Appearance: Eolas has the appearance of a rather standard Ventus, albeit and aged one. When standing straight, he reaches 7'3" but rarely does he walk fully upright these days. His skin is a slight purple-hued off leather color, somewhat similar to that of humans from the tropical reaches of Enduwin. His Adhark, the cartilage structures on his head, curve several inches up from his skull and are rather pronounced, something that comes with age. Wizened as he is, a small silver beard has set in around his mouth, though it is well kept.
As for attire, Eolas is almost exclusively seen adorning robes with an over cloak. Practical, many-pocketed clothing that's also relatively cheap. A thin oak walking stick is Eolas' eternal companion on his travels. His travelling bags too, are an ever present sight and contain coin, food, tomes, and a few odd artefacts.
History: Born into a well-to-do family involved in Ozgart's main mining operation, Eolas certainly had a significant head-start to life in Vrent. The second of four siblings, Eolas had a sheltered but well taught childhood. Early in his teens, in emerging as his own person, he showed a bright spark for academic learning. His parents supportive of their child, and well aware how valuable a technical mind would be for their industry, Eolas was pushed to really pursue his studies. Straining the limits of his aptitude to learn early on, he quickly decided that pure academics were of greater interest to him. Eolas wasn't particularly close to any of his siblings. They all formed a happy family and he loves them dearly, but both of his brothers and his sister had wildly differing interests and opinions to him.
Thus, at the age of seventeen, when formally finishing his basic studies, he choose to pursue a path in the Vidril Of Knowledge. Though mildly disappointed in losing such an asset for their company, his parents were thrilled their son had carved his own path in life. The scholarly life suited the young Ventus, he worked many hours alongside teachers, researchers and field agents for the Vidril. Eolas had the greatest interest, in studying the Rapture, its causes and effects, though this was a great task, with so little information readily available. His formal apprenticeship with the Vidril lasted just over a decade, as was the norm. Entering into his own after, three years on he was given the full position of researcher with field duties for the Vidril of Knowledge.
The next two decades of his life are rather mundane, and not worth telling, as Eolas himself says. Some failed lovers, endless nights buried in ancient texts and a slow but respectable climb up the internal hierarchy of the Vidril. Indeed, only ten years into his tenure and his knowledge of the Rapture had grown enough for him to be considered the leading expert on the topic in Vrent. Though many refuted the validity of pursuing such knowledge, Eolas was well respected by both peers and students alike. When the then Speaker Of Knowledge chose to step down from the position to pursue her own personal life, Eolas was the 'in' shoe-in to take the position. Though, ultimately not becoming the Speaker, those close to him are aware he was offered the position, but is one of he only people in history to decline the role.
Fast forward to the present and Eolas has left the Vidril. Six months ago he signed his early retirement parchment, taking a small final lump endorsement and choosing to independently teach at a small facility in Sfel. Since then he has become a respected member of the local community in the port, a new and well-liked teacher for the town's children. In his own time, he still stays in contact with his family via letter, and spends many hours doing field work in a nearby set of ruins, thought to be the reason for his relocation.
Appearance: Oliver is a spry looking young man with a lean athletic build but little muscle to speak of. Although a bit taller than the average man, he remains looking rather young due to his skinny features, something that he finds rather difficult to deal with when trying to get others to take him seriously. His shifty brown eyes beguile a great distrust of others and his surroundings, owing primarily to his background of thievery. He has somewhat handsome features and prefers to stay clean shaven, but generally leaves his short dark brown hair unkempt and shaggy.
Clothing/Armor: As a knight errant of Gallowmere, Oliver dresses for the part. Preferring to keep his armor on the lighter side, Oliver wears a shirt of chainmail over a black arming doublet and beige/brown cloth trousers. His armor is accented with metal plates on his elbows, shoulders, and kneecaps, as well as black leather gauntlets and boots. Perhaps the most eye-catching part of his ensemble is his striking royal blue tabard, worn over his chainmail and belted at the waist. The tabard bears the royal sigil of Gallowmere, the Tree of Life, on the front (in white), and attaches to a cape of the same color that drapes down to roughly the height of his knees. Tabards of this style have been out of fashion in Enduwin for quite some time, but according to Oliver, this is how knights of Gallowmere have always dressed and he's not about to spit in the face of such a longstanding tradition just to fit in. Oliver is rarely seen without a bandana of some kind on his head (usually worn pirate-style); his go-to is a dark blue one, but he does have spares just in case.
Oliver's Armor: Sigil of Gallowmere, the Tree of Life:
Weapons: Oliver's weapon of choice is the sword, owing to his knightly heritage. Unlike most knights, however, Oliver doesn't appear to care very much about the quality or the upkeep of his blade, which has seen better days. A simple iron longsword that could be found amongst any small-town blacksmith's wares, it is nonetheless a well-balanced weapon with a sharp enough edge to get the job done. Despite its humble appearance, however, Oliver claims that this particular sword was passed down by his ancestors for generations upon generations, having been used many times to protect the people of Gallowmere from evil. Attached to the sword by a small, sturdy chain that loops through the ring on the sword's pommel is a small jeweled amulet, which Oliver claims is the last Mana Seed from Gallowmere's Tree of Life, which has not bore fruit for eons. It is said (by Oliver and Oliver alone, mind you) that this blade, the legendary Mana Sword of Gallowmere, can slay any demon in a single blow because of the righteous power contained within the Mana Seed. No part of this story is true, like many things Oliver says about himself. The sword is sheathed at Oliver's waist for a quick draw.
Owing to his actual thiefly heritage, Oliver keeps a small dagger strapped to the small of his back, concealed by his tabard, in case he's disarmed or otherwise in a tight spot.
The Mana Sword: Mana Seed Amulet:
Inventory: As a knight with no horse or squire, Oliver prefers to travel light, and depending on the trip he may prefer to take certain tools along instead of others. When out on the road, his gear is kept in a mid-sized backpack made of thick brown canvas cloth, which has one large main pocket sealed by a leather buckle and flap and two side pockets with button clasps. He will almost always discard his backpack when entering battle or attempting to move stealthily, although it still doesn’t slow him down much. The following items are kept in his backpack:
• Metal flask containing cheap rum. Kept in left side pocket.
• Lockpicking set (includes picks, skeleton key, files, chisel, and crooks.) Main pocket.
• Whetstone and cleaning cloth for blade maintenance. Main pocket.
• Pen, parchment, ink. Right side pocket, in cloth stationery wrap.
• Sewing kit (needles, thread, awl, thimble). Right side pocket, small cloth drawstring bag.
• Small armor repair parts (rivets, bolts, a handful of spare mail rings). Main pocket, cloth pouch.
• Flint striking rocks (small drawstring bag, main pocket).
• Small corked glass bottle of dry leaves and twigs for tinder. Main pocket.
• One spare set of clothes. Black short sleeved cloth shirt, forest green light vest, dark brown trousers. Some undergarments too, although it’s none of your business.
• Three spare bandannas, two dark blue and one black. Left side pocket for quick access.
• Metal canteen, filled with water. Hooked to right side pocket.
• Cloth bedroll. Rolled up and clipped to bottom of the backpack.
• Coin purse, received from Eolas. Contains three dragon coins, non-counterfeit. Main pocket.
• Patent of nobility certifying Oliver's knightly title. According to this extremely high quality forgery, Oliver was knighted in 672 AR by Viscount Gourry Gabriev of Dragonroot Keep to commemorate exemplary service to his court, king, and country. Bears the seal of the Gabriev royal family and the sigil of Gallowmere. It's rare for a knight in Enduwin to keep his patents of nobility on him at all times, but given that Oliver is on a pilgrimage from a foreign land that nobody's ever heard of, it makes sense that he should need them on hand. Kept in a brown leather parcel bag in the main pocket.
On any given day, Oliver will typically carry the following items on his person:
• Money pouch (affixed securely to his belt and clasped shut with a leather flap).
• Sword (sheathed at his waist on the left side for a fast draw).
• Iron dagger (strapped to the small of his back as a concealed, last resort weapon. Typically covered by his tabard.)
Skills: Thievery: Having been trained from a young age to take that which doesn't belong to him, Oliver has acquired a remarkable amount of skill in the art of theft. While pickpocketing is his specialty, Oliver is also a skilled lockpicker and forger. Capable of moving stealthily and blending into crowds well, Oliver would likely make for a great thief if he wasn't intent on being a knight. He is fairly competent at spotting traps and disarming them, as well as noticing concealed weapons or foes lying in wait.
Swiftness: Oliver is quick on his feet, as a good thief should be. Despite the weight of his chainmail slowing him down a bit, Oliver can still outpace most of his foes easily and has a good amount of stamina to boot. Although he's not a trained acrobat by any means, Oliver has a strong sense of balance and is capable of traversing unforgiving terrain with grace and efficiency. Regardless of the brave and chivalrous knightly ideals to which Oliver aspires, the young man has a strong talent for running away.
Swordsmanship: Although Oliver claims to be the finest swordsman in all of Gallowmere (as evidenced by the "great honor" of being the chosen wielder of the "legendary" Mana Sword), he is actually a decidedly average warrior with poor form and little strength behind his slapdash, unrefined blows. Having never been formally trained in anything beyond stage fighting, any seasoned swordsman would notice Oliver's inexperience before too long. Unfortunately due to the persona Oliver has cultivated for himself, he can't publicly seek training. After all, why would a knight with six years of adventuring under his belt need training from some commoner? Ridiculous.
Traveling: Having lived almost his entire life on the road, Oliver is no stranger to long journeys and life in the wilderness. An experienced traveler with a fair bit of knowledge on most places in Enduwin, Oliver is a valuable companion to have with you on the road.
Backstory: Oliver was born in the back of a crowded wagon, one of a handful that made up a caravan of a traveling theater troupe. Oliver's mother, an enchanting songstress of some renown in the area, had been working with the troupe for years now and wasn't about to let the birth of her son put a stop to her career. Although he'd never known his father, the tight-knit group of performers all did their fair share of raising the boy amidst the hustle and bustle of life on the road.
When Oliver came of age, however, he learned the true nature behind his newfound "family"; they were all common thieves. Selling tickets was only a small fraction of the troupe's income; all the real money came from picking the pockets of the audience members while they were caught up in the performance. Oliver too was trained to be a competent cutpurse from a young age; after all, children made for perfect pickpockets, with their small fingers and unassuming, innocent looks. Due to their constant traveling, the troupe was never in one place long enough to arouse too much suspicion, and as such, their little gambit seemed to be sustainable for the for the time being. Although Oliver's mother never approved of the troupe's shadiness or Oliver's involvement in it, she considered it worthwhile as long as she could still perform.
Time passed and Oliver's nimble fingers and diligent work ethic earned him the opportunity to perform onstage as an actor. Although he wasn't a particularly skilled actor, he found the work to be more fulfilling and interesting than snatching wallets and tried his best with the small roles he was given. Most of all he enjoyed the plays about brave knights and strong warriors, traveling the land to fight evil and slay monstrous beasts. As he grew older the allure of the open road seemed to call out to him; he longed to craft his own tales of triumph and glory, and being tethered to this band of thieves and thespians was only going to drag him down.
At the age of 23, he finally got his wish. His mother's voice had seen better days and the aging woman had also grown weary of life with the troupe. The two left the caravan on good terms, having served the troupe leader well for many years. As a parting gift, Oliver was given a spare tabard from the costume trunk so that he could, and I quote, "go have fun playing knight on his own." Oliver's mother settled in Vrent, planning to live off the money she'd saved up over the years and take up watercolor painting on the side (the fact that she engages in watercolor painting is wholly unimportant to anything in this roleplay, as is this parenthetical explanation).
Oliver, on the other hand, had grander plans in mind. Having never lived apart from the troupe or established any sort of identity for himself outside of it, the lowly pickpocket turned performer Oliver Pike took up the mantle of the valiant Sir Oliver Fortesque IV, fifth son of Sir Daniel Fortesque II, master of the god-forged Mana Sword of Gallowmere and slayer of the infamous Sorceror Zarok. Even if Sir Oliver's grand backstory was completely fabricated, he didn't think it would matter all that much; as long as you looked the part, had all the knightly accouterments, and used a bunch of made up names from faraway lands that didn't exist, you'd be fine. He set off on his travels with only two objectives in mind, the first being to garner a reputation as a knight errant that would surpass his manufactured past altogether, and the second to find the father he'd never met. His mother could provide him with only one clue as to his father's identity; a small jeweled pendant that the man gave to her as a gift before he left forever.
A year has passed, and Oliver (now 24), has found the true nature of "knighthood" to be far from the lofty ideals portrayed in fiction. Unlike a real knight in service to a lord, Oliver had no court to return to, no castle to sleep in, and worst of all, no grand banquets to fill his belly. Oliver's skills as a former thief served to put food on the table much more regularly than battling evil or righting wrongs. Going out "questing for justice" just didn't seem to be a very secure source of employment, and although Oliver really was intent on walking a righteous path given his newfound "nobility", he found himself playing the role of the criminal far more often than that of the hero. What honest work he did find was often nothing more than day laboring or common mercenary work, both far beneath the station of an esteemed knight. Currently in charge of watching over a dusty old storehouse full of nothing on the docks of Sfel, Oliver longs for an epic journey to embark on more than anything else.
He has crimson tear tattoos going down from his to midway in his cheeks. His head is normally shaved bald or to a close buzz. His eyes are golden. He stands at 5ft 8in
Backstory: Hector was born in Herwen, a small desert nation across from Vrent. The people of Herwen (identifying themselves as The Chosen) are largely nomadic, travelling in tribes, with one central holy city (Harchan) that all the tribes go through and a port city (Turocan) for outsiders. They pride themselves on surviving the harsh desert of their land (which they call the Whispering Wastes, on account of the nigh constant wind shifting the sand and making it 'whisper') without aid from newer technology (anything beyond steel) or magic.
Hector, being born a mage, was an outsider from the first time he drew in breath. The local tribe leader drew a small drop of his blood and added it to the clear juice from the Ferchun cactus. If the juice remained clear, he was normal. As it changed to a vibrant purple, he was immediately marked as a mage, and immediately given his tears of shame, marking him as someone the Gods had deemed too weak to survive without the aid of magic. To make up for this weakness, he was constantly told growing up, he would have to do something great for his tribe. What classified as 'something great' was conveniently left vague and unexplained. As a mage, he was disliked by his fellow tribe members at best and despised at worst. He was only slightly better than a slave. They still used him and his skills, but they despised him for it. he was trained, fed, and sheltered, but only grudgingly. He was a weakling, but apparently a weakling they could put to use. If they needed a source of light, Hector was there. An unlimited source of arrows to help fend off enemy tribes, bandits, or hunt? Hector.
Hypocrisy, he noted, was something his tribe had no problems with. As the years went by, his skill with his magic and weapons only increased. Many times, Hector thought of running off. Escaping. Leaving the bastards he called a family and making his own way. But where would he go? The Whispering Wastes were harsh enough with a tribe, without a tribe he would surely be killed. If not by the desert itself than by some other tribe that didn't trust strangers with the Tears of Shame. Still, the thought was never far from his mind.
His opportunity came when they visited the city of Turocan. He doesn't know why his tribe was visiting there, they rarely told him anything aside from 'do this or do that, weakling.' What he did know was that one could get very easily lost in the crowds. One could easily get on a ship and one could easily get away from Herwen. The temptation proved too much for him. One, two and three steps into the crowd and he was gone, walking as fast as he could without attracting attention towards the docks. What happened next was a bit of a blur. He remembers pounding terror and adrenaline, straining his senses for the sounds of alarm and running feet. None came. He made it to the docks and sold what he could (basically everything except for the clothes on his back, his bow, his pipe, and his dagger) for passage to Vrent.
Hector hates boats. That's all there is to say about the ship passage.
When he landed in Vrent he spent a few weeks just getting used to the culture shock. It was..cold. Green. Mountainous. Surprisingly quiet. People actually didn't despise him for what he was or the tattoos he bore. There was the despised technology everywhere, making people weak. Soft. After a few weeks of wandering around he managed to fall in with a mercenary company. They were like his tribe, only they actually saw his magic as an advantage. He didn't get close to anyone, but neither was he despised. A few years with the mercenary crew and he had adapted well to the new continent and country. It was fairly easy, when word of someone in Leek's tavern offering a lot of coin for willing bodies and adventurers came, to leave his mercenary company. He'd already abandoned one tribe. What was one more?
Skills:
-Skilled Archer and knife fighter. Hector was always sent into fighting. If he died, there was no loss. If he didn't, they still won. He only gained more experience with his mercenary company.
-Can create things out of fire, typically arrows (with the same piercing power of steel arrows and all the added bonuses of being fire), but nothing larger than a baseball sized ball of flame in his palm.
-Basic field medical skills. If they were in Herwen, Hector would be able to quickly and easily find plants to help. As it is, he can bind a wound and stitch it together, and a few herbs in Vrent.
-Jury rig repairs. Hector can repair most damages with what he has on hand.
Equipment:
-Dagger
-Bow
-Pouch (Which contains some odds and ends Hector takes from where ever he's been. A rock from his homeland, a nail from the ship he was on, so on so forth.)
-Coin purse ( One Halfshield, three Farthings)
-Full Water Flagon
-Pipe and enough Saral (a herb found in Herwen, which serves no other purpose than to relax the user) to last him a few months if he continues to ration it.
Misc. Details:
-Hector despises the newer technology, something he picked up from his tribe. It's unnatural, even more unnatural than his magic.
-Hector can't keep himself still while lying. He fidgets. Tapping his fingers, shifting his weight from leg to leg, tapping his foot, etc etc.
-Hector gets violently seasick.
Geography: The actual range of the nation Herwen, across the sea from Vrent, is hard to define. Essentially a small nation in a large desert, Herwen has only two cities. Aside from these two cities (Harchan and Turocan), the Chosen are scattered about the Whispering Wastes (what they call their desert) moving in nomadic tribes from Oasis to Oasis. It is impossible to draw borders, as the Chosen have no reason to make any and wouldn't recognize them anyway, with their wandering.
The holy city of Harchan (where it is claimed the Gods first placed The Chosen) and the port city of Turocan are the only known areas where one can consistently fine the Chosen in large numbers. However, outsiders aren't allowed into Harchan, making Turocan (named after the Tribe who serves as the face and 'government' of Herwen) the only place where some form of trade and diplomacy can take place. The Turocans decide what trade is allowed, what foreign expeditions are allowed, and so on so forth. Given Herwen's size, lack of unity, and desert wasteland status, it isn't any wonder why the Turocans deal with very few foreign nations.
Harchan is ran by a Tribe of priests. They bring all the tribes in for peace and prayer, healing wounds, resupplying, and generally being a sanctuary against the Whispering Wastes. Since it is not magic or new technology, and even the strongest of men need sanctuary from time to time, it is accepted and well used.
Culture: While traditions and practices vary from tribe to tribe, three basic things remain the same. All the tribes believe that the Gods (remaining nameless and featureless) saw how weak and soft the rest of the humans were and created the Whispering Wastes to challenge and make humanity strong. They Chose people from all over the world and put them in the Wastes. 'Without magics or creation's of man to aid you, you will survive and be strong. You will be ready for when we drown the world in sand and heat.' With that decree, the Gods disappeared. The Chosen have been surviving like that ever since.
All tribes also despise magic and newer technologies. They see the former as the Gods deeming someone too weak to survive in the Whispering Wastes by themselves, and they see the latter as weak people trying to make their lives easier. How to deal with each of these varies from tribe to tribe. Some execute mages and technology users immediately. Other's mark them with the Tears of Shame so that all will know that they were too weak to survive in the Whispering Wastes without aid.
If it is not immediately shown that a person is a mage, a drop of blood is drawn from the person in question and dropped in the juice of a Ferchun cactus. If it turns vibrant purple, they're a mage. If it does not, they're not a mage.
The third thing is gender equality. If a woman can be as soft and weak as a man, thus the Gods have said, a woman can be as strong as a man. While there are certainly roles where men gravitate more naturally (and vice versa) and tribes where they ignore this rule (going both ways), most tribes seem to obey this rule. Even in Turocan.
Ren stands roughly 6 feet and 7 inches tall. He has red hair and does not bother to comb it regularly. Some say, his dark green eyes give him a certain attractiveness, although he is certainly far from being the most handsome man in Enduwin. Dedicating his time to books rather than exercise, his physique is lacking. Not many muscles can be seen on his slim body. Ren does, however, have a basic amount of stamina. He will usually wear simple clothing: A shirt and trousers. Above that, a coat to protect him from wind and weather, and equipped with enough pockets on the inside to carry some possibly useful substances around. He does also wear a shoulder bag.
Ren Evath is a clam man, only few things will discompose him. Although he treats other with respect, he considers courtesy to be hindering at times. Sarcasm and irony are an often used part of his rhetorical repertoire. Ren takes pride in his knowledge as well as his work and will be happy to share it with others. He can, however, fall into arrogance when confronted with what he considers to be ignorance. Ren is not much of a fighter, not only does he lack the talent but also the needed desire. Unless unavoidable he will rather talk his way out of a situation.
Ren Evath's life began in an almost forgotten village near the southern city of Mervina. His father was an officer in the military, his mother the daughter of a successful merchant. Ren's early years passed without notable events. He was sixteen when he enlisted in the military and joined the famed military academy of Mervina. It was his father's wish, not his own. Although Ren proved to be competent at the theoretical fields, ranging from history to military tactics, he was less gifted in the physical parts of his education. Even after constant exercise, he was still unable to move properly in heavy armor and much less fight in it. His constant failings lead to punishment after punishment and the letters he received from home became fewer and fewer. Thus, the two years in the academy became painful for the untalented young man. Physically and mentally exhausted, Ren Evanth decided that it was time to take his life into his own hands. After all, what is fate but what we make of it? However, he could not simply leave the military academy. Doing so would be considered desertion and was punishable by death. Nevertheless, one can be expelled if unsuited for battle or any other form of military service. So for the next few months, Ren would become the worst recruit in the history of the academy. Eventually, after “accidentally” wounding an unsuspecting superior with a battleaxe, Ren was considered a lost cause and expelled. Not knowing what to do with his newly gained freedom, he returned home just to learn that his mother had passed away. His father sought comfort in drinking and was eventually removed from his position within the military. Ren's once so ambitious father considered him a disappointment and cast him out of his home.
Realizing that all he held dear war lost, Ren ventured to find his fortune in the city of Lucra, one of the more technologically advanced places in Enduwin. After all, he did not have much to lose. He quickly found work in the great library of the city and later stroke the interest of an elderly man who frequented the library regularly. The man called himself an alchemist. Alchemy – the craft that seeks to explain the world itself and all its components – had experienced a significant gain in popularity in the past decades. With the fading of magic, man turned to other sources to further his prosperity and development. The man took Ren as his apprentice and thus, the next years Ren spent studying alchemy, with all the passion and joy he had never experienced during his time with the military. He soaked in everything he could to further his knowledge. Ranging from plants and potions to physics and mechanics and even philosophy. When his mentor died of old age, Ren took over his laboratory and continued his studies at the age of 27. Being quiet talented and successful for his age, he quickly found himself in the center of attention of other alchemists. A particular group of seven alchemists approached him with the idea of forming a collaboration. If they wanted to further the rise of knowledge and technology, all those who practiced in this field would have to join together. Alchemy had to be institutionalized, for many can achieve what a single person cannot. Ren was intrigued by that idea, following the ideas of his mentor, he believed that alchemy was supposed to further the good of socitey. Ren decided to join the group and soon helped founding what would be known as the first Alchemist Guild. They began only as eight, but the guild grew quickly and so did its prominence. The alchemists dedicated their new found resources to different projects, most notably the development of steam powered devices. Ren chose the path of education and became a teacher for those who wanted to study alchemy in the guild. However, once again his new found home was not destined to last. The founding members agreed that there had to be rules defining the proper methods and fields of alchemy. However, they did not agree about the content of those rules. Following the teachings of his master, Ren strongly rejected experiments on sentient beings unless absolutely unavoidable. His colleagues disagreed, to further the advancement of alchemy one must take all necessary steps. Ren's objections were ignored. He was considered too young and idealistic to understand. Conveniently the guild was on good terms with the local jurisdiction, allowing them to gain valuable “human resources” - namely: Criminals sentenced to death. Upon witnessing some of the experiments conducted on those poor souls, Ren realized that he helped form not an organization that would further the advancement of society, but its moral downfall. Disgusted by what his guild had become, Ren decided to leave everything behind once more. Being unable to continue his work in Lucra, he traveled to Vrent.
Alchemy: Having studied this field many years, Ren has an extensive knowledge in herbalism and chemistry. This includes the use of plants, minerals, liquids and the sort. He will also have basic understanding of mechanics, but mostly theoretical.
Quick thinker: His mind is his dearest possession, Ren has a keen perception and quick wit.
Strategy and tactics: Having been taught the art of war during military training, Ren has knowledge concerning tactics for smaller battles as well as some grand strategy used in wars.
Eloquence and rhetoric: One does not spend years reading without learning how to write and talk properly.
Basic swordsmanship: He will know how to hold a sword and how to wield it without hurting himself, but not much more.
- Simple Shortsword (Although not very good with it, one would be foolish to travel unarmed) - Coin purse (contains: One Tower, two Shields, five Farthings) - Simple knife - Water Flagon - His shoulder bag (contains: Some vials and other simple tools, basic alchemical ingredients) - A small notebok and a pencil
Appearance: Broad shouldered with rough brown hide-like skin, Bakk stands at six foot five and would be considered ‘stocky’ by his race’s standards. His large form is predominantly muscular rather than fatty due to his unusual diet. His body seems relatively human, though large in every sense as his hands and forearms proclaim powerful dense bones. His body hair grows thick and course brown and covers his chest back arms and legs almost to the point of making him look animalistic. His face is large with a pronounced jawline and brow, and his unnaturally sharp and large canines jut upwards from his bottom lip. He wears his hair tied back at shoulder length and it has a messy knotted appearance, it is the same colour as his body hair and very thick and tough.
Clothing: Bakk dons himself in a fur and leather skirt somewhat similar to the lower half of a leather hauberk but with protection over the groin. It offers very little in the way of defence but also weighs him down and restricts him far less than any armour.
Bakk usually wears a fur vest, which actually only constitutes his under-clothes when roaming his home ranges, but his ability to acclimatize to cold requires little else in more temperate climes.
He wears simple fur boots sewn together to repair consistent damage, though his skin is tough enough to do without them cold would still likely cause frostbite and the loss of toes in the more extreme seasons.
Equipment: Bakk travels incredibly light, with a number of survivalist skills under his belt he requires little more than a pouch of essentials and a leather water-skin. Within the pouches are flint and tinder, twine and smoked meat. He also carries a six inch wood cutting knife in a leather sheath.
Weapons: Bakk’s weapons are multi-purpose in that he hunts and fights with the same equipment. He carries one iron war-axe and three to four sharpened stone throwing axes.
Skills: Bakk is a nomad and a hunter from the extreme northern mountain ranges, his skills as such are suited to survival in such an extreme clime.
Survivalist: Bakk can survive in harsh conditions and hunt for food, though his skill at hunting animals doesn’t translate outside of the wilds, he could reliably stalk even intelligent prey if given suitable conditions. A dependency on his throwing skills to maintain his life and the age at which he has reached are both signs that his axe throwing is impeccable for such an imprecise art.
Tribal: Bakk has a ferocious strength born from his primitive roots, though the Venar have come into contact with civilisation more often in recent times they are slow to adapt new ways, and compensate with their natural strengths.
Beast: The Venar have an affinity with carnivorous animals that borders on the super-natural, and their fighting mimics these creatures. Though Bakk has no formal axe training he can overcome better equipped opponents by merit of his strength and ferocity more often than not. However, the tendency to beserk can be a double-edged sword, and quick intelligent foes with better equipment would be sure to undo him eventually.
One with the Wilds: The Venar are closely attached to the natural world, and most exhibit incredibly acute senses, they can hear and smell extremely well and can see in low-light conditions, though the down-side is that they rarely maintain above average human intelligence, and many fall below.
Misc: Bakk prefers meat raw, and only smokes a small portion of his kill for lean times.
Bakk has a poor grasp of the common tongue, which makes him seem particularly unintelligent, though not a genius by any stretch Bakk is smart enough for his race, but this only comes out when conversing in his own tongue.
Bakk has a short temper in certain circumstances, and a disdain for outside races which makes him remarkably anti-social. However, the language barrier tends to make him out as a mysterious savage rather than an ill-tempered recluse.
Bakk has a poor tolerance for heat and grows incredibly ill-tempered and uncomfortable in warmer climes. Bakk is often startled by sudden loud noises, and would be alarmed by the sound of a gunshot.
Background: Bakk had lived a turbulent and mobile life, even for a Venar. He left his mother tribe at fifteen years of age after his brother ascended to tribe chief, and wandered the wilds alone for five years, as was custom for his people. Eventually he made contact with a new tribe and made a home for himself amongst them. Venar tribes are incredibly tight nit and small by necessity, with only twenty to thirty people in the largest. They often skirmish among themselves and with slavers from the south east, and Bakk had it no different. Distinguished as a warrior and a hunter, as one would expect of a prospective tribe chief who had been taught little else as a child, he quickly ascended the ranks in his new tribe, to the point where he was eligible for the chief’s daughter. Surprisingly, considering the nature of his society, his growing relationship with his promised wife, Elera, was actually a mutual one, and Bakk lived happily for eight years in the tribe.
However, there was discontent to be found, which came to a head when the wise old Chief died, leaving behind him a son and daughter. The son ascended the tribe and perceived Bakk as a threat, though little seemed to come of this hostility. However, one year prior to the present day the tribe was caught up in a vicious slaver raid that saw horrific circumstances befall them. Bakk challenged the Chief to a duel in the following days and when refused killed him in cold blood, accepting exile.
Becoming an Outlaw was not a particularly unusual experience for a Venar, but Bakk was haunted and driven in equal measure by whatever happened on those fateful days. He began to seek out contact with low-landers and southerners, desperate for information. He found out a hard truth, nothing came for free. However, he was put into contact with someone who had the means to give him answers he sought, and jumped at the chance. Luckily his skills as a warrior and a hunter would serve him once more.
Venar: Beast-Men of the Ferendis Range
The Venar are in many ways similar to the Ventus and many have claimed that they must share some common ancestry. However, culturally they could be no more different, the Venar are a nomadic tribal people who are roughly 90% carnivorous. They have an affinity for cold and the wilds and their social structure is one of small secluded tribes of roughly 20-30 people with a Chief and ruling family. To describe the Venar as pack hunters would not be too harsh a description, they have created no great works of art and have rarely strayed from outside their range. However, it has been said that even if they had anything worth taking few would try, the Venar are an extreme threat to large forces in their own territory, and many a passing army has suffered severe attrition from Venar hunters. Only some of the hardiest and most skilled slaver bands from Vrent and further south venture into their ranges with hostile intent, and many pay with their lives.
However, the Venar are prized specimens, many reaching seven foot in height with powerful bear-like builds and appearances. Their women are more slender and usually a good few inches shorter than the men, with comparatively softer features. However, both sexes are natural fighters and hunters. With the exclusion of these two main past-times the Venar’s affinity with the wilds also serves as the foundation of their spiritualism. They worship nature itself, specifically referring to something known as the ‘Roots of the Great Tree’ and believe only in one’s place in the cycle of life. Each tribe enforces its own rules and the rule of the strongest tends to hold the most weight. Those gifted with magic are known as Shamans and incredibly rare, though there is a surprisingly high amount of magic within most Venar, it tends to exhibit itself in physical ways. Particularly, most Venar are gifted with a supernatural control over carnivores, and can avoid fighting most predators using this innate ability. This fairly common trait is sometimes found in extremes among the Venar, and those afflicted are known as ‘Bear-Kin’ not unlike Beserkers in Norse mythology. Their affinity to Beasts causes them to adopt the traits of animals in extreme circumstances. It’s the Bear-Kin which predominantly account for the Venar’s ferocity in battle.
Classifications
Species: Mammal, Humanoid
Homeland: Ferendis Mountain Range in the north, some may be found in adjacent ranges and further south as slaves or explorers, though most die soon after leaving the northern mountains.
Appearance: Bear-Like men, large boned, tall with brown hide-like skin, sharp teeth and shrewd eyes. Not unlike Neanderthals. Women are smaller with slighter softer features, but still comparatively animalistic compared to ordinary humans.
Diet: 90% Carnivore, 10% Vegetation, Bark and Seasoning, most prefer meat raw
Intelligence: Average human and below intelligence.
Main traits/professions: Animalistic physicality, powerful bodies and dense bones make them natural fighters, acute senses make them exceptional hunters.
Character Sheet Name: Haljon Gunnarsson Age: 27 Gender: Male Race: Human Physical Description:
A towering man of stout build, Haljon stands at a staggering 6'9, and weighs nearly forty-five stones (450 lbs). He is barrel-chested, and his arms are unusually long. Possessing strong, angular facial features, he may be considered ruggedly handsome by some. His eyes are deepset and a dark brown, almost black. A scar travels from his forehead to beneath his left eye, and his nose is crooked from multiple fractures. Haljon's mouth is framed by a large beard, which is complimented by bushy black brows. He seems to be permanently coated in a layer of dirt or dust.
Skillset:
Haljon is frighteningly strong and a renowned swordsman. A capable leader of men, he is an expert at recruiting and training and noted as a strict, but effective, disciplinarian. He is also an able tactician, but his strategies are none too subtle and often quite straightforward. He has a peculiar interest in geography and cartography, and thus is especially knowledgeable about the layout of terrain and areas surrounding Dara and beyond. Haljon is also quite fond of history, especially of the mythological sort.
Ancestry:
Haljon hails from a land far to the north, one steeped with mythology. Tales of heroes and the sons of Gods abounded, along with those of treacherous sorcerers and vile monsters. He grew up listening to these tales, and his family even claimed descent from one of the many heroes; Letholdus, a towering demigod famous for having slain the Twelve Great Beasts by himself, in atonement for the egregious sin of kinslaying. Supposedly Letholdus was the child of the God of the Sky, and had the capability to throw lightning bolts. His great height was the result of his father wishing for him to closer to the sky. Being incredibly strong and tall, Haljon was often compared to Letholdus as he got older, possessing many of the same features as the hero in the tale.
Character History:
Haljon grew up in a village located in the far north, one without a name or place on any map. Surrounded by an icy wasteland and having never experienced any season except Winter, the village survived through ice fishing and trading with the few merchants who dared venture that far north. The fish they caught were prized for their oil, as it apparently turned flame a multitude of colors when burned. Haljon had a normal, if grueling, childhood. As the village stayed at a nearly constant population due to the climate, children were expected to take large amounts of responsibility at an early age. They were taught that duty, particularly to the village, came before all else; that a person's word was the summation of their entire being, a terrible curse befalling all those who broke theirs.
The village often had to deal with slavers who raided the village for new slaves every few years. Supposedly, the villagers were renowned for their hardiness and made excellent laborers, and thus were favored by those who made a living through the sale of other humans. Through these attacks, the villagers learned to defend themselves, quickly becoming proficient with axes and spears. They fended off the slavers for nearly a decade. Then, one year, the slavers arrived in huge numbers. Despite the villagers best efforts, they were defeated and the entire village was sold into slavery. Haljon was thirteen when this occurred, and was particularly prized by his captors due to his already-impressive physique and young, impressionable nature. He, along with the rest of his village, was loaded onto the slaver's boats and taken far south, where they were sold at the markets of great cities.
Haljon was separated from all those he had ever known, making another trip across the sea to a forested land dotted with the odd town, inhabited by a barbaric and warlike people who called themselves the Treveri. There, he became a slave-soldier and was trained in the arts of war. He became quite skilled, and he distinguished himself on several occasions in the frequent battles and skirmishes the Treveri fought. By the age of seventeen he had reached his full, towering height and was famous across the land as being a fearsome warrior. The Treveri granted him his freedom then, and offered him an official place amongst their warrior-ranks. But the Treveri had been cruel masters, and so Haljon fled the tribe in the dead of night. He boarded the first ship he found, trading one of the many prizes he had collected over the years for passage. Since then he has roamed across many lands as a sellsword, and has most recently been doing his bloody work in the city of Vrent.
Haljon was born into an impoverished noble house with a small amount of land to it's name, his father a Knight of some renown and his mother of low-nobility. From a young age, Haljon had a keen interest in martial pursuits, and could often be found sparring in the courtyard or against other boys, including commoners (though this detail was much frowned upon by his mother). His father began teaching him swordplay at age seven, and while he mainly focused on these lessons, he also managed to learn to read and write, though his penmanship is horrid and his reading laughably slow. Haljon learned basic manners and some arithmetic, though he was never good at either. However, Haljon proved to have a keen eye for strategy and tactics, and he adored military history.
Haljon was formerly taken into his father's tutelage at age fourteen. By this time Haljon was the size of a full-grown man, and his growth showed no signs of slowing. By sixteen he would be taller than his father, who was considered a fairly large man, and by eighteen he would reach his full height of nearly seven feet tall. Along with his enormous size came a tremendous strength, and he was often compared to an ox in that respect. Haljon also proved to be a more than competent swordsman, and one with a surprising amount of speed and agility. Coupled with both a weight and reach advantage, he proved to be quite the formidable foe after he was formally knighted in his twenty-first year.
However, his father's liege-lord was apparently quite power hungry, and decided he was in a prime position to rebel against the Empire and forge a Kingdom of his own. As a vassal of this lord, his father was obligated to obey, and thus Haljon found himself marching to war against the forces of the Empire, much to his dismay. The war was, as could be expected, brutal and swift; the rebellion was crushed mercilessly in a single great battle, the rebellious lord slain on the field. His parents were executed for high treason, though Haljon was spared. Apparently he had acquitted himself quite well in the battle, and he was given the option of swearing fealty to a new lord. With little choice, Haljon accepted, swore an oath, and, in the dark of the night, absconded away to a nearby town. There he bought a horse and traveled to a far corner of the Empire, near it's very frontiers.
He drank away his grief and sorrow in a tavern, selling his horse and most of his clothes and armor to support his new-found love of ale. The only thing he kept was his sword Limbcleaver, a gift from his father. At some point whilst he was drowning his misery in the cups, he was approached by a man who introduced himself as Rikard, the leader of a mercenary company of some renown. He offered Haljon a place in the company, which Haljon accepted with a significant lack of grace. Over the next several years he traveled, fought, bled, ate, shit, and sweated with the company. He learned new skills and made many friends, some of which he believed to be his companions for life. OVer time the company became more and more famous, and thus their services were required by wealthier and more powerful men. Their battles became harder, but they endured and became stronger from it. Until, however, a day came when they were simply far too outnumbered. Rikard had insisted that they could handle any foe, and thus they found themselves surrounded on one lonely hilltop by three times their number. The company fought long and hard, but their numbers slowly dwindled; and although they killed two for every one they lost, they fell one-by-one until not a single one of them was left standing.
Haljon had slain a dozen or more of the enemy, and was only taken down after he was knocked over a shallow cliff ace onto several rocks below. He was presumed dead, but in reality alive, albeit gravely injured. He cursed the nine as he fled the aftermath, and once again turned to the cups to drown his sorrow in. Over time, a deep-seated hatred of the Immortal Nine took root in Haljon's soul, blaming them for the deaths of his parents and brothers-in-arms. He dreamed of the day he could take his vengeance, and that day seemed to come a few short weeks later in the form of a robed man. He spoke to Haljon of Erthantis and his followers and offered them a place in their ranks, and of course he accepted, recalling Rikard approaching him in the same manner, years ago...
Personality:
Haljon is known as an affable, boisterous character who is fond of light-hearted jests. He is something of an alcoholic, often found drinking copious amounts of wheat ale at his favorite tavern while off-duty. His word and reputation mean everything to him, as they are some of the few things he truly values.
Equipment:
Haljon wears a thick cuirass of lamellar, as well as vambraces and greaves made of the same material. Underneath all this he wears a long mail shirt that goes to his knees (hauberk). The rest of his outfit is made up of boiled leather, covering his thighs and shoulders. His boots are made of this material, as are his gauntlets. Haljon typically does not wear a helm. He has a massive two-handed iron sword that measures six feet long, slung across his back in an intricate sheath. He has dubbed the sword "Limbcleaver". A knife with a wide blade is sheathed at his belt. He has five groats, three shields and twenty farthings.
Name: Brevana the Cloud Age: 68 (allegedly) Gender: Female Appearance: Brevana is an austere looking woman of formidable, ram-rod straight posture and a terse (at times rude) demeanor that permeates all other aspects of her being; in short a woman not in the business of being beautiful. Brown of skin and hair and eye not a drop of Vrentian blood resides within her, evidenced in the subdued, exotic garb draped across her athletic form. White streaks its way through the puff of curls a simple tie keeps in check and lends to her a certain mystique; having either aged gracefully or before her time.
Clothing/Armor: A cross-collared suede garment (called a ninirri) that makes sparing use of concealed buttons and terminates just above the knee. Though reinforced with minimalistic metal plaques this sleeveless offering appears more a vestige of office than battle, a distinction at odds with the scar stricken expanses of leg and arm it leaves bare. Stiff linen slippers accompany Brevana in her travels, secured by a length of leather sandal while a similar solitary wrap graces her right forearm.
Weapons: Brevana is a scholar of a deadly martial ballet known as the Glorious Path of Crescent Sun's Shadow, taught exclusively to the militant arm of the Order of Stone Sages; a philosopher cult that vehemently decries Yvazgrul as the demiurge. Being an expression of the destruction of self and denial of the 'material lie' Crescent Sun Style has no stance, its principle tenant to be formless. At times mistaken for feats of mysticism a more thorough understanding of the body and its structural faults permits Brevana to strike a foe's hidden 'spirit seams' to various effect.
*Phantom Flaying Touch - The direct application of force to a spirit seam, causes localized muscular paralysis. *Sinner's Stride - A very technical throw wherein one's attacker's weight and momentum are leveraged against them. *Biting River Blow - A three strike combination that causes veins to contract, stemming blood flow *Mind Killer Dance - Induces agony by targeting the spinal column *Empty Cup Ritual - Forcibly induces vomiting over extended (often fatal) periods of time *Aphelion/Perihelion's Seal - Brevana enters into either a death-like trance or taps into her body's full potential respectively *Crescent Sun Rises/Sets - The second most devastating move in Brevana's arsenal, a sweeping kick that cuts like a knife *Firmament Crush/Weight of Paradise Hold - A collection of grapples that crush bone and burst organs.
Inventory: Having taken a vow of poverty and adhering to an ascetic lifestyle Brevana carries little in the way of possessions save for the clothes on her back and a small book of self authored poetry.
Backstory: Far to the south the verdant slopes and pastures of Vrent give way to the ruins of Ankhor Mote, the carrion corpse of a once great empire stripped bare by the press of foreign powers. Now merely an oft contested border it's empty streets play venue to the half-hearted saber rattling of expanding nations, mediated only by the unconquerable fortress-fane that keeps them from coming to blows.
Enter High Atoll, seat of the Stone Sages and last vestige of a bygone realm; rising from the White Rills to resist superpowers at each side. Were either country to move in force upon this stronghold it would be seen as the prelude to an invasion by their neighbor, yet lesser efforts invariably fail-- for neither northern seers or the southern Savannah kings hold power within this den of doubters.
So it was that a young Brevana was raised to there ranks, as countless prisoners before her-- broken and humbled by the might of these insurmountable heretics. Born to the braid (Warrior wives within the hundred harems of Prath) She and her slave-sisters marched at the merciless behest of a Savannah king, and he willed that they succeed where all others failed. Barely blooded the young warrior was attached to a ring of heart-drinkers and dispatched to covertly overtake High Atoll; what ensued could scarcely be described as battle. The Crescent Sun pushed through the would-be raiders like a prow through water--above effort--and offered the survivors a choice: remain and adhere to their teachings or return and submit themselves to the 'compassion' of their master. Few opted for the latter.
This proved to be a quickly contempted decision as the Stone Sages were a stringent lot, demanding as much of the reluctant initiates as they did their own number; the thralldom she'd been released from a distant luxury compare to the harsh ascetic lifestyle Brevana now endured. Bodies and wills alike broke beneath the burden of a forty day fast, during which a paltry ration of water was to be the sole source of sustenance, yet Brevana's was not among them. Days turned into weeks and the weeks into months as all that she'd believed herself to be eroded away, in the years that followed the true self that was revealed grew close enough to grasp.
Those of High Atoll value that which they extol to be the righteous truths, expressed totemicly as The Man, The Mirror and The Maker. The man is the material world and represents the lowest order of truths, those that are expressed externally. The mirror is the self and represents the next order of truths, personal truth. Lastly the Maker represents divine truth, as expressed via a crescent sun, for enlightenment is an ever distant horizon. By this measure ignorance is not only unjustified but sinful, as it distances oneself from the divine.
Through such reasoning Yvazgrul and like entities are adversarial to the will of the True Architect, fashioning a kingdom of their own in flawed semblance of the divine model; formed with the malevolent intention of entrapping aspects of the divine in materiality. Evidenced in how Yvazgrul, the font from which the Red Way springs covets the physical realm and coerces faith through fear and favor.
*One must not mistake weakness in themselves for the strength of another
*Though entwined mind and body are no more separate halves of the same whole than a stone to its shadow.
*The material world is as an ocean, ignorance a weight upon the heel. To look beyond the surface we must shake this tether.
Alias: Malcolm DuBeaux, “The Gentleman Bounty Hunter”
Race & Gender: Human Male
Age: 39
Appearance:
Approximately 5’6”, with a stocky build. Due to the nature of his work, Donovan exercises regularly and keeps up strength training, making him fairly muscular for his stature.
Donovan has a jagged, rough face with tanned, pink skin. He looks permanently sunburnt, but it’s simply a combination of his natural complexion mixed with the sea air and sun of Throngale (Throngale info below.) He has a large, square jaw that juts out at the chin.
He has eyes the color of murky ocean water, hidden under the shadow of a protruding, straight brow ridge. His eyebrows are thick and bushy, always filled with flecks of white. This is easily confused for dandruff, but it’s salt from his proximity to the ocean.
Donovan has light, greasy black hair. On his head, he keeps it somewhat short, slicking it back on all sides, the ends trailing into a curl at the back of his neck. In order to conceal his appearance, he has recently grown thick mutton chops that connect into a mustache. He keeps his beard and goatee neatly combed, matching the appearance of his hair.
Despite life as a bounty hunter, Donovan has an approachable face. He isn’t constantly smiling, but he gives off an easy-going air, his eyes bright and alert as if he knows something you don’t. The bridge of his nose curves inward, ending with nostrils and a nose pointed slightly upward.
Hardly anyone ever sees it, but he has a tattoo of the silhouette of a murkroot. The bulb and leaves start at his elbow, while the roots grow and spread out all along his arm, snaking their way up to his shoulder to a wild mass of tendrils.
Inventory
Clothing / Armor:
Donovan has two stand-out items in his usual wardrobe: a black bowler hat and a dark, indigo suit jacket with coattails. On both sides of the front of his coat are a column of 4 gold-colored buttons with ornate carvings. These have no function, being more for show than anything else.
Beneath the coat, Donovan wears a maroon vest, buttoned-up completely. The vest is worn over a wrinkled, white dress shirt, as well as a black tie. Lastly, Donovan dons a pair of black dress pants, accessorized with a reptile-skin belt, colored a speckle of brown, black, and white. The buckle is an copper, oval plate with spindly carvings around the outside.
Donovan doesn’t wear dress shoes. Instead, he wears black leather boots for durability, comfort, and ease of movement.
Donovan hides the fact that, underneath his clothes, he wears chainmail armor to protect his torso at all times (except when he sleeps and bathes). Aside from this, Donovan wields a buckler (explained below), and wears an iron armguard on his right forearm.
Weapons & Equipment:
Cane Blade - “Th’ simplest approach is usually th’ best approach.” A standard issue weapon of the Sabers, Donovan still holds onto his own cane blade, but he has modified its appearance to conceal its origin.
The cane blade is a long, thin shortsword, approximately three to four feet in length, being tailor-made to its user. The blade is concealed within a simple black, wooden scabbard that doubles as a cane. At the end of the scabbard is a brass tip, while two brass rings circle around near the sheath. The handle of the blade itself is also simple and made of brass.
Donovan has had the handle replaced with an ornate carving of a wolf’s paw, made of silver. The toes of the paw curve slightly, allowing for an easier grip. The scabbard has been painted over to resemble a mahogany finish.
Flintlock Pistols - “Reloading these things is a right pain in the arse, butcha only e’er need one shot.” To complement his blade for close combat, Donovan carries with him two flintlock pistols.
The flintlock is the latest in modern warfare. Rare weapons only seen among the wealthy or among government officials, Donovan still carries his flintlock from his time as a Saber. His second flintlock was purchased from a black market merchant that harbored in Throngale for a night.
His main flintlock is kept in a leather holster on the left side of his hip. The secondary is kept on a chest holster, laying across his left breast.
Donovan’s preferred firearm, hiis Saber-issued flintlock is simple design, made primarily of wood. The structure indicates cheap production over fanciful decoration.
His secondary flintlock, purchased from an illegal vendor. The exquisite ornamentation and metals probably mean this was stolen from some noble. It also has the exotic quality of containing three separate barrels.
Donovan does not dual-wield both flint-locks like a fool. He keeps two on his person in case he needs a quick second shot.
Flintlock Rifle - “I prefer my work done up close, but sometimes, you don’t get to choose yer circumstances.” A specialty weapon, Donovan has had experience using these before while on the Sabers. However, these were not standard-issue due to their expensive costs to produce, only being requisitioned for specific operations. Donovan has purchased this one legally from a weapons store in Throngale.
Donovan rarely ever brings, let alone uses, this rifle, but he is still a skilled enough marksman to land a shot from a distance. He has tied a strap to the barrel and stock, allowing him to carry it on his back.
Derringer - “Don’t let people know yer the most dangerous man in th’ room.” Another exotic weapon purchased off a seedy merchant through illegal means, this is a miniaturized version of the common flintlock pistol, it only measures three inches from barrel to butt. Donovan keeps this hidden up his right sleeve, attached to a spring-loaded mechanism. By pressing down on a switch near his right elbow, Donovan can release the spring, extending the Derringer directly into his hand from the sleeve.
The spring was custom-made and set Donovan back a Lily and a Blood, and he has only actually used it once, but the one occasion saved him in a barfight turned fatal. Donovan would argue that his life is definitely worth more than that.
Buckler - “This thing has saved me life more’n once...it always leaves me with a sore wrist, though.” A simple iron buckler Donovan wears on his left forearm, attached by two leather straps. The buckler is thin and light enough to wield with some agility in combat, while large enough to cover Donovan’s face and neck.
However, its thin design means it’s not going to block any heavy weapons such as axes or longswords, as they’ll simply break through the metal. Arrows are able to pierce through, but the buckler should prevent them penetrating through completely. It is strong enough to block distant shots from flintlocks as well as the common shortsword, including the cane blade.
In combat, Donovan typically uses his buckler to deflect or glance blows, rather than outright taking the hit. Additionally, he can use the buckler to unleash a backhand swipe powerful enough to knock out most people.
Other Equipment -Iron dagger he keeps strapped to his left thigh (“Y’always need a back-up.”) -Bag of ammunition for his flintlock weapons -Kept in his coat pocket, a silver flask filled with…(“It’ll knock yeh on yer arse, s’all ye need t’know.) -Leather satchel, strapped across his shoulder and hanging on his right side. Filled with necessary equipment, such as...
-Parchment and charcoal sticks for writing/drawing -Set of simple lockpicking tools, nothing fancy. (“Fer when a swift kick o’ th’boot is too loud.”) -Counterfeit ℘ragon's Heads (“Hopefully I never meet ‘em again.”) -Cloths and rags -Whetstone -Bandage wraps, healing ointments, and herbal medicines for minor injuries -Canteen of water -Drawings of his family, kept safe in clasp of boiled leather -A loaf bread -Various cheeses -Salted meats
Wallet: “That’s none o’ yer damn business now, is it?” (Donovan is by no means wealthy, but his savings from life as a Saber, the farm he currently owned, and success as a bounty hunter has kept him living comfortably.)
Skills:
Swordsman: Years of practiced combat as a Saber and a bounty hunter has left Donovan as a highly advanced swordsman. He’s not nearly as fast as he was in his youth, but he’s a smart fighter, not a ferocious nor a fast one.
Marksman: When close-up work isn’t an option, Donovan is a deadeye with a gun. He prefers using his pistols, but Donovan’s able to snipe from a few hundred yards away with his rifle.
Detective: Still able to use and hone his Saber skills as a bounty hunter, Donovan knows how to obtain, understand, and piece together evidence. Actual hunters thrive on pursuing creatures in the wilds, while Donovan is a hunter of civilized men.
Scholar of Truths: Donovan still has a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Vrent’s Truths and how they all interact with one another, allowing him to get through loopholes wherever they are.
Interrogator/Charmer: More skills he picked up as a Saber and utilizes as a bounty hunter, Donovan knows how to make a man talk through carefully applied pain and psychological torment, as well as how to steer a friendly conversation towards the information he wants.
Amateur Sneak: Donovan can’t move around as deftly as a practiced thief, but he can remain quiet and still when it counts. He’s also able to lockpick his way into poorly guarded buildings, such as small stores and households. Anything with a serious lock is out of his league. Or he just tries kicking it down.
Fabricator: With almost a decade of lying about his identity under his belt, Donovan is a convincing liar.
Brawler: Don’t challenge him to a fistfight. He’ll lay your @$$ out.
Personality:
Let’s first address Donovan’s life as a new man. He prefers the “hiding in plain sight” approach. Donovan is cautious with every step he takes, but he’s not a hermit, nor is he excessively secretive. He has a completely made up history for his new identity and will stick to it, trusting that he won’t be discovered unless he comes face-to-face with old friends or family. He is open about owning a farm, and about being a bounty hunter.
Donovan is a charismatic individual, known to be very friendly and approachable. Even with total strangers, Donovan makes those around feel as if they’ve known him all their life. This is partly due to his natural self, as well as a necessity to keep anyone from suspecting him of being more than Malcolm DuBeaux. This makes him a good drinking buddy!
Despite such a devastating betrayal in his life, Donovan still believes in upholding justice. He just needs to go about it differently than he had been for 12 years of his life. He acknowledges that the justice system is not perfect, but it still needs to be in place for the people of Vrent. A few corrupt people doesn’t make the whole system corrupt.
Life has given him a more realistic perspective on the world, but he’s still optimistic about humanity.
He dearly misses his old life, especially the family he left in Isthia, but Donovan has accepted his new life as Malcolm DuBeaux.
Donovan acts excessively chivalrous and well-mannered as part of his Malcolm DuBeaux persona.
History:
Donovan grew up happily in a farming community. He wanted to be a hero like the ones from stories he heard every night. Him and his family saved up to send him off to Vrent. On his first day, Donovan was mugged by two guys, then saved by Bulwark Finnigan (a Bulwark is a cop basically.) Donovan immediately idolized Finnigan, and wanted to become a Saber (Saber is a normal cop, Bulwark is a captain/detective.) Finnigan adopted Donovan and became like a father. Finnigan payed for Donovan to go to private school, studying to become a Saber. Donovan graduated, applied to become a Saber, and was accepted. Finnigan had Donovan transferred to his unit, and they served together for years. Eventually, Donovan was nominated to move up and be promoted to Bulwark. Finnigan represented Donovan, explaining to the higher-ups why Donovan should be a Bulwark. Donovan was accepted, becoming a full-fledged Bulwark. Early on in his career as a Bulwark, Donovan picked up on a conspiracy, finding evidence that Finnigan, his adopted father, was helping criminals get out of punishment. Donovan brought this to the court with a mountain of evidence, but Finnigan got off free, probably pulling some strings. Finnigan threatened Donovan’s life, so Donovan fled to a far away city, where he lived as a bounty hunter for years.
Fox O’Donovan was born in and grew up in one of the many farming communities that made up Isthia, fifth out of seven children. Both of his parents worked as workers tending to the fields of murkroot, who have literally spent more than half of their lives toiling in the water and muck. The O’Donovans never struggled to survive, but every member, including the children, had to put in more than their share of hard work to put food on the table. Donovan remembers working ever since he was able to walk.
A hardy, leafy bulb that only grows in shallow marshes. The bulb is similar in taste and nutrition to the common potato, with large, oar-shaped leaves growing off the top of it that are also edible. The bulb floats on the surface of the water, with thick tendrils of roots reaching down through the water, planting itself in place.
As a child, Donovan’s parents would read stories to him and his children every night. Being farmers, they couldn’t afford many luxuries without risking food being absent for a few days. Thankfully, a passing merchant traded a musty storybook for a few of their murkroots. And so, the O’Donovan family would hear about the many adventures and triumphs of fictional heroes, the Vindicators of Truth, battling against the malevolent spawn of darkness.
The young Donovan grew up happy and content in his childhood. His family loved him, there was usually food to eat, and he made friends with the other farmers’ children. He wanted more out of his uneventful life though; he wanted to fight evil just like the heroes from the stories he heard every day. Donovan would run around the marshes and rivers of his village, slashing at invisible monsters with a stick.
With the help of some of his older siblings, Donovan eventually saved up enough to travel to the Citadel, the best place to pursue his dream of fighting evil. Donovan gave a bittersweet farewell to his family, and left for Vrent’s Citadel.
Donovan arrived at the gates of Vrent, young, idealistic, and wide-eyed. He had never seen anything as big as the towering stone, never seen so many people crowded in one place, never experienced anything like the cultural melting pot that was Vrent. Neither had he experienced the cruel side of humanity. The naive young man approached some gentleman with the appearance of having lived in Vrent for some time, asking them for advice for a new resident. These two gentlemen eagerly agreed to show him around, and promptly escorted him to a nearby alley where they proceeded to beat him and take his belongings. Just as the muggers were taking the last of Donovan’s belongings, a couple of Sabers happened upon them, chasing off the muggers.
Enter Bulwark Finnigan, the man that fended off Donovan’s attackers. At that moment, Finnigan had engraved himself in Donovan’s mind as the ideal everyman’s hero. As Finnigan turned to pursue the muggers, Donovan stopped him, begging Finnigan to take him on as an apprentice. Finnigan was visibly confused, so Donovan explained to him his dreams and his situation. Finnigan took him in, unofficially becoming his new guardian.
Finnigan became like a father to Donovan, teaching him to adjust to life in the city. He also helped Donovan understand the darker side of man, due to his lack of real social experiences. Eventually, Finnigan used his own ℘ragon Heads to put Donovan into the Academy of Truth, a highly prestigious school for training those interested in joining the Vidril of Truths.
Donovan passed through the Academy with flying colors, eager to achieve his dream of fighting criminals and protecting the innocent. He applied to join the Sabers immediately upon finishing his schooling, and was promptly accepted, getting through the probationary period without any trouble. Donovan was officially a Saber of the Vidril of Truths. Proud of his adopted son, Finnigan requested to have Donovan transferred to his unit, continuing to mentor the young Saber.
Donovan excelled as a Saber, defending the Truths of Vrent and its citizens from crime, big and small. However, as he served through the years, he noticed every now and then that the Tribunal would let go criminals he had caught, despite having overwhelming evidence and eyewitnesses pointing towards them obviously breaking a Truth. Donovan simply dismissed it as the Tribunals being careful to not condemn an innocent man.
Due to his success and zeal in the line of work, Donovan was an obvious candidate to move up to Bulwark. Initially, Donovan suspected that Finnigan had been the one to nominate him, but he later found out that it was actually his fellow Sabers. This was especially surprising, considering that Donovan was both the youngest member of their group, as well as the one on the force for the shortest amount of time. Finnigan may not have been the one who recommended Donovan, but he was the one who represented Donovan. Finnigan never revealed what he wrote in the letter of recommendation, nor what he said in the interview. Regardless, Donovan was approved, advancing further in his dream career...Bulwark O’Donovan.
Unfortunately, Donovan’s career would be cut short as a result of him doing what he loved: his job. He was unrelentless is hunting down the most secretive of criminals. The years as a Saber had transformed Donovan into an efficient, well-oiled machine, a bloodhound that always sniffed out its prey. One of Donovan’s hunts had him catching the scent of a criminal on the inside of the Vidril of Truths. Everything started coming together for Donovan, why suspected criminals had gotten off without a conviction, why evidence seemed to go missing or go completely disregarded, everything.
Every crook he interrogated, every document he screened, every undocumented financial transaction he caught pointed to one logical conclusion, with one man at the center of it all: Bulwark Finnigan, likely with the help of others in the Vidril of Truth, would help criminals that paid him off get released without a conviction. Donovan didn’t want to believe it, but he did have to fulfill his duty. He gathered together all of the evidence he had and pushed the case forward to the Courts of Truth.
Donovan was given special permission to witness the Inquisition of Finnigan. The Inquisitor of the Offended let loose an unending torrent of proof, presenting every shred of proof without any possibility of refuting its validity. The Accused’s arguments were pitiful, only stating that this was possibly an elaborate conspiracy to frame Finnigan. The long-time Bulwark and father figure to Donovan was obviously guilty, and yet...the Tribunal declared Finnigan as innocent.
Dumbfounded, Donovan wandered into the hall outside the Court, staring at the wall. How could he have missed it, Finnigan would have needed accomplices working as Triunes to get criminals off scot-free. Now, he was using those same connections to get himself out of trouble. While Donovan continued to stare at the wall, Finnigan strode over to him and whispered,”I will kill you if I see you again.”
Those were the last words Donovan ever heard from Finnigan. Wasting no time, Donovan gathered all of his belongings and money, fleeing to Throngale, a backwater port town. For the past few years, he has lived there amongst the pirates and outlaws making a living as a bounty hunter, still pursuing his one-man war against crime.
Fearing that Finnigan would send someone to silence him, Donovan completely changed his identity. He changed his name, started growing a massive beard on his clean-shaven face, and remade his image.
Donovan ditched his uniform, trading it with some backwater tailor for an old suit and hat. With the money that he had, Donovan purchased a small, barely self-sufficient farm near Throngale, and hired a steward to watch over the farm while he worked on making a new name for himself as a new person. On the deed for the land, Donovan signed as his new identity: Malcolm DuBeaux.
A little less than a year into the farming business, Malcolm’s farm had barely made any progress, with no return on investment at all. He needed more capital simply to obtain the equipment and labor needed to start turning a real profit. Not exactly a business tycoon, Donovan walked the streets of Throngale, pondering over ideas. He couldn’t turn to loans, as it would draw attention to him if he wasn’t able to pay them back. No investor in their right mind would put money down on an almost failed farm. Donovan needed a lot of money, fast.
Strolling down the line of warehouses on Throngale’s docks, an idea was literally hanging on a wall, as if sent from heaven: a Wanted poster with a hefty reward at the bottom. Suddenly, Donovan’s old passions were rekindled. He would build the foundations of his new life on the skills of his previous self. The farm would be saved by his ability and desire to punish the wicked. And so began the successful career of the mysterious Malcolm DuBeaux; plantation owner by day, bounty hunter by night. And also day.
Years later, after building up his reputation as a famed bounty hunter, he was contacted by an unnamed individual, recruiting Donovan (Malcolm) for a lucrative job. The catch?
It was back in Vrent.
Throngale is a backwater port town, neighboring the far more successful, and far more orderly, Sfel. Throngale primarily deals with smaller ships and barges that are simply passing through, rarely handling any serious imports or exports aside from food and supplies for the town. Throngale is littered with taverns, brothels, casinos, theaters, and all other manner of ways for a sailor to let loose from days at sea. Just as any port or harbor city, Throngale is a hodgepodge of the many different cultures that pass through. Aside from shady “entertainment,” Throngale is actually well-known for its food and music. Chefs, cooks, and musicians from all around have settled in Throngale, enjoying the debauchery readily available, and set up their own restaurants and clubs. While not a large city like the Citadels near the mountains, Throngale has a thriving night life. While there are set Truths that citizens and visitors are expected to follow, Throngale does not have any Sabers that regularly patrol. Instead, citizens are expected to police themselves, punishing criminals not with jail, but with fist, gun, or blade. The closest thing Throngale has to an organized police force is a rag-tag band of militiamen and bounty hunters that look to punish known criminals.
Age 16 Sets off for and arrives at Vrent Gets mugged Gets saved and adopted by Finnigan Finnigan puts Donovan through school
Age 18 Donovan applies for the Sabers and is accepted
Age 25 Nominated for and becomes a Bulwark
Age 27 Begins to suspect a conspiracy involving Finnigan
Age 29 Pushes the case against Finnigan to the Courts of Truth Finnigan is declared Innocent, then threatens Donovan’s life Donovan flees the Vrent Citadel
Age 30 Donovan settles in Throngale, initially doing odd-jobs
Age 31 Donovan begins his career of bounty hunting.
Age 39 Donovan is contacted by an anonymous figure, promising an exceptionally well-paying job.
Other:
Amongst the farming communities of Isthia, each village has their own slang, common phrases, and tweaks in the accent. Overall though, Isthians have what we would consider an “Irish” accent.
Finnigan is 10 years older than Donovan. Finnigan had been helping out criminals since before he met Donovan, and was hoping to have Donovan “join the family business.”
