to fall. A large target was stained on Carvers back and he lost it all.

A humbler and wiser man, still addicted to the game, he started again from the ground up. With the support of the Mercenary Federation behind him he continued on vowing not to make the same mistakes again.

Ryder was born into a wealthy proud family and lived in a grand house. His father a reputable guards captain from a long line of nobles and his mother a care free spirit, a famed and heavily sought after travelling vocalist. It was said that she had the voice of an angel and he had the courage of a lion. The duo were a perfect match for each other. Truly inseparable.
Shortly after meeting he lay down his sword for her and she gave up her nomadic lifestyle for him. They raised Ryder well and had as much love for him as each other.

Their love story is one for another day, all you need to know is that like most great stories, it ended with tragedy. The noble captains past eventually caught up with him. For no matter how righteous his intent and actions were, there was somebody who found ill of them and would never forget what he had done.
It was a cold vengeance that was taken out on young Ryder's family. So many years late. For so long had their enemy carried such a heavy hatred around in their heart. That kind of weight changes a man.

Ryder's father was now but an old man. He fought his best and bravest to the very end as intruders forced their way into the house. Ryder will never forget that moment. The casual steady knock on the door. All was normal and sound as another warm evening came to an end. As his mother opened the door Ryder, as he often did, was admiring the polished steel of his family crest given to him by his father. His fingers were delicately tracing the feathered lines of the lions wings when he felt a sudden warm splatter hit him across the face. The shining steal in his hands became spoiled with tainted spots of red. Then the screaming began and soon after an ensuing shouting and chaos erupted in his quiet friendly home. The rest still haunts him in his nightmares. Having watched his father die right before his very eyes. Narrowly avoiding the same fate with his mother. The moment right before it could happen, as she held him with trembling blood soaked hands, sobbing heavily while gathering just one simple breath. Her last soft sweet whisper, a gentle and calm, honey soaked voice as she said goodbye and used a magic Ryder had never seen before.
A young helpless scared child teleported halfway across the country. Those are the nightmares that still haunt him to this day.

It was to Ryder's uncles place, on his mother's side, as to where he was teleported. A small shack in a busy market city nearby. His uncle, a clever if not somewhat lazy Mage
raised and tutored the boy the best he could until Ryder was old enough to be sent to the Covern. The two had only travelled back to Ryder's house once over all those years and that was only to respectfully rest and bury the departed.
It was safe to say that after going through that, Ryder thought he would never go back. And that he would never want to. But as a final parting gift Ryder's uncle taugh him to face and turn those negative feelings around into a positive and useful energy.

The house was larger than Ryder had remembered. The estate had barely been touched since the day he last left except for maybe by the odd vagrant or rat. It had a lot of work to be done on it. Withering with time and settling with dust and decay. In truth the only reason it had not been sold off was because his family name still held some sway amongst certain important people. But as with time, grief and pity too soon pass, leaving Ryder to make his own way. With his little magic learned, and people skills developed, he managed to join the Coven and that is where he is now.

Physical
Fortitude: [12]
Toughness: [11] +2
Awareness: [15] +2
Reflex : [15] +2
Fight: [17] +9
Dodge: [17] +2
Parry: [13]
Athletics : [15] +1

Social
Interaction: [15] +1
Performance : [12]


Mental
Willpower: [12]
Knowledge: [6]
Research Languages: [9]
Science: [9]
Technology: [15] +1

Skills
Perform Profession: [12]
Vehicles: [7]
Wilderness: [6]

Name: Dorian Radahaw
Age; Apparent 25/ actual 92
Species: Kindred
Clan: Tzimisce
Discipline's: Vicissitude | Animalism | Auspex

Appearance: As above
Personality: Curious, proper, polite, cold, calculating, slightly arrogant.
Biography:
1920's

1930's
Suddenly hit by the Great Depression his happy family fell under a lot of stress. Growing up in this time was not a lot of fun, he couldn't really remember the lavish lifestyle they had grown accustomed too but his parents did, and they took the loss hard. His father became a bitter alcoholic and his mother was miserable as she dreamed of greater things missed.
He was not a stranger to domestic violence or hunger. He found solace and silence hiding behind the lens of a camera. Capturing the tragedy that surrounded him.

Early 1940's
WWII began just as he was becoming a man. Pressured by his father he volunteered just to get away despite not really wanting to go. His time serving is a story in itself. His hobby and passion continued to grow. He was now considered a daring photographer and was becoming renown for his risqué raw portraits and truthfully brave war photos. He captured the fight in Italy before transferring to France where he himself was captured and became one of the many POW destined to never return home again.

Mid to late 1940's
He and the others had become a toy, a plaything, an experiment for sick sadistic supernatural creatures. Here he learned of the true darkness that had been existing alongside him all this time.
He was now awakened to the evils of the world. After what seemed like an eternity of torment he seized an opportunity to escape during a raid on the hideout.
He wasn't sure if it was military, religious or feudal, but he didn't care.

He remained in France and continued to practice his profession. It was there that he caught the attention of his future sire. A malicious selfish creature wrapped in false promises, fake intentions and a cunning smile.
At first she easily lured him with her mysterious beauty. A vain creature she was, stealing him to immortalise herself. He quickly learned of what she really was.

1950's

then the riches and glory of a celebrity lifestyle, later fear and threats became the motivator to stick around. They had many years together but as all things it would eventually come to an end.

Golden age of television,
The Catcher in the Rye is published by J. D. Salinger and invigorates the rebellious youth of the period, eventually earning the title of a Classic with its profound impact
Rock n roll enters mainstrene
In God we trust

1960's

1970's
When he eventually separated himself from her he reinvented himself by travelling afar and stealing a mortals identity.

1980's
Sought others

1990's

2000's
Sulked

2010's

A few years ago he returned to LA. A place that in their early kindred years was full of wild, rich and sentimental memories.
Seeking his former glory and lavish lifestyle he has taken the role of a wealthy plastic surgeon.

NPCs:

A very superficial child, he decided to become a plastic surgeon.
And while his photography came from a place of selfish perversion, it was something he was highly skilled at.

Studying
Wealthy background.

Sire suspected of Sabbat involvement. Sadistic selfish vain creature.

Less than 25 years vamp exp

Sensation Junkie (2) (B): You're addicted to sensation, and will do anything to find new means of stimulation. You must roll Willpower to resist taking the opportunity to try a new kick, difficulty depending on the situation.

Ulterior Motive (2) (K:UH): You have more reason to be with your comrades than your like for them or for their common goals. Whether this motive is sinister or not, it's a secret for whatever reason, and if you are suspected of this motive, things won't look too good for you.

Self-Confident (5) (most): When you declare that you are spending Willpower for an automatic success on a roll, you do not lose the Willpower unless you fail the roll, due to the strength of your self-confidence. This only comes into effect regarding rolls at difficulty 6 or higher.

Ability Aptitude (1) (most, M3): Pick a single skill, talent, or knowledge: you're a whiz at whatver this is. -2 to difficulties relating to this ability.

True Love (1) (most): You've found that One who makes your life complete. Automatic Willpower success when striving to protect, come closer, or remain close to your True Love. Other benefits as well, Storyteller's discretion.

Otherworldly Taint (2) (S): You have a physical peculiarity (odd hair/eye color, glowing eyes, etc.) and/or just an odd aura about you which may make you stick out. Someone who suspects you're not "normal" may make a Perception + Awareness roll, difficulty 7, to determine what you are. Note this isn't a Taint of Corruption, just an indication that you are not quite normal.

Enemy (1-5) (most): Somebody's out to hurt you or your reputation, or even kill you (or people close to you). A 1-point enemy is less than or comparable to your own ability, a 5-point enemy could easily kick your ass into next Tuesday.

Probationary Member (3) (M3): You're not on the greatest terms with the group (tradition, clan, tribe, etc.) you belong to and are highly suspect of various naughtiness. You may not be privy to the normal priveleges of being part of your group, nor will you necessarily receive aid when you ought to, etc.

Light Sleeper (1) (S): You can function on very little sleep, and so are less likely to suffer penalties for losing sleep. You are also more likely to awaken quickly, and so may gain bonuses to Wits rolls when something may wake you up. The Vampire version (a 2 point Merit) allows you to be able to wake up more easily from Slumber and be awake during the day, regardless of Humanity score.

Merits
Eat Food (1 pt. Merit).
Light sleeper (2 pt. Merit).
Ability Aptitude (1)

Flaws

Probationary Member (3)
Ulterior Motive (2)
Sensation Junkie (2)

Probationary member defecting from the Sabbat

17
Discipline 7
Ability 2 (med)
Attribute 5
Virtue 2
Background 1

Likes

• Food; particularly sweets.
• Challenges/Conpetition; always seeking to test and prove himself.
• .

Dislikes

• The ocean; ’if I was meant to swim i’d have gills and flippers.’
• The dark; ‘anything could be hiding in there...’
• Cruelty/Subugation; ’all living things should be free.’

Goals
Fears


Initiation
Guild Mark
Magic



Faction
Family
History
Extra’s

Zombies



P E R S O N A L I T Y
Which one?'
... Ahem is eccentric, to say the least. He sees the world very differently to most others and his frequent ramblings often don't make much sense. He has an ability to justify nearly anything to himself in some strange way or another. All in all he is a genuine good kid, simple minded and with a short attention span. He is kind and friendly, valuing friendship and companionship highly. He does not like being alone.

B A C K G R O U N D
Ahem claims to have found the ‘well of eternal youth’ some 39 years ago. It was empty, and he fell into it trying to rescue his cat, getting trapped for multiple decades. Lucky for him the little tin roof held and kept him and his pet dry.
Many years later he finally managed to emerge from his deep dark stone prison, older, wiser and just a little more kooky than before.

The long isolation, solitude, noxious gasses and radiation reeked havoc on his sanity. His mind rotted a little in that hole. Still today he lives in his own little world of optimistic deluded fantasy.

Ahem still claims that he survived off the support and cooperation of the various rodents and bugs that resides in or frequented the well. He had set up a small freeroam cockroach farm and also trained rats to fetch him goodies. Life wasn’t that bad in the well. He was practically king of the rats. If it wasn’t for Kitties curiosity and need to explore, Ahem probably would have stayed down there.

S K I L L S
Ahem has become an adept climber, with near logic defying skill. He seems to challenge or just ignore the natural laws of physics. Another ode to that statement is his uncanny ability to communicate with creatures. Although it’s not yet proven to be anything more than a really REALLY lucky fluke of coincidence, it is his belief and claim.
Ahem also has developed a heightened sense of hearing from all his time in the dark. His extra alert ears give him an almost ‘blind sense’ or sonar ability.

B E L O N G I N G S
Slime bag of bones.

Name: Deum mal’vultom
Apparent Age: 17
Gender: Male
Personality: Deum is mostly vocally quiet, speaking and sharing very little besides sharp commands. He has little interest in others and is a reclusive who could be considered spiteful and cold.
Abilities:

• [Shape shifting.
  
  He is a shape shifter, this is his first and foremost power, to manipulate his form into what ever he desires within mass and energy limitations.
  _{drawbacks;[color=grey] Changes are not only painful but also physically and emotionally taxing. Consumes a lot of energy.[/color]}
• Novice dark magic.
  
  _{drawbacks;[color=grey] Dark magic always comes at a risk/cost. It’s a perilous lonely path that has led many to their demise.[/color]}

Equipment:
A magic robe
An ever growing living spell book
Apothecary kit.
Knives, candles and all manner of intricate tools.
Bio: There is nothing outstanding in Deum’s backstory. He was born and raised as a normal boy like any other born into and by a secret wealthy ritualistic occult. While he had a mother that gave birth to him, many of the coven acted and claimed to be his parents. While spoiled, he was also held to high expectations. Having enough of it and the lavish lifestyle he left, escaping to the school and enrolled himself to learn in peace.
Fears and weaknesses: Boundaries, shackles, confinement, cages, loss of control, being trapped in the dark. Claustrophobia.
Extras: Avid learner and practitioner of demonology and new tech alchemy.

Plot hook: Cult wants him back. To serve their needs / prophecy. Will kill him to force reincarnation if they have to.

Character Name: Ezlan Hackshaw
Racial/Ethnic Background: Caerbean (faint orc ancestry)
Grapple: Standard
Unarmed: 5
Melee Skill: 3
Ranged Skill: 3
Strength: 4
Toughness: 3
Wounds: 1
Initiative: 3
Will Power: 3
Morale: 6
Combat Sense: 6
Attacks: 2d6

Weapons:
Net (grapple 10ft)
Studded greaves (bashing)
Brass knuckles (bashing)
Punch dagger (piercing)

Armor:
Buckler (light shield 6)
Light chain shirt (B 20% / S 50% / P 30%)
Steel greaves and bracers
Leather wrappings.

Special Rules:

Caerbean Deck Hand - Saltwater runs through your veins. Adrenaline is your drug of choice. The only thing better than a good fight is a good fuck - the only thing better than a good fuck is a good fight after a good fuck. Caerbeans are natural sailors, fighters and are generally at the heart of any bar-room party. They are also quick to fight just for the fun of it and are natural showmen.

Orc Blood Rage - Anybody with a trace of orc in their lineage has a chance to be afflicted by the Blood Rage. When your blood burns hot and your vision turns red, few things can stop you. After preparing for one hour, the character gains a three-hour window in which they can voluntarily go into a Blood Rage. Alternatively, after three active rounds engaged in combat, the character will go into an involuntary Blood Rage. A Blood Rage may be ended with a successful (strength 3) Will test or upon the character taking a debilitating wound. While Blood Rage is active, the character gains +1 Initiative, +1d6 on attacks and Die Hard on a 6 (Die Hard is rolled after all normal saves and, if successful, ignores all wounds that the character might have taken at that point).

Background:

Name: Arden Grey
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Personality:Abilities:Skills:Assets: Brief Backstory: Arden’s mother and father met but once, she couldn’t resist the handsome man, literally. It was a rendezvous that started on the busy dance floor of a high end exclusive night club and ended in an empty, cold, filthy, little alley way that didn’t even earn a name. He discarded her when done and that was the last she ever saw or heard of Arden’s father.

Arden’s mother held no magical aptitude whatsoever. She was not connected to a rich family, or any family for that matter. She was an aspiring dancer crushed under the weight of failed dreams, bad youthful decisions and financial strain.
Arden grew up in poverty, and while his mother held love for him, she was hardly around to share it.

So that left Arden’s father to be the mage of the family, and a powerful one at that because despite his training or understanding of that world, Arden possesses some strong magical talent and aptitude. It was very confusing for him to be seeing things that others around him couldn’t. Hearing things others didn’t. It took him longer than most to get recognised and then when he finally did, there were those trying to take him in and train him, just wanting to take advantage of the young boys ability and shape him into another pawn in their own agenda. One such family succeeded, buying his trust and faking care they now have enlisted him into the service of Arinne’s quest. Testing him and fulfilling their contract at the same time.

Primary Alias: Vallen Thorn
Appearance: Young, scrawny, and short. Wiry limbs and a mop of brown messy hair. Hands and feet stained with dirt. Soft freckles splatter his tanned skin.
Loose tattered rags bound by fraying ropes pass as his clothing.
Equipment: Most notably is his absence of things. Bound in simple tattered rags secured by fraying rope. A worn leather satchel hanging over one shoulder with makeshift ties along the weathered strap.
Reputation: A street rat. Defiant, brave, angry at the world.
Recent History: The wet cobbled stone path was cold and hard. Unforgiving to the bare feet frantically slapping against it. It’s stones uneven and loose, littered with traps of small pebbles and sharp rubbish just waiting for the unsuspecting, unprotected foot to fall upon, as Vallen’s did, again and again. These cruel and devious dangers sulked out of site in the thick heavy shadows cast by the ever present looming towering walls on either side, blocking what little light fell from the dark cloudy night sky.

Still, he endured. Heart thudding profusely in his chest. Lungs burning with desperation. Muscles aching, head spinning, mind a blur.

He didn’t have the luxury to care about the occasional bolt of pain shooting up his leg as again he smashed his toe or stepped on some viscous debris, no matter how intense or severe it may be. He couldn’t worry what state this left his feet in. He knew they were bloody and bruised, he could feel a warm tingle oozing along his icy cold skin. He was surely missing a nail or two from toes most likely broken, but regardless he just couldn’t stop. No matter what he just had to keep them moving. For no matter how disconcerting it might be, worse things were coming.

Disconnected from his mind they were like objects that he kept placing in front of himself. One after the other as fast as he could. Numb with pain. Without full feeling or sense of the ground on which he was running, Vallen slipped and stumbled every few meters as he darted down one alleyway and then suddenly flew around a corner into another, always frantically avoiding possible signs or sounds of trouble ahead. With every fumble a new fear rose in his stomach and his eyes widened with terror.
He had somehow been managing to keep away from his pursuers so far, but if he fell over completely, surely they would be upon him in an instant. Even if they weren’t, the young boy wasn’t sure if he could even get back up. The night was growing long and despite all his urgency and adrenaline, the malnourished young lad was growing tired and weary. Already running on empty it was only desperation and fear that still drove him.

He was so scared and yet still so hopeful that he hadn’t realised just how much he had slowed. This wasn’t the usual guard chase that lead to a simple beating if the one or two men could be bothered keeping up the pursuit. This was different. Vallen had wondered into territory that he shouldn’t have, and with his stubborn attitude he had upset the wrong people along the way. Hateful spiteful people not concerned by rules or laws except for their own. They were a viscous pack that ran these streets, more deadly and dangerous than those of the slums. This was the real reason why the upper regions had less beggars and bums. It wasn’t the guards that kept them in check.

It hit him too late...
How many others like him had came here before him. Leaving the slums in their final hours of desperation, overwhelmed by thirst or starvation. Vallen would not be the first to threaten their hold. More begging children meant more guard patrols and they didn’t want that. No. They had quick methods for despatching his kind. Vallen was running the alleyways blind, had been running them for ages, yet still he was in them. Never had he come to an open road or passed a lit up building. There were no sights or sounds of the many people living in this densely populated area. Sure he didn’t know the streets. But his pursers did.

Realisation rushed up to him as quick and as hard as the solid brick wall before him. Trapped! Isolated and alone. He had been running exactly where they had wanted him to. Vallen was known for his defiant fighting spirit, but at this point it was all gone. He had nothing left. Sight of the wall broke what little spirit and hope he had left. He didn’t even look around to see where it was going to come from. It didn’t matter. He dropped heavily to his knees, defeated, given up, just as a soft rain began to fall over him. The rain did little to conceal the tears pouring down his face, still he did not sob. How could he have been so stupid. This, this was his third and final failure.

As the rain grew heavier and the omnidirectional beating commenced, his limp body bounced around back and forth between the violent shadows. Lighting streaked the air and a bellowing thunder echoed down the alley. Despite being like them, of the street with no family, no love, living in fear, constantly fighting for survival. Having being beaten and abused, abandoned and forgotten. Looked down and spat upon. Considered lesser or nothing at all. Despite all these similarities and understandings, there was no sympathy or remorse towards him. They would beat him to death out of the rage and pain those years had built in them, or out of fear of returning to those days.
It wasn’t long until his vision dulled and his body offered no resistance to the assault as he rolled around on the floor. Hands and feet pummelled every inch of him. He was sure there were sticks too and probably some sort of bladed weapon. It didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do now and in his final moments he thought only of the sister that he had left behind. His little sweet sister who he had abandoned with that monster all those years ago. How now he could never go back to save her...

There was intent to kill, that is what they were trying to do. Vallen should have died there and then that cold and miserable night, under the heavy rain and crumbling heavens. In that lost little alleyway behind the houses of the rich wealthy and corrupt.
Perhaps it was his resilience from a lifetime of beatings or maybe a greater power like some form of divine intervention or fate, it could have even been his stubborn will and his unfinished business that forced him to cling desperately onto those last threads of life. Then again most likely was just simple sheer dumb luck and an eagerness on his attackers part to escape a miserable night too cold and too wet to be thorough.
Either way he wasn’t conscious when his near lifeless body plummeted deep into the filthy sewer drain. He barely recalls the rising rapids washing him away through the forgotten unholy pipes beneath the city or even how long that journey took.

But as with all journeys, it eventually came to an end. However Vallen’s was not yet over, one might even say this is where it truly began.

He faded in and out of consciousness multiple times over a period unknown. Light and darkness came and went. Pain was the only constant. Caught between worlds, teetering on the edge of life and death he experienced the most beautiful dreams he had ever had. He saw a mother that he had never met, played happily in safety with his sister all grown up. There was a house and food in abundance. This was all so vivid and as real as real life. He was almost convinced that this was his actual life, but always it quickly and cruelly was vanished, ripped away from him before he could truly clasp or hold it. As in life, forever evading his reach. Despite all its beauty and warmth he would have been better off without it. These visions serving only as a painfully taunting reminder of what could never be. It only gave him further to fall as it vanished, fading away to a myriad of horrid nightmares that came to torment and aggravate him. Reflections of the worst parts of his true past and his greatest fears replayed over and over again.

Seemingly he was only shown that happiness so he could be harshly reminded how far away from it he was, and had always been his whole life. How dare he think he could ever be happy.

Had he the strength to end his life and stop the cyclical nightmare there and then he would have. But even that he couldn’t do. With the visions he saw and felt he welcomed hell, but even that was too close to happiness for him. So with no other option of escape Vallen was forced to open his eyes.

He awoke to a tugging on his right arm. While the midday sun was bright in his eyes and burned at his retinae, slowly a blurry image appeared amongst the sea of white and came into focus as the blinding light faded. Vallen was in a swamp, half submerged in a soaking pile of trash and faeces, caught on the bank a little way down from an open still dripping pipe. It was only because of the heavy rains did the tunnels bring him here. No longer pure luck but divine cruelty, it had to be. It couldn’t be anything else.

Then he recalled the tugging of his right arm and looked over half expecting to see some wild dog feasting on his flesh, but it was not. It was a man, old and crooked. Patchy wisps of unruly white hair littered his chin and were weaved through his thick bushy eyebrows. He had a long thin nose that was apparently resistant to the putrid smell in which they were both bathed. Around his otherwise bald head (except for the just noticeable white hairs in his ears and nostrils.) he wore a thick dirty band on a slight angle that held a makeshift cloth patch over one eye, leaving just one beady hazel eye to gaze suspiciously at Vallen. Beside that the man was concealed heavily by a thick grey course fabric cloak that gave little else as away, leaving only his head and hands protruding.

Noticing Vallen was still alive the old man stopped trying to remove the contents of the boy’s hand. Something Vallen had been holding with a death grip, presumably grabbed in his moments of fleeting consciousness and desperation. The old man showed little interest in the boy and continued to rummage through the filth. If Vallen was to live or die, this man held no stakes or care either way. Suddenly it night and Vallen awoke to the familiar squelching swooshing of the old man rummaging new patches of waste. Had he left and returned? Had he stayed here all day? Either way Vallen welcomed the disturbance that pulled him once again from his nightmares. Once again the old man tested the boy’s grip on his treasure and quickly gave up and moved on.

The next time Vallen awoke it was not to feeling or sound but smell. Through the pungent aroma he had become accustom to cut a powerful forgotten smell that caused a trifle within his stomach and drew a new life within him. A faint orange glow shimmered, caught reflecting in the puddles of water that surround him. Light from a camp fire.

Not far from the boy the old man sat beside the humble flames holding over them sticks of skewed lizard and bugs. While he offered nothing to the near dead child he did not object as Vallen crawled his way through the cold dirt and feat upon the hot food he had set aside.
In Vallen’s movements all his injuries were revealed to him. The large and the small. Even the simple ones now infected. But he didn’t care of them. Like a man possessed, all that mattered was that food. Like the risen dead he shambled his half non-responsive body over and feasted with an insatiable desire before again blacking out. Alls whilst holding onto the thin frail leather bound journal like it was his last strand of life.

This became routine. The waking to his grip being checked. The lack of objection as Vallen helped himself to the mans unattended food. The consuming silence between them and a faint absence, both growing more noticeable as Vallen held conscious for longer and longer.

Name: Drakus Ludire Immolis
House: Immolis Solaris
Age: 22
Race: Mageborn (pure bloodline)
Gender: Male
Appearance: Drakus stands tall above average height with the chiseled defined features of a long line of handsome important men. He has a firm build and strong shoulders from a short lifetime of martial drills.

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Reputation: For those that don’t personally know this young lordling and haven’t met him, the rumours are he is firstly a powerful gate wielder. Secondly he is just, kind and giving. Understanding the power of public opinion has caused him to create such an image.

Those that have had the opportunity to meet him might say he can come off as quite the elitist snob. Swathed in an air of regal arrogance he is cold, condescending and and acts better than those around him. He has little time or attention for those he considers his lessors. (Commoners and non-mageborn) He will however make an exception for entertainers.

However the few that get to know him know of the secrets behind his confidence, his endless drive and determination. The overwhelming irrational self expectations that he strives ruthlessly to uphold, forever requiring more than he has to give.

Alignment: Neutral: leaning heavily towards Mages. There is nothing wrong with technology it is simply that mages are superior and should be the ones to posses it.

Skills: As an ex elite judiciary investigator and justice deliverer for the Immolis family, Drakus worked on the high profile and discretionary cases that could not be left to just anyone. Therefore he is heavily trained in the art of combat, tracking, investigation and reading people. He is also an above exceptional dancer, versed in many styles.

Backstory: Born a unique magical prodigy, Drakus was subsequently treated as such and believed himself to be a direct descendant of the mage queen herself. His self esteem and arrogance soared, growing alongside with his powers. This only put him at further odds with his brothers, who were surprisingly different to him. A fact that had never escaped Drakus.

Drakus is no fool and is aware of the unfamiliarites between his siblings and himself. It is an unannounced fact that has divided them ever since childhood. Not only is it the hair and eyes but more importantly his gate. A contrasting opposite to theirs in both power and type.

Even though never being told, Drakus still always assumed that he would be the next lord of Immolis despite one of his brothers being older. For he was blessed after all and had the far greater power.

When lordship passed over not only his older brother but also he too himself and was instead granted to the youngest and most unseen sibling. Drakus was livid. Once the shock and disbelief settled, he was so furious that in his defiant rage he even attacked his family. The damage he had done that day, emotionally and physically could have been overlooked, could have been somewhat undone and left to heal if only he had wanted it to. But he hadn’t. Internal feuding went on for months before Drakus retreated with a small cohort of followers and claimed a patch of Immolis territory for himself, starting his own house. A house where he would be lord.

Miscellaneous: Other relationships;

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Gate: ‘Solaris’ - power of the sun
_{Heat (Initial). Force, Light (secondary)}
Drakus’s unique mastery over his gate is unparalleled. He is not just a prodigy but an anomaly. Harnessing the power of the sun he calls his gate ‘Solaris’. He even claims it to be a lost primary gate, while few there are those that believe him.
With access to the power and heat of the sun he can manipulate the world around him in a number of unique ways.
Flow: High.
Favour: Extremely high
Field: 20 Meters

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Equipment: Nothing Yet...

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Name: Solaris
Domain: Entertainment and Indulgences. Leisure, luxuries, art and competition.
Exports: Perfume, potions, paints, jewellery, Instruments, bards, books and paper.
Location: Broken off of the most north eastern part of Immolis, the newly named Solaris shares boarders with Reason, Granis and Croan. It has access to trade routes and a river.
Members: Some of the prominent figures of Solaris

• Rendyl - The female Avian sailor is head of his personal guards and is overseer & advisor of docks, trade and resources.
• Hision - This long time friend and tower of muscle runs the arena, is master of infrastructure and defense and also overseas the sculpting sector of the arts academy. Has a Force+Earth gate.
• Elonia the blind - this once fierce amazonian warrior now deals with softer matters such as those of the Plaisir district and teaching the art of music. Has a reverse heat gate.
• Roth Patchel - A distant cousin to Drakus and major stakeholder in Solaris. Runs the theatre and jongluers guild.
  No known gate.
• Abbey Rose Smith - Technological advisor. Found attending the craft school she was promoted to oversee it.

History: Solaris is fastly becoming considered the epitcenter of all art, culture, indulgences and entertainment. With its grand theatrical stage, mighty coliseum, art academy and jongluers guild it is no wonder why. Strict laws keep the beautiful town a thing of vibrant peaceful harmony.
However, it has not always been this way.

Districts: Solaris is divided into two halves by the river, upper and lower or newer and old. Housing is mostly spread out through the lower (old) with a bit in the upper (new) reserved for dignitaries, guards and the likes.

• The Lidicrum(Sight)
  In the upper most inner part of the rebuilt Solaris sits the Lidicrum. The grand grounds of a keep that hosts the states prized trifecta of entertainment. The Arena, theatre and zoo. Only the best and most qualified bards can grace these streets and merchant access is strictly monitored as to not effect or distract from the feel of this place.
  Within the grounds of the Lidicrum, the main entrance, sits The solar temple or temple of the sun. Another great attraction as it had become more of an art museum than holy house.
• Aspirant grounds (Sound)
  Commonly known as the neophyte trap is the walled of section of upper Solaris reserved only for those attending or staying at one of the three great halls within. The Jongleur guild, the crafters alliance or the Music & Arts academy.
  Along the walls sits three towering Bell towers used to signal different events.
• Plaisir (Smell)
  Filling in the the leftover space of the upper capital of Solaris is the Plaisir. Hosting Bath houses and pamperies to serve all intentions. It also has the finest Perfumeries to match and beautiful serene Flower gardens.
• Craft district (Touch)
  This is much of what it sounds like. Consuming much of lower Solaris the craft district encompasses much and is home to the many print houses, jewellers, tanners, blacksmiths and tinkerers. Even the northern end of the docks and markets fall here.
• The Sol (Taste)
  The deliberate play on words is announced as the heart of the city. It wide grounds stretching beyond the walls contains the Orchards, the
  winery’s, taverns and food market.