[CHAR] 𝛢GE ⊙F ÐAWN

[Dead Cruiser]

"Time is as fluid as a river. Truth, as fleeting as rain."

Name: Arkos, Sage of Waterfalls

Age: 63

Gender: Male

Appearance: Arkos is a grizzled and grey old man. Though he was tall and fit in his prime, the years have weakened him, and he stands with a subtle hunch. He was never a particularly handsome man, but the years worn on his face lend him an air of dignity and fascination. The silver hair atop his head has been thinning for years, but he still carries great, wild eyebrows, and sports a thick, coarse beard. Though usually hidden by his thin-worn green and golden robes, his body is weathered and scarred, but still straight and strong enough to carry himself with pride at his age. Two of his features are immediately striking above all others: the golden Alchemist's Diadem he wears about his head, and the misty, ethereal quality to his cataract-covered eyes.

Personality: An enigmatic man, full of strange ideas and stranger sayings. Arkos walks through the world as though wandering through a fog, recognizing those he encounters, but always looking through them or beyond them. His understanding of the world is past that which most men can bring themselves to understand, and very few try. To the casual observer he is a crazed and obscene old man, but his words and actions carry far deeper meaning than most realize. He has a distaste for authority, luxury and the many other foolish trappings of civilization, and under no circumstances filters his thoughts or opinions for the betterment of others. Though he often maintains a stoic demeanor, he can sometimes display a harsh, irreverent wit, usually at the expense of the person invoking it.

History: Arkos was born an Age ago, before the fall of Atlantis, and was the son of a lesser nobleman in the polis of Thagaste. A small city on bordering the sea at its Southern shores, near the Ivory Kingdoms of Kush, Thagaste was among the few cities in Atlantis ruled by a committee of noblemen, which Arkos' father was among, rather than a Prince. Such a small territory was below the notice of the malevolent forces that plotted the downfall of Atlantis, and so when the Years of Dusk ened, Thagaste had barely been affected at all, carrying on as it had for centuries.

Arkos' father at first tried to bring his son into the realm of politics, but the boy quickly developed a distaste for it. He saw noblemen and politicians as parasites, assuming power only from the strength and efforts of others. As he son did not take to the trade of governance, Arkos was placed in the apprenticeship of the city's respected Master Alchemist, who educated Arkos in the Divine Craft. Though he studied under the wise alchemist until he was a young man, Arkos had no talent for the craft, and found himself growing impatient and bored when learning rote and theory. Even so, he earned the title of Alchemist from his master after successfully crafting Orichalcum from simple electrum. His studies complete, Arkos found little success in his trade, as he was genuinely mediocre.

Unsatisfied with his life, Arkos gave up alchemy and returned to his father's estate to study philosophy and history as his whims dictated. From travelers and refugees he learned of the dire state of the world, and the collapse of greater Atlantis. Arkos was alarmed at not only the extent of suffering that existed in the world, but at how little his father and other noblemen seemed to care. Arkos protested their inactivity openly, marching in the streets of Thagaste proclaiming his radical opinions and offensive philosophies. Eventually his father could bear the shame Arkos brought him no longer, and petitioned his peers to have his son exiled from Thagaste. The committee concurred, and Arkos had his citizenship revoked. To an Atlantean, there was no greater pride than to be a natural citizen of the greatest empire in the world, and death by grief or suicide was a common reaction to the punishment of exile. Akros was overjoyed. No longer was he tied to the petty, self-obsessed dung heap that was Thagaste, as he now considered himself to be a citizen of the entire world.

Arkos sailed across the sea into Borea, and for years wandered the length and breadth of the land. He learned much from the peoples there, and their struggles. He helped as many as he could, lending his small skill in alchemy where it was beneficent, but in this time became more worldly, learning many practical skills of survival that he had never known as a pampered youth. In a world that had become so savage, it often happened that Arkos needed to defend himself, and so he learned to fight with a staff, though it was really more of a walking stick. He was a man of letters and science, not of swords and warfare, and so he carried no other weapon. He was taught herbalism and woodsmanship, and in learning many herbs and other materials found in the wilds, even his paltry talent for alchemy improved.

After many years of journeying, a fateful encounter befell Arkos. A troupe of bandits fell upon him, seeking to rob him of the little value his few possessions held. Arkos held them off as best he could, but there were too many for him to emerge victorious. As he felt his strength fading, he fled, leaping into a nearby river and swimming downstream. The bandits did not give chase, and Arkos soon discovered why: the river fell off a cliff as a roaring waterfall. The current was too strong by the time he realized, and he was sucked down into the vicious cascade. As he fell, time seemed to slow, and his life flashed before his eyes. There was an awakening in Arkos, then, as he saw a future before him, despite his peril. Arkos was knocked unconscious by the fall, but emerged mostly uninjured at the river's shore some hours later.

From that point on, Arkos saw more than common men; he could see how fate wove and twisted through the world, ever shifting with current of time. He could pull on these subtle threads, seeing where they had been, and where they would go. Past, present and future melded together in his eyes; what was, what had been, and what could be were one and the same. His journeys at once became more and less focused. Rather than wander where his feet took him, he followed fate where it guided him, though it led him to far stranger and more distant lands. In hidden places of power and potential, he learned secrets lost to the ages, and so picked up the rudiments of wizardry. The past gave up its secrets easily to Arkos, and so he learned much in a short time, always developing his skills wherever fate guided him.

Journey: Arkos sees his fate spread out before him, culminating in a blinding dawn past which he sees no future. He journeys toward this mysterious destiny, following the the path of time like a complacent riverman drifting down a stream. Along his way he picks up the small fragments of wisdom, knowledge and power that he finds of value, knowing that they will be of use when the time comes for his destiny to come to fruition.

Ideals: Arkos looks always to the horizon, to the mysterious and unknowable destiny that lies beyond all things. He knows that life and material things are ephemeral at best, and that it is knowledge and the wisdom to use it that will can last through the ages, or stand to alter fate.

Holdings: An ascetic, Arkos carries little as he does not need much to live on. The robes on his back, as well as his Alchemist's Diadem, are the only clothes he owns. He carries a satchel filled with various small trinkets and writings, interesting scrolls and unique herbs and minerals. He carries no weapons, only a gnarled walking stick carved from rowan wood, which may be a crude cudgel at one moment, and a focus for his wizardry the next.

[HisforHugs]

Name: Corinna “Cora” Rall
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Appearance:

Cora has the lithe, athletic build of a traveler, of a woman used to years spent on the road, scouring ruins for lost tomes of knowledge, and a life often lived far from the comforts of civilization. Her skin is light and fair, but bears the familiar marks of her profession. A web of scars create a delicate tapestry along her hands and arms and it is clear the despite her skill, Cora like all alchemists, has paid a heavy price in order to master the alchemical arts. For even a skilled practitioner must learn through mistakes and these mistakes are costly when volatile chemicals are involved. The young Borean woman prefers her hair short, rarely letting it reach past her shoulders, and keeps it perpetually dyed it a dark shade of blue. Her eyes are not accidentally a matching hue of dark blue and shine more often than not with a barely contained sense of curiosity.

Cora dresses pragmatically, with layers of clothing appropriate to the season hidden beneath a well-fitting robe of black.

Personality:

Cora is intellectually inclined and possess a curiosity that has managed to get her both into and out of trouble more times than she can remember. She carries herself confidently, knowing full well that those who abandon themselves to hopelessness or fear are lost to the dangers of the world. Traveling across the lands of the Iron Kingdoms has taught her the value of pragmatism and unlike many other practitioners of the alchemical arts she understands the world outside of a laboratory as well as the one within the confines of a carefully controlled room of science.

She is deliberate and focused in her actions, always working towards acquiring new knowledge, finding yet another theory or useful idea. She is daring and occasionally reckless young woman, especially when tempted by her desires.

Despite what many might expect from an alchemist, Cora is warm and agreeable, quick to adapt to her surroundings and to those around her and open-minded as only a traveler can be. She is talkative given topics interests her, but can be touchy if faced with criticism or what she perceives as disinterest from others.

A vagabond at heart, Cora is exceedingly rebellious and freethinking, showing little interest in following the rules of polite society unless compelled to do so by factors outside of her control.

History:

Cora was born in Thelen, a small village found in the northernmost reaches of what had once been the great Kingdom of Thule. The scion of a long line of alchemists that had served the royalty of the ancient kingdom since time immemorial, her fate has seemed from birth to be intimately entwined with the studies of her ancestors.

Her father was a middling alchemist, a poor soul who had never quite managed to live up the expectations of greatness placed upon him. Her mother was a weaver, a kind-hearted woman who kept the household together and the children in line. The small family lived modestly, respected by all but never managing to accrue more than what was necessary to survive. Life in the mountains was harsh, but the village Cora grew up in had fared far better than most of Thule during the grim Years of Dusk, and while much of the Iron Kingdoms suffered, little changed in Thelen. The unimportant village had been protected from the Scourge by the towering mountains which surrounded the village. It had been isolated for much of recorded history and as a result it was left it largely untouched by the foul plague that enveloped the land.

The light and guiding light in Cora’s youth was her grandfather, a grizzled veteran of the last great wars that told the young girl stories of the past. Though well past his prime, the old man had once been a talented alchemist and he was one of the few remaining royal alchemists of the old kingdom that had survived to the great fall. In short, he was a man well-versed in the Thulian arts of war and the deadly alchemy which the kingdom had wielded. Seeing potential in his granddaughter he took charge of her upbringing and taught Cora all that he knew, starting her education when she was little more than a child.

When he was finally satisfied with her training, Cora was a young woman, ready and eager to see the world. For there were limits to what her grandfather could teach her and he had spoken of ancient alchemists, legendary men and women, who had found truths far beyond his own comprehension. Striking out on her own Cora sought to continue her education and she journeyed beyond the mountains of her home in search of greater opportunities.

Eventually she found her way to the kingdom of Ostroc, one of the many minor kingdoms that had arisen following the fall of Thule. A militarily inclined kingdom with grand dreams of conquest and glory, Cora was eagerly welcomed to the royal court by King Ottomar Ironfist and his advisors, who desperately courted the young alchemist with promises of great rewards. An offer Cora accepted after a fortnight of careful deliberation.

She spent several years in the court serving as the royal alchemist to the fearsome king and his armies. It was said that the small kingdom quickly grew into a regional powerhouse with arrival of the young alchemist, rapidly fielding an army of arquebusiers that threatened even the most heavily armored knights in battle and laying entire armies to waste. Yet, it was not for the coin or the renown that Cora had accepted the position, but rather it was the promise of great knowledge that seduce her. For hidden safely in the castle of the king was a carefully guarded library, one of the few to survive the time of troubles unscathed, and it was worth far more to Cora than any sum of gold.

In time, Cora began to question her deeds in the service of the king, she began to doubt the goodness of creating tools of war, and she began to despair at the realization that her clever creations, of powder, flame and concussions, brought only injury and death. Certain that she had learned what she could from the library and unwilling or unable to face her conscience, she left the court of King Ottomar and returned to what she loved most, traveling the lands of the Iron Kingdoms.

In the time since she left the small village of Thelen, Cora has become a skilled alchemist and she has even managed to earn a notable reputation. To some, she is a seeker and guardian of lost knowledge and relics, a preserver of the vital technologies of the past. While to others, she is thieving treasure hunter and desecrator of tombs, a creator of terrible machines of war that kill and maim, in short a monster and cowardly killer.

Journey:

There are precious few things Cora values as highly as knowledge. The young woman has dedicated her life to the alchemical arts and seeks to preserve the alchemical knowledge which is rapidly vanishing from the world. She travels across the lands of the Iron Kingdom with this goal in mind, offering her services to peasants, nobles and even kings when it will aid her cause.

It is the lost tomes and relics of the bygone ages that she seeks, rather than fleeting things like wealth or power.

Ideals:

Above all else in life, Cora values knowledge. She is motivated by the desire to discover mysteries lost to the Years of Dusk and to re-learn the secrets of the ancient alchemical masters.

Holdings:

Cora has precious little to her own name beyond those few possessions that she can carry in her traveling pack. She jealously guards an ancient tome of alchemical knowledge, a thick book older than her by several counts, and the sum of not only her own knowledge but that of generations of alchemists from across the Iron Kingdoms. The countless pages of the tome are filled to the brim with complex formulas and notes that would make little sense to those unfamiliar with the science of alchemy. However, even the uninitiated might marvel at the elaborate and beautiful illustrations that Cora has added where relevant.

On her person Cora carries several flasks of alchemical concoctions, safely secured in a complicated arrangement of straps. Although inert, with a quick mix, these chemicals can be combined into a number of volatile and deadly compounds. Beasts and men, even those clad in steel, are remarkably vulnerable to explosions and the kiss of flames after all.

In her leather traveling pack Cora carries the supplies needed for a couple of days of traveling, as well as a number of strange arcane ingredients, meticulously preserved, wrapped, and stored. Beyond this Cora takes great care to keep her supply of paper and writing supplies well stocked.

Cora has a walking stick with her at all times, a stout piece of oak tailored to her height, as well as a small knife that could if needed be used to defend her person, but that more often than not it simply serves as a tool. However to ensure her safety on the road Cora also has a blunderbuss pistol, a short and stocky firearm with a simple wooden frame, and a steel barrel. It is brutal weapon that is remarkably efficient at close range and she has christened it “Thunder” due to the fearsome sound it makes and the strength of its blows. She customarily keeps it loaded with a number of lead balls, but in a pinch it could be fired using scrap metals and other materials, although this would inevitably damage the barrel and necessitate repairs.

[DeltaV]

Ioannes Arsenikos

Name:
Ioannes Arsenikos

Age:
47

Gender:
Male

Appearance:


Appearance is a vital part of persuasion, and if so Ioannes certainly strives to look the part of a king. His face is made up primarily of hard angles, pale with pronounced cheekbones and jet-black hair streaked with gray extending in a sharp, close-cropped widow's peak from his head. His eyes, a deep gray, are somewhat set into his face, framed by a short and well-maintained beard.

Physically Ioannes is of above-average height and average weight, and fit enough to bear the weight of armor and weapon without tiring easily.

He dresses in regalia as befitting a so-called emperor -- in peace a surcoat displaying the colors and arms of his dynasty, with a long cloak of velvet and fur. In battle he dons a full suit of plate armor, and wields the ancestral longsword of his house, the edge of which trimmed in vibrant golden Orichalcum.

The arms of the Arsenikos display a black stag on silver, surrounded by a golden sun.

Personality:
Ioannes is a serious, sometimes somber man, though his japes and furies are just as great as many man's on the occasion that they bubble to the surface. He is excelent at presenting the proper stoic demeanor that one might imagine would belong to one of the Dragon-Kings of old.

Perhaps the most defining feature that Arsenikos radiates is confidence -- he dares not believe that his claim is false or his methods failures, for doubt is the mother of destruction. At the same time, he is not arrogant, for the ancient Philosopher-Kings thought themselves to be untouchable until they were brought back down to the earth by simple knives and treachery.

A persuasive and somtimes cunning man, Ioannes inspires the kind of loyalty that drives a man to keep from breaking rank in battle. He is eloquent though generally soft-spoken, and can be rather intimidating with his silences as well as his shouts -- a factor used well and often to his advantage.

All that said, despite his efforts to appear otherwise Ioannes is still a man, and has a man's vices. He is restless, unwilling to stay in one place for long. His tempers, when they come, are violent and long-lived as they boil just beneath the surface of an otherwise cool demeanor. Detractors might describe him as ambitious in the archaic sense, greedy and sometimes forgoing morals for what he sees as the greater good.

History:
Though all suffered in the time of and leading up to the Years of Dusk, it must truly be said that none have fallen further from their one-great heights than the Atlantean Empire. With the Dragon-Kings long dead, it was up to the great Philosopher-Kings to pick up in their stead in a new and barbaric land -- and, eventually, it must come to pass that the titan be felled.

So it was that in the dead of night, on the evening that would cement itself as the first day of a new and terrible era, the heads and heirs of almost every noble house in the Empire were brutally murdered. Over the years that followed, the various remnants who picked up in their stead also met grisly fates at the hands of this mysterious cult of murderers, and overnight the great beast of the Empire collapsed and died.

But that was not the fate of all those who sought to take up the mantle of the Philosopher-Kings once again. The Atlantean homelands had always been organized into a series of essentially self-sufficient polis, all great cities and bastions of Atlantean culture in their own right. In the chaotic times of what the historians now pen the Atlantean Interregnum, the various city-states and their remaining nobility -- some of ancient bloodlines too minor or too well-protected to assassinate, and others upstarts who siezed their respective cities in the Years of Dusk -- clashed against one another and hollowly proclaimed themselves the New Empire. After a few years the dust settled, however, and none had any more than a few burned fields and poisoned wells to show for it.

Many of the outlying border-cities come to be sacked by barbarian northerners or nomads or beastmen, but what remained of the central lands remained true to the ways of their ancestors. Among them was the humble city of Acharnae -- of modest size and little decadence, its only true thing to boast of were the ancient triple-walls of granite and marble that surrounded it, and served well to keep out any murdering cultists and savage raiders in the Years of Dusk. Ruling from behind their walls was House Arsenikos, a noble family great in age and honor but poor in gold and influence in the late Atlantean Empire. The Acharnaens declared themselves the true successors to the great Empire, but contented themselves to remain safe and prosperous behind the city's walls as other pretenders clashed and died and retreated in the fields beyond.

Ioannes Arsenikos was born the heir to Aenar Arsenikos, who ruled the city as his forebears had for generations, and who himself only dimly remembered the Years of Dusk of his childhood. Ioannes grew up within the great triple-walls, learning the ways of sword and spear and shield and bow -- but he found himself most at home in the court, and knew that it would be words, and not swords, that would be able to unite the Empire once more.

When Ioannes came of age, his father was still relatively young, and certainly vigorous -- unlikely to die and bequeath his city and hollow titles to Ioannes any time in the near future. So Ioannes instead commandeered a trading galley and sailed the great lands and waters of the continent that would one day be returned to Atlantean glory, making call at the remaining port cities of Iiram and Borea and the Ivory and Jade Kingdoms. At each he met with the local rulers and offered gestures of friendship if they would lend what swords they had to his cause, though he was almost entirely unsuccessful. It was at the last of Ioannes' stops that he made his home for a number of years, studying the ancient magicks that the people of the Jade were said to possess, and searching for some easy sorcery or enchantment that would simplify Ioannes' reunification of the Empire. He left empty-handed but for knowledge, though none of it was particularly useful, when a trading caravan brought word of his father's death from a sudden pneumonia.

Before returning his sails to Acharnae, however, Ioannes sailed the great waters of the Atlantean Sea, perhaps seeking guidance among the sunken marble pillars and tiny archipelagos that might once have been mountain ranges. In perhaps a fit of folly, he even sailed the coasts of lands nearer to homes, staring from a safe distance upon the ruins of great Nemedia and the respective icy glaciers and volcanic shores of Hyperborea and the unknown Obsidian Kingdoms.

Ioannes returned to his city a changed man and half a stranger, but made wiser and stronger and more skilled of diplomacy nonetheless. In a short ceremony, he took upon himself the mantle of what the Acharnaens claimed to be the true successor to the Atlanteans, and began to rule the city in earnest. It was a strategic and perhaps a bit lucky marriage to Anthousa Apollonios, the recent childless widow of the former 'Emperor' of the nearby city of Ephyra, that truly allowed Ioannes to begin to retake what he supposed to be his birthright. The combined forces of two cities fell upon Helorus, the polis between them, in the dead of night, and lay siege to it. This besieging was ended bloodlessly, however, when Ioannes sought a parley with the city's lord, pointed out his larger army and flimsy entirely rightful claim, and offered to confirm them in control of the city in exchange for fealty. Thus Acharnae, heir to the Atlanteans, grew from a single city to a realm of three.

Now truly growing ambitious, Ioannes has donned a larger crown and set his eyes on the remaining indepentent city-states and ruined cities of the Atlantean homelands -- it is the Age of Dawn and every man is a king, but soon there shall be but one, and the Dawn will give way to the bright new day of the Acharnaens.

Journey:
Ioannes seeks to reunite the scattered and desolate Atlantean homelands, forging them into a great spearhead against the continuing incursions of barbarians and nomad hordes and beastmen. With himself as the founder of the new line of emperors, of course.

Ideals:
Nobility -- Ioannes perhaps embodies the traditional, romanticized sense of a king, just and confident and brave. But can any man truly maintain such high expectations?
Discipline -- Aligning himself against the hordes of enemies that have preyed on Borea for years, Ioannes seeks to unite the lands around him into an organized society once more that might rival the storied philosophers and scientists of the classical Atlantean Empire.
Ambition -- Ioannes also embodies ambition. He is determined to succeed, even against the apparent overwhelming difficulties of reforming a civilized nation after the chaos that the world has fallen into in the last century. At the same time, he is power-hungry, though he might refuse to admit such even to himself, and views the common man as little but a means to an end.

Holdings:
Ioannes is the de facto ruler of three of the few remaining city-states that once made up Atlantis: Acharnae, his ancestral domain; Ephyra, ruled in name by his wife; and Helorus, conquered and subjugated with the combined forces of the other two cities. With these cities come their moderate production and population -- though all remain very much underpopulated from what they had contained in the years of the Atlanteans, perhaps shells of their former selves, the remaining gold and levies are enough to rival the remaining cities and to dispel the lawless brigands and bandits that still plague the outlying lands of the former nation.

So far as personal effects goes, Ioannes owns an ancestral longsword, its edge made from Orichalcum; a full suit of plate armor; a good deal of gold in various pouches; an armored war horse; and a shield. A number of other items could no doubt be forged or found in his domain.

[Flagg]

The Witch King

Name: Othman Dratha, the Witch King, Lord of Iron

Age: 57

Gender: M

Appearance: A tall, thin man of pale complexion, with angular features heavily scarred. His left eye is missing, the mangled socket is usually covered with a patch and his dark hair is greying at the temples. Dratha usually wears simple steel chest plate and armor, over which he wears a black, cowled cloak.

Personality: A hard drinking man with a wry sense of humor, Dratha is a rather cool and unflappable character. He has the rare gift of a great commander: to demand fear and respect from his men, without seeming haughty, unrelatable or aloof. Years of warfare against the barbarians has deepened a native ruthless streak in him, but towards his own people he tries to be temperate and just, though a strict disciplinarian. In recent years, he has grown increasingly grim and strange, prone to trances and fits and talking to himself in alien tongues. There are whispers among the ranks that tampering with magic has made him slightly unhinged.

History

He was born to rice farmers, in what remained of the Empire of Atlantis, at the place where the desert meets the mountains. At ten he was dragooned into the legions- at this point little more than privateers serving under Atlantaen warlords. At fifteen he had made a name for himself as a warrior and a commander, even as the legion he served devolved and fractured. At twenty he was second in command of what was left of his army, a ragged band of bandits and desperadoes, with nowhere left to run, making a living by raiding barbarian and beastmen camps. It was then his destiny changed.

His company was ambushed by beastkin in a high pass among the Wolves' Teeth. The fighting was fierce, and he cut down many of the mutant hordes, but there was no hope. Slashed across the face by a poisoned blade, half blinded and dying, he abandoned his men, taking refuge in the ruins of an ancient tomb hidden among the sandstone spires of the pass. It was there he found the Book, resting in the clutches of skeletal corpse of some ancient, nameless priest.

He could not read the ancient tongue, and yet the Book spoke to him, told him secrets, gave him hope. More than mere mortals feared the beastkin and the dark gods they served, said the Book. The northmen and their gods were not the only ones who knew of the ancient Art. evil can with evil be expelled...

He emerged from the tomb, haggard and alone but filled with new life. What beastkin came forth to oppose him he slew, and slowly he gathered to himself the remnants of his lost army, and the remnants of many lost and desperate peoples, including flame-haired Hyperboreans left reeling from the Nameless Warlord's whirlwind advance out of Lemuria.

His life since has been one of near constant warfare, attempting to forge a new people and give to them the goods of a settled and secure life, the type of life he barely remembers from his youth, while fending off hordes of barbarians, beastkin and bandits. To that end, he has forged his Iron Legions from refugees of all nations, modeling his armies on those of great and ancient peoples, as the Book has taught him.

His citadel is called Sepulchrave, a fortification high in the Wolves' Teeth mountains. It is in the highlands he has set up his kingdom, such as it is: villages huddled around re-conquered, crumbling Atlantean forts and terrace-farms hidden away in inaccessible valleys.

His wars with the barbarians and mutants have been savage. Every invasion he has countered gives birth to a new enemy. And yet the Witch-King and his Iron Legions endure.

He has gained a reputation among the Northmen, steppe-hordes and his fellow warlords as a dangerous enemy, a skilled commander of a disciplined army, and wielder of ancient and ghastly magickes, hence his moniker. Of course, for the blood thirsty nordlings, he is everything they want in an enemy.

Journey: Dratha's primary goal is to survive, to weather the storm, to provide his people with something of security and peace, and to honor his venerated Atlantean ancestors, who forged the greatest society yet known to the world. It is for these goals he first used the secrets of the Book, but he has become increasingly obsessed over the years with magic and history, amassing an impressive library in his Citadel through trade and the plunder of ruins. When not on campaign he spends hours pouring over scrolls of ancients sorcerers and kings, and of course in contemplation of the Book.

Ideals: In a world of chaos and death, Dratha prizes Order, Discipline, Justice, and Piety to the Ancestors, and is trying to build a new state based on all three. He is also more and more interested mastery of the arcane, the High Art of the ancient wizards and the immortality promised by the Book.

Holdings:

The Citadel of Sepulchrave, an ancient fortress of grey stone nestled high in the Wolves' Teeth mountains, as well as several outlying forts and farming villages tucked into valleys and passes.

The Iron Legion, a mongrel force of a few thousand heavy infantry famed for their discipline and loyalty.

The Library: As the Witch King has grown increasingly interested in matters obscure and hidden, he has amassed a patchwork library in his citadel of books and scrolls of philosophy, theology, history and arcana.

The Book: an ancient tome, not particularly thick, bound in crumbling leather and written in a tongue long lost to time. The Witch King carries it with him where ever he goes, usually in a harness underneath his armor.

Dagoth: the Witch King's sword, forged by his own hands and infused with spells and secrets learned from the Book.

[Kingfisher]

The Over-tyrant

Name:Over-Tyrant Khalaevna, Tradequeen of Mourslev.

Age: 23

Gender: Female

Appearance: Before becoming Tradequeen, Khalaevna was a relatively small girl, with a slightly stocky frame and messy tangles of chocolate brown hair. Having over-indulged on a life of wealth and splendour, the young woman has gained a softer, more broad form. She has a noticeable fleshiness to her, with wide hips and a large stomach. Hair dark tresses are intertwined with gold braids, and expensive jewelry coats her body.


Personality: Fueled by rage, desire, hatred, and a temper without bounds, Khalaevna is a force to be reckoned with. She revokes the traditions and conventions of old, and has no care for out-dated principles. Her motivation is her own personal gain, and nothing else. takes priority over it.


History:

Stretching out over the frozen plains which ran between Hyperborea and Lemuria, The Thalzamarian Empire extended across the north east provinces, and was wrought of some of the fiercest warriors and sorcerers to ever walk the realm. A broken Imperial kingdom, in its final years the Empire was ruled over by Tsar Viktar Ozlevskiy, the supposedly god-appointed emperor of all Thalzamaria.

The Empire traced its roots back to the northernmost reaches of the Kingdom of Thule, when the long dead Prince Grigorian adopted the faith of Mortaroth, much to the chagrin of the other nobles. In order to prevent a potential civil war, Grigorian and his followers succeeded from Thule, heading northwards into the frozen wastes beyond.

Thalzamaria developed a rich culture over the years, which suffered immensely at the hands of bloody wars and conflicts. The Empire endured, but in a much more weakened and barbarous state than its first incarnation. What little structure remained was but a poor imitation of the principles upon which the Empire was founded.

Religion

The dominant faith was that of Mortaroth, the Bear of the Night. The order of the Cleritari payed homage to Mortaroth, in vast palace-like churches all across Thalzamaria, and was composed of several different chapters.

The Red Cleritari- The High Priests and Priestesses of Mortaorth.

The Blue Cleritari- Occult sorcerers, and the royal order of magic users.

The Purple Cleritari- The lore masters, and keepers of ancient records.

The Black Cleritari- The solemn tenders of the dead.

Military

The Thalzamarian military was composed of three chapters, each serving a different purpose.

The Inperiskiy- The rank-and-file soldiers, the Inperiskiy are built of conscripts, peasants, and lower ranking nobles.

The Voyagorodyen- Military-nobles, The Voyagorodyen are elite warriors who practice the ancient military code of Nytvoia, and value honour and loyalty above all else.The Voyagorodyen serve as generals within the Thalzamarian military, and comprise the Tsar and Tsarina’s personal bodyguard.

The Krovajhal- The covert branch of the Thalzamarian military, the Krovajhal are the elite spies and assassins who pledge their loyalty to the Tsar. A private mercenary order at the disposal of Thalzamarian nobility, these graceful killers are divided into several cults, each competing against one another.

The Konagu Horde

Vicious barbarians from the desolate plains beneath Thalzamaria, the Konagu Horde was comprised of seasoned marauders from the inhospitable wastes of Olum.

The Konagu united beneath a single Qagan (the bloodthirsty warchief of the Horde), after the chosen champion of each Konagu tribe underwent a shamanistic ritual to determine who would be appointed leader. After the ritual, the Qagan and his or her blood relatives were imbued with the blessings of the Konagu Pantheon, and gained mastery of the Four Warrior Graces; Rage, desire, valor, and passion.

The Thalzamarians and the Konagu waged war on each other for many generations, with the warriors of Olum constantly launching invasion after invasion upon Thalzamaria. The Konagu’s divided nature and lack of proper tactics proved to be their undoing every time, as the Thalzamarians ultimately drove them back into their wasteland home.

It was when the Tsar Viktar came to power that the Konagu met its end, as the warrior emperor pressed the assault, and pursued the barbarian horde back into Olum itself, massacring man woman and child without the faintest hint of mercy.

The Tsar’s army stormed the Konagu capital, taking Qagan Ghal and his family prisoner, at Viktar’s command.

The public believed the Qagan and his kin to be dead, but Viktar had other plans, and kept them alive in secret. Having heard stories of the Four Warrior Graces, and the gifts that they imbued within their chosen, Viktar planned to breed with the Qagan’s wife, and create a Olevsky child with these blessings. He forced himself upon her, then, once she had bore him a daughter, had the whole family put to the sword.

In doing so, Viktar had evoked the wrath of the Konagu Pantheon, who bestowed the Tsar’s daughter with powers beyond that which he had bargained for.

The child princess Khalaevna was cursed with four malicious blights upon her soul. Her rage was wild and unruly, her desire uncontrollable. In valor’s stead was a zealous hatred, and in passions’ stead was a temper which knew no bounds.

The royal family, and a whole cohort of guards and tutors tried to control Khalaevna as she grew up, but soon it became apparent that all was for naught.

Abandoning her in the Shagora mountain range on her thirteenth birthday, the Tsar expected his daughter to perish in the snowy peaks. She survived, perhaps just to spite him.

After years of scavenging and scrounging just to stay alive, Khalaevna stumbled, weak and malnourished, upon the lair of the Trogoikos.

The Trogoikos were a species of gremlin-like cave-dwellers, exclusive to network of underground passages and tunnels inside the Shagora mountains. The rodents tried to swarm upon the weakened Khalaevna, but her rage and cruelty proved to be more deadly a weapon than their unmeasurable numbers.

Khalaevna carved through the Trogoikos nest, until she emerged out of the mountain, and wandered straight into a city-like camp which housed the remains of the Lemurian peoples, having settled in the northern peaks after their failed invasion of southern Borea.

The clansman set upon Khalaevna, but their leader, a chieftain named Carthain, intervened. He questioned the young woman, wanting to know how she had managed to somehow sneak past his guards and make her way into the camp undetected.

Khalaevna told Carthain about the Trogoikos tunnel network, and how it led out into the mountain passes beyond. Carthain explained to Khalaevna that the Trogoikos had been leading night-time raids on the Lumerian people since they migrated this far north, but that they had been unable to track them.

The young woman led Carthain and his barbarians through the underground passages, where they wiped out the Trogoikos with ease. Impressed by the young woman’s skill and cunning, Carthain offered Khalaevna a deal; guide the marauders of Lumeria through the mountain passes, help them take Thalzamaria by surprise, and Carthain would take her as his queen.

Khalaevna accepted.

The barbarian host slunk through the mountains, making their way through long forgotten passages and tunnels, until they were ready and poised for a full on invasion. They spent months toiling away within the comfort of their mountain home, crafting weapons, training soldiers, and building machines of war.

When the time was right, the Lumerians swept out right on top of Thalzamaria, and a bloody war broke out between the clansman of Lumeria and the Thalzamarian Empire.

The Thalzamarian military was spread too thinly across Thalzamaria, and by the time enough troughs had been recalled, the Hyperboreians had already reached the Empire’s capital of Razigram.

The Lumerians sacked the city, butchered the remaining royals, and pillaged the Imperial Palace.

The remaining might of the Thalzamarian Empire arrived at the city's gates, and it seemed as though chaos would ensue. Without a ruler, The Voyagorodyen requested to meet with Khalaevna, who was the only remaining heir to the throne.

With the fate of the empire up in the air, and the Lumerians destruction at the hands of the Thalzamarian military imminent, Khalaevna and the most prestigious members of the Voyagorodyen brokered an agreement.

Out of the ashes of both Thalzamaria and Lumeria came the Kingdoms of Mourslev; a fractured commonwealth of raider tribes and pirate fraternities. A fragile bond holds the Mourslevians in check, united by their mutual hatred of the rest of the world, and their lust for conquest. Elements of Thalzamarian and Lumerian culture survived the dissolution, coming together to form a semi-organized host of savage clans.

Once Khalaevna was wed to Carthain, she murdered him and proclaimed herself as the undisputed sovereign of her new people. Forsaking any kind of facade of nobility, Khalaevna name herself Over-Tyrant of all Mourslev, a title she still holds to this day, and has earned a hundred thousand times over with each wicked misdeed she commits.

Journey: Khalaevna has her eyes set firmly on the south, planning to march her newly assembled hordes down into the lands below, seizing as much loot as she can. The Over-Tyrant wishes to smash the southern kingdoms, and reforge the world in an image of her design. If the Age of Dawn is upon us, then Khalaevna would see it followed by an age of moral perversion.

Ideals: The young woman is motivated by wealth primarily, as well as the four curses which blacken her soul. Her desire knows no limits, and she’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants. The "blessings" bestowed upon her by the Pantheon imbue Khalaevna with an innate desire to spread hedonism and debauchery wherever she goes. She despises the values of polite society, and wants nothing more than to twist Borea into an image of decadent corruption.

Holdings: Khalaevna rules over the warring tribes of Mourslev, and has control over all trade routes running through her land. As Trade Queen, she’s privy to a vast horde of wealth and riches, and has the combined armies of the North Eastern clans at her disposal.

In battle, Khalaevna garbs herself in an imposing regalia of splendid metals, woven together with expensive furs. Her face is covered by a cold iron mask, carved in her own likeness, with sculpted steel hair cast over her shoulders, it's solid features firmly etched into the very helmet itself.

She wields the magic sword Zalewylch, a one-handed saber of blessed stone and arcane charms. Light and extremely durable, Zalewylch was forged from the prized minerals given to Khalaevna by her tribes in tribute.

[TheWizardLizard]

Emily Gerhman, the Hunter

Name: Emily Gehrman

Age: 22

Gender: Female

Personality: Emily is tough, sarcastic, and straightforward - at least when she's working. She has a sweeter, more compassionate side that she generally reserves for people she cares very much about, of whom there are few. To most people, she appears to care about only one thing - her job, which she pursues with ruthless efficiency. Emily is a hunter of monsters, primarily mutants, and there's pretty much no quarry she won't go after, however big or numerous, and she never gives up on a hunt. Overall, she's a fairly quiet, reserved person, her occasional bouts of anger whenever she perceives someone as being incompetent / willfully stupid or unhelpful notwithstanding.

History: Emily was born in a small village in the north of Borea - a town so beneath notice it barely had a name, being referred to by residents as 'the village' and by non-residents as 'where?'; though on a few maps it could be identified as being called 'Scahburg'. The soil wasn't great for agriculture, so the people of the village survived on woodscraft - hunting, foraging, fishing, and trading pelts or lumber with the occasional passing merchant. Emily was born the only child of the finest ranger in the village, heir to a legacy of woodsmen that stretched back for generations. Because he had no son to pass his teachings on to, her father taught her instead, and she learned from him how to hunt, track, travel, forage, and many other useful arts. All was quiet, for a time.

Then the plague came. The village had survived the Dusk Years largely intact, being by and large beneath the notice of any marching army. That changed, however, when a woodsman returned infected from a fateful encounter with a mutant. Isolated as they were, the folk of the village had little knowledge of how to combat a large outbreak, and as a result the plague spread like wildfire through the small town, mutating the townsfolk and making them savage one another. In barely a week, Scahburg went from a sleeply little village to a blood-stained ghost town haunted by monsters. The last two left alive were Emily and her father, who'd been able to barricade themselves in their home early on and so survive the onslaught - but when Emily's father began to feel the telltale signs of the Scourge, he left their haven and set himself ablaze rather than risk infecting his daughter. Emily was left alone.

She was deliberate, and methodical; she took her time. Over the next two weeks, Emily purged every mutant from the husk of her town, every monster that had once been a friend. She tangled them in nets, impaled them on fishing spears, she chopped them up with axes or cast them into firepits or shot them with her father's crossbow. When it was done, she lit the entire village ablaze, and to this day only ashes remain.

Since then, she has wandered, sticking mainly in Borea where her prey runs thickest. She hunts the remnants of the Scourge, the mutant packs that still rampage in Borea - and she's gotten quite good at it, having refined her tactics and expanded her arsenal. Word has spread of her deeds, more tall tales than actual stories, of the girl with the crossbow and the hair like fire, who marches into the darkness to slay the monsters.

Journey: Emily's out to kill every single mutant she can find - she'd probably branch out into other supernatural horrors as well, if any came up. Her final goal is a world without monsters, though privately, she has no idea how she'd fit into such a world.

Ideals: Hunters, Independence, Courage, Cleverness, Determination, Humanity's inherent will to punch back against the darkness.

Holdings: Emily possesses an enormous arsenal of 'tools' for use in her hunts - various contraptions, potions, snares, traps, and anything else she thinks she might need, ever - miraculously, she manages to keep it all more or less organized and can find just about anything in a minute or two of rummaging. Her main weapons are: her father's crossbow, which she's tinkered slightly so that it can fire faster, reload easier, and contain special ammunition of her own design (many of which set things on fire - she has a thing about fire); a large flintlock rifle, useful for blowing great big holes in mutants; and the springloaded blades she keeps in her right sleeve and on her left boot-heel; think Hidden Blades from Assassin's Creed, but slightly longer. She also has a horse, several saddlebags to carry everything, and a modest amount of money to her name that she's gained from reward money on particularly troublesome mutants. It's enough that she could live comfortably for a time, but it's no fortune, given how much of her income goes to purchasing the abovementioned hunting supplies.

[Little Bill]

Archranger Flint

Name:
Flint
_{Flint, son of Ferric, son of Fenn}

Age:
44

Gender:
Male

Appearance:
Flint stands a few inches shorter than most men, has brown hair and green eyes, and is generally the last person one would expect to be The King of Rangers, though for a ranger, this is a good thing. He wears clothes typical for a ranger, with no cape or crown to denote his status -- A hood that is rarely ever lowered obscures most of his sun-leathered face, along with lightweight leather armor and a green tunic and pants designed to act as camouflage in the thick Borean forests while keeping him warm and dry as well. Everything he wears is caked in a thin layer of dirt, and is usually somewhat tattered or frayed at the edges.

Personality:
Flint is strange. First and foremost, he is almost completely mute, though it is unknown if this is a personal choice or a mental impediment. He communicates with nods, grunts, and occasionally whistles, though nobody has ever known him to speak. On very, very rare occasions, he may speak one or two words if absolutely necessary, but will otherwise do anything to avoid communicating directly. As a result, most simply just call him "The Archranger" -- Being asked his name is far from an important enough reason for him to speak.

Flint has poor social skills, is uncomfortable and panicky in crowds, and dislikes being touched. Additionally, though he has expert knowledge of animal behavior, he has great difficulty picking up on social cues. Fortunately, what Flint lacks in social graces, he makes up for being a survivalist savant. Flint is exceptionally skilled with wilderness survival, and has spent years at a time in total isolation in the forests of Borea without so much as a tent. He can start a fire in the middle of a storm, shoot down a bird without killing it, and track footprints through rivers at night. Flint's skills as a ranger border on supernatural.

History:
Flint was born shortly after the beginning of the Age of Dawn, in a small logging village in Borea. Even in the early stages of his childhood, it was easy to see that Flint was different. He would not cry as a baby, had little interest in playing with other children, and was frequently caught sneaking into the forest surrounding his village after dark by his mother and father. It was rumored that Flint was a changeling left by fairies, leading most to view him with a great deal of suspicion, driving him further into isolation, which Flint enjoyed greatly.

As a boy, Flint showed a great deal of aptitude for archery and was considered for candidacy as a squire, but was ultimately not chosen for his unnerving silence and strange mannerisms. Flint spent most of his adolescence in his village's forest honing his skills as an archer and woodsman, dragging entire elks to his family's cottage frequently enough that most believed he had been stealing from other hunters.

Eventually, Flint left home to join the rangers and learn their ways. Since then, he has lived his life in periods of isolation in Borea's forest, only occasionally having contact with other rangers in passing. By the time Flint was in his late thirties, he was skilled enough to be known throughout Borea, and when Archranger Korin died of an illness, Flint was elected at a ranger's summit to take his place. Since then, he has continued his work as a ranger, keeping the forests of Borea safe from bandits and mutants alike, planting medicinal herbs along roads, and generally acting as a steward of the land.

Journey:
Though his path will soon change, Flint has few goals other than the preservation and protection of Borea's forests.

Ideals: Freedom, Self-Sufficiency, Humility, Duty, Balance, Nature

Holdings:
Though Flint technically holds no lands or titles, his status as Archranger makes him the de facto king of Borea's forests, and gives him the right to call a ranger's summit. Additionally, as the leader of the Rangers Guild, any and all rangers he meets on the road are sworn to protect and serve him, though he generally tries to avoid contact whenever possible.

His equipment is simple, as he travels lighter than most rangers. He carries fire starting tools, a day of rations, a quiver of arrows, a longbow, a dagger, and a metal dart attached to thirty feet of rope.

[VoiD]

Lord of Blades

Name: Damion Blackmont
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Appearance:

A man of muscular build, Damion stands at 5'11, and weighs roughly sixteen stones (160 lbs). His arms are slightly longer than normal, and his hands are heavily calloused. Damion has a clean-cut face, and a closely cropped haircut. His eyes are deep set and dark brown, almost black. He possesses strong, angular facial features, along with thin eyebrows and a small nose. Most would consider Damion at least moderately handsome. He appears athletic and graceful, and carries himself with confident, almost arrogant, poise.

Personality:

Damion works hard to come across as a graceful man with a noble demeanor. Off the battlefield, his words brim with charisma and eloquence; on the battlefield his tone is clipped, strict, and brokers no debate. He has cultivated a reputation as an honorable man, though secretly he is utterly ruthless when it comes to achieving his goals. Damion is incredibly ambitious, and possesses an utmost confidence in himself, bordering on complete arrogance. He is a cunning and opportunistic tactician, and these traits follow him off the battlefield as well. He values friendship very highly, though he holds long and sometimes petty grudges. He is prideful of his abilities and though he does not outright boast, he lets everyone know of them. He is oft said to be somewhat stubborn, convinced of his the abilities he is so proud of.

History:

Damion was born in a tavern in a town somewhere in northern Borea. His mother was a common tavern wench and died in labor. His father, a young belted knight of twenty, took Damion and left the town in grief. Damion grew up on the roads, traveling with his father who was now little more than a hedge knight. They traveled from town to town for some time, his father discontent to be under the employ of some minor lord. Damion was reared in the basics of swordplay and courtly etiquette by his father up until the age of seven, when his father entered the employ of a lord who was considered a regional power in Borea.

There, he quickly showed promise and soon began squiring under another belted knight in the service of the Borean lord. He was scorned by the other squires for his common birth, and later due to jealousy of his impressive talent. By seventeen he was known throughout the court as a devilishly quick swordsman, as well as unusually well-spoken. He acclimated to court-life quickly, and learned the intricacies of etiquette there; however, he soon tired of the petty power-plays that court-life entailed. When his father was slain in a skirmish, Damion left the court permanently. He was nineteen.

He changed his last name to Blackmont, and used the sale of his father's possessions as well as some small loans to recruit the first five lances of what would come to be known as the Crimson Company. One of these lances persist to this day, and make up some of Damion's closest advisors, commanders, and friends. Initially he took small work such as reinforcing garrisons and driving out bandits, marauders and the like. However, as word spread of the professionalism of his company, he gained ever more lucrative contracts, which in turn allowed him to expand his company.

Eventually the Crimson Company was hired by a minor Borean power in their war against two of their neighbors. There, Damion displayed his tactical prowess by achieving an incredible victory against an army six times the size of his company with hardly any casualties of his own. He would continue these feats several times in the course of that war and two others, which eventually netted him enough fame and capital to be known throughout Borea and even into parts of the old Atlantean empire. Damion used part of these new-found funds to rebuild a ruined castle in the mountains of southern Borea, abandoned during the Age of Dusk. He has established the castle as his company's stronghold.

Journey:

Damion's current goal is to gather fame and repute, as well as significant capital, through the Crimson Company. His ultimate dream is to carve out a realm of his own, through conquest or political intrigue. He believes he is the only one capable of creating a new civilized nation powerful enough to withstand the evils of the world.

Ideals:

Damion highly values friendship and loyalty, the latter of which he actively seeks to cultivate in all his followers. He firmly believes that the means often justify the ends, though he is also quite conscious of the value of his reputation and will avoid doing things which may negatively affect it; such as breaching the unwritten laws of war. He is highly ambitious and values intelligence, forethought, and bravery in his subordinates.

Holdings:

Picture

Damion is the leader of the Crimson Company, the so-called "Lord of Blades". The Crimson Company is a professional army-for-hire consisting of two-hundred fully equipped lances, which is roughly twelve-hundred soldiers. Each lance has six members: a heavily armored man-at-arms and his similarly equipped squire or page, a slightly lighter armored serjeant, and three archers. Every soldier is mounted and has at least two horses; one for riding and one for battle. Damion also owns Castle Blackmont, a small fortified castle in the mountains of Borea he rebuilt using the funds from his company. He uses the castle as a home base for his army. Damion has an excellent warhorse named Grendel, along with full custom plate armor and a hand-and-a-half longsword.

Notes on Company Characters (for me)

Lord Damion Blackmont :: Char, best tactician, equal of William in lance and Haljon in sword (Jon slightly better)
Ser Haljon "Bad Jon" Gunnarsson :: Northman, best swordsman, massive sword
Ser Gavin Larse :: Squired under Damion, next best swordsman, best tactician behind Damion
Ser Alexios Dekanos :: Atlantean knight, political advisor, second best lance
Ser William Gold :: Oldest and worldly knight, excellent counsel, best lance
Ser Catherine "Cat" Ascania :: Formerly peasant girl and courtesan, second best tactician
John Redford :: Head Archer for company
Richard "Rich" Smith :: Best shot in company, Redford's right hand
"Nell" ??? :: Commoner, squire of Damion

[Shorticus]

Safiyyah

Name: Safiyyah Qarim

Age: 31

Gender: Female

Appearance: Safiyyah is a small, black-haired, pleasant looking woman standing no more than five and a third feet in height. Though she wears good traveling boots and sensible, breathable clothing, she nevertheless takes great pride in her appearance. Her olive skin is kept clean and seems very smooth, so smooth that she might seem ten years younger if not for the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth betraying her. She smells of rich perfumes: not a stifling, overgenerous application of the stuff, but a very appropriate, sparsely-applied scent of flowers and pomegranates. Given her garb, her petite build, her cleanliness, and her tendency to smile, she makes a very convincing helpless woman.

Which she is not. Safiyyah's image is a very delicately crafted one. Her skin is so smooth because she applies special oils upon it each week; her loose clothes hide a great many folds and pockets in which vials and alchemical baubles are held; and in her sash is hidden a small dagger for emergencies. Of course, most people don't notice these things. That is the point.

Personality: First and foremost, Safiyyah is an actress. She readily takes on the farce of a demure damsel, shy and reserved. She knows all too well the expectations of a woman in her world, and she does not try to fight those expectations. Rather, Safiyyah lets the world see her as it will, and uses that to her advantage.

In private, the Iirimite woman is quick-witted, sarcastic, and quite frank with her thoughts. She is erudite, too, learned in history, alchemy, and the medicinal arts, not to mention astrology. Her knowledge of the sciences is surpassed only by her love of trickery and thievery, the practice of which is both a favorite pastime and her vocation. She is also incredibly persistent, dauntless in her pursuit of what she believes ought be done. Perhaps she is no stranger to fear, and she knows well when the time has come to run, but she nevertheless commands a healthy courage when she sets her mind on doing something. She'd just rather find the safest way of going about her task rather than put herself in unnecessary danger. Now, if only she could muster a similar degree of humility and restraint...

Since losing her home to the Lemurian horde, Safiyyah has become a very compassionate woman. She knows what it means to lose everything; she knows what it means to have someone you care about yanked from this world. She does what she can to ease suffering. She does, and sometimes she uses her skills of alchemy and burglary to help those that can't help themselves. She thinks it's a stupid thing to do. She still does it.

History: Some people are born the underdog. They have to claw their way to the top, facing ever mounting adversity to overcome the nature of their birth. They must prove themselves to the world for the world to accept them, and failing a single challenge can send them hurdling back into obscurity.

Others are like Safiyyah: born with all the physical, material, and mental boons one could ask for, and are very smug about it.

Safiyyah's mother was a wealthy merchant's daughter from Iiram's territory in the Jade Kingdoms. Her father was an accomplished alchemist of Iiramite, Atlantean, and Kushite descent, a famous figure in his own right. Their marriage was one of both convenience and love, or maybe convenience that led to love. Whatever the case, they bore three children, their eldest being Safiyyah. This family of five lived in a city along the border of the Ivory Kingdoms in relative wealth, luxury, and contentment. This city, Maliqesh, would have been considered small at the height of Iiram's power, but then was one of the few remaining bastions of the empire's once proud culture.

Safiyyah was always blessed with a keen intellect, but also given a healthy dose of mischievousness by the gods. This became clear at a very young age. She played with fire, she loved sneaking into places she didn't belong, and she always happened to have something that didn't belong to her. Needless to say, when she somehow launched a beehive through their neighbors' window at the age of seven, her parents decided that three children was quite enough and opted to drink teas that would keep them from having children again. Ever.

The child seemed to mature out of her bad habits shortly thereafter. In actuality, this was far from the truth: she simply became better at hiding her mischief. When she was older, her natural talents for alchemy were recognized, so Safiyyah was sent to study arithmetic and science. She proved more than capable at these arts and just as capable at getting proud, eager-to-please young men to lavish her with gifts and tell her stories of their families' wealth and status. A rare few of these young men would later find family treasures gone missing, but nobody knew it was Safiyyah's doing.

When she finished her studies, Safiyyah's parents decided it was time to have her wed, and they were negotiating the terms of marriage with some family friends. The young alchemist was in the process of hatching together a plot to put a stop to that nonsense when the Lemurians struck.

Two decades prior, the whole of Iiram had been ravaged by that barbarian horde. Cities were sacked. Villages were torched. Armies crumbled beneath their seemingly endless numbers. Since then, the people of Maliqesh and the refugees that had flocked to that city and its neighbors had been preparing for inevitable. They'd drilled militia, hired mercenary forces, built extra palisades and traps for the invaders... but in the face of the Lemurian force - a splinter force, but large enough that it was more than a threat to the remnants of Iiram - none of this would be enough.

Safiyyah was a fortunate girl. Her parents had the foresight to prepare for such a disaster, and as prominent figures in the city they had privileged access to the resources to secure her escape. Her father and brothers joined the defense of the city while she, her mother, and some body guards fled the city. Although they escaped the Lemurians, they were not able to evade desert bandits. Safiyyah's mother and most of the guards were slain. Only the young woman escaped the massacre.

Since then, Safiyyah has been on the road in a lost sort of way. She goes from village to village, city to city, peddling her wares in the day and stealing valuables at night. She never stays wealthy long; she always finds something else to spend her money on, or some poor vagabond to give her money to. So she continues to wander, and she continues to seek...

Journey: ...the Philosopher's Stone. It's been lost since the Years of Dusk. Its properties are nigh magical, nigh impossible, and the key to... to... something.

Truthfully, Safiyyah does not know what she intends to do with the Philosopher's Stone. She has a great many hopes for it. Could she use its properties to create a truly safe realm by using it in some protective ritual? Could she cure the Scourge, restoring the Beastmen to their human form? Could she unlock the secrets of immortality? Of resurrection?

Whatever powers it may possess, Safiyyah seeks the Philosopher's Stone. The now not-so-young Iiramite woman helps those she meets along the way, and when she's not doing that she's plying her trade as a thief. Sometimes she does both.

Ideals: Compassion, mercy, and forgiveness: call it whatever you will, Safiyyah thinks it's stupid. But that doesn't stop her from being that stupid. She tells herself to focus on helping only herself, but somehow she finds herself going out of her way to help those who are hungry, wounded, or in mortal peril. She can't help it.

Safiyyah also embodies the pursuit of good old fashioned mischief, the excitement of breaking the rules because you can and going places you're not supposed to be in. It's not the material reward of burglary that excites her, really; it's the danger of it, the game of cat and mouse. Gods bless her, but there have been several times when she's sacrificed her hard earned (stolen) earnings to help put proper clothes on some bedraggled child. It's a silly thing to do. She knows that.

Perhaps the most dangerous thing Safiyyah embodies, however, is pure bullheadedness. That healthy drive to get things done can turn into an unhealthy insistence that things will work out the way she wants them to. They have to. Perhaps that's why she's so staunch about not killing other humans; perhaps she simply refuses to be part of that systemic violence despite being very familiar with the cruelty of the world. Either way, once she decides to do something, she'll get it done or die trying.

Holdings: Safiyyah is graced with two good souls to help her on her quest: one hired bodyguard and the world's smartest mule. Her bodyguard is a patient man from the Ivory Kingdoms who's killed a small handful of great beasts. Her mule is an incredibly intelligent white mare.

The alchemist has a wide variety of tricks up her sleeve. Blinding powders, sleeping gas, various non-lethal poisons, smoke bombs, and more are on her person. She can make new alchemical wonders, too, and carries the components necessary to do so. Her sash is also more than it appears, made of a firm but flexible silk that can be used as a rope or to bind prisoners. Besides this, she always stocks up on a small number of trade goods.

Safiyyah also has medical supplies. She is a capable enough physician.