'Shield-maiden of Thelan' // Noblewoman // Commander
N A T I O N A L I T Y
Thelannian
A G E
27
G E N D E R
Female
S E X U A L I T Y
Heterosexual
A P P E A R A N C E
Alice is broad, containing masculine features, but still having a curvy, feminine figure. She is tall, standing at 5'10 with long, thick hair showing different shades of blonde through each straggly strand. With fair skin and a clear complexion, she sports a very different look than the majority of the descendants of her culture. While she retained the many recessive genes that made her appearance light, her stature is that of her people. Alice's expression is generally the same regardless of what she's feeling, showing little to no emotion through her face. Her mannerisms, on the other hand, are different depending on the situation. A ball calls for noble and feminine mannerisms, delicate and elegant, while the battlefield calls for more barbaric mannerisms. Being a participant in fair amount of battles, Alice is marked with scars on various parts of her body. None of them show any great damage, the majority of them being mere cuts from a blade. She has a small scar along her cheek that is incredibly subtle and often covered with makeup.
Alice's attire ranges from plate armor to beautiful gowns, resulting in a very diverse wardrobe. Neither of which she favors more than her regular townswoman clothes that she'll wear whenever the situation calls for it. Although, being a more famed lady of Vertiron requires a very presentable look, calling for noble gowns regardless of the discomfort, and thus leaving her favored outfit unworn. Alice's makeup fluctuates from heavy to light, depending on her mood. Her version of heavy only consists of heavier eye makeup opposed to the overly-powdered face makeup that many noble woman fashion.
Alice is a strong-willed, fearless, opinionated, and demanding individual, usually expressing respect only when she's respected. She is a big dweller of the past and holds grudges over people, choosing to not forget the faces of her enemies, especially those that cross her or humiliate her. Alice will relive moments in which she's embarrassed, humiliated, powerless, or weak and turn it into motivation, resulting in a strong, restless desire to improve to avoid such feelings. Along the lines of remembering actions of rage, she also remembers acts of generosity and makes it certain that she expresses her gratitude properly. Alice becomes uneasy when she's faced with situations that confuse her, resulting in loss of sleep until she unravels the truth.
Alice is also very defensive of those that she cares about, valuing the protection of others in and out of the battlefield, but also finding difficulty in making decisions requiring sacrifices. While Alice does have a very hard-headed nature, she is a very generous person, enjoying the feeling of giving to those in need and being honored for it in return. Being a protector to the people of Thelan, she shows no fear of a threatening enemy, regardless of their intimidating stature or title. She holds a different kind of respect for those that are beneath her than those that are of or above her level, or rank, being kinder to those that are lower and being more stern with those that are equal or better.
H I S T O R Y
Alice grew up as the daughter of Thelan's greatest military strategist, Sebastian Allaire. Her mother, being a respected lady of the kingdom attempted to raise her as a typical lady within her footsteps. With much failure, Alice walked in the path of her father for as long as she could. Being a kid, the freedom to dream and become who you want was encouraged, but also taken away once the child reached the primitive age to become who they were born to be. For Alice, it was planned for her to be a stunning young woman with typical talents of a lady, but that lifestyle was never meant for her. It was strange for a girl to be so fascinated with war and military politics, but Alice proved to many that she was different in this aspect.
Growing up for Alice involved the hilt of a blade in one hand and the handle of a buckler in the other, her loving father unable to take this strange hobby from her. This hobby became stronger which eventually turned into a dream to become the next military strategist for Thelan, regardless of the gender boundaries that morality brought. At this point, Alice had no interest in learning the mannerisms of becoming a lady, but as soon as she began her teenage years, her lack of knowledge for proper woman etiquette became apparent and disrespectful. Thus, she was limited to the war room and was forced to wear the uncomfortable dresses that she loathed, but her father never stopped training her.
It wasn't long before her father became ill and the war officers were in distress to find a replacement. As many heroic tales would go, Alice would be the assumed successor for the role, but the sexism that existed strongly in this era casted that dream aside. Alice, weak and underestimated as she felt, fled to the Isle of Moore to pursue a much more rigorous training. It is true, that the Moore people train their warriors within the harsh climates of the North, fighting beasts and bandits alike. Thus, she trained hard and ruthlessly, with one goal in mind, and with honor at her fingertips. With her return, Alice partook in battle and even lead legions of men once she became comfortable with the harshness of war and killing. It was kept quiet among the nobles since her victorious actions and her incredible battle prowess were seen as unladylike, but the rumors of the people spread and now she claims her title as "Thelan's Battle-maiden".
As of late, Alice finds that her influence in the war room is still limited from her gender, but the respect of her allies and the honor from her people gives her wisdom and power. Now, as the two Kingdoms ready their commanders and gear their soldiers, Alice is found to be a leader of a new conquest. Her father swayed the Kingdom to allow for his daughter to be apart of the Royal Plea, an important, though incredibly dangerous, quest to find Queen Anice. Alice readies herself, and recollects her previous lessons within the Isle of Moore to soon brave her destiny.
Ellinor Myren is a blonde white woman standing at about 5 feet, 11 inches. She has sky blue eyes, pretty and sharp features and a strong muscular build. Her right cheek has a scar on it, and there are a few more dotted throughout her body. Normally she wears heavy leathers and furs customary of her people, with gambeson pants and a chainmail shirt underneath it all for protection against attacks. Rural browns and whites make up her aesthetic, but these normally dull colors are vibrant and bright in her outfits. While normally she wears a headband, in battle she will don a round-topped helmet with a nose guard. Various straps wrap around her hips, waist, and chest, allowing her to store a bountiful supply of weapons on her person. Her preferred weapon is the the simply designed but efficient and lethal axe, with a wooden handle and chopping axehead. A roundshield of smaller size is usually strapped on her back, though she uses a much larger full body shield when fighting in groups. At her hip are a dagger and a short sword, and a quiver that holds several javelins. On her horse she stores arrows and a longbow.
Her horse's name, Aagbaard, or Aggy, is a dark brown with light brown spotted steed with white hair. She is adorned with a red-brown harness, satchel, and saddlebags carrying food and supplies.
I N T E R E S T S
Horses
Fables
Martial Arts
Herbalism
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Elly is a soft-spoken and amiable young woman who is quick to make light of almost any situation. Despite how easy it is for her to end another life, sympathy and compassion for others remains one of her strong suits. This seemingly paradox is one that does not go unnoticed by Ellinor herself and this does cause her to occasionally wonder if she is a bad person. Ellinor believes that the end goal of all war is peace. She loves to tell stories and sing songs of acts of valor. She believes in a world where people who believe everyone should do as they please may do as they please. Power, hierarchy, and violence are sometimes necessary but she believes any application of force should be in the name of eventually disarming oneself. Just as the master teaches the student knowing that student will one day surpass them, a warrior must one day lay down their arms and let those who come after forge ever onward.
Elly, like most people from the Isle of Moore, dislikes witches. She believes the ends do not justify the means. Fighting with honor is just as important as fighting for honor. So the scheming, manipulative and inherently behind-the-back nature of sorcery does not sit right with her. Anyone who chooses to practice witchery is someone Elly does not like as they do not fit the view of her honorable code. Anyone who fights with and for honor is someone who Elly respects, regardless of their political affiliation or nationality.
Ellinor loves music and her horse, Aggy. She has an affinity for animals and believes hunting is a sacred act. All slain animals must be paid their due for their sacrifice, and all hunting must be conducted in a fair matter, and all the parts of slain animals must be used. The strange and unnatural creatures to the far north are on shaky ground as to whether they count for this. But a common deer certainly does. She is also fascinated by plants and natural life in general.
Elly is a free-spirited person who believes in leaving every place better than when she found it. She has a kind of distaste for most figures of authority who inherited their position and nothing more. The sons of Jarls must complete trials to prove their worth, but the same cannot be said for the nobility of the twin kingdoms to the south, nor of their kings and queens. Queen Anice on the other hand was someone she respected greatly in her desire to bring peace to the land.
H I S T O R Y
Ellinor used to be considered a bit too softhearted amongst her kin. Her grandmother was a warrior, and she gave birth to a boy who followed in her footsteps. Her father was disappointed but understood completely when Elly seemed to be growing up to be a motherly homekeeper rather than a warrior. Much to his surprise though, despite her affinity for plants, singing, and children, Elly was insistent on her training to become a hunter and a soldier. While most others aimed to shake the affiliation with their childish or cute nicknames, Elly was happy to keep hers as she grew into a teenager. It fit her, she said. Her parents were worried that she wasn't fit to be a soldier, and for a while their concerns were justified. Elly underperformed amongst her comrades, even against other women her clan.
Eventually though, things began to change. Ellinor never gave up and worked ever harder, learning for her mistakes. Rising up the ranks and leaderboard of the competitive war game the kids played, Ellinor proved she had gained a significant aptitude for the ways of war. Finally her mother and father's fears were assuaded, though Elly was still a bit starry-eyed for her father's tastes. Nonetheless she continued and eventually joined the frontlines against the magical beasts that encroached on their lands, and against bandits and rival clans. She proved to be made of sterner stock on the battlefield than even her allies had anticipated and very quickly Elly became a renowned warrior amongst her kin. A leader was made of her yet and she seemed specially skilled in understanding the needs of those who fought alongside and under her command.
When the call to action sounded, Elly volunteered and was considered by most of her kin to be an excellent choice as one representative of the Isle of Moores. Most of her kin did not trust the Alovian's, and were eager to go on the offensive against them to find Queen Alice. Still, this small search and rescue operation was worth sending those who volunteered. Elly's amiable nature and wordly perspective also made her a better canditate than most of her kin, which is why those close to her supported she go even if Queen Anice wasn't up there. Her skills were better put elsewhere than the coming frontline against Alovia and their sorceresses. Elly joined the small crew of individuals who were seeking out Queen Anice in the far north. Now Elly believed this was her true calling. Peace was on the line, and centuries of conflict were about to erupt once again. There was no greater cause to fight for.
M I S C
Kept under wraps on Aggy's side is Elly's tagelharpa. Somewhere between a harp and a violin, this multi-stringed wooden instrument is Elly's implement of choice when it comes to creating songs. The strings are made of Aggy's hair and it carries a sad but pleasing sound.
His wife is his job and he reckons at his age few women are stupid enough to fall for him, but a hole is hole.
A P P E A R A N C E
Wolfgang has an appearance that is not memorable, and this is in part thanks to the fact he regularly alters it between the dye of his hair to how it is cut, to cottons wads placed inside his mouth to alter facial structure, all the way down to elaborate makeup. Indeed, it has been so long since he has seen his natural hair colour he doesn't know what it is now, it full well possibly ranging from the blond of his youth, or having darkened with maturity, to possibly becoming grey with age and stress. Still though, he is arguably average in all things, perhaps the perfect male mean phenotype of the whole world. All his features are pronounced, but not too much. He is conventionally attractive, but nothing special. Even his eyes make his covert work easier, being that perfect shade which depending on who you ask might have been grey, green, blue or brown. His posture also makes his appearance difficult to find consensus on, the way he carries himself making people's estimations deviate by as much as 20 centimetres from his real height of 187cm in both directions.
Worthwhile to note is his external appearance. His clothing will naturally adapt unpredictably if a disguise is needed, but in his natural state he still has much variance. He'll generally dress rather finely with some apparent synthesis of the styles of nobility and merchants but with silk largely replaced by more practical leather and cloth. For display he'll have a hand crossbow with gargantuan draw, a sword of some sort and an assortment of smaller blades. But one shouldn't be deceived for about his person Wolfgang will hide any amount of weapons and other tools of trade from plates and chainmail to stakes and holy books.
I N T E R E S T S
Music and the arts, philosophies, history, blacksmithery, and anything that isn't his work which - while he certainly does appreciate - has come to exhaust him at times.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Wolfgang is an individual of powerful convictions and after all, he has to be for his duty. The cries of witches burned alive along with the many other victims of his work have long since stopped haunting his dreams, and indeed the thoughts of this suffering inflicted comes to soothe him. With that said one can far from dismiss him as simply after blood. The initial aversion to his work has been replaced with understanding of the value in it, though his understanding of the world has become somewhat cold and extremely mechanical. All he does he evaluates in whether the net suffering upon the world inflicted by his actions will be outweighed by that prevented, avenged, or reversed. The man absolutely dreads the day when the scales of justice are even, and he cannot make a decision. But by the grace of the divine and the crown of Thelan, such a vile moment has not yet come before him. Perhaps that line could also shed light on the fact that Wolfgang is a thorough patriot of his land, valuing the lives of people from Thelan and Moore at the very least twice the amount of that of those backwards Alovian savages, proper empathy for "the enemy" still not possible after the many years.
H I S T O R Y
The story of Wolfgang begins near the capitol of Thelan, his family a wealthy one claiming descent from Moore. However, intermarriage with the locals has long since diluted the viking blood to make Wolfgang all but indiscernible from an ordinary denizen of Thelan. His childhood was uneventful, the same as that of other titled people full of tutors and the likes. However as teenage years progressed he became acutely aware he was the third son and fourth child of his parents, and that thus he'd get little more than scraps for inheritance. But perhaps luckily, fate had other plans for him than having to merely live in the shadow of his siblings.
Merely fourteen at the time, Wolfgang went off to a hunting trip with his family the contents of which he now barely remembers given the trauma he underwent. The details are to this day vague but he knows full well that he was taken by some witches via enchantment of some sort. Though some he recalls his tale to (particularly those from Alovia and their witch allies) might suggest he came willingly he puts his faith in the word of his rescuer, Matthias Ryter. This man was a hunter of witches and other malign forces in the world, and he became the role model of the young lad. The hunter had other things to get to in the land, but he took the boy under his wing, a relationship that quickly became an apprenticeship as Wolfgang became enamoured with the heroic image Matthias formed. The man never showed death to the boy however, which made him far more eager to continue on by the fellow when they returned to civilization. It took a long time of petitioning his father for Wolfgang to get him to agree to the boy becoming a man of inquests for profession but after some smooth words from Matthias he relented.
Having secured himself a future, Wolfgang still had many trials and tribulations ahead of him. His gradual ascension to a true hunter of witches came in the last years of the war between Thelan and Alovia, but he experienced more than his fair share of bloodshed. From Knights in full plate to witches slinging the foulest of magics he saw all die with his mentor, and the first person to die solely by his hand soon followed. The end of the war that soon followed did however tax the lad. He had spent perhaps the most valuable years of his development learning to kill only to now learn that war was over. For a youth having so much blood on his hands to return to civil society is fairly difficult. He had no trust for the call of peace by the men who were responsible for so much death among Wolfgang's countrymen, and the man's peacetime life was never rid of the prejudice to Alovians he developed. While the slaughter of bandits - particularly those controlling the esoteric - did satisfy the lust for righteousness in Wolfgang he still had much paranoia about the future. He investigated all facets of the new Thelan-Alovia peace for signs of treachery, amassing a great portfolio of knowledge about recent history.
With the disappearance of the Queen there is a slight feeling of vindication for Wolfgang, though he is well conscious of the fact the full extent of what happened to her is not known and it may well have been his own Kingdom that has come to show treachery. Regardless, he intends to find out the truth and perhaps somewhat selfishly sees an opening to make a name for himself in this trouble.
"Glory and blessings upon the Alovian empire- er, was it 'Blessings and glory'?" --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Niavak Wymark
N A M E
Niavak Gratia Wymark
T I T L E
'The Pale Knight'
N A T I O N A L I T Y
Alovian
A G E
25
G E N D E R
Male
S E X U A L I T Y
Demisexual
A P P E A R A N C E
Niavak has dirt, snowy hair that's usually slicked upwards, an odd colour for Alovians. He stands at a height of 5'11"; he boasts a build befitting that of a speedy swordsman. His muscular tone leans towards his preferred use of agility rather than brute strength. Not to say he's a slouch in that either. His hands are calloused, a tell-tale sign of rigorous training. He fashions a similar attire to other Alovian knights, fully plated with ring armour and gambeson adorned underneath. Draped on his back is a black, graying cloak, fastened by a shimmering Alovian crest. Similarly, his longsword has the crest of Alovia on its guard and pommel. He also carries an arming sword as a backup weapon.
I N T E R E S T S
- Equal and fair fights. - Clear, sunny days. - Tactics and Strategy. - Music/Musicians. - Ballads. - Horseback riding.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
For a rigorous knight, Niavak is a cordial individual. He believes in treating everyone with equal respect irregardless of stature or standing, only not doing so when he deems the person unworthy of said respect. He has a certain charisma to his speech, effortlessly turning odd acquaintances to a weird sort of friendship. His friendliness even causing friction between him and his superiors on following proper conduct befitting that of a 'knight'. Though friendly, he will not take threats targeted towards him sitting down and almost always readies to defend or fight for himself.
Continuing on with fights, Niavak has an almost unquenchable thirst for the 'thrill' of battle. A trait he inherited from his now crippled father- who, when asked, would say that "he did not regret a single second of it". He lives and breathes fighting, even during the period of peace he was usually found in the training grounds training or sparring with others of his level or greater. It wasn't an unusual sight to see him participating in tournaments, even managing to snag a win or two. Many have said that he was 'born during the wrong era'.
In battles his personality changes entirely. This personality shift can be a whiplash to those don't know him, some even stating that he's an entirely different person. He dons an almost apathetic facade as he begins tunnel visioning into the fight. His movement becomes sharp, wasting less energy. He forces all of his concentration and focus into the fight- with his friendly, amiable self being replaced with a silent and analytical demeanor. In the beginning of a fight he almost always prods an opponent's fighting style as he looks for weaknesses before formulating a quick plan in his head. Said plan shifts and changes as the fight goes on.
Despite his love for the warfare, he believes that another war with Thelan would be the end for both kingdoms. He also has a certain distaste of the cruelty that comes shackled with war. The atrocities committed by either kingdoms via pillaging, senseless killing and raping was not to his liking. He actively makes sure to dole out punishments and report Alovians who do not follow conduct of war. This has landed him in some hot waters with more than a few nobles.
H I S T O R Y
Niavak was born to a retired knight- Jacques Wymark and his wife, Miliane Wymark. His father would enthrall him with stories of the 'warring era' during bedtime. He spoke of the chivalry and bravery of the Knights Guild in the front-field, as they were the shield that 'guards the kingdom'. With wide, sparkly-eyed reverence, the young Niavak was captivated by these stories and dreamt of being a knight. His youth was filled training that would help attain his dream. His father warned him not to go at knighthood with half-hearted intentions and as such was harsh and uncompromising during his training. Despite his talent for battle, his father made doubly-sure in attenuating his overconfidence- instilling humbleness into the young kid.
During his teenage years he made a name for himself in small-scale battle. He gathered the routing Alovians and reinvigorated them to stay and fight until reinforcements arrived. They dug their heels in and barely managed to hold the territory before Alovian backup arrived. His last minute strategy clutched victory at the jaws of defeat. It was here where the moniker of 'The Pale Knight' took root.
After that battle he was recommended the role of strategist, which was promptly declined as he had too much love for the battlefield. A few higher-ups had begun taking notice of the young man, with him being recommended on more and more future conflicts. Eventually, he would rise to the rank of a Knight, which took nearly a decade of servitude to Alovia. He may have risen faster and further up had he played the game of politics; he did not heed the words of his peers and superiors and still went against nobles. He disliked politics. The manipulation and little games the court played was not something he was remotely interested in.
Niavak would earn the reputation of being a fairly laid-back knight. He felt no desire for superiority making him easy to talk to and get along with. He conversed with poor and rich alike. Due to easygoing nature and skills, the Alovian military handpicked him to join the Royal Plea. They had hoped that he would mediate the mish-mash of clashing personalities, as even they did not know who entirely was to be in it.
This party was charged with the singular goal of finding and retrieving Queen Anice. A last ditch effort to try and stop the boiling pot from tipping over. He hastily accepted, as he felt that the fate of both kingdoms were at stake.
M I S C
- Niavak is usually present during important strategical meetings of upcoming battles for his insight. A rare event for knights. - Could have been a musician/bard with his singing voice.
The body of a dancer, elegant lengthy limbs that hold a surprising amount of strength and flexibility for swift precise movements. She has a feminine curve to her body, one that has been learned to be hidden by wearing certain clothes and wraps which helps hide other female qualities that would give away secrets. Aruna stands at the height of 5’10, a pixie/boyish cut of dark chocolate hair, bangs slightly framing even darker eyes that grace the soft features of her face. A dusting of freckles that dapple across the bridge of her nose, cheeks and the curve of her shoulders over caramel colored skin . Normally, it would get her made fun of as a man if she didn’t let her swords or small blades do the talking. There were many a time this was the case, until they learned to keep their mouths shut.
It is do to the hiding of her true body frame that most think she is a rather scrawny and weak man, an easy target. It is their downfall to find that she is an elite warrior. One that should be feared and would make her people proud. Her elegant and swift movements on the battle field look as if to be a dance. She is not perfect though and has had many a scar. The worst ones in areas that could not be attended to be real physicians/healers, such like her back and other areas. She doesn’t mind though, she views them as an honor.
I N T E R E S T S
- Art - Music/Ballads - Reading - Nature/Different Environments - Riding, whether by horseback or other animals - Swords/Dueling - Dancing - Camping
P E R S O N A L I T Y
They say there is two sides to every coin and the same could be said about Aruna in many ways. She is a bit of a contradictory creature as she can be gentle and soft one moment while harsh and rough the next. She has a fiery temper, one that flares up and causes her a good amount of trouble if she doesn’t bite her tongue to rein it in. She calls it passionate but most call it trouble.
She is kind and giving, one that would take a blow for another or offer anything to help someone else out. Fighting wasn’t something she had truly wanted, peace being much more pleasant but if she was going to learn something, she was going to give it her all. Once she sets her mind to something and is determined, it is hard to keep her away from doing her all. She puts her heart into everything she does. Pain is a part of life. How do you know how to live or the happy moments without it?
She has hopes and dreams but with things how they are right now for her, it might be impossible. It is these kinds of things that keep her guarded and on her toes. She may have people close to her but even they would probably feel like she keeps them at a distance. She has to keep up appearances and it gets harder the closer you get to people and let them in.
H I S T O R Y
Aruna was born in Baldori but as far as she knows, she could actually be a part of any other clan or region. Her mother worked in a brothel and her creation was just an unlucky circumstance. It would be almost impossible to really pin down who her father might have been. She was mostly kept hidden in her younger years, told to keep out of the way so the both of them could be feed and taken care of. Customers don’t want to see you caring for an infant or toddler after all. The more she grew, the prettier she became but her mother didn’t want her to share the same life she had or have to worry about the dangers of unwanted attention.
It was at the age of 5 that her mother changed her clothes to that of a boy, even calling her by a masculine version of her given name. It became normal for her not to question it. She was just as religious as any other but in all honesty, she didn’t want to devote her life to it. The tending of the fields wasn’t a bad option, the things you could learn were interesting but....did she want to do that forever? No...not really. It seemed like the gods were designed to step in because at the age of 10, her mother passed away and at the same time was a call for more boys for the war front. It seemed logical for them to pick an orphanage to join and she was placed with the other candidates.
Trained in the art of battle and thrown out to defend. She found the new role she had been placed in as thrilling. It gave her purpose and a way to show that she could be just as good as the others. There was nothing else for her. She grew, learning to rely on herself and to watch the back of her fellow soldiers. She was given the name Blade Dancer because of her skill on the field. When she got word that the Queen Anice had disappeared. She had made sure she would be in the group that would attempt to find her. She had great respect for the woman and it seemed like destiny was calling for her to follow this path.
M I S C
- To the world and everyone she knows, she is viewed as a male. That means cross-dressing and acting are a necessary. - When she is not at the front lines, she is in the place of her birth to defend the royal family and protect the palace. - Loves the rain & snow - Night is her favorite portion of the day - Has a beautiful singing voice but never shows it. It might give away her secret. - Carries a Journal to draw in and create maps of where she has been. Sometimes she will write her thoughts - Loves a good red wine
Morgane keeps herself as simple as a witch could ever hope to keep herself, modestly brushed black hair that frames her face until it falls to her shoulders. Stunning eyes that shine white with subtle power behind them. She is lithe and fit enough, having traveled the swamps and ruins of her people with little to no scars (though she does have a faint gash in her stomach). She dresses in white to not only match her eyes but in contrast to other witches - mostly to put others at ease - though the style is unique and archaic as if from a time long passed.
I N T E R E S T S
☽ Myths, Legends, Fables ☽ The study of magic ☽ Water & The Moon ☽ Musicians and the art of Music ☽ Art
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Morgane is very unusual for a witch and perhaps the only one like her in this current age. Unlike other witches that simply practice magic, she has delved into the study of how it functions and why it works and where it comes from - speaking very closely to her scholarly intelligence. She is often interested and fascinated by the supernatural and out of the ordinary such as dragons and magical beasts, ruins, and ancient sites. This is by far one of her stronger traits.
She is otherwise untrusting of others and yet friendly and polite, a mix of her personal experience and tales of heroes long past. A concoction of traits that allows her to be empathic and kind and yet somehow bitter at how the world has treated her. She usually keeps others at arm's length while allowing them the chance to get closer and break her walls down, if someone takes the effort to do so. Normally, this attitude allows her to also wave off suspicion and distrust from others as nothing but obstacles to her studies.
H I S T O R Y
Morgane was like in any other witch child only in the sense that once her magic flared up and started a small fire, she was sent into the swamp to fend for herself, alone, to make it to the witch huts. However this is where the similarity stops for even when she was young, she would question things far beyond her peers - always thinking outside the box. This was a frustration to both herself and to her tutors within the witch community. When they attempted to teach her magic, she would constantly question its nature and functions which were mysteries to the witches as a whole. Most likely, the only reason any tutors stayed with her was because of her amazing grasp of the incantations and rituals that often exceeded her peers and at times - her masters.
By the time she was a teenager, she had all but exhiled herself from the community by simply being who she was, most of them ignoring or trying to manipulate her for her genuis, causing her to become somewhat bitter with others - since it felt like she didn't belong anywhere. However what did push her on was a pursuit of magical study in a way that no one else did. Instead of treatly it with mystery and something that was beyond the understanding of mortals, she took the time to decipher it like a science - a logic puzzle - writing down common incantations, symbols, words and recording them all into a spellbook of sorts.
Her first major breakthrough however was when she was in her young adult years, having moved out from the other witches into another area of the swamp that bordered the jungles of the Nantego Tribe. While taking the time to study the tribe from afar, understanding they knew their own kind of magic, she was visited by a vision of an ancient ruin. At first she wasn't sure how to take it, but a scholar's bravery at times, has no bounds. So she soon found herself wandering into the jungle - on the northern edge towards the sea. Amazingly enough, she found stairs carved into the face of the cliff where trees and salt water met and delved downwards.
What she found there, would only encourage her in her own theories. They seemed to picture many of the things she had deciphered on her own about the varations of her own magic and in fact, hinted at far more, though the language was an old, possibly lost dialect of sorts. From this point forward, she would study the ruins until she had everything recorded and learned a few new tricks - such as casting some spells without the need of any reagents at all and various other spells that are more tricks than anything else.
All this only increased her drive to learn more. So when the Queen went missing, it was no surprise that she gathered her things and headed to try and venture with the group that would go after her. No doubt the Queen's disappearance was a mystery to be solved and with the possibility of seeing more ruins, magical beasts, and increasing her understanding - she had no reason not to travel with them.
The first feature outsiders would notice is Talia’s moko kauae, or her chin tattoo. Starting from just under her full lips, the thin black lines are a sacred rite of passage that symbolised her transition from a girl into a woman and a warrior. The black lines of her tattoo and black hair complements her lightly tanned skin, acquired partly from the many hours spent outdoors. Her eyes are a dark brown that somehow manage to transmit her determined nature. A few moles are scattered throughout her body; outnumbered slightly by minor scars accrued from countless years of hunting and training. Not particularly tall, her strength and force lies in the strong muscles that have resulted in a slender figure. All in all a pretty, but unexceptional, appearance. Her one touch of aesthetic pride is her hair, falling thick and shiny halfway between her shoulder and elbows, which is the envy of many of the other girls.
One of her most prized possessions is the whale bone necklace that was given to her, along with her title as Kaieke Tohorā, or Whale Rider, before leaving Nantego for the quest ((except her necklace depicts a whale instead of a dolphin)). For the most part, Talia wears a mix between the traditional, nature-based textiles of her people, such as flax and grass as well as animal skins, and the traded Alovian textiles, such as cotton and leather. Day to day, she is mainly seen in simple skirts of varying lengths, pants (modeled after the lighter Alovian style), and a cloth as her top. When wearing clothes worn in battle, she wears pants and a simple top underneath chainmail and light armour. For special occasions, she wears a peacock feather cloak (depicted above), brightly patterned and beaded bodice and headband, which has two prized huia feathers tucked in the back, and a flax skirt.
She is also rarely seen without at least her atlatl, darts (essentially small spears), sling shot and accompanying pouch, and knives. Initially creating the spear-thrower, atlatl, in order to compensate for her lack of strength is throwing spears, when compared to the men, she has become highly skilled and proficient in the use of atlatl, having since created one for general use and one for big game. Her atlatls have been adopted by the Nantego warriors and people in her town, allowing for powerful, deadly and silent weapons able to pierce through metal and thick hides/furs. When fighting, she also uses a small circular shield and a basic sword in the Alovian style.
I N T E R E S T S
Hunting and Tracking
Fighting
Healing and Herbal Medicine
Weapons Making
Nature
Carving
Dancing
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Talia’s most defining trait is her determination and drive. Once she has committed herself to an idea, plan or person, it is almost impossible to change her mind. This can be both good and bad, as many others have observed. While her determination and steadfastness means she is extremely loyal, and unwilling to give up, it could easily translate into stubbornness and bullheadedness. She also has an inability to take the easier path, always choosing the path of most resistance primarily because she feels like she has something to prove, but also because she relishes the challenge. As such, she tends to view those who give up easily or take the easiest road as weaker and less worthy of respect. She’s a bit of a thrill seeker, and enjoys excelling at tough challenges. As such she is an eternal optimist, bouncing back from failure time and time again in order to succeed.
For those she loves, Talia is selfless, and sometimes self sacrificing. She will often take on great burdens or risks in order to help her loved ones in their time of need. That said, Talia is also smart and creative which allows her to easily and quickly problem-solve a variety of situations. In particular, her invention occurred as a way to compete with the male warriors. With experience she might one day make a great strategist and leader, like her father before her.
Despite her accomplishments, she isn’t boastful or proud, mainly due to the fact that she feels a continuous drive to attain respect and status similar to those granted to warriors and leaders she admires. While she is touched by words of praise from her family and her idols, she is deeply uncomfortable in those situations. Preferring actions over words, this has challenged her communication with others as she likewise expects her close relations to observe and intuit what she needs, rather than her telling them. In most situations, barring the personal and emotional, she has great communication skills.
H I S T O R Y
Talia was born into the highest ranks in her town. Her father, the brother of the Chief, was the foremost warrior and strategist, while her mother was one of the Chosen. Sadly, Talia never met her father as he was killed during one of the battles between Alovia and Thelan a few months before her birth. Through tales told by her uncle and mother, she learned of her father and grew to greatly admire him. With her mother one of the Chosen, requiring many trips to the Mother Tree, the two of them moved to live with the Chief and his family.
As such, she spent much of her youth following her aunt, the town’s healer and herbalist, and uncle during her mother’s many trips. As children, her cousins and her would go hunting and foraging, developing useful tools for the future. Although hunting primary with sling shots and spears, Talia developed a real interest in hunting and weaponry. It was through the mock fights and contests, however, that her desire to become a warrior solidified.
During their youth she was pretty evenly matched with her cousins, allowing for intense competition and steady improvement. Over time, however, the distance between the abilities of her male cousins and herself grew. Determined to beat them, she set out to invent something that would even the scales, and possibly tip it in her favor. Through observations of her childhood weapon, the sling shot, creativity and blessings from the Mother Tree, she fashioned a spear-thrower, adding extra force and power to her throws. Through rigorous practice and testing, she further developed her novel weapon, the atlatl.
Becoming an expert markswoman, she quickly started beating all her cousins— male or female. Following her formal womanhood ceremony, she was encouraged by her uncle, despite it not being a normal avenue for women, to participate in many of the contests and hunts held for the young adults of her town. Unable to deny her skill, in both inventing such a weapon and her usage of it, the elders finally allowed her to begin warrior training.
There she learned not only how to fight and defend oneself against a variety of weapons in a number of situations, ascertaining her aptitude for strategy and leadership, the older warriors trained her to one day follow in her father’s footsteps. By the time she had joined the rank of warriors, she was leading small hunts and given the honor of leading a couple of the protection details for the Chosen’s pilgrimage. She also makes atlatls for everyone in her town and trains many people in its use, becoming the expert in her town.
Despite this, she still has an underlying desire to prove herself, primarily because she wants to prove that she got her role through merit and also because there are many males in her town who still find it isn’t her place. Her decision to join the quest was motivated by her desire to prove to herself, and her town, that she is a great warrior. Recognising the learning experience, she has been entrusted with leading her people during the quest.
M I S C
For the journey, she is taking her horse, Tihei. Additionally for the colder climate she’s going to be dressed more like this because ya girl is not used to the cold.
Hatzur is a tall woman, standing at about 1.75m, with a slim and elegant figure. Her hair is silver colored and usually kept short, her eyes, in contrast, are of a deep black colour. She has a sense of fashion that seems very atypical for a witch, with practical and sophisticated outfits which are kept impeccably clean. The colors are typically matching white and black with rarely ever any other color except the occasional gemstone accessory. She likes to wear gloves and boots to avoid touching things with her skin. She sticks to her style no matter what, though she adapts what pieces she wears depending on the environment they will always follow a similar style.
Hatzur is a cold, aloof individual who sees the world through an equally cold mindset, often victim blaming those who are less fortunate. She faces such a world with a focus on practical, if not utilitarian, behaviour, she knows the very people who created traditions and codes of honour would break and bend them to fill their personal objectives, so why should she abide by them? The good side of this is that she is also open minded, not rejecting to look into other cultures and philosophies as she doesn’t assume her background is the best. In particular, she has a keen interest in Thelannian culture and all of their technology.
Her number one objective is to simply live well, being a witch makes that an issue, as many struggle to just live by, seldom living in the wealthy standards Hatzur wants for herself. Many people say that the strongest animals survive, but she recognizes many animals survive by being not worth the trouble, and that is somewhat her approach to her own survival, keeping things discreet and having a lot of fallbacks to rely on. She considers herself to be clever, and definitely has shown some persuasive power in her dealings, be it in a straightforward manner or playing around with people’s psyche, and she often values similar traits in others while thinking overly idealistic people will just bring about their downfall.
H I S T O R Y
She was one of the daughters of a merchant family in a city that was booming with the newfound peace between the kingdoms. Of course, where there is coin there is crime, and while the ports and fancy estates were growing in size, so was the underworld, and her family was not one that thought twice before applying underhanded practices to get ahead. Thinking the girl would grow to be part of the family, they shared a lot of their ‘wisdom’ with Hatzurmarana, which, along with a life of luxury, made the girl start to dream about the day she would be an adult, have her own shops and ships to command, make decisions.
And then the witch nature manifested itself. One day she was resting in bed with silk bed sheets, the other, she was scorned, sent off to the end of the world with barely anything but her own clothes, off to cross a murky swamp all by herself. It was a shock and it left her extremely bitter. She was discovered to be adept to black magic and revealed herself to be a diligent student of the arts, yet also one that seemed to question everything around her. One day, while being told the classic cautionary tale of the young witch who tries to save a kid just to be met with suspicion by the parents and eventually hunted down, it clicked on her that maybe that witch was just a fool, people don’t understand the value of gifted things, perhaps if she had asked for a high price, if she had mocked the foolish peasants for thinking they could ever afford her medicine, they would have understood the value of what she was offering.
This eventually led to her starting to play around with the idea of selling her services as a witch. There were many things she could do that had clear practical value, be it a pretty gemstone glowing with magical charge or an enhanced item, she just needed to convince the non-magical folk that they had a demand for such items. And it worked, with a careful approach and some intrigue she found herself some clients, those first transactions starting rumors, rumors which, once guided properly, ended up bringing her more clients. Many witches didn’t like that, calling her a “sellspell” due to her acting just like a mercenary, a sellsword, she didn’t mind it, it was a truth she wasn’t afraid off.
It was all going awfully well which was why she expected something to go wrong. The disappearance of Queen Anice was exactly that. The type of business she was growing was an alternative to the typical war services witches provided, if hostilities were resumed she was sure she would be forced into that outdated model. Furthermore, she had an honest interest in Thelan, not just as a place of potential business but as someone who held a legitimate interest in their culture and philosophy, she didn’t want this war.
Short, black curls and skin the color of leather marks him out as a Baldori, and that’s what most people end up noticing about Nariman. He’s rather average otherwise, after all, a 5’7 man with languid, dark brown eyes that seem at odds with his animated, almost over-exaggerated behavior. There’s still a babyish roundness to his face, and his build is similarly indistinct, rather undefined and flabby until he exerts himself. Not that anyone can see it over the gambeson and chainmail he wears, of course. His hands are the only obvious sign of his experience as a warrior: callused and scarred, they are like the ruined hands of a musician, holding a slender shape with none of the elegance or grace.
Nariman models his behavior after the heroes of yore, but does so through force of will rather than natural inclination. He laughs boldly at jokes that aren’t actually funny, tears through slabs of meat when he’d really just like some potatoes and bread, and pretends to drink far more than he actually does. The generosity he displays freely is neither rooted in altruism nor religious belief, and his showboating is meant for others, not for himself. The only thing that does come naturally for him is his sense of justice, biding him to rise to the defense of weak and wanting, but considering the rest of his pretensions, Nariman finds himself wondering if that sense is simply one of his better lies.
What is genuine, however, is his ability to endure. He feeds himself with a gross mixture of self-pity, anger, and disgust, black coals burning in his stomach when nothing else fills it. Nariman powers through everything. Fighting’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Graciously accepting a pittance of a reward’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Sleeping in a ditch with a blanket made of pine branches’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. He stores every slight, holds onto every grudge, relishes every bitter thought, and continues on, a heavy mask fixed over it all.
Nariman’s not a fun person to be with. But no one’s really talking to Nariman, now are they?
H I S T O R Y
Nariman doesn’t know who his father is, but it never mattered to him much, not when his mother gave him more than enough love to compensate. As a child of a brothel worker off on one of Thelan’s agricultural centers, he spent his days washing sheets and his nights listening to minstrels in the tavern, humming along with ballads of indomitable shieldbearers and fervent wardukes, of clever swashbucklers and bold axemen. The Thelan Hero-Kings, brandishing their blades against supernatural heresy, and the Moore Vikings, daring to laugh in the face of the unknown. But for all that was sung, all that was said, there was not a single tale of the Baldori people.
His mother did what she could to amend that, of course. She spoke of their self-sacrificing nature, their destiny as ones called to believe, the gratitude and life-debt owed to the kingdom that gave them refuge. But Nariman still burned, and as years crawled on, he questioned this life-debt that turned them all into grateful slaves of a nation that gave them nothing but scraps. Should they sell their daughters to bastards desired by no Thelan woman, because they were allowed to live on a lifeless wasteland? Should they offer up their sons to be grinded into meat upon a battlefield that wasn’t theirs, because they were granted work that no one else wanted? Where were the Baldori heroes in their history and their mythos, the men and women who were more than just a footstool for the folk of other nations?
They were nowhere. He did not find them on the lips of the Thelan minstrels and he did not find them in the scriptures of the Baldori priests. When he ventured to the Baldori Dominion for his indoctrination into the faith proper, he didn’t find the same reverence in his heart for the temples and sculptures.
When he returned, he learned that he had a young sister now, a darling babe that, in another thirteen years, would be auctioned off the same way as any other Baldori girl of age. And Nariman, Nariman decided that he would not stand for it. In absence of a dead hero, he would strive to become a living one, gaining respect through the only way he knew how: martial ability. With a stick first, then a kitchen knife, then a dagger he stole from a drunk soldier, the youth practiced what he could, skipping out on work to watch the training drills of the garrison. His mother lamented his wayward decisions, of course, reminding him daily that it was more honorable to be the source of comfort than the cause of suffering, but Nariman couldn’t accept that.
He was a self-professed bouncer at the brothel first, pulling out patrons too drunk to pay for a fuck. Then he became a proper guard in the garrison, equipped with standard-issue steels. Switched over to guarding caravans after days of staring at the horizon became dull. Learned to sell his sword as his reputation for hard work and low prices spread. A cheap Baldori mercenary, was what the people in the frontier towns thought of him. Someone who they could throw a couple coins at to do dirty, dangerous work. But Nariman fought on, picking up more tricks, more skills with every passing year, waiting for an opportunity to truly do something worthy of a song, worthy of the respect denied to his self-sacrificing people.
When Queen Anice disappeared, Nariman was ecstatic. Twelve years, and finally, a chance!
M I S C
Nariman still does his morning and evening prayer rituals, though he’s no longer certain why he does it.
Every fortnight without fail, Nariman sends a letter back to his mother and his sister. With his eminent venture into the Northern Mountains, it looks as if he’s going to have to get creative.
Though he’s adequate enough with the sword to hold his own, Nariman’s true talent lies in the accuracy of his throwing arm, whether it be javelins, knives, rocks, or just a clump of horseshit.
Edgar is an attractive, rugged man, his body hardened by the strict regimens of Thelannian military training. He stands at almost 6"2 in height, weighing approximately 90kg, most of which is muscle. He is broadly and solidly built, his ascent to leadership lined with the rigors and strains of the life of the common man - a signature of the fact that his commission was earnt, not bought. His skin is fair and his hair is dark - both with the exception of his hands and forearms, where the natural color of his skin is disrupted by obvious and unnatural looking burn scars, patchy white and pink scar tissue shot through with irregular black marks where some part of an old threat stayed with him.
Aside from these, he also bears the scars of a man who has survived more than most - from a faint line on his throat where a criminal acted too slowly and too imprecisely, to fading slashes across his chest and arms where his opponent in training matches drew blood first. As for his usual style, he is most commonly seen wearing more or less the armor and uniform of Thelannian assault troops, as he is on duty more often than not. When in civilian clothes, however, he wears loose cotton shirts and cheap quilted jackets and doublets - he has no great love of finery, and actively looks down on those who revel in decadence. If pressed by circumstance, though, he does look good in formalwear - if you can get him to stop fiddling with it. And if you can get him to sit still long enough for measurements. It used to be that he would wear gloves to hide his scars, for the benefit of the weak-stomached if nothing else; but now he almost revels in them, in the fact that he survived, and wears gloves of any kind only as part of his armour in combat. Under his clothes, he is scarred and torn by the intensity of his training and by his history in combat - but more interestingly, the space over his heart is adorned with a distinctive, if cryptic, tattoo; the tattoo is a sharp and well defined image of rich blue and black, composed of two large, vicious dogs, rampant beside a long dagger, itself dripping blue. It is the unofficial tattoo of the Wolfhound Commandos, and known only to very few.
I N T E R E S T S
First and foremost, and appropriately to his profession, he enjoys fighting. In particular he relishes the use of novel and unconventional techniques and tactics, delighting in the simple pleasure of being able to outwit and defeat an opponent, whether it be in person or by command. He finds risking his life to be thrilling, and doing so in the name of Thelan supremely fulfilling.
Second on the list of his interests would be drinking; like most soldiers, he is voracious in his enjoyment of his beer, his wine, his whisky and his gin. It takes a lot to get him truly drunk, but he does drink an awful lot - at least in part because it makes the interim between deployments pass by a little quicker. He tries his utmost to pass his time with either a beer, a weapon, or a woman in hand. Which brings us to the next pastime. This also, technically, includes the various other activities included in carousement, like dancing and singing.
Sex. Edgar is as terrible a womaniser - and, technically, a non-literal mankiller - as he is a dedicated soldier and adept swordsman. When he was younger he tried to avoid stringing anyone along, or leading them on into thinking he wanted more than a fuck out of them - but now he finds that he doesn't mind so much if his partners stay around in his life. It makes them all the more accessible, at any rate, even if his brothers in arms will never truly let go of the idea that Edgar is finally getting soft.
Edgar does also enjoy a good conversation - or, even better, an argument. It's not something he generally acknowledges, but he tries to select his company as much for their ability to carry an interesting debate as he does for whatever other abilities of theirs he has an interest in. Indeed, it's as likely as anything that Edgar doesn't truly realise just how much he needs to talk - or, in fact, how lonely he really is.
Reading is much the same. Edgar is usually too busy to find anywhere in the region of hours to spend burying himself in a book - and it's also true that staying still and inactive for too long eventually begins to rub on his mind - but he tries to steal snatches of time to himself whenever he can to catch up on a few pages of his current reading material. Most of it is nonfiction - which is also the place from which he draws his civilian education - but he does also allow himself fiction from time to time, if he can get hold of it. Once, he even read a romance.
The last of his major interests is... singing. Not merely drunken screaming, or the bawdy ballads his men teach eachother, but real, artistic, expressive singing. He has a lovely voice, soft and rich and well pitched - though this one he truly does keep to himself.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Edgar Sarohardt is courageous, intelligent, and patriotic - a model officer for the Thelannian military. He does not hide his low birth and holds no shame that his surname is of his own choosing, with none to inherit from his parents, and his men adore him for it. One of the few commoners chosen to lead commoners - albeit in unorthodox pursuits - their devotion to him is matched only by his devotion to them in return. He is loyal and bold, daring to go where few others will, trying to do the things that few others could, and it is therein that his greatest asset truly lies; his almost reckless will.
Beyond this he is also a charismatic and strong leader; it's helped by the common ground between him and his company of men, and his fair treatment of them all, but when an order is given it is damn well followed. He is charming, with a wicked sort of suggestive grin, and a shameless tendency to flirt wildly. His tendency to start arguments is sometimes looked at as petty, or annoying, but it's usually at least entertaining to watch so people don't often mind that either - and indeed, if he cared to apply himself properly he would no doubt make a good negotiator.
In private he is different. Not completely, not radically, but enough to notice if you've somehow managed to earn his trust. He speaks more softly, drinks less at night, and smiles differently. His appetites are still interesting, and occasionally odd, and he still enjoys his debates - but in the quiet of the evening, away from the noise of the world, behind drawn curtains and closed doors, by candlelight alone, he becomes curious and gentle. It is not unlike unwrapping a present.
But then, of course, there is the matter of his convictions regarding Witches. He loathes magic. He despises it, and all its vile practitioners. The strength of this opinion is jarring compared to the rest of him, especially if you'd somehow gotten to know the deeper, quieter, calmer parts of him first.
But then there is the other side to him. Only on the topic of witchery and magic is he ever truly hateful - but even despite this he has a perverse curiosity for the stuff. In private, he reads from the same books he wishes to see burned; in private, he considers the nature of the unnatural, the stuff of his nightmares. Magic aside, his appetites and lustful nature are also the subject of a taboo in society; he has only rarely frequented brothels, and only with his closest friends and comrades if anyone at all - but he is still regarded as immoral for his copious attractions and their varied natures, and some would suggest that he is so bad as to be unbefitting of command. He spares little care for his detractors, knowing that his work does not demand the same etiquette that a conventional captain or commander's might - but he knows that there are still limits, and he knows that there are times he pushes them.
H I S T O R Y
Edgar was born on the 1st day of the Month of January, in a part of Thelan north enough for you to really feel the cold, in a town just big enough for scandal and taboo to be missed, but just small enough that what rumour there was wouldn't go far - if it went anywhere at all. It was just as well, too, because Edgar's parents - a pair who didn't stay in his life for long after his admittance to military academy - weren't the sorts most people would want to be tied to. His father was a former soldier, dishonourably discharged for misconduct in the line of duty, and his mother was... well, someone he met while he was on tour. Technically. The affair was solid, their attraction genuine and their love real, but that didn't mean people approved. After Edgar was born - and Edgar is the name they gave him - they knew that staying around would be more trouble for him than they ever wanted to cause, and they left as soon as they could. Edgar half understood why, but it didn't stop a deep resentment from brewing in his heart as he grew up. He dropped his former surname as soon as he could, and took up Sarohardt instead - he barely remembers what it was before that today.
In part due to the strength of his anger, in part due to his devotion to Thelan in place of his family, and in part due to the kinship he had with the other bastards in the common ranks, he excelled in war school. At first he was violent and poorly controlled, restraint all but unknown to him - but, over years, through combat experience in the small skirmishes that sometimes lit up the border, even in times of peace, he learned discipline. He learned to beat his anger into punching bags at the crack of dawn, he began to turn his devotion into power, and he grew to see the other troops not just as comrades but as brothers - and occasionally sisters - but more importantly, he learned to see the Thelannian state for what it was.
His saviour.
It rescued him from poverty, it taught him who he was, it gave him training and skills and an enemy to fight, and it paid his wages. He was a young man with a hole in his heart where his parents had left him, a gap where society had stepped away and abandoned him, a sinking pit where his anger would bury him - and the government fixed it. The government filled those holes. The army gave him purpose.
Without Thelan, his nation - his beautiful nation - he would be less than nothing. He would have died young, and been forgotten.
Instead, he got to grow up - and as he grew up, he matured, and slowly became a soldier - and as a soldier, he shone.
He graduated with flying colours, and was given a rank in one of the few remaining active battalions. His job involved more shouting and repeating a real officer's orders than doing any actual mind work, but he belonged to something at least; and naturally, when he was on leave he still lived with his comrades. The two men who would one day ascend to lieutenantship under his command as Captain were his bunkmates, his drinking mates, and his best friends. Many a time they woke up on the floor of a tavern together, heads pounding and stomachs curdling - and many a time too did they sleep together in the same foxholes, or in the same tents, under the burning stars or in the pouring rain. They did everything together. First trip to a brothel included.
First true combat included, the horror that it was.
It was one of the unofficial conflicts - the tiny skirmishes that dot the borders during those tensest of ceasefires. They weren't ready for the Alovians when it happened, their visibility hampered by the rain, and a third of their unit went down in the first fifteen seconds of combat - struck by Nantego bowmen, he would later learn. It had been nothing but luck and chance that neither he nor his closest had been amongst those caught in the first wave of the ambush - though Hugo, now serving as his first lieutenant, went on to lose a finger and gain seven horrific scars at the hands of a rogue Alovian knight. He was lucky, too, to have survived the encounter.
As the battle went on, they became separated from their unit, pursued by a shock of Alovian vanguard troops - and then they became separated from each other too in the chaos of battle.
And then, he turned to see her.
Her.
She was young. Pretty. Innocent-looking. Scared, too. As scared as Edgar, maybe - and unlike him, she didn't look like she wanted to be there at all. That was the first thing he noticed, actually - this poor, soaking girl, eyes red as if she had been crying, a nasty gash along her forearm where one of his compatriots had managed to wound her, looking for all the world like she was the victim. The second thing he noticed was that she was, without a doubt, a witch.
They spent a solid minute staring at eachother, frozen in the rain. Edgar's knuckles were white around the hilt of his arming sword, his breath heavy and desperate, his armour already faintly stained with blood from other injuries. She was pale, face framed by raven hair slick with the rain, her tiny body shivering and her clothes totally unfit for the weather, let alone war. Part of him wanted to put away his sword, to reach out and reason with her - especially since he knew just enough about magic to know that even with just the six metres of distance between them, he probably didn't stand a chance of making it close enough to strike her before he was evaporated - but soldiers are taught violence first, and diplomacy only rarely.
He, falteringly, took a step forward, sword still in hand.
She, falteringly, stepped backwards, her breath hitching, her hands rising.
"No!" They both screamed at once, her at his advance, him at the bolts of lightning and fire she set upon him - and the horrible burning, blistering, popping of his arms as the magic made contact with him and burst open his flesh, tearing off his skin and staining his body with the rank impurity of magic.
But through the pain, he saw just clearly enough to throw his sword.
He got lucky. She screamed too, her voice barely audible through his own agony, and the flow of magic stopped. When he could see again through the stars and darkness that pervaded his vision, his head light and his mind fainting, she was gone. His two friends, Hugo and Arthur, found him still kneeling there when the battle was over and the enemy repelled - with the blade of his sword shattered completely, and his arms still steaming with heat, both presumably on account of some degree of witchcraft.
He was pulled back from active duty along with the other wounded, pending an assessment by Thelannian medical staff to see whether or not he was still fit to serve at all, when somebody unexpected came to see him in the hospital.
He identified himself only as Sir Black - which immediately struck Edgar as an egregiously fake name - and he was there to offer Edgar the chance to guarantee his continued service with the army, under a few conditions. Edgar was, of course, eager to continue serving - especially since the alternatives for people as injured as him were usually just to remain a cripple and become beggars for the rest of their lives - but he knew that with all of these sorts of things there was always a catch.
"We're putting together a sort of... special projects group. A task force, if you will. A new sort of division, with a new command structure, and new roles on the battlefield." Sir Black said through a false smile, brushing down the grey of his doublet with his hands as he stood from the seat beside Edgar's hospital bed.
Edgar looked the man up and down, never having been quite stupid enough to trust mysterious men without first names, even if they were genial and polite.
"Right. What do I have to do with it?"
"Well, son, we want you to join it."
"Yeah, no, I'd gathered that. Why do you want me to join it?"
Sir Black paced around the bed, coming to the end of up and then looking up at Edgar was shining, dark eyes. He wasn't unattractive, but there was something about him that whispered malice - something about him that made your hair stand half on-end, like it wasn't sure if you were to be scared or not.
"The nature of this new formation calls for specialists, highly trained and well experienced - and I don't need to tell you just how few of our men have ever survived a one on one fight with a magic user, Corporal. Do I?"
"No... no sir. I've heard the numbers. You think I'm a specialist?"
"You're what we have." Sir Black added, not quite sharply enough to be a correction, but not gently enough to be normal. "And, from what I hear, you're very motivated."
Edgar tensed in bed, wincing as the involuntary movement twisted the unhealed flesh of his arms in the wrong way, and they lit alight with pain again.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that an agreement, my boy?"
Edgar swallowed. He'd signed his life away once, and hadn't lost much. What more could there be to lose from doing it again?
"Yes sir."
Sir Black almost jerked upright with the intensity of the grin that affixed itself to his face, then. He beamed down at Edgar with possibly the most terrifying smile he'd ever seen, and then continued.
"Excellent! I will inform the surgeons of your decision, and make personally sure that you receive the best treatment our great nation has to offer. Once you are treated, you will be taken with your comrades - Corporal Hugo and Corporal Arthur - to training camp Redout, in the Percival region. There you will join with the 1st Wolfhounds Commando unit, and commence with the very finest our country has to offer in the way of combat and countermagic training."
Edgar frowned for a second.
"Wolfhounds?"
"Yes. The new unit."
He frowned more.
"And... Hugo and Arthur have already said yes? Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Sir Black's grin widened further, betraying the almost-fangs lining his mouth further - and Edgar subconsciously recoiled from him.
"Because, my boy, they're dead. They died in hospital of their grievous, grievous injuries." His grin became a manic almost-snarl. "Do you understand? They died. They were reborn. So too will you be. That's the price of being a Wolfhound. Nobody can ever know where you went, because nobody can ever know who they, the Wolfhounds, are. That's why you were given a private room, and that's why you'll be given a private surgery, and that's why you'll die during it. As far as any of our enemies are concerned, the real Edgar Sarohardt will be buried in the yard three hundred metres to our South, and only his ghost - if anything at all - will remain. You will strike at the hearts of the enemy wheresoever they are found, you will rise from the ground and fall from the sky upon the enemy's most vital personnel, you will kill. Their. Mages."
Like a stone, sinking into water, it dawned on him.
Then, like dust blown off an old window, he saw.
"Yeah... yeah, I understand. I get you."
Sir Black's smile relaxed.
"Good man. Now, get some rest, you're going to die tomorrow."
The Wolfhounds were an entirely different sort. They were still permitted to mix with the regular army - albeit under the guise of being from a different regiment - but their training took place far out from any of the major cities, in a rural zone that wasn't even used for farming. The fitness regimens of the standard army were tough, but the Wolfhounds took it to new, brutal heights - the weakest among them were sick every morning, and kept being sick until their bodies became strong, or they washed out completely. The survival training was a complex mix of amazing sights across the whole country, and unimaginable torture, wherein every man and every woman's endurance was pushed to the sweaty, bloody, shitty maximum. They were taught to scale walls both ways, they were taught to escape confinement and not only subsist in the wild, but thrive and strike back at their former captors. Each Wolfhound was taught to fight with a sword, an axe, a bow, a spear, and naked. They learned the value of their armour, and they learned when its weight was too much to be worth it. They learned to blend in, both in terms of camouflage and in terms of simply appearing normal, and they learned to hide in their enemy's very midst. One drill saw them manouevre themselves as a squad of 6 from the courtyard of a castle into the dining room in less than an hour, swapping clothes with subdued servants, distracting and dealing with guards, and finally walking right into the evening meal of their target's family undetected, still wearing blades.
But most of all, they learned about magic.
At least how it could be overcome.
About a third of the initial few hundred Wolfhound trainees had survived some sort of magical attack in the field, and less than a third still of those had been the direct target - but all of them were expected to be able to survive it by training's end. Now, actually practicing the use of anti-magic regents and resistance techniques is difficult without an actual mage, but the Wolfhounds received a surprisingly detailed account of magical education despite this, and the results when the finally did see the field were good.
Since then, Edgar Sarohardt has seen five years of service as a Wolfhound, and risen to the rank of Captain - meaning command of his own Platoon - in that same time.
When he was given the order to accompany a gathering party on a quest to find the Queen - as a sort of last ditch effort to stop the war from returning - he gladly accepted, ready to do whatever he had to in order to secure the future of his country and his people... but not ready at all for the people he would meet.
