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 rash 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.

---

---

Human
Female, intentionally androgynous
19
Small, waif-like build. In public she wears enough bulky clothing to hide both her gender and nationality, such as rough tunics and work breeches and a slouch hat. When working (AKA thieving) tends to wear a black skin-tight cotton shirt and leggings. Hair cut short in a page-boy style when possible, tied back when barbers are not available.

In complexion, she’s fair, if you can see past the dirt. The dirt is intentional, and gets heavier when she’s working. Eyes are brown.


Cheeky and irreverent when among friends, but a decent actor who plays whatever part the score needs at the moment. A good beggar, a competent busker with a tinwhistle or pipe, capable of street preaching if that will attract coin. Meek and mild when in the presence of authority until their back is turned, then cut-throat and callous as required.

Comes across as amoral, as befits a thief. Thoroughly corrupt, and takes to bribery and abusing the legal system like a fish to water. But somehow always finds reasons not to steal from the peasants and shows a special fondness for stealing from the upper classes. This is probably what led to her downfall.

The Maw has yet to break her. She grew up on the streets, and the lawless Maw is just the same but more so. She fully intends to escape and resume her crime spree. She will cheerfully go along with any plan the Warden gives her, confident in her ability to slip free later.


An orphan and a street urchin, thanks to the policies of Temple and Throne. Adopted - if that’s the word - by the thieves guild of Vorhaaben, one of the larger of the river cities. Proved to be a gifted, if not brilliant, pupil of the illegal arts. Already a near-legendary cat burglar by the time she hit puberty with several daring heists to her resume. Called “Shade” by the commoners, she was well on her way to being a folk hero for her exploits

Like most thieves, she was always looking for that one last score that would allow her to retire in obscurity. In hindsight, stealing from the High Temple of the Sun in Vortigern was probably not the way to cap off a career.

At least the manhunt was epic. They nearly turned over the entire city in the search. In the end it was one consecrated piece of silver that allowed the priests to sniff our her trail and corner her in a back alley.

As far as the Kingdom knows, the thief known as “Shade” danced the hempen jig in front of thousands of witnesses for his crimes. In truth, that was some other poor soul. The real Shade was tossed into the Maw where, if she should survive, she might prove useful.


Can jigger a lock, pick a pocket, climb a wall, all while silent and cloaked in shadow. A master sneak thief, a good con-artist and a competent backstabber. Capable of talking, sneaking or bribing her way out of most any kind of trouble.


Still young, not particularly sturdy, definitely not a front-line fighter. Still a bit naive as to the ways of the upper classes and high politics.


Officially, just the clothes on her back. Somehow she ended up with a mostly complete set of thieves tools, including lock picks, climbing crampons, knives and a fair bit of rope. Has a modest bit of coin tucked away in various pockets.


Jagg is the standard fantasy “young thief” character, only a bit older than normal by this point. Think Talen from Eddiings, early Skiff from Lackey or Jimmy the Hand from Feist.

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 a tangled nest of braids all stock white. Her warted skin takes a pallid tone around her face and hands. She wears a simple dress and shall, with a belt strapped with pouches and ampules. With her overcoat, which had a heavy tuft of wool about her shoulders, she stands prepared for harsher climates, with ample room to store vials and bottles within.

Mer has embraced the selfishness of dastardly tactics of an old witch aiming to live forever and cause as much pain as possible. She's spent years serving villages as a wandering witch, doling out cures and salves--for a price: a first born child here, a love unrequited there. 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 fair--or fair as she sees it--as she believes in the rote letter of bargains and deals.

"You come to me to bring you love, a potion you want dear,
I'll give it, yes, and so you'll rest in love and wonton cheer,
But I'll come, one day, to take away the thing you cherish most,
A child, your first, yes dear, the same, the cost for this you chose."


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 her mirth.

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 for bargaining, and a body count, as there were mysterious deaths that followed her arrival. 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 maid in the ruler's house, Mer had poisoned the Viscount's daughter, her final moments tied to the harvest of barley. The Viscount, embittered and enraged, dubbed her a scourge and set a bounty on her head of ten thousand coin to lift the curse. 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.

She has taken, as of late, to focus her energies on transformation alchemy, or transmogrification. She's experimented with turning herself into Ogres and great bears, basilisks and dragons. This alchemist is ready to get her hands dirty by the fist and daggered mouthful.

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.

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.

Amal Kalfir Mansur

Human

Male

28

Amal has sly face, a well cut chin, and the grin of a jackal. His body is lithe but strong, many long years spent laboring, climbing buildings, and fighting for his life has given him a rippling physique. His hair and eyes are the same dark coloring as most of his people, his skin a baked, golden brown. He has no wealth, and so he adorns what parts of his body he can in fake jewelry, though even that is few and far between. What jewelry he finds tends to be real, and it tends to be sold very quickly.

His garb is usually in pale, airy pants and a vest of either deep or loud colors, though he is partial to red and gold. His feet are as callused as a boxer's knuckles, so he rarely needs shoes, though he has some sandals when the need arises.

There has never been one so addicted to danger, which is strange because he also wants an incredibly comfortable life. Oddly enough, these extremes make him oddly easy going with life's misfortunes. He takes the good with the bad and finds the humor in most situations.

Amal is very likeable. Charming, quick witted, funny, and smart. He is also a cold blooded killer and a greedy opportunist, who really only restrains his knife from people he is paid to protect, when it benefits him, and women unless they threaten him.

Amal Kalfir Mansur was born to a common woman. A woman with little means, a few too many romps with important men, or men she believed were important, which could be any man that owned more than one pair of clothing. Amal couuldn't guess who his father was. Perhaps it was the man responsible for his first memories, a bearded face with kind eyes, but he would never know. Amal had recollections of siblings. A crying girl, a wide eyed boy, the vague face of another boy who he used to play with in the street. All of that changed when he was seven, perhaps eight. He couldn't remember. His age mattered little to him at the time. All he remembered was the fact his mother sold him into servitude to pay her debts.

The man who bought him owned a brothel, and Amal served as the errand boy and servant to the guests. The girls treated him like a puppy and protected him from the angry patrons, until one day he ruined a guest's day two years after his service and was sold again, this time as a laborer for the Emir, breaking rocks for three years in the sweltering sun. He grew accustomed to the whip, but not the servitude. A teen is a teen, regardless of the shackles he endured. This rebellious nature came at an auspicious time, and ironically, it allowed him to escape through sheer bloody audacity. No one figured the easy going boy would murder one of the sleeping guards and lift his keys, but it was done. By the time they realized he was gone, there was naught a trace of him.

Amal fled the city on the next caravan, meeting an old peddlar who masqueraded as his uncle. He had Amal steal a few things from some of his rivals in the caravan, and by the time they had made it to their destination, the peddlar was a far richer man than when they had set out. Amal had eaten hearty, and he evidently had found a new career for himself. He spent the next year living on the streets, stealing what he needed to survive, but delivering the peddlar stolen merchandise to gain some extra coin, which he promptly spent on the fairer sex. Life in the brothel had purged him of how many men treated loose women as objects, and so he treated women as investments instead, until he began to lose quite a bit of money and decided to go the quick and easy approach of charming and splitting.

As for his career, he decided to make the lucrative decision to move up from pickpocketing to grave robbing and outright banditry, until he realized the risks were high and yet not too exciting except in a few notable exceptions, and so after a few years, he decided tomb diving was more his forte.

Unfortunately, in his latest foray into the depths, he had inadvertently awoken an ancient evil. A lich that swore to kill the noble house of Malistae. The lich eyed Amal contemptuously but allowed him to live, flying off to the city of Haiekk and terrorizing the inhabitants, nearly wiping out the noble house in its entirety before numerous paladins and mages brought it down. However, as it de-materialized, it spoke the name of the man that freed it.

Amal had taken to pilfering various goods and selling them, but before he could live fat and happy, he was attacked by bounty hunters. Amal had the largest bounty in the eastern sands, and for over a year he was pursued by the best of the best, slitting the throat of thirty hunters and killing a dozen sultan guards, fleeing into the kingdom of Vortigen before he was finally captured by a mob as he slept, and was brought to the maw for his exceptional skills...

• Acrobatic
• Strength
• Blade work
• Thieving

• Greedy
• Violent
• Selfish
• Lustful

• Scimitar
• Jambiyah Dagger
• Abs

Whatever

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

Thengil of Karmanjar, alias the Blackadder

Human

Male

600 years

Thengil has a weathered and disheveled look to him. His grey hair and beard is unkempt, his sunkissed fair skin scarred and wrinkled, his eyes dark and sunken. He has a sinewy build, once well muscled and athletic, but shrivelled with age. The clothes and armor he wears, once rich and splendorous, is tattered and in disrepair. "Fallen from grace" is often the first words that comes to mind to an observer when asked to describe him. The one thing that still tells of his glorious past in his statuesque poise and stoic expression, an indication that, though fallen on hard times, there is still iron in the old man.

Thengil is a still and quiet man, prone to observation and introspection. He rarely acts on a whim, disliking rash action and mindless violence. Tempering this restraint is an iron willed disciplin, and once he has set his mind to something he rarely lets up, to the point of pig-headed stubborness. Thengil has developed a dark streak in his old age, not a defeatist but certainly pessimistic outlook on the world. There is a deep seated pain in his soul that cannot be mended, fueled by traumatic memories and losses. He still values honor highly, but hates himself for past deeds and choices, and thinks of himself a villain due for just punishment. These destructive feelings makes him look past the wrongdoings of others, or even himself, even though he knows he shouldn't. He tells himself that he doesn't care, that it's too late or too little, but this is a lie. Deep down the fire of his chivalrous ideals still burn, and his conscience gnaws at his guts.

Thengil was born to a noble family in the fading city of Karmanjaka in the northern Westerlands. As the third son, he was destined for knighthood, not lordship. His childhood was joyful, surrounded by loving parents and close siblings. He was well-educated, mastering the skills of a knight and squiring under an uncle whose name is now forgotten. Thengil earned his spurs in his teens, ready for a life of duty.

From a young age, Thengil was plagued by strange, prophetic dreams and an uncanny sense of premonition. These visions set him apart, and one foretold a meeting with a man bearing a wyrm-emblazoned crest. Days later, he met Berondil Hiselion, emissary of the Roquen Lindwir—the Dragon Riders. Chosen by fate and paired with a dragon at birth, Thengil left his family forever to join their ancient, magical order.

The Roquen Lindwir trained him for decades, teaching both knightly and arcane arts. In his later years, he completed the order’s sacred blood-bond ritual, binding him to his dragon, Dunkelwirn, and extending his life unnaturally. For centuries, Thengil served, becoming a respected rider despite being the youngest during the rise of the White Tiger.

When trouble stirred in the realm, Thengil had a grim vision: his order would turn against the King and be annihilated. Sharing his vision, he was accused of treachery by the masters, who had foreseen a black snake—an omen of betrayal. Refusing to back down, he was banished on pain of death after five centuries of service.

Determined to save what he could, Thengil turned to King Tyronde, offering his allegiance to prevent the horrors of war. He brokered a promise: those Dragon Riders who surrendered would be spared, and the King’s armies would not march on the Boreals until Thengil's mission was complete. Thus, the Black Adder began his dark crusade against his former brothers.

Determined to prevent his vision from becoming reality, Thengil secretly reached out to trusted members of the Roquen Lindwir, urging them to see reason. A few, swayed by his conviction and their own doubts, joined his cause, forming a splinter faction bent on saving the order from its doomed path. Together, they sought to persuade the rest to lay down their arms and avoid a war against the King.

When diplomacy failed, the rift turned to violence. The two factions clashed in the icy peaks of the Boreals, a brutal battle of knights and dragons that shook the mountains themselves. Amid the chaos, Thengil faced Berondil, his old mentor, who accused him of betrayal. Thengil pleaded with him one last time, but when Berondil refused to yield, Thengil was forced to strike him down. The victory was bittersweet, as the splinter faction emerged victorious but gravely weakened.

Believing their struggle over, Thengil and his allies descended the mountains to negotiate peace with King Tyronde. Instead, they were met with treachery. Fearing the power of the surviving dragon riders, the King condemned them all as traitors. His armies attacked the battered remnants of the Roquen Lindwir, and the riders fought valiantly but were ultimately overpowered.

Thengil’s greatest agony came when Dunkelwirn, his closest companion and bondmate, fell in battle. The severing of their blood-bond left him shattered, but there was no time to grieve. Captured by the King’s forces, Thengil was delivered into the hands of the Warden, a cruel and cunning agent of the crown. Branded a traitor, he was cast into the Maw—the most infamous prison in the Westerlands, a place from which no soul had ever returned.

Thengil is both knight and scholar, a master of the blade and the quill. His decades of study have made him a repository of draconic lore, versed in the secrets of wyrms and their ancient bonds. Beyond his martial prowess, he wields arcane power with precision and skill. His talents include the ability to sense and influence thoughts through telepathy, command the unseen forces of telekinesis, and glimpse the threads of fate through premonition. These gifts, bestowed by the Roquen Lindwir’s ancient rites, make him a force both formidable and enigmatic.

Thengil is a man burdened by the weight of his own choices, an old soul hollowed by centuries of loss and betrayal. He sees himself as a traitor, haunted by the faces of those he has slain and the trust he has broken. Bitter self-loathing festers within him, a poison that saps his resolve and clouds his judgment. Though he carries immense knowledge and power, his heart is a battlefield of regret, leaving him vulnerable to despair and the shadows of his past.

His clothes and armor, tattered and worn from battle. He also carries a longsword forged from star-steel, a gift from Berondil on his inauguration to the order and his most treasured possession.

N/A

Zaraste of House Myndar

Dark Elf

Female

Some one hundred years old, Zaraste is still a young adult among her kind.

Formed from ice and wreathed in star light, Zaraste looks little like a soldier. Concealing her danger, her beauty is a misdirection, hiding the cold touch of the blade that awaits her enemies. Taller than most, Zaraste moves with the otherworldly grace of her elven kin. Her skin is the color of steel, her ashen hair cut short. Her eyes are tranquil seas of violence, lilac waters that glow with a fell light in the darkness.


Order.

Order, instead of chaos.

That's what she had fought for. That's what she had killed for. That's what she had believed in…

Once.

Now Zaraste no longer knows what she believes in.

Betrayal has poisoned her heart. Bitterness has nourished her. And anger has strengthened her. With the passing of each hellish moment in the Maw, Zaraste has thought only of escape. And of vengeance. Against the Tyrant. Against the Westerlands. Against everyone that wronged her. However, her hatred is no fiery thing roaring with passion, but a chill over her soul that fills her mind with clear purpose. So she bides her time. Zaraste knows that if she is alive, her captors still have a use for her. She learned this long ago. To be useful, is to be valuable. And to be valuable, is to remain alive.

The Maw did not weaken her. It purified her. It revealed the truth to her. Or so she tells herself. It was all just a dream to begin with. She had never been free. Nobody ever had. Resigned to this conviction, Zaraste brims with cynicism, drowning with distrust. Her grim talents have not faded. Ruthless pragmatism now holds sway over her actions. Her words are a tool, a weapon to reveal or create weakness. Affection and intimacy merely means to an end. Joy may have left her. Hope may have deserted her. But Zaraste stubbornly refuses to surrender.

She doesn’t care about honor. She doesn’t care about justice. Zaraste wants to live. Zaraste wants revenge. She doesn’t care what she has to do. And she doesn’t care what price she has to pay to accomplish her dark goals.








Zaraste is a warrior shaped by grim purpose. Once a seeker tasked with hunting down and killing renegade spellcasters, she is a specialist in quelling dangerous magic. Sensitive to the arcane, Zaraste is a gifted tracker, seemingly sensing even the faintest traces of magic. She fights with a sword and shield, wielding magic from the schools of abjuration, transmutation, and evocation to aid her efforts. Zaraste weaves protective magic to create magical and physical barriers, blocking and dispelling magic, and banishing summoned beings. She casts spells that change the properties of creatures, objects, and her environment. Weakening her enemies and rendering them harmless. Bolstering her strength and the strength of her allies. And she channels powerful elemental effects through her spellcasting.



Comprehending her bitter fate. Zaraste is resigned to the inevitable beyond. She does not search the ages. She requires no assurance, no stories of redemption and hope. She is driven by anger. She is afflicted by a bitterness that has poisoned her heart. Burdened by her deeds and marked by her betrayal, Zaraste has become increasingly fatalistic. She holds no expectations of survival. She wishes for no absolution. She wants revenge. She wants to live. She wants to live long enough to have her revenge.

Cunningly wielding her violent passions, Zaraste hides an unwelcome desperation. She longs for pleasure. In moments of quiet, she seeks escape. Accepting anyone or anything that will remove her from herself and allow her to forget her present situation.

Hailing from a distant land, full of places dark and places strange, Zaraste is sensitive to sunlight and prefers to wear covering clothes in daylight. Given her manner of dress and the rarity of drow in the Westerlands, Zaraste is easily observed.



Shrouded in gray, Zaraste wears a suit of half-plate armor beneath a hooded traveling cloak. Strapped to her back is a steel heater shield. Sheathed in a scabbard worn on her left hip is a cursed longsword, an evil blade said to contain the soul of an imprisoned fiend. On her right hip, she carries a long, slender bladed dagger with a needle-like point.

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Name: Harth-Klannok
Race: Gray Dwarf
Gender: Male
Age: 59, in human-terms, give or take

Appearance: On the whole, Harth looks rather unremarkably like many other gray dwarves: about two-thirds-man height, with stocky, broad features, pale skin, a grand beard of silver-gray, and equally so deep-set eyes. He wears a gambeson made of cave bear leather, scarred by many scuffles, and a worn, washed-out gugel-style hood. A large drawstring sack hangs strapped across his shoulders and back, and he wields a simple stone-head mace both for protection, and as a walking stick. His body is tarnished by scarring, crookedness from ill-healed bone fractures and, upon closer inspection, one of his eyes is artificial: a many-faceted carved glass bead, each side beset by traditional dwarven runes of good luck and protection, though now-cracked and battered.

Personality: It does not matter what the Old Gods say. None of it. Eventually, all Stone crumbles to Dust. So, this former-cleric's cares are but humble: the next step on the road, the next flagon of drink, the next body to be brought in. His deeds are a grim practicality, his worries and feelings buried deep into the shadow, and he is always prepared for sacrifice, to pay the final price - his, but mostly others'. His voice is a droning chant, rolling and sombre as the crumbling mountains themselves, yet always -if one listens well- tinged with pain and ire. He does not carry a holy symbol, as his rancor needs none - the forces of decay weigh upon all more than any holy symbol could. To Harth, death is an inevitability. Vows and promises? Only for survival's sake. Grand causes? Grand follies. He judges others not so much by their character, but by their utility: those who cannot carry their weight are quickly abandoned, and those who do? He will be content to treat them well enough, both in and out of battle, at least for now. Whether with his dark means, with his cooking, or with his sober-humored moral support, or, if you’re very, very lucky, every now and again, with a joke as dry and stale as dwarven ale. A glimmer of his past self? Perhaps...

Background: Harth was born deep under the gray mountains, in the hold of Bul-Kazann, where his clan served as the stewards and protectors of the ancient Forge-temples to one of the oldest and holiest deities of their people, though his devotion to the Stonefather is one he would rather forget. "Carry Weight," was his commandment, and so, carry weight Harth did. But during one of his pilgrimages to a faraway vale, he became embroiled in conflict, with aristocratic merchants, over desecrated ruins, and deep corruption and sorrow was all he saw. And Harth prayed. But there, between the corpses of his once-friends and allies, the echoing silence changed him. The higher the adventure, the blacker the fall. Chaotic whispers crept into his mind, and thus Harth-Kazann abandoned his Plight, emerging instead from the ruins as Harth-Klannok, his old clan-name abandoned for one that marks him as un-named, outcast, lost, grudged. Wandering the shady places of the world, bound to none, he did what he needed to do, consequences be damned: bounty hunting, piracy, gravediggery, and sometimes practicing the un-holy reversions of his former clerical magics. It wasn't long before he found himself as the next plaything to the Blood Witch of the Maw. And thus, a new story has started for him...

Talents:

• Unholy Magic: knows the following spells: Cast Wounds, Detect Magic, Curse, Darkness, Ward Off Living Things, Speak to Dead.
• Languages: can speak and read Common, Dwarvish, Ancient Dwarvish, and Stonelore (get an intuition for a stone work's history).
• Has skill in repairing weapons and armor, and can tank (and pack) quite a punch.

Flaws:

• Mistrustful, quick to spite.
• An aversion to ask for help, or give it, without something in return.
• Pragmatic, utilitarian, rigidly judgmental when it comes to (in his view naive) vows and beliefs.

Equipment:

• Leather gambeson, pale hood, glass eye with cracked protective runes
• Stone mace
• Sack with standard adventuring kit (blanket, rope, flint-stone, frying pan)

Miscellaneous:

• Speech color: CA5920
• Alt version of Harth-Kazann
• Soundtrack: Daniel Ran (feat. Voices of Heaven Gospel Choir & The Rising Sound) - Nox Atra

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