LadyRunic

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Location: Mandalore

She had not agreed to this.

Those were the only thoughts on the matter that Mor'gann Arnhar, the traitor of her former tribe, could cohesively form on the matter without losing her temper and the limited grasp on the Basic language that she had. What she had paid for in the choice hides she had collected and preserved over the years was passage to Taris aboard the smuggler's ship. Not passage to this place. "Not Taris." Came the cool voice as she blocked the smuggler's way. A hand straying to the thick knives on her belt and one decrepit saber hilt. "Paid passage Taris." She wasn't the most impressive figure, but the smuggler was wise enough to back up a step. He had traded with her people a handful of times before and she had offered him an extremely cheap deal for hides that would have been only cost him a tad more in useless gear. The only thing was that he would have a passenger for a time.

The smuggler for his part frowned, "What you paid for was transport to another planet. I was heading to Taris, now I aint." Annoyed by the young warrior, he was loath to get in a fight with the young woman. The tribe on Dxun were hunters and in a closed space, he didn't want to get in a tangle when his blaster could damage his own ship. The rust bucket was falling apart as it was, not that the barbarian woman knew that. "My buyer for your hides said to meet them here on Mandalore. So I don't have a reason to go to Taris unless it's to get drunk. There's no business that would take me that way right now."

The yellow eyes that unnerved the smuggler stared at him for several long moments as Mor'gann worked through the Basic language that worked through the nonsensical words. So he wasn't going to Taris, because he got a better trade here. For her hides. She disliked that especially. Oh, Mor'gann well knew that the smuggler was going to get a far higher price than what he paid for them. It had never bothered her before she had left Dxun, but the rules of survival were changing. The money would be useful, especially if she needed off the planet again. "No Taris? Hides price go up."

"No. I took you off that planet. I'm not paying more for those hides." The smuggler argued. There was no reason for him to lose such a large profit just because some primitive woman couldn't accept how the galaxy worked. "Now let me by." He shoved passed the woman and down the ramp to where he had docked. There were hides to unload and he was trying to pass as an honest merchant of sorts.

Mor'gann felt her arm be knocked aside as the smuggler pilot made his exit. Oh, the bastard had cheated her and now she was to be let on this forsaken planet. Taris, she had heard was a city and surely in a city of many people, she would have found a way to survive. In Mandalore, an unknown place, she was not so sure. She had questioned the smuggler at length beforehand on the planet and it was all very alien to the young shaman. "No." She disagreed, plucking a spare piece of piping that was meant to repair the ship, testing its heft for a moment before whirling and slamming it into the back of the smuggler's head. He shouted as he gripped his throbbing head, and Mor'gann swept the make-shift staff under his feet. Sending him tumbling down the ramp as she followed in a more conservative fashion. "My apologies, but if you insist on leaving me on an unknown planet, then I require back what I paid you for information. Do try to forget about me. It's for our best interests." She chatted amicably in her native tongue to the unconscious body while she checked the wound and found it not life-threatening. At most, the man would wake with a throbbing headache and nauseous. Killing he wouldn't have done her any good. He had gotten her off of Dxun, and that was something Mor was grateful for. Quickly, she plucked a decently sized pouch from the man finding it fulled of enough what she recognized as a currency. Though it was something she wasn't used to seeing. The traders who were new to Dxun often offered them such things and found themselves rejected. The tribe didn't see much use, when they need things.

Sighing, the young woman dragged the man back up the ramp, setting him just beside a pile of the hides she had sold him for her freedom from the rotten planet where she was born. Rubbing the back of her neck and feeling the bone pin that held her dark hair out of her face. She should not have done that and Mor was cursing herself a fool. But she had paid him for information that she felt justly cheated out of. So it was fair, in a sense. Thinking better of sticking around too much longer, the Dxun native scooped up the pack she had and strapped the rough staff to it as well. It would have been better if she had taken some of the hides, but he had gotten her off of Dxun. Taking the hides would just be wrong as he had provided that service at least. As it was she was sticking out like a maalraas's red skin in the middle of a sunny glade. "Oh, joy. I go from a home where everything wants to kill me, to a place where people cannot speak straight and cut horrid bargains. This is going to be wonderful. Just splendid." Muttered Mor'gann with annoyance, as she drew the hood of the drexli leather cloak up over her pale face.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

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Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

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In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Interacting with @Slim Shady @13org @Silverpaw [@Zoey White] @eclecticwitch
Counter of Days: 5 days

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Gen had helped Jandar find a bucket. Fishing one out of the carriage as well as calling forth his own waterskin and surrendering it for the Dhemlan's frivolous pursuit. It was a very sensible thing to do, and the Warlord had to admit that Jandar did pull off the part of the Aristo with natural ease. Giving a soft chuckle as Dareen asked if Jandar would lay down his life for Fatima, the Eyrien warrior smirked slightly. "Lass, Fatima is the first Queen in centuries that I've seen been so selfless and uncaring of her station. And I'm not sure that's for the best." Though the first part of Gen's statement was praise there was a worried undertone to the rest of it. Fatima's excitable eagerness was indeed refreshing but there was more to being a Queen than raw power and eager joyfulness. The Lady would need to interact with the Aristo and other Queens who would do their utmost to undermind the young woman. The Courts, even at times of peace, could be vicious. Rumors and rivals cutting under the Queen needed to be taken into a firm and cautious hand. Faeril's mother had ruled for a time and she had sent away a good few upstarts when the young woman had tried to tempt away Nivarian's men. "If you are going to go as a man, though." Gen mused in thought as he studied Dareen. "What about her psychic scent? She'd be made quite easily that way and questions could be few or many. There are plenty of reasons for a woman to dress and take work as a man in hopes she wouldn't be noticed. But there are those who would target her because of that. Gen pointed out, reasonably. As Mikhail joined the group, the Warlord stepped to the side to let the Dea Al Mon through. Respectfully letting those actually going on the little foray to speak upon the matter. They were competent folk after all.

Meanwhile, Faeril waved the Grey Jeweled Queen's question away. "Perhaps, but it would be far from my best work. I'm still uncomfortably..." There was a tense and pointed glare at Xandar as the large Warlord Prince commented on her own choice of clothing. "My clothing is perfectly fine!" She hissed after the brute. "As if you had any fashion sense to speak of! Your clothing consists of what is ripped and torn and what is patched and what has yet to see battle." The Widow retorted with annoyance, distracted from what Fatima had asked. Though not their potential guest, as she shooed Fatima back to the group. "Go work out your details and I'll see what I can whip up out of Xandar's skin." Xandar would notice the 'creature' slip behind the wall within the ruined house. Several viper rats that had not been in the nest when he set it ablaze skittering as the mysterious being disturbed them from their hiding place. If he would to look, this wall blocked off what might have been a kitchen at one point. A place that had been warded against fire, and thus protecting it from the flames that had seemed to have taken the rest of the house. A small trapdoor stood open under a table that looked study enough, even if one of the legs seemed eaten through by the vermin.

The Repository

For anyone who pokes their head in here. I'm keeping a log of all my characters and their various prototypes. Differentiate between the masses, so to speak. Also, note to self. Write up and store Bloods Jewels characters here.

Table of Contents:

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Mor'gann 'Mor' Arnhar

| {Full Name} |

Mor'gann Arnhar

| {Age} |

16

| {Species} |

Human

| {Gender} |

Female

---

| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |

Yes - Grey

| {Appearance} |

Appearance

The first word to come to mind when one is looking at Mor’ would be the worn and dated clothing that speaks of a far more barbaric nature that does not fit with an age of space. Wearing a soft shirt of some cloth under a hardened leather tunic-vest, the latter of dark maalraas leather. One shoulder would be adorned with a pauldron made from the hardened spine of a zakkeg and her forearms would be armored with battered and chipped plasteel. With soft leather breeches layered over with hardened sections and hard leather boots that lace up her legs, all under a cloak of drexl leather.

Not cutting the most imposing figure, Mor stands at five feet and seven inches and is lean from a life of little food and more work that would be reasonable. Scarred from various fights and hunts, the most notable is scar pulling down one corner of her lips into a slight grimace. Her yellow eyes, hinting at her blood not being purely human, are shocking when ringed with the dark paint she circles them with and her chin-length black hair. Her nose looks like it has been broken before and healed into something resembling a beak.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Equiptment and Personal Belongings

Soft leather breeches, a tunic-vest of maalraas leather looking several years old and patched, leather boots, scarred and chipped plasteel bracers, hardened leather vest, a zakkeg plate for a shoulder pauldron, a cloak of drexl skin, unstable and old lightsaber (red) and an old albeit well cared for blaster. She also has several knives upon her person. Two for skinning, one for the butchering of meat, and another for fighting.

In a pack, she carries a small pot, and several tokens from creatures she's killed. Fangs from Maalraas, Drexls, and Bomas to name some. Several hides from the creatures of Dxun to use as barter. A basic kit to set up a camp and a first aid kit made up of a variety of the herbs used on Dxun.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Physical Abilities

Naturally agile and dexterous, Mor took up moving unnoticed and silently due to her situation as an outcast. She has a very keen eye for detail and picking up on situations with a sharp ear. While quick on her feet, she can't always avoid taking damage and has learned how to endure the pain of it. She can go a bit longer than others with less food, but it does take just as much a toll as food was something scarce in her youth. She is very quick to pick up on things and is often doing something with her hands. Trained as a Shaman by her mentor, Mor'gann's memory and perception are sharp as the lessons are taught orally down thru the clan.

| {Force Abilities} |

Force Abilities

Running a bit faster than normal and force jumping when running away from something. Being a bit more aware of her surroundings while looking out for danger. Blending a bit more with shadows when slipping through very tense areas where being seen would be VERY bad.

| {Limitations} |

Limitations

Until a short time ago, Mor is very limited in what she knows of life off of Dxun. Technology is something very odd to her. Incurring her ability to fly a ship being very rough. She speaks a combination of Old Mandella, High Galactic, Ancient Sith melded into an odd dialect. Though she does understand enough in the basic language to get her point across herself, though she cannot read it at all. She can't lift anything heavy as she isn't strong, nor does she have the staying power to take a hit and stay standing. She's not to sort who can go toe to toe with a trained fighter and win without using her preferred method of ambushes or hitting a weakened spot constantly. And she certainly cannot take on a group of opponents.

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| {Personality} |

Personality

She doesn’t often speak and with good reason for what had she to say that people would listen to, especially a coward like her? Still her thirst for knowledge is insatiable and her desire for it is nearly boundless. A loner among the clans of her tribe on Dxun, Mor watched and listened rather than embroil herself into the games of politics of the village. Hardened at the fact of taking a life, Mor has little quarelm if it comes to such an act, though she will spare someone just as often as kill them. If her tribe was not so relentless about stamping out weakness. A fact that later made her leery of accepting aid from others, and more often seeking ways to even out the supposed ‘debt’. An odd fact as she was prone to giving favors to the weak or small in the village and asking for nothing in return. In her eyes, it was pointless to make things harder on them and if she built some good will, then all the better. Not that good will was built.

If one were to get to know her, Mor would be snide and snarky individual. With a penchant for dry humor and pessimism. She has a very firm ‘no’ which she will use repeatedly and can really dig in her heels on a matter. Prone to flights of panic and nerves when confronted with what she would consider a ‘hopeless’ situation, unusual as she is usually considering the possibility of her death.

| {Place of Origin} |

Place of Origin

Dxun. A backwater moon circling the planet Onderon, where death is a constant threat. The civilization that Mor'ann comes from dwelt in the village that dwelt near the Tomb of Freedon Naad, a place where power and strength were one and the same. The village was a simple thing with small fields surrounding various huts for storage and the clans of the village. The middle most ring being those of the children cast out of their clan houses to train with others of their age to become hunters in their time. Mor’s mother was a self-serving woman. Jealous and greedy in her pursuit for the best that could be offered no matter the means. It was this that led her to her death shortly after Mor had been given over at six to live within a children's huts.

The resources on Dxun are limited to the many creatures and what could be gathered and quickly. The many past battles and struggle to build places on Dxun left the hostile planet with a scattering of the remains. From old mandalorian armors and weapons to the remains sealed away in the temple. While the village seldom interacted with outsiders they did get the occasional trader looking to buy low and sell high, gaining the skins of various creatures and the odd relic from the temple of Freedon Naad. The farming and making of the clothing and tools the village needed were left to those too young, old, or feeble who did not have what it took to hunt for themselves. Those on the bottom of the social order. The exception to this and holding the middle ground between the weak and strong were the shamans. The hunters were physical fighters and were reluctant and distrustful about anything they themselves could not fight. Such as a possessed and haunted temple. A rumor passed down from generation to generation and kept alive by the odd strange sighting within the beskar temple. Thus the shamans were kept fed and cared for by their apprentices and those hunters who had excess.

| {Background} |

Background

Born to Tau’ra of the Arnhar Clan and one of her many tryst, Mor'gann's mother didn't pay much attention to the daughter once she was six years of age. It was a common practice among those who were strong enough to hunt to leave their offspring with groups of others about the same age. They would learn from the elders who had achieved a great deal in the prime of their years ruthlessly taught the younger generations the basics of the skills they would need later in life. These groups were given housing in the barracks built for their use if their families didn't keep room for them in their clan hall. This caused new clans to form of youths that grew up together rather than returning to the halls of their ancestors. Mor in her youth was small and slight, a trait that brought the mockery of the other children who were larger and stronger than her. She learned quickly how to avoid detection and left the barracks she had been groups in shortly after being placed in there. There were several other children who shared the same mindset as her, and most left their lessons to eek out an existence farming the land for what little it could give. The choices were that or to die off. A sad but brutal truth. Weakness was not an acceptable trait on Dxun.

Mor stuck through the lessons however, learning how to hunt the less dangerous beasts and how to avoid other children who would seek her out for trouble. Often trouble was often pinned on Mor as well, no matter whether or not she was actually involved in it. For four years she fought ruthless and dirty for everything. Drawing more dislike from her peers for her methods which were deemed cowardly. Mor would lead away a tormentor or two and then systematically trick them up and beat them or lead them into trouble where the same thing would happen. It was in the small girl’s best interest to avoid out right fights though she was being trained in them. For her engage in one would turn a mob against her as their barrack would join.

When she was ten though, things changed dramatically. One of the shamans of the clan had taken an apprentice but the young fool had died due to fighting a pack of Maalraas and losing. Noted for her Sensitive to the energies of the Temple, Mor was picked from a line-up along with another boy about her age who was not so attuned. The elders of the village were eager of this chance to get rid of a ‘coward’. So it was decided that the two would fight, and so they did. It was a close match and Mor put the boy down hard. Leaving him alive as an act of mercy, which was not acceptable. The boy was shamed and in his anger gave Mor the scar that marred her face into a grimace. He would have killed her, but Mor was far faster and crushed his throat with her staff. Leaving him gasping on the ground as death claimed him. Mor’gann learned the hardest lesson of her young life then. She could not afford mercy in a fight, and so she began her training to be a Shaman.

Something that hovered between a student and a servant to the old man. Hunting and helping him in his care of the temple to keep the spirit that dwelled there at bay. Mor spent long hours honing her skills fighting with the staff and vibro blades the clan kept. The enemies of her youth still tried to corner her and with far less success. Being a Shaman’s offered some protection what it did not, her own far more ruthless nature did. Now instead of merely leading astray a few to leave them with broken bones rather than bruises. Some never returned, and no fingers could be pointed at Mor as there were other rivalry or causes. Especially when the hunters would find the missing person with wounds from a zakkeg or maalraas, a far more likely cause. In truth, Mor led them away and left them wounded. Their death was not a direct result but she did have a hand in it.

The elders however were growing more suspicious, especially when treasured prizes were going missing though she was not involved with this (except for the pauldron of a zakkeg). Suspecting her days were number, a fact furthered by the illness that had befallen the Shaman she studied under. Mor gave her mentor, a decent man if harsh, a more worthy death than the disease. Slitting his throat to make his passing far faster. She had no desire to remain on Dxun and to serve the village as a shaman. There were other places and options for where else did the trades that sometimes descend upon the ruins come from? Paying off one with hides and a few trinkets from her mentor, Mor left the village with one last act of treason. She killed the four guards to the village’s artifact, a relic lightsaber that had been found in the temple years ago. A feat that left her partly wounded, not that she inform the pilot of this. The killing of the guards had not been her intent but if they had learned of the deed before she was off the planet it would have meant her death. The price for her flight was a couple of years worth of hides and trinkets, but Mor’ann’s payment took her all the way to Taris, far from the grasp of Dxun and the elders.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

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Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

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In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Interacting with @Slim Shady @13org @Silverpaw @Zoey White @eclecticwitch
Counter of Days: 5 days

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Denvar and Bellinar were both amused by the interaction between Jandar and the Grey Jeweled Queen. Discussing bets on who would be coming out on top while the crate they were supposed to be loading back into the carriage lay in the dust forgotten for the time being. It was the older brother, Bellinar, who noticed Mikhail approached as Jandar went on a speech about Fatima protecting herself. Giving a friendly nod to the Dea Al Mon, the Warlord Prince nudged his brother with a shoulder to alert Denvar to their third companion to the group. "That's more of a question for Gen, but you'd probably go keep an eye on the Queen." The man gave a cocky grin. "Jandar is going to have his hands full." Whatever else the Eyrien was about to say was cut off as Xandar spoke up, urging the assassin to do the same. Denvar nodded, chiming in himself. "We got four warriors around Faeril, and the Dhemlan is more of an Aristo sort. They are more squeamish about bloodshed." It was a grossly general statement but it did have a ring of truth to it. Those who were Aristo in Blood society did know how to fight, but against folk who were trained warriors like the brothers three, the Reaper, or the Dea Al Mon it would not be whose blood was bluest who won. "Besides, we can't exactly go into town without every male there acting like we're declaring war." Some of the Eyrien queens liked to let loose their fighters to raid weaker villagers as a display of power, and it was as from a peaceful ribbing.

Gen had caught up to Faeril and the two were finishing a heated if brief argument before the Warlord stomped back. If looks could kill, Faeril would have been one of the demon-dead there and then. "I swear the next time she falls asleep, she's staying that way until we get out of Terreille." Swore the oldest of the brothers. [cplor=FireBrick]"Oh, look at me. I can light a tongue of witchfyre, so of course I'm fine! No need to worries."[/color] Snarled Gen in a false voice that mocked Faeril's own.

"What, did she bite you?" Crooned Bellinar with mocking care as Gen glared at him dangerously. "You know how she is, brother. Give her space. It didn't help that we let that oversized bastard haul her about. Or are you jealous that you've lost his affections to her?" The younger brother barely dodged to the side as Gen took a swinging punch at him. Ignoring the two as the brawl broke out, Denvar shoved the crate into the Coach. Shaking his head at the others to indicate it was nothing to be concerned about. Merely a family squabble that would blow itself in time.

As Xandar followed after Faeril and Sent the thought to her, the Black Widow jolted slightly. Her icy eyes glowering at him as she gave Xandar an annoyed look. "I do mind, but I doubt you'd leave if I ask. In my best interest. Pah!" It was a harsh wording and edged in the bristles of her thoughts, but there was really no heat behind it. Just a mild annoyance from having three such males already hovering and now adding another. "I had almost forgotten Sending. It's been rather dangerous in my predicament to use it. Lest a fallen sister of the Hourglass were to catch my thoughts in her web." The rough edge of the woman's temper sighed and disappeared like smoke on the wind. "I sensed something, but I was not sure it was him. Whatever lies in that town Fatima must choose to face it or not on her own. It is not in our- my power to intervene when the web draws her forth." There was hesitation in the thought as if Faeril was worried she had said too much. Black Widows saw things in their webs and could testily tease an answer out about the future. But they were fierce in their lack of explanation. For revealing too much was a risk to deny the choice that could turn everything rightly or wrongly. Pausing she glanced about her, not seeing the shifting shadow that slunk further away into the darkness of the house as they drew near, but no further. A raspy breathing Xandar could hear and the stink of old blood that floated from the shadows. "What company?" Hissed Faeril out loud, her head snapping about as she sought to sight this hidden intruder.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Mor'gann 'Mor' Arnhar

| {Full Name} |

Mor'gann Arnhar

| {Age} |

19

| {Species} |

Human

| {Gender} |

Female

---

| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |

Yes - Grey

| {Appearance} |

Appearance

The first word to come to mind when one is looking at Mor’ would be the worn and dated clothing that speaks of a far more barbaric nature that does not fit with an age of space. Wearing a soft shirt of some cloth under a hardened leather tunic-vest, the latter of dark maalraas leather. One shoulder would be adorned with a pauldron made from the hardened spine of a zakkeg and her forearms would be armored with battered and chipped plasteel. With soft leather breeches layered over with hardened sections and hard leather boots that lace up her legs, all under a cloak of drexl leather.

Not cutting the most imposing figure, Mor stands at five feet and seven inches and is lean from a life of little food and more work that would be reasonable. Scarred from various fights and hunts, the most notable is scar pulling down one corner of her lips into a slight grimace. Her yellow eyes, hinting at her blood not being purely human, are shocking when ringed with the dark paint she circles them with and her chin-length black hair. Her nose looks like it has been broken before and healed into something resembling a beak.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Equiptment and Personal Belongings

Soft leather breeches, a tunic-vest of maalraas leather looking several years old and patched, leather boots, scarred and chipped plasteel bracers, hardened leather vest, a zakkeg plate for a shoulder pauldron, a cloak of drexl skin, unstable and old lightsaber (red) and an old albeit well cared for blaster. She also has several knives upon her person. Two for skinning, one for the butchering of meat, and another for fighting.

In a pack, she carries a small pot, and several tokens from creatures she's killed. Fangs from Maalraas, Drexls, and Bomas to name some. Several hides from the creatures of Dxun to use as barter. A basic kit to set up a camp and a first aid kit made up of a variety of the herbs used on Dxun.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Physical Abilities

Naturally agile and dexterous, Mor took up moving unnoticed and silently due to her situation as an outcast. She has a very keen eye for detail and picking up on situations with a sharp ear. While quick on her feet, she can't always avoid taking damage and has learned how to endure the pain of it. She can go a bit longer than others with less food, but it does take just as much a toll as food was something scarce in her youth. She is very quick to pick up on things and is often doing something with her hands. Trained as a Shaman by her mentor, Mor'gann's memory and perception are sharp as the lessons are taught orally down thru the clan.

| {Force Abilities} |

Force Abilities

Running a bit faster than normal and force jumping when running away from something. Being a bit more aware of her surroundings while looking out for danger. Blending a bit more with shadows when slipping through very tense areas where being seen would be VERY bad.

| {Limitations} |

Limitations

Until a short time ago, Mor is very limited in what she knows of life off of Dxun. Technology is something very odd to her. Incurring her ability to fly a ship being very rough. She speaks a combination of Old Mandella, High Galactic, Ancient Sith melded into an odd dialect. Though she does understand enough in the basic language to get her point across herself, though she cannot read it at all. She can't lift anything heavy as she isn't strong, nor does she have the staying power to take a hit and stay standing. She's not to sort who can go toe to toe with a trained fighter and win without using her preferred method of ambushes or hitting a weakened spot constantly. And she certainly cannot take on a group of opponents.

---

| {Personality} |

Personality

She doesn’t often speak and with good reason for what had she to say that people would listen to, especially a coward like her? Still her thirst for knowledge is insatiable and her desire for it is nearly boundless. A loner among the clans of her tribe on Dxun, Mor watched and listened rather than embroil herself into the games of politics of the village. Hardened at the fact of taking a life, Mor has little quarelm if it comes to such an act, though she will spare someone just as often as kill them. If her tribe was not so relentless about stamping out weakness. A fact that later made her leery of accepting aid from others, and more often seeking ways to even out the supposed ‘debt’. An odd fact as she was prone to giving favors to the weak or small in the village and asking for nothing in return. In her eyes, it was pointless to make things harder on them and if she built some good will, then all the better. Not that good will was built.

If one were to get to know her, Mor would be snide and snarky individual. With a penchant for dry humor and pessimism. She has a very firm ‘no’ which she will use repeatedly and can really dig in her heels on a matter. Prone to flights of panic and nerves when confronted with what she would consider a ‘hopeless’ situation, unusual as she is usually considering the possibility of her death.

| {Place of Origin} |

Place of Origin

Dxun. A backwater moon circling the planet Onderon, where death is a constant threat. The civilization that Mor'ann comes from dwelt in the village that dwelt near the Tomb of Freedon Naad, a place where power and strength were one and the same. The village was a simple thing with small fields surrounding various huts for storage and the clans of the village. The middle most ring being those of the children cast out of their clan houses to train with others of their age to become hunters in their time. Mor’s mother was a self-serving woman. Jealous and greedy in her pursuit for the best that could be offered no matter the means. It was this that led her to her death shortly after Mor had been given over at six to live within a children's huts.

The resources on Dxun are limited to the many creatures and what could be gathered and quickly. The many past battles and struggle to build places on Dxun left the hostile planet with a scattering of the remains. From old mandalorian armors and weapons to the remains sealed away in the temple. While the village seldom interacted with outsiders they did get the occasional trader looking to buy low and sell high, gaining the skins of various creatures and the odd relic from the temple of Freedon Naad. The farming and making of the clothing and tools the village needed were left to those too young, old, or feeble who did not have what it took to hunt for themselves. Those on the bottom of the social order. The exception to this and holding the middle ground between the weak and strong were the shamans. The hunters were physical fighters and were reluctant and distrustful about anything they themselves could not fight. Such as a possessed and haunted temple. A rumor passed down from generation to generation and kept alive by the odd strange sighting within the beskar temple. Thus the shamans were kept fed and cared for by their apprentices and those hunters who had excess.

| {Background} |

Background

Born to Tau’ra of the Arnhar Clan and one of her many tryst, Mor'gann's mother didn't pay much attention to the daughter once she was six years of age. It was a common practice among those who were strong enough to hunt to leave their offspring with groups of others about the same age. They would learn from the elders who had achieved a great deal in the prime of their years ruthlessly taught the younger generations the basics of the skills they would need later in life. These groups were given housing in the barracks built for their use if their families didn't keep room for them in their clan hall. This caused new clans to form of youths that grew up together rather than returning to the halls of their ancestors. Mor in her youth was small and slight, a trait that brought the mockery of the other children who were larger and stronger than her. She learned quickly how to avoid detection and left the barracks she had been groups in shortly after being placed in there. There were several other children who shared the same mindset as her, and most left their lessons to eek out an existence farming the land for what little it could give. The choices were that or to die off. A sad but brutal truth. Weakness was not an acceptable trait on Dxun.

Mor stuck through the lessons however, learning how to hunt the less dangerous beasts and how to avoid other children who would seek her out for trouble. Often trouble was often pinned on Mor as well, no matter whether or not she was actually involved in it. For four years she fought ruthless and dirty for everything. Drawing more dislike from her peers for her methods which were deemed cowardly. Mor would lead away a tormentor or two and then systematically trick them up and beat them or lead them into trouble where the same thing would happen. It was in the small girl’s best interest to avoid out right fights though she was being trained in them. For her engage in one would turn a mob against her as their barrack would join.

When she was ten though, things changed dramatically. One of the shamans of the clan had taken an apprentice but the young fool had died due to fighting a pack of Maalraas and losing. Noted for her Sensitive to the energies of the Temple, Mor was picked from a line-up along with another boy about her age who was not so attuned. The elders of the village were eager of this chance to get rid of a ‘coward’. So it was decided that the two would fight, and so they did. It was a close match and Mor put the boy down hard. Leaving him alive as an act of mercy, which was not acceptable. The boy was shamed and in his anger gave Mor the scar that marred her face into a grimace. He would have killed her, but Mor was far faster and crushed his throat with her staff. Leaving him gasping on the ground as death claimed him. Mor’gann learned the hardest lesson of her young life then. She could not afford mercy in a fight, and so she began her training to be a Shaman.

Something that hovered between a student and a servant to the old man. Hunting and helping him in his care of the temple to keep the spirit that dwelled there at bay. Mor spent long hours honing her skills fighting with the staff and vibro blades the clan kept. The enemies of her youth still tried to corner her and with far less success. Being a Shaman’s offered some protection what it did not, her own far more ruthless nature did. Now instead of merely leading astray a few to leave them with broken bones rather than bruises. Some never returned, and no fingers could be pointed at Mor as there were other rivalry or causes. Especially when the hunters would find the missing person with wounds from a zakkeg or maalraas, a far more likely cause. In truth, Mor led them away and left them wounded. Their death was not a direct result but she did have a hand in it.

The elders however were growing more suspicious, especially when treasured prizes were going missing though she was not involved with this (except for the pauldron of a zakkeg). Suspecting her days were number, a fact furthered by the illness that had befallen the Shaman she studied under. Mor gave her mentor, a decent man if harsh, a more worthy death than the disease. Slitting his throat to make his passing far faster. She had no desire to remain on Dxun and to serve the village as a shaman. There were other places and options for where else did the trades that sometimes descend upon the ruins come from? Paying off one with hides and a few trinkets from her mentor, Mor left the village with one last act of treason. She killed the four guards to the village’s artifact, a relic lightsaber that had been found in the temple years ago. A feat that left her partly wounded, not that she inform the pilot of this. The killing of the guards had not been her intent but if they had learned of the deed before she was off the planet it would have meant her death. The price for her flight was a couple of years worth of hides and trinkets, but Mor’ann’s payment took her all the way to Taris, far from the grasp of Dxun and the elders.

Star Wars AU: After Knightfall

I'm just going to toss Mor'ann into this fray of character sheets. She's not much, but 'ey. And I'm still editing her a bit here and there. (I promise I will stop on the 2nd.)

Mor'gann Arnhar

Mor'gann 'Mor' Arnhar

| {Full Name} |

Mor'gann Arnhar

| {Age} |

16

| {Species} |

Human

| {Gender} |

Female

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| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |

Yes - Grey

| {Appearance} |

Appearance

The first word to come to mind when one is looking at Mor’ would be the worn and dated clothing that speaks of a far more barbaric nature that does not fit with an age of space. Wearing a soft shirt of some cloth under a hardened leather tunic-vest, the latter of dark maalraas leather. One shoulder would be adorned with a pauldron made from the hardened spine of a zakkeg and her forearms would be armored with battered and chipped plasteel. With soft leather breeches layered over with hardened sections and hard leather boots that lace up her legs, all under a cloak of drexl leather.

Not cutting the most imposing figure, Mor stands at five feet and seven inches and is lean from a life of little food and more work that would be reasonable. Scarred from various fights and hunts, the most notable is scar pulling down one corner of her lips into a slight grimace. Her yellow eyes, hinting at her blood not being purely human, are shocking when ringed with the dark paint she circles them with and her chin-length black hair. Her nose looks like it has been broken before and healed into something resembling a beak.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Equiptment and Personal Belongings

Soft leather breeches, a tunic-vest of maalraas leather looking several years old and patched, leather boots, scarred and chipped plasteel bracers, hardened leather vest, a zakkeg plate for a shoulder pauldron, a cloak of drexl skin, unstable and old lightsaber (red) and an old albeit well cared for blaster. She also has several knives upon her person. Two for skinning, one for the butchering of meat, and another for fighting.

In a pack, she carries a small pot, and several tokens from creatures she's killed. Fangs from Maalraas, Drexls, and Bomas to name some. Several hides from the creatures of Dxun to use as barter. A basic kit to set up a camp and a first aid kit made up of a variety of the herbs used on Dxun.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Physical Abilities

Naturally agile and dexterous, Mor took up moving unnoticed and silently due to her situation as an outcast. She has a very keen eye for detail and picking up on situations with a sharp ear. While quick on her feet, she can't always avoid taking damage and has learned how to endure. She can go a bit longer than others with less food, but it does take just as much a toll. She is very quick to pick up on things and is often doing something with her hands. Trained as a Shaman by her mentor, Mor'gann's memory and perception are sharp.

| {Force Abilities} |

Force Abilities

Running a bit faster than normal and force jumping when running away from something. Being a bit more aware of her surroundings while looking out for danger. Blending a bit more with shadows when slipping through very tense areas where being seen would be VERY bad.

| {Limitations} |

Limitations

As she lived on Dxun until a short time ago, Mor is very limited in what she knows. Including language, which she speaks a combination of Old Mandella, High Galactic, Ancient Sith melded into an odd dialect. Though she does understand enough in the main language to get her point across herself.

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| {Personality} |

Personality

She doesn’t often speak and with good reason for what had she to say that people would listen to, especially a coward like her? Still her thirst for knowledge is insatiable and her desire for it is nearly boundless. A loner among the clans of her tribe on Dxun, Mor watched and listened rather than embroil herself into the games of politics of the village. Hardened at the fact of taking a life, Mor has little quarelm if it comes to such an act, though she will spare someone just as often as kill them. If her tribe was not so relentless about stamping out weakness. A fact that later made her leery of accepting aid from others, and more often seeking ways to even out the supposed ‘debt’. An odd fact as she was prone to giving favors to the weak or small in the village and asking for nothing in return. In her eyes, it was pointless to make things harder on them and if she built some good will, then all the better. Not that good will was built.

If one were to get to know her, Mor would be snide and snarky individual. With a penchant for dry humor and pessimism. She has a very firm ‘no’ which she will use repeatedly and can really dig in her heels on a matter. Prone to flights of panic and nerves when confronted with what she would consider a ‘hopeless’ situation, unusual as she is usually considering the possibility of her death.

| {Place of Origin} |

Place of Origin

Dxun. A backwater moon circling the planet Onderon, where death is a constant threat. The civilization that Mor'ann comes from dwelt in the village that dwelt near the Tomb of Freedon Naad, a place where power and strength were one and the same. The village was a simple thing with small fields surrounding various huts for storage and the clans of the village. The middle most ring being those of the children cast out of their clan houses to train with others of their age to become hunters in their time. Mor’s mother was a self-serving woman. Jealous and greedy in her pursuit for the best that could be offered no matter the means. It was this that led her to her death shortly after Mor had been given over at six to live within a children's huts.

The resources on Dxun are limited to the many creatures and what could be gathered and quickly. The many past battles and struggle to build places on Dxun left the hostile planet with a scattering of the remains. From old mandalorian armors and weapons to the remains sealed away in the temple. While the village seldom interacted with outsiders they did get the occasional trader looking to buy low and sell high, gaining the skins of various creatures and the odd relic from the temple of Freedon Naad. The farming and making of the clothing and tools the village needed were left to those too young, old, or feeble who did not have what it took to hunt for themselves. Those on the bottom of the social order. The exception to this and holding the middle ground between the weak and strong were the shamans. The hunters were physical fighters and were reluctant and distrustful about anything they themselves could not fight. Such as a possessed and haunted temple. A rumor passed down from generation to generation and kept alive by the odd strange sighting within the beskar temple. Thus the shamans were kept fed and cared for by their apprentices and those hunters who had excess.

| {Background} |

Background

Born to Tau’ra of the Arnhar Clan and one of her many tryst, Mor'gann's mother didn't pay much attention to the daughter once she was six years of age. It was a common practice among those who were strong enough to hunt to leave their offspring with groups of others about the same age. They would learn from the elders who had achieved a great deal in the prime of their years ruthlessly taught the younger generations the basics of the skills they would need later in life. These groups were given housing in the barracks built for their use if their families didn't keep room for them in their clan hall. This caused new clans to form of youths that grew up together rather than returning to the halls of their ancestors. Mor in her youth was small and slight, a trait that brought the mockery of the other children who were larger and stronger than her. She learned quickly how to avoid detection and left the barracks she had been groups in shortly after being placed in there. There were several other children who shared the same mindset as her, and most left their lessons to eek out an existence farming the land for what little it could give. The choices were that or to die off. A sad but brutal truth. Weakness was not an acceptable trait on Dxun.

Mor stuck through the lessons however, learning how to hunt the less dangerous beasts and how to avoid other children who would seek her out for trouble. Often trouble was often pinned on Mor as well, no matter whether or not she was actually involved in it. For four years she fought ruthless and dirty for everything. Drawing more dislike from her peers for her methods which were deemed cowardly. Mor would lead away a tormentor or two and then systematically trick them up and beat them or lead them into trouble where the same thing would happen. It was in the small girl’s best interest to avoid out right fights though she was being trained in them. For her engage in one would turn a mob against her as their barrack would join.

When she was ten though, things changed dramatically. One of the shamans of the clan had taken an apprentice but the young fool had died due to fighting a pack of Maalraas and losing. Noted for her Sensitive to the energies of the Temple, Mor was picked from a line-up along with another boy about her age who was not so attuned. The elders of the village were eager of this chance to get rid of a ‘coward’. So it was decided that the two would fight, and so they did. It was a close match and Mor put the boy down hard. Leaving him alive as an act of mercy, which was not acceptable. The boy was shamed and in his anger gave Mor the scar that marred her face into a grimace. He would have killed her, but Mor was far faster and crushed his throat with her staff. Leaving him gasping on the ground as death claimed him. Mor’gann learned the hardest lesson of her young life then. She could not afford mercy in a fight, and so she began her training to be a Shaman.

Something that hovered between a student and a servant to the old man. Hunting and helping him in his care of the temple to keep the spirit that dwelled there at bay. Mor spent long hours honing her skills fighting with the staff and vibro blades the clan kept. The enemies of her youth still tried to corner her and with far less success. Being a Shaman’s offered some protection what it did not, her own far more ruthless nature did. Now instead of merely leading astray a few to leave them with broken bones rather than bruises. Some never returned, and no fingers could be pointed at Mor as there were other rivalry or causes. Especially when the hunters would find the missing person with wounds from a zakkeg or maalraas, a far more likely cause. In truth, Mor led them away and left them wounded. Their death was not a direct result but she did have a hand in it.

The elders however were growing more suspicious, especially when treasured prizes were going missing though she was not involved with this (except for the pauldron of a zakkeg). Suspecting her days were number, a fact furthered by the illness that had befallen the Shaman she studied under. Mor gave her mentor, a decent man if harsh, a more worthy death than the disease. Slitting his throat to make his passing far faster. She had no desire to remain on Dxun and to serve the village as a shaman. There were other places and options for where else did the trades that sometimes descend upon the ruins come from? Paying off one with hides and a few trinkets from her mentor, Mor left the village with one last act of treason. She killed the four guards to the village’s artifact, a relic lightsaber that had been found in the temple years ago. A feat that left her partly wounded, not that she inform the pilot of this. The killing of the guards had not been her intent but if they had learned of the deed before she was off the planet it would have meant her death. The price for her flight was a couple of years worth of hides and trinkets, but Mor’ann’s payment took her all the way to Taris, far from the grasp of Dxun and the elders.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

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Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

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In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Interacting with @Slim Shady @13org @Silverpaw [@ZoeyWhite] @eclecticwitch
Counter of Days: 5 days

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"Definitely take the horses," Faeril agreed with a slightly annoyed look as her clothing style and choice was dismissed so eagerly by the group. She enjoyed her fashion as it appealed to her slender form and was comfortable. Perhaps it got a bit chilly in the winter and she liked a large fire in her workroom but that was not the point in the slightest. "I like my fashion." She muttered in her native tongue. Denvar looked about ready to mention something to the Widow, but his brother both sharply elbowed the other in the gut. Leaving him coughing as Faeril looked over only to shake her head at their antics. The icy eyes then turned to Mikhail as she smiled slightly. "It will be sometime before I can resume your Healing without interruption. While I appreciate your loyalty, Mikhail, I have nothing that I require help with. Though with you particular trade, I can imagine you know a far few things about disguise, and keeping unseen in a crowd." It was a fair point, with three eager older brothers (of a sort) and a cranky Ebon-Grey who had already hauled her about... The only thing she was tempted to ask of the Dea Al Mon was not something he could do. Not to mention she wanted to be the one to kick Xandar in his ribs for hauling her and her bed about. A fact she was far from forgiving him for.

The brothers three shifted uneasily as Fatima spoke of going along, they well knew the risk with Faeril, a Black Widow, but Fatima was a Queen. What was more, was that she was the Queen. She had been drawn to Faeril's vision and to lose her? It would be far too much of a risk. Far too much of a gamble even for Gen who enjoyed games of chance. Yet none of the brothers spoke, in part because they didn't want to be the ones to draw the line. Faeril narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She had spent centuries learning her Craft and something pulled her towards that town. If Fatima wished to go... It would be dangerous and foolishly so but could she really stop the Queen?

"She is not wrong. A Hayllian Queen would draw attention but it would scramble the Courts under Dorothea to find out who she is. We would have some time." But in the end they would be revealing what they meant to keep secret. "Whatever the Queen's will, I shall abide by it." The Black Widow stated solemnly though her tone was far from happy. Turning she walked from the camp and towards the abandoned buildings. The two Warlord Prince brothers, Denvar and Bellinar, fumbled with the boxes before nearly dropping them. The Widow's words floating back on the breeze. "I wish to see what there is to this village." Her Craft was able to pull memories from wood and stone and while she was tempted to, Faeril knew it would be a story of horror that would unfold. Xandar would notice something smelling of rot among the buildings and slight movement from the shadows of one of the more intact homes. As the carriage blocked the particular building from the others aside from Faeril herself and two of the Sarothian brothers, no one else would see the form of movement far larger than a rat slip deeper into the shadows.

Gennar hesitated torn between getting Fatima what she needed and following after the widow. "Will you not use Craft?" He snapped after Faeril's retreating form, only to get a dismissive wave in response. "Lady, might I keep an eye on her if you do not need my aid for anything?" Faeril had intoned the Queen's Wil and Gennar just didn't feel right leaving without a dismissal after that. His two brothers both trying to lug the box they had found was filled with the good of a Healer, not camping supplies, back on the carriage and were arguing between each other about who didn't label the boxes.

[High Casual to Low Advance] [18+] Wide array!

Boop

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

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Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

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In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Interacting with @Slim Shady @13org @Silverpaw [@ZoeyWhite] @eclecticwitch

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"It's a bit soon to be worrying about the watch," Gen noted with a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes. The viper rats were many and not all had been in the nest when Xandar had set it ablaze. Their skittering rustled about the ruins of the buildings, as they became agitated by the death of their kin. "Whatever we decide to do, we best be careful." The Eyrien warrior warned. "Those viper rats are deadly if they get the numbers." Dareen would be well aware of the dangers imposed by those small venomous rodents, a common problem in Pruul. There they fed upon whatever they could sink their deadly teeth into. The poison that they held was not uncurable but it was extremely painful and when combined with their numbers that would swarm a grown man.

Faeril meanwhile was giving Jandar a stern look rather than just glaring at him. "While I would be tempted to let the witch lead as I have no doubt Dareen has seen such witches before. "There is the downfall of the fact she isn't of the aristo naturally." There was something of an apologetic note in the Black Widow's voice as she admitted the fact. "Which means it would be best if Dareen could hang back a bit, perhaps be the docile sort of witch, which means you need to lead the both of you, Jandar."

"Slaves wouldn't be viable." Rumbled Bellinar looking troubled as he eyed the Lady Ashkevron. "You're not suggesting..."

"A merchant yes, perhaps of old wealth. Feel free to admit you have several estates and let them wonder. If they persist I would suggest that you acclaim lands in Dhemlan. A Hayll mother, a Dhemlan father." Faeril agreed looking rather put out at the idea. "Which means you must scorn your father and all the Dhemlan do. Accept only that you are of Hayll, and enjoy its... entertainments." Turning her icy eyes over to Mikhail she raised a brow. "If you must." She sighed, helpless to argue with the fact that the Dea Al Mon could very well handle himself. A third set of eyes would be useful, but it troubled her. Something was not sitting right and she could not for all the skill she possessed in her Craft could put a finger on it.

Denvar looked amused at Dareen while Faeril and his brother talked. "I think you can probably borrow one of Faeril's. If you don't mind wing slits."

"And it being out of date." Bellinar noted with some good-humored ribbing at Faeril.