Dreańe Priihdontas joined the Order of the Glade when she was sixteen years old, seeking to do something with her talents rather than waste away in her family’s care in Giellnal.

But she didn’t really know what she wanted out of the order. She didn’t see herself as “hero” material, even after awakening her magical abilities during her initiatehood. She didn’t have a direction and she was taught to not give trust to anyone, not even herself. But being a warden was a thing and she would find her purpose within it. Besides, she was one of the best combatants the order had seen in over a decade.

Being capable makes it real easy to solve disputes, certainly, but over the years she has once again gotten bored. Her reassignment to caretake a ward of initiates is not a duty she feels particularly against.

It’s another thing to do.

Antagonistic ⬗ Blunt ⬗ Childish ⬗ Indifferent ⬗ Sarcastic ⬗ Vivacious

Maxell Tolecht is a man who seemed like he was deemed to be a once in a generation talent, a divinely chosen hero in a time of relative peace. He awakened his magical abilities a few days short of his eleventh anniversary of birth, insanely gifted in sword and foot beyond his years, and became an initiate warden before he was even thirteen years of age. In the near-decade since, he has had quite a reputation.

But in the last year, fate has spun its coin in the other direction. After an incident he refuses to speak on the Lord-Commander of the order has reassigned him to train initiates, a huge step down from traveling the land as an agent of order.

He is not happy about it.

Arrogant ⬗ Conceited ⬗ Honorable ⬗ Overzealous ⬗ Petty ⬗ Reckless

Kazran "Kaz" Harrond was the third born of seven children, born to the lowest caste of the Kingdom of Itenaire. The family at large worked various jobs, taking up what work they could to serve their lords and various merchant families. Kaz's eldest sister took a position as a maid for the Bonderal Merchant Family, while his older brother toiled in the fields as a simple farmhand in the fields. But Kaz, from birth, was a large boy. He was strong, tall, and skilled with his hands. It is no surprise he was scouted as a competent apprentice at a young age.

Wesley Daur was the premiere blacksmith of the Bonderal family, crafting everything from fine cutlery to horseshoes to even arms and armor for brave men and women who would keep the rich safe from the poor. Wesley saw in Kaz the same clever deftness in the boy that his own mentor had seen in him years ago. So it was that Kaz became an apprentice blacksmith, and proved to be quite skilled at this craft.

The only thing he wasn't skilled at, however, was keeping his heart guarded.

Everything changed when Isabella Bonderal, the youngest daughter of Alphonse Bonderal, stopped in at Wesley Daur's smithy to pick up a custom order of cutlery for the family. In a life of toiling day to day just to make ends meet, her smile cut through Kaz's core. Since they were 13, she would stop by on a monthly basis to watch the apprentice work. They would talk as he toiled, but an unspoken divide always remained between the two. For three and a half years, they continued their ritual in relative secrecy.

Of course, things shifted as Kaz grew older. There was only one means by which anyone in Iteniare could even hope to attain a little upward mobility: martial prowess. His days were spent in the smithy, while his nights were spent honing and training his body and form. Isabella managed to sneak him books teaching form and technique, while Wesley and his sons sparred opposite of Kaz. Before long, it was clear that Kaz's sheer strength, speed, and persistence had made him remarkably skilled. He had even quit his apprenticeship to enlist and train as a foot-soldier in the army. But Alphonse Bonderal has some considerable sway, and rumors of the Blacksmith's apprentice had even managed to pierce his ears. So, Kaz has set out for his last chance to attain some semblance of status and meaning in Atutania with a few parting gifts from his master: a hammer, a shield, and a breastplate.

His goal is simple: Follow in the footsteps of the great peasant hero (at least, thats how his mother described the Hero of the Glades) to earn a respect no man can deny.

After all, how could Alphonse refuse to recognize a Warden?

Blunt ⬗ Caring ⬗ Creative ⬗ Persistent ⬗ Reckless ⬗ Stubborn

Kazran Harrond is a remarkably skilled martial fighter. Having grown up doing back-breaking labor since he was old enough to walk, Kaz is exceptionally strong and in peak physical condition. He has spent several years honing his reflexes and skill with weapons, outside of the less serious training most children partake in within Itenaire.

Being a Blacksmith's apprentice, and being the size of a grown man for several years, Kaz has had the opportunity to grow comfortable with armor and shields, without it becoming a detriment to his athletic capabilities. Combined with a deep well of stamina, Kaz is what a soldier dreams of having their back when things get rough. He is the wall meant to stem the tides.

All that being said... Kaz's greatest weakness does come from some mobility issues due to his armor. Combined with the fact he has not had his magical awakening, and it is exceptionally clear that strength and stamina can only get you so far. Beyond that, Kaz is not battle-tested nor knowledgeable on how to work as a team. He is a workhorse without a driver.

Toma of House Morriss was the most recent child born of the current lesser lord Morriss' current wife, lady Triss Morriss, who took to doting on her youngest while lord Morriss focused his attentions on their oldest daughter to prepare her for taking over for his position. His older brother, the middle child between them, was rarely home, having already elected to study and travel abroad on behalf of the family interests. As he was raised, Toma quickly realized how little room he had to advance. His older sister would inherit the title their father had, and with his brother almost never home, he realized that was by design. The family of House Morriss fell into one of two groups, by design, those that inherited the title or served in support of the heir, and those who departed to make their own way in the world in spite of this fate.

Toma was initially raised to be the first, despite his mother's best efforts. He loved his books and learning, spending hours upon hours with tutors and scholars who visited on business with the lord of the house, who had time to spare while waiting for their meeting. Much effort was put into drawing out the latent magic of the youngest son, by both hired help and by members of the family. It was a badge of great pride that every member of the house awakened their powers early, and whether they would openly admit it or not, they would not tolerate a late bloomer. His studies turned into more and more rigorous and harsh methods, pushing him further and further in an effort to force him to awaken. He would, eventually, nearly freezing the tutor who was drilling him that morning alive. Fast thinking from his sister prevented this, her own use of fire keeping the ice at bay. A generous stipend bought the tutor's silence, though he would not teach at the house any longer.

After this event magical practice was added to Toma's studies, as was the beginnings of maneuvering the politics of Giellnal, given the naturally paranoid and distrustful nature of its people this was seen as necessary. However, Toma was not quite the same after his awakening, his own mother quietly doing her best to sabotage her husband's efforts to have the perfect servant to the heir. Stories of the middle child's adventures, how this place had nothing to offer someone of his talents, specially hired tutors who could regale him with stories of life beyond Giellnal, beyond merely being the youngest in a long line of succession. By the time he was old enough to be seriously considered to start accompanying his sister on her political errands and maneuvering, he refused. This caught his father off guard, his mother feigned surprise, and his sister was relieved.

It was her doing that kept his father from simply casting him out right then and there, and writing him off as wasted time and resources. Instead Toma would find a new instructor waiting for him just several months after his sixteenth birthday. A man-at-arms, mercenary soldier who had been hired to drill him for the next year and a half before he was given what belongings he would need and sent out into the world. Officially he was to see to the world's affairs and send reports back to the family, much like his middle brother was supposed to have been doing. He had not been faithful to this task, but that was of no concern to Toma. Rather, he would spend hours at a time, every day, being drilled. Initially it was strength building, putting enough muscle on the scholarly boy that he could fight, after that, it was combat.

Perhaps out of spite, Toma would agree to the mercenary's suggestion that he take up the mace as his method of self defense. An inelegant weapon that many nobles that moved in the same circles as his family would be caught dead using, but one that suited the natural capabilities of Toma well. Initially he was forbidden from using magic to amplify his strikes, forced to learn the basics of fighting without magic before being allowed to mix magic into the mix, but by the eve of his eighteenth birthday he was as ready as he could be. Rather than wait for final orders and pointed glares from his father, he said a quiet, secret farewell to both sister and mother, both of whom he would miss dearly even if he wouldn't admit it. He would write to them, he promised, and he departed with the mercenary instead. They agreed, with a bit of bonus coin thrown in, to make sure he made it to Atutania, where he could participate in the open invitation to become an initiate Warden.

His father's reaction to the last bit of spiteful subversion was not known to Toma, who focused himself on what was to come. Whatever happened was behind him now, from here on it was going to be his decisions, and his alone, that would shape his fate, at least that was what he told himself.

Reserved ⬗ Strategic ⬗ Distrustful ⬗ Underhanded ⬗ Perceptive ⬗ Ambitious

Toma is a competent scholar and wielder of magic, having been awakened at a relatively young age through significant trial and tribulation. Toma spent many of his mornings deep in various academic and historic texts and records, learning what he could of both the past and current events while he trained and practiced and trained in controlling and manifesting his magical powers. He has two broad applications of Ice magic, manifesting barriers and hazards to maneuvering around him as a method of defense, while manifesting varying sizes and forms of ice shards as his preferred form of offense. Whether using singular shards to strike key weakpoints, or blistering hails across a group, Toma is rightly proud of his capabilities in the Mana Arts.

Driven on in equal parts by his mother's machinations, and his eldest sister's genuine well meaning intent, Toma received training under an experienced mercenary man-at-arms for some time before his departure from the family holdings. Rather than waste time on a blade, an art that requires much more time and investment than Toma had before his planned day to leave, he was instead trained to wield a mace with brutal efficiency. Lacking the elegance of other noble's sword skills, he makes up for it with a natural bent towards dirty tactics and empowered by his ice magic. Compared to an experienced soldier, however, he still has a great deal to learn, but he knows enough to protect himself and make himself useful in a violent encounter both with and without magical bolstering.

Ultimately it is his intelligence and perception that are Toma's greatest strengths, however, as he turns the stereotypical paranoia of his home to advantage. He always expects and plans for trouble, watching and waiting for the first signs of danger, quick to respond to a situation with a spell, swing, or the rare barked warning. He is a quick study as well, eager to learn even after all the years spent studying before striking out on his own, and is often willing to give consideration to novel or otherwise untested strategies and techniques. Whether he embraces them or not is another matter fully, but consideration and flexibility are useful tools in his kit.

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.

Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military accolades, diplomatic achievements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, lauded for their swordsmanship, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations.

Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themselves, having developed a style of swordplay over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor.

Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the youths of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck.

When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her familial squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way.

Ionna tried that. As was the way of Rielle squires, she was gradually allowed to engage in the negotiations, and quickly found that she did not have her sister's social prowess. Attachment, empathy, these things did not come so naturally to her, and early on she found herself—with Liura's permission—having to answer for her faux pas with duels. It was frustrating. She could win disputes at the end of a sword without trouble, but more and more she found herself wishing she could disarm her opponents in Liura's way, making allies of them before they even knew they ought to have been enemies.

Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends and heard stories, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. With almost two decades behind her, only now did she finally feel she was beginning to learn again. Her social slips were fewer and fewer, and when they passed familiar places, people occasionally remembered her with a similar fondness as her sister. Understanding and connecting with those they met became easier, more fulfilling. Liura was right, and she did make more friends.

Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself.

In her eighteenth year, Ionna returned to Atutania alone, with her sister's sword and her affinity awakened. Liura was dead, killed on the road from Itenaire. She had died heroically, and been avenged, but when her grief-stricken parents pressed, Ionna said nothing more. For a long time there was bitter silence within their branch.

She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight.

Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore.

Convivial ⬗ Dense ⬗ Driven ⬗ Empathetic ⬗ Optimistic ⬗ Trusting

Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—it fostered prodigy.

Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and squirely disputes, to diplomatic duels, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a large-scale battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades.

Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her.

Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some bolting steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her grip on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.

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.

Among the Elves, there are few things that hold higher value than one's own kin. The great clans that traverse the Viridian Sea are each bound together by ties of loyalty, ties of honor, and ties of blood -- ties so deeply ingrained into their culture as to be nigh-unbreakable. Families consist not simply of parent of child, but of countless aunts, uncles, cousins, grandsires, and great grandsires, comprising countless vast and meticulously recorded family trees, as numerous as the trees of the greatwood they call home.

Into such a culture, Sternwyss was cast adrift at a young age. Born to a mother of ailing health and ill repute, whose other children had all perished in the womb, she entered the world not long after her father had already abandoned her mother and returned to his own clan. She never beheld his face, and, to her knowledge, he never even learned her name. And when her mother Adalyr perished when she was only nine years old, Sternwyss thus was left in the peculiar situation of having absolutely no living relatives. Or at least, if they existed, there were none who would claim her.

So it was that she came into the care of her tribe's Druid, Ailín, a stern but wise teacher who offered solace to the grieving orphan of the ill-liked and ill-fated Adalyr, despite protests from the clan elders. He taught the young Sternwyss to honor the trees of the wood, taught her how to find her way even beneath its thickest branches, where the starlight for which she was named could never reach. He taught her the stories of the Dynion's exodus, and of the world of men which they had left behind. And, when one day, she too felt the breath of the forest on the wind, felt its pulsing lifeblood in the roots beneath her feet... Ailín taught her how to become one with the world, and to make the world one with herself.

Ascending from a pariah to a prodigy, Sternwyss became the youngest and most accomplished of Ailín's apprentices, demonstrating a remarkable aptitude for Spirit Invocation within just a few short years of first awakening. She accompanied her master everywhere, walking with him in his rounds of the forest and even accompanying him to meet with delegations from the menfolk who lived beyond the woods. He instructed her in the arts of trade and negotiation... though she took to this pursuit with a great deal less enthusiasm than her study of magic.

These "Humans" were truly reprehensible beings. It was not simply their loud mouths and overly familiar attitudes -- it was that they were entirely too ready to put on a charming face to cover up their ugly thoughts. Although she had few friends among her own people, at least her fellow Elves did not bother to mask their disdain, but expressed it openly. Not so with humans, who would smile and laugh and jest and flatter until they thought they were out of earshot, then just as quickly deride their hosts as primitive fools stuck in their ancient ways. But they had steel and the Elves did not -- and so, to procure the tools that were necessary to maintain their way of life, trade was essential.

Sternwyss did not understand why Ailín bothered teaching her such things. But she soon learned of his intentions when talks arose of sending a delegate to the Menfolk. Trade was growing difficult, as those merchants upon whom they had once relied turned their ventures to seeking greater profits elsewhere. What was more, there had been dark tidings of late -- matters of black magic of which the Druids felt it prudent to be wary.

In ancient days, one of their number had walked alongside the hero. Now, it seemed, a deal had been struck without her knowing -- one that would, now that she had come of age, require her to do the same. After all, who could be better suited for such a task than one with her unique qualifications?

It was a joke. A scandal. A mockery. A farce. Ailín could call it an honor or an opportunity as much as he liked, but the fact of the matter was plain for her to see. Though she was clad in the ceremonial arms and armor of her ancient kindred from the days when the Elves and Menfolk had waged war together against a common foe, though she was supposedly honored as an emissary of not only her tribe, but the whole of the Dynion...

She was being cast out.

Arrogant ⬗ Eloquent ⬗ Guarded ⬗ Honest ⬗ Perfectionist ⬗

Though she wields a sword, Sternwyss does so with no particular skill, having been trained more in performative arts such as sword dances and traditional kata than in preparation for real combat. Likewise, the armor she wears is more or less purely ceremonial in its design, offering little in the way of actual protection.

But this is not to say that the arms she bears are useless. Set with countless arcane crystals crafted with an ancient Elven technique, her jeweled armor and glimmering Manablade serve as conduits for her own elementally inert lifeforce, and the power she holds therein.

Human Magic is the outward expression of internal spirit, in a form and substance that reflects the balance of the user's own soul. Elven Spirit Invocation, on the other hand, infuses internal spirit into any pre-existing form and substance with which the user makes contact. Harnessing the air itself, she shapes earthen dust, pressurized air and water, and ambient heat into a blade of lambent light. Manipulating its form, she can extend and contract that blade, causing it to strike like a javelin or even coil like a serpent mid-swing. Likewise, the air itself conveys her person, allowing her to dart across the battlefield with uncanny swiftness thanks to the mana-storing crystals adorning her ceremonial armor. In areas close to nature, she's even capable of manipulating the terrain itself, splitting the earth, harnessing the winds, loosing the tides, or sprouting roots and vines to assail her opponents from all quarters -- more than making up for her lack of physical experience with a mix of latent cunning, prodigious talent, and arcane ingenuity.

However, utilizing this technique comes with extreme difficulty, as the user must carefully control their breathing and enter an almost meditative state, taking in free-flowing mana from the world around them to replenish that which they expend from their own vital force. If unable to commune with her surroundings in this way, overuse of her techniques can tax her body well beyond its limits, causing fatigue or internal injuries due to the strain placed upon her soul. As such, both to keep her trump cards hidden from prying human eyes, and for her own safety, she keeps the broader applications of her techniques a closely-guarded secret, relying on them only when she has no other choice.

^{“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 name Siada is known wide and far among the Free Cities of Hahal. It is the name of one of the richest merchant families in the land and are known for a certain cruelty against those lesser than them. One reason why is because they hold a certain monopoly over merchants, wealthy and not. In this monopoly, they always ensure they receive a massive cut of whatever profits. If they don't receive their money, they react with almost zero mercy. Rumor has it that they have hired bandits and criminal sydnicates to settle debts.

Either way they get their money one way or another.

And Zyran is the youngest son of Hisham and Zara. Much like his father, Zyran is a skilled archer with the silvertongue, two very specific traits he inherited from his father and mother respectively. He has five older siblings, all of whom have made a name for themselves as merchants and/or warriors. It is Zyran's turn. Both in a sense of obligation and desire to see the world, Zyran will travel to Atutania and become a Hero of the Glade and bring glory to his family.

Compared to his siblings—three older brothers and two older sisters—Zyran could be considered the least terrible one. His morals tend to fall in the middle of unreasonably cruel (mainly to slaves and servants) to empathetic but unbearably vain and downright mocking of one's place in society. Zyran was raised a certain way and maybe that his desire to impress his father has clouded his empathy a bit. His way of being nice to people when he isn't being condescending is showing what they did wrong and making an effort to make them feel about it. After all, it's not their fault that they are too fast when wisdom chases them.

Just a year ago, Zyran was training and training with his archery instructor. It was a long day and unbearably hot. The sun was high without so much of a cloud in sight and he was out in the desert. Zyran was tasked with finding a rare beast one that only a single arrow between the temple could kill. It would be the final test of Zyran's archery lessons. If he passed and returned to Atuunis, he would earn a spot right by his father in the family business. If not, he would be exiled. All of his siblings had a similar lesson and they all passed with flying colors.

Zyran was at death's door and the beast, said to be the size of three bears and looked like a tiger fused with a lion. When Zyran encountered it, he was about to collapse but the beast had charged forward. He took his bow, aimed an arrow but was slow and found himself on his back. The beast was aiming to rip him apart and then an arc of gold lightning was shot from his left arm and he found himself on his feet. The lion-tiger beast was stunned and three arrows in a rapid-fire series of shots found itself between the beast's eyes.

Zyran had passed his test and his father rewarded him. And a year later, he would travel to Atutania.

All for the family and maybe to prove himself. To do something that none of his siblings had done. If he can do this, he'll have something over them.

Antagonistic ⬗ Charming ⬗ Glamourous ⬗ Snide ⬗ Supercilious ⬗ Vain

In terms of magic ability, Zyran might be considered still a novice. Having his elemental affinity awaken just last year, though he has been trying to hone his mastery over it (or just a simple comfort of using it). Through his practice and extreme training in the desert, he has managed to expand the storage of mana that would allow him four shots of lightning bolts. He has also found a theoretical way of shooting lightning-covered arrows with his bow, but this theory came to him the day before he set out for Atutania. He might test it out.

Zyran is a skilled archer and among his family, is considered the best. And he certainly chooses to believe he's the best in the world. He excels at the rapid-shot and multi-target shot techniques. He can hit multiple targets with almost pinpoint accuracy as well as being a quick draw with his rapid shots.

Combat aside, Zyran is considered an above average manipulator and merchant. He is able to talk people (most of the time) to do what he wants them to do. When he's trying to sell goods, that includes buying the product at the price he wants them to buy rather than what they might be able to afford. There's also getting people to do things for him. Generally he hates getting his hands dirty, so he likes to get others to do it. It doesn't always go according to plan but more often than not, he gets his way. God forbid anyone witnesses the bitch fit he throws and that is legendary on its own.

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.

On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Ashraf made the journey across the Sands of Hahral to the city of Atutania with ambitions to become a Warden of the Glade. He traveled with food, clothes, and a sword he was good enough to use for self defense. What he did not bring with him was any desire to protect the realm or its citizens, his goal driven only by self interest. Maybe that was the reason he failed his trial, miserably so. Beaten and humiliated, Ashraf returned home to Akoth where his family welcomed him with open arms. Somehow it was that which hurt the most, finding that the only person disappointed in him was himself.

The only reason Ashraf had ventured out to become a knight in the first place was to gain some status on behalf of the In'nalai. They were an old family in the Triumvirate, one of skilled glass makers and blowers who had practiced their trade since before Akoth's establishment. They had always been a small family, both in size and influence, forced to get into the mercantile business in order not to be taken advantage of by larger, wealthier clans. Ashraf would eventually take over as head of the family, and though he was one of the most talented in it at their artisanal craft, he was inept at the business side of affairs for the most part. He learned much better with his hands, rather than through lecture or literature, and unfortunately economics was not something he could hold.

Seeing as his father was still hale and had quite a few more years left in him until retirement, Ashraf conceived of a plan to strengthen the family's standing when he inevitably took over even if his mercantile skills weren't up to snuff: a career as one of the realm's knights. It would offer the In'nalai many advantages; prove the next head of the clan a man of valor and strength, instill the thought that the family was skilled not just in their trade but in battle as well, and gain the prestige of the wardens in order to make any unscrupulous merchant or noble think twice before messing with them. Not to mention that during the time Ashraf planned to spend in knighthood, his father could use 'to teach his younger sisters the business side of things instead of wasting time trying to instill it in his dense son' (Ashraf's words).

Having vowed to return to the wardens and get them to recognize him, Ashraf poured all his time and effort into improving himself. His martial arts training was intense but necessary, though putting himself into the mindset of a protector was still hard for him. Over the years he worked, taking his goal much more seriously this time, and whenever he needed to cool down from warden training he threw himself into the heat of the family's glass furnace. At eighteen he felt he was ready to try again, and once more set foot on the road from Akoth to Atutania.

Artistic ⬗ Focused ⬗ Passionate ⬗ Prideful ⬗ Responsible ⬗ Unforgiving

Already familiar with the length and heft of a blowpipe, Ashraf swapped out his sword for a spear and never looked back. Though he found himself no good in the Hahral tradition of archery, he did have good aim in general, and when combined with his excellent hand eye coordination throwing said spear was something he excelled at. Even if not the most physically imposing man, Ashraf's training has honed his body in strength and flexibility, and his trade made him adaptable. Now he is fairly adept with using a spear and javelin, though it must be said he's never had to actually use it in a fight with serious consequence.

He has high heat tolerance, high lung capacity, and a strong work ethic. He is also very good with his hands. Writing, drawing, whittling, and other such hobbies are within his means to master. And of course he is already a master at blowing and shaping glass for both practical and artistic uses. He is a tactile learner and can quickly pick up almost anything one needs dexterity for. His mother often said that he had some kind of eidetic memory, only with his hands instead of his eyes.

As of now, he has not awakened to his magical abilities.