[CHAR] ☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Character Sheet (The Bare Essentials)

• Name:
• Sex: (There are only two genders. :^))
• Age:
• Appearance: (Use a written description AND/OR an image file at your leisure. Please see the guidelines on image use and be absolutely certain that your image matches the tone of the game.)
• Skills & Talents: (Just a list of things the character boasts above-average skill at. Nothing fancy. As the GM I can also approve a hidden "surprise" or two via PM, as long as players show rapport and do not abuse this privilege for deus ex machina.)
• Traits: (A couple of single-word personality descriptors. Don't go overboard here; we still want to meet the guy IC.)
• History/Biography: (This is the important part. Write as decent of a short narrative as you can, even a self-contained short story if possible, according to the character himself. That is to say: feel free to lie, exaggerate, threaten, insinuate, ... or even, I dare say, tell the truth. As long as the contents are not flagrantly unbelievable, as long as all of it seems at least plausible, it will be accepted, assuming it follows all other guidelines.)
• Allegiances: (These, again, are listed according to how the character presents himself at the start of the game. These can be untrue, or they can change over the course of the game. List them in descending order: a pantheon, any specific patron-gods, race/nation, then tribe, then a specific leader or ruling class, as applicable.)
• Rank: (This is either "CHIEF" or "RETAINER." Leave this blank if you're unsure or if you do not mind filling either role as a need arises.)

Character Sheet (Example: Swidda Shadehand)

Most men are old when they become a burden unto others. Swidda was still young. Most, when they are not maimed in battle, are taken with disease and feebleness in their waning years. Swidda lost his body to the mountains, to the elements; really, to the land itself and the gods which govern it. He carried a square shield on his back and an axe and a sword on his waist. His body was strong and beautiful under its warpaint. He did as all hale-bodied youths aspire which is to join a war party, winning wealth and territory for his struggling community. So, equipped with good bronze, trained and led by a very decent captain, they took to the Thraxians, the rival tribes there, in search of their wants. Salt came first, as winter was nigh and there would be nothing to forage until the evergreens beared fruits again, but mead, iron, tools, anything the southern empires would buy the warband could bear to haul back over the peaks. Only they found no liquor, or tools, or metals precious and otherwise. And winter had come early, from the north, as a sort of short-lived raiding party much like their own. First they saw it through the boughs, a bubbling black ambush sliding down the sky like pitch. They smelled its stinging sweetness; it prickled their necks. Before long they were buried, huddling around a tiny fire they couldn't keep lit, burning their oily meat rations when there was no more dry wood left to scrounge. Swidda never saw an enemy, never mind slayed one. He also never saw some of those men again; they did not walk out of the blizzard with the rest, anyway. But they must have survived if he could, even as his toes went black, his fingers next; even as the snow sucked the vigor from his body and a dreadful peace swept over his soul. What had he done to deserve this abject end? He had a good idea, until he made it through the white hell, until he felt warmth and light again and needed only sacrifice a few digits for the privilege. It was less obvious then. Today, in the better wisdoms of his seasoned years, his experience in the mountains feels far less like punishment than it once did. He was robbed of his most conspicuous blessings, certainly, but has uncovered others since. He cannot help but feel these days that that storm saved him, in its way; it stole the swiftness in his stride, and the hardiness of his hands, and even the tips of his ears and nose, but in some useless skirmish or other he would surely have lost his mind, too, and his mind has proven a far sharper gift than any limb. On the wrong side of the mountains, taken unto another tribe's land, unable to fight or to forage, unable even to rise from his bedding once he was placed there, Swidda had only books and stories for company through his many, many moons of healing still to come. And the books he could not even read. But time was on his side, and the sages of this village had taken to their precocious guest, who the mountains had changed. While he recovered he was able to learn the dialect as it is scratched into stones, scribbled onto slabs of wax and clay. He could never swing a sword again, he could barely pick up a stylus with the fingers he had left, but the more wisened tribesmen must have seen in him that same art which was once buried under his muscles and weapons; unless they simply pitied him. Whatever the case, when Swidda's body returned from the Thraxians he was sure that it had shed its fierceness like a snake its old skin. All notions of cruelty and violence had gone out of his life, and the sages had to have seen a potential in him for healing the world, for teaching it, for bettering its understanding of itself. Alas that they were wrong, in the very end; war returns to the hills, and before very long all men begin to obsess over it. Swidda had returned to his first people, the one which sired him, a few years after this experience, when he was strong enough again to make the journey back through the daggered hills. They were pleased to see him again, and pleased moreover that the loss of his strength had not ruined his spirit as well. For generations Swidda served this community of old and continued his learning under their own seers and scholars and poets. He expected to die here as he had lived in youth. But he remembered well his debt to the ones who had saved him, too, and planned to return there someday already. Until the Nhirians came he was even slated to become a druid. But the men who would have elected him are gone now. Only a few have scattered into the Thraxians who may still remember their names, who honor their sacrifices, including a certain gentle sage. He has returned, if under mournful circumstances, to aid the Eioni, intent on compensating the ones who nursed him back to life all those decades ago; to help them find peace, if peace is possible, and avert them of the fate which befell his first people. The sons rule now where once the father reigned; Gederik is chief, and he pays well, in companionship and beer, for the stories Swidda can tell of his forebear's courage and kindness. The two have become dear friends. Young tribesmen cannot remember Swidda's first visit to this place, but he can never forget. This time he won't run away; if there is even anywhere left to run by the time the Eioni have fallen. The same scourge comes to annihilate them which has already annihilated Swidda's own people, made servants and corpses of them far to the east of the venerable mountains. Can he survive this war without losing all that he holds dear a second time? What else will he have to sacrifice to finally know a true and lasting peace?	Tall and supple stands this sage of the Eioni peoples, like wheat bowing to the wind. Gaunt of countenance and humorless of demeanor is he, barding himself of dark and rough-hewn robes. He wears no jewelry, and while speaking he hides his ruined fist behind his back or in the recesses of his sleeves, striking a scholarly pose but also hiding the mangled flesh from the vanities of others. Other parts of him are said to have been kissed by the same rot, although no witnesses—including his wives, goes the gossip—can claim to have seen it themselves. He does walk with a heavy limp, however. Unlike most Thraxians he keeps his whole face shaven. His straight steel mane he meticulously brushes for knots and lice. Age: 58 Skills & Talents: Swidda was a warrior in youth. Though he can no longer fight he remembers well the tactics and practices which kept his fighting-fellows alive. His advice in war goes unheard nowadays, or unspoken, but he could serve any chieftain well at the rear of a battle. Swidda is a practiced diplomat and negotiator. Swidda reads, although he cannot write; he recites well the memories of his peoples, although no songs will be written about his own life. He tends a garden. Small animals get nearer to him than most, sensing a gentleness in his weathered and weary spirit. Traits: Gentle; Nurturing; Thoughtful; Indecisive; Fearful; Tormented Allegiances: The Angaturiz peoples; The Eioni peoples; the Acani tribe; Gederik, its chief. Rank & Role: RETAINER. Swidda serves Chief Gederik of the Acani tribe as a scribe, an advisor, and a diplomat.

Assassination Form

• Contractor: (On whose behalf has this assassination been organized? Who wants someone dead?)
• Operative: (If a different person) (Who will actually be carrying out the assassination?)
• Primary Murder Weapon:
• Misc. Weapons, Tools, & Equipment: (Including any camouflage/disguises)
• Plan Outline: (Roughly describe the sequence of events as it has been planned between the assassin and his master IC. When and where will it happen? Any variables that have been accounted for? Is evidence being hidden, or a drop weapon being planted? Do you have to slip past a guard patrol route or a locked door? The more thorough this section is, the likelier the plan is to succeed.)

[pugbutter]

𒀸𒅕𒌅

Census

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[Strange Rodent]

Aedthel the Blessed

_{Finding images that fit both the theme of this rp and the character is exceedingly difficult, and some concessions have been made. Just... pretend the eyes are normal eyes, not those black and gold things.}

---

A grand priest who dared to approach the older gods on a pilgrimage to the Ruins of the First Kingdom. For the gall, he was cursed. Though, what are curses but blessings in disguise?

The gods saw fit to plant a seed in his mind, a seething, writhing, growing thing. This caused his holy knowledge to grow, but at the cost of his physical strength - and, later, voice. Currently, at age 26 he is so weak that he is effectively paralyzed from the waist down.

When the fruits of this god's touch came to bear, he and the expedition returned to their tribe among the Angaturiz. Upon arrival, it was the will of the gods that all who laid eyes on him and held faith would know the truth of what had happened. He was deemed most holy, and appointed as the ruler of both religion and tribe, forming a theocracy. His first act was to proclaim the Old Gods found in the First Kingdom as the true forms of those they already worshiped.

On the topic of this tribe he returned to. They're Frineveri in nationality, situated in the northeast, with their capital on the fork of the river they call "Uodel" and a few outlying settlements. They call themselves the Angauodethel. They pride themselves on piety, determination, and adaptability. They believe that nothing can be done that can't be worked around or gained from. This suits their size just fine, as they're not remarkably large and their adaptability keeps them afloat even while they have large expeditions sent away.

Those who do not hold the gods in their hearts can be quick to judge him, and these people spread lies about what he does behind closed doors. Of course, these rumors are baseless, and the longevity of the ones who spread these lies testify to that. Consider the effect of a little suspicion on one’s perception of another.

Being a priest, he is literate, a rare talent to boast of. He also is well studied, most proudly in Theology and Philosophy. Were he able to talk, he would be a prominent debater. Though mute, he has found a way to communicate via other means, and this can be considered a talent in and of itself. This works most effectively with Kinn, due to their close bond.

Would you ask those close to Aedthel what he was like, they would cast two separate shadows. Before the pilgrimage, he was lively, full of joy, energy, and faith. He would talk for hours about his studies, were you to let him. After the pilgrimage, he took the atrophy and silence hard. While he did not lose his passion for study, he was not able to speak of it or show others his learnings. No longer able to express the excitement he held, it faded.

Due to the presence on the inside, the mantle of lord interests him little, so a good deal of his political power is wielded and defended by Kinn the Handmaiden. Though the name sounds innocent, his ruthlessness is well known.

As a man of faith, Aedthel owes his loyalty to the older gods who so marked him. As a learned man, he owes his knowledge to script. As a leader, he owes loyalty to those who look up to him. As a dear friend, he owes loyalty to Kinn, and as an acquaintance, he owes loyalty to many more.

[Lady Selune]

Kerenatam Ap Tadhg

Kerenatam is 24 years old. Although the Rhaead consider themselves distinct from the overall Angaturiz peoples, he holds allegiances both to those whom he has been crowned Grand Warlord of, and those that share their blood and sinew with the stones of the mountains and earth of the valley. Tall and built like a warrior, he adorns himself with little that is not practical- his hair cut short to fit under a helmet and his skin bereft of piercings that might tear in combat. A superlative commander and with capable men under his command, Kerenatam is a fearsome foe on the battlefield, whilst also not being entirely useless in discussion. He has a great love for music and woodwork, being proficient in the latter but not the former.

If Kerenatam was a small tribal chief, he would still be young, but not unusually so. For him to be the Grand Warlord of the Rhaead peoples at his age is unheard of- and because of this many believe that it is the destiny of this man to guide the various tribes to greatness under his command. The backing he has from the druids- both in the prophecies they tell of him and his taking of a druid as a wife have done nothing to reduce the myths already swirling around him.

Born to a tired and redheaded mother in the forests of the Rhaead home, his early life was spent not in languid play, but in the harsh realities of life. Despite his father having held a prominent position, his death had left his wife and four children to be expelled from their community, overthrown by an uncle who left them to die. As a child, he spent his time learning how to use a sling, track prey and ride the wild horses that trotted through the scattered trees.

Although his mother worked hard and could teach the young boy much, their lives were still hard. Every failed hunt of his was another day his family went hungry, and in times of desperation he often had to attack from and steal from his own people- unthinkable to most of the Rhaead. When he was caught he would be beaten and shunned, which only served to make his family more desperate as he recovered.

Through these hardships however, a man was forged. In part, this was thanks to the environment, but at the same time something else kindled an ugly flame inside of him. Often, when the family ate well, his mother would tell stories- of what life had been like with her husband and of the fineries that came with such a privileged position. When he finally reached adulthood and left his home he was consumed by a burning desire to overthrow his relative and take back what his family had lost before he was born. Swearing himself to another chieftain’s retinue, he would prove himself rapidly to be a capable leader of men, being trusted with his own group of skirmishers and launching countless raids against his uncle's troops and homes.

Five years later, his spear would drain the lifeblod from his uncle's neck as he finally took back control of his father's tribe, and with his death, his mother and three sisters could return. No longer were they isolated fringes of the society, but instead in the centre, where they could enjoy the life denied to them as they had struggled to survive in the woods. Now at the head of a significant force, and with his previous chieftain having turned from overseer to staunch ally, he would make a visit to the Godswoods, where the oldest trees lived, having started growing since before man had even arrived in the region. There, he met with the druids, who would describe tales of exploits yet to come and victories yet to be won.

It was also here where he met his wife. Perhaps a druid would not be what was expected, but nonetheless the pair would be wed, the rawhide wraps encircling their arms and joining the two together. From there his already rapid rise would turn to a meteoric one, the man coming into his own with ruthless, yet calculated and cunning attacks that left his foes disoriented and overwhelmed, ripe to be picked off one by one. Perhaps if all his foes had come together to overwhelm him they might have succeeded, but instead with every victory his forces would grow larger, bolstered by the conquered tribe's numbers and those of the increasing number of people flocking to his cause.

It was at the age of 22, having been a man for a mere eight years, when he would become the High Warlord. Crowned with a wreath of holly in the Rhaead capital (and the only permeant settlement they had) of Andrelian, he would spend the next two years subjugating the last few tribes that insisted on rebelling.

Yet after all this work, this tireless struggle to unite the Rhead, there now comes a new threat. A ravenous, slaving horde intent on conquering them. Kerenatam will not allow this. He will not allow his work to be tossed aside, his peoples crushed and held in distain as he was when he was a child. He goes to the meeting not to stir up trouble, but to gather support for the cause, with the chants of his blue-painted warriors behind him.

[Ciaran]

Arlanna ap Tadhg

Arlanna ap Tadgh

---

The druidess Arlanna, though best known for her marriage to the legendary High Warlord Kerenatam, is a powerful force in her own right. Said by her people to have a rare and potent natural talent for magic, her isolated upbringing has forged little in the form of kinship with the other Angaturiz, though she is fiercely territorial and loyal to her own people, the Rhaead. Her strongest allegiance, though, is to her husband, who she believes is a divine spirit that is destined to bring the Rhaead to greatness, while it is her purpose to ensure he fulfils his.

Some believe that Arlanna never knew her family, and this is the reason why she spends so little time among others. While it is true that the woman that for three seasons carried her in her womb died on the day of Arlanna's birth, and that the man that planted that seed fled his newfound responsibility soon afterwards, this does not mean she did not know her family. Because her mother and father are not her family - they never were.

Arlanna was raised by the druids of the Rhaead, and exposed to their rites almost from birth. At six summers' age, she was assisting the sacrifices in small ways, and by nine, was regularly an active participant. Druids older and wiser than her recognised a unique talent for druidcraft in her that had nothing to do with learned skill or practice. Though Arlanna was reclusive due to her unorthodox upbringing, and so rarely visited the rest of the tribe, word got out, quickly but quietly. Explanations for this power arose, though whether rumours and gossip or genuine truths, it is hard to say. Some claimed that she was born on a blood moon. Others that she stole her mother's life force during her birth, killing her mother but strengthening her. Regardless, the druids made an effort to keep these quiet, while simultaneously taking advantage of this asset.

It was many years later that Arlanna heard tales of raids taking place against a Rhaead tribe by the forces of another. Though she ignored this at first, as infighting in the Rhaead was common, the days turned into weeks, months, and years of conflict, and again and again the same man was leading the attacks. His persistence was certainly noteworthy. Out of curiosity, she attempted to divine his future, and saw a glorious world in which the Rhaead were the undisputed masters of all known lands, and the forger of this great crusade was the same man who at present fought only in petty raids against his uncle. Arlanna made it her life's work to ensure that he lived the future she had seen.

Arlanna made sacrifices in Kerenatam's name. In the final battles leading to his uncle's demise, he would be witness to what were seemingly strokes of good luck - a change of wind blowing an arrow just off course, or a spear breaking at just the right moment. These were Arlanna's doing. And so not long afterwards, the treacherous uncle of Kerenatam ap Tadgh was dead.

Little time passed before Kerenatam's visit to the Godswoods, the first time he and Arlanna would meet in person. By this point, her interest in him had already developed into a fully-fledged, almost religious obsession. Other druids saw her value as an asset for the tribe, but they also considered her extremely unstable (quite reasonably). They encouraged her to marry Kerenatam as they believed that his "destiny" could be more easily fulfilled with Arlanna assisting him in person, as long as her fraying sanity held up. It is likely that they still have a contingency plan that involves her murder, if necessary.

And so in the years since that day, Arlanna has lived in Andrelian, assisting Kerenatam in his conquests however she can. This primarily has meant sacrifices, but Arlanna has also worked in negotiations, counsel, and the management of the High Warlord's territories while he is away. Now having seen 22 summers, she has become an intelligent, potent schemer, but is also entirely apathetic about the fates of those tribes other than her own, while her sanity waxes and wanes like the moon.

[Mercenary5]

Kussaz

Kussaz Fall-staff


Pictured Right

Age: 54

Sex: Male

ALLEGIANCE: Kussaz is a sworn sword of Kerenatam Ap Tadh. Beyond that he owes no vows of loyalty to any tribe, nation, or people.

Profession: advisor, commander, mercenary.

A brief biography of Kussaz Fall-Staff

Transcribed and (annotated by Rikaz, bard and druid)

I was born here in Thraxia. My mother belonged to a Vedatanni tribe and worked as a seamstress for her village. My father was a wandering hero who had passed through my village some months before¹. Growing up was rough, and I did anything it took to help our family survive². When I was old enough to leave, I did. I signed on with a unit of mercenaries headed south to fight for the imperials.

Life was good as a mercenary. We were treated well by the Empire and were highly valued for our obedience and strength. While I never took part in the politics of the imperial bodyguard³, I heard that Thraxian influence in some cases stretched as far as the palace. I spent most of my campaign attached to a "peacekeeping" unit that would go on loan from governor to governor. We killed bandits for the most part, but we also hunted pirates, infiltrated resistance groups (in the north of the empire), and served as hired muscle for town guards. I got to see most of the world in that job, made a fair bit of coin, and laid with about every type of woman you could imagine. While I never learned how to read like the officers did, I made it a habit to try to listen to locals and their stories if they would let me. I speak many languages poorly, but I spoke more than any other enlisted man⁴.

I returned to my homeland at the end of my service. I was still young enough to enter a chieftain's retinue. Now I am a half decent commander, but I’m not touched by the gods. I wasn't born into any great house, I rarely held the fate of men and my hands, and the fate of nations is far above my station. I was posted under the command of the young commander Kerenatam.

Kerenatam was no more than a boy when I met him. But his claim on his neighboring land and his noble birth ascended him to a position of command in the court of his neighboring chief. I was quite fond of this young commander, and made myself useful as an advisor on battlefield, logistical, and troop management matters. While at first Kerenatam was guarded around me, in time the scared boy grew into what could only be considered a conqueror⁵. In a short time Kerenatam has done more to unite the warring tribes than any warlord of the past. While I wouldn’t dare claim any credit for the lads accomplishments, it has been my privilege to witness his conquests⁶ thus far.

Traits: Protective. Honest. Direct. Greedy. Selfish. Stubborn.

Talents: I have a talent for organizing men. A great man can use an army to topple an empire, but a lesser man must be at his side to make sure that the army doesn’t starve along the way. While in my youth I had other talents, at this point in my life logistics and administration are my most useful skills.

Footnotes
1: All evidence suggests that Kussaz's mother was an escort and his father one of her clients. This is due to the fact that Kussaz has many siblings from various stock.
2: This included petty crimes like pick-pocketing and burglary, as these are the only means of income for a young boy of his stature of birth.
3: The Emperor has many bodyguard units, including some entirely composed of foreign mercenaries. In addition to a unit of Eunuchs and a contingent of Slave-Boys.
4: Most mercenaries are not famed for their education, for good reason.
5: Liberator.
6: Unification.

Awyen Salt-Tooth

Name: Awyen Salt-Tooth, Chief of Svicnoc, Sea-King of the Vedatanni. Son of King Konall Golden-Forge.

Note: Sea King is a self-styled honorific, and in no way denotes claim over lands of the Vedatanni.

Age: 36

Personality: Awyen is quick to distribute loot, but he is also quick to claim that right. That is to say, he lacks the inhibitions that keep other men safe and on their throne. He is mercurial, spontaneous, and sensual. He seeks out stimulation from foreign cultures, foods, and experiences. He believes in swift and decisive justice, with or without mercy. But with his decisiveness comes impulsivity. Although perhaps not as foolhardy as he once was, Awyen has always been the sort to rush into things.

Appearance: Awyen is missing his left eye, his nose is crooked, and he seems to always squint. He has a broad forehead, and when he laughs he seems to do it all in one great “HA” that is cut short as spontaneously as it began. His eye is grey, his hair red. The nature of his profession robs his hair of it’s vibrance, leaving it a dull salmon orange. He is broadly built and wears a gut at the moment due to his high intake of sodium. By all accounts, he resembles an alehouse thug and not a king.

Allegance: Vows made, Vedatanni Peoples, Svicnoc Tribe, Gods and Demons.

Rank: Chieftain’s Representative

Skills and Talents: Organizing and Motivating men, Tactical and Strategic thinking, Adaptability, Sailing and Navigation. Also, he makes very good stew.

History:

The Ascension of Chief Konall

Konall’s family have never been warriors. Like many families in Svicnoc, they had started as humble merchants. Where Konall was different from his ancestors was that he had taken advantage of something they had not: credit. Inevitably ships would sink, crops would wither, and raiders from neighboring tribes would make away with precious silver. Citizens would petition Konall for aid in these times, and he would give it. When the time came to pay their debt either Konall would make his money back and more, or he would receive both slaves and land from the deal. As you can imagine this might make someone very wealthy, but it rarely inspires love or ideas of kingship. Therefore Konall handled his debtors with grace. While he claimed ownership of their assets, he let them retain their freedom. Moreover, he offered them a consistent salary in exchange for their service on their former land. For the average landowner, the security from a consistent income far outweighed the pride of independence, and in time, more and more landowners came to settle with Konall.

The chiefship of Svicnoc gradually became an honorific title. Konall had held a contract with the chief to collect taxes for years, a result of the young boy's fruitless wars and expeditions backfiring. Eventually, when the guards started taking pay from Konall instead of the chief, they replaced the young monarch in a bloodless coup. The adolescent, of course, rode away and vowed revenge. Nothing has come of him yet.

As a chief, Konall continued his commitment to stewardship, and his realm prospered. He paid off raider, hired professional soldiers, and organized an efficient system of tax collection. As his realm became more prosperous other chiefs sought him out. At first, they observed him at work, but they could not understand it. Soon they began sending their sons to learn from him. At the same time, many chiefs sought out his protection from the raiders he had earlier bought off. He had brought relative peace to his peninsula not with a sword, but with an abacus.

The Tale of Konall’s Sons

In time Konall had two sons and a daughter. Awyen, his eldest son, was born under the sign of the seer. Within the next ten years, Awyen was blessed with first a little sister, and then a little brother. His sister was sweet and full of life. She was gregarious and beautiful. She took after her mother, a member of the Rhaead. Her hair was a bright red and her eyes a piercing green. Awyens younger brother Faeolin was golden-haired with green eyes. He was quiet as a child, but like his sister, he was kind and handsome. Awyen was not handsome, as his mother did not come from the Rhaead, she came from the gutter.

Awyen's mother was not a concubine, not officially. Konall had a habit for taking young women of the tribe to bed with him. One of these young women, the daughter of a fishmonger, was Awyen’s mother. Awyen, however, had his father's eyes, grey with a light green tint to them. While one would think that being a firstborn bastard would carry significant risk, Awyen’s eyes proved that he was descended from Chief Konall. Whispers are a hard thing to stop, and the golden-haired infant boy born to Konall from the Rhaead had the town ablaze with rumors. Where had the golden hair come from? Chief Konall assured everyone that Faeolin was indeed his son and that the townsfolk should love him as his father does.

It was in that way that Konall reared two loyal sons.

Faeolin was a born charmer and the more affluent of the two sons. When he came of age he was often used by his father as a negotiator and diplomat. In one legend, when Faeolin was about sixteen and his elder brother was about twenty, they were both sent to settle a debt that a young couple had accrued while in their tenancy at one of Konall’s farmsteads. The young head of the household rebuffed any claim of Konall’s. While Awyen and the young husband argued about the debt, Faeolin took the young lady aside and explained that the debt needn’t be paid in full now and that any collateral could postpone its collection. The young lady gave Faeolin her silver locket. Meanwhile, Awyen and the young tenant had been about to come to blows in the yard. Faeolin informed them both that the disagreement had been settled, but only after Awyen let the young tenant throw the first punch.

Awyen was the more direct and headstrong of the two. While his honesty was appreciated by most of the hard-working Vedatanni that he interacted with, it got him into more trouble than his brother's charm could get him out of. Where Awyen felt truly at peace was on the sea. When he was a boy his father would take him sailing to Veluz or south along the coast. When he was a young adolescent his father gave him his ship that he could sail with a few unlucky courtiers. It seemed settled, at least among the townsfolk, that the boys would rule jointly with Faeolin directing his father's bureaucracy and Awyen leading his father's trade fleet.

That was until the war. While neither Konall or his sons were warriors by trade, they were nobility among the Vedatanni, and when Nhir attacked it was their duty to defend Thraxia. Awyen and Konall command and rallied to aid the Gisilbards. It was in this war that Awyen proved his worth as a leader of men. Perhaps had the war waited a couple of years Faeolin would have been old enough to handle the emotional shock before him, or had they come a few years earlier Konall may have been physically able to keep up with his army. However an invasion comes when it wants, and the only member of the noble family who was fit to command was Awyen. There were no winners in the last invasion, and no chief dared to march home demanding honors. But with every setback Awyen learned. He was too young a commander to truly make a mark on the war effort, but while serving under other elder chiefs and generals, his bravery and commitment to his men impressed both commoners and chieftains alike. According to one contemporary source he spent every night, no matter the weather, in the same condition as his least equipt man. Once, when sleeping under the stars a soldier from a neighboring tribe approached the warchief and commented that he had no furs to cover himself with when it grew cold at night. Awyen, in response, made a gift of his furs and vowed to sleep outside with nothing but his cloak to cover him.

Upon returning home he was met with betrayal. His brother Faeolin had paid tribute to their enemy. This was in itself not such an awful thing. After all, Faeolin was a boy alone without any army to defend his kingdom. Haven't they always settled things with coin and not with force?

Awyen responded as he always had when his family was irksome. He set sail, but not before declaring to his people that when Nhir comes for them, he will be ready. He found work hunting Nhirinize pirates from Velusian Blood-Barons and spent his time sailing from one exotic location to the next. He made friends along the way. Velusian mercenaries, Thraxian adventures, and Gwidlic raiders were all welcome on his ship. Although he never forgave his brothers betrayal, after a few months he did dock at Svicnoc again to resupply and take aboard new volunteers.
An albatross skull adorns the helm of his ship The Minnow, the mark of a man who has touched the four corners of the world. His ship has been beached on cursed sands and become stuck in ice floats. He has feuded with horse lords and slept in canopies high above the trees. He has sought out treasures and magic alike. It is said by some that he traded his eye with a demon to gain great power over mortals, others say that he sacrifices children to cruel eastern gods of the sea to command waves. Claiming to have seen disturbing visions of a man made of clay turning to iron and rusting, he returns home to consult with his brother about the welfare of the Vedatanni.

[Sadko]

Lubbo Bladetaker

"I was born many, many years ago." The man would laugh, his strong fingers tracing the form of the wine jar. "The time when the Carogacts were naught but packs of hungry dogs, squabbling over bones and sticks whilst foreigners were free to come and take as they liked. "My father.. Well, he was a foreigner alright. A man from Veluzia, bare with a sling and a bag of stones, in the service of a minor chief who placed his trust in him. The chief did not go wrong with his decision, and my father killed many of his enemies, taking his pay in wine and women. He took his daughter, too, when the chief was down with malady and on his deathbed." He gazed into the hearth, as if pondering something for a moment. "I was the son of their union. Ever since I was a babe, my father put a blade in my hand and made me his helper. Spotting wolves, skinning stags, making traps and building fences.. I did it all. "Gods, I was strong as an ox; once I felled an oak as tall as thirty good men standing atop each other's shoulders. Our village had enough timber to last us three winters, and we built a new fence for the sheep pen using the branches. "The same year, a potter and his family begged to join our village. They fled down south after their home was destroyed by a rival clan. The potter's daughter.. Ysilla. A beauty. Buxom, with wide, child-bearing hips; I knew just then that she would be my wife." The chieftain grinned as memories came flooding back. The glint of his eyes seems to change as he'd continue, "I wasn't the only one who thought to make her mine." He looked into the flame, grimacing. "They called him Babon the Strong. I figure Babon the Stupid would be a more fitting name for such a bloody oaf. Challenged me for chieftaincy and tried to take her from me, he did. And so we settled it in a deathly struggle. He and I, spear and axe, blood for blood. Tossed at a spear at me as we closed in on each other, hoping he'd surprise me. I surprised him instead, when I caught it out of the air with my hand and stabbed the thing through his mouth, right into his little brain." Lubbo ran his hand over the shaft of his spear. "No one questioned me after that. From that day they called me Bladetaker, and you know why that is so. The very same spear I took from Babon, is the one I heft in my hands at this moment. I was named chief, and Ysilla was named my wife. I'll tell you all something. I never aspired to conquer my neighbours, to tear down their livelihood and drive their people into chains and graves. But I made my clan a power not to be trifled with. I tripled our harvests, raised up the hundreds of huts you see dotting our hills, felled the trees in our forests to build a palisade around us. Know this, I toiled whilst other chieftains spent their riches on their own vanity, in the search of trinkets and useless things. It is their people alone that asked me to lead in their stead, and I could not decline their plea. "Some sought to topple me, to have me poisoned or struck in my sleep. Their little bones are scattered on the riverbed. Those that bent the knee and accepted me as their leader, I helped stand to their feet once more. You men can see the fruits of my work. A people as one, protected from the thieves and the elements. I will do everything in my power to make sure that my children continue my legacy and multiply it, that no foe dare ruin us."

Skills & Talents __________________________________ He is known as a leader of men, and has been at the helm of his tribe for decades. This alone speaks for his aptitude in command and stewardship, understanding what his people expect of him and knowing how to keep his subjects happy. Though aged and not as strong as he was in his youth, he keeps himself in good shape. The man is a resourceful fighter and picks his battles well, knowing the importance of positioning and formation in ensuring a victory. Traits __________________________________ Assertive; Wisened; Brave; Uncompromising; Distrustful; Conservative. Allegiances __________________________________ He lives for his tribe and family. Rank __________________________________ Chief of the Carogacts

[Peik]

Anabinpāl

Siddayumi Anabinpāl, Head of Sidda, Chief of Mikanna

Certain things in life are chosen for people far before they get to have a say in it; some find themselves lucky and are born into comfort, while most are merely scattered all over the average. Then there’s the truly godsforsaken sort. Current head of the House of Sidda, Siddayumi Anabinpāl, seems to be part of the lattermost group. The story does not begin with Anabinpāl, but with the founder of the House of Sidda, Ban-Giru-Ganesh. The family’s telling is that it all began when ‘Ur-Ednirun fell to Nhirian blade, and Sidda Ban-Giru-Ganesh first received Favor from the Gods’. Favor allowed Ban-Giru-Ganesh to bring prosperity with his touch, and justice with his insight. Thus, he was set on the way of power, and the House of Sidda was set on earning great fame. A valued ally to Hezeret, and a man who knew how to expand his influence, Ban-Giru-Ganesh expanded the wealth of Sidda to great extents; such that the family Elders claim that their slaves in Urrûm-erzu numbered more than its freemen and peasantry by the time of Ban-Giru-Ganesh’s death, and that their gardens in Limtuk numbered so many that the city had turned a vibrant green. Of course, such power is bound to beget envy, and envious were the curl-bearded nobles of Nhir. Whispers spread falsehood, say the Elders of Sidda, and in darkness, shrines to the city-demons were teeming with forbidden offerings, so that they would place curses on the line of Ban-Giru-Ganesh. And they grew so numerous that, in the end, even on the Favored line of Sidda was cast a shadow. Their bloodline, once a matter of pride for the Sidda in bearing no outsider family’s taint, began producing unsightly offspring. The blossoming flowers of their gardens withered, and their fields fell victim to a plague of locust. With the tide having turned against their foe, the perfumed nobles and the fickle priests began speaking, and rumors abound; of how the house of Sidda had turned to the Old Ways, of how they planned to usurp the throne and cast away the glorious name of Ārtammat. And thus, there was war. Elders say how even with cursed blood flowing through their veins, the men of Sidda took up the razor and the cuirass with honor. Although each of them was strong as ten of the Ardent Host in combat, the armies of Nhir soon realized how Sidda would not be bested by blade, and began wielding more insidious weapons; bribes, poison, hunger. Strong as they were, not even the blood of Sidda could stave away starvation, and soon they fell, one by one. When the men fell, the Nhir came, and took what they could not by men’s means. The women were defiled and sold to slavery, and the children were bashed against riverbed rocks until the waters ran red. Obviously, despite the massacre implied in the narrative, some survived. The Elders say that they went north and north, until the hands of Nhir could reach them no more. By the time they reached the mountains of Thraxia, the soles of their feet were scarred by the march, and their tongues by cruel thirst. Nonetheless, they were Sidda. When the red-haired Angaturiz approached them, with sword in hand and curse in mouth, they proved they would not be rid of easily, and persevered against them and the elements of the wild until they were seen as, maybe not equals, but a fellow inhabitant of the mountains. Or so the tales say, and the tales end here. Few are old enough to remember what truly happened, and the said few amongst the Elders of the Sidda know well that their power comes from their tales, and would not give away their power so easily. However, one can speculate. While the family tales speak of warfare and glory, few of their artifacts and ventures imply such a predisposition. It seems more likely that the Sidda earned their place in the Thraxian mountains through trade and craftsmanship, considering how the family’s fame in the region comes from their skillfully made tongs and scissors, and their prominence as dyers. By the time Anabinpāl was born, while the house of Sidda had not yet risen to the prominence that they would reach during his life, their monopoly on how to produce sky-blue dyes allowed them to hold a certain degree of affluence and wealth. He was born to the head of the family, Siddayumi Nantunipāl; who was famous amongst the Sidda for his reputed skill in combat (so skilled was he that none amongst the living had seen him unsheathe his sword, let alone use it), and amongst the Angaturiz for his dwarfish stature. The birth is said to have been a commotion in itself – as the story goes, upon seeing the child come out of the womb six fingered, red faced and as hairy as an ape, the midwife came down with illness and could not speak for the rest of her years. Despite Anabinpāl’s horrifying appearance, it was not received with surprise by the line of Sidda, having been long accustomed to their ‘cursed blood’. Albeit his mother, Selig, a Vedatanni woman from the tribe of Mikanna married to Nantunipāl in exchange for teaching the tribe how to produce the coarser blue dyes, took some time to adjust to her wild child, and through his early childhood Anabinpāl was raised by Iniminnu, his aunt and Nantunipāl’s first wife. Despite the rough start, over time, the bond between Selig and Anabinpāl grew stronger than the boy’s bond with Iniminnu, to an extent that Selig would defiantly bring the child with him whenever she were to visit her family, and encourage him to play with the boys of the Mikanna as if he were one of them proper. For the Sidda, the child spending time with the Mikanna was a good thing; although his polydactyly was considered a boon for a craftsman, his late birth, mixed blood and pugnacious behavior made him an unpopular candidate at inheriting anything of importance from his father’s wealth. Amongst the Mikanna he was at first a subject of curiosity and humiliation for his beastly appearance, but as he quickly grew to a prodigious size, respect took the place of mockery. Thanks to his gangly, muscular arms, he proved an expert climber and spear thrower at a very young age, and eventually made a name for himself amongst the tribe’s hunters, both for his skill and for his voracious appetite. His growing reputation amongst the Mikanna made the Sidda quickly see the boy in a new light; as opposed to the best-forgotten brute they’d first seen in him, he was now groomed as a warrior, a profession that had mostly been on its way out amongst family members until then. Unexpectedly, it was Siddayumi Nantunipāl who declared that he would be training Anabinpāl in the ways of combat. While the women of the Sidda began preparing dirges for him in advance, and his wives began practicing how to present themselves as proper widows, it turned out that the Elders’ tales about Nantunipal’s skill in the ways of the warrior were true. The elderly dwarf made such a mockery of Anabinpāl, in fact, that it is said to this day that the Sidda do not show their warrior side for it is beaten into their very muscles with cudgels. It took two years for Anabinpāl to land even the weakest hit on his father, although said hit was enough to shatter four fingers on the man’s left hand, which would lead to their amputation some years later. So, the House of Sidda earned its next warrior. And when the Mikanna raised their arms against the neighboring tribe of Awaddil, when the latter claimed ownership over their cattle, the Sidda went to war alongside them. Father and son fought side by side, and fought well. Anabinpāl brought so many heads and prisoners to the Chief of the Mikanna, Briseric, that the man was oath bound to give to the young Sidda whatever he’d wished. Anabinpāl proved once more why he was known for his voracious appetite, and asked for Elenig, his daughter and only child, to be his wife. While it was unthinkable for the elderly Briseric to give his only daughter to a foreigner (especially a foreigner like Anabinpāl, for it was practically giving his daughter to an ape that spoke), it was also unthinkable for him to go back on his word, and begrudgingly, they were wed. It was a silent marriage. Anabinpāl was now on the dangerous path of greatness. Having built a strong bond between him and his father on the field of battle, and having wed his way to being a future contender as chief (even though he’d married Elenig for she had the thickest thighs and tallest height amongst the women of the tribe, and not for her status), he was now a most prominent figure amongst both the Sidda and the Mikanna, yet also one full of controversy. Like an interloper, he had come and taken Nantunipal’s favor and fingers, despite having no skill in the family professions – not only that, but he’d also taken Briseric’s daughter from him and tainted his line. For all his fame, many showed him respect, but few showed him love. He had no proper friends or allies in either family, merely those that feared him. Only his father, mother and wife showed any sort of compassion to him. For one leading a simple life, that might have been enough. But despite his monstrous exterior, he was able to feel the hatred of many within himself like any other man. Anabinpāl found himself feeling surprisingly alone. When Siddayumi Nantunipāl passed away suddenly, without naming an heir to the House of Sidda, Anabinpāl ended up being granted his position, for despite being the least popular candidate, he was also the most feared. Nonetheless, this fear was not enough to stop one of his uncles from insulting him openly amongst members of the House, mocking him, his life, his appearance and the circumstances of his birth, claiming that it’d have been better if he’d never been born and how he was Cursed Blood of Sidda personified. Anabinpāl was so insulted, that he began weeping loudly, and bashed his uncle’s head in with his fists until there was naught but his lower jaw left attached to the man’s body. He then fell sick with headache and spent up to a week in seclusion, attended only by his wife Elenig. The weeping and random garbling that could be heard from his quarters led the family to think that the Gods of Nhir had caught up with them and were tormenting the Sidda once more. He eventually recovered and found that the gory display he’d made of his uncle had silenced all the sounds of dissent within the family. Perhaps it was not only dissent that he had shut down, for in general, the House of Sidda felt joyless. The head of family was a brute with no understanding of leadership, one that was not above shedding the blood of his elders upon compulsion. Wishing things differently, he went to his mother, Selig, and asked for her counsel. She was a woman wise beyond her years and told him that families stood together through two things – the power of love and the feeling of security. Anabinpāl did not believe that he could win his family’s love, for in the end, he was not where they wanted him to be. So, he tried to buy their hearts through offerings of the family income. His uncle’s widow was given one-in-forty of the Siddayumi’s wealth, while members of the House were allowed to keep to themselves twice what they would normally keep. He was warned by his wife, Elenig, on how this could lead to them merely speaking their thoughts away from his presence and plot against him from such safety, but perhaps even this was enough for Anabinpāl. Unexpectedly, despite the resentment that the Elders of Sidda held against him, his decrees allowed his distant cousins to grow wealthier, and over time, he found some allies amongst them. Unlike his siblings and his uncles, they had no chance of inheriting the position of Siddayumi, and thanks to him, they now had a greater degree of independence and wealth. Anabinpāl’s status amongst the Mikanna also meant that they were able to move through the Angaturiz with less harassment and more respect as well. While Anabinpāl understood that his cousins’ allegiance to him would lead to an increase in his responsibilities, he did not want to disappoint those who appreciated his actions. At their behest, he began taking a more vocal role in the tribe politics of the Mikanna, something that his mother and pregnant wife also appreciated. All this meant more stress on the Siddayumi, however, and the headaches came again, with greater intensity. With them, he also found his words slurring and outright changing at times, barely able to keep himself from spouting random profanity and losing physical control. When the two came together, he would lock himself to his quarters, alone, and unable to do any further harm to the family. The Elders of Sidda were not surprised – the Cursed Blood, they said once more. An act of Gods at behest of the Nhir. They were, however, surprised when Anabinpāl dared to curse said Gods out loud and removed all idols and offerings to them from his household. He would not obey those who had spited them and forgotten them in their time of need, he claimed. Sidda had shown its power even without favor. The only God from Nhir worthy of worship was Ban-Giru-Ganesh. Surprisingly, this decree of Anabinpāl found supporters amongst the Elders, the ones who still remembered some of the Old Ways. While most of them were not pleased with this development, those ones had realized by now that Anabinpāl did not seem to care about their heeds, and thus accepted the new narrative out of necessity and began making the best of it. Remains of the Old Ways and borrowed practices from the Angaturiz filled in the gaps left by the removal of the Gods of Nhir, and the True Way of Sidda was (re)found – much of it without Anabinpāl’s knowing. He claimed he had better things to do than to meddle with the way of priests and Elders. As the Sidda reformed itself around the new dogma, Elenig gave birth. The child, named Ban-Giru Iannan (Glory to Ban-Giru), was the first Sidda born in a long time without any seeming defects. Anabinpāl was happy to see his wife Elenig relieved to see a healthy child, while the Elders saw this as an auspicious sign of Ban-Giru-Ganesh rewarding them for them rising up against the destiny written for them by the Gods of Nhir. However, when the Mikanna and the Sidda gathered together to celebrate the birth of Anabinpāl’s child, he was beset by the Cursed Blood once more, and in an episode, insulted a prominent retainer of Chief Briseric. While most were amused by Anabinpāl’s words, the man was not, and challenged Anabinpāl to a duel. With his reputation at stake, Anabinpāl accepted. Three days later, the duel commenced. While Anabinpāl tried to go easy on him, he was stabbed in the foot by his efforts, and promptly ripped the man’s face off. Anabinpāl’s wound had to be cauterized, while Briseric's retainer spent a week in agonizing pain before finally expiring. Albeit his injury was expected to humble him, Anabinpāl turned even more aggressive after the incident. Fearing for his and his family’s future after the event of hostility, he decided to take matters into his own hands and consolidate a future for the Sidda before he expired or lost his sanity. When Briseric finally passed away, he was quick to claim himself chieftain of the Mikanna, and declare that any who disagreed with the notion were free to leave the tribe with all their belongings, or challenge him for the title. While none dared challenge him, some prominent retainers of Briseric indeed left for other tribes. Most of the dissatisfied seemed to find the thought of having to start a new life far too difficult and begrudgingly accepted Anabinpāl’s rule. Yet it seems for Anabinpāl that the more he’s risen, the more he’s lost. He knows well that he is not the popular ruler, despite his attempts to appeal to the love of his people. Even his advisors and his allies seem to have preferred an alternative. While he has secured a possible fortune for his family, he is aware of the risks awaiting them should he stumble, and the constant need to be cautious eats away at him and makes him more fallible to the so-called Cursed Blood. He has compromised some of the trade secrets of the Sidda to appeal to the Mikanna, and compromised the cultural integrity of the Mikanna ruling class to appeal to the Sidda. In return, he’s gained allies and enemies in both. He trods the path of greatness with a limp, and is all too aware that wolves are guiding him there, wolves ready to lunge at his throat should he fall. And so, he loses himself in food and drink to forget the sword hanging above his head by a thread. For all the comforts allowed to a chief, he finds it harder and harder to enjoy any of them with what’s at stake.	One look at this famed warrior of old, and one can see that the tales are, or at least, some were, true. While no longer the red-furred beast that he was rumored to be by the tribes of the region, this pudgy, apelike brute of a man certainly bears enough hair on his body to be mistaken as such. His hairs have greyed, and his brow has furrowed, and despite the air of majesty brought to him by his age and regal clothes, the savagery that constitutes his physical being still shows its prominence through his snout-like nose, sunken, predatory eyes, and the simply monstrous amount of mass on his body. One of his eyes has long gone lazy, and he often makes an effort to not let his eyes wander. Age: 53 Skills & Talents: A prodigious warrior even at his advanced age, what he lacks in education of strategy, he makes up for through personal experience and a sharp mind. Despite his tendency to downplay his physical strength, he is still a brute more ape than man, more than capable to lead and humble the best of men in combat. Anabinpāl lacks in mercantile and diplomatic etiquette, but is willing to learn and is not above asking for advice from those close to him, well aware of his limits. He speaks with candor and clarity. While illiterate, he has spent a good portion of his youth listening and observing. It is hard for him to explain his reasoning through words, but it has served him well so far. His sheer mass hinders his ability to wear the heavy armor of his bloodline, although it also hinders poison should it enter his bloodstream. Traits: Cautious; Observant; Patient; Hedonistic; Unstable; Paranoid Allegiances: His children; his wife, Elenig; the Sidda family; the Mikanna tribe Rank & Role: CHIEF.

[VoiD]

Mazyar Windchaser

Mazyar Windchaser

Mazyar is not an openly vain man, but any old soldier of similar repute will boast of their adventures when they're deep in their cups... And so, there are some that know his story as told by him, and recall it going somewhat like this. "I was born a low-ranking member of the Sidda family, whose roots lay in old Nhir. My father was the fifth brother of one of the branch families, and my mother a local aristocrat's daughter with almost as much commoner in her as noble. As far back as I can remember, father was embroiled in the internal politics of the family; always jockeying for position, always vying for the smallest of recognition from the family heads. It was inevitable that I would become one of his pieces in that game, and his desire drove him to become a fierce disciplinarian. I still remember the sting of the switch he used, even after all the fights and scrapes I've been through. I must be honest however -- much of the Sidda were like that in those days, so soon after their exile. They all grasped for the glories they had before, and I don't doubt that many ardently wished for their return to the vaunted heights they had reached whilst a part of the Empire. In any case, I left at the first opportunity I had, when I was only fifteen. I escaped the family grounds in the dead of night, and traveled south to the nearest saltwater harbor. I lied to an unprincipled shipmaster about my age and paid him enough coin to turn a blind eye, and managed to travel as far south as the Velucian islands. There I spent some months attempting to convince a mercenary company to let me join their ranks. It was obvious I was a runaway, and most of the groups there were looking for the famed Velucian slingers, not some green boy without any equipment. But I was determined and had some talent with bow and spear, and after scraping together some coin from working in taverns I was able to buy myself some decent maille. It wasn't long after that I joined a small company headed for the Gwidlic kingdoms. My time in the Pearled Sea became the foundation to my later fame. I spent six years there, fighting for and against all manner of petty kings and chieftains, sometimes in both capacities. They were a strange people, but not too unlike the Thraxian tribes in their constant feuding. Their Knights are impressive fighters, but although almost every man had some training in archery I found their mastery of that craft rather poor. Thus I initially made a name for myself amongst them as an archer; only later did they come to appreciate my spearmanship as well. I left many blond-haired champions bleeding in the dirt. In fact, it is the Gwidlics who gave me my name Windchaser for the speed of my gait when sprinting into battle. Eventually I grew tired of the Kingdoms and spent the next two decades traveling across the Known World. I was employed in many capacities as a fighting man. Sometimes with a few others, sometimes under an entire outfit. I'd like to say I've fought in almost every corner of the world. I spent years on the various frontiers of Nhir, where I witnessed the power of the Nhirian Cataphracts. I sailed to Hitravata and fought against Sarsinid raiders -- they were gloriously talented equestrians and archers, and I managed to learn some of their craft from those we captured. In Lower Eshkhep I spent some time amongst the Hamurmids. Their temperament was much like my fathers with their petty squabbling and backstabbing, and I left as soon as possible. I spent some time as far south as the Riddling City, where I slew a cabal of magi practicing dark magics. That feat itself is a good story on its own, and won me no small amount of fame. I crossed the Screaming Sands (whose people are little more than cowardly vultures) from Sea to Sea. That was a foolhardy journey, and I have never been closer to death's door. Afterwards I was beset by Talomaic pirates, and although I beat them off their poisons would leave me in agony for weeks. I was lucky though, as a passing group of Jalwarudi nomads nursed me back to health. I still count their people as friends to this day. Three years ago I decided to finally return to Thraxia. I had seen my fill of the world, and some part of me still missed the land of mountains and valleys. And another part of me still cursed my father, and wanted to show the Sidda family the man I had become. Well, it was a lacklustre homecoming to be sure. My father was long dead, and my mother as well. I had no relatives that remembered me, and it took some time to convince my erstwhile family that I was who I said I was. I may have never accomplished that if not for my fame as a mercenary. In any case, I was accepted begrudgingly back into the Sidda, who are now ruled by a monster of a man and are still plagued by infighting. And now I hear tell of the Ardent Host once again being on the march..."	Tall and stocky, Mazyar bears the marks of a lifetime of fighting. Scars crisscross his body, his left hand misses one digit, and his tanned skin bears the resemblance of leather. However, his former vigor has begun to give way to the vicissitudes of age, with grey dotting his beard and wrinkles marring his face. Even so, Mazyar moves with the surety and grace of a master warrior. Age: 52 Skills & Talents: A famous warrior with a heroic reputation, Mazyar is a tremendously skilled fighter. His preferred weapons are his iron-tipped ash spear and horn composite bow, though he also is proficient with his iron acinaces-style sword. He is an able equestrian due to his wide travels, and is fluent in two languages while being able to partially speak another four. Mazyar is a career soldier and veteran campaigner, and thus is experienced in all facets of that lifestyle. However, age has token its toll on him, and he no longer moves with the alacrity he once did. Traits: Moral; Brave; Insecure; Jaded; Imperturbable; Honorable; Prideful; Reckless; Perceptive Allegiances: Those he holds dear [Personal]; Anabinpal [Liege]; the Sidda family [Familial]; the Mikanna [Faction] Rank & Role: RETAINER. Mazyar serves Anabinpal and the Sidda family.