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Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Ignore this lol. Not sure why it double posted on me.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

@Vox, that’s totally understandable, and I think, unless they end up becoming especially close with someone over the course of the caravan’s journey, Stone wouldn’t talk much about Northern Elf culture for obvious reasons. I do think, due to their age, they’ve forgotten a great deal, but I fully agree that just forgetting their peoples’ cultural norms doesn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe some of the specifics are a little hazy, but they’d be aware of the broad strokes of how Northern Elf society works.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

I will be withdrawing my interest from this roleplay. Have fun, folks.

Warhammer - Tilea - A Dogs of War RP

Interested!

Grisaille Genesis

The Kinslayer

Current Location: The Bleakwood, Less than a day's travel from the village of Alfwig and two days from Kendles

“Isolda? Is that ye, girl? What are ye doin’ in me fecking--? Wait, why do ye have a blade...? Wait...wait! No!”

Isolda jolted awake, her pale blue eyes snapping open as she nearly toppled out of the wagon she'd been sleeping in.

Silvery white moonlight drenched the forest clearing, reducing the young Kend’s surroundings to a disturbing blend of foreboding shadows and patches of unearthly radiance, as Isolda frantically looked around, taking in the familiar sight of the two other covered wagons that had defined her world for the last few days and nights. Edgar's Expedition, one of the longest-running, and, if you believed the jovial boasts of its hulking caravan-master, most successful wagon trains in all Pertovia was currently encamped in the middle of a small forest clearing. After the Filth attack earlier in the day, nobody had felt much like pushing on toward Alfwig so the caravan-master made the decision to let everyone rest for the night before resuming their journey at first light.

Now, in stark contrast to how noisy the wagon train was whenever it rambled toward its next destination, the only sounds were the pitiful, grieving whimpers of Helga, who'd lost her husband during the Filthspawn ambush, and the low, gravelly voices of men rolling dice or recounting the day's events.

Pressing her palms against her eyes and trying not to think about the nightmare that had woken her, Isolda realized she'd forgotten her list. The list her da had trained her to go through whenever she found herself in an unfamiliar place. Taking a steadying breath, the dark-haired Kend leaned against the canvas covering of the supply wagon and started at the beginning. Where were her weapons? Moving one of the folds of her dark blue, beautifully-dyed Jornish wool cloak aside, Isolda examined the wide leather belt circling her narrow waist. She could barely see the sweat-stained, leather-wrapped handles of three iron daggers poking up above the belt, each one pressing against the cured leather breastplate she wore over her long-sleeved tunic. Thankfully, Crapper, Tiddles, and Wanker hadn't been stolen while Isolda slept. Smiling like she always did whenever she imagined someone asking her why she'd not only named her daggers but also given them such ridiculous names, the young woman's expression soured as she felt the familiar weight of the knife in her right boot. She hadn't named that one.

After all, that was the blade she'd used to kill her...

Shaking her head and irately swatting a few strands of black hair out of her face, Isolda decided it was high time to move to the next item on her list. Where was she? She leaned out of the back of the wagon and frowned at the familiar, skeletal trees surrounding the clearing. The Bleakwood, a massive forest that dominated central Pertovia, was unique because it was the only place on the island where one could find night oaks. These impossibly tall trees had pitch black bark, which is where their name came from, and always sported silvery-white leaves regardless of what season it was. When the moonlight touched these leaves, they almost seemed to glow. It gave the entire forest an eerie, unsettling aura.

Shuddering and pulling her hooded cloak tightly around her slender frame, Isolda asked her final question aloud, her voice barely audible over the moaning of the wind and the creaking of the night oaks. "Are ye safe?" she muttered under her breath, her eyes darting from one cluster of people to the next. She knew her fellow travelers didn't trust her. Some of these men and women had traveled with Edgar's Expedition dozens of times so they'd formed bonds born of shared misery and conflict. Isolda Foy, or Ingrid Feldspar as she was currently calling herself, was not one of those people. In fact, over the last three years, she'd gone out of her way to avoid interacting with people at all unless it was absolutely necessary.

Of course, everything had changed when she'd found that crown amidst the pale, bone-white marble columns of an abandoned ruin. The crown that was currenly resting at the bottom of her travel-stained leather knapsack.

Truth be told, Isolda didn't know if she was safe or not. After the first day of traveling with the caravan, she'd offered to help Helga and her husband, Osric, carry their belongings. Osric, a red-faced man with all the social graces of a castrated bull, had proceeded to call her a "filthy, sticky-fingered Kend cunt" and told her if she was looking for someone to pickpocket then she could "go fuck a grunt." The remark had stung a bit more than Isolda had expected, especially since she'd been called far worse by people whose opinions she actually cared about. Shifting atop her wooden perch, hoping and failing to relieve some of the numbness spreading through her arse, Isolda's gaze flicked over to the wagon housing the young and infirm. Helga's sobbing, which was coming from said wagon, had continued unabated since Edgar had told her to leave her husband's grave or get left behind. While she was sorry for Helga's loss, Isolda couldn't help but think if Osric hadn't been carrying so much he might have been able to dodge the blow that had snapped his spine like a twig. Hindsight notwisthanding, nobody had spoken to Isolda much after Osric insulted her, most of them glaring as she passed and clutching their valuables, so, when the Filth attacked, she'd decided to focus on shepherding any children she could to the relative safety of the wagons. She'd done her best to distract them with outlandish, entertaining stories while their parents died a few dozen feet away. Maybe it was cruel or cowardly of her, but she didn't owe these people anything.

Why was she doing this?

This question, which definitely wasn't part of her list, ate at Isolda, and she couldn't shake it no matter how hard she tried. If only she had a nice, full wineskin of Jornish red, maybe she could finally enjoy a little peace. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a distinct lack of wine in Edgar's Expedition. Her oilcloth wineskin, which was draped over the linen-wrapped bundle containing the ivory crown, was sadly deflated and empty.

Just like she was.

Wincing at the thought and deciding to try and comfort Helga, Isolda started to clamber out of the wagon bed when she felt a gentle tug on her right pants leg. Mentally kicking herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, the Kend looked down and found herself staring into the brown eyes of Oleander Kemp, one of the younger children traveling with Edgar's Expedition. His father, Johan Kemp, was a woodcarver if she remembered correctly, though the man was also suspiciously skilled with the handaxe he always seemed to have clutched in his meaty hands.

Smiling wanly at the boy, Isolda pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing her gaunt, sunburnt face, and said, "And a fine eventide ter ye, Ollie. Ye feelin' alright?"

Shuffling nervously from foot to foot, the six-year-old said, "I'm fine, Miss Weldspurs, but I can't sleep cause that lady won't stop crying. Also, Papa said he'd tell me a bedtime story after supper, but he drank that funny-smelling juice he likes so much, called me a little shit, and then fell asleep on the ground over there." Ollie pointed toward the second supply wagon, and, as Isolda craned her neck to look in that direction, there was indeed a man-sized lump dozing on the forest floor. Somebody had apparently decided Johan didn't need his boots anymore, because he was barefoot. Sniffling, Ollie said, "He ate all our food for today, too, Miss Weldspurs. Do you...ummm, do you have a little extra, maybe?"

Isolda's smile faded as she considered the dirty-faced, somber child. She'd meticulously rationed out her meager foodstuffs so she wouldn't have to rely on Edgar and his dubious "meats and breads of the highest quality" to sustain her as the caravan continued its journey. If she gave Ollie so much as a single chunk of hardtack, she'd run out before they reached the village of Kendles. Before they reached her home village.

Licking her lips, Isolda sighed and stretched out her arms, and Ollie, grinning as only a child that's about to be picked up can, allowed her to lift him into the wagon and set him down beside her. "Now, listen, Ollie," she said as the boy looked expectantly at her, "I don't have much, but I think I can spare a little piece o' hardtack, aye? Jest a little piece." Winking at the lad and ruffling his greasy hair, Isolda reached into her knapsack and pulled out a lump of grayish-yellow awfulness. With a bit of effort, she broke it in two and offered the larger chunk to the boy, who was practically drooling. When she saw Ollie was about to take a huge bite of his piece, however, Isolda, moving with surprising deftness considering she'd just woken up, snatched the morsel back and said, "Hold on there, Ollie. Yer liable ter break a tooth that way. Ye pop it inter yer mouth and soften it up fer a bit before tryin' ter bite it, aye? Watch me."

The boy's brown eyes narrowed as he watched Isolda put her small piece of hardtack into her mouth and roll it around in her jaw for a few moments. By the Four, this tasted like shit. Isolda couldn't remember what village she'd passed through or which peddler she'd traded with in order to get her hands on this abomination that dared to call itself "food, but this was awful. Even by the low standards of hardtack.

Isolda carefully broke off a piece of hardtack with her teeth and swallowed before handing Ollie's chunk back to him. "Now ye try it," she said, her words slightly muffled by the foul-tasting mass in her mouth. Eagerly, the boy grabbed the hardtack and crammed it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he scooted closer to Isolda. Or "Miss Weldspurs" as he called her since he couldn't properly pronounce Feldspar. He kicked his dangling legs happily and looked out over the silent wagon train.

It was almost peaceful. If you ignored Helga's endless weeping and the guttural cursing of someone losing at dice.

"Miss Weldspurs," Ollie said once he'd swallowed enough of his hardtack to speak, "can you tell me a bedtime story since Papa fell asleep? It doesn't have to be long, like the one you told us when the..." And the boy paused, looking around fearfully for a few moments, before leaning back toward Isolda and whispering, "When the Filth came. It could be a short one. Maybe one with magic in it? Do you know any stories about magic, Miss Weldspurs?"

Isolda slurped at her hardtack for a few moments, buying herself some time as she stared into the middle distance. She just couldn't move past it. Why was she doing this? Why was she going back to a place where she was known as the Red Knife of Kendles? As the Kinslayer? Why was she going back to the village that, in the wake of her father's death nearly half a decade ago, was under the boot of a gang of madmen led by some feckwit named Derick Eight Fingers? Every time Edgar's Expedition had encountered a traveler from Kendles and they'd discussed recent events, Isolda's heart grew heavier and heavier. She had so many questions and so few answers. Even after three fecking years.

The young Kend nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt an urgent tug at her sleeve. Glancing down at Ollie and realizing he'd asked her a question, Isolda smiled shakily and said, swallowing what was left of her hardtack, "Do I know any stories about magic, ye say, Ollie? Now, what kind o' question is that? O' course I do. Jest give me a moment ter think." Furrowing her brow as she tried to bludgeon her sleep-addled brain into action, Isolda’s grin widened and said, a hint of sadness coloring her words, "Well, it's a long one, unfortunately, but we'll jest start at the beginning an’ see how far we get, aye? Sound good?"

Ollie, sounding and looking like the child he was for the first time that night, giggled and, without prompting, snuggled against Isolda's side, popping his thumb into his mouth and staring up at her with barely contained glee.

Isolda wanted to scream. Not because of the admiration in the boy's eyes, but because she didn't deserve it.

Monsters didn't deserve admiration.

Laying a slender arm across the boy's shoulders, Isolda began to speak, her voice low and quiet. "Once upon a time," she said, her lilting Kend accent sounding almost musical, "there was a young Jornishman that left his family an' friends behind. Nobody knew why, but he'd seen somethin' terrible, somethin' that drove him right out o' Jornorston. Sure, he was sad about leavin', but he also knew he couldn't stay. So, he left, an', as the sayin' goes, all roads eventually lead ter Kendles. He found himself stayin' in a crumblin' lean-to on the northern outskirts o' the village."

Resting her free hand flat on the bottom of the wagon and leaning back into a slightly more comfortable position, Isolda said, "Now, this young Jornishman had one goal, Ollie. He wanted ter help people. Somehow. Problem was, he didn't know a damned soul in Kendles an' nobody there knew or trusted him. He was a stranger, an outsider, an’ most o' the Kends thought the Jornishman would be gone the next time the Filth attacked." Isolda paused as she heard Ollie whimper and felt him shudder, and she winced, realizing the boy was still shaken up from what had transpired earlier.

In all honesty, so was she.

Squeezing the lad's shoulder reassuringly, Isolda said, "But the Jornishman wasn't afraid. He wasn't goin' ter give up. Whenever merchants passed through Kendles, he'd offer ter help them load or unload their cargo an' the like. They were suspicious at first, but they soon came ter like an’ trust the dark-haired stranger 'cause o' his kindness an’ wit. He loved ter make 'em laugh, ter remind 'em the world isn't such a terrible place. Whenever someone in Kendles lost a loved one ter the...erhem, well, whenever somebody lost someone, the Jornishman offered ter help in whatever way he could." Smiling down at Ollie, who was staring at her with that unnerving intensity only children have, Isolda said, "That's somethin' ter think about, aye, Ollie? See, the Jornishman wasn't expectin' to get anythin' in exchange fer all his hard work an' help. He was doin' good fer its own sake. Ye understand?" Ollie nodded and grinned, the delight in his eyes breaking Isolda's heart.

Because the story wasn't true.

The Jornishman had, in fact, been trying to catch the eye of as many influential people as he could from the moment he set foot in Kendles. He wasn't just kind and clever. He was ambitious, ruthless, and refused to let anyone stand between him and his goals. Grimacing, Isolda said, "Anyways, after a little time had passed, word o' the Jornishman's good deeds reached the ears o' a powerful...uhhh, a powerful sorceress named Celeste Kalten."

Ollie let out an excited gasp, pulling his thumb out of his mouth, and said, “A sorceress?! Really, Miss Weldspurs?! She could use magic?!”

Isolda nodded slowly and said, “Aye, that she could. She was a mighty sorceress, indeed, Ollie, an' she was the leader o' a powerful family in Kendles. Called themselves the Coterie.”

The boy frowned and said, “The Cot...Cotermummy?” When Isolda shook her head, fighting back the urge to laugh at the serious, almost adult expression on the lad's face, Ollie said, “The Coatseree?”

Chuckling, Isolda said, “Try it like this, Ollie. "Coat," like those frilly things the Wallies wear, aye? Then "err" like ye can’t think o' what ye was goin’ ter say. An’ "ree" at the end. Put it all together an' what do ye get?”

Grinning triumphantly, Ollie said, “Coat-err-ree! The Coterie. I did it, Miss Weldspurs!”

Ruffling the boy's hair and squeezing him tight, Isolda nodded and said, "Aye, ye did, Ollie, but keep yer voice down. Don't want ter wake yer da, do we? Speakin' o' which, let's get back ter the story so ye can get to bed, aye? Ye need to be well-rested fer when we reach Alfwig." Nodding solemnly, Ollie fell silent and Isolda said, "Right, so the sorceress invited the Jornishman ter join her family, because, jest like him, she wanted ter help people. She wanted ter make Kendles a better place. Celeste did her best to teach the Jornishman everything she knew." The young Kend paused, pursing her lips and trying to think of how to phrase this next part. The part where, in reality, the Jornishman likely poisoned Celeste so he could take control of the Coterie and pinned the murder on four innocent men. Four innocent men that disagreed with their elders' decision to allow an outsider to assume command of Kendles' most powerful gang at the time.

Why was she doing this?

Pushing the vexing question aside, Isolda said, her words coming slowly at first but gradually picking up speed, "But, ye see, Ollie, there were people in Kendles that didn't like what the Coterie, Celeste, an' the Jornishman were doin'. They wanted ter rule Kendles fer their own selfish reasons. They wanted ter use an' abuse the people in the name o’ greed, gold, an' glory. So, these men ahhh...well, they called out fer someone, anyone ter help them. An' four evil monsters answered their call. The men told these devils how ter reach the sorceress an' how they might get rid of her."

Isolda felt Ollie tensing beside her and started to slowly, almost mindlessly, run her hand up and down his arm. By the Four, she was too tired for this, but she could hear the boy's breathing slowing down. He'd be asleep soon enough. "It's jest a story, Ollie. No need ter be afraid. The devils, followin' the orders o’ their masters, put somethin' nasty in Celeste's wine one night, something so subtle an' vile even her magicks couldn't detect it. She drank her fill an’...well, she fell into a deep slumber that nobody could wake her from."

“What did the Coaternanny and the Jornishman do, Miss Weldspurs?” Ollie asked drowsily as he snuggled his head into Isolda’s side.

“Well,” Isolda said, her mouth feeling strangely dry, “the Jornishman decided he wasn’t goin’ ter wait fer the Coterie ter act. He spent the next seven days an' seven nights tracking the devils. And when he found them he said, “Monsters! Ye’ve placed my teacher an' dear friend, Celeste Kalten, under a foul sleepin' spell. I demand ye restore her.” Ollie let out a thrilled squeak, and Isolda winced. So much for wearing the lad out.

“Did the Jornishman have a magical sword or a dagger from the sorceress to help him fight the devils, Miss Weldspurs? Did it have magical fire around it?!” Oleander asked eagerly, all signs of tiredness momentarily vanishing from his round, dirty face.

“Oi, who’s tellin’ the story here, yerself or me?” Isolda asked and Ollie giggled before pointing at her and leaning up against her once more. “As a matter o’ fact, the Jornishman’s razor-sharp dagger did indeed glow with bright green fire when he unsheathed it. See, he wasn’t scared, Ollie, though these devils were more dangerous than any Filthspawn. Because these devils looked like men.” Blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, Isolda said, “The devils said they wouldn’t undo the spell so the Jornishman attacked with all the strength an' fury of a wolf or so the bards say. An', in the end, when the dust settled, the devils were gone but so was the Jornishman’s chance at wakin' up Celeste. But he swore that he would lead the Coterie in her name an' never forget her. Or her hopes fer Kendles an' its people.”

“What happened next, Miss Weldspurs?” Ollie asked, his words slurred with sleep and Isolda gently laid the boy down on the wagon’s floor.

The dark-haired woman brushed a strand of curly brown hair out of the lad’s face and said, “The Jornishman became known as the Wolf, an' he led the Coterie fer many, many years. He’d even meet a beautiful woman from a foreign land an’ fall in love, but that, little one, is a story fer another time.”

As Isolda started to stand, however, Ollie asked her, "Wait, Miss Weldspurs...what was the Jornishman's name?"

The young Kend felt sick to her stomach. Pulling up the hood of her cloak and not turning back to look at Ollie, she said, "Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy."

When the boy didn't respond or say anything else, Isolda looked over her shoulder at him. Oleander was dozing peacefully in the wagon bed, his thumb jammed in his mouth. Deciding she needed to get away from the caravan for a few moments, her pale, slender hands trembling beneath her black-dyed calfskin gloves, the Kend walked past a few clumps of people huddled together for warmth. Edgar had decided, in light of the Filth ambush, there would be no fire until they reached Alfwig so the caravan's passengers had to make do. Hounded by the sounds of Helga's weeping, Isolda continued walking until she reached the outskirts of the encampment, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Why was she doing this?

“Fecking shite,” she snarled quietly, her mind racing. This wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She needed to leave. She’d heard of people surviving in the Bleakwood for years. Although, most of those stories ended with "And then the Filth destroyed them." By the Four, the One-Eyes, or rather those members that had escaped her da's conquest of their gang, once had a small hideout not far from Alfwig. Before the Friends of Foy had destroyed it. If she could find whatever was left of the place, she’d have a defensible home and could leave this crown business behind. She could forget about going home and trying to make amends, trying to reclaim her birthright. Trying to make Kendles into something more than just a shitty village people passed through on their way to anywhere else. Adjusting her hood as she kept moving, Isolda saw a tall, gangly figure leaning against one of the night oaks nearby. His back was to her, but that silhouette was unmistakable. What had Edgar and the other mercenaries called him? Smiles?

Honestly, talking to anyone that wasn’t an impressionable child would be better than this constant barrage of questions and self-doubt.

Clearing her throat to avoid startling the sellsword, Isolda walked up beside him, his lanky body towering over her, and said, “Oi, how goes the watch, Smiles?” Isolda started to grin, but her smile stopped, half-formed, and an expression of confusion spread across her sunburnt features. Was this bastard asleep on watch? His eyes looked like they were closed. Tentatively, the young Kend reached out and poked the man with one finger, her other hand instinctively resting on Crapper's hilt.

You could never be too careful.

Grisaille Genesis

The Red Knife of Kendles

A charcoal sketch of Isolda drawn by the artist Sylessae "Smiling Sylessae" Alban, a known associate of the Friends of Foy. Three years ago, this image adorned countless wanted posters scattered throughout Kendles. Most of these posters have either rotted away or been repurposed by now.

The Kinslayer

Name: Isolda Foy, Currently calling herself Ingrid Feldspar

Title: The Kinslayer, The Red Knife of Kendles, Friendly

Age: 25

Appearance: Isolda is roughly 5'5” and has pale skin that looks slightly sunburnt. Her hair, which used to be a dark brownish-blonde, is now black thanks to various natural dyes. Considering the Friends of Foy may still be looking for her, Isolda is less concerned with preserving her original hair color and more interested in not getting killed. The former thief has the same pale blue eyes as her late mother, Angrboda Seidr, and the same heart-shaped face. However, due to spending the last three years living off the land, Isolda's visage has become gaunt and her high cheekbones are quite prominent. This is also reflected in her physique. The dark-haired young woman has the wiry musculature of an athlete or someone that spends most of their time outdoors. Her current hardships notwithstanding, Isolda has a warm, welcoming smile that makes her eyes crinkle in a manner some might consider childlike. However, one need only look into those blue, strangely sad eyes to see this "child" has witnessed a fair amount of pain and suffering.

Isolda generally wears undyed homespun garments, though she occasionally makes a point of speaking with traveling merchants in hopes of bartering for new clothes. At the moment, she's wearing a beautifully dyed, dark blue hooded cloak of Jornish wool. This fine cloak is draped over a ragged breastplate of cured leather and a long-sleeved homespun tunic. Breeches of undyed homespun as well as black-dyed calfskin boots and gloves complete Isolda's eclectic ensemble. The young woman rarely goes anywhere without her travel-stained leather knapsack, and she always has at least two or three daggers tucked into the wide leather belt around her waist. Truth be told, she looks like the average traveler you might encounter on Pertovia's dangerous roads.

One thing that does make her stand out is the silver chain she wears around her pale, slender neck. A wooden medallion that has been carved to resemble the face of a snarling wolf dangles from this chain. Isolda keeps the necklace tucked into her tunic to avoid drawing undue attention to herself, but, when she's alone, she'll often glance at it with a look of profound melancholy. It's one of the few things that can dislodge the former thief's perpetual grin.

Personality: Isolda is a kind-hearted, generous woman that will not hesitate to help others. Of course, she's no fool. Due to her upbringing and the circumstances surrounding her departure from Kendles, Isolda approaches most situations with a great deal of caution. If a traveler on the road is behaving oddly for no apparent reason, Isolda will find a place to hide so she can discern if she's about to walk into a trap. Once her paranoia has been quelled, the former thief is always ready with a smile and an offer of food or drink, which she'll trade for news of the goings-on in Pertovia. The moment violence threatens, however, the dark-haired woman will either try to flee or, if escape isn't possible, draw her daggers and set to work. Unlike many of the bandits that wander the wilds, Isolda derives no joy from killing. In fact, her normally cheerful expression becomes almost sickly when she fights. She also never strikes first if she can help it. There's a hesitance, perhaps even a hint of fear, to Isolda when she fights that makes her graceful, swift movements jerky and spastic. While she's able to dart around slower, heavier blows, it's clear the dark-haired woman is weighed down by something beyond the physical. In any event, she has no compunctions about looting those that have attacked her.

This is Pertovia, after all, where death lurks around every corner.

Background Information: Isolda Foy was born in an isolated hovel near the western edge of Kendles during a terrible thunderstorm. Her mother, a stoic, pale woman with fiery reddish-orange hair and blue tattoos adorning her body, was named Angrboda Seidr and claimed to hail from some frozen hellscape on the mainland. Her father, on the other hand, was none other than Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy, the charismatic and ruthless leader of the Friends of Foy. The Friends of Foy, which were known by most as the Friends, happened to be one of the most powerful bands of thieves, cut-throats, and assassins in the village. In any case, nobody is entirely sure what transpired during the night of Isolda's birth. The only people in the ramshackle hovel were Waldemar, Angrboda, and a midwife Waldemar trusted. As the rain petered out and the last echoes of thunder boomed across Kendles, only the Wolf and the midwife emerged. Waldemar was clutching a small, pale infant with hair as dark as his own as he made his way back to the manor house that served as the Friends of Foy's headquarters. Anybody with half a brain assumed Angrboda died in childbirth, but others weren’t so sure. Waldemar had many enemies, and it was no secret that this soft-spoken, foreign woman held a special place in the gang leader’s heart. Perhaps the Wolf was simply tying up a loose end?

Regardless, Waldemar Foy had what he'd wanted for several years. He had an heir, someone he could pass his teachings, and the Friends of Foy, onto before he passed. He wasn't a young man anymore, and, between the endless Filth attacks and the dangers posed by Kendles' other gangs, Waldemar knew it was only a matter of time before death claimed him. The Wolf was nothing if not pragmatic. Why else would he have his heavily pregnant beloved give birth in a shack, away from the prying eyes and listening ears of his adversaries?

Despite the volatile and unpredictable nature of Kendles, Waldemar was able to give his daughter a surprisingly stable upbringing. His first priority, of course, was to teach her how to defend herself, and nobody in the village knew more about knifework than the Wolf. He also spent a great deal of time instructing her on how to move swiftly, confidently, and most importantly, quietly. By the age of six, Isolda, who quickly earned herself the nickname "Friendly" because of her bright smile, was spending hours on end with stilettos in her hands while she darted across the rooftops of Kendles alongside her father.

During these training sessions, Waldemar would also lecture his daughter about the other groups that struggled to eke out some kind of existence in the village. Most of them were little more than roving bands of thugs, but a few were dangerous enough to challenge the Friends. The Coterie Reborn. The Silver Lane Bullyboys. The Pariahs. The One-Eyes. And, of course, the Filth Eaters, the most deranged and terrifying gaggle of madmen in the entire settlement. This gang was the greatest threat to the Friends of Foy, and Waldemar made a point to teach Isolda how to recognize the signs of an imminent attack by these crazed worshippers of the Filth. He also took great pains to ensure his daughter learned to read and write, though he was shocked by how quickly she mastered reading. Isolda struggled with writing for several years, and still writes much slower than she reads, but she was already reading Hamlin's theses on Filth incursions by the time she was twelve.

Waldemar, despite his better judgment, doted on Isolda while impressing upon her the importance of what was expected of her. The Friends of Foy needed to be her first and only priority.

And then, not long after her eighteenth name day, something unexpected happened.

Isolda was accompanying a small group of Friends as they visited the Last Stop Tavern, one of Kendles’ more permanent and well-known structures, to collect “protection money.” As the thieves were making their way back to the sprawling, fortified manor house the Friends had claimed as their own not long after their founding, they were attacked by twenty Filth Eaters. While the gangs of Kendles fought each other all the time, everyone knew Isolda Foy was the Wolf’s daughter. She was well-liked by many due to her affable nature and willingness to help others. Her kindness notwithstanding, Waldemar’s wrath would be cataclysmic if he learned his daughter had been hurt or worse. Isolda put her knives to good use that day, but, in the end, there were too many Filth Eaters and too few Friends of Foy. As a hulking, heavily scarred thug with a pock-marked face knocked her to the ground, however, something changed. Isolda heard what sounded like drums pounding in the back of her head. Her friends, her father’s men, lay bleeding and shitting themselves in their death throes around her. And now, this whoreson was going to kill her.

And Isolda erupted.

Consumed by a blinding rage unlike anything she’d experienced, the eighteen-year old woman rolled away from her assailant’s killing blow. She started cackling, laughing as if this whole scenario was a joke as she hamstrung the brute and slit his throat. The remaining Filth Eaters tried to circle Isolda, but she never stopped moving. Her iron stilettos danced through her pale, slender fingers, opening throats and spilling blood in a way that seemed so achingly beautiful, so sweet, so magical. For some reason, her throat hurt. It ached. It burned. It wasn’t until Isolda stood, alone and surrounded by corpses, in front of the Last Stop Tavern, that she realized it was because she’d been screaming the entire time. Blinking and looking down at her slender, toned frame, Isolda Foy saw she was drenched in blood and the Filth Eaters were dead. The people of Kendles that had come to watch the spectacle, many hoping to see the arrogant Friends of Foy knocked down a few pegs, just stared. Slowly, Isolda painfully limped back to the manor house and called for someone to find a healer. Waldemar heard whispers and rumors of what had happened, but, in truth, he was just glad his successor hadn't been killed.

Time marched on as it always does. The Friends of Foy continued to grow in strength and power, eventually absorbing the One-Eyes and the Silver Lane Bullyboys, though there were still enough lesser gangs, not to mention the Filth Easters, to keep them from completely controlling Kendles. Isolda flourished, becoming wiry and slender despite her love of fine drink and rich food, and started assuming more control over the Friends’ day-to-day activities. Her father was proud beyond words. And she hadn’t had another incident since the battle with the Filth Eaters, but memories of that conflict still haunted Isolda. She had no idea that kind of rage lurked within her.

Still, there was so much to do and never enough hours in the day. Isolda enjoyed spending time amongst the rough, uncouth people of Kendles even though her interactions with some of them ended violently. In truth, she often wondered what the village could become if it weren’t for the constant infighting and Filth incursions. She also marveled at how resilient and determined the few families that had made the settlement their home were. Isolda admired them, and, over time, many of them came to know her as a decent, altruistic woman with a good head on her shoulders.

A week before her twenty-second name day, Isolda was counting the day's take in her father’s office within the Friends of Foy's manor stronghold. She dropped one of the Illistair ration stamps she’d been inspecting, and it fell under the desk. As she bent down to retrieve it, however, the blonde-haired woman noticed something odd. There was a small iron lockbox beneath her father's desk. After a brief moment of hesitation, Isolda’s curiosity got the better of her so she grabbed the lockbox and managed to jimmy it open.

Inside were a few random objects. A lock of reddish-orange hair. A silver chain with a wooden medallion carved to look like a snarling wolf’s face dangling from it. And a letter written by Isolda’s father that was addressed to her mother. The words were unspeakably sweet and tender, but Isolda felt her heart drop into her stomach when she read that Waldemar regretted killing Angrboda but believed it had to be done. He couldn’t afford to have weaknesses his enemies could exploit.

Her mother, a woman that Isolda had never known, had been murdered by her father.

Now, the young Kend knew Waldemar had his reasons for doing what he’d done. And yet, the more she read through the letter, the more frantic the drums beating in the back of her skull became. Without even bothering to put the lockbox back, the young woman rose from her father’s desk and made her way to his bedchamber. The two men guarding his room were dozing at their posts so it was a simple matter for her to sneak up and cut their throats as rage consumed her.

This wasn't right. She had to stop. She needed to stop and think about what she was doing.

But she couldn’t.

The drums were like thunder in her head. Isolda heard someone let out a wet gargle and felt something warm splatter across her face. And then she blinked, wiping gore off her pale, heart-shaped visage, and looked down at her father’s corpse. It looked like he’d been mauled by a dog. Isolda tasted blood in her mouth and spat something leathery out onto the bed. It was her father’s left ear. Breathing heavily and hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Isolda immediately opened one of the windows in her father’s chamber and dove out into the darkness. The silver chain with the wooden wolf medallion hanging from it was clutched tightly in her right hand.

And so it was, with screams of outrage and horror following her, that Isolda Foy abandoned her childhood home.

She was confused, scared, and full of regret. Why had she done this? The last time this had happened was nearly two years ago, and now her father was gone. Slain by her own hand. Shuddering and vomiting on the roots of a nearby tree, Isolda continued to run, putting as much distance between her and Kendles as possible. Unbeknownst to her, the remains of her father so horrified the Friends of Foy they started referring to her as the Red Knife of Kendles. And as the Kinslayer.

Over the next three years, Isolda Foy, who often went by the name Ingrid Feldspar to avoid recognition, wandered Pertovia, doing her best to interact with people as little as possible. She was a monster. She had to be. She’d killed her own father. No man or woman is more hated than the kinslayer. This guilt ate at her, gnawing at her constantly, and yet, she forced herself to keep smiling. Yes, she’d done a terrible thing, a monstrous thing, but what was done was done. She still needed to eat and find clean drinking water and the wilds of Pertovia were far from safe. She could wallow in her guilt and shame after she found what she needed to survive.

Recently, after seeking refuge from a violent rainstorm inside a crumbling ruin carved from white marble, Isolda found something unusual. It was a simple ivory circlet with a large, oval-shaped onyx set into the front. It was a crown. The young woman picked up the crown and stowed it in her knapsack, trying not to think of all the stories she’d read about crowns and the terrible fate that oft befell those that wore them, before setting off into the darkness once more.

After all, the darkness is where monsters belong, isn’t it?

Favorite Food: Isolda's favorite dish is roasted pheasant smothered in gravy along with as much red wine as she can drink. Preferably more red wine than she can drink.

Physical
Might: 2 (A Man among Men)
Coordination: 3 (Reflexes of a Cat)
Fortitude: 2 (Skin of Skin)

Psycho
Intellect: 3 (The Quick)
Wisdom: 2 (Straightforward)
Willpower: 3 (Plenty of Will)

Skills and Training
-Knifework: Thanks to her father's rigorous training regimen, Isolda can turn almost anything with an edge into a lethal weapon. As Waldemar always used to say, "You can never have too many knives."

-Quiet as Death: Another part of Waldemar's tutelage involved teaching his daughter the finer points of sneaking around places she shouldn't be. Unfortunately, this particular skill would ultimately result in the Wolf's demise.

-I Know People: Despite being away from Kendles for nearly three years, most people passing through the settlement have either met or spent time with Isolda at some point. She’s befriended many of them, and some may be willing to help her in the future.

-Survival at any Cost: Spending three years in the wilds of Pertovia has bred a certain toughness into Isolda. While she’s still willing to help others, the young woman has no intention of dying for anyone without cause.

-Quick Hands: As a former member of the Friends of Foy, Isolda knows how to relieve people of their belongings through trickery and stealth. She does tend to be cautious when picking her targets, however.

-Literate: Waldemar “The Wolf” Foy always intended for his daughter to take control of the Friends of Foy after his death. With this in mind, he taught her how to read and write, though she vastly prefers reading over writing.

-The Beast Within: Isolda has no idea why there are moments when her anger becomes an all-consuming, overwhelming inferno. All she knows is these fits are usually presaged by the sound of drums thundering in the back of her skull. This berserker rage doesn’t make the young woman any stronger, but it does make her more willing to take risks in the heat of battle. It's also what ultimately earned her the monikers "Kinslayer" and the "Red Knife of Kendles."

Most Memorable Moment: One moment that will always stick with Isolda is the image of her father’s mangled, bloody visage staring up at her from his bed. That feeling of gut-wrenching, sickening horror and shame when she realized she'd killed the man that had taught her everything haunts the former thief to this day.

The Friends of Foy

This symbol is often carved into the doors of businesses or buildings under the protection of the Friends of Foy. The citizens of Kendles refer to this sigil as the Black Dagger.

The Friends of Foy, also known as the Friends

When a young man named Waldemar Foy fled some unknown horror in Jornorston and claimed a crumbling lean-to as his own, nobody in Kendles paid much attention. The dark-haired Jornishman was ambitious, but so was everybody that hadn't experienced how dangerous life in the village could be. He'd learn soon enough. Surprisingly, after spending a year in Kendles, Waldemar's quick hands, wit, and willingness to do the most menial and thankless tasks earned him a place in the settlement’s most respectable gang. The Coterie. The leader of the Coterie at the time, a gorgeous woman named Celeste Kalten, eventually took Waldemar under her wing as a protégé, and, if rumors were to be believed, a lover. This gave Waldemar access to the meager resources the Coterie had at its disposal.

Including poisons like anthac root and lycia sap.

It was no surprise to anyone when Celeste was found dead in her bedroom a few years later, a puddle of spilled red wine spreading beneath her pallid corpse like blood. What was astonishing, however, was how effectively and swiftly Waldemar conducted the investigation to uncover the Coterie leader's murderers. In less than a week, he'd found the conspirators and had them drawn and quartered in Kendles' main square. Even the Coterie's eldest members were impressed.

After a brief period of debate, these aged thieves unanimously chose Waldemar as the interim leader of the gang until a more suitable candidate could be found. They never managed to find one. It wasn't long before Waldemar was either "persuading" Kendles' smaller gangs and guilds to join the Coterie or outright destroying them. This period, which lasted nearly five years, would come to be known as the "Reign of the Wolf" by the Kends, and it is considered one of the most dangerous times in the village’s history.

By the time Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy celebrated his twenty-fifth name day, the Coterie had been rechristened the Friends of Foy, and there were few factions within Kendles willing or able to defy them. Furthermore, they took over a fortified manor house that had once belonged to another band of thieves the Friends had conquered. Not long after this, Angrboda Seidr arrived in Kendles. Something about the stoic, foreign woman captivated Waldemar, and he wasted no time in courting this beautiful stranger. They would ultimately marry, but it took them several years to bear children. And the cost, unfortunately, was Angrboda's life.

Despite his beloved's death, Waldemar continued to lead the Friends of Foy for the next twenty-two years before he was slain, supposedly by his daughter, at the age of forty-seven. In the wake of their leader's demise, the Friends of Foy have been locked in a seemingly endless conflict with their greatest rival, the Filth Eaters. Of course, most of the village's inhabitants know it's only a matter of time before the Filth returns and batters these two warring gangs into submission.

Current Leaders of the Friends of Foy: Baldric Kroppen and his two lieutenants, Tylo “Tiny Tylo” Schaffer and Claudia Wurtz

Chronicles of Atlas | Medieval Pokemon

Hey, @Ambra, I think I'm going to have to bow out of this one due to time constraints. Best of luck to you folks, though.

Grisaille Genesis

I am absolutely interested. Would you like us to start working on CSes now or hold off?

Chronicles of Atlas | Medieval Pokemon

After a long hiatus from the guild, I'm definitely interested in this.

~The Masque of The Red Death~ (An RP adaption of Poe’s short story.) ( 2-4 Players) (M&F)

I am interested, though I have little knowledge of the historical period this story is set in. Can we just make up the places our characters are from as long as the technology and cultural norms are time period appropriate?