“Nothing lasts forever. Might as well make some waves while you can.”

An irresponsible child without the dignity expected of a noble and wholly unworthy of such a title. Nerio’s heard it and worse, and for the most part he’s happy to flip off those who badmouth him. Where he lacks in the gravitas, he makes up for it by being easy going and fairly inoffensive to get along with. Well unless the other people are bothered by a devil-may-care noble getting to enjoy life because he was born into it.

After all, he wasn’t born poor. He’s never been hungry, and he’s certainly never been forced to kill or steal to survive. He chose that lifestyle for himself for the glory and plunder, and he admits it without any shame. There’s nothing wrong with doing what he was interested in, and plus it helped him learn quite a lot. He’s definitely the sort that learns better through application and repeated practice over studying theory.

Despite his nationality, Nerio’s appearance is distinctly Arrundan and it comes largely from his mother’s side of the family. At 5’8, he has a rather lean build as one might expect of a sailor and swimmer. His dull amber eyes have been called lifeless by some, but they’re usually narrowed by a cheerful grin. Aside from his callused hands, his body is otherwise unmarked or scarred by his time at the sea.

Even now that he is attending the Academy, he prefers to stick to his well-worn and casual attire. He may be noble, but it may as well only be in name as he has never tried to play up that aspect. He does accessorize with a few pieces of jewellery like his earrings and a bracelet or two, but they aren’t of any importance or sentimental value.

Revidian is his mother tongue. He is fluent in Avincian as a maritimer and “noble”, and Perrench from his various “interactions” with their merchants and navy. His Inipori has fallen out of so much use that it would take some active effort in order to relearn it, but he still remembers it faintly.

A blackblooded Skyborn with an average RAS, Nerio focuses on speed, efficiency, and precision when it comes to his Gift. It doesn’t take much for him to fill up his capacity, and he can draw and release at a moment’s notice. Everything about his use of magic points towards a capable battlemage in the making, and it’s really all Nerio’s studied and honed his skills for. Although most of his abilities are self-learned, his foundations were laid by his father. Cirio may not have been a Skyborn, but he was an experienced battlemage in his own right, and he passed on not only the Gift to his son, but his knowledge as well.

Naturally, Nerio favors the Kinetic school of magic as a compliment to his swordplay. Infusing himself with a constant draw of energy to speed himself up and prevent enemies from simply freezing him in place. He has some familiarity with the Magnetic school as well. He has some mastery over the defensive aspects to counter Internal Chemists, but has also begun to experiment with using it alongside his Kinetic magic and swordplay. The act of trying to split his focus between several swords while fighting at the same time is something that’s proven to be an incredibly taxing strain though. It's much less taxing to simply use them as projectiles, but that's not nearly as interesting as a visual spectacle nor a challenge!

His use of Internal Chemistry is rather basic, but fairly effective. Familiarizing himself with it allows him to recognize the signs for when he needs to throw up some Magnetic defences, and being able to induce adrenaline rushes is sometimes just what is needed to tip the scales in a melee.

The strangeness of his heritage is not lost on Nerio. His mother, an Arrundan merchant, while his father, one of Revidia’s most infamous privateers? There had to be some sort of story there, and he was often regaled with tales of how his father Cirio had rescued and won Chaya’s hand from some honorless pirates. It was all very vague and only made his family situation.. confusing and messy, to say the least. His father never had an official wife, but he did have a fair number of lovers. This meant all manners of older and younger siblings and a family dynamic that was hard to grasp at the best of times.

Neither of his parents were around very often for his earliest years. His father only started to settle down by the time he was growing out of childhood, and his mother’s wanderlust still burns bright to this day. She has seemed to have made Revidia something of a home base, and there does seem to be some affection between his parents, but it’s hard for Nerio to be sure. For all that Chaya may be his biological mother, it’s hard for him to truly see her as that given the disconnect.

Given a large part of Cirio’s success came from being a powerful mage, it wasn’t a surprise that at least a few of his children inherited the gift as well. Some manifested it on their own, others were discovered during testing, and Nerio’s blood made it quite clear that he had an inclination for the gift.

As for what drove Nerio to the life of a privateer? No doubt seeing the hero’s fanfare and welcome Cirio received each time he returned to port was one of the driving forces. Growing closer to his father as his other siblings turned to other tutors and teachers was certainly another. He enjoyed the various stories and tales his father had through a rather eventful career and life on the seas.

Then there was the ever complicated situation at home. His father was still healthy and had a long life ahead of him, but there were factions being drawn among his siblings. Some of them were now old enough to hold stations of importance and were consolidating their influence and power beneath their father. It was a situation he did not want to find himself entangled in, and so he took an easy route out into the open oceans.

So he took it. His father’s old crew had continued their ways after he left, and there was always room for a mage in the ranks. Maybe he should have realized that stories from the man in charge were a shite comparison to the average sailors, but it was a bit too late for that after the ship had sailed out. Fast forward a few years later, and Nerio’s finally hit a point of stagnation in his life. He’s served and been of service to Revidia, and would very much like for a letter of recommendation to Ersand'Enise if they would please.

Nerio may not have any grand dreams or truly know what he wants from his life yet, but he does know it should be more than doing the same old routine over and over again. He may be young, but he has no desire to be a privateer for the rest of his days. The familiar waters no longer fill him with a sense of adventure and counting the days or even weeks before a mark is chosen fills him with lethargy.

If the lack of fulfillment wasn’t enough, time spent aboard a ship is not exactly conducive to furthering his abilities with the Gift. There’s only so much self-study can help him before he needs to seek out people more skilled and knowledgeable to learn from. While he has never been much of an academic and even dreads the prospect of dreary and droning lectures, he’s never shied away from a bit of suffering for the sake of self-improvement.

Whenever allowed, Nerio does carry around a sword on his person. It is quite similar to a scimitar, but blade that is both thinner and less wide. It also serves as one of his foci.
He also tends to have at least one knife on him as a habit from being on a ship.
A compass is another hold out from his time as a sailor. Also it’s just nice to have when people don’t trust his ability to find north. What sort of magnetic mage would have trouble finding north?
A few pieces of jewellery in addition to a coin pouch. Enough for a week or so of daily necessities, or one good night out on the town.
A challenge coin from the Astral. It’s something of a sentimental piece for him, and it’s pretty thick and solid for a coin. Not bad for nailing someone in the head if necessary.
He doesn’t carry it on his person, but he has a rather large tome in his room. It’s probably in poor taste, but he has collected various insignias and other markers on its pages. A little trophy case of his own so to speak.





Color Code: aba000

---

---

[ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

[ ᴀ ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ ]

[ ʟ ᴀ ɴ ɢ ᴜ ᴀ ɢ ᴇ s ]

[ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ɢ ɪ ғ ᴛ ]

[ ʙ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ ]

[ ᴍ ᴏ ᴛ ɪ ᴠ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ]

[ ɪ ɴ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ]

[ s ᴛ ʀ ᴇ ɴ ɢ ᴛ ʜ s & s ᴋ ɪ ʟ ʟ s ]

[ ᴡ ᴇ ᴀ ᴋ ɴ ᴇ s s ᴇ s & ғ ʟ ᴀ ᴡ s ]

[ ᴍ ɪ s ᴄ ᴇ ʟ ʟ ᴀ ɴ ᴇ ᴏ ᴜ s ]

raises index finger upwards and twirls it before opening and closing fingers together several times. Proceeds to then raise middle finger vigorously for the course of several minutes before thumbing downwards and then, splaying fingers outwards and waggling them. Stops motioning before skittering off and returning with a piece of chalk to draw on a chalkboard*

*IF I CAN DO ALL THAT WITH JUST FIVE FINGERS, IMAGINE WHAT YOU COULD DO WITH ALL YOUR LIMBS, YOU KIDS.*

A pale, emaciated puppet of flesh and skin skin traipsing around on five knobbled fingers. The stump from where he was extracted from his original body has now healed over with a white patch of scar tissue, although, it is slightly misfigured with the anterior surface of the radius jagging outwards.


Quincy is fluent in all languages, with the exception of Yasoi dialects, although, he prefers writing in Avinician because it tires him out less.



He's just a hand. A miracle of Dark magic, perhaps, but there's not a drop of magical talent in him.

However, he's really good at making teenagers freak out.



Quincy T. Chad - if that even is his real name, seriously, who named him? - is the former reanimated left hand of Chad Errington, an Magusjaeger from West Revidia who fought in a territorial dispute of a fishing port between the Kingdom of Perrence and the Confederation of Revidia. Chad perished in the battle but not before his corpse was stolen by Mardru Belgonia, a binder of prodigious talent and hypothesized by many to be the first Dark Mage (Which has been thoroughly debunked. I mean, Dark Magic is just superstition and fairy tale stupidity.). Using unknown reagents and a process which cost him his life as Arch-Zenos broke down the door to his lair, a hand was imbibed with sentience and thus, Quincy was born.

For a century since that incident, Quincy was locked in a glass jar and prodded at by the Arch-Zenos of Ersand'Enise whereby Quincy was locked in a existential state of crisis over coinciding his newly found sentience and the fact that he had no penis, legs, arms or a mouth for which to scream with. It was only the last decade of his solitude that he decided enough was enough and began to move. Unfortunately, ninety years of being stuck comatose in a depressed state led to him immediately suffering cramps and muscle pains which were interpreted as seizures by the Arch-Zenos observing his captivity. When Quincy proved his sentience and argued for his release strenuously to the Arch-Zenos of Ersand'Enise, it was agreed that he would stay at Ersand'Enise as there was no place in the hostile, ignorant world to a disembodied hand such as him.

Thus, Quincy T Chad was born. Many a new student regard him as a monster whilst graduates and alumni of Ersand'Enise have regarded him as an odd fixture of this proud academy.

Then, one day, he was assaulted by Mallow, thus starting one of the famous feuds of all time.



Quincy T Chad wants to prove to the world that a living hand like him can still prosper amongst us humans and also, fuck that piece of shit goose, Mallow, seriously



Quincy usually dons himself in a plate gauntlet for protection against students who may trample on his fingers and the wary ambushes of Mallow, the Goose-Slayer of Ersand'Enise. There is little a hand can carry on his person so Quincy has adopted the help of a carrier pidgeon who ferries his belongings across Ersand'Enise. However, this carrier pidgeon has often mistaken him for an animal or another mindless object. Thus, numerous incidents occur where Quincy is dumped into the waters of the arboretum and must await for an Arch-Zeno to fetch him.

Quincy also carries a small bar of soup strapped to a wrist-belt alongside a piece of chalk to help communicate with students and to ensure that he is not a cursed object sent to kill them all.








Anything not covered above goes here. You can leave this blank if you like.

"I haven't lost anything, and nothing's bad but... I haven't done anything. I haven't managed to do one single thing yet."

Raised in an orpanage, Mayu understands the hardships of life despite her young age. Since for as long as she can remember, Mayu has lived for others. Be it acting as a maternal figure for the younger kids in the Sugarplum Orphanage or demonstrating filial piety towards her new adoptive parents. Mayu is extremely empathetic, taking on the emotional burdens of others whenever she can.

In spite of the implications that come with her self imposed responsibility for others, Mayu maintains her cheerful nature, always looking for silver linings. It is no surprise that people easily develop a fondness for her and often want to protect her innocence. Behind her bright personality, Mayu is full of insecurities. She suffers from low self esteem and constantly belittles her own accomplishments. Being too humble can be a negative thing; Mayu finds it hard to articulate her true opinion, often letting others dictate her decisions when push comes to shove. Most of all, Mayu doesn't believe she's contributed enough to those around her.



Mayu stands at just 148 cm, which makes her petite even for her age.

Though Mayu's true heritage remains a mystery, she possess distinctive Rettanese features, particularly those of the Kanjikish. Mayu has a light complexion with pale ivory skin. This is complemented by her warm, honey brown eyes. She has a round face and a cute stubby button nose. The one exception to her Rettanese features would be her strawberry blonde hair, indicating one of her parents might have been Eskandish or Perrench. She often braids the left side of her hair.

In spite of her new status as nobility, Mayu appreciates modest looking fashion, preferring not to stand out. She often dresses in plain skirts, preffering to choose from various tops when she wants to switch things up. Mayu is always spotted wearing her signature daisy hairpin, a gift from her adoptive mother that she treasures greatly.


As she was originally a Rettanese citizen, Mayu is fluent in both Rettanese and Avincian. She is able to speak multiple dialects of the former. Since her adoption, Mayu has put in a considerable amount of hard work to pick up Perrench which she can speak fluently, albeit with a slight accent.


Mayu's RAS score stands at 6.1. Though her RAS score is not particularly noteworthy, Mayu is talented in drawing. She was able to do so as a child without any tutelage nor arcane foci at a respectable range.

Mayu is primarily a chemical mage and takes on arcane magic as her secondary. Her particular choices in her schools lie not in conventional reasons such as their exponential nature, efficiency or combat potential but rather the applications of these schools in molecular gastronomy. Mayu is a chef! Any capable chef undersands the importance of temperature and chemistry in cooking. Through use of chemical magic, Mayu is able to induce a plethora of effects to enhance her cooking. She can amplify the chemical reaction between leavening agents and acid, allowing her to make extra fluffy pastries without hindering the taste. Transglutaminase is often used to bind meat together and Mayu is able rapidly speed up the binding process while simultaneously hindering bacterial growth.

The ability to manipulate temperature allows Mayu's cooking to be essentially immaculate. As opposed to using an open flame which varies in temperature, Mayu can steadily output heat to cook ingredients to their exact doneness. Steak can be cooked to be exactly medium rare, her carrots are always tender yet not mushy and eggs! Perfectly poached eggs or creamy omelets that are never dry. With her studies in magic far from complete, Mayu's potential in the culinary world has yet to be fully unleashed.


Mayu was orphaned at birth at the Sugerplum Orphanage. When the caretaker to the orphanage had found her at their doorstep, whoever had left her there were nowhere to be seen. The Sugerplum Orphanage was a small orphanage located in Sarazu, a mid-sized city in Rettand. Managed by a single caretaker, the orphanage survived through donations from various good Samaritans. Mayu's childhood, while rather uneventful, was a good one. Though the orphanage could not offer them much, the children were for the most part, happy.

This all changed when Mayu awakened to her latent magical abilities on her ninth birthday. It had been a particularly cold Hundri and donations to the orphanage were at an all time low, leaving them unable to afford firewood. Unable to watch her fellow children freeze, Mayu subconsciously began drawing heat energy from the surrounding buildings in order to warm up the orphanage. Everyone, including herself, soon started realizing what she was doing. News soon spread and scouts from various academies and noble families swarmed the orphnage in hopes of acquiring her for themselves. It soon became apparent to Mayu that she would be taken against her will; away from those she cared about and likely forced into servitude. It was a terrying prospect for a nine year old.

Things looked grim until the Iovina House approached the orphanage. Thomas Iovina and Julliete Iovina, a Count and Countess hailing from Perrence, had been passing through Sarazu whilst celebrating their ninth anniversary when they heard their servants chatting about the local gossip. Thomas had found it amusing Mayu's age coincided with their ninth anniversary and proposed the idea of taking Mayu under their entourage to his wife. She was very much for the idea as it felt like a symbol of good luck. Unlike the other scouts who seeked Mayu's potential for their own gain, the offer the Iovina's gave to Mayu was far more enticing. She would be treated humanely as a servant. She would be given a degree of freedom; she could write to the orphanage and stipulated amount of free time. She would even be allowed to visit the orphanage once a year. They would also drop a relatively significant donation to the orphanage out of goodwill. Given her situation, even the nine year old Mayu realized it was not an offer she could refuse.

Mayu's story doesn't end here. Over the course of the next year working for the Iovina House, Mayu's affable personality and new found magical cooking grew greatly on Julliette. In spite of their attempts, the Iovina House had remained without child and Mayu was like the daughter she never had. She proposed formally adopting Mayu to Thomas. He had initially found the idea preposterous; adopting a commoner and declaring her their heiress? They were not only nobles but a Count and Countess! But even tradition could not stop him from giving into his wife. Years of frustration and depression had eaten at her and yet Mayu's presence made her smile like the Julliete of old. His wife's happiness meant more to him than gossip from fellow nobles.

One would not be surprised if the windfall of becoming a heiress to a noble family would have tempted Mayu with ambition or greed and yet... it did not. She never forgot her humble origins and made use of her new found privileges to visit her previous foster family more. Mayu put in hard work in order to adjust to the life of a noble in order to do her new parents proud. Even Thomas Iovina himself found himself treating her as if she was truly his own.

The decision to enroll in Ersand'Enise, much to her parents surprise, came from her. Mayu was ready to take first step into the second phase of her life and they were all for supporting her.


Mayu's motivations mostly revolves around others. She's aware that the decision her parents made in adopting her has sparked much controversy and gossip amongst fellow nobles. Though her parents don't seem to mind, Mayu believes it's her responsibility to become a distinguished magus in order to not shame the Iovina House. The prestige and power that come with would also allow her to help the less fortunate.

She dreams of one day setting up her own magical culinary school. She envisions it as an environment where like minded mages can share their culinary innovations. A place where magic can be used for the joy of others and not conflict.

" Money. Sex. Academic studies. A Life. There is nothing, but Atomic Magic and Sigma radiation. Only true Sigmas ignore reality and focus on absorbing Sigma radiation. All of you are lowly alphas, betas and gammas, absorbing your pitiful standards of radiation whilst I shine, ascending to become of the Quintic gods.

Hail the Sigma Grindset. "

When one looks at Tyatlov, they can see the clear physical indications of what absorbing Sigma radiation has done to him in pursuit of the Sigma Grindset. The cranial domes of his hairless forehead are the peak of embracing sigma radiation. After all, only those who absorb alpha and beta radiation deserve what they get: fully haired foreheads. Several large engorgements and beautiful protrusions stretch his skin apart, ripe to burst with Sigma radiation.

It doesn't matter what the Binding and Chemical mages say or how painful Tyatlov feels whenever his heart tries to beat. The only way to achieve the true Sigma grindset is to ignore your own health and focus solely on absorbing Sigma radiation.


Tyatlov only speaks the language of the Sigma, which is to say none. Multiple cerebral tumors in his frontal and cerebral cortex from drawing of Sigma radiation in the Earth's core have allowed him to process and understand the language of the Sigma which may be an unintelligible stream of gibberish combining syntax and words from various other languages and their associated dialects across Constantia.

Only a true Sigma is able to interpret his holy words, which is to say there is none because everyone else is a beta radiation absorber.



Tyatlov possesses the mightiest RAS level of 9.999999999999999, a feat that has astounded the Arch-Zenos of Ersand'Enise and one Tyatlov knew could only be achieved by bathing in Sigma radiation and devoting his life solely to the study of Atomic magic. However, he has cast aside all distractions of improving his gifts and learning spells which is what those who would absorb beta radiation would do. A follower of the Sigma Grindset does not need to associate himself with the trivialities of those betas who cast spells and duel one another. All magic is inferior to Atomic magic and the most superior of Atomic magic is the way of the Sigma. Only those who absorb Sigma radiation endlessly in one spot without moving will achieve the Sigma Grindset.



Tyatlov once was a lowly commoner leading a life in a uranium mine somewhere in East Severa, leading a simple life absorbing beta radiation and submitting to his peers who absorbed gamma radiation. One day, after ignoring protests from his beta co-workers distracting themselves with his safety and asking why a child was mining radioactive material with them, he played audience to Lierre Thebas, a merchant mage who espoused to an audience of angry middle-aged men and enterprising young merchants about the Sigma philosophy alternatively known as the Sigma Grindset.

It was intriguing to Tyatlov as he overheard the theory espoused by the well-manicured merchant. The universe was ordered by frequencies of radiation with the highest frequency being the most superior and the lowest frequency being the most inferior. Sigma radiation was the most highest and therefore, was the most superior. Those who absorbed the most Sigma radiation and avoided death would rise to the top of the social hierarchy and ascend to a level beyond those of the Quintic Pentad.

It was thus that Tyatlov decided that he would enter deep into the uranium mines to meditate and absorb radiation until he would achieve the Sigma Grindset at the age of 5. His co-workers tried to prevent him from achieving his destiny, those beta fools. He entered deep into the mines and sat and sat without eating or drinking. It was painful at first as the Sigma radiation bathed his body, weeding out the impurities and rendering his soul pure. However, after 10 years of bathing in constant Sigma radiation, he emerged with one of the highest RAS levels.

The Arch-Zenos immediately allowed him to enroll at Ersand'Enise, citing his immense RAS levels from absorbing the vaunted Sigma radiation as the decision for his entry. Tyatlov however decided to ignore his studies and instead, published a book on the Sigma Grindset to sell to more angry middle-aged men like his idol, Lierre Thebas.



To become the ultimate Sigma male.



None. A Sigma male needs nothing aside from his own body, his focus, his will and the ability to ignore money, women, sex and other schools of magic aside from Atomic Magic.








The Sigma Grindset is All.

When asked by a member of the Aesthetic Society, "What do you feel when you shoot some poor mage?" his reply was, "Recoil."

---

---

Manfred is a consummate professional. Despite his parents' doubts about his chosen path, or perhaps because of them and his experiences in war, he's dedicated himself to his craft with the utmost conviction. In his approach to others, Manfred will always treat them with decency and professionalism unless they have done something to deserve differently. However, practically speaking, to those who don't know him, this behaviour can come across as cold and, in all honesty, it often is. Manfred isn't a shell of a man, but he's seen things that most people his age haven't and he doesn't feel much connection to his peers as a result. Besides, he knows that these are all monsters in the making and he doesn't have the energy to try to save them all. If he knows someone well, that would be another matter, but he prefers not to get attached. Things are less complicated that way and he doesn't like complications.

Manfred also prefers people who are what they claim to be. He has little time for liars, manipulators, and decadent types. Being honest and useful and maybe subtly stroking his ego without seeming sycophantic is the path to getting Manfred to like you. If he catches you in a lie, he won't hate you. He'll just stop trusting you and you'll never see any side of him beyond the professional. Betray him and, for all that he seems cold, this is one of the few things that tends to make his blood run hot. Manfred will appear to shrug it off. He'll wait. Sooner or later, he believes, Dami-Zept balances everything out. He will take his revenge and it will be decisive and deserved.

In general, Manfred is a devout Quentist, who carries a pocket-sized copy of the Ruhrich (the Menana) on him at all times, but he also appreciates the wisdom of the Angic Philosophy of Rettan. Despite being a member of the nobility, he views the regular lording of their powers over ungifted people and the violent and unaccountable excesses of most mages with deep distaste bum in the name of his faith, he counsels himself to keep an open mind. It isn't easy and it's only getting harder.


Manfred is slightly taller than average height for a Kerreman. He has deep brown hair and grey-brown eyes. He's not bad looking, but doesn't stand out as handsome. He's old enough that he's grown a decent amount of stubble and has to shave. As a member of the nobility, he has access to fine clothing and will dutifully wear it when appropriate, taking pride in his appearance. However, he prefers a simple doublet and vest of quality materials, with a leather belt, breeches, and sturdy boots for his everyday wear. His clothes often show evidence of cat hair, despite his best efforts to keep them clean. He has four of the exact same outfit and a fifth, slightly more styled, for the day of worship. He launders his clothes on the fourth day of the week and lets them dry on the fifth. He believes in doing this himself and will only hire a washerwoman if she's especially pretty his schedule is especially busy. Manfred can also sometimes be found in a uniform of military cut, complete usually with a coat in the Navy Blue of the Kerremandic Crown. When in the field, he wears a bandoleer with ammunition pouches, a rapier at one hip, a wheel-lock pistol at the other, and a marksman's rifle slung over his shoulder.


Manfred speaks Kerremanic as a mother tongue, as well as fluent Avincian. He knows Perrench as a matter of practicality and can understand some Holmanian because it is more or less mutually intelligible with his native language. Besides, it's useful to know the tongue of your enemy. He'd like to pick up some yasoi too, for similar reasons. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a tutor these days.


Manfred's use of the Gift is rather pedestrian. Technically, he falls within the lower average range for a magus, but his family has a strong martial tradition and, as a second son, he is expected to take an officer's commission in the army. The problem is that he would rather be anything but a mage and, even if he were to be one, he'd be only a middling mage at best. The graveyards of Constantia are full of middling mages. To this end, he has decided to eschew tradition and train as a magusjaeger. In this capacity, Manfred's use of the Gift is wholly practical. His primary school is Kinetic, which helps him guide bullets, provides an abundant drawing source, and can help stop incoming projectiles. He has enough capacity to function at a higher defensive level than the average magusjaeger. His secondary schools are Arcane and Magnetic. The first is for the magnification, stealth, and low-level illusion abilities, which he is quite good with. In a dim space and if he's more or less still, Manfred will be effectively invisible. Meanwhile, Magnetic provides some manipulation of metals - useful on a battlefield - as well as protection against internal chemical spells and an alternative way to alter the course of his shots and others'. He has precisely zero interest in magic beyond what it can do for him in a practical sense. He has grown up around practitioners of the Gift and is inured to its uses. He finds no wonder in it - just a tool.


Manfred comes from a long and distinguished line of viscounts. None of his forebears have been famous mages, but many have been respectable or even notable. His family are Grafs (counts) and hold stewardship in the Queen's name over a large swathe of mostly rural farmland. It is good and rich land and a portion of it is reserved for the estate that Manfred grew up on and its surrounding hunting grounds. From an early age, Manfred enjoyed hunting with his two brothers, Jurgen and Klaus. They would spend hours outdoors in the warm months, often on horseback.

He grew up, in many ways, as a normal boy of his country and station. Then, the Holmanians attacked. Seeking to take advantage of Kerremand's distraction, desperate, bony bands of yasoi launched raids over the border. Jurgen was old enough to be attending Ersand'Enise up north, and Klaus was but a boy, but Manfred had entered his teens and joined his father on the fields of battle. Only beginning to develop his talents at that age, he was given a largely ceremonial posting as morale officer.

It started simply enough. He would go out to meet the troops in their camps or on the march and speak with the non-commissioned officers - sergeants, corporals, and the like. He'd encourage them, sing some marching songs while they politely watched, and go report back to the higher ranking officers - most of them magery or cavalry. Then, the army saw battle. It was against the Holmanians under General Gorf Von Mikkelstern of Albesatz-Zuber: the Iron Duke, and they outnumbered his forces by double. Yet, Manfred could do little but survive and hope. The heavens crackled with thunder. The air reeked of blood, shit, and ozone. Did you know that human flesh, when slightly cooked, has a sweet smell? A sickeningly sweet smell? Manfred will never forget that smell. And so he watched mages fling thunderbolts across the sky. He watched knights roasted alive inside their armour by Arcane magic. Great chains, their iron links caked with rust and old blood, scythed across the battlefield, breaking human bodies. Soldiers - men he knew - who he had sung and marched with, who'd called him 'little lord' and laughed and patted him on the back after giving him a swig from their flasks... he watched them fed into the meat grinder of the enemy's magery - and their soldiers fed into his.

And nobody gained an inch of ground. A soft rain began and the two armies retired from what had been a grassy field and was now a wasteland. All night, he heard the voices: calling for their mothers, praying for Oraff-Zept to save them, for Ahn-Eshiran to take them, crying. Grown men were not supposed to cry and Manfred couldn't take it. He wandered out of his tent in the darkness, right to the edge of the battlefield, and there they were: crawling and dragging torn, boiled, and ravaged bodies through the muck. Manfred recoiled. His heart beat faster and the pressure mounted in his eardrums. Grey Rezaindians shuffled along, lanterns swinging in the blackness, gathering the dead. It did not matter whether they were Kerremandic Grey Rezaindians or Holmanian Grey Rezaindians. They were all Grey Rezaindians. The wails rose, carts shambled past, and eventually, the greys gave way to White Rezaindians who drifted in like ghosts in a fog. A lick of flame it'd be. Every once in a while, they'd stop and there would be a wail, and brief, intense burst: Ahn-Eshiran's gift to the maimed and the dying.

The armies met the next day. Manfred huddled by his father in the magery. The cavalry was dispatched to distract the enemy mages and there was a twinkle in the graf's eyes when he told his son 'you won't want to miss this, my boy." The magery of Kerremand eliminated the King's Own Lassanzee Fusiliers in less than a minute and, with it, almost every grown man from the Holmanian village by that name. There was scarce time to celebrate. The enemy had not been idle. A pair of Internal Chemical Mages had light-bent to slip behind Kerremandic lines and he saw people melt from the inside - their eyes bubbling out of sockets, the skin sloughing away in sickly colours, and a foul yellow gas seeping like death across the battlefield. Then, one looked at him and he felt the start of a pinch and knew that, at age fifteen, it was time to make his peace with the gods.

Only, it wasn't. The cruel grin on the mage's face froze in a mask of shock and he fell face-first, dead, a smoking hole through the back of his head. Moments later, the second mage fell. Nobody saw the magusjaegers who'd done it. They worked silently. They did not ask for accolades. They just did their jobs, and that had saved Manfred's life.

For the very first time, the Iron Duke lost in open battle. Truly, it was a Pyrrhic victory, for he had bled the Kerremen just as dry as they had bled him but, around that time, Kerremand had a bit more than its neighbour in the way of young men. That night, Manfred joined the commanders of the army in the general's tent, drinking, feasting, and singing songs about how Holmanian women are whores and how their men make good fertilizer. Most of them were mages. They weaved their hands through the air as they described how they'd cut this guy in half or blown that one's head up like a firework. At some point, pumped full of beer as a sort of mascot, they boy excused himself from the tent on the pretense of having a piss. Some of the soldiers were singing and drinking too. Some were not. The ones who were dead certainly were not. There was one particular group that drew his attention, though: small, aloof, and dressed in dark clothing. They sat in silence in the night, the embers of their pipes and tips of cigars burning like fat orange fireflies. The magusjaegers were cleaning their rifles. They spared glances out at the battlefield, already preparing for their next fight.


Manfred is at Ersand'Enise out of obligation. As a Hohenfelter, he was signed up for the school from the moment the previous cohort entered, and there was never any option not to go. He masks his utter hatred for mages and what they represent with a mask of cold professionalism, ever worried about slipping back into the comforting normalcy of a decadent noble lifestyle. He still feels a sense of duty to his family and country, however, and will do nothing to shame or disgrace them. Regardless, aside from what he can learn of light-bending and countering internal chemical magic, he would rather be just about anywhere else.


Manfred has a chest full of clothes. He carries a ring with the seal of House Hohenfelter, a quill, some ink, and a small journal. The customary coin purse is there, and his is well-stocked. Try to sneak up on Manfred and pickpocket him. See what happens. Finally, he carries a magnifying glass on him. This item serves two purposes: one is for practice with light-focusing and the other is as a light for his cat. A large orange Ragamuffin, Kürbis is given free reign of whatever Manfred's current living space is and is an excellent mouser. He is also just about the only thing that you will ever see Manfred show affection for. Also, he has guns - lots of them, and they are very good ones. Swords and knives too.

"In this place, you can either get ahead or get behind. I see too many others just stepping back to bask in how that Gift of theirs makes them feel, and then not even noticing when it starts withering like some plucked flower. They’re getting behind… I’m getting ahead."

In contrast to his somewhat undeserved reputation at home as a layabout and a scoundrel, Selio is a rigorous academic that will go to almost any length to see the task in front of him through. It is this determination to succeed that saw his entry to the Ersand’Enise Academy in the first place. This dedication to learning goes hand-in-hand with a ruthlessly competitive spirit and a compulsion to move up in the world. The trouble lies in his reaction to all the stress and pressure that comes with the work he tends to accumulate. At the best of times, the youth has a short temperature and volatile emotions, and he is liable to crack under pressure, making spur-of-the-moment, irrational decisions. In order to burn off stress, he sometimes will make impromptu trips to the seediest part of town he can find and disappear for hours at a time.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Selio often desires approval and attention, and he relies on others more than he believes himself to. Those who can tolerate the occasional outburst will find in the young noble a steadfast friend.

At heart, Selio is a healer, but his desire to succeed sometimes trumps his somewhat underdeveloped sense of empathy and he can needlessly complicate situations where his help is unwanted.


A slight and gangly youth, Selio has already grown to be 5’11” and doesn’t seem to be quite finished growing just yet. He has the typical Torragonese complexion - deeply tanned skin, dark brown eyes and thick black hair. His hair is worn long and usually gathered at the nape of his neck. Selio’s face is long, angular and solemn, which would conceal his emotional nature if not for the near-permanent furrow in his brow.


Torragonese - Native
Avincian - Fluent
Belzaggic, Revidian - Partial understanding



Late into his childhood, Selio’s strong affinity for Binding manifested itself when he accidentally drew magical energy from his surroundings during a game in the sands outside of his family’s estate. Thankfully, no one was injured, and the young Selio was immediately provided with a tutor - the only mage of similar talent in the area, an old and often drunken man who also took over the majority of the boy’s education in mathematics and sciences. Over time, the youth showed a prodigious talent for healing given his magical capacity, and he received rudimentary training in medicine as well. Finally, in the final years before the fateful day when his brother was found murdered, Selio began his studies into chemical magic and the effects various chemical reactions had on the natural world around him. After his brother’s murder, he was no longer able to study magic in his own home, and so upon his enrollment at Ersand’Enise, he promptly took up right where he had left off previously. His primary school is Binding, with a focus on healing, with a secondary study in Chemical Magic, focusing on offense to complement his primary magical weaknesses.



At first glance, the nation of Torragon seems daunting in its size and power - a monolith, complete in the function and motivation of all its parts, moving inexorably towards the goals of the crown. From his vantage point in the Torragonese noble class, however, Selio came to have quite a different understanding of his home country - one in which Torragon is a nest of vipers; serpents eating for their own in a climb towards the top of the pile. Selio’s family, the modest House of Taraves, had, over the years, worked its way to the bottom of the pile by accumulating debts and hemorrhaging wealth and territory. Located near the passes into the arid northern sands, the Taraves’ territory had few subjects and little in the way of natural resources. They had managed to stay afloat, unlike those sent to settle the desert itself, though just barely.

There was one hope for redemption for House Taraves: Selio’s eldest brother, Imeran. Though young, Imeran showed immense political acumen and was all but ready to take the reins of leadership of the house from their aging father. Tragedy struck in a particularly cruel way, however, when the scion of the family was found senselessly murdered on the street in the midst of a routine trip to a nearby town. No motive other than assassination was determined, no culprit found. The method was particularly heinous - death by blood magic.

As a talented practitioner of binding magic, Selio found himself beset by suspicion from those outside his family, even longtime friends that he trusted. From within the confines of the Taraves estate, he was met by thinly-veiled disdain from his parents, who had always compared him to his brother and looked with scorn on both his preference for study over politics and his tendency to get into trouble and mischief. Behind closed doors, it was determined that the ‘troubled’ youth could not hope to carry on the house’s legacy, and so Selio was sent away. His parents were not totally unsympathetic - they recognized the importance that becoming a skilled mage held for their son, and so they sent him to study somewhere where his practicing of binding magic would not stir up hushed, frightened whispers of fratricide.

Selio, for his part, has struggled to cope with his brother’s sudden death. Despite the pain that his parents’ scorn brought him, he loved his brother. He has resolved to make a name for himself in his new life, by any means necessary, but he hasn’t forgotten his home, or resigned himself to move forward without finding the truth.



Selio first set foot on the grounds of Ersand’Enise with two distinct goals in mind.

First, to become the greatest mage and healer that he possibly can, for fame, glory, and influence. Attending such a world-renowned place of learning is a unique opportunity for the young noble from a down-on-their-luck family to make a much larger impact on the world.

Second, to learn more about forbidden magics such as, for instance, blood magic, and to see justice brought to those who misuse said magics for abhorrent purposes. Particularly, to find out if there is any way to locate the person that murdered his brother.


A well-crafted waterskin: old habits die hard. Water is a precious thing in northern Torragon, and the young Selio still carries his filled waterskin on his person to most places, as a measure of security against a scarcity rendered uncommon so far from home.

Yatagan sabre:

All of the Taraves children had some training at arms, as befit noble persons in a hostile environment. Selio received rudimentary, yet thorough training in swordplay, archery, and marksmanship. Out of these, he showed a particular affinity for blades. When he was hastily packing for his trip to Ersand’Enise, he was permitted to take a weapon from the armory, should he need it. This older sabre in a slightly out-of-fashion style was one of the few that could be spared, but nevertheless its light weight, good balance and slender, sinuous blade suit Selio’s fighting style rather well. It is somewhat ornate, yet this is offset by signs of age and wear.

Belt knife: Single-edged, with a slight curve to the tip, with a polished and heat-treated black palm grip. Selio has carried this knife for years, and it comes in handy for a variety of purposes (though most commonly, it was used to trim quill pens and peel fruit).

Others: A modest sum of coins, mainly Torragonese but with a few new additions from currently closer locales. Several changes of clothes, ranging from the formal to the practical, several in-progress quills, and a small pin with the sigil of his house.








*cough*