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?

Malia Namzu

Human/Mercane Halfbreed

Female

25

For the most part, Malia looks rather human, however, her Mercane heritage comes through in a few different ways. Her skin, for one, has a bluish tint to it, especially on her face and torso. The further from her center the skin is, the more normal of tinge the color is with her hands and feet being the most natural of skin color, at least for a human. She also has unnaturally long fingers with an extra index finger on each hand. She is tall, standing at a lanky 7’2” and weighs about 210 lbs. Her hair is a steel blue color and curly, usually free and falling down in flowing locks around her face. As for her attire, she is usually in loose robes adorned by yards and yards of jewelry. Each finger has, at least, one ring on it, some having even two or more depending on the sizes. Her wrists jingle each time she moves with how many bracelets that adorn them and some may say her neck looks heavy with how many jewel encrusted necklaces she has wrapped around it. Even her wide brimmed witch’s hat has a ring of gems around its crown, each of a varying size. She even has some gems woven into her hair and has a circlet with a few gems resting on her forehead. She practically glistens when she walks in the sun.

Malia is stubborn to a fault, believes she knows best in all situations, will die on any hill even if what she's fighting for is completely false, and thinks she should rule the world. An absolutely great combination of traits for any 25 year old to have. She can quickly get on anyone's nerves and personally thinks she's unbeatable even though it was her defeat that brought her to the Maw in the first place.

She doesn't trust anyone and thinks that if something needs to be done, then it's only ever going to be done right by her, unless it's killing someone. She doesn't like to get her hands dirty like that. She will, if she has to, but she much rather leave that to the brutes. She's far too sophisticated for that.

Malia was born a bastard child of a wealthy Merchant woman. At first, she was ignored by the populace because her mother was one of the best merchants in the Westerlands and she was kept locked away inside the manor. However, as she grew older, it was getting harder and harder for her mother to keep her locked away. Little Malia would be found roaming the streets at all hours of the day. Her blue skin, height, and extra fingers always made the other children nervous. So, even though she only sought companionship from those her own age, she was usually left standing in the streets as the human children ran from her in terror. No one knew who her father was and her mother never spoke of him, not even to Malia. All she ever got was that he was not of this world. Constantly being locked away and neglected, Malia developed a rebellious personality that only spiraled into a dangerous one when she learned that she not only could wield magic but was actually quite adept to it.

At the ripe old age of 11, Malia encountered the court magician on one of her forbidden outings. The man took an interest in her immediately, trying to discover her heritage and to see if he could figure out just what she was. In exchange for his research, he offered to show her some of his magical items and spells. With nothing else to do and an obvious interest in who her father was, Malia agreed. So away they went to his study so he could run some tests. At first, he had thought her part giant with some kind of birth defect. After all, she stood at least six feet by that point, so she must be part giant and the birth defect would explain the odd hands. However, when he ran the tests and cast the appropriate spells, the results were a blatant no. Perplexed, he began to run every test he could think of. Tiefling? Negative. Merfolk? Nu uh. Elf? Nope. Celestial? Nada. The tests went on and on and day after day Malia returned to his study. As the magician worked, she explored and learned. She found she could wield any magical item, no matter what it was. It did not matter if the item required something to wield it or for her to have a certain type of ability to wield it, she could use it without any problem. She also discovered, by chance, that she could teleport, if only a very small distance. She discovered she could teleport when she accidentally opened a case that was not meant to be opened.

The magician had long ago given her free reign of his study with the cautionary words of “if it’s closed, it stays closed.” And she had intended to follow those rules entirely but there was this one case. It sang to her. In the beginning it was so easy to ignore. He said to leave it alone, so she left it alone but, each time she came into his office, the singing grew louder and harder for her to ignore. Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her and she opened it. A creature was inside, a shadowy beast who tried to devour her the moment the case was open. Instincts took over and before she knew what was happening, she had dropped the case and appeared on the other side of the study even before her scream was finished. Unfortunately, the magician didn’t have the same chance as her. The beast had gotten a hold of him before he had a moment to fully comprehend what was happening. A battle ensued that eventually ended with the magician mortally wounded and the shadowy beast locked within a jewel the size of her palm. Before he perished, the magician entrusted her with the wand that had trapped the beast and the jewel, giving her a warning to never release it else suffer the same fate as he. She promised to never release the beast before the magician passed.

Now with the weapon the trap creatures in jewels and a powerful creature trapped within the jewel, she set out to discover just what she could trap in jewels. She began small, a rat here, a cat there. These gems were tiny, some barely larger than her fingernail. As she experimented more, she learned that the more magic a beast had, the larger the jewel became. So she began a collection. Her mother had no problem eventually taking her jewels and making them into jewelry for her to wear. So Malia began decorating herself with the beasts that she had transformed into jewels. Eventually, she decided she wanted to do more than just catch and wear the creatures. So she invested in some magic that allowed her to control the creatures as well and thus her summoner career began.

One would think that Malia might use those skills and the creatures she captured and controlled to help the kingdom but all those years of neglect and distrust from the populace had long ago planted a seed of distrust and resentment within the girl. She used those creatures to get whatever she wanted. She found pleasure in causing people annoyance. It began small but as her jewel horde grew, so did her power and influence. Before long, Malia had her fingers dipped into the darker crimes of the kingdom. As she grew into adulthood, she had lords in her pockets, each paying her a large sum of money to keep their part of the kingdom safe. She was quickly growing wealthier than her mother ever had hoped to be and she was becoming quite a threat to those in power but little girls were never meant to be lords. Eventually, the lords of the land gathered their resources and hired an assassin to kill her. He almost succeeded, to be honest. He got very close but it was the unleashing of the shadow beast that finally brought the fight to an end, leaving her barely alive and severely wounded. She was retrieved, healed, then sent to the Maw by the order of the King.

• Teleportation- She can teleport up to ten feet away with ease and up to three times in quick succession. If she wants to take someone with her, she can only go up to five feet and only once before having to rest. She can’t take more than one person with her at a time.
• Magical Item Adeptness- Because of her Mercane heritage, she can interact and use any magical item without having to learn how to use it
• Creature Summon- Because of the vast horde of creatures she has captured throughout her lifetime, she can summon an array of different creatures to her aid. Depending on how magical they are, depends on how many she can have out and control at one time. For example, she can control a horde of rats with ease while summoning more but she may only have out a single griffin or phoenix and depending on their magical abilities depends on whether she has the jewels on her person or within her bag. The more magical creatures, whose jewels would be far too large to make into wearable jewelry, would all be carried around in her satchel. So the true threat comes when she reaches into her bag.

• Her Age- Malia is young. Being only in her mid twenties, she can be reckless and rather at times. She thinks she knows what's best, even if she doesn't, and will try and convince everyone else that she does too.
• Doesn't Like To Personally Get Her Hands Dirty- She doesn't like being the one in the middle of all the action. Shes more than happy to be the one who starts it all but she doesn't want to be the one who ends it. She rather be the one who drops in the golden apple and see the fight ensue.

Just her clothes, jewelry and her satchel that she keeps slung over her chest.

She can get a little touchy if someone pushes too hard to try and figure out what she is because, she herself, doesn’t know.

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

Orc

Male

47

Standing at 7' 6" and weighing just shy of 300 pounds, 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. From town to town, tavern to tavern, he wandered in search of powerful adversaries. It was not enough to prove himself more skilled, to meet peers of a like mind---he had to show that he, a slave, with nothing but talent and effort to his name, was better than those who had beaten him, better than those who called themselves "masters." Values? Ideals? Give a man enough pain, and he will forsake everything he claims to love to escape it. Only those who are strong have the right to be free. Only those who can kill have the right to live. That was what his childhood had shown him.

Thus, when he heard of a brave knight who had, singlehandedly, bested an entire gang of bandits, he sought that man out for a duel. And he killed him. When the nobility hosted their tournaments and crowds filled the coliseums, he fought his way to the top---and then tracked down those he had not gotten to fight. And he killed them. When a veteran mercenary captain decided to retire and open his own fencing school, Auguz stormed the place and slaughtered his way through the students, the assistants, and the headmaster.

These tales continued, time and time again. The number of Auguz's victims rose ever higher, until the Tyrant himself ordered the orc to be slain on sight should he ever be found within the kingdom's borders. But, even an entire regiment of the king's men could not bring down the blade-wielding monster...

Then, she appeared. The Witch. The abomination, in Auguz's mind. He had not often fought mages, those who could bend fire and call down the winds, but he had fought them. If he could but place his blade against them, they died like any other. But not her. Strength and skill, speed and strategy, did not seem to matter to her. What was more, she accomplished something no other opponent had, not since those beatings so many long years ago. Auguz was unnerved by her. He feared her. He tried to banish it from his mind, to burn it like creeping ivy with rage and bloodlust. But he could not escape that icy, tenebrous grasp. And so he was finally brought to justice, in a kingdom far from his home, and thrown into the deepest, blackest pits they called the Maw...

• 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.

Xerus Stunn of Highstream

Human...ish.

Male

His fifties. Or was it seventies? He can't quite remember.

Of average height and a mighty build diminished by age and disuse, Xerus is clearly old, but how old becomes hard to tell. His hair and eyes both seem dimmed, yet his skin is much less wrinkly than it should be. Yet... this appearance is also unnatural, as one gazes at it they would get the feeling that said skin was stretch out by some unnatural force to give the simulacra of youth.


Xerus has the appearance of always being smug, of not letting something on. This is by and large because that is the case. He is arrogant, believing himself to be wiser and more learned than everybody else. However, he at the very least seems to have some understanding of the value of individuals, indeed despite raising many as dead servants he is nonetheless far from the worst of people, avoiding tormenting innocent souls by disturbing their undead rest. He is slow and difficult to anger, but he becomes especially petty and vindictive to those that manage to breach his pompous veneer. As a habit of his patronizing nature, he is often giving unwanted lessons on just about every topic that comes to the fore.

Xerus was born to the Noble family of Highstream, so named because of the mount their keep was on that had a great reserve of water ceaselessly flowing out. He was a good, virtuous boy doing all as his family demanded of him. A shining heir to his father, he was proud to aid the King in his conquest, a faithful Paladin leading many troops of his own banner and soon others as he grew in prominence within the new order. Savage barbarians, rebellious heretics, inhuman scum, all were destroyed by the thousands at his well-planned orders and in many cases by his own hand.

But as time passed, his victories seemed ever... stranger. Reports from his subordinates became more incoherent when they were asked for, while his foes seemed to be dead in ever stranger ways. Things only came clear when another Lord came to relieve a siege a day earlier than was anticipated. He witnessed the enemy risen as the dead against their own comrades, and swiftly reported what Lord Xerus was up to.

Lord Xerus took his arrest calmly, with naught but a soft knowing smile on his face as he was taken away and gently insisted he was still a loyal servant of his King. As people searched his properties the investigators were able to vaguely piece together a story of his slow descent into madness. It all began with an artifact years ago that he recovered from a defeated warlock, all seemingly innocent as a way to better understand his foe. But as he went deeper and deeper in his studies he seemed to employ stranger and stranger methods, though he always insisted he was in control because he took to this as a craft, rather than as an art.

Some speculated this was all in an effort to somehow save his sick children, some that he was simply lusting for power. None could tell that Xerus simply sought knowledge and his own personal development. They were astounded to find that by himself he had gone leaps and bounds above the studies of many of the same witches and warlocks that he had slain during his service to the Kingdom, out of pure desire to learn with the shackles of the ritualism and secrecy others needed being dropped.

-Xerus can swing a sword, although he is a bit old and out of practice.
-He is an expert commander and leader.
-Sorcery: While it was Necromancy that put him into the Maw, he can practice magics of just about any kind. From druidism to scrying to pyromancy to even calling on some of the old might when he was merely a Paladin of the realm.
-Knowledge: he has studied almost everything under the sun if a book about it could be procured (legally or otherwise) within the Kingdom. From history to alchemy to geography to cooking and glassblowing, he has read it.

-He is not a true wizard, he is a sorceror. What that entails is that he has very little if any magic truly within himself. He needs some external source of magic like a staff with a magical focus within, or ritualistic components, or words of power to recite (the memorization of which has lead to him being gagged for his duration of his stay in the maw). In particular, this means that this means he is much more reliant on his corporeal wellbeing and material goods for magic than other practitioners of magic are.
-He is old. While no geezer or old coot, he will simply laugh if told to perform a feat necessitating any great agility like scaling a mountain or crawling through a small passage. He also cannot run very fast (or at all, for that matter, a sort of half-jog being the best he can do without magic). Of course that is only the tip of the iceberg resulting from his age. A much more sensitive stomach than others, longer sleep schedules, and so much more are results of his age even if he slowly works to undo its effects with his studies.
-Can't swim

A set of his old full plate, a long spear (merely a way to conceal his staff), a dagger, chalk, and assorted ritualistic-alchemical items like incense and candles.

N/A