NAME: Galia Wadewater
GENDER: Female, She/Her
AGE: 36

APPEARANCE:


BACKGROUND: Galia Guardstrike killed her first man when she was 16 years old, and had been prepared to do so since she was 12. To say she has lived a hard life would be an understatement, and to say she has lived a moral life would be a lie. Cities greater and full of weak men exist in this world and it in them Galia was born and made into the woman she was ten years ago. With no family to rely upon, it was Galia that carved out her own existence in the streets, in the underworld, and in the battlefield. Mercenary and sellsword work, both legal and not so, has granted her years of experience. She has killed those who deserved it and those who have not. There is nothing Galia despised more than the idea of poverty, of being helpless, ever since her early childhood. But that all changed when she met a woman named Eleanor Wadewater. She was a nurse working alongside her mercenary unit at the time, and for the first time Galia saw someone for more than just a proof of a kill attatched to a set of shoulders. Eleanor Wadewater was the first love of Galia's life- and Galia will never know what Elly saw in her- but for some reason Elly loved Galia back.

Slowly, Elly pulled Galia away from the mercenary life. Galia taught Elly to fight, to be resourceful, to be perseptive and deceptive, and Elly taught Galia how to enjoy life for more than it's base pleasures. To see the good in people, to see the value in looking out for more than just oneself. And of course, plenty of medicinal training used to heal instead of hurt. Galia wasn't sure if she would ever "buy into" it, but overtime she did. They married, and Galia adopted Eleanor's last name. Eleven years ago, Eleanor made Galia swear an oath that she would never return to that life. Somehow, Galia managed too. One year later, Elly dragged Galia along on a routine journey to some arbitrary location so the pair could do some good. They were not alone, Eleanor travelled with a group of similarly minded companions called the Practitioners. Bad luck. The fog settled in that day and the pair would spend the next decade of their lives within Pigeon Citadel. Trapped, isolated from Eleanor's extended family. But the two would survive. Eventually they even began to grow content. If anything, Galia was happy that those who she feared stalked her shadow, the ghosts of her dark past, could never find her within Feros.

All that changed, however, when six months ago, Eleanor came down with an illness. As things progressed, the Practitioners came to the conclusion that it would, indeed, end Eleanor's life. The only cures were of an herbal and exotic nature. The only catch, was that it did not exist within Feros Providence, and that it was expensive. Too expensive to be made within a short amount of time doing safe work.

They argued. Elly demanded that Galia not go, and at her behest she stayed, but both of them knew Galia had come too far to just sit back and watch, even with as dangerous the Beast was. It was only a matter of time before Galia Wadewater needed to retire; Galia 'Guardstrike' the mercenary, would venture out one last time.

MOTIVATION: Galia is travelling the North Road to hunt down the beast, collect the reward, use it to purchase the foreign medicine required to save Eleanor Wadewater. Then she would return using the newly liberated passage to administer it. No half-measures, the beast must die. Not only to make the return trip possible, but Galia needs the money aswell.

GEAR:

The Guardstrike Longsword itself. The blade is 40 inches and comes to a keen, if slightly asymmetrical, point. The guard is made of sturdy steel and curved slightly upward. The handle is polished ebony wood ending with a simple steel pommel.

A lantern with fuel, and a bag of first aid medicine Galia knows how to use.

Bedroll and mess kit.

Four days worth of rations.

Medium armor, mostly comprised of leather and cloth but with shoulder and neck protection. Overall it looks very thrown together, made of various pieces of armor from different but once complete sets.

NAME: Morton Bowman

GENDER: Male

AGE: 39

APPEARANCE: Standing at six feet even, Mort is sturdily built, broad-shouldered and strong of arm. Though bald-headed, he sports a black goatee and a remarkable criss-cross scar across his face, but his eyes are commonly hidden beneath darkened spectacles. He wears a number of layers of clothes, including a black collared shirt, a blue guardsman's coat, and a green overcoat. Black greaves, gauntlets, and pants complete the ensemble.

BACKGROUND: To Mort, his early life feels like a dream. He can scarcely remember the specifics, only shapes, colors, and feelings. He recalls long days of green grass and trees, blue skies, and the weight of his weary head when the horizon turned orange and the clouds pink. Never did he know stillness, instead a constant stream of motion, but he knew safety in the shadow of his father. It had been a big shadow, its shade loving, but growing smaller over time. After days or even weeks of moving, he and his father would return, for at the end of the day, no matter where they wandered, they had a home. They were days of activity in peace, and Mort supposed it was during those years that he got acquainted with the feeling of a bow in his hand. But like all dreams, that time came to an end.

Bandits attacked the city. They pillaged it and set it to flame, killing those who didn't fall in line. When they were gone, the people began to rebuild. The duchess of the region, whose manor lay inside the city, promised that it would never happen again and consolidated her control. She enacted strict restrictions and increased security, conscripting capable citizens to become part of the militia. Mort was among there number, and a a soldier of the militia honed his skills with the bow dramatically. He specialized as a sniper, striking from afar with a longbow, and he took pride in using his skills to keep the city safe. But the militia didn't just secure the city from outside threats. Mort began to grow disenchanted with the militia as time and time again it received orders to use force against the city's own citizens, and those of the region. All the while, the duchess grew richer and more powerful, her critics and political enemies alike going silent. People fought and starved in the streets. Things were bad, and they could not continue.

It didn't take long for Mort to question the duchess' authority. He began to snoop around, trying to find evidence of corruption, but he was caught in the act and arrested for insubordination. When brought before the Duke he was given the chance to recant, but instead Mort attempted to fight his way free. Instead he was defeated by his militia comrades, men and women he'd known for years, and the duchess herself carved an X into his face before ordering his execution. On the way to the prison, however, Mort's father ambushed his captors and slew them. Together they hatched a plan, and on the day of Mort's execution, his father marched to the gallows in his stead. When the Duchess appeared to announce his sentence, Mort planted an arrow in her eye from a roof across the plaza. Father and son planned to escape together in the ensuing chaos, but the daring rescue went awry and his father was wounded. Faced with the prospect of dying alongside his father, Mort fled at his bidding, and ran far, far away.

Going by 'Bowman', he took work as a mercenary in a far-away land. He employed his skills for money to survive, eventually winding up as one member of an escort for a merchant caravan headed toward Fero Province. After spending a few days there the caravan prepared to return, and as usual Mort followed a ways behind it. It was on that return trip that Mort witnessed the Beast. Through his binoculars he caught incomplete glimpses of the thing as it tore the caravan to pieces. He knew that he should try to fight it, but instead he chose to save his own skin and flee back toward Fero. He warned the people of the horrific Beast, but unable to describe it in more detail, he couldn't stop others from going out and never coming back. Since then, Bowman became a common face in the province, a reliable hunter when not addled by drink. Ten years he regretted his second act of cowardice, awash in loathing and guilt, always wishing that he could settle the score with the Beast that came to symbolize his own failure but never daring to. When at long last the crown could stand isolation no more, Mort volunteered to join the expedition. This time, he thought, he did not value his life so much that he would turn away. This time, Mort promised, he would take the long shot. He would accomplish the mission, or die trying.

MOTIVATION: To kill the Beast and escape the anathema that is the province's isolation, or die trying.

GEAR: Blackeye Longbow, binoculars, hunting knife, bedroll, meal haversack (mess kit and ration storage)

NAME: Talic Rastoch

GENDER: Male

AGE: 32

APPEARANCE:

Talic has blonde hair, a dark beard and gray eyes. Never having had to worry about food other environmental circumstances and suffering from mild giantism in childhood he has grown to a rather hulking behemoth standing taller than seven feet and wrapped in quite thick muscle. He has not taken much of an armor with him, but dresses primarily in light leather or just simple cloth.


BACKGROUND: The Rastoch were and still are an influential noble family living in the Pigeon Citadel itself. Unlike many other so called 'nobles' they actually have a significant amount of coin to their avail, so from a materialistic point of view it is safe to say that Talic's childhood has been a pretty pampered one. The same doesn't hold true though for other aspects since the Rastoch family is also known for their pride. Talic primarily had to function, to make his parents fond of him and to live in accordance to their rather strict rules. Dealing with lower class people ? Yes, but only if it yields some usefulness and not just because Talic would really have liked to make some more friends. Just enjoying life, going out casually at all times ? No!

For years things worked out nicely, at least for the outside observer and by Rastoch standards: Talic grew up to a healthy young boy with a level of education well above average who knew how to 'behave' himself. He also became an adept fencer and even took part in a few jousting games, or rather he had to take part. Internally resistance was growing, but he failed to release it in a meaningful way that would actually bring some real change with it. It was a slowly growing disaster waiting to happen and meltdown occurred only recently.

One day Talic was finally able to connect the final dot and to confirm a suspicion that had been growing for many months by then. He had always known that politics was a harsh business full of intrigues and action behind the scenes, but never would he have dared to accuse his own family of fighting using these methods: hitmen. His parent's previous favorite had decided to retire, so they had hired a successor in order to continue operations. Unfortunately for them the new man was a rookie and they didn't realize it until he decided that it couldn't hurt to show up at his employer's very residence under the screen of night. Not having seen Talic taking a stroll the assassin believed that the vast gardens around the house were devoid of any listeners and brought up the topic of an additional charge for the current contract openly. Believing the same thing, Talic's parents joined the debate with an equally loud voice.

Talic had enough. At which point in time would they have decided to introduce him to this particularly difficult aspect of family affairs now that he was 'grown up' ? He was clever enough not to confront them openly, but instead just eavesdropped until the metting was over. Documents had been exchanged and, knowing how much everyone in politics loved documentation, he decided to get this particular one in order to have proof. He intercepted the rookie assassin on his way back and grabbed both them and any additional payment the man had received. It would be the start-up capital for a new life that would begin that night.

Talic packed as many items as he deemed necessary and could carry with him, then left the resisdence. Hopefully forever.


MOTIVATION: Talic knows that it won't take an infinite amount of time for his family to notice what most likely has happened and that he, given the parchments he is carrying with him, has become a very high priority target himself. He also knows that his family's connections in Fero Province are far too good so he can't rely on local authorities to act properly when surrendering the documents to them. However those beyond the North Road could overrule those in the south if necessary. All he has to do is to make it there, preferably in one piece.


GEAR:

• Long spear (can also be thrown)
• A few pieces of cloth and a bit of alcohol intended for use as bandages
• A coil of climbing rope
• Bedroll and mess kit
• Water, breat and salt meat for half a week

NAME: Ardonne
GENDER: Female (she/her)
AGE: 19

APPEARANCE:

BACKGROUND: Daughter to a carpenter and a poet, Ardonne was steeped in the fantastical from an early age. She was one of the few girls in her hometown, the village of Bresh, to become fully literate before her tenth birthday; a precocious habit that stuck to her psyche like glue and became one of many damning marks against her. Her father needed a woodsman, not a daughter, and reared Ardonne as such. Her mother valued the virtues of femininity and oft imparted lectures and lessons to smooth the roughness of her eldest's character but only found purchase in deciding what Ardonne would read. Her weapon of choice in securing a steadfast daughter was the fairy tale and with it, the enchantment of the forest heightened to extremes. Ardonne never demonised the woods for taking her father at the tender age of twelve because of these tales.

The wilderness and the thrill of its stalked borders fascinated the youth and became a symbol of escapism, of paternal guidance, and of immeasurable danger. In her father's absence, Ardonne brought hares and even the odd doe to the table. In the hardships of famine during winter she scraped the lichen off the cairns and chopped the firewood herself. She stared into the depths of the North road and waited to be acknowledged by its fearsome resident, figuring herself as less of a damsel and more of an errant knight. These fancies were dashed quite swiftly with her mother's remarriage and though Ardonne revelled in the beauty and allure of Bresh's transformation for a springtime wedding, the veneer faded into the tight grip of patriarchy. Her younger half-brother was the golden child and placed before her in most aspects of life. Ardonne started to find a bitter satisfaction in the sting of the false father's palm on her cheek because, to her, it signified a step in the right direction. Make no mistake - the villagefolk regarded the biligerent Ardonne as churlish, coarse, and airheaded. She was being stubborn for the sake of stubborn and chased her childhood to its ragged edges. She spent too long replicating her fairy tales and clutching to the ghost of a brave but foolish carpenter who underestimated the horrors in the woods and it was widely believed she'd go down the same path. What Ardonne perceived as mystifying solitude was simply her peers' aversion to her surliness. What she saw as daring skirmishes along the forest borders were dangerous and stupid forays into hostile territory. The only benefit to her gambols came in a sometimes bloodied burlap sack and went unacknowledged into the meals for a few days after, and her shirking of her familial duties resulted in the dictation of her future without her input as she was too busy traipsing in mud to notice.

When Ardonne did notice - when Bresh readied itself for a grand springtime festival, her measurements were taken, and a middling merchant man often frequented her home - she took to her heels and found solace in the one place she'd always flown back to at the slightest instance of discomfort. Only this time, in her typical fashion, she submitted her fate to whatever lurked between the branches; wholly disregarding the very real and not-so-fantastical stories from whoever was lucky enough to crawl out of its murky depths.

MOTIVATION: Some short weeks prior to the group's venture into the forest, Ardonne decided that she found death in the jaws of the Beast preferable to life in the arms of the Province. That said, her ambitious escape attempt is distorted and romanticised by her choice in literature; it is far more likely that her dreams will be met with a narrow escape or a rude awakening.

GEAR:
-A yew shortbow with a quiver containing 15 arrows.

-A butcher's knife, wholly unsuitable for combat due to its one-sided sharp edge and utilitarian blunt-tipped shape, but heavy enough to be used to skin and dress animal carcasses.

-A field guide for local fauna and flora in the Faro Province, dogeared and kept in a waterproof leather satchel on her belt.

-A bedroll and mess kit.

-Two flasks of water and a bag full of smoked rabbit, dried blackberries and chanterelle mushrooms. Chunks of stale bread.

NAME:
Heddwyn Brythendale

GENDER:
Male

AGE:
39

APPEARANCE:
The traveling healer and wayfarer is a native of the northern vale of Fero, with a hardy vigor and battle-worn body due to a life on highways like The North Road. Heddwyn is a man nearing middle age with hair resembling a honey-brown and eyes of grayed sapphires. Throughout his life he has experienced battles with bandits, beast and everything in-between, as a result of this he has various scars across his face and body. His most notable are three claw marks nearing his left eye, though he doesn’t seem to care too much about such close calls. His hair is commonly cut short, in a common northron commoner style, sometimes knotted at the back. He has grown a full beard, but appears to keep it sculpted as he knows his profession is mystifying enough to concern nobles and peasants alike, so he knows it is best to appear presentable and defensible rather than haggard and destitute.

BACKGROUND:
Heddwyn was, once upon a time, a well-regarded cleric within a neighboring province’s capital.

As a member of the lesser nobility, particularly the House of Brythendale, Heddwyn was educated at a university where he learned clerical knowledge with earnest interest. Magic and by extension Medicine were very esoteric fields and were not as described like ancient myths. The ideas of wizards and sorcerers were tales of antiquity and many within the bourgeoisie doubted if any such tales were true. After all, within the many provinces magic is not what it was perceived to be. In Heddwyn’s case this was also true of medicine. While he was educated of talismans and other such things, his main academic instruction was of magical reagents of healing and the precision of surgeries and the knowledge of ailments and plague. Clerics were doctors, not wizards. In time, Heddwyn would take this knowledge to good use. His innate desire to help people and mend the sick ruled his will. However, as luck would turn out such noble goals were not so easy to obtain.

The first years of Heddwyn’s life was full of ambition. He worked alongside more learned alchemists and surgeons for much of his twenties. As things came to be, he was fairly well accomplished, having proved to himself an avid learner and skilled surgeon. He had found love and marriage, but ultimately things began to spiral. His devotion to the medical craft had earned him prestige, but he was mostly studying rather than helping. His surgeries were often for minor cases and afforded to higher nobility and well-off merchants. It wasn’t an ideal situation. He kept to his denomination, devoted to his craft. He was embittered, but he had responsibilities; or he did. When his wife died and he was left with a daughter, things began to come into greater perspective.

It was then he decided he needed to find himself. After placing his daughter’s education and care in the hands of his aging father. It was selfish, but his wife dying gave him opportunity. It was here at twenty-seven years of age he decided he needed to travel and to see about helping the men and women on the path. He had been trained in swordplay as a youth when he squired for a noble knight, so he had plenty means to defend himself after the caravan took him across the realm. Some years later he arrived in Feros. He’s been working in the province ever since. With a great beast bringing a new crisis while Heddwyn was working in a small village, the middle-aged cleric has decided that such an investigation would be necessary. He was no monster slayer, but he was the smartest man in Feros as far as he was concerned. The beast needed to be dissected, but more importantly it could not be allowed to endanger any more innocent lives.

Non Sibi Sed Omnibus.

MOTIVATION:
To kill the Beast, or die trying.

GEAR:
- an iron arming sword, for practical defense and appearances.
- a singular iron dagger of clerical denomination
- a small set of essential medical tools and bandages
- an enchanted talisman that has one charge of magical orientation per day
- a bedroll and mess kit for travel rest
- three days amount of dried trail meats, bread, and fruit

GENDER: Male

AGE: 64

APPEARANCE:

Zahir never show his face, hiding it behind an old and battered mask. Infact the only bit of skin that is visible is a patch of dark skin on his wrists. A detail that practically stands out between the fading crimson of his old military uniform and a pair of greying gloves. Nothing can be seen of his legs, hidden away behind leather armour and boots.

BACKGROUND: Zahir was born far away, in a kingdom beyond the borders of this one. A place he hardly mentions, nor one those who’ve known him long enough ask him much about. All they do know is that he was a soldier there, one who served a long time on the battlefield, judging by the age of this man. Then 10 years ago he arrived in the Fero province, practically in the same outfit he now walks about in.

For the last 10 years he’s lived as a guard in a small town nestled within a forest, helping keep its streets safe. Despite initial misgivings about the man and his outlandish appearance, he has grown to be a well liked figure among the locals. His mask provides an odd familiarity and steadiness to it, that everyday he’s still there helping to look after the place.

Few bother to ask him about his past anymore, knowing that whatever answer he does give will be vague and contradictory, though some persistent kids still hope one day he’ll tell them the full truth. Infact now the question he gets asked more than any other is “When are you gonna settle down? Stop being a guard?” He’s yet to give an answer.

Still the old guard continues to patrol, doing whatever he can to stay in shape and protect the people of the Fero Province. Now he has heard the news of the beast and against all common sense saying otherwise has gone off to slay the creature, hoping that he can help those doing the same task to stay alive.

MOTIVATION: To slay the beast and protect the others doing the same.

GEAR:
An old + battered copper mask he never takes off
A fading guards uniform
Worn leather armour
A small buckler shield he attaches to his back
A short arming sword he carries by his waist