[CHAR] GUILDVENTURES

[calmgale]

The Silver Glint

Name: Elise "The Silver Glint" Ethra

Title: see above, but yours can totally go here!

Race: Beastkin {Cat}

Age: 26

Appearance: Snow white hair elegantly cascading over delicate features, Elise has always been pleasing to gaze upon. Though, her gaze, often, leaves others unsettled. Deepest azure peers from beneath those alabaster waves, bearing the slitted pupil and oblong eye-shape of her kind. Slender shoulders bear the weight of silver pauldrons, smooth and ever polished; bereft of any scratches or dents. Between the pauldrons, at her back, flows a grey, hooded cloak; clasped at the front, a white tabard covering modest breasts and a toned form. She is tall, among her kind, standing nearly at six feet tall; perhaps more if you included the rise of the feline ears perched atop her head...similarly porcelain in coloration to both her hair and skin.

Around her arms are wrapped grey silken gloves, though on her right arm she wears a light sleeve of plated armor. Her waist is wrapped in a skirt of chains, bound together by silver clasps; beneath which lies a pair of well-worn traveling pants, brown, burlap and loose, held in place by the same clasps that link her skirt. Elise's legs are clad in long boots with metal strips evenly spaced along them, beginning at the ankle and going upward to the cuff of the boot; which ends at her knee.

Personality: Elise is known to wear a sad smile, most of the time; the smallest upturning of her lips that does not quite belie the burden she carries behind her eyes. She is often polite, though can, from time to time, be aloof or brusque with those in her company (which, admittedly, she doesn't keep much of anymore). At times, she may came across as self-righteous and tends to be extremely stubborn when she sets her mind to something. However, Elise tends to attempt keep to herself and avoids speaking beyond what she feels she must. Ever determined, she has not stopped adventuring since the Heroes' victory over Dekruvitomen and has developed a habit of drifting from place to place; accepting contracts from the Keepers or simply assisting the locals with their problems as she is able.

It is said that she used to be quick to laugh and quick to anger, mercurial in all aspects of her life...leading some to believe that, somewhere along the way, the Silver Glint lost her luster.

Affiliation: Nine Heroes {Former}
Star-Crossed Company {Former}

Abilities: Runewielder, Genesis.

Elise has come to know well her Runes and utilize them to their fullest in combat. While most Genesis Runewielders tend to craft and create things from their Elemental Principle, Elise uses the Runes to augment herself (as well as her armor and rapier, from time to time) and increase her speed to nigh ludicrous levels; it is through this that she earned her title...along with her swordplay and flair for slaughter. Her Whisper is a simple word, over and over. "More" the Runes cry into her mind, bursting through and infiltrating her thoughts. More speed...more power...more blood.


History: It is unknown exactly when Elise's family left the Volanci heartlands and made their way into the small village of Oakheim. What is known, however, is that Elise was always seen with a blade in her hand; a blunted thing given to her by her father. An adventurer, himself, before a festering wound (inflicted by the foulest of Void Magic) took his left leg; 'reduced' (as he would say) to a simple blacksmith, though not one of incredible skill, he sought to shape his daughter into a true warrior...a valiant protector of the innocent, as he had been in his hayday. Little did the Titan of Meita know that he would succeed in a grand fashion. Without his guidance, it is impossible to tell what would have become of young Elise...without his knowledge of Runewielding and swordplay. With Theron (Elise's older brother) in Drasil, pursuing a life of mercenary work in the Star-Crossed Company and Emirra (Elise's mother) long deceased, Veiss (the Titan) doted on his daughter and pushed her every day to better herself...but also to better the lives of those around her.

At the age of thirteen she left home, at the behest of her father but spurred by her own eagerness to venture into the Drasilian heart...to Essia its self to find her brother and join the Star-Crossed Company. She rarely speaks of the few months it took her to traverse the Monster-ravaged countryside. It was only then that Elise began to understand why she had first picked up a blade. The Sundering was something rarely talked about in secluded Oakheim, where the local Mages took to creating wards against the Monsters and folk continued about their lives normally...albeit nervously. It is uncertain when she first saw a mortal die...or when she first killed a mortal, herself. Certain is the fact that she joined the Star-Crossed Company nearly one year after leaving home; though Theron had apparently already abandoned their group to head into the Dreamlands, seeking some Elven assassin that had made an attempt on his life mere days before her arrival.

In the employ of the Star-Crossed Company, Elise honed her skills against Monster and mortal alike...rising quickly in both Rank and prestige. This bit of renown did not earn her the title Silver Glint, but it did earn her the fight that would inevitably lead to the title being placed upon her head. Tempa, "the Firebrand", a fiery warrior of considerable skill and possessed of a deep passion for combat arrived at the Star-Crossed Company's Guild Hall as a herald of the Black Adder Guild; issuing a formal challenge from Cers. Tempa was to face a champion of Malik's (the leader of the Star-Crossed Company) choosing. Malik, impressed with Elise and eager to see Cers and the Black Adders bested on the field sent her forth without a second thought; accepting the duel and setting into motion events that would inevitably lead to the formation of the Nine Heroes.

As with all formal challenges, the duel was to take place in the Keeper's Amphitheater. With both Guilds gathered, the terms were set by Cers and Malik. There would be no duel to the death, but the losing faction would disband their Company and gain the others' champion. No hesitation met these terms, Malik and Cers both slavering at the idea of their rival's pride crushed before the gathered masses. The Keepers brought their Magic forth, ensuring that neither would suffer permanent injury; and the battle was joined.

Sparks and embers danced in the light of a setting sun, silver and flame meeting one another for the first time. Somewhere, in their duel...a friendship...a kinship formed. Their smiles were true and there was an unbridled joy in Elise's heart that drowned out the Whisper echoing through her mind. The woman before her was perhaps two years her elder and better suited to the warrior's life than she; a blur of orange and red that sought to slip through her silver slashing shield. Each blow was met with another, for what felt like hours; until the full moon blossomed overhead. Until that night, Elise had never faced her Shadow Self...and, perhaps, she would have succumbed to it...if not for Tempa's intervention.

Elise would not recall the spectacle, nor the surge of Monsters that followed in the wake. When she awoke, in Oakheim, sprawled in a familiar bed, The Silver Glint was the name now etched into her heart. Tempa informed her of this, after Veiss had assailed her with his affection and, to the disdain of the Titan and The Silver Glint, that the Star-Crossed Company had been declared disbanded. Balking at the notion of joining the Black Adders, Elise prepared herself for harsh life under Cers and his ilk. With a throaty laugh, Tempa dismissed the idea; explaining that she had no intention of letting someone like Elise join the Black Adder Guild...and that she had lost interest in the idea, herself, seeing riper opportunities in having The Silver Glint in her debt.

Yet, despite being nestled back in her home, in the company of her father and several familiar faces...Elise's heart was heavily restless. She had failed the Star-Crossed Company and, by way of her failure, caused one of the oldest Guilds in Drasil to be broken; its members cast to the wind, and simultaneously, though inadvertantly, in a way, spited the Black Adder himself (a man of great repute, for his cunning, combat prowess and lack of creativity). It did not sit well with her that she had been spirited from the Amphitheater, but, in truth, she felt a kinship with Tempa and much preferred her company over that of what she expected from the Black Adder.

The world outside of the small hamlet Elise had become so accustomed to was more warped during the time she had been rendered unconscious. Darkness now touched the land...almost palpable as it lingered and permeated all within Drasil. Mortals found themselves prone to indulging their dark thoughts and Shadow Selves became increasingly common. With the rise of the Shadow Selves came an abundance of murder and strife that the Divided Kingdoms had not witnessed in several centuries. Elise observed the change with horror, seemingly noticing it for the first time...and found hatred growing in her heart; a maliciousness born of righteous indignation, and swore upon that seeping stain on her soul that she would find a way to end it.

Time passed slowly, thoughts of the suffering world eating away at her. She was a swordswoman grown from strife, but the needling feelings that swirled within her demanded action; fear and determination rallied against what she feared to be an insurmountable foe. She knew that Eldra's Shadow had Sundered the Goddess of Compassion and Order nearly a decade ago; and plied his vile whims against the land she had once favored most. Yet, when had he ever shown himself to the mortals; aside from his grand, terrible invasion into the mortal world? Where was the Masked God hiding himself? What reason did he have to shy from the realm he, now, by all rights, claimed sovereignty over? Questions that gave her hope. Confiding in Tempa, she found solace...confiding in Veiss, she found an answer.

Her father was the first to utter the name in her presence. Though, she would later come to find that Kalayron had long been a figure of near mythical reputation amongst the Faithful of Eldra. Said to be her Avatar, the only one capable of truly drawing upon the power of the Goddess, he resided in a monastery hidden from the cruelty of the world; offering refuge to those who would still follow the Light that Eldra left behind. "The Protector", he was named...and it was he who would surely know how to combat the Dread Shadow. So it was that Elise had come to know of Asmosa, the original resting place of the Heartshard (before it was given to the Elves for protection, in years past, by the monks; fearing that Dekruvitomen would seek its destruction), and a holy place to the Faithful. Far to the north, in the scorched and shimmering expanses, where Monsters roamed in vast hordes and the land its self seemed to bend to the will of Darkness. Elise resolved, then, to seek out The Protector and his counsel. The Firebrand agreed eagerly to accompany her, lusting for an opportunity to pit herself against the most fearsome foe that the world had to offer.

When the two set forth from Oakheim, it is uncertain...some would say weeks, others mere days after Elise's vow to venture to Asmosa. And for some time it would go unnoticed that a Standing Stone (a relic left by the Beastkin, a simple stone...standing. s'pretty big.) in a secluded grove now bore two simple symbols etched into its smooth surface; an oath made in secret, a pact binding together two who would bind together nine. This Standing Stone would become the Stone of Nine, where each of the Nine Heroes engraved their symbol and swore their oath; once they had all been gathered. Tempa and Elise walked and fought, side by side, battling Monsters that would assail small hamlets...or deal with particularly fierce bandits on the roadside, help farmers replace their wagon wheels and all sorts of heroic (if sometimes seemingly excessively diminutive) minutiae, along their way to the vaunted monastery...to the Avatar of Eldra...to a solution.

Kalayron proved to be reserved about the two, glimpsing Tempa's sins and seeing the Darkness lingering within Elise. With some reluctance, and, according to some stories, after days of pleading from The Silver Glint, The Protector left his sanctuary with the two; erecting a barrier after his exit, allowing only those with benign intentions into the temple. He would draw the next of the Nine closer, proposing a plan to seek out a powerful True Mage taking refuge somewhere within Drasil. So, with nothing but a small lead, an increasingly close friend, and one of the most powerful priests in Kallore at her back, Elise set out for Essia.

The journey proved far less dangerous than expected, given their combined might; and within scant days they arrived at Essia's gates...only to find them aflame. While Essia had held firm against Monsters, the ire of Seralle was something far more than the Essian Guard could easily handle. Cast in the shadow of roaring, towering flames, slender lips let a smile pass over them; Seralle Of The Shadowed Countenance turned to the others and offered a humble bow, saying that she had been expecting to run into them. Pressed about the mounting flames at her back, Sera (as she preferred the diminutive, obviously...bc otherwise it's a mouthful) simply smiled and waved it away; stating that it was nothing more than a misunderstanding and that no one (aside from that poor gate) had or would be harmed by the flames. With a wave of her hand, she dispersed the blaze and laughed; offering her services to the group, for a nominal fee (though she never actually collected on her stated price...and what she actually stated is subject to speculation).

So smoothly had things progressed, that the inevitable snag (the first of many, actually) would finally be encountered.

No one knows what lies beneath the mirrored mask...even to this day, nor why he drew his blade against the gathered four. Yet he did, but not before the first of the Heroes had walked into a trap. Goldbrook was a village founded on the principle of mercantile; a bustling city in the midst of a river, suspended on wood and bound with ropes. It was here that a rumor had lead them, seeking an item (specifically a pendant) that was said to contain a Shard of Eldra that had been repurposed into a weapon...something capable of weakening Dekruvitomen, should he ever come into its radiance. They found the city silent, but not abandoned...countless bodies littered the streets; bloodless, but all prone, with no sign of a struggle. Elise and Tempa, helpless against whatever malady had been placed upon these people, stood watch as Kalayron and Sera began attempting all within their considerable power to awaken the slumbering (yes, really, they were all k.o'd).

He appeared from a distortion in the air, rays of the midday Sun glancing violently from his form in streaks of distorted light. His armor was strangely smooth, pulling in reflections from all around, though riddled with black fissures that distorted the images. His frame slight and sickly, to the estimation of those who beheld him. Though silent, the drawing of his blade (which, strangely, was not present when he appeared, but seemed to be pulled from the same distortion that still licked at the world around him) was challenge enough for those gathered. The Knight of Cracked Mirrors faced the four...and bested them. With a slight scoff, tossing his blade back into the ether, he finally spoke...in a voice that seemed almost alien, so absent was emotion or inflection in its tones. The Knight told them that there had never existed such a weapon...and that there never would. That the God of Chaos and Death would have to be slain by more difficult means. That they would have to Sunder him, as he had the Goddess. Before Elise could press the question of 'how?!', the Knight of Cracked Mirrors absconded; leaving no trace of his presence behind. With his vanishing, the people of Goldbrook awoke...with near instantaneity. Hailed as heroes, despite their thorough trouncing, they did not linger long in the city.

elise has a huge backstory that's pretty relevant to stuff, just a reminder...but it's gonna take me a while to finish; so she's still a wip.

Invari Lashe

Name: Invari Lashe

Race: Beastkin {Bovine} (i like beastkin, ok?! shut up!)

Title: None, yet, officially...and she can't think of one for herself (there are just soooo many possibilities!)

Age: 16

Appearance: Invari tends to draw glances due to her tremendous stature and "endowments". As a Bovine-type Beastkin, it is only reasonable that she would be possessed of ludicrously large breasts; though this still tends to draw glances from the more "mundane minded" folk of Kallore. She is undeniably large in all aspects, towering over most other mortals she encounters, standing at just under seven feet tall (more if ya include the slight rise of her ears). Being thick of limb and somewhat more slender about the waist, she does cut a certain form of feminine figure; though this is often overshadowed by the sheer expanse of her shoulders, size of her hands and cloven hooves. She once possessed a tail.

Her face is wide, somewhat rounded and possessed of slightly larger than normal features; eyes and mouth being veritably large, even for one of her race. Invari's skintone is somewhere just on the edge of being deep and honeyesque. She keeps her hair cut relatively short, small curls lingering just below her cheek; light brown, matching the liquid pools of her eyes. A somewhat flattened, broad nose sits above labrose lips, completing her, as said, rather broad features.

Invari adores gold, wearing heavy hoops through the base of her ears and one smaller through the side of her right nostril. Her attire is often plain, in comparison to most, with simple tones; and even though she tends to change clothing regularly, it is the bits of armor she wears that draws the eye from it. Golden, too, in coloration, but battered and bereft of any real shine; she wears gauntlets, greaves (altered to allow a bit of room for her hooves and a few inches above them) and a heavy collar about her neck. These are a gift from her mother, and she cherishes them greatly. She carries a heavy mace at her side (pretty ugly thing, honestly) and a tower shield on her back.

Personality: Invari Lashe has never been quick witted, nor particularly mindful of the world that surrounds her. However, this does not necessarily make her the 'slow' Beastkin that she appears the be on the surface. Invari takes her time in most things, thinking slowly and acting quickly; though, under pressure she tends to be at a loss and looks to others for directions...barring this she often reacts instinctively, relying on a 'fight or flight' mentality. She is reasonably pleasant and unerringly honest, though the nuances of sarcasm or subtlety are occasionally lost on her.

She is proud, to the end, of herself and all the things she's done and seen (though, admittedly, that's not a whole lot!) and strives to be a great warrior; hoping to earn huge piles of gold to make a comfy life for herself, the hard way. Invari has no head for Magic and is impressed by even the most simple of spells, but tends to be intensely curious about the functions of such things; be they actual spells or enchanted items. Invari enjoys meeting new people and making friends, though she can be fairly naive when it comes to the thoughts and feelings of others. Loyalty is something she prizes greatly and seeks to give to others, along with a shoulder to lean on. Despite her good nature and intentions...Invari can be greedy and impulsive where material goods are involved; perhaps even petulant, from time to time.

Affiliation: None, as of yet!

Abilities: Being particularly strong and quick. Hitting things with other things.

History: : One of Invari's earliest memories is of treacherous travel, fleeing from the Drasilian southlands with her family; fleeing flames and fangs in the arms of her mother, crying out in fear...only to be silenced with a gentle touch upon her brow. Smoke rose and screams filled the air, roars of pain and defiance as some turned to face the pack of Monsters that hounded them. She remembers glimpsing the back of her father's hulking form, an arm outstretched behind him, urging the others onward. The rest became a blur; cacophonic noise and the ground lingering just beneath her swinging feet...fear still caught in her throat...her mother's labored breathing.

Having fled the more immediate dangers of Drasil, Invari and her mother (Manishare) found their way into the Attenian heartland...to the bustling city of Yivishiin, where they would make a modest home. Time passed and those painful memories fled, along with thoughts of fear. While Manishare was a protective, even overbearing woman, Invari would often slip away to do as she pleased; roaming the streets with other displaced Beastkin, or Human urchins (when they felt it appropriate to employ her already impressive muscle) making what mischief she could, or simply lazing about. It was on those streets that she first entered combat, rather than simply hearing of it.

Manishare made due for herself and her daughter by unloading crates that came in from caravans, making certain that neither she nor Invari had to suffer discomfort while in the city. When at home, she would often demand Invari's attention; recounting more pleasant stories of the past, or telling her legends about adventurers. This is where the overbearing mother made her grievous mistake. Invari was instantly enthralled, after hearing these tales; much to Manishare's chagrin. Arguments were had, tears were shed...and forbiddances made.

Yet, on the day committed to the remembrance of her birth (twelve, was she, at the time) ; Invari's mother presented her with several pieces of armor. They were not golden, truly, but that did not matter to the girl...what mattered is how the light glinted from their surface, how her face was reflected in it; distorted by the bends and small waves that danced across the armor. She was in love. There was nothing in the world that could part her from the adventurer's path.

Since then, she has parted ways with her mother (though it took her nearly two and a half years to gather the heart to do so) and made her way into Drasil; returning to the land of her birth a stranger...with only a mace at her side, a shield on her back, armor around her neck, arms and legs and a considerable amount of strength. She wandered nigh aimlessly; until being informed of the bureaucratic nature of becoming a recognized and Ranked adventurer within Drasil.

Only recently has Invari come to Oakheim, stopping to pay her respects at the Stone of Nine before beginning her journey to Essia.

invari is done...and probably pretty sexy.

[Sicarius]

It's a Dwarf.

Name: Danyrr Heath

Race: Elf

Title: He has no title, minus nicknames including brat and runt. He hopes to earn one soon, though.

Age: 80 (roughly equivalent to 16 in humanity’s terms)

Appearance: A small creature, looking like a young human boy at first glimpse. Unlike the tales written and sung in taverns of the elves, Dan is only 5’3/160cm, practically a midget by his kind though he claims he’s still growing. Unlike elves of folklore, his hair is pitch black and greasy, a long mess hanging down around his neck and into his big grey eyes. Somewhat “framing” or more blocking out his round, chubby face that has yet to slim down like his elders and display his high tilted cheek bones and swept brows. The point of his large ears poking through strands of hair, fully displayed when he tilts or shakes his head.
Somewhat rounded, never having fully lost his baby weight, his body is wrapped in light tanned hide with scratches & bruises from his adventures on the farm and into humanity’s wilds. Danyrr’s hips are narrow and sway when he begins his monologues, his long fingers outstretched as he flaps his arms midspeech.

Danyrr wears by his standard, simple attire. A white cotton blouse, coated with dust lazily tucked into brown working pants. White shell buttons it at the front and at the cuffs, made by the boy’s mother for his “Sunday best” (need a better term). He covers his forearms with a hardened leather vambrace, matching the long leather boots caked in mud and used to shove his trousers into. At his waist a woven red belt wraps around through his pants, polished steel clasping it at his middle. He drapes himself with a maroon cloak, inside runes with silver thread have been sewn with impeccable skill (*cough* by his mom*cough*) catching the light at certain angels. He fastens the cloak with matching white shells that shine with the rainbow at midday or by a fire. Strapped into his belt is a small dagger in a plain leather sheath along with small bags for coins and miscellaneous.

He carries essential items in a bag on his back, along with a plain unadorned spear he can use somewhat as a staff or for a mold to create a more formidable weapon in combat.

Personality: “Small, weakling, runt, useless… My body is small, as is my strength. Even the strength of my magic isn’t great but I can do a lot with it, that’s my one strength and I know it well.”

Danyrr comes off as many things. Elders of his village called him an ungreatful brat, his father saw him as a small disappointment, peers viewed him as a loud bug. Demanding respect as if twice his age, acknowledgement of the few things he was good at causing outbursts and marking him as stubborn.

Danyrr is many things; stubborn, thick headed, a know it all, blunt and lacking social grace at times. However the one talent he holds dear, magic, is also his greatest virtue. His confidence waxes and wanes, fragile and easily cracked but whenever he draws upon his Throe, he becomes determined to continue on. He is flexible and easily repaired, grudges not held long in his heart.

Abilities: True Mage – Genesis & Void

A spark of fire, roaring inside his breast, filling the young elf with determination. Wielding the power of creation, light and life itself fills Danyrr with hope, excitement, a strange euphoria that he lacks the skills to describe. His Throe makes him revel in using genesis magic, urging him on through battle or hardships. Edging him on to continue his journey through the Divided Kingdoms, far from home and kin.

His skills in magic are extraordinary for one who stands among elves as barely an adolescent; illusions crafted by bending and manipulating light & shadow, gravity displaced and dispersed or magnified and the ultimate form of genesis: Creation. From the boundless expense of magic through Kallore and the realm beyond, Danyrr can create items and weapons letting him get away with not having to carry simple items. However he cannot create stable items yet, having to maintain a type of “flow” with them that is taxing on body & mind as it drains him and feeds on the image he holds within. When this connection is broken, anything he creates disintegrates.

Void magic; the magic that feeds on the darkness of the boy’s heart. Dread, fear, bringing to the surface his own doubts and insecurities. This magic he is less versed in then Genesis but he wields it all the same, trying to master it and his own heart. Using void’s own Throe, he tries to keep his self in check during the heat of moments from the Throe of Genesis and his own foolishness.

Danyrr, despite not being a warrior of any repertoire, is quite handy with spears and other pole weapons. Still though, he is not formidable with hand weapons as his own strength is small even by his kin’s standards. He possesses basic rune knowledge (though quite limited), like most elves though his craftsmanship of them lacks quality leading to busted runes at times.

History:

Yulna

The Dreamlands, the ancestral home of the elves, once arid land that stretched for miles with only the heartiest of shrubs poking through the cracked ground and soaking up the smallest drops of moisture.
With their natural affinity to the forces of the arcana, the elves long ago transformed the arid wastelands into their revered and mystical home. Farmers being at the forefront of this transformation, using their own knowledge and mixing it with their mages and rune crafters, picking up pieces along the way as well as respect from the average citizen.

Yulna grew from this trade; a town that sat only a few days ride south-east from Eleyrra and could see the shadow of the great wall that separated them from mortal lands. This farming village ships most of its produce and exports to Eleyrra, caravans and patrolling parties a site seen once a month in the small secluded place.

Annile

Annile Heath was born and raised within the confines and luxury of Eleyrra, eldest of her brood. She grew into a fine crafter, her nature for true magic being too far from her grasp (unlike her sister) and took her runes into shaping fabric and the like for the rich and pampered denizens of Eleyrra. Her younger sister descended into the wilds, into human lands and becoming a successful adventurer. Ann otherwise stayed much of her long life in the capital, enjoying her luxuries and the men that & came and went, producing many kin in her life; the last of which coming from her oddest coupling.

Finding herself on the arm of a high noble, she journeyed around the Dreamlands; seeing the ocean, the large forests and farms for the first time. On this journey she met an elf who had barely come of age and had taken up the mantle of his father. Levian, far her junior and a turnip farmer of Yulna coming from a long line that had never set foot from the soil they tilled. Saying farewell to the noble (name changed in each recount of the story or omitted altogether), she ended up staying and becoming further captivated by Levian.

Actual History

Screams filled the air, tempers flaring up and egos crashing as the two women watched. Danyrr and his father, Levian, were at each other’s throats. The small child barely reaching his father’s hip but he was as stubborn as he was young

Danyrr was the eldest and only child of his father’s, the mantle to stay put and continue this farm was not just expected but demanded of him. Tradition, rules, laws, etiquette, a million things to learn and obey by as an elf. Beings of order and law while Danyrr was of his own heart’s wants, this clash of ideals happened on a near daily basis. His elders, peers, father…each ruffled differently by Danyrr’s rejection of established Order.
While supposedly brilliant, the atmosphere within his school was the same, even alone with tutors hired by Annile. His teachers broke the cool fascade all elder elves adapted at Danyrr’s questions and persistence, his strange method at magic.

Teachers couldn’t force him to practice runes, anger building up as his penmanship did not improve and his hand continued to shake as he wrote. His mother even had tried to sit and practice, ending up teaching him a handful of runes but he never got the technique and lines quite right. She had simply petted him, silver hair falling in his face as he had huffed.

He had been found to have a gift at True Magic, a strong will and good hold on it however… it still brought wrath from tutors and teachers. His Throe overhwhelmed him, swept him away in euphoria. They glared down at the small boy, lecturing day in and out about the method to one’s Throe. It shouldn’t control you, you control it, be calm, be focused, the very nature of how elves were was the method to perfect magic. He had spat at their feet.

Danyrr continued to revel in the emotions that rolled over his body as he worked magic, he found strength in it. And so he continued to draw upon it, upon magic and the Throe to stand up to peers, elders and his father. Practicing behind closed doors or secluded meadows, returning home with the embers of his Throe still light is how his scream matches with his father were ignited.

Words whispered between his mother and aunt had come up with a solution that should have been Danyrr’s escape, instead of continuing as a farm he could be sent to the capital to be trained as a true mage but he would need to wait sixty years (adulthood) before he could be enrolled. Too long, he wasn’t going to wait, all everyone did was waiting and it infuriated him. Such long lives yet they relax until their final years when death’s door begins to creak open, the sound finally making them do something.

He was going to leave, now…or…he would have. Dekruvitomen had risen; the elves paying little mind to him at first until he had shattered their Goddess. Her Sundering had created panic and fear across Kallore, the elves closing their gates and allowing no one to leave or enter. Cut off from the world. Only his aunt had come and gone, telling tales of Dekruvitomen and what happened outside and her own adventures. If the boy hadn’t wished to do anything but farming already, he would of after hearing the words spun from under the brim of her large hat.

Eventually the Shadow of Eldra had been shattered, and Danyrr left the safety of his village finally. His mother wrapping a maroon cloak around his shoulders, with a sly wink as she proclaimed that no adventurer could go without a cloak. A kiss on his cheek and sweet goodbyes, that distance between his father gone for the sake of a goodbye.

Danyrr travelled through the wilds of the Dreamlands and passed through the Dreampass, into the silent city and his first encounter with humanity…and what Dekruvitomen had done to the world. Stories couldn’t prepare him, and in the late night with the moon hanging low Danyrr encountered his shadow self. Alone in the ruins of a once great city, the very fabric of Kallore having been clawed and gauged by Dekruvitomen’s pale fingers, Danyrr fought. The Throe he had been told to hold down in his soul was his greatest ally and threat, his determination matching his Shadow’s but eventually winning out.

More battles with bandits, monsters and himself followed as he journeyed through the expanse of human lands. At the Stone of Nine he’s found his trail has lead, stopping to rest and pay respects to heroes before continuing to Essia.

[Zurnt]

The Goat

Name: Youngest Brother

Race: Beastkin [Goat]

Title: "A title? What use is a title? Can a title fill an empty belly?"

Age: 15

Appearance: Youngest Brother's Beastkin heritage is shockingly underplayed, and from a distance it would be difficult to tell the difference between this slim, five-foot tall boy and a normal human. Only at a breadth of a few meters will an observer be floored by just how wrong they were. Two slim, sharp yellow eyes with a long rectangular pupil each send a sharp glare from beneath a mass of matted white locks. A slight overbite, with thin lips and a somewhat triangular shaped face perfectly compliment the two horns, hastily and shoddily ground into nubs, that adorn his furrowed brow. Just below sit a couple of thick, angular eyebrows. His ears are long and extend horizontally from the sides of head, just above where a human would have them, and a fuzzy tuft of white hair grows from the tip of each. A dusting of pale, scraggly hair grows from his chin and neck.

The hair travels down his neck and thick, bristling chestnut fur adorns his chest. His arms, short and centipede-like in their thinness, are also coated in a similar white and chestnut spotted fur. Only his palms are hair-free. His legs, equally thin and stiff, look like perfectly normal human legs. If one were to see his feet, which is a rare occurrence since Youngest Brother keeps them well hidden, they would see an awkwardly shaped cleft foot with only two large, knotted toes. This gives the boy a slow, deliberate gait that reeks of a calm and collected arrogance.

The robes he wears are simple and tan in color, with an oversized studded leather belt draped over his hips and waist, loaded down with several small pouches. A thick, musky odor of grass and medicine waft from these bulging pouches. Two silver bangles adorn his wrists, and a pair of sturdy leather boots conceal his oddly shaped feet and shins. A simple brown bandana is tied around his neck, covering the chest fur, and matches the body-engulfing backpack that he wears. His weapon of choice, if you can call it that, is a knotted black-wood shillelagh used as walking stick that is only slightly shorter than the boy himself.

Personality: Aloof, arrogant, and clever to a fault, Youngest Brother gives off the aura of an unruly teenager, and shallow observations will only buffer this claim. This is both a sham and not a sham. Deeply, this beastkin youth is a quick thinker and shrouded in layer after layer of personal defenses. He is slow to feel anything in any direction, and does his best to remain socially moderate and one step ahead of his peers. If you think you know him, then you only know what he wants you to know. Youngest Brother is independent and ambitious, and his confidence comes from ability before anything else.

He is quick to point out the flaws in others, but only in that he respects other people but not necessarily their feelings. If he likes you, you'll likely bear the brunt of his scorn, and if he doesn't like you, you'll be lucky to escape his unnaturally persistent wrath. Youngest Brother will stubbornly stick to his convictions regardless of their validity, and has a willpower that vastly surpasses his small stature.

He has a soft-spot for delicious foods, but will eat just about anything and everything, and is even capable of surviving on stones and roots. Never waste food in front of him if you want to stay on his good side. Youngest Brother carries a profound phobia of bridges and can't stand water or the rain.

Affiliation: Three Brothers Adventuring Group - Retired

Abilities: Unlike other beastkin, although not entirely unheard of, Youngest Brother is an exceptionally powerful True Mage. Powerful, but not necessarily skilled in his application thereof. He is a dual element mage of a deeply intertwined Fire and Wind element, which results in an exceptionally unruly and explosive magic that focuses on absolute annihilation. This magic is just as dangerous to his allies as his enemies, and only with careful timing and placement can it be used to its fullest potential. To this end, Youngest Brother focuses on having an unparalleled combat sense, preferring to control the battlefield from the back by cutting off escape routes and mopping up uncoordinated groups over directly attacking.

Unfortunately, his Throe is one of aggression, the Fire and Wind elements constantly egging one another on and causing him to grow increasingly brash the more he uses his magic. At the moment, he can safely use his magic twice before the fury begins to cloud his mind, and he becomes much more unwieldy and unreliable. Needless to say, Youngest Brother is adamantly unwilling to approach this state.

Youngest Brother is physically slight and considered quite weak by beastkin standards, though he is still stronger and sturdier than the average human boy. His biggest weakness is speed, and his slow and deliberate movements, hampered by his habit of getting caught up in his own thoughts and calculations, means his defense is next to nil. Although one might find it difficult to approach him due to his powerful attacking capabilities, if they're able to dodge his magic even once, he will find himself completely unable to protect himself.

In addition to his combat abilities, Youngest Brother is a somewhat accomplished layman apothecary, and is familiar in both the use of medicines and poisons.

History: Youngest Brother, as you might guess, is the youngest of three brothers. His Eldest Brother was a powerful and respected Beastkin warrior, a sturdy and skilled buck of some renown. His Second Brother, following in Eldest Brother's footsteps, was also a somewhat talented warrior. Only Youngest Brother was unsuited to be a warrior, and this caused something of inferiority complex to sprout in his young heart. It was this disparity that lead to his currently arrogant attitude, desperately latching onto his talents and striving to prove himself useful to the wandering trio. He focused on using his sharp mind to become a tactician and advisor to his warrior brothers, helping them overcome difficult challenges that brute force alone could not solve.

Wandering for months, food supplies long since spent, nothing within sight to eat, the three found themselves desperate for respite from their hunger. In front of them a rickety, wooden, unruly kind of bridge, stretched across a raging river too great for Youngest Brother or Second Brother to ford. Even Eldest Brother would be unable to bring anything but himself across. Of course, what challenge could a simple bridge present to these three valiant beastkin? Simply put, a monster. Not a particularly terrifying monster, but a strong and difficult to handle Troll. On the other side of the bridge? Salvation. A forest, no doubt bountiful with food.

A simple problem, Youngest Brother thought. If Eldest Brother or Second Brother fought the troll, the bridge would no doubt collapse, and there would be no more hope of crossing. Trolls are stupid, but not so stupid as to leave such an advantageous spot from which to ambush and feast on unwary travelers. Youngest Brother would convince the Troll that he was selling out his brothers, trading his own life for theirs. Second Brother would do the same, selling out his Eldest Brother for passage. As for Eldest Brother, what threat could this troll possibly present to him? Even if the bridge collapsed, he could still manage to cross somehow. It was a perfect plan, or so thought Youngest Brother.

The result. Only Youngest Brother ended up crossing the bridge that day. His brothers were never to be seen again. A deeply guarded secret, masking an even deeper scar on the youth's heart. All that is known was that Youngest Brother survived the event and gained a powerful boon in the form of his explosively powerful True Magic. His goal? Perhaps he is looking for his long lost brothers, perhaps he is trying to live up to their memory by becoming a famous adventurer himself? Perhaps he is just running from something? Only Youngest Brother knows, and he is far from willing to share his experiences.

Uninterestedly standing before the Stone of Nine, Youngest Brother is merely taking in the local culture before making his way into the wild unknown.

[BeanieBaggie]

Freya Holton

Name: Freya "Wait For It" Holton

Title: "titles are like titties; you earn them though great deeds" (none; refuses to title herself)

Race: Human

Age: 18

Appearance: Freya stands under average height for a human, at about 5 foot even on a good day, her frame lean and slim, built perfectly for the rougish life she leads. Finding her skin to be a level of white that is not helpful to sneaking, she's taken to lounging about in the sun, bringing her skin to a golden tan, a small scar interrupting her right eyebrow and another small scar on her left arm staying her natural shade (She's dissapointed in how yellow she looks). Her hair can be described as a dull shade of "dead field mouse" blonde, ashy and just brown enough to look brown in normal light, but blonde in direct sunlight. She keeps her shoulder length hair tied back in a high pony tail, several locks on the sides of her head, just before her ears, refusing to stay in. When roughed up, her longer bangs also free themselves from being tucked in, long enough to, if she's breathing hard enough, enter her nose obnoxiously. She's determined to grow them out long enough that they'll stay in her pony tail, after having found that constantly cutting them really, really annoyed her.

When it comes to facial shape, hers is more heart-shaped than anything, with sharp features. Her nose, having been broken once before, has a slight rise in the middle, light freckles dotting it. Her lips are asymmetrical, one side pointier than the other, her bottom lip a little too thick to be thin, but a little too thin to be big. Greyish blue irises sit in her round eyes (which happen to be the softest thing about her), a darker blue circle around where her irises meet the whites of her eyes, and her pupil. They're probably her favorite part about her face, and the girliest as well.

Her typical attire is cloth and leather- cloth pants, with kneepads and leather patches on her hips and calves, leather boots, loosely scrunched around her mid-calf, a long sleeved cloth blouse under a leather vest with steel boning (that she specifically refuses to admit is technically a corset with pockets), several various belts with bags across her chest and waist, and when it's colder, her thicker, knee-length cloak. All of her clothing is either dark brown leather or various shades of black; most are blue based, though her cloak seems to be, as it fades out with wear, a red-based black. This upsets her.
She keeps four silver studs in her ears at all times- three on her right ear, and one in her left. Other jewelry comes and goes, though she's been considering getting a sleeve of thicker armor for her left arm for when she's not sneaking around. On her hips are two knives- the left one more wicked looking than the right, a survivalist type blade, and her right more akin to a bowie knife.

(I will draw her eventually, do not worry HUMAN edit: HUMAN, I HAVE DRAWN HER. BETTER QUALITY WILL BE GIVEN IN DUE TIME)

Personality: Freya, at first glance, has a napoleon complex. A fiery girl, she threatens to fight anyone who is rude to her, though she rarely means it. She's hot-headed, with a fuse shorter than she is, and, when livid, occasionally forgets to think; but, when that fuse isn't lit, she at least tries to think things through- especially if she's trying to be sneaky, or pulling a heist. Her humor is either sarcastic and snarky, to absolutely dumb, with no in-between, depending on who she's with and how well her relationship is with them. She will often joke about doing things she literally can't do, like throwing a much larger person across the room. Typically, she's all bark and no bite- though, if pushed, she can indeed sting.

She finds it easy to forget those who she rarely meets and those who she only meets once or briefly, though, those that she hangs around leave their mark on her. She keeps her friends close, despite how little she shows it. They become almost extensions of her- like family- and an act against one of them is considered, at least by her, as an act against her. She would risk life and limb for them, even, so long as she knew they'd do the same for her.

At a young age, she took the saying "go hard or go home" to heart. It's ingrained in almost everything she does- fighting, eating, sleeping- even her interest is an all or nothing affair. If you can capture it, you won't be able to escape it until she bores herself with whatever you've done, or got, to get her. When she's excited, she's extremely excited, when she's bored, she's really bored. Some call it the "tinker bell effect", but the few that've said it within Freya's hearing range ended up drugged, stripped, and tied up on the roof of the tavern they were in. Do not make short jokes, unless you are indeed close enough with her that she feels she can interchangeably use dumb jokes and sarcasm.

When not caring about others and not bothered, Freya is typically lax. Her threats are obviously jokes, and when she's not actively adventuring or on a quest, she's likely to be loafing about or drinking. Sometimes, sleeping,too, or practicing her thieving skills (taking and returning items, unless she knows someone to be a dick). She likes to do what feels good to her, and tends to follow what feels right. Honesty is a rarity from her, but if she, or others, are not to come to harm from being truthful, and if it feels right to her, she'll do her best to be so.

Also, when presented with someone 6 foot 2 or taller, she will have at least a thought about riding on their shoulders. If the tall person is friendly and conditions are right, she may attempt to climb them.

((TL;DR: short people are angrier b/c they are closer to hell. This one is, somewhere deep deep down, at least a kind of good person despite that, especially to friends. also, GO HARD OR GO HOME))

Affiliation: to those with good humor, drinks, and adventures (none)

Abilities: She refuses to use her magic, except in dire situations. When she does, typically she ends up teleporting an item about thirty feet away- anything between handcuffs, to a large axe has been witnessed, landing anywhere from in a wall, on the floor, or right above a threat. She has no control where it goes, and very little control of what's teleported.

When forced to tap into her magic, Freya feels exceedingly small and empty; generally, like absolute, worthless, abhorrent shit. She shows the effects of the blast to her ego for a while after casting- and she dislikes it to the point where she would rather risk bleeding out and dismantle a bear trap by hand with no tools rather than open it with a spell. As such, she is unpracticed with her spellcraft, treating it as if she was poorly suited for casting and mentioning it to nobody. If it's witnessed, she denies that it happened, no matter what damning evidence there is.

Magic aside, She's excellent at sneaking. If she were to be in an RPG class, she'd be a rogue- fast but light hits, great sneaking, lock picking dirty fighting moves, and sticky hands. Her pick-pocketing and shoplifting skills aren't all that great, however, she's too short most of the time to "stab a bitch in the eye" and takes time to bring someone down, and taking big blows aren't exactly her specialty.

((TL;DR: snekky, fights dirty, refuses to use the one spell she knows unless about to die b/c feels bad, bro))

History: Freya is, in all respects, just a common human, with a common history among adventurers. She came from a small family of farmers- the middle child of three kids- from southern Drasil. Her parents presented two options to the girl when she had begun to adventure around their farmlands- either be raised a lady, or a farmer. She initially decided to try being raised a lady, but, found staying indoors boring, books to cause her to sneeze, and skirts to be irritating. She tried being a farmer, then, but found the work too hard, the mornings too early, and the smell... unpleasant. But at night, during both attempts to be a lady and a farmer, she would sneak out, adventuring around the village and wilds around, with just a knife at her side in case something happened. By the time she realized she fit neither role presented to her, she was 17, nearly 18, and, grabbing two of the working knives from the shed, and her farming gear, she had set off for an undetermined destination under the the darkness of a new moon, seeking the life of an adventurer. Her family never knew she left, until the morning. She could hear the hell they were raising when they found her missing from over the hills she crossed.

She got side tracked on the way, performing small tasks in the villages she landed at, upgrading her gear and improving the two knives she left with, until her journeys brought her to Oakheim, to deliver a package to someone at the Stone of nine. Being ever the kind to be early and wait, she head out before she should have, to scout out a nice resting place.

[Nightraider]

Dylante Error

Name: Dylante Error
Title: Dylante Cernunnos Sophronios Nechemyah Luke Errol
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 28
Homeland: Hubris, Western Drasil

Appearance:

standing at 6’1” with a lean figure, Dylante exhibits some of the qualities of the Western peoples, parts, however, have been diluted by his time among nature. His pale skin has turned a maple bark brown from the sunlight, so much so that many believe him to hold the blood of a Beastkin within him upon first meeting him. His jet black hair runs at shoulder length, tied in a ponytail which highlights his face. His face is soft and warm, if usually a little dirty and unshaven. His eyes shine with a coppery reflection. His clothing is a mix of Northern furs and Essian leather armour, pouches adorning his belt and bandolier, filled with herbs, gold and other essentials. A quiver filled with arrows crafted from the forests to the East crosses his back and a Dreamlandian bow is always within his reach.

Biography:

Dylante, named for his grandfather and Deity of their Guild house, of Ancestry and Secret Knowledge , was born the 3rd son into the Errol family, a family famed for having all its sons gifted in True Magic, a family of sorcerers for over 600 years, almost as long as Essia has prospered. Teachers at the Arcana Demense, battlemages for the Inquistion and even advisors to the king, an unbroken line of dominant male sorcerers for over 6 centuries, that is, until Dylante was born.

Dylante exhibited no inherent magical prowess, no matter what test he was put under. In his father’s eyes, this brought great shame upon the family name. His brothers teased and bullied him, taking to calling him “Error” after, in a heated fight between himself and his father; he was labelled a mistake by the grand sorcerer.

Upon reaching 15, Dylante ran from the city, leaving his extravagant lifestyle and making his way Southwest to one of the small border villages. He began travelled between them; finding work with farmers, trading supplies in the quaint towns and reciting stories his mother told him when he was younger. Over the years, he ventured into the Dreamlands, learning their strange and rumoured methods and was granted permission to hunt on their lands in exchange for trading various, un-named “stuffs” from the southern lands of Drasil. Dylante had found his new lifestyle and as such, changed his name from “Errol” to “Error” to embrace it.

Today, he makes his living hunting, lugging trade between villages, weaving tales and songs for the weary travellers at inns and acting as a guide to new traders from the Capital and, more importantly, as a guide for new adventurers to the Capital. At the moment, he plans to deliver a small package to the Northern city for the innkeeper of the Drawstring, a small inn he frequents in the small town of Oakheim…….

Personality:

Dylante’s personality is multi-faceted, depending on the situation. In general, Dylante is outspoken, charismatic and spontaneous; he enjoys a joke, even if it sometimes gets him in trouble. He dislikes confrontation, preferring to talk his way out of situations or just avoid them altogether rather than buck with authority. If need be, however, he is not afraid to use his bow to its lethal end, if the situation has no other way out.
Considered by many in the border lands to be an unrivaled haggler, he is observant, self-confident and flexible when it comes to matters of the coin. He believes if you have open-ended plans, you can go with the flow and is always on the lookout for the bigger, better deal.
Finally, when it comes to serious planning, he is calculating and quick-witted. However, he is not cold-hearted and will always choose the plan that avoids conflict and loss of life when he can.
Beneath all of his positive personality traits though, Dylante lies broken. He travels because he does not want to call anywhere else home. He barters, haggles and jokes because he cannot talk to a person on an intimate level. The years of humiliation brought on him by his family have left him a damaged man and he hides it because he feels he cannot trust another person like that. While he enjoys travelling, he does not feel as though the adventures life is for him, instead looking on adventures as idyllic dreamers and time wasters. Perhaps he has not found the right motivation as of yet……

Occupation:

Travelling trader, bard, negotiator, guide, general handyman

Skills:

Archer: Dylante has become a skilled archer after being imparted with hunting knowledge from the best in the East and years of roaming the forest and grasslands of the border areas between the East and the South.
Negotiator: More often than not, his silky voice and silver tongue has gotten him out of more situations than a sword has. It also comes in handy when bartering or looking for information.
Sneaky: Not as worthy as many thieves, Dylante can be quite stealthy, this being an offshoot of a good hunter, he knows how to camouflage himself in the undergrowth of the forest and navigate long-grass unseen.

Miscellaneous:

Inventory:
Bow: One of the finest Dreamlandian hunting bows; it was a gift to Dylante from one of the elder elves after he “re-acquired” a relic for them. He has named it “Drawback”, a name many of the hunters find amusing.

Quiver and Arrows: A handmade quiver is slung tightly around his back, filled with unique arrows, wooden shafts and feathers from the Eastern woodlands tipped with metals mined from the earth of Eldra’s Throne itself.

Dagger: A simple double edged dagger with the hand craved inscription “For all who deserve, may this blade find them”, he found it buried in a tree while visiting the Stone of the Nine. The owner was nowhere to be seen and since then, Dylante has enquired as to the meaning of the engraving. It has no magical properties and no one knows what the engraving means. He has had to use it more than once on unsuspecting targets, both animal and human alike. He has renamed it “Toothpick”.

Maps: A variety of maps acquired from merchants and since purchased, updated by Dylante himself after years of travel. He has charted paths and ruins that no other map maker has ever found.

Survivalist backpack: Dried food, a tent, fishing line and hooks, ropes, herbal remedies, a lantern and flint and steel, everything a travelling hunter needs.

Trading satchel: Sometimes filled with items of value to his customers, this is where Dylante keeps his trade items

[Grimoire]

Yandle Rahman

Name: Yandle Rahman
Race: Human
Title: Maybe someday?
Age: 17
Appearance:

A tall and heavily built man with an imposing aura, he has the brown skin common to denizens of the forests. His face is strong, with a kind of roughness around the edges with eyes that shine hazel. His long hair is tied into a neat ponytail and bangs held up with the aid of a simple grey headband.

He is garbed in an battered steel breastplate with a worn hide shirt underneath. He wears simple dark cotton pants with a set of steel greaves and steel plated boots. Over this attire he wears a simple cloak of a dull red. His hands are also housed within worn steel gauntlets. On his back hangs a simple round shield, marred with scratches and small dents, but without any other adornments. To his side hangs a short sword yet another simple affair.

Personality:

The first thing one will notice when first approaching him, is the intensity he exudes from every pore of his body. As if the very air around him is bowing down to his will. That of course is the crux of what Yandle is, raw unadulterated will. Throughout his life he has relied on his single minded determination to help surpass barriers that those with talent easily circumvented. He would continuously push himself harder and farther than any person near him, making up for talent with simple hard work. There was a time when he walked all the way back to his town, starved, dehydrated and a giant tusk gored through his leg, all with only the sheer force of will.

Having spent a large lengths of time, he is somewhat rough around the edges tending to get straight to the point in conversations. To people from the cities he may appear overly blunt and rude, but none of this is intentional. However this also means that he never tries to hide his intentions and never feels the need to lie, a true and honest man if any. To those that know him even more will know that he brings with him the warmth that the people of small towns have, the easy trust and respect towards others they seem to have. It is difficult for anyone not to befriend the man within the first ten minutes of conversation.

However Yandle is not without his vices, for one he is a rather prideful man. He isn’t the kind to be able to deal with failure easily. In fact when it comes to his pride he is quick to take offense, causing him to make rather rash decisions. He also does not take to insults easily either and is a easy way make him lose his cool. However Yandle is the kind that gets eerily quiet when angry, so most won’t don’t even have a warning before he snaps.


Abilities:

Sword and Shield: Over several years of relentless training and battle, Yandle has built a style of fighting with the sword and shield which relies on defense and patience to find the best time to attack.

Physical Prowess: He has wrought his body into a veritable powerhouse with large stores of strength and endurance.

Quickwielding: A utilitarian style of casting that use quick and simple rune spells towards more utillitarian effects, this also includes making various one off bombs etc with enchanted wooden tablets, as well as enchanting his weapons with temporary charms. The primary weakness of these spells and enchantments is their temporary nature, burning out in a matter of minutes.
Current Runes:
Force: Emit blasts of concussive force
Earth Wall: Generate a protective wall of earth

Whisper: Wind that waves, shadow that saves, it is light that pays

History:

The Rahman clan are among the more prolific crafter clans within the eastern forests. The clan is situated in the town of Kayros, at the northern parts of the forests. It is said that the creations of the Rahman clan are like veritable works of art in the depth and intricacy of enchanting that is put on them.

Unfortunately Yandle was born with little to no knack towards enchantment, and little interest besides. He wasn’t the kind the kind that could sit hour over hour cooped up in a dark room reading some esoteric book nor listening to the wise ramblings of an elder. It didn’t take him to differentiate himself from his siblings and relatives as a black sheep and something of a trouble maker.

As everyone around him became better, Yandle slowly became sidelined even ignored. He himself began to become ever more reclusive and quiet, haunted by the feeling of just not fitting in. Not a good sensation for a one so young. He began to question his worth to the clan and to himself, it was a matter of pride.

It is during this low in Yandle’s life that the town was besieged by a goblin warband. For several months the town of Kayros was forced to stay within its walls, with no contact from outside. Eventually and as expected the town began to starve as supplies began to dwindle. An air of depression and doom began to blanket the townsfolk. At one point they began to think as to why no one from the other towns found it strange that Kayros had suddenly grown so quiet. It was then that several bodies were flung over the walls, of soldiers and merchants. All men and women who had tried to reach the town or save it.

It was at the peak of their despair that they heard the trumpets baying into the sky. Several townsfolk including Yandle ran to walls out of something like grim curiosity. Far out on the path that lead to the town he saw them, the members of the Iron Tiger guild slowly advancing towards the goblin war party, stoic and unwavering. The guild members cut into the goblins without abandon, gleaming of steel within their blood spatter dance of death. Finally overcoming the goblins, glorious in their sanguine armor.

Yandle observed the entire battle his eyes wide with awe, a feeling growing in his heart. He finally knew what it was that he wanted to do. Yandle would become an adventurer. From then on he would begin his journey to become the person he is today. Slowly accumulating skill with the sword from sheer effort and bloodshed while accompanying the guard parties roaming the forest paths.

He also began to work on his crafting skills, however for more practical reasons. To be an effective fighter he needed to be versatile, runes would provide him that versatility. Slowly he developed his form of rune wielding favoring quick casting utility.

Eventually when he felt strong enough to be able to make it on his he left the walls of his town and ventured out into the great unknown.

[Bad Weather]

Astrophel Leavitt

Name: Astrophel "Aster" Efstathios Leavitt
Race: Human
Title: None
Age: 23

Appearance:

Standing at six feet and three inches tall, Astrophel would cut an imposing figure if he made any effort at strengthening his physique. Instead he maintains a silhouette best described as "beanpole." His strength and endurance are adequate enough to wander about in his way, accustomed to hiking steep inclines and long days of travel by foot. This intimidation factor is lessened even further by his soft features and warm, easy smile. Wide cheekbones, full cheeks, and a small chin contribute to his rounded face. His eyes are almond shaped and hazel-green in color. Medium brown skin provides him protection from sunburn, but areas of his face and arms are visibly darkened and freckled from exposure. Dull strawberry blond hair, when untied from the usual bun, falls just above his shoulders in badly chopped layers, obviously self-administered.

Peeking from behind frontward locks of hair too short to be swept into the back, glittering silver earrings can be seen. A similar silver clasps a short purple hooded cape around his shoulders, embroidered with silver thread. His boots, made of soft leather, are similarly embroidered, but with red roses. The rest of his clothing is unremarkable and changed often as he stops into a new town, except for the small personal embroideries abound.

With him at all times is his rucksack, often tucked under his cape during travel, giving him a hunchback appearance. His strange juxtaposed clothing proclaims, "This noble man likes to appear down to earth!" Rather, he often discards his clothing in favor of new ones, but despite the obvious heirloom status of his jewelry and cloak, Astrophel operates on a severely limited financial budget.

Personality:

One might question what led Astrophel, an aspiring poet with a battle-shy nature and little combat skills, to become an adventurer. That one may even be Astrophel himself, most times. Certainly there is the allure of good stories, tales of heroic acts and near death experiences are great to write about, if Aster were the type to write (he prefers the oral tradition.) There is also his meager magical ability, which offers an asset among a group, but is of little use in solo adventuring. In fact, Aster has very little true adventuring experience under his belt, mostly due to not being able to find a group willing to suffer his presence for more than a week.

Upon first meeting, Aster seems almost pleasant, if not for the long-winded prose he speaks. For the more philosophically inclined, he might even be charming. The man is compassionate and sensitive to the needs of others, the kind of gentle soul that ends up broke and bloodied after helping a stranger (read: bandit) search for her lost ring in a dark alleyway.

Like many in Drasil, Astrophel bears a rather grim past. For this, and "poetic inspiration", he turns to drink. This is usually the catalyst that drives him from any adventuring group he joins, as Aster gets exceedingly emotional when exposed to alcohol. Often he can be found away from the group openly weeping at the beauty of nature, or the futility of human connection, depending on his mood, with an empty bottle of wine in his lap.

Abilities:

Astrophel is an exceedingly untalented True Mage. He has minor healing abilities, but his inability to read magical texts and the impact of his Throes leave him underpracticed. He has studied some non-magical medicine to supplement his skills, and as such is a more gifted medic than a magician. Most of his spells go as far as preventing exsanguination, but internal injuries are significantly harder. He is almost completely helpless against severe organ damage, his best in these scenarios is to simply dull the pain and ease the passing.

As a consequence of using his magic, Aster is overwhelmed by confusion. This means that he cannot sustain a spell, as after five minutes he becomes too disoriented to perform magic at all. The stronger of his healing spells can leave him without direction for hours, and impede his balance and body movement.

History:

Born to a well-off merchant family in Western Drasil, Astrophel grew up among mages. His mother, a gifted seamstress and runewielder, made a life for her family by selling magically imbued garments to the wealthy. His father was absent often, travelling far and wide on business, returning with heaps of valuable fabrics and thread. Though his mother tried to pass on the runewielding talent to her son, Astrophel discovered early that reading took a great deal of effort for little gain, and his mother's books seemed more daunting than the silhouette of the grand Arcana Demense fortress that shadowed his town.

The letters seemed to leap about on the page, never where he thought they should be. He would read a page of nonsense, and try again only to get different nonsense. Frustrated, the young Aster gave up on following in his mother's footsteps, though his fascination with needlework flourished still.
His mother's magical ability lay mostly in glamours, which made her a favorite among nobles who wanted to stay one step ahead of the fashion trends. However, this closeness with the Void, the field of magic responsible for the misdirection required in glamours, took a toll on the woman. A brutal sickness in Aster's fourth year had cost her the use of her legs, and her marriage to Aster's father was fraught with separation and unhappiness. These deep, long-standing pains coalesced into a Shadow.

Aster spent his early life tending dutifully to his beloved mother. On full moons he would unquestioningly help her upstairs into a secure room, where she would battle her Self alone. His mother took great pains to hide her "ailment" from his father. In his teens Aster did poorly in the school his father sent him to, where he found no sympathy for his learning disability. His father, not around to see the suffering of his wife and child, pressed for Aster to continue his learning. Eventually he caved against his son's pleas, and Aster's father withdrew him from the expensive schooling.

It was not until the age of fourteen that Astrophel discovered his latent ability. He kept the knowledge from his father, where absence had forged a valley between them. But upon hearing of it, his mother sent for his grandfather, who he soon learned was also a True Mage. His grandfather, a widower, came to live with Aster and his family, for the purpose of training the boy in a way he would understand- demonstration. From his grandfather Aster learned what he could of healing magic, though his ability was no match for the stronger mage.
When he was seventeen, on the night of a full moon, his mother's Shadow won out, breaking out from the secure room. Fueled by the magic in her bloodline, and now released with full force by her Shadow Self, the woman regained the use of her legs and was free to terrorize the town. She was eventually slain by a group of passing adventurers, but not before killing fifteen people. Among the dead were Aster's father and grandfather, whose deaths Astrophel had witnessed firsthand.

Traumatized, Aster went to stay with his father's parents in Essia. The memories of his mother's Shadow were quickly repressed, and Aster remembered very little of what had transpired. What fragments still remained plagued him in his bed, flashbacks infiltrating his dreams. He sought comfort in the many fascinating tales around him. People watching became his favorite hobby in the capital city. However his restlessness got the best of him, and he lasted little over a year before setting out to travel the kingdom.
Since, he has counted himself a temporary member among a number of travelling groups- merchants, bards, adventurers. Along these journeys he makes note of what he sees, and spins the tales to the next group he encounters. Occasionally he puts ink to paper and writes these stories down, but often his penmanship is unreadable even to himself, and these written accounts are of little use. His group of three months had just abandoned him at the Stone of the Nine when a mysterious figure appeared, depositing two strange gifts...

[Zurnt]

Mispost. Maybe another character someday?