[CHAR] Black Cinders [High Casual]

[Mr_pink]

Locust

Name: Locust Highland
Appearance:
Colour Image
Locust is a 25 year old man of a lean build. His most notable feature is his left eye, which has been blinded and is completely white. His hair, which is almost kept covered by his hat, is short and brown, and is almost always kept unstyled. His armour detracts from the usual style of the order as he has chosen instead to wear his family's traditional garb, despite being disowned by them. This includes leather armour, stained dark purple with a matching cape and feathered cap along with similarly colored boots and white leggings.

Biography: Locust's history starts a century or two back with his ancestors. They were Dumatians, tired of the abundance of religion within their kingdom who moved out from the city and created a settlement just outside of Maltheria. For years they grew the settlement and began training their offpsring to defend themselves. At some point, the settlement changed from a small farming village into a training camp for some of the best archers in the kingdom. It's hard to pinpoint when and who did it, but many point to Wasp Highland, the first to adopt the new naming scheme. Males of the Highland clan would be named after an insect, while females would be named normally. From that point on the Highland clan was expressly dedicated to archery.

By the time Locust was born they had become known throughout the lands among military advisers and generals for their skill in archery. They would often be hired for crucial battles and sieges, and have been present at some of the most historic battles in Arilyth. Locust was raised just like any of the Highland clan, going through rigorous mental and physical training until he was molded into a clone of his brothers. However, Locusts' path would take a different turn while on an assassination job at the young age of just 17. As he drew back the string of his bow he spotted something, darkness moving behind his target before a glimmer of light plunged itself into the man he was sent to kill. Obviously, if the assassination was done through any other method than arrow it wasn't a member of the Highland clan who had done it and, knowing the repercussions if he didn't get the murder weapon, Locust set on following the other assassin.

The chase took over half an hour, leaping over gaps between buildings, ducking under knives thrown his way and finally cornering his target in a dead-end alley. A struggle ensued in which the assassins mask fell off. It may sound cliche to say it was love at first sight, but it certainly stopped the fight. Over the next few months, Locust made an effort to track down the girl who had stolen his kill and, after a rocky start befriended and eventually made her fall in love with him. A few months later they had a secret marriage, but it was not to last. Males of the Highland clan could only marry with the patriarch's permission, and to someone he chose in most cases. Of course, Locust's little midnight escapes did not go unnoticed, and the marriage was discovered.

Locust found his wife's body filled with arrows the next day, before he was disowned and banished from the Highland clan at just 18. With little knowledge of the outside world and how to survive in it, he was bound to turn into some sort of mercenary or thief. However, that was when he met a now deceased member of the order in a pub. The member took Locust with him on a job to kill some zombies, before advising him to join the order. Locust did just that and has been a member ever since.
Personality: An outside might describe Locust as serious and stoic. Those who know him better know this only to be half true. While his upbringing impaired him somewhat to social convention, Locust has adapted to the outside world and, while still often quiet and earnest, he has been known to make a joke here or there and even engage in 'banter' at times.

[BurningCold]

Denric

Denric

"I do not fear the shadows. They will learn to fear me."

Appearance:
A grim man twenty six years of age, his naturally pale skin, heterochromatic eyes of light grey and murky green respectively, and reddish brown hair indicate an uncertain heritage. Standing a few inches below six feet, Denric is lean and toned possessing adequate attributes across the board. He has high cheekbones and prominent collarbones, his chin tapered. His nose is prominent but not obtrusive, while his eyes seem to be set the proper distance apart from each other. Denric’s lips rest neatly between his nose and chin, curving downwards slightly. Indeed, one wouldn’t call him unattractive.

Biography:
Dropped off at the doorstep of the House of Fire as an infant, Denric’s life was chosen for him before he was even aware of what choice was. The then current Keeper of Flames, Oszrial, saw great power and untapped potential in the babe, taking the small one under his wing. Under the tutelage of the Keeper, Denric learned the secrets of ebon pyromancy, a deadly form of magic used to combat the undead, and how to bend it to his will.

Oszrial watched as his apprentice grew in strength and skill, even as he shunned spending any amount of free time he had in preference of furthering his abilities still. That singular, focused dedication to the Order was exactly what the Keeper was waiting to see. Oszrial was a practitioner of blood magic, and Denric would follow in his footsteps. He taught Denric that while it was often used for great evil, that same power could be utilized to undo such villainy. Along with the practical applications of being able to immensely increase a maegi’s power and versatility on the field of battle, Oszrial believed that it had more secrets yet to be unlocked. The same magic that brought the dead to life could also be their undoing. A sort of nullification effect, that would dispel the magics surrounding the undead. This is what Oszrial sought, and what Denric was to help him find.

But it wasn’t to be. Years passed, and while Denric became more proficient in blood magic, the two never found the treasure they were searching for. They never had the chance. It didn’t matter what it was. A misplaced piece of parchment, a pair of ears, present but unseen, or perhaps it was simply bad luck. Indeed, it mattered not. Oszrial was caught, and the sandrir rune above his left hip all but confirmed the Order’s suspicions. The Keeper of Flames was summarily removed from his position and executed shortly after. Denric too was investigated, yet they found no rune and no documents incriminating him. Very fortunate indeed.

Shortly after this incident had come to pass, Denric was appointed as Hunter and let loose into the world. He quickly gained a reputation as a powerful and skilled maegi, doing whatever it took to complete his hunts. This has earned Denric a deal of credibility within the Order, but a strong feeling of distrust from many civilians.

Personality:
Those that know Denric know him as one who will do anything to stop the undead, compassion be damned. He isn’t one to let things get under his skin, as people are welcome to their opinions. They don’t change fact. Though preferring to show little emotion, he is not soulless. Anger, regret, joy, Denric feels just as any other. His status as a blood mage also encourages him to keep people at arm's length most of the time, lest he end up like Master Oszrial.

[Kaiachi]

Ehnleth

Name: Ehnleth

Appearance:

Approximately 26 years of age, 5'8 in stature, and muscular in build.

Biography:
Ehnleth belonged to one of the many barbarian clans in Sivar Velg. Hers wasn't the most notorious by any means, but it's frequent raids pulled enough attention. Ehnleth herself was raised in this environment, a tribe of warriors ever flowing through the rough and bitter terrain, claiming settlements for their own or razing them down, while she was molded into a small but mighty warrior. At the tender age of twelve, she started her training, learning the ways of her brutal clan. At sixteen, she was allowed to join into the fray herself, gaining rapid experience in her vicious inherited occupation. Ehnleth began with small skirmishes, and graduated to larger raids with age, as she evolved from fledgling warrior to a full force of wrath. She enjoyed the heat of battle, the adrenaline like fire through her veins, warming her despite the surrounding snow. Her passion and bloodlust was unmatched and only grew stronger with time until, at the age of 19, her scarred and muscular body stood as a testament to her skill.
When the Order came to her settlement, Ehnleth's perspective changed. They swept through her village, hunting for something of which she was unaware, while she stared in awe at their swiftness and tenacity. She felt...admiration. Some of her clan watched, careful to stay out of the way of the notorious Order of Cinders. Others were threatened by this, and fought back against the raid, their barbaric cries resounding within the thick wooden walls of the settlement as they were taken down with fire. In a matter of minutes, the hunt was over, and the prey was found. On a whim, Ehnleth approached a hunter and demanded to be taken along, eager to join this worthy and noble group.
Years had passed, and Ehnleth remained vigilant in her pursuit for a good fight, though her purposes changed. The Order of Cinders straightened her out to the ways of justice, the honorable fight against the wicked who existed in the cracks of the surrounding world. Though the barbarian within remains.

Personality:
The being that Ehnleth becomes in battle can't be ignored, and is quite obvious. Nothing short of a beast of war, and twice as deadly. But outside of the hunt, one would find a much more relaxed woman. She is hearty and confident, easily identified as the loudest laugh in any room. She enjoys a good drink, rowdy company, and exchanging stories over her scars and the weathered marks of her peers. If the story turns into a competition, she'll be the first to start it, and gladly be the one to end it as well. As quickly as she will crack a joke, she can turn a storm. Her temper is as wicked and sharp as her axe.
Music is a passion for Ehnleth, as it is known that she will wear out any bard in her midst, eager for another song, the next limerick, just one more tune.

[The Narrator]

Xho Sulune

সাপ Xho Sulune সাপ

"Those who think our methods are too extreme have never seen a horde of their dead relatives."

Appearance: Xho is a 26 year old, dark skinned, slender man. His whole body appears to be lacking any fat but is neither a bulk of muscles. He is athletic in appearance and about average in height.
His long dark hair is bound to a single long braid, decorated with feathers, rocks and pearls. His clothing is mostly light leather armor of the order, again decorated with the traditional rocks and pearls of his home. His right arm has a red tattoo of a serpent spiraling from Xho's shoulder down to his hand.

Biography: Xho was already born into the world a cursed child. His father was a noble of the Jzarean empire, his mother one of his slaves.
And out of one fateful night the young boy was born, unfit to grow up as a noble, but still with noble blood. So young Xho was given away to the temple of the snake goddess. The priests treated him relatively well, him and all the other children no one wanted, bastards and so on. Here he was also trained. Realizing what talent the young boy had he was shipped away again into the deep jungle to become a bladedancer for the goddess.
Bladedancer use a strange weapon called the Quetza,a sort of cross between a whip and a sword. In the jungle Xho was trained every day in the use of the exotic weapon and in general combat. He got bruises, he got scars, he even lost parts of a few fingers but he got stronger and better. But everything changed when he got 17. He still remembered everything.
All dead bladedancers were buried in the yard of the temple that trained them. That was the tradition. And they all were formidable warriors. While most undead don't keep the skills they had in their lifetime, the bladedancers that were reanimated by a necromancer through some foul magic somehow did. And they slaughtered the temple to get even more bodies.
The only reason Xho survived was because he ran. He saw the hordes of bones, weapons and rotting flesh and ran as fast as he could.
It was after he ran three days straight, nearly dying from thirst and exhaustion that a group from the order of Cinders found him. after they explained the were hunting the necromancers, Xho immediately fell on his knees and declared he would join them.
Hearing that he already had the fighting training and the motivation, Xho was send for further training to the house of fire.
It has been about 10 years that Xho was with the order and he has become a respected member. Even though some of the other members sometimes wonder and laugh at his exotic weapon and looks the have learned not to underestimate him when he does his deadly dance, shredding limbs and cutting bones...

Personality: The years in the Order and the countless near death experiences have changed Xho. He got that sense of dark humor and cynicism that only a member of the order could have who faces death every day. However he also has a fire of rage against undead burning inside him, still feeling guilty that he ran away like a child on that faithful day. He also was raised with little regard to human life, witnessing sacrifices to his goddess daily, also he feels protective of his comrades in arms, he sometimes fails to see the value in the life of the villagers he is saving.
His faith is also a difficult topic, since Xho was raised exclusively in temples he has difficulty letting go of the mysticism and rituals of his former home.

[RyuShura]

For anyone curious, the edit was because I drew another picture. No drastic changes to the character.

Talia, The Pale Witch

Name: Talia, The Pale Witch
Age: 16
Appearance: Here it is!

Biography:
Born into slavehood underneath a ruthless Jzaarean Warlord, Talia could not have asked for a more wretched fate. The weak and sickly child would have been cast of the edge of a mountain, if it was not discovered she had a unique knack for Arcana. What she lacked in strength she made up in control of the powerful essence. The lord thought to raise her to become a powerful weapon for his campaigns. He proclaimed it to be a mercy, but surely, an end at the mountain would have been more lovely a fate than this new life. Taken away from her family, they tortured her and ingrained in her mind that she was nothing but a tool. Her body never healed from the horrible treatment, frail as it already was, and the grisly scarring remains till this very day. He was fascinated by otherworldly strength, believing it to be the key to achieve absolute power, calling upon the aid of a warlock. He asked the demonic carrier to perform a ritual that would chain a demon to his new prospect and empower her even further. The warlock warned him of thinking he can control such power, but he did not care.

At the ripe age of thirteen the lord gleefully claimed her only innocence and replaced it with a corrupted seed. Though not a physical one. The ritual was enacted using the blood she produced, capturing a Daemon in Maexarran and forcibly linking it to the child. The creature fought relentlessly against its flesh prison, chained unwilling to this place in this world. She cried night by night from the immense aching. Her pained screams and uncontrolled arcana shuddered the enchanted shackles ensnaring her limbs and battered the walls she was trapped within. She could have easily ended her own life. She endured all the suffering. Why? She sought revenge. At least, so she tried so hard to believe. But the Warlord would have none of that. For years they continued to abuse the poor child until she was nothing left. Forcing her to murder innocents and beating her senseless if she showed a sliver of hesitation. Hope can only burn so long in the abyss of that bastille. Soon enough she could only lay in her shackles, bloodied and battered, unable to lift them any longer. Her pale glazed eyes stared into nothingness, as though waiting for it all to end. There was nothing but silence in her cell. This shook some even louder than her screams. This noiseless pain rung so much so that a particular entity found pity for the poor child. The Daemon within stopped trashing. Perhaps it saw something about her that stirred it’s long, lost emotions?

It asked in a sympathetic tone, if she wanted freedom. But it would come at a cost.

She did not hesitate on an answer. Together they planned their escape. In the chaos of the war front, she used her new power and claimed the Warlord’s life, then disappeared while his army fell into disarray and were massacred by their foes.

But no matter how far she runs, she was stuck in another pained existence. This one, she can never escape from. But this was the first time she had a choice in anything. This was her own path. The price for such a freedom, however, was her very Soul. The Daemon willingly granted her its own strength, but accepting this power meant her very essence would also become corrupt. Her body too showed signs of change to this newfound gift. With the blood of Daemons running through her, she would risk becoming one if she lost herself. But it would not be the Daemon who hunted her. It was her own dark thoughts. The evil and hatred born deep within haunts the sickly child's mind whatever chance it gets, seeking to claim her frail sanity. She has now become a medium between the realms, like most warlocks, seeing far beyond but struggling to remain in the world surrounding her. It is a powerful gift and an even more dreadful curse.

Night by night, she was assaulted relentlessly by the nightmares within. The girl had no rest in sleep and was always frantically running during the daylight. But she has fared much worse. No matter how much she suffers now, Talia does not regret this fate. To be haunted forever, she would rather make the choice and accept this consequence than live on being a slave. Dangerous and unsociable, she found no shelter and no help. But the Daemon guided the child through her maddened visions. For they needed one and another. So the pair hid and scavenged, finding happiness in the small things.

But their relative peace was short-lived. When an outlying village in Sivar Velg was attacked by a stray Demon, she was the one to appose the beast. It did not start out well. Fearing her own powers, she underestimate her for and was overwhelmed. She was in the grips of death, but caught the creature by surprise when she fully unleashed her magic. Fearing for her life, her pale flame erupted from her like a beacon. She burned the whole town to ash. Talia was soon found as a sobbing, pitiful sight at the center of the destruction by a Hunter-Captain who had been dispatched to investigate. She begged for him to kill her and cease her dangerous existence, but seeing potential in the little girl, he instead took her under their ranks for training.

Personality:
An outsider by most circles, Talia would rather dabble in learning more about magic in the musty library than spending her time socializing in a tavern. Not that she would be accepted at a table anyway. Owners always say the beer goes sour near her. Many of the Order may not know much about Talia personally, but she has made quite a reputation for herself. Those who think her too much trouble avoid the girl at all costs.

She not only looks the part of a daemon-possessed victim, sickly thin and cradling a long staff to support her frame, but Talia does not make for comfortable conversation either. The air seems stale and chilling around the pale figure, and it feels as though something is always watching even when she is alone.

Stories refer to her as a ‘Witch’, toads and cauldron and all that hexing business. But what she lacks in physical ability, she more than makes up with magical prowess. Wild and peculiar it may be. Researching to understand dark lore and producing all manner of odd trinkets to ward evil by day, Talia is then seen spending entire nights scouring the skies above. While she is at odds with many, her usefulness is self-spoken. They say she hunts evil without passion, without remorse. As though she was trained from birth to kill. Those who have seen it speak of a tainted fury manifesting in a corrupted, fey-like fire, a kind that burns pale white and isn’t easily doused by water, but rather salt. She claims this is not the limit of her power but never tries to go beyond a certain point, reinstating of what would happen if she loses control of herself. Most young Daemonic wielders wear a arcana dampening seal for such a case, and she is no exception. Hers hangs heavily around her waist, and she would never use magic without it.

She is the sole survivor of her party, a band of hunters sent to Isamanca.

[TemplarKnight07]

Balthier Oisin

Name: Balthier Oisin


Balthier in his black coat and usual attire while travelling and performing, unarmed.
Appearance: 32, Balthier inherited the Baruvadi looks of his mother over the Lorintine looks of his father. Dark brown hair, pale complexion (though now tanned from time spent travelling in the sun), an slim features. He's built more like a runner than a body-builder, and his voice is eloquent and clear. He keeps himself shaved and features no visible scars, though he does carry several on his back chest, and legs.

He likes to dress fashionably in classic Baruvadi style, with hints of Paeric and Revossan styles as well. Though that's part of the deception, he's had the clothing tailor made to hide the chain mail and leather beneath it.

When travelling, he often carries his lute and rucksack openly, with a sabre and a Paeric-model Rifle stashed within, and nearly a dozen throwing daggers up his sleeves and in the lining of his coat.

Biography: Born in the vassal state of Baruvad in 799, Balthier was born a bastard of a Baruvadi prostitute and a Lorintine Knight-Priest in the city of Dounby. His father denying Balthier as his son and threatening his mother with death if she ever brought a case before a Lorintine Magistrate, Balthier was mostly raised among Baruvadi and never really experienced or learned much of his Lorintine heritage other than trouble with the Lorintine occupiers from time to time.

In his short time in Dounby he lived as a pick-pocket, a thief, and eventually a street performer when he became old enough and competent to play instrument and learn music in the Baruvadi tradition. He dreamed of becoming a Bard and leaving his city to see the world and earn enough money for him and his mother to get away from the oppressive state of Lorinth.

Unfortunately, his dreams did not pan out into reality due to circumstances beyond his control. In 809, Dounby suffered an outbreak of the Undead. A necromantic cult in striving to awaken a vamphiir they thought rested within a certain crypt within the city, merely succeeded in awakening a small army of Undead, beasts and humans alike that been buried in the city's largest cemetery. Content just as well with their success at bringing forth such a large host, the Necromancers unleashed the Undead upon Dounby, causing chaos and turmoil within the city as many were murdered in their beds or on the streets before the city bells could even start sounding an alarm. The Lorintine garrison was taken almost completely by surprise, and eventually the city commander evacuated what knights and all Lornith officials he could to the city's inner keep, leaving the Baruvadi and anyone else left outside to defend themselves in the city proper while they tried to hold out in a besieged keep and await aid.

A week of murder, plunder, resistance, and terror ensued as the Baruvadi and everyone else left outside in the city fled, hid, or fought for their lives against an ever-expanding horde of Undead, with the Necromancers raising more by the hour. Balthier had fled from alley to alley, ruined building to building in search of his mother whom he hoped had escaped, but never managed to find in the stricken city. On the 8th day, the renowned Order of Cinders came in force just ahead of Lorintine reinforcments with a whole company of Hunters and several of their Pyromancers to cleanse the city. Facing magicians even more powerful than they, and fearing for their lives, the Necromancers rallied the Undead into a massive assault against the combined attackers, and the two forces clashed near the city gates. The Hunters and prepared Knights cut a swathe through the Undead with the more skilled Pyromancers wielding the very flames from the burning buildings of the city into streams of fire, fusing them with the red and black-specked Ebonfire which was a signature of the Order, that turned whole packs of Undead into ash. With a couple hours, the Necromancers had been killed and the undead stragglers being hunted down and burned on large pyres.

Disgusted by the Lorintine garrison's apathy for the local Baruvadi population, some Hunters of the Order stuck around to assist in some basic rebuilding and reorganizing efforts. Though in truth they were also on the look out for potential new recruits. Such disasters as these always yielded fresh candidates for The Order in the form of orphans, drifters, or displaced and disgruntled soldiers. Balthier, having found no trace of his mother and presuming her to be dead somewhere, and seeing no future in Dounby for him, took the initiative to make himself noticed by one of the leather coat-clad Hunters, whom promptly recommended the boy to their Hunter-Captain and added Balthier's name to the growing roster of a couple dozen new recruits the ravaged city of Dounby was bringing up.

He underwent training alongside his fellow recruits in the House of Fire, and was officially granted the rank of Hunter in 814, earning the right to wear the black coat and brass pin. Upon which he took his choice of the armoury and set upon the path, travelling the world in search of Undead to kill as was his mission. Though he had become a Hunter, he still managed to partially fulfill his dream of becoming a Bard in that he still learned to play the Lute and practice his singing voice for reciting ballads. He had graced the recruits at the House of Fire with some performances at times, though most of these he performed on the road, in towns where his business as a Hunter was not necessarily his foremost concern. His fame as a Bardic Hunter grew as a result in many nations.

That's not to say he hasn't relished his office, or taking his vow. He has loved hunting for the Undead in all of their varieties ever since the nightmare at Dounby, and he wished as much as any other Order member to see the Undead and all practitioners of necromancy wiped clean from the world.

Thus, he's walked the road ever since, and has visited just about every nation in the world at least once, picking up the odd souvenir and memories along the way as he performs his job. Though his favourite places have been Paerium and Revosso, the former of which he was just finishing doing a job in before getting the summons to head to Isamanca.

Personality: Balthier is a jovial person. His bawdy sense of humour, sharp wit, and silver tongue are enough to woo people over to him, or at least steal the attention of a room. A fan of deception and intrigue, he prefers less overt approaches to accomplish his goals, liking to look at the long game rather than the short one. He's got a soft spot for the downtrodden in many societies, and a prejudice against Lorintine from their historical treatment of him, his people, and his mother.

[Argetlam350]

Lethodus

Name: Lethodus

Appearance: At the age of 33, Lethodus stands a little over 6' 2'' in height with moderate bulk of muscle. His mess of near jet black hair and beard are peppered with a slight glimmer of silver and gray. His sky blue eyes stand out against the tan skin of his face. A scar runs acorss is right cheek.

Biography:Once a member of the Knights Order of Lorinth, he has since rejected all of his once proud faith, even going as far to renounce his own last name severing all ties to his home. He stood once proud to be part of the Knights Order but seeing the bitter truth that lie within its own rank, the corruption that was cast aside with a blind eye, he could not be part of such treachery. The Order was suppose to stand for protecting the people and upholding justice yet some saw them above it. He turned against his comrades serving his own justice. Eventually he had to flee his home for it did not matter how many he punished the corruption remained in the ranks. He became a wandering sellsword, his hammer for hire for any that could pay and if the cause was just.

Him joining the Order of Cinders was merely by chance. He had been traveling for quite some time stumbling upon another village yet entering it, the smell of death was everywhere and scent of dark magic all around. Wandering the village he eventually was ambushed by the accursed undead. His hammer served him well but eventually it broke from one of the undead attacks causing him to stumbling back. In that moment he was about to greet death but it never came. Looking up he saw his savior. A member of the elusive Order of Cinders. They drove back the vile creatures, killing all. Lethodus could only watch in awe at the men and women who fought the evil.

Before the Order left, Lethodus decided to pledge himself to them, an Order that served to seek justice and purge such a great evil from the lands. An Order that seemed to be without corruption. This to him was a second chance to do what he wanted. To protect the people of the lands and fight against evil.

Personality: He is a man who sees things in black and white. While over time he has learned there are gray areas he still much prefers the simplicity that white and black gives. He tries to be an agreeable person for the most part with his fellow hunters but he isn't afraid to express his opinion. He prides himself for his sense of honor, though this can be problematic especially if forced into heading into Lorinth for him. He enjoys a good joke and sharing tales of his time of wandering the lands.

Balthier: Butts heads with.
Xho: Gets along with for the most part.
Ehnleth: Gets along with, trades stories with.
Denric: Butts head with. Does not agree with 'means justify the end'.

[Rekaigan]

Yin Liu, The Pyrodancer

Yin Liu

"Flow like the flames within you."

Race: Kuren
Appearance:
Yin is quite an average person in terms of appearance. Standing at a modest 5'7", she has somewhat pale skin and an athletic figure. Her straight, dark brown hair grows slightly passed her shoulder blades. Her clothing consists of light armor that is provided by the Order. Despite being twenty-five years of age, some often say that she looks younger than she actually is. Her back has numerous scars from cuts.

Biography:
As a child, Yin was quite energetic and outgoing. Like most children, she spent a lot of her time blissfully ignorant of worldly occurrences such as, slavery, the undead, and the Order of Cinders. During these peaceful days, she enjoyed watching the druids practice their magic, some of them even giving little shows for the children to enjoy. Yin had always wanted to be a Waterdancer, she thought it was such a wonderful thing to be able to communicate with the elements around her in such a way. Her childhood friend also thought the same way, however he wanted to be a Windsinger. An unbeatable duo they would've become.. If it wasn't for one thing.

Yin was never told about how one became a druid. Despite her fascination, she never once thought to ask how one became a Waterdancer. Such a mystery was cleared when she became a teenager. One of the druids had told her childhood friend that he was ready to be tested, something that piqued Yin's interest. Perhaps he was going to become a druid? She decided to follow some distance behind the pair as they strolled into the thick forest. When Yin had caught up to the druid and her friend, what she witnessed struck fear into her heart. The druid pushed the boy into the water, holding him there for an unimaginable amount of time. He was being drowned. Or rather.. He did drown. He was dead.

It was only then, when the druid uttered the words 'failure', she bolted. Yin ran away, she didn't think about where she was going. She just wanted to escape. She didn't know how far she ran nor for how long, but she found herself in completely unfamiliar territory. She eventually came across a group of people.. Some of these people were wearing some nice looking clothing and they walked freely about their camp, but the rest were dirty, wearing rags and chained together. Due to her blissful ignorance of how this world worked, she approached the chained people, asking if they were okay. All she could see from their expression was defeat and sorrow. It wasn't long before one of the clothed men grabbed her. They laughed amongst themselves as they chained her up like the people she spoke to. A 'slave' is what they referred to her as. Yin struggled and tried to fight back, but it was futile. They beat her until she was silent. In the night, they used her to satisfy themselves. Soon, she too was like the other slaves. Silent and defeated.

Many nights she spent staring at the campfires, marveling at the way the tongues flicked against the darkness, how it consumed the wood that lay beneath it and left nothing but ash. It was beautiful in it's own right as Waterdancing once was.

On one fateful day, as the slave group was travelling, a group of monsters surrounded them. 'Vamphiirs!' her masters screamed in fear. They tossed her and the other slaves before the Vamphiirs as if they were bait. She didn't know what to do. There was nothing she could do. One of the slaves shouted angrily at their master's, calling them cowards and fools. The others joined in. Yin simply watched in fear as the Vamphiirs moved closer. The monsters leapt towards them. She instinctively held her arms up in front of herself in futile defense. She wished something would happen to stop them, the only thing she could think of was the campfires that she stared at for so long, how it burned and consumed. She closed her eyes as if she anticipated death. There was screaming and the sound of steel.. And fire..?

when she opened her eyes, men and women clad in black stood before her and the other slaves. A tiny flame hovered in front of her hand. "There's nothing a tiny flame like that can do to hurt anyone." One of them said as they started helping the slaves to their feet. 'The Order of Cinders' was their name. She had asked them about the small flame she had in her hand. 'Pyromancy' was the term they coined. She wanted to be strong, so that she could help people like they did. She wanted to learn how to control these beautiful flames as they did. She asked to join them, something she would never regret.

Personality:
Yin can be described as somewhat quiet, since she isn't one to be outspoken or opinionated. But she's not quiet to the point where she doesn't say anything at all. She's quite respectful of other people's past and their motives as long as she thinks it's reasonable. Overall she's the type that goes with the flow of things and mostly just does what she's told to within reason. She dislikes internal conflicts with other group members and she will often distance herself from such things. Her modes of speaking often changes depending on who she's talking to as a way to make sure she doesn't anger them. This often leads to her doing things that she dislikes, and makes her look like a pushover. However, despite the fact that she has the patience of a saint, it's still possible to wear it thin. She doesn't speak about her past very much and will often avoid talking about it when she can.

[Cubix]

Asychis Nefer

"We lose our own innocence to make sure that others will not."

Name

Asychis Nefer

Appearance

Hider

Asychis sports a sharp, defined jawline which gives him a strong and gruff appearance alongside his almond-sized emerald eyes. A number of scars run across his lips, almost as if something had stitched his mouth shut. He stands at a mediocre 5'8, but as if making up for his height, the young lad of twenty-four sports a rather sinewy muscular physique. His brown skin tone is somewhat expected from someone who hails from Ibzya, as his sun-beaten appearance and jet-black hair always gives his nationality away. Although he wears the traditional uniform of the Monks of Sun, avid worshippers of the sun god, he has made alterations to the white garment that covers him from head to toe. Lightweight leather covers his torso as well as his shoulders and greaves, just to protect his body. However, the most distinguishing feature of Asychis are the six large orbs that are strung around his neck, almost like prayer beads. These orbs glow a faint red due to his magical energy already stored inside for use. An ornate, steel flute hangs from his waist as it is tied to a belt. Asychis' fingers are heavily calloused due to his time travelling the sands of Ibzya, as such, he covers his hands with a wrapping layer of gauze. All around his torso, distinct lashes are found which have healed into permanent reminders of the torture he endured.

Biography

Water was scarce in the areas outside of the capital city of Qaithus. In fact, between a piece of meat that could be considered luxury in the other kingdoms and a jug of muddy water, a lot of people would bid more for the jug than the tasty piece of food. In other words, water was the liquid gold for the places who were not rich at all to begin with. However, those in power didn't see the suffering of the people. Rather, they saw an opportunity to get what they wanted. The gnolls who controlled the underground lakes in Ibzya had been the bane of the dervishes, not only because they control the water supply, but also because they have their own religious cult that is spreading all around the land. Thus, the priests rallied the commoners into fighting against the gnolls, throwing them into a hapless war between unarmed peasants and skilled gnolls. While the priests and the rich sat at a distance like puppeteers, never once getting dirty; countless footmen were slain in a war that only the puppet masters would benefit from.

But, as fate would place it, even foreigners and traders capitalized on the ibzyan's desperate need for water. They brought with them sparkling and refreshing drinks that the people would flock to, scalping them at outrageous prices that would often leave a family poorer though slightly quenched. This is where Asychis' parents met: a foreign trader from a distant land spending a night with a poor though hardworking ibzyan woman. The father's hasty departure was expected, and even ibzyan women were just as hardy and tough as their male counterparts. So, Anhkta, Asychis' mother, in order to have a higher stipend, joined the militia that was sent to one of the caves of Imhotep in order to drive the gnolls away. The young Asychis waited for his mother to return, but after two weeks of futile waiting, the sixteen year-old boy joined the next militia expedition to Imhotep in hopes of finding her.

The battle at the caves was intense. The militia was first to be deployed and slaughtered while the trained troops swept up the remains. Asychis, himself, was one of the survivors who reached the inner caves before being ambushed by another group of gnolls. The combined battalion of militiamen and soldiers held off for a few days, emboldened by reports that another group was being dispatched as their reinforcements. During this time Asychis befriended a girl his age, Miane, who was forced to join the militias in order to provide for her brothers. The two teenagers quickly established a rather intimate bond which would soon be severed when the promised reinforcements never came. Apparently, the battalion inside Imhotep was used as a bait in order to allow the generals and other officers to escape from the battlefield. As the gnolls surrounded them from all sides, the ibzyans had no choice but to surrender. But, while they were in chains as prisoners of the gnolls, they were all subjected to horrific torture. Fingernails pulled from the cuticles, scourged and beaten, and violated in more ways than one, the prisoners slowly died one after the other. As Asychis and Miane dangled from their chains, the young lad saw a familiar, emaciated figure across him: his mother. What was once a muscular, strong woman was nothing more than a bag of bones whose only purpose was to count her ribs until she died. It was a sad reunion, especially for the mother who did what she had to do so her son would not be in the same predicament as she was now.

The days passed into weeks as the tortures intensified to the point that Asychis' mother died in front of him after the gnolls had branded her skin using a white-hot seal. And, while his sanity dangled upon a thread, the one thing that snapped Asychis' mind was when Miane was killed just beside him, her eyes pleading with him to end her pain. Hot flashes of their last kiss together burned into his psyche as the only thing he remembered was the lesson on pyromancy that one of the veteran soldiers taught him and Miane. His eyes saw red before he could only feel a burning, searing sensation up his spine that cascaded into a violent explosion that shook the cave of Imhotep. As the rocks fell into disarray, and the gnolls burned into embers, Asychis waited for his burial death when a pair of soft arms took him to safety before he lost consciousness.

It was only after a few days that Asychis awakened from his dreamless slumber that he was informed that a pair of hunters from the Order of Cinders had taken him to a small sanctuary in a nearby city where they nursed the orphan back to health. And, without much to go back to in Ibzya, Asychis agreed to be trained by the hunters where he was taken to the main headquarters outside of Ibzya. Soon, his hate was harnessed into the deadly weapon that it had become now. And, when he had become a full-fledged member of the order at twenty-one, he went back to Ibzya to reenact his long-awaited vengeance. However, the young Asychis defied orders from the Order, enacting his own personal vendetta not against the undead, but against the gnolls. His insubordination cost him his membership in the Order, but the vengeance-ridden hunter was too far into fury to care.

With but a few friends to aid him, Asychis laid waste to a good number of caves before he was ultimately left on the brink death when an expedition to the caves of Bastet left him cornered by the gnolls. In an utter refusal to be tortured again by the fiends who cost him his innocence, Asychis pressed himself against his limit, producing deadly flames which surged out in a caustic explosion. The gnolls were reduced to ashes as the ex-hunter fell to the ground in a twitching heap. He had exhausted his strength; he gambled too high, and lost against the draw. He clutched at straws, and ultimately drew the shortest one. He would have died if it weren't for a group of monks who saved him, took him to their home in the barren desert, and nursed him back to health.

The monks, who sensed his great rage, told him that the reason why he still was weak was because his source of strength was hate and vengeance: motivation without purpose. And, that, if one was to become stronger, he had to channel his own rage into something that is meaningful. The monks served as his teachers until the present, ultimately reforming the lad into a believer of restraint and control. Though, he still attacks gnoll camps, he is now driven with another purpose rather than just enacting his own vendetta. A purpose to give water and life to the people of Ibzya who waltzed upon the leyline of thirst and death.

Asychis was never the same since. While somewhat magically crippled, he still is a powerful hunter in his own right. Although, every night, he regrets the loss of his family in the Order, he always wished that someday he would meet them again, if only to say his apologies. And, his prayers would soon be answered. A few weeks passed when another injured person was brought to the monks' care. Asychis personally headed the restoration when he recognized the injured hunter: the same man who brought him to the Order. It was Lydic Arun. Though Asychis and the monks tried their best to cure his injuries, the gnolls had done too much damage to Lydic. But, before the older man could have the final kiss of death, he gave a letter to Asychis, telling him to try to go in his stead to Isamanca. Even though he was ejected from the Order, Lydic believed that once a hunter, always a hunter.

As Lydic died in his arms, Asychis clenched the blood-stained letter before tucking it in his pockets. He would fulfill Lydic's last wishes, if only to repay his debt to him. Asychis packed his belongings before saying his farewells to the monks. And, by dawn, he left for the first ship towards Isamanca, excited and nervous to meet the family that he once had abandoned due to a rage that went out of control.

Personality

Asychis radiates a very pleasant, calm, and cheerful atmosphere. He always greets people with a smile, accompanied by his gentle and soothing baritone voice. He rarely raises his tone, and is rarely seen irritated or angry due to the teachings of the hermits who saved him. He is quite a touchy person, often placing his hand on the shoulder of another or holding the hand of someone in need. In turn, he's also quite the hugger, giving a solid hug to the friends he would meet. He's also very generous when it comes to giving to others due to the gratuity he feels from knowing that he once had less. However, when it comes to his duty as a hunter, Asychis is a firm believer in his mission. The undead and everything that stands for evil must be slain, not because of any hatred or vengeance, but because they are the ones responsible for the losses of innocence that many experience everyday. Still, seeing others in pain is something that makes Asychis' heart wrench in fifty different ways; he cannot stand the sight of someone in pain, and thus, he does his best to help those in need. However, this comes with his annoying habit of always getting into others' businesses, even if he is not a part of it. He rarely leaves a damaged soul alone, if only because he is just as damaged as them.

Important Notes

1. The Six Beads of Enlightenment - The large beads that Asychis wears around his neck functions as a storage for magical energy, which allows Asychis to draw magic from it instead of a leyline where most hunters would channel their energies from. This enables Asychis to have an easier and faster time to use his spells, albeit on a weaker level compared to others. The reason is for this is because due to him pushing himself to the limit two times that, somehow, his ability to draw form leylines was impaired. Asychis could still channel magic from the leyline, but doing so would be like trying to move a fractured leg: he can do it, but at an excruciating pain. Severe pains wrack through his body should he try to do so.

2. Expulsion from the Order - Due to his defiance in pursuit of his vendetta against the gnolls, Asychis was expelled from the Order. Though he still cares for the people he knew, he knows that they do not feel the same way for him. As of the moment, his current affiliation is with the Monks of the Midnight Sun, a group of dervishes who lived as hermits in the desert. Unlike their elite counter parts, the monks are more hands-on in terms of their involvement with the plight of the people.

[Slamurai]

Carlo Battiato

Appearance:

Carlo's skin and hair color is typical for someone of Revossian decent. His build is that of a soldier – solid and well-defined, with rough, calloused hands. His flesh is tanned and weather-worn, and he wears a neatly-maintained beard that tapers to a point. The hairs on his head are dark, with flecks of grey that herald older age – thirty six, to be exact. Despite Carlo's years, traces of youth can still be found in the gleam of his eyes.

Biography:

Carlo was knocked down to his knees by the press of men, who's cries rang shrill in his ears. He fumbled for his weapon, trying to right himself as friend and foe died around him. He'd lost his helmet in the press of bodies. No time to worry about it now; there was a flash of steel, and he barley had time to bring his sword up. It was a sloppy parry against the full weight of a halberd's edge, and the momentum pushed his sword aside. Carlo's vision stabilized, and he caught a proper glimpse of his attacker – a ravaged mess of a man, or what might have once been a man. The flesh was mottled and discolored in dark blotches. Its empty eyes pierced though the Revossian, as if staring into nothingness. And the stench; Carlo fought the urge to wretch and stared down his attacker with a wince. Another swing of the polearm and this time, Carlo was prepared. He grabbed the shaft, twisting it away and planting a foot on the weapon's head. A cut from his sword severed the attacker's head from the body, and it crumpled to the dirt.

Carlo risked a look around himself and realized that he was alone. The battle line was faltering, the offensive come to a sudden, crashing halt. The fight was degenerating into isolated duels, his men either dead or fleeing backwards. Where was the capitani, Astorre? His attention snapped back to the throng of shapes in front of him, more deathly-looking creatures with soulless stares. With little choice left, he spun and took off into a run, knowing the enemy was hot on his heels behind. A flurry of curses and unanswered questions ran through his mind, until he felt the weight of something catch his foot, and he fell. Carlo felt the shadow of dark shapes looming over him and he gritted his teeth, awaiting the searing pain of steel he was sure would come.

----

The warmth of sunlight kissed his face, and Carlo awoke, surprised to find that he was not, in fact, dead. He was in an unfamiliar chamber, under the covers of an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar faces that pleaded him not to move so suddenly. He waved them away, flung the sheet off his chest and made ready to pull himself up when a dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder yanked him back to the sheets. The strangers gave him looks of “I told you so,” and put a wet towel to his forehead and inspected his injuries.

“You're awake,” a gruff voice said, and another face looked down over Carlo's bedridden state.
“Where am I?”
“Safe,” the stranger answered, “which, unfortunately, cannot be said of the rest of your company.”

Carlo retraced the last of his memory, remembering the rest of the company's fall, and the awful things that had slaughtered them. Again, he grasped at the sheets, willing himself to rise and go looking for his men.

“You need to rest.”
“I need to find my men, to see them for myself.”
“You're all we found, save a few with wounds too grievous to heal or minds too broken to think. I'm sorry, you're it.”

Carlo's head hung low. What had happened on the field that day? How was the company destroyed? One moment, they were in high spirits, shouting their famous war-cry, the next, they were in disarray and falling by the score.

“What were they?” Carlo whispered.
“Vamphiirs. A very potent strain of vamphiirs. Undead with the acumen of the living, made so by the corruption of necromancy. It seems that there was more to your enemy than your contract let on.”

The contract. How could Carlo make his living now? The rest of the free company was gone, and its commander with it. Astorre Sforza was dead. Carlo was now corporal of nothing, and the thought drained him. They'd all been good men, Feredico, Niccolò, even old Johann.

“What's your name, soldier?”
“Carlo Battiato. Corporal Carlo Battiato.”
“Hunter-Captain Richard d'Augny. You're in the hands of the Order of Cinders, Corporal.”

----

“I'm being reassigned?” Carlo studied the parchment again, eyebrow cocked.
“Correct. The Order needs you at Isamanca. The details are in the dispatch in your hand.”
“And the Drent Coven?”
“Is now the responsibility of a junior Hunter. Your skills are needed elsewhere, Carlo, better here than wasted on tasks a novice can fulfill.” The Revossian felt a flicker of validation within, and his posture subconsciously straightened.
“Understood, Hunter-Captain. I'll prepare to take leave tomorrow.”
Richard allowed himself a hint of a smile. “Do us well, and you might just find yourself a Hunter-Captain one of these days.” He stood from his desk and saluted neatly, Carlo mirroring the gesture.
“By will of fire-”
“-Darkness becomes cinder.”
“Godspeed, Hunter Battiato.”

Personality:

Carlo has spent many years of his life soldiering, and it shows. He possesses a dark humor and a quick wit, tempered by many, many rounds of cards. He finds satisfaction in small things, knowing that even in bad moments, things could be infinitely worse. He is eager to revel and make friendly jeers at his companions, though knows when to drop the pastimes and stand-to. As in his mercenary company, Carlo understands and obeys the chain of command within the Order. When the time to draw blades is nigh, he commands professionalism and grim efficiency, holding himself and others to the standards of their station. Though it may be impossible to have sterling relationships with everyone he meets, he has no second thoughts about putting himself in-between his allies and danger, and trusts they would do the same for him.