His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, alias the White Tiger, is the current ruler of the Westerlands. He is celebrated far and wide as a hero for having defeated his evil older brother, the Fallen King, who consorted with demons and preyed upon the populace. Under his reign, the people of the Westerlands have enjoyed peace and prosperity like never before throughout history. Together with the Temple of the Sun, he has ousted the old false gods of the heathens and unified the kingdom under one faith and tradition. Truly, there has never been a King like him.

If you believe the official story, that is.

Another, less tolerated, version claims that Tyronde conspired with the Heliarch of the Temple of the Sun to murder the old King and usurp his throne. In this version, the Westerlands used to be a diverse place of wonder where peoples of all creeds could live together in peace and harmony. The Tyrant and his Temple have demolished this society, forcing cohesion on the populace and banishing or outright slaughtering any and all who resist. Taxes are higher than ever, public executions are up, and children are sacrificed on massive pyres to the burning deity of the sun-worshipers.

The truth? Who knows. But you certainly know which version you subscribe to.

The Westerlands, or the Sunset Lands as they’re sometimes called, is a realm with a long and complicated history. The Kingdom, now unified under His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, was once a sprawling mess of minor feuding territories where a multitude of races and cultures coexisted in an uneasy balance. Dragon riders kept watch from the snow capped peaks of the Boreal Mountains, elven druids danced in the moonlit groves of the Sylvan Forests, dwarves delved deep into the dark caverns of the Underworld, and giants roamed the rocky Highlands in search of fallen stars. A thousand gods and spirits, great and small, rivalled for worship in an unending cycle of conflict and peace. The chaos (or freedom, if you’re so inclined) ended with the death of the old King and the purging fires of the Unification Wars. Under the Sigil of the Sun, the King (by some referred to as the Tyrant) brought law and order (or death and destruction) to the Westerlands. They proclaimed One King, One God, and One Tradition, casting everything else aside. Today, remnants of the old ways linger in faraway corners of the world, hiding from the scorching light of the Holy Sun in the shade and the dark.

The land itself is still the same, with its rolling hills, high mountains, deep valleys, flowing rivers and calm lakes. The ruins of the old world linger, teeming with secrets and mysteries, and the old magic still permeates everything, no matter how hard the King and his Temple tries to smother it out. Civilization is spreading, however, one day at a time, threatening to overtake the wilderness as time goes by.

The Westerlands have always been a vast and diverse place, home to a plethora of more or less civilized races and peoples. The predominant race of the New Order under King Tyronde are the humans, who’s civilization previously ranked among the lesser ones of the land. They have expanded a lot in the decades since the White Tiger ascended the throne, and keep pushing the boundaries of other peoples territories.

Along with humans, the Westerlands are populated by elves, dwarves, orcs, and halflings, to name a few. These races are often divided into separate clans and peoples, derived from differances in culture and creed. Wood Elves, for instance, live in close connection with nature in the great forests of the world and see themselves as separate from the High Elves, who construct high towers and concern themselves with the skies and stars. Grey Dwarves, masters of stone and steel, have little in common with the Hill Dwarves practicing Runic Magic in the highlands. The Clan Orcs, who perfect the arts of martial prowess in secret fortified monasteries, want nothing to do with the Wild Orcs who pillage and burn along the coasts. The Hobbits, living in hidden close-knit communities in the wilds, can’t understand the nature of the Gnomes, solitary halflings who live as caretakers of mills, farmsteads and such in other peoples settlements.

There are other, less widespread races and peoples, too. The Naga of the Underworld waters, the Giants of the Highlands, the Fauns of the Forests, etc. Who knows what other beings are out there, among the forgotten places of the world?

Full Character Name

Human/Elf/Orc/Dwarf/Halfling/Whatever

Male/Female/Whatever

Character Age (Nothing Stupid)

Hair/Eyes/Skin/Length/Weight/Build/Clothes/Whatever

Behavior/Quirks/Likes/Dislikes/Whatever

Parents/Childhood/Education/Adulthood/Livelihood/Crimes against the Kingdom/Downfall/Whatever

Skills/Powers/Training/Whatever

Fears/Vulnerabilities/Vices/Whatever

The Stuff your Character checked in with (Nothing Stupid)

Whatever

Auguz Son-of-Ugum, of Hokur (Red Iron) Clan of Zimalzagh (Black Mountain)

Orc

Male

(Upper End of Middle Age by Orc standards; what kind of lifespan do they have in this world?)

Standing at 7' 6" and weighing just shy of 300 pounds (Unless Orc size is different here), Auguz is an ideal specimen of an orc warrior. He speaks with a gravel-filled, roaring voice that could easily be mistaken for that of a tiger. It can be even more shocking to hear because, unless he's fighting, he can be eerily stoic. His eyes are a burning wolf-yellow, though they are often hidden beneath the shadow of his furrowed brow. A lattice of old scars covers the majority of his body--save for his back, which aside from a few puncture wounds originating on the other side, is relatively unblemished. He favors simple clothing; garments that are easy to fight in, fastened with old ropes or bits of bone.

"He who stands in the end is righteous."

Auguz believes in a broad form of "might makes right," recognizing that there are many kinds of "power" to obtain. If you are stronger, you can do whatever you want until someone with greater strength stops you. If your arm is greater, the strength of numbers or strategy may still overcome it. If your strength is unbreakable, strength of cunning and subterfuge may poison it. Yet despite this acknowledgment of nuance, Auguz stands by his own brand of strength---the open, bare-chested might of a warrior and his skills---and seeks to overcome all others with dogged stubbornness. The utter shame of his current predicament is a raw and festering subject, but ultimately, so long as he is contained by a greater power, he has no choice but to survive in the hope that he will one day surpass his oppressors.

He enjoys the revelry of good food and fine drink, and the debauchery of fair maidens, but nothing excites his blood more than using his blade. It is not wanton slaughter that drives him, though he is not above taking life in a trivial or cold blooded manner; the stronger his opponent, the more thrilling it is to bring them down. The more they boast, the more he enjoys to see them beg. The more they pretend to refinery, the more satisfying it is to see them seethe with rage and impotence. He doesn't just want to prove his skill and power, but to break down the opponent's sense of self.

Auguz spits on those who think ideals such as "law" will protect them, or who try to control others through social expectations, religion, and other abstracts. That form of strength can only survive in the presence of weak minds---even if, say, a religious leader had the strength of an entire theocracy backing him, a single person in the congregation could decide at any time to simply break the fool's neck in front of all his sheep. As one can imagine, this outlook makes him ill-suited to diplomacy, debate, or compromise.

In the Hokur Clan, status is decided by strength, and strength by blood. The strongest take the strongest for their mates, and those of lesser stock are made to provide for the clan while the warriors train or march for war. Individual families within the clan compete in both tournaments and what passes for orcish politik, constantly seeking to prove themselves in order to rise up the ladder.

Auguz was born to a pair of, essentially, slaves. Their duty was to plough, and to sow, to pluck weeds, and reap harvest. In seasons when little would grow, they were made to break rock and chop trees to clear new fields for the next year, or make new paths in the treacherous terrain. Most of what they produced went to feed those above their station; Auguz still remembers the hunger he slept with as a child.

Yet one day, as he passed from one end of the clan's great fortress to the other on some errand, he happened to pass by a prominent family's courtyard. They were training several younglings, older than him at the time, in the way of swordsmanship. The master prepared a demonstration for the students, and though he had to climb the wall to peek over, Auguz couldn't help his curiosity. A lit candle was brought out, and the master explained some concept of "subtlety and control" of one's blade. Then, with a masterful movement that seemed to come out of a painting, the elder orc swept the candle's upper half away from its lower. The flame never went out, and wavered only a moment in the air. The lower end did not fall from the stand, and the other was perfectly balanced on the flat of the man's sword, held delicately at arm's length. Yet the cut had happened so fast, if Auguz had been able to blink he would have missed it.

Then someone saw him, and he had to scamper away before he could be caught. But like that flickering candle flame, a passion had been ignited in the runty orc. When his chores were done, he picked up a shaved stick, and began to mimic the motions he'd seen. When he carried water, or took the harvest to the storehouse, or brought repaired tools from the smiths, he would stop by the courtyard again. By mere enthusiasm and mimicry, he began to learn. His parents noticed a new brightness in their child, a strength of life and happiness at finding one's calling, but had they known his secret they most assuredly would've punished him. And perhaps, if they had, the Manslayer would've never come to be.

It was only a matter of time. The first time he failed to escape, the students dragged him before the master. Accused of stealing their techniques, or spying for another family, and most of all for daring to look above his own family's status within the Clan, the old orc ordered the youngling to be soundly beaten and sent away with dire threats. But Auguz did not cease his self-taught training. Again, he was caught---this time in a dark corner of the fortress, by three adolescents from the same family. They had found him with the stick in his hand, and held wooden training swords of their own. To humiliate him, break him spiritually as well as physically, they taunted him as they struck, over and over and over... Until Auguz fought back.

By the end, his stick was broken, and the three youths were dead. He took their wooden swords. When news spread, the other students began hunting him down---and he hunted them in return. Those who survived were crippled, no longer able to hold a sword. The family he'd offended was outraged, but even when his parents were imprisoned, Auguz managed to evade capture. When he killed an adult warrior---again, with only a piece of wood---the old swordmaster deigned to step up. It was time for this farce to end.

Their duel took place under a bright moon. In that pure white light, the old master finally saw this runt for what he was: a talent unbound by blood or status. A heart filled with love for the way of the blade, the art of the warrior---a heart that had been tainted and blackened by unforgiving tradition, cruelty, and bloodlust. What could this young orc have become, if that talent had been nurtured? How many like this had the Clan ignored, or even punished? As he was brought to his knees, the old swordsman felt tears pricking his eyes. He yielded to the youth, and begged for forgiveness. He declared that he would adopt Auguz, and train him, and---

Auguz smashed the orc's skull with the splintered wooden sword, and stole his first real blade. He left the Hokur that night, and began to carve a bloody trail across the lands... Until he was finally brought to justice, in a kingdom far from his home, for murdering a score of knights, fencers, and other proclaimed fighting masters...

• Immaculate Swordsmanship
  If everyone has a "thing," Auguz's thing is the way of the blade. He lives for it, loves it, in a way only great painters or musicians might understand, not soldiers. Everything else he has attained has been for the sake of the sword. He calls his personal, self-made style the Eighteen Demon Blades.
• Expert Martial Artist
  To master the blade, master one's self. Though one might argue his understanding of this proverb given his general hedonism, Auguz's physical talents and experiences have allowed him to mimic a number of martial arts techniques. Because this benefits his swordsmanship and athletic ability, he considers it a required secondary skill for any warrior. Fisticuffs, footwork, and wrestling techniques all factor into his personal style to varying degrees---he's probably best with his hands, but his heavy kicks can be devastating even if he's not doing a bunch of flexible flippy-dippy nonsense.
• General Weapon Skill
  To defeat one's enemy, you must know your enemy. Auguz may not give a crap about getting to know other people, but in order to best other weapons with only a sword, he's had to learn a great deal about them. While he couldn't match up to someone who has done specialized training, he can generally pick up a spear, an axe, so on and so forth and wield it with above average ability.
• Made of Iron
  Not in a literal sense, of course. Auguz's stamina and toughness, even for an orc, are extremely well developed---but so is his mental strength. You might be faster than him, but he's going to keep plodding after you. You might even be stronger than him, but he's going to figure out your weak point. If you're more skilled than him, he's going to refuse to acknowledge that. With an unhealthy amount of determination, he has resolved that if he's going to die, he's going to do two more things as well: die standing upright, and swing his sword one last time as his head rolls off.

• Run The Fade
  Auguz will prioritize his ability to enjoy a duel over anything else. He can be forced to do whatever stupid thing he has to do instead of fighting, but it will breed deep discontent and he will always look for a way to avenge such interference.
• Gambler
  Auguz can be suckered by games of chance, because he believes that luck is a skill too. He doesn't understand how to cut his losses or quit while he's ahead, responds impulsively to dares and challenges, and gets violent when he feels he's been cheated. If someone's trying to dissuade or calm him during these moments, though, at least it's not as difficult as it would be to keep him out of a "proper" fight.
• Glutton
  When he's not fighting, Auguz enjoys eating, drinking, and...carousing...to great excess. Maybe it's because he remembers having nothing back at home, and hasn't learned how to reign in his over compensation. Maybe it's just because he lives every moment to the fullest. But if he's allowed to indulge, he's going to wake up with a hangover, eat so much he vomits the next time he gets gutpunched, and so on.
• Seasick
  He hates boats. And you will too if you ever have to be on one with him.

• Northern Gale
  A well made, and well used, steel katana. Its hilt is white rayskin wrapped with a deep blue cord, and the tsuba is a golden mitsudomoe pattern.
• Western Storm
  A wakazashi that has been well-maintained, but is old enough that there's a lot of visible wear and tear. The flaking layers of steel from its spine give it a damascened appearance. Its hilt is also white rayskin, but the cord is a faded green. The tsuba is a simple bronze disk, but a golden horsehair tassel is tied to its pommel.
• Southern Breeze
  A kabutowari---a thick dagger with a truncheon hook near the base of the blade, meant to pry open armor. Its short grip is solid wood, but has been painted a deep, blood red.

• While brutish and straight forward, he has a surprising intellectual side. He enjoys reading about military history in particular and has an appreciation for "old soldier's poems."
• He has a tendency to steal blades from fallen opponents, and blames their workmanship if his rough usage damages them.

Mer (pronounced "Mare") Fuhgoad D'Got

Dwarf

Female

73

Mer cuts a striking figure, the way a boulder might block one's path. Embodying the stockiness of a Dwarf, Mer's thick arms and squat frame belie a hidden bulk. She stands 4'3" tall, and weighs about 140 lbs. Her hair is fashioned in two long braids of stock white. Her rugged skin is surprisingly smooth around her face. She wears a simple dress and apron, with a belt around her middle. With her overcoat, which had a heavy tuft of wool about her shoulders, and her oversized gloves, she stands prepared for harsher climates, with ample room to store vials and bottles within.

Mer comes off as cold, initially. She's spent years serving villages as a wandering witch, doling out cures and salves--for a price. Her better demons prevail often as she answers the call of 'mercy' in the form of poisons to those victims who call her in their hours of need. Mer's left a string of bodies behind by proximity, enabling others to deal with their own problems, even if it cost them more than they knew. Mer's cost is often "the first thing you see when you get home," as it's served so many in her line of work through the ages. She can be calculating and kind--or kindness as she sees it--and has come to the ultimate philosophical conclusion that everything is fleeting and nothing lasts as long as stone! Even that will waste away some day. It's not beneath her to administer 'mercy' to the dying if they are past the point of her potions to cure. "I'm you're angel, deary," she'd say, poison in hand.

Mer, as most Dwarven childen, was raised underground in her formative years. Her family was a large one, and being the youngest of her family, Mer set off in search of her own fortune at a young age. Letters home were infrequent, but kept her in touch with her clan.

She found herself honest work as a mushroom gatherer in a town by the sea, within the King's realm. One day, upon delivering a bundle of ingredients to one gnarled home, Mer stumbled into the abode of a folk-witch at work at her cauldron. Upon her entrance, the 'witch', simply pointed to where she ought to drop her package: an altar full of ingredients and an open tome denoting all sorts of recipes for brews both curative and malicious. It was like reading a language she had long forgotten, and its draw was too great for the young and greedy Dwarf.

Mer stole the book, and swiftly took her leave of the hut. That day saw the beginning of her study as an alchemist. The book was a helpful starter, but Mer has since memorized the recipes from cover to cover, and she pursued more knowledge of the like, leading to the thievery of more books from other practitioners. Admittedly, her interest veered toward the sinister: poisoned benign objects like spinning wheels and apples, for instance drew mirth to her face.

She lived many of her years traveling from town to village and back, dispensing with cures and quells as she saw fit. She gained a reputation, and a body count, as there were mysterious deaths that followed her arrival; a beater of woman would die in his porridge, an abuser of children from the local temple would pass in the night after his tipple.

The trail of bodies through the years numbered in the hundreds, and a few officials of the crown began sniffing around when she traveled South. She relished the attention, truth be told, and her exploits grew in stature.

The Viscount Winthrop Ashton, who presided over a modest portion of the Southern fief of the Westerlands, suffered particular ire at her presence. As the result of a nasty bargain with a barmaid, Mer had poisoned the very groundwater in the area which grew the kingdom's barley. The Viscount dubbed her a scourge and set a bounty on her head of ten thousand coin. That's when things got really interesting.

The Viscount's army mobilized to a nearby hill, on top of which the alchemist had set her camp. The Viscount himself stood a safe distance away, in a full knight's suit of armor atop a steed, his naive standard bearer waiving his crest proudly. He would not miss the opportunity to bring to heel such a thorn.

Just when the army had surrounded her encampment, the alchemist imbibed an elixir which transformed her into a terrifying dragon covered in iron scales, and a belly full of molten fire. As the men ran fearing for their lives, Mer spread her volcanic breath in all directions, then leapt into the air, and thanks to that proudly waiving standard, landed squarely on the Viscount and his horse, crushing him to oblivion before uttering a roar which sent every bird aflight and every beast afeared.

The elixir which was the method of her revenge was also the measure of her undoing, however, and thanks to a miscalculation, the draught's power subsided suddenly. Mer found herself a Dwarf once again, standing in the middle of the bloody, unrecognizable mess which was the Viscount. It didn't take long for a second in command to rally the army and surround the alchemist with polearms. The Maw awaited.


Mer is an Alchemist. She can brew most any potion to heal or kill, to sap or save, to transform or transfix. She's got a strong frame and a keen eye for chucking her concoctions at a range of twenty feet. Why, she even hit an annoyingly cheerful blue bird once, transforming it into stone!

The laws of Alchemy are uncertain and inherently unstable. It's more of an art than a science! Sometimes her cocktails have a different affect than intended.

As per her character is concerned, she's quick to judge and long to loathe. Pragmatic only to a degree, the Dwarven stubbornness is strong in Mer.

She has the clothes on her back, several empty vials and ampules, and the ingredients on her person lashed to her belt and in the pockets of her long coat. She also carries a walking stick.

Mer's writing her own book of potions and poisons: D'Got's Guide to Alchemy. Most of what she's memorized through the years has been penned, but she's still finalizing the section on transmogrification.