The Guardians of Dara [Sheets]

[HeySeuss]

<OOC>
<Chat>

Illustration kindly loaned by Brand. Check the man's gallery!
Instructions

- Post your character sheet here using the template provided below.
- Please do not post anything else here, all questions and comments should go to the OOC thread.

Character Sheet (Template Here)
Name: Please avoid modern naming and try to play with syllables and sounds, perhaps using names from various ancient cultures as a basis for this mix and match
Age: Twent
Gender:
Race:
Physical Description:

It's probably best to actually describe the character if you are going to rely on a picture, or you can
do without the picture if you like, but definitely describe.

Skillset:

Talents one has either naturally or through education or training of some sort.

Far Ancestry:

The mythological/ancient origins of your character; it should be something more than a dull family history -- it should be, in some sense, a link between your character and a more fantastic ancient past.

Character History:

Explain how your character got there -- no 'the story will come out in RP' lines, please -- I want a feel for where your character is coming from. Feel free to work up names and places and so forth. Be sure to mention feuds and debts and the such.

Psychological Profile:

An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history. Most importantly, how did they react to the confrontation with Pykas and Cyrabassis -- because Cyrabassis was wielding magic (not heavy stuff, but way more than most have ever seen or would believe) and Pykas was possessed with something not of the world. They barely survived by the skin of their teeth. So the characters have baggage from that fight.

Equipment:

The character's equipment. Any magical items should be dormant, but maybe a character has one for some reason, such as a memento or a good luck charm or family heirloom.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

What sort of position the character occupies in the city, whether it is a business or a magistrate's position or similar. This should include prominent servants and properties as well as followers. For example, if a character were a high priest, a description of the temple and its influences within the city/its worshipers would be nice.

Relationships

The character's relations with the other characters.

[HeySeuss]

Kanros the Raven

Character Sheet
Name: Kanros the Raven
Age: 43
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Physical Description:

His hair, dark and shaggy, is worn long and stubbornly resistant of ever being neatened, except that he has a tendency to wear it pulled back in a severe fashion to reveal a high forehead and a long-ish jaw. He has a straight nose and deep-set blue eyes, which, along with the pale skin, mark him as an outlander. The man himself is large and well-made, his physical shape his pride and joy; he has an imposing size. He wears a lot of wealth on his arms, fingers, and belt buckle, and around his neck, feeling, as a sellsword often does, that it is best to carry the wealth on one's person as the most simple but effective security system devised – a thief looks for easier pickings and a robber has to contend with the man's swordarm. He has surprisingly few scars for a man in his line of work -- and that is something of a statement for those who use their eyes to see. The sole exception to that is the marks of monstrous claws across his right arm and shoulder, cutting into the pectoral muscle, a rather fell-looking wound. He has kept his physical condition, though he has to work at it more and more.

Skillset:

A swordsman, a former pirate, gladiator and leader of men; despite his barbaric ancestry, he is a cunning strategist with a strong interest in masonry-- as a child, he learned from the thralls that did the masonry for the local lord. He can tie a knot and weave a rope if he wishes, though it's been a long time since he's had to. In matters of violence, he is an authority, from how to fight a single man to how to recruit, provision, train, organize and lead men in the field. Siegecraft is something he has had the time and leisure to study and practice -- he doesn't always show his mind off, because he likes to hide behind the impression of a barbarian, but he is a sharp negotiator. Still, he can be diverted by his pleasures, for what is life without those? To this day, he is often accused of the practice of banditry by other cities, and not entirely without cause. He has made quite the profit by selling his services to rival cities at various times, helping to keep the internecine warfare between Aluth's city states going, while quietly steering it away from Dara itself, who thereby profits.

Far Ancestry:

In the dim, distant past, a spirit of the seas, of storm and wave wooed the daughter of a thane, but her jealous betrothed found out about this budding romance and threw the girl from a cliff into the cold, grey waters. From this union sprung a daughter as dark and furious as the stormclouds, whose eyes were as gray as the waves of the northern seas who became a notorious raider and pillager of the lands her mother's betrothed once held, and it is said that when the Lord would not take the field against this daughter that he was cursed to the form of a weasel. This weasel was pandered to as if he remained the Lord of the land, and yet people laughed and his rivals closed in to tear apart his lands among themselves.

The career of Asna Blackmane, sorceress, thief and pirate, was long and varied; the myth has it that she took a prince hostage for ransom, but loved him and bore his bastard despite this. In the years to follow, this young man, Asnar Blackheart, grew to adulthood and became as renowned as his mother, though perhaps not quite as soft a touch. Ambition burned darkly in his bastard breast and when his mother passed on, he sailed forth to pillage the lands of his father, untouched since the days of his mother's liasons with their lord. He slew his own father in battle and destroyed his half-siblings. The gods struck down Asnar Blackheart for his monstrous crime, though they took mercy upon his infant son and stole him away to be raised by the grieving widow of one of his half-brothers...

Character History:

The son of a passing sailor and the daughter of a fisherman, a netweaver and ropemaker by trade. For a few glorious summers she was darkly beautiful, then she became gray and used, bowed by the contempt of the village's moralists, the drunken abuse of her husband and the cares of the world. He never knew his father, of course, but he knew his stepfather all too well.

He was born to a married woman, the daughter of fishermen who married another fisherman only reluctantly...he was the result of a passing hunter and sailor aboard a longship sailing down the coast to trade seal furs where they'd fetch a good price. His father was never to be seen again, but he left his reminder of the visit. Kanros was raised in an abusive household, with a father that liked to take it out on him and his mother; he fell in the water one day and turned to ice in the winter, and while he greeted the news cheerfully, the rest of the village thought he'd done the man in. His bastardy meant that no fishermen would take him as an apprentice, though he knew ropes, and he instead labored as a mason and a builder with thralls, learning something of how stone is cut and wood is hewn from these men. He grew strong, and learned how to fight with the young men of the village, the ones that presumed to teach him his place.

His mother died after she no longer had the will to live, when her son was old enough and strong enough to feed himself; her passing was greeted with little comment from the rest of the village, who made her a pariah through a combination of her infidelity as a young woman and her marriage to a loutish drunkard.

He left his village whilst still a lad when a passing ship came through bound for southern lands. Of course, it was a pillager and a pirate, and its crew corsairs. He was big but fast, strong and unrelenting, and, of course, very angry; thus began a career of varied fighting for pay, raiding and piracy at various times. Eventually, he found himself in a falling out with others of the crew over shares, and the dispute turned bloody as he was intent on taking the share he considered his; when the killing was over, he was left on his own in the city of Baruk...where he was lured in with drink and the flesh of a woman and captured when he was vulnerable. He was sold on the block as a gladiator.

Despite the success and opulence of his life as a slave gladiator, he wanted his freedom. He managed to break free of his captivity, in a bloody fashion, during travel between cities and found his way to Dara, where there were no slaves. After a few months of minor adventures with the group he fell in with, they found themselves fighting for Dara against King Pykas of Selander and his many soldiers. Then, of course, they raided on Melazus, hoping to end the Sorceror's fell influence over the King. That story, is of course, well known.

After the encounter with Pykas and Cyrabassis in Melazus, he found his calling as a sellsword under the command of the mercenary captain Jalal, the Prince of Killers, and became a favored right hand man to him -- and eventually, as Jalal became older and Kanros matured, his equal partner, using the wealth plundered from Melazus as his stake. It was not merely an apprenticeship in combat, but in diplomacy, economics, in having to navigate the deepest and most dangerous currents of them all -- politics. As the years passed, it became apparent that Jalal would have no son, and that Kanros was being groomed to take the fiefdom of the old man, including the hand of his daughter, Amira, in marriage. It was a strange sort of mating, but Jalal was the son of a desert nomad, and Kanros the bastard of a barbarian people -- and in perhaps, they saw things similarly.

The old Prince of Killers passed on, but by then Kanros, wealthy in his own right, was the most influential mercenary in the city. His wife, regrettably, died in childbirth.

Psychological Profile:

Kanros has a sullen aspect betimes, but is a man of flashes of dark humor and barbaric gaiety in the face of danger. He drinks deeply from life, knowing that it may end abruptly and harshly some day unforseen. That fatalism drives his lust for life. Since seeing the magic of Cyrabassis in Melazus, he has had an inordinate fear of it and takes superstitious measures against things, though he knows little of magic -- it is considered a quirk of his that he will pay lavishly for icons and exorcisms, blessings and curse removal. He enjoys his drink and his wenches, but he brooks little insult to his person -- there have been some that thought the big man might seem an easy one to dance around, only to find that the conditioning of the fighting pits of Baruk remains -- he is deceptively fast. He is surprisingly sharp in commercial matters, though he finds mercantilism for its own sake boring -- his commerce involves swords and fighting men, and he likes it that way. He makes his gold outside of the city and brings the plunder back, and that's no accident either. Every pirate needs his safe haven, after all, and Kanros has chosen Dara.

In terms of how he makes decisions, he is a pragmatist that leans toward the amoral -- he has a bit of a distaste for the moral hand-wringing some people do; he prefers to do what has to be done and he also tends to believe that people are cynical and so goes with the outcries in the name of morality; there is often an ulterior motive for such. As a result, he tends to distrust people that claim to be acting out of altruism, and that's hardwired into him.

He is less concerned about methods than results. He does not believe in fighting fair, because fair is an abstraction, but he also has a distaste for overly elaborate plots or things that he considers indecent, like poison and other dark arts. If he wants a man dead, he'll do it with a knife or good strategy, like a roadside ambush and slaughter, not with some damned powder. All the same, he is perfectly capable of ruthlessness and deception -- he is a bandit and a thief at heart, though not one without redeeming qualities.

It's best not to mistake Kanros' interest in Dara as a concern for the welfare of its people out of moral reasons -- he tends to think the Daran nobility are effete and too long decadent and 'civilized' and that many of the citizens are too weak to properly protect themselves -- a very barbaric attitude. He comes from a place where all men have steel and fight to defend their villages, and the cities still bemuse him. At the same time, he's carved out a niche as a sometime protector, albeit a very self-interested one. The plight of the suffering don't move him as much as the opportunity for his own selfish reasons. Luckily, he can be dragged into trouble for love of action and a fight, as well as the potential for plunder, which he equates with profit.

Owing to events in Melazus, he fears apes, monkeys and other things of that nature. He avoids them and will not have them in his presence or home.

Equipment:

Vindurfang -- a sword his mother had and told tales of, though it is merely a sword. It is a good sword, with runes, two edges and very fine steel, so he's managed to retain it all through the years. He wears clothing as he sees fit, though he avoids the typical Daran robe -- he prefers to properly cover the lower bits. Typically, the clothing is silk, but he leaves the arms bare for a variety of reasons. He likes bracers and torc bracelets, thick accessories.

In battle, he goes with a lamellar scale hauberk that is surprisingly light (because he is strong) and a good helmet with a plate over the eyes and nose to help protect from a slash to the eyes in a fight. He's not much for shields, but he's also highly pragmatic in these situations. He thinks of mobility as better than any shield, which is a barbarian's way of thinking about a fight.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Kanros takes residence in Shield Hall, built from the stones of ruins on the on the Northeastern edge of the city, in the Zalot District, facing the Gold Roads. When Dara sought to rebuild its moldering defenses, Kanros and Jalal volunteered their expertise and some investment on the part of the fortifications around the city, which means that Shield Hall is built into the city's defenses; it is indeed defensible, though Kanros keeps enough men to keep watch and staff the place as servants, rather than keep a standing army of sellswords within the walls (expensive.) The place is well set up to host a large number of men, with a large hall in the center for feasting.

He has the ability to recruit sellswords -- it depends on the time and place, but Kanros and Jalal have spent decades building the trust and reputation that Kanros now uses to his advantage. He is for sale -- there is no doubt about that -- but he is loyal to Dara. His activities as a mercenary captain are often questionable, as he happily practices a type of warfare that involves looting and pillaging, raiding commerce and otherwise eroding other competitor cities and their ability to guard their roads and caravans. In a sense, Kanros guarantees Dara's caravans -- he won't raid the Gold Road, after all. He has allies who are invested in the prosperity of that route; he helps secure the Gold Road and raids the others. Some look down on these depredations and the more pragmatic appreciate that Kanros is carrying out a policy that Dara's more reputable notables can't readily admit to even as they desire it -- he undermines the competition.

In diplomacy, Kanros is considered a good choice of emissary when a certain sort of message needs to be sent. He is affable enough, but he is dangerous and has a reputation -- Dara's Guardians would request his services as such when it came time to deliver a veiled threat of force to come, and sometimes it was heeded. And if it wasn't, they would hire him to captain a significant portion of their forces in the field. When Dara wants to indirectly support another city or faction without overtly aligning itself, it cuts a deal with Kanros, who fields a mercenary force that, coincidentally, advances the interests of Dara. Kanros has made himself wealthy off this ambiguity and worries little of the disapproval of others -- in his mind, they mostly fume because they didn't think of it first.

Why would Dara tolerate the likes of Kanros, even look upon him as a hero? His methods are not good for other cities, but he is good for the city's trade -- he helps keep the chaos off the Gold Roads, and having recruited most of the would-be bandits into his fold as hirelings for wars elsewhere, he's also impressed upon them the importance of not spoiling their home base of operations, particularly as he invests in the caravans himself...and happily recommends experienced men as caravan guards in the leaner times when peace breaks out, to keep them off the damned roads as bandits. The man is also quite openhanded with the commoners -- he is not above drinking in a winesink or gambling with dice or otherwise sharing in the baser pleasures that a barbarian enjoys and when he does get a few in him, he can get generous with buying the drinks and tipping a serving wench. In a sense, Kanros is a man that Darans like having on their side, rather than pointed against them.

Relationships

Rickas Bannon - Friendly relations -- the Raven makes sure Rickas has good sellswords for his bodyguard through his good offices. The men Kanros put in service of his old friend are perhaps what one might expect; men that a renowned leader of mercenaries might put around his old friend and sometime business associate. They're damned good and it's a steady source of income for the best sorts. There's been a time or two when Kanros has needed Rickas to keep his hide on just this side of the law and he sees to it that the arrangement is a mutually beneficial thing. On the other hand, he wonders what Rickas will do with Guardianship. It's a fair question, as it becomes harder to please them all as you move up.

Sher'Fon'ahn - The dusty old shaman doesn't have a pot to piss in, but if he's in Dara and so inclined, the Raven is happy to have a houseguest. The gold doesn't gleam and the rubies aren't so glittering that he forgets old friends, particularly salt of the earth types like old Sher. But he doesn't pretend to understand the man, not in the least bit. Kanros has buried himself in the pleasures of the flesh, and has long since stopped worrying about the spiritual. He blocks it out really, particularly Melazus. As a Guardian, he isn't sure what to make of Sher; of all of them, he was the least interested in such things.

Valmoria - Another one with the air of disrepute to her. Indentured servitude is not considered respectable, nor are its brokers, despite the fact that every Pureblood requires servants and prefers such. Since some of the things he do require information, she has a good business going with Kanros, though hardly inexpensive. There are times when knowledge can be the difference between life and death, profit or loss, in his trade, though it's hard to say where he stands with the woman -- she has her armor on, so to speak. She'll need it, as Daran purebloods tend to prefer their Guardians human and Daran.

Skorrin Halvar - Skorrin went pretty respectable after Malezus, seeing as she had a skill besides violence to see her through with the wealth that allowed her to start up her brewing in the city. He respects that she's strong and independent and doesn't see the need to intrude on that, though he will certainly drink his share. As an early taster of the brew, he realized immediately that exportation would eventually become a concern, and wisely got involved on that end, to his profit. On the other hand, Skorrin may well be a little too honest for politics in Aluth as he knows them.

Barmaetus - Useful bloke, sewed up people and kept them alive despite wounds in their adventuring days. Kanros has one particularly bad scar on his shoulder, from the raking of monstrous claws -- he did what the healer said and regained the full use of the arm, something he feared mightily after Melazus. The old man's therapy worked, which is why, in his mind, he's not some maimed beggar. On the other hand, he knows the man has a soft spot, what he might decide to do with the power of a Guardian, while well-intentioned, could be dangerous. Kanros is willing to risk making enemies for such idealism and otherwise deal with consequences, but he isn't about to sacrifice the city or himself for it.

Esse “Sunder” Edonui - WIP

Haljon - A natural rival to Kanros and his operations as he is the commander of the Khavi. Kanros keeps his distance naturally, as the intervening years have caused them to adopt very different views of matters while remaining in related occupations. Kanros also has every reason to fear that as a Guardian, Haljon may well use the Khavi as his ace in the hole, at least within the city. It's been done before, and it could be done again. Then again, Dara is a mess and that ought to keep Haljon occupied -- if any are going to worry about the fate of their predecessors, it would be the Khavi's captain. However, Haljon is an altruist that believes overmuch in duty for duty's sake, and that sort of thing can get out of hand fast.

Whurri Mooncheek - Another altruist; and Kanros sort of fears, in a sense, the arguments he'll wind up having with the dwarf. She prefers peace, but does she realize what Dara's peace is predicated on? Indentured servitude as a means of keeping beggars off the street, cutting off the trade routes of other cities to keep them from even daring to threaten Dara's own prosperity? How much of the world can you look out for. Kanros feels he has a realistic vision of this. He respects the dwarf's stubbornness, but that's also why he knows he's in for it as a guardian. Of course, Guardianship isn't an absolutism -- it's a consensus, and that means, inevitably, messes to clean up from imperfect solutions to complex problems. He knows the dwarf has been around enough to perhaps appreciate that good intentions can backfire.

[Byrd Man]

Character Sheet

Name: Rickas Bannon

Age: 48

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Physical Description:

Rickas has short brown hair dotted with gray streaks that's kept groomed and combed. He's of medium height, but of pudgy build with a good sized paunch that's developed since his retirement from adventuring. The extra weight has given him a slight double chin and chubby cheeks. A long, jagged scar on his left cheek is a memento of his old adventuring group's run in with Pykas. Rickas will not fail to use the scar as political leverage to prove to whoever he is talking to that he has and will do what is necessary to help people in need. He has brown eyes and a partially upturned nose with a small cleft in his chin. While not wearing any particular form of jewelry, he does wear the finest fabrics and clothes befitting a man of his means. A dazzling orator, Rickas has a deep voice that carries well in crowds and has a malleable quality that can help him sound like a man of the commoners or the most elite of the blue bloods depending on where he is.

Skillset:

A former rogue Rickas was never a master thief, but he was an expert actor and orator. His elocution skills and acting made him into a top notch confidence man who could sway nearly anyone into giving him anything. RIckas ability to debate with cold reason and fiery passion equally well has him a highly sought after advocate. As a fighter he was less than effective, preferring to operate from long range with a bow and arrow. He was always proficient with the bow and crossbow, though those skills have diminished. His years as an advocate has also given him an expert knowledge of the laws and customs of Dara.

Far Ancestry:

In their homeland the Bannons are known for their idealistic nature and lofty dreams. The Bannons also, however, lack practicality and common sense. Yorma Bannon, Rickas' grandfather, went bankrupt trying to turn a small farm with poor soil into a thriving plantation. Before that he tried his hand at being a merchant, only to have his partner embezzle all their money and flee. The old man died penniless in the house of his son, Synbal, Rickas' father. Synbal Bannon was a charming and intelligent man who fancied himself as a merchant and politician. Coming from the lands of freemen and representatives, Synbal was able to become one of a small handful of local leaders that represented his area to the nation's parliament. Synbal proved to be an idealistic and crusading representative who fought for the people who had elected him as well as the poor and downtrodden. He spoke for the people no matter how much trouble it caused him. His lack of compromise or give with the old money of the nation led to his exile from office. He threw himself into his business interest by becoming attempting to become a shipping magnate. Placing all his money on three small ships, he was wiped out financially when pirates and storms destroyed all three ships a year into his business. He never became rich or powerful like had desired.

On the flipside the Morgun family, the family of Rickas' mother, were known for their abilities to succeed in nearly any endeavor they attempted.They claimed to have traced their ancestry back all the way to Margorath, the king of old who sold his soul and his first born son to a witch for the ability to bewitch men's minds and make them do things the would never want to do. That magic was said to have passed down to the Morguns and expressed itself in the family's ability to be shrewdly pragmatic and gifted in matters of business and politics. They were known to be tough, fair, and able to read men like open books. Magdar Morgun, Rickas' great grandfather was a long-serving member of the national parliament and a successful farmer. His uncle Belkas Morgun was a priest who spellbound followers with his passionate rhetoric. Sanol Morgun, Rickas' grandfather, was an able businessman who didn't want his daughter marrying Synbal Bannon, but at the time the young man's prospects were so high he allowed it.

Character History:

Rickas was born during the last few years of his father's term as a member of parliament. One of his earliest memories was going to the capital and seeing his father debate and attack the nobility for their lack of understanding and compassion for the poor. When Synbal was run out of office and then lost all his money, times were hard on the Bannon house. Rickas and his four brothers and sisters went days without eating while their father roamed around the country looking for work and their mother gave up on trying to keep a clean and neat house. Their mother soon turned to the bottle and became a drunk. Thirteen years old and sick of being hungry and dirty, Rickas left home and never looked back. He went back to the capital and became a street urchin and low level pickpocket. Two years into stealing change he was caught by a man who was a member of the local thieves guild. Seeing a spark in the boy, the took him in and showed him the potential of the long con. Rickas learned under his tutelage for many years, becoming an expert confidence man. Abiding by his master's rules, they never robbed from anyone but the upper crust. The people who could afford it. Their partnership came to an end when the capital guards learned of one of their cons. Rickas' master was captured and executed while Rickas fled the city and the country, heading to Dara.

It was in Dara that he met a group of adventurers. While they all provided something, Rickas acted as their mouthpiece. He used his conning skills to talk them out of more than a few sticky situations. He was in it for the money until the people of Dara needed the group's help. Against his better judgement, he went with his friends on the raid into Cyrabassis' lair. In the fight, Rickas was scarred across the face by a broadsword. After the defeat of Pykas, the group disbanded and went their separate ways. Rickas found his calling as a legal advocate. Those skills that he had used to con the wealthy also worked to convince a magistrate that he and his client were in the right. His money, power, and influence soon skyrocketed Rickas into the upper class of the city.

Psychological Profile:

Rickas is very friendly and warm as any politician must be. He has a great memory and uses it to his advantage when he can, by remembering something about a certain person they may have forgotten or wish to have forgotten. He uses his charm and warmth to get close to those he needs. If you're someone he doesn't need he can be cold and demanding. Rickas sees himself as practical and pragmatic, extremely so. This is a conscious decision to rebel from his father's way of doing things, to show that the only way to be successful is to not believe in ideals and dreams. He can convince an aristocratic blue blood that he is against the common plebs and then turn around and call out the wealthy and corrupt gentry of the city at a rally of the working class. While he is pragmatic, he does have a idealistic streak that he will entertain as long as it doesn't interfere with any political plans. He is a great reader of other people's emotions and wants which makes him a good diplomat and negotiator. While he does want to help people, he also wants power and craves the power that would come from being a Guardian. He honestly believes that only though the benevolent wielding of supreme power can people really be helped.

Equipment:

Nothing out of the usual clothes. He has his armor and weapons from adventuring, but they have been put up for a long time. He carries a dagger on his belt as a means of self-defense, he is after all a former thief. He also wears an emerald pin on his lapel, the green symbol all Guardians wear to identify themselves.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Rickas is chief advocate of Dara, the top advocate to argue legal cases either representing Dara or someone in need of his help. His years as an advocate has led to him amassing a handsome personal fortune and a large house in the nicer part of the city. He has the money to buy several sellswords as he wishes. Rickas also has many contacts within Dara politics, from magistrates and council staff members to commanders in the city guard. He has many friends and former clients in the business sector of the city. At one time he has represented nearly every single one of Dara's oldest and richest families. Alongside the rich and connected he also has the poor on his side. With his reputation as a reformer and a man of the people, he is popular among the working class and can use them to sell his ideas to the rest of the city.

Relationships

TBD

[Clumsywordsmith]

Name: Sher'Fon'ahn

Age: Forty-One

Gender: Male

Race: Human, Desert Tribesman

Introduction:

The dull red of a dying sun fades away into blackness, allowing the steel-grey of twilight to finally beckon the night to her side; there are no stars in this sky – only the gaping black of an empty void, an endless horizon of jagged teeth framing the light's decay: peaks seeming wrought of the darkest obsidian – though were it a trick of the eyes or their true nature might be hard to tell – while perhaps the only sign of life in all that stretch of silence rests in a small figure, standing erect, upon a distant outcropping.

Features lost in shadow – the expanse of a cloak covering face and form alike – he stands unmoving... stands for such a length of time indeed than an observer might well begin to think him nothing more than another feature of the rock itself.

But I am no rock. I feel the cool winds of the young night tugging at the hem of my cloak – pawing insistently at the brim of my hood – the urge to reach up a hand, to swipe away at the searching fingers as though they were something more than sighing whispers. A man's mind will invent many things in the depths of such a night. This, perhaps, were no exception. I turn my head, ever so slightly – to the vibrant lands far, far to the west: my eyes, perhaps (or just as well the imagination) can make out the faintest shades of gold and umber red beyond the sun's last rays... and then... and then nothing... Only waiting. Waiting as the winds rise, and the fingers scratch, then claw and – finally – blow into a frenzied gale of rage; silence now replaced with tortured screams, every needle's edge of rock becoming a portal to some long-forgotten depth of pain. Still, I wait.

Wait as the pale silhouette of an eager moon throws its light across the darkness, gentle rays scattering into a thousand facets of mirrored silver as they bound and play about the craggy surface of the rocks. But more striking still the reflection from below: for what once was vanished into a murky pool at dark, now shimmers into view... an open sea of shifting sand, fading away into the curve of the world far beyond the furthest point the eye might see. Grey, now blue – caught somewhere half between – an ocean of silver right to the looming black of the encroaching range, driving a jagged slash between the eastern light and western dark.

But then I finally move, shift a hand beneath my cloak and reveal what I had been holing there – tightly clenched – all along; a small phial of darkest onyx, and pulling forth the stopper I release its contents to the winds... a spray of sand, glimmering at once gold and amber, flashing in a twinkling before vanishing to the unknown. The words, though unbidden, come in a quiet stream – quiet and snatched at once, taken by the greedy wind and borne far, far aloft and away. Stretching over the lands I once called home.

“Take me with you, when you go,
through legends, lore and lands untold:
Your home is lost, your people gone,
the last since slipped behind the sun;
yet you are here, and with me now...

So take me with you, when you go...”

I could go no farther. The sand now stung at my face, burned my eyes as the wind spat laughing in my face. I swept my cloak about me, turned and began the perilous descent... the last few trailing words seeming to echo behind me with each step:

“Take me with you, When you go...”

Physical Description:

A harsh steam rose from the fire between us; I brushed away at the smoke and vapour alike with the edge of my cloak, revealing for a moment the young man seated opposite me: slim, serious, erect and alert... I closed my eyes for but a moment and almost imagined that I might see him as he was long since: Taller, by a small margin. But still slim, lithe and brown-skinned, long dark hair tied back in the manner of our people... but the attire – and the eyes!-- the eyes; they were a strange grey... and so I opened my own. Looked into his. Brown, as they ever were. A strange chill tore its way down the back of my neck. I proffered Fon'ahn the bowl, waiting. Watching to see if he would partake.

Skillset/Far Ancestry (Wound up kinda merging themselves into one):

“Some stories, young Fon'ahn, have no end – they go on and on and on – wrapping around themselves over and over again, until perhaps as the sand itself they might roll over all that once was and begin anew...” The young boy frowns at this, places a slender brown finger against his lower lip – both eyebrows are etched into a graven line of thought, and with the sudden exhalation he seems upon the verge of speaking....

And then old Da'fur laughed. I remember he laughed! I saw him laugh, the lines of care and pain smoothed in an instant – smothered away by the crinkle of brown skin, the glimmer of white teeth. Laughed even as a man I did not know sat in a cold tower of lands beyond... drew and scrabbled at some thin bit of... of what might have been cloth with a grey feather. A thin flame, somehow, burned in a shallow basin behind him... and I found myself so caught by its gentle wavering. Quietly, swaying... to and fro as an adder prepared to strike... and without warning he lunged!

I was almost caught off guard, the sweeping shimmer of a brazen blade slicing past the air where my neck had been mere moments before... a distant voice broke forth in my head “For when the mind comes to fullness with the body, and the body to fullness with the mind.... then might the two strike as one. Look outside the immediate! See what is beyond!”

A young man whirled to the side, lithe figure of brown skin and taut sinew dancing through the air as though their form held no weight; another blow, and then another – one sent skating across the surface of a small buckler, the other singing with a quiet call of dismay as it met the haft of a spear... but both were such a burden. Not the light hide of a shield that I had been accustomed to. Not the perfect balance of a lance that I had trained with. And yet in that moment I was aware – aware of myself, the man upon the arena sands. Aware of the crowds, the crowds screaming and crying for blood... blood... blood...

Aware that I was watching myself. A surely as I was myself. And with that it ended all in an instant. The searing heat of the desert sun as it parches the last of an oasis pool. The wretched cry of a dying creature as it embraces finally the eternity of death. The rush of air against the tip of a spear as it plunges into the dark hole of an endless plummet... I fall and fall, images and thoughts piling one atop the other at such a rate that I finally cease to even attempt to parsing one from the other. Rather I simply am. And fall.

And with an undignified thud the nude figure of a man lands unceremoniously upon the edge of a dune; a groan follows, one bloodied eye cracks open... and then gravity takes its turn, the body tumbling, tumbling down the embankment, spray of sand and dust flying in its wake. All finally comes to rest at the edge of a perfect pool: pristine, its surface marred only by the mirrored image of dunes and blue sky and endless, golden sand.

But I am thirsty. So thirsty! And bend to scoop water from the pool, to drink... to drink! Only to cough and splutter, choke on each drop as the water turns to sand in my mouth, the burning force shoved down my throat, burning through the depths of my bowels. I collapse to the ground, crawl to the pool. Cast myself in. Only to sink in a constant depth of burning sand, each breath a tearing rasp upon my lungs. Each clawing effort to escape only sending me further... further into the abyss.

And then Fon'ahn awakes. Awakes to find the impassive face of the old Shaman watching him; he struggles, moves his lips as if to speak – as if to convey in words the thousand impossibilities that have since crossed his mind – only to have his attendant shake his head several times, to mouth the word 'Sleep' before adding:

“Remember, young adder... remember that as many tales might have no end, just as many might have no beginning: to seek answers in such regard might be as foolish as to seek guidance from the stars themselves...”

But I could sleep only poorly. And in my dreams the countless numbers of our kind threw themselves heedlessly into a pit full of obsidian daggers... and at the end only I was left – and the last of them it was who tried to drag me down as they jumped.

Character History:

I rubbed at my temples. The night was wearing on me, and no matter how I struggled it seemed the greatest wealth of words might never suffice to describe it all. The Elder Shaman's words to me – mere moments before my initiation all those years past – had stayed with me ever since... and in truth, I do not suppose I truly could remember my story's beginning. Only the years since that moment. The changes in the skies, the drying of the oasis...

It had been years since any Shaman had pierced the time beyond veiling; gazed across the vast expanse of sand and known for a surety that what he saw was to come – I believed it myself no more than anyone else might have, and so kept it to myself. Only to question the visions for all the years afterward. The Great Exodus, the descent from the mountains... the reception our combined tribes met at the hands of our more 'civilized' counterparts.

Perhaps it was mere luck. Perhaps it was skill. Perhaps it were fate that had kept me alive all these years; from the battles with the strangers, to the final defeat of outsiders in a foreign land... to the eery moment of reliving those moments upon the arena sands in the flesh, to now. Now as I sit and write out every word by hand, the flickering light of a low lamp hanging behind me. Did I see myself then, as I am now? Or... did I merely imagine such things by a freak of circumstance?

Psychological Profile:

Such thoughts came often – often and unanswered – until that moment when an outsider was given the chance to help shape the fate of his captors. Not that I was still a captor at such a point. It would be a difficult matter, indeed, for any man, beast – elf or dwarf – thrown to the gladiatorial pits to survive an encounter with a Shaman of the Shifting Sands... half trained as I was... even lacking every last ounce of power that our tales have told of the heroes of the past. Still, there is something to be said for the adroit study of body and mind alike, and the simple power of reflexes well honed, combined with a mind well sharpened... well, at times this is enough.

But something more to be said for the sights I saw with my comrades then. An opening of awareness, as if all the tales I had been told as a child suddenly were to gain new life. Things I had long since ceased to question once again opened to inquiry. Perhaps there -was- a truth to be found in the uncertain tales of the sand.

Equipment:

I paused for a moment in my thoughts. They were running amok again. A swift swallow from the decanter near at hand settled the nerves a bit... memories running too close to certain occurrences in the past were bound to bring forth such a feeling. I sighed. Wiped my lips. Brought my hand to my breast... encountered the phial; there was still a bit of the sand from my homelands left – carried all this way, emptied to the winds every seven years. Emptied and then filled again. Filled in memory and in hope. Hope... such a thin, word – that. More often still I found myself relying upon the spear that always rested just behind me; a thin and wondrously balanced piece of deadly artwork – bladed on both ends, detachable in the centre... a gift from that rare moment where I had been a hero. Or, at least, respected. That along with the shield. My cloak, also, was slung over the back of my chair. As dull as the desert sands themselves, yet I bore it with pride.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

A pride some might think baseless, when I consider my current lack of any grand title or position here – save as once-hero... yet where others might have permitted their memories to shift away into nothingness... I... I have been left to ponder it all these long years. Thrice since my capture now I have visited the Obsidian mountains... thrice have I revisited the years of my youth – the lost traditions of my people. And though the powers that once may have been remain – perhaps – forever dead to me... still I search. I write. I seek endlessly for any last shred of knowledge. What I saw upon those fateful days has remained a part of me, and together with the long and historied myths of my lost people... well, perhaps it truly is a story that has no end.

Or at least, if it does, then I mean to find it.

Relationships:
Will work on this as I see more Character Sheets and send out a few PMs.

[Ruby]

Name: Valmoria
Age: 41
Gender: Female
Race: Elf
Physical Description:

An unworldly beauty in her youth, tall and fair and athletically built. Known for lilac colored eyes and an untamed mane of dark red hair that shined red-gold like copper in the sun of Aluth, just as much as she was known for full lips always seeming to wear a daredevil's grin. Though she has aged well, the most prominent change to her appearance is her once wildly kept red hair is now snow white, and carefully combed, typically pulled tight and tied behind her head.

Skillset:

Master tracker. Just as talented with bow and arrow as she is the Elvish short swords/long daggers that were once always worn on either hip. Though she has never truly stopped adventuring, Val used her success to become one of the best known Servant Brokers in the city. Though, secretly, Val has used the Indentured to also become one of the best Information Brokers in the city.

Far Ancestry:

Valmoria's father famously claimed descent from the ancient Elven sorceress-queen of aluth, Serrasora. Many within the wandering small Elven tribe her father led believed this to be simply a way to legitimise his authority, though her father, Halla the Healer, never once waivered in his fanatical insistence upon this claim--whether in public, or in private to his daughter.

The Healer claims his ability to heal is aided by the last lingerings of this magic bloodline, just as he claims Valmoria's natural affinity for tracking and marksmanship are aided by the same.

Valmoria, for her part, believes her father a romantic old fool more fond of dreaming about yesteryears than he is facing the harsh realities that exist within their tomorrows. She attributes her skills to being raised an Elf, and spending all her formative years in the wilds of Aluth.

Character History:

Tragedy and star light brought Valmoria into the world. Born on a night renowned for the sudden appearance and brightness of a 'wild star' in the sky above, by morning Valmoria's mother would be dead. Callaelena had always been a sickly, frail, thing...but not that, or Halla, could keep her from motherhood. That she would always have her mother's love, Valmoria has never been able to doubt.

Where her mother was well known for being bookish and well learned, Valmoria was always a stubborn student, in no small part due to being possibly the most restless child in history. If she was not losing herself in the dangerous wilds of Aluth, where simply being there could be a test of survival, she could hardly sit still for long.

Her companion for much of her life's travels was the best young scout of her tribe, Arcayssa. He taught her what her healer father knew less of, and her father taught her what he told her Valmoria's mother would want her to know. Her life remained on this mostly happy course into young adulthood, when her father suggested she, life her mother had before, journey to Dara to learn from the human wisemen and the guilds of learning. She flatly rejected the idea, only changing her mind when Arcayssa revealed romantic intentions days later.

Valmoria would never reach Dara directly, instead coming across the outriders of a mercenary group north of the human city. Though she had been warned about humans and their base instincts, Valmoria was too curious to not shadow the human riders. When they were surprised by a roaming band of Orcs, Valmoria quickly jumped in to even the playing field. The grateful humans invited her back to camp for celebration, an invitation she was prehaps too quick to accept. The food was greasy and primitive, but surprisingly good. She declined many bawdy invitations, but did accept the invitation from the outrider's officer to go out with them again. Valmoria had never extensively traveled in the wilds around Dara, and still wanted to test herself against the best of the humans.

It was during this period that a reputation in Dara of an Elf girl with serious skills began to build. When Pykas attacked the city, Val was asked if she would consider joining the defense. At first she assumed the Guardians were hoping she could enlist an Elven tribe or two to assist, and was ready to disappoint them. Instead they wanted HER, for some madness involving a trek to the heart of darkness itself. Her knowledge and experience of the continent was a boon, but when lethal danger appeared Valmoria proved herself to be pure steel. At some point during the final clash, Cyrabassis began to specifically target Val. The Elf was harder to pin down than a shadow, but whether it was the sorcerer's skill or her own misstep, the man man's magic struck home and put Val down.

Though she would shock the sorcerer by climbing to her feet and rejoining the fight eventually, she was clearly not the same as before, and in more ways than one; such as the sudden appearance of a streak of snow white running through her otherwise fiery red hair. Over time, Val regained everything the blast took out of her. Except for her red hair, as the streak of snow white would only grow over time until not a strand of red remained.

After the fight, Val barely stuck around long enough to re-enter the city. The last report of her was guardsman seeing her riding out a city gate, headed northwest, at full speed. And that would remain the last image of Valmoria for the city of Dara until her re-appearance over a decade later, when she began to settle into the city, doing nothing of public note for yet another decade, except getting to know the city, and the people in it, freely using her reputation as a heroine to advance her social standing with numerous factions of the large city's population.

Valmoria would also finally begin to study within human houses of wisdom during this period, a practice she has yet to stop, even now. Much as even after making the city her home, Val is still known to just go missing for weeks or even months on end without any warning at all. Those closest to her say the Elf has to go, and do, or else. Others suspect the Elf is checking in with her old tribe. Whatever the case, the more her presence in the city grew, the more popular the mystery has became.

Feeling as if she adequately knew the city and those within it now, Val began to act in areas of public interest. She began investing in various ventures throughout the city, but none more than the brokerage of the Indentured. As an unusually connected, and popular, non-human, many poor attempting to make a life in the city simply felt more comfortable coming to Valmoria, primarily non-humans at first, then quickly humans as well. Secretly Valmoria began using the brokerage as a front for a different sort of network, one for information gathering purposes, one kept covert and in secret--even if it meant blood to silence loose lips.

Though the powers of Dara know there is a shadow player among them, few had bothered from their lofty perches to invest much in finding more about it. And those that have suddenly found themselves with more pressing matters when the attack on the Guardians came. And even Valmoria herself is absolutely lost on what happened that day, though she intended to find out, even before the surprise of becoming a Guardian herself threw countless more doors open to her.

Psychological Profile:

In her youth, she was a free spirit fond of bawdy jokes and usually seen smiling or whistling. Charm has always been a strength of Valmoria's, though she tends to shut it on and off as required, fond of privacy and distance when she isn't needing to play some part or be a charming elven ranger among the wilds. Her time with human men only increased her need for distance, and to keep her guard up. The encounter with Pykas and Cyrabassis darkened her spirit and sent her reeling into a bleak, long, period of isolatism. Only after traveling beyond her homelands and finally returning was Valmoria ready to face her past, her present, and her future.

With the wisdom of age has come something of a balance between Val's younger days and her new demons, though her wit and cunning remain sharper than ever--as does her ability to charm. What's changed, many would say, is her newly developed capacity to intimidate. As one of few non-humans with real popularity and power within the city, she has a habit of looking out for the lower classes of society, and encouraging the old powers of the city to follow the example.

Equipment:

Two Elven short swords, curved with simple wooden handles wrapped in leather. They shine green in light. Her bow looks like an old, tried and true, Elvish hunting bow. No one has ever guessed what wood it's made from, which even Val would admit in private is difficult considering it isn't one wood, but many together as one. Upon a silver chain around her neck bluish green crystal with a naturally roundish shape. It has belonged to her family since anyone can remember--impressive for an Elf. Valmoria simply calls it a charm, though her father the Healer called it a protection pendant. She's known to dress as in various styles, from dusty leathers to exotic works of Elven fashion.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

One of the wealthiest non-humans in the city, some think she still retains wealth from her adventuring years, though for certain much of this is due to investments and the brokerage of Indetureds. The brokerage, as well as the fortified complex she calls home, both reside within the Shava District, a place she is known to walk about at random times, often eating in the same pot shops many of the city's laborers eat at. This behavior, as well as countless charitable acts behind the scenes, has moved Shava to adopt Valmoria as their own in a way. This is surely not accidental, and has not kept Valmoria safe all the time, but it does certainly make an assassination attempt sticky within the Shava district.

Relationships

Um, we'll figure it out?

[Polyphemus]

Skorrin Halvar

Character Sheet
Name: Skorrin Halvar
Age: 37
Gender:Female
Race:Human
Physical Description:

Skorrin Halvar is a very tall woman, not conventionally attractive, nearly a head above the average man. Her skin is olive in complexion, tough and leathery, wrinkling in deep laughter lines around her mouth, which is almost always in a warm smile. She possesses strong facial features, high cheekbones and a lantern jaw, but her face is dominated almost completely by her large, sparkling green eyes. Her hair is a bright platinum blonde (she prefers the term “titian”), kept in a single tight braid that reaches down to her waist. Skorrin herself is rawboned, but it would be a mistake to assume her weak- she's corded with muscle, like hemp rope.

Skillset:

Skorrin depends mostly on her inexplicably high level of physical strength, which borders on the freakish- she has been observed breaking stones by striking them with her bare hands. She augments this talent with her knowledge of boxing and wrestling, and when in armed combat prefers a long, heavy two-handed mace with an iron head. Skorrin is also a capable rider. Lastly, she is extremely knowledgeable in the area of brewing beer, and twenty years of running a brewery has given her some idea of how to run a business (though her subordinates do most of the actual work).

Far Ancestry:

Far to the north, on the flat, cold plains lies the land known as Ruthen. The people were unexceptional, farmers and nomads- but they were free. They have always been free. The land of Ruthen has no king, no capital, no leaders. They are a simple, hardy people, looking only to get by.

Centuries ago, the Ruthenians tell their children, the sorcerers and overlords arrived and tried to crown themselves kings, threatening these simple peasants with magical annihilation if they did not accept rule. The sorcerer-kings had made an enormous mistake. As the story goes, the Ruthenians always banded together against whatever threat. White-hot with rage, these simple people marched on the magical towers. The panicking sorcerers rained down spells upon them, and here a strange and wondrous thing happened- absolutely nothing. When the peasants were on the march, they were unaffected by even the strongest incantations, walking through them with impunity. And so the brief reign of the northern sorcerers ended, as the peasants simply beat the sorcerers to death, burned the magical books and tore down the towers to the last stone. With that done, the Ruthenians simply returned to their homes and peaceful lives, which has continued unabated and without incident.

Skorrin remembers quiet winter nights in her family's one-room house, her father telling old stories by the light of the fire. Sometimes, with mischief in his eyes, the old man would claim that so long ago, during the revolt, there had been a Halvar in the front ranks, hit over and over by remarkably ineffective bolts of pure magic. This ancient Halvar had walked away from the revolt as the only one affected, his strength increased to incredible levels, a trait he passed down to his progeny. The old man laughed at this story, always, but the iron horseshoes he absentmindedly straightened while relating the tale suggested that maybe it was more than just a legend.

Character History:

Skorrin Halvar is a simple woman at heart, from humble peasant stock in Ruthen. Her family was notable for only two thing- the beer they brewed from the winter wheat, and the incredible strength they possessed. Everyone knew if you needed your wagon pulled from a ditch, you asked a Halvar for help. She was the only daughter, and naturally her father's favorite.

When the first news of Dara's war with Pykas reached the quiet north, Skorrin's father saw an opportunity. It was logical enough- war meant soldiers, young men on the move. They'd want to escape the rigors of military life, and the officers wanted to keep morale high. So someone in either army would surely buy some beer. And maybe, just maybe, the elder Halvar reckoned, one of those soldiers might make a good husband for his daughter. So they loaded the cart with the finest of the kvass and wheat ales and headed south, full of optimism.

If they had encountered the forces of Dara, they likely would have had their dreams fulfilled. However, they had the misfortune to first come across a legion of Selander. The old man received an arrow to the eye, his carefully crafted beer quaffed down in minutes, and his daughter put in chains, a sordid prize of war. The young woman was unharmed, aside from the horror of seeing her father murdered. Insensible and depressed, the legion dragged her along, their centurion saving her as a prize for his men after a successful engagement.

They never got the chance to have their sport. The column was ambushed by soldiers from Dara. The alarms and commotion broke through Skorrin's dazed state. The young woman snapped her chains and joined in the fight. Her fist completely caved in one legionnaire's skull, another found his neck snapped like a blade of grass. Skorrin's rampage only ended when the battle did, soldiers of Dara gently welcoming her into their ranks. She found purpose in the fight, in the friendships she forged with other adventurers she met, the adventures they had together. Until finally, the fateful raid on Melazus, a memory she looks on with a mix of pride, horror, and even shame.

She saw no reason to return to Ruthen afterwards. Her brothers had taken over the brewery, and she didn't know that she could assimilate back into the peace and simplicity of her homeland. So she remained in Dara, used her share of the loot to open a brewery. Dara, as it turned out, enjoyed the novelty that was Ruthenian beer, and soon Halvar ale was being sold in every tavern and cellar that mattered. She was wealthy and respected. But still she longs for the old days, the adventure, the camaraderie, the combat.

Psychological Profile:

Skorrin Halvar is a mirthful figure, a woman of simple pleasures. She is first to fight, first to laugh, first to celebrate. She loves a good meal and a good scrap. However, despite her bravado and general good cheer, she secretly feels a great deal of anxiety, particularly when she thinks of that day in Melazus. Pykas commanded things and people that conventional wisdom holds couldn't possibly exist.
While she trusts in her own strength and ability, she was frightened by the things she saw, to the point of recurring bad dreams and the fear of their return. Of course, this encourages her to be even more happy-go-lucky in an effort to hide her fears. The people who know her the best recognize that Skorrin is most anxious and depressed when throwing the biggest parties.

Equipment: 

Skorrin eschews most equipment- her armor sits in storage, traded these days for rich gowns. Generally, she carries a great deal of cash on her, and her holdings include a fine house in Nyati and a stable of horses. Her old mace is placed carefully beside her bed, ready to be swung at a moment's notice.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Skorrin Halvar runs the largest brewery in Dara, her wheat ale having become a household name. As such, she enjoys a great deal of wealth and employs around two hundred workers. The day-to-day operations and bookkeeping are handled primarily by her assistant Lund, Skorrin is more the “idea woman” and public face of the company. The brewery itself is a large three-story brick building in Zalot, a minor landmark in the city.

Relationships

TBD

[Bainshie]

Name: Barmaetus
Age: 43
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Physical Description:
A thin tall figure with fair skin indicative of his distant heritage. Short black hair is neatly and simply cut, matching with plain tight fitting clothing giving the indication of usability rather than style being the main focus. The facial features come together nicely, to suggest at one point he may have been considered handsome, if not for the left side of his face. A half metal mask covers the remains ravaged by magical fire, pitted scar issue never truly healing, the eye it hides useless and unseeing. The large walking stick he carries with him can often creates an incorrect aura of frailty.
skillset:[/b]

His main talent is life: the ability to heal, fix, mend, make better. Years of knowledge, research and experience has allowed Barmaetus to have an almost mystical ability to keep people alive. Spending his spare time surrounded by books has given him a well rounded knowledge in a variety of subjects, especially in mythologies and far off lands.

While one of the weaker fighters in the group, Barmaetus has a surprising quickness, as well as experience in using the walking stick he carries around with him in a more offensive capability, allowing himself to more than keep up.

Far Ancestry:

Kingdoms come and kingdoms go, adventurers rise and are risen upon, time after time in hundreds of places around the world. Once there was such an adventurer far far to the south, a place not of sand, but of forests and rolling hills. Like many of his kind he started out with noble intentions to save the innocent and right the wicked. And like many his power and prowess grew month by month, deeds and fables spread throughout this land.

But life is never as simple as fables and legends would make them seem, for the world is a hydra of evil; cut one down, right one wrong and two will spring up in its place. And slowly but surely these poisons eroded the once naive innocence of the adventurer, demanding ever increasing compromises. The power to defend wasn't enough to stop the wrongs, so he took the power of kingship, leading a coup against the old ineffective nobility. The power of kingship wasn't enough, so he took the power of information, ensuring he knew everything about his people in order to protect them. But that wasn't enough, so little by little he took more and more power became more and more brutal in an ever increasing desire to stop the thing he was becoming.

And sure enough eventually the people rose up and cast him aside, tearing down the dungeons and gulags, dismantling the military networks that had been so misguidedly setup, toppling the statues and traces of this tyrant as the land healed and forgot the damage of one attempting to do so much in the name of the greater good.

Nobody quite knows what happened to this adventurer. Some that he was torn apart by his own grusome totrturers, others that he managed to escape into another dimension, to one ay return more powerful than ever. But in actually he went North, making the nearly impossible journey across the great dessert, still reeling and dazed by what he had become, introspective and regret baring down on him harder than the harsh Northern sun. Upon which he finally found a kingdom who knew not of his name or his lands, a woman who loved him with no knowledge of his atrocities, and a child, a healthy bouncing baby boy: a chance for at least one thing to be without regret in his life.

Character History:

Barmaetus had always grown up around the farm, the son of a simple farmer on the outskirts of Dara, known within the small community as a bright happy young child. But even at such an age a thirst of knowledge was made apparent: Not just the fantastic tales from his father of wondrous lands and tales, of giants and jungles, but also of a second love: Fixing life. The ability to mend and heal had always fascinated him, a desire more than encouraged by his parents, scraping together any books or knowledge for Barmaetus to greedily devour. This was also widely received by the community at large: Animals always got sick, and farm work was fraught with injury.

Maybe his fate would have been to continue as a local doctor, something his father would have been more than happy to see - A purveyor of life rather than death - if not for the knock on the door. It had been late at night when the frantic thudding had awoken Barmaetus, barely seventeen, swinging open the door to find the armored group of adventurers, bloodied and worse for wear in desperate state.

He did was he could, bandaging broken wounds, fixing bones and doing the best that he could for these strange travelers. And during this time the stories they told, of adventures and tales, sparking that old longing found in fathers tales. And so when the time came for them to leave, the young man had also left with them to make his way through the world.
However the campaign to Melazus had an effect during his travels. The optimistic naive child who swore never to kill to his worrying mother had slowly been chipped away. Friends lost, horrors and evil seen, and even his promise he had held dear now broken. This accumulated into the final battle with Pykas, the magic permanently scaring him for life and removing the sight from his left eye.

Afterwards, Barmaetus had settled into a more peaceful life, bringing his healing to the temples of Dara. Yet the things he saw, he couldn't let go. During the time he wasn't aiding the ill and insured he spent trawling through books of lore and tales of anything even similar to the magic he had witnessed. Academics, shady street vendors, anyone with even the slightest claim of magical affinity was investigated, and in the end dismissed as yet another charlatan or crazy tale.

Psychological Profile:

The effects of adventuring have given Barmaetus a harsh cynical view of the world, giving him a often hard edge. The childlike wonder that he originally started his journey with has been stripped away long with his innocence. This makes him often very sarcastic and dry, with very little time for fools. Nightmares about both the fight and the death of Darvius (Member of the party who died along the way), with feelings of guilt regarding the latter - including the rage afterwards being the only time he's personally killed anyone.

However, the child he originally was is still there to some extent, often spouting enthusiastically about some long forgotten lore, or new medical knowledge when given the chance. He still helps those who needs it, and often those who don't deserve it, and avoids killing at almost any cost. Was one of the few unwilling to ignore and forget what he saw, creating a bitterness surrounding thoughts of the others, and the fact that they seemingly gave up as soon as something new appeared, and even broke all contact. [INDENT]
Equipment:
[INDENT] Medical pouch: Filled with a wide variety of bandages, tools for make shift surgery, and a small selection of herbs for common ailments.
Walking stick. A solid carved tree branch with a hefty weight behind it. Decorative markings from a known culture far to the South adorn it.

Face mask: A simple steel mask covering half his face. Eyeless. Hooks onto the left ear.
Necklace. Passed down from his father, this once represented the power the highest post of the land could hold. For Barmaetus, it's simply a sentimental trinket.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Doctor. Barmaetus doesn't have a central base for his work, preferring to use the facilities found in the temples around the city, believing that every religion deserves aid to some extent. However most of the major temples of the city have at least some provision and space for his work.

Personally, he mostly keeps to himself, spending his time and money on an extensive library covering almost everything medical and mythological. The rest of his earnings are used to track own anything that might be magical, including a considerable bounty for anyone able to prove use of such powers.

Relationships

TBD.

[redPANDA]

Esse "Sunder" Edonui

Name: Esse “Sunder” Edonui

Age: 44

Gender: Female

Race: Human (Caucasian-Mediterranean)

Physical Description:

Esse originates from the bronzed skin nomads, but her skin is quite pale in comparison. Her hair is a dark brown with only a slight hint of grey. It’s long yet thin tresses are usually pulled back into a half ponytail. She has a ruddy complexion, with a straight edged nose, and cheekbones to match. Her well worn eyes are a light yellow-hazel; a dead giveaway as to her ethnicity.

Generally, Esse wears a myriad of different things when it comes to her day to day. But during her travels and other more specific jobs, she wears airy and loose cotton wraps around her body, legs and arms. This gives her total freedom with mobility, but doesn’t do much to protect her from fists, let alone blades. On top of that, she wears some light armor on her arms and legs that still give her the flexibility she needs, while adding some protection; albeit not much. Her armor is adorned with the same gold lining that covers her pendant and sword hilts. Ornamented all over her are small pieces of gold or silver that hold the wraps and armor in place. Around her waist they connect to form two gold and silver hoops on either each of her hips. Esse connects any small bags she has and her blades to these hoops to keep everything accessible in a moments notice. The ornaments flow up her slender, yet athletic body, and culminate in a tight fitting headdress that splits slivers around her neck, behind the ears, up her forehead, and through her hair. The headdress itself more so resembles the hair of one of the goddesses, than it does a solid piece.

Skillset:

A dancer with two blades; flexible, with finesse on the battlefield. Being quite the practical woman, Esse specializes in the art of warfare and hand to hand combat. She was known for being an excellent swordswoman, with skill in both archery and dagger wielding. While she has been out of any real combat for the better part of a decade, she spends her time maintaining fidelity in her skills.

Her notoriety as a blades master is only matched by her swiftness. Her choice of lighter armour in favor of agility, has also allowed her to be generally fairly quick in combat situations as well. This however, reduces her strength significantly.

Outside the battlefield, Esse is a well versed in the art of political warfare and pushing agenda. Raised in and about the Hall of Guardians, Esse quickly picked up on her father’s responsibilities and dealings throughout the council.

Esse is also a notable musician, since her days of real adventuring, she’s spent a lot of time honing in her musicianship on her harp and her voice. While not the greatest of harpists, her voice is smooth and silvery.

Far Ancestry:

The line of Edonui is long and vast. They held the throne for centuries before the line of Isran took it’s place.

They originated from the far east, as wandering nomads, their “barbaric” ways, uncivilized to the people of Dara. Overtime, they integrated with the populace and grew into a large voice of the city. Fear spread throughout the city over the influence of the nomads, and the those who held power at the time decided to enslave as many of them as they could.

The mass enslavement of their people caused uproar amongst the nomads, but it was decades before they finally launched a rebellion, overthrew the powers that be, and took their place.

Esse’s father, Saeed Edonui, was a guardian, just as her grandfather was. Saeed achieved the title at a fairly early age while Esse was but a child, when his father Enoch lost his life to disease.

Saeed reluctantly took his father’s place as a guardian; more out of respect and honor, than for his own personal gain. Over time, he learned where and how he fit into the system, and grew into a well versed, and knowledgeable guardian. This didn’t go unnoticed however, and many believed Saeed only kept his position because of his heritage; which was partly true.

Character History:

Esse was born to Saeed and Alinya Edonui, prominent members of the Edonui line. With a deep rooted history in the heritage of Dara, Esse was raised to be part of a very integrated system. She was taught all of the dos and don’ts of the household, and was instructed to be presentable whenever in the presence of dignitaries and other such visitors; to exchange her pleasantries with them, and to remain silent unless spoken to.

It wasn’t long before Esse was exposed to the inner workings of politics in her family’s holdings. She quickly learned that there was a status quo that was not to be trifled with; she was only to play with her brothers, of which there were two, and other children of nobility, of which there were few.

Esse was the youngest of three children. Her oldest brother, Adun, was a model son, exactly like his father. He followed Saeed to all important meetings, and sat at his right hand while he addressed matters of the court and council. Enoch, named after their grandfather, was much the opposite. He spent his days galavanting in the countryside, courting a different girl almost every week, and just generally giving the family a bad name.

Esse herself aspired to be more like Adun, though that in itself was hard enough, when Enoch looked like he was having the time of his life. When she wasn’t busy training or appeasing her family, she spent her free time either practicing her music, or immersing herself in the vast library of books that her family curated. Most books on magic and aligning had been lost to legend in the years before her birth, but the Edonuis kept a small depository of the texts written by their far ancestors.

When Esse came of age, her father decided to give her training in self defence, living under a guardian’s roof was not exactly the safest place for a child, especially a girl of Esse’s qualities. It didn’t take long after she began training, that she took a liking to it. Her ability and flexibility with her swords proved to be one of her hidden talents; she was a natural.

This steered her into a more adventurous lifestyle. She disappeared for days at times, exploring not just the different districts of Dara, but the surrounding land as well. As her confidence grew, so did her ambition. She wanted more from life than to just be a daughter blindly following her father’s footsteps. She started spending time doing small escort jobs, and eventually started providing the safe passage for many smugglers, and even illegal slavers.

As the years went by, Esse became overcome with guilt and her own morality. She confessed her crimes to her father, who not wanting to put his own daughter to death, compromised by covering up her crimes, but also stripping her of the family name and any inheritance she was entitled to.

Devastated by the turn of events, Esse spent some years outside the city, moving from village to village. When she finally built up the courage to go back to Dara and join a group of adventurers, she did so under a different alias, Sunder.

After a few months of traveling and working with the group, they encountered Pykas and Cyrabassis. The battle left her traumatized and scarred. With reluctance, she returned to Dara, but what surprised her on arrival, was her father’s change of heart. The years apart had softened Saeed’s heart. Esse learned that her brothers had perished during an attempt on her father’s life. They had died trying to protect him.

Being the only heir to the family’s name and power, she took it upon herself to finally fill her eldest brother’s shoes and actually follow in her father’s footsteps. Though she was welcomed back into the family, Esse’s titles and holdings weren't restored until her father’s mysterious death many years later.

Psychological Profile:

Esse is a to the point, blunt, and ofttimes harsh warrior. She’s generally seen as stubborn and arrogant. Being brought up in a family of nobility, Esse was taught the proper etiquette in political conduct. She had always thought it stupid and pointless; in her head, all the red tape only served to slow the decision making process down.

She’s been stubborn and hardhearted most of her life, having to fend for herself to get by. But she’s often plagued by visions of Pykas and Cyrabassis, both during the day and at night. Oftentimes they’re powerful enough to stop her in her tracks. What she saw that day goes against everything she was brought up to believe. She didn’t even believe in gods, how was any of this possible?

She often takes on the name “Sunder”. Esse can’t remember where the name came from, maybe it had something to do with her attitude back in the day. Being a prominent figure in the politics of Dara, it wouldn’t be wise to paint a target on her back wherever she went. Alas, she took the name on board. Those days are gone, but the name still sticks.

Equipment:

While in council, Esse carries a gold laced ledger and a topaz pendant that have both been handed down through her family for generations. The old book’s pages are tattered, and there are large sections that have been removed and replaced; probably countless times. In it, every Edonui guardian records their dealings and other miscellaneous notes. Esse is often amazing at just how much writing is contained in it. The pendant, is lined with gold, much like the ledger, and was handed down to Esse by her mother.

Sunder, on the other hand, carries two broad bladed rapiers. They are both identical in design, with gold lined hilts and scabbards, and slender blades that draw blood with a touch. The blades themselves are ornamented with polished engraving; one line for each blade. Though Sunder cannot read all of the writing inscribed on the blades, she has compared a few of the characters to some of the older entries in her ledger.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

While the Edonuis don’t hold much physical property anymore, they boast a large monetary worth, and have a large holding on the business and economy of Dara. Since the Nomads make up such a large portion of the city’s populace, making decisions in favor of them has been easy and beneficial for the family through mutual interest. The family itself has provided many services to the city since their rule, the largest of which, is the regulation of indenture emancipation. Their biggest concern when it comes to this is keeping competition up amongst the large figures who buy and sell goods. If one has a few too many workers, he might gain too much of a lead on his competitors. The Edonuis help regulate it by essentially controlling how much labor is available.

Esse herself lives in the large estate owned by her family. It consists of three larger multi-story wings, with a couple smaller buildings surrounding it, and a courtyard in the center of it all. The three main wings serve as the main living quarters and guest entertainment areas. The central courtyard houses a large bath that’s used mainly for cleaning, but sometimes recreational use as well. The estate has lived with the Edonuis for centuries, with old buildings being torn down, and built back up every few decades.

While Esse stays in the main building, she refuses to use her old room, or any of the other furnished rooms for that matter. She instead takes residence in a tiny room meant for servant’s lodgings. It has a small wooden bed that sits a little more than a foot above the ground, a bedside table to match with only a candle to sit on it, and a small window that only sees the sun for a couple hours a day.

Relationships

TBD

[VoiD]

Haljon

Character Sheet
Name: Haljon
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Physical Description:

A towering man of stout build, Haljon stands at nearly 6'7. He is barrel-chested, and his arms are unusually long. Possessing strong, angular facial features, he may be considered ruggedly handsome by some. His eyes are deepset and a dark brown, almost black. A scar travels from his forehead to beneath his left eye, and his nose is crooked from multiple fractures. Haljon's mouth is framed by a large beard, which is complimented by bushy black brows. He seems to be permenantly coated in a layer of dirt or dust.

Skillset:

Haljon is frighteningly strong and a renowned swordsman. A capable leader of men, he is an expert at recruiting and training and noted as a strict, but effective, disciplinarian. He is also an able tactician, but his strategies are none too subtle and often quite straightforward. He has a peculiar interest in geography and cartography, and thus is especially knowledgeable about the layout of terrain and areas surrounding Dara and beyond. Haljon is also quite fond of history, especially of the mythological sort.

Far Ancestry:

Haljon hails from a land far to the north, one steeped with mythology. Tales of heroes and the sons of Gods abounded, along with those of treacherous sorcerers and vile monsters. He grew up listening to these tales, and his family even claimed descent from one of the many heroes; Letholdus, a towering demigod famous for having slain the Twelve Great Beasts by himself, in atonement for the egregious sin of kinslaying. Supposedly Letholdus was the child of the God of the Sky, and had the capability to throw lightning bolts. His great height was the result of his father wishing for him to closer to the sky. Being incredibly strong and tall, Haljon was often compared to Letholdus as he got older, possessing many of the same features as the hero in the tale.

Character History:

Haljon grew up in a village located in the far north, one without a name or place on any map. Surrounded by an icy wasteland and having never experienced any season except Winter, the village survived through ice fishing and trading with the few merchants who dared venture that far north. The fish they caught were prized for their oil, as it apparently turned flame a multitude of colors when burned. Haljon had a normal, if grueling, childhood. As the village stayed at a nearly constant population due to the climate, children were expected to take large amounts of responsibility at an early age. They were taught that duty, particularly to the village, came before all else; that a person's word was the summation of their entire being, a terrible curse befalling all those who broke theirs.

The village often had to deal with slavers who raided the village for new slaves every few years. Supposedly, the villagers were renowned for their hardiness and made excellent laborers, and thus were favored by those who made a living through the sale of other humans. Through these attacks, the villagers learned to defend themselves, quickly becoming proficient with axes and spears. They fended off the slavers for nearly a decade. Then, one year, the slavers arrived in huge numbers. Despite the villagers best efforts, they were defeated and the entire village was sold into slavery. Haljon was thirteen when this occurred, and was particularly prized by his captors due to his already-impressive physique and young, impressionable nature. He, along with the rest of his village, was loaded onto the slaver's boats and taken far south, where they were sold at the markets of great cities.

Haljon was separated from all those he had ever known, making another trip across the sea to a forested land dotted with the odd town, inhabited by a barbaric and warlike people who called themselves the Treveri. There, he became a slave-soldier and was trained in the arts of war. He became quite skilled, and he distinguished himself on several occasions in the frequent battles and skirmishes the Treveri fought. By the age of seventeen he had reached his full, towering height and was famous across the land as being a fearsome warrior. The Treveri granted him his freedom then, and offered him an official place amongst their warrior-ranks. But the Treveri had been cruel masters, and so Haljon fled the tribe in the dead of night. He boarded the first ship he found, trading one of the many prizes he had collected over the years for passage. He arrived in Dara some months later, and once again made a name for himself as a great warrior. At eighteen, he was selected as one of the adventures who would assault Melazus. The event changed him greatly, and after the battle he joined the Khavi. Haljon swiftly rose through the ranks, becoming commander at the age of twenty-eight.

Psychological Profile:

Before Melazus, Haljon was known as an affable, boisterous character who was fond of light-hearted jests. Now, he bears little resemblance to this past self. His ability to make light of any and all situations was lost in Melazus. The man that emerged from it's catacombs was a far darker one than had entered. Suffice to say, Haljon is a more solemn man than he had been. He has become something of an alcoholic, often found drinking copious amounts of wheat ale at his favorite tavern while off-duty. Worst of all, a deep-rooted fear of the forces he witnessed at play in Melazus has developed within him; though he has never admitted this to anyone, even himself. So suppressed is this fact, his conscious mind is unaware of it. Despite all of this, Haljon takes his responsibilities very seriously and has yet to fail to live up to them. He believes his duty to the city comes before all else. His word and reputation mean everything to him, as they are some of the few things he truly values.

Equipment:

Haljon wears a thick cuirass of lamellar, as well as vambraces and greaves made of the same material. Underneath all this he wears a long mail shirt that goes to his knees (hauberk). The rest of his outfit is made up of boiled leather, covering his thighs and shoulders. His boots are made of this material, as are his gauntlets. Haljon typically does not wear a helm. He has a massive two-handed iron sword that measures five feet long, slung across his back in an intricate sheath. It was the same sword he used while assaulting Melazus, and he has since dubbed it "Limbcleaver". A knife with a wide blade is sheathed at his belt. Haljon possesses a trained warhorse as well, a sturdy brown steed of uncertain breed he affectionately calls "Grendel".

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

As commander of the Khavi, Haljon wields significant influence in matters concerning crime, the defense of the city, and Dara's military. Since he is responsible for the general well-being of Dara and the upholding of it's laws, he has a large say in it's daily activities. Haljon is an honorable and just Captain however, and is well-respected by Dara's populace. His second-in-command, Cyrus, handles much of the Khavi's day-to-day responsibilities, such as patrols and training. Haljon focuses on the upkeep of the organization and handling it's contacts within the city. He is aided greatly by his personal steward, Jahan, who is in charge of the logistical aspects of the Khavi's upkeep.

Relationships

TBD

[Engel]

Whurri Mooncheek

Name: Whurri Mooncheek
Age: 51
Gender: Female
Race: Dwarf
Physical Description:

Whurri’s as short as any dwarf, with a stout and rugged body that might remind one of a rock. She’s muscular and over the years she’s gotten a bit rounder than in her youth, but she’s still not particularly fat for a dwarf. Her hair is black with a few strands of grey. She keeps it in one long braid at the back of her head, which she rarely cuts as it’s a sort of sign of her wisdom and age. She’s got green eyes, a few wrinkles from frowning too much and tattoos in a tribal pattern that covers most of the left side of her face. Her clothes are of the finest fabrics she could find, extravagant, and often in the colours of red, blue and white. She wears a black cloak at all times, which she was sold under the belief that it would protect her from the supernatural in the world, but if it does or not she doesn’t know. She hasn’t experienced anything supernatural since buying it, so that’s something.

Skillset:

Whurri is a master at fighting with staves, whether they be long enough to wield with both hands or shorter to use one in each. The latter was a tactic she had to develop when the weaker staves broke. Her technique when fighting relies heavily on evading and doding, to strike back at the right moment. She’s competent with improvised weapons as well. It’s common these days for people to seek her out to become better at fighting themselves. She’s got the right mind and experience for it, but she doesn’t personally train just anyone. Whurri only accepts the most persistent and promising ones. They wouldn’t leave her alone otherwise. Her knowledge of nature is rather good. There are those who come to her for advice in certain matters. These matters are mostly concerned with love, life and death, but could also be regarding other topics.

Far Ancestry:

There once was a dwarf who dreamt not about digging deep for riches, but to climb the highest peak in the mountains above his home. He would tell others about this ambition of his, and they would laugh, because why would any dwarf want to reach the sky? The only one who didn’t laugh was his love. Yet, she didn’t want him to leave her. It would surely be a dangerous journey. However, one night while drunk he claimed he’d had enough of the mockering - that he would begin the climb the very next day. Of course, this resulted in further laughter.

A man of his word though, he left the dwarven city the next day to climb the peak.The climb was long and perilous, but despite the odds he made it to the top after days of climbing. Awestruck by the view, there he remained sitting for weeks until everyone below assumed him dead, then he climbed back down and returned carrying a pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. He told his story, how the moon itself had given him the pendant for paying it a visit.

The crescent pendant was passed down to his son, then to the son’s son, and so on among the Mooncheek family line. Whurri was given the pendant when her mother died. According to the legend, it was what kept the dwarf from freezing to death, keeping him warm and alive at the top of the mountain’s peak.

Character History:

She was born in the south, where the summers were hot and the winters mild. The climate on the surface didn’t concern many of the dwarves below though. Their city Thondarth was one of the largest dwarven cities, located in a bountiful area with a lot of ore, food and water. The water from the nearby sea was used to power their crude machines, being diverted down through carefully planned tunnels into watermills to power the production of food and refinement of ore.

Her father was a smith, inventor and repairman. He was one of few dwarves whose skills were considered invaluable to the city. Her mother was a sort of mystic, a woman who could heal people with a simple prayer and a few herbs. Whurri had a lot of siblings when she grew up, and always had to fight to get any attention from her parents. It made her assertive at a young age. When she spoke most others would be quiet to listen, unless they were one of her siblings.

In her early teenage years, she became the apprentice of a traveling monk. The dwarf had often visited the city before, so she knew him. Her parents didn’t object. She wasn’t sure if they would even notice that she was gone with all that they had to do, and everyone else they had to take care of. The dwarf monk taught her how to fight, meditate and respect nature. In a way, he was more like a parent to her than her own parents had been. He was intelligent, wise and had the experience of age.

No one lives forever though, and when her master died of old age Whurri wasn’t sure what to do with herself at first. They’d been traveling together for years by then. She thought about returning home, but figured she’d nothing to do there. There were still plenty of places she wanted to visit, so she went with a ship that sailed north and arrived in Dara.

She became a member of a group of adventurers there, who eventually ended up fighting King Pykas of Selander and carrying out the raid on Melazus. The ordeal with Melazus frightened her like nothing had before, and she wanted to find some kind of defence against it that would actually help.

Whurri returned to Dara with no clear goal for the future now that the group had disbanded. She used her share of the wealth from Melazus to buy an old mansion in the Shava district. It was long since abandoned and thought to be haunted, so she got it cheap. It was a large mansion with many rooms, an even larger garden and tunnels beneath it in the old catacombs.

It took her years to restore it, but as she did she made friends in the city who came to help her. She invited the two most willing helpers to live in the mansion together with her once it was finished. They were a couple of young girls who had heard the stories about Melazus, the king and the sorcerer. They begged Whurri to teach them what she knew about the world, fighting and so on. She eventually accepted, and they became the first two apprentices in the new order of the moon. The name came later.

Whurri’s mansion became a sort of monastery over the years, where people would train and live. Her first two apprentices became respected monks that would train and invite new recruits into the order. Whurri kept to herself, spending her time down in the catacombs.

Psychological Profile:

Whurri is patient and stubborn, unmoving like a mountain when she needs to be or has set her eyes on a certain goal. She may favour peaceful solutions to problems, but she is not naïve enough to think that everyone can be negotiated with. She believes that everyone should learn how to defend themselves and those they love, so that nothing bad happens to them. It is partly why she started the order, and is teaching a select few how to properly fight at her home in the monastery. The order allows drinking and similar pleasures since she knows that it can help get someone through the day.

She is considered wise, but claims that she knows nothing. It’s fairly common for people to seek her counsel and advice in personal matters, though she would like to know who begun that tradition because she finds it annoying and disturbing at times of meditation. She’s spiritual, worships nature and what spirits may protect it and the animals. When making decisions she would like time to think, to consider what solution may yield the best outcome. That is not always an option, and then she goes with any method that has previously proved itself true. Whurri rarely puts herself ahead of those in greater need, which makes her selfless. She can be a good friend to have, as she values her friends and enjoys time spent with them. She likes to laugh, and may even make a joke every now and then. She was more energetic and fun-loving in her youth though.

After the raid on Melazus she was afraid of traveling alone or even leaving the city for too long, which is how she ended up staying and buying her own mansion. She had nightmares for years, but thankfully they went away eventually. Whurri never meant to stay in Dara. Rosie and Isara convinced her that maybe she could do more good in the city than she could if she kept traveling. Her interest in Dara has little to do with the city itself. She wants what’s best for those in need, but stays in Dara for the chance to continue leading the order and spreading its beliefs.

Equipment:

The crescent pendant – A family heirloom that is rumoured to have the ability to protect the one who bears it from extreme cold, and keep them safe in the worst of nature’s climates. Whurri believes there is some truth to the tale surrounding it, but thinks it is supposed to be more metaphorical until the pendant itself proves its dormant power.

Her weapon is a long metal staff which she had crafted with specific instructions for every part of it, so that it would be the best weapon she could purchase for money, with her own talents in mind. It can be split into two, either intentionally or if it was too block a too powerful blow. The two halves can easily be put together again with enough strength.

She wears light clothes and her black cloak in combat. Whurri relies on her own agility and ability to evade blows more than anything else. Her long braid is tucked into her clothes, so as to avoid getting it snagged on something.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Whurri is the head of the order of the moon, the owner of its monasteries and its lands. She wants others to learn what her master once taught her, but also more that they may find useful in their lives. She is well respected in her own order, and among the poor, the homeless and the less fortunate. Her order gives out food to the poor, even shelter in some rare cases when someone is in desperate need of it. She has the poor on her side, without them having to wonder who she is really looking out for, but there are those who appreciate her for the improvements she’s made to the city too.

There are around thirty monks living in the monastery in the Shava District, but a second monastery is being built close to the River Dara by another twenty monks. The majority of the members are female, but there are a few males too. Its mostly humans within the order, but most races are represented to some degree with dwarves as the second largest. The first two apprentices, Rosie and Isara, are the only ones to achieve the rank of master within the order other than Whurri. Rosie takes care of the monastery in the Shava District, while Isara is overseeing the construction of their new monastery outside the city.

The order gets its wealth from investments that Whurri once made into dwarven cities and business, not all of which are close to Dara, but she has a few of her siblings to help her keep it under control. The order also gets donations from some people who are feeling generous, or the new recruits who are forced to give up all their possessions to the monastery when they become members. It has happened that this has angered a wealthy family when one of their sons or daughters joined.

Whurri would like to retreat from the world, live alone, but it seems like there are those who still needs her so she doesn't do it. Her mere presence can demand respect, and that others listen when she talks. She prefers to remain passive and neutral, rather than start a war or feud with another city. She is for peace and prosperity. In diplomacy, she speaks for the poor and giving generously in a way that may make her less popular in wealthy circles. She respects traditions though, and doesn't want to see the city change too much other than when it comes to how it treats immigrants.

Relationships

TBD

[The Fair Lady]

This is a WIP but an almost finished WIP

Character Sheet
Name: Meletia Desenchel

Age: 46

Gender: Female

Race: Malvelin (A lineage rumored to be born from a long ago union between men and water spirits)

Physical Description:

Meletia would be tall if she could stand up straight. Since she cannot she is roughly 4'11 instead of the near 6 foot height she would have. Her spine is curved differently and this forces her into a hunched over posture. She has bluish skin, just enough to be noticeable and not Her eyes are large and the large irises are a brilliant yellow. Her nose is flatter than a human's would be and the skin of her face always looks damp and sagging. Even so her face is appealing and the lines of her features are exquisite beneath the sagging skin. She lacks visible ears, instead a patch of membranous skin is stretched over a boneless spot in the side of her head. The sides of her neck have a series of six slits on each side that look like scars but can in fact open and function similarly to gills. Meletia's hair is a damp and peculiar mix of greenish blue and brown that manages to look appealing but only with a great deal of effort. Her arms have an extra joint similar to a second wrist in the middle of what would be a human forearm and the fingers on each of her hands have vestigial membranes connecting the lower knuckles together on all fingers other than the thumb. Similarly to her arms, her lower limbs also have an extra joint between the knee and the ankle and this gives her a peculiar gate when she walks. Other than the curved spine, slightly sagging skin, and noticeable lack of ears she is quite appealing and were it not for the most obvious deformity, the spine she would be regarded as a beauty.

Skillset:

Meletia is a magician by trade. True magic has been mostly gone from the world for a long time but parlor tricks and sleight of hand still remained. Meletia knows how to make many useful things and the art of smoke, mirrors, and deception can be potent. She can craft an explosive powder that when exposed to high heat or flame erupts in smoke and a flash of the flames, make liquids that change colors and boil without heat, ect. Many of her 'spells' are derivatives of real magic that now are just strings of words and flashy gestures to draw attention away from the true mundane sources of her tricks. Some may be intact enough to start working in a fashion if magic was to return. Really though a lot of her skill is in acting, she has a wonderful voice and can easily draw attention to things she wants focused on. Magic is 9/10ths distraction after all.

Far Ancestry:

Once there was magic and in the long ago days of magic's height there was a nation. Once that nation had a king who was great in might and magic both. With power and deceit he charmed the spirits within the waves thinking they had a secret to immortality. From a union of an ensorcelled spirit of the seas, some claim she was the daughter of the old father of waters himself, and this great king of myths came six children. Three daughters as beautiful and fair as sunlight upon still waters, and three sons who held within them the fury of the raging waves. Legend says the three sons wed the three daughters at their father's commands and that in this golden age these unions birthed the Malvelin.

The tales of the earliest Malvelin are many and varied. There was the Dread Sorceress Avalyce whose songs ensnared the wills of mortal men, Rylthin Of The Storm who could call upon cyclones and once summoned a wave so great that it washed a city out to sea, the noble Magistra Lylins Desen who held back the wrath of sea and storm for generations, Lothril The Proud who it is said could make blades from nothing more than solid water, Mystra the Weeper whose sorrow brought mists so thick that the air became as the sea and men drowned upon the land, and many tales lost to time...

Character History:

Meletia Desenchel was born to two relatively pure Malvelin and cursed with an unfortunate deformity at birth. Her father and mother were members of the court in Satharas, the last city where a ruler of Malvelin descent still ruled. When she was born deformed the aged King Sythelis Desen saw the birth of a deformed child to his advisers as a malefic omen. Her father renounced all claims to his daughter in accordance with the king's decree and saved his position by doing so. Her mother refused and King Sythelis in his aged paranoia exiled her from the court.

Meletia's earliest memories are of her mother and frequent rides in dusty carriages. For a number of years her mother travelled back and forth in the cities surrounding Satharas seeking a position at the courts. But there was no permanent position to be found and eventually Meletia's mother was forced into a different trade. She was a nearly pureblood Malvelin and her bodily services were prized quite highly. Even though her mother was forced into whoring herself out Meletia did not have a deprived childhood since her mother was not a common whore. Meletia's mother did not want the life she ended up with for her daughter and as Meletia grew older her mother taught her the same trade that had once been hers before misfortune.

Sadly Meletia grew up to dislike her mother and to views her as a failure who had disgraced their proud heritage. When she was old enough she left her mother and the whole area behind. Satharas and it's subsidiaries were but one piece of the world, a piece where her mother had disgraced herself, and a piece where her crooked back meant she was an ill omen. It was in her quest to see the world and find a more welcoming place that she stumbled upon Dara and found herself wrapped up in a quest straight out of the ancient myths and legends of her people. Everyone knows the official story of what happened on that quest and she returned to Dara triumphant as a hero.

Meletia had been determined that she would not end up in the same situation as her mother but in a way she ended up doing something similar. She also whored out something, though she did not whore out her body, instead she sold her heritage. Meletia combined her tricks and 'magic' with the ancient stories of the great Malvelin of old to make productions that shocked and awed many people. In time she began to incorporate other lore and other stories into her repertoire as well. Now Meletia is a well known performer in Dara, hired for dramatic storytelling at events and for other shows that she puts on periodically.

Psychological Profile:

An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history. Most importantly, how did they react to the confrontation with Pykas and Cyrabassis -- because Cyrabassis was wielding magic (not heavy stuff, but way more than most have ever seen or would believe) and Pykas was possessed with something not of the world. They barely survived by the skin of their teeth. So the characters have baggage from that fight.

Equipment:

Masks: Meletia's masks are copied out of the old tales about ancient Malvelin from myths and legends. Each of them has the detailed likeness of one of the famed figures of legend carved into it.
Robes: Meletia finds the fashions of Dara not to be too alien and willingly wears the traditional Daran robes. Her robes are made of silk and most often either blue or green as those are the colors that she looks best in by far.
Pouches: Meletia's robes have many hidden pouches and compartments sewn into them to help her in her trade. Many of them hold various powders and vials that can be used to great theatrical effect such as making clouds of smoke or making fires burn with different color flames.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

Work In Progress

Relationships

TBA