[CHAR] Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

[HeySeuss]

_{Artwork depicting the ambush of Isildur, from the Lord of the Rings. Also conveys the idea of what goes on in this RP. ;)}

Instructions:

• Using the provided template, please post a character sheet here.
• Everything else goes on the OOC tab, thank you.

Character Sheet:

(Template Here)

Name: Age: Gender: Species: 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. Brand of the Nightwood was the character's adoptive father, so it's natural that they know how to track, move silently and otherwise be very much at home surviving in the wild, including how to hunt.

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 any specific enemies made as well. Also, since the characters all were orphans taken in by Brand, they started out in a similar situation -- under the old ranger's wing.

Psychological Profile:

An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history.

Equipment:

[Hexaflexagon]

Sigur

Name: Sigur Age: 30 Gender: Male Species: Half-Orc Physical Description:

A small person Sigur is not standing higher than most men and built of taut towering muscle. Due to the circumstances of his birth and his progenitors he looks the part of one of an orchish descent. His Skin color is green in pigmentation echoing the color of the Parrot Toadstool and the green scourge marks him different from any normal man. His face is square in composition with a strong jutting jaw, a dominate forward sloping forehead, and thick eyebrows. His prominent lower incisors jutting out from his mouth giving him a predatory visage that is intimidating to those whose only knowledge of orckin come from tales spoken by old wet nurses. His body is worn and melded like tested iron coated in cuts, bruises, scars and marks of battle. The most prominent of these trophies of combat as they were was located on his back stretching from his left shoulder down and across to the edge of his right hip from when he met the unfriendly end of a Zweihänder. His muscle structure was created under his formative years with Brand and would became continually harnessed over his career as a traveling adventurer with notably impressive arm definition from the draw strength required to wield the massive longbows he uses. His hair was coarse and black tied up above his head in the chonmage style.

Skillset:

Under the tutelage of Brand of the Nightwood, Sigur learned the structural foundations of forestry. These skills ranged from tracking, hunting, wilderness survival and combat skills. Beside being trained in the art of two-handed combat Brand made the decesion to use Sigur own natural strength to the young half-orcs advantage teaching him how to use a longbow, these massive bows made of strong yew required years of training to use do to the massive draw weight behind them and so that was what Brand did starting his training when he was just a boy. Possessing natural darkvision, the ranger can see with ranges close to twenty paces in any direction. Capable of great burst of strength when needed, the wrath of an angry orckin was not something most wanted to witness in their lives. Semi-fluent in the art of bartering and shrewd haggling as spending time as a mercenary has lead to him arguing over contracts and payments from time to time though this attempts were usually unsuccessful due to some peoples hatred toward his kind. Can speak and understand the languages of Giants and Goblins at least passing for fluent but not at the level of a native speaker. Good at spelunking due to his natural affinity towards caves and dank dark places.

History:

Sigur was a product of less than civilized circumstances. His mother was an Orc who lived in a tribe in the eastern steppes and his father was a Human raider from a village that was slowly spreading into the Orcs' territory; Raiders generally follow the same three principles no matter the race, the three tenants of rape, pillage and burn, Sigur was a product of the first of this triad. After being defiled by a human man the people of Sigur mother's tribe banished her following tradition and sent her out into the wildness to find peace. The journey of his mother was a long and arduous one that took her across mountains, through valleys and wandering through forests and could be a tale all within its self but in Sigur story the important thing is she made it to the Nightwood, a secluded forest where she could raise her child in peace. But this idealistic childhood never came to term as soon after Sigur was born his mother was hunting she was shot by a bandit an arrow piercing one of her lungs. Bran would find this Orc women clutching her child barely weeks old in her arms as she slowly died from bloodless and the mother beg for him to take mercy and take the child for he had done nothing wrong and still had a life ahead of him, putting her faith into a man that could very well of been just like the one that raped her long ago. Though thankfully Brand was not a savage, but a kind and just man and agreed to take the child ending the mothers woes and silencing her pain with the gentle caress of steel against her throat. And so from the time Sigur was just a child only a few weeks old until his ascent to manhood he lived with Bran and the other orphans he had taken under his wing. This time was good for Sigur for even though through observation like how his skin was a different color, he grew faster, he became stronger quicker than the others learning that his own identity was different, that his blood made him something else he was never treated differently. Brand was not a man to judge others based on their background or who they once were he only judged them on what they could become and treated them all the same. He did not go easy on those that were struggling but he did not become lax on the stronger ones like Sigur. He pushed the half-orc to become the best that he could possibly achieve, to become something that his mother would eventually of been proud of, a hero the pantheon of the gods could write songs and sing praise of. Most importantly at all he was to live up to the namesake bestowed upon him, for you see Sigur did not have a name when Brand found him and so the ranger had to come up with a name for the baby and so he named him Sigur after a story he once heard. Sigur was one of the greatest heroes in the old orchish creation myths, they said that he was twelve fight tall and his skin was not green and made of flesh but of bronze and as glorious as steel, that while his people were covered in darkness he was the one to light the first flame and cast the Great Shadow into Darkness. He was the man that fought a thousand wars and never lost a single one, the glorious poet and the ideal example of a champion. And so the young half-orc had a lot to live up to. At the age of sixteen he left Brand's care and set out to find his place in the world. He was getting restless and needed to do something for if he was living in a tribe he would of already taken a wife, became a hunter and successfully produced offspring almost two years prior. Brand told the boy that he always had a home in the Nightwood and that whatever happened the wood would always except him with open arms. Sigur would always remember those words as he set out his first job was protecting a merchant caravan heading towards the capital and this was where he met a Drow girl a year older than him by the name of Ysar also working the caravans. Ysar was one of the few drow not born deep in the depths of the earth her parents having left out of wanderlust long ago. The two quickly bonded with one another and became close friends mainly due to their positions straddling the outer rims of society. She was everything Sigur could of even wanted courage, confident, smart and oh so very flexible. And so it was of little surprise when the two became more than just traveling companions. Over the years the two traveled about the lands of civilization taking jobs as hired swords and general mercenary work. The life suited Sigur well it was exciting and filled with adventure and adrenaline at every turn. More importantly he was good at it, through Brand's training and his own fine tuning of his skills he was a formidable foe to deal with. Some exaggerated the tales of Sigur prowess like any good tale has with him wrestling a dragon, taking down an entire bandit camp one handed and other great feats which if you asked the man himself he would refer that truth lies within them somewhere but not giving you a hint of what that truth was. Though this all changed ten years after he left the Nightwood, where events occurred that would shape the rest of his life. He and Ysar were contracted by a merchant house to guard one of their caravans going through the Southern Wastes far to the south of Vendland, a land notable for its abundance of slavers and bandits that prowl the shifting sands. It was here that he first felt the true pain of betrayal and would be the act that made him put down his bow for a time. This truth of matter was that before they had left with the caravan, one of the largest raider groups that would be operating in the area sent an envoy to speak with Ysar. They explained in simple terms that for the price of the caravans route, the drow could not only live to see another day but be paid a vast fortune. Ysar did love Sigur very much but the sad truth of it was she loved the sound of coins in her pocket much more. And so a deal was struck and an ambush point was made. When the time finally came the raiders came from seemingly nowhere, well prepared and knowing exactly where every guard was stationed and where the most vital supplies were held. It was a slaughter beyond anything Sigur was ever expecting and yet he fought on through the chaos, not concerned for himself, not cornered for the gold, no he was looking for Ysar the one of his affection that he wanted to keep safe. He did not know the betrayal and when he had found it was already too late, with Ysar plunging a dagger into chest. The last time he saw of her was her departing as the Raiders took him off to sell him into slavery and she went back north, back the way they had came together. Sigur was sold to a human slaver by the name of Rydor Amslet and was put into work rowing his slave galley for what accumulated into six months. In these six months Sigur nursed his wounds, and more importantly he nursed his shattered heart and somewhere found the resolve to overcome it and organize a revolt aboard the galley. They say that the slaves killed every last slaver on the ship, they say that Sigur himself ripped Rydor Amslet arm off of his body and beat him to death with it, they say that after two more months of ruff seas the galley landed in the southern harbors captained by a half-orc who's skin glistened in the sunlight and look stone willed and determined. After that Sigur retired from the mercenary business. Calling in a favor from a girl that he onced saved from kidnapped named Adelia Monstisper who after her father's death became the sole head of the Monstiper Merchant House one of the dominate Merchant House of the southern reaches. Ms. Monstisper was able to set him up with a small swath of land in a comfortable little village where it was pleasantly warm and sunny where he grew wheat. Having traded in his sword for a plow he set up shop and became an important part of the village where none cared much about his battle scars or his orcish blood and things were good. Though rumors did float up and about when one Adelia Monstiper would occasionally appear in the town and pay visit to the simple farmer Sigur who talked about nothing but grains and harvests, and cold never know somebody as powerful as she. Though sad news was delivered to him, Brand had died. The man that had taught him everything he knew about survival, living and what it really meant to be alive, died protecting children. In a way Sigur thought that to be poetic and a just way to die. But he knew that he had to make his way north back to Bosfyrd to pay his respects to the man that once saved him. Donning his ranger outfit for the first time in close to five years Sigur set off from his little farm and headed North. It was time for him to come home.

Psychological Profile:

Sigur is like many half-orcs, in that he has an inherent sense of confidence and trust in his abilities and strengths to overcome those that oppose him, which he gets called out on from time to time. A man of rather blunt and simple tastes he never really fit with high soceity and preferred the tavern life of fighting, sleeping, drinking. Though at the same time he has some very unorthodox ways of approaching problems gained from Brand's initial training and years spent as a meracnyy learning to not follow conventional methods but rather going with his gut. Though after Ysar's betrayal he changed some what, in that his brash kill or be killed philosophy sort of died down. Thinking more with his head and using words to try and persuade his opponents rather than going into direct confrontation, he outwardly became more passive and freidnly though on the inside this was back with a rising paranoia towards those he did not know. The life of Sigur the farmer and Sigur the mercenary and their philosophies conflicted with one another tremendously as one tried to bury his past and move on and the other used it as the burning rage to keep him moving. Holding no real qualms about fighting dirty he used whatever he could from poison, to throwing dirt and setting up ambushes. The pain of his conflicted nature was that distastes could be created unwillingly depnding on if he was too calm or too aggressive and part of his trouble is trying to find that balance again. He holds a odd code of morals not against killing but as long as they are not innocent, not against stealing as long as they deserve it, his only mantra is that he kills monsters. What a monsters is can be something beastly or something disturbingly human.

Equipment:

• Longbow: Crafted from Yew it stands about just as tall as him at 1.8m, with a draw weight of about 710N the arrows launched from it were terrible beasts to behold piercing through leather and armor.
• Blossfechten (Longsword): The steel longsword is Sigur other primary weapon, he uses it in a style similar to that of the real world Deutsche Schule of sword combat. Focusing less on flare and more on the direct line of attack.
• Backpack: A backpack he made from his own hands back when he lived with Brand. Used to carry an assorted number of goods.
• Grappling Hook: Used to scale objects simply created with a sturdy metal hook and some rope.
• Belt: Contains several pouches that currently hold some digestive herbs and some bandages
• Hempen Rope: 15.24m of rope, because rope is useful.
• Bedroll: Because sleeping is nice
• Flint and Steel: Fires are essential to survival.

[Vistruction]

Lysandra

Name: Lysandra Age: 24 Gender: Female Species: Human Physical Description:

Lysandra is of average height and weight for a female. Standing around 5’6 – 5’7 and weighing somewhere around 120ish. She is petite by some, with a lean but toned physique akin to a woman who is no stranger to rigorous physical work. Long auburn blonde hair accents perfectly against the backsplash of her fair skin and light freckles across her face. Her facial features are soft in nature giving her an almost child-like innocence with big hazel eyes, but it is something not to be fooled by. Although not visible, Lysandra hides various scars; most are small and far in between from scuffles and battles. The most prominent of all is a small thin line on the right side of her abdomen, just above the waist, a living reminder of the time her guard was laxed and was stabbed.

Image

Skillset:

Being one of the few privileged orphans to have trained under Brand of the Nightwood, Lyssandra is anything but innocent. Aside from having an in-depth understanding of forestry - all that it entitles and survival skills, Lysandra is a skilled and deadly hand-to-hand combatant. Although not terribly strong she relies on her speed, agility, and grappling fighting style to quickly take out a target(s) in a quick and quiet manner. From a young age Brand molded her entire training around these set of skills and although it is a more dangerous and fast paced style of fighting she has truly made it her own. While being more adept to short ranged weapons such as daggers and throwing knives, Lysandra can at the very least hold her own when it comes to sword fighting. Again, she does lack the physical strength to go head-on against many opponents, which forces her to find other and more creative ways to win. However, her preferred and most favored weapons are her twin rope daggers wrapped around her wrist and poised to strike at a flick of her arm. Lysandra has a certain taste for a degree of flare when it comes to fighting. Knowing how to fight is without a doubt a useful and a most needed skill but Lysandra has also honed other skills. The woman has a silver tongue like no other, slithering her way out of more than a few troublesome situations. She isn’t afraid to use her beauty as a weapon or to get the upper hand either.

History:

Lysandra was born to the exotic prostitute named Rose due to her uncanny red hair, which no doubtedly was an excellent feature to have in her profession. Having a child as a lady of the night was detrimental for business, but the pregnancy was already to far for it to be terminated and with no choice Rose had to suffer through nine long months. Raising a child in a brothel was out of the question and truly feeling no love for the babe, it was easy to give the baby girl up to the first church she came across. She was handed down to an elderly woman named Galantra, who became known as her ‘church mother’ and named the child Noemi. Noemi remained with the church for five years where she was taught the basics of how to write and read; and was being groomed to be a lady of religion. Galantra always believed that because Noemi had been born from a prostitute that in her sinful nature she would naturally try to follow in her mother’s footsteps and believed that daily severe reprimanding would deter the young girl from doing so. But it only made the poor little girl grow cold and hateful of the elderly woman. Noemi would spend her free time staring out the door and fantasizing what it would be like to be one of the rich and wealthy women that walked by the church. To wear fancy dresses made of exotic materials and to have Prince Charming open doors for her. She dreamed of being their daughter and getting to wear miniature version of the fancy dresses and getting to play with dolls, but sadly it was all just wishful dreams. The truth of her reality was to be doomed to slaving away under Galantra’s tutelage and spending the rest of her life chained to the church. Till luck or misfortune, depends on who you ask, came crashing through the city as a squadron of King Harold’s army. Subsequently, Galantra was killed during the initial hostile take over, the church was closed and Noemi found herself in the streets with no mother to speak off and no roof over her head at five years of age. She slipped out of the city with a group of refugees, who helped her by disguising her as a boy, and for the better half of the year she spent it on the road, drifting from one village to the next. Noemi quickly had to adept to her new lifestyle learning how to steal and not get caught to merely survive each night. And so life went on - a day became a month and a month became two as the group traveled further and further north. On the third month of the gypsy life, disaster struck again this time in the guise of bandits. In the commotion and mayhem Noemi got separated from the group and was caught by the bandits along with a few others, they reckoned they could make a shiny coin or two if they sold the boy to some slavers. That same night, however, luck was on her side when her captors were ambushed. It was on that eventful, and rather frightening, night that little Noemi met her rescuer, Brand. With nowhere to call home and no one to call family, the ranger became her new guardian. Noemi finally had a place to call her own, a man to call ‘father’ for all terms and purposes, and a group of orphans to call family. Her years were spent not only training but also studying and helping with chores and anything else that needed to be done around the estate. On her thirteen birthday Noemi decided that she no longer wanted to be called as such. That name belonged to another girl from another life and so she began to demand that everyone called her Lysandra, erasing Noemi from history almost entirely. But Noemi would never truly die; her dream of being a wealthy woman was now Lysandra’s dream. And so at the age of nineteen the young woman set her ambitious eyes on the capitol, on all the wealthy lonely gentlemen that had fat purses ripped for the taking. During her time in the city she took on a different alias and met an assassin for hire named Dorian; he was neither lonely nor wealthy, but the two’s ambitious nature and dangerous lifestyle attracted one another like months to a flame. The two of them schemed and cheated the wealthy out of their shiny coins amassing a growing fortune. Even though, Brand’s teaching were at Lysandra’s core values so she always gave and helped the less fortunate- it didn’t mean, however, she too couldn’t enjoy the spoils of her work. A year later fancy dresses, handmaids ready at her every call, a wealthy house in the upper class ring of the city and a line of suitors from her door all the way down the street. The name Olivia Reed quickly became a well known-name like her father’s and some of her orphan sibling, but for entirely different reasons. While Dorian remain a shadow in the background enjoying the spoils and doing the shady work. The two had a secret affair behind closed door and Lysandra dared to hope it was love. Of course she was mistaken. The wealthy and rich finally caught on to Olivia’s little ploy and when the law came crashing through the door, Dorian betrayed her with a knife in her midsection and disappeared into the night with his share of the fortuned they had amassed. Heart-broken and wounded Lysandra was able to escape the capital and the guards. Her alias was compromised, the name Olivia Reed forever slandered in the book of history and she would need to go into hiding while she came up with a new name. But at least she had a sack filled to the brim with money, who said hiding couldn’t be a luxurious endeavor… Six months later Lysandra caught wind of the news. The only person that had ever truly accepted her and taken her in as his own was dead.

Psychological Profile:

Lysandra has always dreamed of being part of high society and wealthy individuals, to live the luxurious life – what girl born of nothing doesn’t dream of that. However, the real Lysandra is something altogether different. She hides behind the sarcasm and fake smiles, her ambitions and fantasy dreams, she is the girl that never was able to escape that church. She is Noemi, the girl behind the woman. The girl that only wants to belong to a family, that wants to feel wanted. And she found that under Brand and the orphans. They are the only ones that have seen and know the real her and that’s why they all hold a dear place in her heart and she would fight and protect them with her life. Despite her ambitious nature for wealth, she has never forgotten what Brand taught her and she holds those values and teachings sacred. Lysandra is whoever you want her to be at the time. She's moldable, adaptable. Skilled and deadly at times but also loving and understanding with those that she allows to be close enough with (a very small few).

Equipment: (I’m assuming this is just battle equipment)

• Twin rope darts: Her primary weapon, a pair of small knives attached to thin reinforced ropes. The ropes are attached to a pair of bracers.

Roped Darts

• Two daggers for close quarter fighting. • An array of throwing knives. • A belt containing several pouches holding more knives or other small weapons that may come useful.

[ibyaah]

Quinn

Name: Quinn Age: 27 Gender: Male Species: Elf Physical Description:

Quinn stands at a lanky five feet, seven inches with a toned, athletic build. He has black close cropped hair and brown almond shaped eyes, accompanied by a sharp jaw line ending in a pointed, hairless chin. For clothing, he has two outfits: a travel and casual setup. For travel, Quinn dons a dark green, hooded cloak over a charcoal surcoat (usually with hood pulled forward to cover the distinctive pointed ears) grey short sleeved shirt, and black slacks. The cloak has various slits cut into the fabric that allows his weapon harness to be strapped on. Casually, he wears a light blue tunic and black slacks. At all times the elf wears brown soft boots and leather fingerless gauntlets. When combat is assured, Quinn dons a metal breastplate or chainmail when available.

Skillset:

Brand of the Nightwood instilled in Quinn an innate will to live. This shows in the ranger's tactics and selection of clothing. The elf's style of close combat is at all times a combination of human adaptation and elven tradition: engaging the enemy with unflappable poise and surprising improvisation. From Brand, Quinn learned the skills necessary to move quietly, track and hunt his quarry, as well as adjust to whatever situation he found himself in. He is an impressive shot, skill born from constant drilling under Brand's tutelage. Additionally, whenever Quinn found himself on the receiving end of a crowd, a quick tune on the panpipe usually appeases long enough for professional help to arrive. While not particularly experienced in magic, the young elf has received rudimentary training in the art. He can reliably perform some basic cantrips though it would be years before any real skill manifested.

History:

Quinn's birth to elven parents was marred by their farm's destruction by marauders. In desperation, the dying father left his infant son as well as his family's weapon on the borders of Bosfyrd, in the hopes of a better life. Brand of the Nightwood took the child in and named him in the manner of men. Without that initial aid and care, Quinn would have surely perished due to exposure or worse still. What followed were years of training and growing within Bosfyrd's borders. Brand taught the young elf how to survive, how to defend himself from dangers, and finally how to appreciate what life had to offer. The elf grew to know, love, and rely on his adoptive father and fellow orphans, knowing only that his elven heritage had to be explained at some point. Throughout those years the orphan would ask about his heritage and parents, each time the question gently pushed aside by the woodsman until the age of fifteen. There, while constructing his composite bow, Brand revealed the circumstances of their meeting. Now armed with the knowledge of what happened Quinn understood why he was being trained. It wasn't for revenge; it was so that he wouldn't share the same fate. He spent the next five years completing his training under Brand and eventually became a hunter and protector of Bosfyrd in his own right. Son and adoptive father frequently went on rangings into the wild, most frequently returning with food but other times with an odd story or two. At the age of twenty-two, Quinn decided it was time to finally see the world find his people. So he took his gear and his leave of Brand and struck out on the road. Before leaving however the grizzled woodsman made one more revelation to his son. A small note, written by Quinn's mother, hidden from the young elf at the parent's letter's request, showed the location of their next of kin. The note went on, instructing Quinn to see and go to his relatives only when he was ready and grown. Quinn spent five years on the road and with his biological aunt and uncle, Wen and Dirin. There in the elven village of Orayn he was able to reconcile his lost roots. He learned a variety of instruments, was taught the very basic first steps of weaving natural magic together into spells, further honed his hunting and combat skills, and eventually settled into the profession he was most suited for: ranger, protector, and woodsman. It was a second home, learning about the elven people, culture, and customs was a welcome respite from the nagging thought of being without a past. While there, news spread of the Baron's Revolt, though the war thankfully didn't. Quinn remained close the village during this time, more than aware that war breeds an increase in bandit attacks. After the Revolt ended, word reached him detailing Brand's last defense. Out of duty and more importantly out of love for the man who raised him as his own, Quinn resigned his position as one of Orayn's rangers and made arrangements to return to Bosfyrd. Questions needed to be answered and the other orphans still at Brand's home needed watching over. As he left for home, the elf wondered inwardly if his brothers and sisters would also return.

Psychological Profile:

Quinn's mindset is all about the path of least resistance. This shouldn't be taken as laziness, though. This elf is all about efficiency rather than aestheticism. Perhaps it was Brand's influence early on as Quinn has made it a personal value to always carry himself not just with poise and honor but also with professionalism that belies his trade. When faced with a new problem, he can deduce the correct action but also takes the time to determine alternate routes to victory. Overall, Quinn has a very pleasant and friendly personality, again against the grain of the grizzled ranger stereotype he has found himself grown into. Why appear aloof when you can let others offer their services and save yourself the trouble? These values he gained by learning from Brand and he emulates that giving nature every day. With that being said, by elf standards, Quinn is still a child though his demeanor and experiences might suggest otherwise.

Equipment:

• Shortbow - To better hunt and survive in the wild, Quinn opted for a smaller ranged weapon. Its range and penetrative properties might not be a match for a longbow but its versatility and practicality compensate twice over. It's construction is composite, using yew wood laminated to animal bone.
• Elven Curve Blade "Reaver"- The very same weapon the infant Quinn had in his possession upon being delivered to Brand. To this day, the nimble archer regards it as a family heirloom. When pressed into close quarters Quinn makes use of the two handed weapon's reach, as well as the fluid motions and footwork required to wield it, to his advantage. As a result, the elf looks as if he's dancing, raining blows on the opponent from as many directions as possible.
• Weapon Harness/Quiver, Belt and Pouches - A leather and metal contraption fashioned by Quinn with Brand's help. It is an all in one style setup that allows the archer to retrieve arrows from the quiver extending from his right shoulder and draw the Curve Blade from his left shoulder. A wide strap that crosses his chest from left shoulder to right hip contains various pouches that hold other items. Finally, a belt across Quinn's waist carries a small paring knife for cleaning kills and additional pouches for storage. Two buckles fastens the Harness together, one for keeping the weapon sheathes attached and one more for allowing the quiver to be detached separately.
• Flint and Steel - Kept dry and safe in one of the Harness' pouches.
• Hempen Rope - Fifty feet coiled tightly and stored with Quinn's blanket.
• Whetstone - Kept dry and safe in one of the Harness' pouches.
• Blanket - A thick wool variant for use during the winter usually rolled up and strapped to the Harness when Quinn is on the road.
• Waterskin - Capped via a cork and held aloft using a leather strap over Quinn's right shoulder.
• Panpipe - Wind instrument, carried in a pouch on Quinn's belt. Useful for passing the time or entertaining guests.

[Whiskey Business]

Name: Borzgo & Tohi Age: 25/90 Gender: Both Male Species: Borzgo is recognized as a Guar'khan'i, a high caste of bearmen in the social hierarchy of animal races. Tohi claims his tribe of war tortoisans, the Trusted Shield, are unrecognized dignitaries of the manbeastial food chain. In truth, the Trusted Shield's genealogy is not well documented - some even theorize that they are an off shoot of the more densely populated Lizard clans of the east.

Physical Description:

Borzgo

The prime Guar'khan'i is a sight to behold. Borzgo towers at nearly 8ft tall when standing on his hind legs, and a little over 5ft when moving on all fours. His matted fur is colored in light oaky tones, frilled with dark ends that cover the entire musculature of his bulky frame. If skinned, a tapestry of healed wounds blanket his naked hide like an overused sword training dummy - some run deep enough to alter the growth patterns of his fur. The irk steel of his heavy armor does well to conceal such unsightly blemishes, and durable enough to prevent new ones. His armor's dark gun metal shine has etchings of master craftsmanship. The Sun spirit, Kumastafaro, is displayed through a series of intricate patterns finely smithed on every piece of armor.

Tohi

At nearly five feet tall, Tohi considers himself to be the finest specimen of war tortoisans. Much like Borzgo, he is at the prime stage of his life span. The jagged carapaces overgrowing his backside, and the bone platings that protect his chest and joints keep him well guarded. As a defense mechanism, Tohi can curl inside his shell and extend some of its outer platings into spike-like protrusions What his natural plates of armor don't cover are swathed in a callous-like hide, functioning as a protective layer against the environments. He wears a light blue cleric's battle robe that comes with bronze metaled shoulder pads and knee guards. The azure gemstone fastened around his neck is supposedly a symbolic heirloom from the Truth Shield dynasty.

Skillset:

Though both were natural survivalists in the wild, Brand of the Nightwood accelerated their instinctual gifts to hunt and track using their unique genetic traits as guar'khan'i (acute sense of smell and hearing) and tortoisan (patience and swimming/diving underwater). Brand was the one who put weapons in their hands, trained them to fight in close quarters and learn how to fight as one.

Borzgo:

• Smithing: Time and resources permitted, Borzgo's craftsmanship is that of a seasoned smith. Despite his large paws, the bearman can etch fine intricacies with a consistent touch. His specialty lies more in repair - especially armor.
• Tradesman: More self-proclaimed than referred to as, Borzgo's wares accommodate farmers, shopkeepers and soldiers alike. His inventory is kept stowed on board his traveling caravan. It is carefully monitored - especially from the likes of Tohi.
• Springing Traps: Where Tohi is known to make traps, Borzgo is well accustomed to springing them. This skill is often sought after in manbeastial communities that are constantly being hunted.

Tohi:

• Fisherman: One thing Borzgo will admit is that Tohi is indeed a master fisherman. The rarest of games are never out of his reach. Tohi prefers to spearfish, but he is also well-versed in netting, and poles with lures. A hefty bag of coin is almost always guaranteed when he sells his rarer efforts at the local market.
• Trap setting: Primarily for hunting animals that roam land, air or sea - there is no terrain that can get past Tohi's creative ways for trapping things. Tohi and Borzgo often brainstorm creative methods to innovate traps, especially non-lethal ones, but it is almost always the tortoisan's ideas that stick the most.
• Gift of Gab: Though tortoisan's are stereotyped as slow-witted, Tohi is anything but. While Borzgo is the tradesman, it goes without saying that Tohi is usually the one that negotiates the deals to perfection. While verbosity tickles his carapaces, he knows when to keep things simple - reading and understanding people is a favorite past time of his. Tohi also has a great story telling voice, and is always favored in taverns and caravan stops to share his most riveting tales.
• Cook: Specializes in seafood and herbivore-esque dishes. Is a spice maniac and has been known to drive away customers because of this.

History:

The path was originally set for Borzgo and Tohi to collide in brutal combat. Pitted as arena fighters for a ramshackled profiteer, they were trained, no, forced to be killers of sport and entertainment. The cage masters did their best to try and strip whatever dignity they could, but the two were too stubborn to let these humans revert them back to baser wildlings. In between travels and contests, the two separately educated themselves with the ever-changing world around them. Out of the traveling zoo, they were the only ones among the brutes and beasts that cared for discussion. Therefore, whenever their cages were paired next to each other, the two did best to converse as much as possible. They taught one another common tongue and their native language, and always tried to outdo each other with grand tales of their ancestors. In those precious few moments they forgot that they were imprisoned, forced to play a part in a world that wanted to see them murder each other for amusement. One late winter night in Bosyfrd changed all of that. The two manbeasts were scheduled to duel in a bordertown in Vendland the following day. Ominous as the hour was, the two continued to talk as they normally did. Perhaps they came to terms with their fate, deciding to make best of what little time they had left. A cage master slammed his cudgel against Tohi's cage, cursing for their silence. Borzgo growled, grabbing the attention of the other cage masters. Their foul breath wreaked of honey wine, and their eyes demanded violence. Cudgels banged both of their cages, then quiet chaos erupted. Stifled groans of men choking on their own blood was dulled by the icy winds. Before they knew it their cages were unlocked. Borzgo and Tohi immediately broke free. The man that stood before them was none other than Brand of the Nightwood, the one they would owe everything to in the years to come. Borzgo and Tohi fled into the night with their liberator. Their upbringing wass no less different than the many orphans Brand raised. Never once did they feel manipulated, or coerced to adopt some cultish lifestyle. How cruel must a world be for a selfless man to be deemed an oddity for wanting to help someone other than himself? Cruel indeed, for its menace would strike even the most noblest of hearts. When word reached them of Brand's death, the two were grief-stricken for not being there in his time of need. In that moment, the world travelers traded in their jollies and unsheathed vengeful hearts, vowing justice for the only man they ever respected - the one they called their father. Brand of the Nightwood would be avenged, so swears the noble tongues of Borzgo and Tohi. Psychological Profile:

Borzgo and Tohi perceive the world as their play place. They are ruled only by their ambition, for kings and lords whom do not share their blood are mere statues of law and nothing more. Borzgo is insightful, mild-mannered and very easy going. He understands his identity, the power behind it, and does all he can to reassure everyone around him that he is not some feral beast. Tohi on the other hand could care less about any man's prejudices. He treads proudly along the enriched path toward success, coveting his friendship with Borzgo while living life without restraint. Though the two have a tendency of exercising their freedoms carelessly, their training, life experiences, and tactfulness keeps them from getting put behind bars, again. For the most part.

Equipment:

• Caravan: From a distance, its scale may seem normal, but this handcrafted cart is in fact large enough to accomodate space for both Borzgo and Tohi. The double doors are wide enough for Borzgo to enter on his hind legs. The cart itself can collapse or break out into several different pieces, perfect for when the two set up shop at towns or festivals. The smith occupies most of the rear space where Borzgo's personal quarters are located. The mini fish market section is well insulated and can disconnect from the caravan as an eatery. The amount of weight this caravan has can only be pulled by a pair of Mountain Ox.

Borzgo's Personal Equipment:

• Weapons: Longaxe, Claymore, and Broadsword.
• Smithing Tools & Various Ores/Metals
• Kumastafaro Heavy Armor
• Caravan Repair Tools & Accessories
• Travel Pack
• Map & Compass

Tohi's Personal Equipment:

• Weapons: A Retractable Spear, an Elder Truth Shield, an Elder Truth Mace, Small Daggers (usually kept inside his shell), and a Crossbow.
• Traveler's Journal: Full compendium of Borzgo and Tohi's adventures. Included are lists of acquaintances, friends, and enemies.
• Fishing Equipment
• Traveling Pack
• Cooking Utensils/Ingredients/Recipes

[HeySeuss]

Masef

Name: Masef Age: 22 Gender: Male Species: Human with a questionable ancestry. Physical Description:

Swarthy, aquiline featured and with dark, curling hair, Masef has always been possessed of a certain grace in form that took him from wiry and skinny as an adolescent into a flowing grace reminiscent of the elves. When he was a boy, he was pale of skin, but it grows darker with age. His eyes are similarly dark, but seem to be turning into a more amber color of late. In Vendish fashion, the land he grew up in, he goes clean shaven with hair tied back, and has turned the heads of more than a few in that country of light skinned people with his exotic look. His clothing reflects his most recent travels; a sand colored cloak with a deep hood that helps reflect sunlight back over a much-scuffed breastplate of lamellar scale. He now wears a bronze ring through his ear, signalling that he belongs to the Masad tribe of the Ibir.

Skillset:

Masef was trained by Brand of the Nightwood, one of his youngest, and so he learned the Vendish methods of using a longbow, though Sigur and Quinn are undoubtedly his superiors with those weapons -- and he took training from them as well, as they were older than he. He also was taught the lore of the ranger, at least in the Nightwood and surrounding terrains that enabled him, later on, to adapt to survival in the Tahzad desert and surrounding canyons and river valleys. He adapted. In combat, he favors ranged fighting, but if forced to close combat, he relies on a hatchet or a large knife, rather than a sword or something of that nature, preferring the practicality of a tool that can also be a weapon. He's also learned to touch the edges of a magical talent, though its development has come with a price. While it matters little in the rich green Vendish lands, he has become adept at finding water where it is hard to find such. His thirst for lore remains as ever, and he is versed in the knowledge of things. His favorite part of being a ranger was learning.

History:

Masef wasn't even a toddler when his parents were killed in an ambush on their caravan upon the Pilgrim Road leading into Vendland, near enough the Nightwood that Brand found the survivors, including his dying mother and the baby she'd given her life to shield. She breathed his first name, nothing more, and expired. Brand, not being hard-hearted enough to leave a boy to fend brought him back to his other adopted children to take care of while he tracked the bandits to their lair and rooted them out root and stem. As one of the youngest of the brood, Masef was also the one that would follow a sound into the wilderness, climb a tree just for the challenge and find his way into trouble in Bosfyrd with the village girls. Things seemed to whisper to him, even in the wild, though it might be a voice embedded in the wind or the way some rocks were aligned. He always found particular interests in some of the ancient ruins of the Nightwood, often spending time exploring them even though others had looted their treasures in long past days. As he grew older, there seemed to be the hint of powers and abilities neither he nor his adoptive father could fathom, and that was what led him away from Brand. He bid a fond farewell with a promise to return and see him again, and then headed down the Pilgrim road that took the life of his parents. He followed the trail, using an amulet of his father's, all the way into the Tahzad desert, where he quickly acquired the language and learned the fundamentals of survival in the deserts and hills, plateaus and valleys, of that arid region, particularly around Daramalsh, the Great Whore. Working from that infamous city, he managed to glean a little about his father's ancestry; he was originally a member of the Masad clan of the Ibir tribes that set out as an adventurer and a merchant, afflicted with a wanderlust. When he located his father's clan, to their great surprise, and related his story to the. They held a great celebration and hosted him for a few years as he familiarized himself with his ancestral desert home and took work that kept him afloat; eschewing mercenary work, he preferred to scout and survey, work with treasure hunters and academics looking to explore the ruins in the region -- a passion inherited from his days in the Nightwood. Of his mother, they could say little -- they knew her not, or that Jalal had married. One such expedition took him into the depths of the ancient city of Mari, into a crypt none had found before. There, bathed in a fey light, he found more answers to disturb him, such as an ancestor by the name of Qazar the Cruel, the Warlock King of Mari, and the reason the Ibir were nomads (after their city was destroyed, and Qazar with it) that had been waiting for centuries for a suitable vessel to pass by that he might possess and live again. For reasons unknown to him, though Qazar's spirit claims its because he's a 'half-breed', he was not fully possessed by Qazar, but instead wrestles with the intruding consciousness within his skull, vacillating between his hunger for knowledge (including magical power) and caution against Qazar's power-mad ambitions. Then, one day, he felt an overwhelming compulsion to return to the Nightwood; no news reached him where he was, but he bid the Ibir adieu and set north to see his adoptive father and beloved mentor. He heard the news further up the Pilgrim road, and that only hastened his step; he bought and sold horses along the way so that he could fly up the road more rapidly, exhausting the modest income he'd built up. Some things were more important than money.

Psychological Profile:

Masef seems like an easy going, rougish sort, but he lives by a strong code of ethics imparted by Brand -- he might have grown into selfishness left to his own devices, but has always been surrounded by family of one sort or another. His siblings under Brand's wing as well as the Masad. Sometimes, it translates into an 'us versus them' mentality with Masef, but he generally is a man that will not harm innocents and noncombatants, even if there is some profit to it. He was raised better than that. Some of Brand is in him in that he cannot help but lend a hand to someone in a plight. Masef has learned that once he gives a promise, he is compelled to keep it -- that's how he wound up on the road North before the news even reached him that Brand died. As best as he can reckon it, he was compelled north the day Brand died. It's happened before, but never quite like that, and he still isn't sure what it means. In any case, he is learning to be wary of promises, though the promise to see Brand again apparently is now a promise to see Brand honored properly. Masef is naturally inclined to be a talker, an amiable companion and a man that enjoys good company and a story, but his ancestor, Qazar the Cruel, is different and sometimes that bleeds out -- he finds himself impatient when he would be more tolerant than before, and sometimes, when engaged in 'frivolity' starts tapping his fingers or toes in irritation. Inside his skull, there is a war on for control, and he's learned the hard way that taking the offered magic means letting more of Qazar in -- right now, he has a few minor spells at his command, and that already has Qazar doing more of the talking. Masef doesn't want to go there...except, well, he owes Brand much and he knows his siblings. There is no doubt he is riding into war, and with the knowledge and powers of a great and fell Warlock riding along with him. He understands, from Brand's strong imparted morals, that a ranger is a guardian, and his burden as a guardian is to ensure that Qazar the Cruel does not dominate again. The problem is, however, that Qazar is tempting. Both Masef and Qazar are fans of knowledge and lore, it's one of the areas where they are in complete agreement, though Masef worries that the Warlock's spirit might try to use the gained knowledge to further the goal of usurping Masef.

Equipment:

• A longbow, carved from Vendish yew and maintained. Masef isn't the strongest archer, but he's damned precise. His arrows are a mix.
• A hatchet, though wickedly curved and with a counter-weighted spike on the back of it that has many uses against armor.
• A kindjal, long and nasty. Damascened steel.
• His skinning knife.
• A poinard, which is good for getting in between the cracks of armor.
• Pouches, belts and sash overlaying it, all containing many different essentials of survival. Notably, waterskins, though he's less worried about them as the lands get greener. He also carries various spell components and things that seem of mystic significance.
• His armor; lamellar acquired in the desert lands.
• Cloak and clothing -- he has not gotten anything in more locally-appropriate coloring, though tan tends to blend well in a variety of environments.
• Horses; a couple of them, he rides them in shift. These were acquired nearer to Bosfyrd than not, as he's bought and sold (at a loss) all the way up the road trying to make record time without killing the animals.
• His father's amulet, as well as a bronze ring through the ear to symbolize his membership in his father's clan.

[Dylan]

Name:Mozan of the Nightwood, formerly Zeldryn Zyrathian the 4th Age: 24 Gender: Male Species: Human Physical Description:

Mozan is a tall, lean, and handsome gentleman who stands at 6”2 and weighs one hundred and eighty three pounds. His hair is dirty blonde, but predominantly a light brown; though if one pays close enough attention, they will notice the underlying streaks of blonde complimenting the darker hue. Forementioned hair is usually kept short and utilitarian; short on the sides and back, and a bit longer on the top of his head leading down to short bangs framing the top of his forehead. He’s often clean shaven, and his eyes are a deep and rich emerald with brighter shaded spots of green encircling his pupils. When he walks by, he carries himself with authority with a wisp of a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye, as if he knows a secret but just won’t tell.

Considering the fact that he is a ranger and rogue by profession, he looks a bit wirey and skinny. However, he is in peak physical condition and is rippling with clearly defined muscle. A plethora of small knicks and scratches have left him with small marks along his forearms and legs, but he has a few scars which are clearly distinguished against his light-colored flesh. One is a two inch diagonal line resting along the right side of his upper abdomen; a result of being stabbed in a drunken brawl in a tavern. Another is in the shape of large claw marks running down the right side of his back; a wound earned while attempting to stalk a group of grey wolves unsuccessfully in his youth. The last is a bumpy and ugly looking circle on the outside of his left forearm, where he was struck by a crossbow bolt.

[ Skillset:

Under the close guidance of Brand of the Nightwood, Mozan learned how to blend in with his environment, track his prey, and push his body to it’s maximum. He is a skilled hunter and fisherman, and can use his knowledge and training as a ranger to locate and utilize different species of medicinal plantlife to assist in first-aid in the event of the unforeseen. He is a gifted swordsman, often times preferring the bastard sword or dual wielding shortswords, and he holds particular talent with the kukri and dagger as well. Mozan has always held a natural athletic ability, and was always one of the more agile of his family as Brand raised them. He spent day and night honing his reflexes and reaction time, and as a result of this, his body is as quick as his mind and he can make split-second decisions in order to find the perfect opportunity to strike. In regards to ranged combat, Mozan is competent with the longbow, though he often only uses it to hunt. He holds particular talent with the light crossbow and hand crossbow, and will often find himself using these weapons when he is unable to close the gap.

[indent] Those who know Mozan know that he is never one to avoid conversation. He knows a plethora of history, stories of myth and legend, as well as a bit of scattered information about the nobility in most of the area surrounding the Nightwood. He is more diplomatic than not, and is an extremely skilled information gatherer; especially when his curiosity is motivating him to dig deeper. He is an experienced “dungeon-diver” and has an avid interest in treasure hunting, and as a result he is a particular habit of digging up old books which house valuable information on rare trinkets and the like. Mozan’s most prized of skills, however, are those which he affectionately refers to as his, “tools of the trade”. After training under Brand and Salazar, Mozan has perfected his ability to disguise himself, forge different styles of handwriting, assemble and dismantle traps, has extremely nimble fingers, can pick locks, tie intricate knots, and move extremely silently. His balance is superb, and he is as comfortable falling through the air as he is on the ground. His eyes and ears are sharp, and he is talented in regards to ambush tactics and avoiding detection. [indent] In summary, Mozan is a gifted swordsman, athletic and acrobatic, is skilled at tracking and stealth, breaking and entering, assembling and dismantling traps, gathering information and acts of diplomacy, as well as first-aid and survival as a result of his mixed training with miscellaneous veterans. He excels in single combat, but faces a challenge in groups. He isn’t much of a ranged combatant, but can surely hold his own if the situation calls for it. All in all, he is what one would expect of a rogue-ranger. History:

Twenty years ago, there once stood a town to the southeast of the Nightwood known as Silverstar. It was a small town with a population consisting mostly of dwarves and humans which was founded on the western bank of the river Thyst; a small body of water which empties into a lake after a day’s march to the southwest. Silverstar was initially settled as a result of the rich content of silver ore which was mined by the local clan of dwarves, and evolved from a small mining outpost into a sprawling village within a matter of weeks. Eventually, the silver ran dry and most of the dwarves packed their belongings and left, though some stayed behind and began to live a quiet life amongst the groups of humans which had begun to settle in Silverstar. The house Zyrathian was the preeminent family among the humans which chose to reside there, and Zeldryn Zyrathian the first went on to form a pact with the dwarves and organize a formal charter for Silverstar to be recognized as a part of Bosfyrd.

Silverstar was a quiet town. The nobility was well respected and ruled with dignity and an even hand, and the denizens of the village were happy. Two generations of the Zyrathian family were born and died peacefully within it’s borders. This peace and tranquility came to a decisive and bloody conclusion five years after Zeldryn Zyrathian the fourth was born. His father, Zeldryn the third chose to take part in the revolt against Herald by mobilizing Silverstar’s militia and leading tactical guerilla strikes against Herald’s troops. Most of those strikes were strategic victories which brought shame to Herald, and pride to the house Zyrathian. As a result, Herald eventually chose to march on the seat of Zeldryn’s power and burn it to the ground. The militia fought valiantly, but it was a hopeless effort. Before the final battle was fought, Zeldryn Zyrathian the third called upon his old friend Brand of the Nightwood for one last favor. Brand infiltrated the battlefield, retrieved the heir to house Zyrathian alongside it’s most prized possession, and quietly escaped into the Nightwood with Zeldryn the fourth in toe. Shortly after their escape, the Silverstar militia was surrounded, executed, and the peaceful little town was burned to the ground.

Zeldryn the fourth was by no means an ignorant child. Being the eldest child of house Zyrathian, he was being groomed for leadership from the very moment he could walk, talk, and be educated. The first five years of his life were spent playing with the other children, learning about his lineage, and being given a general, but extensive nobleman’s education. It was not much as a result of his age, but he was a bright child with a passion for the written word. On the evening of Silverstar’s demise, his mother introduced him to Brand, and instructed him to flee the keep alongside him. Brand was a kindly and gentle man whom comforted Zeldryn’s panic almost immediately, and the seasoned ranger protected him closely throughout their voyage. Zeldryn the fourth spent several weeks alongside Brand, and the man kept a close eye on him alongside his other children. Eventually, word reached Brand of Silverstar’s demise, and in time, he broke the news to the young Zeldryn. The child took the news horribly, as any child would. But he eventually came to realize that his home was with Brand, as well as the other children. On the dawn of his sixth birthday, Brand of the Nightwood dubbed Zeldryn Zyrathian the fourth “Mozan of the Nightwood”and began to train him as a ranger.

Mozan always took his training very seriously. Brand was a skilled educator, but that is not to say he was easy on his children by any means. Mozan’s mornings were early and his training was intense; he worked with the sword day and night, and when the sword wasn’t in his hands the bow was. Brand taught him to track and to hunt and fish, as well as the subtle art of stealth. Mozan was exceptionally gifted in this regard; Brand liked to compare his speed and dexterity to Zeldryn the third, and this always drove Mozan even harder to succeed. . When he wasn’t sparring with his siblings, he was jumping from tree to tree and swinging around on branches, or balancing on a thin branch and attempting to walk to the very edge without breaking it. He developed a strong appreciation for the beauty of nature during this portion of his life, and became exceedingly curious about the world around him. By the time his sixteenth birthday had arrived, Brand gave him his final lesson in swordsmanship before presenting him with the crown jewel of house Zyrathian; the bejewelld bastard sword known as The Vindicator. In awe of his new treasure, Mozan hastily began to admire the blade’s craftsmanship before Brand gave him a last piece of advice.

“Do not besmirch the honor of which this sword will restore.” With that said, Mozan said his goodbyes and began his journey.

Over a period of two years, Mozan wandered throughout the countryside. He took jobs as a ranger to guide common folk through dangerous terrain, as well as escorting caravans and slaying unfriendly beasts for those who could not do so themselves. He met a plethora of good people, and gained a small reputation as a respectable and noble man among the villages he frequented. Eventually, he found himself guarding a caravan en route to the capital when he met a gruff, middle aged man by the name of Salazar Venterus. He was a grimey, unsavory looking fellow with whom Mozan constantly quarreled with from the very beginning of their journey. Through Mozan’s eyes, he was dishonorable, and fought with a coward’s tactics. Eventually, the man became so enraged that he challenged Mozan to a dual; which in his youthful ignorance was rapidly accepted. The caravan came to a halt, and the duo drew their steel with an eager crowd of merchants placing bets on who would come out victorious. Unfortunately, the odds were not in Mozan’s favor. The battle was quick and humiliating. Before Mozan had time to mount a proper counter attack, Salazar had him cornered, disarmed, and seething with shame. He moved to draw another weapon, but the next thing that became rapidly apparent to the young ranger was that his vision was hazy, a throbbing pain reverberated through his skull, and Salazar was standing above him with an arrogant sneer plastered upon his grizzly visage.

Mozan was humiliated, but he apologized to the rogue Salazar for his brashness and rudeness after overcoming the worst of his shame. In return, the veteran warrior offered his abilities as a master to Mozan, and the duo began to travel together. In comparison to Brand of the Nightwood’s form of education, Salazar’s was a living hell. His days began before the sun lit the sky, and came to an end far after it had set below the horizon. They were filled with rigorous physical exercise to build speed, stamina, and perfect his balance, as well as brutal hand-to-hand combat training and swordsmanship drills with blunted blades. When he wasn’t strengthening his body, he was molding his mind. Salazar assembled and destroyed a large variety of traps before his eager gaze, then tested him in their construction and identifying characteristics. They eventually moved on to training Mozan’s body into moving more silently and smoothely, as well as the finer arts of lockpicking, safecracking, and breaking and entering. After six months of harsh training and lengthy travel around the major metropolitan areas surrounding the Nightwood, Salazar had nothing left for Mozan to learn. Rather than part ways, Mozan began to work alongside his master, taking odd-jobs for those who had the coin to offer. Jobs ranged from stealing the signit ring of a particularly corrupt nobleman to stalking groups of bandits and mapping their travel for local law enforcement. They kept up this pattern over the next two and a half years, counting their coins and doing the best which they could for those without the power to do so themselves. Like most good times, this period in Mozan’s life came to a decisive and bloody conclusion without preamble.

Salazar eventually led Mozan to the high city of Apaxya; a sprawling metropolis located in the mountain range to the Northeast of The Nightwood. The high walls of the snowy city were filled to the brim with Herald’s men, and little did they realize, an intricate web of informants and rogues were planning the heist to end all heists. Mozan came to discover a guild of thieves within the walls of Apaxya, and their goal was to steal the lord’s journal and ledger; two documents which were sure to be filled with incriminating information which could fetch quite the ransom from the right buyer. The plan was immaculate, and after several weeks of surveillance and working informants for the right knowledge, the operation was ready to be implemented. Salazar and Mozan infiltrated the lord’s castle carefully and slowly in order to avoid arousing suspicion, but an unexpected variable rapidly made itself apparent. A raging blizzard began to batter the mountain city with it’s icy fists, and the duo was forced to enter the manor through a potentially unsafe passage. They took the risk, and paid the price. As soon as they entered, they were ambushed by the Lord’s personal militia; a highly skilled group of men and women with deadly skills and brutal efficiency. The rogues didn’t leave without a fight; they bloodied their noses and broke their knees, but in the end the operation was forced to be declared unsuccessful after they fled for their lives. Days later, the Thieves’ Guild was frantically trying to cover their tracks, only to discover that there was a mole among their ranks. Mozan entered one of their safehouses within the city a tenday after the failed heist; only to discover that the officers in which he was supposed to meet were ruthlessly slaughtered, and Salazar was standing over their corpses with a blade sheathed in crimson. He confessed to his apprentice that it was he who was feeding the militia information on the Guild’s efforts, and when confronted about the lack of honor in that decision, he simply responded to Mozan that they were the group which offered him the most coin. Enraged and filled with despair at the revelation and the loss of his comrades, Mozan drew Vindicator with a roar and engaged his master in pitch combat. Both men landed blow after blow, but in the end it was the student who became the master. The last thing the ranger can remember of Apaxya before his expedient departure was the way Salazar wore his grin, even in death.

The next three years were mostly spent wandering amongst the lands, sampling different alcohols, exchanging stories with strangers, and tracking down different pieces of literature which Mozan wished to research. He ventured from the mountains in the north down into the deserts of the south and everywhere in between. It was in this period of time when Mozan became extremely interested in hunting for treasure, and began to explore long-abandoned ruins in search of clues pointing him toward a new discovery. He never found anything that was extremely noteworthy; a few dated dwarven tools here, an antique chest or piece of furniture there, but he always enjoyed himself and expanded his knowledge from that which it was before his journey began. It was on a journey from the south toward the remains of Silverstar where the news of Brand’s death reached Mozan. He quickly abandoned all plans of exploring his home, and made haste back toward the Nightwood to discover what became of his step-father. Upon learning the cause of his death, Mozan swore that Herald’s reign of terror was to come to an end. By his own hands.

Psychological Profile:

(I had a bit of trouble with this part. Though I feel his personality can be interpreted from this, as well as the explanations I’ve given throughout the CS.)

On first impression, Mozan appears as though he’s an arrogant and condescending man with no patience for foolishness. Though as one gets to know him better, it becomes readily apparent that it is simply difficult to tell when he is being serious in comparison to when he is being sarcastic. He has a strong appreciation for history and literature, and as a result he tends to speak with a more elevated vocabulary in a more lofty way. He is what one would wish to have in a travelling companion; he’s talkative, always has an interesting story to tell, and generally very jovial and friendly. He’s intelligent, rather modest, and usually playful with those he calls friend. As a result of his upbringing under Brand of the Nightwood, Mozan has always been a gentle and kind soul. He will not hesitate to help those who are in need, and his motivation and drive tend to inspire those who walk alongside him. That being said, Mozan has a darker side as well. His birthright, his home, his nobility.. All were ripped away from him without warning for what Mozan perceives as an unjust reason. His soul burns with the fire of the vengeance he wishes to inflict upon his enemies, and he will stop at nothing to accomplish his goals. No man, woman, or child can stop him, be them friend, foe, or family. He’s a thief, but he has honor; he only steals from those who will not miss what is taken, and can provide for themselves. Furthermore, he does not steal for selfish reasons, such as wealth or an edge over his competitors.

All in all, Mozan is a kind, philanthropic noble who holds his friends close to his heart, and will not hesitate to slaughter his enemies and achieve his goals.

Equipment

-Vindicator: The bejeweled Bastard Sword of the Zyrathian family. It’s of masterwork quality, made of dwarven steel and encrusted with a variety of jewells, as well as an elegant engraving.

-Two steel Shortswords, well maintained and well used

-Salazar’s Kukri, dubbed “Ivy” as a result of the vine-like engraving upon the blade.

-A light crossbow made of mahogany, accompanied by 15 bolts

-A dagger strapped to each boot, because you never know what to expect

-Lightly used Studded Leather armor, well maintained and ready for combat in an instant

-Clothing/Cloak, four different outfits neatly rolled up and arranged by quality and color

-Handmade leather adventuring bag, made with the assistance of Brand in his childhood

-50 ft. roll of hempen rope

-Flint and steal

-masterwork thieve’s tools, plus scattered picking equipment hidden in miscellaneous pouches in his leathers for emergencies.

-pouches and belts for additional storage

-A ring inscribed with the crest of House Zyrathian

-A small roll of different colors of make-up for disguise purposes

-A handheld mirror

-A bundle of maps, fastened together with a piece of leather

-Waterskin

-coil of 50 ft. of thin wire used for creating traps.

-Leather Garrote

[Deja]

Kazahk Es'Cur

Name: Kazahk Es'Cur Age: 29 Gender: Male Species: Dark Elf/ Drow Physical Description:

Basically this, but Drow'd out

Kazahk is an admirable Drow specimen, save for the fact his journeys are written on his body, and his character shows through his scars as well. Black markings linger on lithe limbs and exposed skin in intricate patterns, some intentional and others incriminating, crisscrossed with puckered scars that linger much like their memories. His dark gray skin provides a stark contrast for his bleached hair, so there is no mistaking his ancestry. He keeps his shoulder length hair tied into a knot behind his head with a bone or such to secure it, beads and braids dangling from the mess. His face is marred with habitual scruff and a noticeable nic of a scar on his upper lip, giving his stern and gaunt cheeks a sinister look. This is exaggerated by dark bags under his eyes that seem very furtive with light blue pupils, and the shiny silver incisor that lies in his grin. He sits comfortable above most Men, but Elvish company looks him in the eye. He is rather brawny for his kind, having taken up the weapons and tactics(not to mention habits) of the stout men of the north.

Skillset:

Surprisingly, the Drow indoctrination has stuck with Kazahk well into his later years, and therefore shrewd tactical and diplomatic skills come naturally to him, along with many written languages(a few which he speaks), lower maths, and basic proficiency with most martial weapons, and many ranged ones. His time in Nightwood taught him basic survivalism along with tracking and sneaking, though archery, herbalism, botany, and craftsmanship were lost upon the boy. His travels northward refined his kleptomania and taught him merchant ways of haggling and economics, which he took a keen interest in and considers himself more than proficient in those arts. Suffering though imprisonment and the land of the north has given him an unusual knack for endurance also, along with a favoring toward the more brawn based combat of axes spears and heavy armor. If there is one combat skill he excels at, it is unarmed, hand-to-hand combat due to the many instances in his life that have trained and forced him to rely on his bare hands. Martial arts come naturally to him; his brawn, stature, and endurance make him a vicious fighter if forced, and Brand's teachings of agility and swiftness magnify this. All together this dark elf is a tough survivor that can handle many situations.

History:

Kazahk was born into a warrior caste of Drow that instilled strict and militaristic doctrine into their youth, and served a monarchy faithfully. His earliest memories are of martial training and mental exercises that were intended to mold him into a contributing dark elf. Success was rewarded handsomely, failure punished severely. It is here that Kazahk's nature was inflicted, and festered like a malicious wound. He struck out against his fellow students, unsubordinated his teachers, deceived his friends, and learned that there is more than one way to beat a system. After a nasty incident of kleptomania left him to be removed of the ownership of his hand, he decided to leave his only place in the world up to that point. At only seven he ran away into the surface world, descending the foothills of a mountain and into the plains of a land that was foreign to him. He wandered for days, weeks perhaps, using those principles instilled into him to eek out something that wasn't death but was not much of a life. When he came down a path and to a forest, he sought shelter. This was Nightwood, and as the Drow runaway would find out, Brand called this place home with his adopted family. Kazahk was desperate, but not rash. No, he could not be rash though the lesson the rod taught him. He discovered the home, the camps, the family of Brand and for a short time made due on discarded scraps, and even stole outright rarely. Brand nearly ran him through when he was finally discovered rummaging through a sack at a camp he thought abandoned. Brand saw the desperation and abuse in Kazahk however and brought him under his wing, showing him how to utilize his former doctrines to his advantage, and to adopt new ones to learn the wilds and forestry. Old habits die hard however, and Kazahk never did take all the old man's mannerisms to heart. It was just enough to keep him together, but never enough to make it work. His years with his new family were filled with good memories, but unhealthy envy would grow in the young drow's heart. While he made mischief in the neighboring villages, his younger siblings like Masef and Quinn took Brand's lessons far better then he did. He picked on that young elf, prying and using bully tactics that had been used on himself in the Drow underworld to try and find out what the High Elf knew, but alas, Quinn was just as much a orphan as Kazahk. As his stay neared it's end, the red haired sister of his wished to change her name, to which Kazahk offered a simple human pseudonym of Olivia. Being a drow, he valued what little anonymity he could find, but the girl refused, instead adopting Lysandra as her new name. She was one of the siblings that Kazahk's abrasiveness attitude did not seem to bother, perhaps for her young curiosity of his unique heritage. In his later years, he would often wonder how things would have been different between them if he had not been so set in his ways. Resentment steadily grew until he bickered with his fellows, rebelled against his adopted father, and sought freedom just like he had to begin with. He was one of the older orphans in the group at that time, and that status inflated his importance. He mistook Brand of the Nightwood's teaching and learning for the brainwashing of his Drow home. Soon careless words were said, filled with hate. A stepbrother rose up in defense(NPC: Tagersson), a fight ensued. Blood was shed, life was lost, and Kazahk fled at the age of seventeen. The last dozen years have been a blur to the dark elf. He has experienced pain and pleasure on the flood plains to the east, were the succulent Vogg river makes the soil dark and the people fat. Kazahk journeyed north to find out about Tagerdson, but only found the gallows and gulags of the icy plateau of Jirokain, where the northmen call home and the Jarl Vitek currently wishes him dead. The sickle of substance abuse found him and followed through his journey though the King’s land, the Baroness of Daggergrove and her purse funding many an evil deed. He heard rumors of a redheaded assassin at the time, but never did investigate, though he did inwardly wonder when the story mentioned a name of 'Olivia', and Lysandra quickly came to his mind. He nurtured friends and relationships when his pockets grew fat on caravans from the sands of Err as he took wares to trade, he was certain Masef would find his way into the sands and attempted to track him down, but quickly regressed when he thought about the contempt that his family members must harbor for him. He knew fear and despair has sickness took hold of him and those around him before he fled the coastal metropolis of Rostas Blut. He has grown hard and callous due to his travels, but yearns for those simple times he had at Nightwood. When Kazahk heard of the only farther he had known had died under cruel hands, he immediately sought for vengeance, but the soft words of the late man spoke to him, reminding him that first he must see to burial before a warpath was to begin. He wishes to make amends for the blood spilt and the ideals he did not honor for much of his life, and that is why he returns.

Psychological Profile:

Kazahk is a very defiant and rebellious figure, stubborn and headstrong with a furtive glare and a stern demeanor. Many of those qualities are cultivated and preferred in men of rank, to be decisive and blunt, strong in character and voice, and to be eager and efficient in their decision making. These are all characteristics that he has, but greed, jealousy, pride, and hatred have seeped into his moral fiber to taint and cloud his judgment if the narcotics and women do not. He is one to hold a grudge, and to seek out and eye for an eye, if not more. If it is worth doing, it is worth doing right. His Drow sense of pride does not allow for laziness or half-hearted promises or works, and therefore he may not be an elf of high moral ground, he does not shy away from good deeds. There is a habitual bitterness that is prone to come to his demeanor, but his irate behavior stems directly to his environment and circumstance in life. For instance, he is a merry and generous fellow when coin and good health favor him, but shackled to an oar or on the run for murder you will find a cantankerous and deceiving individual. He does wish to better himself, knowing that all his negative aspects can be humbled and improved upon. He does not wish to permeate the toxic Drow upbringing he had, and refuses to allow to be stereotyped by his race. He knows there is good and an admirable way to live in this world, because for a short time he lived and experienced under the wing of Brand and his adopted kin. Deep under his habits and callous ways he strives to see that way be the ruling one in this world, and perhaps even follow that way himself. However, knowing he has failed many times to uphold this ideal makes him pessimistic. This denial fuels his journey back home, and perhaps turning a new leaf for Kazahk.

Equipment:

• Short Sword,
  woo 2spooky

  
  most likely cursed if the merchant he stole it from is to be believed.
• Small Axe, usually for utilitarian purposes but can be thrown
• Large Bearded Axe, stored away unless battle is assured.
• Spear, mostly used as a walking staff or riding weapon in the saddle
• Horse, singular, that he has known for three winters now and is familiar with it's habits.
• Rucksacks, divided between a bag on his person and a larger sack stowed on his steed. His sleeproll and other such small traveling utilities are stored here.
• Drowish Crossbow, for as much as the old man's teachings went over his head, he still understands the power of a ranged weapon. a small quiver of bolts sits on his belt.
• Leather armor, layered thrice thick on his chest and likewise on his limbs, his mobility is maintained with little sleep lost on his defense.
• Steel Mail, worn under his leather, protecting most of his center mass.
• Cloak with fur lining, from his northern escapades that can take the bite out of the harshest of icy winds.

[Meth Quokka]

Varzhul

Name: Varzhul Age: 26 Gender: Male Species: Human Physical Description:

Lean, wiry and compact, Varzhul isn’t an intimidating figure to look upon as most dismiss his lighter frame and shorter stature of 5’7 as portraying a lack of strength. Upon closer examination, the tell-tale signs of a conditioned body begin to appear through subtle hints of muscular definition and an absence of fat on his frame. His hair is close cropped and brown, resembling little more than a fuzzy covering for the top of his head along rough stubble encroaching over his face. A slender, hawklike nose sits perched above a pair of thin, strip-like lips and overseen by a pair of grey, seemingly lifeless eyes. Varzhul’s body has been tempered and tarnished by a life of both violence and transience with a hint of weatherworn features and the creased outlines of scars on his body. While most are relatively minor nicks and cuts that did little more than blemish his skin, three scars stand out as indicators of significant trauma. One run diagonally across his chest, a jagged affair where an axe broke his guard, the second; a clean stab wound on the right of his lower back where a knife was plunged from a coward’s act and finally a large circular blot on his left quad where a javelin once found purchase.

Skillset:

As with any of the children raised by Brand, Varzhul is trained in woodcraft and survival; being more than adept at finding food, shelter and water along with being able use it as a refuge in times of strife. However he never embraced the use of ranged weapons, preferring the feel of a blade in his hand albeit he did relent to learning to hunt with the bow. His true specialty lay in his ambidexterity, agility and speed which he put into becoming a student of the blade. Under Brand’s tutelage and guidance, along with a strong dose of innovation, Varzhul created a fighting style with twin short swords to incorporate his strongest traits into one fighting style. Reminiscent of Elvish swordsmanship, he incorporated the grace and serenity of the elder race with the flowing movements of a duelist. It is a style developed both under and away from Brand; ever adapting and shifting, it draws inspiration from a myriad of sources encountered during his wanderings. The most notable inclusion to its roots was that of the use of a reverse grip, developed after Varzhul watched one of the warrior monks of Khartool fight off a bastard-sword wielding mercenary with naught but a dagger. Varzhul is also an experienced horseman with skills developed from spending nearly a decade in the saddle both travelling and fighting from horseback.

History:

A boy born as the bastard child of a bandit and a captive woman, who was so malnourished she perished in birth; Varzhul , named Rork by his father, was born into a life of evil and hardship. His father cared little for his offspring; were it not for the spiteful whims of the bandit chieftain he would’ve been left to the wolves by his father. Beaten and derided by his father from when he could walk, there was little kindness to be found in the camp, even from the other captured who saw him as little more than the offspring of cruelty. This upbringing nurtured only hate and anger in the boy, who began to take after his own farther and the other bandits, terrorising captives and torturing animals. He seemed destined for a life of vagrancy and banditry until the fates intervened when a company of soldiers besieged the camp. In the ensuing battle and chaos, Varzhul managed to escape the burning camp into the foreboding darkness as a lonely six year old boy. He was found fevered and famished, on the verge of slipping into death’s cold embrace when Brand found him as a grimy, malnourished boy collapsed in the woods. Despite the kindness shown by Brand and the other adopted children of Brann, hate and anger was all that had grown in his heart which tainted his actions in his first few years. He was a trouble maker and often disciplined by the older man, although the kindness of Brand’s heart eventually warmed his own; near the end of the time he could’ve been described as friendly. He was given the name Varzhul from the stitching left on the tattered clothes he’d been wearing at the time and embraced it over the tainted legacy of his birth name. Whilst being educated by Brand, he wasn’t particularly enamoured with learning to use a bow or other variation of a ranged weapon. Woodcraft and survivalism was tolerated but Varzhul left his committed and love for learning the use of a sword. He was one of the best of Brand’s pupils with a blade, albeit relatively unpopular due to his somewhat gruff and unfriendly demeanour. By the time he came of age at 16, he was still aloof but much more psychologically balanced than when he first arrived at Brand’s cabin. He set out to make his mark with basic provisions, a light coin pouch and two blades at his side. He moved from job to job, never settling over the years but always learning and experiencing the world. He found employment as many of the wandering men of violence did in the world, as a bodyguard, mercenary and caravan guard. This kaleidoscopic range of employment lead him around most of the known world, seeing exotic sights and experiencing a variety of cultures. He moved on to form a mercenary group with some of his old comrades some four years ago, finding increased success from working on his own. The company went from strength to strength, until it took a contract to fight against a foreign tyrant. The majority of the company was wiped out when they were ambushed and massacred with the rest of the rebel force which had been plagued with spies and double agents. He barely escaped from the fight with his chest split open and a knife in his back and with almost everyone he knew left dead in a field of blood. Fleeing the tyrant’s wrath he moved from town to town, eventually seeking refuge with the warrior monks of Khartool. After a few months, a message arrived for him; its contents only pain and sorrow.

Psychological Profile:

Varzhul could only be described as cold and Machiavellian; never particularly friendly or close to the vast majority of people in the world, his interaction is usually business or as required. An introverted soul, he closely manages his emotions; oftentimes appearing cold and harsh to those around him but below the layers of emotional control, the scarred remains of his abusive childhood remain. He generally tries not to provoke violence in the world, preferring to keep to himself until the situation requires he return with violence. He does however, harbour a secret desire to leave some sort of legacy in the world despite his apathetic attitude to much of it. Finally he is unafraid of manipulating or using people to achieve his ambitions, seeing most people are little more than pawns in a large game.

Equipment:

• Two steel short swords
• Light hunting bow
• A large hunting knife
• Studded leather armour
• Black travelling cloak
• Longsword kept on his horse for horseback fighting
• Large black warhorse
• Various travelling provisions

[Color_Weaver]

Countess Adelaide Seraess The Toxic Mistress, Drinker of Poison Human Female 28 Years of age Adelaide is by far not a tall woman her standing height barely reaches 5'4, her frame borders between curvy and petite. Letting the natural radiance fill once eyes to behold soft pale skin an obvious result of lacking the suns brilliance, those that have the pleasure of formally meeting the woman can attested to the silk like touch but forgot the touch by peering into emerald eyes. Gleaming in light as if they were truly gems waiting to be plucked, displaying in them both beauty hinted with a dash of malevolence. All is not in beauty, upon her left cheek is the faint appearance of a scar. Hid with copious amounts of powder along with luscious puffed crimson lips, however as much as Adelaide might try its a trace reminder of a past well hidden from the world. Countering the physical deformity on her face with clothes in which revealing would be an understatement, scantily clad is more of the appropriate choice of wording, doing so to enhance her bosoms and overall appeal. Favoring clothing in the deeper colors of red, blue and purple to help accent the dark ash hair trailing down to the bending of the knee. Ser Garmin Carvet Titan, Destroyer of Men Human Male Approx 35 (Exact age is unknown) Garmin is a giant among men in every sense and possible description of the word. Towering over other men as if they were puppets at a staggering 7'10, abnormally tall though his height is the only thing impressive about the man. Inhibited by the naked eye reveals a sculpted figure devoid of hair, the muscle though are another sight entirely as in its brilliance is stacked as granite. Unbreakable and unrelenting, though scars also protrude from the giant among men. Garmin's entire upper torso is littered with marks of past battles. Devoid of any facial hair, both his scalp and rugged face are clean shaven daily. Many claim he is a soulless creature as protruding gray eyes send chills down the most stout of people, if they can raise their heads to meet him in a gaze. Formal in Garmin mind is simple leathers with overlapping chain mail as guarding the countess seems to be his only priority. Skillset Adelaide while being a noble woman is without some skill in combat though widely detests in getting her own hands dirty. In her youth to the current circumstances remains a notable archer, unable to compare to that of the rangers but claims to be just as good if not better. It might be a blowing of smoke but nothing is taken lightly coming from this woman. This is of course if the time calls for it. If what they say about poison being a woman's weapon is true then, she considers herself a master in its use. Masking odors, delivery of the toxin and creation of possible new varieties. Seduction another one of her weapons, marketing herself to wills of men. Antagonizing, luring, coaxing them into her wants needs by simple kisses and promise of desires of the skin to thoughts of a more beastly carnal desires or simple wants of the coin. Speaking of the coins it seems to flow from her, able to squeeze two coins hard enough to birth out a third. How she does it simple, Adelaide cannot suckle the coin threw her own whiles if that doesn't work Garmin is sent. Most prefer the former. In the darkest recesses of her soul lay the worst part, a torturer. By hot brands, the rack, slow imprisonment in an iron maiden or other the vast host of other tools at her disposal no secret is safe from her. She has some skill with weapons, enough to protect herself but relies on Garmin. Garmmin is the apex warrior or as most would lay claim to. While taking a disliking to ranged weaponry, preferring to meet them up close and personal. Wielding a variety of melee weapons, but disdaining the use of pole-arms and spears but will use them if necessary. Favoring the combination of a bastard sword with a tower shield combination, having the strength to use the two handed blade with one hand giving him an increased reach of his swing. While unnatural and freakishly strong the extent of this titan's strength is undefined and hasn't put to a true test. Some claim he can pull apart a portcullis and have seen it, while others claim he can cleave a bear thick with fat in a single stroke. Again its rumors of the folk but regardless of Garmin's strength no one wants to be in the receiving end of any blow. For a man of stature he's surprisingly maneuverable. While not entirely a skill set but while clad in his heavy armor Garmin has the look of bloodied steel demon, one mention by Adelaide that a man to duel him once soiled himself before being cleaved in two. History Adelaide in her youth was the daughter of a minor retainer from across the northern seas, in fact the only child since her birth was the death of her mother. A notion her father wouldn't relent on that she killed the only love in his life, making sure to demean her about the incident without relent. Being feed dosages of a hate and false hopes, along with the occasional beatings to remind the girl she was only a means to an end to elevate his status. "A near useless piece of meat", as could be seen in Adelaide's memoirs in regards to her father. Silently suffering the maliciousness of her father, though would take to the bow at night. Filling the straw dummies heads with arrows, imagining that they were her fathers face, nothing was more satisfying than being able to see the man die. The vow made, she was going to kill him and when it would happen she prolong the pain to the point where inhumane would be child's play Blossoming into a young woman, shining with regal beauty much as her mother did before her but something her father hated. Reminding him even more of his lost wife. In a sporadic fit of rage Adelaide was forced onto the great hall's table by the guards of her father while the man proceeded to cut her cheek. Down threw the flesh as it cut her nearly to the bone of her teeth and if she wasn't to been wedded soon he'd let the guards rape her to death. Making the latter part very obvious but he needed her unspoiled as he'd struck a deal with the son of a count, in exchange for wealth and more holdings he'd supply the man with a wife. The rest of night was nothing but pain and retching her stomach contents with vile thoughts of being sold like goat to a man used as his personal play thing. Though patience prevailed over action. After this wedding she'd exact vengeance for the years of sadistic hate and torture, but as of that moment she must play the dutiful daughter and charming wife to an upcoming counts son. Her eye couldn't of played tricks on her upon meeting her match, the young man was beyond gallant, the epitomy of male masculinity and sex appeal. The fact he was docile in his affections towards her didn't matter, he was perfect or so she had thought. One thing made her question the man though, is she saw the very look in her match's eyes that Adelaide knew that she had. It was trading evil for evil, being young and naive she accepted not knowing how much worse it was going to get or sickeningly better pending on your point of view. The scarring over cheek though was questioned, the count arranging the marriage demanded to know how in was inflected. A lie. Smiling to the man she simply side while on a ride her horse had spooked a rock slicing threw her cheek, thankful it had down that instead of her head hitting. Playing it for a false and had gotten away with rouse without getting to much suspicion drawn, also Managing to persuade the the father and son to hasten the marriage to the fortnight to get out of her own fathers grasps. All seemed well or at least on the outside as the people beloved the freshly married couple. The mans son couldn't rise to consummate the deed, wether it was him being too docile or couldn't get it rise because of her scaring. Adelaide wanted to believe it was the later. Though as a years passed it she still remained pure but her husbands father had passed under strange circumstances, the small folk knew it and Adelaide knew it also. She knew that her father in law was killed by poison though what type remained a mystery. The look in her husbands eye grew eerie and as he did so did his company along with screams from dungeons. Curiosity drove the woman as a familiar voice was heard in the screams. Trailing down looking at the backside of her husband and gargantuan of a man, when they turned to see her, Adelaide seen that her father was on the table. Anger coursed seeing her father being tortured and she wasn't the one doing it. Screaming trying to get to her bastard father. Being hold back with the giants one man, but her husband looking down at the table. Waving the titan and handing her the knife. Making good on her promise that she make her father suffer. The feeling and sensations she had gotten from the moment was... erotic as odd as it sounded and in that moment their marriage was actually cemented. Also in that night she was introduced the titan known as Garmin the Titan, Reaper of Men. Over the next several years under their rule the peasantry grew fearful to fall either under the counts knife, the countess cup or the titans blade. Testing the concoction of poisons and their antidotes, even testing the antidotes on herself at times. Garmin grew fond of Adelaide, why exactly known only between the two of them but the most widely spread rumor is that she remind him of a sister lost to death. Regardless of what it was, the two bonded more than what silver and gold could buy. Buying silks in the market one fateful day she overheard the planning of a rebellion, in seeing her the mob drove to frenzy. Garmin cleaving three men in two as Adelaide would tell it giving them time to escape to the estate. Knowing that they'd be driven and killed from there home she had a handful of servants gather her belongings escaping threw an underground route. Escaping threw the exit seeing a mob storming her former home and quartering of her husband. All was gone, fleeing to the docks and across the sea to the lands held by King Harold. Landing in on the Kings shore a month before this rebellion sparked, talking her way into the kings court as a guest. If it was Harold being a king or his chivalry seeing a noble loosing her holdings or whatever the circumstance it didn't matter she managed to maneuver her way to a state of relative safety within his walls. She did try to charm the king to no avail, though liking the woman for unique knowledge into poisons some of which he had never heard of. Seeing the rebellion spark, in return for his hospitality Adelaide offered the services of her protector Garmin. Garmin a likes most of the people of the content hadn't seen. Serving in Harold's vanguard, though despite his defeats Garmin made the barons pay. Extinguishing several barons bloodlines root and stem. Spreading his terror in Harold's name and when the king had to make concessions was among the guards at the negotiations. Garmin's blade was one of the tools Harold used to spread his tyranny. According to the peasants he was among Brands executioners or at least foresaw the mans death. Garmin's return marked a new rise for the countess, negotiating with Harold. As with Garmin being the kings right hand, Adelaide insisted that she be his left to cull the rest of the infidels in Brand's and William's circles. An intriguing offer from a devious woman, see a it as a double edge sword but one that would fall on her if something proved fatal. Allowing her and the titan to take William's estate and lands. Hiring a mercenary a company the Lost Sons from her homeland as protectors and new house guard. With their fearsome reputation in a land torn by war it would help deter any insolence. Putting the old guard of Williams to the torch for their part against Harold. Psychological Profile Adelaide grew into utter cruelty early in life but wasn't feed until her late husband's initiation in to torture. A sadistic narcissistic woman who's sole purposes are few and feed into her own delight. While vain she isn't without a sense of loyalty to her protector, the only one person she had shown any sort of remorse or innocence to. Anything else is up to the whims of the moment. Having no problem sacrificing almost anyone as a means to an end. Seeing the world as her personal plaything and nothing more, enjoying the comforts that it has to the fullest effect as if it were to be her last. Religion play's no part in sort of standing in her life, believing if there are any gods that they're vicious cunts and have no worth in her life or prayers but does allow them under her dominion. Being cruel is one thing but does allow a sort of hope to those she intends to inflict dire pain. Survival is top priority, willing to do anything to keep going. Though if its hard to swallow she will make sure those to put her in despair to return the favor ten time over. Garmin is a stoic man. One could render the flesh from his bones and not hear so much as moan of pain of suffering. Normally a quiet man despite is size, usually keeping his mind focused at the task at hand. Obedient as a loyal dog to no question, even if it were to put an entire village to the torch and kill its inhabitants. Its in combat that any visible emotion is split. Revealing in war and carnage. On occasion he goes into a blood lust that rivals a orc berserker, many claim its madness that have seen it but it makes Garmin more fearsome that just his armor and impressive size. Largely an insomniac but when he does sleep, everyone hears the pain and tortures from his past that he even hasn't spilt to Adelaide. When duty doesn't call, the drink does. While he is an alcoholic it takes entire barrels to get him drunk, drinking far more than what any normal man could safely drink. Equipment Adelaide Alchemist set Several vials of varying poisons hidden among her clothes Yew recurve bow Several quivers (each head holding a varying poison Several chests containing whats left of her wealth, clothes, and other belongings (Obviously not carried with her) Silver Edged Daggers hidden in her sleeves Garmin

Armor

Black steel bastard sword Iron tower shield lined with spikes down the middle Ring mail Shaving razor