My concept so far (based mostly on a vampire mafia):
Camilla is a vampire and former associate of the shadowy Insert Vampire Mafia Name Here.
Embraced little more than a decade ago, Camilla is young for a vampire, but she has adapted quickly to life as a creature of the night. A criminal in her life and unlife, Camilla would still have quite the rap sheet, had her sire not greased the right palms soon after her embrace. Years of intimidation, violence, and crime saw Camilla rise from street corner rat to bonafide enforcer before she ran afoul of her sire.
Branded a traitor and cast out into the cold, Camilla is desperately trying to survive in a hostile city without the protection of her sire or coven. The young vampire knows all to well that it is only a matter of time before old enemies find her and take advantage of her precarious position.
TL;DR: Police Woman turned Vampire Mobster
As it's Friday though, not sure I'll get much done tonight (must dance, drink, and be merry).
"Hey!" Sophia shouted, cursing loudly as she brought her horse into a cantor. With a loud shout, she pushed her legs against the powerful frame of her spotted horse, holding on for dear life as the Appaloosa horse exploded into a gallop. In the time since she headed out West she had learned to ride, she'd had not other choice, but if truth be told, she was much more comfortable riding in a wagon.
Her predecessor, Francois Dumont, and his untimely death in a tragic wagon accident some months before her arrival to Ulysses had convinced her to favor riding atop a saddle. The ornate and far more comfortable carriage that she had inherited with her funeral home remained safely secured in the small barn she rented. At least when she wasn't acting in her capacity as an undertaker, ferrying caskets in style to the graveyard.
The young necromancer coughed from the cloud of dust that Samuel had left in his wake, her eyes were full of water, and she could have sworn her teeth were rattling against her skull as the hooves of her horse thundered against the uneven dirt road, a most generous classification in her humble opinion, that lead to the Jefferson Farmstead.
"Foolish girl!" Balthazar shouted. "You are going to get us both killed!"
"Probably," Sophia shot back voicelessly, desperately holding onto the reins of her horse. She had gained on Samuel, and had she the inclination she might have almost been able to touch him. But he had cheated. He had started the race with an advantage, and she no longer held any hope of winning. Sophia smiled, it was a dishonest, and brilliant tactic all at once. She'd have to watch Samuel even closer in the future. He was smarter than he'd seemed.
Lost in trying to keep up with the Samuel and more importantly trying not to fall off her own horse, Sophia paid no attention to the distance they crossed nor the time that passed. Instead, in what felt like a series of increasingly tired breaths, she found herself approaching the Jefferson Farmstead a horse length or two behind Samuel.
Reigning in her horse, Sophia offered an exasperated exclamation in Samuel's direction, "Was it really necessary to ride so damn fast?"
Cold Hands sat with her back against the parapet of the great tower. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts were still, and her soul was alive. She did not feel the cold bite of the wind that swept over her. It was freezing she knew, but instead it felt like a warm, gentle caress, a welcoming reminder that she was home. She had left her companions, a party of roguish adventurers behind in the Jewel of the South. Cold Hands had felt a stirring, a desperate longing to return to the monastery, and she knew well-enough to listen to such guidance. After months on the road, the familiar snow-capped mountains were a welcome respite. At least for a moment...
"Cold Hands," Brother Elgot loudly ordered, stirring the young acolyte from her gentle thoughts. Hunched over the ancient spyglass affixed to the parapet, he was wrapped in several thick robes. His one good eye staring through the skillfully polished glass.
"Yes, Brother?"
"Are we awaiting any pilgrims?"
"Not to my knowledge, Brother."
"Well then...why is there a robed figure trudging up the mountain?"
"I don not know, Brother," Cold Hands replied, eying the Elgot with a single open eye.
"Of course. Those symbols, those gaudy colors. That misplaced sense of pride and disgusting arrogance. And that terrible choice in robes. It's the Grand Observatory of Ithell," the older monk hissed, slapping a gloved hand angrily against the stone.
Cold Hands forced herself to smile in response. Unlike a great many of her fellow acolytes, she did not bear any strong feelings towards the astronomers of the distant tower. There were many paths that led to enlightenment and Cold Hands had always been facilitated by the theories that the stargazers produced. She hoped to one day visit the Grand Observatory of Ithell. Within the great library of the observatory were a number of rare books that she wanted to read. Wonderful tomes of theological knowledge that she was unable to find within the walls of Atan.
Rising fluidly to her feet, Cold Hands bowed politely to the older monk. "Rest easy, Brother. I will go greet the traveler. They must be weary after such a long climb through the snow."
"No, Cold Hands, wait! Come back! Don't let them in—" Brother Elgot shouted.
Cold Hands pretended not to hear him over the rising howl of the wind. All visitors were welcome, all seekers were invited, and provided the price required for true knowledge was paid, Cold Hands saw no reason to deviate from respected tradition.
"Woah," Sal exclaimed as she stepped into the summoning room. The cigarette she held lazily in her lips tumbled downwards, scattering ash and dying embers on the floor. She heard Fei and then Ahuna speak, but she wasn't listening, not anymore, not really. The young wizard wasn't sure what the others saw, if they saw anything she was sure she didn't want to know. Sal saw patterns. Heavy, jarring, and terrible patterns that made her feel like a knife had just been driven through her skull. An algorithm of damnation that she could only partially comprehend. Not that she wanted to. Usually, evil was a nebulous term. A philosophical idea or a subjective belief more than a reality. But the magic the now dead witch had woven into the ether was wrong. It was broken magic. Forbidden magic. Magic tinged with the delicate touch of entities that had no business communicating with the residents of the material plane. It was madness. And Sal knew, with an alarming certainty it was evil.
"Fuck me," Sal muttered, fishing another cigarette out of her pocket. Leaning against a wall, Sal gazed with wide eyes past the walls of the small house. She wondered if it was too late too late to quit. She wasn't really the "save the world" type of girl. Not for what Bain and Hoyle were paying her, generous as it was. And not when it meant possibly encountering the sort of creatures that responded to summoning rituals that involved dead magicians.
Sal had just prepared the teleportation spell when her eyes darted over the symbol that was scorched into the wood. Sal's eyes widened, but she did not feel fear. Instead, she felt a sense of curiosity that worried her even more. The symbol was evil, very evil. And yet. It was a work of art. To pierce the veil so cleverly and skillfully, required real talent. And power, so much knowledge. Sal shuddered. She was in over hear head. She felt sick. She felt afraid.
Swearing quietly Sal pushed off against the wall. Breathing in a welcome cloud of smoke Sal's growing apprehension faded as Fei's words finally caught up to her.
"On it," Sal replied. She brought out a heavy piece of tracing paper neatly folded into a thick square and a small stub of a graphite pencil marked softly by her teeth. Stepping further into the room, she bent low and ran a finger over what remained of the summoning pentagram. Lines of scorched wood, probably tallow, the rendered fat had fueled arms of fire. She hoped it wasn't human. Placing the tracing paper against the symbol, Sal began to slowly and carefully began to copy what remained of the arcane symbol.
Laughing nervously, Sal spoke aloud to Fei and anyone else within earshot, "You know, it's rare to find rituals that require human sacrifice any more—" Sal stopped and pointed towards one of the symbols visible beneath the paper. "This is old, very old, and it's not human. Now, I know what you're thinking of course it's not human. But it's not that, that name was never meant for a human tongue or a human hand. No wizard or witch writes like that. You wouldn't. You shouldn't...You couldn't..."
With a low sigh of frustration, Sal fished another cigarette out of the crumpled packet that she kept in the back pocket of her jeans. She wasn't sure about Nestor, having just met him, but Sal was sure, very fucking sure, that whatever icy demon he carried with him was trouble. Hell, she'd almost managed to start a fight, and if the bobblings appreciated anything it was a good fight. Lead by Gir the Mighty, the miniature monsters had settled into a simple formation that resembled a wedge, and were doing their best to menacingly eye the company employees, chief among them Nestor. Puffing up a small irritated cloud of smoke, she nodded in the direction of bobbling creatures and gestured towards the front door.
"Oi, bobblings. How's about you point your weapons in a useful direction. I told you on the way here, company employees are our colleagues. Colleagues? Allies, friends, whatever, you get the idea. As I was saying, we don't stab our colleagues, unless they are really asking for it. Savvy? Good, now go keep a lookout. You know, setup a perimeter or something. What? Yes, watch for people or spooky things. Yes, exactly, like that entity Eir just tried to stab. There shouldn't be anyone else arriving, this is practically the sticks. What! No! I said watch, not kill. If you see something you tell us!"
Watching the bobbling creatures fade out the door, Sal ran a hand wearily though her hair. Her small army was proving to be more trouble than she'd expected. And worse still, they'd already polished off all of her whiskey. Turning towards Atticus, Sal grimaced apologetically, "Sorry about that, boss, I figure it wouldn't hurt to have some backup, and the bobblings, well, they come pretty cheap."
Idly kicking her suitcase shut, Sal sauntered further into the house with the still burning cigarette lazily held between her lips,"I'll take a look at the room where the late Miss Trune, summoned whatever it was she summoned. There are only so many ways you can conjure something powerful enough to leave behind this bad of an aftertaste. Feel free to join me if you fancy hearing an expert opinion on summoning spells gone wrong."
Samsies, I am finally seeing the end of this sickness, so should be back to writing at a normal pace soonish.
Sorry for the lack of length, but I wanted to get something on paper before my consumption hit me again. I didn't want to push things too far and have Sal do all the investigating on the symbol on her own, so if anyone else is keen to play a game of occult pictionary, then feel free to have your character join her (or not, and I'll just be sad).
Posted the following post PM approval from GM (although knowing myself I'll probably do some stylistic editing after a nap).
Cold Hands
"Ah, yes, Sister Cold Hands. Her faith is surpassed only by her martial skill. Mark my words, friend, she will go far, very far. If only she learns when to walk away from trouble. But such is the foolishness of youth, is it not?" — Brother Alvar the Gray.
Name
Cold Hands
Titles
Sister of Order of the Frozen Heart
Age
25
Race
Human
Appearance
Unremarkable in stature, Cold Hands is far from imposing. She has short white hair, the color of fresh bone, that almost never falls past her shoulders. Her skin is painted a shade of ivory, and bears the scars and marks, both large and small, of a martial profession. She has thoughtful eyes of blue so pale that they border on white, and thin lips that rest in a soft smile. Years of rigorous physical training and time spent as a wandering nun have afforded the young woman a lithe, athletic build. Cold Hands moves gracefully and effortlessly, somehow managing to exude an air of determined serenity no matter where she goes.
Training
Cloistered Upbringing - Taken in by Order of the Frozen Heart in her early childhood, Cold Hands has been steeped in the mysticism and religious ritual of her order for as long as she can remember. She has benefited from a monastic education and is literate in a number of languages, both common and obscure. She is knowledgeable about the history of the lands as written by the great masters and is familiar with the treatises of learned scholars. More importantly, the religious texts of the Order of the Frozen Heart are as familiar to her as her own heart, and she can accurately recite entire manuscripts from memory alone.
Eighteen Frost Dragon Subduing Palms - Cold Hands is a master of unarmed combat. She has mastered all seventeen legendary fighting styles of her order, combining them into an eighteenth hitherto lost style, that is uniquely her own. She is comfortable at all ranges of combat, cheerfully fighting foes armed, armored, and unarmed with little difficulty. In battle, Cold Hands wastes no time or movement, favoring direct and brutally efficient techniques.
Purity of Body and Soul - Through her rigorous training and study of the martial arts Cold Hands has strengthened and purified her body. She has become highly resistant to the many diseases and toxins that may assail the body of the true believer. Her movements are graceful and effortless, her strikes hit with explosive force, and she has transcended the mundane limitations of humanity.
Still Mind - Years of daily mediation and quiet contemplation have allowed Cold Hands to develop a mental stillness and focus that borders on the supernatural. She has carefully cultivated her willpower, forging it into a shield of cold iron. Attempts to affect her mind, meet only quiet, but unwavering resistance.
Blind Fight - Cold Hands has trained herself not to rely solely on her eyes, as the eyes can easily be deceived. Instead, she has focused on cultivating all her senses, and she possesses an uncanny sense of perception even in the thick of combat.
Frozen Heart - In order to come closer to true enlightenment, Cold Hands has sacrificed a core part of her humanity. Following the teaching of her order, she has frozen her heart and silenced her emotions through ancient religious ritual and powerful arcane magic. As a result, Cold Hands can no longer feels any emotion.
Equipment
Monastic Robe - Cold Hands wear a simple robe with a hood that is dyed a light shade of blue. The symbol of her order, although faded, is visible on the back of the robe.
Traveler's Clothes - Beneath her robe Cold Hands wears loose wool breeches, a form-fitting shirt, a sturdy leather belt, and a light jacket. She favors soft boots that allow acrobatics and specific movements of her feet.
Survivalist Pack - Slung on her back, Cold Hands carries a leather traveling pack that contains the preserved supplies, tools, and various items necessary for traversing the wilds.
Spell skills
Ice Magic - Cold Hands is a skilled practitioner of elemental magic centered on the element of ice. She can imbue her fists with arcane energy, stunning, freezing, and dealing additional damage to anything she strikes. Having spent years practicing, she is also capable of hurling spikes of ice at her foes, creating walls of frost, cloaking herself in snow, shaping ice into layers of night impenetrable armor, and if given enough time, she can summon deadly blizzards. Perhaps, as a result of her mastery of ice magic, Cold Hands appears impervious to the effects of extreme cold, and wears only a minimal amount of clothing in even the worst of weather.
Other skills
Acrobatics - Although, not performers in the classical sense, members of the martial orders often entertain travelers with seemingly inhuman feats of physical dexterity and strength. Cold Hands is no exception and has often performed to supplement the usually meager funds accorded to her by her order. She is capable of jumping to great heights and distances and falling from heights that would be fatal to other humans.
Survival - Unlike most other religious acolytes that spend their days in the safety of the monastery, all members of the Order of the Frozen Heart are expected to be able to survive and even thrive in the frozen wasteland of the far North.
Experienced Traveler - Cold Hands has spent much of her adult life traveling across the realms of Telduria in the service of her order and is a capable traveler.
Healing - While she is no expert healer, like many religious acolytes Cold Hands has been instructed in the art of healing. She can set bones, treat wounds, and is knowledgeable regarding the creation and use of a number of herbs and poultice.
Affiliation
Cold Hands is a member of the Order of the Frozen Heart, an offshoot of the Order of the Radiant Sun that still maintains cordial, if strained relations, with the original order.
Personality
Warm and pleasant in her demeanor, Cold Hands exudes an air of calm and serenity. Guided by her faith, she believes in helping those in need, no matter the cost to herself. She is brave, but not foolish, and maintains a supernatural control of her emotions. In truth, as part of her path towards enlightenment, Cold Hands has suppressed her emotions through complex ritual and arcane means. While she possesses memories and understanding of what it means to feel, the young nun is no longer able to experience any emotions. Unburdened by her emotions, Cold Hands is nonetheless still keenly aware of what is right and wrong.
Surprisingly worldly for a nun, Cold Hands is as comfortable drinking in a rowdy tavern as she is meditating in a quiet monastery. She is fond of people, stories, and great adventures that permit her to travel across Telduria.
History
Concept: Cold Hands is a member of the Order of the Frozen Heart, she is a pilgrim traveling the lands in recognition of her faith, and a master of unarmed combat.
Cold Hands had traveled with the party of guild adventurers for the better part of a month, and as the autumn sun faded, she found herself resting on a bench in a quiet tavern, her back resting comfortably against the cloth covered wall, a mug of ale clasped between her hands, and the imposing walls of Tarantis less than a fortnight away.
"What about you, Cold Hands, why not tell us a bit about yourself? You know as much as there is to know about the rest of us," The leader of the party, a minor hedge knight from Kron-Nesis suggested with a friendly and honest smile as he drained most of his tankard of ale.
"Happily," Cold Hands agreed. "Where would you like me to begin?"
"Why do they call you, Cold Hands?" the elf ranger of the party teased.
Cold Hands smiled and moved closer to the young elf. With a playful nod, she softly brushed the side of elf's face, admiring the beauty of the woman. "My hands have always been very cold."
The elf's mouth opened with shock, before settling into a familiar impish grin. "Your hands are absolutely freezing."
"Yes," Cold Hands smirked.
"Is that really your name though, Cold Hands? Surely you must have a proper name?" The hedge knight inquired mid-drink.
"Names are power. A friend, Aumak taught me that once," Cold Hands replied with a heavy pause. Memories she thought that she had long since banished returned to her. But she welcomed them nonetheless. She no longer felt the feelings that she had once felt, and the memories no longer hurt her. Out of habit, she forced a smile to cross her lips. "I just prefer to just be known as Cold Hands. It's as good of name as any."
"Of course, it's a fine name, a fine name for a capable warrior," the half-orc fighter from the Fang Lands intoned jovially, slapping Cold Hands good-naturedly on a shoulder. "You said once that you'd joined the monastery at a young age, right?"
"Mmm, yes. I have been a servant of the Radiant Sun for as long as I can remember. My parents gave me to the order before I could even walk, much less speak."
"They gave you away?" Her companions burst out almost in unison. The elven ranger managed to almost choke on the sweet wine she drank and the half-orc looked personally offended on her account.
Cold Hands laughed, it seemed proper, "You misunderstand. In the lands of the North it is a great honor to give your child to the faith. And it is a great kindness for the monastery to take in a child. There is a heavy price for raising anything, much less a child, in the land of ice."
"So, you grew up in a monastery, then?"
"Yes, I was raised by the brothers and sisters of the Order of the Frozen Heart. It was a wonderful life. Not an easy life of course, but a good one. A simple life, a life of learning and faith. I spent my days with the other neophytes, children mostly, first learning the simplest rituals of my order, then how to read and write, and finally studying the ancient texts housed in our monastery. From our elders, we learned how to meditate, how to center ourselves, how to find peace. To master yourself, is to master the world as the Abbotess always said."
Cold Hands leaned in closer to the table, lowering her voice as if whispering a secret,"Although, I must confess, I enjoyed our physical lessons the most. Training with the warrior acolytes of the order was always my favorite part of the day. They were strict, unforgiving teachers, but it made us all the better, it made us strong. They taught us the many ways of armed and unarmed combat, how to fight, how to protect, and how to survive."
"Wait, they taught you and the other acolytes to fight?"
"Of course, attaining enlightenment requires not the betterment of not just the soul and mind, but the body as well."
"But fighting?"
"My order has always maintained a robust view of the duties of an acolyte. All members of the order are expected to be able defend themselves and those in need. The frozen wastelands does not ignore weakness based on the depth of faith or innocence, the land is harsh and unforgiving," Cold Hands offered with a shrug. She took a slow sip from her tankard of ale, a faraway look on her face. "I remember in my twelfth year our teachers sent us out into the the wild for several weeks with only a small knife and a couple of days worth of supplies. They had taught us well though, and only a few of us perished."
An awkward silence followed, and the adventurers exchanged quick glances that Cold Hands magnanimously chose to ignore. She did not expect those who had not faced the endless cold of a winter night to understand.
"So, those movements that you do every morning and evening? The twirly stuff...They're fighting techniques?" The dwarven barbarian of the group finally interjected, doubt clear in his deep voice.
"In a way, they are, yes," Cold Hands replied with a fond smile. "They were among the first forms I learned."
"Ah well, you can fight, I will give you that, Miss, but I don't put much stock in your fancy dancing," the dwarf huffed. "How did ye come to be an adventurer then? You're the first woman of the cloth I've ever met outside of a temple, not that I've met many robed ladies, of course.
"My order is a bit different from most," Cold Hands answered knowingly. "Like all acolytes of my order, when I came of age, I ventured forth into the world. Seeking to learn, to teach, and to do good. And I have continued my journey ever since. It has been a most interesting experience—"
"That's not all though, is it?" the elven ranger interrupted with a wry smile and a tone of conspiracy. "I've heard you asking questions in every city, town, or even outpost we've stopped at. Always the same name."
Cold Hands nodded, she did not make a practice of denying the truth if it could be helped, dishonesty was an unbecoming of a true believer, "It is true, I have a personal reason to travel as well. I am looking for the great wizard Aumak. We grew up together and he is dear to my heart. Our paths diverged some years ago, and I would like to speak with him again."
"When did you last see him?"
"Five years ago, and then nothing, until I heard rumors that he had passed through the great gate of Tarantis less than a year ago."
"Aha, so thats why you joined our party?"
"Partly," Cold Hands answered truthfully. "But you seemed like the right sort of people, perhaps a bit rough around the edges...but good people nonetheless." Laughter followed, and Cold Hands drained the remainder of her ale with a broad smile.
"What's that? The Order of the Frozen Heart. Aye, of course I know of them, boy," the one-eyed hunter replied. "Crazy bunch of fellows in robes. No, not wizards, they ain't wizards, they're more like priests. Stark raving mad, the whole lot of them. Why else would they build a castle on a cursed mountain? Building a castle on any mountain is bad enough. But a cursed mountain, well, that's just asking for trouble, isn't it?"
"So you've met them?" The youth asked.
"Have I met them? Course' I've met them. One of them. What was her name...Cold Hands something or other. She was a strange one. Didn't seem like she was all there. Her smile, you know, it seemed like it was just there for show. Good fighter though, she could throw a mean punch. Bloody terrifying if you ask me, a woman that size shouldn't be able to decapitate an orc with her fist, it's just not right..."
"Wait," the scholar pleaded, scribbling in the journal he had opened in his lap. "Where did you run into this woman? And how?"
"Where was, I? Ah, how I met her?"
"Yes, please, but slowly."
"Well, you see, I was hunting hunting this dire wolf that been preying on the livestock and even a couple of villagers in the town of Sarmo. Wasn't supposed to be any different from any of the other jobs I'd taken to hunt down some marauding beast. Still, that old wolf was a mean one, he was old, and he was damned smart. He took a good chunk out of my leg, he did."
The hunter paused, and subtly nodded towards his now empty horn of mead. "Ah, all this talking is making my throat a bit parched...Perhaps, another drink would help to loosen—"
"Another drink! Of course! But please, continue!"
"And well, that was the problem. See if it's not the cold that gets you in the northern lands, then it's the beasts, and if it's not the beasts then it's your fellow man that tries to gut you," the grizzled hunter said, shaking his head disgustedly, finishing his fresh horn of mead, and gesturing to the barkeep in a fell motion. "So there I was, dragging that godforsaken lump of wolf behind me, when who do I run into but the bloody Red Banner."
"I'm sorry, the Bloody Red Banner? I don't have any notes on them," the young scholar interrupted apologetically.
"Who? Oh, the Bloody Red Banner, nobody important, just some cut-throats and thieves, scum. Suppose they're all dead by now, least I haven't heard of them in a long time."
"I see."
"I expected it was the end of me. Now sure, I wasn't going down without a fight, what would my ancestors say if I didn't bring one or two bandits with me into the grave. But, well, I was outnumbered, and slowly bleeding out."
"A precarious position to be in," the scribbling scholar agreed.
"I'd only just managed to mutter a prayer to the Sun, the Radiant Sun, when this wisp of a girl appeared, she couldn't have been more than seventeen. She introduced herself as Sister Cold Hands, much to the amusement of the bandits, and then she did the damnedest thing. She asked the bandits to leave. She didn't even have a weapon, at least not as far as I could tell. The bandits were of course less than convinced, although they did laugh mightily at the idea of surrendering to some lunatic."
"Do people often travel without weapons in the northern lands?"
"No, why would they do that? A man without a sword is a dead man, there same as anywhere else."
"But this girl didn't have any weapons?"
"Aye, like I said, she was unarmed."
"Hmm, I see."
The scarred hunter grinned, "She didn't seem to shook up about it,though. I figured she'd turn out to be a mage or something. You know, the fireball hurling kind? Only mages are dumb enough to let a band of bandits charge them. But she wasn't a mage. At least not any sort of mage I've known. She just danced between their attacks, jumping around like some damned snow leopard, before she struck the first bandit. I knew from the sound his skull made when she hit it that he wasn't getting up again, not in this life at least."
"She killed him?"
"Damn near took his head off," the hunter guffawed. "Now trust me, boy, I've seen a fight or two in my day but I've never seen anything like that. That girl fought like a proper warrior, like she'd been trained, you know? But it was different, she didn't fight like some drunken tavern brawler, knight, or pit fighter...no, it was different...like some, I don't know, it was like some dance, except she kept on sending bandits crashing into the frozen ground with broken limbs and cracked skulls."
"How horrible. Please continue."
"Horrible? More like justice. She managed to pummel five of the bandits before the rest of them lost their never and scurried off to wherever it is the damned Bloody Red Banner decide to hide when they catch a beating." The aged hunter laughed, the scholar could tell that it was not the first time he had run afould of the Bloody Red Banner. "And then, she practically carried me back to the monastery at Atan, except she called it a fortress of course, damn girl, it was a castle, but in the far north, a bloody castle is about as impressive as a fortress. How they got all that stone up that mountain, I could never figure out."
"Verryn," the scholar carefully began, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. He could feel how much lighter his coin purse felt on his belt. "I don't mean to be rude, but what was the point of this story again?"
"The point? Well, the point is lad, keep your hands to yourself if you see one of them robed ladies up here or you are going to find yourself with some broken fingers."
The Order of the Frozen Heart
In my travels across the realm of Telduria I have encountered many of the religious orders and the servants of the great faiths that traverse this fascinating world. However, few are to my mind as interesting as the small community of warrior monks and nuns of the Order of the Frozen Heart.
The Order of the Frozen Heart is an enigmatic order of warrior ascetics that reside in the furthermost reaches of the Unknown North. Throughout the realms, the Order of are renowned for the peerless warriors that are trained within the walls of the fortress-monastery of Atan. The so-called Frozen Hearts possess a fierce fighting ability and adeptness at surviving in the harshest of natural conditions.
Founded several centuries ago by Erech the Wise, the Order of the Frozen Heart grew out of dissatisfaction with the weak spiritual teachings and relative inaction that plagued the established religious orders. Although it was once seen as a heretical movement, the Order of the Frozen Heart is now viewed as merely a particularly militant and eccentric offshoot of the Order of the Radiant Sun. According to my sources in the Court of Stars, relations between the two orders is polite, but frosty.
The Order of the Frozen Heart stands out from the other religious orders in the heavy focus that is placed on developing not just the soul, but the mind, and the body through rigorous physical training. Religious acolytes of the Order of the Frozen Heart are expected to be able to survive and thrive in the world outside of the monastery. I have heard stories of young acolytes of the order being cast out into the inhospitable tundra of the Unknown North in order to test their capacity for survival. Further, unlike many other religious acolytes, members of the Order of the Frozen Heart are strongly discouraged from relying on the charity of others and they are forbidden from secluding themselves from the secular world for too long.
The central dogma of the Order of the Frozen Heart is that enlightenment is only possible through complete mastery of the self and suppression of all emotions.
The Fortress-Monastery of Atan
The heart of the Order of the Frozen Heart is the fortress-monastery of Atan that stands on a crag overlooking the Cold Sea, north of Urland and the Court of Stars. Famed for its massive stone walls and towering keeps, Atan also houses the great library of the order and a small community of devoted religious acolytes. Although some have stated that Atan was originally the citadel of Erech the Wise, the keep actually predated the sage by several centuries, having been founded long before the creation of the order by a tribe of nomadic warriors. Those I have spoken with suggest that to gain entry to the hallowed halls of the Order of the Frozen Heart a visitor must gift the order with something of immense personal value.
The Monks and Nuns of Atan
The religious acolytes of the Order of the Frozen Heart are ascetics that live highly disciplined lives. Unfailing kind and helpful, the Frozen Hearts spend most of their days studying religious manuscripts, meditating, or practicing the beautiful form of unarmed fighting for which the order is famous. The monks and nuns of the order are known to spend years at a time away from the monastery, traveling across the realms and serving the order as required. They are highly respected for their unwavering willpower, talents for elemental magic, and fearsome abilities in battle.
During my all too brief time with one of the religious acolytes of the order, a young woman who I knew only as Cold Hands, I was fascinated by the lack of emotion that she displayed. According to Cold Hands, she had sacrificed her emotions in order to follow the path to enlightenment. A practice I have since learned is not uncommon among senior members of the order.
A humble cog in a very clever and beautiful watch, perhaps.
[hider=The Tyger - William Blake]
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">A humble cog in a very clever and beautiful watch, perhaps.<br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="The Tyger - William Blake">The Tyger - William Blake [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Tyger Tyger, burning bright, <br>In the forests of the night; <br>What immortal hand or eye, <br>Could frame thy fearful symmetry?<br><br>In what distant deeps or skies, <br>Burnt the fire of thine eyes?<br>On what wings dare he aspire?<br>What the hand, dare seize the fire?<br><br>And what shoulder, & what art,<br>Could twist the sinews of thy heart?<br>And when thy heart began to beat,<br>What dread hand? & what dread feet?<br><br>What the hammer? what the chain, <br>In what furnace was thy brain?<br>What the anvil? what dread grasp, <br>Dare its deadly terrors clasp! <br><br>When the stars threw down their spears <br>And water'd heaven with their tears: <br>Did he smile his work to see?<br>Did he who made the Lamb make thee?<br><br>Tyger Tyger burning bright, <br>In the forests of the night: <br>What immortal hand or eye,<br>Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?</div></div></div>
Fading Memory