Same as with a lot of other people in this thread, I’m not convinced just yet that I’ll actually join, but I do feel interested enough to chime in on the discussion. I just finished reading every post, so to begin I’ll just pick various quotes on which I had something to comment on.
One of the biggest issues I see in these sorts of roleplays is that a large number of players put in their character sheets or enter into discussion, but ultimately end up leaving because the other players aren't producing the kind of nations they were expecting, or the game environment as a whole changes.
Hey that’s pretty much exactly how it goes for me usually. I lurk a lot of NRP threads but almost never join them, for a variety of reasons but my usual concern is that I may end up disliking this or that nation for entirely subjective reasons. I think I have an idea for one factor that can lead to this phenomenon (more frequently than in normal RPs) and I feel like bringing it up briefly.
One of the bigger differences between NRPs and regular ones is that every player does a significant amount of world building. This is relevant if we’re looking at the general tone an RP is trying to go for. In a traditional RP, the gm predetermines the tone of his setting right off the bat. Maybe he’s going for heroic, light hearted fantasy. Maybe it’s a realistic, grimdark setting. Maybe it’s a pessimistic cyberpunk vision, or an optimistic “where no man has gone before” space opera. Point being, the GM picks whichever sort of vibe his story wants to transmit in general (I acknowledge that light hearted stories can have dark moments and vice versa) and sticks to that when designing the various components of his world. Or a good writer does anyway.
But when you establish little or no prevailing tone in advance other than “it’s space, yo”, then every player will do whatever they like the most, which means that you will almost certainly end up with nation concepts that hit completely different tones and feel like they don’t belong in the same universe. This is, of course, a high degree of personal freedom given to players but it is likely to lead to a game universe that will not feel internally consistent, which in turn can have an unsatisfying effect on players. If we look at warhammer 40k, for instance, we can clearly see that, even though every race is pretty diverse from one another, they all suit the general tone of doom and gloom 40k is going for, of a universe on the brink of catastrophe. It's this internal consistency that's difficult to accomplish with a multitude of writers.
That’s my interpretation anyway, take it for what it’s worth from a guy who has actively participated in like one and a half NRP. Medieval ones at that.
I think its pretty well known that excessive nation-sheet building before the RP begins is a bad way to start. […]
I’m personally mildly indifferent towards this, I think there’s merit to brief and explicit sheets respectively. As MissingAxis pointed out, revealing information piecemeal during the story is a fun and engaging way of doing things, not only for NRPs. Also, a shorter sheet means quicker boot-up times and a faster launch of the RP overall, which is great for motivation.
On the other hand, it can be plain fun to go into all sorts of details, and the more aspects of a nation (which, let’s not forget, is a very complex, very internally varied thing) the player considers and makes up in advance, the more internally consistent and believable his nation will be. I think the more towards the “hard” end of sci-fi the story verges, the more need there is to explain details, the classic example being “But what do they eat and where does it come from?”. Ultimately, the amount of detail needed is dictated by the story (and its players).
Either way, I’ll be fine no matter which format you end up choosing.
Basically prevent players from making "Mary Sue"/OP/broken factions or species with absolutely no sense of realism.
A lot of people bring up powergaming so I guess the issue must be quite rampant. Maybe the few NRPs I’ve been in were very lucky, or didn’t run long enough, or I was too oblivious, but I have to admit I don’t have particularly nasty experiences in this regard. The same rules go for standard RPs, where mary sues and broken characters aren’t welcome either. As such I don’t really have much to add on the subject, sadly, other than that it obviously needs to be kept in check. Point-buy systems or the like are okay by me if deemed necessary. This actually segues into something from the end of the thread.
I think it would be beneficial to the whole NRP sub-forum community to develop some sort of 'universal' nation stat system that could be easily adapted to different genres/eras etc. Would any of you guys be up for working on something like that? (OP: sorry about derailing your thread further my friend!)
My experience with NRPs is somewhat limited but I love game design and RP in general, so if nothing else I’d love to observe that thread somewhere and, if wanted, add my two cents here and there. I entertained the idea of working on an NRP system of my own making for funsies anyway.
One NRP is completely jam-packed with giant space nations with clashing borders and millions of ships, and almost utopian/dystopian societies. What's the point if we're already there!?
Great point, never thought about it that way. It makes a lot of sense and I can’t add too much to it other than I agree from now on and think someone should try dialing it down in their NRP.
There was a large chunk in the middle where you folks were hashing out this or that detail about a point system focused on a small-scale NRP that takes place on a handful of planets with co-existing aliens. I got that right, yeah? Anyway I don’t really know how the game system there worked, personally I think having stuff like growth meters is too over the top, at least if the goal of your NRP is to tell a story. I’m all for games, making up systems for designing the shapes and components of individual space ships and tracking locational damage, but I acknowledge that it is a game at that point and not really a collaborative storytelling effort (of course there is some overlap). I guess, just like tone, the RP’s intended function is also something that should be clarified to begin with. Is the goal to tell a story first, and play a game second, or the other way around? Either way is valid, but they both change the way you approach the design of the rules.
If story comes first, then the rules should largely limit your starting situation (to equalize) and maybe govern military engagements (which are most prone to player disputes). Anything more than that, I think, just ends up working to the RP’s disadvantage by bogging the narration down.
If game comes first, well, go ham, make rules for everything :P
So yeah that was a bunch of babbling on my part, sorry to make you sit through it. To summarize, the point to take away from this is: It is beneficial to determine both the intended tone (story genre, feel, emotion), as well as the intended purpose (game vs story) of the RP first, and structure the details around that afterwards.
They had spent decades designing this circle? Jillian found this hard to believe at first but, reminding herself just how old Crone and Renold had to be, a decade to them was likely little more than a year to her, if even that. She had no reason to doubt the circle’s effectiveness – even if it was, essentially, entirely untested and aimed at containing something akin to a deity – but she shared Gerald’s apprehension. What if the circle didn’t work as well as everyone hoped it would? If Hazzergash truly did possess Renold then it would take little more than a casual swipe of the arm to kill any one of them. A single, momentary lapse in the binding circle’s holding power and they were done for. The elder Green’s reassurances did little to ease the witch’s mind.
“A minute?” Jillian asked skeptically, “Am I to believe this is the best case scenario? What if he’s not as weak as we think he is? What if he’s not alone? He almost certainly isn’t. Each of us will have their hands full binding him to the circle and Gerald will deal with sealing him in the crystal prison. We don’t have any means to deal with interruptions.”
“And what do we do if things turn sour?” she continued, her voice betraying her irritation and worry as she paced back and forth, arms stemmed on her hips, “I didn’t sacrifice everything I’ve ever had just so I could die for nothing.”
Jillian remained silent and watched Gerald’s brief protest with a mellow gaze. She felt truly sorry for him; not only was the world telling him that this unique chance to cure himself of the Withering was wrong, and that he had no right to hope for that kind of salvation, but the mere glimpse of this hope was enough to almost blind an otherwise extremely cautious and intelligent man to the obvious dangers this would entail. He must have been suffering for so long… that he still stood tall was nothing short of a miracle – or proof of his indomitable character. Even so, she pitied him, and it was this pity, she thought, that drove her to agree to the Grand Master’s risky gamble. But she would never tell him that she felt like so. He would only reject her.
“I suppose that might work. I understand that Renold is not exempt from being the target of possession, yes?” the witch asked for clarity’s sake, casting a brief glance at her large companion. “The binding circle would have to be sizeable to contain all of us. But circles mostly suppress magical power, don’t they? Out of us four, Renold easily does not need any of it to threaten us. This whole plan would have to be executed extremely quickly.”
It was a plan, but it seemed shaky. They had no time to practice any of this. They would have to be very fast. And any deviation from expected behavior could spell chaos, maybe defeat for them. Their chances were not very thrilling, she imagined. And when she died, the Grand Master came to collect. Unless she was to become Hazzergash’s vessel, in which case… well, who even knew what then?
Grand, Jillian thought, cocking her head. If they had been facing anything but Hazzergash they could see it coming… too bad they weren’t. It made her nervous; the idea that any one of them could become the unwilling vessel of such a creature was highly unnerving, not only because it meant the complete removal of agency over their own bodies but because it would inevitably force them to hurt or kill one another. There must be some way to avoid such a fate, she thought; there had to be.
“I have not,” the witch admitted when Renold asked if she had ever seen anyone produce large amounts of magical energy all at once. It was a vague question – large was a matter of perspective, after all – but she had, at best, only felt others doing this, not seen it. The fact that magical energy became visible at all once it breached a certain threshold had not been known to her up to this point. She wondered if such amounts of energy were reserved only for gods, demons and dragons, or if it was attainable for humans as well. Did Crone possess such large reserves?
Renold then demonstrated what this might look like, manifesting his power as tendrils of otherworldly, dull yellow fire that appeared to exist in a state of total separation from the laws of nature. Such was the core essence of magic, Jillian figured, as she gazed with fascination at the brief display. One day, she dreamed. One day, perhaps, she too could dazzle others with such a show of strength. They’d admire her, or fear her. Yes, it was the only way left for her. One day.
Gerald pointed out that they would be able to tell who was to be the target of possession, a clever observation that Jillian had failed to make in her ravings. True enough, if Hazzergash’s power manifested itself as these magical, burning limbs then they would almost certainly be directed towards whomever he chose as victim. Not that this was an enormous advantage as they were still helpless, of course…
“Luckily there’s an easy solution to how to deal with him potentially possessing us,” the necromancer then concluded, surprising not only Jillian but apparently everybody else too. As he put it, so long as everybody remained inside the binding circle, they could keep the demon lord under control no matter what – or at least, long enough for Gerald to return Hazzergash into his prison. It seemed logical enough but there was one problem Jillian noticed.
“What if he targets you?” she asked, arms crossed and looking straight at Gerald. “I for one don’t know how to siphon him into the prison.”
That's an interesting hook actually. Where are you going with that? Part of a character concept, or a sort of side-storyline?
Edit: Oh btw @Dreamforge, under Harsii's 'Terrifying' skill you mention "voices and warcrimes". That's probably meant to be warcries, right? Though I imagine that a being such as he has little respect for the Geneva convention either way.
The passing mention – and appreciation – of her efforts alone were enough to send a revitalizing jolt of bliss through Jillian’s mind, even if she knew that someone like Crone had little need to praise a witch who was so far beneath her own power and wisdom. It didn’t matter; the fact alone that someone noticed and saw something good come out of her work was enough for her to feel good about herself. If it were up to her to give out praise, however, she would have to give it to Gerald, whose shadow image made it possible for her to deal such phenomenal damage in the first place and whose energy-transferring trick empowered her multiple times. When she thought about it, the idea seemed quite charming: her, laying destruction and flame upon whomever stood in their way and him, expanding her energy pool manifold and keeping her alive. A romantic little idea that she was sure Gerald would have no patience or approval for. She could hear him now, grumbling something along the lines of “I must use my power sparingly, Veldaine”, justifying it somehow.
Listening to their exchange, Jillian got the impression that no matter what approach they took, it would be really dangerous, to the point where calling a particular strategy dangerous was redundant. They were trying to defeat and imprison a powerful demon lord, after all. So far, it seemed like using the prison as bait and laying a trap was the smartest solution, as letting him reunite with reinforcements at his keep was pointless and stupid. What worried her the most, however, was this talk about possession. Just how vulnerable were they to this? How quickly could he do it? From what range? Was it telegraphed? Reversible? So many questions. Gerald, for his part, seemed unconcerned at least, most likely because he could use his necromancy and maybe the Withering to try and transfer Hazzergash into his crystal vessel or something along those lines, she figured.
“How does possession work? You make it sound like he could take over any one of us at a whim. If that’s true then we’ve got a bit of a problem, no? Can we see it coming somehow, stop it?” Jillian asked nobody in particular, putting her concerns into the round at large as she looked at each participant in turn and waiting for anyone to pick up the torch and answer.
From what I can tell it's starting to get a bit tight, but if you have a sweet concept and make a good case for it you could conceivably squeze your way in. Gotta ask the gm for anything definitive though, these are just my two cents. Good luck either way.
Edit 2: After mulling over it a bit, maybe I'll add the story after all since I have more to tell now. Point stands that it's technically redundant, but it might make for a nice read, round the character off. Will see about it tomorrow. No promises though.
Just letting y'all know I did just that. It's big, has tons of technically needless details, but fluff can be nice all the same. Hope y'all like it.
Nationality/Nation Description The Highland Clans of the Wounded Mountain
The northern part of the Godsfang Mountains surrounding Varyon is home to a particular peak named the Wounded Mountain. Its name is derived from the majestic glacier that extends down its frosty slopes, which assumes a deep red coloration near the top that narrows down into trickling streams or veins of red inside the ice until finally petering out to indistinguishable fibers. Seen from afar, it would appear that the mountain carries a mortal wound, perpetually bleeding. The glacier and mountainside feed into a lower plateau where the air is cool and game is rich in the dark pine forests dominating the zone. In its center is a sizeable, cold lake with fresh mountain water whose taste carries a hint of iron.
The region is large enough to provide ample living space for multiple little hamlets that have sprung up around the lake and elsewhere underneath the protective boughs of the ancient pine woods. Often referred to as clans, the villages are mostly just isolationist communities who chose a life away from the hustle and bustle of the southern kingdoms. That said they did not completely break contact when they built their settlements, and frequently send trade caravans down the mountain to barter for products they have difficulty producing themselves and supplying high quality lumber, iron, steel and artisanal goods in return.
The mountainfolk gradually adopted a new religion centered on the Iron God, a nameless, formless deity that apparently dwells in any and all iron – including that in the blood. To outsiders it would seem that this faith is the result of minds addled by decades of consumption of their strange tasting water which, judging by the glacier’s appearance cannot be healthy. And perhaps these outsiders have a point, but no missionaries who tried showing them the path to another religion were ever truly successful in toppling their beliefs. Although the Iron God does not truly have a church or a clerical organization, there is an old temple high atop the icy mountain, near the glacier’s origin, where a handful of ascetic monks and the sage – their leader – live in isolation from even the isolated hamlets. Generally seen as aloof by almost everyone, their council and their blessings are often sought by mountainfolk who would ask for mediators in difficult disputes, blessings for their children or fortune in battle. Rumor has it that the monks know a secret path that leads inside the glacier’s heart, to where the mountain’s blood flows free and undiluted, yet none could confirm that rumor to this day, nor has anyone ever found out where exactly this “blood” comes from. Some take the name quite literally and assume that the mountain is alive and sentient, and indeed has a wound from which blood flows as from any man’s wound. Others assume that it is not the mountain proper but something inside of it. Something old and nameless that is trapped or buried underneath the glacier and keeps bleeding into it.
When God Emperor Dagon IV rose to power and crushed the adjacent kingdoms, it was only a matter of time until his inhuman legions would climb the Godsfang Mountains and invade the plateau surrounding the Wounded Mountain. And so they did, leaving naught but misery, smoke and ashes in their wake. Survivors tell of a particular village by the lakeside that took the brunt of the assault and which was pillaged and raped over a matter of multiple days. So great was their misery that the sage in the mountain temple could watch no more and did the inconceivable: he drank the mountain’s blood, greedily, until his body could take no more. The rest is highly speculative and highly exaggerated, but as the tale goes, the entire plateau echoed with the alien screams that boomed down from the frozen peak of the Wounded Mountain, as if some antediluvian demon had been roused from its slumber. A formless monster composed of rage and blood descended upon the lakeside, obliterating any of the invaders that stood in its way and routing the rest into the woods where it followed them and murdered them one by one. Those who claim they had seen the beast can no longer be considered sane of mind, their account made dubious, but it is true that the great sage no longer dwells among the monks, and they speak no more of what happened on that day.
Occupation Vagrant Warrior
Religion The Iron God
Belief in the nameless Iron God is restricted mostly to the small northern region around what is known as the Wounded Mountain. According to the lore, the god is not only nameless but also faceless; he is in everything that is iron, most obviously the ore found in the earth and mountains, but also in the blood. That there is power in iron ore and thus weapons is uncontested (who would argue, after all, that might does not make right?) but believers hold that by drinking blood and/or eating the raw flesh of things, they can acquire part of that being’s power, while others say one simply gains the Iron God’s favor. Either way, the ritual eating of their enemies is widely spread among the mountain folk in this region, a practice that used to be considered barbaric by the more civilized kingdoms to the south in the old days. Eat your enemy and you eat his strength, so the saying goes.
Appearance Ask a hundred men to picture a woman, and you will hear a hundred different descriptions – but none will fit Serilda. She is tall, almost uncannily so, easily standing shoulder to shoulder with most men. Her face a perpetual grimace veering between pained anger and a disapproving frown. Even a stranger will recognize that no smile has graced her colorless lips in what must be years. Where her left eye should be there is only a dirtied, brown bandage from underneath which a trail of old, caked blood paints her unwashed cheek, past the puckered mouth and down to the chin. The remaining eye, encircled by a dark tone and amber in color, stares cautiously, perhaps disdainfully from one corner to the other, always watching for danger, for something to kill. Her head is crowned by a wild mane of unkempt black hair whose tips end just above her chest.
A coarse, dark gray linen hood covers her head and hair at most times to shelter her from the weather and shelter others from the displeasure of seeing her more clearly. The hood itself is part of a wide cape, embellished by a simple coiling pattern of black lines, which is slung around her shoulders, concealing a large part of the armor that she wears underneath. A harness made of hard boiled leather protects the chest and abdomen, while plate gauntlets protect her hands, forearm and elbow and additional plates which form part of her well-worn boots cover her kneecaps and shins. The rest of her arms and legs are clothed in simple, faded hemp fabric that looks to have stiffened with layers upon layers of dried sweat and blood. A simple necklace produced from animal sinew, pieces of bone and wood hangs around her neck. Various utility pouches and bags are fastened to her belt containing a variety of necessities like compact food, bandages, rope, a whetstone and more. When travelling from place to place, she additionally carries a decently sized knapsack on her back and underneath the cape, bearing supplies for herself and her companion for the journey.
Personality In a world of monsters, only a monster can thrive.
At a glance, Serilda is cold, gloomy and full of bitterness. Although her demeanor can be offputting, she is not one to reject the company of others if they appear trustworthy. She may not reveal much about herself or her companion, but is willing to at least be a good listener to anyone who shares her manic hatred for Emperor Dagon and his fiends. Catch her on a good day and give her a strong drink and maybe she is willing to tell a story or two. For the most part, however, it appears Serilda is too absorbed in her own sorrows to care much for life – except, of course, towards the one person in the world she cares about, more so than for herself.
Nitsa, her fourteen year old daughter, is the only reason Serilda has not yet thrown away her life by doing a death march to Kuranes. To those who merely know Serilda as a stone cold butcher of all that is evil, it comes as nigh a shock to see her being warm, tender and caring when interacting with her child. In truth, the lass is the source of her every emotion. She is the reason she can feel warmth and happiness, and she is the reason for her constant depression. An unknown amount of years prior, Nitsa bore witness and possibly became subject to such heinous events that they have traumatized her. Ever since, she’s not spoken a single word and is deathly afraid of everything besides her own mother. Serilda fears that her daughter may never recover, may never speak or laugh or love in her young life. That fate would spare her child only to cast it down with madness is the true reason why Serilda has given up on her humanity and decided to become just another monster in a world of monsters.
Understandably, her outlook in life is bleak – she is pessimistic, distrustful, hopeless and if there is any humor left in her it is of a deeply cynical sort. That said her sober view of the world has made her very conscientious. She’s honest, having nothing worth lying for. She’s industrious and pragmatic, seemingly channeling her frustration into physical labor and exercise. When she’s not training her skills or her body, or caring after her daughter, she is most likely doing work of some other kind like chopping fire wood, maintaining equipment or preparing food. Although she is brave to the point of recklessness, she has also become extremely stubborn and set in her ways. The only one who could conceivably talk her out of a given course of action would be Nitsa, and she speaks no more. Fortunately, at least, she still values living more than dying a hero’s death, if just to continue protecting her fragile child.
Secretly she harbors the dubious hope that Dagon’s death by her hand will cure Nitsa of her mental ailment.
**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**
Story
Serilda’s earliest memory is of soldiers, laughing and drinking on an open field covered in tents. The band of the Valiant Heart was a well-respected group of mercenaries operating in the kingdoms of Varyon, Aldebaran and other nearby nations, never taking a political side and simply fighting for whoever happened to offer the best deal at the time. One summer they might be skirmishing against Aldebaran’s forces, trying to disrupt their attempts at conquest, the next they might be laying siege to a fortress in Varyon and indeed, rarely, they were simply asked to raid and pillage some nation’s countryside to ruin their harvest. They cared little for honor and even less about tomorrow. So long as kings and nobles could fund their merrymaking, their drinking and their whoring, they would fight anything and anyone.
Not everyone was a warrior, however. Many travelled with them as part of their entourage; friends and family, plenty of loose women, the occasional priest (especially if they brought some barrels of beer), blacksmiths, carpenters and more. In a way, the mercenary camp was just some farmlands shy of being an autonomous village. Only the laughter of children was practically unheard of in camp – it simply was no place for the young ones. Loud, vulgar, violent, filled with people unfit to be responsible parents. This is where Serilda grew up, the only child raised by a soldier of the Valiant Heart.
Her father, Armin, was no exception to the rule. Instead of playing when she was a child, Serilda was instead made to polish weapons, sort equipment in the barracks and cleaning out whatever mess the men left behind. Not that there had been any other children to play with anyway. To say he was unloving would be too harsh a criticism, but it was true that he was needlessly stern with his girl. Most thought that it was simply his nature. A man who lived and died by the sword had little patience for weakness or negligence. Others, however, claim that he would have much preferred a son to a daughter, and thus decided to raise her as one. Armin never spoke of Serilda’s mother, at least not to his daughter, and the other soldiers would claim ignorance all the same. To this day, Serilda has no idea whose womb she had sprung from. Was some kind of tragedy and love involved? Was it simply another whore? The truth would most likely forever stay with Armin in his grave.
One winter, while the band was laying siege to a Varyon fortress, Armin took a nasty arrow wound to his thigh that left him bedridden for days. Even though the wound itself was nothing too severe at first, it became concerning when even a week later it was still filling up with pus. A priest who was helping treat the wounded said that something must have gotten in the blood, that it was a bad omen. He tried to ease Armin’s pain as best he could, but alas he could only pray for a safe journey in the afterlife when the soldier passed away. A ten year old girl cried over the dead body of the man who never once told her that he loved her.
Having little choice in where else to go, Serilda remained with the soldiers who, surprisingly, took care of her. She had been part of the camp for so long that they could almost not imagine how it had been without ‘that lass’. The older she became as a teenager, the more they began treating her like a sort of girly brother. With fifteen they let her drink with them, sharing bottles over a long night, though she would often pass out much more quickly than the others. There were some who thought to take advantage of her but most were upstanding and forbade it, not only those who had been friends with Armin. Merrymaking or not, however, her chores remained much the same for some years – cleaning, sorting, supplying. Helping to treat wounds was added to the list when she was no longer a child. She would, out of her own volition, pester her comrades to teach her their ways and thus received sporadic and rudimentary battle training and exercise. They mostly did it to humor her, not thinking that a woman was cut out for actually fighting. Besides, giving her a bruise or two with a dull-edged training sword always made for great taunting material when next they drank.
It wasn’t until her late teens, early twenties that she became more earnest in her training. When she did what they did, and began outdoing them, the others began to take notice. She ran laps around the entire camp until she collapsed. Pulled herself up tree branches until her arms were too worn out to lift a tankard. She watched her brothers train and imitated what they did, seeking to at least match if not outdo their routine. When she actually beat Hairy Gustaf in arm wrestling at twenty-one years of age, though drunk as he might have been, her brothers agreed to take her seriously and train her like they would if she’d been a man. Told her that she would not receive extra treatments, not for her sake and not for Armin’s. She agreed and a great toast was had all around camp.
For the next three to four years she was rigorously exercised in swordplay, archery, running in armor, spear throwing, the theory of operating siege engines and of course the fundamentals of battle strategy and warfare. Although she was told that she would not be receiving any special treatment, this was in fact a bit of a lie. Only, instead of going lightly on her, they instead decided to push her extra hard after they had seen that she was not struggling enough after a year – and she still wasn’t, or at least not enough to fall behind. As a result, in a little under half a decade she was able to handily match and defeat over half the camp in sparring, could run farther and longer than most on account of her lighter frame and had a kind of hardheaded determination that not even Armin had.
With twenty-six they took her on her first battle; a raid on an Aldebaran supply convoy headed to reinforce their latest land grab into some adjacent kingdom. The defenders were heavily laden with supplies, unprepared for battle and in a weak formation, marching in a column. By all rights it was an easy battle and the mercenaries, who had laid an ambush, crushed and routed the Aldebarans in no time. To the men, a great victory and a reason to celebrate, but Serilda felt different that evening. She shook all night, drank little and spoke even less. Sparring with some friendly banter was one thing, but looking a man in the eye as he bled out onto your blade, well, that was entirely another. They humored her for it, mocked her for getting scared by a bit of bloodshed, but she knew they had been no different when they had first killed a man. It was not only disgusting but also morally questionable to kill with so little hesitation. Her comrades, however, reminded her that the food she ate, the beer she drank and the clothes she wore were all paid for in blood. Life without regrets at the expense of others – that was the mercenary way, after all.
After this, she continued campaigning with them for a few years, eventually getting used to the bloodshed but never liking it. Part of her wondered if they had been right all along, that this was not a life cut out for a woman. It was also at this time that she realized that, in spite of approaching thirty years of age she was in fact still a virgin, had never experienced anything close to love. Life was passing her by quickly, and all the while she had pretended to be a man for all intents and purposes. It was a good life, but it was not for her in the end. On her thirtieth anniversary she announced her decision to leave the band and settle down, much to the disappointment of many. They respected her choice and supported it, but lamented that the camp would feel awfully empty without their special little flower around. The company leader, a lion of a man called Hagan, saw fit to see her leave with a hefty payment as a sign of farewell and her close friends among the soldiers also pitched in to see her off well to her new life. With a teary face she left camp that day, often looking back and wondering if she had made the right decision.
Shortly thereafter Serilda settled down in Varyon in one of the larger cities where few would bother asking where she’d come from. She met an old lady whose house, which was relatively spacious, was now awfully empty after her husband had died and the children all left their home. The lady was willing to rent some of the now derelict rooms to Serilda for practically a token payment, and so it was done. More than just live there, Serilda helped to keep the house in shape and repaired some of the more dilapidated parts that the old woman had no way of fixing on her own. She was surprised that a lass was so apt with a hammer and so strong, but never received a straight answer. Better if she did not know – Serilda could not know for sure that she or at least her company hadn’t gutted one of her boys sometime in the past. It was a good thing too that the old woman asked so little money from Serilda because she had difficulty finding a job; she was completely unfit for any of the work women did and not being considered for any of the work men did. The savings and goodbye gifts from the band would last her years as it was.
Two years later she met a tradesman from the northern mountains by pure chance, peddling his goods on the market square. He was a lad by the name of Justus, a handful of years her junior by the looks of him and even though she was only perusing his wares at the time she could not help but notice that he had been staring at her the entire time, even after she’d moved on. Later when she confronted him, he stumbled over his words, more than a little embarrassed, admitting that he had never seen a woman like her in all his life, and he’d seen many folks. It was true, there was no woman in town who was as tall or as muscular as her. As if he had not embarrassed himself enough already, he then asked her if she’d like to see him again later when the market stalls close up. It caught Serilda so off guard – she’d never been asked out before – that she simply laughed and blushed. Justus quickly apologized but, to his surprise, she agreed. That afternoon, waiting for the sun to lay low, she felt more nervous than she ever had facing a battlefield full of men who wanted to kill her. It was also the first of two times in her life that she had her hair dressed up as anything other than a wild, free flowing mess.
They spent the evening together, having fun and getting to know each other. Justus was the first person she’d opened up to and told of her past as a mercenary which would explain her unusual stature and demeanor. He actually knew the band by name too, saying that where he came from it was not unusual for men wander southwards to serve as mercenaries for a while, only to return years later and share tales of their glory. Justus told her of his home, the isolated hamlets of the Wounded Mountain, and Serilda told him of her days as a brother to the band of the Valiant Heart. They talked and laughed until the sun came up again, and he was significantly more drunk than her. He stayed for a few more days before business called on him to move on again and with a heavy heart he left town, promising to return on his way back to the mountains.
When he did, he found that Serilda had already packed her things and was ready to leave. After he wondered where to, she said she wanted to travel with him. There was nothing for her to do in this town either way, and a travelling merchant was bound to need some protection during these trying times. Her decision came as a shock to him but he was overjoyed to have some company on his journeys. Serilda left some of her savings with the old lady as thanks, making sure she would not succumb to poverty on her own and left town for good.
The next few years were the most peaceful and blissful Serilda’s ever known. When the two of them were not travelling in Varyon to sell goods from the mountain hamlets, they lived in the latter, in a particular village by the lakeside, surrounded by ancient pine woods. It was an idyllic and quiet place, only sometimes disturbed by rows between men or children, or in the worst case an animal going berserk and attacking a man. The people in particular were oddly welcoming of her; usually such villages were distrustful of outsiders, but the natives told her that these hamlets were founded by people like her, folk who’d come from outside and were looking for a quiet place to call home. Here in this village even more so than in the bustle of Varyon’s town where she lived before, Serilda realized that she had no idea how to talk to women her age. Their lives had been entirely different to hers, they shared almost no experiences. As a result she spent more time with the men with whom she chatted while helping them chop up lumber or smelting iron from the nearby mines. At least she did until she bore Justus a child: Nitsa, a lovely little girl.
Serilda didn’t want Nitsa to have the same kind of childhood that she had endured and so she spoiled the girl as well she could, asking the other local women to help her manage. Years went by and Nitsa turned into a playful little rascal who seemed to be taking after her mother in height. It filled Serilda with unprecedented pride that she had given life instead of taking it and she often teared up watching her daughter sleep.
During her time among the mountain folk she learned more about their customs and their faiths. In particular she observed a coming of age ritual among the men which they called the Hardening. Every spring, a handful of young men decided it was time to stop being children and become full adults by undergoing the Hardening, for which they make pilgrimage to the high temple far above in the mountains near the red glacier’s peak. There they spend a full year with the monks and the old sage who teach them ancient methods in training specific muscles in their body, in suppressing pain, in gaining harmony of body and soul. As their belief is that the god of iron dwells in the blood, the saying goes that “Men go to the sage filled with iron, but they return filled with steel”. The Hardening is amongst the primary reasons why mountainfolk warriors are so fierce combatants and make such fine mercenaries. As it turned out, Justus was one of the few who did not undergo the rite and was often looked down upon by men who did, though few wanted to get into trouble with Serilda and so only did it when she was not around. The perceived shame Justus bore grew even greater, however, when Serilda became the first – and only – woman to ever make pilgrimage to the temple. The monks were quite perturbed when a woman showed up and demanded to undergo the Hardening and refused at first, but the sage reminded them that the tradition was never decreed to be exclusive to men. He deemed her fit of body and mind and accepted her into their tutelage. A year went by and they turned a now forty year old Serilda into a woman whose veins coursed with liquid steel. As a gesture of respect and token of good luck, the sage handed Serilda a flask of undiluted mountain blood, warning her not to even consider touching without diluting it. If ever trouble should find her, she had only mix a few droplets into a tankard of water and drink it. The rest would follow.
One had only look southwards to see that trouble was indeed approaching. It was now 3 years after Dagon IV had become the monster he is today and although the mountains were thus far spared, tales of horror swept the land and merchants travelled out to Varyon no more. Everyone knew that their peace would not last forever, but where were they to go? The steppes beyond the mountains were fabled to be inhabited by bloodthirsty savages, the desert kingdoms known to be a place inhospitable to life and the kingdoms were doomed. It was a time of fear and worry. Men sharpened their swords and axes, women worried and clutched their babes. Serilda did both.
Years of anxiety gnawed at the people who watched Dagon devour one kingdom after the next, village by village. It wouldn’t be until two years after Serilda’s Hardening that Dagon’s soldiers would finally climb the mountain slopes and invade the old forests near the Wounded Mountain. The mountain men had ample time to prepare for this day and gave them hell; traps, ambushes, skirmishes, the once quiet woodland became a killing grounds where men killed another with abandon and hatred in their hearts. Yet their attempts did nothing but delay the inevitable. Too numerous, too inhuman were Aldebaran’s soldiers to be stopped by a few dozen angry men. By the time that the defense was broken, the soldiers were out of their minds with anger at the bloodbath they had to endure in that forest, but the villages – the villages would pay the price for their menfolk’s bravery.
The great pillage lasted for days, almost none of the villagers survived it, women and children included. By the time that the mountain sage had sacrificed his humanity to save what was left, it was far too late. The less said about these tragic events the better; suffice to say that Dagon’s monstrosities stole from Nitsa her childhood, joy and some teeth and from Serilda they stole a husband, the ability to feel mercy as well as an eye. After they had been routed by whatever it is that the sage has become, Serilda and her daughter spent five arduous years surviving in the wilds of the mountains, avoiding mutant beasts, starvation, disease and marauding men and monsters. Five long years of bitter survival and bitterer violence. The woman who once despised killing men and gave up a career of doing so now butchered gladly and gratuitously if these men were guilty of destroying her life. Nitsa barely recognized her mother, and she barely recognized her daughter. They held on to one another all the same, survivors of the end of their world.
It was at this point that the two women happened upon a chance encounter in the misty woods of the Godsfang Mountains: they met the Scarred King and his band of insurgent warriors. To say that Serilda had the capacity for trust would be a gross overstatement, but something about the King’s speech moved her. Her desire for change, for a chance to fight back in earnest and make a difference, mixed with a looming sense of nostalgia for her younger years when she saw a camp full of warriors with tight bonds convinced a now 47 year old Serilda to join his ranks. In truth she’s become too jaded to care for the world anymore; if she died in battle it would not faze her, but her daughter deserves better, deserves the life that was stolen from her. So to give her daughter the gift of a world worth living in, Serilda fights, fights until Dagon and every last bit of his filth has been cleansed from the face of the earth.
Equipment • Cleaving Sword The cleaving sword is a local oddity, used primarily by the tribes near the Wounded Mountain. Although it is technically a sword, it is used more like a halberd than anything else. The most unusual part of this weapon is its abnormally long handle which measures just about 70cm (27.5 inch) and is made of hard, heavy oak wood. The grip is wrapped in hemp rope to provide a better grasp. Affixed atop the long handle is a 90cm (35.5 inch) long, straight and 15cm (6 inch) wide blade with a single edge and which narrows down to a point at the tip. At the bottom of the blade, a rudimentary iron cross guard is in place. Typical use of this weapon involves chopping motions in an attempt to dismember opponents (very effective on horse legs), although the pointed tip allows the weapon to be used as a heavy spear as well.
• Hand Axe Intended as a tool, not a weapon, this hand axe has a length of 45cm (17.4 inch) and features a simple iron head while the handle is made from sturdy oak wood. Largely used to chop wood, but if it can split a log it can split a skull, can it not?
• Flint and Steel A chunk of flint stone and a small, irregular block of steel to start fires.
• Knife A small, iron knife not intended for combat.
• Whetstone A worn whetstone to keep all of her blades sharp.
• Oil Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.
• Rope About 9 meters (30 feet) of hemp rope.
• Blankets Four rolls of wool cloth that can be used as sleeping mats and blankets.
• Bandages A few old rolls of coarse linen cloth that can be used to treat wounds.
• Curative Salve A herbal salve with a strong, alcoholic smell contained in a small wooden jar.
• Blood of the Mountain A sealed iron flask containing about half a liter of undiluted blood from the Wounded Mountain’s glacier. Can be mixed into water in small quantities to create a sort of battle potion that increases aggression and lowers inhibitions, or be ingested pure… even if the consequences might be catastrophic.
Skills • Devour the Strength of thy Foe Most civilized folk would easily dismiss the old mountainfolk claim that blood and flesh is power, and thus eating it strengthens the self. But perhaps there is truth to the ramblings of the old folk, or perhaps it is a property unique to these people whose bodies and minds have been addled by generations of living near the infected waters of the Wounded Mountain. Wherever the truth might lurk, it cannot be denied that the mountain tribes can whip themselves into an unearthly battle rage if they gorge themselves on the taste and smell of fresh blood. If the legends are true, then they can even gain a portion of their prey’s strength by eating them.
• No Hatred is greater than Mine There can be no doubt that most free men and women hate Emperor Dagon IV with a passion, but there is a difference still between their unbridled hatred, and the violent turmoil that boils in Serilda’s heart. It has deadened her sense of mercy or compassion. Anyone and anything that she even suspects of being tainted by the emperor can expect to fight or flee for their life. While this makes her a ruthless and efficient killer in battle that leaves no loose ends, it can be a liability all the same. She makes no prisoners, does not differentiate between voluntary and forced servitude, absolutely does not negotiate and has no interest in liberating slaves or improving the state of the world.
Motivation Wants to kill Dagon and everyone related to him, willingly or unwillingly. She has no interest in liberating others, or improving their lives. She cares only for the total destruction of Dagon and his taint, wherever and in whomever it might be. Revenge is the likely motive.
As a minor motivation, she also hopes that Dagon’s death will cure her daughter of her trauma, though this is doubtful and she knows it.
Name Nitsa
Race Human
Appearance Taking after her mother, Nitsa is taller than the average fourteen year old girl and more akin to what a boy her age might be. In spite of this she appears very diminutive, instinctively sagging her shoulders and lowering her head to lower her profile. Her dreamy eyes also have the same color as her mother’s, but unlike her she keeps hers constantly cast downwards, regardless whether or not she is currently working on something in her lap. Almost nobody knows that behind her soft, pursed lips she is missing two teeth. She keeps her dark auburn hair at chin length, trimming it herself when necessary. Years of a life in the wilderness have not been kind to her, she is meager and dirty, but not altogether malnourished.
Her clothing is plain, a simple brown linen dress with dull white overlays that would be common in any peasant community in the lands. The most expensive thing on her might be her boots, which are of solid quality and keep her feet comfortable and warm even on daunting marches. She wears a self-made necklace from natural materials (sinew, wood, feather and bone) and a bracelet of similar make on her right wrist. A travelling bag is slung around her shoulder and rests comfortably at her side, containing some food and drink, a handful of personal affects (a doll from her childhood) and materials and tools necessary for knitting yarn and working with fabrics in general (knitting needles, scissors).
Personality Nitsa has closed herself off to the world; something unspeakable must have occurred to her in the unknown past and it defines her very being. Ever since that incident, she speaks no more. She’s not stupid, understands others perfectly well and communicates as well as possible without words, but simply refuses to talk. Often it’s not an issue because she is incredibly afraid of everything foreign, a disposition that makes her disinclined from conversing with others anyway. There are only two things she is not frightened by: her mother, and children below her own age. While her travels rarely take her to children, she has shown a real knack for getting along with them, speaking to them on a more primal level than mere words can convey. She could sit down and play with any child and gain its trust in a heartbeat. Perhaps this is because she herself has remained somewhat childlike in spite of her growing age, playing with a doll every now and again, sleeping in her mother’s embrace and seeking her approval on everything. A part of her wishes she could be this open towards adults too, but every time she sees one a knot forms in her stomach and she feels insurmountable dread and panic.
For the most part she keeps to herself, is shy and reserved and bothers no one. Similar to how her mother tries to forget through physical labor and exercise, Nitsa tries to forget through creating new and pretty things using cloth or impromptu jewelry. Often she can be found sitting by herself, knitting something of her own design or repairing a piece of clothing she or her mother wears. Deep down, there is a Nitsa who wants to be happy and live the life she was meant to have, but the shadow of dread has completely engulfed this version of her, hiding and muting it.
All right, here it is, my first draft. I uh, did not actually include a biography section for a variety of reasons. Here's why: Most of the relevant information that would have come out of it is already in this sheet in some form or another, either directly explained or at least implied. I didn't feel the need to bloat this sheet further with largely redundant or uninteresting details. Secondly, the things that *are* important and that aren't directly explained (such as the incident with Nitsa) are far more effective from a storytelling perspective if left unexplained, so again writing it out would just diminish the quality of the character. So all in all, unless you really want me to do it, in which case I will, I'd prefer to leave it out.
The only detail that would have been addressed in the story, that needs to be addressed, and has thus far not been treated in the sheet is how my duo of characters came to join the Scarred King's ranks. As far as that is concerned, I don't know, I'll leave it vague for now. I don't know much about the King in the first place, or his rebellion, or the company he keeps. Considering their location and my character's origin it can always be conveniently explained that they simply met by chance and saw mutual benefit in working together.
So, well, there you go. Hope you like it.
Edit: Oh right, I almost forgot:
-Inspired by Tolkien, Warhammer fantasy and 40K, Lovecraft, Morrowind, Song of Ice and Fire...looking forward to seeing what others bring to the table.
Berserk. I bring Berserk to the table. My character is Berserk.
Edit 2: After mulling over it a bit, maybe I'll add the story after all since I have more to tell now. Point stands that it's technically redundant, but it might make for a nice read, round the character off. Will see about it tomorrow. No promises though.
Name Serilda
Race Human (Mostly)
Nationality/Nation Description The Highland Clans of the Wounded Mountain
The northern part of the Godsfang Mountains surrounding Varyon is home to a particular peak named the Wounded Mountain. Its name is derived from the majestic glacier that extends down its frosty slopes, which assumes a deep red coloration near the top that narrows down into trickling streams or veins of red inside the ice until finally petering out to indistinguishable fibers. Seen from afar, it would appear that the mountain carries a mortal wound, perpetually bleeding. The glacier and mountainside feed into a lower plateau where the air is cool and game is rich in the dark pine forests dominating the zone. In its center is a sizeable, cold lake with fresh mountain water whose taste carries a hint of iron.
The region is large enough to provide ample living space for multiple little hamlets that have sprung up around the lake and elsewhere underneath the protective boughs of the ancient pine woods. Often referred to as clans, the villages are mostly just isolationist communities who chose a life away from the hustle and bustle of the southern kingdoms. That said they did not completely break contact when they built their settlements, and frequently send trade caravans down the mountain to barter for products they have difficulty producing themselves and supplying high quality lumber, iron, steel and artisanal goods in return.
The mountainfolk gradually adopted a new religion centered on the Iron God, a nameless, formless deity that apparently dwells in any and all iron – including that in the blood. To outsiders it would seem that this faith is the result of minds addled by decades of consumption of their strange tasting water which, judging by the glacier’s appearance cannot be healthy. And perhaps these outsiders have a point, but no missionaries who tried showing them the path to another religion were ever truly successful in toppling their beliefs. Although the Iron God does not truly have a church or a clerical organization, there is an old temple high atop the icy mountain, near the glacier’s origin, where a handful of ascetic monks and the sage – their leader – live in isolation from even the isolated hamlets. Generally seen as aloof by almost everyone, their council and their blessings are often sought by mountainfolk who would ask for mediators in difficult disputes, blessings for their children or fortune in battle. Rumor has it that the monks know a secret path that leads inside the glacier’s heart, to where the mountain’s blood flows free and undiluted, yet none could confirm that rumor to this day, nor has anyone ever found out where exactly this “blood” comes from. Some take the name quite literally and assume that the mountain is alive and sentient, and indeed has a wound from which blood flows as from any man’s wound. Others assume that it is not the mountain proper but something inside of it. Something old and nameless that is trapped or buried underneath the glacier and keeps bleeding into it.
When God Emperor Dagon IV rose to power and crushed the adjacent kingdoms, it was only a matter of time until his inhuman legions would climb the Godsfang Mountains and invade the plateau surrounding the Wounded Mountain. And so they did, leaving naught but misery, smoke and ashes in their wake. Survivors tell of a particular village by the lakeside that took the brunt of the assault and which was pillaged and raped over a matter of multiple days. So great was their misery that the sage in the mountain temple could watch no more and did the inconceivable: he drank the mountain’s blood, greedily, until his body could take no more. The rest is highly speculative and highly exaggerated, but as the tale goes, the entire plateau echoed with the alien screams that boomed down from the frozen peak of the Wounded Mountain, as if some antediluvian demon had been roused from its slumber. A formless monster composed of rage and blood descended upon the lakeside, obliterating any of the invaders that stood in its way and routing the rest into the woods where it followed them and murdered them one by one. Those who claim they had seen the beast can no longer be considered sane of mind, their account made dubious, but it is true that the great sage no longer dwells among the monks, and they speak no more of what happened on that day.
Occupation Vagrant Warrior
Religion The Iron God
Belief in the nameless Iron God is restricted mostly to the small northern region around what is known as the Wounded Mountain. According to the lore, the god is not only nameless but also faceless; he is in everything that is iron, most obviously the ore found in the earth and mountains, but also in the blood. That there is power in iron ore and thus weapons is uncontested (who would argue, after all, that might does not make right?) but believers hold that by drinking blood and/or eating the raw flesh of things, they can acquire part of that being’s power, while others say one simply gains the Iron God’s favor. Either way, the ritual eating of their enemies is widely spread among the mountain folk in this region, a practice that used to be considered barbaric by the more civilized kingdoms to the south in the old days. Eat your enemy and you eat his strength, so the saying goes.
Appearance Ask a hundred men to picture a woman, and you will hear a hundred different descriptions – but none will fit Serilda. She is tall, almost uncannily so, easily standing shoulder to shoulder with most men. Her face a perpetual grimace veering between pained anger and a disapproving frown. Even a stranger will recognize that no smile has graced her colorless lips in what must be years. Where her left eye should be there is only a dirtied, brown bandage from underneath which a trail of old, caked blood paints her unwashed cheek, past the puckered mouth and down to the chin. The remaining eye, encircled by a dark tone and amber in color, stares cautiously, perhaps disdainfully from one corner to the other, always watching for danger, for something to kill. Her head is crowned by a wild mane of unkempt black hair whose tips end just above her chest.
A coarse, dark gray linen hood covers her head and hair at most times to shelter her from the weather and shelter others from the displeasure of seeing her more clearly. The hood itself is part of a wide cape, embellished by a simple coiling pattern of black lines, which is slung around her shoulders, concealing a large part of the armor that she wears underneath. A harness made of hard boiled leather protects the chest and abdomen, while plate gauntlets protect her hands, forearm and elbow and additional plates which form part of her well-worn boots cover her kneecaps and shins. The rest of her arms and legs are clothed in simple, faded hemp fabric that looks to have stiffened with layers upon layers of dried sweat and blood. A simple necklace produced from animal sinew, pieces of bone and wood hangs around her neck. Various utility pouches and bags are fastened to her belt containing a variety of necessities like compact food, bandages, rope, a whetstone and more. When travelling from place to place, she additionally carries a decently sized knapsack on her back and underneath the cape, bearing supplies for herself and her companion for the journey.
Personality In a world of monsters, only a monster can thrive.
At a glance, Serilda is cold, gloomy and full of bitterness. Although her demeanor can be offputting, she is not one to reject the company of others if they appear trustworthy. She may not reveal much about herself or her companion, but is willing to at least be a good listener to anyone who shares her manic hatred for Emperor Dagon and his fiends. Catch her on a good day and give her a strong drink and maybe she is willing to tell a story or two. For the most part, however, it appears Serilda is too absorbed in her own sorrows to care much for life – except, of course, towards the one person in the world she cares about, more so than for herself.
Nitsa, her fourteen year old daughter, is the only reason Serilda has not yet thrown away her life by doing a death march to Kuranes. To those who merely know Serilda as a stone cold butcher of all that is evil, it comes as nigh a shock to see her being warm, tender and caring when interacting with her child. In truth, the lass is the source of her every emotion. She is the reason she can feel warmth and happiness, and she is the reason for her constant depression. An unknown amount of years prior, Nitsa bore witness and possibly became subject to such heinous events that they have traumatized her. Ever since, she’s not spoken a single word and is deathly afraid of everything besides her own mother. Serilda fears that her daughter may never recover, may never speak or laugh or love in her young life. That fate would spare her child only to cast it down with madness is the true reason why Serilda has given up on her humanity and decided to become just another monster in a world of monsters.
Understandably, her outlook in life is bleak – she is pessimistic, distrustful, hopeless and if there is any humor left in her it is of a deeply cynical sort. That said her sober view of the world has made her very conscientious. She’s honest, having nothing worth lying for. She’s industrious and pragmatic, seemingly channeling her frustration into physical labor and exercise. When she’s not training her skills or her body, or caring after her daughter, she is most likely doing work of some other kind like chopping fire wood, maintaining equipment or preparing food. Although she is brave to the point of recklessness, she has also become extremely stubborn and set in her ways. The only one who could conceivably talk her out of a given course of action would be Nitsa, and she speaks no more. Fortunately, at least, she still values living more than dying a hero’s death, if just to continue protecting her fragile child.
Secretly she harbors the dubious hope that Dagon’s death by her hand will cure Nitsa of her mental ailment.
**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**
Equipment • Cleaving Sword The cleaving sword is a local oddity, used primarily by the tribes near the Wounded Mountain. Although it is technically a sword, it is used more like a halberd than anything else. The most unusual part of this weapon is its abnormally long handle which measures just about 70cm (27.5 inch) and is made of hard, heavy oak wood. The grip is wrapped in hemp rope to provide a better grasp. Affixed atop the long handle is a 90cm (35.5 inch) long, straight and 15cm (6 inch) wide blade with a single edge and which narrows down to a point at the tip. At the bottom of the blade, a rudimentary iron cross guard is in place. Typical use of this weapon involves chopping motions in an attempt to dismember opponents (very effective on horse legs), although the pointed tip allows the weapon to be used as a heavy spear as well.
• Hand Axe Intended as a tool, not a weapon, this hand axe has a length of 45cm (17.4 inch) and features a simple iron head while the handle is made from sturdy oak wood. Largely used to chop wood, but if it can split a log it can split a skull, can it not?
• Flint and Steel A chunk of flint stone and a small, irregular block of steel to start fires.
• Knife A small, iron knife not intended for combat.
• Whetstone A worn whetstone to keep all of her blades sharp.
• Oil Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.
• Rope About 9 meters (30 feet) of hemp rope.
• Blankets Four rolls of wool cloth that can be used as sleeping mats and blankets.
• Bandages A few old rolls of coarse linen cloth that can be used to treat wounds.
• Curative Salve A herbal salve with a strong, alcoholic smell contained in a small wooden jar.
• Blood of the Mountain A sealed iron flask containing about half a liter of undiluted blood from the Wounded Mountain’s glacier. Can be mixed into water in small quantities to create a sort of battle potion that increases aggression and lowers inhibitions, or be ingested pure… even if the consequences might be catastrophic.
Skills • Devour the Strength of thy Foe Most civilized folk would easily dismiss the old mountainfolk claim that blood and flesh is power, and thus eating it strengthens the self. But perhaps there is truth to the ramblings of the old folk, or perhaps it is a property unique to these people whose bodies and minds have been addled by generations of living near the infected waters of the Wounded Mountain. Wherever the truth might lurk, it cannot be denied that the mountain tribes can whip themselves into an unearthly battle rage if they gorge themselves on the taste and smell of fresh blood. If the legends are true, then they can even gain a portion of their prey’s strength by eating them.
• No Hatred is greater than Mine There can be no doubt that most free men and women hate Emperor Dagon IV with a passion, but there is a difference still between their unbridled hatred, and the violent turmoil that boils in Serilda’s heart. It has deadened her sense of mercy or compassion. Anyone and anything that she even suspects of being tainted by the emperor can expect to fight or flee for their life. While this makes her a ruthless and efficient killer in battle that leaves no loose ends, it can be a liability all the same. She makes no prisoners, does not differentiate between voluntary and forced servitude, absolutely does not negotiate and has no interest in liberating slaves or improving the state of the world.
Motivation Wants to kill Dagon and everyone related to him, willingly or unwillingly. She has no interest in liberating others, or improving their lives. She cares only for the total destruction of Dagon and his taint, wherever and in whomever it might be. Revenge is the likely motive.
As a minor motivation, she also hopes that Dagon’s death will cure her daughter of her trauma, though this is doubtful and she knows it.
Name Nitsa
Race Human
Appearance Taking after her mother, Nitsa is taller than the average fourteen year old girl and more akin to what a boy her age might be. In spite of this she appears very diminutive, instinctively sagging her shoulders and lowering her head to lower her profile. Her dreamy eyes also have the same color as her mother’s, but unlike her she keeps hers constantly cast downwards, regardless whether or not she is currently working on something in her lap. Almost nobody knows that behind her soft, pursed lips she is missing two teeth. She keeps her dark auburn hair at chin length, trimming it herself when necessary. Years of a life in the wilderness have not been kind to her, she is meager and dirty, but not altogether malnourished.
Her clothing is plain, a simple brown linen dress with dull white overlays that would be common in any peasant community in the lands. The most expensive thing on her might be her boots, which are of solid quality and keep her feet comfortable and warm even on daunting marches. She wears a self-made necklace from natural materials (sinew, wood, feather and bone) and a bracelet of similar make on her right wrist. A travelling bag is slung around her shoulder and rests comfortably at her side, containing some food and drink, a handful of personal affects (a doll from her childhood) and materials and tools necessary for knitting yarn and working with fabrics in general (knitting needles, scissors).
Personality Nitsa has closed herself off to the world; something unspeakable must have occurred to her in the unknown past and it defines her very being. Ever since that incident, she speaks no more. She’s not stupid, understands others perfectly well and communicates as well as possible without words, but simply refuses to talk. Often it’s not an issue because she is incredibly afraid of everything foreign, a disposition that makes her disinclined from conversing with others anyway. There are only two things she is not frightened by: her mother, and children below her own age. While her travels rarely take her to children, she has shown a real knack for getting along with them, speaking to them on a more primal level than mere words can convey. She could sit down and play with any child and gain its trust in a heartbeat. Perhaps this is because she herself has remained somewhat childlike in spite of her growing age, playing with a doll every now and again, sleeping in her mother’s embrace and seeking her approval on everything. A part of her wishes she could be this open towards adults too, but every time she sees one a knot forms in her stomach and she feels insurmountable dread and panic.
For the most part she keeps to herself, is shy and reserved and bothers no one. Similar to how her mother tries to forget through physical labor and exercise, Nitsa tries to forget through creating new and pretty things using cloth or impromptu jewelry. Often she can be found sitting by herself, knitting something of her own design or repairing a piece of clothing she or her mother wears. Deep down, there is a Nitsa who wants to be happy and live the life she was meant to have, but the shadow of dread has completely engulfed this version of her, hiding and muting it.
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