A reminder with elements, using my character sheet as an example. Bart here has a Earth as his primary, spirit as his secondary, Water from his catalyst, and fire from his Salamander. Not only does this give him access to those relevant sorceries (If he learned it, he could also cast compound elements of wood or metal.) He can also cast vocations of restoration (Spirit from himself as a secondary, Fire from his familiar, and Water from his staff), Alteration(Spirit, Fire, and Earth From his primary), and abjuration (Water Earth Air.) He could also have cast abnegations, but currently hasn't learn any. Also So long as his familiar is nearby and he has his staff, he can cast those spells that require water and fire.




A standard healing spell that can regenerate flesh and restore general vitality. While cure wounds is a spell that can be taught in various mediums, the potion variant, a red elixar, is efficient for him and his variety. While it can heal a general degree of injuries and provide a bit of numbness for pain, it isn't powerful enough to cure fatal injuries or broken bones.




The spell conjures a ball of fire within the caster's grip, and will burn perpetually off of it without burning the caster (Though it can still burn other people or objects that aren't the caster or what the caster is wearing). Closing the hand will extinguish the flame, and making a throwing motion will throw the fireball off of the hand and lobbed at the thrown direction. Upon impact, the fireball will explode with the force of a frag grenade a frag grenade in an intense pillar of fire.




This spell conjures a large 5 ton boulder of rock in front and above of the caster, before its dropped down, crushing whatever was directly in front of him, then the boulder rolls forward with directed force, even uphill to a weakened degree, bulldozing whatever is in its path. After the Boulder loses momentum, it shatters into pieces.




If the potion is applied over an earthern surface; A wall, dome, or any other simple structure made of rock and dirt rises out from where the potion was applied. The structure is permanent, and naturally made stable to prevent itself from collapsing. It is actually a bit harder to break then an ordinary surface of earth, but ultimately isn't so durable as to provide any meaningful permanent protection.




A standard ward taught to most abjurer's. The magic circle depicts a pentacle that not only represents magic, but2 its binding. A successfully cast magic circle will keep any magical beings from crossing the border, inside or out, including spirits, undead, witches, fae, demons, angels, etc; acting as a sort of selected forcefield. It will also block out magical attacks. However in both the cases of warding against magic and magical beings, stronger spells or beings can wear down the spell, its strength ultimately depends on the caster. In written form, this spell can last perpetually so long as the written rune isn't disrupted, and the caster continues a steady output of mana to fuel it.




A powerful alteration spell that allows for the manipulation of objects, and to a lesser extent, creatures. When casting the spell, a target be it objects and/or creatures, up to a weight limit of 2 tons and no more then three targets (Limits were based on Bart's own abilities) become subject to a telekinetic grip. Living creatures can resist the grip, but otherwise whatever settles into his grasp can be moved around freely within a 30 foot radius around him. He can maintain control for up three minutes this way, he can end the grip early by trying to toss the target at speeds up to 100 mph (though heavier targets can't be thrown as fast.) This spell requires continual focus, and direction with his hands to properly manipulate his telekinetic grip. As with any spell that requires this level of concentration. Sufficient distractions or damage can break his concentration and end the spell early.




A simple spirit sorcery that conjures a small projectile of raw mana, with enough piercing power to mimic an arrow fired from a longbow. In addition to the piercing strike, it leaves behind a small explosion of magical energy for a secondary hit.




The runic form of this spell takes the form of the alchemical symbol of water (A triangle) With rings layered around the edges, and an X in the middle.
Water is conjured from the center of the runic symbol. Exploding outward with power strong enough to cut into stone, alternatively the blast can be more gentle, like a simple spring of water.

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(Since its an infusion it counts as one of his two master spells.)


While familiar spells can really be anything, and not necessarily tied to the familiar, Bart took inspiration from his familiar with this spell. A viscous, glowing orange and red potion that when drank, allows the one who drank it the ability to spew flames from their mouth like a salamander or dragon. The flames are hot enough to melt steel, erupting out from the mouth in a thin line up to 30 feet in its length. The effect lasts for 30 minutes, though there is a cooldown period between each breath of flames (3 turns.)

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Creates a thick 'armor of earthern materials, covering whoever drank the potion. The wearer experiences none of the weight of the rocks surrounding them, and can move freely regardless of how bulky and cumbersome it seems. The enchanted stones are also incredibly durable, even more so then iron; and if they break off, the shattered debris will blast off, potentially harming nearby attacks, before reconstituting the armor. Due to the freely moving body of rock, even someone without great physical strength can compare to a gold-rank paladin in terms of strength. It requires his concentration to maintain this spell.

New world new you was apparently the name of the game. Kharne left behind his old name, sticking to the one given in the world he was reincarnated into. In his past life he was fairly well known, a spotlight on the world stage of combat sports was his. How did he get to that point? Training and a lot of it. When he was young he was a strong kid and he used it to his advantage. Doing sports, which led him to getting into scuffles. Eventually he wanted to learn to properly fight, so he got into boxing. And boy was her good at boxing! Strength, endurance, speed, reflexes, he had it all. But he wanted more. That led him into kick boxing, making his fighting feel more complete. He got into the professionals in his mid-twenties and he had planned to keep rising up. Unfortunately life had other plans in the form of a semi-truck running a red light and pulverizing his vehicle. Should have bought a tank dammit.

Apparently isekai anime and manga were right. Getting hit by a truck and dying from it sent you elsewhere! Strangely...he was himself. He wasn't reborn technically, he was his actual self. Was his body left behind? Was all of him transported? Was he in a coma and this all just fabrications of his subconscious? Whatever he was a big boy he'd figure things out as he went.

Given his background, and the new level of power he felt, he began to explore at a jog. Woods, forest, rocks, moss, bugs, birds he didn't recognize at all, same with some critters he buzzed past. Yeah this wasn't Earth. During his exploration he stumbled across a hut in the forest. He discovered a witch! He had no reason to do anything bad to the witch and they came to a bargain for things. He'd provide what she couldn't get or things she needed and she'd provide him magical things and information of the world. Good deal!

Turns out some things she wanted were souls and bodies. He didn't know how to gather souls, but that was solved with a non-descript flask. Well he had the tools, time to work! And work he did, he scoured the local areas for humans, but not just any humans. Yes villagers would be easy, but why would he kill people he knew and had no issues with who had treated him well or neutrally? Instead he hunted around for bandits, killing them neatly in the night when they slept or were drunk off their ill-gotten goods.

He did this for some time, scouring roads and hidey holes for evil humans and exchanged them for magical objects from the witch he had essentially become business partners with. It helped she had no use for the items, money, or gear the bandits had, he just let her have the food and drink. All these exchanges landed him a small bag of holding and an enchantment on his belt that boosted his already ridiculous physical capabilities!

Unfortunately you can only kill so many people in such a 'small' area for so long before it becomes a dead zone of activity. Bandits, highwaymen, robbers, rapists, and molestors didn't come into the area anymore. Apparently word of mouth in the dark side of society spread rumors to keep clear of the forest, village, and roads for miles around. If he wanted to keep up with the exchanges he'd have to wander further, but that would deny him extra credit from bodies. He had no way to preserve corpses for long periods of time! Eh he'd have to make do with souls.

To provide cover he signed up for being a mercenary. No one batted an eye if an merc killed another person who was deemed evil by the kingdom. He also got to fight new things, monsters! There hadn't been anything around his old village really, probably a result of the witch and various skinwalkers able to hide in the locales. Keep the area clean and no one has any reason to go out there. Either way he had plenty of work to do!

Name: Renauld Więcesław Barreau

Age: 26

Backstory: The grandson of a revolutionary. The son of a revolutionary. It was almost destiny that Renauld Barreau would also walk the same path. He was lucky enough to grow up in the burgeoning middle class of the industrial revolution, his father ironically being a protégé of Adolphe Thiers, who Renauld himself would die marching against. The would-be revolutionary led a comfortable life growing up, not suffering from the economic hardships that were decimating the lower classes, or the political repression meted out by the renewed Bonpartiste regime.

As such, his childhood was mostly unremarkable. His mother, almost as wealthy as his banker father, ensured her son had a top notch education for the time. He was trained in Polish and Creole, her native languages, as well as French and English, a set of skills that have become almost worthless in his present circumstances. From his father he picked up a brief streak of liberalism fostered by the man's grumblings about Napoleon III's rising despotism, but those would be snuffed out at university, where Renauld found himself drawn to much more radical ideas.

His time in university was interrupted by two prison sentences, handed out due to his hobby of starting up radical newsletters critical of Second French Empire. They were shut down each time he was locked up, though the third was burned to the ground as he bled to death on the streets of Paris.

He was, naturally, a vocal supporter of the Second French Republic, and then the Paris Commune against the Second French Republic when the Empire collapsed during the Franco-Prussian war. He was not a leader of the movement, though he did start his third printing press during the revolt, and joined the National Guard to help defend the city against the Prussians, and then the Second Republic. He was one of the first people killed during Semaine Sanglante as the city was retaken by Adolphe Thiers' forces.

It was with great disgust that he found himself, a failed revolutionary, reincarnated back into a world that was even further behind than his own. A powerful monarchy. A powerful church. Guilds and other organizations wielding massive influence out in the open. The fact that one of their sacred objects had resonated with him on his arrival was a complete farce, with a bitter irony attached to it.

Suffice to say, he did not join the Order of Paladins. Nor did he join the Order of the Magi, despite his present set of skills.

He has recently made his presence known again by frequenting the adventurer's guild, and has earned some side-eyes over immediately jumping into high bounty contracts. It took very little time for whispers of his status as a warlock to begin spreading- not that Renauld would be able to hide it given his condition. Despite his reputation for both him and his groups returning alive from their quests, it is quickly becoming difficult for him to find locals who are willing to partner up with him given his status.



Paladin Form: Unknown.

Weapon: A sling with a pouch made of mithril chain links. Has not been seen to use it and it has not bonded with anybody previously. Properties unknown.

Type: Paladin / Magi(Warlock).

Rank: Unknown / Unknown.

Affinities: Wind (Primary), Water (Secondary).

Catalyst: A red sash imbued with spirit.

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‣ NAME: Thalorian Silverheart ‣ RANK: Platinum
‣ CLASS: Paladin ‣ AGE: 34

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‣ HEIGHT: 195cm ‣ WEIGHT: 90kg
‣ HAIR: Light brown ‣ EYES: Blue

Thalorian stands slightly above average height, his build a harmonious blend of slender grace and underlying strength. His unassuming appearance masks the compass of his morality—a compass that guides him through life’s labyrinthine choices with unwavering precision.

His light brown hair cascades loosely over his forehead, framing a pair of piercing blue eyes. Those eyes hold secrets—the weight of countless decisions, the echoes of right and wrong. When he gazes upon the world, it is as if he sees beyond the mundane, discerning the delicate threads that weave together the fabric of existence.

Upon his face lies a short, soft beard—a testament to both wisdom and vulnerability. His gentle smile, often hidden in quiet contemplation, reveals a man who has weathered storms of conscience and emerged with an unwavering commitment to justice.

Thalorian’s attire speaks of purpose. A deep blue cloak wraps around his chest, its folds cascading down his back like a waterfall of determination. Beneath it, a buttoned blue shirt clings to his frame, its fabric worn but meticulously cared for. Light brown trousers lead down to sturdy leather boots, each step resonating with resolve.

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Thalorian adheres to a strict moral code that shapes every aspect of his existence. His unwavering convictions cast the world in stark black and white, leaving no room for compromise or shades of gray. To him, moral dilemmas are not mere intellectual exercises—they are crucibles where every choice is starkly right or wrong, a litmus test of character.

His altruism borders on obsession. Thalorian’s heart beats in rhythm with the chivalric ideals of knighthood: honor, loyalty, and courage. These virtues are not mere abstractions; they are the very air he breathes.

Yet, beneath the unyielding exterior lies a surprising tenderness. Thalorian’s actions reveal a man who, despite his rigid code, shows kindness and empathy toward those in need. When a beggar pleads for alms, he does not merely toss a coin; he looks into their eyes and sees their humanity. When a wounded foe lies at his mercy, he offers a hand to lift them up rather than deliver the final blow.

His code of honor is a fortress, impervious to compromise. It dictates his every move, from the way he treats a steed to the manner in which he addresses a queen. For Thalorian, there is no gray area—only the stark contrast of right and wrong. Some call him inflexible, but others recognize the purity of his purpose.

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Disheartened and beaten down, he had spent countless years as a company man—shuttling to and from the office during the dark hours, overworked and perpetually tired. Oblivious to the impending shift in his life, he remained dedicated to the company, neglecting family, friends, and even his own marriage. When his wife finally left him, he sought solace in alcohol, drowning his emotions in the dimly lit corners of his regular bar. It wasn’t a favorite place; after all, what was the point of having a favorite haunt for blacking out?

One fateful night, after an exhausting stint at the office, he stumbled out into the street a moment too soon. The screech of tires, the impact—it all blurred into a disorienting haze. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in an empty void, the floor beneath him an endless expanse of water. Sober, yet strangely unburdened by the need for a drink, he surveyed his surroundings. Every direction offered the same featureless emptiness.

Then, a voice shattered the silence—a voice both commanding and calm, echoing through the void. It presented him with a choice: return to his previous life, mired in misery and destitution, or awaken in a new world with a purpose that would drive his every step. Pragmatism guided his thoughts. He considered the options, weighed them like a merchant assessing goods. And in that moment, he reached a stark conclusion: his previous existence had been nothing but a charade.

Summoning courage, he asked the voice for a fresh start—a life infused with purpose and hope. And that’s when the voice took form: a sword, its silver blade gleaming like the bottom of a wishing fountain. It introduced itself as Irisiel—the upholder of balance between right and wrong. In his heart, Irisiel sensed morality, and thus, the man became the chosen wielder.

“I have weighed many mortals’ hearts upon their crossing,” Irisiel declared, “and found none worthy. Your unwavering dedication to duty is your saving grace.” As the man accepted the blade, the void around him ignited, revealing a magnificent temple. He was reborn, reincarnated—the Chosen of Irisiel.

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From head to toe, Thalorian donned a suit of gleaming silver metal armor—a testament to both his unwavering resolve and the weight of responsibility he carried. The armor encased him like a second skin, its surface etched with justice and honor.

His helmet, crowned with an orange plume, concealed his features, leaving only narrow slits for his piercing blue eyes to peer through. Those eyes held the weight of Irisiel’s judgment—the ancient sword that lay sheathed at his side.

The cloak draped over his shoulders was a vivid orange—a stark contrast to the silver armor. It billowed behind him as he moved, catching the wind like a flame flickering against the darkness. The color spoke of purpose—a beacon for those who sought justice, a warning for those who dared defy it.

Leather straps adorned his waist, securing the scabbard that cradled Irisiel—the blade that had chosen him. When Thalorian drew the sword, its blade shimmered, reflecting the world’s dualities—the delicate equilibrium between right and wrong.

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Through the power of Irisiel, Thalorian is able to move any wound that someone may sustain to himself without limitations.

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Irisiel has granted the ability to shield another from harm completely, reflecting damage, for as long as they remain righteous and on the correct side of justice whereupon this protection is dispelled. (10 minute duration or until recipient uses an attack or spell)

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In the expanse between realms, there existed, before mortal worlds took their first breath, an angel named Irisiel. Irisiel was not bound by flesh; he was the embodiment of equilibrium—a fulcrum of righteousness

When the Demon Wars erupted across the planes, Irisiel descended upon Ceosia, a realm teetering on the precipice of annihilation. He joined the celestial host in their desperate struggle against the malevolent forces. His singular eye, a radiant sapphire, pierced through the chaos, seeking equilibrium in the maelstrom of battle.

Yet, Irisiel was no ordinary warrior. His desire for balance extended beyond the battlefield. He questioned the very nature of good and evil, seeking harmony even in the clash of swords. While his brethren fought with righteous fury, Irisiel was overconfident and believed that he could defeat the Demon General—the embodiment of malevolence. In his hubris Irisiel confronted the Demon General. Their clash shook the foundations of reality, each blow resonating across dimensions.

The Demon General exploited this weakness. With a cunning strike he cast him down. In that moment, he made a choice: to seal his essence within a blade—a blinding silver sword forged for his soul. The blade drank in his celestial soul, its shine mirroring Irisiel’s unwavering purpose.

Generations passed. Heroes sought the silver sword, but Irisiel’s discerning eye found them wanting. Until Thalorian Silverhear emerged—a flawed yet noble soul. His heart bore scars, etched by mistakes, yet it also held compassion and unwavering resolve.

Irisiel bonded with Thalorian. The blade became an extension of his will. Thalorian fought not to defeat demons but to preserve balance in all things. When he wielded the silver sword, Irisiel’s essence guided him. The scales tipped differently. Thalorian always tried to spare his fallen foes, understanding that even celestial beings could falter.