Fat Boy Kyle (GMT): Sir Chester - The austere deputy leader of the Consano, he was previously the King's own bodyguard. Lady Buxton - The strong willed and charismatic leader of the Consano, she has royal blood and comes from a line of dragon hunters.
Torack (GMT+3): Roven Vasili - The large mute hunter who is actually the nephew of the King. Evelyn Vasili - The innocent little daughter of Roven, who is actually a gifted mage with the ability to shape-shift.
Partisan (GMT+1): Gawain Rochilde - The handsome priest turned warrior, he prays to all the gods amidst the chaos. Orwen of Sudernlan - The unempathetic slave trader, who's only redeeming quality is his investment in the Consano.
Denalz (GMT-4): Sarah Mane - A Dawnish missionary that has traveled North to spread the Church of Light, and who uses their knowledge to heal others.
Rivaan (GMT+2): Karen ibn Nahal - An exotic assassin who's newest masters have requested she join the Consano.
RIengo (?): Zacharias Morgan - A Dawnish soldier whom, after being disowned for his sexuality, has traveled North in search of a new life.
The Captain (GMT-8): Mauro Nicodemo - A powerful Synod mage who has been sent by the Florine Senate to study and fight the plague.
Rare (GMT-8): Mathis Azaïs - A Dawnish explorer with extensive knowledge of the Northern Lands and some its tribes.
Centimane (?): Shikoba Athanasi - A living tribal legend, 'Old Man Deathless' is still an extraordinary fighter despite being over a century old.
Senor Herp (?): Ormr Sindrison - The rightful king of the Lindlunds, a once great force in the Northern Lands.
MacabreFox (?): Gwenyfar Cerrunos Ravenspire - The disowned daughter of an Amaranthian blacksmith, Gwenyfar now wonders the land as a sellsword
White = Active player Blue = Away or MIA Orange = Left the RP Red = Kicked out
Current Squads
Squad 1: Lady Buxton Karen Shikoba Mathis Gawain Gwenyfar
Sir Chester is just short of 6ft, with an average frame and strong toned muscles. He has light brown eyes that give nothing away, and above them thick dark eyebrows that are often slightly furrowed. His hair is short and black and extends into a neat trimmed beard which is now adorned with streaks of silver. He has several small scars on his face that for the most part are unnoticeable. Under his clothes however, you will find that he is covered in dozens of scars both large and small that he has amassed over the years. Some of these are from his childhood abuse but many are from the wars; in most cases he is unable to recall where each originated.
He wears a hauberk and chausses, over which he wears a purple and gold tabard to signify his allegiance. In addition to this he wears knee high plate boots, plate gauntlets, and a leather belt on which he tends to keep his sword and other necessities. He needs a new helmet but is very fussy when it comes to picking one out.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Full Name】 Arthur James Chester
【Alias】 Sir Chester
【Gender】 Male
【Age】 44
【Sexuality】 Straight
【Birth Place】 Torleston, a small village on the Southern Coast
【Nation/Allegiance】 Kingdom of Vasili
【Profession】 Knight of the King’s Table and Deputy Leader of the Consano
Sir Cester is a very disciplined man, and some would perhaps describe him as aloof. He is not the kind of man that will openly discuss his past or personal life and given that he can’t really talk about his job, means that he doesn’t really say an awful lot. He does have a sense of humour, though he tries to hide it; if you look out for it you might see the edges of his lips curl slightly whenever a joke his made.
Those that work with him often find him to be a rock of sorts, able to provide guidance and willing to kick your arse in the right direction if you start to stray from the task at hand. Despite his austere nature, he is very loyal and willing to put his own safety on the line to save a comrade. He believes firmly in notions of chivalry and honour, and is a worshiper of the Old Pantheon. He has a dislike of the Church of Light, but tries not to hold it against its followers… that is until they start preaching to him. He finds it hard to trust mages because of his father and because of the stories he has heard.
Until recently Sir Chester spent most of his time by King Barius’ side, and in the last couple of years even became his confidant. He sees Barius not only as his King and the man he’s sworn to protect, but as a good friend too. It is because of this that he was hesitant to join the Consano and leave his guarding duties to another.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Sir Chester cannot remember much about his early childhood, with most of his memories either being supressed or simply blown away with time. What he does remember is that he was born Arthur Ellis, and that his mother and father were both mages. His father was a cruel man, and saw Arthur as more of a project than a son. He would try to make Arthur learn magic from a young age, and when he failed he would beat him severely. His mother was not much better, for she herself would blame Arthur when she was beaten herself. In truth, given the severity of the abuse he received, he was lucky to have not died at an early age.
The tipping point in Arthur’s life came when he was nine years old. He had still shown no signs of gifted blood, and his father could no longer take it. Enraged, his father came to the conclusion that Arthur could not be his son, and accused his wife of cheating. She pleaded with her husband but it was no use, for with one devastating spell he burned her alive. Even to this day Arthur can clearly remember her agonising screams and the fear he felt. His father then turned on him, saying that unless he could manifest magic to protect himself that he would meet the same fate as his mother. But he could not. Arthur did not have gifted blood and he would never be capable of magic feats. He would have died that night by his father’s hand were it not for the timely intervention of an elderly guard, named James Chester, who sunk a sword through his father’s spine.
The guard took responsibility of James, as hard as it was (he did kill his father after all), and over the years the two grew close. James Chester was more of a father to Arthur than his real dad ever was. Arthur spent the rest of his childhood and his teenage years living with his adoptive father, being trained in the way of the sword and listening to old war stories. Not long after Arthur’s eighteenth birthday, James passed away peacefully and left his entire estate to his adoptive son. Arthur, wanting to follow in James footsteps, joined the military under the new name Arthur James Chester.
For seventeen years Arthur James Chester served in the army, most of which was spent in the North fighting the tribes. By the time Cain had rallied together the Tribal Alliance, Chester had reached the rank of Centurion and had grown into a fine young leader and soldier. He was there at the capturing of Fort Cain, and was personally responsible for the capture of Chief Urgnot. Because of this he was recognised as a promising officer, and only a few years later was promoted to the rank of Legate (a few years ahead of average age for the rank).
When the Invasion of Dawn began, he and his men were amongst those that suddenly came under the direct command of King Barius. At first he thought this would lead the army to disaster, but was surprised at the King’s wisdom and willingness to hear the advice of his officers. Unfortunately all the wisdom and advice in the Kingdom could not have prevented the massacre known as the Battle of Chalk. When King Barius’ army first landed on the chalk covered beaches of the White Coast, there was little resistance by the defending forces. They believed that they had successfully flanked the forces of Dawn, while the bulk of their fleet attacked the Northern Coast. But this was not the case. Somehow the Kingdom of Dawn had discovered their plan and set an ambush which they hoped would allow them to decimate the army and kill the king. Vasili forces were outnumbered 4:1 and were fighting on unfamiliar land – they stood no chance. It was in this battle that Chester would earn his knighthood, for he fought at the King’s very side and saved him from multiple foes. Eventually he and his best men were able to rescue the king and retreat back into the sea.
Since then he has served as the King’s personal and most trusted guard. The fact that he has been sent to help the Consano shows that although resources have not been put towards it, the King does have faith in it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Sir Chester is a veteran soldier and officer, and has seen more battle than most. As a result he is able to keep a cool head in battle and does not flinch in the face of death. He is a strong, although not so charismatic, leader capable of leading thousands of men.
In regards to combat he is one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom, and whilst he has not seen combat in a few years, he continues to train daily with the Royal Guards. He is able to use a long sword very well, but normally goes for an arming sword and shield. He can fire a bow, but not particularly well.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Chester’s Arming Sword – A steel sword which he inherited off of his adoptive father. It remained locked away in a chest throughout his military career, for he did not want to risk losing or destroying it. However after becoming the King’s Guard he decided to start using it again, because he knew that his father would be proud that his sword stood by the King himself. Heater Shield – Chester uses a wooden heater shield that was a parting gift from the king. It is painted purple, and has the Sigil of House Vasili printed in gold on its front. Its edges are trimmed with real gold; not that it helps with protection.
Magical Spells Chester has absolutely no magical abilities.
Character Theme –I am the one --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lady Buxton stands at 5ft9 and has a pale, yet healthy, completion. She is of average build for her height, but is athletic with strong toned muscles. Although not curvy and somewhat ‘warrioress’, her figure still catches the eyes of many men. Her sleek jet black hair contrasts her icy skin and drapes down over her muscular shoulders when it is not tied into a tail. Her brown eyes are dark like her hair and look almost black in poor light.
As for clothing, she prefers to wear lighter armour. Currently she wears a white collared tunic beneath a dark leather moulded cuirass. On top of this she wears a long leather coat that stretches down to her knees. Below the waist she wears black cloth trousers and leather boots that reach up to her knees. In addition to all of this she wears a belt on which she carries a few small pouches full of various necessities.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Full Name】 Katrina Buxton of House Vasili
Lady Buxton’s warm personality deeply contrasts the cold climate that she inhabits. Her charisma and wit makes her a very likable person, and with her strong will and cool head she is also a great leader. She holds herself like a commoner rather than a noble, walking with a bounce in her step rather than a stick up her arse. Even her voice lacks the refined accent one expects from royalty, and is instead filled with the kind of lewd comments that one expects from a soldier; something which her mother blames her father for. She seems to treat no person differently to next unless she is given reason.
As friendly as she is, one would be foolish to think of her as dim-witted or a push-over. Behind her smile is cunning mind, one that is always asking questions and seeking to see the truth. And like both her father and mother, her will can be indomitable, especially when her morals are put to the test.
She is the kind of leader that recognises that a team is made up of individuals, and that each one is just as important as the figure they follow. As such she strives to ensure her men are at their best, in every respect, and as such will often learn everything there is to learn about everyone under her command.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Katrina Buxton was born in the city of Cliffton and was the second child of Bree Vasili and Richard ‘The Bear’ Buxton. Her mother was the sister of King Barius and she became the Countess of Cliffton not long after Katrina was born. Her father, Richard, came from a long line of Dragon Hunters and became well known throughout the Kingdom when he vanquished Turaung, the last dragon to be seen in the Kingdom.
It was obvious from a young age that Katrina took after her father and not her mother, as opposed to her older brother Randolf. Whilst Randolf was content to be led into a life of aristocracy and follow high-class norms, Katrina was certainly not. Whilst her brother would be learning to court-room manners she would be scaling the castle walls or flinging around a sword that she shouldn’t have gotten hold of. Whilst this displeased her mother, her father was delighted and he was more than eager to mould his daughter into a little dragon hunter. Throughout her childhood she was not only mentored by scholars, she was taught by her father to fight.
When she in her teens her father began taking her out to the mountains to train like the local soldiers did. The high elevation allowed her to greater strengthen her lungs and legs, and she soon became as fit and disciplined as any elite soldier. It was not just her body that grew strong either; Katrina blossomed into a charismatic woman, who never wavered in her convictions.
Her training with her father sadly came to an end shortly after turning eighteen, as he passed away one night in his sleep. The healers told the family that it was his old wounds that finally caught up to him. Not only did this devastate Katrina emotionally, it also threw her plans of joining the military into the air. Like many royals she planned on joining the army as an officer, hoping to one day lead one of her uncle’s armies. After her father’s death however, her family wanted her close by and so she resigned to joining the City Watch instead. She spent eight years as a Watch Officer being mentored and groomed by the Captain of the Watch, before finally taking his place following his retirement. Of course there were other Watch Officers with more experience than her, who could no doubt have done a better job, but all were loyal and none spoke out against her accession.
For four years she would serve as the Captain of the Guard whilst her mother continued to run the city, and for the most part everything ran smoothly. The beasts of the wilds were kept far from the city walls, few went without food, and fewer still resorted to crime. Indeed Cliffton remained one of the most prosperous and pleasant places in the Kingdom… or at least that was until the Temple of Sol was desecrated. Followers of the Church of Light stormed the Temple that laid outside the city, cutting down the men and raping the women and children to death. People became outraged at the Watch’s failure to prevent the massacre, and religious tensions skyrocketed in the local region. Few around Cliffton prayed to the Lord of Light, and so witch hunts quickly began. It was at this point that King Barius became involved; he wanted to bring a swift end to the tension before it could spread and reign chaos throughout his lands. Because she was his niece and in a prime position to deal with the situation, King Barius knighted Lady Buxton, believing that it would take more than a simple Watch Captain to deal with such a sensitive issue.
In order to focus purely on the investigation, Lady Buxton resigned as Captain and put all her own resources into finding the real culprits of the crime. For the last four months she has spent all her time trying to find answers, but has only yielded questions. Every lead she has followed has led to a dead end, sometimes quite literally, and it would seem that there is something much bigger at play here. Now, with the sudden emergence of the plague, she has put her investigation on hold and has convinced the King to let her deal with this threat instead. Given the timings, she also wonders whether or not the two investigations are somehow linked.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 With a strong personality and good education to boot, Lady Buxton is somewhat of a natural leader amongst others. Her years spent in the City Watch have only strengthened this trait, and there are few that know her that would not follow her. In addition to this, she is a keen strategist and even now finds delight in beating her brother at chess.
She has been trained to fight with many weapons, but she only excels when she is using polearms. Her weapon of choice is the Guandao, and she fights with both acrobatic grace and frightening speed. She can use a bow too, but not so well that she bothers to carry one.
She has an incredibly high level of fitness, and due to her training in the mountains is a good climber and as sure footed as a mountain goat. As an extension of this she is a fairly capable free-runner, although most skilled assassins and thieves will leave her in the dust.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Ornate Guandao – Lady Buxton received this Guandao as a leaving present from her mother. It is about a centimetre shorter than her, and is surprisingly light for the type of weapon (although still fairly heavy overall). The shaft itself is made of wood, and over this are layers of painted bronze that makes an image of a dragon rising through flames. This bronze is not just for aesthetics; it also adds some protection to the staff. The blade is made of cast iron and has also been crafted to make it look like it is covered in fire.
Two small daggers – Lady Buxton also carries on her two small bronze daggers. One in each boot.
Magical Spells Lady Buxton has never shown as signs of having gifted blood.
Character Theme –Rise of Valor --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roven is a tall individual with wide, broad shoulders, with a barreled chest, and large, thick arms from years of strenuous training and surviving almost in solitary for a large portion of his life. He has a messy blond main that goes to the mid-point of his back, with a small unkempt beard growing on his face. His eyes are stark blue that look like pits of ice, and just as cold. He wears a tattered hauberk under leather armor, wolf-fur cloak, and a worn red scarf around his neck, which he sometimes lifts up to cover the lower half of his face when the northern chill goes below freezing.
Roven is as cold as the freezing north that he lives in. He never talks, mostly because he can't, and he is always glowering down at strangers. Having lived a harsh life has caused Roven to go nearly bereft of all his emotions, however his adopted daughter is the only one that can bring the lights of joy into his eyes. This doesn't mean that he's a rude person, he's actually quite hospitable to strangers who come by him, but he is reserved and aloof.
Along with being cold, Roven is as stubborn as a rock. If he sets his mind on something, it would take a lot to make him change his mind, and again only his daughter seems to have the capability of doing this. Some of the times. He sees that there is strength in being stubborn, he rationalizes with himself that one that changes their mind like a lone leaf at the mercy of the shifting wind, is weak of mind and heart, able to be taken over by others physically and mentally.
Above all, Roven is patient. If there's one word to describe him, it would be patience. Often people who come across him compare him to a mountain, not because of his size, but because he's stubborn, cold, and patient like a mountain wearing human flesh. This also makes him a great hunter, he can sit in one position waiting for the perfect kill for hours with barely a shift of unease if need be, having been taught the strict lesson of discipline from a young age. His patience also keeps him as a calm and collected individual, allowing him to rationalize and be a sort of pragmatic person. He believes emotions that play a role in making decisions is a sign of weakness, and keeps it out as much as possible.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Roven was born to House Vasili, and is the nephew to King Barius. As a child, he was pampered for the first few years of his life, until his mother - King Barius's sister - decided that a pampered young man would do no good for the kingdom, and since she wanted him to be a major player in court, she began hiring the best tutors and trainers to teach him both discipline and responsibility. Those years were harsh on the young Roven. Having gone from a life of being pampered to being scolded on a nearly minute-by-minute basis was something that was hard for him to swallow at first. It wasn't until his father had a heart to heart with him, and told him that he needed to become a man, that he became more staunch and more receptive of his education and training.
Giving learning a try for once, Roven learned that he was fond of war tactics and strategy, and although at first he was weak in the subject, he had with him a tutor who was just as fond of it as he was teaching it, and he explained tactics and strategy to Roven in ways that would open his young mind, and in turn making him more clever. In the training grounds, Roven was strong and quite good with the sword, but he found he preferred the bow and arrow a lot more, even though he was horrible with it. Again Roven hit a stroke of luck as his archery master was a patient man, and often took Roven out hunting with a large party of guards close by in order to teach Roven a more authentic method of using the bow, and the lessons outside of the city proved to be far more effective in teaching him than within the training grounds. And although Roven enjoyed his adventure outside the city, the training with his mentor was brutal in order to give him the proper strength to shoot an arrow multiple times.
At the age of seventeen, Roven's mother became gravely ill, and his father died several years before after a horrific hunting accident that involved several polar bears. He stayed by his mother's side most of that time, foregoing his responsibilities in court and his lessons. It was also a time that he had gotten very close with his mother. He would spend the whole day sitting on a stool by her side, and they would talk throughout that day, and she would share stories of her younger days when she was more adventurous. It was during this time that he learned his mother used to be a high ranking officer in the army until she found out she was pregnant with him. Several months later, as she approached the gates of death, she gave him the longbow that she used in her youth as a gift. A few days later, while he was attending the funeral of his mother, King Barius offered to take him in out of respect for his sister, but Roven humbly refused, saying that he was going to go find his calling outside of the city. Although he could see the King didn't quite agree with his decision, he was glad that he didn't bring it up again.
He took a few days to say his goodbyes to his tutors, trainers, and his close friends at court. Once it was all done, he took the bow his mother had given him, a quiver of arrows and set off on his own towards other parts of the kingdom. He traveled to several cities and smaller villages, never staying in one place for more than two years, making a living off of hunting, which earned him a good amount of coin since the plague caused a decrease of food stores. Things changed for him, when at the age of twenty one, Roven met his would-be wife, Liralta, a woman belonging to the northern tribes. He had been hunting in a dense thicket when he came across a strange berry, and unbeknownst to Roven at the time, the plant was highly poisonous and entered the blood stream through the tongue. He took a few of the berries and began eating them, and after a while he began to feel sick - his head felt light and his heart was beating as if he sprinted through the kingdom. Then he passed out.
When he woke up, he found himself in a strange tent, with his mouth strangely empty. And after sticking his hand in his mouth Roven realized that his tongue was missing, and stood up enraged at what the tribesmen did to him. Looking around and found a spear at the side of the tent, grabbed it and went out, rampaging through the tribe's encampment and managed to injure several of the tribesmen before he was pinned down by Liralta. She explained to him, in a broken accent that had she left the tongue inside his mouth, that the berries he ate were poisonous and had she left the tongue he would have died. He didn't like what he heard, but he accepted it nonetheless. Then after something that sounded like snarling and snapping, the tribesmen turned away from Roven and went about their business, but they made sure to go out of their way to glower at him or insult him in their strange language whenever they came across him.
He spent several years among them and although he could no longer speak, he learned to understand their strange language and lived amongst them, hunting in the woods with Liralta for game to feed the tribe. Eventually, the tribesmen came to accept Roven, some even befriending him, and he married Liralta. Roven recalls those years as the years that shaped him into the man he was. The tribesmen were harsh, rough, and nothing like civilized people. Living in the open at the mercy of nature made them tough and hardy, and it rubbed off on him. Once while in a cave with Liralta during a particular nasty blizzard, he heard a cry coming from the snowstorm, but he passed it off as only the wind. Then it came again, closer, and it sounded like a child. Liralta stood and went into the blizzard, despite his protests, and he followed her. There they found an injured young girl no more than nine years old. They brought her in with them to the cave, and Liralta tried her best to nurse the young girl back to health.
It took several days for the blizzard to pass, and when it did, they took the girl back to the tribe where they gave her to the shaman to be healed properly. While the girl was being healed, Liralta brought up the topic of adopting her since she was barren and incapable of conceiving. Roven, although liking the idea, was on the fence because the girl might have had parents of her own. When they found out her parents were killed by those infected from the plague, they adopted her.
Then the plague hit. From Falkreath they said, and hit them particularly hard. Roven was in his tent with his family when four infected attacked them, two going for, Evelyn, their daughter. Both stood, their parental instincts overtaking them, and he watched as Liralta jumped on an infected with nothing but a small dagger, and he watched horrified as two more came through the tent flap and bit into her back, causing her to fall from the infected she was on. He made to protect his wife and child but he realized two were on his flank, and while he was fighting them with a small axe, he watched horrified as the infected overtook his wife, eating her flesh right off her bones. Wrought with grief and anger, Roven went for his greatsword and killed most of the infected, leaving one which was on top of his daughter, trying to bite her neck. Then he watched as Evelyn turned into an eagle and flew off in a flurry of feathers. Both he and the infected creature were stunned for a moment, until Roven shook himself and killed the thing while it looked dumbly at its empty hands.
Immediately after killing the creature, he ran out of the tent and found his daughter in the snow a few yards away, her face white and fearful. He brought her back in and after a few silent hours, they buried Liralta where she died, leaving a small rock to mark her grave, burned what was left of the infected, and left, Roven taking the red scarf his late wife wore around his neck. The following morning, he found that most of the tribe had been infected and had ran off, only the shaman and a few other warriors remaining. They told him they would be heading to a sister tribe and that he should go with them, but he refused, saying he was going back to Sovereign to fight the plague. Then the shaman offered to travel with them after explaining that she saw Evelyn turn into a bird. He agreed, and as they traveled back to his home, the shaman taught his daughter how to master her shape shifting and take control of it. Once she was adept enough the shaman turned into a giant white bear and left them, opting to live a solitary life until the plague had ended.
During their travels into the outlying cities of the kingdom, Roven heard that his uncle was gathering a team to fight the plague at the Cross Roads, and seeing his opportunity to rid the world of the blight, he headed for the major town.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Roven is a master with the long bow. He can draw and release, then draw again within the span of a couple of seconds. Years of training and hunting have been his master, and living in the wilds have honed his muscles to the peak of his physical abilities, allowing him feats that would raise eyebrows. He is also well trained in how to use the greatsword, although he admits to himself that he isn't as good as he should be, but he knows in a fight, he can hold himself and if not attack, then at least defend himself well enough from getting killed. Along with these two is his brute strength. Roven is a large man, hard to miss, and his muscles are as solid as rock with strength to match his size, and rigorous self discipline have given him feats of strength that would be considered by some impossible.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools - Ornate Long Bow. - Greatsword. - Quiver of arrows. - A small pack stuffed with gauze and alcohol.
Magical Spells Roven personally doesn't possess any magical abilities, but his adopted daughter, Evelyn does, and she's able to shape-shift into an eagle for a short time. Although taught by the shaman of her tribe, she isn't as adept as she would like to be and hopes to find a tome or book detailing more about the magic.
I like your milkshakes
Character Theme –A Child's Wish --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Evelyn is the type of person who always sees the good in everything. No matter if her day was turns out to be horrible or harsh, as it has a knack to do, she always reminds herself that something good happened that day, and she always finds something good to mention to herself, or to her father. Although he doesn't much share in her optimism.
Having lived with the tribesmen and her father in particular has taught her the importance of self confidence, and because of that she is quite confident in her self and a little loud. From the way she looks, one would assume she was a shy little girl, and that's usually what Evelyn wants people to think so she can surprise them and play a joke on them in her own little way. She laughs easily, she talks a lot, and she's very curious about the world around her.
Because she traveled a lot with her father, she got to see very different towns, villages, and bits of nature. And the traveling only increased her in her curiosity of the world she lives in, and her father is always willing to help her understand what a particular tree or plant is, which is more fuel to the burning she has to set out one day on her own.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Evelyn doesn't remember much of her past. She recalls bits and pieces like broken paintings on shattered glass. She remembers she was born in Falkreath and she was living alone with her mother, then they set out to go elsewhere, and that's as far as she remembers. Then she recalls how she woke up in the middle of a blizzard and a strange lady came up to her and a large, rather scary man behind her. She wanted to protest as they picked her up from the snow, but she was too weak to do anything more than whimper from a broken leg.
They nursed her back to health at the tribe's encampment and once she told them that she feared that her mother died in the blizzard, they adopted her. She was reluctant at first, but she grew into it, her new mother was loving, caring, and strong, while her knew father was strange, she felt apprehensive towards him because he never spoke and always grunted and looked like he was going to beat something to death. Her foster mother realized her fears and explained to her that Roven had lost his tongue in an accident and can no longer talk, and she then began teaching her how to understand his particular grunts and what certain looks meant, and how he used both to form sentences.
She lived with both of them for several more years until strange men attacked their tent and killed her mother, and nearly killed her until she spontaneously turned into an eagle. She landed a few yards from the tent and the experience left her stunned and scared. A few seconds later her father came out with his large sword and carried her back inside. She watched with tears in her eyes as Roven wept profusely at Liralta's side. He stopped crying after several hours and spent a few moments of silence before burying her and taking her favorite scarf. When they burned the rest of the strange cannibals they left the tent, where she learned under the shaman how to master her eagle form and turn into it at will, and maintain it for a period of time.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Evelyn is a good healer, her mother taught her how to do simplistic first aid and the shaman taught her a little more about herbal medicine during their travels. She also has eyes that are far superior than normal people and can see quite far, making her an ideal scout.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Her father only allows her to carry a small dagger.
Magical Spells Evelyn can turn into an eagle for a short period of time, and in this state, her eyes are even more enhanced than they usually are. While traveling with her father, she would often turn into an eagle as practice, and scout ahead to see if there was any of the strange cannibals near them.
Character Theme –Da Pacem Domine --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gawain is a remarkable man, in that he is part dressed for battle, part dressed for a feast in an inn. Adding to the remarkability is his nose ring, which is rather large, and the three dots on his forehead. He has no remarkably muscled body, but it is apparent that he is fit and agile, both in way of moving and in looks. He has a characteristical look and those who have seen him are unlikely to forget him - both a boon and a blessing. His hair is slicked back using some sort of thick, oily substance, after which he puts on a linnen tie to keep his hair out of his face. His beard seems well maintained, though he is hardly ever seen maintaining it himself. Gawain's eyes are a dark blue, and although dark it can be seen clearly that they are blue indeed. He has some freckles on his nose and cheeks, but his characteristics end about there.
Gawain walks with a steady stride, prideful in what he does and his position in life. He is a serious kind of guy, but doesn't mind a joke here or there. That being said he's not particularily funny himself, so don't expect any of those jokes from him. He'll just laugh along as they come. Furthermore he is a man that believes very strongly, although he sometimes is not entirely sure what he believes in. Because of that he is rather tolerant for a baptist, and quite accepting of those who follow the old pantheon. After all, he sometimes reverts back to them as well when he isn't certain. In his words: 'Better to pray to all gods, than pray to the wrong one.'
Gawain can be rather impatient at times, a leftover from his children years, something that didn't get smacked out with the rod enough and now feasts upon Gawains' virtues. Or not. Whatever the church makes you believe, being patient is simply not something that can be taught, and Gawain realises this full well. He's just embraced it as part of his personality and hasn't made any attempts at becoming more patient. It probably wouldn't work either way.
His role as a baptist before the Black Blood Plague means he can be compassionate, humble and empathetic, friendly as well. As such he can not only be a religious leader to some, but also a good friend. He enjoys company and conversations, and is one of those people who doesn't mind sitting by a fire waiting for hours for someone to finish speaking. He'll never grumble a word about missing sleep and rather sees this as a good opportunity to learn from others what their ideas and motives are in life.
But then again, what does this really mean when there's a plague turning people into cannibals? Such plagues can do strange things to people, and their personalities.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Gawain was born in Minorhold, in a wooden shack near the Northern gate. That is all rather inconspicuous and humble for a family of five whom all worked the fields. They were all followers of the old pantheon, until dad converted after listening to a preacher of the Church of Light. Ofcourse, in these times, it was custom that the father led the family and in such case the entire family converted, whether they were actually followers of the faith or not. In Gawain's case, he was still very young when dad converted, barely 4. As such he was brought up with the Church of Light, and never knew the Old Pantheon except from what he heard occasionally.
The family was simple, father, Gawain and his older brother Jonas worked the fields while mother and Gawain's younger sister Alysa worked on household chores, and occasionally fixing clothes for people in need of it. It was a humble life, very much so, but with a humble life comes humble people. When Gawain came of age, he chose to not follow in the footsteps of his elder brother Jonas, who by this time had enlisted for service and was sent off to fort Cain. Instead, he humbly chose to serve the God of Light. In the meantime, he was also interested in the Old Pantheon. Ofcourse he was, it had always been a great mystery to him. Father had never spoken to him about it and Jonas had only ushered whispered words, old tales of gods and godesses. Realizing that a good priest should also know the counterparts of his religion, he sought out wise men that could tell of the Old Pantheon. This turned out to be a mistake for him, personally, as he didn't know which faith was the right one.
Deciding that his family would be dishonored if he quit helping in the church and studying to be a priest, he continued the studies anyway. The time was turbulent for him since he was torn up between two faiths, not an easy decision for anyone to make. That, and having just discovered girls.. well, let's just say he got more than enough trouble from the priests that taught him. He learnt valuable lessons, most importantly when to keep your damn mouth shut about what you did last night. Never the less the time came when an older priest died, and a new one was chosen from the rank of the pupils.
When Gawain's time to serve the God of Light came, he was already 25, and had lost interests in becoming a priest with permanent residence in the Minorhold. His father had long since lost faith in the teachings of the God of Light, and reverted to the old gods, something every other family member had done a long time before. To Gawain this was a sign that he shouldn't stick around and do what was expected of him. Rather than becoming a priest, he thanked them for the offer but instead became a baptist. Because there were not many men and women in Minorhold that wished to convert (conversion spree had happened when the church first made it entry, and that had long since passed), he chose instead to wander to where ever there was most need of a baptist. This took him to a great many places, including the South before they started controlling entry so vigorously. And although, due to the ongoing war, the South was not at friendly term with Northerners such as Gawain, his (apparent) faith in the church of Light led to some people opening up to him. He learned here that Southerners are just Northerners with a funny accent and a different king.
As he came back from his travels he discovered he had been just in time - the Southerners were now restricting access. And by restricting, they meant burn and sink everything that resembled a ship. Well, there was one benefit to this: the Southerners probably wouldn't mount an invasion. Who wants to invade a disease riddled country. However it led to more problems for Gawain. He made his way back to Minorhold, slowly as he didn't exactly own a horse until much later. And then, when he arrived, it turned out he could pretty much turn around and ride for the Crossroads. The city had been hit by the plague, and Gawains family was cut down because of it. It is unknown if they were victim to the plague, or were attacked simply because some scared peasant felt like they were infected. Regardless, Gawain buried them all except for Alysa, who seemed to have escaped a cruel fate, or had perhaps wandered into an even worse fate. Her position remains unknown to Gawain, and rather than toiling endlessly over it, and wager his life trying to find her further North, he has just told himself that she's dead. Atleast then he can find peace within himself. As soon as he heard of the call for investigators of this plague, he realised that being a priest in these times was probably not very fulfilling. He took a horse from somewhere, said a quick prayer to both the old gods and the new god asking for forgiveness for stealing a horse, then rode his 27 year old behind to the Crossroads, hoping to offer the Consano some assistance, as he was humble enough to realise that he would most likely not get picked. But even the Consano can use some assistance, he estimated.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Gawain is unhandy with his sword. He only knows that the pointy end stabs, and the sharp ends slice. You would do best not to ask how many times he found out about this himself. The good part is: he owns a sword, at least. Besides that, he is one of the youngest religious figures around, and probably also one of the few that is willing to join the Consano. Whether you like it or not, religious people can be a boon in a group as they often have skills not many others have: they have religious knowledge, know tales of old (and new), and can offer people consolation and friendship in dark times.
Oh, and a priest knows how to bury people. Even the (un)dead deserve a proper burial. For those of the Old Pantheon a pyre can be lit, though you'll have to forgive him for not knowing any chants of the Old Pantheon.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Gawain owns a two handed sword that he keeps on his back. Besides that, nothing as of yet.
Orwen's brown-reddish hair is his most defining feature alongside his beard. He has no out of the ordinary features and blends in perfectly well, although his ears are slightly bigger than most others' ears. His jawline is chiseled and, if it were visible, would be classified as an attractive and good looking jawline. His cheeks are somewhat thick and round, as Orwen eats well.
His body is average, nothing overly muscled but not fat either. A layer of fat prevents his muscles from shining through, but then again for a man like Orwen, muscles are not his weapon. Fear, influence and contacts are, and somehow his access to all these tools shine through in his appearance. Anyone looking at him will realize, even if they don't know him, this man is influential in a bad way.
Orwen dresses richly, dressing mostly in nice looking tunics, clothen pants with nice linings and trims and knee-high boots. Over his tunic he usually wears a leather jerkin, adorned with nice looking metal pieces, but those are mostly ornate. Over all that he'd wear a woollen cloak, for warmth and comfort, whenever he travels.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Full Name】 Master Orwen of Sudernlan
Now, Orwen isn't exactly a very friendly person, but that doesn't mean he never smiles.. He just smiles at things that others' don't smile at, such as the cry of a 2 year old baby being sold to some fat old man who lives in a castle somewhere, who has need of the babies mother. Or perhaps he would smile at the death of a man who attempted to double-cross him, to steal coin out of his pocket when everyone knew that that coin was rightfully Orwens' coin. Maybe Orwen would even smile at, say.. a slave being raped in the dead of the night, before she were to be tossed back into her shed. He would smile and say “Such is the way of life, big fish eat small fish..” while rubbing together the coins he had just been paid for the slave.
And that defines Orwen in a nutshell: a kill or be killed mentality, where everything is allowed to gain profit, survival or pleasure. Normally a pretty interesting personality trait but even more so when placed in the hands of someone who sees money in everything; yes, when you're talking about a person who would sell their own mother you're talking about Orwen of Sudernlan, who has not enslaved his own mother, but has most certainly enslaved rowdy familymembers and sold them to a filthy merchant who needed a rowingman. Or five, because ofcourse Orwen isn't evil enough to leave the children without father.. But oh, there is certainly the rumour that he's sold his own mother and Orwen hasn't attempted to disprove this statement. Fear is a powerful tool, he says.
With slavery bussiness comes a sadistic personality, if not from birth then it will certainly grow on you as you whip slaves into a line, smack them into a cage or backhand them into their shed. He's frequently taken to the prisons and slave sheds to pick an unwilling target and experiment on them, and when he says experiment he means torture them for no goal other than personal pleasure. “Experimental science” it's called, and there's always a black market to be found for some crazy person in the north who wishes to sacrifice to his gods, or some sinner in the south who wants to copulate with a dead body. Ask and you shall receive; if there's no supply then Orwen takes great pleasure in assuring that there is a supply created for you! All it takes is some fun nights in the cellar and boom! You have a dead body ready for sale.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Orwen was truthfully born in Southarbour, though he'd hate to admit it. The place reeks of slaves, piss and shit and Orwen absolutely detests having to stay there, even if he's earning coin. His father was a poor sod, always drunk in the local inn getting it on with whores and perhaps a goat or horse if he felt like it. The relationship with his father was.. shortlived, as his father got skewered on a blade by a guardsman after the tenth time being caught satisfying himself with a local farmers' cow. As a result of his untimely death, Orwen spent most his years under tutelage of the local lowlifes, his mother not caring enough to keep him indoors. He was barely 8 when he started stealing for “the Boar”, a man that had cut more throats than he had children. He had a lot of children.
With age he rose through the ranks and as he came of age at the age of 16 he was granted leave from the mans 'company' to start his own company, franchising mostly in “goods otherwise unattainable” and his offers to clients mostly included smuggling stuff around. It wasn't until much later, when he accidentally happened upon a cheap slave girl, barely 16, that he decided on extending into slavery. Given that he'd handled a smuggling bussiness before he certainly had the fleet to undertake a slavery bussiness.
As a starting slave trader, Orwen took some years to learn the trade, but quickly became the number 1 slave trader in the entire known world, having a vast collection of suppliers and buyers. As such, if you ever wished to get “dirt” on someone, Orwen likely knew a thing or two about this person that were, say, damaging to their name. His collection of suppliers ranged from Southern deserts, to the kingdom of Dawn, to even Vahilian outlaws who sold him captured victims. As such he could get you any type of man, woman or child - ebony colored, pale skinned, dark eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, strong, beautiful, ugly or weak, mentally broken and submissive or slaves prone to bouts of uproars - the perfect slave fighter. These slaves were managed by a grand fleet of aproximately 20 ships, some small and some large enough to rival Dawnish fleets, although they always made sure to act as if they were merchants. Pair that with a wide range of bribeable officials in every major city, and you can understand why Orwen is so good at what he does.
As the years passed he amassed a fortune and stopped interfering too much personally in the bussiness, only taking a glimpse every now and then to see if he was still making profits. Currently he resides atop his mountain of coins in his private estate, somewhere on the coast between Southarbour and Sovereign, looking over the ocean while sipping on wine, watching vessels of his own fleet sail to and fro, while a slave girl or two prepare his bath. Life is good. For him, anyway..
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Orwen can be very charismatic and has been trained, over the years, in talking himself and others out of things, but also in appeasing entire groups by making empty, often meaningless promises. Besides that he also possess a very rich set of contacts and information, something unrivalled throughout the kingdom (although the kings spymasters wish it weren't so). This is not neccesarily a skill or an ability, but they are certainly a way to access skills and abilities of others. Something equally as important. Besides he can swing a mace or flail pretty well and it doesn't take much skill to jam a dagger up someones skull.
Besides that, did I mention he's the biggest funder for the Consano? Money is a skill, too. Atleast if you ask Orwen.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Orwen has a nice looking flail hanging on his left hip, attached to a loop of leather hanging from his belt. Besides that he's hidden a dagger in his left innerpocket.
Magical Spells Magic is for entertainment slaves only. Juggle, juggle, girl!
Character Theme – [url=]Faithful Healer[/url] --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sarah is a petite woman with slender hands which have turned rough with her recent years of mission work. Her hair, which is light like the sun, is kept in a long thick braid that reaches just beyond her navel. Her skin is pale as she has lived the majority of her life sheltered by the roof of a library or house of study. Her features are severe with a chiseled jaw line and large amber eyes. Her clothes are simple, but high quality, as she has enjoyed the funding of her rich father in law. She wears thick wool covered in animal skins. Her undergarments are made of fine leather which keep her warm in the harsh Northern winters.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Name】 Sarah Mane
Sarah is a highly opinionated young woman with a serious attitude. Driven, disciplined, and well spoken, she puts her talents to use in the interest of gaining followers for the Church of Light. She was educated in the capital of Dawn, trained in the tradition of healing arts among other things. This healing aptitude compliments her need to be needed, but oddly enough she is not the most compassionate person. As she is stoic herself, she expects self control from her patients and has left it up to her husband to be the nurturer in her practice.
Despite her petite figure, Sarah is a force to be reckoned with among civilized people. Unrelenting and convicted, she is not one to keep silent when she witnesses cruelty or injustice. Though she is headstrong, she is also perceptive of her limitations and those of others. Because of this, she will push just hard enough to set the stone rolling in the “right” direction, without risking it falling back upon herself.
What motivates Sarah more than anything is her desire for holiness. She is intimately acquainted with the word of the God of Light and uses these scriptures as a measuring stick for her thoughts and actions. A perfectionist by nature, no one is harder on Sarah than she is on herself. Guilt is the name of her inner demon, and she will wrestle with him for all her earthly life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Sarah was born into a learned family in the Dawn city of Lion’s Keep. Her father is a professor of astronomy and her mother was a healer before she died suddenly when Sarah was about fourteen. Following in her mother’s footsteps, she began studying the healing arts with great discipline and earned recognition as a prodigious and competent practitioner at the age of eighteen. She has used this talent to aid those seeking mercy at the temple of the God of Light. Though she was raised “In the Light”, Sarah has lead a particularly devout life and her degree of conviction has been taken to an extreme which her own family find off-putting. When her father was caught in an extra-marital affair following the death of his late wife, Sarah threatened him with exposure if he did not repent and forsake his sinful relationship. His hypocrisy, rather than his indiscretion, is what wounded Sarah the most.
Sarah was married under the Church of Light to her childhood sweetheart when she was nineteen. His name was Cavil, and he had been groomed for a life of servitude to the God of Light. Cavil’s wealthy father is a Deacon in the great temple at Lion’s Keep. Shortly after their marriage, Sarah and her husband were sponsored by his father for a mission to the Northern Lands. Their purpose for the past 3 years had been to spread the doctrine of the Church of Light to the depraved souls of the North. During this time Sarah continued to grow as a healer and experienced great usefulness as a navigator since her father taught her the secrets of the stars. This is not the limit of her skill as she is well versed in other subjects such as writing, arithmetic, and law.
Sarah and her husband had spent the past several months in a village south of Titus. This being the farthest North they had ever ventured. The hostility of these weather-worn people was neutralized by their desperate need for healers, though many remained resistant to the God of Light’s message. During this stay, frantic word had spread of a plague which was coursing south across the Celtobar Peninsular. Sarah is horrified to recall how she had arrogantly anticipated the plague’s arrival. She had lofty visions of the humility the experience would bring upon the wild and obstinate people she had been trying to reason with for so long. She believed that with all of her knowledge, she would be able to stop this terror, and all those who had been spared would recognize the great power of The God of Light. Sarah even went so far as to wonder if the God of Light himself had sent this plague for this very purpose.
Less than a week ago, Sarah returned home from prayer to the cheap hovel she and Cavil had rented from a town official. It had been Cavil’s day to look after the sick while Sarah enjoyed some much needed meditation. When she entered the house however, Cavil was lying in front of the hearth, gasping. She rushed across the room and turned his heavy body toward her. What she saw was horrifying. His skin was dark, as though he were bruised from head to toe. His veins bulged from under his flesh and Sarah could see the dangerously slow pulse ripple through his frame. She called to him, but he did not answer her with his customary “Precious”. What came out instead was a snarl. Where once had been the most loving eyes, pools of hatred and a deep desperate hunger stared back at her.
The next morning, Sarah watched the body of her husband burn upon a humble pyre. Cavil and seven other villagers who had not been armed at the time of their loved one’s turning lay bound in dark sacks. The sick-house itself had been barricaded from the outside and burned to the ground. Those inside had died as something far short of human beings. As she watched the flames engulf her love, the human part of Sarah threatened to die as well. What evil spirit had taken hold of her life? How could the God of Light deem permissible this nightmare? Though she had no answer, and her faith threatened to blow into the icy wind with the ashes of her husband, Sarah set her feet toward the Cross Roads, where it was rumored she might find the truth. .
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 The majority of Sarah’s usefulness lies in her education and healing prowess. Raised by a professor, Sarah is versed in reading, writing, arithmetic, astronomy, language, and law. Her true talent however lies in the science of healing. Though she is not magic, in Lion’s Keep she had quite the reputation for surgical quality.
Sarah can be quite persuasive when she chooses to be. Though she has been known to occasionally let her passion get the best of her, she is careful not to press one beyond the limits of his patience. As far as fighting is concerned, Sarah was trained by her intermediate husband to use her two knives proficiently. Though she is not a fighter, she skilled in basic self defense and is an expert avoider of danger. This is a fancy way of saying she knows how to run and hide.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Sarah possesses no magic. She prefers to place her trust in scientific advances much like her countrymen. In general she is suspicious of magic and feels that those who use it are out for themselves alone. She carries with her a heavy pack which contains various instruments and medicines. These tools are the most valuable effects Sarah owns and she guards them carefully. As far as weapons go, she carries a long knife strapped to her side. She also carries a small knife which is haltered to her thigh and hidden beneath her skirt. Both blades are poisoned with paralytic agents that Sarah makes herself from flowers.
–Dreams from afar! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Karen is a beautiful 1.70m tall woman with olive colored skin, shoulder length straight ebony hair, thin eyebrows and piercing amber eyes. Her muscles are perfectly formed for her profession adding to her beautiful figure which always draws the eyes when she isn’t covering it with the heavy clothing for the harsher weather of the north. But the thing that shows her upbringing the most is the way she walks. Her walk seems so weightless as she moves quickly and with nearly no noise from her steps.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Full Name】 Karen ibn Nahal
Karen was once a brutal and ruthless assassin for her master. She would often be tasked with target assassinations and she would do everything needed to complete her mission. That changed when she lost her master. Today Karen is calm and laid back person. When she is off duty, she could mostly be seen in the local inns, having fun drinking with other people or just plain searching for a company for the night… of either gender. As such there are many rumors floating about her, but she pays no attention to any of them. For those who know her better, know that beneath the calm and carefree surface she shows, there is a deadly sea of darkness who’s wrath is better to be avoided. For they have seen her cold eyes as she sweeps through enemies on the battlefield. Another thing about Karen is that she likes children and generally despises anyone who would harm them for personal gain. Part of the reason for that is the fact she spend her childhood trained for merciless assassin and the other is that she herself cannot have children. On the matter of religion, Karen has a neutral opinion. She believes that all gods exist in one form or another as such the petty fights between people about them are meaningless. That aside she worships a goddess from lands known as Skeitha, the goddess of eternal night and the one who oversees over all sinners in the darkness.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Karen birthplace is to the south. In lands far, far away from the Kingdom of Dawn and Vasili. A land mostly covered with seemingly endless deserts and few fertile areas around the few rivers where crops will grow. She was born 3rd daughter in an ancient clan of assassins that served one of the rulers of those lands. As was family tradition everyone past the second child was to become an assassin that serves the ruler. From the age of 4 she was put to endless hardships and nightmarish training, to forge her into a weapon. Many and different were the ways of the assassins that were in front of her, eventually she stopped found one of the skills that were most natural for her, the art of throwing weapons. Her training continued for 10 long years, till her 14th birthday. At that faithful day she was made a full fledged assassin. Karen was brought to a room with 2 other children in her position and they were all given a single knife at the centre of the room. Only one was to leave that room alive. After a few minutes the door of the room opened and from there stepped Karen, covered in blood and wounds. After her wounds healed she was appointed to be the personal tool for her lord and for him she did many terrible things. For 5 years she killed, abducted, tortured, everything that was required form her so her master could continue to rule, but despite all of that, eventually her kingdom fell to another, her master killed and she actually captured. Luckily for her, the ruler of the enemy kingdom was a wise man. He knew the terrible practices of her clan and didn’t blame her for it. Especially since they caught her, while she was trying to save a child from a ruined building. Instead, he gave Karen a sentence that would keep her life… for a time at least. She was sold to some slave traders that were heading north by sea. After weeks of sailing, they were close to lands she never even heard of. Unluckily her ship was caught in a storm near the shores of the Kingdom of Vasili. After a long night of fighting with the raging seas, she was thrown at the shores near the town of Southarbour. She was unconscious and still carried her chains, but was never the less holding for a piece of her ship that saved her life. After she woke up though there was a unexpected situation… she didn’t remember anything about her former life and she seemed to have a hard time speaking. Still she was obviously an exotic, beautiful slave, so an owner for her was quickly found. That didn’t continue for a long, because even with her memory gone, she still was a handful. She would behave wild and often disobey orders. She even almost bit off the neck of her master when he tried to rape her. Originally her master planned to kill her right away, but the wild nature she displayed and her obviously well trained body could have proved useful elsewhere. The original reason why slaves were allowed… Obviously it was a waste to send her to build ships, so he sent her to the pitfights. It was in this arena that her memories slowly started to resurface along with her battle skills. Eventually she caught the attention of the military commander of the town, so she was bought as a slave soldier. That happened when she was 21. As her memories returned more and more, she quickly became a important asset to any military company she was put in. Her skills in sneaking allowed her to scout the enemy before an attack was issued and her incredibly precise knife throwing allowed for quickly and silently disposition of enemies if needed. With time as she gained somewhat of a good reputation among the soldiers, she was officially freed from slavery in the condition she would continue to provide her skills for the kingdom. Now at the age of 29 as the emergence of this plague and the formation of the Consano, her commander urged her to go and see if she could be useful for them. For she may have been a foreigner, but he knew her skills would be useful for anyone facing a grave danger.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 As an assassin most of Karen’s skills and abilities are mainly oriented around killing people and stealth. Her ability to hide and blend with the surroundings is exceptional and for common people it could almost be seen as her disappearing. She possesses incredible flexibility that allows her to prefer actions such as entering though a openings most people will find impossible even if they are her size. Her other good skill is climbing, she could climb various of surfaces with little difficulty as long as they aren’t completely flat. Her main killing method is throwing daggers. She has endured long and painful training to reach her present level of skill. Karen could throw daggers up to 35-40 meters with pinpoint accuracy and still posses enough force to penetrate the skull of the target. Though her assassin training makes her usually target other areas such as the eyes. With that said, it’s obvious she posses the needed physical strength to throw those daggers effectively and the eyesight to allow her to see her targets. For melee combat, she prefers to use a sword that the smiths of the north never seen before. What she requested from them was a relatively light curved sword she called scimitar. While she lacks the pure physical prowess of most of the soldiers, her makes it up by speed and the accuracy of her strikes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Karen’s equipment is considerably light. She wears no metal armor of any kind and instead is wearing clothes made from leather, furs and fabric. As such she is capable of agile movement and is always warm even when the weather isn’t great. With that she has a leather waist bag where she keeps things such as emergency rations, 4 daggers, a little bit of poison and it’s antidote. As for her main weaponry, she has her scimitar on her waist, and a good number of daggers hidden in many different places around her clothing. By uncomfirmed number she hides around 20 knives for throwing.( such as under the leather bracers, in her boots etc…)
Magical Spells Karen has no spells that I’m aware of!.
I love your milkshakes!(not really cause I never tried a milkshake >_>)
Character Theme –Catechism of the Gift --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Drusus is a man of slightly above average height, at least relative to his fellow citizens of Florine. He's somewhat wiry, with a frame that's thinner than it ought to be, but he's by no means malnourished. His skin, though swarthy by Vasili standards, lacks the bronzing finish of years under the sun, which can be attributed to his previously cloistered lifestyle. His eyes and his hair are both dark brown, and he keeps his face cleanly shaven and his hair cut short. His features are characteristically Florine, with almost almond-shaped eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin, drawn lips. He dresses well, but the garb he affords himself is perpetually shrouded by an olive and gold filligree cloak, the signature garb of the modern Synod.
【Nation/Allegiance】 The Kingdom of Florine, The Florine Academia Synod
【Profession】 Sorcerer, Academia Agent
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Personality】 To be raised by the Synod, to be discovered in one's youth by the shadowy fraternity, is to be committed entirely to the so-called 'virtues' that they have lived under for a hundred generations. Drusus, just as those before him, was indoctrinated, broken and built back up into a person very different from the one he arrived as, so full of fear and anger. He was taught from the very beginning to value secrecy and skepticism, to acknowledge that the world, at best, didn't trust the power he was capable of wielding and, at worst, hated him for it. He was taught not to reciprocate this fear or hatred, but to accept it and, when appropriate, use it to his advantage. To be relegated to the shadows, to be ostracized, had advantages all its own or so he was taught.
It wouldn't be fair to him to say that he became cold under the tutelage of Florine's grandmasters, but he did grow reserved. He took the lessons of those who came before him and applied them, and the passionate young man they took in became quiet. What had first resembled paranoia to him steadily began to make more sense as he delved deeper into the mysteries of magic and the ancient society that had endured thousands of years through highs and lows. He naturally grew into the shape his tutors intended for him, he detached himself from the strong opinions he once held dear and embraced the borderline sociopathic pragmatism that the double-faced sorcerers of Florine devoted themselves wholly to.
He had to play the part of a coolly professional civil servant, dance to the sordid tune of Florine politics as nought but a servant. There was no way around this, and so he grew good at saying what others wanted to hear. Upon full induction into the Synod as a true Erudite he pursued work under the State's elite and ingratiated himself to many of them. They saw a hard worker, a professional whose supernatural skills were at their disposal, entirely divorced of their sinister connotations.
There was always ambition to the Academia Synod however, there were always shadowy agendas at work just under the surface. They had managed to put on a good face for so long, to be regarded as at least somewhat trustworthy by those that held their leash, but in truth they shared the same intentions as their more anarchic kin across the borders and across the sea. Their knowledge must be preserved. Their power must be preserved. Their survival must be ensured. Drusus was no different, and was driven by his own ambitions just as much by the ambitions of his superiors.
Unscrupulous as he might be, he took particular pleasure in the company of others and especially in the exchange of knowledge and ideas. He was deprived of it for over a decade. Those he had associated with in his time as an apprentice had made contact with those of the outside world absolutely refreshing to him, because just as there was so much to glean from the libraries and the debate and discourse of the Academia Synod there was even more to learn from the people of Florine and beyond, even if they were wrong.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Mauro Nicodemo is a secret name. The name of a boy who died far too young. It was a name given to the oldest child of Marian Nicodemo, who was a junior merchant in service of one of Florine's most powerful guilds, an institution that had made a fortune for itself and its members through the creation of war materiel and glass. They were based in Calraddi, which was more colloquially known as the 'City of Martyrs' for the body count the municipal authorities of old racked up during the birth of the Church of Light.
Marian was by all accounts a decent father, but also one whose work took him to the far corners of the known world. He carried out the movement of goods, the guilds funded him and those like him, the young ambitious merchants, the nouveau riche, and provided them an opportunity to prove themselves on the more hazardous end of Florine business. He afforded his family a fine house on Calraddi's perfumed canals and afforded them a life without want, and so while he was gone more often than he was home there was a sense that he did care.
Marian's wife - Mauro's mother - was the heiress to the fortune of a sonless provincial magistrate, and had made quite a name for herself in the circles of the Florine affluent as a poet and ideologue. Where Mauro's father's influence was felt through the coin that funneled back to them by way of the guilds, Mauro's mother - Alisanne - made hers known in the active raising of the children. She afforded them the greatest classical tutors of Florine and immersed them in the ancient Florine philsophical and mathematical schools of thought.
Mauro Nicodemo took to his studies well, but he was always a restless boy, and more disposed to mischief on the town than he was to listening to the graybearded academics whom his mother had contracted. That's not to say he was rebellious, but his spirit, as it were, always sought to propel him beyond the impromptu classroom of his mother's solar. The workings of the city - the condottiere and the officials both - always fascinated him. He could imagine himself as a gallant mercenary. As a prominent statesman. Perhaps both? He had no mind for poetry or sculpture or painting as he found, and as his mother was most dismayed to find.
People were always of more interest to him. The interests of people, their interactions, what made them all 'tick' and would make one do one thing and another do another thing. He developed a knack for lying and for speechcraft, and would often put such skills to use for petty things, like getting out of trouble with his caretakers or his mother. For wheedling this or that out of the people of Calraddi. Sympathetic bakers or fishmongers or the like would often find themselves giving him far more than they ought to.
It was a languid childhood, a comfortable one, the sort that so often ultimately creates spoiled and viperous adults. By all rights Mauro could have become the next cutthroat senator of provincial Calraddi. He could have taken bribes and kept assassins on retainer and lived in opulence that even his well-off parents could not have imagined. But it was not so. Just weeks after his sixteenth birthday a cabal of well-dressed, but heavily shrouded men arrived at the Nicodemo estate along with a number of condottiere, and they asked for Mauro and his mother by name.
The leader of the party of five quite casually explained that by means of divination they had determined that the young Mauro was cursed with the power of sorcery. Now, were it not for the armed escort and the olive and gold filligree cloaks the two of them would perhaps be skeptical. They wanted to be skeptical. To be cursed in Florine was to be spirited away in the night or killed. The gravity of the situation was lost on no one in that room. The wizards and their attendant soldiers presented Mauro a choice: he would go with them and his supposed curse would be confirmed and studied in greater detail, or they would take him by force and, failing that, end his life and the danger he posed to society.
He said his tearful goodbyes, he surrendered himself to the party that had come to collect him. Then a lump of tumorous hatred began to grow in his heart. His freedom had been taken from him. This singular thought possessed him as they led him, blindfolded, to a carriage which rolled off across the city, first through familiar streets and then further onwards to unfamiliar ones. His creature comforts were gone. His lessons were done. The young, foolish infatuation with the neighbor girl was done. In one afternoon he had gone from prince to slave.
He was taken from the carriage and escorted, still blindfolded, to a gondola, and from there poled down a maze of eerie, quiet canals. And then there came the telltale acoustics of a canal tunnel. One that did not end. And then the gondola was moored and he was pulled bodily from it and his blindfold was removed. There he stood on a very spartan dock with the five cloaked men, those he supposed were in fact sorcerers. A great oaken double door stood open to them, and beyond was a corridor lit only by paired candelabras. The acrid stench of sandalwood incense wafted from within, replacing the stench of the canals.
Dark chambers and darker hallways. The persistent stink of all varieties of incense burning his nose. The leering, skeletal dead interred in their wizarding cloaks. Propped up, marionette-like skeletons stood transfixed, accusatory or pleading in their artifical stances. The deeper they went into the earth by way of hurried twisting and turning the more interred dead they passed. Now bones lined the walls, bodies were set in vertically stacked loculi graves. It was a catacomb that they walked him through. One that stretched on for miles. A catacomb of dead sorcerers.
Further beyond there came the ascent into old gardens rife with exotic plantlife and sculptures both ancient and grand. Marble. Obsidian. Palms. Jungle flowers. The cool, misted expanse of green gave way to what Mauro could only describe as a villa. A compound, of sorts, perhaps. It was built in the likeness of old pagan Florine temples, with great columns and walls of immaculate white marble. And, for the next fifteen years of his life these grounds, and the buildings that had stood upon them for centuries served as his home. It was an immaculate institution that presided over a largely depopulated district, one that had been abandoned following a ravaging fire.
It was within these walls that he was inducted into the esoteric mysteries of sorcery, and into the ritual-steeped society that had governed Florine's magic-users for innumerable generations. He was taught to control the power that was coaxed from him, and he was also taught the accompanying of truths of 'real philosophy' by those who derided his old teachers as blind. He was made to study the works of Church-shunned hermetics and gnostics by the light of red candles. He was made to wield his power for applications both practical and ritual in his training.
Sorrow and frustration lingered in his heart for a long while, but the nameless apprentice that had once been Mauro Nicodemo took to his studies and his new powers eagerly. He was amongst likeminded peers, all of whom had been separated from their old lives and their old kin in similar fashions. They grew close. A tight knit community of not only scholars, but friends. New family bonds grew out of necessity and shared profession. The 'curse' had driven them close together.
He progressed from the fundamentals of sorcery into more specialized advanced crafts. He embraced his curse and developed more and more control over the powers of illusion and divination, and his studies gravitated back towards more mundane concerns such as politics and the workings of non-magical society. He was to be groomed for work abroad, or so his master explained to him during one lesson involving the extended projection of a false apple onto a table. He would take an active part in the survival of their society, starting with service under the Florine Senate.
And so, just as ritual brought him into the Florine Academia Synod, ritual would also bring him back 'out' of it. He was made into a true sorcerer in his own right and given the chance to be born again with a new name. As was the custom amongst the Synod's membership he elected to take the name of a historic Florine figure of importance, and in Mauro's case he chose the much-beloved orator Drusus, who was struck down for defying a tyrant who sought to keep his power by military force.
Drusus made a name for himself amongst certain less savory circles of Florine society, as much for frustrating ambitions as fulfilling them. He switched sides as often as he formed coalitions. He employed sorcery as much as he employed trickery and social engineering. He was for the most part regarded as an asset by members of the Senate, but he was also regarded as somewhat untrustworthy. He was a man with his own ambitions, with a certain zealous drive that propelled him, and a wizard with ambitions and drive was something to be worried about. He had on more than one occasion had to deal with nameless, faceless catspaws as well as pressure from the Church and the Florine State Gendarmerie.
The Academia Synod's gaze turned north independent of the eternally bickering Senate's. Vasili's war with Dawn was already a fact of life, and indeed it was a beneficial one for the neutral Florine. The traders were pleased enough with the status quo, and so the Senate and the condottiere remained uninvolved in the conflict. The Synod was more concerned with the balance of power - and by extension the plague - than with war profiteering and the guilds.
Ultimately, out of all of the debate on the opportunities presented by the plague and the war came a singular decision. The plague must be understood and it must be stopped. Drusus was selected from the ranks of sorcerers as an ideal candidate and given an appropriate cover to travel north, under the patronage of a Florine senator who had business and political relationships in The Crossroads. And so he went north promptly as could be, far from his old stomping grounds of cutthroat Florine politics.
Drusus set his own machinations into motion, now far away from the watchful gaze of the Synod and Senate both. He had a plan that would completely shatter both organizations' expectations of what he could accomplish. He studied the Consano through personal contacts and magical divination. A small collection of individuals, but one populated by big names, a group with just the sort of potential combination of talent and naivety to help him pursue his own goals.
The Plague would be stopped. He committed himself to this. But he also committed himself to so much more.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Drusus is, first and foremost, trained extensively in the magical arts and had the advantage of learning in a professional institution. He was not impeded by the pitfalls of self-education and as such has a considerable length and breadth of magical power that he can reliably call upon. He has a particular penchant for more subtle invocations, such as those involving illusion or divination.
Secondly, Drusus is a learned man, by virtue of the traditional elite Florine education and the less conventional lore he delved into in his time as an apprentice in the Florine Academia Synod. He is particularly well versed in the more scholarly aspects of sorcery, alchemy, and spirituality. He's also trained in the finer points of the law, mathematics, and philosophy.
In his service with the Senate he picked up on a number of more rake-ish talents such as the ability to use lockpicks and make use of conventional sleight of hand.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Drusus travels light. He'll typically carry only his most essential reagents for spellcraft, such as hagstooth and scalpbrine, and will make use of a variety of pouches and pockets to store them away. He also tends to keep a pair of spellbooks on his person, both bound with black leather and stamped with the sigil of the Florine Senate. The spellbooks aren't strictly necessary for spellcasting, but they do streamline the process of invocation. They function of a focusing tool first and reference material second.
Drusus also carries a proper channeling focus at all times, and depending on the circumstances he'll carry either a scepter or a proper stave. The scepter is a heavy copper implement that's approximately two feet in length that features acid-etched scripts and patterns. The stave is around six feet in length and is carved of dark ash heartwood. A heavy globe of copper is set at its top. These two implements are intended as a means of focusing his power, and they are absolutely necessary for any spellwork beyond the most basic cantrips.
He'll also tend to bring along some basic components for alchemical works, such as for common poultices and remedies. He's a layman at best with them, but it helps to be prepared, or so he reminds himself. And, for the purpose of being prepared he also keeps a knife spirited away in one boot and a set of lockpick's tools in the other.
Magical Spells The Florine Academia Synod pursues sorcery in a very methodical fashion, breaking down each invocation into its component parts in order to make the learning and casting into a more formulaic, streamlined process. Each invocation is, at least on paper, divided into several 'Truths', which are treated as components. For example, to join the Truths of 'Fire' and 'Projection' would theoretically produce something along the lines of a fireball. Of course this is all magical theory, and many of the Synod's best and brightest are more spontaneous than the Truth system would imply. The mental and physical strain of using Truths increases exponentially with each addition.
Drusus repetoire is as follows, in no particular order:
Projection: To extend one's reach beyond one's mortal coil. At its most fundamental form this can allow one to use their five senses as if they were 'projecting' themself. In essence it's a more intimate form of scrying, but its range is limited to the sorcerer's sight (across a room they're in, a valley from a hill, etc.) unless further Truths are applied, such as fixate, which permits one to truly scry from afar. Expansion: To push with the fundamental power of the Curse. At its most basic this can allow a sorcerer to shove indiscriminately. Contraction: To gather the power of the Curse around oneself. At its most fundamental it can allow a sorcerer to ward off a foe's strike. Impulse: To strike with the Curse's primal power. A very basic form of magical power, with some of the basic manifestation of magical power (e.g. telekinetic bolts) falling under this classification. Shadow: To play with or even create an absence of light, often for the purpose of deception. At its most fundamental form this can allow one to deprive someone of their ability to see in a localized area. Light: To play with or even create illumination, often for the purpose of deception. At its most basic it can provide illumination in a cave or perhaps dazzle a foe. Fixate: To use various mediums to locate something or someone. The work of oracles and diviners would fall under this Truth. Ward: To use magical power in order to link one's senses with a particular area or object. Its disturbance will be known to whoever's maintaining the ward. The Four Elements: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Air are often employed in conjunction with other Truths with intent destructive or otherwise. Worm: To interfere in the workings of the mortal mind by means of suggestion or confusion. Worm sorcery is best applied against those who are unprepared for it, those who don't suspect one of being a sorcerer. A skeptical mind, or a hostile one, is almost impossible to affect. It is most effective when applied to easier suggestions, such as telling someone what they want to hear. It's far from outright 'mind control'.
EDIT: Changed theme music and removed an extra word.
Character Theme – Let's Explore – Rachel Wilson --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mathis stands at an average height of 1.8034m (5ft 11in) and weights around 200 pounds. His body isn't overly muscled, but it isn't fat as well. However, he has some fat, so he could be warm during the harsh winters in the Far North. The long and loose darken hair is tied, because it would most likely get caught in branches or get grabbed by bandits. His face makes him look older, but that's just for all of the stress that he kept to himself ever since he left the Kingdom of Dawn
The clothes are just something that Mathis brought at Southarbor when he first set foot at Vasili. Since the day he got them, he has added in a couple pockets and kept it clear. His armor is just made out of hardened leather, so he could move around while he is firing his bow. He also tied some leather around his legs to put his dagger in, it's a lot easier to pull it out when he needs it. They don't look 'wealthy' and the colors are mostly dark, but Mathis doesn't care how 'good' his clothes looks. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Full Name】 Mathis Azaïs
【Alias】 Mathis
【Gender】 Male
【Age】 Twenty-Nine
【Sexuality】 Questioning
【Birth Place】 Dawngaurd
【Nation/Allegiance】 Kingdom of Dawn
【Profession】 Explorer
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Personality】 Mathis is loyal and honest with people that he cares for; however, he isn't a person to trust. He doesn't flirt as much as the common man does and he isn't such on what gender he likes. Since he has spent time exploring the Far North, he has become more curious and risk-taking of things. Like, go to a tribe's camp and write down stuff on how they made their homes. And he is optimistic to the bad side of things.
Because of his times away from civilization, he doesn't know how to socialize with people that well. Of course, he has the manners and he does talk to people; but, he isn't emotionally with people at all. Especially with the wealthy or most people who were born in Vasili, those kind of people Mathis hates. However, he doesn't state that when he meets them. His hate could be just anger over the fact that Vasili tried to invade his home country.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 The only person that Mathis loved more was his mother and brother. His mother supported his dreams of becoming an explorer and brother told him that he would still love him 'no matter what happens'. School was his second home as he spent time studying the history of The Northern Lands and the world. And at the age of fifteen, he was for such that he wanted to become an explorer. His father didn't like that and told him that goal was 'so stupid that he should just become a farmer'.
His mother and brother were supportive of his dream and soon he was going to explore Far North. He spent years getting ready for the expedition to the uncharted lands. Mathis trained on the bow and arrow and learned how to survive out there. He also learned how to use a dagger by his brother, just in case he didn't have any arrows left. Funding the expedition was the easy part, because his charm and determination got him the funds needed.
At the age of twenty-six, Mathis was ready to leave his family and nation behind. With the war between Dawn and Vasili going on, he had to leave quickly before Vasili launch another invasion. He said his goodbyes to his family and left Dawngaurd.
He boarded a trading ship going to Southarbour and prayed that the ship wasn't attacked. Thankfully, he got off the ship at Southarbour and soon hired guards to escort Mathis to Fort Cain. The ride from Southarbour to Fort Cain took a long time; however, he decided to stop at Boulder Tower. The guards didn't agree with his decision, but they went anyway. He documented the whole area and it's people before racing away the area as the people threw rocks at them.
He then spent two years of his life documenting the area around Fort Cain and other parts of the Far North. He published his first book, Beyond Fort Cain. It was an interesting book about the tribes of the Far North and the areas beyond the control of Vasili. Mathis' book was mentioned all over The Northern Lands at schools and scholars debated about the book. It kept Mathis exploring the Far North and the tribes for many months until the plague surfaced.
While traveling back to Fort Cain, Mathis and the guards were riding their horses. The peaceful ride soon turned deadly as a man came out of the woods and attacked one of the guards. The man managed to bite into the guard's neck and he was running towards another guard. However, he was put down by Mathis' arrow and dropped dead below the guard's feet. They raced towards the wounded guard and carried him back to the Fort. The fort was the best option, because they were away from any nearby villages and even the tribes didn't have the proper medical equipment. Thirty minutes of carrying the man on horseback later, they got to the fort. By that time, his skin and blood soon became darken and he was immediately sent to the nurses and doctors for help.
Mathis and the others were told to wait until the wound was treated. And they went out of the room and waited outside. They heard mentions of the plague from people at Rundorm; but, they didn't care much about it as the plague was away from them. As they were talking to the fort's guard about what happened, they heard screaming coming from the room and sounds of horror. The fort's guard ran towards the room and saw the wounded guard chewing on a doctor's left arm.
Outside the fort, the infected were running to the fort and they were near the fort's wall in a couple minutes. The people were starting to panic over as the plague was invading the fort. The guards defended Mathis against the infected, which gave him to get his horse and race away from the fort. Of course, he knew that they were going to die and he thanked them for helping him the last time.
He raced away from the fort as the infected soon claimed Fort Cain, Mathis knew that he needed to get to the nearest town and report about it as soon as he could. So, he rode to Boulder Town and rested there for a couple days. He helped the people pack their belongings and rode with them to Titus. He stayed there only for a couple and then went to Minorhold to get on a ship, that was going to the Kingdom of Dawn.
However, he learned that his home country was shooting down any ships trying to cross the channel. Mathis couldn't believe it and now he didn't know what to do. He decided to go to the Crossroads and then to the capital, Sovereign. At the capital, he would hide there until the plague was under control and go back to his home.
Mathis needed to find a way out of this hell hole and this plan was the best one.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Because of his profession, he's better educated than most people in the Northern Lands. Mathis knows how to read and make maps, in fact, he has some made of the local tribes' villages. With the maps and other information, he knows more of the Far Norths than anyone else. Well, he doesn't know beyond the village of Rundorm and he barely knows the Grey Islands.
And his charismatic and persuasion has improved, due to his time in the Far North and with the tribes. They are useful for getting out of sticky situations or just getting something for someone. Other than those skills, he knows how to aim and fire a bow and he also knows how to stab someone with a dagger. And he knows about the history and the politics of the two countries.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools He has a bow and arrows that he uses for defensive. And he also has a dagger that he uses if he runs out of arrows.
Magical Spells Mathis doesn't have magical spells to cast or anything that's magical.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (I don't love your milkshakes. Also, my GMT is -7 (-8 if it isn't daylight saving time))
Character description Put simply, Shikoba Athanasi looks really, really old. He is a tiny man, hunched with age. Standing only 4’10”, he might weigh as much as 7 stone when wet (i.e. rather less than 100 lbs.). His skin is rough and leathery – the phrase “even his wrinkles have wrinkles” goes a long way to describing it – giving every indication of his having lived an extraordinarily long time as a hermit in the wilds of the North. His eyes, which are usually half-hidden underneath heavy and aged lids, are such a dark brown as to be almost black and his gaze, which is nearly always calm and implacable, is what many would describe as “fathomless”. His hair, which he usually manages to keep both reasonably clean and short, is as white as new-fallen snow.
Shikoba Athanasi wears the simple, unadorned linen breeches and woolen robes and coif of a tribal holy man and hermit, and usually wraps himself in a goat’s hair cloak for protection against the bitter northern cold.
Shikoba Athanasi is usually a reserved, quiet, and contemplative individual. He’s humble and has a peaceful and easygoing demeanor, but is also very driven and disciplined in his own quiet way. Shikoba is also very prone to stillness, whether standing or sitting, and is not prone to moving quickly unless it is truly necessary, a trait that frequently frustrates younger or simply less patient individuals.
To say that Shikoba Athanasi is always calm is like saying that a mountain knows how to stand still. The ancient holy man is far too old, has seen far too much, and is far too certain of his convictions concerning the old gods and his fate when he finally goes to meet them – which will, in all likelihood, be quite soon – for him to get emotionally worked up about much (or anything, really). Shikoba exudes a quiet, easy confidence and a contentment with his circumstances that can be at times inspiring, and at other times infuriating for the (always much younger) people around him.
Though he is normally easygoing and calm, Shikoba can also be implacable and stern, and is capable of fixing others with a gaze of such piercing, fathomless intensity that few can withstand it for long. Having spent more than twice as many decades as a teacher and mentor than most other men have lived period, he can also take on a natural air of authority and competence when he feels the need. At most times, however, he plays the part of the shuffling, good-natured old man, and lets the young’uns steal all the attention and do all the talking. The events of the past seven weeks have left their mark on him however, and his good-natured demeanor has taken on a harder and stiffer edge than normal.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Shikoba Athanasi – which is a title meaning “Father Immortal” or “Old Man Deathless” – has been living among the far northern peaks of the Icy Spine for longer than anyone, whether of Vasili or of the six tribes, can recall with certainty. There are a handful of geezers and grandmothers among the tribes, all quite ancient themselves and mostly senile now, who claim to recall that when they were small children he was known as “Iakov Bogumil” and that he was still a young man of only 2 or 3 decades, but no one living can speak of his life before the age of around 40 years with any real assurance. Even today the name of Shikoba Athanasi is largely unknown within the Kingdom of Vasili (or beyond), but among the tribes and in the Far North in general his name has become a byword, and Iakov Bogumil himself has become a figure more of legend (albeit a minor one) and folklore than of fact.
In his youth, it is said, Iakov Bogumil was a warrior of his people, more skilled in battle than all others, and that he had already earned victory and honor for his tribe and for himself in many different battles before his first quarter-century of life. In the tales told by the old mothers among the six tribes, the young warrior Iakov Bogumil slays many enemies and just as many monsters: Northern barbarians, Vasili soldiers, giant spiders, trolls, ogres, even (so say the most outlandish of the tales) a dragon or two. No enemy was safe from Iakov’s mighty arm. “Iakov Bogumil and the Wyvern Varnava’s Thirty Golden Scales and One” is one of the older tales, and it can still be heard at gatherings in Rundorm to this day. (Or at least it could be up until several weeks ago….)
Then, so say those same tales, Iakov was betrayed – some say by his most trusted friend, others that it was a beautiful maiden whom he loved that betrayed him – whatever the way of it, he was captured and taken into slavery by the soldiers of Vasili (this was during the tribal rebellions led by Timur, seventy years and more before the time of Cain). There, he was forced for a time to do battle against other slaves as a pit fighter, but unlike most unlucky souls condemned to fight in the pits of the South, Iakov eventually managed to escape his captors and, fleeing the city of Southarbor and the Kingdom of Vasili entirely, he returned to the Far North and to his people.
After his escape, Iakov settled down in Rundorm under a new name and there, it is said, he met the love of his life, the beautiful maiden Iseut. Now Iseut was known not only for her great beauty, but also for her fiery disposition, her pious adherence to the old gods and their ways, and yet still more so for her skill as a huntress, for it was said that in her day there was none more skilled at the hunt than she. The tale of Iakov and Iseut, and of how the former warrior and slave hunted the mighty huntress and eventually captured her heart, is a tale long in the telling, but win the maiden’s heart Iakov eventually did. He and Iseut were bound in marriage before the Six and the Nine, the lesser spirits, and all the tribes in a ceremony held among the hills outside of Rundorm.
While the tales of Iakov Bogumil do not end there, they do quickly cease to contain anything in them that might actually have some basis in the truth (assuming, of course, one believes they ever contained such in the first place). And so, tales of Iakov the legendary warrior must be laid aside and accounts of Shikoba Athanasi, the very real mountain sage, must be taken up in their place.
Lurking at the very edge of memory of the elders of the six tribes is a man who may once have called himself Iakov, or possibly it was Blazh, or Drazhan – the accounts of the elders differ on this point, and who can blame them, given that this would have been 60 or 70 years in the past. Regardless, this man was once married to a very beautiful woman – who, the elders generally agree, was named either Iseut or Ibb – and he would eventually become the holy man, mountain hermit, and sage known as Shikoba Athanasi. In all of the tribal elders’ accounts, this man was of the gifted blood and, according to his own testimony as passed down by those elders, he had learned of his gift “during the wars of my youth”.
The first reliable accounts of Shikoba Athanasi are from Bardonium and Falkreach. There it is generally agreed that, when he first appeared, Shikoba Athanasi was fleeing the soldiers of Vasili, though for what crimes it is not known (but if the old tales are true, it likely would have had to do with his escape from slavery in Southarbor). Whatever the truth, Shikoba Athanasi and his wife settled in the foothills between Bardonium and Falkreach, a little ways away from an ancient temple dedicated to the God and Goddess of Earth and Water.
For several decades the couple lived quietly and peacefully in their cottage in the woods behind the Temple of Drisn and Cais (the local equivalents of Ruo and Wae). There, the Shikoba (as he came to be called by the people of that region) offered training in the arts of battle to the young men of the surrounding villages that were deemed by their elders to be of sufficient talent to be worthy of the honor, and he continued to hone his own talent and skill in the arts of internal alchemy and magic, sometimes also taking children under his wing who themselves possessed gifted blood. Eventually it became the custom in that region to send any promising young warriors, as well as any gifted children, to live for a time with the Shikoba and his wife in order that they receive training: in battle for the young warriors, and in the old ways and how they applied to the mastery of gifted blood, for those few children blessed (or cursed) with the knack for magic. For her part, Iseut continued to hunt, and to offer her skill with herbal remedies in trade for goods and services from the villages in the area.
Decade after decade passed in this fashion, until it seemed to most that the Shikoba and his wife had always lived in the tiny hut tucked away behind the Temple of Drisn and Cais that sat among the foothills between Bardonium and Falkreach. By this time a great many of the warriors in the tribes of the Far North had been trained by the Shikoba – or by one of his former students – as had quite a few of the tribes’ gifted. It even happened in later years that, though Shikoba Athanasi himself did not participate in Cain’s Uprising (as he had done in the days of Timur several decades ago), many of the Warrior Chief’s men, and Cain himself, had trained under the Shikoba in their youth.
It eventually came to pass that, in the winter before the dragon Turaung was slain by the Vasili-man Richard Buxton, Iseut fell ill. By this time both she and the Shikoba were already quite old, and so her husband was naturally distressed by her illness, all the more so as her condition worsened. The Shikoba’s students aided him in caring for his wife, but despite their best efforts her illness worsened seemingly in time with the steadily worsening weather of the harsh Northern winter. Iseut’s spirit finally departed her body in mid-winter, during one of the worst blizzards in memory.
The grieving and distraught Shikoba buried his wife of many decades. His students grieved with him for four days afterwards, but on the morning of the fifth day their master was nowhere to be found. After three more days of searching, they finally found the Shikoba sitting at the mouth of a cave halfway up the face of a nearby mountain of the Icy Spine. Though his students begged and entreated, the ancient master would not be moved, declaring that he would find peace in his heart over the death of his wife, or he would find death. Until then, he declared, he would neither move nor take any food or other sustenance.
It is said in some accounts that he sat at the mouth of that cave, in winter, partaking of neither food nor water, for more than a fortnight before rising again, but such tales are doubtless exaggerations of the truth. All that can be said for certain is that the ancient master sat unmoving on his mountain for a long enough span that it inspired first worry, then amazement, and finally superstitious fear. When he finally lifted himself up again he had ceased to be the Shikoba, and had become known instead as Shikoba Athanasi – Old Man Deathless.
Shikoba Athanasi never did come back down from his mountain, though, nor did he return to the hut where he and his wife had lived for nearly five decades. He became a hermit instead, sending all of his former students away, except for a single gifted child who was allowed to remain with him to learn under his tutelage, and to make periodic pilgrimages to the nearby villages for supplies and news. After a decade, the child – now a young adult – was sent back to her people, and a new gifted child was selected and sent to study under the Mountain Sage. Twenty years and two apprentices came and went in this fashion.
Shikoba’s second apprentice was sent back to his people six years ago after his decade of tutelage was complete, and a young boy named Ermo Wilkin was selected to go and train under the ancient master. As had happened with each of his previous students, Shikoba Athanasi soon grew to care for young Ermo as though the boy were his own son (or, more likely, his own great-grandson). The boy demonstrated a talent for magic, but showed an even greater interest and aptitude for the herbal medicinal remedies that Shikoba Athanasi’s wife was once so fond of.
Six more years passed. And then, seven weeks ago, the boy Ermo returned from his latest pilgrimage to Bardonium bearing strange tales of an evil plague that had fallen upon Falkreach. Shikoba Athanasi was troubled upon hearing what the boy had to say, immediately detecting a scent of very dark magic in his protégé’s account of the strange new disease. Fearing the worst, he sent Ermo back to Bardonium the following day to gather any more information he could and to determine the state of things in the surrounding region. The old hermit had the feeling it might finally be time for him to leave his mountain and return to the wider world.
A week passed and Ermo had yet to return. Three more days filled with worry went by, and Shikoba Athanasi could wait no more; for the first time in nearly three decades, the old hermit girded himself for travel and walked down his mountain and out in the wider world. He was entirely unprepared for what he found.
Bardonium was an open grave, echoing with the groans and snarls of the infection that had killed it. The dead were everywhere, as were those who moved but were no longer quite “living”. Though he did discover a few survivors, Shikoba was unable to locate Ermo anywhere, and after having to defend himself and his new charges from the cannibalistic intentions of several plague-stricken the old man decided his search would be best conducted further south.
Using his skills and his magic, Shikoba Athanasi has managed to stay just ahead of the plague for the last five-and-a-half weeks, travelling from village to village and encouraging those he finds to flee and head south. He has tried to treat the plague with medicine, and he has tried to quell it with magic, all to no effect. The best he has been able to offer so far is forewarning of the plague’s impending arrival to those villages he’s managed to reach in time. So far he has been unable to uncover any trace of his lost apprentice Ermo, and fears the poor boy is long since dead – or worse.
A little less than a week ago, while passing through a village whose residents were planning to evacuate to Minorhold, Shikoba heard tell of a group commissioned by the Vasili king with the mission to investigate the cause of the Black Blood Plague and to find a cure. Immediately, he set out for the town of Crossroads where it was rumored they were recruiting members to aid in their mission. Having seen so much already of the fear, misery, and death the plague had already wreaked upon his people, Shikoba Athanasi had no desire to return to the North or to face again the plague-stricken, but he had hidden away from the world for long enough, and a boy whom he cared about very much had paid the price for that. At his age, Shikoba knew he was unlikely to live much longer in any event, and he wanted to spend his final days doing something his wife would be proud of.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Shikoba Athanasi is considered a holy man of the Old Ways by the tribal people of the Celtobar Peninsular, and as such his knowledge of the Old Gods and their ways is exceptionally thorough. As a tribesman himself, Shikoba is also personally familiar with the ways and customs of the Six Tribes as far north as Falkreach, and he naturally has much knowledge in the art of tracking, hunting, and of simply surviving in the wilds of the North. Additionally, his decades spent in the harsh climate of the Icy Spine Mountains has taught him how to endure even the worst weather, and made him remarkably agile in rocky or steep terrain. Shikoba lacks any kind of “proper” education, however, and knows very little of the ways of the people of Vasili, or of the lands further south.
Though he has never received any formal training in the use of magic, 9 decades has proved sufficient time for Shikoba to become highly skilled in the use of his gifted blood despite facing all of the usual handicaps that come with self-education in such arcane arts. Strictly speaking, Shikoba Athanasi is more of a theurgist than a sorcerer, and nearly all of his magical capabilities are wrapped up in and interwoven with his beliefs in the Old Gods and their ways.
While he does know a number of charms, cantrips, and spells, most of Athanasi’s focus and training over the years has gone into mastering internal alchemy. As such, most of Athanasi’s magic is extremely subtle and often appears to be more the result of great skill or extensive practice than of supernatural power; what usually gives him away is that no matter how skilled he may be, someone Shikoba Athanasi’s age simply should not be as spry or nimble as he is.
With over 90 years of constant training, and more than just a few battles in his youth to give him practical experience, Shikoba’s martial skills are simply astounding. However his advanced age means that, even with the aid of magic, his body simply cannot perform as it once could. Even so, his skills are such that he can normally best his opponents using skill, speed, and misdirection in place of strength or endurance. Shikoba is proficient with most melee weapons, but is most skilled with staffs, clubs, and swords. He is proficient with a bow and arrow as well, but his old muscles being what they are, he finds drawing and firing one too difficult to do quickly or often.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools Shikoba Athanasi carries the clothes on his back, his walking staff, a skin for holding water, and a small pack in which he keeps the necessities of the road, including his magical supplies. He also typically has a collection of paper charms prepared for the activation of specific, preselected spells tucked away.
For weaponry, Shikoba Athanasi normally uses his walking staff as a weapon, when one is required, but if circumstances require it he can summon a weapon to hand using one of his paper charms (see below). Currently, he favors a tribe-crafted horse chopper blade he came across in one of the many villages he passed through on his way south, as he finds it more effective at incapacitating the plague-stricken than most other kinds of blades.
Magical Spells Athanasi’s magical skills mostly revolve around the internal alchemy taught as part of the Old Ways among the northern tribes. Proper meditations, proper breathing, proper diet, and proper obeisances allow a man to achieve proper balance within himself and with the world around him. So balanced, the enlightened man can achieve such physical feats as rooting himself immovably to the earth, moving like the wind, flowing through and around obstacles like water, resisting cold and other physical hardships with the indifference of a blazing fire, striking with the suddenness and force of a lightning bolt, and removing oneself from sight as completely as a shadow in a brightly lit room, to name but a few.
Centered on the physical body as the majority of these techniques are, they primarily involve motion, endurance, resisting harm, and inflicting it.
Of course at his advanced age, this mostly just means Shikoba Athanasi can keep up with the younger folks when it comes to physical endeavors. Occasionally though, he can be pretty impressive even by their lofty standards.
Most of the “real” magic that Shikoba Athanasi knows involves such things as charms that will bring a man good fortune or bless a marriage, rituals that will improve crop yield in the coming season, incantations to summon or drive away rain, and other such shamanic magic useful to a holy man of the northern tribes. Most of it is entirely useless against the Black Blood Plague. He does have some talent at scrying and reading oracles.
In terms of spells that might actually be of some use in the Consano’s mission, Shikoba Athanasi is very proficient in the use of charms that can be written on something (paper, usually, but nearly anything will do) and coupled with a spoken incantation to activate its power. In this way he can create temporary illusions, summon lights and flame, and so on. It takes time to write out the charm, and he must have both a writing instrument and something to write on, but he can prepare such charms in advance, and he typically carries a small assortment of such pre-crafted charms on his person at any given time. One of his most useful tricks using this technique involves using such written charms to summon gear or weapons to his hand, saving him the trouble of carting such things around on his person all the time.
He can also, of course, conjure raw manifestations of elemental force as can most with gifted blood, though in his case his decades of practice and experience mean his own such manifestations are generally more subtle and expertly crafted than most.
Character Theme –Walk the Wyrm's Spine --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ormr is a head over many men at six foot, seven inches, blessed in this respect by blood or fate. His eyes, when seen, are green and piercing, his hair is blonde and long-braided, and his beard similarly braided down to the chest. A long scar traces up the left side of his chest, up from the sternum and over the heart. He looks older than his years, hard-bitten, but with no lack of vitality.
His features are very often hidden by a suit of fullplate, supposedly a relic of faraway times, worked from meteoric iron in the deep cold. Patterened with scale engravings, the helm stag-horned and faced with a wolflike draconic visage, its craftsmanship is out-of-place to its supposed origin in the farther north. Additional frills beyond the armor are sparse; he is often taken to wearing a heavy fur cloak to keep out the wind, and no more as an overlayer, while the underlayer is similarly furred and padded.
Ormr is, in many ways, the archetypal stoic northern doomseeker. Reserved and of few words when he can help it, substituting action in their place. He is seemingly heedless of the ruin around him, taking all in stride as the plague consumes his homelands, and if he is sorrowful for their plight, then he certainly shows nothing of it. If he is weary, he will not be the first to call it to attention. If outright retreat, and not tactical withdrawal, is most wise, he will be last to call it.
The free companies and refugees he travelled south with knew him little and knew less of him. Occasionally, hearsay and rumor would be passed of his lineage, the disgraced son of the mad chief of Lindlund, but never overloud, never within earshot, and never widely. The small fair fame he had in this, and in his martial services to those insulted amongst the feuding tribals, and rarely in actions against the Vasili, has been largely overshadowed by the plague, and this does not bother him in the least, for he yet has no need of renown. In those days, a scarce few would come to him, to ask of him or his advice, and his answers always pointfully obscure in both cases. Relatively wise in the right ways of the North, he often found himself a mediator, a role in which he was impartial and quick to suggest or himself dispense justice, either in mercy or severity as necessary.
Despite this practical courtesy, his social sensibilities are dulled and cold when it comes to interrelation. To the point, and little else. While his self-interest is unspoken, it is clear in his avoidance that there is more to his joining than a mere desire to cleanse the North of what ails it, or even to return home, of which he does not speak to most. With the increasing disarray of the tribal lands and the sheer flood of rumors that travel south, there is little to pick out about him, despite some small former prominence. What, then, can be discerned about his ulterior motives? Only that he seeks it to the ends of the earth, to the grave and beyond if need be.
In days all too far past,it is said that the North was a land mythic. Great dragons and beasts walked the earth seeking the craftswork of those below them, and faefolk mingled with men openly. Magic, good and bad, ran wild, yet the former always triumphed in health over the latter. The bitter cold of the eternal snowfall was matched tenfold by the heat of the hearthfires of giants, god-men, dwarves, and elves, and nothing was hidden from them. So say the tales of yore. These days are remembered fondly in northern tales - the mystic recitals of druids and skalds - the wistful recounting of a primordial age that may have never even been.
Twenty-five years ago the dragon Turaung was slain. His contemporary grandeur paled relative to his mythical forebears, whose armor was tenfold shields, with teeth as swords and claws as spears, thunderbolt-tails, hurricanes in wing and breathing death, but he was a true dragon nonetheless, and lorded himself over men as he saw as his right. On this day, a seven-tailed comet flew overhead, shining like the sun, and in its wake followed the sibling-stars, which one could not parse in one moment and the next as one or two, merging and breaking at will.
Many of the northern shaman debated the meaning of this celestial manifestation; only a quiet few of a particular cult, gifted with ill-known lore, could speak to its nature, and they remained quiet. Eleven years before, Ormr, son of Sindri, chief of the Lindings, had been born beneath that comet's first passing- the sibling stars absent- and the shamans of the Wyrmkin of Lindlund, Land of the Lime Tree Copse, did see the signs. And they did know what was to come.
Lindlund, that land south of Falkreach and north of Fort Cain, is often said to be one of the most myth-touched lands in the North outside the unknown reaches of the Grey Islands and the wastes 'cross the mountains. Strange, then, that the petty king of this chiefdom would be the most mundane of men. A widower ill-gifted in rulership, weak in the sword, vile in lecherousness, and poor in humor, Sindri son of Hrafn was unliked by his vassals and the commonfolk alike, kept on the throne only because of the holiness of his ancient bloodline. He was nothing alike to his father, a man of good blood and better character, highly esteemed by his peers and his allies, even and especially outside Lindlund. But Ormr, too, was not alike to his father, and in this was he blessed.
Though born as a babe and as an adolescent 'man' under the sign of a seven-tailed comet and sibling stars, something that might be considered exceedingly auspicious in the south and a sign of a special fate, it drew no great attention in the North. In those lands, every child is born under peculiar signs, once as they come into the world, and once as they grow old enough to tread paths of learning and labour, every father and mother marking down the omens for interpretation, and moreso in Lindlund, a realm regarded both with romance and as exceedingly pompous for such a middling demesne. Ormr's signs, when heard as boasts from an ill-liked chief who fancies himself king, were altogether expected and regarded with skepticism; the shaman searched for all manner of interpretations of the comet's passing in lieu of this explanation. Neither the Wyrmkin nor Ormr himself cared overmuch for these feelings; the former traced the way of things in their meditations, and the latter was young, and humble, and good of heart, birthsign or no.
Sindri, generally distant and uninterested in his progeny despite a token love, left his raising to the court, to those men whom knew Hrafn son of Alawīdaz, and the men who knew them. Then were the seeds of nostalgia sowed, for these men were old and set in their ways, be they Wyrmish or more conventionally heathenish. Far from his father, apatheistically content to laze and enjoy what luxury he could afford to the shame of Hrafn, the young Ormr was eager, befit with a vitality and energy beyond children his age. He learned the sword-ways, the good laws of courtesy and hospitality, the writing and reading of runes, and the outer mysteries of the Wyrmkin, through whatever kernels of knowledge and truth the court shamans might bemusedly share to the boy in riddles and games. It would not be bold to say that he was loved by his guardians, and in his sparse interactions with the commonfolk, he was sure to endear himself, not for mere practicality's sake, but a sincere belief in the good law.
It was inevitable, then, that the good law, in good application, should meet its opposite, and in bad application. Sindri was never a pious soul, but always fearful, both for his own mortality and the poorly afterlife he had garnered for his mediocrity, that of an unvirtuous stick-picker, or so the shamans told him. Always, they demanded that he avert course, but the bad king was adamantly indecisive, dependent on Providence. And, in an ugly light, it did shine down on him. Evangelists of the south, flaggelants and psychotics all, had beat a manic path on the backs of local hospitality and following ejection for its abuse; rather than turn for home, they had always gone further north, to 'save these miserable barbarian heathens' souls.'
They were at the end of their doomed road; word had spread far and wide of their desecrations and shrill blasphemies, and they would have no more hospitality. All that was left was Lindlund, and the wilds. They all but commanded the bad king to sponsor them, take them in and convert; in return, they told him all he wished to hear. A heaven without works and a stay from hell. And he granted their every request. The court was deeply disturbed, on the verge of rebellion, but Ormr was too young, and too unblooded, now forteen years of age. He could not take the throne, and a regency was inconcievable; the old blood was the holy of holies, and to put any man in supremacy over it was unspeakable, no matter the circumstance. Any coup would have to wait.
It was not long 'til Ormr began to understand his guardian's anxieties. Self-hating to the point of madness, this particular crop of Lightists called out to the One for everything, at every turn, scraping and groveling. But in the next moment, they would turn on their fellow with venom and fire and hate, chastising for every perceived impurity, and their wrath was worse on the peasantfolk. Necessary defense against their assaults became all too regular, but Sindri forbade any harm to befall them. A band of incompetent foreign hystericals had become a second court practically overnight, and had eagerly set to breaking parts of the populace into line, by any and all means.
But it was not these aspects that Ormr grew to despise. Not the substitution of rapture for love, not the begging of an unanswering deity, not the rages and paranoias, not the floggings, not the blasphemies, not the complete and utter disrespect for the good and right Law, and the disallowance of rightful reprisal. These he hated, but they were not what he despised. What he truly, truly despised most of all was the dichotomy between adherents; either they were utter hypocrites, who believed not a word of what they preached, or complete madmen, who believed every word of self-contradicting psychosis. And both were endlessly caught in iniquities contrary to their preaching. Happy was he, then, when he heard of the rise of Cain the Great, Cain the Deliverer, Cain the Hero, and myriad other titles, whom spoke against the softness and rot southwards, the festering of Vasili's disrespect for the Law, some six-hundred years on. And so did the boy, over four years a stranger to this new court, confiding with and being confided in with his old teachers, so did he become enamoured with that rising star amongst the northmen.
It was to Ormr's great surprise, then, when Sindri decided to lend his sword to Cain's forces. Why a change of heart now? He had no love of the old ways, nor any personal love for the other tribes, nor any animosity towards Vasili, and his vizier-flaggelants were outright hostile. Yet it was one of these flaggelants who was key, a much-scarred man with black beard and mane, disjointed and flashy in his fashion, psychosis clear in his eyes and seeping up from his soul, a Vasiliman by the name of Kaganovich. A would-be prophet, he was utterly convinced that, in order for the Light to prevail, the weak and sinful south-men would have to be annihilated to the last. A new covenant was in order, one with the men of the North, in whom he saw great potential, if their loyalties could be turned from the Law to a construct of his own devising. He would rot the very soul out of the North and put a simulacra in its place in the postwar, turning Cain's New Kingdom to his New Light. And, inevitably, he had informed Sindri of a high place in this new order, to which the bad king was most pleased. Soon, Kaganovich had converted a fair number of the other Lightists, and had surrounded himself with a solid core of true believers.
Prophets, however, are rarely alone, and rarely sincere. One of the most well-respected and inscrutable of the Wyrmkin Shaman, a mad old seer known only as Stag-Horns- for he wore the skull of a stag, and took its name for himself, as was the way of the more eccentric ascetics- had his own tale to tell of the future, and one which Sindri was most displeased with. Ormr's destiny, his truestmost fate, was to be a Hero in the archetypal sense; to live and to die for his people. 'Should he go under arms in the name of Cain,' Stag-Horns rasped, 'then the most glorious fate of all awaits him!' And the old peers of Hrafn were proud, and even Sindri, a cold, deprived and depraved man, felt a swell of warm paternal love for a moment. But, as Stag-Horns continued, 'that glorious fate will await him in a suiting death, for in this path he is doom-bound.' And pride gave way to murmurings, and murmurings to fear, and fear into outrage. The weaponthanes and runic men despaired, for Ormr was a bright and young soul, tragic to part with, and they beat their chests with fist and sword against shield. The flaggelants were enraged that a heathen still held sway in the court, and turned their venomous tongues against the son of the Lindings and the false prophetry on display.
It was Sindri's word that was deciding, for bad chief or not, he was King of the Lindings, and his word was the law when it came to the old blood. Though fearing for his power in the age of the New Light should he go on without an heir- for he could produce none, having gone barren with disease from his iniquities and depravities- he was, for the first time in his life, afraid for his son, for in him he saw a determination he had never known, and apparitions of the future threw themselves upon his ailing mind, bloody and terrible. For the first and only time, love motivated him. He explicitly forbade Ormr from raising his arms in Cain's name. And again, the court was in uproar. Swords flashed, voices rose up in anger and adulation both, and more than one scathing verse classic and improvised was thrown against the name of Sindri and the Light. At the height of the uproar, Stag-Horns made all silent with the low crack of his staff's butt-end against the floor. 'You, then, will go in disgrace,' he proclaimed, his gaze and all gazes upon Sindri, 'And his fate will be yours in a different way.' Then was Stag-Horns banished in a final outrage, barred from returning to castle Lind, and Ormr was locked away for the wartime.
Then did the Lindings go to war at Cain's side, and many acts of great valor were done in his name. The good and right ways and all the might of the North was on their side; there could be nothing but victory, they thought. But treachery would come again into their midst, both expected an unexpected, for Kaganovich's evangelists had not the slightest luck in swaying men or banners to their cause. To sway men whom were already utterly convinced in their ways, ways revitalized by a triumphant hero, was impossible. And Sindri was impatient, and spiteful, and envious, and syphilis ate away at his mind. He was swiftly becoming a joke, a soon-to-be-villain of the great prose, whose ways were worse and more despised than the south-men, whose fate was to be supplanted by the son of Ormr, the good son of the Lindings, whom may soon be. The New Light would have to come in a different way.
Then did Sindri throw his lot in with the traitor Tanner and his peers, those men whom- for whatever reasons they may have had- did want to see Cain die. Men with a messiah will hear no prophets, and both Sindri and Kaganovich knew this. So they worked to murder Cain the Hero, supplying hooked-arrows, and foul alchemies, and a forgotten old blade whose name was Treachery. And Cain did die, to the horror of all, and Tanner suffered for his crimes, and died in turn. But Sindri, and Kaganovich, were not discovered in that time. The Lindings withdrew- forcibly and with great protest, the most righteous and most mighty refusing to lay down their arms and fighting for Cain's name to the bitter and bloody end- and the alliance of the north fell. Then did they gloat openly, when the weaponthanes had returned to their posts and the field-men to their homes, of the failure of Cain, for he refused to embrace the New Light. In all but the most explicit terms, they were clear in their conspiratory nature in Cain's murder. So did many of the good men of the Lindings throw down their badges, and pennants, and cloaks, and all marks of their allegiance, refusing to serve Sindri and pledging to return when 'the good son did sit upon the throne.'
These men were lucky, for Ormr could do no such thing, tied in blood as he was. A few of the most loyal had elected to stay, to guard against treachery and guide Ormr yet a while longer, yet they grew old. Now free from his doomed fate, the house arrest placed on Ormr was lifed, yet there was naught for him to live for. One night, he disappeared into the woods and groves, to whatever fate awaited him. Death, or providence. And providence smiled upon him, for there he found the exile Stag-Horns, alive and well. And Stag-Horns had much to tell him, about his old fate, and his new one, and the way of things, and the things that harness the ways. He was taught to use the Soma in the mushrooms of the linden-root, that strange plant that can at once calm the mind, bring utter tranquility, and also call up the most furious and divine wrath. He had learned to read the runes; now he learned which runes to read, with the old mysteries transmitted to him now. His heart grew harder, and bolder, and when his father or the mad priest would confront him with false sayings and taunts, he would have a counter-saying prepared, and they could not assail him. In this was Sindri driven finally away from any affection, falling into a black hate of his kin.
Three years have gone on, and Ormr is twenty-one years of age. Sindri speaks not to his, for he is withering fast, and seeks no reminder, and fails to remember. He is old, and he will die soon enough. The remainder of the old guard, both those near as old as he of Hrafn's time and the young and vital who took after him, have thoroughly thrown in with Ormr, while his flaggelants and their converts are falling to attrition from disease and self-wounding and exposure and more. With a maiden of Falkreach, daughter of their Chief, Ormr had fallen in love, both walking the paths of the lime tree copse. He would be wed, and she would be with child, and Sindri, a ruined man with an evil mind, would assuredly be forced to step down, and the entire farce of the New Light cast out. He, in so few words, was doombound. The words of Stag-Horns echoed in his mind; 'you will go in disgrace, and his fate will be yours, in a different way.' The bad king was beset by visions every night, and every day, whispering and babbling. The Light spoke to him, and it told him that his only hope was to extinguish his line; to become a kinslayer. He would rise from his grave as a god-king of the Lindings and the north-men, and the rest of the peoples of the world would be his inheritance. Perhaps the product of his broken mind, perhaps an illusion set in place by the mad prophet Kaganovich. His choice was singular.
In the blooming time of the dawn of Spring, when the snow grows thin, and the green fruit grows, and all things flower, Ormr, son of Sindri, and Dagheiðr, daughter of BaþufriþuR, stood beneath the First Tree at the heart of the royal copse, said to be the ancient progenitor of all lime trees. There they were to be wed, beneath all the gods and before all the good men of Lindlund and Falkreach. Then might they have ascended to the throne of Lindlund to set right what has gone wrong, and bear the Good Son to rule after them, but fate is cruel. The Bad King appeared in the midst of all in sparking smoke and foul smell, preaching evil things and death upon all attending. And the flaggelants appeared in the rear and all around, with arms in hand and bleeding scrawl upon butchered skin. And many did die in that day, for all had bound their sword into scabbard with knotted loops of tight thread, in deference to peace and the groom- who solely did not bind his sword- that they could not rise to their defense quickly enough. In an instant, Sindri slashed Dagheiðr below the ribs, and struck her down, and cleaved the heart-breast of his own son wide, but not deep, and he was made to bleed, but not die. In foul smoke, he manifested again amongst the attendants, and joined his foul host.
But Ormr was not a weak man, nor a fearful one, and flew into a rage of mourning. He held his bride as she died, each speaking their vows to become as husband and wife, and laid her to rest against the First Tree, then struck down three flagellants in the drawing of his sword. And BaþufriþuR cursed him, and his name, for he had allowed his only daughter to die, even as they came together in the defense of those still living to slaughter manyscore of evil men. Kaganovich fled, and Sindri disappeared. BaþufriþuR called to arms all the fighting men of Falkreach, first those amongst him, and soon, all his banners, and laid siege to Castle Lind with such haste as to leave his daughter where she lay. Ormr grieved a while longer for his lost love, before setting to pursue his father and slay him, no matter how grievous the punishment on the kinslayer. But in that moment, Stag-Horns appeared again, and stopped him where he stood. 'Rash action will malign your fate,' he warned, 'so you must follow me now, to the secret places of your old blood.' And had any other man said such in that time, Ormr would have struck him down without mercy, and without remorse, such was his grieving. But he knew Stag-Horns was wise, and followed him through the deep woods, to a secret place only he and the Wyrmkin now knew.
In the shadow of Castle Lind, they came upon a sheer rock face, too high to climb or to fall from, thus left ungarded by the Falkreach men. Ormr, even wounded, was angered and at a loss, and the bolster of Soma only made his passions rise higher. But Stag-Horns was wise, and touching the stone, revealed it as a secret door, carved with the likeness of the Wyrm and opening only to the old blood. Ormr took the blood of his breast, and let the stone taste of it, and it opened to a passage without light. Stag-Horns, still wise, let unseen sconces taste of the blue flame, and their way was lit. So they plunged into the forgotten reaches of Castle Lind, that even Ormr had not known until now, and came to a hollow beneath the castle, carved into the very hills it was seated on. The true seat of the ancient Linding kings, carved from a great rough of quartz, and seated in it was a suit of armor finer than any Ormr had seen before, not mail, but great scales and plates of darkened metal, and in its lap was an implement of lore nearly forgotten, the Wyrmhammer. 'You are no longer Ormr Sindrison, but œðikollr the Wildman, first to uptake this weapon, first to walk the Wyrm's spine, and you will remain he until the right signs appear,' spake Stag-Horns. And though Ormr was hesitant for but a moment, the appearance of Kaganovich in the far door did away with all doubt. Threatening all manner of tortures, dispensing with all pretense of his false-faith and casting spells of an evil light, he was silenced first with the strike of the fist, and then with a puff of dry-snow from Stag-Horn's pouch, falling into deep sleep.
When Ormr emerged from the deep place again, he had taken the new name, and the new face, and drug the half-corpse of the exploiter of his father's corruption behind. He and Stag-Horns returned to the grove, where Dagheiðr still lay, embraced gently by the snow and the branch, but not touched. And with the hammer of the Wyrm and the great iron stake, they crucified Kaganovich against the First Tree, still living, by leg, and hand, and heart. And he woke, and screamed, and preached blasphemies, confessing their falsehood, and foretold damnation and ruin on all houses, and the return of a great dragon. When he would not cease, he was silenced with a final nail between his lips. Some of the fighting men of Falkreach were attracted to the clamour, and seeing the strange figures standing over the body of their chief's daughter, they launched into the attack. Once-Sindrison and the shaman of old fled, disappearing into the thickets, losing their pursuers. When the fighting men returned, they found Kaganovich was still alive. The first nail they pulled from his mouth, he screamed his blasphemies again, and his anguish; the second from his heart, and then he died in a final gush of blood. And though the maiden had died weeping, and though she was beneath the bleeding prophet, the fighting-men swore that her lips had curved into a tranquil smile, and neither tear, nor snow, nor blood stained her.
From then on, Ormr Sindrison was no longer. He fully embraced the personae of œðikollr, and determined himself to one day return to his home and oust his father, or else his memory, to clear the name of his blood in vengeance for his lady-love, to whom he vowed chastity unto death. So he set out as a free hirdman, occasionally guided by the stag-horned shaman, and turned his eyes away from Lindlund, though not his ears. The siege was successful, and castle Lind stormed, for the fighting-men still loyal to Sindri were few, rendering its high perch, its walls and its keep all but useless. The Lindings were left on their own, forming a council regency of thanes and shamans once the men of Falkreach had gone home, for now satisfied with the killing of Sindri's loyalists, though the bad king himself had disappeared. A grudge declared against Sindri and his line, but œðikollr went unhunted. And with the end of the brief Cainite War, and its resultant disarray, there was no end of work for a hirdman. œðikollr drifted from retinue to retinue, solving disputes in law with word or hammer, slaying monsters, even spirit-walking and spirit-talking in the absence of a shaman proper. He made his living, and earned his scars, and as Ormr was forgotten, œðikollr gained a small fair fame. Few knew the relevant lore outside of Lindlund, and the Lindings were ill inclined to share such with outsiders in their present hardships, but a few truthful rumors did make their way into circulation. And amongst those, many others, substantially more far-fetched. Giving no regard to this talk, œðikollr watched for the signs. Patiently and ever-after.
For fifteen years, œðikollr continued in this path. And for fifteen years, he watched the signs, awaiting their culmination. And after fifteen years, a dread sign appeared. In his dreams, the stars were snuffed out, blacker than the night sky itself. And they had begun to bleed, a tarry darkness consuming all beneath in a torrent of hateful bile. The world devoured. It did not take long for him to understand. In the service of Finnólfr the Watchful, his duty was to serve on the front line in besieging a den of outlaws. Cut-throats, thieves, murderers, kinslayers all, they had established themselves in an old shrine in the mountainside near Boulder Town, in great disrepair, and set to exploiting the local populace. There they made their final stand, cowering behind wall and boarded window, doors barred in delay of the inevitable. A mad rider, one of the outlaw's number, rode on horseback past Finnólfr's lines and over the six-foot wall, a grevious wound sticking in his side and his horse physically malaise-ridden. Nothing was made of this, save the odd joke of rats and their sinking ships. In the hour following, the warrior-band was prepared to scale the squat shrine walls and storm it, but had not the chance, for the outlaws abandoned their fortifications in a final sally. Each one frothing mad, biting his shield and screaming nonsense, bleeding blackblood. The fight was bloody and hard, but œðikollr felled many of their number, and the band of Finnólfr was victorious. The shamans and the god-talkers were wary of whatever had struck these outlaws, and though heeded in their warnings of dread and evil magic at work, spirits went undampened. Only so much of the black-blooded men had traveled south in these weeks.
It was only in the following hour that it became clear that this magic was a contagious affair as a number of the warband's fighting men were driven to the same insanity, crying black, flesh growing sick with pustule and filth, strength to match their rage granted by the sickness. These men, too, were put down, and great care was taken to avoid the evil blood. Unease set in, and a short time of grieving, but this would not be the end of their woes. œðikollr was sure of this. And surely enough, all soon went wrong. Dead-men came, beset the camp and waged war for slaughter's sake alone, all that is human in them long gone. Again the dead-men were beaten back, and a few more men of the band infected. They resolved to throw themselves into the source before their minds were lost, and disappeared into the snow, their names remembered forever after. Refugees were next to come, fleeing from the onset of this plague, telling of death and ruin for any who remain. They were without protection, doomed on the road were they to continue onwards. Finnólfr, a man of the Law to his innermost heart, refused to abandon them, and so molded his band 'round those in retreat. Each infected would take up the doomseeker's vow, and rush headlong northward to delay the infected. Every refugee and every fighting-man whom they came across would join, and travel south. One of the largest exoduses had thus formed, and œðikollr distinguished himself in both the killing of dead-men, and the length of his service, being one of only so many who had survived this retreat from the north, only a short ways ahead of the forward elements of the corpse-eater host at any time.
After a month of furious marching, Finnólfr and his charges reached the town of the Cross Roads, many hoping to escape west, or south. Finnólfr himself resolved to rest a while, then pledge his fighting men- whoever would stay- to any banner whom would take him to fight the black-bloods. œðikollr was not amongst them, for though he bore no infection, he had taken the doomseeker's vow; to go north and kill the plague, or die in the attempt. All asked why; the fighting-men thought him mad, and the common men paid their respects for the dead. Yet he could give no reasons, for he knew them not yet himself. It was mad to think that his father might have survived all these years, and once more through the onset of plague, but the possibility gripped him, tore at him. He needed to be sure. He sat in the shadow of an old runestone in the hills overlooking the city, waiting only a short time before he would set out. Stag-Horns had left him a long time ago, and the barbarian knew not his fate; perhaps he was still alive by his cunning, far in the north, but he could offer no counsel. He waited, once more, for the signs, that he may know the way of things, and he did so alone. For three days and three nights he was still as the stone he sat beneath, eating not of bread and drinking not of horn, living only on the Soma. And finally, his sign came, in the form of a peculiar sorcerer of a southron land...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 The foremost skills Ormr possesses lie in war. Strong in arms and will, his hammer fells men and blackbloods alike with shocking ease. Many years wielding said weapon exclusively has left his skill in other weapons rusted, but not dulled; fierceness compensates for the techniques he has unlearned.
His years as a retinue-drifting hirdman, additionally, have left him with an understanding of a fair number of northron dialects and some of the terminology peculiar to them, making him potentially useful in interprative & cultural minutae.
Beside words, he is versed well enough in the correct common courtesies and hospitalities of the more established tribes, and some of the more nomadic, adding to this utility.
He is more than a little taken to use of narcotics for mystical purposes, and would make an able botanical assistant, particularly but not exclusively with fungi.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】 Weapons/Tools The weapon of Ormr's heritage and the one which he has come to some level of mastery of is the Wyrmhammer. Supposedly forged from a fallen star and as old as the Lindings, it is an exceedingly heavy, ornate polehammer, nearly as long as a man is tall. One head is blunt-convex and capable of pulping a man or caving a breastplate in a blow, the other an armor-piercing spike, cruel and claw-shaped, dully bladed, such to punch through armor and flesh. Originally an implement meant to ring the colossal Wyrmcall Gong of Castle Linden, it is vexing to those aware of it amongst both musical scholars and smiths, as hammer and gong alike should be too hard to strike without cracking. Yet they have persisted, largely unmarred.
In a pinch, his hereditary armor's fists are more than sufficiently deadly, both thanks to his frame and the sturdy construction & weight of the gauntlets, which break bones, pound flesh and pop eyes with great efficiency.
Wherever Ormr goes, he always has a bag on his belt filled to bursting with fungi. A great number of these are red-capped hallucinogens- used to enter a berserking state- there are also psilocybins for astral projection, and purely culinary varieties.
Magical Spells Ormr, despite his inclinations towards hallucinogenic shaman's craft, knows nothing of magic in the proper sense.
On the shorter side of life, Gwenyfar stands at 5’4, with a lean and lithe body, her skin is tanned, but not from her ancestry, much rather from her personal work habits that take her outside. She has almond shaped eyes that are hazel in colour, mostly green with splashes of brown. Her hair is a shade of deep mahogany that she keeps wound in a tight bun, a braid, or worn loose. She has a gentle nose, and a large mouth with plump lips to match. As a sellsword, she is commonly seen in her leather armour instead of dressing like a normal lady of the day, drawing much curious looks from the men, along with the occasional fist thrown. Her voice, when she does speak, is deep and husky for a woman, giving her the allure that she is much wiser than her age.
Gwenyfar, or commonly, Gwen, can come across as a bit stoic in nature as she is very reserved. She doesn’t take kindly to ruffians or strangers with ill intent. She always seems to have her wits about her, as she grew up that way. Gwenyfar doesn’t like talking too much in general, but when she does, it would be best for one to listen. Some might perceive Gwenyfar to be rude and harsh, but in reality, she favours the truth, and chooses to speak it, no matter how much it might pain someone. However, far below that toughened exterior is a woman, with a sense of not belonging trying to find her place in the world. She is opened minded when it comes to meeting new people and always chooses to give them a chance until they wrong her. Gwen has a strong sense of right and wrong, and anything immoral troubles her, and gives her pertinent dreams if she made the wrong decision. She isn’t out to make friends, but one would be surprised to see her return a smile if they were to dare to smile at her. Her nature in general is collected and calm, as she doesn’t like causing conflict, unless of course there is coin involved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【History】 Born in Amaranth Village, a small hamlet to the west along the coastline of Vasili, to a blacksmith, Gwenyfar Ravenspire learned how to be like one of the boys. Her father, Agnar, taught her how to take the heat of the flame, and to forge new blades, and any type of armour under the bellows. The forge itself was more comforting to her than their own home. The continuous sound of steam hissing, wood crackling, and so on, truly warmed her heart. Gwenyfar had no mother, as she died in childbirth; Aila was her name. Her father spoke much of her mother, sharing fond memories with Gwen as she became older through the years. Her two brothers, Wilhelm and Athorian, taught her how to use the blade as a weapon. At any time in her childhood, it wasn’t an uncommon sight to see the trio egging each other on in a sword fight. Wilhelm was truly the fighter in the family, whilst Athorian dabbled in literature and science more than swords and the forge. All her life, Gwenyfar lived Amaranth, occasionall traveling to Minorhold to the east to sell their wares that they had forged. After visiting a particular merchant in Minorhold, Gwenyfar became exposed to the idea of jewelery-making. She learned the craft well, as she taught herself how to work the finer metals and inlay the precious gems. On their way back from Minorhold one late autumn day, Agnar, Wilhelm, Gwenyfar, and Athorian were ambushed by some highwaymen, they demanded that they hand over their gold, and the gems that Gwenyfar recently purchased to fill an order for a local woman. With haste, Gwenyfar quickly drew her short-handed sword, with a black leather string grip, and drove her blade into the belly of the man who held the dagger to her father’s face. Her initiative allowed her brothers to dispose of the other bandits. Upon return to Amaranth Village, they found that their whole forge had been struck by fire and burnt their home to the ground. Filled with rage and anger, Agnar forced his daughter to leave, banishing her from Amaranth. He declared her to be an ill omen to the family, as he had built that very forge with her mother, and then she had taken his beloved wife away in her final childbirth. Her brothers protested fiercely as they believed him to be unjust, and in a state of despair but Gwenyfar accepted the fate and chose to leave as it was a chance to make a true name for herself than living in the small hamlet the rest of her days. Taking nothing with her, save for the clothes on her back, the gems she had confiscated, her sword, and her horse, Asper, Gwenyfar said goodbye to her family and left, heading east across Vasili.
But that was 8 years past…
Now, the Blood Plague had spread across the land, descending from the north and consuming everything in its path. There were horrors describing the unthinkable as the dead came to life to eat the living, or at least that’s what she had heard. On the road that she had travelled, Gwenyfar had plied her skills in forgery and swordsmanship to become a sellsword to make ends meet. She continued to follow her faith that she was accustomed to as a child, worshipping the Old Pantheon, mainly Lord Ruo, The Earth God with his consort, Lady Wae. Honestly, there was nothing that felt better than giving some rat bastard his due for shorting a merchant, or taking someone hostage, or rather rescuing someone from a kidnapping. Her statute made her so well known, that most people avoided her presence. She headed to the Cross Roads, as word had spread that the Consano were looking for recruits, what the mission would be was still unknown to her, she chose to head there anyways. The horrors of the north were spreading south, and if anything made Gwenyfar fight, it was for her very own life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Skills and Abilities】 Smithing/Forging Swordfighting Survival Tactics (knows how to skin a fish, make camp, build a fire, etc..) Hunting/Fishing Plays the pan flute
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 【Weapons/Tools and Magic】
Short-handed Iron sword Wooden Targe with iron bindings and bearing a small plaque of a personal crest she made, of a Raven flying into the sun. 1 whetstone 1 chunk of flint Walking Staff (can be converted into fishing pole with twine, or good for a beating or two!) 1 spool of Twine 1 large buckled satchel 1 small flask of liquid courage Leather Armour, (encompasses her torso and stops at her shoulders) Leather Spauldrons Leather Bracers (engraved by hand with images of vines and a willow tree) 1 pair of Thick wool Gloves Leather Shin Guards Black Leather Boots 1 pair of leather trousers 1 Simple blue linen dress 1 Iron Dagger with a leather wrapped grip 1 Bedroll A Green Wool Cloak that can be used as a blanket when traveling A pendant necklace of Lord Ruo, The Earth God.
