For simplicity's sake, we're doing 3 types of coinage. Royals (Gold), Lordlings (Silver), and Commons (Copper). They each measure 20 of the previous coinage. 20 Lordlings makes a Royal and 20 Commons makes a Lordling. You will roll for your currency. You will roll a D10 for Royals, D20 for Lordlings, and D100 for Commons.

Rannic is honorable and blunt, though he has a streak of free spirit from having been separated from his home for the last four years. Though he can be a bit gruff, he's earnest enough and tends to keep his word. As with most Thaegars, you'll find him a terrible enemy or a loyal friend given enough time to make his aquaintence. He values nothing more than to be implemented back into Thaegar society, though he's become comfortable with his lot in life. Gold and glory are fine companions for the young man, but it will take more than that for him to forget his father's word or his oath to his the thane.

3 Royals, 7 Lordlings, 20 Commons

Drimgoth, Northern Tongue

Tall lithe and Blonde with eyes of striking blue, Kyra is the very picture of a highborn elf maiden. Her sorceress powers lead her to neglect her physique somewhat so she isn't as well muscled as many of her kindred. Though her features are elegant she lacks the sharp edges which give some elves a haughty and ethereal beauty

7 Royals
17 Lordlings
21 Commons

Sylvaine is 160cm tall, with a wiry, athletic build. Her shoulderlength hair is a rare jet black, her eyes emerald green; features that raised more than a few brows during her upbringing. Her skin has marks of combat on it, nicks and scars that Sylvaine does her best to hide. She typically wears comfortable, durable clothes of wool and leather, and is seldom seen without a sword on her hip.

Sylvaine has that somewhat deadly mix of absolute charm and severe narcisism that tends to make people misjudge and underestimate her in social interactions. Her warm and inviting veneer can change to indifferent ruthlessness in an instant, and very few ever see it coming. Her greed and lust (especially for power, but pleasure will mostly do) knows no bounds. She is an unpredictable friend at best, and a twitchy snake of an enemy at worst.

1 Royal, 3 Lordlings, 15 Commons

Vrettonian, Dre Costan, Northern

For the most part Wēlanandaz bears the appearance of a friendly, yet mischievous, old grandfather or uncle... if somewhat shorter than those of other races.

His hair, grown impressive in length and kept neat and tidy with comb and time, matches his equally awe-inspiring beard in the sheer white of its colour and fullness of volume – a part of his 'look' that is as important to him as the dourness and granite-like elements of his personality.

Beneath the snow-coloured follicles is a broad face of blue eyes, glittering with roguery as much as the wisdom expected from one of his extended years, leathery flesh grown into such by decades and centuries at the forge – travelling when necessary under mountains and into dales, over seas and beyond tundras – marked by wrinkles and other signs that Humans would see on the older members of their race.

In body he is as broad and stout as the most well-built human, his arms like the trunks of an especially hardy tree attached to a torso as square and firm as the mountain rock from which he hails, legs like piston-powered pillars able to drive him through water, snow and mud as assuredly as the sun will rise.

Unlike those Dwarves known as warriors, all plate metal and whirling blades, his occupation as a smith has made it essential that he is able to move and shift freely. To this end he prefers hardened or stiffened leather, but generally chooses to wear a hauberk of mail over a gambeson if conflict is on the horizon, his ancestral helmet taken everywhere... as is his pipe and a supply of leaf, and the most basic tools of his lifelong vocation.

Capable of using most melee weapons with some competence due to his age and profession, he girds himself with a wickedly sharp axe, capable of being wielded with one or both hands when required, and a stout shield marked with the runic symbols and representations of his craggy Thudrim and ancestral line.

Wēlanandaz is old and experienced enough to bring with him an air of semi-arrogance that only those of his age and position can, probably seeming cocky and patronising when not staring into flames or nothingness with typical Dwarvish reticence, the one 'problem' being that he can usually back up with action whatever he claims or boasts with words.

That being said, he is even more reserved about his past and deeds than a Dwarf commonly is, more stone-like than others of his folk, something hanging over him that prevents him from ever truly being happy or joyous as he may – he does not speak of such things to anyone.

All-in-all he exemplifies in personality all that non-Dwarves believe from their outside viewings, an aged being seemingly carved from the very rock of the Earth, or by Runars divine hand, ostensibly robust enough to weather and endure seasons, battles and suffering as stolidly as a lighthouse in a thunderous sea and with as little change.

One thing that does become his delight is, of course, the art of the craftsman – and of working metal in particular – Wēlanandaz known by his own folk as a compulsive artisan, journeyman and tinkerer, 'magical' with a forge, an anvil, and a hammer so they say!

3 Royals, 11 Lordlings and 13 Commons

Northern, Drimgoth, and the Dwarven tongue

Torsten is a lean, wiry man who stands just under six feet at 5’ 11 ¾” (182 cm). The Norgardian raider’s features have always been somewhat dark or sullen. He is the type of person to stay to himself, seemingly lost in thought. Torsten is attracted to women who feel the need to fix a man because the lonesome huntsman appears to be in need of repair. He doesn’t, but she would feel the need to fix him. He is not unattractive. His armor is made up of bits of leather or studded leather with a lamellar brigandine formed of small steel plates covered in leather. His armor is often covered by furs and a grey cloak. Torsten does not look like an imposing figure, but his agility and quickness on his feet make him a deadly match one on one.

Torsten was often considered a recluse by those who knew him. His seemingly quiet demeanor, when provoked leads towards outbursts of anger. Although, he is not the type to strike with a powerful fist, he can turn a fight to his advantage quickly and bring a larger man down with rapid successive blows to vital body parts. For the most part he is cool and collected. Insulting his Northern heritage or betraying his trust will get the hackles up for him. Then you know you are in trouble.

Torsten was raised near the coast living off the bounty of the sea. While most men in the village trawled the sea in search of their catch, his father along with a small group of others, hunted the forests for stags and other game to eat. From an early age, Torsten learned to track animals as well as men. His father taught him to read signs on the ground as well as snif the air and listen for clues as what was going on around him; where his prey was waiting, feeding, ready to die.

As a young man, Torsten was compelled to leave the village on a quest of manhood. It was the right, nay obligation of every male to suffer trials towards becoming a man. Armed only with a small blade, a dagger, Torsten was cast from the village until he completed his trials. Only he would know when the trials were complete and then he could return to his home. He went into the mountains during the first snow of the season. An old hunting cabin, badly in need of repair atop a wind swept hill. He made this hovel his home during his trials.

The pangs of hunger took him first, forcing him to hunt. He fashioned a bow out of hickory and hemp. He shaped the wood with his dagger, making notches at both ends for the string, manufactured out of dried hemp. It was strong and could withstand the pull of the bow. Satisfied with the pull of his bow, he manufactured arrows out of the same hickory with eagle feathers to guide them. He crafted at least a few dozen to use on his prey.

The first night in the woods, he did not eat. He spent that day preparing his home and his tools. He was hungry. The sensation gnawed on him. He would eat the next day…or be eaten.

The forest now covered in snow, he tracked a heavy stag. He could tell its weight, by the depths of the footprints. He knew he was close, but was he alone? A howling wolf answered his question. There were definitely other predators in forest. The pack moved in close. They did not want this intruder to steal their meal. They circled him baring their teeth, snarling and growling. A few yaps and barks. Torsten kept his eyes on the pack--five wolves, four of whom were grey.

With an arrow notched, he loosed one at the largest; possibly the alpha who whined loudly with a yalp and dropped back a few yards. The one to his left charged Torsten who had no time to notch another arrow. He dropped the bow, took a few steps back, steeling himself for the beast to leap. The beast hurled himself forward off his strong haunches, teeth bared ready to kill. The dog impaled himself on Torsten’s unsheathed knife. He used his left hand to keep the dog from biting his face.

A third and fourth wolf charged at him as he backed up to a standing position. He swung his small blade at the two wolves who hesitated, rather than attack. They took a second thought running off into the trees along with the fifth, an albino with red eyes, who chose only to stand and watch the events unfold. It was as though she was gathering intelligence on a potential enemy. She obviously felt respect was warranted with this hunter.

By the springtime, Torsten returned to his village a man, wearing pelts he took from beasts. His first beard covered his chin and face, eventually to be shaven off. His trials were successfully completed, and he was welcomed back into the village. The villagers feasted his accomplishment and then returned to their work after a week of revelry.

Eventually, Torsten Meier chose it was best for him to leave the small fishing village. His personal quest was seeking wealth and adventure ever since. That was five years ago.

To continue his quest for adventure and wealth. His private greed and quest for something he felt missing in his soul drove him. If the task is worth it, he will accept an employment offer.

3 Royals (Gold)
5 Lordlings (Silver)
79 Commons (Copper)

Northern & Grim Northern

Cillian does not stand out from the countless travellers on the road. He does not boast the powerful bulk of the warrior, or the lithe silhouette of the rogue, but he still stands at a decent height of around six foot, and beneath his clothing, his frame is one of wiry muscle, marked with dozens of scars and painted with the traditional woad tattoos of his people. His hair is pale, a rare sight among those who hail from the Caelic Isles, and he wears it long and braided, along with a short and unruly beard. His clothing is simple but durable, and he is rarely found without his carefully crafted mail armour, forged by his father's own hand. The spear and shield, often slung across his back, and the dagger on his belt, are also from his father's forge, and along with his armour, they are his last ties to his home, and his family. It is Cillian's eyes that are his most striking feature, a pale but fiercely intense blue that light up with an almost ethereal fire whenever he has a story on his lips, or a foe before him.

Cillian has spent years rubbing shoulders with paupers and kings, and this has left him with an easy charm. Coupled with the natural warmth and kinship of those hardy folk that carve out a life the Caelic Isles, Cillian is a friendly figure, although anyone who spends too long in the man's company will realise that there is something a little... unhinged about the wanderer. Perhaps it true that fey blood runs through his veins, or perhaps Cillian has simply spent too long dreaming of mythic creatures and fantastical legends, but despite the welcoming nature of the man, he is clearly not all there. Perhaps it is this that fuels his wandering, and sees him rarely spent too long in place, or with one group. Despite this, he is an earnest companion, an honourable warrior, and a talented entertainer.

(Will be filled over time)

Cillian was born into a simple village, clinging to a windswept rocky island that juts from the stormy waters of the Shrouded Sea. The second son of the village's blacksmith, Cillian had as comfortable a childhood as can be expected from the people that cling to the Caelic Isles, but that is not to say that his upbringing was uneventful. To survive on the islands, people grow up tough, and they grow up fast. Norgardian raids were common, and as soon as Cillian was old enough to stand, he had a spear thrust into his hands, and taught how to use it. It was to Cillian's older brother, Ronan, that the trade of smithing was passed down, and while his brother worked over the forge under his father's watchful eye, Cillian was drawn more to his mother.

The women of Cillian's village were as hardy as the men, just as likely to take up a weapon and defend her homestead as the men, and Cillian's mother was no exception. And yet it was in the flickering firelight of the night, as the clan pulled close together in the chieftain's hall, against the darkness and the chill, that Cillian's mother was in her element. It is the druids that tie the Caelic Isles to their gods, but it is the storytellers and bards that tie them to their myths, and their legends, and their history. Cillian's mother was one of those storytellers, and Cillian hung on her every word.

All of the village's children enjoyed her stories, gripped by the tales of great beasts and courageous heroes, but for Cillian, it was something different. He had an almost insatiable hunger for these legends, and when he heard them, his eyes lit up, and he felt truly alive, as if he could see these fantastical creatures in the room before him, even as his mother spoke. Whenever other clans visited the village, for trade or to keep relations friendly with their neighbours, Cillian begged them to share their own tales, and when they relented, he drank them in greedily.

Cillian wanders the world, bringing the songs and legends of his people to anyone who has coin to spare, but he has long held ambitions of experiencing a legend of his own, and that ambition has drawn him to the dark depths of the Blackwood...

5 Royals, 12 Lordlings and 28 Commons

Caelic, Northern Tongue

Of average height and build, with a distinctly gaunt face, dark eyes, and black hair turning gray. Usually wears a dark, travel-stained cloak over his armor.

Quiet, unflappable, and calculating, with a sardonic sense of humor. While he makes a somewhat grim first impression, Vanhel is not without a certain charm and mixes easily with low- and high-born alike.

8 Royals
3 Lordlings
96 Commons

Grim Northern, Northern, Praelian

Skin darkened by the sun and with a natural tan from his Dre Costa ancestry are immediately obvious when looking over the man. Black hair is kept managed and cut above or tied above his shoulders to keep it proper and controlled. Rich Hazel Eyes stand out surprisingly beside a strongly defined nose.

He has some strength to his body but not that of the standard day worker, as loading and unloading is only occasional to his travels. Enough to keep fit but not especially athletic. More importantly to him is his fine black dress clothes for when he's about town, sleeves puffed slightly and tailored to his form. Otherwise he tends towards simpler traveling clothes so as to save on costs and not immediately display wealth to unkindly onlookers.

Emilio is boisterous and cordial to an almost obnoxious degree when meeting him. Aiming to please and get into people's good graces quickly. Its a learned but almost impossible to stop behavior as it leaks into his casual conversations. Both a benefit and off putting given the state of the world and the places he visits at times. He can be serious when it comes to things but he tries to use good spirits to catch people's attention.

4 royals, 2 lordlings, 85 commons

Dre Costan, Northern, Elvish

Dyla stands proud and imposing at 3 feet and 8 inches- tall, by Burrowfolk standards. She's also young by their standards. Her brown, curly hair and brown, warm eyes don't do much to change that impression.

Like most Burrowfolk, Dyla is inclined towards comforts, kindnesses and curiosity. That last trait, however, is a bit stronger in her than in your average, socially-accepted Burrowfolk. She's not just curious, but aggressively curious. She asks too many questions, and wants to know too much about everyone she meets. It's a bit aggravating, but a good instinct for a trader to have.

Of course, traders are supposed to be greedy too, and Dyla might have a bit of greed in her. She can be cunning, maybe even manipulative- in her own friendly, Burrowfolk way. Once you see past the height and the odd habits, Dyla is far more ambitious than you'd expect. She even has a sense of adventure.

Northern

As a Burrowhob, Dyla has the ability to turn invisible for a short period of time

Arden is a young man who so far has been spared from any imperfections inflicted upon him by the hardships of life. His skin is smooth and devoid of scars or similar things, his eyes crystal clear and slightly striking with their green color. He does not put much maintenance effort into his bronze-colored jungle of hair obviously: As long as it doesn't stick to his skin because of dirt and, as an added bonus, doesn't get into the way of his eyesight that exceedingly often he lets it grow with pleasure. The same can't be said about his beard though as it is strictly confined to the region about his chin and rather unusual for someone with elven blood in the first place. Aside from that it's worth mentioning that even by Skayleigh standards he's on the quite giant side of things and that his overall build is not as lithe as one might expect from someone of his kind. It almost seems as if something is a little messed up with his bloodline...

In his very core Arden very much fulfills at least some of the expectations his Skayleigh blood is associated with: As long as there's food and liquor left he'll eat and drink in order to fill his stomach and, unlike many of the other races, he'd have to provoked very badly in order to even consider hurting one of his own kind. The same doesn't hold true for other kinds of people though: There are things in his past which made him develop a bit of distrust in general, but for humans in particular. He does not want to allow anyone to play tricks on him again and if violence is necessary to prevent that from happening, so be it.

While he shrouds his past and firmly rebuffs anyone who is trying to dig too deep for his comfort, Arden's not the kind of guy for cover stories or holding anything back otherwise. He likes the straightforward approach and it's needless to say that this only helps to drag him into arguments frequently. He has a tendency to be stubborn and to fight very much for his own opinion, but doesn't take it to the level dwarves tend to exhibit.

Maybe even a bit ironically his own situation has also helped to make him more sociable in other aspects: The urge to help others whom he thinks might be in desperate situations has only become more difficult to resist.

Oriel was an Andredian woman of noble descent whose family, like many of their kind, had gained hold of a notable patch of land on one the southern isles where she could live in wealth and relative peace. Coin and material had never been a problem for her and that had not changed during the transition from Andred as well, but her husband's health had not taken the long journey accross the sea with similar ease. He had broken his leg when slipping below decks in a storm and it never healed well using on-board methods. Whether the subsequent developments can be solely tracked back to this circumstance or if some other kind of frustration was involved as well is up to debate, but not only did he arrive partially crippled, but became a more and more heavy drinker. An increasing hazard to Oriel's relaxed way of life so far and, maybe even more importantly, to her reputation. She could only keep whitewashing and not telling certain things in her letters back home for so long until somebody would find out the true extent of what was going on behind the nice and thick walls of her remote home. Maybe someone would even find her husband completely drunk on the open street and know whom he 'belonged' to.

It was a scandal waiting to happen and other nobilities would feast upon it with pleasure and make a mock out of her -- or at least so she thought and started weighing alternative options to maintaining the strategy of hiding. Of course, given her societal standing, she had some idea about Andredian law, what people would consider to be befitting to her rank and how complicated both of these things were. Aiming for a proper divorce might have been the standard action, but it would have made things public even more quickly and cost her a fair amount of coin and property right away. More importantly however it would not have solved the main problem of getting an increasinly aggressive and unpleasant husband out of her life for sure. So Oriel decided to use the window of opportunity while it was still there. She looked at her once dearly-loved again and decided that he had not much of a ruined life left to lose, so she handed it over into the hands of professional disposal. It would leave the world with the mystery of the killer and the motive, but she would be the only one left truly knowing what kind of an unbearable man he had become and thus save her from a lot of problems and humiliation.

The hired assassin never told his name, but he came in the form of a quite impressive looking local from the Caelic isles: A Skayleigh whose primary line of work was finding unconventional solutions for unconventional customers. A drunkard was an easy target for any good archer, but that was not the only thing the man did. She, with certain desires that her former husband had been unable to fulfill properly for long and an attractive woman still, could not hold back and managed to seduce him in their second and last clandestine meeting. It was somewhat against a loner by profession's usual demeanor, but what bad thing should come out of it ? They both believed this way when he left.

Reality told Oriel a lesson a few months later when her belly started to grow. She ultimately gave birth to a triple-breed of man, elf and giant. How would nature think about this infernal concoction ? Would the child be able to grow up nicely or struggle for the entirity of its life ? And then there was the simple fact that she felt of having no way of calling back its father out of anonymity while she would have to explain how she had been able to become pregnant while not even having any official partner anymore. It dawned upon her that in the same night one of her biggest problems had ceased to exist she had accidentally laid the foundations for a new one. Arranging for her husband's death was something she had been able to justify to herself given the circumstances, but killing a newborn child was an entirely different matter she simply could not commit to. A different solution had to be found.

Arden, so the child's given and more Andredian-like name for the lack of knowledge about Skayleigh customs, was handed over to Oriel's most trusted servant and her family as sort of an adoption. Enough money was paid to keep everybody's mouth hopefully shut and the servant agreed, knowing that otherwise she might fall back into poverty. Arden was to grow up with the story of his father having died even before his birth and the servant being his mother. The solution kinda worked, at least considering that Arden grew up halfway happily and that Oriel had effectively outsourced a major issue. She visited him from time to time, but always pretending to be a friend and not telling the truth.

Nothing could prepare things for the sheer power of randomness though. A couple of years later on the assassin Oriel had once hired showed up again in town on his way through. At this point Arden already was in his early youth and sticking out of the crowd a bit. Just how many young Skayleigh happened to roam around in an Andred town who also had an eerie similarity to oneself ? The assassin was intrigued and stayed, only to finally remember that night a decade ago and to suspect what might have truly happened. Infuriated, he dragged the boy back to Oriel's residence and demanded answers. What followed was a less than fruitful argument about the chances of calling back a man without a name from the criminal underground in order to tell him he had just got a child, just how little courage one could posess in order not to just tell the truth to a newborn and more.

Oriel called for her guards and, confronted with an overwhelming force surrounding both of them, Arden and his father were captured. The noblewoman claimed that the two had intruded her home with the intent to attack her. Blood had been boiling indeed, but the extent of these accusations was a lie designed to get both of them out of the way before they'd tell anyone else and cause more trouble. Whether or not this story would have survived the scrutiny of Andredian jurisdiction never became relevant though, at least for Arden: The trial was to take place in Andred main territory, but as the transport became bogged down in The Blackwood the two men made an attempt to escape. Arden succeeded, but his father took the brunt of the fight and was killed in the process.

Other people might call his way of arriving in The Blackwood as 'becoming stranded', but he finds the place even preferable to many others: Many ways to hide just in case someone would still care searching for him, many opportunities to try and improve one's so far limited skills and all of that without anyone governing him who might just betray him again. He is eager to return to a certain someone and make her pay for all that she has done, but he also knows that there's a lot to learn for him first and this is the place to do it. The decision might have been a different one if he knew that he still has family.

Aeryn takes from her Elvish heritage with her height, standing tall and lean at 6’0”, as too with her hair which falls like moonlight to the middle of her back. The woman might be considered as being attractive if only she were to stop wearing a scowl, if only she would take better care of herself. She is thin, and her joints jut out in sharp and uncomfortable angles. Despite this, she is still made of powerful corded muscle that helps her to scale, to sneak, and to escape with ease.

Her grey eyes are as intense as her personality and carry little else but rage in their wake. Whether that is the rage that burns hot enough to tear down a building, or the slow and chilling rage that poisons a person from the inside… Her smile is a rare, but beautiful thing that is usually brought on by a moment of peace. As her moniker would suggest, she is the Nightstalker - and thus she dresses as she dreams to be; in the dark and hallowed colours of the night.

A half-breed cannot live a life of peace. A half-breed never fits in. A half-breed has to prove their existence. These are facts that have shaped Aeryn’s life, and have always proven true. She now lives in a world above ground - where her tongue is not sharp, her wit is not wanted, and her knowledge is fleeting. She lives in a world that doesn’t want her.

Her emotions are intense, and she can not control them - they control her. She is prone to fits of anger from confusion, loneliness, and destructive rage in frustration at her inability to fit in.

She is not without redeeming qualities, however. She can be fiercely loyal and protective when it counts, and she has a big heart for vulnerable members of society, and an especially large soft spot for orphans. She despises injustice and violence even if she gets involved in it so often. Aeryn is a woman lost without a true mentor or someone to guide her. Her path is headed in a destructive direction and she knows it. She fears that she is powerless to stop it, but seems determined to cause as much chaos on her way to the bottom anyway.

13 Commons

Fluent Dorcha, very basic common tongue