@Hexaflexagon - I'm at work for the moment, but nothing like doodling concepts down on a napkin while you recover from a lunch rush and prepare for the dinner crowd. Got a couple questions though, so I'm going to be sending a message your way here in my break.
@Rockette Ten-four. I'm now home from work so I'll be floating around here for the rest of the night, when I'm not doing other things like cleaning so that the lady-friend does not kill me, feeding the tortoise, et cetera. So just fire your questions away and I'll get around to them when I have a spare moment.
Ten-four. I'm now home from work so I'll be floating around here for the rest of the night, when I'm not doing other things like cleaning so that the lady-friend does not kill me, feeding the tortoise, et cetera. So just fire your questions away and I'll get around to them when I have a spare moment.
Hate it when the lady-friend kills me. Arguably my least favorite part of the day.
@vietmyke Indeed, it's not like I even mind the dying part. It's just that once I come out of the clone regenerator, I have to clean up all the blood and it's so hard to get blood out of the carpet. So hard.
A gaunt and grizzled man, standing a head taller than the majority of his comrades. His body is sinewy and rugged, pockmarked with cuts, scars, and scrapes from years of combat. His beady eyes are a dull brown, and his face is almost perpetually pulled into a rough scowl. His dirty blonde hair is kept neat and short and is usually hidden under his beret, and manifests on his face in the form of a thick and full beard. His posture is rigid and straight, and his voice is rough and gravelly.
Odran more often than not is seen in his armor, and constantly wears his trademark beret. Occasionally, in more casual settings he'll remove the armor on his arms, and opt for a pair of worn leather gloves. The only time he doesn't wear his armor, is when he wears blue livery bearing the standard of the company- typically for formal occasions in which wearing armor and weapons is frowned upon.
Name: Odran Tarlach Race: Human Age: 52 Magic potency: Yes
Military Background
Years Spent in Service: 34 Equipment:
Odran wears plate armor on his arms and legs, as well as a thick brigandine over chainmail on his torso, covered with a deep blue tabard bearing the running direwolf of the Company on its chest.
A bastard sword and accompanying dagger forged by Dalgen of Farhold, a well-renowned dwarven bladesmith
A heater shield with the company standard emblazoned across.
A red beret he wears while not in combat- signifying his seniority in the Company
A pouch with herbal ointments for the soothing of wounds.
A tome strapped to his side that contains the formulae of basic magical spells, instructions on intricate medical care, knowledge on various common medicinal plants, as well as descriptions of the actions and history of the Company of Wolves
Skills: (List from most potent to least)
Seasoned Warrior - Odran is a talented swordsman, despite his advancing age. While he is no longer in his prime, he often instructs and trains new recruits in swordplay and general soldiering
Strategist - While the Captain comes up with brilliant battlefield schemes and tactics, Odran is responsible for ensuring the logistics of the Captain's plans are sound.
Rugged Sergeant - Though the captain may exude an aura that commands respect out of inspiration and awe, Odran sports a rugged and rough no-nonsense demeanor that demands respect- and spirits help you if you try to show dissent towards the Captain in front of him.
Basic Spellcaster - Odran has a basic grip over magic, with only a handful of spells memorized and written down in his book.
The Mind
Psych Profile: A serious man with a strong work ethic, Odran is a gruff and intimidating man with a distinct no-nonsense demeanor and is typically impervious to the jokes and wisecracks made by his comrades. Only rarely willing to crack a grin for his close compatriots, Odran is for the most part incredibly blunt and to the point, though generally not confrontational- he typically doesn't need to be. Strong willed, and somewhat hard-headed, Odran never starts something without finishing it- even if it takes him hours, days, or even weeks. Despite his callous attitude, Odran shows genuine care and concern regarding the wellbeing of the company and the men and women within its ranks. Though jaded, and somewhat cynical, Odran is a staunch believer in the traditions and values of the Company and demonstrates absolute loyalty to The Captain. Despite possessing a well developed moral compass, Odran will often ignore morality and act in what he believes are in the best interest of himself and his compatriots.
Odran values loyalty, respect, and honor, and shows a distaste towards underhandedness and trickery, though admits to their usefulness in regards to strategy. He despises incompetence and is quick to discipline unruly and insubordinate soldiers.
History: Like many 'career' soldiers of the Company, Odran came from nothing and joined the Company in hopes of living a better life. Born the child of a hunter and an herbalist in the southern heartlands, Odran never had much in the form of amenities. Game was small, hard to find, or reserved for nobility, and food due to its abundance meant that meats and furs never sold for particularly high prices. Odran spent most of his childhood on his feet, helping his parents either hunt or gather herbs. Odran was a restless child, the calm complacency of gathering herbs, and brewing medicine bored him, and the 'thrill' of stalking around and shooting squirrels with a bow bored him. Dissatisfied with his dull life, Odran sought a life of excitement and adventure, something that was more than gathering plants and skinning squirrels.
At the age of 15, Odran ran away from home and found an exciting new life in the form of a local gang. Consisting of bandits and thieves, Odran quickly adopted their ways- much to the dismay of his parents. Stealing from homes, beating people up for thrills, mugging, for nearly three years Odran punched, backstabbed, and stole his way to the top of the gang, unafraid to break limbs, ruin livelihoods, or even slit throats to get there. While with the gang, Odran learned how to fight, how to extort, how to steal, and how to exploit others. By the age of 18, he was the gang boss' go-to guy, his best fighter, his most ruthless thug, and most cunning cutthroat.
Eventually, the boss found himself in need of a new lieutenant, a new underboss, as the old one had attempted a coup- and was quickly put down by none other than Odran. Giving Odran another job to prove himself, the boss told Odran that a small family had been staunchly refusing to pay their 'protection' fees, even going so far as to fend off a few of the gang's thugs. Because of their show of resistance, more families from the town were beginning to fight back- they needed to be made an example of. Odran set off that night, with an unlit torch, and several barrels of pitch. The house had only been recently built for a new family, and as a result was constructed of rather young wood and stone- making it hard to light afire traditionally. Odran had to sneak into the house to pour pitch within the building as well as outside to properly set the building ablaze.
After thoroughly lacing the house with pitch, Odran exited the home and set it ablaze, standing back to watch the inhabitants attempt to put out the fire or escape- a futile effort, as Odran was good at what he did. Within moments, the entire house was in flames- no matter how quickly help got there, it was the end for the family and their home, and Odran grinned with morbid satisfaction as a pair of hands threw open the windows. When the voice screamed for help, Odran's grin quickly became a face of horror. He recognized the voice. Sprinting towards the burning house, Odran realized that he had just put his own parents to the torch, but there was nothing he could do- he had done too good a job of setting the place on fire.
Returning to the gang's hideout, ignoring the cheering of the other gang members, Odran approached his boss, who gave him a smug smile and congratulated him on a job well done. The boss was in the middle of applauding Odran's loyalty to the gang when Odran stepped forward and jabbed a knife into the boss' throat. Fighting his way out of the hideout, Odran fled the town, the gang, the smoldering wreck of his parents' home, and the remains of his old life. Chased down by some of the gang members on horseback, Odran was surrounded and almost put to the sword when a detachment from a mercenary company happened to come by, and seeing the situation, proceed to cut the bandits down.
Taking this as an act of fate, Odran joined up with the mercenary group- known as the Company of the Wolf. He dedicated himself to a more honorable, more honest life. Remolded and forged into an example soldier, Odran fought with valor and distinguished himself as a prominent and capable man within the Company's ranks. From the wars in the south, to the Ironmount campaign in the north, Odran conducted himself with honor and courage, in an attempt to absolve himself of the atrocities he had committed in his younger years. One of the few surviving members that remember The Captain during his younger years, stories within the Company often say that Odran and the Captain regularly fought side by side during their time in the rank and file. Decades of service and warfare later, Odran is one of the most senior members of the Company of the Wolf, and serves as The Captain's right hand, his Lieutenant.
Denouement
Character Motivation: Odran considers his service to the Company his eternal penance for killing his family. Significant Relations: Parents: - Deceased. The Captain: - Arguably Odran's oldest comrade. Opinions on Others: (How do they feel about the rest of the team? This can be left blank and added on after everyone adds a sheet.)
I spent two decades learning how to avoid death. Now I teach others how to meet it.
Name: Kuro Race: Human Age:33 Magic potency: None
Kuro is tall, with a lean body and only light musculature, possessing cords rather than bunches of muscle. His layered clothing and small personal armory of equipment lends his a deceitfully broad appearance, but when divested of his garments his overall frame is somewhat smaller than is typical. His manner of clothing includes a dark overcoat worn over an unassuming gray cloth shirt and trousers, along with a bandoleer of small pouches slung down from his right shoulder - all worn over ringmail padded with leather, only just visible above the neckline for his shirt.
Kuro's skin is the color of wheat sullied by ash, somewhat pallid and unclean in appearance. His face is slightly gaunt and drawn, with generally rounded edges with a thin mouth and nose. His somewhat protruded eyes are a dull and empty shade of orange, and their lids have a softer definition than normal, which serves as the only physical evidence of Kuro's distant heritage. He is clean-shaven, with his dark hair cut close to the point of either balding or faint stubble.
Padded leather ringmail.
One dark overcoat.
One bandoleer of pouches.
Two collapsible Dwarven crossbows.
One shortsword with an asymmetrical guard that extends parallel to the blade in a hooked shape.
Three knives, various.
Two iron knuckles.
Two garrotes, one normal, one barbed.
Two flints
Two whetstones
Crossbow bolts, various.
Two bolt quivers.
One skein.
Ineffable Grace: More than two decades of battlefield and survival experience has gifted Kuro with a general, almost preternaturally heightened awareness of his surroundings. His vision and hearing are much sharper than average, and he has an uncanny sense that allows him to detect unseen foes and threats. Evading Kuro is difficult, catching him by surprise is a trial.
Scale Tipper: Kuro has built his career upon entirely unfair, one-sided fights stacked grossly in his own favor. Kuro uses and does whatever works, questionable ethics and honor be damned - his idea of a 'fair fight' is one where he grinds the enemy into dust effortlessly, and he goes out of his way to stack the deck in his favor with any and every sort of underhanded tactic and ploy. Anything is acceptable, in order to secure victory.
Tactical Guile: Kuro is experienced in leading soldiers and warriors into combat, making the best possible use of their skills, equipment, positioning, and maneuverability. This skill is limited to relatively small groups - Kuro is most effective when leading ambushes, guerrilla strikes, or planning for skirmishes. His competence as a commander in other realms of battle is untested.
Silent Steps: Kuro is well aware of the value of stealth upon the battlefield. He can walk and run silently, and knows how to make good use of his surroundings for concealment purposes.
Dwarven Machinations: Kuro is familiar with the construction and design of a large number of Dwarven weapons. He can clean, disassemble, reassemble, maintain, and even build nearly any kind of Dwarven mechanical weapon (or any device intended for battlefield use). This expertise does not extend to other forms of Dwarven artifice.
Kuro was born in the year 1139, shortly before the death of King Lysteria, to a blacksmith who lived along the Southern borders of the Northern Empire, situated at the base of the local mountain chain. When the succession crisis start, the small township Kuro grew up in was largely isolated from the bloodshed due to its low strategic value and position. For the first few years of his life, Kuro led a largely carefree and peaceful existence under the lax tutelage of his father in preparation for an eventual apprenticeship in the nearby Dwarven steading, as the township and the blacksmith in particular had historically - and unusually - good relations with the population of natives.
Kuro's days of peace were not to last however. Although the township itself was of faint importance, the Dwarven Steading was attacked and raided by forces from a neighboring state, covetous of their mechanisms and devices. They seized and sacked the township afterwards as a matter of course, taking every boy old enough to be of use but young enough not to stir up trouble and forcibly conscripting them. Kuro, along with many of his peers, were brutally beaten and threatened in the process of their reeducation for a year before they were assembled into a levy attached to a skirmishing force. Forced to act as a screen for a vanguard's unsuccessful charge during an assault on a small village, Kuro was trapped beneath a slain horse and was summarily pressed into service by the victorious defenders when they discovered him. Thus did Kuro's next years and early adolescence play out, with him being traded back and forth between militias, surviving each battle due to serendipity and his quickly learning how to stay out of the worst part of every fight. Always seen as just old enough to be useful, and just young enough to be reconscripted, Kuro soon determined that eventually he would wind up in the hands of a force that would decide he was too much of a risk to keep. He stole weapons and armor from his would-be allies and fled, approaching and joining the next militia he found as a free-rider mercenary.
During Kuro's adolescence he managed to survive and make a small reputation for himself as a sell-sword, attached to militias and even large professional armies as part of their mercenary cohorts. However, he made little effort to discriminate between sides and was eventually ostracized, declared a turncoat and threatened with summary execution should he continue. Searching for a means of living, for a time he traveled with a caravan of Dwarven Merchants. During his tenure with them, he learned a great deal in regards to the mechanisms and operation of Dwarven mechanical weapons, particularly their crossbows, from which most of his familiarity with Dwarven armaments is derived. Eventually the caravan was raided by highwaymen, who killed all of the merchants and most of their guards save for Kuro, who had sensed that the battle was fated to end poorly and fled after taking a moment to pilfer a pair of crossbows from the caravan.
By this time the Dwarven populaces of the North had become highly suspicious of Humans due to the frequency of attacks by independent states upon their fortress and caravans, and Kuro had difficulty finding work with any of them. Starving and desperate, he was forced to resort to banditry. For some time he operated alone along sideroads, having no compunction with killing his victims if he had to and barely managing to subsist off of the meager fare they carried. Looking for safer and more reliable ways, he joined up with a larger group of organized highwaymen who specialized in targeting convoys and carriages along more frequented roads. At this time Kuro was exposed to a number of personalities who served as role-models and mentors of sorts, although they inevitably parted ways in time. Eventually the band was broken during a failed attack on a particularly large convoy, and the few survivors rallied around Kuro who, by that time, had become one of the band's senior members despite his young age.
It was at this time when Kuro became known as Blackguard Kuro, leading his small band of cutthroats in meticulously planned and carefully organized raids on watchtowers, courier outposts, inns, and stables. They made great and effective use of traps such as pitfalls and weighted nets, along with fire. For a time, the fractuous state of the Northern lands allowed Kuro and his band to operated with near impunity, as no local force was both organized and swift enough to chase down and corner his group before they had fled to some other state with their spoils. However, the year was 164, and King Jaython of Arden had just begun to reunite the shattered Northern lands. Kuro started to have to deal with increased vigilance, and more thorough manhunts - with retreat to neighboring states not part of the expanding influence of the Ironmount Throne becoming increasingly difficult. Eventually, Kuro even had to begin to deal with a group of particularly relentless questors who had been tasked to specifically hunt him and his band of cutthroats down and eliminate them. For years, Kuro managed to slip through their fingers - until one night in 1167 when they managed to catch up. In a surprise attack, they slaughtered Kuro's band, with him barely escaping alive and fleeing South, to the lands of Lord Starly.
Kuro joined with the Company of Wolves then, due largely to an interest to escape the pursuit of the questors as well as a new and convenient means of surviving. As a professional mercenary organization with few scruples, his ostracism from the forces of the Northern Realms proved to be no obstacle to his enlistment. The squad he joined moved far too quickly for the questors, and his years of service precluded any further criminal activities on his part (at least, no criminal activities not sanctioned by Lord Starly). Eventually, the questors dropped their pursuit, assuming that the notorious Blackguard Kuro would no longer be plaguing the southern outposts of the Northern Lands - Kuro, for his part, has no apparent ambitions either within or without the company and is seemingly content to serve.
Kuro is, in a word, pragmatic. Forced for more than two decades to resort to any means necessary just to subsist, his morality is most generously described as flexible and his methods most politely described as broad. Kuro is a man who will do anything -absolutely anything- just to survive and, by extension, to secure victory.
A stoic man by nature, he is economical and succinct in all things. Blunt and to the point, he will only ever say precisely what he means to say. He can and will deceive others, but he will not spare their feelings or sensibilities in the process. Highly goal and work oriented, Kuro has very little patience for idle words and behavior.
Despite his brevity and seeming lack of social grace, Kuro has a deeply integral sense of camaraderie with those he knows, at least up to a point. If he thinks that a life can be saved by sacrificing his own, he will do so - but also, notably, ONLY if he also thinks the life he saves can then lead his side to victory. Kuro will abandon his allies without any remorse if he thinks their battle is a lost cause or that their death is imminent in either case. It would be most accurate to say he is deeply sympathetic to soldiers of fortune and mercenaries, whose troubles and hardships he is intimately familiar with.
Kuro, as described previously, is economical - and efficient. He has learned many lessons from his decades of experiences. Never tolerate standoffs. Never draw a weapon without intent. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Trust but verify. Avoid battles you have no stake in. Never do anything for free. He ascribes to these lessons almost religiously, and expects everyone else to do so as well, becoming extremely irritated and even angry if they should behave in a contrary - and to him, idiotic - fashion. He has maimed people in the past simply for drawing their swords in order to show off, by way of example.
This further manifests in his professional decorum and behavior. Kuro is highly methodical, meticulous, and thorough, taking great pains to plan ahead for what he can. He follows through on his promises (when possible), always investigates possible leads, prepares in advance for all eventualities, and never assumes anything he does not known to be true.
Kuro is distrustful of both religion and magic, the former reminding him too much of his experiences as a child soldier and the latter striking him as too unreliable on the battlefield. He has a deep respect for the craftswork of Dwarves.
Character Motivation: Survival. Since he was a boy, he was forced to fight or else be killed. As a young man, he had to fight in order to eat. As a man, he resorted to banditry and highway robbery to survive. As a notorious Blackguard, he overstepped his needs and paid the price for it. Kuro will do anything he needs to simply to exist...no matter what that may be. He is cautious and wary of reaching for that which he cannot grasp.
Tribal Mountebank: One of the more violent cutthroats that Kuro had a brief association with during his days as a highwayman. Later joined The Company of Wolves around the same time as Kuro, and is one of the infamous few to have been expelled from their ranks due to his unacceptable behavior.
Andromache: A Northern Warlord of an independent state in the North whom he served under in the capacity of a mercenary for a time. Although their association was brief, Kuro learned a great deal from Andromache just by watching her, and still partly idolizes her to this day.
Chalarensis: A powerful spellcaster, and the leader of the Highway gang that Kuro joined as a man. Served as a mentor figure to Kuro for several years before the battle that led to the group disbanding. Currently presumed dead.
@Terminal, when you said familiar face you really weren't kidding. Lol
I think our characters should contrast each other nicely. Both have vaguely similar illicit backgrounds, but clearly chose different paths after a certain point - and while both have fairly similar demeanor, they have different shades to them - Odran more forthright, Kuro more underhanded. That sort of thing. Should be interesting to play them off each other, assuming they're both approved.
@Littlefinger Good question. Most likely tomorrow or the day after that, it will give the others a little bit more time but I also gotta finish straightening some things out on my end before we are all ready to go!
As I finish my sheet, I have a question. What's accepted and not in terms of weapons? I imagine swords and such are viable, but what else in terms of weapons could a soldier in this army have? Just wondering as I complete my sheet.
Dwarf. | Thirty-nine. | No magical potency. | Ranger. | Twenty years in The Company of the Wolf.
PSYCHICAL DESCRIPTION โ
She dominates a stature neither admirable or worthy of intimidation, but only understates to the typical breadth of a Dwarva head. Fed wine, battle-song and smoke, Thdris is only impressed upon with her girth and lean strength woven dexterously through her thick arms and legs, and the shadow of facial hair crawling up an angular jaw. Barely cresting to the hips of her pack mates at a height of four feet with maybe a sprinkling of an inch or two, sheโs compensates with wide smiles, and a whimsical sort of charm hidden in those cheek-carving simpers. Her body is composed mostly of muscle and bound in the limited frame of her origins, sheโs often described stocky and stout, and not just in appearances. More often than not, Thdris can pass as a man, courtesy of her constant shadow that never quite crawls up the high-set of her cheeks bones, but remains instead along the edges of her face to feed into her thick and cording hairline.
Unable to tame the thick mass of tresses that tangles down a short spine, the locks are woven with twine, cords of various colours โ mostly black-earthen tones โ and occasionally bronze trinkets that donโt shine or twinkle, but appear to blend into the threads reminiscent of Imperial soil. They add weight to the voluminousness mass, providing a mild method of taming and being Thdrisโ only illusion to any attachment to her familyโs former practice. Typically, one would witness a dwarf bound and fixated in iron and steel, but betraying her constitution, this dame dons for leathers in sequence with cured hide and furs; fortified by criss-crossing chain surrounded by padded cloth. She doesnโt boast a personal set of armor, but instead just simply wears whatever she can mesh together and find or purchase from a stall whenever the urge takes her - she bears a natural aptitude in piecing such together without even trying. The only embellishment Thdris employs is a cloak of pallid fur with brown and ebony ticking genes from the animal it was skinned from, with a dire wolf insignia emblazoned with dye along the hem of both cape and hood.
Heralding a proud nose and deep-set eyes the colour of wine, and mouth always cradled with her pipe, Thdris once upon time was bequeathed with a fond title of being a pintโsized loveliness of earthen charm. However, interlacing scars over wheat-weathered skin, age, and harsh treatment from the elements around her have chipped and roughly bedded down her person.She moves deliberately and simply, almost stomping wherever she goes. Thdris trudges after the company on stocky limbs and thick arms clapping against their backsides as she goes [she canโt reach any higher now, can she] and clamps leatherโbound palms over her hips in her wiles of thought and deliberation, performing comical expressions when perplexed or awed by the packsโ many experiences.
EQUIPMENT โ
. An aged dagger dubbed Atuna, of Dwarven make and usually paired with her sister Tunsha: a longer sabre not quite on pair with a long sword, but shares origins with itsโ kin weapon. . Knives thinly designed for purposes better suited to underhanded, secret methods, totaled to five. . Various flasks, all tightly sealed, with liquids that sheโd rather not share - and that you definitely donโt want to take a sniff at. . An elongated pipe, forged from bitter oakwood to give her herb of choice a particular flavour, dark and well used in smoke song. . A pouch, greedily kept and filled, with herbs and plants of special intention and purpose, incredibly pungent and thick in aroma if opened. . Her parchments all loosely bound in a bestiary tome of simple aesthetics, scribbled in her looping scrawl with various details about the fauna she has encountered over the years. . Carries an assortments of leather thongs, all varying in length, some tipped and weighed down in steel weights and others in complex and well oiled knots. . Miscellaneous objects of twine and caltrops nestled together in her knapsack, preferred for traps and fun at gatherings of the pomp and royal.
SKILLS โ
Beast Tongue.
As a Ranger, Thdris bears a particular connection and method with the beasts of the realm. She can cajole and woo most of the wilder fauna to either flee or simply allow the company to be. Sheโs known to tame some into her temporary service, mostly winged predators for their gift of flight and transporting missives. Her ability to track them would suggest more to the connection she tends to share with them, almost seamlessly able to traverse the wood without hindrance.
Dual Wielding.
Brandishing her Dwarven-sisters of dagger and sword, Thdrisโ has the method of dueling down to a finery. Sheโs not graceful or waif like a typical Ranger of the usual stereotype, but her blunt and brutal ability of short-arm tactics are well used against taller and usually large opponents.
Dwarven Constitution.
Itโs almost naturally cultivated, a hardy wealth of immunity and stout defense. Entirely a passive, some jeweled up rumour, but has proven in Thdrisโ stance against the wear of battle many times over.
Veteran Trapper.
Though not as cunning as most rouges who employ the same practice, Thdrisโ has a knack for developing traps designed for both beast and man, sometimes consisting of little more than rope and cleverly placed plants.
PSYCH PROFILE โ
Thdris would describe herself as a fantastical realist, sort of an enigma and a contradiction towards the appellation, but no less true or potent in the actuality of her person. Though fantasy is to deviate from the norm, Thdris views it as the method and practice of change and development, and pragmatic solutions may stray from ideals, but the universal need to adapt is ever of importance - and if not for these ideals, how would they progress? She fancies the dreamers, the bards, and the tales, but would never attempt to repeat their grandiose tales, legends are wonderful in song, but sometimes that is all they are meant to be. Now, in the blood and sinew of the creatures of the Realm, that is where some of the better mysteries and fantastical evidence lies, they adapt with time, they develop alongside the souls of the world and Thdris is utterly enamoured with their existence. Thus her preference of designation as a Ranger, despite all peculiar glances and inquires to her stature - shouldnโt she be a barbaric ravager of the axe instead?
But, the earthy woman simply sees it as a direction of fate; in that individuals must ply away from the norm; that in that decision they find meaning and life and death. Tragedy, to Thdris, is viewed as a necessity though cruel and crippling, and happiness and fulfillment of living is bound by honour of life and prophecy. However, even with these conceptual beliefs, itโs difficult to discern exactly what the Dwarva woman is thinking or what lays beneath these intricacies. Her lips constantly remaining tipped into a small smile, almost, quietly, saddened and depressed with the wealth of her stare bruised and straight-forward. She quickly descends into banter, quips, soft-spoken advice and boisterous laughter in whichever situation is deemed appropriate to lessen the former. Her time with the company has undoubtedly bred a strong belief and foundation in the leagues of loyalty and itsโ meaning, and never has one witnessed her wrath when you have garnered her trust.
Swathed in layers of complexity and smiles, Thdrisโ is perhaps best deduced by her expressions and mutterings carried beneath her breath if one is to know her best. The depth of her wine coloured stare is where one can gauge the whirring process of her mind, the purse of her lip and the gnash of teeth in a grimace in the proper estimation to what sheโs thinking or feeling - unless she happens to notice one staring. Her words often contradict such visual keys, trying to sway attention from the truth and attempting to placate the curious individual with the lies instead. Unfortunately, Thdris is a terrible fiber, and while she can weave an excellent articulation about some legend of a thrice-horned elk, she cannot blatantly say or convince she has ever actually seen one. Her charm lays within the curve of her lip and the staunch of her stature and position and the honour of her blades.
She judges and accepts those in her company based upon actions and beliefs, by the method they carry themselves and the tandem in which they work with the rest of the company. But, no matter how much she may be fond of her companions, Thdris will always prefer the wild company of her beloved animals just awaiting to be discovered with her silver-laden tongue.
HISTORY โ
Tholyr Stronghold: a strong, and well bounded fortress crested high and nestled between sister peaks capped in frigid ice and sharp precipices of ebonette stone. Bourne in the cold and rock, Thdris was the eldest among three, and the massive span of the Tholyr family heralded a contingent of skill and coin with their various trades and contracts. Tradition was steepled high within family and birth rite, and it was that your bourne mother, or father, judged your ultimate fate and decree no matter your own personal skill or selection. It was simply the long-standing method of such things, and perhaps a prideful decision and demented practice to stay true to their origins when the Realm was no longer to be called their own. Thdris often overheard many tales of refugees in the garnishes of both Elf and Man, wars and kings that bled into tyrants and the stain of magic and Will that seemed to taint all that it caressed. She was perhaps romanticized by these stories, but such was all that they were, stories. They never went into the low lands, they only uttered what passing traders supplied, news carried by a second-hand and fed whichever furnishings of grandeur available so that they could persuade more coin and trade. Her dreams never suffered though, Kings seated on thrones of gold were there to sire her fantasies every night and in their eyes was the might of draconic fire. But, truth often swindles the cotton of dreams, and Thdris felt the first sting of such when her family began to temper that wild mind and train it to their practice.
Initially, she silently endured, learning the art of fire and steel, to shape and temper the alloy to your desire and design. Jewelry was their fine make and brought with it coin aplenty, her family were proud peddlers of bronze, silvers, and golds in trinkets, and sometimes rare components that naturally gleamed scarlet or emerald. Thdris learned them all and almost envied her cousins that were learning the creative freedom of bending steel and iron, they personally met their commissioners, learned the ways of battle to better design their wears for the fighting and the wars. Often, Thdris tucked herself away into the dark to visit her cousins in the stronghold, learning from them, hearing the stories of their customers and, sometimes, becoming lost in her drink until the dawn bathed the sister peaks in rays of gold.
But, such was not to remain for long, the Tholyr eye spanned wide and her meetings were not kept secret for long. Though it wasn't dissuaded that she spend time in her cousins' keep, but only that it took away from her studies, and her parents of proud jewel-crafters would not allow their hubris to suffer her whimsical endeavors. It was like taming a creature, wild and splendorous, but the love she had for her family - despite their cruelty to dreams - kept Thdris in line for the longest time. Long enough that she was even betrothed to a dwarven man who transferred to the stronghold from another, and gave birth to a wonderful, beautiful child that had her wine coloured eyes and her proud nose and jaw - smudged with the finest hairs of red. It was complacency, but not unhappiness, she was a fire tamed and welled down. She was young, barely encroaching seventeen years of the sun, but such was common in Tholyr and tradition, as she would give birth to many sons in her age.
Her life would have remained such if not for the raids. Determination and stubborn brutality found its' way between the sister peaks, and a night of fire and ruin was all that Thdris would carry into her nightmares. She learned that Kings seated themselves on thrones of blood and bone instead of gold, and the light in their eyes was not the might of dragons, but the furnaces of hate and greed. Tholyr Stronghold was pillaged and taken within four moons, and Thdris lost her husband to a volley of arrows in the third rotation. Her child was already taken with the rest of the children and elderly deep into the mountain caves, she wept for days without him, but, he was away from the destruction. It was meant to keep them safe and from harm, but the final moon sealed their fate, and her own, when they were ambushed in the caverns and set to flame and sword. Thdris lost everything she had known and watched helplessly with the remains of her family as the Stronghold burned and rang with the triumphant calls of the dead. Hopeless, despair, and hate crippled her heart and soul and she found herself without reason or will and aimlessly wondered as a refugee until the remaining Tholyr line found lodging in several leagues in a little town called Verndral. The days from then on passed in depression and rage until Thdris nearly went mad with her heartache, she need a purpose, a reason, she needed something to cement her woe and to hear stories once more.
And thus, when eighteen suns come about, she purchased a sword, leathers, and set into the wood to either find death or reason. It was here she met a woman, tall and elegant, poised in deadly ebony furs and wearing a smile of secrets and charm. She called herself Kylmi and the depth of her eyes were various hues of green, true spring grass and deep leafs of emerald, her face was pointed and pale; sometimes Thdris questioned if she were mortal, but Kylmi would only laugh. She offered the dwarf her friendship and here she discovered something akin to love and purpose. Kylmi called herself a Ranger by trade, she tamed beasts, traded furs with various towns, she whispered of riding aloft a stag of pure white that granted wishes of those with a pure heart. She told of great and powerful bears that churned the earth and planted trees, of deep creatures who lived in the seas and lakes that guarded troves of gold and treasures. Thdris learned everything from Kylmi, her swordsmanship and her own trade, she learned to smile, to laugh, and studied beasts along side her. When she charmed her first creature with speech and touch, Kylmi proclaimed her life renewed and her heart, though scarred, brightened once more. The year with Kylmi seemed to pass in a mere blink, and in the late nights she would awake to see the woman gazing woefully at the stars and moon, sometimes whispering of things that had not come to pass. It was on such a night, whilst camped around a fire and Thdris' had successfully tamed a beast to her side for eternity, that Kylmi spoke of herself.
She talked about Great Spirits, magic, the soul of everything intertwined and the deep respect of the Wood that many had forgotten. She was Elven and human and something much more that she would not whisper. Kylmi traded with Thdris the remains of her teachings and kissed her brow and told her to rest, allowing her to nestle against the massive boar she had gained that morning. If only Thdris had been able to hear the farewell in her voice then, and all that she left in her sudden departure were the dwarven sword and dagger Atuna and Tunsha and a letter that spoke of a poem about the honour of wolves.
She believed in the fate that Kylmi had set her on, as the path led to The Company of Wolves were she joined with The Captain and his followers, the band of mercenaries being her finality in escaping the nightmares of fire and death. She shed her former life, and like Kymli taught, applied her skills as a Ranger into their fold and began her own bestiary and collections, traveling and attending to battle and honour. She cemented and founded her reason for a new life, and in her dreams, she could finally revisit the memory of her son and the man that he would have become.
CHARACTER MOTIVATION โ
Thdrisโ is all well for the gathering of coin and honour, and sheโd happily share that she has no intention to leave the Company no matter which task theyโre employed too. But the reality of her heart is swollen with the desire to charm legendary and fantastical creatures and to learn their secrets of time and wisdom. If she ever mutters of vengeance, she'd hastily deny such a thing. Though, in secret, she'd love to find Kylmi once more, but Thdris' long suspects the peculiar Ranger has departed the Realm.
SIGNIFICANT RELATIONS โ
Though the line of the Tholyr has long been culled, Thdris still maintains contact with her cousins that survived the raids. She trades letters and missives with them and sometimes personally employs those of the smith trade to craft arms for the Company.
Durduum has long been Thdris' mount of choice, forgoing a traditional equine to carry her through their travels. Durduum's temperament in the company of his mistress and in battle is staggering, the large boar that stands almost on par with a common gelding, becomes an affectionate, nudging swine that has a severe love of apples and Thdris' affections. In battle, with her astride him, his squeals peel through the air in a terrifying siren, his charging brutality and strength capable of sundering armour, skin and bone. There's not much that can withstand a Dire Boar's charge.
Standing, on all fours, with his massive head nestled in the crook of his mistress' shoulder, Tormalk is a considerable pup of size and experience, having only been with Thdris' for two years in the Company. The gargantuan dog is mischievous at best, tending to snatch meals away from pack members and stealing away some of Thdris' things to bury them deep into the soil much to her fond displeasure. Tormalk even goes as far as to annoy and tease Durduum, bouncing in an out of the Boar's tusk range and uses the deep, vibrating cavern of his bark to startle any unsuspecting members. In battle, however, there is no better companion to guard your back in the thick of the fight.
And I've finished looking over another CS. I encourage you all to keep this quality work incoming!
@Rockette We've already talk about my appreciation for strong, gruff lady dwarfs and so it is proabably no surprise that I like Thdris. But besides that I appreciate how you expanded on the dwarven life beyond the small paragraph I give you all to work with. And how she seems to be very much a realized person inside of the world. All in all another quite interesting character to add to the bunch. Accepted!
Anyway, I've finished hashing out a basic plot structure and I think I've gotten everything straight in my head. Which means, that work on the intro post shall begin soonish!
@Hexaflexagon Triala is done. I'll probably edit for wording and phrasing over the next few hours, but I think she's ready for your review. Please let me know what else needs to be changed. I'm going to tinker with the format a bit too.
Basic Information
"I'm going to count to three. If your weapons aren't on the fucking ground by the time I finish, I will set every last one of you on fire." -Quote attributed to Triala Veclis at the Battle over Silver Lake, 1170 IC
Name: Triala Veclis [Tree-awl-uh Vek-liss], also referred to as "Tri" or "Ala"
Race: Elf
Age: 75 years old, which means she's considered to be an elf on the cusp of adulthood
Magic potency: Yes, Triala's pyromantic abilities are outlined in the 'Skills' section
Triala knows she'll never have the luxury of blending in with the crowd. Her lackluster control over her magical abilities, long ears, and blood red hair make it impossible for the she-elf to hide effectively. In fact, ancient elven legends claim those born with red hair are beloved by Angharad the Crimson King, the wrathful deity of flame, blacksmiths, and courage. They aren't hard to spot, and many elves believe these blessed souls possess unusual talents. Unfortunately for Triala, this last part of the legends is completely true. A few weeks after her sixtieth name day, the elven girl destroyed the estate of her master, High Lord Ulster Howe, with a barely controlled eruption of pyromantic fury. Due to her emotional state at the time and limited experience with the Will, Triala also managed to set the right side of her face on fire. The teal flames ravaged the elf's visage for several agonizing seconds before she quelled them.
Now, a little less than fifteen years later, the right side of Triala's face is a mass of hideous scar tissue with a single, cat-like amber eye hiding amidst the pink flesh. While many people cannot see beyond this horrific injury, those with stronger stomachs might be able to catch a glimpse of how lovely the she-elf used to be. While Triala was never the prettiest girl in the Realms, her heart-shaped face, bright eyes, and prominent cheekbones still radiate the same otherworldly beauty found in all elves. Sadly, life has a tendency to destroy beautiful things as the years march on. Luckily, Triala's red hair has grown long enough that she can use it as a curtain to conceal her wounds. The elf also has a button-like nose surrounded by freckles, which are quite visible thanks to her pale skin.
Due to spending most of her life as a household servant, Triala's 5'7" frame is soft and lacks the toughness found in the Company of the Wolf's battle-hardened veterans. She has narrow, bowed shoulders that encourage slouching and moderately toned arms, a testament to many hours spent washing the floors of the Howe Estate. Triala's slender hands are delicate, almost fragile-looking, and she's missing the littlest finger on her right hand. An ample bust, prominent beer belly, and wide hips give the elven woman a buxom, if unhealthy-looking, physique. Triala isn't the most physically capable or agile member of the Company, but she doesn't mind her curvaceous figure. It's actually helped her on more than a few occasions. Long legs and dainty feet complete the picture of a woman who wouldn't look out of place in an alehouse or brothel.
Thankfully, she found the Company of the Wolf first.
When it comes to her attire, Triala's race and mystical abilities typically force her to dress as conservatively as possible. In truth, she would much rather be ignored than draw attention to herself. The elf normally wears long-sleeved tunics made of linen or, if she wants to impress someone, silk dyed in various shades of green or brown. Occasionally, she'll wear a leather jerkin over her tunic, though this is mostly to keep herself safe amidst the chaos of battle. The elf's lower half is normally shrouded in black-dyed calfskin leggings and boots. Triala is also rarely seen without her oilcloth wineskin, knapsack, and quarterstaff. Every now and again, usually when the Captain or one of her senior officers deems it necessary, Triala will don a ridiculous blue robe of crushed velvet with the constellations stitched on it in white thread. This garment, which was "liberated" from a mummer's troupe after the Battle over Silver Lake, also has a staggering amount of golden scroll-work along the edges. Triala refers to this as her "magicky outfit." It makes her look like a sorceress from a children's story.
Military Background
Years Spent in Service: Triala has been with the Company of the Wolf for the last 15 years.
Equipment: -A well-polished silver dagger with a hilt carved in the shape of a sleeping dragon
-An oilcloth wineskin that is rarely empty
-A threadbare leather knapsack containing everything from parchment scraps to a satchel full of gold coins
-A weathered quarterstaff shaped like a shepherd's crook and made of flame-resistant thornwood
-A hooded cloak of black satin lined with aurochs fur and the heraldic symbol of the Company stitched into the back
Skills: -Pyromancy: Triala possesses a type of pyromancy dependent on her current emotional state. For instance, if she witnesses another elf being beaten by his human master then this might elicit strong feelings of sorrow or rage. This is when she can access and manipulate the Will. As soon as these emotions dwindle, however, her grip on the Will lessens before fading completely. While this makes her talents notoriously unreliable, Trialaโs gift allows her to perform incredible feats of mystical prowess despite her limited knowledge of the craft. A cloak of teal-colored flame that burns everyone around her, darts of fiery agony, and even columns of blue fire are all within Trialaโs purview. Apart from needing to feel a strong emotion, the only limitation to this gift is the she-elf must be able to see the flame she wants to manipulate. Triala can also create fire from nothing, but this is much harder and quickly exhausts her. After burning down the Howe Estate, the elven woman was running on pure adrenaline and terror. Otherwise, she wouldโve fainted on the spot and probably died. The presence of several torches in the estate's kitchen also helped keep the elf from crossing into the realm of Sindarin, the elven goddess of death, winter, and loneliness. Finally, any flame under Trialaโs control turns a brilliant shade of blue and tends to be much harder to douse without magical assistance.
-One of the finest horseback riders in the Company of the Wolf
-Capable of drinking more than most Company members and knows a great deal about the Realm's various alcoholic beverages
-Understands basic combat strategies and can fight with her quarterstaff and knife
The Mind
Quiet. Obnoxious. Aloof. Compassionate. Triala Veclis is an elf of contradictions, and she sees little point in trying to change. She is who she is. For example, the red-haired mage can be warm, amusing, and attentive around people she knows and cares about. Osric "The Mad Mage" Weaver knows he can always confide in his apprentice, because she wouldn't dream of betraying the trust of the few Company members she considers friends. This small circle of individuals has become a family of sorts to the young elf, and she'd do almost anything for them. On the other hand, newcomers and strangers often believe Triala to be uncaring, cold, and outright rude. And she certainly can be at times. Especially on those rare occasions when she allows her mind to wander the old, painful roads of her past.
Her childhood as a servant in the Howe family's mansion has created a burning hatred and resentment towards mankind within her that persists to this day. Thankfully, as she's matured and grown older, the she-elf has started to realize the merits of letting someone's actions speak for them. After all, Triala knows she undoubtedly killed innocent people when she unleashed her pyromantic abilities and razed the Howe Estate. She still feels incredibly guilty about this incident and has worked diligently to master her mystical talents.
Nevertheless, the mage rarely goes out of her way to treat a human with anything approaching common decency. Unless she has to or the individual in question might be useful to her.
Regardless, the past lays heavily on Triala's shoulders, and she often lapses into grim, miserable silences. She can usually bring herself out of these moods by drinking or spending coin on finery, but these remedies don't always work. The elf's amber eyes are constantly drawn to the south as if she's trying to see how her mother is faring. Obviously, displaying this kind of behavior in a company of sellswords would make Triala an easy target for mockery and derision. So, she compensates by drowning herself in alcohol, making jokes, and cursing like a sailor on shore-leave. Whenever she's given an assignment, however, all unproductive and inefficient behavior stops immediately. Her task consumes her, and she throws herself into her work with an almost worrisome intensity. Triala also has a tendency to become furious and upset whenever someone suggests deviating from the orders she's been given. The she-elf is determined but decidedly inflexible. Strict adherence to her superior officers' commands provides comfort in the crucible of war, but the mere thought of improvisation is enough to send Triala into a screaming fit.
In the end, much of Triala's behavior is a facade to hide the deep-rooted insecurities buried within her. She is incredibly sensitive about her burned face, and her mood can change from pleasant to enraged in the blink of an eye. The she-elf is also an adolescent on the brink of adulthood, and she has no idea what her future holds. The Company of the Wolf gives her life meaning, and it may even grant her the resources she needs to rescue her mother from High Lord Howe one day. Beyond that, however, the young elven woman acts competent and crass in hopes of disguising how uncertain she is about what her purpose is.
Triala Veclis was born in the spring of 1097 IC to Selune Veclis-Arathan, an elven serving woman working for the Howes of Estermont. The Kingdom of Estermont, also known as the "Kingdom of Plenty," was a small southern nation in the midst of an unprecedented period of prosperity. And the Howe family was largely responsible for this peaceful and fruitful time. By swearing oaths of fealty to the fledgling Vorstagian Empire in his youth, High Lord Wilcott Howe guaranteed his family and territory would be protected in the event of a major conflict. Why try to fight the Empire when the idea of a unified Continent under Vorstagian rule was so much more appealing?
Unfortunately for Triala and her mother, they were elves. This golden age didn't affect them overly much. While the high lord and his wife were kind to their servants, the majority of the elves' time was spent cooking, cleaning the estate, and attending to the needs of their masters. Since both of them were household servants, Selune was permitted to teach her daughter how to read and write, though Triala never fully grasped these vital skills.
Day after day passed in a pleasant, if somewhat arduous, haze for the young elf as she learned her place in the Howe Estate and the world at large. How much clover honey does the high lord like in his tea? Can you fetch High Lady Catriona's red silk robe from her boudoir? When was the last time you and the other servants mucked out the stables? These were the questions Triala's life revolved around, though she did manage to enjoy herself on occasion. The Howe family's stable master, a handsome elf named Ingmir Shadras, insisted on teaching Triala how to ride a horse, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover she was a natural. No matter how often her mother scolded her for coming into the house smelling of horses, the fiery-haired child always found her way back outside for another lesson with Ingmir.
Everything in Triala's life was simple and predictable, an endless list of chores and tasks, until the winter of 1137 IC. There were troubling whispers concerning King Lysteria's health coming from the north, and imperial emissaries were being sent throughout the southlands to affirm the loyalty of the Vorstagian Empire's vassals. The forty-year old Triala, along with several other elven attendants, were ordered to prepared and serve a sumptuous dinner to the high lord and his important guests. Something went wrong almost immediately. One of the younger elves emerged from the kitchen too early with the first course, which consisted of stuffed eggs and beryl prawns, and forced the rest of the servants to do the same. Presentation was everything in the house of the High Lord of Estermont. After the youth in question was chastened back in the kitchen, an older elf named Myranda Tavellan suggested it might be wise to serve the suckling pig now. If they waited too long then the high lord would undoubtedly punish them for making his guests wait. Of course, if they didn't let the initial course digest then nobody would eat much of the main course. The argument grew increasingly heated until, in a fit of anger, Triala somehow caused Myranda's wispy gray hair to catch on fire.
The flames were the color of a cloudless summer sky.
Luckily for Triala, Myranda was a mage of some skill, and she discretely used her own gifts to quell the hungry flames. Humorously, the time the elves spent bickering and trying not to scream when Myranda's hair started burning meant the imperial emissaries were practically drooling when the suckling pig came out. The dinner was a success, but this night would be a turning point in Triala's life. Myranda, after promising Triala all was well and she wasn't hurt, brought the younger elf to her mother and took Selune into the next room. The two elves discussed what had transpired in the kitchen for several hours until they reached a decision. Starting the next day, Myranda would begin teaching Triala about the Will. Both Selune and Myranda knew if the elven child's abilities were discovered then she'd be sent to the human-dominated Mysterium Lodge in southern Estermont. The lodge had a well-deserved reputation as a haven for greedy, racist, and incompetent mages with little understanding of their abilities. If Triala was sent there she'd die within the month.
To avoid this fate, Myranda began taking Triala with her during her nightly excursions into the nearby Wrenlock Forest. Once they were safely hidden beneath the shadowy boughs, the older elf would instruct her new pupil in the ways of the Will, the otherworldly force that allowed mages to cast spells and perform miracles. Unfortunately, Myranda's talent revolved around the manipulation of plants while Triala felt more of a kinship with fire. There was only so much the withered elven woman could teach her young friend, though most of her lessons were about control as opposed to actual use of the Will. The two grew close over the years, and Myranda became something of a surrogate grandma to Triala. Selune was immensely relieved. She'd already lost her husband, and the thought of losing her daughter was too much to bear. Still, if Myranda could hide her own mystical powers for so long then she could surely teach Triala to do the same. Everything would be fine.
In 1152 IC, everything changed as the Wars in the South ended and the Empire claimed the southlands once and for all.
Estermont didn't contribute many soldiers to the cause, but High Lord Wilcott ensured the Vorstagian forces never wanted for essential supplies. In addition, he sent a small cadre of soldiers led by his twenty-year old son, Ulster Howe, to assist his allies during the conflict. Ulster Howe had always been a quiet, unassuming boy, but his first taste of real battle twisted him in ways his father couldn't have possibly foreseen. When he returned home, the lad had transformed into a man of violence, passion, and a complete lack of respect for anyone he considered beneath him. Regrettably, this included his father, who'd taken ill earlier that same year and become bed-ridden.
After a valiant struggle, High Lord Wilcott Howe died of the damp lung in the fall of 1152 IC, and Ulster was declared the new High Lord of Estermont. His mother would act as his advisor and confidante. This signaled a major shift in the way the Howe Estate was run. Suddenly, elves were beaten for the slightest mistakes and treated like animals by their once benevolent masters. Filled with sorrow over her husband's death and perhaps recoiling at what her son had turned into, High Lady Catriona Howe-Maddox passed away during the dismal winter of 1153. Without his mother to curb his base impulses, Ulster Howe earned the nickname "The Grim" fairly quickly, and his reputation as a cruel, drunken monster of a man spread throughout the kingdom.
Only his devotion to the Vorstagian Empire kept him from being usurped or replaced as High Lord of Estermont.
Regrettably, the situation worsened in 1154 when the high lord decided to take a late night walk through the Howe Estate's renowned rose garden. During his stroll, Ulster spotted Myranda and Triala running off into the Wrenlock Forest to continue practicing with the Will. He sent several guards to bring the elves to him, thinking they were trying to run away, but his soldiers brought back dire news. The older elven woman was showing her younger companion some magical cantrip or spell. Horrified and enraged, the high lord sent Myranda to the Mysterium Lodge the next day and beat Triala senseless for keeping this secret from him. He demanded to know if she also possessed the gift of magic. Through tears and a broken nose, the red-haired elven girl swore she didn't, and the young nobleman decided to let her remain at the estate.
After all, he was having sex with her mother on an almost nightly basis. The last thing he wanted was for Selune, his favorite elven doxy, to start blubbering because he'd sent her daughter away.
With Myranda gone and her mother known throughout the estate as the "high lord's whore," Triala longed to escape from the Howe Estate. She marveled at how many opportunities she'd had with Myranda to simply vanish into the Wrenlock Forest. Of course, she hadn't because the older elf wouldn't have been able to keep up, and the idea of leaving her mother behind was repulsive to her. The resentment and fear she felt towards High Lord Howe came to a head in 1157 when Ingmir, Triala's friend and tutor in the art of horseback riding, approached his master and told him the truth. Triala did, in fact, have the Will. Furious and inebriated beyond rational thought, the aristocrat ordered his guards to bring Triala to the kitchen while he fetched Selune. When the two elves were in the room together, the High Lord of Estermont began beating Selune with a truncheon while shouting at Triala for being a "pointy-eared monster" and a "lying, thieving elven bitch!" Horrified and barely in control of her emotions, Triala let loose. Everything Myranda had taught her about control vanished in the blink of an eye.
The resulting explosion of pyromantic magic engulfed the kitchen and nearly killed the young elf. Only the presence of several torches in the room allowed Triala to survive this colossal expenditure of mystical energy. She did, however, set the right side of her face ablaze. Screaming in pain and barely cognizant, the elven girl fled through one of the side doors and raced towards the forest where she'd once practiced magic with Myranda. She only looked back once and saw the high lord, with her mother in tow, sending a dozen guards after her while the rest began trying to douse the fire. Triala quelled the flames scalding her face and ran until her legs gave out. Weeping in pain and terror, the elven girl decided her only hope of escaping her master was to try and leave the kingdom. Perhaps she could head north? There was a village called Last Hope a few days to the south of the border between the southlands and the northern kingdoms. It seemed like as good a destination as any.
Triala barely survived the long journey northwards, but she finally reached Last Hope after nearly two weeks of walking and living off the land to the best of her abilities. Outside of the ramshackle settlement, the she-elf saw a standard that would alter the course of her life: a simple black field with a running dire wolf on it. The Company of the Wolf was looking for recruits in the area since there were rumors of a new war starting in the north. In light of her desperate circumstances, Trial wondered if she should join, but she kept seeing the expressions of horror and disgust on the faces of those she'd met on the road. Her scarred face was too revolting. Who would be willing to tolerate an elf with no combat experience and a visage only a mother could love?
The trembling elf turned to walk away...only to run into an older member of the Company, Osric Weaver. The man immediately sensed this dirty creature's connection to the Will, and he told her she wasn't going anywhere. Triala was too weak to fight him. He dragged her over to the recruiter and helped her sign her name. The mage promptly declared that she would be his greatest pupil ever. She would be the one the "Mad Mage" would teach all his secrets to. The recruiting officer simply rolled his eyes and told Osric to take his pet into the encampment to await further instructions from the Captain. The mage complied and, with a hearty chuckle, led his new student into a life that would reshape her both literally and metaphorically. The next fifteen years were some of the best and worst of Triala's life thus far. Her new teacher taught her how to use her abilities in ways Myranda had never discussed, and he even bought her a quarterstaff and dagger.
"You can never know too many ways to kill a man," Osric always said. Triala took him at his word.
The Wars in the North began in the year 1162, and the Company of the Wolf fought for whatever side was willing to pay them the most coin. Gold flowed like a wondrous, clinking river through their encampment as they prospered off the chaos engulfing the Continent. For the first time in her life, Triala knew what it was like to have money of her own to spend. And spend it she did. When she wasn't buying clothes or alcohol, the elven woman bought the most expensive meals she could afford and even purchased an old Vorstagian Charger from a horse merchant after the Battle of the Celebron Fields. The scrawny, starving wretch Osric found on the streets of Last Hope blossomed and grew into a plump, money-hungry elf with a taste for the finer things in life. She even managed to become Osric's new apprentice. However, this doesn't mean Triala forgot about her mother and her old master, the High Lord of Estermont. Even during the Company's time serving Lord Van of Starly, she kept one ear to the ground in hopes of hearing something that would tell her what was happening in Estermont. Triala had long ago come to the conclusion that she might be able to save up enough coin to hire the Company to help her exact revenge on High Lord Ulster Howe. They might even be able to save her mother.
Now that she was making a decent amount of coin, this idea became more and more solid in the elf's thoughts. In 1168 IC, the seventy one year old elf decided to make this her purpose. She's squirreled away nearly two hundred golden pieces thus far, though it's a start. In 1172 IC, however, Lord Van's kingdom fell to the Vorstagian Empire and the Company of the Wolf has now been ordered to travel to the imperial capital to meet with the emperor. Although Triala's grip on her pyromancy is better than ever, and she's survived numerous battles alongside her companions, the she-elf is more than a little nervous about returning to the southlands. For now, she's content with keeping quiet and staying close to Osric. If worse comes to worse, Triala plans to abandon the Company at the first sign of danger to herself. It's hard to rescue anyone when you're dead.
Denouement
Character Motivation: Triala is concerned with her own well-being and little else. However, the she-elf plans to save enough coin to hire the Company to sack the Howe Estate so she can rescue her mother from Lord Ulster Howe.
Significant Relations: -Selune "Delightful" Veclis-Arathan: Triala's mother and primary caregiver until the destruction of the Howe Estate fifteen years ago, knew her child had magical abilities but tried to hide them, this ultimately resulted in her being beaten senseless by High Lord Ulster Howe in front of her daughter, given the nickname "Delightful" by the high lord in reference to the many hours of pleasure she gave him in bed, refuses to talk about Triala's father, currently living in the reconstructed Howe Estate
-Myranda Tavellan: An ancient elven servant born and raised in the Howe Estate, an intuitive mage who successfully concealed her abilities for decades, she often went out into the nearby Wrenlock Forest at night to practice using the Will, Selune persuaded Myranda to help Triala master her own gifts so the girl could avoid being sent away, Myranda and Triala grew close over the years, High Lord Ulster Howe discovered Myranda had been deceiving him in 1154 IC and ordered several household guards to escort her to the Mysterium Lodge, nobody has seen or heard from her since though the guards returned to the estate a few days later, currently missing and presumed deceased
-High Lord Wilcott Howe: The ruler of the kingdom of Estermont and High Lady Catriona Maddox's beloved husband, his heir and sole child is Ulster Howe, High Lord Wilcott was a kind and generous man who treated his servants exceptionally well, a staunch supporter of the Vorstagian Empire and the idea of a unified Continent, died from damp lung in 1152 IC and his son inherited the Howe Estate, his wife passed away almost a year after his death, deceased
-High Lord Ulster "The Grim" Howe: The only child of High Lord Howe and High Lady Maddox, assumed the title of High Lord of Estermont in 1152 IC and continued his family's support of the Empire, known as"The Grim" since he rarely smiled, a cruel and spiteful drunkard who believes non-humans are little more than beasts, discovered Myranda Tavellan was a mage and sent her to the local spellcasters' lodge in 1154 IC, flew into a rage when he learned Triala Veclis could also use the Will and beat the girl's mother in front of her, this caused Triala to lash out with her abilities and she razed the Howe Estate to the ground before fleeing, the high lord sent a few guards to pursue her but his focus was on rebuilding his family's home, currently living in the rebuilt Howe Estate and seeking a wife
-Osric "The Mad Mage" Weaver: A cantankerous and eccentric spellcaster serving the Company of the Wolf, a talented mage with a thorough understanding of the Will and how to wield it properly, has spent most of his thirty years with the Company teaching new members how to use their mystical talents, took Triala under his wing as his apprentice in 1162 IC and still considers her to be a "work in progress," rarely talks about his past unless he's drunk or smoking witchleaves, currently employed by the Company of the Wolf
Opinions on Others: N/A until character is accepted
Other: Triala's closest friend is an elderly and temperamental Vorstagian Charger named Blackheart. When he isn't blatantly disobeying his rider's commands, Blackheart spends most of his time pooping in inappropriate places and making a nuisance of himself. Several Company members have ongoing bets to see who will have the honor of killing the bastard when he's no longer fit to ride. At the moment, the Captain seems to be the most likely candidate. After all, Blackheart devoured his favorite hat not too long ago. And the Captain has a long memory.
