[CHAR] The Shattering of Aegis

...	Bounty House Members
.........................................................................	Lord Malcer Mystralath Human - 34 Primordial (Fire) Aetherborn Abnormality - ???? A member of one of the leading noble families of Finnagund and a powerful aetherborn in his own right, Lord Malcer Mystralath is known as an wandering eccentric obsessed with covering himself, which many believe is to hide an horrific abnormality. His interests change with the seasons but when something does catch his interest, he pours all his money and time into it until it bores him and he leaves whatever project he was working on to fend for itself. In an unprecedented move, he established the Soft Haven Bounty House which raised a number of questions among the nobility and citizenry alike.
.........................................................................	Aleka Doneka Half Elf - 62 House Facilitator The Soft Haven House Facilitator sent from Veraz Althma to assist Lord Malcer in it's establishment. Like all Verazians, Aleka is calm, collected, and logical, fully devoted to his purpose and the Verazian God, Althma.
.........................................................................	Aeowyn Silventria Halfling - 36 Genesian (Alteration) Aetherborn Abnormality - ???? Despite her rough appearance, Aeowyn comes from an upper class family in Dranir who control several mines across the country. She's quick fingered, sharp tongued, and once she's judged you, getting off her bad side can prove to be an exercise in futility. As a halfling, she lacks phsyical strength and reach but her creative applications of Genesian magic leave her enemies at the mercy of their own belongings
.........................................................................	Carric Liadon Half Elf - 35 Primordial (Water) Aetherborn Abnormality - Six Digits A charismatic merchant, Carric owns four shipping vessels and co-works a large caravan with the Silventrias. His laid back and playful attitude hides a sharp intellect and he can be usually found gossiping with whichever poor soul caught his attention at the moment. At the House, his usual victim is Aleka.
.........................................................................	Katya Krystal Half Orc/Half Giant- 47 Kayta previously served the Silventrias as a caravan guard captain before she left to assist in the Gnomian Revolution. She was named a hero of the revolution and earned the her title, Butcher of Aetherborn, after she killed the Silver Coffer's ten aetherborn single handedly in a battle that lasted an hour, thus turning the tide of the war. Afterwards, Carric extended an invitation to join him and Aeowyn in traveling the world and ever the restless soul, she agreed.

...	Soft Haven NPCs
.........................................................................	Duke Patrin Gerrick - 45 Human Patrin Gerrick was a childhood friend of the Lord Randel Soft Step and attended the Wilree Royal Academy together. A lifetime of friendship kept them in close contact even as Gerrick traveled beyond the borders of Finnagund and when the previosu Duke of Soft Haven died without an heir, Randel reached out to his old friend and gave him the position. Duke Gerrick has held the position for twenty years, under which he has increased taxes even as the city's traffic has fallen. He is unwilling to separate himself from the lavish lifestyle he had grown accustomed to, making him incredibly unpopular as the people's money is used to fund lavish parties rather than fix the crumbling town.
.........................................................................	Dutchess Carlin Gerrick Human - 43 Carlin Gerrick is the daughter of a wealthy merchant Patrin befriended during his time traveling. She'd turned him down five years before he was granted the title of Duke, uninterested in leaving Buscon's social elite behind for a new country, but her family forced her to accept his offer two years after he became Duke, earning a significant advantage in Red fern purchases as a result. Since then, Carlin maintains a frosty demeanor with him, even after the birth of their son, and maintains a close circle of social elite in the city that she often turns against each other for her own amusement.
.........................................................................	Duke James Gerrick Human - 13 James Gerrick is the child of Patrin and Carlin. The couple tried for years to no avail but just before they were to take in a Soft Step child as a ward and heir, Carlin suddenly became pregnant. Their midwife called it a miracle of Melanar since it had been five years of failed attempts, even with Agitha's magical assistance, and James Gerrick was born into the world. James has grown up doted on by father and mother, the only thing they can find common ground on, turning him into a spoiled, selfish brat with the ego the size of the city. While any number of people would love to put him in his place, Dutchess Gerrick has demanded the head of the last person to look at her beloved son wrong and the only thing that stopped the execution was Lord Randel's upcoming visit.
.........................................................................	Agitha Hawthorne Halfling - 126 Animas (Mental) Aetherborn Abnormality - ???? Agitha Hawthorne, owner of the only guild certified apothecary in Soft Haven, is a 3 foot tall bundle of spite and passion, well known for her stubbornness and pride. Her shop, Hawthorne Apothecary, is often a gossip spot as Agitha is a notorious meddler and loves knowing everything going on in the town. The woman is a master alchemist and is well respected, or feared in some cases, in the community. Even the Duke is wary of her bad side.
.........................................................................	Bruno Hawthorne Tainted - 13 Bruno Hawthorne is the Tainted ward and apprentice of Agitha Hawthorne. She found him barely six years old, abandoned soaked and shivering outside the Treant and she took the boy in with no hesitation. Since then, he's grown into a tall, lanky, shy child with a natural talent for alchemy. Most of the town ignores him, Agitha's presence protecting him from the vast abuses the occasional Tainted traveler suffers. Unfortunately, the children of town, including James Gerrick, have no such reservations and take delight in tormenting him when he is running errands for Agitha.
.........................................................................	Esvele Nathandam Elf - 39 The Captain of the Soft Haven guard, Esvelee has spent 20 years in service to the Soft Steps. A commander in the Soft Step army, Lord Randel rewarded her with the position four ears ago after she saved him for an assassination attack. Although she was frustrated with the decision at first, the increased wages, generous accommodations, and stable lifestyle soon won her over. She takes her job seriously and has whipped the once laid back town guard into an efficient crime fighting force.

[Achronum]

Reserved for NPCs

[Scribe of Thoth]

Everything that has transpired has been at my command; my will is the destiny of lesser men.

_{Height: 5'10" | Weight: 190 lbs | Eye Color: Blue | Hair Color: Black}

"I will stand at the summit and make my detractors pay for the privilege of watching my ascent."

Appearance: Ceolfric is stocky and powerfully-built like the mountains that raised him, with skin covered in little scars and calluses that speak to a lifetime of conflict. He carries himself with a princely bearing that doesn't suit him, with all of the entitlement but none of the aristocratic civility, underlied by the subtle tension of a man who anticipates violence in every sudden movement. Likewise, his gaze is cold and judgmental, appraising everyone he looks upon in the way a predator might size up its next meal.

His hair, despite being greasy and swept back haphazardly, looks like it had been previously cut with some deliberate, tribal style in mind rather than the pragmatic shearing of a backwood savage. Swirling tattoos adorn the sides of his head, quite prominent when his undercut is freshly shaved but now just barely visible through the regrowing hair. A conspicuous scar bisects his right eyebrow, though his face appears otherwise unblemished until Ceolfric opens his mouth, where a discolored tongue marks him as Aetherborn in an unnatural, plum-colored hue.

Name: Ceolfric, Son of Ravangar

Age: 20

Gender: Male

Classification: Animas - Mental

Abnormality: His tongue is colored a deep purple.

Personality: Ceolfric is a firm believer that it is better to live in infamy than anonymity. He believes he has a birthright to rule, gifted to him by right of conquest and lineage and the providence of fell gods. He wears the facade of a civilized man to this end, for the demeanor of the ruler and the conqueror are not always aligned, but at heart he is an unruly savage, looking for an opportunity to break out into violence at any given moment. Unless he intends to turn his magic upon someone, Ceolfric reserves words for only the most inconsequential matters - anything he can solve with a fist, he will. Though he usually puts up a gruff exterior, he's capable of being quite wordy when he wishes to ensnare a foe in a web of double-speak and broken truths, and, of course, he celebrates his bloody victories with as much vigor as he puts into securing them, just as any other self-respecting raider would.

His powers have left him with little regard for the personal autonomy of other beings - all the world's a stage and Ceolfric is the playwright; the puppets will dance at his word whether they want to or not. He does not ask for things so much as he demands them, as he is accustomed to simply taking what he wants regardless. Every act he undertakes is self-serving and his word is only as good as the benefits that keeping it would bring him. A lie that brings a foe further into his thrall is no less a weapon to him than an axe or a spear.

That's not to say his selfishness blinds him to the concerns of others. His magic has taught him quite well; it is often easier to coax obedience from those who trust him than to force compliance from those who don't, and he has seen firsthand what happens to tyrants. Ceolfric knows, if he is to rule, that he must desire what is best for his subjects. He's quick to share the spoils of his success with his allies, and though he may play with others' trust for his own gain, his loyalties aren't fickle; if he betrays anyone, he intended to from the start.

Despite whatever feral cunning he can muster, Ceolfric is woefully out of his depth in the civilized world. The coalescence of aether from so many beings in close proximity grates on his senses and urbanite social norms often leave him confused and frustrated. Coddled weaklings rule with little respect for power, instead playing a pointless game of intrigue with rules that Ceolfric has yet to truly learn. His one saving grace is that he knows the bestial nature of man intimately, and intends to reveal it beneath all the pageantry.

Bio: Where there is war, there are those who would profit from it, and the Gnomian Revolution was no different. Drawn to the carrion of the conflict, the bandit warlord Ravangar and his Crimson Heralds emerged to raid and pillage among the chaos that consumed Dranir. It was said that he owed his brutal success to the favor of Umbraxakar, that his raids let the rivers run red with blood and that he left no altar to the Lord of Slaughter in his wake without a gory sacrifice upon it. It's no surprise, then, that his Aetherborn son would inspire a host of foul rumors. From a young age, it became very apparent to all who served under Ravangar, greedy thug and demonic zealot alike, that Ceolfric was dangerous to interact with. The boy could enthrall the souls of mortal men with but a word, binding all but the most willful to the nonsense of a child's whims. Word spread that Ravangar coupled with a succubus to birth his cursed child, that the boy's tongue was blessed to spin twisted, irresistible lies by Rakas itself.

The boy and his father did little to discourage these rumors. Brought up in bandit camps and secluded mountain hideouts rather than a stable home, Ceolfric knew nothing of his mother, whether she was one of the captive 'war brides' he'd been raised by or if she was even still alive. With no knowledge to the contrary, he took no aversion to being identified as the product of a profane union with an infernal temptress, in fact it served only to glorify his name. He was the heir of the mighty warlord Ravangar, and he was far too happy to follow the gruesome model of his father. Likewise, Ravangar relished in the reputation such hearsay brought - that Ceolfric's birth was the seal of an unholy covenant, proof of his vile god's favor.

It wasn't until he was in his teens and he was sent along with the raiding parties that Ceolfric found true use for his gift. Watchmen wandered aimlessly away from their slumbering camps at the behest of a mysterious little war orphan. Guards lowered their weapons in a daze while a horde of bandits set upon them. Horses suddenly veered off the road, dragging their cargo-laden wagons into the waiting arms of Ravangar's men. The roads of Dranir became the crucible in which Ceolfric honed his magic on hapless travellers, and when peacetime brought the free flow of the caravans through the nation once more, his talents were well suited to profiting from them.

Ravangar, it seems, had a higher use for the boy. He rarely exerted too much direct pressure on Ceolfric, fearful that too short of a leash would breed resentment in his strongest weapon, but as the boy's arcane abilities grew, so too did his father's ambition. After a raid, Ceolfric was summoned by his father's faithful cultists, those select few among the bandit warband who valued the glory of carnage over the mere worldly riches it provided. He was brought before an altar strewn with meticulous sigils, all painted in fresh gore, and given specific instructions on how to weave the aether through them. For a brief moment before the exertion robbed him of consciousness, Ceolfric saw the creature he had called forth, all spikes and horns and flaming orbs for eyes that burned with the limitless malice and rage of demonkind, and in its gaze he saw the true nature of their relationship laid bare. It was one of utility, of use; all the piety he could offer would amount to nothing, his demonic masters would use him to satiate their wicked desires and then cast him aside, and he would be a fool not to reciprocate in kind.

When he awoke, his father's unholy communion had ended. Ravangar never elaborated on what he'd wanted with the demon and Ceolfric never asked, he merely did his duty and partook in every summoning he was told to. When his father finally decided to share his machinations with his son, he spoke of grand plans of conquest and grander sacrifices meant to fuel them. There would be war in Dranir once more, the giants were on the march and the armies of Othard were mustering, leaving the lands caught between them ripe for slaughter and plunder.

His ambitions were never realized. Emboldened by whatever dread prophecies his hellish allies had whispered in his ear, Ravangar took to the field of battle once more, in an attack on a woefully under-defended wagon bound for the Ruby Forge. The reason for the suspicious lack of guards soon become apparent when one of the only three passengers lifted his hands began to unravel the mountainside and swallow his assailants in gaping maws of stone. Ceolfric managed to slip away after stalling the mage - and that was all he could do, for the man shrugged off the boy's attempts to dominate him as easily as he turned aside incoming arrows - but his father and most of the others in the raiding party were not so lucky. As Ceolfric predicted, the Lord of Slaughter had finally tired of his pawn - Ravangar was aged and his glories were behind him; his infernal patron had little reason to preserve him now that his reach had exceeded his grasp. Of the nine bandits present, four were killed in the immediate attack, and two more were cut down by the animated weapons of the fallen that hounded them as they routed back into the woods. It was a small comfort that the geomancer had not deigned to follow.

It was the first time Ceolfric had encountered a mere human so far beyond him. His father was dead and he was no longer a servant at last, yet his birthright was soured by the cold truth of his position. He knew from a young age, what his father conquered, he would rule, but a king who sees another as his better rules nothing. The princeling knew he could not rely on the fickle favor of his dark gods to grant him lasting sovereignty, nor would the rule of might and fear to which he was accustomed uplift him from the status of a petty raider. If other Aetherborn of that mage's caliber existed in the world, he would never maintain a monopoly on violence against any population that could muster even a small force of them.

Yet sheer violence was not the only way to maintain sovereignty. Ravangar was right about one thing, war would come again. The giants would be cast down and in their place, the peaks of Dranir would be without a liege and his for the taking. All he needed was the blessing of the petty lords of Othard once the dust had settled and the land was divvied up among the victors. Knowing full well that he'd likely be killed were he to stand before any noble of considerable status and lacking the political acumen to take advantage of such an opportunity even if he wasn't, Ceolfric turned to the one method of gaining renown he did understand; glory in combat.

He'd heard of the aristocracy's new pet project in the wake of their armies' deployment beyond their lands. If he continued on his path, he and his men would only become fodder for these 'Bounty Houses' eventually. But they also presented an opportunity to distinguish himself before the greater powers of the continent. Leaving the Crimson Heralds in the hands of his father's lieutenants, no doubt hungry for prestige themselves, the Bandit Prince ventured south.

Likes:

• Willing slaves.
• Fights with odds tipped heavily in his favor.
• Material luxury.
• Straightforwardness.

Dislikes:

• Disregard for his authority.
• Pretension.
• Written correspondence.
• Hot weather.
• Anyone he cannot control, whether by mundane or supernatural means.
• Large crowds.

Habits:

• Assumes anyone touching him from outside his field of view is hostile and will react accordingly.
• Runs his tongue along a broken tooth in the corner of his mouth when lost in thought.
• Snaps his fingers often when activating or manipulating spells.

Inventory:

• 3 Silver, 14 Copper
• Goredrinker - His father's sword, consecrated in Umbraxakar's name and anointed in the warm blood of the innocent.
• Wooden targe shield, notably lacking in discernable heraldry.
• Hunting bow and quiver.
• High-collared gambeson.
• Utility knife.
• A stolen monocle on a tarnished silver chain - Someone told him it helped people read, but he didn't quite understand and thinks it somehow bestows literacy. He's still determined to discern its secrets.

[Mcmolly]

I will eviscerate you in fiction!

_{5'1" | 110lbs | Icy Blue / Bright Blue | Black / Deep Blue}

"Oh, the stories I could tell about you."

Appearance:

Short and spindly, there’s undoubtedly Halfling in Lilann’s blood, just not enough to matter. Tainted is what you see, from the blue skin and curved horns, to the bright eyes and tail. Her parents could have been Gnomes and she’d still be cursed—only shorter.

So she’s gone out of her way to ensure the first thing people notice about her is something else. She wears a hat many times too big for her head, and often dons a thin, painted mask when performing. Her coat is long and its layers are manifold. The blue hair, which falls in abundance down her back and about her shoulders like a drape, also grabs attention as a sign of aetherborn abnormality.

Name:

Lilann Storyborn (Formerly Livean Shol)

Age:

18

Gender:

Female

Classification (Aetherborn Only):

Genesian, Alteration

Abnormality:

Lilann’s abnormality presents as a sort of localized bioluminescence. When exposed directly to light, she seems to absorb and diffuse it to her hair and her eyes. Her hair, normally a soft black, takes on a bold, deep blue hue, and her dim, icy eyes become azure lamps. Thankfully, wearing her hat cuts back on the absorption significantly.

Personality:

Despite being a storyteller, Lilann is just as adept a listener as she is a speaker—it’s other people’s stories she’s telling, after all. She is insatiably curious and fiendishly persistent, but not impolite. She maneuvers through most conversations with fair amounts of charm and wit, and enjoys studying the people she meets, scrutinizing them as if they might be the subject of her next tale. If she weren’t a Tainted she would be called “charismatic,” and might have eventually found herself neck deep in the intrigue of the noble courts, whispering into the ears of the rich and powerful.

Beneath the generally friendly demeanor is a bitter, cunning cynicism. For all the work she’s done forging people into heroes, she still expects them to fail, not just in their duties but in their actions as well. She expects them to fail as people, because the truth is that Lilann does not believe in heroes, only in fleeting heroism. In a way her stories are games, and they’re rigged, because no matter the length, no matter the path, no matter the triumphs, nothing survives a disappointing ending.

She makes sure of it.

Bio:

The question is always: “Where to begin?”

Finnagund is much too early, but to pick up in Dranir would be missing the point. Better instead that we start in that liminal space where warm plains become cold stone, and blue skies become gray. Where given names shed themselves to become names chosen. Where endings become beginnings.

Yes, we’ll leave young miss Livean out of this, for all sakes. Her story was brief, and would make for poor conversation.

Lilann’s began at the age of eleven, in a cart bound for Dragon Rock. She was a pitiful thing, without coin or direction, shivering in clothes unfit for Dranirian weather. The other passengers were little better—transients leaving Finnagund, ironically, in search of greener pastures. The fact that these pastures lay in the inhospitable mountains of a land wracked by civil war should tell you plenty about their circumstances. Among them was a man named Oranwulf, who had been hired on as the sole protector. His armor was dented, his sword poorly cared for, and the first words out of his mouth were lies about the scars on his face, which were numerous but unflattering, though they could hardly make him uglier than he already was. Not a famed, seasoned knight by any means, but then, you get what you pay for.

Those of you that frequent taverns in southern Dranir might recognize that name—we were getting to that, but perhaps it’s best if we skip the part you already know, and jump to the truth. The truth is that, when the pair of giants attacked, Oranwulf hid in the cart, and became trapped beneath it when it was flipped over, along with our own Tainted girl. Twelve passengers were reduced to five before one of the giants fell, entirely by accident, over the side of the cliff chasing after the survivors. While the remaining giant picked through the carnage, Lilann had what we could call a, “growing moment.” Still a young and inexperienced aetherborn, she only managed to infuse the wreckage with a sliver of her own aether. Blessedly, that was enough. The cart didn’t fly off into the air, or explode, or turn into dust, but it did lighten enough for Oranwulf to create a gap—which he would have dropped right back onto her had she not scrambled out ahead of him. Under cover of the fog, they ran for Dragon Rock.

And that was that. No, Oranwulf the Brave did not push one of the giants off the cliff and face the other alone, nor did he catch its blade with a single hand, and cleave its head from its shoulders. He was not a man of “peerless valor and mettle,” and the Fated Empress did not “weave a stitch in her pattern to accommodate his honorable path.” The first thing he did at Dragon Rock was threaten to break Lilann’s neck if she ever told anyone what had happened. The second thing he did was beat the snot out of her to ensure she knew he was serious. Then he went and got terribly drunk.

“But that’s not his name—” Shh. We’re getting there.

The reality is that Oranwulf’s story didn’t truly begin until almost a week later. Lilann had found work in a tavern sweeping floors and running drinks, and one day she saw a familiar face. It was one of the other passengers who had fled early into the attack. When they pressed her for answers, Lilann, fearing retribution from Oranwulf, lied.

No, the story of Oranwulf the Brave did not spring to life from the words of an eleven-year-old. Lilann Storyborn is good, but she didn’t start out that good. She told the survivor that Oranwulf had not hidden, but rather, he had tried to protect her. One of the giants had fallen, and while the other was distracted, Oranwulf struck it down. It was vague enough to be believable, at least to the drunken ears listening, and she figured that would be the end of it. Not so. Days later she heard that same story spill from the mouth of a complete stranger to a tableful of his friends, only the details were different. Oranwulf had not simply saved a little Tainted whelp, but all of the survivors as well. He hadn’t snuck up on the giant, he had challenged it boldly, and parried its blows as though they had been swung with the strength of a halfling. A nearby patron, overhearing this, chided the man for fudging the details, and corrected that Oranwulf had not parried, but blocked the strikes outright, matching the giant muscle for muscle—he had heard this from his friend, who had allegedly been on that fated cart, and whose words were thus beyond reproach.

This fascinated Lilann, who even then could see that a hero’s legend was budding right before her eyes, from a seed sewn by her own hands. Over the next weeks Oranwulf’s story continued to morph, and all the while she listened, learning which embellishments were more readily believed and which were waved off and discarded, seeing how far the truth could be stretched before it passed into bold-faced fable, and then, which fables sunk and which fables were met with toasts and hearty laughter.

The next time Lilann wove Oranwulf’s story, it was from the golden threads plucked from a hundred different iterations. The giants struck on the back of an icy morning fog, slaughtering the driver and all four of the mercenary protectors. While the passengers scattered, Oranwulf took up a fallen blade, sliced a giant’s ankle and sent it hurtling over the cliff. The last charged him, roaring with bloody fury, but Oranwulf stood strong. He was a man of unshakable faith, so confident in the will of the Fated Empress that he held up only his hand for protection. As the cleaver came down, it was stopped upon his palm by the fateful strings of Lady Azaiza herself, and with a single swing, Oranwulf severed the giant’s head. In the aftermath, he pulled an Elven girl of five from the wreckage, who to this day lives happily with her mother in Relfin.

It landed. Beautifully. Lilann’s story was received so well that she found patrons calling her over when their friends would mess it up. “Where’s the little imp?” they’d say. “Bring her over, she tells it best."

She only ever saw Oranwulf again on his way out of Dragon Rock three years later. He was a knight then; his armor was splendid and there was a ruby in the pommel of his very expensive sword. He was on his way to Cloud Hold, answering a prestigious summons for his heroism. Of course, he never made it. He died in an altercation with a single Gnomish bandit, falling from his own horse, accidentally castrating himself with his fancy sword, and bleeding to death on the side of the road clutching his own severed cock. This is why you and most people instead remember him as Oranwulf the Gelded.

See? We got there.

Much like his legacy, this too was a lie. But by then Lilann had learned a valuable lesson about storytelling: the only thing people enjoyed hearing more than a hero’s rise to glory, was their fall from it. She had bruises to repay, and nothing bruised as easily or as lastingly as reputation.

This isn’t about Oranwulf, but telling his story was necessary because Lilann created it, beginning and end. That, you see, is her story. She didn’t stop with him; even after Oranwulf’s tale fell out of fashion she kept her ear to the dirty ground of every tavern, listening for the signs of burgeoning heroes. She stayed in Dragon Rock until she was fourteen, and by then she had crafted no less than two dozen other stories, ranging from the triumphs of unassuming adventurers, to the frightening attacks of bandits and giants. Once or twice she tried her hand at retelling the legends of old, but found her interest waned when faced with the annals of history. She didn’t want to recite legends, she wanted to make them—and sometimes, break them.

When she left Dragon Rock, she donned a hat to hide her horns, a mask to hide her face, and long, flowing coats for her tail and skin. People were more receptive to her stories when she made it easy for them to ignore that she was a Tainted. She found great success in the taverns and streets of various cave-towns, and a plethora of stories on the journeys between them. She spun yarns for merchants and mercenaries, and once or twice even for bandits. Travelers who saw her in their carts knew they would not want for entertainment.

At sixteen she came to Norn Thul, having decided against trying business in Cloud Hold—even she knew better than to push her luck in such a spiritual place. It did not take long to establish herself, even in taverns where no one knew the name Lilann Storyborn. Her bardic skills aside, she had done careful practice with her aetherborn abilities, and began implementing them into her work. Her talents were still minimal, she could float one or two small props, or make her lyre play a few tender, ambient chords while she spoke, but theatrics went a long way with crowds who were used to getting their stories from poems and drunks. Nothing could ever truly compensate for her heritage, but she kept patrons drinking and eating, and that was usually enough to prevent her getting the boot if her tail happened to slip from beneath her coat.

Two more years she spent with Norn Thul as her nest, venturing out with slummy trade caravans and vendors desperate enough to take coin from a Tainted. Once or twice she dipped down into Relfin, to Buscon, where the fairer attitudes and close-knit community of Tainted nearly tempted her into staying, but not quite. Whenever she returned to Norn Thul, it was always with new stories to build.

Valan, the Gnomian Wolf. Sedrica Half-Hymn. The Man Who Was Kindling. Drang, Who Climbed Dragon’s Demise. The Secret Concubine of Rhogar Sadaar. The Seven-Headed Beast Behind Galken’s Door. The Fey Pirate King. Some of these names you know, others you don’t yet, but will. All were woven by the words of Lilann Storyborn, true in degrees often varying from “hardly at all” to “not even a little bit.” That doesn’t stop them from being heard, or, importantly, spread. Some become distorted, or claimed by other bards. Some have made their heroes into Oranwulf the Brave, others into Oranwulf the Gelded. More than once has she been threatened to stop, more than once she has been bribed to continue. Neither mattered much to her. After all, whatever one’s reputation, all it takes is the right story to set things moving the other way.

With the next Great War looming on the horizon, Lilann’s interests have naturally been drawn to the Bounty Houses established by the enigmatic diplomats of Veraz Althma. Oh, the stories to be born from the sorts collecting there, the triumph and tragedy awaiting them, the legends in making. But if she was going to uproot herself again it would not be for some glorified bounty board. Word of Lord Mystralath’s own venture reached even to Norn Thul, and she knew instantly that she would go there.

There was hesitation, of course. The gods had cursed her with a long and lucid memory, and though she had been Lilann Storyborn for many years, Livean Shol still paled at the idea of stepping foot in her homeland again. She would have rather stayed in Dranir, and lived out the rest of her days quietly.

But Livean’s story was over, and Lilann would not let that end hers, too.

Likes:

• Interesting people
• Uninteresting people (a challenge!)
• Good tippers
• Mysteries
• Long travels

Dislikes:

• When the sun is too bright
• Captive audiences (no challenge!)
• Any fish
• Out-of-tune instruments
• Nobility

Habits:

When deep in thought, Lilann has a tendency to unknowingly burn through the light stored up by her abnormality, making her hair and eyes an occasional giveaway that something is on her mind.

Inventory:

• Lilann’s attire (big hat, painted mask, longcoat)
• Lyre (cheap, but well cared-after)
• Satchel (contains a variety of small, handmade props, wooden bricks, and a whittling knife)
• Journal (filled with pages written in incomprehensible shorthand)
• Longsword (simple, but seems a bit too wieldy for someone her size)
• Money: 2 Silver, 4 Copper

[Hero]

May the fate She has chosen be kind to you.

_{5'9 | 145 lbs | Green | Blonde}

"In this world, there are many sorrowful things. Feelings that cannot be expressed. Thoughts that I cannot come to understand. Even so, I will venture forth."

Name:

Eila Aurelios | Eilowyn Strigios

Age:

23

Gender:

Female

Appearance:

Standing at a height of 5"9', Eila is a lovely girl with flawless skin, long, luscious blonde hair, and sparkling hazel-green eyes. She has a fairly curvaceous figure, tends to move gracefully, and carries herself with pride as a woman who is keenly aware of her own looks. Her clothing leans towards elegant yet fabulous with a preference for clothing that flows with her. Her current ensemble consists of a simple white dress accompanied by a dark green shoulder top with a pair of trailing, translucent capes. She uses a floral hair pin to keep some of her hair pinned back and wears a pair of short boots. She carries the symbol of Lady Azaiza around her neck at all times.

Classification (Aetherborn Only):

Animas - Physical (Healing Specialty)

Abnormality:

For the most part, Eila's features are unaffected. However, the color of her irises changes color depending on her mood. Stronger emotions elicit brighter colors, and while the intensity varies, her eyes reveal the truth of her feelings.

Color Wheel

Hazel-Green - Default, as well as her natural eye color
Red - Anger
Orange - Anxious
Yellow - Focus
Blue - Sadness
Green - Happiness
Purple - Curious
Pink - Love in the form of tiny hearts
Grey - Emptiness

Personality:

Eila is a proper and prim young lady, unflinchingly polite and formal to a tee. While some may be put off by her formality, in truth she is personable and generally open-minded, making her easy to talk to. Her sunny disposition is accompanied by an endless amount of optimism as she does her best to find the silver linings in even the worst situations. She gives it her all no matter what and tries to help in any way she can, quick to help those in need.

Under the surface, however, there is an unsteadiness. The thought of disappointing someone makes her give her all, and as a result, she puts a lot of pressure on herself even if she is told to take it easy. Despite having an overall warm and gentle nature, she avoids opening up to people even though she likes it when people confide in her. Her tendency to keep people at a distance is somewhat contradictory, often confusing people, but it's clear she has a lot of trouble expressing her true feelings.

Bio:

The Aurelios family has lorded over several mines of gold and jewels for a long time, their name coming from an ancient word once used to describe gold. The Stirgios family has designed each Grand Marshall's ceremonial jewelry since Buscon's beginning, their name known even outside of Relfin. Both are well respected in family and duty, so their union was not only convenient but made logical sense. And so Ellowen Aurelios wed Lorelei Strigios, and the marriage resulted in Eila. The elf has exhibited a thirst for knowledge since the day she learned to read on her own. To call her a prodigy was an understatement; there were few subjects she couldn't grasp, and she was christened as a gifted child. Her enrollment into the Mage's Consortium wasn't a question, it was a manner of when she was ready to take that next step.

Entering the Consortium at the age of five, Eila was introduced to the world of magic. Of course, the Consortium had a reputation for being aggressive in its curriculum, forcing her to focus on nothing but her studies. Her 'gifted' label quickly faded as she was surrounded by the best of the best, though she refused to let herself drown in a sea of mediocrity. As both her mother and aunt were of the guild--the former one of the twelve and the latter the Grand Sorceress--there were great expectations placed on her. Said expectations hung over her every day, threatening to crash down with every mistake made. With time, however, she thrived, falling in love with magic and aether.

There were three main things that helped her keep her sanity during her tenure, with the first being her loving aunt's endless amount of encouragement. While she would never question that her parents cared for her, her aunt was the one that she looked to for familial affection. The second was a slow-growing archery talent. Focusing on something that wasn't related to her studies and could be taken lightly did wonders for her mental state, providing a nice escape and fresh air to accompany her. The last was her worship of Lady Azaiza. When all else failed, knowing that everything she was going through was the Empress' plan for her comforted her in a way.

Once she graduated, she made up her mind to do the impossible: her life's goal would be to create an instrument to measure aether. She was keenly aware of the monumental task in front of her, and so she spent a few years getting her hands on anything that would teach her about aether in order to better understand it. However, her father seemed to disagree with her decision, feeling it was best for her to turn her talents elsewhere. When the two couldn't come to an agreement, Eila decided to strike out on her own and see what the world had to offer. This decision was also met with opposition, but after gaining her mother's reluctant blessing, she decided to head to the new Bounty House, hoping to find adventure.

Likes:

• Books are basically like sweets to her. Storybooks, biographies, fiction, non-fiction--if it is something she can read, she will like it. While she has a preference for anything that can add to her arsenal of knowledge, she does enjoy a good story once in a while
• Her family. While her father is distant and she relates more to her aunt than her mother, she still loves them dearly.
• Being compared to her mother or, more likely, her aunt. She is eager to prove herself worthy of them.
• She adores the theatre and used to attend nearly every show from her favorite troupe.

Dislikes:

• Not finding what she needs.
• She understands why merchants require their coin up front, but she's spoiled from simply flashing her family's crest so that the estate would be charged. Also counting money gets old after a while...and it gets heavy.
• Being compared to her mother or, more likely, her aunt. She is also acutely aware that she has a massive legacy to live up to.
• Commentary on her aether abilities. Yes, her aunt is one of the most renowned Water Primordial Aetherborn, yes her mother is also a powerful Air Primordial Aetherborn and it would have been nice to have Primordial magic, but she was not born with those abilities and she is not upset about that at all but she would very much like it if people stopped bringing that up. Please.
• Dirt. No explanation needed.

Habits:

• Her handwriting is absurdly small, yet legible...if you squint.
• Once she is on a roll verbally, it's hard for her to stop talking.
• Has mastered the art of multitasking during her reading sessions.

Inventory:

• Her trusty longbow and quiver of arrows
• A satchel for her belongings
• A mostly-blank book and pieces of charcoal for writing
• A silver dagger
• A second necklace adorned with a golden crow used for prayer
• Her coinpurse is currently carrying 3 gold, 7 silver, and 6 copper.

[Trainerblue192]

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

_{Height: 5'5" | Weight: 140lbs | Eye Color: Dark Brown | Hair Color: Black Shadowy Tendrils}

"With great power comes the great need to take a nap"

Appearance: Ermes isn't the tallest kid, standing at a mere five foot five, with a thin wiry frame that came from years of lean meat and rice. Only now those foods have been supplemented by the scraps he was able to find on the streets of Wilree. His skin is pale and cold much like the full moon on a clear night sky, serving only to further accentuate his dark features that litter his body such as eyes that seem to replicate an eternal abyss. Looking into them one could swear that they stretch on forever, filling one with a sense of dread as if staring into a polished sphere of obsidian. Though his eyes are sometimes hidden by the of umbral tendrils that cover halfway down his face. His abnormality clear and apparent in an apathetic display of shifting black Aether that is in a permanently disheveled state.

As if his features weren't enough to dissuade people from talking to him, small scars etched his skin as reminders of his past. Passer-bys might think he was one to pick fights and win, though that couldn't be farther from the case. Only two scars were visible on his face, one placed on his right cheekbone, a crooked mountain blemishing his porcelain skin. The other was hidden slightly underneath the left jawbone. The rest of the marks he kept hidden by clothes, a dark brown leather jacket with a fur lined collar who's sleeves only came down three quarters of the way, and a slim black shirt with an embroidered skull in the center. He rarely was seen with either of them off, trying hard to hide the scars while adding a bit of bulk to his frame.

Name: Ermes De Luca

Age: 16

Gender: Male

Classification: Genesian: Creation

Abnormality: Hair is a dark Shadowy mass of Tendrils

Personality: Solitary to a fault, Ermes prefers the company of the dead more over than those of the living. He doesn't mind being in the presence of them, nor idly chatting by if need be or working together. More so he feels that those around him are constantly judging him by what they see and not by who he is. He was always a quiet kid growing up. Trying to stick to himself and family having been the first Aetherborn in generations to be born within his village. Some viewed him and his appearance as ill tidings, others as their savior. As if having an Aetherborn within their ranks would stave back the Sahagin menace that plagued them. He hated both views, one placed too much weight on his shoulders while the other made him feel unwanted.

Since the passing of his parents he'd only further created that divide. Visiting their graves whenever the chance allowed it and telling them about his progress in life, telling them that he is OK. Ermes has the bad habit of using his powers to create spectral visions of his parents when he's talking to them. Holding the conversation for as long as he can feel his power coursing through the illusions until they fade into a mist before his eyes. He's certain a few of his co-workers have seen him do it, noticing the wide berth they began to give him afterwards. Besides that, Ermes has a habit of picking up and keeping animal bones he fines. Fashioning them into jewelry or other odd things as a way to pass the time. If he finds a full skeleton, he has the tendency to linger and study it. Trying to replicate the design with his magic in order to get more accurate creations.

Bio:
Ermes came from a small coastal village by the name of Lucania. There he learned how to fish using a variety of methods, as well as how to make nets for casting, and how to properly prepare fish. He had a normal upbringing, save for the yearly raids his village was plagued with. Every year around the same time the Sahagin came to gather bodies. They would slaughter those they could and drag them back towards the depths of the sea. Foreign aid would arrive in time to help drive them back, asking the citizens who couldn't fight to take shelter and hide. Through the cracks Ermes would watch as he saw the soldiers in glistening armor drive back the oceanic forces, growing to idolize them to some extent. However he wasn't always so lucky. There were a few occasions in which he'd be spotted, the long claws of the Sahagins slicing his arms or face as they attempted to grab him just before being saved by the good Lady M or her associates who would later tend to his wounds. Ermes had grown accustomed to this way of life, having lost friends or other members of his village as the years went by.

When he was fourteen he had set out on the dock in the early morning mist, casting his line out into the sea, while the rest of his village was sound asleep. Ermes was at peace in the cold quiet morning, feeling his line dip down as he caught a large bite. He began pulling on the line, trying to get his catch when a large fin finally broke the surface. Large beady eyes broke the water soon after as a small army of Sahagin began to follow in tow. Ermes dropped his rod and scrambled back towards his village, screaming for help as he tried to warn them all of the impending attack. The Sahagin had come sooner than expected, trying a stealth attack at the early hours when everyone else should be asleep. There was no foreign aid this time, the village had to fend for itself, as Ermes bolted home in an attempt to grab his sword.

Ermes had been training how to fight, wanting to no longer be helpless in the eyes of their captures. Now that the time had come, his hand trembled as he grabbed onto his sword. He came out to a full on battle, many were already being dragged towards their watery graves, others fighting valiantly to save their small village. He started running towards the fray when two bodies dropped near him, knocking him down underneath their corpses as a small window formed just big enough for him to see out of. Their dead weight was more than he could push off, suffocating slowly under the pressure as he heard a familiar voice scream. His father had fallen protecting his mother, watching his body get dragged as his mother's throat was slashed. Ermes began to shake in fear, he had to get out, had to leave. He began to push against the bodies, afraid of being found beneath the pile. As he pressed upwards he managed to get one hand free before they fell down upon him again. He took a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and held his arm out curling his fingers towards the sky as he began to construct a large ribcage that pushed off the corpses. Ermes began to crawl out from under the ribs, allowing him to break free as he bolted away from the village, sword in hand.

From there Ermes traveled towards the nearest city. Half a day's journey in, he set up a small unmarked grave for his parents, offering a prayer for them and telling them how sorry he was that he couldn't help. He prayed to Irigan, begging that their souls move on to the celestial realm. He spent that night sleeping by his parents grave, gathering the strength to make the two day journey to Wilree. When he arrived in the lower district of the city, he was immediately swept away by its size. He'd been once before, but the memory was faded and hard to recall. He had no real direction, had hardly eaten in three days, and was riddled with exhaustion. Perhaps that was why he was approached, why he seemed like such an easy mark. A kind stranger had asked him where his parents were, what his story was, and upon finding out he was an orphan with no home, he was offered a place to stay and food to eat so long as he worked.

The years went by and Ermes was still doing the same old thing. He wasn't rising in the ranks within his service, doing simple fetch quests or placing packages in locations to be retrieved. Nothing more than a glorified messenger boy with no real purpose. He'd tried to ask for promotions but the twins never budged. He wasn't ready according to them, and Ermes was beginning to get tired of that mindset. Luckily for him his line of work branched out beyond the city, and so when he'd heard of a bounty house that offered more fulfilling work, Ermes jumped at the chance to do so. He could do his job with The Mist on the side of fulfilling bounties and gaining some more strength and training so that he'd never feel that helpless again.

Likes:

• Chocolate
• Sweet Fruits and Berries
• Deserts
• Bones
• Ghosts
• Catacombs and Graveyards

Dislikes:

• Fishing
• Water
• Sahagin
• Monstrous Fights

Habits:

• Traces his finger over his scar when trying to make a decision
• Bites his lower lip when nervous
• Impatiently taps his fingers, or fidgets with the pommel of his sword

Inventory:

• Black sword
• Dark Brown Leather jacket with fur lined collar
• Black embroidered shirt
• Deck of playing cards
• Tarot Deck
• Lock Picking kit
• 20 copper

[Obscene Symphony]

I'm sorry. I didn't mean any harm.

“I don’t want any trouble.”

Male | 18 | 6’4” | 140lbs

Name

Kyreth

Appearance

Kyreth is very tall and slim, weighing about 160lbs with a wiry, sinewy build honed from a lifetime of odd jobs and limited food. His stark white hair is short and choppy, lying every which way even as he tries to brush it back, and the only “style” to speak of is the inconsistent lines of a haircut obviously done with a knife. His dark complexion hides the oft-present shadows under his eyes, and a tight-lipped nervous frown conceals a mouthful of sharp teeth.

Aside from his dark grey complexion and his speckling of white freckles, the first things people usually notice about Kyreth are his eyes; entirely white and pupil-less, they’re a dead giveaway of his Tainted blood, even if his horns and tail are covered. His horns are quite short and curl tightly over his head, making them mercifully easy to cover up. His tail is quite skinny as Tainted go, and long enough for the end to lay on the ground - if it ever decided to lay still, that is. It tapers smoothly to a point resembling half an arrowhead.

In an effort to make traveling a little easier, Kyreth hides his Tainted features to the best of his ability, concealing his horns with his hood and hiding his tail under his tunic, wrapped tightly around his waist. With his pointed ears, from a distance he can almost pass for a dark-skinned Elf, although the charade usually fails once anyone comes close enough to notice the distinct lack of pupils in his eyes.

Classification

Primordial - Fire

Abnormality

Kyreth has a spattering of white freckles on his face and body, concentrated around his cheekbones (especially the outer corners of his eyes) and the tips of his horns and tail. These freckles, along with his eyes, glow dimly in the dark.

Personality

Kyreth is non-confrontational to the bone. Fairly meek and lacking much confidence, he’ll take a lot in stride if it means avoiding a fight. In a group, he’s liable to try and play the mediator, but equally likely to get steamrolled if the parties aren’t convinced by his soft tone and shrinking presence. Still, he does his best to break up fights, even though the practice has earned him a few bumps and bruises in the past.

Abuse is a fact of life for the Tainted, and one Kyreth has grown to accept; when faced with contempt or even violence, he prefers to either escape the situation or endure until it’s over, often with an apology on his lips. While he plays the role of doormat well, he’s not driven so much by self-preservation, but by concern; he has a sickening fear that taking too much exception to “the everyday hassles of life” will only serve to embolden the more sinister part of him, making him do something he’ll regret. To Kyreth, a few scrapes and bruises from those who spurn his kind aren’t worth losing himself to his own innate savagery and confirming their fears.

Even as mankind rejects him, Kyreth also struggles to find community among his own kind. Although he grew up under the care of a protective Tainted community, he’s grown to become even more uncomfortable around them than he is around other races, feeling utterly alien with his aversion to dishonesty and violence. As such, he ended up in no man’s land, finding no home among the Tainted nor the rest of the world. Deep down, he worries that if he were to live among the Tainted again, as he used to, he’d revert back to his old ways and lose all the progress he’s made. Best not to stay too long.

Above all else, Kyreth just wants to lead an honest, unintrusive life. He’s gentle at heart, if a little guarded, and tries his best to be kind to anyone he meets - sometimes to degrees very much undeserved. It’s an uphill battle, but for Kyreth, every meek smile not returned or kind word answered with scorn is just one more step toward atoning for his ancestors’ sins - and his own.

Bio

The beginning of Kyreth’s story is not unique, at least among the Tainted.
Left on the doorstep of a Tainted orphanage in the Dregs of Buscon, he was just one of many helpless, crying babies disposed of the moment they opened their pupil-less eyes.

Although the world is a cold and dangerous place for the Tainted, for a blessing the Dregs were somewhat of a haven; with blades drawn and teeth bared to the rest of the world, the Tainted of Buscon fiercely looked after their own, and as such the many orphans of Urchin’s Run grew up with something of a family all around them. Tainted children were more or less welcome just about everywhere in the Dregs, and given guidance and leniency not afforded to outsiders. It was common for those in the community with a little to spare to kick some to the orphans, either in donations to the oft-crowded Dragon’s Clutch orphanage (originally named “Aziaza’s Refuge”, which understandably didn’t stick) or directly to the children themselves, who would often use their spoils to practice the bartering and swindling skills they picked up from their elders.

Things worked surprisingly smoothly. With outsiders generally wary of the Dregs, the insular Buscon Tainted managed to avoid much of the vitriol suffered by others of their kind, running an internal society relatively cut off from the rest of the city. Any outsiders naive enough to wander in usually regretted their time there, falling victim to pickpocketing and cheating at best, or violence at worst. Although conflict between Tainted often crackled, most fights were swiftly ended by bystanders and perpetrators ostracized for disturbing the peace; outsiders, however, were fair game.

And so it went. To Kyreth, it was normal; outsiders hated them, so any foolish enough to intrude on their one sanctuary got what was coming to them. Children were protected, but not coddled; Kyreth and every other child was expected to earn his own way and keep his head on a swivel; “You’ll need that skill one day,” as his elders always said. So, from the moment he was old enough to hold a broom, Kyreth worked; sweeping up taverns, running errands for brothel ladies, playing the innocent accomplice to swindlers - every job, no matter how dingy or underhanded, was worth the room and board it earned him.

But that didn’t mean he liked it. Kyreth was used to the harsh life of the Dregs, but he wasn’t well suited for it; in an uneasy peace maintained through necessity and a hierarchy of might, the skinny, small-horned boy fell squarely at the bottom of the totem pole. Averse to conflict and bad at it besides, Kyreth was easily pushed around by his peers and ordered hither and yon by his elders, with little capability or option to refuse. He made a habit of shrinking into corners when brawls broke out - and there were many - and always flinched at the blows and insults thrown around, no matter how many times he’d seen or heard them. The crass stories of tricking, cheating and beating outsiders that everyone else seemed to enjoy disturbed him, and even as he grew up and his peers grew into their underground society, the underhanded ways of the Dregs never stopped making Kyreth… uncomfortable.

Maybe that was why, despite his community’s tense closeness, Kyreth never really felt like one of them. In a pack of wolves, it seemed he was the runt, never strong or bold enough to bare his teeth like the others did, and shying away from the fervor of their voices when they howled. Though he’d never voice it, he could see why outsiders feared the Tainted; they thought his kind were traitors, devils, and worse - and after all he’d seen, who could blame them? The Dregs weren’t entirely bereft of kindness, but it was never offered to outsiders, who were ironically decried for their intolerance as the Tainted refused to tolerate them.

And that wasn’t even to mention Kyreth’s own sins. They started when he was young, too young to realize they even involved him, but whenever he got scared, or frustrated, or angry… accidents happened. Most of the time, it was just a bit of singed hair or a scorched hem after a particularly vexing scuffle with bigger kids, a leaping candle flame when a tavern patron said something particularly crass, but sometimes they were worse. Once, he set an outsider’s pantleg on fire by accident when the man tried to kick him out of the way, cursing at the “damn devils” in his path. Kyreth had heard the stories of the Tainted, how they were a cursed, fallen race, punished by Aziaza Herself for their alliance with the dragons - to him, it only made sense that his little “accidents” were a result of that unholy union. Why else would fires leap to life when he got angry, if not for some ancient draconic curse?

So he clung to the shadows, and did his best to contain the devil that seemed to dwell inside him. But when his whole world was a slum beset by crime and conflict, how could he possibly avoid feeding his sinister side? Avoiding confrontation was a delicate dance all on its own, let alone prying himself out of underground jobs he’d done for ages without protest. As time went on and keeping his darker side in check grew more and more demanding, Kyreth had no choice: he had to separate himself from the moral depravity of the Dregs and remove the temptation. No, it wasn’t just the Dregs - he had to get out of Buscon altogether, go somewhere new where he could get away from his dishonest life and start again.

So he did. As soon as winter ended in his eighteenth year, Kyreth gathered what few belongings he had and abruptly left, offering no explanation. Knowing only life in the bowels of Buscon, he laid eyes on what lay beyond the city walls for the first time and ventured out in search of something better.

That was the idea, anyway. In reality, it was a miserable endeavor; if it wasn’t hunger and cold snapping at his heels, it was other travelers throwing stones as he passed, or shops and villages chasing him away. More than once he found himself on the receiving end of violent thugs airing their grievances, and he could count on his fingers the number of nights he managed to spend under a roof. But, despite more than once yearning to return to the Dregs and put his lofty ideals behind him, Kyreth persevered, continuing his trek down the coast to Straithmoor. After all, those people were just scared - and Kyreth couldn’t blame them.

Straithmoor welcomed him as much as any other settlement along the way: with curses, stones and pitchforks. But as he searched on the edge of town for a good place to camp, Kyreth found something he didn’t expect: a tiny old woman mending a fence, calling out for him to help her. He didn’t believe it at first, thinking she must have meant to call for someone else, but there was nobody; it was just him, her, and a vast empty field. When he drew closer, he saw her cloudy grey eyes and for a second, thought she was another Tainted in disguise, living impossibly among this harsh and hostile town. But he was wrong - she was simply blind. No wonder she called out to him, she couldn’t see what he was.

Kyreth thought about outing himself to her - it would feel dishonest to lend a hand to someone who might not otherwise want it if they knew what he was - but decided to hold his tongue. After all, if she chased him off, her fence would stay broken, and that didn’t seem to be much help. Resolving to confess after his work was done, he followed her summons and helped her patch the fence. But just as he was about to inform her and take his leave, the woman asked another favour of him. Then another. And another. And more and more until he’d been sleeping in her shed and eating her food for two months in exchange for whatever help he could provide.

Food and board weren’t all she provided, either. She also provided company, companionship the likes of which Kyreth had never known before. He chalked it up to a lonely old woman wanting someone to talk to, but the reason didn’t really matter to him; he drank up every word, every second like a castaway finding fresh water. She told him stories about her late husband, the dedicated rancher; her sons, the fishermen, all dead now; and most importantly, she told him about Selene, lady of the moon and deliverer of the downtrodden.

Selene’s message touched Kyreth to the very core. The only god he knew much about before was Aziaza, who cast down the treacherous Illarin and would probably add every Tainted to her throne of bones upon their deaths - understandably, not an encouraging tale. But until now, Selene was unknown to him, and her mission of succor to the poor and suffering was the first glimpse of hope beyond death that Kyreth had ever seen. He latched on immediately, and became an adamant follower as soon as Berta taught him how. Impressed with his enthusiasm, she even gifted him the crescent hanging in her doorway, insisting that he needed the protection from bad luck more than she did.

Those two months were a dream come true for Kyreth, but sooner or later, everyone must wake. And Kyreth did wake; abruptly and violently. Having got it into his head that he would do something nice for Berta, he went into Straithmoor proper with some proceeds from her farm, hoping to trade them for a chunk of good swordfish - Berta’s favourite. But while the fishmonger took his payment, he wouldn’t hand over the fish. Instead, he laughed in Kyreth’s face, scoffing over the idea of trading with a devil.

Normally, the insult wouldn’t bother Kyreth, and he’d cut his losses and go away. But those were Berta’s wares the fishmonger had stolen, and Kyreth couldn’t tolerate that. As hard as he tried to contain himself, his temper flared - and so did a flame, catching the fishmonger’s stall alight and reducing it and his catch to ash. In an instant, the fishmonger and many of the passerby were on Kyreth, and it was all he could do to escape the town in one piece. He couldn’t go back to Berta’s house, fearing for her safety as well as his own, so he ran until his legs could no longer carry him and the shouts and torches faded into the night.

And that was it. A perfect dream, ruined in an instant. Kyreth was distraught, more convinced than ever that he harboured an evil that needed to be contained. But he still had to eat, and the winter cold was fast approaching, so he made for the road again. Apparently some establishment called a “Bounty House” had just opened in Finnagund, far away from anyone who knew who he was or what he’d done.

Likes

• Working - legitimately earning his keep gives him more satisfaction than anything else in the world.
• Helping people when he can
• Full moon nights - they make him feel like Selene is watching over him.
• Fish, almost any way

Dislikes

• Fire - accidents always seem to happen whenever he’s around it.
• Deceit - or anything dishonest, shady, or generally off the straight and narrow.
• Conflict
• Temples - despite his faith in Selene, he always feels like an intruder on holy ground.
• Meat, unless dried - there’s just something uneasy about eating something with blood.

Habits

• Looking over his shoulder
• Apologizing
• Checking his belongings
• Grabbing the back of his neck
• Hiding his teeth (for example, trying not to smile too wide)
• Clutching his Selene pendant when nervous

Inventory

Kyreth doesn’t have much, but he does make sure to carry:

• 12 copper
• A weathered, waist-length cloak with a large hood, fashioned from one piece of canvas. He’s had it since he was small enough for it to fall to his knees.
• A sturdy needle and a spool of strong linen thread
• An old single-edged knife, sharpened so many times that the blade has grown narrow
• A sharpening stone
• A large water skin
• An oilcloth bundle of cheap traveling food, like dried meat or fish skins
• A heavy, palm-sized Crescent of Selene, crudely fashioned from iron and worn under his tunic on a leather cord. This is without a doubt his most treasured possession.

Other

• Kyreth prefers to cover his horns with a hat if he can find one; he fears that walking around hooded all the time makes him look suspicious. Sadly, his only hat recently got destroyed in a Mishap, so it’s back to hoods for now.
• Like most Tainted, Kyreth’s tail is very reactive to his emotions, so it can be difficult to conceal wrapped around his waist. As such, he prefers to keep his cloak on whenever possible.
• Growing up in gambling houses got Kyreth pretty good at Buscon’s most popular games of chance - and especially good at cheating. However, he renounced that practice years ago in pursuit of leading a more honest life.
• Kyreth keeps a careful mental account of favours and debts, a carryover from the Dregs where such things were taken very seriously. However, these days he often neglects to collect on them, and tries his best to give without expectation of return.
• At RP start, Kyreth has a shadowy mark on the left side of his face, which is the remnant of a nearly-healed bruise from his escape from Straithmoor.