You will never freeze in Ersand'Enise. In fact, I've found you're unlikely to sneeze. You might even think that it's not a big deal, but if you were Eskandish, you would know how I feel.

Marlijn is the oldest daughter of an Eskandish viscount and has a twin brother, Owain, who she's older than by half an hour. He never hears the end of this. In general, Marlijn is much for clever quips and quick comebacks. She plays the cultured young lady quite convincingly and is well-heeled enough to understand her duties and ultimately, with some grumbling to confidantes, abide by them. She's a bit of a wild child deep down, though: not quite a tomboy, but treads right on the edge of that. She has a soft spot for animals and spends as much time out in the forest or putting her horses through exercises as is socially appropriate. Then, she returns to her studies with perhaps less diligence than she should. She's the kind of person who tends to fall right in the middle of the pack academically. She isn't dumb; she just can't be bothered to jump through all of those hoops with any real enthusiasm. She saves that for the physical and social sides of things.

Though she's a quick talker, good liar, and a bit of a charmer, Marlijn isn't much for gossip and even less for people who talk down to her. Being a low-middling noble is not always easy. Those below you look up jealously and seek to challenge your authority and those above you are the most snobbish sorts who enjoy looking down on you. The world is annoyingly complex and, though Marlijn usually feels as if she's up to the challenge of it, it's oh-so tiring at times and she'd rather things just be simple. Her facade of demure noble feminine virtue is less-than-perfect in these moments and she has the reputation of being a serial eye-roller. She once told her brother, only half-jokingly, "I'm over it, you know? All the being a show pony and smiling and curtsying and talking to people who don't really wanna be talking to me either. Just like... let me find a decent husband who isn't twenty years my senior or smells like turnips and sweat. Set me up with a nice little keep somewhere not-awful. I'll pop out a few kids, get deep into my cups with the other local ladies, yell at my servants a bit, and then just get to do the things I wanna. That'd be nice. That's a happily ever after, right?"


Simply put, Marlijn is very pretty and, in her less insecure moments, she knows it. She's tall and slim, with bright blue eyes, long auburn hair, and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She looks a couple of years older than she is and most people are surprised to learn that she's only sixteen. There's usually a twinkle of something mischievous in her expression, and you sometimes wonder what must be so funny in her head. Spoiler: it usually isn't what you think.

When she doesn't have to be presentable for others, Marlijn dresses for comfort: a simple tunic and loose, light ankle-length skirt in earthy tones. The ensemble is completed with a cloak and riding hood held together with a gold clasp in the shape of a bee, some sturdy boots, and a belt with pouches. Her hair is usually draped over her shoulder in a loose braid or double ponytails. Of course, Marlijn all dressed up aims to impress. While she isn't much for frilly dresses and prefers clothing that leaves her unencumbered, she'll happily wear ostentatious jewellery. She likes bold and striking patterns, particularly in her house's colours of sapphire blue, gold, and white.


Marlijn finds sitting with a tutor and learning languages to be just about the most tedious thing in the world. She's fluent in her native Loh Eskandish, of course, and passable in Avincian. She's also picked up a few Revidian and Perrench words and phrases from her regular visits to the port of Pesperdam on family business. That's about it. Secretly, she feels a bit intimidated by the northern nobles with their flawless Avincian and self-conscious about her accent and less-than-perfect way with the language since she's used to being quite clever with words in her native tongue.


Marlijn is above average but not exceptional in terms of The Gift, kind of like she is with most things. She prefers drawing from kinetic and arcane sources and favours two styles of magic: the practical things that'll help her look after her horses, make her life easier in small ways, and allow her to augment her performances, as well as illusion magic. She shares a tutor with her brother and, for reasons unknown to either of them, finds it the most amusing thing in the world to just appear in places or pop out of nowhere and scare the living daylights out of people. It's not as if she has any ambition to do sinister things. Being able to alter what people see and turn literally freakin' invisible is just cool, she supposes. As long as Marlijn stands still in a place where the light isn't changing too much, she can actually already go invisible. How awesome is that!? For what it's worth, she isn't bad with Magnetic casting either, because lightning is cool too.


Marlijn sometimes feels as if she's not even the main character in her own life. Her upbringing has been, for the most part, utterly unremarkable. Her father is a typical lower-middling noble (a viscount) who looks after his lands, holds court twice per week with the commons and representatives from Pesperdam Town's guilds, and has various little projects going. He complains at not being high-ranking enough to be invited to the college of electors, and tries to petition a friendly great house every once in awhile to bump Pesperdam up to full County status. He funds port improvements when he's had a good harvest and tightens the purse strings when he hasn't. He goes hunting and riding with some of his knights and men-at-arms and, in a non-traditional move, sometimes brings not only Owain, but Marlijn along too. She's quite good with a snaphaunce, able to take a rabbit reliably from 100 yards, though she secretly thinks that bunnies are kinda cute.

Of course, the viscount makes up for that bit of a break from the expected by maintaining a regular search for suitable suitors for his daughter. He hopes to have her marry up as part of his long-term project to get into the college of electors (spoiler: the poor guy has no chance). To serve this ambition, Marlijn spends a considerable amount of time on her needlework, sitting and chatting with her ladies-in-waiting and the neighbouring baron's daughter, Tannifer. She's also expected to maintain musical interests and it's here that she actually has some passion. While, secretly, she prefers tunes more like the bawdy ones that she heard when her party stopped by a tavern in Pesperdam Town one evening a couple of years ago, the viscount had a harpsichord imported at great cost from Perrence for her to play. Marlijn is indeed passable on the 'Scalloped Beast' as she calls it, but she much prefers the lute and making up clever little rhymes to go with her original compositions. While she doesn't stand out as a player, her lyrics are considered quite amusing by most, and she has quite the performer's flair.

In terms of important formative experiences, Marlijn's had few that stand out. There was a pilgrimage to the Verdant Throne when she was eight years old, where she began climbing the tree before being fished out with one of the fruits already in her mouth (she actually lost a baby tooth while biting into it). She also traveled to Ersand'Enise when she was twelve and it was apparent that she and her brother were fairly strong in The Gift. Marlijn decided that she wanted to go there. It sounded ever so much more exciting than her everyday life in Pesperdam: repeating Avincian phrases and practicing calligraphy with her tutors, gossiping with Tannifer, needle and thread in hand, or slamming away at a harpsichord for hours to sheet music brought over from Revidia. In light of this, perhaps it's not surprising that being accepted to Ersand'Enise means a helluva lot to Marlijn Vaanse. She doesn't come from a bad place. In fact, her life is quite privileged and she knows it. She doesn't have a pain or trauma-filled past, and she's never really even been particularly unique or special. What this place is, though, is agency. She wants some of that, deep down, more than anything else.


Um... I may have actually answered this under 'Background'. Oops? Basically, Marlijn's a bored, smart, slightly underachieving creative type who prefers to either be the centre of attention or to be left to her own devices, with little in between. At the end of the day, she wants some agency and control over her life and to be able to chart her own course towards a 'happily ever after' with, perhaps, a not so small dose of fun and adventure along the way. To her, Ersand'Enise represents her first step on that path, and she's both nervous and excited.


Marlijn regularly carries a small notebook to write down her wittier ideas and was gifted a big, pretty, gold-winged staff as a going away present. She twirls it when she's bored and uses it to help her cast. She also has quite a bit of jewellery, two nice gold chains, and multiple pairs of shoes and boots. She has a satchel full of focus words for illusory spells that she's trying to master and dozens of pages of sheet music. There is a fine lute and a less-fine lute leaning against her night table or slung over her shoulder at times and her wardrobe is packed full of dresses organized from 'really fancy' to 'plain Jane'. She'd kind of like to train and keep a bird since there are so many here and it's kind of a tradition. She finds magpies rather adorable little pests. Perhaps she'll add an animal familiar at some point.




Marlijn's just honestly pretty good at being a competent young noble girl, likeable, and morally somewhat decent despite herself. She's often been only half-jokingly described as 'a little bit above average in everything'. In particular, though, she's good with illusion, animals, and music, and usually pretty socially put together.




Marlijn can be a bit of a suck. If she's not good at something or doesn't enjoy it, she doesn't really try. She also tends to seek external validation and likes to be a bit of a performer, but only on her own terms. In a practical sense, she sometimes overestimates her own competence and can embarrass herself or get into hot water. Her most common response is to react with stubborn pride, hold it together because Eskandishwomen don't cry, and then go home and ball her eyes out while having a near-anxiety attack. Finally, while she's not a snob, she's still more or less a typical young noble with much of what that entails.


Marlijn will simp for pretty boys. She'll never admit as much and act indignant if you accuse her of it but, deep down, she's a typical thirsty teenager.
Colour Code: D2691E

"I admit to being more than a little distracted by the...wit and depth of the conversation at this table."

"It seems mother wishes to turn me into some sort of lifelong penitent for sins I've not committed."

Most of Penny's life has been defined by being the family disgrace. She was born without a left leg and with a moderate form of ectrodactyly in her left hand and this was cause enough for her superstitious mother to see her birth as divine punishment for the sins of her and her husband. This would be quite a bad state of affairs in most families, but is only magnified due to the fact that Penelope's parents are King Rouis XI of Perrence and his wife, Queen Mathilde. Unallowed to attend balls, public functions, or even to venture past the palace gardens, Penny is a young woman stifled. She reads, she paces (crutch in hand), she grows things and draws and writes. She pretends to hate those formal family dinners when both father and mother are home, but secretly, she loves them. She is a forgotten middle child in many ways, with no prospects for marriage despite her station and no hope of amounting to much, so she is not one to hold back on pithy observations and cutting commentary and it is oh so amusing (often not only to her). The Gift is sometimes her plaything. When she's bored or sucky, she uses it to play tricks on her siblings, particularly if they're being obnoxious (at least one always is). A laugh at someone else's expense is still a laugh. Besides, they deserve it.

However, deep down, beneath many layers of snark and resigned cynicism, there's a curious, big-hearted girl who has dreams of seeing the world, meeting new people, and being valued instead of either pitied, stared at, or avoided with whispers, stolen glances, and sad shakes of the head. Because you place your right hand on your left hip, pointing to your left leg when you honour Oraff (the creator) while making the sign of the Pentad, religious superstition holds that Penny's missing limb is a mark of that God's disfavour. She does not believe it. She refuses to. She has a private tutor and she practices Binding Magic for hours on end, quietly determined to prove that she isn't what they say she is. On some warm Dorrad nights, though, as she lies awake in bend, staring at the swirling patterns on her ceiling and wishing for sleep, she worries that they're right and that she'll fail. She wonders why she couldn't just be whole and normal. She tries to dream that she is, but even in her dreams, she remains stubbornly the same person who she knows and does not love.


Were it not for her birth differences and their prejudices, most people would consider Penelope quite pretty. Tall and statuesque, with bright green eyes perhaps just a bit too large for her face and a resting smirk, she is the spitting image of her mother. Her hair is a rich chestnut brown and, when not styled in the fashion of the courts (even though she does not attend them), can usually be found pulled back in a Perrench braid. Since she was young, it has displayed a remarkable resistance to maintaining any sort of cohesive style or form for long and appears almost preternaturally tousled.

Penny wears long, light dresses. They vary in colour and she has many - some, hand-me-downs from her older sisters. She likes things that are lacy but feel solid and protective, so lacy hems and collars abound but not much else. She enjoys buttons, for whatever reason, and will often fiddle with those running down her sleeves. She also wears gloves. The left one is modified to fill in the gap in her palm and it has a dummy finger attached by a thin string to the one beside it. Out of habit, she does not take her gloves off unless sleeping or bathing. She has a pair of crutches (a handful of pairs, actually), but doesn't like how they fill her hands. As a result, she often gets around with only one. She's rarely in a hurry anyway. There's nowhere to go and not all that much to do.


For a noble lady of Penelope's station, languages are a must. For her, they're also something to do, and she has numerous correspondents all across the twin continents who she writes to. She is fully fluent in Perrench, Avincian, Revidian, and her mother's native tongue of Kerreman, and at least conversant in Eskandish, Torragonese, Joruban, and Belzaggic. Once you learn one language from a family, the others come easily. She sometimes practices her calligraphy and is looking to correspond with someone in Oiyac or Mycormi, but yasoi are so much more reticent in real life than they are in all of her old books.


Penny approaches prodigious levels in her use of the Gift - unsurprising for a blueblood of her pedigree. With little else to do but read, write, and learn, she also trains all day, memorizing focus words and inventing little spells of her own that she gives funny names to. While she's practiced with all five canonical schools, it is Binding that she puts most of her effort towards. She spends a considerable amount of time on Arcane as well, mostly the illusory branch, works with Kinetic to help ease the difficulty of walking long distances, and with Magnetic because it's her tutor's favourite and there's something peacefully destructive about watching fingers of electricity writhe and snap. Guiltily, she dabbles in internal Chemical spells and tells herself it isn't so that she can make people like her. That's what a madwoman would think. Penny isn't mad and will not let herself go mad. She simply won't. Besides, Binding Magic is her preferred school. If she can't heal herself, she reasons, she can at least heal other people. Then, she cringes at the thought of how melodramatic and self-indulgent such a statement would sound aloud.


Penny remembers the looks most of all: the first looks when people see her or the second ones when they make sense of her. It first really registered when she was around four years old. Until then, she was blissfully unaware of her differences and what they would mean. She grew up playing with her siblings - there were many and they were close in age. There were servants' daughters and cousins too. They always told the most wonderful stories and she used to like to hear them until she realized that those were stories of a world that was being kept from her. They're now a weird, resentful kind of addiction. She still needs to hear them, but they no longer bring her joy.

When she was seven, her parents attempted to arrange for her a marriage with the second son of a Torragonese lord, but instead of making arrangements by proxy, he decided to visit. Penny played with the boy and they laughed and smiled and she teased him that they'd be married someday and that he should listen to his wife. Then, he and his father left.

One time, when she was ten, there was a ceremony at the Catherdal de Ste. Defrois. She rode in a carriage through the streets of Relouse, listening to the clatter of the horses' hooves and the church bells ringing. She remembers leaning out with her little tiara and waving with her right hand at the commonfolk. They were loud and dirty and shouted, and she was a bit scared, but they waved back, and there were kids her own age in there too.

She hasn't traveled since. She hasn't done much of anything since and wasn't going to be allowed to. That is, until her brother Arcel intervened. She is to attend Ersand'Enise under an assumed name, as the invented daughter of an unremarkable merchant paid a sum by her brother. She is to be his agent there. She is to meet with people and exchange letters with them. She knows Arcel: he is not vile, but he is ambitious and underhanded. Penelope - Penny Pellegrin now - doesn't much care. It's a species of freedom, at least, and she'll take it, even with all of the risk and the fears.


More than anything, Penny wants to spread her figurative wings. She wants to live an actual life. She wants to prove to herself, at least, that her mother is wrong about her. There is a deep well of bitterness there, though she shakes her head to clear it and simply tries to appreciate that she has never hungered nor wanted for any physical need a day in her life.

Penny is eager to be at Ersand'Enise and to make something of herself, but she is deathly afraid of the real, actual, wild people out here. How will they react to her? Will they laugh at her jokes? Will they just see her: Penny - a girl from Perrence, or will it be pity, awkwardness, or avoidance? She knows it will. It'll have to be, like it always is. What if anybody finds her out - or learns of whatever her brother is up to? Will she be able to play a merchant's daughter convincingly? She feels like a fraud when it comes to life. She hasn't lived very much and knows it. Still, sometimes she takes a deep breath and counsels herself that she can do this. She is a princess of Perrence. Her forebears earned the crown at some point. They were capable people. So is she... she hopes - she really, really hopes.


Penny almost always carries a satchel slung across one shoulder, with some basic jewellery, a small journal, letters and wax, and a comb (partly as a joke) inside. She uses one crutch the majority of the time, to keep a hand free, and two when she knows that she'll have to do a lot of walking that day. They're made of light, lacquered wood with soft pads on top for her armpits. She'll never be found using a wand or staff as a focus object, having practiced freecasting from a young age. For spells absolutely requiring one, a crutch is very much like a staff when held a certain way. Penny's recently taken to wearing a spare garter even though she already has one to hold up her stocking. She uses it as a strap to tuck secret correspondence for her brother into and spends the next while paranoid that it'll slip out and Black Rezaindians will come for her in the night.




At the end of the day, Penny falls on the side of being a good person. Her acerbic comments are more than just a cover, but also not her entire story. She's well-heeled and it shows. She can wield etiquette like a weapon if need be and generally has very good recall for obscure trivia and details. This carries over into languages and the written word, where she can speak seven languages, at least to a degree...at least usually.




Penny's upbringing and the constant feeling of being unwanted has done a number on her mental health. She's not a wreck or a basket case, but she struggles with intense flashes of anxiety and self-doubt. She worries about how people will perceive her and tends to assume the worst, though she actively counsels herself not to. She can be a bit of a stepford smiler at times.


Penelope of Perrence is here incognito, as a lowly merchant's daughter named Penny Pellegrin. It would be unusual for anyone but the high-ups in the school establishment to know who she really is. Also, see here for a demonstration of how she walks on one crutch. Beware that I may have had to go into the weird part of YouTube to dig this up.
Colour Code: F7976A

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

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Manfred is a consummate professional. Despite his parents' doubts about his chosen path, or perhaps because of them as well as 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 Quentian, 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 but, 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 dark brown hair usually tied back in a short ponytail and grey-brown eyes. He's not bad looking, but doesn't stand out as exceptionally handsome. He's old enough that he's grown a but 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 Kerreman 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 Kerreman 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 and, while none of his forebears have been famous mages, many have been respectable or even notable. His family are Reichsgrafs (imperial counts), outranking all other nobility with the exception of dukes, and hold stewardship in the Queen's name over a large swathe of mostly rural farmland in Meckelin-Thandau. 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, and his wolfdog Fritz. They would spend hours outdoors in the warm months, often on horseback and sometimes joined by their sister, Nina.

Manfred 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 as well. Jurgen was old enough to be attending Ersand'Enise up north, Klaus was but a boy, and Nina a young girl, 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 Gerd 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 Kerreman 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 Kerreman 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 Kerremans 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 hides his utter hatred for mages and what they represent behind 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 to amuse his cat. A large orange Ragamuffin, Kürbis is given free reign of whatever Manfred's current living space is and is an excellent mouser. Aside from his wolfdog Fritz, who is quite elderly now and could not travel with him, Kurbis 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.

I don't think I'm better than other people. I know it.

---

---

Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and the mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is reactionary and a response to the threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.


Belzaggic: native
Avincian: fluent
Joruban: fluent
Perrench: fluent
Revidian: passable
Azjulish: passable


Look at the pic. There's your answer. He dresses in light, loose cloths, like most Belzaggic people. He'd show off his muscles if he had a bunch, but he's still a bit scrawny. Impeccably dressed, though. He just screams 'noble'.


Jomurr is a prodigy with the Gift and has the goal of either becoming an Arch-Zeno someday or returning to his house and usurping his firstborn brother to rule over the Duchy of Zowenga in his stead. Jomurr practices with all schools and knows the fundamentals of all. However, his favourite is Chemical and he's learning Atomic from a Zeno hired to be his tutor. He also has a thing for Kinetic because it's just so damned fun tossing plebs out your castle window with but a flick of your finger. Alas, this school only allows for two specializations. He should have his father talk to the Zenos about that. Arcane is pretty dope too. Binding? Hah! Binding magic isn't used for offense, and who needs healing? You have some pleb to follow you and heal you, of course!


Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and that mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is performative and a reaction to the perceived threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.


"I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was!"

In all seriousness, see the above bit on 'background'. Basically, like everyone else, Jomurr's here to become the person he's going to be for the rest of his life. He's also here to flex, though.


Tons of outfits, a coinpurse full of Kizans, Coronas, and some Neskals because that's what all of the cool kids are paying with. There's no bigger flex than rolling up to some merchant, purchasing a papaya, and asking if he can make change for your Great Neskal. Jomurr also carries the signet ring of his house and a Teddy Lion that he sometimes sleeps with.








Unless they're from Belzagg and/or a high noble from at least a neighbouring region, other students are unlikely to know that Jomurr is a second son.
Colour Code: 800080

"A Zeno's business is the Gift... and only the Gift."

---

---

Joshe Intaba is a living legend and one of the most powerful mages alive today. Master of the Magical Pentad, Hero of the Nashorn, Warden of the Lantern of Shune-Zept, and Lion of Medrilan, he is in possession of a virtually unparalleled resume as a practitioner of the Gift. Yet, for all of his accomplishments and sublime talent, he is a mere Zeno, as he has been for the past thirty years.

Joshe has never liked politics. He has never cared to play them. He believes strongly that a Zeno should be a practitioner of the magical arts and only the magical arts. To this end, he has refused every honour and promotion that has come his way but a handful that he found to be meaningful. While many have sought to garner his support and use his renown for their own ends, he always replies with a sad, friendly smile and a tired shake of his head. "I am sorry, friend, but it cannot be so. A Zeno's business is the Gift, and only the Gift. I wish you luck." It is said that he sees with far more than just his eyes, and that he sees all. Many feel themselves judged in his presence and found wanting, but there is never any malice or disdain.

While others have risen further and faster on the strength of their ambitions, Joshe has been content to remain a teacher, researcher, and - in times of trouble - arguably the academy's mightiest weapon. He eschews the ostentatious silks, laces, and jewelry of many of his fellow mages, in favour of a simple dark robe of excellent cut and quality. In his younger years, he was known for his boisterous celebrations, generosity, and many lovers (including the current Zenith, some whisper), yet he is in every way now, a wise and wizened master, if not with a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

Ironically, his hard stance on the duties of a Zeno and his steadfast dedication to his craft has grown this old Medrilaner a sizable following - one that he has never sought to leverage. The Academy, too, has recognized this. He is considered their foremost active instructor. To be apprenticed to Zeno Intaba is generally considered an honour and a privilege reserved for only the most gifted and promising of students. Yet, such is his cachet that he is given free reign to choose his own pupils, and his choices often raise eyebrows, as do his methods. Yet, none can argue with his results.

Names: Jocelyn & Madison Brightman

Age: 27
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Hetero
Height: 5'6"
Combined Weight: 180 lbs

Appearance:

On their own, Jocelyn and Madison would be two completely average, reasonably attractive Caucasian women in their mid-late twenties who, status as identical twins aside, wouldn't stand out in a crowd one iota. Brown-haired bobs and grey eyes tend to just sort of fade in. Of course, that's not exactly possible when you're conjoined. From shoulders to toes, the two of them share a single body with a slightly widened torso. Madison controls the right side while Jocelyn controls the left. The extra weight that has to be carried on a normal pair of legs, along with the twins' fairly busy lives means that they really don't have much choice but to be physically fit. In terms of clothing, they prefer to dress light, bright, and active or artsy, but they'll wear basically whatever they have to for photoshoots. Hey, when you're that unusual, you're an attraction whether you like it or not.

Ring Location: Middle City

Occupation: Professional hosts, celebrity reporters, and media personalities

Real Life Skills

Combined: The twins are fully ambidextrous and can play the guitar and violin right or left-handed, though Jocelyn is better with the former and Madison with the latter. They enjoy sewing and modifying clothes and tend to be good with cars. They're surprisingly handy at fixing things in general. Yes, they joke that "two heads are better than one". This extends to multitasking, perceptiveness, and general problem solving. Individually, each is above average. As a unit, they're unstoppable. While they're capable of all of the normal things that you'd expect of competent adults, being conjoined definitely makes these a bit harder. They're not winning any foot speed, balance, or physical endurance contests.

Jocelyn: While the twins are biologically identical and should respond the same way to things, Jocelyn is totally unaffected by even the spiciest foods. In general, she just has an abnormally high pain threshold. She's also surprisingly good at sleight-of-hand tricks thanks to countless hours practicing to be a magician with her sister as a child.

Madison: Though she shares most of the aforementioned skills with her sister, Madison tends to be the weaker of the two. Where she excels is in her focus, ability to be incredibly precise, and steady hand. Playing darts, tossing a ball, or firing a gun, her accuracy is impressive for someone who hasn't been specially trained.

Likes (J) = Jocelyn // (M) = Madison // (B) = Both

• magic tricks (B)
• fast cars (B)
• celebrity gossip (J)
• tech and gadgets (M)
• making funny faces and snuggling (B)
• DIY 'life hacks' (B)
• classical music (M)
• rock music (J)
• coffee (J)
• just the nastiest health drinks and smoothies (M)
• really cute flats and heels (B)

Dislikes (J) = Jocelyn // (M) = Madison // (B) = Both

• coffee (M)
• health drinks and smoothies (J)
• walking long distances without a destination (B)
• people who take themselves too seriously (B)
• being stared at beyond the obvious second glances that they're used to receiving (B)
• lazy people (M)
• pretentiousness (J)
• when the one falls asleep before the other (B)
• spiders (B)

Personalities: The Brightman twins have been a curiosity from the moment that they were born, and have always had to deal with some degree of public attention. As a result, they've developed 'personas' that play up their few differences without consciously intending to. The truth is that the sisters are similar in overall personality and habits and pretty flexible in terms of what they like and dislike. Both are used to living with compromise and they rarely fight. It's not exactly like they can give each other the cold shoulder. Out of the two, Madison is definitely the more concerned about eating and living healthily. Jocelyn's mostly just down to freeload, much to her sister's annoyance. For the most part, Madison is the more driven of the two as well and the more likely to take charge while Jocelyn is a bit more of a laid back joker. The former is more likely to read something and the latter more likely to try something. Both can talk a mile a minute, though. Both hate to sit idle. They're friendly, gregarious, and welcoming towards others and genuinely want to make people smile but, when you spend literally every waking moment in each other's company, you can't help but become a social unit unto yourselves, so the twins can definitely be a bit judgemental and tend to prioritize themselves and their own relationship at the cost of others. That's not to say that they're aloof or selfish. Both have friends. Both are funny, good-natured people who use their occasionally over-the-top sense of humour to put others at ease. It's just that, when your performance on the stage of life is a harmonized duet while everyone else only has to play a solo, you'd better prioritize being in sync with each other.

Background: coming soon

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Name:

n/a

Alias:

The Mimic, Marjorie Dawes

Age:

Unknown, but young, or at least seems to be. When taking the form of Marjorie, late twenties.

Personality:

Quiet, childlike, innocent, unsettling, inquisitive, subtly humorous, evanescent

Archetype:

Alien, most likely

Powers:

The Mimic has only one power: it can become something or someone else. It is not sure how it does this or what its limitations are. It only knows that it cannot become anything exceptionally large or small. Perhaps it cannot become another thing for too long. In any event, it has never tried.

Weaknesses:

The Mimic itself possesses a type of sentience (if indeed, it can be called sentient) that is profoundly different from that of humans and most alien races so far encountered. In its base form, it either cannot or will not verbalize. It takes on not only the abilities of things that it transforms into, but also their weaknesses and, if those things are sentient, some semblance of their characters. It’s believed that The Mimic grows more sentient by living as others. From them, it learns all of the constructs and values that govern human society, such as right and wrong, strong and weak, and male and female. It is learning that these things are not as easy to define as they would initially seem to be.

The longer that The Mimic spends imitating something else, the more that it desires to be that thing and the more impact that thing will have on its character. Obviously, this can be a double edged sword.

Appearance:

In what most people consider its basic form, though nobody truly knows, The Mimic is a roughly watermelon-sized and shaped blob in a pale greyish-blue that usually hovers two to six feet above the ground. It seems to have a fixed shape, though this will change in colour and texture depending on its impression of the people around it. Sometimes, when faced with unusual or unexpected stimuli, and particularly when someone’s behaviour does not match his or her words, it forms exaggerated faces, almost as if it’s lampooning its surroundings. It seems to be able to turn itself into a flat, disc-like object with a hole in the center. In terms of human forms, it favours that of a young woman with red hair, freckles, and mousy features. Her hair is often pulled back into a messy ponytail, she’s wearing jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a light button-up sweater. Nobody knows why The Mimic chooses this form so often. Perhaps even it doesn’t know.

Character Evolution:

The Mimic isn’t sure what its purpose is. Perhaps it has no inherent purpose and must find one. It doesn’t know, and so it will learn so that it can know.

Bio:

The Mimic does not know what it is. It does not know if it is a living thing or a piece of technology, or if it can be both at the same time. It does not know where it is from. In fact, it does not know when it is from either. Time is a concept that it is attempting to understand. Really, The Mimic does not know what it can do. It has noticed that it takes the form and the qualities of other things around it, so long as they are not excessively large or infinitesimally small. It is not sure how it does this or even why. It just does. If there is any mechanism governing what it decides to mimic, it doesn’t understand how that mechanism works. It just chooses things and becomes them unless there is a direct threat. Then it responds by becoming something more powerful and neutralizing the threat. It is not sure why it does this. The Mimic is not much of anything, after all. The Mimic does not know much of anything either, but one thing is certain: it is learning.

Notes:

The Mimic does not need to take notes. When it sees something, it understands all of its physical details immediately and is incapable of not understanding them after that.

Sample Post:

On the first day of the new Justice League, there are throngs of well-wishers outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new superheroes. Among them is a small, red-haired young woman with mousy features, freckles, and dimples. She stands beside a streetlight on an uncluttered part of the sidewalk and whoops and cheers with the others. Nearby, there is a teenaged boy with shaggy blonde hair and a pair of beat up skateboarding shoes. She studies him carefully, closely, for just long enough not to unsettle him. She wouldn’t want to make the subject uncomfortable. It would be rude and unprofessional.

On the second day, hanging around that same streetlight, the teenaged boy whoops and cheers with thousands of others. Not far away is a portly middle-aged woman with dark skin and hair pulled neatly back in a bun. He looks at her for a second, fidgeting as he gets all of her details down. He’s trying not to sketch her out. That’d be a bit fucked up.

On day three, the middle-aged woman stands beside that same light and adds her voice to the crowd. It’s a bit smaller than it was the past few days, but she remains enthusiastic. Not far away, an old Asian man seems just as energized. He’s wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and socks under his sandals. The woman gets a read on him, notes what she needs to note, and looks away. She’s not trying to make anyone uncomfortable. That’s not how you make the world a better place.

On the fourth and final day, an old Asian man stands in that same spot amid the crowd, beaming and waving as the final group of superheroes walk past. Nearby is chubby young man in his thirties, with a batman shirt and a bag of takeout. The old man decides to take a gander in that direction, but then he reaches up and clutches at his chest. A look of shock and dismay crosses his features. It’s what one would expect and it isn’t. It’s unsettling. A couple of people look in his direction. He slumps to the ground, but when the crowd parts enough to allow others to help him, he is gone without a trace. There is only a fire hydrant close to where he was standing.

Hours later, once the hubbub has died down, a man walks his dog along the sidewalk. The dog stops beside the hydrant, lifts its leg, and lets loose with a foul yellow stream. The Mimic is disgusted. It nearly turns itself into a larger angry dog in response. In the event, it does not, but it feels satisfaction at this reaction nonetheless. It believes, to a certainty of over eighty percent, that it interpreted the construct of ‘disgusting’ accurately while not being in the form of something that would have an innate understanding of such.About ten minutes later, a bus stops in front of the hydrant. When it drives off, there is only an empty sidewalk and a stray cat walking away.

The cat walks into a nearby park. It trots into a public restroom. There is a long period of silence. Washrooms are convenient, The Mimic has learned. They are places of secrecy because of ‘disgusting’. About twenty minutes later, a young woman with red hair, freckles, and mousy features walks out of the washroom, hands tucked into her pockets. She is not the real her. She is The Mimic. She is attempting to understand superheroes. She is reviewing right and wrong. Insofar as she can determine, it seems that the latter is more prevalent but the former is received more positively. Is it due to a scarcity effect? Why do these beings consider a more difficult, less common, and statistically less materially rewarding behaviour to be more desirable? The Mimic does not understand, and it wants to understand. Perhaps it can learn about ‘good’ by doing ‘good’. Perhaps it can do so as a superhero.

The young woman is so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn’t see the man come up behind her until he is almost upon her. She takes a few steps back and he pulls out a knife. “I want your money, not your life,” he demands, “But if you try to make a move, I won’t think twice.” The Mimic bolts. This is a bad man, it determines. This man is threatening it with physical harm. The Mimic runs behind a tree. From the other side emerges Batman. Batman kicks the bad man so hard that there’s a sound from his abdomen that indicates bodily injury. He crawls away, coughing up blood, eyes wide with fear. The Mimic wonders if it just did a bad thing. Then it decides that it’s safer as a cat.

Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety percent...OUCH! Argh!! Goddammit that hurt...

---

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Kaeli is an oddball and eccentric to the very core, especially by Elven standards. Sometimes stereotypes are exaggerated and sometimes they fit to a tee. Put simply, she's one of those people who wants to know how everything works, can usually give you an educated guess right off the bat, and - given enough time - can usually replicate it. In general, she is obsessed with technology, preserving it, repairing it, and improving it, a passion which goes far beyond her people's rather practical and uninspiring relationship with things mechanical. On projects of great import or that have struck a particular chord with her, Kaeli will work tirelessly, with near-boundless enthusiasm, an eye for detail, and a need for perfection that borders on the insane. Social interaction, sleep, and most anything else be damned.

If a given goal is not a project but an endeavour, then she will go to great lengths, often at not-inconsiderable personal danger, in order to see it through. Otherwise, she is curious and inquisitive but flighty, branching off tangentially at once in terms of ideas, conversation, and projects. She enjoys meticulously planning more than she does following through, and collects and keeps things that most people would consider junk simply because she sees them as works in progress, interesting, or simply because she wants to be prepared for any eventuality. In particular, she enjoys solving the problem of her own strange body and finding ways to do things that would seem to be beyond her physical capabilities.

Just as Kaeli can lose herself for hours in a project, she can lose herself for hours when talking about a subject or with with a person whom she finds genuinely interesting. This tendency, alarmingly aberrant among elves, has only grown more pronounced since she left her homeland. When engaged in these fits of passionate gabbing, she has been accused of talking 'at' people as opposed to talking 'with' them. Her standards in terms of 'interesting', however, are higher than she probably realizes. People are usually just surroundings as opposed to being genuine 'company'. They're an audience for her genius, a sounding board for her ideas, and the source of interesting problems and opportunities to be solved or seized. Some also make great guinea pigs.

In terms of romance, Kaeli thinks about it from time to time just as any red-blooded woman might. Then she shuts it out of her mind. She is keenly aware that society at large does not consider her attractive. Like most elves, she also can't 'do' smalltalk and flirting, and she isn't even any good at the social rituals expected of her own people, let alone the more elaborate and frighteningly involved ones so beloved of humans. She often ends up simply lurking and dreaming. In many ways, she's a dreamer. In many ways she holds delusions of grandeur and achievement on an epic scale. However, she's self-aware enough to see some of these for what they are. There's a thin streak of bitterness that runs through her thinking and it's a product of the subtle but ever-present discrimination that she has faced growing up with a very visible deformity. Elves are not a warm, fuzzy, communal people by any stretch of the imagination, but her upbringing was marked by complete disinterest from even close family, often tipping over into utter neglect.


The first thing that stands out about Kaeli is the fact that she looks like half a person. The result of a rare birth defect, she was born completely without legs, not dissimilar to Kanya Sesser or Jen Bricker. Beyond that, she's rather unremarkable: petite and pale, with white, wavy, shoulder length hair often pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. It's all-but preternaturally unruly, though sometimes she can fuss it into place. Kaeli's facial features tend towards 'mousy' but actually somewhat attractive, though she doesn't put much effort into her appearance. Indeed, the closest thing to makeup that she's known to wear is the series of oil stains and smudges that can be found on her hands, cheeks, and clothes. These compete with a number of small nicks, burns, and scars from too much tinkering. She's also considered quite stocky and muscular by Elven standards due to the upper body strength that she needs in order to get around.

Kaeli's clothing reflects both necessity and her eccentricity. Both of her pointed upper ears are pierced in multiple places, and she's not averse to self-adornment, though it's rarely with the shiny jewellery common to her race. Rather, she owns a necklace made from a very light silver chain, some old screws, a handful of bolts, and a couple of washers. She can also always be found wearing either a pair of round-rimmed tinted shades or goggles that she uses to protect her eyes from the harsh sunlight or hold back her unruly hair. Kaeli wears a custom-made garment on her truncated lower body made of a rough, sandy-coloured fabric, with a thick, cushioned leather pad at the bottom that she uses to sit and 'walk' on. Generally, she dresses in a form-fitting shirt in either purple, forest green, or crimson with a row of buttons running up the middle. Its sleeves are invariably rolled up. A brown leather belt with a prodigious number of pouches, clips, and various doodads rests snugly upon her hips, and a second, thinner belt encircles her upper waist. Filling out the ensemble is a bandolier with several pockets running from her left shoulder to her right hip, where it's clipped into her belt. A pair of elbow pads adorns her arms, and tough, worn out fingerless gloves with protective mitts that flip over complete the outfit. Kaeli usually carries a backpack that seems slightly too large for her, and when it's cooler, she bundles up in a sandy-coloured hooded hip cloak that effectively covers her whole body.


Kaeli Kinseld was the second girl as well as the third and final child born to parents of high standing. Her father was the town recordkeeper and brother of the thane while her mother was a jeweler of some repute. Due to her startling deformity, her birth was a bitter disappointment and it was hoped that she would die quietly in infancy, lest she grow up to be a burden. In the event, she not only survived, but grew into a curious, lively, and (with the exception of her missing legs) healthy child. Unlike her older siblings, Kaeli was not groomed for an advantageous marriage or a lofty position, either political or professional. As a result, her education was sparse and was piggybacked upon that of her slightly older brother, Heddenrad, who was privately tutored in - aside from instruction on recordkeeping - what were considered the classical Magdalenese subjects: linguistics, smithing, hunting, mathematics, natural philosophy (science), and jewellery-making.

In the event, while her brother approached his studies dutifully and at times diligently, Kaeli tore through her books with an appetite for learning that - while it was somewhat selective - bordered on the obsessive. The walls of her bedroom were often filled with drawings and partially-completed sketches, and her young mind was filled with ideas. In particular, she gravitated towards all things mechanical and electrical: understanding them, disassembling and reassembling them, and making them function. If she was hopeless at hunting, too small for smithing, and unenthusiastic about crafting finely filigreed and delicate jewellery, she had nimble, dexterous fingers, an eye for detail, and a keen intuition for the workings of anything with moving pieces.

For the most part, however, people paid little attention to the girl, except as a curiosity, and she was left largely to her own devices. The one exception was Kaeli's (really her brother's) natural philosophy and mathematics tutor, a prematurely cantankerous academic named Tasten Aldavere. He spent extra hours fostering what he believed was a brilliant young mind, and his attitudes, mannerisms, and methods had a profound impact on her development. In her mid-teens, she was betrothed to him, even though he was nearly twenty years her senior. In reality, it wasn't a marriage founded on love, since Tasten was rather clearly homosexual. Rather it was a union of kinship and mutual respect, carefully calculated by the pair to afford Kaeli both some independence from her family as well as some monetary attention.

For a handful of years, things went well. Kaeli continued to educate herself and earned the respect of a notable portion of Magdalene's academic community. Even her father, who had advocated for exposing her to the elements during her infancy, came to appreciate her gifts and even fund some of her pet projects. Then her uncle, the local thane, made the grave mistake of defying the Alfking of Magdalene. Exactly what happened is not something that she will ever talk about, perhaps because she has never taken much interest in politics. A ruler who had for Kaeli's entire life seemed distant and mildly benevolent struck with sudden, ruthlessly efficient ferocity, purging her entire family. A harmless and somewhat useful curiosity, she was spared, inherited a small portion of her family's fortune, and placed under house arrest. Driven to depression by the restriction on her ability to move about freely and to tinker and scrounge outside of the confines of her home (where literally all of the best stuff was) and sensing that Tasten was likely to protest (thereby putting him in the line of fire), she slipped out of her cellar in a small wine barrel, and arranged to have herself smuggled out of town.

With no choice but to end up far away from home and, to a lesser extent, curious about the mysteries of the world outside of the deep forests of Magdalene, she began traveling the roads of Invernier. Kaeli learned quickly and out of necessity how to cover large distances, where to hide, as well as who and what to avoid, while gradually using up her coin. She earns a sporadic income by repairing simple things well below the level of her expertise whenever she sets herself down for a handful of weeks as well as occasionally appearing in performances similar to sideshows. She doesn't particularly enjoy those jobs, but they put coin in her purse and provide her with free and easy travel.


Kaeli carries a small, lightweight, and finely-crafted tool set with her at all times. She has a handful of semi-functional electrical lights, a magnifying glass, her wedding ring, various replacement parts for common mechanical items, a needle and thread, a few changes of clothes, a switchblade, and a couple of cans of something like improvised pepper spray, with different varieties effective in repelling different common threats. She's working on auditory weapons as well and on extending the range of the sprays. She swears that she'll finish eventually.


Even with legs, Kaeli would be considered small. Without them, she's absolutely tiny (maybe 2'6" and 55 lbs) and excellent at hiding in places where most people wouldn't even bother look. She can hold her breath for an extremely long time, remain still and quiet for extended periods, and go for longer than most without food and water. Conversely, she obviously moves at a slower pace than most people, expends more energy in doing so, struggles with tasks that require size, and tends to have her skills met with a certain skepticism in most places that she visits.

Name: Jacques Berthier

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Appearance:
Jacques is a tall, strongly built Caucasian man with a bristly blonde beard. He used to have a handful of tattoos, but has gone to great pains to have them removed.

Background / Hometown: Jacques is a proud French Canadien from Sept-Iles, Quebec. Raised in a family that strictly resisted the American occupation, there was little doubt that he'd become involved with terrorism the NFLQ (Nouveau Front de Liberation du Quebec) as soon as he was old enough. Indeed, he became one of the boldest members within the separatist cause, spearheading a number of attacks on cultural institutions that were deemed to be responsible for the growing 'Americanization' of the proudly Francophone former province. He also became involved with black flag anarchism and struck repeatedly at multinational corporations. Eventually, his identity was discovered and he was forced to go on the run.

When unknown forces in the employ of the government captured his parents and younger sister to force him out of hiding, he crossed a moral event horizon. In his head, he bade them farewell and swore revanche upon those who had been responsible. Moving from safehouse to safehouse, Jacques became a highly sought-after figure in the push to crush the growing (and increasingly violent) Quebec independence movement. Finally, supported by a small paramilitary force and the chaos of Fourth of July celebrations (known as 'Occupation Day' in Quebec), he made it into the governor's house and gunned him down in cold blood along with his entire family, including his five year old daughter. Jacques then turned himself in, ready for a state execution. However, cognizant of the unstable situation in Quebec, the UAC government opted to make him disappear down some hole instead of turning him into a public martyr.

Rap Sheet: High Treason, Terrorism, multiple counts of murder, sedition, civil disobedience, unlawful possession of a weapon, unlawful possession of banned substances, etc.

Personality: Jacques lives and breathes his cause. Among those he trusts, he can become jovial, jocular, and fond of drink, but nobody on Absolom will see that side of him. While he views Mexicans as a fellow occupied people, and will tolerate English-Canadians, he harbours an extreme degree of hatred around Americans, often refusing to speak with them at all, or doing so mockingly in French. He is unflinchingly sarcastic and biting in his observations, and not a bit bitter. Jacques will willingly put himself through extreme discipline just to prove a point, and he will not break. He will lie, cheat, and steal if he has to and if he thinks it serves the cause. He cares very little what these people think of him and he's sure that he thinks even less of them.

Skills: Jacques is a large, strong guy, reasonably fit and possessed of considerable endurance and sheer physical toughness. He knows how to survive from the land and on the run in general. He's not a trained fighter or soldier, but can handle himself in hand-to-hand combat and knows his way around a gun. His real specialty lies in traps and explosives. He can improvise something deadly given even the rawest ingredients.

Motivation: The Cause. Vive La Quebec Libre!

Gear: An expensive watch that had been his grandfather's.

Name: Gary Xu

Gender: Male

Appearance: Gary is a middle aged Chinese man of below average height, solidly built but not carrying any extra weight. He’s clean shaven, with lightly tanned skin and a full head of straight black hair worn professionally short and just starting to grey around the temples. His teeth are unexpectedly perfect, and though he sometimes wears glasses, he generally looks somewhat younger than his 41 years – perhaps mid-thirties. He can usually be found wearing a collared shirt in a hue of pastel with the top button undone, as well as a pair of business slacks and dress shoes. When not working, he prefers a pair of comfortable, slightly worn blue jeans and a golf shirt, or a tracksuit with blue Air Jordans. As one might imagine from this description, he’s fit and in good shape.

Age: 41

Alias: (The Indestructible Man)

Alignment: undecided (he is leaning towards hunter, though likely as more of a facilitator)

Identity: Private and recently discovered

History: Gary was born in 1976 in the small mountain village of Wulingyuan in scenic Hunan province, south-central China. It was the final, violent spasm of the Cultural Revolution, and his parents, who were shop owners, were forced into hiding until a degree of sanity returned. In 1982, the nearby mountains were designated a protected area, and over the following decade, morphed into a significant tourist attraction. Gary’s father, a shrewd and intelligent man, soon expanded his business to provide beverages, tours, and lodging. He used his savings to purchase a second home in the nearby city of Zhangjiajie, and the young family split their time between the two places.

With Deng Xiaoping’s open door policy picking up steam, the area witnessed its first western tourists, and Gary’s father was of the opinion that there would be many more to come. The boy was enrolled in English lessons (which were not easy to come by in those days, especially in a provincial backwater), and given the English name that he still carries. Being able to speak the language of international business proved to be a huge boon to his prospects, and as a teenager, he earned a good deal of extra cash acting as a tour guide and bootleg interpreter to curious Americans, Europeans, and others who came to visit.

By the time that Gary was 20, he decided to make the move to Shanghai, a decision fully supported by his parents. The city was on the precipice of a major boom, and both Gary and his father could sense it.

Living on the cheap in rough and ready Baoshan, a former port town in the process of morphing into an industrial suburb, he paid the bills for most of his first year by working construction jobs. During this time, Gary was involved in more than his fair share of barroom brawls, and found that he could take a punch better than anyone else either he or his new friends knew. However, he didn’t remain in his lowly position for long. With international companies beginning to move their manufacturing to Shanghai, his ability to speak passable English was a major asset and he was soon moved to international customer liaison.

1997 was a huge year for Gary, as he was promoted and used his newfound time off to moonlight as a student at Shanghai’s prestigious Jiao Tong University. While he didn’t have the money or education to formally attend, he bought clothes to look the part, became a regular in the library, and managed to sneak into lectures. There, he not only furthered his knowledge of marketing and economics, but he also made many friends from influential backgrounds. Before long, this young group began formulating plans and studying the marketplace, looking for investment opportunities. Gary worked two jobs, scrimped and saved in order to invest along with the others. Also, in the world at large, a couple of important things happened. Firstly, China opened up to Western media, with the box office hit Titanic becoming a massive cultural phenomenon there. Second, and more importantly, the presence of metahumans became publicly known, resulting in intense interest, debate, and official ambivalence.

Gary had little time to worry about the actions of superheroes and supervillains so long as they didn’t affect him. Over the next three years, he and his group of ‘Young Tigers’ invested in ever larger projects, gradually amassing a fortune. Despite having been promoted again, Gary left his job to focus on becoming a fulltime investor. By 2002, he returned to his former employer, having purchased it outright. With an eye to the future, the young tycoon purchased shares in up and coming social media and online banking platforms as well as local distributors of cellphone technologies. His construction firm thrived during the boom and was able to buy out a number of its rivals. He eventually married and became a father of two, willingly paying the government-imposed fine for having a second child. Over the next decade, Gary managed to get his fingers in a number of industries: English training schools, entertainment, banking, and insurance.

It was in the case of the latter that the metahuman issue impacted Gary the most. His firm was among the first to offer metahuman insurance, but this proved to be a difficult and unpredictable field, prone to losing money. Working closely with the government, he pioneered a public-private approach that combined compensation with both market prospecting and law enforcement. On a personal level, Gary was deeply disturbed by much of what he witnessed, becoming convinced that human beings with such power were inevitably bound to misuse it even if their intentions were good.

Gary himself had become something of a renaissance man by the time that he celebrated his fortieth birthday. He spoke seven languages, was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and Jeet Kune Do, as well as an avid hiker and cyclist who could also pilot personal aircraft. He maintained a large garage, as well as interests in history, physics, and geology. He attempted to learn guitar but found that he wasn’t particularly talented.

It was shortly after his forty-first birthday that an incident took place which would profoundly alter his world. He was in the middle of a meeting when a fight between a pair of local metas – Suprasonic (a deliberate – though flying – knockoff of Supersonic) and The Mountain – erupted nearby. Gary was in the process of evacuating when the metas did serious damage to the office tower that he was in, causing the elevator cables to snap. The tycoon and two of his long-time associates plunged over four hundred feet to their deaths – except, Gary didn’t die. In fact he was completely uninjured while his colleagues were killed instantly. Removing himself from the building before it collapsed, dazed and confused, he quickly invented a story to account for his survival while the Chinese government cracked down harshly on metahuman activities.

Over the past two months, he has been on leave from his many business ventures, rethinking a number of incidents in his past that he had originally put down to good luck, a strong constitution, and sheer toughness. His father always liked to recount the story of how Gary had fallen into a steep ravine as an infant while his family was running from the red guards, only to be found completely unscathed. Then there had been the time that a carelessly handled i-beam had struck him as a young man working on a construction site, sending him tumbling over forty feet to the ground below. He had dusted himself off and resumed working later that same day. His youthful brawls where he’d been able to swing for the fences while brushing off opponents’ punches had to be reconsidered, as did a waterskiing incident a few years back where he’d hit the water going nearly 100km/h and been completely unharmed. When Gary really thinks about it, he realizes that he can’t remember a single significant injury over the course of his life. The inescapable conclusion is that Gary Xu has been a metahuman the entire time. He is what he has come to hate. How he will deal with that going forward, only he can know.

Personality: Gary’s a man who has lived a lot. He is very competent in a number of areas and possesses a deep – though slightly cynical – understanding of human nature. He enjoys making dry jokes and wry comments, and isn’t afraid of being self-deprecating, though his humour is almost always situational. In general, he’s a friendly guy and a good communicator, with a large circle of friends. However, his relationships with other people are best described as ‘friendly but somewhat distant.’ This extends to his own family. That doesn’t denote a lack of caring, however, just a desire to maintain a healthy distance between himself and other people and a lack of involvement in their everyday and quite frankly mundane affairs.

As one might expect, he’s extremely motivated and determined, almost obsessively so. When Gary sets his mind to something, he will systematically break it down, examine it in detail, and execute a carefully-laid plan. He’s not entirely averse to risk, though he does try to minimize it. Perhaps due to his success in life, Gary is not easily impressed and has little sympathy or use for people who complain or make excuses, especially if they have a background or talents that give them a head start. Though he tries to see the world for the subjective thing that it is, and to always keep his own ego in check, he can be unintentionally arrogant at times.

Skills: Gary is in good though not exceptional shape. Though fairly small, he is a skilled and experienced hand-to-hand fighter, schooled in multiple martial arts, as well as possessing elementary training with some traditional Chinese weapons. He has never fired a gun before and hopes that he’ll never have to. He has, however, piloted personal aircraft and boats up to the size of a small yacht. He enjoys racing his collection of exotic cars at the track.

Gary’s also perceptive and a good negotiator, able to read people and situations quickly and thoroughly. Finally, he is fluent in Mandarin (including his local Hunan dialect), Cantonese, English, and Korean, as well as passable in Italian, Japanese, French, and Spanish.

Abilities: Gary hasn’t really had the chance to become familiar with his metahuman abilities, though he seems to possess only one: he is completely indestructible. Beyond that, he is a bog-standard human.

Equipment: Gary doesn’t really have any special equipment right now, except for an extensive garage full of exotic cars, aircraft, and boats. Obviously, he can’t bring this with him. Beyond that, he has a name that means something in business, dozens of high-level international contacts, and a credit card with no limit. Maybe he’ll build a batcave?

[Appearance]
Revi’s a smallish, ethnically ambiguous (though he leans towards Caucasian) eight-year old boy, with a big mushroom of black hair. He is utterly unremarkable in every way.



[Theme song]
AFI: Miseria Cantare

[Name]
Revi

[Age]
8

[Gender]
Male

[Personality]
Revi doesn’t seem to care much about other people. He’s not antisocial and he doesn’t avoid talking to them. He just doesn’t have much use for them. He doesn’t care a lot for social dynamics. He might be playing with the other children one moment, but decide that he doesn’t want to anymore. He might be in the middle of helping somebody, but if he thinks of something else that he would rather be doing, he’ll just stop. He’ll be polite and friendly if he thinks it will get him what he wants, but he’s just as likely to resort to violence. It’s not that Revi has an active desire to do bad things or hurt people. He just demonstrates an extreme level of self-centredness and social apathy. Friendship is convenient until it isn’t. Loyalty is a way that he knows some people behave. Sometimes it’s useful to be loyal. More than anything, Revi just wants to learn and grow stronger. He wants to become so strong that he won’t have to worry about people hurting him or taking his things. Then he’ll probably be happy.

[History]
Revi doesn’t remember much of his past, but he has the strong feeling that it was better than where he is now. Fritz found him a few years ago close to the gates of the city proper, dressed in a little black uniform and clutching a book. Revi doesn’t really try to get along with the other orphans or avoid them. He’s on decent terms with most, but doesn’t have any actual friends that he can think of. He thinks that Oralee’s wings are beautiful. If anybody damages them, he will probably hurt that person much worse. Sometimes hurting people is the only way to get them to do what you want.

[Relations]
Fritz was a nice man. He protected Revi and made his life a lot easier.
Oralee is beautiful. Revi doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her.
Revi supposes that he had or has parents.

[Level]
1

[Skills]
Revi is completely literate, unlike most of the people around him. He’s quick thinking, quick-acting, and decisive. He’s small, nimble, and good at hiding.

[Affinity]
Water

[Gift]
Revi can control just about every aspect of liquids, though, since he’s young, his gift is a bit clumsy. He can control the polarity of water to make it move, to create adhesives, and to deliver mild electrical shocks. Given the right amount of Oxygen and Hydrogen, he should be able to create water seemingly out of thin air, though he can’t quite do this yet. However, he can definitely force existing water from one state to another (solid > liquid > gas) by soothing or exciting the movement of the molecules that comprise it. Also, by separating the component atoms, he can create bubbles of breathable oxygen and a lifting force underwater. Unfortunately, he can’t sustain this for long. Recently, he’s begun to understand that because people are about 80% water, his magic may be able to affect them in more direct and potentially serious ways.

[Inventory]
Revi has a large book that he was found with. He has read it many times. Just what’s in it, nobody knows. Sometimes he will carry a stick with him, or capture a frog from the river.

[Other]
Revi wants to be safe and happy. He doesn’t care how he goes about attaining that goal, though accruing as much power as possible seems to be the surest way.

Name: Rintor Otorik, aka. The Smiler, The Blade of Boshir

Age: 33

Race: Human (Sub-Saharan African in appearance)

Appearance: Rintor is a smallish, very dark-skinned man in his early thirties, wiry but muscular. He has dark grey-brown eyes and is vaguely handsome. However, he suffers from Alopecia Universalis, which renders him completely hairless across his entire body. He usually dresses in a simple black robe, with black leather boots, loose black pants, a handful of fur pelts, and a thick brown leather belt with a trio of leather satchels around his waist. In his youth, he would often wear a mask that covered most of his face. However, he doesn't wear it anymore.



Role: Linguist, assassin, scout

Bio: Rintor comes from Boshir, a powerful fiefdom in the south, where he was the third son in a family from his country’s equivalent of the landed gentry. His father and grandfather had both served with distinction in the king’s army as armed scouts in previous conflicts, rising to become commanders. Rintor seemed destined for the same path, and indeed demonstrated considerable aptitude as a child. However, he manifested somewhat unexpected magical abilities upon puberty and was sent for schooling in the arcane arts. He showed little promise with higher magicks, but excelled at what was called ‘lightbending’, which, in short, allows him to bend the visible light spectrum so as to appear all-but invisible. Before long it appeared that he had reached a dead-end. While lightbending was a useful skill, people who trained at the academy of thaumaturgy were strictly forbidden from using the abilities learned there for violent ends.

When war erupted with a neighboring Elven kingdom, Rintor, then only seventeen, remained at the academy. He had flourished during his years there and grown into a thoughtful young man. However, after a year, the military situation turned for the worse, and he was personally pulled out of the academy upon orders of the king and placed into the army as a commissioned officer. Whatever his moral qualms, Rintor served as his father and grandfather had before him. If his swordsmanship was subpar for his station, he had little use for it during scouting missions. However, one can only last for so long in a war without resorting to violence. Forced to kill an enemy scout who would have revealed his army’s position, Rintor had shed his first blood. Surrounded by martial culture, his guilt was quickly assuaged.

From that point onward, he became the leader of an advance party that quickly became infamous for its lightning strikes, guerilla warfare, and sabotage. His lightbending skills made him almost absurdly effective, and before long Rintor was doing more than scouting. Assassinations came next, followed by long missions deep into enemy territory. His initial moral objections having become a thing of the past, and fed a steady diet of awards, honours, propaganda, and berserker mushrooms, Rintor became a gleeful killing machine. Gifted a pair of finely honed daggers by the king himself, the lightbender’s trail of bodies grew until he was feared, revered, and loathed across much of the continent. It became something of a legend that he would always appear out of nowhere a bare moment before striking the fatal blow, smiling like the devil himself.

His high (or low) point, came when he infiltrated the bedchambers of the Elven king and murdered him and his entire family in cold blood. This plunged the country into civil war and forced their interim leadership to sue for peace terms. Back home, Rintor was hailed as a hero, but with the war over and the accolades, drugs, and honours drying up, he felt increasingly hollow. He longed for purpose, which he attempted to find in hunting, bloodsport, and horse racing. All were dead ends. The academy had long since severed all ties with him and he was not allowed to return there. At some point, he disappeared from society altogether.

Nobody is entirely certain where he went for seven years, but when he reappeared, he was able to speak six new languages and he seemed to have found his peace. He sat outside of the academy in meditation, drinking only one bottle of water each day, for twenty-six days and nights until he was finally granted an audience with the provost. The price that he paid for readmission to the academy was considerable: all of his lands, honours, titles, and possessions save what he had carried with him, as well as a solemn vow of non-violence to be broken upon pain of a degenerative curse that will slowly and painfully cause him to waste away.

For the next three years, he ensconced himself within its hallowed halls, re-emerging at around the same time that the opening of the portal was announced. He appeared before the king, dressed in his simple black robes, and requested that he be the first of his nation to step through the portal. Given his status as a war hero, it was a request that could hardly be refused. Nobody knows what his motivation is except for Rintor himself, though one would assume that it has to do with the fascination of exploring a new land and finding redemption in the process.

Skills: Rintor can move with the utmost stealth and silence. Even elven ears struggle to detect him. He is almost ridiculously proficient with knives and daggers, though he has sworn never to use them for violence against another sentient being so long as he lives. He is able to draw maps and describe topography in considerable detail, though perhaps not as well as he might’ve in his youth. He is adept at sabotage, guerilla warfare, and has some tactical abilities, though these are qualities that he tries not to advertise. Rintor is a skilled horseman and reasonably proficient with a bow, though not what one would call 'naturally talented'. He can fast for an extended period of time and possesses basic survival skills. He has an innate ear for languages and has studied linguistics over the prvious handful of years, though he tends to speak with a thick accent.

Magic: Rintor is able to bend light so that he blends in flawlessly with his surroundings for extended periods of time when still and short bursts while moving. This effectively makes him able to turn invisible. However, the ability only extends to the visible light spectrum, and requires considerable concentration. He also struggles to blend into backdrops with especially intricate patterns or with many colours and a great deal of motion.

Equipment: Rintor has the clothes on his back, a flask of water in one satchel, some parchment and a quill in another, and some dried fruits, jerky, and nuts in another. He also has a pair of wickedly sharp daggers gifted to him by the king, but he wants nothing to do with them.

Other: Rintor is quiet and reserved – some would say aloof and subtly arrogant. He never shows his teeth anymore when smiling. He seems to be highly intelligent, though he will rarely correct people’s mistakes. He also appears to have little to no interest in women. Though he has tried hard to train it out of himself, he harbours a degree of suspicion towards elves and many near-human beings. Before Rintor went through the portal, the king gifted him his old daggers back and bade him take them through the portal. Rintor could not disobey with so many eyes on him, but he plans to drop them the moment that he steps through, and not just for his own sake. Given his past and his distinctive appearance, I'd assume that he would be known to many of the other characters, at least by name and reputation.

This is potential character one of two. Maybe we can see which one people like better once I've posted Yuri (the other one). Anyway, sorry if this is a bit long. She's partially inspired by Virginia Hall, who was a legendary badass.

Name (or known Aliases): Simona Ricci, aka. Gianna Verdi, Margarethe Vonlanthen, Hopper

Age: 23

Nationality: Italian

Affiliation: Italian Red Cross, works personally for Princess Marie Jose of Italy when she's not looking out for number one.

Role: Nurse, thief, infiltrator

Appearance: (shitty pic coming soon) A slim and petite (maybe 5'2") lightly-tanned Caucasian woman in her early mid-twenties, with shoulder-length straight black hair, blue eyes, and a nose that's just a bit too large, Simona skews to the 'pretty' side of average. She has dimples when she smiles (though it's usually more of a grin or a smirk), and a slight case of buckteeth. However, these things are usually not what people notice about her first. Instead, it's the pronounced limp that she walks with or - when she's not wearing her prosthetic - the fact that she's missing nearly her entire left leg. Due to the height of her injury, she moves better on crutches, though she'll often use her artificial leg to blend in more easily. Indeed, when she's just standing in a crowd, she tends to fade into it. Simona's not exactly open about the cause of the injury, mostly because it's a touchy enough subject that she risks getting emotional.

She usually wears her Red Cross uniform, which looks just a little bit like a nun's habit. Otherwise, she prefers knee-length dresses or skirts. She's unlikely to be seen in a revealing or provocative outfit except when she's drinking. Simona usually carries a large brown backpack stuffed full of first-aid equipment, clothes, a flask of Limoncello, a small satchel of tools that look like scalpels but are really for less legal uses, and sometimes her prosthetic leg. It really is amazing what she can fit in there. The leg itself is actually useful for holding things, as it’s hollow and she uses it to smuggle letters and contraband when necessary. That’s dangerous works, so sometimes, she also wears a leg holster with a small Beretta under her skirt/dress. She knows how use it, but that doesn't mean that she knows how to use it well. It’s more for her own sense of agency.

Personality: Simona is whatever she needs to be at the moment, whether that be a dutiful Catholic girl and committed nurse, a sophisticated and creative young woman from a wealthy family with contacts in the government, a physically and emotionally broken victim of war, or a loud, irreverent, warm, and somewhat uncultured rural Italian stereotype. Exactly which of these is closest to her genuine personality is up for debate, and the truth may be that she’s a bit of each.

The final one, however, is undoubtedly the face she wears easiest. Simona can talk. She loves spinning a good story, sharing a good laugh (sometimes about rather crude subjects), and engaging in frank, witty, and often quite incisive verbal fencing. She can appreciate a good pun, though she hasn’t mastered the art of making them herself (at least not in English), and will readily make self-deprecating jokes about her one-leggedness. Having witnessed a great deal of death and suffering, at some point she ‘got over the hump’ with regards to emotional attachment and simply learned to accept that people come and go and that they’re still worth investing in. She’s quick to get close with anyone who’ll allow it, and can be almost uncomfortably touchy-feely at times, though she will never make romantic advances, nor will she be stupid enough to trust them.

In general, Simona calls upon the powers of sympathy, stereotype, friendliness, and caricature to ensure that she’s seen as a complete non-threat by enemies and most friends alike. At best she’s plucky and admirable, at worst she’s either a vacuous and annoying chatterbox or a pity case.

Outside of the social aspects of her personality, Simona is intelligent, quick-thinking, and surprisingly competent (mainly due to sheer moxie) at a number of unrelated skills. Conversely, she can be impulsive, pushy, and Quixotic in terms of her personal quests and goals. She’s flighty but ambitious, and profoundly confident in herself on a basic level, though the loss of her leg has undermined this somewhat and occasionally leads to bouts of overcompensation. Regardless, Simona is used to succeeding and regularly getting her way. When she doesn’t, it can be ugly, both personally and professionally.

If she’s a bit materialistic, it’s not for the sake of having pretty things, but rather more practical reasons. She believes that money and resources can buy both safety and happiness to some extent and that accruing them will benefit her and her family. Despite this, the war has touched her profoundly, and Simona has come to genuinely care about those affected by it. She wants it to be over, and she would go so far as to die romantically and heroically to that end. What comes next is no concern of hers. She’s pointedly apolitical, though socially somewhat liberal, and she distrusts communists and political radicals of any stripe. Her primary loyalty is to her superior and patron, Princess Marie Jose of Italy, and it comes second only to herself and her family.

Service History: Simona joined the Italian Red Cross as soon as Italy entered the war and her brothers, Giacomo and Vittorio, were deployed to Southern France. She has never been one to simply sit idle, especially not when others are out doing what is expected of them. Sent to the African theatre, she served in field hospitals and POW camps for the better part of two years, often working in collaboration with British and American Red Cross units in the area. This is where she picked up most of her English, though she has some cousins who live overseas. Most of these places were chronically underfunded, so she had to find...creative ways to finance them at times. Whether it be pickpocketing the dead and dying, skimming supplies intended for military garrisons, or stealing officers’ bonuses right out of their safes, If her superiors disapproved of her methods, they never had the chance to voice that disapproval, because that would've involved catching her first.

She was working in a field hospital just outside of Addis Ababa when the forces of her own country strafed the entire compound (this is based upon a real historical incident). While attempting to evacuate the wounded, she was shot high up on the left thigh with a heavy-caliber round from one of the aircraft and she passed out almost instantly. Simona awoke minus a leg and fell almost immediately into a serious depression, partially due to the injury and partially due to the fact that her own country's forces had been responsible for the monstrous attack. The government, of course, vehemently denied such absurd rumours, and the incident was quickly buried, though not before it was brought to the attention of the head of the Italian Red Cross, Princess Marie Jose. When Simona was shipped back to Italy to convalesce, she was personally visited by the princess, who was something of a personal enemy of Mussolini and was looking for ways to bring the war to a close as soon as possible. Though it was officially supposed to be little more than a courtesy/publicity visit, the princess was eager to confirm the rumours that she had heard, and the two women ended up speaking for hours. Simona was deeply impressed by the patron of her organization, and it inspired a degree of personal loyalty that she previously hadn't felt towards anyone outside of her immediate family. They talked deeply and frankly, and she must've made an impression herself, because Princess Marie personally paid for her rehabilitation and prosthetic leg. Not to be outdone, the Italian government, under Mussolini, awarded her a medal for bravery and being wounded in service (despite the fact that she was wounded by them and was in the service of an international NGO).

Unwilling to simply return home and collect a disability pension, Simona returned to her duties, albeit in what were considered safer, more 'home front' areas. However, with the allied invasion of Italy beginning in 1943, the home front became a front in the true sense, and not only was her brother Giacomo one of the early casualties, but her upper-middle class family’s finances were devastated when the bombing campaign destroyed her father’s auto factory. As the situation worsened, Marie Jose stepped up her anti-fascist activities, and Simona, in secret correspondence with her superior, offered her services above and beyond the call of the Red Cross. When Mussolini's regime collapsed and he fled to the north of the country, Simona followed, albeit as something of a mole. She's been working tirelessly for the last six months in hospitals and POW camps in North-Central Italy, not only healing and feeding, but also working clandestinely with POWs and wounded fighters from various partisan groups to subvert the new puppet regime. A couple of days ago, a critically wounded republican fighter, remembering that another member of his cell had told him that "you can trust the one-legged woman", pressed a message into the palm of her hand with a mysterious address in Ulm, Bavaria.

Other: Simona's a lot stronger than she looks, able to lug around her backpack/prosthetic/crutch(es) without complaint and despite her small size. She’s a generous 5’2” and weighs all of 78 pounds. Combined with her natural flexibility, this allows her to squeeze herself into extremely small spaces if need be. She’s picked up a number of other useful skills over the course of her relatively short life: She can play the flute and violin reasonably well thanks to lessons during her childhood; She speaks passable Swiss German as a result of growing up in Northern Italy not far from the border; She’s also picked up some English and some Ethiopian from her postings during the early part of the war and learned to swim while undergoing rehabilitation. Picking locks and pockets were further skills learned while in theatre. She also became pretty good at table tennis from playing with wounded soldiers in the various hospitals that she served in, though she’s not as good as she thinks she is.

This tendency to overestimate herself extends to drinking. Her tolerance for alcohol is much lower than she’s convinced it is (this is partly due to her being smaller than she used to be), and she is liable to make a fool of herself when drunk. In the past, this didn’t extend to throwing herself at men, as she was saving herself for marriage, but after becoming an amputee, she decided that her marriage prospects were slim to none and that waiting for something that would never come was a daft idea. She’ll still never outright make the first move, but she’ll definitely respond. The truth is, Simona doesn’t really know how to act around a man who she finds legitimately attractive. In particular, she has a thing for Americans, American culture, and motorcycles.
Culturally, she’s far from traditional, with a love for Big Band Jazz, fast cars, days at the beach, and late nights out dancing, though she’s a bit self-conscious about the latter two now. She’s eager to squeeze everything that she can out of life, she’ll make sport of anybody, and she can sometimes come across as a bit of a misandrist. She has a nickname, Legnoso (which means ‘Woody’ in Italian), for her prosthetic leg, and sometimes talks about it as if it’s a person with a will of its own.

Ultimately, as an Italian in late 1943, Simona knows that she can play either side if need be. As a nominal member of a neutral organization, she can gain access to people and places that might be impossible otherwise. As a small disabled woman, Simona knows that she won't readily be viewed as a combatant or any type of threat but also that it's not exactly easy for someone with such a visible difference to be inconspicuous if her cover is ever blown. She's never looked a man in the eyes and shot him, but she's certain that she could do it if the need ever arose.

Names: Jocelyn & Madison Brightman

Age: 27
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Hetero
Height: 5'6"
Combined Weight: 180 lbs

Appearance:

On their own, Jocelyn and Madison would be two completely average, reasonably attractive Caucasian women in their mid-late twenties who, status as identical twins aside, wouldn't stand out in a crowd one iota. Brown-haired bobs and grey eyes tend to just sort of fade in. Of course, that's not exactly possible when you're conjoined. From shoulders to toes, the two of them share a single body with a slightly widened torso. Madison controls the right side while Jocelyn controls the left. The extra weight that has to be carried on a normal pair of legs, along with the twins' fairly busy lives means that they really don't have much choice but to be physically fit. In terms of clothing, they prefer to dress light, bright, and active or artsy, but they'll wear basically whatever they have to for photoshoots. Hey, when you're that unusual, you're an attraction whether you like it or not.

Ring Location: Middle City

Occupation: Professional hosts, celebrity reporters, and media personalities

Real Life Skills

Combined: The twins are fully ambidextrous and can play the guitar and violin right or left-handed, though Jocelyn is better with the former and Madison with the latter. They enjoy sewing and modifying clothes and tend to be good with cars. They're surprisingly handy at fixing things in general. Yes, they joke that "two heads are better than one". This extends to multitasking, perceptiveness, and general problem solving. Individually, each is above average. As a unit, they're unstoppable. While they're capable of all of the normal things that you'd expect of competent adults, being conjoined definitely makes these a bit harder. They're not winning any foot speed, balance, or physical endurance contests.

Jocelyn: While the twins are biologically identical and should respond the same way to things, Jocelyn is totally unaffected by even the spiciest foods. In general, she just has an abnormally high pain threshold. She's also surprisingly good at sleight-of-hand tricks thanks to countless hours practicing to be a magician with her sister as a child.

Madison: Though she shares most of the aforementioned skills with her sister, Madison tends to be the weaker of the two. Where she excels is in her focus, ability to be incredibly precise, and steady hand. Playing darts, tossing a ball, or firing a gun, her accuracy is impressive for someone who hasn't been specially trained.

Likes (J) = Jocelyn // (M) = Madison // (B) = Both

• magic tricks (B)
• fast cars (B)
• celebrity gossip (J)
• tech and gadgets (M)
• making funny faces and snuggling (B)
• DIY 'life hacks' (B)
• classical music (M)
• rock music (J)
• coffee (J)
• just the nastiest health drinks and smoothies (M)
• really cute flats and heels (B)

Dislikes (J) = Jocelyn // (M) = Madison // (B) = Both

• coffee (M)
• health drinks and smoothies (J)
• walking long distances without a destination (B)
• people who take themselves too seriously (B)
• being stared at beyond the obvious second glances that they're used to receiving (B)
• lazy people (M)
• pretentiousness (J)
• when the one falls asleep before the other (B)
• spiders (B)

Personalities: The Brightman twins have been a curiosity from the moment that they were born, and have always had to deal with some degree of public attention. As a result, they've developed 'personas' that play up their few differences without consciously intending to. The truth is that the sisters are similar in overall personality and habits and pretty flexible in terms of what they like and dislike. Both are used to living with compromise and they rarely fight. It's not exactly like they can give each other the cold shoulder. Out of the two, Madison is definitely the more concerned about eating and living healthily. Jocelyn's mostly just down to freeload, much to her sister's annoyance. For the most part, Madison is the more driven of the two as well and the more likely to take charge while Jocelyn is a bit more of a laid back joker. The former is more likely to read something and the latter more likely to try something. Both can talk a mile a minute, though. Both hate to sit idle. They're friendly, gregarious, and welcoming towards others and genuinely want to make people smile but, when you spend literally every waking moment in each other's company, you can't help but become a social unit unto yourselves, so the twins can definitely be a bit judgemental and tend to prioritize themselves and their own relationship at the cost of others. That's not to say that they're aloof or selfish. Both have friends. Both are funny, good-natured people who use their occasionally over-the-top sense of humour to put others at ease. It's just that, when your performance on the stage of life is a harmonized duet while everyone else only has to play a solo, you'd better prioritize being in sync with each other.

Background: coming soon

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Name:

n/a

Alias:

The Mimic, Marjorie Dawes

Age:

Unknown, but young, or at least seems to be. When taking the form of Marjorie, late twenties.

Personality:

Quiet, childlike, innocent, unsettling, inquisitive, subtly humorous, evanescent

Archetype:

Alien, most likely

Powers:

The Mimic has only one power: it can become something or someone else. It is not sure how it does this or what its limitations are. It only knows that it cannot become anything exceptionally large or small. Perhaps it cannot become another thing for too long. In any event, it has never tried.

Weaknesses:

The Mimic itself possesses a type of sentience (if indeed, it can be called sentient) that is profoundly different from that of humans and most alien races so far encountered. In its base form, it either cannot or will not verbalize. It takes on not only the abilities of things that it transforms into, but also their weaknesses and, if those things are sentient, some semblance of their characters. It’s believed that The Mimic grows more sentient by living as others. From them, it learns all of the constructs and values that govern human society, such as right and wrong, strong and weak, and male and female. It is learning that these things are not as easy to define as they would initially seem to be.

The longer that The Mimic spends imitating something else, the more that it desires to be that thing and the more impact that thing will have on its character. Obviously, this can be a double edged sword.

Appearance:

In what most people consider its basic form, though nobody truly knows, The Mimic is a roughly watermelon-sized and shaped blob in a pale greyish-blue that usually hovers two to six feet above the ground. It seems to have a fixed shape, though this will change in colour and texture depending on its impression of the people around it. Sometimes, when faced with unusual or unexpected stimuli, and particularly when someone’s behaviour does not match his or her words, it forms exaggerated faces, almost as if it’s lampooning its surroundings. It seems to be able to turn itself into a flat, disc-like object with a hole in the center. In terms of human forms, it favours that of a young woman with red hair, freckles, and mousy features. Her hair is often pulled back into a messy ponytail, she’s wearing jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a light button-up sweater. Nobody knows why The Mimic chooses this form so often. Perhaps even it doesn’t know.

Character Evolution:

The Mimic isn’t sure what its purpose is. Perhaps it has no inherent purpose and must find one. It doesn’t know, and so it will learn so that it can know.

Bio:

The Mimic does not know what it is. It does not know if it is a living thing or a piece of technology, or if it can be both at the same time. It does not know where it is from. In fact, it does not know when it is from either. Time is a concept that it is attempting to understand. Really, The Mimic does not know what it can do. It has noticed that it takes the form and the qualities of other things around it, so long as they are not excessively large or infinitesimally small. It is not sure how it does this or even why. It just does. If there is any mechanism governing what it decides to mimic, it doesn’t understand how that mechanism works. It just chooses things and becomes them unless there is a direct threat. Then it responds by becoming something more powerful and neutralizing the threat. It is not sure why it does this. The Mimic is not much of anything, after all. The Mimic does not know much of anything either, but one thing is certain: it is learning.

Notes:

The Mimic does not need to take notes. When it sees something, it understands all of its physical details immediately and is incapable of not understanding them after that.

Sample Post:

On the first day of the new Justice League, there are throngs of well-wishers outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new superheroes. Among them is a small, red-haired young woman with mousy features, freckles, and dimples. She stands beside a streetlight on an uncluttered part of the sidewalk and whoops and cheers with the others. Nearby, there is a teenaged boy with shaggy blonde hair and a pair of beat up skateboarding shoes. She studies him carefully, closely, for just long enough not to unsettle him. She wouldn’t want to make the subject uncomfortable. It would be rude and unprofessional.

On the second day, hanging around that same streetlight, the teenaged boy whoops and cheers with thousands of others. Not far away is a portly middle-aged woman with dark skin and hair pulled neatly back in a bun. He looks at her for a second, fidgeting as he gets all of her details down. He’s trying not to sketch her out. That’d be a bit fucked up.

On day three, the middle-aged woman stands beside that same light and adds her voice to the crowd. It’s a bit smaller than it was the past few days, but she remains enthusiastic. Not far away, an old Asian man seems just as energized. He’s wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and socks under his sandals. The woman gets a read on him, notes what she needs to note, and looks away. She’s not trying to make anyone uncomfortable. That’s not how you make the world a better place.

On the fourth and final day, an old Asian man stands in that same spot amid the crowd, beaming and waving as the final group of superheroes walk past. Nearby is chubby young man in his thirties, with a batman shirt and a bag of takeout. The old man decides to take a gander in that direction, but then he reaches up and clutches at his chest. A look of shock and dismay crosses his features. It’s what one would expect and it isn’t. It’s unsettling. A couple of people look in his direction. He slumps to the ground, but when the crowd parts enough to allow others to help him, he is gone without a trace. There is only a fire hydrant close to where he was standing.

Hours later, once the hubbub has died down, a man walks his dog along the sidewalk. The dog stops beside the hydrant, lifts its leg, and lets loose with a foul yellow stream. The Mimic is disgusted. It nearly turns itself into a larger angry dog in response. In the event, it does not, but it feels satisfaction at this reaction nonetheless. It believes, to a certainty of over eighty percent, that it interpreted the construct of ‘disgusting’ accurately while not being in the form of something that would have an innate understanding of such.About ten minutes later, a bus stops in front of the hydrant. When it drives off, there is only an empty sidewalk and a stray cat walking away.

The cat walks into a nearby park. It trots into a public restroom. There is a long period of silence. Washrooms are convenient, The Mimic has learned. They are places of secrecy because of ‘disgusting’. About twenty minutes later, a young woman with red hair, freckles, and mousy features walks out of the washroom, hands tucked into her pockets. She is not the real her. She is The Mimic. She is attempting to understand superheroes. She is reviewing right and wrong. Insofar as she can determine, it seems that the latter is more prevalent but the former is received more positively. Is it due to a scarcity effect? Why do these beings consider a more difficult, less common, and statistically less materially rewarding behaviour to be more desirable? The Mimic does not understand, and it wants to understand. Perhaps it can learn about ‘good’ by doing ‘good’. Perhaps it can do so as a superhero.

The young woman is so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn’t see the man come up behind her until he is almost upon her. She takes a few steps back and he pulls out a knife. “I want your money, not your life,” he demands, “But if you try to make a move, I won’t think twice.” The Mimic bolts. This is a bad man, it determines. This man is threatening it with physical harm. The Mimic runs behind a tree. From the other side emerges Batman. Batman kicks the bad man so hard that there’s a sound from his abdomen that indicates bodily injury. He crawls away, coughing up blood, eyes wide with fear. The Mimic wonders if it just did a bad thing. Then it decides that it’s safer as a cat.

"I admit to being more than a little distracted by the...wit and depth of the conversation at this table."

"It seems mother wishes to turn me into some sort of lifelong penitent for sins I've not committed."

Most of Penny's life has been defined by being the family disgrace. She was born without a left leg and with a moderate form of ectrodactyly in her left hand and this was cause enough for her superstitious mother to see her birth as divine punishment for the sins of her and her husband. This would be quite a bad state of affairs in most families, but is only magnified due to the fact that Penelope's parents are King Rouis XI of Perrence and his wife, Queen Mathilde. Unallowed to attend balls, public functions, or even to venture past the palace gardens, Penny is a young woman stifled. She reads, she paces (crutch in hand), she grows things and draws and writes. She pretends to hate those formal family dinners when both father and mother are home, but secretly, she loves them. She is a forgotten middle child in many ways, with no prospects for marriage despite her station and no hope of amounting to much, so she is not one to hold back on pithy observations and cutting commentary and it is oh so amusing (often not only to her). The Gift is sometimes her plaything. When she's bored or sucky, she uses it to play tricks on her siblings, particularly if they're being obnoxious (at least one always is). A laugh at someone else's expense is still a laugh. Besides, they deserve it.

However, deep down, beneath many layers of snark and resigned cynicism, there's a curious, big-hearted girl who has dreams of seeing the world, meeting new people, and being valued instead of either pitied, stared at, or avoided with whispers, stolen glances, and sad shakes of the head. Because you place your right hand on your left hip, pointing to your left leg when you honour Oraff (the creator) while making the sign of the Pentad, religious superstition holds that Penny's missing limb is a mark of that God's disfavour. She does not believe it. She refuses to. She has a private tutor and she practices Binding Magic for hours on end, quietly determined to prove that she isn't what they say she is. On some warm Dorrad nights, though, as she lies awake in bend, staring at the swirling patterns on her ceiling and wishing for sleep, she worries that they're right and that she'll fail. She wonders why she couldn't just be whole and normal. She tries to dream that she is, but even in her dreams, she remains stubbornly the same person who she knows and does not love.


Were it not for her birth differences and their prejudices, most people would consider Penelope quite pretty. Tall and statuesque, with bright green eyes perhaps just a bit too large for her face and a resting smirk, she is the spitting image of her mother. Her hair is a rich chestnut brown and, when not styled in the fashion of the courts (even though she does not attend them), can usually be found pulled back in a Perrench braid. Since she was young, it has displayed a remarkable resistance to maintaining any sort of cohesive style or form for long and appears almost preternaturally tousled.

Penny wears long, light dresses. They vary in colour and she has many - some, hand-me-downs from her older sisters. She likes things that are lacy but feel solid and protective, so lacy hems and collars abound but not much else. She enjoys buttons, for whatever reason, and will often fiddle with those running down her sleeves. She also wears gloves. The left one is modified to fill in the gap in her palm and it has a dummy finger attached by a thin string to the one beside it. Out of habit, she does not take her gloves off unless sleeping or bathing. She has a pair of crutches (a handful of pairs, actually), but doesn't like how they fill her hands. As a result, she often gets around with only one. She's rarely in a hurry anyway. There's nowhere to go and not all that much to do.


For a noble lady of Penelope's station, languages are a must. For her, they're also something to do, and she has numerous correspondents all across the twin continents who she writes to. She is fully fluent in Perrench, Avincian, Revidian, and her mother's native tongue of Kerreman, and at least conversant in Eskandish, Torragonese, Joruban, and Belzaggic. Once you learn one language from a family, the others come easily. She sometimes practices her calligraphy and is looking to correspond with someone in Oiyac or Mycormi, but yasoi are so much more reticent in real life than they are in all of her old books.


Penny approaches prodigious levels in her use of the Gift - unsurprising for a blueblood of her pedigree. With little else to do but read, write, and learn, she also trains all day, memorizing focus words and inventing little spells of her own that she gives funny names to. While she's practiced with all five canonical schools, it is Binding that she puts most of her effort towards. She spends a considerable amount of time on Arcane as well, mostly the illusory branch, works with Kinetic to help ease the difficulty of walking long distances, and with Magnetic because it's her tutor's favourite and there's something peacefully destructive about watching fingers of electricity writhe and snap. Guiltily, she dabbles in internal Chemical spells and tells herself it isn't so that she can make people like her. That's what a madwoman would think. Penny isn't mad and will not let herself go mad. She simply won't. Besides, Binding Magic is her preferred school. If she can't heal herself, she reasons, she can at least heal other people. Then, she cringes at the thought of how melodramatic and self-indulgent such a statement would sound aloud.


Penny remembers the looks most of all: the first looks when people see her or the second ones when they make sense of her. It first really registered when she was around four years old. Until then, she was blissfully unaware of her differences and what they would mean. She grew up playing with her siblings - there were many and they were close in age. There were servants' daughters and cousins too. They always told the most wonderful stories and she used to like to hear them until she realized that those were stories of a world that was being kept from her. They're now a weird, resentful kind of addiction. She still needs to hear them, but they no longer bring her joy.

When she was seven, her parents attempted to arrange for her a marriage with the second son of a Torragonese lord, but instead of making arrangements by proxy, he decided to visit. Penny played with the boy and they laughed and smiled and she teased him that they'd be married someday and that he should listen to his wife. Then, he and his father left.

One time, when she was ten, there was a ceremony at the Catherdal de Ste. Defrois. She rode in a carriage through the streets of Relouse, listening to the clatter of the horses' hooves and the church bells ringing. She remembers leaning out with her little tiara and waving with her right hand at the commonfolk. They were loud and dirty and shouted, and she was a bit scared, but they waved back, and there were kids her own age in there too.

She hasn't traveled since. She hasn't done much of anything since and wasn't going to be allowed to. That is, until her brother Arcel intervened. She is to attend Ersand'Enise under an assumed name, as the invented daughter of an unremarkable merchant paid a sum by her brother. She is to be his agent there. She is to meet with people and exchange letters with them. She knows Arcel: he is not vile, but he is ambitious and underhanded. Penelope - Penny Pellegrin now - doesn't much care. It's a species of freedom, at least, and she'll take it, even with all of the risk and the fears.


More than anything, Penny wants to spread her figurative wings. She wants to live an actual life. She wants to prove to herself, at least, that her mother is wrong about her. There is a deep well of bitterness there, though she shakes her head to clear it and simply tries to appreciate that she has never hungered nor wanted for any physical need a day in her life.

Penny is eager to be at Ersand'Enise and to make something of herself, but she is deathly afraid of the real, actual, wild people out here. How will they react to her? Will they laugh at her jokes? Will they just see her: Penny - a girl from Perrence, or will it be pity, awkwardness, or avoidance? She knows it will. It'll have to be, like it always is. What if anybody finds her out - or learns of whatever her brother is up to? Will she be able to play a merchant's daughter convincingly? She feels like a fraud when it comes to life. She hasn't lived very much and knows it. Still, sometimes she takes a deep breath and counsels herself that she can do this. She is a princess of Perrence. Her forebears earned the crown at some point. They were capable people. So is she... she hopes - she really, really hopes.


Penny almost always carries a satchel slung across one shoulder, with some basic jewellery, a small journal, letters and wax, and a comb (partly as a joke) inside. She uses one crutch the majority of the time, to keep a hand free, and two when she knows that she'll have to do a lot of walking that day. They're made of light, lacquered wood with soft pads on top for her armpits. She'll never be found using a wand or staff as a focus object, having practiced freecasting from a young age. For spells absolutely requiring one, a crutch is very much like a staff when held a certain way. Penny's recently taken to wearing a spare garter even though she already has one to hold up her stocking. She uses it as a strap to tuck secret correspondence for her brother into and spends the next while paranoid that it'll slip out and Black Rezaindians will come for her in the night.




At the end of the day, Penny falls on the side of being a good person. Her acerbic comments are more than just a cover, but also not her entire story. She's well-heeled and it shows. She can wield etiquette like a weapon if need be and generally has very good recall for obscure trivia and details. This carries over into languages and the written word, where she can speak seven languages, at least to a degree...at least usually.




Penny's upbringing and the constant feeling of being unwanted has done a number on her mental health. She's not a wreck or a basket case, but she struggles with intense flashes of anxiety and self-doubt. She worries about how people will perceive her and tends to assume the worst, though she actively counsels herself not to. She can be a bit of a stepford smiler at times.


Penelope of Perrence is here incognito, as a lowly merchant's daughter named Penny Pellegrin. It would be unusual for anyone but the high-ups in the school establishment to know who she really is. Also, see here for a demonstration of how she walks on one crutch. Beware that I may have had to go into the weird part of YouTube to dig this up.
Colour Code: F7976A

Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety percent...OUCH! Argh!! Goddammit that hurt...

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Kaeli is an oddball and eccentric to the very core, especially by Elven standards. Sometimes stereotypes are exaggerated and sometimes they fit to a tee. Put simply, she's one of those people who wants to know how everything works, can usually give you an educated guess right off the bat, and - given enough time - can usually replicate it. In general, she is obsessed with technology, preserving it, repairing it, and improving it, a passion which goes far beyond her people's rather practical and uninspiring relationship with things mechanical. On projects of great import or that have struck a particular chord with her, Kaeli will work tirelessly, with near-boundless enthusiasm, an eye for detail, and a need for perfection that borders on the insane. Social interaction, sleep, and most anything else be damned.

If a given goal is not a project but an endeavour, then she will go to great lengths, often at not-inconsiderable personal danger, in order to see it through. Otherwise, she is curious and inquisitive but flighty, branching off tangentially at once in terms of ideas, conversation, and projects. She enjoys meticulously planning more than she does following through, and collects and keeps things that most people would consider junk simply because she sees them as works in progress, interesting, or simply because she wants to be prepared for any eventuality. In particular, she enjoys solving the problem of her own strange body and finding ways to do things that would seem to be beyond her physical capabilities.

Just as Kaeli can lose herself for hours in a project, she can lose herself for hours when talking about a subject or with with a person whom she finds genuinely interesting. This tendency, alarmingly aberrant among elves, has only grown more pronounced since she left her homeland. When engaged in these fits of passionate gabbing, she has been accused of talking 'at' people as opposed to talking 'with' them. Her standards in terms of 'interesting', however, are higher than she probably realizes. People are usually just surroundings as opposed to being genuine 'company'. They're an audience for her genius, a sounding board for her ideas, and the source of interesting problems and opportunities to be solved or seized. Some also make great guinea pigs.

In terms of romance, Kaeli thinks about it from time to time just as any red-blooded woman might. Then she shuts it out of her mind. She is keenly aware that society at large does not consider her attractive. Like most elves, she also can't 'do' smalltalk and flirting, and she isn't even any good at the social rituals expected of her own people, let alone the more elaborate and frighteningly involved ones so beloved of humans. She often ends up simply lurking and dreaming. In many ways, she's a dreamer. In many ways she holds delusions of grandeur and achievement on an epic scale. However, she's self-aware enough to see some of these for what they are. There's a thin streak of bitterness that runs through her thinking and it's a product of the subtle but ever-present discrimination that she has faced growing up with a very visible deformity. Elves are not a warm, fuzzy, communal people by any stretch of the imagination, but her upbringing was marked by complete disinterest from even close family, often tipping over into utter neglect.


The first thing that stands out about Kaeli is the fact that she looks like half a person. The result of a rare birth defect, she was born completely without legs, not dissimilar to Kanya Sesser or Jen Bricker. Beyond that, she's rather unremarkable: petite and pale, with white, wavy, shoulder length hair often pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. It's all-but preternaturally unruly, though sometimes she can fuss it into place. Kaeli's facial features tend towards 'mousy' but actually somewhat attractive, though she doesn't put much effort into her appearance. Indeed, the closest thing to makeup that she's known to wear is the series of oil stains and smudges that can be found on her hands, cheeks, and clothes. These compete with a number of small nicks, burns, and scars from too much tinkering. She's also considered quite stocky and muscular by Elven standards due to the upper body strength that she needs in order to get around.

Kaeli's clothing reflects both necessity and her eccentricity. Both of her pointed upper ears are pierced in multiple places, and she's not averse to self-adornment, though it's rarely with the shiny jewellery common to her race. Rather, she owns a necklace made from a very light silver chain, some old screws, a handful of bolts, and a couple of washers. She can also always be found wearing either a pair of round-rimmed tinted shades or goggles that she uses to protect her eyes from the harsh sunlight or hold back her unruly hair. Kaeli wears a custom-made garment on her truncated lower body made of a rough, sandy-coloured fabric, with a thick, cushioned leather pad at the bottom that she uses to sit and 'walk' on. Generally, she dresses in a form-fitting shirt in either purple, forest green, or crimson with a row of buttons running up the middle. Its sleeves are invariably rolled up. A brown leather belt with a prodigious number of pouches, clips, and various doodads rests snugly upon her hips, and a second, thinner belt encircles her upper waist. Filling out the ensemble is a bandolier with several pockets running from her left shoulder to her right hip, where it's clipped into her belt. A pair of elbow pads adorns her arms, and tough, worn out fingerless gloves with protective mitts that flip over complete the outfit. Kaeli usually carries a backpack that seems slightly too large for her, and when it's cooler, she bundles up in a sandy-coloured hooded hip cloak that effectively covers her whole body.


Kaeli Kinseld was the second girl as well as the third and final child born to parents of high standing. Her father was the town recordkeeper and brother of the thane while her mother was a jeweler of some repute. Due to her startling deformity, her birth was a bitter disappointment and it was hoped that she would die quietly in infancy, lest she grow up to be a burden. In the event, she not only survived, but grew into a curious, lively, and (with the exception of her missing legs) healthy child. Unlike her older siblings, Kaeli was not groomed for an advantageous marriage or a lofty position, either political or professional. As a result, her education was sparse and was piggybacked upon that of her slightly older brother, Heddenrad, who was privately tutored in - aside from instruction on recordkeeping - what were considered the classical Magdalenese subjects: linguistics, smithing, hunting, mathematics, natural philosophy (science), and jewellery-making.

In the event, while her brother approached his studies dutifully and at times diligently, Kaeli tore through her books with an appetite for learning that - while it was somewhat selective - bordered on the obsessive. The walls of her bedroom were often filled with drawings and partially-completed sketches, and her young mind was filled with ideas. In particular, she gravitated towards all things mechanical and electrical: understanding them, disassembling and reassembling them, and making them function. If she was hopeless at hunting, too small for smithing, and unenthusiastic about crafting finely filigreed and delicate jewellery, she had nimble, dexterous fingers, an eye for detail, and a keen intuition for the workings of anything with moving pieces.

For the most part, however, people paid little attention to the girl, except as a curiosity, and she was left largely to her own devices. The one exception was Kaeli's (really her brother's) natural philosophy and mathematics tutor, a prematurely cantankerous academic named Tasten Aldavere. He spent extra hours fostering what he believed was a brilliant young mind, and his attitudes, mannerisms, and methods had a profound impact on her development. In her mid-teens, she was betrothed to him, even though he was nearly twenty years her senior. In reality, it wasn't a marriage founded on love, since Tasten was rather clearly homosexual. Rather it was a union of kinship and mutual respect, carefully calculated by the pair to afford Kaeli both some independence from her family as well as some monetary attention.

For a handful of years, things went well. Kaeli continued to educate herself and earned the respect of a notable portion of Magdalene's academic community. Even her father, who had advocated for exposing her to the elements during her infancy, came to appreciate her gifts and even fund some of her pet projects. Then her uncle, the local thane, made the grave mistake of defying the Alfking of Magdalene. Exactly what happened is not something that she will ever talk about, perhaps because she has never taken much interest in politics. A ruler who had for Kaeli's entire life seemed distant and mildly benevolent struck with sudden, ruthlessly efficient ferocity, purging her entire family. A harmless and somewhat useful curiosity, she was spared, inherited a small portion of her family's fortune, and placed under house arrest. Driven to depression by the restriction on her ability to move about freely and to tinker and scrounge outside of the confines of her home (where literally all of the best stuff was) and sensing that Tasten was likely to protest (thereby putting him in the line of fire), she slipped out of her cellar in a small wine barrel, and arranged to have herself smuggled out of town.

With no choice but to end up far away from home and, to a lesser extent, curious about the mysteries of the world outside of the deep forests of Magdalene, she began traveling the roads of Invernier. Kaeli learned quickly and out of necessity how to cover large distances, where to hide, as well as who and what to avoid, while gradually using up her coin. She earns a sporadic income by repairing simple things well below the level of her expertise whenever she sets herself down for a handful of weeks as well as occasionally appearing in performances similar to sideshows. She doesn't particularly enjoy those jobs, but they put coin in her purse and provide her with free and easy travel.


Kaeli carries a small, lightweight, and finely-crafted tool set with her at all times. She has a handful of semi-functional electrical lights, a magnifying glass, her wedding ring, various replacement parts for common mechanical items, a needle and thread, a few changes of clothes, a switchblade, and a couple of cans of something like improvised pepper spray, with different varieties effective in repelling different common threats. She's working on auditory weapons as well and on extending the range of the sprays. She swears that she'll finish eventually.


Even with legs, Kaeli would be considered small. Without them, she's absolutely tiny (maybe 2'6" and 55 lbs) and excellent at hiding in places where most people wouldn't even bother look. She can hold her breath for an extremely long time, remain still and quiet for extended periods, and go for longer than most without food and water. Conversely, she obviously moves at a slower pace than most people, expends more energy in doing so, struggles with tasks that require size, and tends to have her skills met with a certain skepticism in most places that she visits.

This is potential character one of two. Maybe we can see which one people like better once I've posted Yuri (the other one). Anyway, sorry if this is a bit long. She's partially inspired by Virginia Hall, who was a legendary badass.

Name (or known Aliases): Simona Ricci, aka. Gianna Verdi, Margarethe Vonlanthen, Hopper

Age: 23

Nationality: Italian

Affiliation: Italian Red Cross, works personally for Princess Marie Jose of Italy when she's not looking out for number one.

Role: Nurse, thief, infiltrator

Appearance: (shitty pic coming soon) A slim and petite (maybe 5'2") lightly-tanned Caucasian woman in her early mid-twenties, with shoulder-length straight black hair, blue eyes, and a nose that's just a bit too large, Simona skews to the 'pretty' side of average. She has dimples when she smiles (though it's usually more of a grin or a smirk), and a slight case of buckteeth. However, these things are usually not what people notice about her first. Instead, it's the pronounced limp that she walks with or - when she's not wearing her prosthetic - the fact that she's missing nearly her entire left leg. Due to the height of her injury, she moves better on crutches, though she'll often use her artificial leg to blend in more easily. Indeed, when she's just standing in a crowd, she tends to fade into it. Simona's not exactly open about the cause of the injury, mostly because it's a touchy enough subject that she risks getting emotional.

She usually wears her Red Cross uniform, which looks just a little bit like a nun's habit. Otherwise, she prefers knee-length dresses or skirts. She's unlikely to be seen in a revealing or provocative outfit except when she's drinking. Simona usually carries a large brown backpack stuffed full of first-aid equipment, clothes, a flask of Limoncello, a small satchel of tools that look like scalpels but are really for less legal uses, and sometimes her prosthetic leg. It really is amazing what she can fit in there. The leg itself is actually useful for holding things, as it’s hollow and she uses it to smuggle letters and contraband when necessary. That’s dangerous works, so sometimes, she also wears a leg holster with a small Beretta under her skirt/dress. She knows how use it, but that doesn't mean that she knows how to use it well. It’s more for her own sense of agency.

Personality: Simona is whatever she needs to be at the moment, whether that be a dutiful Catholic girl and committed nurse, a sophisticated and creative young woman from a wealthy family with contacts in the government, a physically and emotionally broken victim of war, or a loud, irreverent, warm, and somewhat uncultured rural Italian stereotype. Exactly which of these is closest to her genuine personality is up for debate, and the truth may be that she’s a bit of each.

The final one, however, is undoubtedly the face she wears easiest. Simona can talk. She loves spinning a good story, sharing a good laugh (sometimes about rather crude subjects), and engaging in frank, witty, and often quite incisive verbal fencing. She can appreciate a good pun, though she hasn’t mastered the art of making them herself (at least not in English), and will readily make self-deprecating jokes about her one-leggedness. Having witnessed a great deal of death and suffering, at some point she ‘got over the hump’ with regards to emotional attachment and simply learned to accept that people come and go and that they’re still worth investing in. She’s quick to get close with anyone who’ll allow it, and can be almost uncomfortably touchy-feely at times, though she will never make romantic advances, nor will she be stupid enough to trust them.

In general, Simona calls upon the powers of sympathy, stereotype, friendliness, and caricature to ensure that she’s seen as a complete non-threat by enemies and most friends alike. At best she’s plucky and admirable, at worst she’s either a vacuous and annoying chatterbox or a pity case.

Outside of the social aspects of her personality, Simona is intelligent, quick-thinking, and surprisingly competent (mainly due to sheer moxie) at a number of unrelated skills. Conversely, she can be impulsive, pushy, and Quixotic in terms of her personal quests and goals. She’s flighty but ambitious, and profoundly confident in herself on a basic level, though the loss of her leg has undermined this somewhat and occasionally leads to bouts of overcompensation. Regardless, Simona is used to succeeding and regularly getting her way. When she doesn’t, it can be ugly, both personally and professionally.

If she’s a bit materialistic, it’s not for the sake of having pretty things, but rather more practical reasons. She believes that money and resources can buy both safety and happiness to some extent and that accruing them will benefit her and her family. Despite this, the war has touched her profoundly, and Simona has come to genuinely care about those affected by it. She wants it to be over, and she would go so far as to die romantically and heroically to that end. What comes next is no concern of hers. She’s pointedly apolitical, though socially somewhat liberal, and she distrusts communists and political radicals of any stripe. Her primary loyalty is to her superior and patron, Princess Marie Jose of Italy, and it comes second only to herself and her family.

Service History: Simona joined the Italian Red Cross as soon as Italy entered the war and her brothers, Giacomo and Vittorio, were deployed to Southern France. She has never been one to simply sit idle, especially not when others are out doing what is expected of them. Sent to the African theatre, she served in field hospitals and POW camps for the better part of two years, often working in collaboration with British and American Red Cross units in the area. This is where she picked up most of her English, though she has some cousins who live overseas. Most of these places were chronically underfunded, so she had to find...creative ways to finance them at times. Whether it be pickpocketing the dead and dying, skimming supplies intended for military garrisons, or stealing officers’ bonuses right out of their safes, If her superiors disapproved of her methods, they never had the chance to voice that disapproval, because that would've involved catching her first.

She was working in a field hospital just outside of Addis Ababa when the forces of her own country strafed the entire compound (this is based upon a real historical incident). While attempting to evacuate the wounded, she was shot high up on the left thigh with a heavy-caliber round from one of the aircraft and she passed out almost instantly. Simona awoke minus a leg and fell almost immediately into a serious depression, partially due to the injury and partially due to the fact that her own country's forces had been responsible for the monstrous attack. The government, of course, vehemently denied such absurd rumours, and the incident was quickly buried, though not before it was brought to the attention of the head of the Italian Red Cross, Princess Marie Jose. When Simona was shipped back to Italy to convalesce, she was personally visited by the princess, who was something of a personal enemy of Mussolini and was looking for ways to bring the war to a close as soon as possible. Though it was officially supposed to be little more than a courtesy/publicity visit, the princess was eager to confirm the rumours that she had heard, and the two women ended up speaking for hours. Simona was deeply impressed by the patron of her organization, and it inspired a degree of personal loyalty that she previously hadn't felt towards anyone outside of her immediate family. They talked deeply and frankly, and she must've made an impression herself, because Princess Marie personally paid for her rehabilitation and prosthetic leg. Not to be outdone, the Italian government, under Mussolini, awarded her a medal for bravery and being wounded in service (despite the fact that she was wounded by them and was in the service of an international NGO).

Unwilling to simply return home and collect a disability pension, Simona returned to her duties, albeit in what were considered safer, more 'home front' areas. However, with the allied invasion of Italy beginning in 1943, the home front became a front in the true sense, and not only was her brother Giacomo one of the early casualties, but her upper-middle class family’s finances were devastated when the bombing campaign destroyed her father’s auto factory. As the situation worsened, Marie Jose stepped up her anti-fascist activities, and Simona, in secret correspondence with her superior, offered her services above and beyond the call of the Red Cross. When Mussolini's regime collapsed and he fled to the north of the country, Simona followed, albeit as something of a mole. She's been working tirelessly for the last six months in hospitals and POW camps in North-Central Italy, not only healing and feeding, but also working clandestinely with POWs and wounded fighters from various partisan groups to subvert the new puppet regime. A couple of days ago, a critically wounded republican fighter, remembering that another member of his cell had told him that "you can trust the one-legged woman", pressed a message into the palm of her hand with a mysterious address in Ulm, Bavaria.

Other: Simona's a lot stronger than she looks, able to lug around her backpack/prosthetic/crutch(es) without complaint and despite her small size. She’s a generous 5’2” and weighs all of 78 pounds. Combined with her natural flexibility, this allows her to squeeze herself into extremely small spaces if need be. She’s picked up a number of other useful skills over the course of her relatively short life: She can play the flute and violin reasonably well thanks to lessons during her childhood; She speaks passable Swiss German as a result of growing up in Northern Italy not far from the border; She’s also picked up some English and some Ethiopian from her postings during the early part of the war and learned to swim while undergoing rehabilitation. Picking locks and pockets were further skills learned while in theatre. She also became pretty good at table tennis from playing with wounded soldiers in the various hospitals that she served in, though she’s not as good as she thinks she is.

This tendency to overestimate herself extends to drinking. Her tolerance for alcohol is much lower than she’s convinced it is (this is partly due to her being smaller than she used to be), and she is liable to make a fool of herself when drunk. In the past, this didn’t extend to throwing herself at men, as she was saving herself for marriage, but after becoming an amputee, she decided that her marriage prospects were slim to none and that waiting for something that would never come was a daft idea. She’ll still never outright make the first move, but she’ll definitely respond. The truth is, Simona doesn’t really know how to act around a man who she finds legitimately attractive. In particular, she has a thing for Americans, American culture, and motorcycles.
Culturally, she’s far from traditional, with a love for Big Band Jazz, fast cars, days at the beach, and late nights out dancing, though she’s a bit self-conscious about the latter two now. She’s eager to squeeze everything that she can out of life, she’ll make sport of anybody, and she can sometimes come across as a bit of a misandrist. She has a nickname, Legnoso (which means ‘Woody’ in Italian), for her prosthetic leg, and sometimes talks about it as if it’s a person with a will of its own.

Ultimately, as an Italian in late 1943, Simona knows that she can play either side if need be. As a nominal member of a neutral organization, she can gain access to people and places that might be impossible otherwise. As a small disabled woman, Simona knows that she won't readily be viewed as a combatant or any type of threat but also that it's not exactly easy for someone with such a visible difference to be inconspicuous if her cover is ever blown. She's never looked a man in the eyes and shot him, but she's certain that she could do it if the need ever arose.

I don't think I'm better than other people. I know it.

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Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and the mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is reactionary and a response to the threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.


Belzaggic: native
Avincian: fluent
Joruban: fluent
Perrench: fluent
Revidian: passable
Azjulish: passable


Look at the pic. There's your answer. He dresses in light, loose cloths, like most Belzaggic people. He'd show off his muscles if he had a bunch, but he's still a bit scrawny. Impeccably dressed, though. He just screams 'noble'.


Jomurr is a prodigy with the Gift and has the goal of either becoming an Arch-Zeno someday or returning to his house and usurping his firstborn brother to rule over the Duchy of Zowenga in his stead. Jomurr practices with all schools and knows the fundamentals of all. However, his favourite is Chemical and he's learning Atomic from a Zeno hired to be his tutor. He also has a thing for Kinetic because it's just so damned fun tossing plebs out your castle window with but a flick of your finger. Alas, this school only allows for two specializations. He should have his father talk to the Zenos about that. Arcane is pretty dope too. Binding? Hah! Binding magic isn't used for offense, and who needs healing? You have some pleb to follow you and heal you, of course!


Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and that mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is performative and a reaction to the perceived threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.


"I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was!"

In all seriousness, see the above bit on 'background'. Basically, like everyone else, Jomurr's here to become the person he's going to be for the rest of his life. He's also here to flex, though.


Tons of outfits, a coinpurse full of Kizans, Coronas, and some Neskals because that's what all of the cool kids are paying with. There's no bigger flex than rolling up to some merchant, purchasing a papaya, and asking if he can make change for your Great Neskal. Jomurr also carries the signet ring of his house and a Teddy Lion that he sometimes sleeps with.








Unless they're from Belzagg and/or a high noble from at least a neighbouring region, other students are unlikely to know that Jomurr is a second son.
Colour Code: 800080

"A Zeno's business is the Gift... and only the Gift."

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Joshe Intaba is a living legend and one of the most powerful mages alive today. Master of the Magical Pentad, Hero of the Nashorn, Warden of the Lantern of Shune-Zept, and Lion of Medrilan, he is in possession of a virtually unparalleled resume as a practitioner of the Gift. Yet, for all of his accomplishments and sublime talent, he is a mere Zeno, as he has been for the past thirty years.

Joshe has never liked politics. He has never cared to play them. He believes strongly that a Zeno should be a practitioner of the magical arts and only the magical arts. To this end, he has refused every honour and promotion that has come his way but a handful that he found to be meaningful. While many have sought to garner his support and use his renown for their own ends, he always replies with a sad, friendly smile and a tired shake of his head. "I am sorry, friend, but it cannot be so. A Zeno's business is the Gift, and only the Gift. I wish you luck." It is said that he sees with far more than just his eyes, and that he sees all. Many feel themselves judged in his presence and found wanting, but there is never any malice or disdain.

While others have risen further and faster on the strength of their ambitions, Joshe has been content to remain a teacher, researcher, and - in times of trouble - arguably the academy's mightiest weapon. He eschews the ostentatious silks, laces, and jewelry of many of his fellow mages, in favour of a simple dark robe of excellent cut and quality. In his younger years, he was known for his boisterous celebrations, generosity, and many lovers (including the current Zenith, some whisper), yet he is in every way now, a wise and wizened master, if not with a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

Ironically, his hard stance on the duties of a Zeno and his steadfast dedication to his craft has grown this old Medrilaner a sizable following - one that he has never sought to leverage. The Academy, too, has recognized this. He is considered their foremost active instructor. To be apprenticed to Zeno Intaba is generally considered an honour and a privilege reserved for only the most gifted and promising of students. Yet, such is his cachet that he is given free reign to choose his own pupils, and his choices often raise eyebrows, as do his methods. Yet, none can argue with his results.

Name: Gary Xu

Gender: Male

Appearance: Gary is a middle aged Chinese man of below average height, solidly built but not carrying any extra weight. He’s clean shaven, with lightly tanned skin and a full head of straight black hair worn professionally short and just starting to grey around the temples. His teeth are unexpectedly perfect, and though he sometimes wears glasses, he generally looks somewhat younger than his 41 years – perhaps mid-thirties. He can usually be found wearing a collared shirt in a hue of pastel with the top button undone, as well as a pair of business slacks and dress shoes. When not working, he prefers a pair of comfortable, slightly worn blue jeans and a golf shirt, or a tracksuit with blue Air Jordans. As one might imagine from this description, he’s fit and in good shape.

Age: 41

Alias: (The Indestructible Man)

Alignment: undecided (he is leaning towards hunter, though likely as more of a facilitator)

Identity: Private and recently discovered

History: Gary was born in 1976 in the small mountain village of Wulingyuan in scenic Hunan province, south-central China. It was the final, violent spasm of the Cultural Revolution, and his parents, who were shop owners, were forced into hiding until a degree of sanity returned. In 1982, the nearby mountains were designated a protected area, and over the following decade, morphed into a significant tourist attraction. Gary’s father, a shrewd and intelligent man, soon expanded his business to provide beverages, tours, and lodging. He used his savings to purchase a second home in the nearby city of Zhangjiajie, and the young family split their time between the two places.

With Deng Xiaoping’s open door policy picking up steam, the area witnessed its first western tourists, and Gary’s father was of the opinion that there would be many more to come. The boy was enrolled in English lessons (which were not easy to come by in those days, especially in a provincial backwater), and given the English name that he still carries. Being able to speak the language of international business proved to be a huge boon to his prospects, and as a teenager, he earned a good deal of extra cash acting as a tour guide and bootleg interpreter to curious Americans, Europeans, and others who came to visit.

By the time that Gary was 20, he decided to make the move to Shanghai, a decision fully supported by his parents. The city was on the precipice of a major boom, and both Gary and his father could sense it.

Living on the cheap in rough and ready Baoshan, a former port town in the process of morphing into an industrial suburb, he paid the bills for most of his first year by working construction jobs. During this time, Gary was involved in more than his fair share of barroom brawls, and found that he could take a punch better than anyone else either he or his new friends knew. However, he didn’t remain in his lowly position for long. With international companies beginning to move their manufacturing to Shanghai, his ability to speak passable English was a major asset and he was soon moved to international customer liaison.

1997 was a huge year for Gary, as he was promoted and used his newfound time off to moonlight as a student at Shanghai’s prestigious Jiao Tong University. While he didn’t have the money or education to formally attend, he bought clothes to look the part, became a regular in the library, and managed to sneak into lectures. There, he not only furthered his knowledge of marketing and economics, but he also made many friends from influential backgrounds. Before long, this young group began formulating plans and studying the marketplace, looking for investment opportunities. Gary worked two jobs, scrimped and saved in order to invest along with the others. Also, in the world at large, a couple of important things happened. Firstly, China opened up to Western media, with the box office hit Titanic becoming a massive cultural phenomenon there. Second, and more importantly, the presence of metahumans became publicly known, resulting in intense interest, debate, and official ambivalence.

Gary had little time to worry about the actions of superheroes and supervillains so long as they didn’t affect him. Over the next three years, he and his group of ‘Young Tigers’ invested in ever larger projects, gradually amassing a fortune. Despite having been promoted again, Gary left his job to focus on becoming a fulltime investor. By 2002, he returned to his former employer, having purchased it outright. With an eye to the future, the young tycoon purchased shares in up and coming social media and online banking platforms as well as local distributors of cellphone technologies. His construction firm thrived during the boom and was able to buy out a number of its rivals. He eventually married and became a father of two, willingly paying the government-imposed fine for having a second child. Over the next decade, Gary managed to get his fingers in a number of industries: English training schools, entertainment, banking, and insurance.

It was in the case of the latter that the metahuman issue impacted Gary the most. His firm was among the first to offer metahuman insurance, but this proved to be a difficult and unpredictable field, prone to losing money. Working closely with the government, he pioneered a public-private approach that combined compensation with both market prospecting and law enforcement. On a personal level, Gary was deeply disturbed by much of what he witnessed, becoming convinced that human beings with such power were inevitably bound to misuse it even if their intentions were good.

Gary himself had become something of a renaissance man by the time that he celebrated his fortieth birthday. He spoke seven languages, was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and Jeet Kune Do, as well as an avid hiker and cyclist who could also pilot personal aircraft. He maintained a large garage, as well as interests in history, physics, and geology. He attempted to learn guitar but found that he wasn’t particularly talented.

It was shortly after his forty-first birthday that an incident took place which would profoundly alter his world. He was in the middle of a meeting when a fight between a pair of local metas – Suprasonic (a deliberate – though flying – knockoff of Supersonic) and The Mountain – erupted nearby. Gary was in the process of evacuating when the metas did serious damage to the office tower that he was in, causing the elevator cables to snap. The tycoon and two of his long-time associates plunged over four hundred feet to their deaths – except, Gary didn’t die. In fact he was completely uninjured while his colleagues were killed instantly. Removing himself from the building before it collapsed, dazed and confused, he quickly invented a story to account for his survival while the Chinese government cracked down harshly on metahuman activities.

Over the past two months, he has been on leave from his many business ventures, rethinking a number of incidents in his past that he had originally put down to good luck, a strong constitution, and sheer toughness. His father always liked to recount the story of how Gary had fallen into a steep ravine as an infant while his family was running from the red guards, only to be found completely unscathed. Then there had been the time that a carelessly handled i-beam had struck him as a young man working on a construction site, sending him tumbling over forty feet to the ground below. He had dusted himself off and resumed working later that same day. His youthful brawls where he’d been able to swing for the fences while brushing off opponents’ punches had to be reconsidered, as did a waterskiing incident a few years back where he’d hit the water going nearly 100km/h and been completely unharmed. When Gary really thinks about it, he realizes that he can’t remember a single significant injury over the course of his life. The inescapable conclusion is that Gary Xu has been a metahuman the entire time. He is what he has come to hate. How he will deal with that going forward, only he can know.

Personality: Gary’s a man who has lived a lot. He is very competent in a number of areas and possesses a deep – though slightly cynical – understanding of human nature. He enjoys making dry jokes and wry comments, and isn’t afraid of being self-deprecating, though his humour is almost always situational. In general, he’s a friendly guy and a good communicator, with a large circle of friends. However, his relationships with other people are best described as ‘friendly but somewhat distant.’ This extends to his own family. That doesn’t denote a lack of caring, however, just a desire to maintain a healthy distance between himself and other people and a lack of involvement in their everyday and quite frankly mundane affairs.

As one might expect, he’s extremely motivated and determined, almost obsessively so. When Gary sets his mind to something, he will systematically break it down, examine it in detail, and execute a carefully-laid plan. He’s not entirely averse to risk, though he does try to minimize it. Perhaps due to his success in life, Gary is not easily impressed and has little sympathy or use for people who complain or make excuses, especially if they have a background or talents that give them a head start. Though he tries to see the world for the subjective thing that it is, and to always keep his own ego in check, he can be unintentionally arrogant at times.

Skills: Gary is in good though not exceptional shape. Though fairly small, he is a skilled and experienced hand-to-hand fighter, schooled in multiple martial arts, as well as possessing elementary training with some traditional Chinese weapons. He has never fired a gun before and hopes that he’ll never have to. He has, however, piloted personal aircraft and boats up to the size of a small yacht. He enjoys racing his collection of exotic cars at the track.

Gary’s also perceptive and a good negotiator, able to read people and situations quickly and thoroughly. Finally, he is fluent in Mandarin (including his local Hunan dialect), Cantonese, English, and Korean, as well as passable in Italian, Japanese, French, and Spanish.

Abilities: Gary hasn’t really had the chance to become familiar with his metahuman abilities, though he seems to possess only one: he is completely indestructible. Beyond that, he is a bog-standard human.

Equipment: Gary doesn’t really have any special equipment right now, except for an extensive garage full of exotic cars, aircraft, and boats. Obviously, he can’t bring this with him. Beyond that, he has a name that means something in business, dozens of high-level international contacts, and a credit card with no limit. Maybe he’ll build a batcave?

Name: Rintor Otorik, aka. The Smiler, The Blade of Boshir

Age: 33

Race: Human (Sub-Saharan African in appearance)

Appearance: Rintor is a smallish, very dark-skinned man in his early thirties, wiry but muscular. He has dark grey-brown eyes and is vaguely handsome. However, he suffers from Alopecia Universalis, which renders him completely hairless across his entire body. He usually dresses in a simple black robe, with black leather boots, loose black pants, a handful of fur pelts, and a thick brown leather belt with a trio of leather satchels around his waist. In his youth, he would often wear a mask that covered most of his face. However, he doesn't wear it anymore.



Role: Linguist, assassin, scout

Bio: Rintor comes from Boshir, a powerful fiefdom in the south, where he was the third son in a family from his country’s equivalent of the landed gentry. His father and grandfather had both served with distinction in the king’s army as armed scouts in previous conflicts, rising to become commanders. Rintor seemed destined for the same path, and indeed demonstrated considerable aptitude as a child. However, he manifested somewhat unexpected magical abilities upon puberty and was sent for schooling in the arcane arts. He showed little promise with higher magicks, but excelled at what was called ‘lightbending’, which, in short, allows him to bend the visible light spectrum so as to appear all-but invisible. Before long it appeared that he had reached a dead-end. While lightbending was a useful skill, people who trained at the academy of thaumaturgy were strictly forbidden from using the abilities learned there for violent ends.

When war erupted with a neighboring Elven kingdom, Rintor, then only seventeen, remained at the academy. He had flourished during his years there and grown into a thoughtful young man. However, after a year, the military situation turned for the worse, and he was personally pulled out of the academy upon orders of the king and placed into the army as a commissioned officer. Whatever his moral qualms, Rintor served as his father and grandfather had before him. If his swordsmanship was subpar for his station, he had little use for it during scouting missions. However, one can only last for so long in a war without resorting to violence. Forced to kill an enemy scout who would have revealed his army’s position, Rintor had shed his first blood. Surrounded by martial culture, his guilt was quickly assuaged.

From that point onward, he became the leader of an advance party that quickly became infamous for its lightning strikes, guerilla warfare, and sabotage. His lightbending skills made him almost absurdly effective, and before long Rintor was doing more than scouting. Assassinations came next, followed by long missions deep into enemy territory. His initial moral objections having become a thing of the past, and fed a steady diet of awards, honours, propaganda, and berserker mushrooms, Rintor became a gleeful killing machine. Gifted a pair of finely honed daggers by the king himself, the lightbender’s trail of bodies grew until he was feared, revered, and loathed across much of the continent. It became something of a legend that he would always appear out of nowhere a bare moment before striking the fatal blow, smiling like the devil himself.

His high (or low) point, came when he infiltrated the bedchambers of the Elven king and murdered him and his entire family in cold blood. This plunged the country into civil war and forced their interim leadership to sue for peace terms. Back home, Rintor was hailed as a hero, but with the war over and the accolades, drugs, and honours drying up, he felt increasingly hollow. He longed for purpose, which he attempted to find in hunting, bloodsport, and horse racing. All were dead ends. The academy had long since severed all ties with him and he was not allowed to return there. At some point, he disappeared from society altogether.

Nobody is entirely certain where he went for seven years, but when he reappeared, he was able to speak six new languages and he seemed to have found his peace. He sat outside of the academy in meditation, drinking only one bottle of water each day, for twenty-six days and nights until he was finally granted an audience with the provost. The price that he paid for readmission to the academy was considerable: all of his lands, honours, titles, and possessions save what he had carried with him, as well as a solemn vow of non-violence to be broken upon pain of a degenerative curse that will slowly and painfully cause him to waste away.

For the next three years, he ensconced himself within its hallowed halls, re-emerging at around the same time that the opening of the portal was announced. He appeared before the king, dressed in his simple black robes, and requested that he be the first of his nation to step through the portal. Given his status as a war hero, it was a request that could hardly be refused. Nobody knows what his motivation is except for Rintor himself, though one would assume that it has to do with the fascination of exploring a new land and finding redemption in the process.

Skills: Rintor can move with the utmost stealth and silence. Even elven ears struggle to detect him. He is almost ridiculously proficient with knives and daggers, though he has sworn never to use them for violence against another sentient being so long as he lives. He is able to draw maps and describe topography in considerable detail, though perhaps not as well as he might’ve in his youth. He is adept at sabotage, guerilla warfare, and has some tactical abilities, though these are qualities that he tries not to advertise. Rintor is a skilled horseman and reasonably proficient with a bow, though not what one would call 'naturally talented'. He can fast for an extended period of time and possesses basic survival skills. He has an innate ear for languages and has studied linguistics over the prvious handful of years, though he tends to speak with a thick accent.

Magic: Rintor is able to bend light so that he blends in flawlessly with his surroundings for extended periods of time when still and short bursts while moving. This effectively makes him able to turn invisible. However, the ability only extends to the visible light spectrum, and requires considerable concentration. He also struggles to blend into backdrops with especially intricate patterns or with many colours and a great deal of motion.

Equipment: Rintor has the clothes on his back, a flask of water in one satchel, some parchment and a quill in another, and some dried fruits, jerky, and nuts in another. He also has a pair of wickedly sharp daggers gifted to him by the king, but he wants nothing to do with them.

Other: Rintor is quiet and reserved – some would say aloof and subtly arrogant. He never shows his teeth anymore when smiling. He seems to be highly intelligent, though he will rarely correct people’s mistakes. He also appears to have little to no interest in women. Though he has tried hard to train it out of himself, he harbours a degree of suspicion towards elves and many near-human beings. Before Rintor went through the portal, the king gifted him his old daggers back and bade him take them through the portal. Rintor could not disobey with so many eyes on him, but he plans to drop them the moment that he steps through, and not just for his own sake. Given his past and his distinctive appearance, I'd assume that he would be known to many of the other characters, at least by name and reputation.