The Ariesca noble family is one of the oldest military families in all of Itenaire. Their lineage can be traced all the way to the warlord Ariesc in the Age of Chaos, defying all any and all efforts to snuff them out. As you may imagine, then, they are immensely proud of their name, and of the military prowess that has defined them for over a thousand years. As a result, their children go through fierce and painful training in the family estate, turning them nearly without exception into masters of arms who take their family name incredibly seriously, and with an almost fanatical devotion to their heritage. And so the Ariesca family continues, and the wheel turns.

Lina...fits into those very rare exceptions.

As with all of the family's children, she had a sword shoved into her hands from the time they could lift it, and as an only child at the time, she was subjected to brutal study of combat against people far older, stronger, and more skillful than she. Not enough to injure her, but more than enough to hurt, and for hours a day. When she wasn't sparring, she was studying; language, history, and of course, an excess of tactics. The same training and education that the Ariesca family had levered on their children for centuries.

...But Lina didn't really get the whole thing. While she of course wanted to make her parents proud, and even according to her teachers she took to combat rather naturally as well, it was her attitude that caused her immediate and extended families alike to look at her with a blend of concern, pity, and anger. Whenever she hit someone in a spar harder than she intended, she would stop to see if they were okay. She would skip out on her interminable lessons on military strategy, only for her irate tutors to find her an hour later, instead laughing and chatting with extremely confused household stafff. Her seeming lack of dedication and indifference to the family name had her parents tearing their hair out, but as their only child, she was to be the heir, and so they would need to do their best with her.

But then, when Lina was eight, they had a son.

A son that, as the years went by, turned out to be much more receptive to their teachings. While he was never as skilled as Lina in pure martial combat at any age, he blew her out of the water in every other metric. And so, when this became apparent, the heirdom was stripped from the eighteen-year-old Lina and bestowed upon Anders. And almost immediately afterwards, her parents floated an idea to her: go to Atutania, and join the Order of the Glade. She was skilled enough in combat, especially now that her aptitude had awakened. It would be a great honor for the family; House Ariesca had never numbered in the Order's ranks before, she would be the first. And, they mentioned as an aside, it would allow them to focus more on Anders' training if she wasn't there.

Lina might have been an oblivious person who had a short attention span and was easily distracted. She certainly wasn't the smartest out there. But even she could recognize this for what it was: they wanted to excise her from her brother's life so he could focus solely on becoming the perfect heir they wanted. And, if she became a member of the Order, it would ensure that she wasn't a black mark on the name of House Ariesca. To her parents, her family, her brother--all of whom she loved--she was...an embarrassment. But, at the same time, she so desperately wanted to leave this stifling place, meet new people, see the world! So she agreed. She would go make something of herself, join the Order of the Glade, and become a knight. All, of course, to bring honor to her family name.

Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh.

Cheerful ⬗ Conflicted ⬗ Ditzy ⬗ Friendly ⬗ Gullible ⬗ Social

Those who know Lina but have never seen her fight are in for a rude awakening if they're to spar. Trained nearly from birth in swordplay with savage intensity, Lina is remarkably skilled with her chosen weapons, a matched pair of elegant, finely-crafted shortswords with blades about twenty inches long. While she doesn't have the best reach with her short weapons, her skill with them allows her to weave past guards and deflect blows all at the same time with a great deal of precision.

She's also not...entirely unskilled with magic. Though it was interrupted by the pronouncement of Anders as heir, until that point her affinity with fire was trained almost as incessantly as her swordplay. She's a bit inexperienced with it, given that it showed up less than a year before she was kicked to the curb as successor; but she at least knows how to control it with some level of tempo. Her greatest weakness in its regard isn't skill or power, but moderation. The impulsivity brought on by a general lack of foresight can manifest in bringing out way too much power way too hard, and so exhausting herself almost immediately.

There is one further wrinkle to throw into her life. An urge in her thoughts brought on by childhood pressure, a figurative whisper in her ear. A soundless, wordless voice that pushes her to be exactly as ruthless, cutthroat, and savage as her family always wanted her to be. The Voice of Ariesc. She ignores it as best she can, and usually it's no more than an almost unnoticeable background hum that she usually forgets is there. But in moments of strife, when she's under great pressure, it may come creeping back. And sometimes it can be...difficult to shut it out.

^{“I can still remember the first time I ever left the hold. I had just turned seven years old, and grandfather finally agreed to take me out to see our lands.”}

Ynga came into the world as many of her family did—amidst the crackling of logs and the howling of the winter winds. A daughter of the Nordavind family, who had served as the wardens of untamed Ienarich since the passing of Ienar himself. A sweet and bashful child from the outset, she was not as steely as the elder brother who came before her, neither as willful and wild as the younger to follow. Though hers were a harsh and proud people, born from the struggles of life in Ienarich's dense wilderness and across its rolling tundra, her earliest memories were ones of warmth and love.

It was often that she would toddle behind her mother's skirts as she made her rounds around the hold and down into Ienarhald itself, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the sights and sounds, or sat at her grandfather's foot in his solar above the great hall, listening to the old, grizzled lord of all that was the north regale her with stories of their ancestors and their heroics, for Ienarich could not prosper without heroes, both great and small, such were the burdens of life upon its frontier.

^{“We walked for what must have been an hour before we were far enough from home to be by our lonesome. Just us and the fir trees and the big, blue sky. I loved it. It was so... beautiful.”}

A life that her family, for all that they loved and doted upon her, saw her unfit for. She was a sweet girl, of that much all could agree, and kind, and earnest, always looking to help buoy the spirits of the other children whenever they'd fall into tantrums of doldrums. But she never had a stomach for the harsher things in life, wailing whenever it'd come time to cull the herds in preparation for the winters to come, or else wise dispatch those animals no longer fit for service. The time would eventually come that she would be a girl no longer, and she would need to face the world beyond the great palisades of their familial hold. Once her grandfather and father passed, Ienarich would fall into the good, sensible hands of her elder brother, and she would need to be sent to wed a man of good standing who'd keep her in comfort until she could start a family of her own, and nurture them as they knew she would well.

<sup>“Then, very suddenly, grandfather drew me so close I could smell the woodsmoke on his furs. Then he gestured with one of his huge hands. ‘Look, little dove,’ he said, so quiet I could hardly hear him, ‘But don't make a sound.’

Along the bank of the creek was something I'd only heard of in stories and songs; a big, burly brown bear, with three little cubs at her heels.”</sup>

But that did not satisfy young Ynga. She had been told from her earliest days that she was the blood of Ienar the North Wind, who brought law to the lands at the crown of the world when there was none. Letting her brothers take over the hold, and lead their people, was all well and good for her, yes. Andri seemed to have an answer for everything, and everyone seemed to think Magnus would grow to be a warrior even the greater of their grandsire. But to sit idly by, tending little more than a hearth and her children? It felt wrong. Ienarich was a place of great hardship, the songs assured her, where everyone needed do their part. How could she rest in comfort at her husband's side while so many struggled and fought to eke out a living in the hills and amidst the fjords?

^{“It didn't seem to notice us, too focused on the rushing water. Then, with a paw that made even grandfather's hands look small, it swiped into the stream and brought up a big, fat fish. I watched it drag the fish, flopping and thrashing, to the shore. When it bit into the fish, bright, gooey red marbles started to squirt out of it—Andri told me earlier that year that those are what fish babies looked like before they could swim. The mother and her cubs made a meal of it all.”}

But there was nothing she could do to convince them otherwise. What was she to do? Become some great shield-maiden, and sail down the river Breein with her brothers and uncles when the seasons turned and the fields became too crusted in hoarfrost to yield grain? She could hardly stand the sight of lambs going to slaughter. How would she fare when made to hunt along the river's shores on campaign? Or when the men needed to tend to the grim work of sending southerners to the same place the lambs had gone? The warriors of Ienarich may have been valiant heroes in her songs and her stories, but in the lands beyond her grandfather's kingdom, they were known to bring with them only death and destruction in return for that which filled Itenaian or Giellnalian coffers.

<sup>“I remember being terribly upset. Once we had gotten well away from the bear, I asked grandfather, ‘How can the bear do that to the poor fish? Doesn't she know it was a mother too? Those were her babies!’

It wasn't often you could make out much on grandfather's face. He had seen enough winters that nothing seemed to upset him anymore. But to this day, I can still see the sadness that crept into the corner of his eyes when he spoke.

‘Because that's the way of the world, little dove,’ He told me, more sad that I needed it explained than for the poor fish, ‘Best you learn it now, while you're still young.’”</sup>

The songs and stories had done enough to teach her the way of it, though. If words couldn't win the day, then the only thing for it was action. In the rugged north, those young folks who meant to claim themselves adults were expected to prove it to their community before it could be so. As autumn came to a close and winter loomed ahead, when a boy or girl thought themselves ready to be called a man or woman, they would head off into the wilderness for a time. Often it was a single day, sometimes longer, but rarely more than a week. They'd use what their mothers and fathers taught them to make it through the long, cold night, prove they were more than capable of handling themselves, and return triumphant, sometimes with trophies of beasts or monsters slain during their journey. Some would even return with something more precious than hides or fangs: some returned with magic, awakened through the hardship of the experience. Those who claimed such a prize typically rose to positions of prominence.

Most Ienarians set out on such a journey after having seen fifteen, perhaps sixteen winters. Ynga was a girl of eleven when she packed her sack with salt beef and tinder and set out from the hold one chilly evening with one of the armory's swords tucked under her furs.

^{“That was the way of the world. Mother and child devouring mother and child. I think that was the first time I realized it—realized the world was a truly wicked place. The big ate the small. The strong beat the weak. The natural order of things was one of cruelty. I didn't like that.”}

By the time her family's huskarls realized she had vanished from her chambers, it was too late. She was already well off into the wilds to the north of Ienarhald. She would prove herself to them all. Prove that she was just as capable of helping their people survive, no, thrive in their homeland. She would make Ienarich just a little brighter than it had been when she found it, just as she made the halls of her grandfather's hold just that little bit brighter with her wide smiles and laughter. It would simply take a different sort of work to make it so. The search parties dispatched in her wake followed her tracks into the treeline by the time the sun dipped down low beyond the horizon, but had little hope of continuing by the light of the moon. There was nothing to do but wait.

^{“I wanted the world to be gentler. I wanted the world to be... kinder. But what was I to do? I was just a silly little girl sniffling over a fish and its roe, and the world had little patience for silly little girls with such silly woes.”}

When morning came, they continued, searching high and low for the lost lamb of Nordavind. By the time the sunset on the second day, the grim reality of what likely happened set in. Even still, Yngvar Nordavind was not a man to so easily give in. They would continue to search for his little dove until they found her, or whatever might well have been left of her. The search went on for three days, then four, and then five. Her father returned to Ienarich to console his wife, but still, the huskarls continued their thankless work, looking for tracks along an expanse of trees and rocks that seemed to continue without end. By the time dusk fell upon the seventh day of searching, even the resolve of the High Chieftain had begun to falter. Even more seasoned members of the kingdom would be hard-pressed to survive for so long, so far from civilization, with such little preparation. The weather would soon enough turn on them. It was unlikely Ynga was to return.

Until, by the light of the retinue's cookfires, later that night, a pink-faced child with dark curls and big, bright eyes came upon them from the brush, and on her heels, two others.

^{“When I got a little older, I realized there was only one thing to be done about it. If the world was such a cruel place, ruled by the strong, for the strong, then there was only one way for me to bring about the change I wanted to see.”}

Two other boys who had gotten lost on their own trial, little Ynga explained as if nothing in the world was wrong. She had found them a few days into her trek, and followed them further into the wilds, hoping to find friendly faces. When she instead met with another party fast on their trail—a pair of dire-wolves eager to fill their bellies in advance of the cold to come—she did as she had been told that great heroes were meant to do when monsters skulked in the dark and preyed upon innocent folk. She slew them both and carried on to try and bring the boys back to Ienarhald before something even bigger tracked them down. The uproar that followed her incredulous tale might have done a better job drawing such beasts than the plodding of a few beardless youths. Anger, disbelief, relief, and more.

Ygna caught quite the scolding for her foolishness, for the tall tale she had so proudly declared, but when the boys echoed her sentiment, and her bloodied blade bore the scars of their claws and fangs, it became clear that the little dove of the Nordavind family had become more akin to some great eagle in absence of their notice. Answering her call in the face of such overwhelming odds, sorcery had coated the girl's blade as it had in the case of their honored ancestor, and carried by the north winds which now poured from the tempest of her soul, Ynga's future quickly shifted from one of inglorious kindness to one of true consequence.

^{“Like Itena, and Haur, and Antes and Ienar all, I'd make the world a better place with my own two hands. I'd make up a sweeter, gentler story for the people of Lacorron, writ in the only language the world understands.”}

The years that followed were difficult, but satisfying all the same. Rather than spend her time by the fire, sewing and simmering, Ynga joined her brothers outside in the training yard. She learned from the huskarls how to wield weapons of war, how to track great beasts, and how to wield her gift against those who would harm her vision of what the world could be. Of what it should be. When it became clear her aptitude for sorcery exceeded even the more experienced of her Grandfather's warriors, it was decided the Ienarich was an unsuitable place to hone her further. If she meant to become a great hero, her grandsire reasoned, then it would only be suitable that she go to the place where the heroes of old were made: the Order of the Glade.

It was a few months after her fifteenth year that correspondence from Atutania came, inviting the young Nordavind to test her mettle and see whether she was truly cut from the cloth of greatness so claimed. She set out only days later, with little more than talent and dreams of a better world to her name.

For someone of her age, Ynga is a rather accomplished young woman. A true scion of the north, she is a skilled survivalist, capable of making camp, foraging food and supplies, following tracks, and leaving little of her own in turn. She knows how to sew both cloth and wound, which plants are good for eating and which for fever and sickness, and how to break a path for those of her friends who are not so accomplished outdoors.

Her skills as a fighter are no less honed. While her sweet, caring demeanor might lead one to believe she is a merciful combatant, nothing could be further from the truth. She has been trained by the finest warriors of Ienarich, a kingdom renowned for the skill and ferocity of its soldiers of fortune. Ynga has learned how to wield axe and knife and spear and shield, as any of her grandfather's huskarls might do, though she holds a special, child-like reverence for the sword above all else—for the sword was the warrior of Itena and the many greats who followed in her example, a weapon of a hero before a warrior. The similarities between her and Itena begin and end there, however, as Ynga's way of fighting is one steeped far deeper in pragmatism than honor. She fights with sword and knife as much as tooth and claw in the heat of the moment, throwing elbows and kicks and dirt and whatever else might bring her to a swifter, more efficient victory, reasoning that all battle is inherently cruel, and it is all the better to bring it to the quickest end possible, when it must be had.

Though she has only studied it for a short time, Ynga is accomplished enough in the usage of sorcery. Her application is one familiar to those warriors of the Ienarich, known to bedeck themselves in the elements that dominate their souls. The wind produced by Ynga's magic acts as a cloak about her, buoying her steps such that she might walk upon freshly fallen snow without sinking. It carries her limbs as she dashes about and slashes this way and that, lending inordinate speed and strength to the swings of her blade and the impact of her boot upon those who oppose her. She's even managed to grow adept at wrapping it around the length of her blade, the shearing force of her mana lending strength to the cutting edge of her weapon. She's even begun to experiment with surging this razor-thin aura at the peak of her swings, extending her reach for the half-heartbeat it takes to cut her enemy, before shrinking back down to preserve her strength. One can only theorize how her mastery might grow under the watchful eye of the Order.

The House of Marigold is one of the powerful minor families residing in Atutania. They have a strong network of knights and merchants under their payroll and often participate in illicit activities with the underlords of the city such as slave trading and smuggling resources from all over the world(mostly the woodlands.)

Their superfluous lifestyle is well-known around the streets, collecting relics and other oddities in all shapes and sizes.

On his fifth birthday, The Marigold throws a grandiose party for their youngest heir: Rex Marigold. He receives an unusual gift from a stranger from the woods. An untamed beast, A dire wolf pup smuggled from the deep parts of the Viridian Sea. A catalyst of a terrible curse.

Their fates intertwined as Rex felt a bond between him and this beast. As if he can hear its thoughts and share its feral nature. Since then they become inseparable.

As the years passed, Rex grew up to be a normal child that seems have an affinity for the wild-life. And later on, trains to become a personal knight for his family.

He was often labeled as the "Weirdo" for his unorthodox style of fighting by his fellow knights.

Like most aspiring knights, His inspiration comes from the legends of Aather, the swordmaster. The prime example of what a knight should be.

But mostly his admiration comes from a different hero: Antes, the Hunter. He has always been a huge fan and somewhat of a dork when it comes to his idol ever since he was a kid, Reading his tales and spouting trivial facts about him, going on a tangent whenever Antes is mentioned. He often gets into trouble, picking up fights with strangers whenever someone soils Antes's good name.

One day, he and his siblings along with his fellow knights went on a quest to find a missing merchant and his wares who had wandered the woodlands.

They embarked on a quest into the unknown, not knowing the dangers ahead.

He was betrayed by his group of fellow knights as greed consumed them with the merchant's cursed coins. They were driven to madness, turning them into feral lycans. Cannibalizing each other for a scrap of these measly pieces of gold.

Rex and his pet wolf were the only survivors. He was later approached by an elf-shaman, who revealed himself as the same stranger who gave him his dire wolf on his 5th birthday.

He said this was a trial by the Wolf-king, for the crimes of his family, disrupting the natural order by stealing resources from their woods.

The prophecy is fulfilled and the debt is paid in blood.

Guilt-ridden, Rex renounces his oath as a knight and becomes a druid living in the woods. A lifetime atonement for the sins of his family.

Now he returns to Atutania, Unrecognizable. Hoping to become a Warden of the Glade.

⬗ Blunt ⬗ Fearless ⬗ Simple minded ⬗ Dependent ⬗ Naturalist ⬗

Rex is a well-trained knight, specializing in spear combat. Combining what he learned from years in the woodlands, he can enchant its tip with deadly poison made from herbs and snake venom.

He is also a good tracker, able to hunt down almost anything.

His druid-like characteristic makes him fight more like a beast than a man. He is able to grow sharp fangs and claws on a whim, and charge at all fours like a quadruped animal. Able to mimicry a wolf's psyche.

Unknown to him, He has already tapped his magical awakening to a small degree. He can commune with the wildlife, able to control their thoughts and actions.

Also, did i mention that he has his trusty giant direwolf at his disposal that can rip anyone into shreds?

Her parents were good people.

Her father was the owner of the Milky Toast Lizard, a tavern that, despite its nonsensical name, was popular amongst merchants and mercenaries. Her mother was a former caravan guard whose reputation and easy-going attitude endeared her to the suppliers of her husband's establishment. Sarnai already knew how to walk, to speak, by the time the couple became her family, but everything else she had, she gained from them.

She learned how to cook and clean, how to record inventory and count coins, how to tell the difference between good and bad produce, how to pour a drink and slide it to any corner of the bar's counter. She learned how to take care of herself and dress herself, how to hide a knife and shoot a crossbow, how to hunt for wild game and then dress it. Growing up in the northern quarter of the market district of Dranabris, Sarnai saw glimpses of the wider world through those who came in and out of the Milky Toast Lizard's doors, but otherwise continued to learn. Learn so she could work. Work so she could earn. Because she knew that parental love wasn't an unconditional thing. She still held flashes of memory from her childhood, enough that she knew that she was not of her mother or father's blood.

So it was just by dumb luck that she wasn't amongst the urchins on the streets, begging and stealing, scrambling for any opportunity to earn coin or a roof over their heads.

That scared her when she was young. The idea of being tossed in the world without any support, of having to scramble for her own place. She had to work harder, learn faster, be obedient, make sure she can keep her place, so she that she could keep her place.

That scared her when she became older. What was she? She passed by the needy and disadvantaged without a thought, plastered on fake smiles as she played sycophant to the rich, went about her day while willfully blind to everything around her. Her parents were good people. They had lifted her out of the refuse, had taken care of her to this day. She had, in return, become the type of person who would not do the same, so concerned with herself that she would tread upon a child's hand in the hurry to complete a delivery.

Sarnai had to be better.

Perhaps it was an overcorrection, to travel towards Atutania and the Order of the Glades, in order to become a realm-defending warden. But where else could someone so deficient as herself learn to become a good person, unless she surrounded herself with would-be heroes, unless she learned how to offer up her own body for the well-being of the world?

Practical ⬗ Determined ⬗ Cordial ⬗ Frugal ⬗ Insecure ⬗ Cowardly

Sarnai is handy with a crossbow. She has a good eye and can consistently land a bolt from 60 paces away, though there's no guarantee where on the target it would land. The archers of the Hahral Triumvirate are more skilled than even the elves, but she clearly doesn't count amongst their number.

As someone who has worked for more or less her entire life, she has a good amount of stamina and strength, as well as a sense of balance derived from balancing overloaded plates of food around a room of merry drunks. It isn't anything comparable to the sort of physical fitness that could be expected from a career soldier or an athlete, however.

In terms of magic, she has none.

Eighteen years ago, Annifer had been born into the peasantry; her family's fields having served the Ariesca nobles for generations. She had been the seventh child of her family, as well the youngest and only daughter.

With so many mouths to feed, life was harsh for Annifer. Her family, destitute as they were, could barely afford enough food for their animals, never mind the children. Many nights she had gone to bed hungry, whilst daylight were spent scrounging for scraps in the mudded streets of her village. The only thing she had of worth was herself, of which her parents knew very well as they sought to marry her off in exchange for payment.

Dissatisfied with the idea of being a tool, Annifer sought to leave the only home she had ever known. She wanted to forge her own path in the world, rather than have it wrote for herself by someone else. But where was she to go? For a peasant, there hadn't been many opportunities in life for one to take outside the one they had been born into.

That was when she had heard of Lady Ariesca leaving for Atutania, seeking to join the Order of the Glade. Finally, she had found her answer to her troubles, Annifer strongly believed.

Grabbing some of her family's farming implements, Annifer took off in the middle of night after her Lady. If she could succeed in joining the Order, then by the Gods, surely Annifer could too. But, on the chance she failed, perhaps Lady Ariesca would prefer some company—the life of a handmaiden sounded much preferable than a lonely marriage.

Dauntless ⬗ Protean ⬗ Resolute ⬗ Stolid ⬗ Upfront ⬗ Willful

For someone who has planned to join a knightly order, Annifer has little-to-no martial affinity. Annifer has never received proper training with blade, bow or the like, owing to the fact that she had never needed to pick up one until now. Similarly, her control over magic is rather negligible right now—she has yet to have her awakening, and besides, what would a domestic peasant girl need with magical powers at her side?

That being said, her lack of training, however, is dwarfed by her cockroach mentality. Annifer is primarily a survivor who should've died years ago to starvation, plague, or some sort of injury. Her mental prowess and faith in herself is an important aspect to how she succeeded where many would've failed upon being dealt the cards she was given.

Entan was born to one of the few remaining nomadic groups that exist in the Sands of Hahral, the Aslani Clan. Being the eldest child of the leader of the clan, Entan life among the nomads was one filled with endless travel and occasionally visiting the Free Cities for trade and supplies the nomads could not get on their own. It was a tough life but one that Entan fared well in.

Growing up, Entan was told stories about the Hero of the Glades, other legends, and the Wardens of the Glades. Becoming fascinated by this and the world outside of Hahral. But, Entan knew his duty was to his clan and since he was in line to lead them one day, such ideas would get in the way. Though Entan would not fully give up on these thoughts.

So, he was taught and trained by his father and the clan. Taught the ways of the warrior and other skills needed to survive in the desert. Though when it came to using a weapon, while he failed to be good at the bow or the sword. He shined when his mother gave him a glaive, and he excelled at it. Along with learning the martial art of his people. Still, he did well in his studies, and things were looking good for him. Then came that fateful day when everything went wrong.

For one day, while the clan was preparing to break camp to move to a new location. They were attacked by a large bandits band, and while the clan were able to repulse the attack. It left many Aslani dead, and it was discovered the attack was not random and that Entan was partly responsible. For he had unknowingly made contact with a member of the bandit group and, while he knew not to reveal a clan secret, that they were in possession of a rare and valuable artifact. Ethan felt he could trust her, but he made a critical mistake.

When this became known, the Aslani survivors were furious and demanded Entan be punished. While Etan expected his punishment to be severe. His father had other ideas about his crime. Entan would be exiled from the clan, but he could be allowed back in ten years' time if he could prove himself worthy of being a member of the Aslani. Then, he could be allowed back in. Could being the wording his father used and that the business with the bandits would be handled by the clan. As most did not trust Entan at this point to make things better. Entan accepted this and would leave his clan behind.

Now an exile, Entan wanted desperately to make it up to his clan for trusting the wrong person. He thought long and hard about what to do, and that is when it came to him. No member of the Aslani had been a member of the Wardens of the Glade, and by serving them for ten years as protectors of the realm, he could redeem himself in the eyes of his clan and be allowed back in. So he made his way to Atutania to see if he could join their ranks and start his quest for redemption.

Open Minded ⬗ Determined ⬗ Friendly ⬗ Regretful ⬗ Guarded ⬗ Stubborn

Entan has been trained to be a warrior capable of surviving in the desert of his homeland. Thus, while he is skilled in fighting with a glaive, he knows martial arts and how to ride a camel. Plus, survival skills and the knowledge of how to travel based on the stars in the night sky.

Entan was awakened during the attack on his clan, so he had no training with it because of his exile, and he is unskilled with it. The best he can do right now is semi-random bursts of lightning of varying strength. So he is focused on his martial skills at the moment while learning how to use his magic when he can.

She never knew exactly how or why she ended up on the streets. Her memories didn't go back that far, outside of knowing her name and her age. But Ania had been an urchin as far back as she could remember, stealing and scrapping in the back alleys of Giellnal just to make it another day. She lasted this way up until she was about sixteen, when a theft gone bad caused her to awaken her magic in the heat of the moment, taking advantage of the uncertainty and uproar it caused among her pursuers to knock them to the ground and make a break for it.

It was some peculiar, twisted brand of luck that Ania's awakening sparked the attention of a passing sorcerer in the market. A powerful, noble one. The older woman knocked the fleeing girl to the ground with one firey explosion, looked her over, and said that Ania would be her legacy. She didn't trust that, of course. Giellnalians didn't trust on principle. But when she awoke in the manor she would spend the next three years in, there was fresh bread, clean clothes, and a hot bath. No one in her situation would be stupid enough to take advantage of that as long as possible.

So Ania learned. For over a year, she studied and trained in the magical and martial arts, her mentor eventually admitting that the girl was a prodigy of sorts, and that she had no living legacy to pass down her name. So Ania was a project. A monument to this woman's ego. As long as it got her off the streets and into a life where she could hold power, where she could be someone, that was fine. Transactions of mutual benefit were understandable.

Not even that lasted long, as her mentor's scholarly and political maneuvering caught up to her in the end, her rivals arranging an assassination and subsequent house fire. Ania barely managed to escape with her life, finishing the tired, weakened hitmen off and ensuring that no one would be pursuing her. But she couldn't go back. The conspirators would think her dead so long as she never showed her face in Giellnal again. So she left. Wandered for a year, trying to find some way to regain the life that had been promised to her. She would never go back to the streets again.

Eventually, Ania would find her way to Atutania. The Wardens were the best of the best within the entire realm. Elite, famous knights. Ania could fight. She could cast. She would make a life for herself with her talents, or die trying.

Wary ⬗ Willful ⬗ Cold ⬗ Curious ⬗ Pragmatic ⬗ Brutal

Hand-to-hand or fist-to-fist, kicking nuts or twisting wrists, Ania is a curious juxtaposition of both a savage street fighter and a trained martial artist. One moment, she's executing complex joint locks and holds. The next, she's beating foes into the ground with wild swings and cheap shots. She packs no small amount of physical strength into her blows, augmented by blazing flames.

Her fire magics are nothing to scoff at, despite her preference for melee combat. It's obvious she wasn't fully trained, lacking both fine control of her sorcery and efficiency in mana usage, but she compensates with raw power and sheer output of mana.

Herring was any other peasant in the Kingdom of Giellnal. His family worked on a plot of land where they raised and cultivated animals and crops. While a cold land full of distrust, Herring accepted the circumstances of his life and made peace with it. He was content with spending the rest of his life tending the farm and idling away.

Of course, it couldn't be that simple. There had to be outliers in Giellnal, and Herring had the displeasure of knowing one of them. Reed was everything that a Giellnalian wasn't. Upbeat, friendly, and horribly optimistic. That irritable boy took every moment that Herring had time alone. At first, Herring thought he was scheming something under that smile. That was until after a week that he found that Reed was genuine; Herring wrote him off as a nuisance.

Reed never shut up about how good things were and how much he wanted to be a knight. Herring had heard from Reed that his father was a warden of great esteem and that he wanted to follow in his footsteps. Not that Herring believed any of it and pointed out the flaws of his dream. Still, they never deterred Reed from dreaming about it.

Herring thought that would be the end of it.

That was until they both received an invitation to join the Wardens. Herring had never seen someone so ecstatic that it almost made him smile. It quickly faded away until Reed turned around and told him to join too.

He never understood Reed's obsession with becoming a warden. Why risk your life? Plenty of other people could do the job, but why did it matter that Reed had to be one to do it? Herring found it hard to dissuade his excited friend from accepting the invitation.

All Herring wanted was to do the same routine. Work, eat, and close his eyes.

When Herring awoke from his nap under a tree, his eyes were met with fire. A great fire had consumed his village, and for once in his life, he felt fear. All Herring could do was irrationally run towards the fire. Once he got there, he found out why it started.

An angered sorcerer had decided to release their magic in a bout of anger. Many lives were taken—his family, the ranch, and more importantly. Reed had gone in to try and save people. He didn't make it out of it alive.

Every day afterward was a daze. All he had left was a few personal items and his steed that he brought with him on the day of the fire. His destination?

Atutania.

It was the only path he had left and the only thing he could remember Reed by. The least he could do for Reed was to live his dream in his place.

Lethargic ⬗ Doubtful ⬗ Inconsiderate ⬗ Curious ⬗ Critical ⬗ Melancholic

The whip has become natural to Herring ever since he had held it. After training it to win some easy bets, Herring's most accomplished feat was hitting a bird mid-flight with a flick of his wrist. However, he can perform several tricks with the whip, like grabbing distant objects.

Herring has an affinity for horses, given that his family bred horses for the nobility. His mount, Peony, has been a loyal companion, if not a comfortable being to lay upon.

As for magic, Herring has dabbled a little into it. With a magic centralized kingdom, it would be hard not to learn it, though Herring hasn't gone out of his way to train it. The most he could do was drop the temperature through physical contact, but Herring would feel unpleasant afterward.