[CHAR] Allaria - Classical Fantasy Ch. 5 - Recruit the Shadowwald!

[Fetzen]

Gartoj

_{Nahelus @DeviantArt}

Race: Drow (male)

God: Lloth

Age: 29

Class:

• Major: Scout/Thief
• Minor: Basically the same, however with friendly-willed people around him he is willing to share his mathematical and analytical intellect for making plans. And he not only loves food, but also can prepare it relatively well.

Personality:
For the most part Gartoj is a calm man, pushing him to the point of an outrage by the mere usage of words can be considered a small achievement. However this property, benign as it is by itself, comes with the downside of him not being very empathic either. He's a bit like an iceberg: Just sitting there and listening to his surroundings, dropping a few dry and sometimes cold comments here and there. The moment he senses grave mental inferiority or personal desinterest for any reason he doesn't exhibit arrogance, but picks up speed and more or less gently nudges anyone aside who happens to be in his way out. On the other hand however there are areas in which he can break loose very seriously: He loves eating, especially in vast quantities. Also alcohol can be a thing, although he's no match for any real dwarf in that area. These are the moments during which he warms up considerably. He has no problem with stealing and a little bit of betrayal here and there, but killing is something Gartoj's really not fond of. It's an act not seldomly indicative of an insufficient amount of effort having been spent on thinking about alternatives. If he comes to the conclusion that there indeed is no other realistic way around it however his conscience doesn't have much of a problem with it, too.

Appearance:
At first glance Gartoj does not look like a drow. Those people are small, lithe and otherwise rather unconspicuous. He however, due to the condition of giantism, is a wall. Most people have to crane their necks in order to spot the pointy ends of his ears, situated at a height of a tad over eight feet. Moving this enormity, let alone allowing it to climb a rope, naturally comes with great quantities of muscle, even though not excessively visible. His belly region is quite soft due to a few bad habits of him -- he didn't have to bother about maintaining any coordination with the appearance of the vast majority of the drow population anyway. His skin is that of someone who doesn't like the sun and so is his hair, but the most remarkable thing about his rounded face are his eyes: They almost appear as if a fraction of his soul is looking through them.

Spirit animal: A raven.

Equipment:

• Clothing primarily made out of black dyed wool, thin leather and only very little amounts of metal for reinforcement in certain areas.
• A large cloak with some parts made out of fur that he can wrap around himself to a more or less complete degree.
• Two large, human-made swords. Why he has got them ? Well... they looked so nice, so he took them with him. Actual usage is another thing he didn't bother himself with at this point.
• Supplies for several days: Salt meat, bread, water. Even some wine.
• Additional waterskins for the special purpose of his magic.
• Some other, minor utilities like flintstone for igniting a fire or a small knife.

Skills:

• Major: Gartoj knows how to gain unauthorized access -- be it by picking the lock, launching a rope up to the roof and climb it or by recognizing an opportunity when it occurs. He can move around with very little noise and visibility, and be it by triggering confusion when the time is right. What he can't do however is all of this while maintaining anything near great speed. There'd just be too much creaking from the wooden floorpanels below...
• Minor: Sometimes it is necessary to temporarily disable a person who'd otherwise disturb your activity. If Gartoj can knock somebody out from behind, he can also try to strangle and kill that person. His problem is that so far he never felt fit to take such drastic measures, so while he'd definitely have the strength and equipment necessary to do that it is nothing but a theoretical scenario at this point.

Magic:
Gartoj, much like many of his kind, is a very proficient user of magic. The thing his soul is aligned to is ice and coldness in general, however hand in hand with his lack of any combat training goes the fact that he pratically never uses that with offensive intentions. While he does like covering his swords in a layer of ice for demonstration purposes, one probably won't see him actually trying to use them with that addition. It wouldn't make much sense since he wouldn't have the skill to wield them efficiently. What can happen though is that puddle of water in front of your feet suddenly being converted, causing you to slip in a very nasty manner so you can't pursue that drow in front of you any further. Or he opens that especially heavy door by the brute force of freezing water or the elegance of an artifical key carved out of the solidified element.

Strength:
If one could only use one word to describe it, a good candidate for this would be 'cunning'. Gartoj is very intelligent and quick to adapt new concepts. It has allowed him to find a -- though not exactly 'honest' -- profession that most people probably wouldn't imagine for him. Along with this goes his magic: Hardly used for open fighting and probably less suited for this than other kinds it still must be considered impressive in its own way. Also one most likely doesn't feel all too comfortable if he suddenly starts wrestling with one from behind.

Weakness:
While Gartoj's condition has not influenced those typical traits of a drow that aren't physical, it certainly has taken away some of the others. He's very, very far away from being lightweight and, unsurprisingly, also pretty much from being fast. Being extremely strong did not lead to him carrying anything more protective than his usual combination of black wool, fur and thin leather. Real, high-quality armor would be unaffordable for him. He has never subjected himself to anything like a 'professional' training in open combat anyway. So... once he's forced into one he does have a problem.

History:

Hider

Gartoj was born somewhere in the midst of the artificial jungle named Port Jinn. At least at the point of his birth there existed an entire little quarter primarily inhabited by drow. Not really welcomed except for in the Wizard's Academy maybe, life conditions weren't exactly favorable. Still Gartoj could enjoy a childhood devoid of any major disaster: his father Alviel worked at the docks administrating the flow of goods, his mother Tana attended the wizard's guild in an advisory role. Relatively soon in their child's life it became clear that something was wrong. Soon he stood nearly as tall as his parents, and only a few years later his dimensions exceeded those of even the strong workers at the docks. This posed problems not only from a pratical point of view -- he just was so different from his kind that levels of acceptance were low. It was a circumstance that made Tana's and Alviel's decision to send their son to the wizard's guild all the more easy. Better to separate him from the plebs and put him into an environment consisting of people deemed to be more educated and understanding than not.

There occurred a litte problem however. The problem's name was Gartoj and it had the demeanor of a rascal slowly drifting across the boundaries posed by law and order. While he was brilliant and capable of lashing out at his mates who failed to comprehend within hours what he could write down in minutes, he also severely lacked discipline in other areas. When it ultimately came out that his incredibly long fingers had virtually croached over the line and helped him commit what probably had not been his first theft the young man was expelled. Not only from the guild, but also basically from his own family which had to do something in order to avoid too much shame falling onto them. While they did not explicitly force him to leave, the signals were next to unmistakable and he left on his own account.

Port Jinn was soon behind his back and Gartoj wandered north. This is the point where this story starts. He's still growing and thristing for the things that will allow his magic to do the same.

Post color: #ff9900

Post sample: Link

[FrankenDaughter]

Phinuphus Tahnqin

Name: Phinuphus Tahnqin (Fee-nuh-fuss Tan-keen)
Age: 41
Race: Capybkin (Beastkin with Capybara features)

Capybkin are some of the largest beastkin on Allaria, standing between 9-12 feet tall with thick hides and broad shoulders--their body-type not unlike a small adult bear save for their unique forelimbs/paws and tranquil face. They often assume a hunched position when dealing with non-Capybkin, and are as likely to be found traveling comfortably on all-fours as on their hind legs. Much like their Capybara ancestors, Capybkin's queer paws are quite dexterous in spite of their size. They are excellent swimmers and quite fast on open land. They handle inclines and rocky terrain very deliberately--that is to say much more slowly than most humanoids and with constant fear of losing their footing.

Classes:
Major - Merchant/Apothecary

Phinuphus has made his living traveling between his monastery and local villages trading spices, tinctures and fine spirits, for food, firewood, tools and other necessities. He has gained a fine understanding of medicinal plants and how to refine them thanks to his olfactory senses. He also has a shrewd business sense and a head for logistics.

Minor - Monk

Phinuphus came to his monastery as a devout of Anomandaris after his parents were lost to plague, serving the monks and nuns as a go-between so that they were well-stocked for provisions and heat during the cold months. He began training with them in earnest to find inner peace, and while his practice has been recreational for over fifteen years, he has begun to take it more seriously and has caught the first glimpses of his spirit animal.

God: Anomandaris - Lion Aspect

Capybkin take a view of Anomandaris informed heavily by their ancestry. He is a lion above things Capybkin hold dear such as family and travel, but he is a patron of harmony and defense of home, both things Capybkin have instinctive cravings to preserve. Capybkin devotees of Anomandaris are community supporters for the regions in which they survive, providing refined goods to any who might need them, and luxurious crafts to outsiders. They also revere Anomandaris' apparent love of battle and are expected to come forth in times of trouble to defend the weak.

Appearance:

Profile

Phinuphus, sitting in meditation.

Phinuphus is somewhat small for a Capybkin, standing from paw to pate at just above nine feet tall. For all his relative shortness, he is still every much as broad shouldered and thick of hide as his more properly proportioned peers. His fur has an unusually bright sheen for Capybkin, appearing when wet as if polished bronze. He most often wears simple robes of brown wool and roughspun, the better to conceal the many bulky sacks and packs usually lashed to his body with cordage and netting he made for himself. His movements come with the practice of a man who has lived his whole life on the road, with a touch of the serenity one would expect from a Monk of Anomandaris.

Personality: Phinuphus is a shrewd and practical man with a biting sense of humor and a careful suspicion of most newcomers. Once warmed to an individual, he makes a fast friend and is almost unnervingly considerate and fatherly. His best friends often wind up having a little nip of grain alcohol passed to them once or twice a day. "The Grace and gaze of our lion," to hear him tell it. He is also, for good or for ill, certainly a man of his faith; slow to truly notice the gravity of a conflict, but unwavering in his will to end one when his temper has been lost.

defining traits

>list>
Attentive - "The grumble of any stomach is cause for a small morsel. Take these nuts and say nothing of it. We must eat well and keep up our strength."
Harmonious - "You don't like the man, do you? Were we not in the position we are in I would be as impatient as you with his snapping. But he is useful, watch. He's the only reason half of these men and women are working together at all. It takes many teeth to chew a meal."
Pious - "The Lion expects a lion from each of us, to mirror his gaze and grace."
Ponderous - "... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... you look like a pheasant."
Tippler - "I am not drunk. Capybkin are never drunk. Capybkin are often painfully sober, some of us worse off than others. We achieve normality. We *hic* drink the blood of Anomandaris." -said while swaying gently in the breeze, and smelling faintly of spirits.

Spirit Animal: A large rabbit.
Equipment:

Phinuphus doesn't exactly carry his shop around with him since leaving the monastery, but old habits die hard. He is positively awash with provisions, small and useful tools (usually bronze, sometimes iron), and an at times comical supply of fine spirits that he guards jealously. He also carries a particular sack that he keeps well insulated and bundled against sudden falls full of his healing tinctures, powders, and herbs, the majority o which he has harvested and refined himself. He keeps his liquor there too, and as likely to supplement someone coming to him complaining of headache with a sip of spirits as a bite of firemint.

Skills:
Major - Healer

At a glance, Phinuphus can often diagnose illnesses by smell and taste before their worst symptoms manifest, and if he doesn't have a preventative or proven cure-all in his pack, he can probably tell you whether they can forage locally for the means to make one. His skills as an apothecary are exclusively curative--he would never think of dabbling in less honest applications of his art.

Minor - Pugilism

Phinuphus' body lent itself well to learning the fundamentals of martial arts, but gave him such a clear advantage over many of his teachers that he has struggled to ever learn more than the very basics, and is terrified of harming friends while sparring. His only practice is in earnest combat, meaning he has little to show for it thusfar.

Magic: True to monks devoted to Anomandaris, there is likely some magic that has been honed within Phinuphus' soul. His fur can become extraordinarily dense and sharp, proving a good defense against bludgeoning and slashing weapons. Wrestling him when his fur is hardened is not advised.

Strength - Big
Endurance and heaviness, like any mountain, defines most Capybkin, as it does here. He so often carries so much about him because he is so often unencumbered, and he throws punches that can kill a common man that doesn't react quickly enough. He can take the nineteenth punch just as well as the first, though if each are well placed the twentieth will drop him as readily as any other humanoid.

Weakness - Rough Terrain

While Capybkin are often uncomfortable navigating crevasses, mountainous terrain, shale, and other such features, Phinuphus' troubles with such movements have fostered a perception of himself that feels much less than the serine Lion he aspires to emulate. More than merely clumsy, he is driven to sullenness and is much shorter of temper and patience when hard travel is the order of the day.

Weakness - The Lion

Less well understood by his companions is the degree to which Phinuphus truly seeks to emulate his god. His patience is tested daily by the graceless and those who do not demonstrate conscientiousness and will to strengthen the group. Combined with enough stress from other sources (for instance by his pathological irritation for rough terrain), he can lose his temper to a degree that seems perfectly in line with the emulation of Anomandaris. In truth, it is an irrational and malicious tantrum--a dangerous thing to see, and quite rare.

History

Phinuphus was born into an isolated river village, living a tranquil life until plague struck the local region. Several villages were wiped out completely, and Phinuphus was one of only a handful to survive from his own, all of whom fled to the local Yard of Anomandaris. It served as sanctuary until the troubles passed, but unlike the rest of his village, Phinuphus stayed with the monastery and lived most of his adult life there until a couple of years ago. Troubles in Allaria have turned the world, and most of the Capybkin of Phinuphus' homeland have migrated farther into isolation, abandoning their homes and leaving the land fallow. Some few like Phinuphus have turned in the opposite direction, moving against the Apotheoses, guided by Anomandaris' rage.

Phinuphus is one such man.

Samples:

What I consider a highlight from my current freework in Expanding Horizons.
First post in Insurrection.
Expected CS quality.

[vietmyke]

Galahad Quaid

Galahad Quaid

Age: 24

Race: Half Elf

Class:

• Major - Duelist. The Merchant City of Feyerlun is famous for its duelists: swaggering swordsmen and mercenaries who roam the city streets challenging one another to duels. Some are genuinely talented swordsmen, others are in love with the romance of strutting in fine clothes with sword in hand. The Duelists of Feyerlun are generally well dressed, well spoken, and quite well off with a sword, often finding themselves work among merchant ships, caravans, and noblemen, but rarely on the battlefield.
• Minor: - Bodyguard. Better suited to small unit tactics and smaller scale engagements, Galahad has found himself work in the resistance as a guard for members of the resistance with leadership roles.

God: Michael, though not devoutly

Appearance:
Galahad stands at a proud 6'1", with a lean and sinewy build. With proper posture and a graceful smile, Galahad seems to exude a subtle charisma about him. His facial features are soft enough to give him an ever youthful appearance, but still prominent enough to make him appear masculine. His hair is a light gold, and falls about his head with soft curls, and his light blue eyes gleam with a gentle charm. He wears a combination of padded armor and leather, with plates on his shoulder, arms and legs, serving both aesthetic and function.

Personality:
Casually confident, Galahad carries himself with a sort of calm bravado and rarely breaks this character. Outgoing, yet not brash and outspoken, Galahad's generally cheerful and light-hearted disposition is of one who is rather confident in himself and his abilities. While casually boastful of his own abilities, he isn't afraid to acknowledge his own shortcomings, though will often spin it around in a manner that sounds better of him. Galahad is polite and gentlemanly, and often interacts quite well with women and children, and will casually flirt with others regularly, though rarely shows any inclination to go any further. Galahad is quite fond of the finer things in life: music, wine, and fine company, and will often express distaste for situations and/or people who take him away from such fine things. Not particularly religious, Galahad prefers to fight for a cause that will give him the means to live life the way he wishes to. Galahad considers himself chivalrous, and will stand up for those he believes are downtrodden and unable to defend themselves.

Spirit Animal: A Lion

Equipment:

• Evreluce

  
  Like most Feyerlun swordsmen, Galahad has named his sword. This particular blade, the Evreluce, is a finely crafted, though simply decorated saber forged of dwarven steel. Like most Feyerlun sabers, the sword is mostly straight, with a very slight curve at the very end of the blade. It possesses a single sharp edge, except on the tip, in which both sides are sharpened. The first inch of the blade is unsharpened, to allow the index finger to grip it, and a simple, quillion wraps around the crossguard and hilt to protect the hand. The resulting weapon is one suited for both thrusting and cutting. The Evreluce is stored in a wooden scabbard wrapped with leather. Gold ivy etching along the body of the scabbard marks this sword as one made by famous Feyerlun swordsmith Dagen Horatio.
• Dagger - A plain steel dagger, a useful sidearm and tool that one can obtain fairly readily.
• Armor and Clothes - Padded and leather clothes and armor, with plated shoulder pauldron and chest guard for his left side.
• Travel Horse - A well bred horse ridden by Galahad. A calm, relatively well mannered horse, that doesn't scare easily. The horse also has saddlebags on his sides and behind the saddle.
  
  • Saddlebags - A pair of leather waterskins, a wineskin, a small pouch with money, a tinderbox, lines and tackle for fishing, a small iron bowl for cooking, a small knife, a whetstone and other materials for blade care, a roll of clean cloth and bottle of spirits for cleaning and treating wounds, a lantern with a spare bottle of oil, a few days worth of provisions for Galahad as well as his horse. Behind the saddle is a blanket and spare clothes are wrapped in a roll of canvas.

Skills:

• Major - Art of Combat - In Feyerlun swordsmanship is more than just a talent or trade, its an art. Sword techniques, footwork, spacial awareness, and a bit of psychology are all integral to the style of fighting used by Feyerlun swordsmen. A talented swordsman in his own right, Galahad is a fast and agile swordsman, using well refined technique and enemy reading in order to avoid or parry oncoming attacks and deliver precise and calculated strikes. While not a master swordsman by any means, Galahad is more than capable of holding his own.
• Minor - Courting - With a natural charisma and grace to his movements and speech, Galahad does well in political and social settings, using gentle speech to win the hearts and minds of others before needing to come to blows. Gentlemanly and chivalrous, Galahad interacts well with simple and genteel folk alike.

Magic:
Galahad's soul is one blessed by brave flame. While not a particularly adept magic user, Galahad is capable of weaving magic into his fighting style, as well as everyday uses. Galahad can coat his blade with a wreath of magic fire, improving his strokes with both an impressive flourish as well as magical injuries. The flames that coat his blade also give him a slightly extended reach as gouts of flame will often expel from the edge or tip of the blade in the range of a few inches, allowing him to strike with magic where his steel will not.

For more practical purposes, Galahad is able to conjure small flames or sparks with his hands- not enough to be used offensively, though fire is always dangerous- in order to light fires or cast light. Galahad is also slightly more resistant to heat than other mortals, though only just. He'd probably be able to stand next to a bonfire a bit longer than the average person before the heat started becoming unbearable.

Strength:

• Galahad is generally quite perceptive, and adept at reading the moves made by others in combat. Though not a perfect measure of clarity, it is often enough for him to avoid or correctly parry clumsy powerful blows of the average footsoldier or creature. His general understanding of how people fight allow him to press his advantage or know when to retreat. He is also generally better at noticing details and emotions than others.
• Galahad is swift and dextrous, moves with natural grace in and out of combat. This, along with considerable swordsmanship skill and footwork, allows him to be a fast fighter, and a rather good dancer.
• He is rather charismatic, and interacts well with those of nobler birth and gentler dispositions, making friendships and winning hearts more easily than others. His rather easygoing attitude and even temperament allows him to shrug off most insults with little more than a nod in acknowledgement.

Weakness:

• Galahad doesn't like fighting women (or children for that matter), and generally underestimates them or handicaps himself in combat, preferring to disarm and disable rather than maim or kill. This has resulted in more than one near death experience. He can occasionally fall for the charms of more earnest seeming women, and has a near driven sense of need to protect those he feel are incapable of defending themselves- even if it were to put him at an disadvantage.
• Though possessing good stamina and endurance, Galahad isn't as hardy or stout as some of his comrades, and can be staggered more easily by heavy blows.
• His bravado and boasting can wear on the patience of the more blunt or rugged minded folk
• While not unused to hardship and tough times, Galahad is undoubtedly a fan of the finer things in life, and doesn't handle well particularly tough or desolate living conditions.

Post Color: tomato

History:
Galahad was born the third son of a pair of wealthy merchants, Galahad was born into the lap of luxury with little to need or want. He grew up well educated, well mannered and well fed. Typically, life as a merchant's son wasn't particularly exciting or glamorous, but since Galahad's family was in the upper echelons of the merchant world, Galahad found himself traveling for and wide to various cities selling to both aristocrats and commonfolk alike. The Quaid family employed somewhere around two dozen Feyerlun swordsmen at any one time, and each of the Quaid sons learned swordsmanship from a young age- though more for recreation and a sense of discipline than a need to fight, Galahad in particular picked up the art quite fast, and was the most zealous of his siblings when it came to the craft.

As Galahad and his brothers grew older, he realized he would soon have to find his own path in life. Geoffery, Galahad's oldest brother, was by far the most cunning and wise of them and rightly so as he had long since been groomed to take over the family business. Gregor, the second oldest, was quite bright and had earned a scholarship to a prestigious academy, to further his education and probably transition into a professor and teach of his own. Galahad, with seemingly little else to do, took this in stride, and decided to become what so many young men in the city were and became a Feyerlun swordsman- a life of excitement and luxury, all determined by the edge of a blade. Young and spry at the age of 17, armed with his prior knowledge of the art and his parents' money, Galahad bought himself a sword and set off into the streets of Feyerlun to make a name for himself, and was promptly beat within an inch of his life by an aging master swordsman he in his misplaced confidence believed had the ability to beat.

Upon healing his wounded body and pride, Galahad set back off to find this master swordsman who had defeated him- not for revenge, but to seek tutelage. Though the master swordsman was hesitant to train him at first, a winning and cheerful attitude along with a rather large purse of coin eventually won him over. Galahad would train with this master swordsman for the next four years, gradually both earning the master swordsman's respect, as well as honing his own abilities. He learned all the skills expected of a Feyerlun duelist- excellent swordsmanship born of footwork and clever manipulation, manners and ways of honor, and even dabbled in a bit of magic.

At the end of his tutelage, Galahad's master introduced him to famed swordsmith Dagen Horatio, who forged Galahad a fine sword for him to call his own. Now, Galahad could truly claim the title of a Feyerlun swordsman, with the swagger, bravado and poise expected of such a man. Though enjoying both duels of steel and charm, Galahad found himself taking on work with both family and smaller merchant convoys to earn coin, while dueling other swordsmen to earn some small renown. It was around this time did the Apotheoses begin to rear their ugly head.

Imposing a more forceful rule on the city of Feyerlun, Galahad quickly grew disillusioned with their ideals when his former master and friend Jarand was publically hung for fighting with, and killing soldiers of the Apotheoses. When the famed dwarven swordsmith Dagen Horatio was also hung, Galahad left Feyerlun and began wandering the mainland for work and adventure.

He would eventually find himself under the employ of one named Szazah, who actively worked against the Apotheoses. Now in the Northern Mountains, Galahad prepares for a treacherous march further North.

Post Sample:
Most Recent IC Post

[A Man Is No One]

Hamelyn Jaegar

Name:

Hamelyn Jaegar

Age:

33 years

Race:

Human

Classes:

• Major:
  
  Hyland Stalker
• Minor:
  
  Nature’s Warrior

Deity:

Michael (maybe)

Appearance

Spirit Animal:

Grizzly Bear

Equipment:

• Cold Weather Outfit (Including a wool coat, linen shirt, wool cap, heavy fur cloak, thick pants, and boots.)
• Climbing Kit (Including special pitons, boot tips, gloves, and a harness.)
• 50 ft. Hempen Rope & Grappling Hook
• Quiver of Bone-Crafted Arrows
• Alchemist’s Fire, 3 Flasks
• Composite Short Bow
• Half-Plate Mail
• Tinder Twigs
• Trail Rations
• Flint & Steel
• Long Sword
• Backpack
• Waterskin
• Battleaxe
• Bedroll
• (While this list represents the majority of the character’s belonging the list is not comprehensive and some simple items may be withdrawn from his backpack but not necessarily accounted for on this list.)

Skills:

• Major:
  
  Survival: Surviving in the harsh northern environment is not a feat taken lightly, even for those who were born in the frozen tundra. Surviving in the north means mastering tracking, effectively hunting wild game, learning to guide safely through frozen wastes, identify signs that a frost giant may live nearby, predict the weather, or avoid potential avalanche zones or other natural hazards.
• Minor:
  
  Knowledge (Local & Nature): Decades spent born and raised in the snowy tundra of the north has provided a great deal of information that could only be acquired through experience. The knowledge obtained about the local area and the nature that encompasses its environment is invaluable in the grand scheme when surrounded by the wilds. This particular knowledge is something that could only be learned through real life trial and error.

Magic:

Wild Shape: Hamelyn has the ability to turn himself into a dire bear and back again once per day. This ability functions nearly identically to a polymorph spell except as further noted. The effect lasts for 4 hours, or until he changes back. Particularly skilled practitioners of this magical ability may choose a form an animal that is familiar to the practitioner; however, as with many tribal communities in the north practitioners gather in small cabal hidden amongst those communities. While Hamely is able to take the form of a dire bear. Hamelyn loses the ability to speak while in this animal form because he is limited to the sounds that a normal, untrained animal can make, but he can communicate normally with other bears regardless of their species. On the downside, upon returning to his normal human form the Hamelyn is afflicted by a great fatigue that leaves him nearly helpless. In most instances it mimics the length of time he spent in his wild shape; however, this can be altered as well. If he was involved in combat or injured, if he ate or spent a good deal of time in a state of relaxation or spent much of his time completing easy tasks. These things may force his state of fatigue to be altered.

Strength:

• Where other might struggle to maintain their balance, Hamelyn can move through scree and dense rubble at a normal speed, including steep slopes or stairs.
• Hamelyn often relies on mobility to sneak in strike the foe in its weakest point and allow him a stronger defense. This strength only applies against living creatures that have a discernable anatomy as it will allow him to launch a true assault on the most vital points of a creature’s body.
• He is a swift tracker being able to move at his normal speed while following tracks, while others may find folly in trying to rush through prints difficult to discern.
• Hamelyn, being well acquainted with the dangers of mountainous terrain is more surefooted than others. His balance, ability to move silently, and tumbling are not hindered from scree, light rubble, dense rubble, steep slopes, or stairs. He also finds it much easy to maintain balance when running or charging down a steep slope.
• A master of camouflage in the frozen north, Hamelyn is able to find safety hidden amongst most natural terrain.

Weaknesses:

• As a member of a typically nomadic tribe spending their time moving along with the herds of caribou and other migratory animals, Hamelyn has been raised to be illiterate. He along with many others in his tribe is unable to either read or write. In fact, few in his tribe as well as many other tribes are able to write let alone read. Stories, historical information, or the like is transferred through the generations by word of mouth.
• Many people indigenous to a region that by the climate or natural environment are innately exclusionary, often times have little interaction with those beyond their natural borders. Because of this, Hamelyn like many of his tribe and other tribes across the frozen tundra carries with him a xenophobia in the form of prejudice and bigotry. Often times outsiders are looked down upon, ignored, treated violently or with great disdain.
• Hamelyn is extremely blunt to the point of causing great offense even within his own tribe. This makes him frank, callous, insensitive and brusque. More often than not it can lead to arguments that quickly turn physical. The latter results Hamelyn prefers but it can quickly escalate into trouble for more than just him.
• Hamelyn suffers from a disorder that uncommonly afflicts people of the northern tribes commonly known as Frost Lung. Side effects include shortness of breath, chest pain, and a hacking cough that may contain blood which is more persistent in cold weather when coupled with strenuous activity. When active it can making breathing difficult and catching one's breath even harder still. It is often hereditary, however; to Hamelyn’s knowledge his parents were not afflicted by the disease.

Post Color:

History:

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[Cube]

Duren Ghedic

Race

Dwarf

Age

47

Deity

Abbathor

Spirit Animal

Elephant

Class

Major: Guardsman
Duren lived the majority of his life serving the dwarven city of Bhornbadir as a guard - standing watch at the city’s gates, patrolling the streets, and breaking up drunken brawls - or, at the very least, dragging away unconscious bodies, post-drunken brawl. He’s known hardly anything but life as a line of defense, until recently, and puts his knowledge of protection at the forefront of his mind during his travels across the world.

Minor: Brewmaster
Despite a life devoted to the protection of Bhornbadir, Duren, like anyone, maintained a hobby in his off-time. Like many dwarves, this hobby just so happened to involve alcohol. Brewing various beers, spirits, and the occasional whiskey or rum, Duren has become something of a professional in the art of brewing, and something of an alcoholic in the art of drinking. Known to be drunk more than he is sober, his state of sobriety is often a clear indicator of his talents as a brewer.

Personality

Duren is, and always has been, a relatively jolly man. Never one to be pessimistic, the dwarf prefers to look on the bright side of things, and have a laugh at the turns his life takes. To some, his overly positive outlook on life may be a tad bit immature, but the eternal smile forever plastered on Duren’s face would suggest he cares little about the opinions of others. The same smile may also suggest that Duren is not sober, though it is often hard to tell the difference.

With a downright cheerful attitude and welcoming demeanor, Duren sometimes acted as more of a greeter than a guard when it came to watching the gates of Bhornbadir. A joyful “good morning” or “good afternoon” could be heard nearly every time Duren turned a corner in his hometown, as he greeted nearly everyone he saw, be they friend or stranger. Duren was often told it would one day land him in trouble, though he’s yet to receive a jab in the gut for his greetings in his 47 years of life.

Duren’s positivity may not be entirely natural, however. The old dwarf’s love of alcohol has likely altered his outlook on the world, along with his physical well-being. Riddled with the internal effects of long-term alcoholism, Duren suffers from poor eyesight, and a fair affinity to common illnesses. This may be something a common man would look to remedy, however, Duren’s apparently eternal drunken state has him smiling through the pain, instead.

His charming (by dwarven standards) personality has made him quite the celebrity at local taverns and pubs. Always seen with drink in hand, Duren can, and will, talk the ears off of a fellow tavern-goer, regaling them with tall tales about his great grand-pappy and how he could single-handedly slay 40-foot long dragons. Seemingly no matter how often such stories are told, the cheers from his fellow dwarves reassures Duren that it has yet to get old.

However, despite Duren’s undying love for his home and his fellow dwarves, he feared the life of a true dwarven elder. Those who had lived far longer than he, who survived by nothing other than Abbathor’s will and the aid of younger dwarves, lived and exemplified a future he knew he wanted no part of. To lay dormant, unmoving, yet conscious, and breathing - this was not in Duren’s life plan.

Now, he travels the world as a mercenary, having long abandoned his life as a dwarven guardsmen. Now, he seeks adventure, and stories to rival that of his grand-pappy’s. If death comes at the claws of a dragon, or the club of an ogre, then so be it. He’ll be ready.

Appearance

Duren is about average height for the common dwarven male - he stands at around four-and-a-half feet tall, with all the typical dwarven male features. His black hair, which is slowly greying with age, is fashioned to sweep to the left side of his head and back some, staying well out of his wrinkled fac3. His beard, with its matching hues, stays braided on either side. A long scar runs down the center of his left eye as a reminder that although he holds a deep appreciation for his past career and fellow guardsmen, it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

A heavy smoker to match his drinking habits, Duren’s voice is deep and scratchy, making no effort to mask his years of tobacco and alcohol abuse. Despite this, Duren holds a jaw full of healthy teeth - something he attributes to his homemade brews, no matter how unlikely this statement may be. Nevertheless, his warm smile is only strengthened by his almost unnaturally white teeth.

Duren has a relatively stocky build. Like most dwarves, muscle mass comes quite a bit easier due to their smaller frame, though Duren’s near constant drinking has resulted in something of a pot belly as well, which is often at the butt of many of his self-deprecating jokes.

Equipment

• Before leaving Bhornbadir, Duren had a fine set of dwarven plate mail made specifically for his travels - tailored to be sturdy, yet relatively light for plated mail. That in mind, the deep silver armour is still quite hefty, and clinks with every step. It does its job, though, as one would expect from dwarven smiths.
• A single-handed waraxe. Supposedly belonged to Duren’s grand-pappy.
• A mighty shield, awarded to him for his service as a guard - large enough to properly shield a dwarf, and about half of a regular-sized human.
• A pouch of tobacco, with a long pipe to match. Old habits die hard.
• A multitude of flasks, bottles, and skins - all filled to the brim with various sorts of alcohol. Older habits die harder.
• Matches. Used to light his pipe, or a homemade molotov - whichever the situation calls for.
• Various foodstuffs, including some dwarven treats he cooks himself - likely unfavourable to anyone of non-dwarven heritage.
• Various clothing and portable bedding, for occasions that don’t require skills as a warrior.

Skills

Major: Guard’s Duties
Duren is, first and foremost, a guard. He’s well-trained in the art of protection and, despite his poor vision, can still block an arrow, or a blade, like the best of them. Used to being on the front lines, Duren is a fearsome foe for anyone looking to engage him in melee, as his shield becomes not only a part of him, but a part of his allies as well. Dedicated to not only his own survival, but his friends’, Duren’s likely saved more lives than he could count - if he was sober enough to count in the first place.

Minor: Liquid Courage
Duren’s love of intoxication has led to an interesting battlefield tactic, useful when a fight calls for more than a sturdy shield. Duren can down a flask of booze like it was water on a hot summer’s day, and, as a result, can throw himself into something of a drunken stupor on the battlefield. Ditching his knowledge of defense, Duren allows himself to be thrown into a fury of merciless swings of his axe, slashing at anyone in his path. Likewise, if he sees fit, he can ignite a bottle and cloth, lending him the ability to lob a makeshift molotov cocktail at his foes. Last, but certainly not least, his skill as a brewer comes in handy most of all after a long day’s work, where he’s more than happy to drink away the remainder of the night, and likely entice his fellows to join him.

Magic

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Duren, like most dwarves, doesn’t know the first thing about magic. How it works, what it can do, or where it even comes from, are all questions that would cause Duren to draw a blank. Dwarven society rarely calls for the use of the arcane arts, and so Duren’s only ever experienced the craft a handful of times in his life. Mixing a lack of knowledge, and lack of experience, Duren hardly trusts magic. The sight of a man holding flame like a ball of snow is nothing short of unnerving to the retired guard, and if he can, he’d much prefer to stay well away from those who dabble in the stuff.

Strength

Duren feels at home in two places - the bar, and the battlefield. If one can endure the old dwarf’s constant ravings, tall tales, and drunken blabbering, they’ll find nothing short of a lifelong friend, and one that would die to protect them, no matter the cost. His skills as a defenseman are undeniably his greatest strength, and one who finds themselves toe-to-toe with the dwarf would be lucky to get a hit past his towering shield. Mixed with the skillful swings of his axe, he can be quite the foe in a fight. This, along with his bizarre, yet charming, personality, Duren is a strong ally to have on one’s side when traveling. Lucky for them, traveling is exactly what Duren has set out to do.

Weakness

Decades of alcohol and light tobacco abuse have taken a toll on Duren’s health. His eyes suffer from poor vision, and he is prone to common illnesses from a weak immune system. As a result, Duren is restricted to melee combat, and the use of things such as bows or crossbows are almost completely out of the question. His ability as a proper scout is also hindered by his vision, along with his affinity for heavy armours. A thief who clinks with every step is not going to make it far in the business, after all.

While his armour does him wonders in a fighting environment, it is also detrimental to his movement. Scaling tall mountains or traversing through thick snow is a difficult task for one so short and heavy. As such, Duren is much more suited for flat land, where he can put his thick armour to proper use.

History

Duren was born and raised in the dwarven city of Bhornbadir. A fair city, built and developed by generations of various highland dwarf clans, which sits only a few miles west of famed mountain dwarf territory - the city of Gir Daruhm.

Duren was one of many siblings, having multiple brothers and sisters, both younger and older. Some went on to live lavish lives, some left the city gates to pursue new lives, and some live out their lives in drug dens in the city slums. Duren, however, settled for a comfortable life serving his home as a guard. At the age of 15 he held his first duty at the city gates, and for 30 years he proudly served his home.

Duren is, and always has been, a jolly dwarf. His optimistic outlook on life is almost contagious, and his wheezy laughter embeds itself in the memories of his friends. Almost nightly, the dwarf could be found at the tavern, sharing drinks and stories with his fellow Bhornbadir civilians. His jokes, be they simple or crude, never failed to put a smile on the faces of those who would listen, and the old dwarf’s warm smile almost forced a mirrored grin out of onlookers, whether they understood the joke or not.

However, despite what Duren may lead one to believe, life as a guard was not all it was cracked up to be. Often, he found himself in the midst of a battle, clamouring to protect his friends from loosened bolts or sneaky knives. The noble nature of dwarves did not always ring true, and crime was unfortunately rather common in Bhornbadir - which often resulted in a fatal end of the lives of those who would go against the city’s laws.

Duren’s devotion to his people kept him moving forward. However, a particular love of alcohol is what really kept him going. A sober Duren likely would not have endured 30 years of slaying ne’er-do-wells, and so ale he drank, and spirits he drained, as both a means of suppressing the nasty bits of his career, as well as a means of maintaining his cheerful perspective of life.

As Duren grew older, he began to notice his once jet-black hairs begin to fade. Before long, groups of strands that were once black as night had taken on a grey hue, with some turning as white as the snow that coated the northern mountains.
Age was creeping up on Duren, and fast.

As he observed his fellow dwarves, he began to make note of those that were too old to care for themselves. Senior dwarves who could do nothing but breath and stare, who relied on women to feed them and change their clothing. Was that the life he wanted? Did he want to rely on the compassion of his neighbour to carry out tasks as simple as walking to his front door?

No. He did not.

So, after regaling the tale of his grand-pappy’s dragon slaying for perhaps the thousandth time in his favourite tavern, Duren decided that he had had enough. If death was on his schedule, he would welcome it with open arms, not fight it with every lame breath as a useless bag of bones.
On his thirtieth anniversary as a guard of Bhornbadir, Duren resigned from his position. Weeks later, with his booze, axe, and ceremonial shield in hand, Duren left the city, permanently, for the first time.

Following in his grand-pappy’s footsteps, Duren began to travel, offering his services as a trained guard to traveling merchants and any others who would otherwise perish at the sight of an armed highwayman.

The dwarf made many enemies outside the walls of Bhornbadir, but made twice as many friends. Now, two years later, Duren is certain he can find old friends in nearly every corner of Allaria.

However, lately, his travels have taken him in a direction that not even he could have seen coming. Now a part of the resistance, aiding in the plight against the Apotheosis, Duren is preparing for the next chapter in his life - the protection of one man, Ssazah, on his journey to contact fabled snow elves.

Oh, how his drinking buddies back in Bhornbadir will love this tale.

[Holy Soldier]

Logran Eaton Fellenore, son of Eaton and Loraine Fellenore; Saint Slayer; The Wild Man; Reed; The Dark Paladin

30

Human

Major

He might have been a squire or he might have been just a servant. In his past, he performed the same duties as a steward. He then became a wandering hammerdin.

Minor

Hammerdin

Michael

Logran is six-foot weighing roughly 200 pounds out of armor. Beneath his armor, he wears a tunic worn to a dusty and dirtied gray from age and use. His trousers are a faded-black and pool slightly over a pair of brown rabbit-skin shoes. His hair is raven-black. Its length is down to his shoulders, and he wears it in a loose tail. His eyes are slate-grey, his right eye half-closed due to a scar cutting into his cheek passed his eye in a diagonal slant. He wears a black cloth bandage wrapped about his head over his right eye.

When Logran’s face isn’t behind his facemask or eye bandage, he appears to be younger than his actual age. His boyish appearance makes him appear in his early twenties. With a beard on his face, he appears his age or ten years older. His body is jutting with tanned muscle covered in light scars that contrast his complexion. Wielding Glosgnir has conditioned his body to resemble that of an experienced lifter.

Logran goes by the name Reed. Even though it has been 15 years since he murdered Sir Aragon, he does not believe zealots of the Eizellen Church or even of Michael would ever forget that his murderer is possibly still at large. He keeps his scar and the mystery of whether or not he’s actually missing a right eye a secret from even people he would deem friends. Because of incidents in his past, there are a few things that Logran doesn’t like. Those things being swords and alcohol. He will never partake in alcoholic beverages or wield a sword even if his hammer, Glosgnir, is not present.

Is Logran troubled? It’s hard to say. Logran has admitted and taken responsibility for each of his sins. Having murdered once, the blood can no longer be washed from his hands. He is his own judge. He will execute whoever he deems unworthy of mercy. The paladin is soft-spoken. He rarely raises his voice above a shout and over the years, his life has led to him becoming quieter. He is dutiful—one to not stray from the mission until it is complete. He has worked in a team before but not one anywhere close to a mercenary group. Because of the misfortune that befalls anyone who is around him, he prefers to work alone.

The paladin is a humble man who doesn’t boast his skills or abilities. He doesn’t completely understand most of his abilities, but one has led to him not liking liars. Liars remind him of the blinded fools in Eizellen. While he understands lies being used tactfully, he still just doesn’t like hearing them.

White Stag

Black Mithril Armor The black armor that encases his body resembles heavy armor in appearance. It is as sturdy as steel, and most Dwarves would recognize the craft to be that of their own: Dwarvish. The mithril armor is a light armor that places little burden on the wearer. The armor is a necessity for Logran who wields a great hammer and cannot afford his movements to be hampered by extra weight. The specific armor components: mantle, greaves, torso, chest, dress (groin), boots, mask, and gauntlets.

Black Sun Buckler The buckler is one-foot-and a half in length and width. The buckler is circular with jutting and bladed overlapping layers surrounding it in what appears to be rays. The buckler acts as a small shield and can be used as a lethal throwing disc. If thrown with a reverse spin, the disc can be thrown in a forward direction for a brief moment before the spin would cause it to return. If not thrown, then the buckler can act as a bladed disc for slashing down opponents.

Glosgnir is a great hammer of dwarvish craft designed from a hardwood overlaid with steel. The weapon is as long as Logran is tall. The head is two-feet wide in all directions, and the obvious heaviest part of the weapon. Logran can wield the hammer in close-combat by gripping it closest to its head, and he can wield the weapon in medium-range combat by gripping it near the tail. The blunt weapon is designed to break shields and guards. Like a battering ram, Glosgnir can knock a turtling enemy on his ass if he insists on hiding behind his shield. He can use the hammer to damage the wheels of war machines and pachyderm steeds. If there’s a reinforced door, Glosgnir will bust it open. The worst position an enemy can find himself in is beneath the hammer when it falls.

Kheluz Dwarvish for “strong” it is the name of Logran’s horse. Kheluz is a black Diremane stallion standing at 20 hands (82” tall) and weighs 1.3 tons. Logran needed a big and strong horse to not only be able to survive and carry his belongings, but to carry Glosgnir most of all.

Rations Dried meats, pemmican, honey, nuts, salted fish, and tubers.
Waterskin
Triage Kit Bandages, Needle & Thread, and pomade
Utility Knife
Extra Set of Clothes
Furs
Saddle, Bit, Reins, Stirrups, Harness
Bed Roll
Rope and Grapple
Gold

Major Shieldbreaker

Logran is the guy you want to get in close in order to take out the enemy’s defense. Heavily-armored enemies, war machines, pachyderms, reinforced doors—Logran with Glosgnir will bring it all down. The enemy does not want to be in the shadow of the hammer when it falls. His hammer is like a battering ram, shaking the poise of enemies who hide behind their shields. If the shield isn’t sturdy enough, Glosgnir has been known to break or warp a shield beyond convenience.

Minor Holy Man

Logran is blessed with abilities that help one find his or her way through the darkness. His blessings allow those to punish evil and see when they are blinded by trickery. He can hear lies.

Wayfinder

When lost, afraid, or confused, Logran can unconsciously evoke a guide to lead him out of a complicated situation. This ability doesn’t always allow him to find who he is looking for. He can find someone if he is meant to find someone as decided by Michael, but if he doesn’t find the person then the person is either no longer of this life or someone not meant to be found. Logran would be the one to lead a group out of a maze or out of darkness. If separated, he will get a gut feeling to go in the direction of the group he is to reunite with if Michael wills it. The ability is confusing and Logran doesn’t quite understand it himself. He’s just always had it since he was a boy.

Blessings

Logran can lay his hand on weapons or equipment and imbue them with a holy blessing through prayer. The weapon or tool when blessed takes on the properties of a blessed item capable of inflicting extra damage to evil entities to include the corporeal and incorporeal.

Logran’s devotion to his god has given him an indomitable will. He finds strength through his faith in Michael, and this strength could rival the strength of any godless man. His past is filled with hardship and adversity. He has survived being nearly beaten to death, starvation, and madness. With nothing to live for, Logran has completely surrendered himself to Michael, and in doing so, has acquired some uncanny advantages. His mind is difficult to break, and he is well-accustomed to the harsh wilderness. His constitution is higher than most humans, and his mysterious abilities will often have others coming to him for truth and guidance. Logran can hear lies, the whispers of evil, and he will boldly call a liar out on his or her game when he hears one.

As a fighter, Logran is devastating at close and even medium ranges. His hammer can cripple and throw the balance of his opponents. His hammer can breach most defenses. His blessings can send evil running. The mysterious paladin is a reliable addition to any team.

As far as combat, even when wearing a lighter armor, a swing from his hammer is still slower than the swing of a short sword or dagger. To compensate, he will switch between single-handed to two-handed, and gripping near the head of his hammer for swifter strikes. A hammer is not as easy to manipulate or change trajectory as a lighter weapon and so a swing will happen in the direction it is initially intended. If ever disarmed, if swords are all the paladin has left to wield, he won’t use them. He refuses to use them because they bring about a terrible memory.

Like most fighters, the back is always a vulnerable area for ambushes or backstabs. He cannot see a sniper planning to shoot him down, and therefore, his morality is like anybody elses. His holy abilities are reliant on Michael, and Michael may not make decisions in the group’s favor.

His identity as Logran Fellenore is ever uncovered by an enemy can create trouble for him or any group he is with. Churches of Michael often have drank the Apotheoses’ koolaid and their flocks are just as toxic.

Logran does not like rape, and if he is ever witness to such an act, his friends may see him fly off the deep end. Such horrendous acts fill him with a terrible rage.

Slate

The Story

Logran was born to Eaton and Loraine Fellenore in the prairies north of the Eizellen peninsula. His birth, though expected, was unwanted for their struggles as farmers were worsened by another mouth to feed. Loraine did not ever blame her son for she knew that it was she and Eaton who had born him into their hardship. Logran grew only in their love until they could no longer bear it. When Logran was eight-years-old, old enough to properly hold a sword, Eaton took him to Eizellen, City of Men. Eaton introduced Logran to an old friend of his, Sir Aragon Brightshield, Paladin Saint of Eizellen, Dawnbringer. Eaton and his father were acquainted only by tale. In the tale, Aragon had supposedly saved his father’s soul from an evil eidolon once, and if it hadn’t been for him, Eaton would not have lived. He thought he would repay the holy knight by having his son bend the knee as his squire. Aragon accepted Eaton’s offer, and from that day until he was fifteen-years-old, Logran served him.

Sir Aragon Brightshield

Logran was captivated by the paladin from the way the man walked, wore his armor, and rode his horse. He was radiant and everything Logran believed a Servant of Michael to be. The people loved him. The church loved him. He was loved by all. It was because of Aragon that Logran began his studies in The Word and when he was tending to the paladin’s horse or chambers, he was in the yard of Brightshield Estate, training with a wooden mallet and barrel lid since Aragon didn’t allow him to have weapons. Over the years, Aragon softened and allowed Logran to wade closer into his life. Logran saw a side of the man; the saint; that no one knew and would never know. When he wasn’t riding with his fellow knights or playing hero in the streets and surrounding lands, when he was home in the privacy of his estate, he was a drunkard. Aragon didn’t summon his servants to scrub his vomit from the floor or empty his piss-pot, he summoned Logran. The man was human. Logran didn’t know why he had felt so surprised. Had they all been blinded by his brilliance? Everyone saw him as the closest thing to Michael. Everyone was a fool.

Logran felt his admiration for the man weaken, and he had wept for feeling such a way for he didn’t know if losing faith in a saint was right or wrong. It had felt wrong to him. Logran placed his full faith in only Michael that night Aragon in an inebriated stupor laid a hand on him. It had been the first time anyone had ever struck him and to be struck by the Paladin Saint was traumatizing. He didn’t mean it, he tried to convince himself. He was drunk and Logran was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The servant who tended to his bruises, Marigold, named after the flower, enlightened Logran and told him that to the servants that was Aragon. The realization both disturbed and astounded Logran. Outside the estate, the man was hailed like a god, but in his own home, he was merely a man. An abusive. Drunk. Man. Everyone; all of Eizellen was wrong. They had put more faith into Aragon and the other saints than they put in the human god. It was a mistake!

In a way, Logran was thankful for having been introduced to the saint for he too would still have been blind. He would have never been able to grow close to Michael. Logran endured his employment as a squire in order to continue to send gold to his parents. By thirteen, puberty was creeping. Logran became more assertive than subservient and made the mistake of demanding training lessons from Aragon. When would he teach him how to wield a sword? When Aragon refused to teach him, Logran boldly took Aragon’s cup of wine and dumped it all over him. Aragon chased Logran out into the yard as the boy had desired. Taking up his familiar arms—the hammer and barrel lid—Logran faced the infuriated Aragon who to his fright had called for one of his servants to bring his sword. Aragon didn’t stick him with it as he had thought he would have. He instead disarmed him and beat him with the pummel. In a struggle on the ground, Aragon held Logran down and attempted to carve his name onto his face. He started with “A” on his right cheek up to his eye. He managed to only scrawl the first leg and middle stem before Logran’s knee caught him between the legs. Bruised and bleeding, Logran scrambled away from the man in a daze only to be snagged and beaten into unconsciousness by the man’s fist. Logran recalled briefly waking to a white creature that resembled a deer licking the blood from his cheek. He awoke again in a bed with a single candle burning. Next to him was Marigold, tending to his wounds with a damp cloth.

Marigold, to his teenage eyes, had aged pleasantly. He noticed things about her that he hadn’t before. Her fiery-orange hair, her green eyes, and freckled face. Her lips were bowed and pink and formed one word to him: “Idjit.” That night had been the second time she had to clean him up, and it was the night that Logran forgot all about Aragon. The remaining three years he spent as a squire were spent watching Marigold. He didn’t know what had come over him. It was a sickness. She looked more and more beautiful to him every day. He had found himself acting a fool when she was involved, such as attempting to spy on her and the other maids when they were bathing in the river. He had gotten his ear yanked doing such a thing. What was more interesting was, she had done the same back. She would spy on him training in the yard, and one day, he caught her and playfully chased her through the yard and into the barn where they both would share their first kiss.

At fifteen-years-old, Logran was torn between going the route of a paladin or giving it up to marry Marigold. Could he be a squire his entire life? Aragon would never see him knighted. Squire? Huh, Logran had long ago accepted that he was just another servant to bow to Aragon’s greatness. Perhaps he could work at a tavern or inn? Or at the stables as a horsekeeper? Marigold had grown to be too gorgeous to be a servant girl and Logran was determined to make her his bride. Logran hadn’t been the only one to notice Marigold’s beauty. Aragon had seen them plenty of times together, and having sworn off woman for so long, the horrible ache he had thought he had buried when he had sworn himself to Michael and the Eizellen Church had reemerged and was unbearable in her presence.

Marigold was summoned to his quarters one evening, and locking the door, he took her against her will. Logran had searched everywhere for her, eager to grace her with the surprising proposal he had been practicing for two days and had finally gotten right. No other servants had seen her, but one said she had been summoned by Aragon. Logran went to the knight’s quarters and a fear clenched his heart as he drew closer to the door. The noises he heard. He peered through the keyhole at Aragon and a distressed Marigold. Logran knew not what had overcame him that night; at that moment. It had been disturbing even to him. Had it been rage? A rage so strong that he felt nothing; thought nothing; and that everything turned into a nightmare and like a puppet he was following along—no, he might have wanted to believe that he was a puppet. He was in complete control. Logran had distanced himself and ran so hard at Aragon’s door that when he threw his body against it, the wood shattered about the lock-bolt. Logran collapsed into the room, startling Aragon, and Logran could recall no words. He could only recall his enraged screams as he rushed for Aragon’s sword mount and yanked the blade from its scabbard. He had finally wielded a sword, and it hadn’t been to train. Had it been to exact justice? Logran murdered Aragon. No; he had murdered Sir Aragon Brightshield; Paladin Saint of Eizellen; The Dawnbringer.

It was like waking from a dream. Logran woke to find the sword in his hands, Aragon’s butchered body at his feet, and Marigold staring at him in horror from the bed. The cold waters of terror closed in around him, swallowing him. He had killed a saint and a man. His dreams; his hopes; they were gone. Everything was gone in that moment. Logran in a fearful panic abandoned the knight’s sword on the floor and attempted to beg Marigold to flee with him, but she no longer recognized him. Scared and mind broken from her sullying, she shrieked in a noise so dreadful that Logran fled to get away from it. He fled into the night with but the clothes on his back. He ran and never looked back. He was pursued by the church for years. Logran only had to hide for three. He allowed his beard to grow in and covered his right eye with a bandage to give the impression he only had one.

For three years, Logran lived with Michael in the wilderness, shaken by his sin. Being alone for so long had made him crazy. He began talking to himself to apparitions that didn’t exist, haunted by his guilt and shame. He was discovered by a group of pilgrims who lured him with a hot meal and promise of safety. They asked if he was a believer in Michael and asked him to join them on their pilgrimage to Eizellen. Frightened at first, Logran yielded in order to free himself from his insanity. He told the pilgrims no name and they didn’t ask for they believed him to be daft. He was “The Wild Man” to them. They returned to Eizellen and the city was hardly different than from what he remembered. There were wanted posters with a rough sketch of his face when he was younger on it. A statue of Aragon was erected in the square. The pilgrims stopped there to pray and Logran joined them only to not raise any suspicion. The Wild Man was not worried. He was nonexistent to those outside the Brightshield Estate. He could only guess they had gotten his description from one of the servants. The pilgrims told him what happened to Sir Brightshield. He had been killed trying to stop a rapist. They hadn’t been able to find the rapist, but they prayed for Michael to bring him to justice soon. The pilgrims didn’t know what happened to the victim, Marigold; but the mention of the rapist’s parents being executed for charges of protecting the saint slayer nearly made Logran retch. Logran left the pilgrims and Eizellen. He journeyed to his home in the prairies and discovered that it had been burned to the ground. He didn’t linger for fear who may be stalking the place. Logran instead returned to the wilderness to grieve.

In the wild, Logran wringed out his heart and laid in a pool of his depression, waiting to die. If a wolf or bear had eaten him then, then he would not have cared for he was ready to perish. One night, he was visited by the strange creature again. The creature had nuzzled his cheek, waking him from his perishing sleep and pranced away. Logran watched the creature stop and gaze back at him with its uncanny rack of horns rising into an ornate shape unlike anything he had ever seen on a normal creature. He weakly rose to his feet and followed it until he no longer knew what he was following for the creature vanished long ago. He came before a camp where a group of travelling performers were laughing, clapping, dancing, and playing music. When the performers gazed upon him, they were frightened by his gaunt appearance. Logran was who they would later name “Reed” for he was as thin as one when they found him. Nothing but skin and bones!

As Reed, Logran travelled with the friendly group that comprised: Ofelia, the acrobatic Otter-kin; Saevel, a fire-breathing and juggling surface elf; Norasgroir, a strongman dwarf; and Brandt and Heidi, a human singer and lute-playing pair. They were a happy folk and didn’t mind his presence. Reed didn’t know why he accompanied them. He had no reason not to, but they gave him purpose. He helped around the camp and helped them set up their performances. Overtime, he grew to love and trust his new family, and from them he learned a strange truth. The troupe didn’t believe in gods, denouncing them for personal reasons. Reed had asked them what had brought them to Eizellen that day. Brandt explained that they were kicked out of the city when the church deemed their performances inappropriate. In one of the acts, Saevel had pretended to be one of the beloved saints of Eizellen, Sir Brightshield, and offended many of the citizens with his satire. The church chased them out and Norasgroir claimed that it was because the Apotheoses were in full manipulative control of the city. They didn’t want anything that would poison the flock of idiots’ minds. It had been the first time Reed had ever heard of the Apotheoses. It fascinated him how large the world was and how so many secrets were hidden in it.

During their travels, Reed demonstrated his skill with a mallet in helping the troupe protect the camp from bandits. At the next city, Norasgroir stopped by the smithy of a cousin of his and together they built and forged Reed a hammer by the name of Glosgnir. It was dwarven tongue for “giant.” The giant’s hammer was Reed’s new weapon, and it was too heavy for him to properly wield at first. Norasgroir was confident Reed would grow into it, and overtime, he did.

The troupe’s travels led them around The Hook to a city none had ventured to before. It was a ghost town, and it made each of them uncomfortable. Ofelia, being more attuned with her sixth sense than the rest, alerted the group that she believed they had stumbled into Valgar, the City of the Undead. Many tales were told of the city, but no one had expected to ever find it or had the city found them? The troupe turned to leave, but their way was blocked by a group of shambling corpses. Ofelia shook the group from their terror by screaming at them to fight. If they didn’t fight, then they would be lost in the city’s madness. The troupe fought their way out until the first sign of madness was seen. Norasgroir clubbed Saevel in the back of his head with a club unable to tell the difference between him and the creatures. Ofelia was rolling on the ground screaming about worms bursting out of her fur and skin. Brandt had a thousand-mile stare as he gazed upon the body of Saevel after Norasgroir had murdered him. Everyone was going insane and Reed could feel the madness trying to split open his head. He grasped a fistful of his hair as he winced in his desperation to clear his mind. Upon lowering his fist, he didn’t see hair clenched in it but the writhing worms Ofelia had been screaming about. They were crawling down his face!

Screaming and trying to shake the worms from his head, a white figure brought his eyes to the wagon. It had been but a wink, but Reed knew it to have been that creature again. Reed steeled himself, uttered a brief prayer to Michael for strength, and strode over to Brandt, grabbing him and dragging him to the wagon. He tossed the man into the back of it and the sudden tremble of the wagon startled Heidi out of her shocked coma to snap the reins. The wagon rolled over Ofelia who had fallen before it, crushing her. Norasgroir had fallen having fought too deeply into the undead ranks and was overwhelmed. Reed charged through the opening Heidi had made with the wagon and continued to chase it until he cleared the city and the cloud of madness. The wagon was long gone by the time Reed found his breath to be able to search for it. In but a moment, again, everything was gone.

Reed began to notice a trend in his luck. It hadn’t been the first time the creature appeared to him and each time it was as though he was guided to or away from something or someone. The undead ichor on the end of his hammer began to burn away in a white flame. What did it all mean? Reed ventured away from the undead city, silently mourning the loss of his friends and how he was alone again. Reed wasn’t sure if he would ever see Heidi or Brandt again, and he was in no mood to play woe-as-me again. Over the years, his bond with the troupe had made him stronger. He started to suspect that the reason the troupe suffered worse than him from the city’s madness was because they were godless. It was because of his faith in Michael that he was able to overcome his numerous counters with adversity.

With Glosgnir in hand, Reed travelled the rest of The Hook alone, hoping to one day see Heidi and Brandt again. He worked a few jobs as an honest sellsword punishing the wicked and searching for lost or stolen children and people. With the money he earned, he was able to purchase Dwarvish armor. He would never forget the words of his old friend that only the dwarves knew their way best around a forge. He kept his name Reed for it hadn’t been a sullied name, and those who he helped gave him another name, “The Dark Paladin.” Reed wore black for he did not believe he was absolved from his sins and thus was not pure, but deep down, he believed himself to still be a good man. Riding back up the coast upon a black steed, the dark paladin headed north.

Writing Sample

[Tangletail]

Raux the Silve-Eyed Monk

Name: Raux (pronounced Row) the Silvereyed Monk

Gender: Female
Age: 17
Class:
Major – Monk
Minor – Bard
God: Michael, as odd as this sounds, this is the god she studied under the care of humans since she was a cub. However she’s not devout and is conflicted.
Spirit Animal – A lamb

Appearance: Raux stands at an average height of 5’ 8”, but her well trained body sports densely packed muscle and bone bringing her weight to a little over three hundred pounds. The beastkin’s body resembles that of a cougar. From face all the way down to her large digi-graded feet, and fur color as well. And in beastkin standards, she is fairly attractive. The feminine curves on her body, and her soft voice are the only obviously visible signs of her being female. On her head is a mane form many ropelike stands of hair formed by braiding. And as a tell-tale sign of her blindness, her eyes are a milky white.

Her clothes are a kitbash of rags of cloth of varying thickness and tatters of robes. Her flat chest is covered by ribbons of cloth wrapping around like a series of bandages forming a vest, and accumulating around her neck in a messy bundle. Starting at the half point of her stomach, the same treatment has been applied as her chest. The rags work their way under a thick rope belt and soon become much larger forming something close to a loin cloth like long skirt.

More rags of cloth rest on her head. The wrappings work their way around her head starting at the bridge of her nose, and climbing over her heads to her mane. The rags not only cover her eyes, but force her mane to flow backwards and out of her face. Though it did trap several ropes on either side of her face, each of which had an decorative copper ornament at the end.

Actual bandages work there ways around her forearms, and encase her hands and fingers to act as support. A pair of monk’s combat gloves cover her hands. A glove with a tough and rigid padding designed to be for the user’s protection and not the victims. A length of the finger portion has been cut back to allow for her claws to poke through. And climbing down from her shoulders to her arms are a series of circular overlapping metal plates tied in place by leather straps.

And lastly, a pair of leather braces encase and support her feral like ankles, while allowing her large paws to remain barefoot.

Personality: A beastkin with a gentle heart, a sharp tongue, and a tendency towards honest words. She might not be the brightest, but she’s certainly not dimwitted and is quite quick at catching on to things. She has no problem with saying what’s on her mind, as hurtful as it may be. And while it seems like she does not understand what sort of emotions may come from her words, really it is just that she believes that communication is healthy for any amount of friendship or relationship. Unlike most beastkin she seeks peace and beauty – and should she ever raise her fist to take a life… it is only with the purpose to destroy what must be removed from the world. Or in self-defense.

Equipment:

• Her life long companion, and something she is rarely ever without, a simple quarterstaff. The blind monk is rarely seen to be parted with it for long. Not only is it her walking stick, but it is also her only weapon that is not some part of her body.
• A lute with several years of life. It has been handed to her by a wandering bard that had managed to captivate her with his… bardly charms. She had traveled with said bard, and began to quickly pick up the art of music before they parted ways.
• Her only true source of protection on her is the scale sleeves of plates that lines the outside of her arms.
• A simple backpack
• Rations: Dried meats, small potatos, hard tacks, pickles.
• A waterskin
• A well used traveler’s cloak.

Skills:

Major – Martial Arts
Like many monks, a portion of her time has been devoted to the practice of martial arts. She had honed her skills over the years and had sparred with many of the monks. She won man matches against her fellow students, but has yet to best her masters.

Minor – Song and Dance
Being blind and alone does not allow for much in the way of entertainment. And often times she had to entertain herself or risk losing her sanity from boredom. And outside of entertainment, it can be quite relaxing to hear a lovely voice in the air.

Magic: Ki is simply a name for this form of magic that is used in conjunction with the practice of martial arts. The discovery of it is taught, but the practice will always vary from person to person. For Raux, her magic lies in augments. Thus she has the capability of temporarily stopping the bleeding of her own wounds, strengthening or reinforcing her body, enhance her speed, or to enhance her senses.

Strengths:

• Although it is a malady, her blindness offers a benefiting strength. Her lack of sight not only prevents her from being fooled by visual illusions, but it also prevents her from being distracted by senseless and half hearted movements. Her other senses have became much more sensitive with the lack of vision, and her excellent hearing and sense of smell makes her an incredibly difficult victim to ambush or to sneak up on.
• She is quite a fast and acrobatic monk with sharp reflexes. And she has no problems with using this against her foes to dodge incoming strikes, and counter by fluidly moving into her next attack.
• The hardships she faced had done quite a bit for improving her endurnace. She has no problems with lasting for extended periods of time without food or rest.

Weakness:
While it may seem like she has completely overcome the need for eyesight, there are some complications. As brilliant as her sense of smell and hearing are, these become null and void when scents and noises begin to intermingle, mix, and spread heavily onto other bodies, or heavily saturate the air making it harder to find something that stands out.

Her lack of proper armor or protection is more detrimental than it seems. While there are ways to get around good armor, it is still typically difficult to do. In her case, her ki can only do so much when it comes to protecting her body against weapons. While she can enhance her fur to be substantially resilient to slashes, the protection calls apart if someone were to slash against the grain or were to strike a point where the fur had been sheared off.

History:

Raux was born to a nomadic commune of proud hunters and warriors. They sought only healthy children who could one day grow to be a great addition to the tribe and the race. And though it may bring some parents pain, they see it as a mercy to end the life of infants with deficiencies - than to allow them to grow, suffer, and eventually be killed. Unfortunately, Raux happened to be among those pittiable children. She was born blind, evidenced by her lack of visible pupils. Following tradition, her father was forced to end her life. The few weeks he has had with his child alone made it difficult to bring a blade to her. And so, he decided to cast her to the river and leave before he could hear his child hit the water.

By either the work of a miracle, an act of some god, or just pure dumb luck, the wailing cub had managed to land on some drift wood when she was tossed. The current of the river carried her away from the babling brook. Through, roaring rapids, and to the start of a lake where a group of human monks were collecting jars of water to take back to the monastery.

When the monks spotted her, they fished her from the lake and took her into their care. In her first few years of her life she was treated as if she was helpless. She was given no chores, was kept from practice of martial arts, and was not allowed to walk around on her own. Through these years, she began to ask existential questions. Questions such as, ‘what am I’, and ‘what color is my fur’

But eventually, after building a knowledge of the her localized world. She began to yearn to be treated as an equal. And eventually she demanded such. Hearing her woes, they decide to allow her to enter the same life style. And from there, she began to train, do chores, be punished, and more - like the rest of the monks. She fumbled, screwed up, and made a mess of things. But with time she learned how to get around her condition. And eventually, she wasn’t so blind. She was able to navigate well, hold her own against and even defeat the other students.

After a few years, her mind began to wonder about beauty. A favorite parable of hers would constantly echo in her mind, and drown out other thoughts. She stared out to the world, and saw nothing. But… eventually, she left on her own journey to discover beauty for herself.

Posting Color: Salmon

Post Sample
Sample 2

[MelonHead]

Hraakir

Character Sheet

Name: Hraakir (prounounced Hur-rak-ir)

Age: 32

Race: Dragonoid

Class:

Major: Outlander (living as a Nomad in the wilds)

Minor: Tracker, scout, pathfinder, outlander

God: Ouroboros

Appearance:

Hraakir is powerfully built, standing just under six and a half foot tall, with glistening red scales mottled with dark green. Dressed in furs and trophies, he looks the part of a wildling or a ferocious beast. His eyes are lizard-like and yellow. His fur armour is more decorative than functional, with a large opening at the back for his reddish green wings to unfold and propel him briefly through the air.

Personality: Aloof and very fearsome, Hraakir embodies the essence of a true dragon without the physical body to match. He is greedy for knickknacks and gold, and very unstable when angered, which is often. His education is very limited in scope, which can make him seem quite stupid to the more scholarly, but his practical knowledge of the wilderness by comparison is quite extensive.

Spirit Animal: Komodo Dragon

Equipment: Furs, trophies, flint, tinder, rations, waterskin, iron halberd, bone hand-axes.

Skills:
Outdoorsman (tracking, hunting, surviving essentially)
Beserking (fighting with primal force and rage rather than any particular skill)

Magic: Inner Fire

Some Dragonoids are blessed by their god to take on a greater semblance of their draconic heritage, namely in the form of the Inner Fire. Produced deep within them with a mixture of biological and magical components, the Inner Fire warms a Dragonoid in the harshest of climes, and can even be projected outwards through their mouths in a breath of fire like the dragons of old.

Weaknesses: The Inner Fire works like a furnace, without providing it with fuel (scorched meat in excess of two pounds a day) it will flicker and dim and the Dragonoid will lose all benefits until they can rekindle it.

Projecting the Inner Fire as a breath weapon is a high risk high reward strategy, the sudden torrent of flame is more than capable of incinerating a group of enemies unprepared for the attack, but the Inner Fire will then be used up and must be rekindled, which can take up to three days and a lot of meat and rest. The fire scorching through Hraakir’s throat is also quite painful, and makes his voice hoarse for up to a day after use.

Strength: Pure physicality, Hraakir is large, imposing, and very strong. He can dominate a single opponent in combat with a flurry of powerful strikes from his halberd and will happily wade into a fight he should lose. As a Dragonoid, he has natural armour in the form of scaling, that can ward off lesser blows in a pinch.

Weakness: Hraakir hates Minotaurs and will rage within ten to twenty seconds of seeing one. It would be near impossible for him to work with a Minotaur without looking for a way to kill the beast. Hraakir has no conventional education, he cannot read or write. When the Inner Fire is dim, Hraakir is incredibly vulnerable to water and cold, both of which rapidly decrease his body temperature until he may succumb to hypothermia. He couldn’t even manage to swim across a small river without the Inner Fire fully kindled.

Post Color: This

History: Hraakir was born in a mountain-range far north of the Hook known by a different name to his tribe. As mentioned, he lived among a group of Dragonoid nomads who herded cattle, particularly a vast group of goats, through the north. Their movements coincided with the arrival of different migratory animals, particularly seals, whales and bison, who they met and slaughtered for furs, oils, and meat.

Hraakir's tribe, known as the Redscales, were all Dragonoid and most had the Inner Fire. They were isolationist, fairly hostile to outsiders, and warred near constantly with the roving Minotaur bands in the frigid north. Hraakir lost two cousins and a brother to Minotaurs, and killed two of the cow people himself before he turned thirty. He carried his hatred of the Bovine race with him his entire life, as much instinctual as learned.

The Redscales were devout followers of Ouroboros and made ritualistic sacrifices of captured Minotaurs to their god, not to mention offering up meats and wordly goods. As the gods power began to fail, the Redscales mourned the disconnection with Ouroboros, and the Minotaurs gained the upperhand as the Inner Fire began to dim in all of them.

Desperation set in as the Fire dimmed, and three of the Redscales set off south towards the Hook, where they believed the source of their troubles lay. Hraakir was one of those three, and in the south, he found a group that explained to him why the gods had abandoned those below. The Apotheoses. They had to be destroyed.

Post Sample:

[AoStar]

Evi Olaurae

Evi Olaurae

(ehh-vee)

Race: Drow
God: Beautiful Goddess Lloth
Age: 19

Class:
Major: Magician/Trickster
Minor: Assassin

Appearance:
Slim-figured, Evi stands at a height of 5 feet and 2 inches, with a bodyweight of about 100 pounds. The bluntly cut silver strands atop her head cascade down to her collarbone, framing a youthful face. In terms of physical appearance, not much separates her from other young female drow. She wears a light-weight hooded cloak, and leather pants well-fitted to her legs.

Personality:
One may find it hard to reach anything near an intimate relationship with Evi due to her explosive personality. A young, immature, and selfish drow, Evi struggles with many things, her own emotions being one of them. Despite her efforts to keep a cool head, she's always felt every essence strongly--joy and hate, love and disgust, sadness and hunger, are just a few. Mere obligations such as holding her tongue when speaking to a higher figure, or stepping away from a battle when she knows she's outmatched, are acts she's consistently found herself unable to achieve, while easy for others.

Ymeera, her teacher and closest human friend, would often scold her for her ego, that of which has gotten Evi in more trouble than not. Many of the decisions the young drow makes are inevitably answered based on how she feels at the time. She's never considered herself to be loyal, and she rarely ever assists another if there isn't certainty of the favor being returned. This, in the past, has left her wide open to those who recognize her vanity and manipulate her to do their bidding. Nevertheless, there are times when Evi's selfishness comes forth to guide her, when she's feeling particularly righteous, humble, or grateful, leading her down the path of greater goodness, but as she's not very considerate even these acts may come as an inconvenience to others.

Her conflicted conscience sways back and forth between being concerned with what is morally righteous, and doing only what is in her own personal favor or self-preservation. Crimes such as murder, torture, and theft are not a concern for Evi as long as it does not involve people she cares about, and those people are few. In fact, the act of taking others' lives is more of a chore, and she'd rather engage herself with practicing spells or conning others out of their money.

Spirit Animal:
Viper

Equipment:
This drow does not carry much equipment, aside from her 6in. dagger, a pouch secured around her waist to keep rations and a tiny spell book, and the sword given to her by a suitor. One of her primary goals is to be as lightweight as possible, even if that means carrying less in the ways of clothing and food than may be necessary.

Skills:

• Major: Before meeting Ymeera, Evi taught herself to use small spells, mainly for the purpose of entertaining the younger drow of her family and tricking foolish humans out of their hard-earned silver. Of course, these little tricks don't always work, especially on those more familiar with magic. Still, every now and then Evi's able to show off her ability to make a rabbit disappear, or make a peppermint candy out of old birch, and if nothing else it's an escape from boredom when she's not completing an assassination.
• Minor: Evi's nearly mastered the art of a quick kill. She's skilled in being a sneaky little drow, approaching her targets swiftly but quietly, before ending them with her dagger and making a hastily leave. The dagger has become almost an extension of her own being, and with a quick flick of the wrist she's able to slit a throat or impale an unsuspecting victim from behind.

Magic:
Evi loves using what Ymeera calls 'trickster' magic, what some think of as low-level, dirty magic. Certain spells come in handy daily, such as a quick gust of wind seemingly coming from nowhere but knocking a vase over in order to distract her target, or heating up one's seat to a temperature that makes them jump as the drow conceals a mischievous chuckle behind her hand. These small spells do not deplete her soul much, and Evi has yet to see the limit of how much magic she can successfully use.

That limit would be, as if the Goddess Lloth herself had given a nod towards Evi's venomous spirit animal, a deadly miasma. Only once was Evi able to tap into her soul to bring out this much of her magic, and the result was not a kill; the miasma caused the target to hallucinate, but only for a few quick moments.

Strength:
Blessed with a tiny frame and short stature, Evi is quite quick on her feet. One of her greatest strengths is her ability to run and dodge attacks with grace. Her body moves instinctively after years of training, to the point of being able to dodge attacks when she has yet to even mentally register a threat. Due to her size, she's accustomed to squeezing into small, lovely dark spaces, beneficial for stealth, and has no issue climbing tall objects. While she has a special place in her heart for the brutish hand-to-hand combat (which was her normal choice of combat as an assassin) she is also a novice at casting spells, learning more and more each day with Ymeera alongside her.

Evi's ego-centric mental state allows her to make decisions quickly and without regret. She tends to be a very courageous drow and almost always goes for the kill, much like her spirit animal.

Weakness:
Also due to Evi's ego-centric mental state, she's had trouble in the area of befriending or persuading other beings. It should come as a shock that she has a single loyal companion, as her quick tongue, inconsiderateness, and disloyalty often pushes people away. The drow is not the most intelligent around, and being impulsive usually serves making her matters worse. She's very impressionable and easy to manipulate.

Physically, she's not considerably strong, nor can she take many hits. It's no surprise to her when a spell fails to cast correctly, and it's even less of a surprise to her when she's found she's outmatched in skill. Sword fighting is a large point of weakness for her, for while she does carry an eccentric blade, she's more accustomed to a small dagger, and the larger blade slows her down. Heavy armor slows her down too a much greater extent, so she chooses not to wear armor, leaving herself exposed to what could be a fatal attack.

History:
Port Jinn —
Evi was born in a small shack on the very outskirts of the city, among her large and backwards family of drow. Brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, all seemed to be somewhat successfully living under one tiny roof, with very limited resources. While she was too young to be embarrassed by the eccentricities of her family relative to the other drow (the fact that most of her family was uneducated, unemployed, and a bit brutish), the constant watchful eyes and competitive atmosphere between herself and her siblings and cousins effectively sealed her as a child who often lashed out, kept secrets, and had trouble expressing her feelings.

Despite all this, Evi's father cherished her. He did not have much in the way of accomplishments, and most of what he did have he gambled away, but he saw in Evi what he never saw in himself. Everything that he had left to give, he gave to her, including the young human female, Ymeera, as a teacher. At that age, Ymeera taught Evi anything Evi had a hankering to know, whether it involved magic, math, science, or geography, and her favorite: tales of the ruthless goddess. Evi was far from a good pupil, but Ymeera grew fond of the female drow.

Ymeera would lend an ear to Evi after schoolwork had been completed, and the two would stay up long nights discussing whatever Evi wished to discuss. Evi would tell Ymeera tales of the mischief she'd gotten herself into that day, how that wizard had the downright funniest look on his face she'd ever seen and how she'd try a new spell on him the next day simply because he deserved it, how much she wished to cross the sea and visit all of the islands of Allaria, especially up north because she'd heard of monstrous Dragonoids, and oh how she wished to explore the entire world.

Almost everyday the drow would bring up this wish, but Ymeera would discourage her and change the subject. In her heart, she wanted to help Evi, but she knew that it was not right to do so. If Evi's family discovered she'd taken their daughter on a dangerous journey with only the clothes on their backs, to fend for themselves? She was sure she'd have her head situated on a wall within that shack. That family was nearly as merciless the goddess herself.

Much to Ymeera's astonishment, Evi took it upon herself to leave. Accompanied by Sorna, a handsome male drow whom had informed Evi that the Apotheosis would be taking over Port Jinn, he owned a ship, and it would be best to leave immediately, Evi's only thoughts were that she would finally get a taste of the freedom she'd been dreaming of.

This time much to Evi's astonishment, the male drow and his shipmates were revealed to be a band of pirates on sea and bandits on land, vigilantes calling themselves Port Jinn Protectors, acting in favor of the Apotheosis. Wherever there seemed to be resistance rising, they changed their course towards that direction. Most of the actions of the group were silent and behind scenes, and they were lead by the mysterious and intelligent witch Poembi. Some of the uprisers Port Jinn Protectors targeted 'disappeared', and a lot of that work was done by Evi herself.

Poembi coerced Evi into becoming an assassin for her, as that was the only use the witch could find for the drow based on the little skill Evi possessed. While Evi did not necessarily enjoy the work of sneaking into windows and holding a pillow against a sleeping face, Poembi very easily won her over by ensuring her that if she would stay with the band she'd be able to travel all of Allaria, and ultimately, the entire world.

On a semiannual stop to replenish resources and consult with persons Evi did not know the significance of, the Protectors returned to the warzone Port Jinn, and Evi accomplished sneaking off of the ship for the first time. Despite the danger, she yearned to reunite with her lifelong teacher and only friend. Now dorned in the black clothes Poembi had gifted her, and carrying the sword the Sorna had gifted her, she stood on the steps of what used to be Ymeera's academy and waited to see if she would pass by. Conveniently, it was not a long wait, but the human girl did not recognize the drow at all, and walked passed Evi before Evi grabbed her, startling her. Evi removed her hood, revealing to her friend it was only her. Ymeera had many questions, and Evi had many of her own，but there was no time for answers.

Sorna and his bandit brothers had discovered them.

When the two were escorted back to the ship, Poembi had the decision to either kill them both, or have them work for her. While she was exceedingly disheartened by Evi's disloyalty, her assassin was too highly skilled now to be put to waste, and the human girl seemed to be very knowledgeable about a wide variety of topics. After much consideration, the witch allowed them to stay with the band, which meant keeping their lives.

She announced that the next destination would be north, and Evi made a plan to find freedom once more.

[MuadDib]

Ulysses

Name: Ulysses

Race: Human

God: Michael

Age: 25

Class: Swashbuckler, Shipwright, Pilot

Personality: Ulysses is a tactician through and through, approaching life as a constant measurement of chance and contingency. She carries this same philosophy into her relationships, placing any particular individual upon her invisible scales and deciding whether they might provide a worthwhile service. This disposition has isolated her from her peers, fostering an appearance of indifference. A kernel of truth lies therein, for Ulysses has always struggled to feel sympathy toward her fellow man, quicker to salvage the remains of her ship than to answer the pleas of a dying shipmate. Not many of Ulysses' crew can speak for her amiability; in fact, a shipmate is more likely to receive the sting of her whip than a word of encouragement. Despite the harsh conditions on board, Ulysses' crews are known for their undying loyalty, inspired by her nautical wisdom and relentless drive to move ever onward.

Magic: During her travels Ulysses has picked up a few magical abilities, most used only for nautical purposes. These include farsight, allowing her to view distant objects; a balancing ability which allows her to maintain her bearings when the ship is bucking; and the ability to breathe under water for a short time.

Strengths: Ulysses is a tactician first and foremost, able to out-maneuver her foes at sea or on land. In addition to being a practiced tactician, Ulysses is a brilliant hustler and swindler. When not at sea, she makes her fortune by taking the local tavern regulars for a ride, fooling them out of a week's pay. Ulysses is also practiced in the arts of ship building and piloting, among other nautical skills. She is also practiced in sword fighting.

Weaknesses: Ulysses has not been known to warm up to people, viewing close relationships as a distraction and a weakness waiting to be exploited. While this philosophy has helped her in the past, it has made it particularly difficult to gain the trust of others. In addition, during times of battle and war, Ulysses believes only in overwhelming victory or death. More often than not, this comes at the expense of fellow shipmates or soldiers.

History: Ulysses knows neither father nor mother. The day after a particularly harsh storm, a village priest and his page were taking a stroll along the beach. Drawn by the distant cries of a struggling babe, the page found an infant child that had washed ashore, naked but for a cloak of seaweed. It was as if the child had been spawned directly from the sea's tumultuous waves. The priest and his page took the infant door-to-door across their village, hoping to find a mother or father, but to no avail. Eventually it fell upon the priest's monastery to care for the child and she was thus reared by committee, each priest taking turns caring and providing for the orphan. They named her Ulysses, after the fabled adventurer that roamed the seas.

The priests cared for Ulysses for the first eight years of her life. As the child grew, so too did her restless spirit. Even in her infancy, the priests struggled to calm the child during her more tempestuous fits. Entering the autonomous stages of life, Ulysses was nearly always getting into some sort of mischief. To curb her behavior somewhat, the priests allowed her to enter into an apprenticeship with one of the local fisherman. She caught on to the tricks of the trade well enough, but seemed more fascinated with the operation of the sailboat than anything else. Unfortunately, Ulysses has always known a tempest to follow her wherever she goes, and even the tranquil lifestyles cannot escape its grasp. On the eve of summer's solstice, the village was sacked by a roaming gang of pirates, arriving by sea just before the local fishermen were to wake and cast the morning's first nets. The captain of the roaming buccaneers found Ulysses trapped under the corpse of a priest; he had apparently thrown himself across her to block the blow of a blade. A look of sympathy crossed the captain's features.

Ulysses was taken aboard their ship. The trauma of the event had cast a dark shadow upon her, robbing her of the quirky personality she had once expressed and instead yielding a husk of a child, showing little to no emotion. The captain was determined to break this spell, conveying his guilt to her by wrapping the crew member responsible for murdering many of the priests in chains and casting him overboard. Apparently this was standard procedure for Captain Suane's ship, for he did not tolerate the murder of innocent common folk. Convictions of rape yielded even harsher punishments. Ulysses was unmoved by his gesture, however, and Suane was at a loss. It wasn't until he began to show Ulysses the methods of sailing and navigation that he noticed a change in her behavior. Ulysses caught on quick and Suane was happy to teach her. She also began to learn how to properly run a ship and its crew, in particular the ideal that a ship is essentially its own sovereign state, one where the Captain both creates the laws and ensures that they are properly carried out.

Much like any other sovereign state, however, governments and their people are liable to revolution. A mutiny occurred roughly four years after Ulysses had joined their crew. By this time she had yet to even join the crew on any of their exploits, but could still sense tension among the buccaneers, even taking note of how the captain was being isolated from his own men. The mutiny was orchestrated by Suane's own first mate and occurred with as little warning as their sacking of Ulysses' village. In those four years Ulysses had grown very close to the captain, nicknamed "Suane's little shadow" among members of the crew. She attempted to resist but was put down easily, locked away below decks while the other third of the crew was purged by sword. The first mate Jin explained to her the necessity for fresh leadership on board a marauder's ship, that mutiny was as common as the changing of the tides. Ulysses was still uncooperative, but even so Jin promised her her freedom on board if she simply fell in line. He saw value in raising a young swashbuckler, even if she resisted at first. Jin was forced to deprive Ulysses of food, but she eventually accepted him as her captain. In much the same way as Suane, Jin took Ulysses under his wing, explaining to her that Suane had grown weak in his later years as captain, that he had grown too old and too sympathetic. While these characteristics might be noble, they are easily exploited and can mean disaster for a captain and his crew.

Ulysses began joining Jin and his crew on their escapades, harrying small coastal villages and ransacking merchant ships. The crew had begun to make a name for itself, and therefore a reputation among local authorities. They had their first run in with an armed ship during Ulysses' ninth year on board. They defeated the ship, boarding it and putting the crew to the sword, but only just. Jin's crew suffered a great many casualties, with just the right amount of men left to man the sails and bring it to port. It was at their hideaway that Captain Adjuah of [NATION'S NAME] launched his ambush. The Navy had sent the initial ship as a distraction, while Adjuah and his men waited from the shore and followed Jin's ship as it limped away from the battle. Ulysses, knowing that her only advantage in this situation was her young age, cowered in a corner and wailed while the crew was slaughtered. Her grief was real, but she found only numbness where she once felt pain, using that apathy to feign emotion. When she met Adjuah for the first time, her story was simple: the crew had burned her village to the ground, kidnapped her, and kept her for their own vile purposes.

Adjuah and his crew were on an extended assignment, and due to time constraints could not simply dump Ulysses off at the nearest coastal village. Therefore, Ulysses became an honorary member of their crew. It was not difficult for Ulysses to accept Adjuah as her new captain, knowing well enough that she could not let her emotions compromise her survival. It was true that Adjuah had military training, but it soon became clear that the rest of the crew did not. Upon inquiry, Ulysses learned that Adjuah was not an official member of the [NATION'S NAME] navy, but rather a privateer, manning a privately owned ship with commission from a local government. Adjuah's mission was no more complicated than that of a simple bounty hunter, charged mainly with investigating occurrences of piracy on the high seas and bringing those responsible to justice. More often than not, this meant the wholesale slaughter of pirates and other such marauders. Ulysses admired Adjuah and the way he captained his ship. Even moreso, she admired his massive book collection that he kept stowed away in his cabin, spending many lazy days at sea absorbing all she could, mostly stories of famous ship captains and books containing general nautical knowledge. In much the same way that she shadowed Suane and Jin, Ulysses followed Adjuah everywhere when she was not occupied by a book. From him she learned not only further knowledge of how to run a ship and its crew, but also military tactics, how to use weather and environment to your advantage and how to catch your opponent off-guard. Nautical warfare, and warfare in general, was akin to a game of chess, "And all the more better if I could perceive the future," Adjuah would often say.

In less than a year Ulysses was a full-fledged and valued member of Adjuah's crew, spending the next decade of her life hopping from one privateering vessel to the next. Life expectancy aboard a privateering ship was not high, Adjuah dying only three years after accepting Ulysses into his crew. She would know many captains after him. Ulysses killed pirates and brigands with little remorse, aware that there was no comradeship on the high seas, only opportunity. It was common for privateers to be tasked with harrying the coasts of rival villages or kingdoms, and it was then that she realized that there was little difference between a pirate and a civil servant; they all served themselves in the end.

Recently, Ulysses has been searching for her own crew, determined to captain a ship of her own and take to the seas once again.

Couples of notes about my character sheet:

- Didn't know the flexibility of nations/kingdoms/whatever, so I didn't include any names when mentioning people associated with a particular nation

- Although I mention Ulysses as a captain in certain explanations, she's not. If she's mentioned as a captain, it's all hypothetical in order to flesh out her character a bit more.