Greetings, you f*cking weirdos who actually go through this forum and read people's old character sheets.
I finally decided to make a centralised location to store all my old sheets. Who knows, maybe I'll go grubbing through my old hard drive at some point and dredge up all my Oldguild sheets. Anyway...
Y'know Redgraves have been in Westcliffe almost as long as the DeWinters, but no one gives a shit cos we're poor now.
Name: Elijah 'Eli' Redgrave
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Sexual Orientation: He's not really figured that out yet.
Character Role: Tragic Backstory
Personality: The public persona of Eli Redgrave is that of the mischievous wayward youth. In the single class that makes up the town's school he has reputation as being both a slacker and a joker. When he can be bothered to attend his classes, Eli has a proclivity towards playing practical jokes and readily shows off his wry and sarcastic brand of humour. Despite being something of a class clown, he is by no means stupid, far from it in fact. His teachers think he would have excellent grades if he were only to apply himself.
His carelessness manifests itself in his appearance too. His dark hair is a messy, unkempt mop that seldom sees a brush or comb. His plaid cotton shirts are often torn and his stonewashed jeans are faded. He often bears scratches on his face and bruises on his arms from spending time messing around in woods out by the old town dump. There's an old rusted out campervan there that Eli has turned into a sort of den. Eli spends a lot of time there, either by himself or with his close knit group of friends. He is generally a sociable person, preferring to hang out with friends than to spend time at home. In fact he tries to spend as little time at home as possible.
But there's a darkness that hangs over Eli. A kind of solitary loneliness that marks him out from many of his peers. He doesn't like to speak of it, he doesn't like to even acknowledge it, but its there. Everyone in the town knows his history, knows what happened to his family. Bad things happen to Redgraves, and no one would be surprised if something bad happened Eli. Least of all himself.
History: The Redgraves are one of the old families of Westcliffe, recently fallen on much harder times. They settled in the area not long after the DeWinters and were originally land owning gentlemen farmers of a sort. Originally the two families were very close to one another, with the two of the intermarrying several times over the course of the 19th century. However, this was not to last.
The Redgraves and the DeWinters had something of a very public falling out in the 1890s in what would come to be known locally as the Westcliffe Silver Wars. It started when the Redgraves became interested in mineral prospecting around the town. They surreptitiously sought to buy out local landowners with the intent to open a silver mine and turn Westcliffe into a mining rush town like Leadville or Cripple Creek. Many of Westcliffe's residents were violently opposed to the idea, chief amongst them the DeWinters.
During the development of the mine there was numerous violent classes and even a few murders between the DeWinter and Redgrave clans and their associated supporters. For a while it seemed like the Redgraves won when silver started to come up out of the mine and they had the money to hire guns and guards. They quickly used their newfound wealth to build themselves a large manor house overlooking the town, which was deliberately made to he larger and more grandiose than that of the DeWinters.
But it was the DeWinters who had the last laugh. A series of mysterious accidents plagued the mineworks, including a tunnel collapse that killed many of the workers. When the damage was repaired and shafts sunk once more at considerable cost to the Redgraves, the seam was found to suddenly and inexplicably end. It ruined the Redgrave family. The cost of the rebuilding the mines and constructing their lavish home had largely be financed through credit and they lost everything to the bank in coming years. The palatial manor overlooking Westcliffe went derelict and was burned to ground by vandals just after the turn of the century.
But the Redgraves stayed in Westcliffe, a few of them can be found living down in the town itself, but Eli's family are what is left of the main branch, living in an old dilapidated colonial farmhouse on a corner of what had once been the vast Redgrave estate. Back when his grandparents were alive, it was still a working farm, but by the time Eli was born most of the remaining land had been sold off other than a few acres of stony scrub pasture and tangled woodland.
His father had worked as a mechanic, using the old barn as his workshop, his mother a home maker. He and his older brother, Alex, grew up poor, but happy enough. As a child Eli had never noticed the bitterness, the resentment, which still characterised much of his father's family's feelings about Westcliffe and the DeWinters. It went straight over his head. The town was Eli's world, and he had everything he needed there, everything a curious and outdoor loving child could wish for.
His own feelings towards Westcliffe would become more complicated following the deaths of both his parents.
Eli was around eleven when it happened, on the night of the Halloween festival. His parents had been driving over the mountain, they had gone to see a lawyer in the next town over, and were returning for the festival. There had been something wrong with the breaks on his father's truck and it had gone crashing through a guard rail on one of the switchback turns. The car had plummeted into the ravine below, and was only by the police next morning when the Redgrave children reported their parents missing.
They told Eli and Alex it had been quick, they had both died instantly.
After that their uncle came to live with them, but he was away a lot, so it mostly Alex looking after Eli. Alex was only two years older than him, but Eli came to rely on his older brother a lot in those first few years after the death of their parents. Later he wondered if he had relied on him too much. It couldn't have been easy on both of them, living in the same house, with all those ghosts. And then there were all the rumours and whispers about the curse.
The townspeople said it was the curse of the DeWinters, a magical spell punishing their old enemies once again. When their uncle was around and not passed out drunk he told them the same. Sometimes Eli felt it when he went into Westcliffe, everyone looking at him, everyone whispering behind his back: 'Watch out there goes one of those cursed Redgrave boys, don't get too close in case it rubs off on you too.' He wondered now that he was older, what it had been like for Alex?
Had it been worse somehow?
Alex disappeared when Eli turned fourteen. The police said he was a runaway, their uncle didn't really care what had happened to him. And then Eli learned how to live on his own. It was about this time that he started to act out more, skip school and get in some minor trouble in town. Eli wants to leave Westcliffe now, when he's old enough. He wants to find his brother. He hopes that Alex did leave and he's living a better life somewhere out there, but he's not too sure.
Why is that?
Alex disappeared on the night of the Halloween Festival.
King of Morganyth, Lord of all Fomori, Nemesis of Eorzia
Appearance
King Ozragad appears almost as formidable as his reputation would suggest. He is taller than most men, easily standing over six feet in height, and carries himself with an air of strength. His face his angular, almost gaunt, with a proud straight nose and a prominent chin. It is framed by his long black hair, threaded now with faint strands of grey. Like the rest of his Fomori kin, Ozragad bears the ashen complexion and pointed ears of his kind. But by far, the most notable thing about his face are his eyes: orange-gold irises like pools of firelight cut in twain by slit pupils. Beneath his furrowed brow they smoulder fiercely, their gaze intent, their owner inscrutable.
Outside of the palace Ozragad most often wears his armour, it is surprisingly plain for that of a king, lacking filigree or ornamental fancies. When not in armour he favours darker colours, black or maroon, and simple garb. The circlet he wears during occasions of state is yellow gold, set with beads of jet and garnets. A sword is most often at his side.
Personality
To the people of Eorzia, King Ozragad is the source of great terror. Known as the Nemesis, the Defiler, the Accursed, (amongst other less savoury monikers) he is considered a cruel tyrant responsible for the woes of the Kingdom. But those who faced him on the battlefield or have studied his life emphasise different traits - Ozragad's cunning and bravery. For decades the Kingdom of Morganyth has held its own against Eorzia largely because of the military and strategic genius of its leader, who has won countless battles against larger armies, and always commands from the front lines. His own soldiers are known to be as fanatically loyal to him as Eorzia's are fanatically opposed to him.
The rare few who have visited Ozragad's court in the hidden city of Cirith Anyr and returned to Eorzia tell tales of a cold place, with few acts of gaiety or revelry. An air of sadness hangs of the place. The King himself has shown dislike for residing at his own seat, and even when not on campaign, prefers to throw himself into the management of his realm by touring its provinces personally.
History
King Ozragad's history is inevitability tied up in the century of war between Eorzia and Morganyth. He came to the throne at an unusually young age for a Formori, not yet having seen his first century. The early years of his reign were quiet, the Formori of Morganyth had always kept to themselves in the years before the war, and at first that did not change with Ozragad. Then without warning, over twenty years after he had taken the throne, the King led a host out of the mountains and into Eorzia, claiming it as the ancestral homeland of the Formori people. In what would later become known as his first and most successful campaign, King Ozragad cut his way into the heart of Eorzian territory, culminating in the capture of its capital and the killing of its King.
That winter Ozragad held court in lands that no Formori had ruled in over a thousand years, but come the spring he would driven from the city by King's son and heir. When he realised he could not hold the capital, Ozragad burnt it to the ground.
What followed was a century of bloodshed, as the two Kingdoms traded flesh wounds year after year. Sometimes Ozragad would hold the upper hand and strike deep into Erozia, at other times he would be pressed back into mountains and besieged in his fortified citadels. Kings and Princes of the Hydaelyn dynasty have been slain by his hand, but always another rises in their place to oppose him. After so many years, the war took its toll on both the Kingdoms. Their populations began to deplete, their borderlands all but abandoned because of the continuous fighting.
Then came the peace. The proposal made to him which was expected to be flatly rejected - he accepted. With only one condition, that the dowry paid to the bride by her father be made in land, not gold.
Nadia is an unusual woman. She is of a height with most men, with broad shoulders and arms thick with well used muscle. Across her biceps the skin is patterned with strange little scars and flecks of coloured ink, the tradition markings of the old brigand clans from the rocky interior highlands of Nazair. Her skin is slightly darker than that of most northern folk, and her hair darker still. It hangs a tangled mop of black curls, shorn short on the side of the head and at the nape of the neck. It tumbles down the right side of her face, partially obscuring a long horizontal scar that clips off the tip of that ear.
The face below is also marked by the scars of battle, three smaller slashes, two across the right cheek, and one below the full lips of her mouth along the line of her strong jaw. When she smiles you can see she is missing a tooth, and the one next to it has been cracked making it appear abnormally pointed. Nadia's face would have always been more striking than traditionally beautiful, but these prominent war wounds along with her physicality leaves her something of a ferocious and dangerous air. The eyes set in his dangerous face are not ferocious however, they are cool and grey, that flash with a sly and somewhat amused look to them.
When not in armour she most often dresses practically, eschewing more traditionally female garb in favour of breaches, short tunics, linen shirts, and a leather jerkin. She generally wears non-dyed fabrics, although she does own several articles dyed bright red with Nazairi Cinnabarite.
Personality
Raised with a spear in hand by mountain bandits and spending most of her adult life in armour, Nadia is woman who can drink, spit and swear with the best and boldest of the soldiery. When she wishes to be she is the centre of attention, the loudest, brashest person in the room. Her speech is peppered with japes and swears in foreign tongues. She laughs often and loudly, frequently at her own expense. She answers insults in kind, and with a mocking smile as if to say she's heard it all before. If insults escalate to steel, she hasn't lost yet. She is a bravado, confident in her own skills, and seemingly fearless.
She is, however, no unthinking thug or lout. Nadia engages in boorish behaviours, but her quick wits often shine through either in her clever tongue or her skills in games of chance and probability. She's good with numbers and knows her letters well enough to stumble through reading her own contracts. She also excels in tactical planning, being fond of preparing traps and ambushes when has control of the field of engagement. While she isn't the most book learned or formally educated person, she makes for it with an excellent memory, and a shrewd mind underneath it all.
The only time Nadia really seems to lose her good natured boisterousness is when it comes to Nilfguaard. Her playful fiery nature changes to a cold and hard rage, quite different from her usual persona. Despite being a mercenary by profession, its said she's never claimed a Nilfguaardian ransom, none who cross her path are left alive.
History
Nadia was born in Nazair. Her father was prominent member of a highland clan, one inclined to the twin professions of bandit and brigand, as many of the highland clans were in those days. Nazair, like all the southern kingdoms, raises boys and girls like the elves do: they're taught how to fight, ride a horse, and go hunting as children, regardless of gender. Nadia was no exception. She spent her childhood riding surefooted mountain ponies, hunting with the sling and short bow, and training with the preferred weapon of her people: the wicked Nazairi short spear, perfect for holding narrow mountain passes, or to be thrown from behind a rocky outcrop.
It was not the kindest nor safest of childhoods, but it was a happy one. She idolised her father, strong, brave, and utterly fearless. He was not worried when Nilfguaard marched North and destroyed the ancient capital of Assengard. The highland clans had no love for the low land nobility. Who cared if they were ruled from Assengard or Nilfguaard? They would continue living free, taking from who they wanted, as they had always done.
But it was not to be.
Their new rulers took a dim view of the actions of the clans, stealing from Nilfguaardian soldiers and merchants. The empire pushed up into the highlands like no other kingdom ever had before, burning the villages and hidden camps of the clans, poisoning their wells, sowing their fields with salt. Nadia's father was executed by the empire before she was a woman grown. A few of her people refused to bend their knees, they fled north, taking Nadia and her mother with them.
In Cintra they were refugees, families dead and broken, stripped of the world they knew and the ways they held dear. They had no wealth, no land, and no skills that were valuable here other than violence. So they sold the one thing they could, their spears. Thankfully they had come to right place. Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra as she was called, was always fighting wars and suppressing rebellions. They took gold from the queen and died on her battlefields. Nadia learned to how to steal in Nazair, but she learned how to fight wars in Cintra. As the years wore on what started as a band of exiles held together through common cause began to turn into just another mercenary company, filled with unfamiliar faces and hard bitten killers.
Nadia and some of others from the clans tried to keep their culture alive. She tried to live like her father. But it seemed like destiny was doomed to repeat itself when she finally faced Nilfguaard again at the battle of Marnadal three years ago. Cintra routed, Queen Calanthe wounded, Eist Tuirseach dead. The battlefield claimed the lives of most of those who had remembered the the ways of their people, the company was finished. Nadia herself took the scar across her ear that day, and deeper scars as well.
She went North again, to Temeria. When she could fight again Nadia went with King Foltest to Sodden Hill, but they arrived so late most of the killing had already been done. When the King offered the chance to go south, into Nilfguaard, almost to the lands her people once held - Nadia jumped at the chance.
Skills
Spear and Shield Fighting
One Handed Swordsmanship
Horse Riding and Grooming
Raconteuring and Carousing
Skirmisher Tactics
Arithmetic
Games of Chance
Specialty: Nadia's speciality is her role as a lightly armoured skirmisher. Her preferred fighting style is on foot with spear and shield.
Equipment
Weapons: Nadia carries several weapons on her person when going into battle. Primarily she uses a six foot long light spear tipped with a diamond shaped head of iron that can be thrust with or thrown. If possible she will bring multiple spears with her. At her side is a simple one handed arming sword and a utilitarian broad bladed dagger. These act as side arms in case of the loss of her spear. In her off hand she carries a round, concave, iron plated, wooden shield.
Armor: Nadia swears relatively light armour that emphasises utility and mobility over protection. She wears grey and brown brigantine plate over an arming jacket. Pauldrons and vambraces of lobstered steel protect her shoulders and forearms. On her head, Nadia wears an open faced steel sallet.
Appearance Description: Karlus the Half-Mage is a small, thin, waif-like man. He has not seen his thirtieth year, but bears many of the hallmarks of a much older man. His pale face seems unduly worn, his swept back hair is brittle and prematurely white. Deep bags hang beneath his strangely luminous green eyes and this, along with his general air of weariness, confirms that Karlus sleeps little each night. The features upon this gaunt and drawn face are fine and effeminate, and could be considered handsome in another life. Handsome that is were it not for a hideous scar that mars the right side of his face.
Day To Day Attire: He dresses in faded black leathers beneath which the clink of mail can be heard, covered by a grey hooded great cloak clasped with a silver ring pin. From Karlus's sword belt hangs more silver, a silver-hilted short sword, its pommel set with a green cats eye stone. It seems to glow unnaturally in darkness. His left arm is bound and bandaged beneath his cloak.
Strengths:
Knowledgeable in many academic subjects, particularly those related to the arcane.
Relatively powerful mage.
Skilled in countering other magical users.
Weaknesses:
Emotionally unstable and subject to periods of mania and depression.
Suffers from a sickly constitution and often physically unwell.
Personality: Karlus is a person who often comes across cold and reserved when first met, not in a cruel or uncaring way, but as if separated from all others around him by an immense unseen chasm. Distant is probably the lasting impression that he leaves on acquaintances. He has a habit of gazing off into the middle distance, almost as if he’s looking right though someone to something beyond. Normally he’s quiet, in particular about himself and his history, and when pressed upon a subject he does not want to discuss will be highly evasive. Despite this its easy to see that he someone of considerable learning and intelligence by the cerebral nature of his conversation. If Karlus were to smile it would normally be a sad one, his laughs are harsh and a little unhinged. He sleeps little, haunted by nightmares that make him wake in fits of terrible screams.
There is some hint madness in him as well, one that manifests in periods of energetic mania followed by deep and dark depressions. During his mania he will often rant and rave on the nature and theory of magic to anyone who will listen to him, and is prolific in the creation of treatise, papers, plans and schemes. During his inward periods he becomes even more uncommunicative, scarcely eating or sleeping, burying himself in his books and maintaining absolute solitude.
Habits:
Scratching at the scar on the side of his face or at his bandaged arm.
Plays with fire when bored, passing a single flame from finger tip to finger tip.
Staring out into the middle distance for extended periods of time.
When nervous paces and moves incessantly.
Fitful sleeper.
Hobbies:
Amateur antiquarian/historian.
Calligraphy
Fears:
Tightly enclosed spaces or being restrained.
His mentor.
Muting.
Likes:
Learning new things.
Shadows/night time.
Children and animals.
Personal Space.
Hot baths.
Good wine.
Dislikes:
Being touched.
Sleeping.
College trained mages.
Vulnerability.
Telling the truth.
The muted.
Skills
Arcana: The knowledge of all things related to magic and its practice.
History: The knowledge of the past ages.
Perception: The ability to keep watch and notice things.
Short-blade: The use of daggers and short swords.
Multi-lingual: Languages include Common, Old Speak, Elven and Old Elven.
Keen memory: The ability to recall details and information with ease.
Magic
Ruination focus with an emphasis on fire magic and rending.
Spell list:
Produce Flame - a gout of flame created in the palm, can be thrown offensively.
Burning Hands - a large burst of flame in a cone like projection.
Hold Person - using rending magic to prevent a person from moving.
Telekinesis - using rending magic to move, manipulate and levitate small objects.
Possessions
Possessions Generally On Person:
Dagger: A short utilitarian knife.
Waterskin: A flask for containing water or another liquid.
Coin-purse: A pouch containing money and valuables.
Good Boots: A pair of unusually nice and expensive boots.
Journal: A leather bound journal tucked into a pocket of Karlus's cloak.
A pocket mirror: To check and maintain appearance.
Armor:
Chain-shirt: A shirt of chain mail.
Leather Jerkin: A black leather sleeveless jacket.
Pack Contents:
Bedroll: A bedroll for sleeping rough.
Walking stave: A staff for walking extended distances.
Books and scrolls: Mostly relating to arcane matters
Ink, paper, quill: Used for writing
Rations: Food for one or two days.
Ritual Components: Chalk, incense, crow feathers etc.
Fresh Bandages: For changing the covering on his left arm.
Magical Items:
Green Flame Blade: The silver hilted short sword at Karlus's hip. The blade burns with green fire when activated.
Alchemical Potion: A thick creamy white potion in a small glass vial.
Alchemical Potion: A clear potion with a slight yellow tint in a small glass vial.
History
History: A mage-blade known as Karl the Flame arrived in Carthus from the lands of Penault around five years ago. He said he was trained in the arts of ruination by the Elves of that land. He quickly found employment as a bodyguard and adviser to various small time crime bosses and underworld figures who valued the protection against magical threats a pet mage provides. There are many inconsistencies in the story he presents as his past, why would a man from Penault speak in with an Astorian accent? Why would an elf trained mage leave to work in the much more oppressive environs of Carthus?
But stranger still are whispers that the Karl conceals that brands of the muted... yet still somehow practices magic. And then there are the other whispers, those of the college mages that disappear or are found dead in gutters wherever the Karl the Flame goes.
Magic: As well as being a user of ruination magic through an adjuration pact, Karlus is also a practitioner of Apparition magic.
Expanded Spell List:
Minor Illusion
Disguise Self
Darkness
Invisibility
Expanded History: Karlus the Half-Mage was not always Karl the Flame, before that he was Karlus Marsh. Karlus Marsh was born in southern Astoria to peasant family. He remembers them little as he his talent for weaving light and shadow into illusions manifested itself when he was only a young child. He was taken to Cambridge and the college there to be educated as a college trained magician, a responsible servant to the crown and people of Astoria.
As he grew older he grew to hate the gilded cage of his existence. He grew to disdain the path that was set out for him, forced to weave only illusions for the rest of his life because of a decision made for him as a child. He grew even more to the wise fools who believed this was the best way to control their own kind. Those who should rail against the injustice that was done to those of the craft, but instead became the enforcers of that very system. They revelled in their perfection of their discipline and rigour, praised the tightness of the shackles with which they bound themselves. Those who took pleasure from cruelty were rewarded in the college.
He would undo it, bring it down. But in order to do that one needed power. Real power, not simply illusions and tricks.
But how does an Apparitionist acquire such power under the eagle eyed regime of the masters of the college? Adjuration. The art of reaching beyond the veil to bargain for power beyond one's own abilities. Something that could be pursued by all members of the college if they showed aptitude. Most would seek patronage to enhance their prowess within their focus, but what if one sought other powers instead? What if one used their bargain to gain mastery over more than one kind of magic?
And so Karlus deceived the masters... or at least he believed he had.
They took him at night in his sleep, bound his hands and gagged him. Chained him in a warded cell until they ready. They strapped him to a table. Began to cut. Began to burn. The Runes. The Runes of Erasure. The Runes of Muting. Into. His. Skin.
And then it happened. The fire. It swept through the college. Many died... but Karlus did not. In the chaos he escaped. He did not know it at the time, but most of those who had been preforming the ritual, those who knew it was not complete died that day. Those who knew are lived had more pressing concerns than a witch novice who almost certainly burned to death.
Then began a lifetime of running and hiding. He glamoured the brand on his cheek and with great pain and hardship went about relearning what arts were available to him. After many years he came back to Astoria as Karl the Flame and began to take his revenge. He hunted down those enforcers of the gilded cage and made them pay for their cruelty with their lives.
But it seemed his secret was not burned away in the flames. A letter from the North Astorian Trading Company, addressed to Karlus Marsh. They knew his secret and they were unhappy with him. One of the mages he had killed had been important to them somehow, unless he helped the company in some manner he would be exposed. They would kill him... or finish the Muting that he had so narrowly escaped. Karlus wasn't ready quite ready for that yet.
Lysono Saan is a svelte and lithe man of shorter than average stature. Like many other Lyseni the blood of Old Valyria flows in his veins. This tells true by his long silvered hair that is twisted into a mass of braids and the gracile features that adorn his face. But Lysono's eyes are not those of some Valyrian dragonlord, instead they are an unusual blue green hue, the colour he likes to say of the seas he has made his fortune on. Most often he is clean shaven, and when taken into consideration with his fine facial structure, long hair, and full lips, there is more than just a hint of androgyny about the pirate lord.
Lysono dresses richly. Turquoise silks from beyond the Jade Gates of Qarth, bone white Myrish lace, purple dyed satin made from Tyroshi sea snails, and cloth of gold and silver from Lannisport and the mines of the West. From each ear hangs long teardrops of black amethyst set in bright silver, its purple so dark it almost looks like jet. His thin wrists jingle with bangles of precious metals or carved from ivory and amber. His slender fingers seem almost overwhelmed by the abundance of gaudy rings set upon them. But if called to action, those fingers can still easily reach down to Lysono's sword belt and grasp the two weapons that hang from it. From the left hip hangs a silver hilted narrow arming sword, while from the right, hangs a valyrian steel dagger with a black dragon bone handle.
Biography
Lysono Saan was born on the isle of Wreckstone in the year 86AC, the first born son of Sharako Saan, a pirate lord of the isle of Wreckstone and head of a cadet branch of the ancient and noble Lysene House of Saan. His father was the cousin of the senior branch of the family, which was at that time firmly based in Lys and in mostly legitimate trade. Though they both descended from the infamous Sargosso Saan who had been a Pirate King in the days of Aegon I, only Sharako's side of the family decided to take up his mantle.
Lysono's childhood was spent between the rugged and dangerous pirate dens of his father's world, and the genteel pleasure palaces of his cousins and kinsmen. This simultaneous induction into dual worlds of ruthless violence and idle hedonism marked the young man strongly, and is something which stayed with Lysono throughout the rest of his life. Though relations between both sides of the family were generally good, the same could not be said for the relations between most traders in the Triachy and pirates in the Stepstones. As the situation began to boil over into a crisis in the year of 96AC, word was dispatched from Lys warning the Saan's of Wreckstone to flee their island fastness lest they be swept away along with the other pirate lords and petty kings that profiteered off the flow of trade between the Narrow and Summer seas.
Sharako was a prudent man and elected to sail his family to Lys until the threat of war receded, while he himself would seek out somewhere else to continue his piratical activities. But in leaving the rich trading routes from which his family derived their income, he opened himself up to a danger from within. After a lean few years rumours began to spread amongst his crews that Sharako didn't have gold enough to pay them without the plunder from the Stepstones, or that he had secreted away an a larger than fair share of the recent hauls in order to support his family in exile. Talk turned to mutiny. Before long words turned to actions.
Sharako was murdered by his crew in his sleep while sailing the summer seas. Anarchy descended upon his small fleet as rival captains turned upon each other. When the news of the calamity finally reached Lysono on Lys, he found all that he had once expected to inherit, a lordship, a fleet, an army, was all taken from him, along of course with his own father.
The news hit the young Lysono hard, and for a year he turned to running up debts in the pillow houses and wine sinks of Lys in order to escape the reality of his much reduced situation. It was during this time that the rumours first began to spread about the unusual.. preferences that the young exiled lord possessed. Soon his credit began to turn bad, and even these distractions were lost to him. Indeed, all seemed lost. Until one day, a familiar ship limped back into the harbour below the city. Only one ship, one ship among half a score, had remained loyal to the elder Saan and had sought out his son and heir. It was only one ship, but it was enough. Enough to start again, restore his fortunes, and maybe one day take back what was his by right of birth.
And Lysono did just that. Over the next six years he raided and traded in every port from Ibben to Asshai, he stole from men, sold his wares to others, and as his fleet of corsairs grew, he began to sell his sails in petty wars all over Essos. But none of it was enough, the grip the Triachy held on the Stepstones was too strong for one mere pirate lord to break. But one day word reach his ears of another who might share his goal and was far more than just a pirate lord, he was Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Iron Throne, and dragonlord.
Lysono sailed all the ships he had gathered to Driftmark, and bent his knee to the Rouge Prince on the condition that he and his heirs be named Lord of Wreckstone in this new kingdom Daemon seeks to carve out from amongst the Narrow Sea. Other than the Sea snake himself, Lysono brought the largest contingent of ships to Daemon's cause and he quickly found himself a part of the prince's war councils. Three years later, in 109AC, when the prince is crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, Lysono Saan is confirmed as Lord of the Isle of Wreckstone.
Vysenna Saan shares many similarities appearance wise with older brother Lysono. They are both small, slim individuals bearing the blood of Old Valyria which manifests itself in their pale and silvery hair. Like her brother her eyes are not the deep purple of a Valyrian, but rather a sea green colour. Though fully grown into her womanhood for a number of years, Vysenna's waif-like proportions sometimes causes others to mistake her for being younger than she actually is.
Her dress differs drastically from her brother's in terms of the her preference for simple elegance over gaudy extravagance. Her dresses very well tailored but often are cut from plain silk or satin with little additional embroidery to embellish them. She prefers blues and greens, colours that bring out her unusual eyes. Though she has many jewels, Vysenna is unlikely to be wearing many of them at any given moment, often choosing a single necklace or broach depending upon the outfit. Though no doubt her dress sense would be considered foreign and revealing by Westerosi standards, in Lys it would be considered demure.
Biography
Vysenna Saan was born on the isle of Wreckstone in the year 93AC, the third and final child of pirate lord Sharako Saan, and his second daughter. Vysenna spent most of her childhood in Lys, with the Wreckstone branch of the Saan family originally leaving the island when Vysenna was only three years old prior the assault of the Triarchy in 96AC. The death of her father a few years later in a mutiny on the summer sea and the subsequent disappearance of her older brother to life a piracy left Vysenna alone in with only her Mother and her older sister Elaena.
Though they were nowhere near as wealthy as they had once been, the Wreckstone branch of the family still possessed some property in Lys. This along with what profits Lysono erratically sent back to them allowed Saan family enabled them to live a comfortable enough life independent of their cousins. But when Vysenna's mother was struck down by a sudden illness when Lysono was at sea this changed. Magister Samarro Saan acted as guardian to the two sisters, and married Elaena off to his own son Salloreon. Supposedly to maintain close relations between the two branches, but others said it was so Samarro's family could claim her portion of the inheritance for themselves.
When Lysono finally returned to Lys and heard these tidings he was furious and immediately took custody of his other still unmarried sister, Vysenna, fostering her with friends in ports and cities outside of Three Daughters. She has spent time in the free cities of Pentos and Braavos, on the isle of Driftmark with the Velaryons, and at King Daemon's Court on Bloodstone. She has returned to Lys since her brother claimed her, but only ever in his company.
House Saan is an ancient noble family hailing from the Free City of Lys and descending from the dragonlords of Old Valyria. The House has the dubious distinction of also being the progenitor of a number of successful pirate lords. During the reign of Aegon I there was the pirate King Sargosso Saan, and more recently the pirate lords of Wreckstone, Sharako Saan and his son Lysono.
Currently the House is split into two different factions on either side of Daemon Targaryen's war for the Stepstones, House Saan of Lys and House Saan of Wreckstone. House Saan of Lys is the senior of the two branches of the family and is active in the magisterial politics of the Free City of Lys and the wider Kingdom of the Three Daughters. The junior branch, House Saan of Wreckstone, are pirate lords based on the Isle of Wreckstone, and are currently a vassal of the Kingdom of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.
House Saan of Lys
The Lysene branch of House Saan is both the senior of the two and the more powerful, prestigious branch. Headed by Magister Samarro Saan, its members are predominantly made up of his own children, although other descendants through matrilineal line can be found in both the noble Houses of Ormollen and Haen. Samarro is a man near the height of his power, a rich and well respected trader who sits on the Conclave of Magisters which rules the Free City of Lys. He has numerous sons and grandsons to succeeded his legacy and has made shrewd political alliances with other Lysene houses like the Rogares. However, a threat to his family lies in their renegade cousin, Lysono of Wreckstone, whose actions in the War for the Stepstones have raised questions about the loyalties of House Saan as a whole and has soured relations with other members of the Triachy.
House Members:
Magister Samarro Saan (55), current Patriarch of House Saan and sitting Magister of the Free City of Lys. Widower.
Sylvarrio Saan (32), Samarro's eldest son and heir apparent, manages most of the families mercantile activities . Married to Ryella Ormollen.
Syaella Saan (10), daughter of Sylvarrio, twin of Syaello.
Syaello Saan (10), son of Sylvarrio, twin of Syaella.
Saera Saan (6), daughter of Sylvarrio.
Salloreon Saan (29), Sammarro's second son, a captain of the city watch of Lys. Married to Elaena Saan.
Saathos Saan (8), son of Salloreon and Elaena, nephew of Lysono.
Selenya Saan (5), daughter of Salloreon and Elaena, niece of Lysono.
Saenerys Saan (27), daughter of Sammarro. Married to Lysandro Rogare, politician and banker.
Syrio Saan (24), third son of Sammarro, proprietor of notable pleasure house. Bachelor.
Saenyx Saan (20), youngest son of Sammarro, apprentice to the Lysene alchemist guild. Bachelor.
House Saan of Wreckstone
Originally founded by Sharako Saan, a cousin of the Lysene Magister Samarro Saan, House Saan of Wreckstone is a fledgling house of Pirate Lords of the Stepstones. Until recently the house was landless after being purged from the Stepstones by the forces of the Triachy, but through allying itself with Daemon Targaryen's War for the Stepstones it has found fortune once more. Headed by the renegade and ambitious Lysono Saan, this small house represents a challenge to the status quo of Lysene politics.
House Members:
Elaena Saan, (27) daughter of Sharako Saan, currently resides with senior branch in Lys. Wife of Salloreon Saan.
Lysono Saan (25), son of Sharako Saan, pirate lord of Wreckstone. Bachelor.
Vysenna Saan (18), daughter of Sharako Saan. Debutante at King Daemon's court.
Captains of the Wreckstone Fleet:
Khorane Marr, Lysono's trusted leftenant, the one captain of his father's fleet who returned to Lys after the mutiny.
Garin the Green, Lysono's closest companion, a young Dornish orphan of the green blood.
Torreo Sathmantes, dangerous and ambitious captain from a somewhat prominent Lysene house.
Moredo Sathmantes, younger brother of Torreo, obedient follower.
Left-hand Lem, Oldtown smuggler turned pirate.
Skullsplitter Stygg, an Ironborn raider.
Full Character sheets:
Lysono Saan
25
House Saan of Wreckstone
Appearance
Lysono Saan is a svelte and lithe man of shorter than average stature. Like many other Lyseni the blood of Old Valyria flows in his veins. This tells true by his long silvered hair that is twisted into a mass of braids and the gracile features that adorn his face. But Lysono's eyes are not those of some Valyrian dragonlord, instead they are an unusual blue green hue, the colour he likes to say of the seas he has made his fortune on. Most often he is clean shaven, and when taken into consideration with his fine facial structure, long hair, and full lips, there is more than just a hint of androgyny about the pirate lord.
Lysono dresses richly. Turquoise silks from beyond the Jade Gates of Qarth, bone white Myrish lace, purple dyed satin made from Tyroshi sea snails, and cloth of gold and silver from Lannisport and the mines of the West. From each ear hangs long teardrops of black amethyst set in bright silver, its purple so dark it almost looks like jet. His thin wrists jingle with bangles of precious metals or carved from ivory and amber. His slender fingers seem almost overwhelmed by the abundance of gaudy rings set upon them. But if called to action, those fingers can still easily reach down to Lysono's sword belt and grasp the two weapons that hang from it. From the left hip hangs a silver hilted narrow arming sword, while from the right, hangs a valyrian steel dagger with a black dragon bone handle.
Biography
Lysono Saan was born on the isle of Wreckstone in the year 86AC, the first born son of Sharako Saan, a pirate lord of the isle of Wreckstone and head of a cadet branch of the ancient and noble Lysene House of Saan. His father was the cousin of the senior branch of the family, which was at that time firmly based in Lys and in mostly legitimate trade. Though they both descended from the infamous Sargosso Saan who had been a Pirate King in the days of Aegon I, only Sharako's side of the family decided to take up his mantle.
Lysono's childhood was spent between the rugged and dangerous pirate dens of his father's world, and the genteel pleasure palaces of his cousins and kinsmen. This simultaneous induction into dual worlds of ruthless violence and idle hedonism marked the young man strongly, and is something which stayed with Lysono throughout the rest of his life. Though relations between both sides of the family were generally good, the same could not be said for the relations between most traders in the Triachy and pirates in the Stepstones. As the situation began to boil over into a crisis in the year of 96AC, word was dispatched from Lys warning the Saan's of Wreckstone to flee their island fastness lest they be swept away along with the other pirate lords and petty kings that profiteered off the flow of trade between the Narrow and Summer seas.
Sharako was a prudent man and elected to sail his family to Lys until the threat of war receded, while he himself would seek out somewhere else to continue his piratical activities. But in leaving the rich trading routes from which his family derived their income, he opened himself up to a danger from within. After a lean few years rumours began to spread amongst his crews that Sharako didn't have gold enough to pay them without the plunder from the Stepstones, or that he had secreted away an a larger than fair share of the recent hauls in order to support his family in exile. Talk turned to mutiny. Before long words turned to actions.
Sharako was murdered by his crew in his sleep while sailing the summer seas. Anarchy descended upon his small fleet as rival captains turned upon each other. When the news of the calamity finally reached Lysono on Lys, he found all that he had once expected to inherit, a lordship, a fleet, an army, was all taken from him, along of course with his own father.
The news hit the young Lysono hard, and for a year he turned to running up debts in the pillow houses and wine sinks of Lys in order to escape the reality of his much reduced situation. It was during this time that the rumours first began to spread about the unusual.. preferences that the young exiled lord possessed. Soon his credit began to turn bad, and even these distractions were lost to him. Indeed, all seemed lost. Until one day, a familiar ship limped back into the harbour below the city. Only one ship, one ship among half a score, had remained loyal to the elder Saan and had sought out his son and heir. It was only one ship, but it was enough. Enough to start again, restore his fortunes, and maybe one day take back what was his by right of birth.
And Lysono did just that. Over the next six years he raided and traded in every port from Ibben to Asshai, he stole from men, sold his wares to others, and as his fleet of corsairs grew, he began to sell his sails in petty wars all over Essos. But none of it was enough, the grip the Triachy held on the Stepstones was too strong for one mere pirate lord to break. But one day word reach his ears of another who might share his goal and was far more than just a pirate lord, he was Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Iron Throne, and dragonlord.
Lysono sailed all the ships he had gathered to Driftmark, and bent his knee to the Rouge Prince on the condition that he and his heirs be named Lord of Wreckstone in this new kingdom Daemon seeks to carve out from amongst the Narrow Sea. Other than the Sea snake himself, Lysono brought the largest contingent of ships to Daemon's cause and he quickly found himself a part of the prince's war councils. Three years later, in 109AC, when the prince is crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, Lysono Saan is confirmed as Lord of the Isle of Wreckstone.
Vysenna Saan
18
House Saan of Wreckstone
Appearance
Vysenna Saan shares many similarities appearance wise with older brother Lysono. They are both small, slim individuals bearing the blood of Old Valyria which manifests itself in their pale and silvery hair. Like her brother her eyes are not the deep purple of a Valyrian, but rather a sea green colour. Though fully grown into her womanhood for a number of years, Vysenna's waif-like proportions sometimes causes others to mistake her for being younger than she actually is.
Her dress differs drastically from her brother's in terms of the her preference for simple elegance over gaudy extravagance. Her dresses very well tailored but often are cut from plain silk or satin with little additional embroidery to embellish them. She prefers blues and greens, colours that bring out her unusual eyes. Though she has many jewels, Vysenna is unlikely to be wearing many of them at any given moment, often choosing a single necklace or broach depending upon the outfit. Though no doubt her dress sense would be considered foreign and revealing by Westerosi standards, in Lys it would be considered demure.
Biography
Vysenna Saan was born on the isle of Wreckstone in the year 93AC, the third and final child of pirate lord Sharako Saan, and his second daughter. Vysenna spent most of her childhood in Lys, with the Wreckstone branch of the Saan family originally leaving the island when Vysenna was only three years old prior the assault of the Triarchy in 96AC. The death of her father a few years later in a mutiny on the summer sea and the subsequent disappearance of her older brother to life a piracy left Vysenna alone in with only her Mother and her older sister Elaena.
Though they were nowhere near as wealthy as they had once been, the Wreckstone branch of the family still possessed some property in Lys. This along with what profits Lysono erratically sent back to them allowed Saan family enabled them to live a comfortable enough life independent of their cousins. But when Vysenna's mother was struck down by a sudden illness when Lysono was at sea this changed. Magister Samarro Saan acted as guardian to the two sisters, and married Elaena off to his own son Salloreon. Supposedly to maintain close relations between the two branches, but others said it was so Samarro's family could claim her portion of the inheritance for themselves.
When Lysono finally returned to Lys and heard these tidings he was furious and immediately took custody of his other still unmarried sister, Vysenna, fostering her with friends in ports and cities outside of Three Daughters. She has spent time in the free cities of Pentos and Braavos, on the isle of Driftmark with the Velaryons, and at King Daemon's Court on Bloodstone. She has returned to Lys since her brother claimed her, but only ever in his company.
Origin: Born in Gullian, but was mostly raised in the countryside or abroad.
Attire: Dresses expensively but not garishly. The eagle eyed however might spot that his velvet doublet is beginning to wear at the elbows, a button is missing from one sleeve, and his sable breeches have been patched more than once. Always wears a gentleman's small sword at his side.
Demeanour: Charming, friendly, desperate.
Flaws:
Terrible with money: Lucky spends every coin he gets his hands on to satisfy his expensive tastes and his...
Gambling addiction: Lucky is a hopeless regular at race tracks, baiting pits, and gambling halls. He's not even particularly good at it.
Burned bridges: Lucky has ripped off, swindled, and borrowed from many, many, people. Many of whom have few fond feelings for him.
Attributes
Awareness - 2
Strength - 1
Dexterity - 2
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 4
Wit - 4
Willpower - 1
Luck - 1
Skillsets
Persuasion - 5
Deception - 5
Barter - 5
Forgery - 3
Disguise - 2
Background:
As far as anyone can remember, Lucien Beumont-Dubois rode into Gullian on a fine white stallion just over two years ago and almost instantly set about making a name for himself as one of the most well connected, charming, and entertaining gentleman who straddled the lines between the lower nobility, bohemian artists, and the emerging wealthy merchants and burghers all looking to make connections. For a while he was the toast of the town, introducing such and such to so and so, staying in all the finest inns and attending all the best parties.
Few people could remember meeting the Beumont-Dubois family when they had lived in Gullian twenty five years ago, but few thought it suspicious, after all it was a long time and Gullian is a large city. Hazy half recollections of a meeting at some gala a quarter of a century ago aside, the man and his money was something of mystery. Soon however, Lucky began to share with his new friends and associates the secrets of his mysterious fortune.
It started casually, the buying and selling of a little objet d'art, perhaps splitting the cost of buying some imported wines wholesale. But once you had cut a deal with Lucky once or twice, more enticing offers appeared. His cousin's father in law owned a plot of land where prospectors had said there was gold, a plan to exploit Lucky's foreign contacts to start importing silk on jointly owned ships, an investment opportunity in one of the prime developments of the growing city of Gullian. All required significant loans or 'investments' from those Lucky rubbed elbows with. All were complete lies.
The threads all began to unwind when one client of Lucky's art dealership just so happened to meet an artist whose work he had bought through Lucky. When he showed him the work, the artist swore he had never painted such a picture in his life. Rumours began to spread, enquiries were made. The country estates that were used as collateral in these pyramid schemes were found to be owned by different people, or not to exist at all. The inns and lodging houses he stayed at had never received a single silver in payment and some had been refusing Lucky credit for months. People began to ask for their money back. But before most of the could, Lucky disappeared.
For the last few months, Lucky has been living in much reduced circumstances in the bad end of town. Continuously putting off or scraping together just enough coin to satisfying any creditors who manage to seek him out.
There are old sellswords and bold sellswords but there are no old, bold sellswords.
Appearance:
Lem is an older grizzled man with a somewhat gaunt appearance and a wiry build. His thin face is tanned by long days in the sun, and criss-crossed with pale faded scars. From out of this somewhat grim visage stare dark flinty eyes surrounded by prominent crow's feet. They are eyes that look cold and hard at first glance, but can spark with mirth should the mood arise. His nose has been broken at least once and should he choose to smile, it would show that Lem is missing one of his upper canines. He shaves both his face and head, often leaving a rough coating iron grey stubble for extended periods of time. Through his right ear there is thick hoop of dull yellow gold.
Physically Lem is not an imposing man, being of around average height and not of a particularly heavy build. When not in armour, his arms can be seen to be corded with sinewy muscle. On his left forearm are the grey blue marks of the nomad barbarians from across the eastern steppes, made by placing charcoal beneath the skin. His hands are rough and callused, the astute might notice that he is missing the tip of his right index finger. On his left ring finger he wears a wide band of silver and brass, there are two sets of initials on it.
The final thing might notice about Lem cannot be seen until he begins to move. Lem walks with a noticeable noticeable limp, avoiding putting weight on his left leg and clearly favouring his right.
Personality:
Lem Arronson is hard man, he’s lived a hard life and a long one at that considering his profession. He’s tough and reliable, diligent, someone that you can depend upon in a difficult situation. No great speaker, he uses plain language in his native northern dialect. None-the-less, there is still an authoritative tone to his voice, the air of one who has faith in their own expertise. Patient and quiet, he is a man who listens to what others have to say before speaking. All of these traits combined leads Lem to be a cautious (yet highly skilled) fighter and commander of the battlefield.
Despite his gruffness and somewhat unyielding nature, Lem has a relatively good heart. He genuinely cares for many of those who have served under him and is exceptionally loyal to the Band. He has served as sort of mentor in the past to younger men following similar paths to the one he has travelled. With his comrades he will show his dry sense of humour, one that tends towards the macabre – a side effect of spending a life killing people for money.
However, though he has great love for his brothers in arms, Lem is unscrupulous in how he conducts himself on the battlefield and when negotiating contracts. His morality and loyalty only extends as far as the band, after that, he believes he has no moral obligation. As might be expected considering this outlook, Lem is largely irreligious, though he is as superstitious as any other old soldier.
History:
Lem’s story is a something of a common one. He is not an orphan, his young life was not filled with hardship or tragedy or formative suffering. Nor was he a noble, born with silver spoon in mouth. He was the son of common folk, but well to do common folk. They lived outside a small town in the north of Westar where his father bred horses. His mother was from the east, Illyria, across the gulf of Litan. She had met his father as he soldiered on Crusade to the Blessed Lands years before. She kept the house and vegetable gardens while her husband worked in the paddocks and stables of the local lord.
Lem was second of four children that made it past infancy, he worked in the fields and pastures from a young age with both of his parents, learning to ride and care for horses from a young age. It wasn't a miserable or particularly hard life, sometimes the winters and springs were lean, and sometimes they were not. Ultimately they scraped a decent living for folks such as themselves and his family were content. Lem however, was not.
He had been an adventurous boy, always dreaming beyond the valleys of his childhood to the world that was outside. He wanted to see the world, and more than that, he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to be more than just another commoner, more than his father; he wanted to live. As he grew older they clashed a lot.
He went south after his fourteenth name day, riding one of his father's horses, and carrying his old mail shirt and sword. Another crusade was gathering, the Blessed Lands and the city of the prophets was back in the hands of heretics. Lem rode east with the pilgrims and warriors that intended to recapture it.
He saw his mother's country of Illyria,, before turning south into the arid lands where the prophets had first heard the words of God and the Blessed One had first performed his miracles. The Crusade wasn't just a failure, it was a bloodbath. They had been mostly untrained and poorly armed, foolhardily believing that their faith and their God would be guide them to victory. It was there that Lem learned the importance of caution and tactics on the battlefield.
A experience like this might made some men go home, but not Lem. He went further east, to the far plains of the nomads where it is said that women give birth in the saddle. There he got his first taste of fighting for gold instead of God, and Lem liked it. For six years he warred his way through the eastern lands, fighting alongside the nomads and barbarians in their never ending conflicts.
By the time he returned to Westar he had made a small fortune. Then there was happy time. There was a woman in Port Layton for a while, thoughts of settled life, but something went wrong - Lem doesn't like to dwell on it. After that there were brothels, drinking and gambling. The money was all gone in a few years and Lem was at rock bottom. That was when he found the Band of Fortune.
The purpose he found amongst fighting men again saved him from dark time. He fought wherever the Band went, through times both fat and thin. He learned from the old men, until most them were gone, and he was the one doing the teaching. From a serving a man-at-arms as a serjeant, he rose to lead a lance of his own, and then to be a leftenant of the company.
All of this continued uninterrupted until five years ago, when Lem’s horse was killed beneath him during a skirmish on the border at Forlinger. Some runt with a spear stepped out from behind a tree as Lem thundered past and skewered the horse through the chest. The beast fell, and Lem wasn’t quick enough to leap clear of the saddle. It landed on his left leg, crushing his knee in to bloody, broken mess. Lem survived the battle, but he would never be the graceful and truly formidable fighter he had once been.
He served on with the band though, he was experienced, he could lead and train men and was still a good enough sword – especially when in the saddle. Besides, there was no other life left open to him by this point: he had given the band his best years. When banners were called and levies raised for the conflict that would be known as the Anarchy of Adalmar, Lem had been with the band for over twenty five years and was its second most senior commander.
Skills and Abilities:
Accomplished Swordsman - Lem has been fighting on and off the battlefield for over 30 years now. If you can do something with a sword that he doesn’t know about, it’s probably not worth knowing. His main areas of expertise are sword and shield or sword and dagger, he is less accomplished with two handed swords or other combinations. He isn't the greatest duellist, and isn't creative or innovative in his fighting style, but his repertoire of techniques is extensive and his execution of them was near flawless in his prime.
Expert Rider – Lem is very comfortable on a horse, having ridden extensively in both combat and non-combat situations. His childhood was spent caring and riding horses and his time fighting on the eastern steppes of the nomads taught him how ride bareback and sleep atop a horse.
Unscrupulous Tactician - Lem has served in variety of conflicts across much of the known world and has seen how many different peoples and cultures fight. His wide travelling gives him an extensive pool of tactical innovations to draw upon. From storing crossbow quarrels in latrines to make the smallest scratches lethal, to rolling felled trees down a battlefield to smash enemy formations - Lem knows how to fight dirty.
Weakness(es):
Lamed - Lem's left leg is lamed from being crushed beneath a dying horse several years ago. He can still walk without too much difficulty or pain, but his running days are long behind him. This gives him a severe disadvantage when fighting on foot.
Common as Muck - Lem has risen surprisingly high for one born a step above a serf, this does not do him any favours when it comes to negotiating contracts or interacting with members of the nobility, something that might be expected of a commander of a mercenary company.
Illiterate - Another disadvantage from an administrate and leadership point of view, Lem can barely read or write his own name. While by no means a stupid man, his book learning is almost non-existent.
Equipment:
Lem's armour is drab and mostly somewhat old-fashioned. He could probably afford better with what he has saved up, but he is man who finds comfort in the familiar and the reliable. He wears a coat of iron plates covered by rough brown fabric over a knee length mail hauberk. At shoulder he wears a set of spaulders and mail sleeves extend down his arm to his wrist. Mail mitts sewn to the sleeves can slipped over the hand. He wears vambraces and greaves on his forearms and lower legs, they only cover the outer portion of their respected limbs. His head is covered by a mail coif, on top of which he wears a visored sallet. He wears mail sabatons over leather boots to protect his feet. When out of armour he favours plain woollen fabrics and leather jerkins.
Lem wears an one handed arming-sword on one hip and a rondel dagger on the other. His sword is plain with a shark skin grip, the blade has a number of nicks in its edge, but still it has been honed razor sharp. His sword is complemented by a wooden heater shield, painted in the colours of the company. When on horseback he often carries a lance and hangs a horseman's hammer from the pommel of his saddle.
As for the rest of his possessions, Lem has a few more luxuries than the common soldier might expect - a proper camp bed for his tent, a ewer of water to wash with, a mirror with which to shave, a stool to sit upon and a table to eat at. As a leftenant he is afforded the use of two horses, a smoke grey courser called Duchess is his war horse, while for everyday riding he has a chestnut palfrey called Russell.
Appearance: Rolnak is a hulking giant of a man, he stands over 6'4" and has muscles like solid iron. He has a face that looks like it was chiselled out of granite, by a very poor mason. He is certainly not attractive, the rough square jaw and the low furrowed brow are proof of this, his smile is not the prettiest of sights either. Most of his teeth are rotted away and replaced with gold or silver pointed fangs instead, the few molars that have clung to survival are yellow or black with cavities.
Rolnak has a lot of body hair which he shaves on a regular basis (along with his head), not for hygiene but to show off his 'art'. He has covered most of his body in black tattoo's (not to mention a few piercings), strange with a ritualistic look to them that often associates with the bull or death. Some are faded with age and scaring showing that he must have had them for a long time, yet some are fresh, showing that he still wants more.
Rolnak almost always wears armour on his legs, leather's mainly but some plate armour in actual battle offers more protection. His belt is main of iron plates, like a watch, with a central buckle. He is never seen without his steel plated boots or his talisman, the jaw bone from a bull, hanging around his neck. On his torso he only bothers to wear clothing for battle, normally he walks armour bare chested. Though now he does also wear a long brown leather coat with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders.
Physical Quirks: The main physical quirks Rolnak has are his teeth, the tattoos and the prominent piercings through the centre of his nose and his ears. He has some scars on his body, a long one runs down his left side. The only thing that makes him look bull like are the extra body hair and the nose ring, however he can change into a partial minotaur if he wishes to, though because of his half blood he finds it painful to change.
Weapons: On his belt are a long, wide knife and a one handed fighting axe. On his back a mighty broadsword, like a giant cleaver, is slung.
Background: Rolnak was born in the back streets of Jahzara, his family were better off than those on Sassucus, but not my that much. The small wooden house had only two rooms for seven people, life was tough, but you survived. Rolnak had been a weedy and stunted child, bullied by his brothers and their friends. All that time, he was beaten and the hate welled up inside of him like a fire, intense and burning anyone it touched. It got too much for him one day, before they came to knock him around a bit he found a broken fence post. He had been waiting for them, and one some child was able to beat four of his elders to a bloody pulp.
From that day on it was like he was a different person, he didn't care about people, he became to bully he had despised, and with age he got bigger and stronger and mighty. On his fifteenth birthday he was over 6ft tall and stronger than a frown man. By the time he was eighteen the was stronger than three grown men, no one would fight him and his rages with still legendary. No one knew if he was feral or not, he was such and angry person anyway, there was no way to tell. One day he got into a serious fight against a trader who had the mistake of ripping him off. Rolnak broke his neck and crushed him like a twig. he was run out of town and was left penniless in an Outpost.
It was there he got into another fight, this one seen by a captain of Raha's guard of enforcers to keep fear and respect for the monarchy. He was taken and spent the next three years of his life being transformed to a brawler and fighter into a feared warrior. From there he had become a feared man in Xerxes, known by the general public for being brutal and harsh. He does not work with the guard much anymore, mainly maintaining a level of fear to keep citizens in line.
Extra: The tattoos are a sign of Rolnaks superstitious beliefs, he has been accumulating them since around he was sixteen. They are to ward off bad luck and protect him from harm and death. Rolnak is afraid of only one thing, magic, he has a deep distrust of it and is also bitter yet respectful to a mage. As said before, no one knows whether or no he is feral, or whether he is just as brutal as he has always been.
Appearance: Skall is one of the most stereotypical Nords one could hope to meet in all of Skyrim. A towering giant of a man, he stands head shoulders above lesser men and his chest is broad with rippling muscle. His arms are as large as tree trunks and end in great shovel like hands. A long tangled mane of golden hair spills down his powerful back, interwoven with braids and locks. Much of his wide face is covered with a great bristling beard and moustache of similar colour.
His face is large and square, mostly taken up by features that would seem monstrous on the visage of any other man, but curiously seem to make a somewhat cohesive whole on Skall's own face. The brow is low and thunderous, the nose like the prow of some titanic ship, each nostril capable of inhaling small passing songbirds. His lips are full and red, and pull back to reveal a smile that could comfortably sit in a draught horse's mouth. Skall's left cheek is adorned with a spiralling blue tattoo of a Nord Berserker, it trails down onto his corded neck and there joins a myriad of other tattoos that adorn his whole body.
Invariably Skall dresses in thick furs, often leaving his arms or chest exposed to show off his impressive physique. Around his wrists and on his neck are torcs of wrought gold, depicting animals twisting and swirling around each other. On his back he wears the pelt of a bear, its flayed head sometimes serving as a hood in cold weather.
Personality: Heroic. Noble. Glorious. These are all the things Skall wishes to be. Unfortunately his own behaviour is somewhat less inspiring than this. He is a drunken lout with more brawn than brains with an indignant temperament and a crude sense of humour. He has a fierce temper when he perceives someone is mocking him or has slighted him. He also struggles with discipline and self-control, especially when it comes to money - Skall will happily eat and drink himself out of a fortune.
This is not to say that Skall isn't a good person. He knows right from wrong and will most often err on the side of good. However, his fondness for drink and his general lack of wit prevents him from acting in the way he aspires to. He is generally affable to those who do right by him and don't make fun of him. Fortunately for those around him, Skall is more of a merry drunk than a particularly angry one. He has a curious soft spot for older women, he was very attached to his mother as a child.
History: Skall was born and raised in Rorikstead in Whiterun hold by his mother, called Marne, who worked as a farm hand in the fields there. From an early age he was larger and stronger than almost all the other children in the village, but was of a relatively sweet and gentle temperament. He was raised on the stories of Skyrim's great heroes: Hakon One-Eye, Ulfgar the Unending, Felldir the Old, and most of, Ysgramor who let the Atmorans across the sea to Tamriel. It was at this age that Skall decided that he too would be a great Nord hero, a warrior of wondrous repute and fame. The problem was how was he to do so? Skall had naught but the equipment of a farm hand to train with, so he made do, and picked up the wood-axe.
He became stronger and stronger over the years as he learned to swing his axe with deadly precision and tremendous power. None in all of the Whiterun hold could split logs thicker and more gnarled than Skall of Rorikstead he boasted. One day, when he was come of age he made the long journey to Jorrvaskr to try out for the legendary guild of fighters, The Companions. But it was late by the time he arrived at the city and so Skall made his way to tavern, something he was most unfamiliar with coming from such a small and rural holding like Rorikstead. It was here that Skall was introduced to the world of intoxicating liquor, and his life was forever changed.
The next morning he had awoke with a dull and throbbing head, sprawled in a pile of sick and sawdust that was strewn across the floor. He had overslept. When he rushed to the hall of The Companions he found them hard at training. They laughed at this slow boy, clumsy with drink and stained in a night's shameful revelry. They laughed him out of Whiterun and all the way back to Rorikstead.
But Skall was not deterred. He gave up on joining the ranks of The Companions, but they weren't the only way one could become a hero in Skyrim. First he went to Solitude, to try and become of the warrior-bards that did great deeds and wrote songs about them. But Skall had no talent for writing poetry and making sweet music, so he was laughed out of Solitude as well. Then he tried his hand at soldiering, serving as a guard in Morthal and Dawnstar. By this time he had come to rely upon his drinking as a method of coping with his shame in his failures in heroics. He would show up drunk for duty and oversleep before his shifts. He was swiftly dismissed. It was around this time he acquired his moniker, Skall the Thirsty.
When the civil war came to Skyrim Skall then went to Eastmarch to enlist in the ranks of Ulfric Stormcloak. For a while he excelled, as by now he was a competent fighter and had a great capacity for bravery and boldness. But as always, his fondness for mead got in the way, and after sleeping through one too many Skirmishes, he was dismissed once more. Since the war Skall has been somewhat aimless, wondering and adventuring on his own when he can, making ends meet by doing manual labour and foresting when he can't.
Skills:
Major: - Two handed: Skall can use his immense strength in combination with the added leverage of two handed weaponry to deliver devastating blows that can cleave through flesh and bone like butter. His great height and the increased length of these two handed weapons also give him a reach advantage over almost all of his opponents. - Axe: The axe is Skall's preferred choice of weapon. It is versatile, being able to hack, slash, hook and deliver powerful blows that can damage armour and break bones. It also comes in useful in a variety of other ways - such as finding employment chopping logs or felling trees when adventuring isn't going so well.
Minor: - Light Armour: Acquiring some skill in light armour and its use was inevitable considering Skall's long term use of it. However, his style of fighting makes it clear he believes strongly in the maxim that a strong offence is the greatest defence. - Blunt: Fighting with blunt weapons is quite similar to fighting with axes, but easier in many ways. However, since Skall does not prefer to fight using this method if he can, he is no master of it. - Unarmed: You can't be in as many drunken tavern brawls as Skall without learning to throw a decent punch.
Equipment: In battle Skall carries his trusted Iron Battleaxe and wears his fur armour. He has an iron dagger and a woodaxe for carrying out everyday tasks. A large flagon filled with mead or ale almost invariably hangs at his side, along with a cloth sack filled with roasted meat or cheese. The only luxury item Skall carries is a small goatskin drum. Most of his wealth is tied up in the torcs, as evidenced where he had to chip some metal off them in the past to pay his way.
Birthsign: The Warrior
Miscellaneous: Skall believes himself to be a bard and likes to compose and perform terrible skaldic poetry, loudly banging tunelessly on a drum while doing so.
Karliege was born inside the borders of the Justinian Imperium.
Occupation:
Sorcerer
Religion:
Karliege knows that there are beings greater than man, but doubts that there are any who deserve worship.
Appearance:
Karliege is a man of average height, but of a skeletal and waif like build. He has not seen his thirtieth year, but bears many of the hallmarks of a much older man. His pale face is lined and worn. His long dirty blonde hair is brittle and streaked with grey. His eyes are of a similar shade of misty grey, deep bags hang beneath them and along with his general air of weariness confirm that Karliege sleeps little each night. The features upon his gaunt and drawn face are fine and effeminate, though still relatively handsome. Handsome that is were it not for a crooked broken nose and an unsightly tangle of burn marks upon his left cheek: a branding mark, one that denotes him as excommunicated from the light of the God-King Justinian and his Church.
He dresses in various hues of faded blacks, covered by a hooded great cloak clasped with a silver ring pin. Around Karliege's neck hangs more silver, a great thick chain of silver links from which dangles a blue topaz the size of a child's fist. It seems to glow unnaturally in darkness. His right arm is bound and bandaged beneath his cloak and he walks with a slight limp in his gait. A stout iron shod staff of pale yew wood assists his movement.
Personality:
Karliege is cold and reserved, not in a cruel or uncaring way, but as if separated from all others around him by an immense unseen chasm. Distant is probably the lasting impression that he leaves on others. Even when he is direct conversation with his peers he has a habit of gazing off into the middle distance, almost as if he’s looking right though someone to something beyond. He’s quiet, in particular about himself and his history, and when pressed upon a subject he does want to discuss will shut down completely and withdraw. If he were to smile it would be a sad one. He sleeps little, haunted by nightmares that make him wake in fits of terrible screams.
There is madness in him as well, one that consumes him in periods of frantic mania followed by deep and dark depressions. During his mania he will often rant and rave about Justinian, theology, demonology and the nature of divinity. His eyes burn with consuming passion and its one of the few times Karliege truly seems to enthuse upon a subject. During his inward periods he becomes even more uncommunicative, scarcely eating or even moving until the fugue has passed.
Biography:
What happens to the children born within Justinian's Empire who are cursed with magic? Some repress their unnatural powers, others may embrace them. Karliege was one such child.
He was the son of a wool merchant who traded between the imperial core and the eastern marcher lords. Neither noble nor serf his family were comfortable, but not accustomed to the privileges of the aristocracy. Perhaps it was this liminal station between the great divide of feudal society that led Karliege to question the world around him. He was inquisitive and curious from an early age and showed great talent for book learning and the scholarly pursuits - something that was only encouraged by his parents who would have relished the opportunity to have a younger son enter the ranks of the Clerisy.
It was as Karliege approached the cusp of manhood that his magic awoke within him. At first he was shocked and saddened. How could he, one who was training for life in the priesthood of the great God-Emperor Justinian, be afflicted with the scourge of magic? But the more he dwelled upon his situation and the more he learned about magic, the more doubts began to creep into his mind. In the empire, magic was reviled, but the miracles attributed to Justinian were celebrated and revered. How did Justinian, a man, become a God, unless through the use of magic?
He continued his training as an official of the church, but most nights he trained in other arts. He learned from whatever sources he could lay his hands on. He read accounts of inquisitors who purged the land of magic and ancient tomes detailing defence against magic users. He would slip into the restricted sections in the dead of night and read books that had been saved from the pyre that had once belonged to witches and warlocks. He even found a trader who brought scrolls from across the southern deserts, for extortionate prices of course.
It was through this Karliege learned of the art of demonology, and the summoning of higher beings of magic with great power and knowledge. It was with this that he would discover the truth he so desperately craved, the truth of Justinian's divinity and the whether or not Karliege had pledged his life to a lie.
Alone one night in his sleeping cell surrounded by candles and using all he had learned, Karliege summoned one such demon. And it told him everything he had been taught was false. Justinian was no God, magic was natural, and the Clerisy was merely a tool to make sure none would ever rise to challenge Justinian's power. Karliege was shaken. He had always doubted some of the teachings of the Clerisy and had wondered at the nature of Justinian's divinity, but this was too much. He served an unjust warlord who proclaimed himself a God and would kill those who would use the very same powers. It was wrong, and Karliege believed it was his duty to tell the people.
He wrote pamphlets by candlelight detailing what he had been told by the demon and would slip them under doors or between shutters on long pre-dawn walks around the city. Naively, he believed that if the people knew, they would rise and somehow Justinian and the Clerisy would be cast down. He was wrong. Instead he was apprehended by the Inquisition and tortured in a cell deep beneath the altars he had once worshipped at.
They made him a sign a confession that he had been lured astray by dark powers, that all he had written was lie and that Justinian was a true and just God. They hauled him into the streets for public penance. Bloody and broken they marched him from square to square he be pelted with stones and spat at. He was stripped, both physically and of his position in Clerisy, and branded him with the mark of Excommunication. He would be bared from every church and temple, chased from towns and settlements, and shunned by any good God-fearing citizen of the Imperium. If they had discovered he was a sorcerer, they would have killed him.
For many years Karliege travelled, first south, then east in search one who could teach him more in the ways of magic. He had lost everything, his life, his family, his home, his mind even. All that remained to him was his magic and he honed it into a weapon to be feared. In the wastes of Nagath he served as apprentice to one of the greatest sorcerers of this generation, Colndil the Terrible, a dark wizard of sinister repute who was said to even be able to bind demons to his will. Karliege endured much, and learned much under the man. He now travels the wastes once again, claiming that Colndil is dead, and he is the greatest sorcerer of the east.
Equipment:
Karliege carries little accept a belt knife, a waterskin, his cloak, his staff and his amulet. Called the Eye of Daigon, it once belonged to Karliege's slain master Colndil and is reputed to have been amongst the crown jewels of the ancient Kingdom of Nargath before being re-purposed into a necklace.
Skills:
Karliege is intelligent and learned in many areas, but most of all he is a dangerous and powerful user of magic. His greatest power is that which he learned from his master Colndil, the art of binding a demon to a mortal's will. Karliege possesses one such demon, named Sarcen. It appears as a second shadow following Karliege, or perhaps a single white flame hovering in the air. It is incredibly powerful and dangerous, but it is also unpredictable and continuously fights its master in an effort to possess Karliege's body.
Motivation:
Karliege once thought if he told the citizens of Justinian's Empire that their God was a lie they would rise up and destroy it. Now he knows they must be shown that Justinian is a lie. He intends to show them that. He intends to kill a God and burn his church to the ground.
Full Name: Kaseem Akz Duwabir Titles/Nicknames: The Lord Duwabir, Thakur Duwabir Age: 44 years since birth, died aged 29. Race: Undead, previously Sariyan. Gender: Male Combat Role: Agile Duellist.
Hair Color: N/A, previously black Eye Color: N/A, previously brown, a faint blue glow can be seen to emanate from his empty eye sockets in low lighting. Height: 5 feet and 11 inches. Weight: 165 pounds in life, 35 pounds in death.
Appearance: Kaseem seldom shows his face to world, only when completely alone would he ever remove the long flowing dark robes that cover his body from head to toe. A hooded veil covers his face also, leaving only the tinniest of slits for him to peer out from. His hands are covered with gloves of fine black silk, and his feet are adorned in satin slippers of sable. A silver gilt belt loosely encircles his narrow waist, studded with sapphires and jet from the mines of his homeland. Upon his brow an equally fine coronet rests again made of swirling silver and luminous moonstones. Beneath this finery however, lurks a much more unsavoury truth.
Kaseem is rotted down to bones beneath his shroud. His once tanned comely face and head of thick dark hair has all fallen away and revealed a grinning, bone white skull. His muscles have wasted away to nothing, not even sinews remain to string his body together. A darker art serves to fulfil that role, and evidence of its practice can be seen carved into what remains of Kaseem's body. Sinister runes written in ancient Sariyan mark his lonely bones, rippling and glowing with some unnatural power as they hold Kaseem together. This is power is what sustains Kaseem, and it is also the power which curses him.
Personality
Overview: In life Kaseem was arrogant, he was flamboyant, and he was vain as he was beautiful. But death, or rather his return from it, has robbed him of much of what defined him. It has transformed a confident warrior, who would have once laughed in the face of any foe, to one who can barely look at his own face in the mirror. Kaseem is aware of his visage, and the effects it has on others outside of his distant homeland, and his internalised so much of it. He shrinks away from others, from physical contact, and hides behind masks and veils in a desperate attempt to pretend to others that he is not what he is.
He was also a sensual and passionate man once, but all pleasures of flesh are denied to those who rise from a true grave. The only thing that he has to hold onto now, is the arena. The roar of the crowds, the joy found in battling a truly worthy opponent. His loves, his pleasure, his very flesh has all been taken from him. There is only the glory of the arena, and perhaps, the promise of another death - one that is true and honourable.
But he is not a monster that cannot see further than killing and death, contrary to what many of other nations believe about the nature of the undead. He does not feed on virgin blood or baby bones. He is not cruel, but the distance that his existence has created between him and others can make it seem so. People have become almost as strange to him as he is to most people, and therefore he can seem unemphatic or inconsiderate. Kaseem is forgetting what it is like to be human, he knows this, and it is one of his greatest fears.
There is great sadness in this corpse, of what was lost, of what could have been. Unbearable sadness. But there is perhaps hope too, hope of meaning and of glory.
Weapons of Choice: Kaseem primarily uses two weapons in combat. In his right hand he wields a wickedly curved blade that broadens towards the tip with a small cross guard on its hilt. In his left he wields a short pata gauntlet sword with stiff and narrow blade. Both are richly decorated with brass work and etched blades that are kept wickedly sharp.
At his side Kaseem carries two knives, one with broad curved cutting blade, and another with a stiletto point.
Armor/Combat Apparel: When in the arena as in life, Kaseem covers himself from head to toe to disguise his condition, but is combat attire is much less flowing and more revealing of his emaciated state. In order to counteract this, Kaseem enters the arena padded with sack cloth and straw in order to give the impression of a living body. Over his black linens he wears a knee length shirt of silvery Sariyan ring mail, drawn in at the waist with a golden sash. A pair of gilded pauldrons grace his shoulders, and matching vambraces adorn his wrists. His helm is open faced in the southern fashion, with at its zenith and more golden cloth wrapped around its rim. His face is disguised by a veil of gold and silver mail that is attached to the helm's rim and rests upon Kaseem's shoulders.
Fighting Style: Kaseem as fast and as swift as any fighter. He likes to run rings around his opponents, slashing at them with curved blade, wearing them down until they are tired and injured, before rushing in for a killing thrust with his pata. He can dodge, sidestep and lunge with lightening speed and terrifying ferocity, but this masks his great underlying weakness - he will collapse under any powerful blow.
He must dodge everything, and avoid being struck at all costs, as his light and brittle bones stand no chance against a strike from a two handed polearm, a mace, an axe, or even a large enough sword. Percussive damage will destroy him. But light slashes, or thrusts are useless against him. Kaseem has to blood to spill, the only way to defeat him is to crush him or hack him into pieces. However, as long as Kaseem can dance just outside of his opponents range he has the power. He does not tire, he does not get distracted by thirst or hunger, or any other bodily function, he can be patient and wait for his opening.
He is at his strongest in a one on one duel, where he can focus solely on his opponent and does not run the risk of being taken unawares. He is weaker in mass melees, especially against long pole weapons, and if trapped against a wall or corner of the arena stands next to no chance of escaping.
Background
Place of Birth: Ghanahdpur, an upriver city in Sariya Social Status: In Sariya he was once a member of minor nobility and a near champion of the arenas. But he is outcast now, and is forced to hide his nature in a foreign land.
History: Kaseem Akz Duwabir was the first born son of Thakur Bruhier Akz Duwabir, a landed noble of Ghanahdpur. The city sat on the river Ghanadhd, which flowed into the Saheled and then to the sea, in the northern reaches of Sariya. It was drier and dustier than many other Sariyan cities, as it was on the southern coasts, but deeper into the interior deserts and mountains. The land was poor, and little was scraped out from it, so despite being a noble, Kaseem was not born to luxury. They were well off, but not rich, and his family had worked hard to make their lands profitable and fertile through irrigation. There were two sources of splendour in Ghanahdpur, the diamond mines, and the arena.
Slaves for the mines were always needed in Ghanahdpur and so there was never a shortage of stock for the arena. The city had one of most active arenas in all the country, and local Raja made it his business to hold some of the most magnificent games in living memory there during Kaseem's youth. And like a moth to the flame, Kaseem was enthralled by life of gladiator.
From a young age it was all he ever talked of, and fighting was all he ever trained in. His father wanted him to take up the mantle of a noble, and manage his lands and fields for when the elder Duwabir was no longer there to do so. But Kaseem wanted the arena, the fame, the glory, the title of champion. Against his father's wishes he sought it out, and he was good at it. Kaseem triumphed many times on the sands of every arena in Sariya, he became respected all, and he became adored by some. He had the makings of champion of all of Sariya within him, it was clear, with all his speed and skill and strength, the title could have easily been his given time.
But it was not to be.
Kaseem died in disgrace, outside of the arena, and there was no magic to return him whole. But return he did. A sorcerer who had been one of those who adored the handsome and dashing young gladiator more than any other fan retrieved his bones and worked the ancient spells to return a living as an undead. The undead have a place of honour in Sariya, they are ambassadors of the God Akzum, proof of the love he bears his children. But Kaseem scorned his return from the afterlife. He killed the sorcerer to resurrected him, and fled to the deserts of Sariya as a wanted man.
There he lived for many years, apart from all others save the few other undead which choose to wander in that desolate place. But in this time, this retreat the world, he remember what drove him life and found new resolve to go forth into the world of men again. He would become a champion of the arenas once more, but not in Sariya, from whence he was exiled, but in another land. So he travelled north, to the Empire Venatria. He disguised himself, and bought a slave who could read Sariyan in order to communicate with the world. For the last few years he has tried to join Gladiator houses across the empire with little luck, and has fought in the arena on occasion by himself. The games at Apulum have drawn him to them as so many others have, Kaseem is still just a moth to their flame.
Full Name: Tahir Titles/Nicknames: Slave, boy etc Age: 14 Race: Human, Sariyan Gender: Male Combat Role: N/A Assistant to Kaseem Akz Duwabir
Hair Color: Dark brown Eye Color: Brown Height: 5 feet and 2 inches Weight: 110lbs
Appearance: Tahir is an adolescent boy on the smaller and skinnier end of the spectrum for his age. His complexion is relatively light for a Sariyan, perhaps hinting an ancestor to come from other shores. His hair is brown and somewhat unkempt and is not yet old enough for a shadow of beard on either is lip nor chin. He is reasonably comely for a boy his age, although this is somewhat marred by large scar red scar that runs across his nose, which has clearly been broken at some point during his past. However, his smile has warmth to it still and his eyes don't have the dull look of slave that has been beaten into nothing by their masters.
He dresses plainly in undyed linens and a red jerkin, with sandals on his feet. They are commoners clothes, but not filthy rags.
Personality
Overview: Tahir has lived a strange life, and it has left him a strange boy. He is a contradiction in many ways, a cautious and reserved boy, who can fierce and brave when challenged, and yet can open up with such endearing vulnerability in a way that only those who are not fully adults can. He has lived a hard life, from the streets of Meroa, to the slave markets of Venatria, but its has not broken his spirit or stunted him beyond repair. He should angry and enraged at this life, and sometimes he is, but it has never taken his smile nor the sparkle in his young eyes.
While he suspicious and reserved to those who does not know, there is one person he trusts absolutely, his master Kaseem Akz Duwabir, a monster who is one of the few people who has shown him kindness. He is loyal to his master, but there is an unruly nature within him, and a heart that will one day wish to follow its own path. A heart that will undoubtedly lead to conflict with his position as a slave.
Background
Place of Birth: Meroa, Sariya Social Status: Slave
History: Tahir was born on the streets of Meroa, the son of prostitute who's birthing bed was also her death bed. While some of the other whores did try to care for him, a brothel is no place to raise a child, and mostly he came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he would sleep on one of the pallets in the back and sometimes he would sleep on the streets. Sometimes it was safer there, because those who frequented the gutter brothels were not always picky in their partners...
He stole and he fought with the other urchins and beggars that live beneath the golden towers of the richest city of the known world. But it was not a life that could last long, not in country with so many mines that needed so many slaves. He was caught by guard aged eleven stealing fruit from a merchants wagon, he had no coin to pay the fine, so his life became forfeit instead. He would have gone to mines save for one thing, he could read and write Sariyan. Not all those who lived in the gutters had been whores and beggars, some had once learned or great men of Sariya. One of those was a blind navigator called Jarrah, he could not ply is trade with no sight, but he had scraped coppers as a teacher of the streets, and thankfully for Tahir one of the whores had once sat him down at Jarrah's side to learn what he could of script.
It saved him from the mines, but it did not save him from the life of a slave. He was taken north on a ship to Venatria, he nearly died to thirst and hunger on the journey, but Tahir made it to the market. It was there that he met the man who has owned by for nearly three years now, a man named Kaseem Akz Duwabir. Kaseem needed someone who could understand what he wrote, and Tahir was the cheapest slave that could do so. They communicate through notes upon a slate, Kaseem understands Venatrian well enough but cannot write it. He taught the boy to be his mouth, to tend to his horse, to help dress him for the arena. Slowly Tahir learned to trust this silent strange corpse, and can now speak Ventarian with a somewhat broken, yet serviceable accent. He has followed his master to the games of Apulum where fortune has taken them to seek the arena once more.
To know of the Skrælingjar is to know of the Two Great Gods that made the world and how it was the land and sea came to be.
First there was nothing, only the dark. Then came the Twin Gods, Sara and Sil. They burst from the womb of the dark and in its opening, came forth the light. This light fell upon the faces of Sara and Sil, and they did become lovers and did wed.
Then Sara did make the lands, and did make the plants, and did make the animals, and last did make the people - who were Her children and She did love them.
Sil became wroth for Sara’s love, so He did make the seas, and did make the storms, and did make the predators, and last stole a child from the breast of Sara – whom He took unto the sea and did punish cruelly and did remake in His nature.
Thus the Skrælingjar were created.
- Skrælingjar Creation Myth
Background
The Skrælingjar are a people made up of eight different and independent clans, spread over as many islands. They are a fierce people, driven to raid the green lands by the nature of the rocky isles they call home and by the command of their vengeful and wroth Father-God, Sil. They believe they are his chosen people, and will only escape his wrath through the promise of even greater blood split in His name. Thus for centuries they have pillaged the coastal lands around them in order to protect their own homes and ships from disaster.
In accordance with the nature of Twin-Gods, the men are of the sea and the women are of the land. All the land belonging to a family or a clan is therefore owned by and passed down unto the female children. Conversely, all ships belonging to a family or clan are owned by and captained by the men. This duality appears and again and again in Skrælingjar culture. The domain of women is fertile and productive, therefore all children born of women belongs to her clan. The domain of men is destructive and takes, therefore all thralls taken by a man belongs to his clan. During the coldest and stormiest months, the men winter at the houses of their clan or with their wives clans if they have wedded outside of their own, although this is less common. Most of the menfolk will take their leave come the spring to sail and raid until autumn forces their return. In times gone past this would be only to war, but as the Skrælingjar learnt to eek riches out of Sil’s domain and even the harshest of Sara’s land, they have become voyages of trade as well.
The isles are poor for agriculture and mining, but Sil begrudgingly provides fish and the great grey ones to His children. With thralls to work the fields and the mines, some isles yield iron and grains, but many are still are dependent upon temperamental Sil for their sustenance, either by force or by choice. They use shallow hulled fast ships, powered by oar and sail to traverse the seas. They can also navigate large rivers, and can be beached safely without proper harbour - a useful trait for the hit and run style raiding they practice.
In appearance they are neither tall or short, though somewhat broader than the average human. Their hair is usually dark colour, dark brown or black, as are their eyes. The women wear their hair long and sleeked back with oils, the men similarly pull it back into a warrior's queue with the sides kept short. Furs and seal skin are the most common materials for making garments, although other leathers and woven garments are more common on the southern isles and the richer ones. Wealth is worn the person in torques and arm bands, and all people, men and women go armed about their business - although only men may wield swords, the women make do with long knives, axes, spears and bows. Armour is rare in the isles, with ring mail and helmets only being able to be afforded by the retinues of the Gunnar Jarls.
Clans and the Tinvaal
The clan culture of the Skrælingjar is based on matrilineal descent, children are primarily raised by their mothers and their uncles, not necessarily by their fathers. Each of the clans have a dual nature and this is reflected in their two chieftains. The island the clan is based on and all it produces is overseen by the Heimóðir, the Mother of the House (alternatively the Mother of the Hearth). The title is generally passed down to the first born daughter, but it is not unheard of for it to be passed to a younger daughter, sibling or even cousin if the heir apparent is deemed unworthy. They rule from strong houses, small defensible stone keeps that stand in the middle of their primary settlements.
The clan fleet and all it produces is overseen by the Gunnarr Jarl, the Chief Warrior or the War Chief. This title is almost always selected through merit, though heirs of famous warriors or those directly related to the Heimóðir often get precedence. From spring to autumn they rule the seas from their ships, during the winter they return to the islands, some will reside in family homes or the Strong House, whilst others will reside in great feasting halls specifically raised for the purpose of housing wintering warriors - these exist due to proscriptions about allowing warriors from other clans to sleep in strong houses as well a show of respect to Gunnarr Jarls.
However, these figures, the Heimóðir and the Gunnarr Jarls, do not exercise complete authority over the clan. Independent farmsteads and ship captains have a great degree of autonomy. Obedience is only required in calls to war and not breaking explicitly formed alliances. There is also the Seiðr to compete with, an independent structure of mystics, prophets and priests that interpret the will of Sil for the clans.
In recent times, however, the isles have become more unified than ever with the founding of the Tinvaal, a gathering of Gunnar Jarls of all the clans. It came about when the legendary war-chief Ragnar Blood-Reign of the Clan Melrakki married the Heimóðir of the Clan Otr. They then entered into alliance with Ragnar’s half-brother, the War-Chief of the Kópr, and his father, the War Chief of the Hroshvalr. With four of the clans united in alliance, some of the more powerful ones at that, the others were forced to follow suit to ensure their survival. Thus the Tinvaal was created.
The Tinvaal votes on the matters of war and trade and settle disputes between captains of different clans. It has massively increased the amount of trade that the clans do, and has limited the amount of warfare they engage with. Some have benefited from this and continue to push for this path, others, for reasons economic, religious and political, push for a return to the old ways. However, once again the clans have great autonomy and its rule is not secure, the oral histories and traditions of the Skrælingjar go back thousands of years, whereas the Tinvaal has existed for less than two hundred.
Currently the Clans represented in the Tinvaal are:
Clan Ari - Rulers of the southernmost isle (marked 1 on the map), they are known as voyagers and adventurers who travel further than all others. The Ari have the most links with the lands far to the south and often the most exotic goods in the isles land in their ports first. Traditionally one of the moderately powerful clans, as trade grows their strength waxes. Their sigil is the Eagle.
Clan Otr - Rulers of the island to the north east of the Ari (marked 2 on the map), this is the largest most fertile and agriculturally productive of the isles. Traditionally one of the most powerful of the Clans, their importance wanes in the increase of imported food goods and trading with the mainland. However, they still support a large population and raiding fleet. Their sigil is the Sea Otter.
Clan Bjarndýr - Rulers of the island to the north east of the Otr (marked 3 on the map), the uplands of this mountainous island yield the best lumber for ship building and the richest iron veins in the islands, however the terrain also constrains the clan population. Traditionally of moderate importance, cheap iron imports are undercutting the Bjarndýr's domestic production. Their sigil is the Ice Bear.
Clan Kópr - Rulers of the isle to the north of the Bjarndýr (marked 4 on the map), this island is typical of the Skrælingjar in that it is relatively agriculturally poor and lacks many natural resources. Trade has enriched this isle somewhat, but not as it has others, leaving some sceptical and in favour of the old ways. Traditionally of moderate importance, they have retained their influence thus far. Their sigil is the Seal.
Clan Fiskr - Rulers of the isle to the north east of the Kópr (marked 5 on the map), this island is small and agriculturally poor, but supports a relatively large population to its size. This is because the Fiskr are the most adept fishermen and whalers of the Skrælingjar, and their fishing fleets far outstrips those of other islands. As the populations of other islands has increased they have benefited from trading food to their neighbours, leading to further intensification on fishing. This means that they are militarily the weakest isle, but economically a strong one. Traditionally one of the weakest clans, they are now fast on the rise to wealth and power. Their sigil is the leaping Fish
Clan Melrakki - Rulers of the isle to the north of the Fiskr (marked 6 on the map), the Melrakki are the master traders of the Skrælingjar. The largest port of the isles, Port Thirsk is build in the western facing bay of the island. They are the richest of the clans, and the ones which have had the most gain out of the Tinvaal. However, this has caused great resentment towards them by others, and mutterings that they will soon be punished for abandoning the way of Sil. They are traditionally one of the most powerful clans, and have if anything increased in power in recent years. Their sigil is the White Fox.
Clan Hroshvalr - Rulers of the isle to the north west of the Melrakki (marked 7 on the map), the Hroshvalr are reputedly the greatest and most feared warriors in the isles. The location of their home, sheltered from the greater storms by the other isles, means they raid into the depths of winter. However, conversely this has also made the Hroshvalr worse sailors than other clans, as they rarely have to brave the wild open oceans. Traditionally one of the most powerful clans, they have retained their importance under the Tinvaal, but recent the incursion onto their raiding that it has increasingly placed. Their sigil is the Walrus
Clan Nāhvalr - Rulers of the northern most isle (marked 8 on the map), the Nāhvalr are considered the most conservative and traditional of the Skrælingjar. They follow the way of Sil closer than all others, and although they are fewest in number, they make up for this in zealotry. They are regarded as mysterious by the other clans and are known for producing famed mystics and warrior hermits. They have resisted all trading ways, and are the most hostile to the Tinvaal of all the clans. Traditionally one of the weaker clans, they grow more isolated and weaker still, however a recent alliance with the Hroshvalr may change their prominence once again. Their sigil is the Narwhal.
The elite ruling castes of the Principalities of Vös are Vishastani. Genetically, the Vös are essentially the same as the rest of humanity, however they do share a few traits and characteristics and distinguish them from others. The Vös are typically slightly shorter and significantly more robust and stout than average, their skin the colour of dark copper and their hair darkest brown or black.
What makes the people of Vös Vishastani is their culture, which is almost exclusively derived from the culture of the Visha. The Vös also claim blood descent from the Visha as well, noting their robust nature as evidence of this. They say that in the days of old, the beautiful daughters of the Visha were wed to the human men of Vös to create the current Vös. However, the claim of blood descent from the Visha is a very politicised one, that should not be taken at face value.
The lower castes have humans from other parts of Gaṇājya, as well as the other races that exist across the continent. The personal slave harems and household slaves of the ruling princes are particularly diverse in their racial composition.
History
The Principalities of Vös are old and soaked with the blood of ages.
They trace their origin back into the days of the old Empire of Vishashtan, when it was emerging from the Northern mountains in its violent conquest of the rest of the known world. Back in those days the Vös had been a warlike human people who eked out a meagre existence fighting one another and their neighbours for control of flocks of goats and grazing land. They were not princes back then, nor truly Vös, as much of what would come to define their culture and their society was given to them by their soon to be patrons, the Visha.
If the peoples of the ancient Vös had a talent for one thing, it would have been violence. They fought with savagery and brutality that was unrivalled amongst their kinsmen. When a Vös fought, you could think the fate of empires and armies were at stake, not a few hides of poor land and a herd of mangy goat flesh. They were inspired in their ability to kill and maim, but unfortunately something was holding them back from achieving their true capacity: weapons and discipline. The Vös were goat herders, not blacksmiths, they lacked the weapons and the armour to turn them into warriors. They also lacked a strong hand, a controlling force that could turn transform the individually deadly and barbaric Vös into a fighting force that would unite like an iron fist to crush anything in its path.
The Visha, would provide both of these.
If you are a clever, ambitious and expanding people, what do you do with a violent, yet poor and wretched neighbour? You arm them, you train them, you make them owe everything they have to you. You make them loyal. The Visha approached the Vös and became their benefactors. They gave them weaponry and armour made in their great forges and factories, they taught them tactics and strategies thought up by their superior thinkers, and most of all, they gave them supremacy over all the human neighbours of the Vös. They became masters of these violent dogs and put them use hunting down the enemies of Vishastan.
The Vös were the vanguard of the oppressing Visha armies. They fought and died as soldiers for the Visha in their wars and conquests, and in return they were rewarded with wealth, power, and stewardship of lands above grounds. And for this the Vös worshipped the Visha. They began to imitate them in all ways, dressing and grooming like them, as well as adopting the Visha tongue. They even abandoned their gods in favour of the ideology of the Visha.
Eventually, using their wealth, they moved from the narrow and poor valleys of their homelands down into the central lands of the rapidly growing Vishastan Empire, which were then rich and beautiful, for this was long before the Visha carved it up to fuel their industries and turned it to desert. Here they built fortresses and palaces atop the mountains and crags from which they ruled the surface slave populations as Rajas, all under the hand of the Visha governors. But obviously, this was not to last...
When the Empire of Vishastan collapsed into smoke and ruin, the Vös endured. Though there was revolt, civil war and conflict in those first few decades of blood and fire, the princely Rajas of Vös still rule from their mountaintop fortress-palaces. They have lost influence and land, as well as having to reform and rebuild their economies, but Vös still endures.
Society
The Vös take almost the entirety of their culture from their former Visha masters, in many ways the Vös wish to recreate the Empire of Vishastan, in their own image. However, Vös is not an Empire, it is not even united under a single ruler. The Princely Rajas of Vös are all fiercely independent warlords who rule their mountain strongholds, half fortresses, half palaces. They all fight for dominance and dominion over all the Vös but none have achieved it since the last Visha governor of Vös died over three hundred years ago.
Vös is ruled by a number of oligarch families called a 'Great House', headed by a Princely Raja. Each of the Great Houses can supposedly trace their lineage back to the Visha, and therefore, they claim this this gives them, and them alone, the right to rule. Infighting and skirmishes amongst these Houses are common, as is the use of assassins and treachery. Above the Princely Rajas, there is no formal higher authority, however, there is the Magnate.
The Maharaja (meaning: 'Great King') is considered to be the most powerful individual amongst the Princely Rajas, and therefore the most powerful man in Vös, in a given generation. Their rule is informal, and often changes between Houses and lineages upon their death and often with bloody wars of succession, but nonetheless, they do enforce a slight sense of unity and common purpose into the Vös.
Power in Vös is concentrated in the hands of the few, and wider society focuses in around the Fortresses of the Princely Rajas. There are no real large cities in Vös, most towns are settlements to support the Fortress Palaces, however, some larger market towns are developing in the region.
However, there are rules and structures which cross the boundaries of the Raja states. One of these is the Vös caste system. People in Vös are divided into seven castes, with an additional eighth caste reserved for the sacred dead ancestors, the Visha. Together these form the eight spoked wheel of existence. Within the living castes, there are three high castes, which are exclusively made up of the Vös-Vishastani, and four low castes which are made up of people of other races.
The high castes are ranked thus in order of sacredness, from most to least sacred: - Suktatar, The Warrior Caste, virtually all Rajas come from this caste - Vaitana, The Learned Caste, scribes, priests, and the mysterious enchanters are drawn from this caste - Mutareskt, The Merchant Caste, traders, merchants and large landowners
The low castes are ranked thus in order sacredness, from most to least sacred: - Junrayan, The Solider Caste, the rank and file of Vös armies, lead by Suktatar, often raised from slavery. - Kyrania, The Craftsman Caste, skilled trades people like potters, masons, or smiths - Buratpur, The Labourer Caste, unskilled workers and servants - Duriatatap, The Slave Caste, all slaves belong to this caste, they can perform any trade from the lower castes.
Men cannot change Caste unless raised by a Raja in accordance with priests of the Vaitana as well. Rajas often do this with slaves as children to raise levies for their armies. Women can marry up and down the castes, but a woman marrying from a low case into a high one is virtually unheard of.
The Vös-Vishastani worship their own distorted version of the religion of the Visha, based around the concept of acquiring divinity through conquest and dominion over the world, but with addition ideas of ancestor cult and remnants of the ancient pantheon of Vös from before their integration into Visha culture revived by the priesthood to explain the demise of the Visha.
The Vös believe that like the Visha, divinity can be achieved through shaping the world in one's own image. Great men have great karma is an old saying to this effect, that it is those who shape the world and are powerful and great, who are most holy and most sacred. Where the Vös significantly differ from the Visha is their additional focus on the veneration of the great dead, the ancestors who were most powerful and greatest in their own generations. This has lead of the widespread practice of ancestor worship of both Vös-Vishastani, and the Visha themselves.
The additional major component in Vös theology, is the concept of three primordial Gods who administer the forces of the world and effect change in it: Aem the Creator, Veloth the Preserver, and Sil the Destroyer. These were the principal three Gods of the old pantheon of Vös, originally lost to the ages, preserved only as myth, they experience a mass rival around the time of the destruction of the Empire of Vishastan.
The explanation offered by the Priests was that the Visha had erred in their application of acquiring divinity. They served the Aem the Creator in their empire building, but had neglected their worship of Sil the Destroyer, and thus he had enacted in the forces of the universe and wrought destruction upon them. The Vös survived because they were chosen people of Sil, being principally ruled by warriors who bring destruction and thereby bring honour to Sil and enact his will.
With the death of the Visha, Aem offered the place of the principal creators in the universe to the Vös, and through their survival of the crisis, they were also shown to have the favour of Veloth the Perserver as well. Therefore, whereas the Visha were unbalanced in their attainment of divinity, the Vös honour all for forces of the universe, and therefore are destined to exceed the Visha, and build an empire that will last for all of time.
Outside of the ruling classes and the Vös-Vishastani, there are many religions in Vös brought from all over Gaṇājya by the slaves taken there, mostly worshipped in secret.
Economy
The economy of Vös relies on two key cornerstones: slavery and trade routes.
The lands of Vös are now mostly poor in natural resources and infertile, after centuries of exploitation by the Visha, so the Vös make their money off of stealing and slavery. The slave markets in Vös are some of the biggest in Gaṇājya, traders come from all over the known world to buy and sell in life. Vös is both centrally placed, is a nation of slave owners, and has the military might and will to readily acquire slaves, making it an ideal hub for the slave trade.
The location of Vös is also key to its second great preserve, its taxation of foreign trade. The Princely Rajas of Vös control the southern entrances to the two central mountain passes to the north of Gaṇājya. They also control the deserts to the south of their mountain homes, where trade going between the eastern and western coasts often passes. The Vös never fail to exact their dues on the caravans and merchants that travel these routes, and should one try to escape paying, the Vös will seize their cargo as payment instead.
The secondary industries of Vös are ceramic wares, silver mining, iron mining, goat herding, and camel rearing.
Clay is abundant in the south and west, and ceramics from Vös are known to be of fine quality. There is unexploited iron veins in the north of the territory, and old silver mines dug by the Visha in the central regions. The south-east is the most fertile and best irrigated lands of Vös. All the lands have ample sandstone for quarrying.
Agriculture is the weakest link in the Vös economy, often food and virtually all lumber have to be imported from outside of their lands.
Family: House Cade, younger illegitimate brother of Lord Leoric.
Description: Ser Raymun is a tall and well built man of a martial disposition. His hair is dark with almost a hint of red to it and is kept cropped close to his head. His lower face is mostly hidden behind a thick and full beard, but it was to be shaved it would reveal a strong jaw and chin. Raymun's nose has healed crooked from being broken earlier in his youth and a scar adorns is forehead which reaches down past his thunderous brow, under which sits a single intense brown eye and an empty socket filled with a ball of polished onyx. Still, he is not an uncomely man, and could perhaps be considered handsome, albeit of a coarser nature.
He dresses plainly, preferring a mail hauberk or hunting leathers to silken cloaks or satin doublets. He goes about his business armed upon most occasions, with a dagger resting on one hip and Falchion hanging from the other. His armour is likewise, well made, but not extravagant.
In his character Ser Raymun is known to be a disagreeable and difficult man. There is a dark streak that runs through him, which some would say is a result of his mother's base born nature, and others would recognise as the influence of his lordly father, Edwyle. He is known for his fierce temper, and he often bullies and belittles those around him. He can be cruel and has several vices, such as whoring and drinking, but he is not some kind of inhuman monster. Ser Raymun does hold genuine affection for certain men he has served with, such as Hosteen Frey or the scions of House Haigh whom he is close too. He is also popular with some of the guards of Castle Tarrow for being free with his coin at the tavern and gaming tables.
Biography: Ser Raymun was born of fleeting union between Lord Edwyle Cade and a tavern wench from Saltpans in the year 273 AC. Brought by his mother to Castle Tarrow in the year of his birth, surprisingly Lord Edwyle saw the child cared for, some would say in a move to undermine his wife's position and to serve as a reminder to his heir Leoric that he was not irreplaceable. The young Raymun sought to imitate his father in many ways that he could, but was always rebuffed and never shown much affection. After the death of Lord Edwyle, Raymun was fostered out as a squire to other noble houses of the rivers in an effort to straighten him out by his brother the new lord Leoric.
He served first for a few years at House Charlton's seat of Mistlewood as squire to Ser Andrey Charlton, but after being caught attempting to seduce one of his daughters he was dismissed and returned to Castle Tarrow. Raymun was next sent to squire for Lord Jason Mallister of Sea guard, and served him during the Greyjoy Rebellion of 289 AC. He gained experience in battle during the storming of Seaguard and the subsequent invasion of the isle of Orkmont.
It was expected he would be knighted at the end of the war, but Lord Mallister refused to knight him, saying he had not shown himself worthy of the honour the title held. It was then he went to the Twins to serve, where he was eventually knighted by Ser Hosteen Frey. For years he served as a household knight for Lord Walder, and even considered attempting to marry into the Frey line. It was at the Twins that Raymun lost his right eye as a result of a drunken brawl with Black Walder Frey, this forced his departure and ultimate return to Castle Cade.
Recently, after the death of his brother's second wife, he has returned to Castle Cade in order to reassert his familial connection and perhaps position himself as a potential heir for Lord Leoric, or at the very least attempt to gain a tract of land of his own to build a manor upon.
Nicknames: Jack to his friends, Walker to most of the respectable citizens of Boca Diablo
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Likes: - Cars, motorbikes, anything that involves mechanics and going fast really. - Whiskey, especially bourbon. - NASCAR, demolition derbies, Monster truck racing - Hard Rock music, think Led Zeppelin, The Who, Deep Purple, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Van Halen etc - Dogs, Jack used to have a German Sheppard named Al - Time to himself
Dislikes: - Agricultural work, or any form of work that isn’t on mechanics - Law Enforcement, the Sherriff’s department continually suspicions rub Jack the wrong way - Polite society and small talk - People who think they’re better than him - People prying into his business
Appearance: Jack is tall man, standing over 6’1” when he’s not in boots. He’s quite rangy in his build, but his well enough muscled not seem insubstantial, hard work has kept him fit and he is yet to begin softening into middle age. His dirty blonde hair is normally pushed back off of his somewhat angular face. Around its lower half he is normally wearing several days’ worth of stumble and a cigarette can often be found dangling from the corner of his mouth. He has distinctive tattoo on his right forearm of a snake circling its away around a dagger.
Clothing wise Jack prefers muted tones, leather and denim make up a large part of his wardrobe both in and out of work. Underneath or when it is too hot he favours faded plaid shirts and vest tops. On his left hand he is large ornate silver ring with a garnet set into the centre.
Personality: Jack is a somewhat reserved man. He seems very hostile on the surface things but that’s mainly a front due to his reputation in town. In reality he’s quite a relaxed person with a dry sense of humour coupled with a healthy dose of cynicism. There’s nothing more that he likes then to take time off, have a drink, and shoot the breeze the regulars that prop up the bar out at the Roadhouse. However, he does have a temper on him, one which has cooled over the years, but can be still be woken if the right buttons are pushed.
He doesn’t talk about himself much, or appreciate people trying to pry into his life. When he wants he can be charming in a roguish sort of way, and when he first came back to the town after his self-imposed exile, he was quite a ladies man for a few years. That quietened down when the women around these parts learned more of him and his ways. He likes the chase, but doesn’t do well with commitment. Despite his seeming transition to honest labourer, there’s still something secretive and slightly shady about Jack. But he gives respect if someone’s willing to give it back, and there are a fair few people in town who do appreciate his presence.
Biography: The Walker families are one of the old families of Boca Diabola, but one of those that never really prospered. There were Walkers in that second wave of settlers that came in 1765 after the first ill-fated lost expedition. But most of branches of the family have either died out or moved away. Used to be they owned a good chunk of land in around the Keep, but bad harvests and personal tragedies have seen the families land has shrunk down to a simple small holding on the very eastern edge of Cooper Keep. Not even a proper farm, it comprises of a few acres of scrubland, woods and swamp with a rundown cabin with a rickety old barn and twenty rusting cars sat on top. Jack Walker is the last custodian of the Walker property.
It was the cabin that Jack grew up in, built by his grandfather, after his great grandfather was forced to sell off their old farm. His upbringing was fairly hard, his father, James Walker, was a man left embittered after seeing his fortunes sunk low. The small holding was a complete and utter failure and his father ended up working as an agricultural worker for other landowners, an utter humiliation for such a proud man.
They had strained relationship, Jack grew up never knowing the better times for his family, he never had the same notions about their respectability or their heritage. He made friends with other kids from the lower echelons of the town’s community. When his father tried to impress on him the impropriety of the company he was keeping, it just drove more a wedge between them and encouraged Jack to act out.
During his youth he quite the town hoodlum, getting into a helluva lot of fights and scuffles, most of which he ended up winning. He used to drink underage in the old roadhouse, and fell in with an even worse crowd than the other farm hand kids. He slung dope for a while and did worse, until he got caught trying to commit burglary on a house on the good side of town. He managed to get off light and escape charges. But none the less, his life changed that year when he was called up in the draft of ‘69 to go to Vietnam. Jack never saw much action while he was out there, the horrors of Tet offensive were already over, and later the peace held mostly until the complete withdrawal of American forces in ’73. But what did see wasn’t pretty, around 15% of G.I.s were on smack around that time, and Jack was one of them. He kicked the habit as part of the Golden Flow program (no ride home until you pass a urine test) but that and the war changed him.
When he came back to the states and was discharged he couldn’t stand go back to Boca Diabola, so he spent the next five years travelling around the west on the back of a motorbike. He lived in San Francisco for a while, just long enough watch the demise of the hippy dream before he headed back south. A few years in Dallas and then onto Atlanta, it was in ’78 that he heard his father was head.
He thought he was coming back for the funeral, but somehow he never left. The property fell to him since his mother hadn’t been around since he was little, and his only sibling (a younger sister) was starting a new life in L.A. last time he heard from her.
Jack’s never been in the same level of trouble that he was as a kid, although in small towns people have long memories, and there are rumours. He works odd jobs most of time, either agricultural work, or as a mechanic, one of the few things he is genuinely considered to be good at. He’s been quiet, but folks are still somewhat wary of him, and he isn’t particularly well liked in the town.
Other: Jack has a wide array of half junked, half built cars and motorcycles on his property. Right now he is driving or working on: - 1976 Dodge Warlock truck, dark green, his main day to day vehicle - Harley Davidson FX Super Glide - 1953 Buick Roadmaster, his main project car, currently without engine
Personality: Lem Arronson is a hard man. He’s lived a hard life, and a long one at that considering his profession. He’s tough and reliable, diligent, someone that you can depend upon. But Lem’s fortitude does not come free of cost, to get onto his right side he will require you to work equally hard and do your fair share – there are no free rides. He’s somewhat taciturn, with a patient and quiet nature and this leads him to be a cautious (yet highly skilled) fighter on the battlefield.
Despite his gruffness and unyielding nature, Lem ultimately has a good heart. If one has the patience to listen to him then he imparts advice freely, and pretty much always speaks honestly. He has dry sense of humour, although it tends towards the more grim and macabre end of the spectrum – another side effect of spending a life killing people for money.
Lem’s story is a common one. He is not an orphan, his young life was not filled with hardship or tragedy or formative suffering. He was the son of peasants, and he lived in a small village in the north of these lands where his father herded flocks of sheep for the local feudal lord and his mother worked all day in their vegetable garden. The eldest of four children that made it past infancy, he worked in the fields and pastures from a young age. Lem did not live a miserable or particularly hard life, sometimes the winters and springs were lean, and sometimes they were not. Ultimately they scraped a decent living for folks such as themselves and his family were content. Lem however, was not.
He was adventurous boy, always dreaming beyond the valleys of his childhood to the world that was outside. He wanted to see it, he wanted to be more than just another peasant, more than his father; he wanted to live. His father was not a bad man, but they clashed a lot, and sometimes he beat Lem, and sometimes Lem deserved it. One day after feeling particular discontent, his arm particularly sore from a slap of his father’s crook, Lem decided to leave his family and the life he faced ahead of him as another peasant farmer- for good.
He ran away south before is fourteenth name day, taking little with him except the clothes on his back. He had little idea of where he was going, stealing and working as a day labourer to get by. For a couple of months he lived like vagabond until one night, while sleeping in a haystack he was seized by a group of recruiters for some King’s armies, the shilling forced upon him and was pressed ganged into the service of the crown.
Now while this might seem as a set back from most people, it was really the best thing that could have happened to Lem. He was fed and clothed, given tasks to set his mind and energy to, and most of all he was given a life beyond working a plough or crook or scythe. He saw the world, fought in a fair number of skirmishes, he became a fair fighter and then a good one. After his ten years were up and he was given the choice between going back to the life of a civilian or continuing as a solider, Lem chose the latter. Although this time, he was not in service to any King, instead he joined one of the free companies of – mercenaries who do not fight for crown or glory, but for gold.
Mercenary life suited Lem even better than an enlisted man, he earned more and saw even more of the world. For six years he warred his way through the eastern lands, fighting alongside the nomads and barbarians in their never ending conflicts. He made a fortune and returned west to more settled lands, there was a woman for a while, talk of settling down and having a good, respectable life, but something went wrong and within a year Lem had drank his fortune away and returned to a life on the road. He fought wherever there was fighting needed to be done and in the process made a fair reputation and name for himself amongst the circles in which soldiers of fortune tend to move.
All of this continued uninterrupted until three years ago, when Lem’s horse was slain beneath him during a border skirmish not so far from the village of Norr. Some boy with a spear, barely a man, stepped out from behind a tree as Lem thundered past and skewered the horse in its chest. The beast fell, and Lem wasn’t quick enough to leap clear of the saddle. It landed on his right leg, crushing his knee in to bloody, broken mess. Lem survived the battle, but he would never be the graceful and truly formidable fighter he had once been.
He served on as a mercenary though, he was experienced and was still a good enough sword – especially when in the saddle. But he wasn’t quite up to the task of serving alongside his former comrades. He left the business of fighting wars and travelled working protection of merchant caravans and such. But even this more sedate travelling was hard on the leg, so one day, over a year ago he found The Strumpet and has somewhat settled down since, using his skills to keep himself in a bed, ale and hot meals.
Inventory: -Arming sword, steel with leather handle wraps, plain and nicked but in relatively good condition. -Rondel dagger, steel, used to stab between armoured plates. -Wooden kite shield, faded and chipped paint, serviceable. -Woollen tunic, leggings and cloak – natural and undyed -Leather jerkin, boots and sword belt. -Padded arming jacket and cap -Mail hauberk, steel,extends to cover arms to wrist. -Mail coif, covers head, neck and shoulders. -Coat of plates, steel and leather, extends to cover thighs and shoulders, contains built on pauldrons, steel. -Iron ‘guttering’ style vambraces and greeves -Steel sallet helmet -Whetstone -Wine skin
Extra: Lem has a horse stabled out behind the inn, a 6 year mare coloured in pale grey. Her name is Smokey.
Lem is roughly 6'1" tall and fairly lean in build.
