[CHAR] Black Lily [High Casual]

NPCs / Major Characters

Angelina Lucianne

_{Angelina Lucianne}

_{Role - Guild Master of Black Lily}

_{**Work-In-Progress**}

[Concept]

Name

Gabriel

Age

Thirty - Four

Gender

Male

Appearance

Quintessential is most accurate when describing the physicality of the mercenary who introduces himself only as Gabriel. His body--a mixed complexion of olive skin and shades thereof--is solid from a full life of laboring and fighting, both with friends and enemies. Heavy lines contour his form, each muscle group clearly defined though not necessarily perfectly symmetrical in their visual. Though he appears lean as a taller man in light armor, his limbs are thicker than they appear--suffice it to say, Gabriel seems to be built in a functional manner versus the absolute hulking mass of some of his old comrades. His bare self is also littered with all manner of scars and old wounds though his face managed to stay completely free of the ugly marks.

His visage is equally defined and sharp with a strong jawline hidden under a short beard and goatee. Almond-shaped green eyes create a deceptively relaxed expression under slightly thick eyebrows that seem furrowed most of the time--a complete contradiction in emotion and a quirk that makes Gabriel’s countenance all the more difficult to interpret. Long brown locks round out the middle-aged merc and he insists on keeping them bound in a short ponytail considering one can never know when they will need to be ready for action.

His armor is a combination of leather hide and hardened steel plates that are attached to the leather in order to keep mobility the primary focus with a little light protection. Chest plate, rounded shoulder plates with a leather base, and greaves are the heaviest parts of Gabriel’s custom forged armor with much smaller plates cut to fit various parts of his leather gauntlets--if ever a punch or two is necessary--and a layer of chain mail protecting his abdomen, obliques, and lower back. Since his armor was a gift, each plate was dyed black and painted with thin, golden lines in an ornate style giving his attire an interesting black and brown motif with golden trim. Under his armor, he wears only a simple set of ebony hosen, matching tunic with a higher collar, and leather boots.

Personality

An oddly energetic appreciation for life permeates Gabriel’s persona even against the general hardness of his outward appearance. He is social and has a tendency to approach strangers first whether out of genuine interest or a lack of fear of consequences of any kind. He can be callous and sarcastic, but also possesses a trait of brutal honesty that, in some twisted way, can be appreciated because lies are the last thing a man of his caliber would ever let slip from his tongue. It is clear to all that the one-armed mercenary enjoys murder and thievery, but in reality it’s more that he enjoys the thrill of danger and the adrenaline rush one gains when a situation goes south and can only be settled through violent means. His brushes with death and the general turn of his life have given the man a unique perspective on what it means to enjoy it each day and he seems to strive to live in a way that fully suits him, anyone else and everything else be damned. It’s the opposite of a personality some would expect from a hardened mercenary, but Gabriel is anything but stereotypical in his middle age.

Weapon(s)

Gabriel carries only a few essential weapons to keep his load light. Attached to his belt under his lower back is the upper portion of a broken spear--the spearhead and part of the stem, a piece which holds sentimental value. The belt itself houses a multitude of small knives which are primarily used for throwing while his primary weapon is a simple double-edged sword with a custom-forged circular crossguard. In addition to these, the merc is capable of efficient unarmed combat and that is part of the reason he opts not carry a larger arsenal.

Magic User

No

History

There is not a child born in Pratus without a family name and even the mercenary who would eventually come to be known simply as “Gabriel” started out life with a proper surname. He was born to an average family, his father choosing to make his trade as a blacksmith and his mother simply resigning herself to household duties. Life was routine for the small family with the couple’s son helping his mother with household chores while constantly wondering what life was like for a man who had the fortune to make weapons for the city guard. In the son’s eyes, his father was the luckiest person in Pratus and he longed to be invited to his forge if even just to watch his hero at work. When he was old enough to go to school, he would stop by the forge in secret, catching glimpses of that well-worn hammer smashing down on a fresh, molten blade or a client beaming in approval at their newest possession. These simple times would not last, however.

Jealous of the man’s work and popularity with the guard, rival forges unified and hired the local thieves guild to stage a robbery during a particularly important commission. When the guard arrived to receive their order, everything was gone save for old, broken equipment and weapons and when the guard searched the man’s house suspecting him of the theft, their claims were confirmed in moments. The son’s father was arrested on the spot and without his income to get them by, they lost everything. The son and his mother were banished from the city once they couldn’t pay their dues and they ended up in a small village just a few miles away with other poor souls who couldn’t afford the protection of the walled paradise. Life took a drastically different turn after that.

Unfortunately, the village of Heston had garnered an infamous reputation as the town that bandits, mercenaries, and general shady types passed through in order to get to The Disk or where those same types met their clients and conducted their precarious business deals. In order to scrape by, the widow of a now hanged blacksmith invited various types of men--and even some women--to her and her son’s small home at different times of the day. These meetings would not last long, but the son had now grown old enough to understand what was going on and he made it his business to stay out of the house as much as possible. He had taken to stealing to survive and attacking those who caught him in order to keep what he stole. Heston was too poor to afford guards of any kind so violence was nothing new for the village. The boy continued his ways until he finally caught the eye of a man who would change his life one more time.

It had been a simple, but petty brawl at the tavern. A group of boys had finally found the teenage thief who had been accused of stealing anything not nailed down and they sought to teach him a lesson. At the same time, a traveling band of mercenaries had just rolled into town seeking respite from a long journey and their chosen form of relaxation involved beer. The men paid no attention to the squabbling children until the teenage boy attacked the hostile group. Being outnumbered five to one ensured a good beating that day, but one of the mercs found himself drawn to the bruised and battered boy. He offered him a hand and inquired about the boy’s parents, already considering the possibility of taking the young man under his wing. Though quiet for a moment or two, the boy would simply reply that he had none. Then and there, the merc introduced himself as Arthur Gaines and offered the boy what he considered a better life--apprentice of a mercenary, able to travel a bit and see more of the world while even honing his extremely rough combat skills and, most importantly, earning coin which would allow him to take of care of himself. The boy eagerly agreed and though Arthur had never asked him his name, the older mercenary bestowed the moniker “Gabriel” on his new protege’.

Gabriel began his new life with a new occupation. As a thirteen year old boy, he was thrust into the world of pit fighting. Pit fighting was a quietly popular past-time that usually took place in the back rooms or cellars of taverns every village and city over. Arthur’s teaching methodology always declared that real experience was the best teacher and so he forced Gabriel to fight in many a pit fight as their group traveled from village to village. In between, Arthur would personally teach the boy sword combat and even went so far as to immerse him in a strange, underhand-grip style that the mercenary group claimed was unique in all of Pratus. Gabriel fought and fought and practiced and practiced, the scars of his dedication and experiences etching themselves onto his skin as years passed and his body grew. Upon reaching adulthood, Arthur officially inducted his apprentice into the group and let him in on what they really did for a living.

It would turn out that Arthur and his ragtag group of mercs were actually the kind of bandits that would kill travelers on the roads, slaughter their escorts, and then take everything in sight. It was merely an evolution in scope to what Gabriel had been doing as a young thief. He took to the life quickly. Wherever the group went, they pillaged and murdered and even still they were hired from time to time to actually perform some mercenary work. That work would involve killing the hellish creatures that now roamed the Wildlands and whenever one would get too close to a city or the group happened to be within the area where incidents had been reported, they were hired.

More years passed and Gabriel only grew older, but in time he began traveling and advertising his services as a lone mercenary. No one can recount the happenings that ended with Gabriel splitting from his murderous platoon, but he quickly gained his own infamy as the one-armed merc who would kill anything and anybody for the right price. Somewhere along his years, the ruthless warrior suffered nerve damage in his left arm and it left the limb unable to take the heft of a blade or most anything with too much weight. It wasn’t long after these events that the one-armed merc received a letter detailing his invitation to the fabled Black Lily guild. Sensing a great opportunity to make more silver doing what he enjoyed, Gabriel joined the guild and hasn’t thought about looking back since.

[Narcotic Dollie]

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Name: Amara Wolfhart
Age: 25
Gender: Female

Appearance:
At first glance, Amara looks like a fragile doll. The woman is a small, seemingly delicate creature with skin fair enough to cause strangers to wonder if she ever sets foot outside of the shadows. Her long hair is equally pale, a shade of blonde so light that it appears white in certain lights. Most days she chooses to leave it unbound and the gentle wave in the strands draw attention to her heart shaped face and dainty nose. To complete this doll-like look she has large doe eyes with pupils dark enough to appear black, which can be construed as unnerving by some people.

There is something that mars her pristine image however; a scar that cuts through the right edge of her full lips and continues all the way down her neck before stopping just beneath her collarbone. It is completely healed over now, it's pink hue faded to white, but instead of hiding it Amara leaves it on display and wears it like a badge of honor.

She is usually the shortest person in any given room and on an average day chooses to cover her slight form in long, gossamer thin dresses in tones of ivory or dove grey. Her style only truly varies when Amara is on assignment, when she favors black and dons form fitting breeches, leather tunics, and dark hoods so she can move quickly and be as silent as a wraith. The only true constant in her wardrobe are gloves that come up to just below her elbows, which are a necessity considering all of the poison she deals with on a daily basis.

Personality:
This woman’s unassuming appearance often leads strangers to underestimate her and Amara prefers it that way. After all, it's so much easier to get close to someone when they think you're a sweet little lamb.

When she is working Amara is cunning and manipulative, transforming into whatever character she must to earn a mark’s trust. It doesn't matter to her whether she needs to be the shrinking violet, the sweet but naive girl next door, or the sultry temptress, Amara will play the part to a near flawless level in an attempt to get in their good graces. To her close friends and colleagues this can often be both deeply disturbing and hilarious, seeing as how out of the ordinary these behaviors are for her. But no one can fault her talent or the ruthless persistence she employees when on the job.

In her downtime Amara is more relaxed, with a laid back sort of disposition and a dark sense of humor, thanks to a lifetime spent around corpses. This constant exposure to the dead and dying also means that she isn’t frightened by much and doesn't bat an eyelash at gore or death itself, instead choosing to write it off as an unfortunate inevitability. While no one would ever accuse the pale woman of being warm and cuddly, she will commit small acts of kindness for the people she has affection for. Sometimes this manifests itself as making extra salve for a fellow guildmate after they’ve been wounded on assignment or other times you can see it in the careful way she looks after her friend's family and belongings when they're away.

Weapons:

• Primary - Bow
• Secondary - Dagger

Magic User: No.

History:
Amara never knew her mother and was primarily raised by her father, Atlas, who was a well known coffin maker and undertaker within the walls of the disk. As there was no one else to look after the young girl she spent an exorbitant amount of time with Atlas while he was working, constantly watching him wash and prepare the bodies or carefully assembling sturdy pine boxes. Whenever they had a hard month and were struggling to pay their dues her father would cut open the corpses to harvest their organs beforing turning around and selling them on the black market to make up the money still owed. While Amara knew that this wasn't strictly legal, it kept them within the safety of the city’s walls and out of the wildlands, so she never resented him for it.

Life continued and all was right in Amara’s world, until one day it wasn't. The year she turned sixteen someone caught wind of Atlas’ meat peddling tendencies and turned him into the city guard, who had her father thrown into prison and his assets seized. Penniless and out on the streets the girl tried her best to stay in the disk, but was ultimately kicked out when she could not pay her dues. She made her way to one of the smaller settlements on the outskirts of the walls but again luck was not on her side and she was picked up by a group of marauders her second night.

Amara tries to block out most of what happened to her while she was in their clutches.

But it was during these dark times that Amara learned to play her parts so well, altering the way she spoke or fluttered her eyelashes to avoid more vicious treatment. She began sticking to the shadows, stepping softer, and trying to make herself as unseen as possible to avoid drawing the attention of these deplorable men. They went on like this for five long years, until one night the abuse became too great and something in Amara snapped. Quiet as the grave she slunk through their rooms, slitting their throats one by one until the captain was the only one left with a pulse. He woke right in the middle of Amara dealing the killing blow and returned the favor by loosing his dagger and carving a line down her face and neck with his last breath.

She managed to stumble out of their encampment and made it to the road before she could go no farther and collapsed. She faded in and out of consciousness all morning, waiting for some beast to come along and finish her off so she could finally rest for a while, but fortune chose to smile on the the dying girl instead. Traveling along the path came a merchant and a full convoy of armored guards. At first Amara feared that she would be enslaved again and did her best to hold up her dagger through blearly eyes and bloody teeth. Eventually the merchant, an older woman named Meng, climbed down from the caravan and stooped down low to survey the girl before her lips slowly twitched up into a manic grin. "I like your spirit, little monster. I'll show you how to use those claws of yours, if you'll let me."

With no better options in sight, Amara naturally said yes.

It turned out Meng called the small settlement of Moora home and as far as cities outside the disk went, it wasn't awful. The merchant was well regarded in her community for the healing ointments she would craft and powerful people from all over would pay her to brew up toxic potions so they could dispose of their enemies without getting their hands dirty. Meng nursed her young ward back to health and then immediatly set about showing her the ropes of her apothecary business.

Amara took to it like a blade to flesh. Posions just made sense to her and the scarred girl spent much of her time tinkering with recipes, crushing up hemlock and nightshade at her desk for hours on end and mixing it with different snake and scorpion venoms until she got the proportions just right. Getting them perfect became like a game to her. Some clients wanted their victims to suffer and required a toxin that would prolong the agony for days on end, while others desired a quick venom that could be ingested and wouldn't leave a trace so their demise would appear less suspious. Amara gladly filled each and every request, working tirelessly and earning herself and Meng quite a bit of money in the process.

After three years of apprenticing under Meng, Amara had finally saved up enough money to travel back to the disk and pay her dues long enough to find her father. The pair parted on good terms and the young poisoner returned to the safety of the walls only to find that her father had died a few years earlier when a fellow prisioner snapped his neck over a petty argument about food rations.

She took great pleasure in killing that prisoner slowly, bribing a guard to slip increasing amounts of belladonna powder into his food untill his pitiful heart gave out.

Amara spent the next year offering her services to the people of the city. She made poisions and salves indescrimantly and even branched out to murder when the coin was good enough and the buyer could be trusted to be discreet. Eventually she received a letter from Black Lily and after accepting their invitation Amara spends her days due free and doing what she loves most; killing the real monsters of the world.

[Heat]

Covell Rackham

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Appearance: A scruffy, scarred man, Covell stands a few centimeters over six feet in height. His skin is a fair shade and dotted with marks or cuts. These are physical reminders of past brawls and battles from years gone by. His light brown hair has been cut short, shaven on the sides, a contradiction from the long locks he had in his previous days as a pirate. Light stress marks sit upon his forehead, physically he appears a few years older than he actually is due to years of harsh activities. His eyes are a darkish green shade, below his left eye and on parts of the cheek are very noticeable scars left after he had been smashed in the face with a beer mug. His facial features are masculine, his lips thin and his jawline firm. Along it he has grown a slightly unkempt beard. Inside his mouth he is missing two of his lower teeth, this is especially evident when he smiles with open jaws.

Covell's frame is athletic, with hints of muscle. He is not 'built' per se, rather avoiding carrying too much weight on his body in order to remain quick on his feet. On his left hand he is missing half of his outer index finger from a game of five finger fillet. He has learned to adapt to this injury over the years. His body is scarred like his face, bruised and beaten from various injurie over the decades.

His armor is hardened leather, it is composed of a chest piece, shoulder pads, arm pieces, gauntlets and greeves. He wears it over a button down white shirt and grey linen slacks with a wide belt and a golden ornaete, above it he wears a gold and red sash. For footwear he wears a pair of light leather black boots. On both of his ears are small golden earrings, which he stole from a merchant's ship during a raid decades ago and has worn ever since. On top of his head he often wears his Tri-cornered hat, which is black it is his old captain's hat. He still dresses much like a pirate despite no longer having a crew or a ship.

Personality: Despite his brutal blood filled past and harsh appearance Covell does not consider himself a cruel person. He gives everyone he meets a chance to impress upon him. He does not have many friends and has taken a solitary stance to his life, all of his old friends are either dead or betrayed him. He respects honesty, even if he himself has lied hundreds of times. He does not go out of his way to kill or hurt innocents, but holds no regrets in doing so if it happens. He is a man that thinks often of the past, carrying old grudges and memories from a life now gone. Covell is a man that has thoroughly indulged in life's sins, whether they be violence, alcohol or fast women, having subscribed to a philosophy that life is short and cruel, one most enjoy it however they can. Death is finality.

Weapon(s): Covell's weapons of choice are dual pirate cutlasses which he has had for years. They are made of a fine steel and he constantly tries to keep them sharp. He also carries a hand-cannon and a small steel dagger.

Magic User: Nope.

History: Covell was born in the small coastal town of Thralmouth on the eastern side of Pratus. A quiet but poor port town many of its visitors were privateers and merchants who sailed the waters surrounding the town. Due to its high poverty levels crime was rampant in Thralmouth. Covell was born to a prostitute, he never knew his father believing the man was just some drunk visitor to his hometown. He never cared to look for the man, it wasn't like he even could or if the man knew he birthed a son with a whore. His mother was frequently drunk or high on whatever drugs could get her hands on, and as such was not the best mother to the young Covell. He ended up spending much of his life as a child on the streets, getting into trouble, stealing food to get by and begging for handouts. Shortly after his tenth birthday he got into a terrible fight with his mother which ended with him running out of his home after she punched him in the side of the face. Bruised and angry the young boy wandered to the docks, it was that day which he noticed a pirate ship parked at the port. The vessel was the future one he would one day captain, the Drowned Rose.

Tired of a life of a poverty and struggling to survive the child snuck onto the ship, slipping by the two crewmen who had been assigned to watch the ship, both men deciding to get drunk due to boredom and being unable to join the rest of the crew as they partied in one of the taverns in Thralmouth. Covell explored the ship, the young boy fascinated by the vessel, having never found himself onboard a ship before. He explored the inside of the ship, ending up in the hold. The boy found some fruits inside a crate and ate them, having spent the whole day practically starving. Free food was free food. After eating his fill he passed out, when he awoke the ship was sailing the seas. He gazed out a side porthole to find Thralmouth in the distance, the young Covell then felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and spin him around. The next thing he knew he was brought to the main deck of the ship, before the captain.

Covell still remembers the exact details of that moment, as he presented in front of the imposing bearded captain, clad in his fine clothes marked with jewelry and all sorts of colors. He can still recall the other pirates standing around him, looking strangely at the poor boy clad in rags. He feared he would be thrown overboard, left to drown or be eaten by one of the terrible sea creatures which filled the oceans of Pratus. The Captain stared at the boy for a moment, and in the next saved Covell's life. He knelt down and placed a hand upon Covell's shoulder, then introduced himself as Captain Graystone with a smile. He had shown the boy kindness, there were never enough people on the Rose to clean the beautiful ship. That is what Covell would do for the next six or so years, cleaning and serving the important people on the ship. He didn't enjoy the work but it kept him fed and gave him a warm bed. He was kept out of any fights, but saw his fair share of death and blood. Graystone took a liking to the young Covell, becoming a mentor to the future pirate captain. A father the boy never had.

Covell took up a sword in the next few years, becoming a full fledged pirate. He had been taught how to fight, he already knew how to survive. A childhood where he never knew if he would eat the next day helped greatly with that skill. The world had showed him nothing but cruelty and pain, ironically the nicest people to him and the only ones that cared about him were pirates. The scourge of the sea. It was only naturally he would embrace the life. He killed his first man at seventeen, a tubby merchant who threatened him with a beheading. It wasn't the smartest thing to say when you had a dagger at your throat. The look in the man's eyes as the blade sunk into his throat, as his life vanished in a flash. He would remember that moment for the rest of his life. His life would be filled with plenty more of it.

He spent the next decade or so of his life murdering, raping and plundering his way across the waters of Pratus. He never returned to his hometown, why would he? It was a hellhole. He had freedom and family on the Rose, there were bad days but there were plenty more great ones. His life drastically changed at the age of twenty five when Captain Graystone was killed, an arrow to the chest from a rival pirate ship. Covell held his dying mentor in his arms as both pirate crews launched into battle and with his dying words Graystone made Covell the new captain. As the crew of the Drowned Rose defeated their enemies Covell had any survivors brought before him, then tied weights around each of their waists. One by one he watched with glee as each of the scum were tossed overboard, helpless as they each sunk to the bottom of the ocean. They deserved the furthest thing from mercy. Drowning was an utterly terrible way to go.

As the new captain Covell took control of the crew, commanding respect and loyalty as the pirates mourned their longtime captain, giving him a proper burial on a quiet island in the middle of the ocean. Covell grew the strength of his pirate band, making them to the most feared on the seas of Pratus. He earned a reputation as an utterly brutal and unforgiving pirate captain, his rage notorious. He would grow richer and more decadent, a far cry from the poverty stricken child he once was all those years ago. He destroyed lives, took whatever he wanted without concern. Life was good, too good.

As the Drowned Rose ventured through the seas a massive storm hit, turning the waters into a chaotic mess. They were no stranger to storms, even more intense ones but this one was different. Waves were higher than Covell recalled them ever being, when the first one hit he lost a few men overboard then ordered everyone else to tie themselves to the ship. Thunder sounded through the skies like explosions, while lightning painted the clouds. But the Rose was a strong ship, a durable one. A storm would not bring her down to the sea floor. Just as they seemed to be escaping the storm the water broke and a seemingly endlessly long sea serpent emerged from it. A shimmering greenish blue with fins like a shark, the monstrosity at first seemed to taunt the crew as it swam through the waters a distance away. It was longer than any whale, and haunted Covell's dreams for weeks after.

Then it emerged again, showing razor sharp teeth as large as a person. Following an ear shattering shriek it lunged towards the Rose, shattering the fore mast and shaking the ship to its core. Covell and his crew tried to fight back against the colossal beast, launching arrows and cannon fire at it. One direct cannon ball to its jaw dislodged one of its teeth and seemed to only enrage the sea serpent, causing another bone shaking shriek. For a moment it seemed they would somehow win, and scare the creature away. Even as it ravaged and beat their ship, leaving cracks and dents all across it. Killing its crew and bringing each dead man to a watery grave. Yet there was a belief they could still get away, land was not that far. The sea serpent was hurt but not done. With one more shriek it tore through the center of the Rose, splitting it in half. As the great pirate vessel started to sink towards the ocean floor the serpent left, having done what it wished.

Covell found himself clinging to a large piece of driftwood as he floated seemingly helplessly at sea. He had tried to save his crew, he ended up sailing them into waters inhabited by a monstrosity. He had doomed his whole crew, it was cruel fate that he was he only one that survived that day. Stuck with memories and regrets, that day was the only one he ever regretted. He floated towards land, washing up on the shore on the southern part of Pravus. He was back on land and never the same. He tried to gather himself in the following months, everything he ever had was on that ship and it was at the bottom of the ocean. The letter came towards the end of those months, he was not sure how it ended up in his possession. He had nothing to lose and his life had gone upside down, he didn't have any choice but to join the Black Lily guild.

[Nox Grimoire]

Name: Willard Cavanaugh

Alias(es): Wil, Wil C., Mister C., Mad Willie, Mad Willie C.

Age: Twenty-something years

Gender: Male

Appearance: An average man, of average height, and of average appearance. Nothing noteworthy to look at. He has shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and dull, glassy green eyes. Typically he is seen wearing a grungy gray shirt, which was probably white at one point, black leather breeches with matching coat, and raw hide boots, which he fashioned himself. In combat, he wears a simple chain shirt. His face is grimy with dirt, and he looks as though he hasn't bathed in months. He has patchy, uneven stubble. Leftovers from not properly shaving. His teeth are yellowed, and are likely very close to rotting. A small scar rests just above his left eye. He has a noticeable twitch at the left corner of his mouth.

Personality: Quite, pleasant, laid back, and amicable are all fine words to use to describe the personality of young Willie C. At least as long as he's calm. Piss him off or get him drunk, and a demon comes out in him. One spitting fire, shouting obscenities, and swinging fists. They say he once beat a man to death barehanded for nothing more than laughing at his name. Other than that, just watch yourself around him. He's the sort that'll shake your hand and call you friend to your face, and then stick a knife in you as soon as you turn to walk away. Why? Who knows? Maybe he didn't like you. Maybe he didn't like the way you look. Maybe you unintentionally insulted him or caused some other perceived slight. Maybe he was paid. All that matters is there was a reason. He always has a reason. Even if it was just because he felt like it.

Weapon(s): Willie is skilled in the use of fists, knives, and swords. Other than that, he's damned scary with that bow of his. A skill he picked up traveling with a company of mercenaries. He carries the standard issue hand-cannon, but he seldom ever uses it.

Magic User: Yes

History: Willard Cavanaugh was never a man prone to violence. He was just a farmhand living in a quite village, a few miles outside the Disk. But when mercenaries looking for easy sport gang-raped his fiance, and caused her to commit suicide three days after, something in him just broke. He took to drinking, and he took to brawling. The local constable was forced to lock him up, and threatened to throw him out of town on multiple occasions. He was a man without peace, and he was a man for whom there was no rest. 'Till the day that those same mercenaries came back through town.

He was sitting at his table in the local tavern, nursing his ale, when they came in shouting, and boasting, and guffawing. Right then and there, he decided what he was going to do. Right then and there, he began to plot his revenge. He enlisted with the same company as those men. He trained with them, fought with them, and, on several occasions, he very nearly died with them. He was part of their team, and they regarded him as a brother. Little did they know, he was to be the death of all of them.

It was to be a job like any other, they were just supposed to be escorting a group of merchants from one town to another several leagues away. In a clearing, only a few days walk from their destination, they were set upon by brigands, looking to rob and kill anyone traveling the road. At once, the men jumped into action, and prepared to earn their fee. Willard did as he always did, and fell back into the brush, readying his bow. Only this time it wasn't the bandits he was aiming at, it was his own men. What nobody would find out until later, was that Willard had been saving up his pay for months, biding his time just for this very moment. After they'd accepted the escort job, he hired a rival team of mercenaries to act to as bandits and help him murder his whole crew. Revenge for what they'd done to his beloved so long ago.

He loosed the first arrow, and hit his mark dead between the eyes. His second mark he scored twice, once in the kidney, and again through the heart. The third he shot through the throat. The other four fell to the “brigands”. After it was over, he and his hired cronies shook hands and parted company. But the story didn't end there.

He'd thought that they'd killed everyone. He'd though that there were no witnesses. Imagine then his surprise, when travelers brought in, naked and half dead, one of the mercenaries he'd so long plotted to kill. They cleaned the man up, and tended his wounds, and in return, he told them what had happened. He told them of Willard's betrayal. Of course by the time that happened, Willard was long gone. However, he knew his face would be plastered to every notice board and on the wall of every tavern from there to the Disk.

So, he took to the roads, robbing, and killing, and doing whatever he had to do to survive. He kept to himself, never stayed in one place for too long, and he spent many a night camping out under the stars, a vagabond with no home to call his own. He learned some small magic during this time, taken from a pair of sages he met on the road, whom he forced at knife point to teach him whatever they could. Two spells in particular he became very good at. One which set the tip of his arrows ablaze, and the other which caused his arrows to seek their target wherever they tried to hide, so long as they stayed within a certain range.

This life of struggle, and murder, and wanton slaughter lasted for years. Willard began to think it would never come to an end. Then he received the letter, mysteriously slipped under the door of his room in the inn he was staying at. It spoke of him, and of his reputation as a killer. It spoke of evil fighting evil, and of money to made doing so. And most of all, it spoke of a place he might at last call home. The next morning he packed his bags and signed onto a caravan heading to the Disk. He's never looked back...

[LokiLeo789]

Darian Grimmig

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Personalia

_{Information collected by the civilian questioning}

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| Ｂｉｒｔｈｎａｍｅ: |

Darian Grimmig

| Ｓｅｘ: |

Male

| Ａｇｅ: |

Twenty-Eight

| A p p e a r a n c e : |

Being a man of 6 feet and 4 inches can put many men off guard, and having an agile muscular build would only lend to the daunting visage. Instead, a metal helm possessing a seemingly scowling expression replaces what should be a human face. His monstrous body is wrapped in soft, earthy toned skin, like brown autumn leaves during fall. Coincidentally, there is further similarity between Darian and leaves present within the linear patterns in his skin and the veins in a leaf, each line a scar from past endeavors. Often, stray, rampaging lochs of brown hair which fall just passed his shoulder blades will seek to interrupt the world seen through Dairan's deep brown eyes, which discern that he has seen much more than his youthful features (hidden behind cold steel) let on. This fact is reassured after hearing his voice that is filled with the certainty of knowingness from experiences passed.

Light armor is worn in combination with Dairan's clothing. At default, this consists of: a steal helm, steel arm braces, hardened leather shoulder guards, leather tunic, and steel leg guards. This combination has been configured so as to not hamper his mobility and agility, while still managing to protect vital points on the body.

As for his clothing, since the original donning, it has never changed in design. Dairan's clothing isn't a mesh of garments for casual or formal wear, its a uniform, hence the consistently in colors and articles. Like all uniforms, Dairan's is tailor-made to represent his occupation, which in this case isn't being a mercenary or assassin. As the harbinger of vengeance, he has become an emissary of his father's will. Since he was to be but a pawn, his uniform was made to resemble just that.

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Psychology & History

_{From detailed eye-witness reports and visitations}

“.”

| P e r s o n a l h i s t o r y: |

The life of Darian Grimmig, son of Tiberius Grimmig, is a dismal story of tragic loss, cursed magic, and deep-seated revenge. A cautionary tale, telling how ill-gotten power can bring about misfortune. And like all great tragedies, the story begins innocently enough, with a little bit of hope and a dream...

Magic was to be the Grimmig's wings of ascension, the one thing that could return them to grace. You see, being blessed with magic -- and no matter what you've heard or seen, magic is a blessing -- meant a comfortable life behind the secure walls of The Disk. Otherwise known as the City: the seemingly impenetrable paradise of merchants and nobles. Many had seen the outside of its walls from its high hills, but only few had seen the other side of them. Believe it or not, the Grimmig's were once among those select few. It was a plush life, one that was violently ripped away because of Tiberius Grimmig and the bridges he burned in his ambitious climb to the top. There were accusations made, a trial juried, and when the dust settled, the Grimmig's were exiled and forced to leave the place they once called home. But Tiberius wouldn't leave it at that. He would take back everything he lost and more; he would extract revenge against those who wronged him. And the first step in his plan for retribution, was to obtain magic. It was common for practitioners of magic (few as they may be) to find work within the Guilds of the City. With that in mind, Tiberius knew his children would be the key to everything, and so he would prepare them to be his harbingers. Yet, after raising seven kids, not one of them could handle the gift of magic... or so he thought.

Years had gone by and Tiberius's desire for vengeance still burned with the intensity of the sun. Progress had been slowed to a snail's pace, however. Fortunately, Tiberius didn't spend the last decade or so idly sitting on his hands. Whether it was directly made aware to him or discerned through subterfuge, his time in the guard had made him privy to certain knowledge. Ironically, of all the secrets he learned the one most prosperous was the one he learned after his exile. The path to discovery began with another discovery, which was that his enemies wanted him dead; apparently being forced to leave his home wasn't enough. It was during a near fatal pursuit that Tiberius happened to stumble upon a cave in which he waited out his assailants. Lady Luck smiled on him that day, and in more ways than one; the first was the disappearance of his hunters and the second, would go unnoticed. While he thought nothing of it then, the cave he was hiding in was marked with a unique glyph. Years later, he saw this same glyph reappear in multiple tomes on magic and in the hushed whispers of cultist magicians. At that point Tiberius began combining mythos with fact. The symbol he saw denoted significance or importance to a dead cult, he reached the conclusion that the cave may have been one of the rumored cursed grounds 'reaped by the unmaker'. With that thought in mind, Tiberius began trying to find that cave again. Eventually his searching lead back to that cavern and to an underground temple with a large statue erected in its center. A simple message was inscribed across its walls: "Only thee chosen shall drink from the blessed well. Thy soul shall thence be awakened and the world's energy be at thoust beck and call." The mere existence of such a place was enough to convince Tiberius of its truth and rid him of any doubts. What would happen to those not worthy, or even the the first laws of magic never crossed his mind.

Not more than a week later, the Grimmig family arrived at the temple in their full entirety: 3 girls, 4 boys, their mother, and of course their father. The family knew what they were there for and was eager to receive the gift of all powerful magic. It had been decided or more accurately, they were told that only children could drink from the well and once they had, great magic would be awakened from its slumber within their souls. Yet Tiberius ignored this warning and drunk from the well, along with his wife. One-by-one the children approached the well and drunk goblets full of the mystical elixir. After that was done, they only needed to wait... for what though, they didn't know. It wasn't until the eldest, whom was the first to drink, collapsed to ground only to be followed by the others. A panicked inspection revealed they weren't breathing, their heart had ceased its beating, and their bodies were cold as ice. The wails of the dead children's mother filled the air while her husband was paralyzed with regret and dismay. But the sound of desperate gasping tore both of the grief-stricken parents away from somberness and towards hope. Darian, their middle child, had apparently survived, in a moment of fear the boy hand refused to drink. Nearly decapitating him as they did so, they hugged what was now their only son. Something was amiss however, turning the bittersweet moment sour. Pulling back revealed a crimson darkness spreading across their body, blood leaked from their mouths and eyes. Darian nor did his parents know what was happening, what was apparent was that it didn't affect him. So he sat and held his parents hands as he watched them die as the elixir destroyed their bodies and express their dying wishes.

Hours passed and still Darian sat, tears ducts dry from constant crying. He thought, hoped, someone would wake up, or maybe, just maybe, his parents might still be alive somehow. But neither of those things happened. Eventually, he decided he would go get help, despite knowing there was nothing anyone could do. Looking back, Darian isn't sure how long he wandered or even how he survived. Hours, days, searching for just one person, ignoring his aching body, hungry stomach, and dry mouth... Eventually, he did find what he was looking for, but fainted before he could speak a word. When Darian awoke for the second time, he was among strange faces, but faces he would come to see as his new family in the next two years. Darian had been discovered by a traveling caravan deep in the Wildlands that decided to take pity on the boy and make him one of them. Nevertheless, the nightmare that was reality, was just beginning. He knew it was magic that had taken everything from him. Now loneliness, became concept he would have to familiarize himself with, along with this new existence of his.

During Darian's stay with the caravan, he learned many things. The most important of which, was that he wasn't alone. Amongst the travelers, were two individuals who would become his only friends. An adolescent by the name of Darius was one these individual. Who after discovering he shared a similar past with Darian, befriended him and became a pseudo-brother. Stratmere was the other person, he was the caravan master and a traveling scholar. Together, the two ensured the caravan was Darian's home and a safe haven. While the others knew nothing of Darian's origins, Stratmere and Darius knew everything and still agreed to help him. That kindness kept humanity alive inside of Xever, which deterred him from a much darker path.

Years passed, Darian learned many things like: combat training and horsemanship from Darius, which improved upon everything he had learned from his father. Stratmere also helped, assisting Darian with his studies as that was his field of expertise; Darian always preferred books to blades. But, Darian had learned all he could and over time came to realize the one thing he needed to do. It was time he stopped living off those around him and pursue his own goals. He decided to leave and once he had, Darius had decided to do so as well.

Darian and Darius became mercenaries of the land, working for various armies and doing what conscripted soldiers wouldn't or couldn't do. They were battle-brothers, and soon the duo formed a band of mercenaries as more men devoted their life to their leadership. Their life was one of adventure and peril, but rarely did they want or need for anything. Darian was never sure if it was the life Darius wanted, but he himself had bigger plans. He made sure Darius was privy to them; he would never risk his battle-brothers life without him knowing why.

Magic was responsible for the life Darian had and the person he had become. More so, it was the reason he no longer had a family, and for that someone would have to pay. Why give forgiveness and seek love when it was so much easier to hate and get revenge? Darian would see to the destruction of The Disk, the death of all magicians, and the end of magic. It was an ambitious goal and he didn’t know how he would do it, but he would see it achieved or die trying. He had all the tools he needed: hate, vengefulness, grief, bitterness, and regret; his cause would not be deferred. Some might say his parents were to blame, though he couldn't fault them for wanting a better life for the family they created. Darian held the Disk, magic, and even the gods(s) if they existed responsible for every life taken by his hands or otherwise by the taint of magic. For years Darian bided his time, killing magicians time and time again, waiting for the perfect time to expand his operation. And with the advent of the disappearing veil and an invite into the Black Lily, timing couldn't be better...

| P e r s o n a l i t y r e p o r t s : |

Secretive and Reserved, everything you expect from a loner. Socially, Darian is closed off; he hasn't opened up to anyone since he was a child. Even to comrades, he is a stranger shrouded in mystery. He speaks only in brief, cryptic messages and is evasive of any prying questions. He generally displays the comportment expected of a teenager: arrogant, defensive, and critical of anything he is discordant with. Nevertheless, penetrate his gruff exterior and you will find him affable. Yet, you would never think this was the same man planning the mass murder of an entire race and country.

Darian is surprisingly apathetic and placid. His life is a never-ending cycle of war and death that has deadened him. Arousing emotion is difficult, and getting him to laugh or smile is nigh impossible, but both can be done given the right environment. Darian seemingly wanders the world in a listless depression, but this is not so. However, his pessimistic and cynical outlook on life does little to sway other's perception of him. Darian has found it’s easier not to care. Even if he wanted to, he isn't sure he could get past Pratus' corrupt ways. Magic has clouded the judgment of it's users, their selfishness has all but guaranteed a dark and foreboding future, which has finally been made reality and may very well mean the end of the human world.

Ironically, Darian is no saint or upstanding citizen. At best, his integrity can be described as: slipshod, manipulative, and deceitful. He has been shown to give his reliability to only one person, though the Black Lily may receive similar treatment.

Darian isn't easily distracted from a task. Focused and controlled; he would never allow his impulses and desire for revenge to cloud his judgment. Albeit he is bold and intrepid, which is often construed as reckless behavior, every action taken is deliberate and calculated. Once Darian sets his sights on something, he is steadfast on getting it. He is adaptable; able to think on his feet and make the tough decisions when required. But, he’s also stubborn and will not be shaken from a path once descended. It’s this ego-driven attitude that makes him intractable. He uses a strategic method of thinking which eliminates any falsities and uncertainty, thus any conclusion derived has to be correct.

Overall, Darian is a distant person that prefers to walk alone, for he believes that you are the only one to be completely trusted. He has a sharp tongue, is sarcastic to the core, and appears often arrogant in his behavior. There is no doubt that he is very self-confident and strongly believes in what he is doing, though he is mostly driven by revenge. This is partially the reason for his cold attitude that doesn’t allow anyone too close. However, if one might take the time to get to know him and prove that they are worth his time, he will reveal himself as an intelligent person with a silver-tongue. He may also show that he can be a very loyal, protective companion, though only few will ever be able to gain his friendship like that. In the end, Darian is nothing but a bitter person.

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Combat Reports

_{From detailed reports and completed files}

| M a g i c u s e r : |

No

| W e a p o n s : |

In Darian's own opinion, he considers himself to be more of an intellectual adversary. But since he can't kill his enemies with knowledge alone, a tool or weapon is also needed. This is why Darian put effort into acquiring proficiency with weapons as well as his hands. His preference and mastery is with anything that can be thrown. He has developed precision aim and enough strength to hurl the projectile a decent distance. As an assassin, Darian has ensure the death of his enemies. In the event he cannot do so directly, he laces the blades of his weapons with a deadly venom that can cause death in minutes.

His primary weapon is a custom Soliferrum designed for close combat, but still can be thrown up to a range of 30 meters. For that reason, he sometimes carries multiples. But out of all the duplicates there is one with a unique shape and blade, of which never leaves his side and so he affectionately calls her Mercy.

Darian secondary weapon, is a butterfly sword that is often dual wielded along with Mercy.

As a support weapon only, Darian will carry Throwing Knives. If nothing at all, Darian will ensure he has a few these stashed away on his body. Their ability to be concealed make them ideal for assassination attempts or simple self-defense. Normally he will carry several knives hidden on his waist and/or a few throwing stars in a slot under his gauntlet.

[Rockette]

_{giselle greivhldr.}

^{𝚜 𝚑 𝚎 𝚠 𝚑 𝚘 𝚢 𝚎 𝚊 𝚛 𝚗 𝚜 𝚝 𝚘 𝚙 𝚎 𝚛 𝚒 𝚜 𝚑 .}

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𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱. ◆ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞. ◆ 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬. ████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆. ____________________________________________________________________________ Dementedly beloved, an enigma of the conjoined presence of grace and otherworldly obsessions, bathed thick in adoration of the more critical and harsh tones of something forlorn, and a paragon of dangers and bereavements. She is a deceptively feminine creature, weighted in accessories of silver with tarnished glamors and silver-black fur, donned over ebony cloth and slight furnishing of hides curred and shadowed by veils. Fed persistent cardio in the daily musings of a woeful mercenary has afforded Gisselle with a willow-wisp figure, accentuated with deadly efficiency and delicacy privy to those of a slight inclination of more relaxed nature to violent ends. Slicks smiles painted in roses over bone-white teeth, etched into the pale face of a reputable woman by glories of strife and infamy. Thick weaves of coal hair spiral onto waif shoulders and down, dipping into her spine and tangled with trinkets of unpolished copper and silver, weighing the mass onto her person; her tresses merrily twinkling eerily within the gloom. Undone, Giselle's figure can be described as slight, malnourished and grotesquely beautiful, the bizarre attractions courtesy of the rather hellish objectives she has pursued in life. Her gaze is a penetrable blue, crystalline eyes liken to ice floes across the sea, rigid and unyielding, capped by a flutter of thick lashes and a drawn down brow obscured often by her penchant of veils concealing her identity in the crowds of towns and people alike. Uttered as a specter, a lover of the magically inclined, diseases and all to perish, and a harbourer of toxins within the sheath of her tongue and weapons, Giselle is much like the poisons she spews. 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚. ____________________________________________________________________________ She is often described as unforgiving in her inclinations, if only by the magic she wields. Giselle is burdened by sins of vanity, hubris, and greed, sprinkled and adorned by touches of wrath that is slow and churning, always bubbling yonder her pale face and brewing within her shearing glare. Liken to most mercenaries, Giselle beholds selfish wants and needs, siring to her daily machinations in life that herald to luxury and finesse. She does not tolerate mediocre or primitive dressings, and advocates to the ascension of pleasure and fineries of the current age. Scrupulous unto others and herself, her diligence is well suited to her lifestyle, to see means finished and foes vanquished, no matter how slow one might take her time to see the deed done. Enchanted by the darker findings in life, Giselle is wooed and adoring to poisons and ailments derived from them, her obsessions of fauna and flora turned deadly concealed carefully within a tome always kept to her person. This same obsession is applied onto magical properties found within mediums and the manipulation of spells of a rather poisonous inclination, and a queer fascination to the diseased products of those without. Studious, perhaps, by the employment of these findings and experimentations onto her intended, and other times described as malicious and excessive by her occasional peers within the sell-sword business. A leash may be strung about her delicate neck, but it is one she entirely controls. 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔. ____________________________________________________________________________ && [sickles.] -- Giselle's primary weaponry, perhaps a little archaic and simplified, but overall effective to the purposes of her tactics. Often strung about her hip, cushioned against her veils and sometimes hidden beneath them, and sharpened religiously and meticulously to a gleaming edge. She employs two at most, given to each hand, or wielding them singulary wherein one should procede with caution, literally depending on the stance she bears. Giselle is not a stranger to weeping lines and wounds, and infact relishes in their mark, and will employ one's own strength against them by her deliberate motions and dexterious claims. These sickles can also act as a medium to the magic Giselle is inclined to, the stress of her spells fracturing the blades often into web like patterns of destruction that must later be tended to by a smithy. 𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚. ____________________________________________________________________________ She was once burdened by a title of a woman who seeks vengeance, reaping revenge onto those that had scorned or mocked her, or had taken to her feminine disadvantages by lashing tongues and burning teeth; nails peeling and scraping, eyes rabid and mad. Branded in scarlet hate, Giselle bathed within the souls of those victims, some by her hand, and others by Fate, and sunk herself deep into voids of black and red. She relished, and she hated, and she burned. She was an advocate to the eternal curse of emotional disturbances, brandished like a wraith wailing within the gloom of night or a banshee weeping in the dark and seen lost, wondering, yearning and perishing over a loss. Once bound to a man and wed to his morbid and depraved fortune, Giselle was taken of her innocence on the cusp of one Spring and literally fed to the wolves baying ravenously in the distance of her physical nightmares. Sold is a more befitting term, relinquished by parents whos' faces have long since become weeping shadows within her memory. She started, as these types of women often do, as poor and without, weak and submissive to the life she was forced into. Years like these will pass into the dark of the mind and heart, vanishing into nothing until time does not exist or adhere to the soul. Until a cold night, the grounds drenched in snow strained black, did a shard of metal find itself into her quivering palm, hilt sunk deep into the heart of not a man, but a girl much like her with eyes dead gazing back and lips agape in a silent plea. Giselle cried, not in a sorrow, but in some degree of pleasure, for the gushing red wept over her numb fingers was alive and warm, literal steam coiling off the sudden weapon. She struck again, and again, and again until reason bled over and all she knew was a sensation. It was cruel and it was beautiful, and it was life in the purest form known to man. Giselle buried the shard within what little belongings she possessed and set fire to the body, allowing the stench to coil and attract her masters. Here she turned bright eyes skyward and, feigning innocence at the time, came into her own deceptive prowess by allowing Fate to guide her hand and deadened heart. One, by one, she culled the small town, because they all laughed, they mocked, the watched on as she pleaded to lost deities as sweat became drenched over her and breath tainted her night and day by the man she was sold to, and the wolves that feasted on the scraps of her bitter heart. Testimony is hardly found with the histories, as the town of Lullin was reduced slowly over the years as a girl wielding metal shards grew into the woman bearing teeth like daggers on their throats. She was discovered, of course, as blood is often difficult to cleanse away entirely from one's clothes, and Giselle was drenched utterly from crown to foot one evening when she tempted two to bed and stole away their breaths on sighs and moans of pain in the night. Finally, there was a face to the reaper in their dreams, and she laughed. Lullin officials; lost knights and wayward squires and quivering townsfolk will forsake her name if ever prompted, as Giselle vanished suddenly one night in a fire they set to the dwindling, dilapidated cottage she grew up in; chained, and bound, and defiled. Under cover of darkness, she stole into a passing caravan and rode curled up within their discarded beddings. Until she had leapt upon them, dagger in grasp, and raked her tongue in a slivering curse and stowed away their fear, and meek as they were, they silently led her into The Disk under the guise as their daughter. She has been lost to time, again and again, coming to and from The Disk through life until her infamy, nurtured as it was, came to fruition in her womanly inclinations and wiles of mercenary work. Her severe penchants of magic, coin, and vanity weaving a tale within Pratus that is likened to a crown of bleeding crystal spiraling high and stained in soot and blood. She is a harsh patron and an even harsher employee, though the best often are. Though none are aware of her previous life in Lullin, it's curious that a letter found a way into her tome of poisons one evening, the wilds fresh on her person, and her eyes glowing within the lamplight of the fire of her home. Giselle had sworn to never bind herself onto another person, but when the price and temptation are right, a woman of her nature can hardly say no.

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