Maxwell

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

Heh, heh, heh, she's poetic for a huntsmaster. I have one problem with it, though. I really did not intend for the three enemy kingdoms to be cartoonishly evil (or for Erasmus to be cartoonishly good for that matter, although everyone seems to be on the same page there), and using peasant fodder is not something you usually want to do, unless I'm completely mistaken. A drafted peasant is a terrible fighter with terrible morale and terrible equipment - otherwise, why are you emptying your coffers to by weapons and armour for terrible fighters with terrible morale? - and extremely expensive. Since your peasant will most likely die, the cost of sending him to war is all the taxes he would otherwise have paid to you for the rest of his life, which is going to be a lot more than a single professional soldier's pay for a couple of seasons. If you kill enough peasants, you're also looking at a potential famine.

Nemasaire has the right of it, but I'll give you the layout here.

Hope you can read my chicken scratches.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

Nemasaire: The only thing off about your post is that there's still a hostile army out there. Command tents, supply wagons, seige engines and such are still hanging around outside the city, and the fields have probably been trampled. It's not super-important - it could be assumed that Sir's field of vision is limited and he's looking in a different direction from the advancing army, for example.

Otherwise, both your posts assumed different things than I did, but that's 100% okay. It happens in literally every game, and I deliberately gave the players a lot of power and freedom to keep that sort of thing from being a problem. We're only two posts in so far, but I'm already very satisfied with everything about this game.

Except maybe that everyone else is outshining me, and I can't keep up with this post length forever. D:

Lexicon: Thank you, I had forgotten all about that.

Edit: It seems like I can't. 65535 characters seems to be the limit. Maybe Raptorman could copy them into his first post in the thread?

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

It occurred to me that I forgot to mention a few key traits of the Fanged Islands. Castle Altranor is not Castle Dunwyn, but more like Chateu de Gisors, if it were three times as large. All of the Fanged Isles put together has something like the surface area of France, so the eight kingdoms - which do not encompass the entire area of the islands - are small and frugal compared to the ones we have today.

There's most likely more, but I can't recall any specific ones right now.

Edit: Also, because I feel it might not have come across in the original description, any wizard can make a wand. If you have a knife, a forearm-length piece of a stiff material that can be carved with a knife, and some measuring equipment (or not, if you're enough of a genius), you can turn basically any spell you like into a wand. It's not actually a magic item, so you don't need any expensive ingredients or anything. They require manual activation by their creator (or at least someone who can cast the spells involved and has studied the wand for a while), so they can't just be handed out to anyone.

In game, this essentially means an arcanist can use their combat spells without standing in one spot, waving their arms and shouting for half a minute first.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

No, my last post was the additional instructions I was referring to.

Edit: That is, you're all free to post now.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

By god, my head feels like it's being chewed on by a pack of wild animals. I've got a post for you, though, so let's get this ball rolling. I hope I don't come across as too pretentious for starting off with poetry, but I was in a pretetious mood when I made the first thread, and I thought you should at least know what the game's name is all about!

As you'll probably notice, I've mentioned some obvious escape routes for each character. You're welcome to use those, or think some up for yourselves. During your escape, throw in and/or overcome any enemies and obstacles you want in any way you see fit; you're all quite powerful and shouldn't have any problems with regular soldiers, so a bit of what might otherwise be considered godmoding is fine. In general, I'm gonna try to be pretty nonrestrictive in this game, as long as I have an interesting read and you don't go ending our journey prematurely. It'd be pretty bad to have a fantasy road trip without visiting at least a few exotic locales, right?

You're free to make it out of the city and meet up if you want, or to end your post anywhere during your flight, at which point I'll come in and throw in some further obstacles and advance the story as needed. If any of you end up stuck waiting for the others, feel free to do some character building and what not in the meantime, or to simply hold off on posting. I will also warn everyone right now - I'm not a stickler for having people post every X days, but if we end up stuck waiting for someone to post (and what counts as stuck can vary heavily), I may have to violate the sanctity of player control in order to move things forward. I'll try to keep it to a minimum, of course, but one of my main concerns is making sure the game flows. Worst case scenario, you can always take care of business retroactively.

And by all means, take your time replying, asking any questions you might have and so on. I have a feeling I didn't include everything I wanted to in that opener, but I can't recall at the moment, so point out anything you see.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

His hounds they lie down at his feete
so well they can their master keepe
His haukes they flie so eagerly
there's no fowle dare him come nie
She buried him before the prime
she was dead her selfe ere euen-song time
God send euery gentleman
such haukes, such hounds, and such a Leman
- The Three Ravens, Traditional

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the burning city and wreathed the castle grounds in a foul-smelling swirl of ash and corpse-stench. Through the broken remains of the castle gates, left utterly ruined by the invaders' siege weapons, the slow wind carried the sounds of fierce fighting - the din of battle rang loudly in the streets below, accompanied by the screams of the dying, and the choking gurgles as invading soldiers silenced them. From the castle, a victorious cheer could barely be made out amidst the sound of battlecries and clashing blades, and from below, maddened cries of elation mixed with despair, as the denizens of the king's dungeons clamoured to be set free - with such determination that their voices pierced the ground. Pigs squealed and dogs howled in the courtyard, and above it all, the Yellow Raven's patrolling sentries tried to keep some form of communication going with the force that had stormed the castle.

The stained glass window shattered like thin ice under a careless boot, raining pieces of the royal emblem down on the blood-soaked courtyard below. The body of king Erasmus the Indomitable arced limply through the air for a moment, before plummeting into the royal pigsty with a horrifying crash, scattering broken wood and terrified pigs in all directions. There in the mud, stripped of his crown and all his finery, his right arm left behind in the corridors above, the great king Erasmus met his ignoble fate. Perhaps a merciful god would take pity on his soul, but as far as the men, the lineage and the realm of Altranor was concerned, that was it.

The war had been won on the strategic level before it had even begun. When the soldiers of the Yellow Raven and his allies emerged from the midwinter blizzards to take the first village, it was already too late, and no clever tactics could save the kingdom from the armies that poured in across the frozen sea. Before news of the war had even reached king Erasmus, large swathes of land had already been lost, and many of the northern holds had either turned against the realm or been sacked. Messages went out by spell, by horse and by carrier pigeon, by every means available, but by the time they had been received, half the kingdom was already fighting for its life. Erasmus knew he had little hope of winning, but for honour's sake, he could not bring himself to flee - to face a life of exile while all his friends died for the kingdom he had failed to protect. Not everyone loved the late king, and not all his decisions were kind, but he knew loyalty. Perhaps the fact that he fought until the bitter end, rather than die on a betrayer's blade, brought him some small comfort as his life slipped away.

- - -

Many floors below the tower where they had dragged the king, down in the heart of the castle's central keep, a woman stood over the corpses of her child's murderers. She stared out the large, lavish windows at the commotion on the other side of the courtyard, where Erasmus' corpse had struck the ground. Castle Altranor was not the mightiest keep in the realm, nor the largest. It was an old building, and Erasmus had felt far more threatened by assassins than invading armies. Money had gone toward commerce, culture, the finery in that very room, and not toward higher walls and larger armies. But the down pillows and silk were stained with blood now, and all the gold in the world would not buy back what was lost. Her infant child still warm in her arms, Lin'Lise, wife of the late prince Alfred, no longer had anything to connect her to the blood of the royal house. All she had was herself, and with the sound of approaching boots coming in from above, that might not last. She would have to flee or die, to this wave, or the next, or the one after that. The nursery was a story or two above the ground, and the windows did not open - at least, not by design - but the nearby servant's quarters offered a less demanding escape route, down a rickety stairway and out the back door, if she could fight or sneak her way past any stragglers.

When the castle was stormed, the attackers vastly outnumbered the defenders, and some commanders had taken care to preserve certain parts of the castle for later looting. One such place was a large, brightly lit chamber, away from the regular hustle and bustle of castle life. Large bookcases lined the walls from one end to the next, full of tomes and scrolls both fanciful and factual. It was not the largest library in the city - the mage academy boasted one many times larger, with secret lore and ancient wisdom that dwarfed the king's own collection - but it was important in its own way, containing maps, lineages, knowledge of distant cultures, and other types of learning essential to the ruling caste. Nykerius, court wizard and a man of no small power, had none the less found it prudent to hole himself up in that untouched chamber. He was not the only wizard in this war, and though his spells may be powerful, the sheer weight of the magic bearing down on the city walls had made his hair stand on end. He was only one man against hundreds, and as he watched through the high windows above the bookcases, the king's corpse sailing through the sky confirmed once and for all that the battle was lost. As if on cue, there was a thunderous boom as the business end of a battering ram crashed against one of the library doors. Large but not reinforced, they would not sustain many blows before breaking open. A few soldiers might not be much of a threat, but on the other hand, an escape through the opposite entrance would be faster.

The charge on the keep had been led by an unknown warrior in heavy armour, charging in on a massive warhorse alongside an ogre vanguard. A single sweep of his halberd had swatted away the defenders' first volley of arrows, and the fury with which he carved up the soldiers in the courtyard had demoralized even the king's own guard, where they watched from high in the keep. Some cursed the king's foolish confidence, to send the royal protector away in the middle of a war, but the fact was that her presence would have made no difference. In fact, she was present, struggling to get closer as the enemy commander climb the stairs to where Erasmus would meet his doom. She fought valiantly, but even as the last enemy barring the way slid off her blade, the body of the king fell from the sky. Her mission failed, Riven found herself alone in the open, one foot on the entryway flagstones and one foot in the mud. Scouts in Soven heraldry, men and otherwise, had scaled the walls and kept an eye out for fleeing royalty - an arrow striking the ground at her feet told Riven they had seen her. The open doorway in front of her was dark and empty, and the castle promised many places to hide. On the other hand, she could sprint through the unguarded gates, back the way she'd came, into the city, where the fighting still raged. Either way, she'd be running right into an enemy force.

The secret passages of the old castle Altranor were old and rarely used, covered in cobwebs and pitch black. Many had collapsed altogether, but an agile man with a good memory could make it through if he needed to. The court warlock had been more than careful as he made it through, but he could thank nothing other than instinct as he suddenly shut the panel he was about to enter through, just as the tower door exploded inward and a stream of enemies poured inside and rushed up the stairs. By the time they had passed and Roderick had made it through to the next tower, it was already too late. The sounds from above were a terrible sign to begin with, but as he took his first few steps up the stairway, he caught sight of the body dropping like a rock into the pigsty. The warlock froze in mid-step as the sight triggered another vision - not of the future, but of the present. The royal family was dead, he was forced to realize, as images of their ravaged bodies wedged their way into his mind. The queen and all her sons and daughters, and their children in turn, some hacked apart at random, others blood-eagled or literally ripped to pieces with a brutality unlike anything Roderick had seen in the war. All while the king was alive to see it. It was a safe bet that those soldiers would be on their way down now, however, and other patrols were making their way around the castle. Fortunately, the court warlock had no shortage of escape routes.

Pigs were not the only creatures stirring in the aftermath of the king'd untimely death. The screams and bloody stench as the attacking force tore into the defenders frightened not only servants and maids, but also the animals that made the castle grounds their home. There was plenty of room, and keeping animals for the court was far more convenient than constantly having to purchase food from the city. A few of the stablehands had foolishly raised weapons against the invaders, and the resulting slaughter had damaged a couple of enclosures, set free some panicked animals, and seen more than one lantern knocked over. One spark later, and half the stables were ablaze, although the still-thick snow of the early spring kept it from spreading very far. By the time the main force had broken into the keep, the soldiers had already left the stables behind, its defenders all assumed dead. Alas, they were not. She had been fighting off Ghantian solders when a mace blow from behind sent her reeling, and her opponents managed to back her into a corner, where she had no time to react to the sound of breaking wood above. Taula, master of the hunt, was busy digging herself out of a pile of rubble. The king's body would be the first thing she'd see once she rose, and then the empty courtyard, across which she could flee in any direction. She might even scale the outer walls, if a twenty foot drop toward the frozen moat did not deter her.

Outside the city walls, a set of large tracks snaked their way through the snow, stopping at a cramped little hollow. Inside, a great beast huddled next to a tiny child, whose body had already begun to cool. The child had had the good fortune of passing out some time ago from fear and blood loss, and passed painlessly from one darkness to the next. Sir knew by now that she was gone, and it was not hard to understand that the children he left behind were gone as well. What's worse, that violent crash he'd heard a little while ago had a definite sense of finality to it, though there was no way for him to know why. The cold air was still heavy with smoke and death, but at he had been given a reprieve from the chaos and the fighting. Outside of the den, the keep loomed behind soot-stained walls and a frozen, stagnant moat, on top of a hill on the far side of the city. There had been no gates barring the way when Sir left, but there was still a city's worth of swords and angry men between him and the last place he had seen his master.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

Howdy, folks. I've been feeling like complete ass all day - or I would have replied earlier - but no longer! The deed is done and judgement has been rendered. These are the final players, and final corrections to their sheets where appropriate.

Acrolith's Taula

Chromane's Roderick: We've talked.

Hank's Nykerius: We'll have to discuss the details of your weather spells at some point. No particular rush, though.

Lexicon's Riven: Just remember that poisons will be a lot less effective against more powerful opponents. Conversely, don't be afraid to play up your combat abilities. Swatting arrows out of the air is perfectly acceptable for a dedicated warrior, for example.

Nemaisare's Sir: I rarely complain about these things, but I still have a creeping suspicion your character might be too weak. Oh well, you'll adapt.

Raptorman's Lin'Lise: I tend to take a very narrow view of blanket immunities. The weapon is acceptable - but I'm not allowing it any protection against indirect effects of magic. As for the wands, a wand might speed up healing, but it does so in the same sense that modern equipment speeds up surgery. With arcane healing, you can't ever just zap someone and let the wounds heal themselves, unless you want to fuse his ribcage together and give him cancer.

Now then. I'm about half-done with the introductory IC post, and I imagine I will want to explain further how I was thinking we'd handle this game, so please hold off on replying to the IC post even if it comes up without further instructions. To everyone who sent in sheets and weren't selected, thank you very much for your interest, and I hope I'll see you in future games. It was wonderful to get to think about things like depth of character, story potential and so on rather than worry about whether the sheets even fulfill my basic writing requirements. If the game turns out as well as the interest thread, you can be sure it won't be my last.

There's a risk the painkillers might run out before I finish the IC post, but hopefully I'll be done tonight.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

Tch, to think that I wasn't sure I'd get any response at all. My progression has been something along these lines: "I guess we can do this with three people. Oh hey, four guys are interested, neat. More people? Oh well, I'm sure I won't get more than four decent sheets anyway. I can get rid of a couple of these, right? Fine, five people is still pretty manageable. Jeebus, am I gonna have to go with six? Isn't six too many? Alright, I'm gonna go with six. No, I'm not gonna go with six. I'm gonna go with six. I'm not gonna go with six. I'm gonna go with six. I'm not gonna go with six."

So I'm gonna go with six players. It's kind of a lot, so the drawback is that I'm just gonna have to move your characters along if you don't post fast enough. I don't expect more than a couple of posts a week from everyone, though, and less is certainly acceptable, as long as we're moving at a steady pace.

Six people it will be, though my weekend is pretty booked, and I don't want to rush this, so I'm not promising anything this side of Monday. Latecomers are still welcome to send in their sheets, and I will be dropping in intermittently to answer questions, but recruitment is drawing to a close, and you might not make it.

Last but not least, let me say how stoked I am to find that there are still role players of this caliber active online. There are sheets in this thread that won't get into the game, that are still better than any I have ever written. It's been inspiring, folks, and I hope the game lives up to it.

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

Kudos to everyone who noticed I wanted your usernames on your hiders. I guess I know who was paying attention. ;P

Any last minute sheets I will gather up in this post, and the final selection will naturally be stuck in the OOC opener so no one needs to dig for them later. In the meantime, I will begin to seriously decide which players are gonna be playing.

Nemaisare

Name: Sir
Age: 12
Species: Anan – A long-lived(up to 30 years) subspecies of canid, said to be a feral remnant of the giants’ dogs that shrank to fit their island homes. NB: it hasn’t yet been proven that giants exist or have dogs to suit their size. They have an excellent ability to find living prey even in dense thicket, and the third eye suggests a connection to foresight or time.*If taken in as pups, they make surprisingly tractable companions and can be taught to understand the rudiments of our language. Owners of these beasts have occasionally reported seeing and sensing things they had not noticed before when touching them, but the phenomena has yet to be fully explained.** Members of the feral population are considered to be dangerous pests and often driven off or killed, and have become relatively rare. Those that are tamed, however, can become a valuable resource in keeping other wild predators away from livestock.

*Really, the third eye just gives them better visual focus up close. They do, however, have a different way of seeing the world, air and all gases are black, while living matter shines bright silver and other solids gradually diminish to greys.
**They can pass on their own observations of the world around them, and rudimentary visual cues, through touch.

Position: Sir is mainly a glorified pet. He was also, however, meant as a secondary line of defense for the king, in case the walls and guards weren’t enough.

Skills and Abilities:
He knows how to fight by instinct and training, but has never actually needed to, except once or twice against other beasts, and so is not entirely ill-prepared to take a well armoured and well-armed fighter head on, but he’s not exactly experienced. He is a very good hunter, however, and often went out with the king whenever the time could be spared. His senses of smell and hearing are well above average, at least compared to a human’s, and his ability to spot hidden, unmoving, prey is slightly above average for most other canines. He’s also got endurance, strength and durability on his side. And can jump over 30’ horizontally, and 15’ vertically with a running start. He can keep up a 12 km/h trot for hours and sprint at ~80km/h for a short time. With better conditioning, he might increase these measurements a little.

Appearance:
Sir most closely resembles a wolf or dog in appearance. He stands 6’ at the shoulder and 11’ from nose to rump. Weighing ~300lbs, he is slightly overweight. Standing, he has a straight back and slight shoulder hump of muscle, with thick legs and huge paws. He looks heavy when he moves, with a loose gait and, broad chest and shoulders, and fur you could lose a hand in. His skull alone measures nearly two feet long, with a broad muzzle, black nose and loose jowls. Its width is designed to accommodate the third eye, set just above the ordinary pairing, in the middle of his forehead. They are brown. His ears, slightly rounded at the tip, are oversized and erect. They are extremely useful for reading his mood. His teeth and vocalisations are the usual canid set.

His fur is uniformly thick across most of his body, being thinnest around his face and paws. The longer hair is coarse and slightly waterproof, while the underfur is both softer and denser. Sir’s colouring is predominantly russet, black and cream. He has a black mask covering his face from nose to cheeks that lightens to reddish-brown around his paired eyes and then continues to his ears. The black also goes a short ways down his throat before fading into grey and then cream. It colours the rims of his ears and draws a line down his spine and halfway down his tail. His ruff and flanks are whorled with a mixture of black and russet, with the red tinge being stronger. Reddish-brown also covers the backs of his ears and the very tip of his tail. The rest: stomach, legs, middle of the tail and throat, are all creamy white.

There are a few scars hiding under his fur, and several nicks and scratches on his muzzle and lips. His ears are well notched and chewed on and his tail is a little crooked.

Personality:
Generally mild mannered and affable, Sir’s method of interacting with the world is a mixture of curiousity, caution and eager attentiveness. He’s never been treated poorly or left uncared for, and he’s perfectly comfortable within walls as without. Though, admittedly, his large size can sometimes make maneuvering inside challenging. So, thus far, he’s learned mainly about the things he likes. People, warmth, food, play, hunting… And very little about what he doesn’t like. Fire hurts, so do sharp things, and scaring horses is not a good idea, neither is leaving his tail in a doorway. He learns through experience, and, as such, cannot easily understand a concept through theory alone, though he can extrapolate from similar experiences. For example, the first time he encountered fire, he did not know it would hurt. Now he does, and he usually expects that if something feels hot, prolonged contact with it will also hurt. He is also an observant creature, and so, does not need it to be his experience, though, as ever, seeing and understanding can be two very different things. He’s a fast learner though, and has a surprisingly good memory.

He is a social animal who enjoys the company of others, most particularly those he has come to view as pack and friend. As a daily part of the late-king’s retinue, the foremost important person in his life was the king, and after him, his family. When he is not near the king or his children, he is more fretful and less difficult to manage, but he will recognise others of the king’s court and seek interaction with them if the better choice is unavailable. As the king is now dead, and all his family, Sir has little other choice. He has lived with humans and those others in the court almost as long as he was alive, and can read them almost as easily as he can read the body language of another Anan. He can gauge friendly intention from harmful, read another’s mood and sense when tension is too thick to break. He has learned, and continues to actively listen to, much of the language used around him, and though connections are still at a rudimentary level he has ascertained the difference in tone between an order, a suggestion and an uncertain command.

This is important to him because, while usually calm and tractable, he is not above testing his limits, and, as he is just into his prime, he is feeling more confident in what he knows and what he can do and judging for himself whether or not he should do something. If someone he trusts gives an order, he is liable to obey immediately, if they offer a suggestion, he can conclude what they like or do not like him to do. If they scold him, he can learn from that too. But if someone entreats him, or tries coaxing, he will trust them less and test them more. Sir knows he is a big animal, he knows he is not as fragile as those he lives with, and he knows that this frightens some of them. Mostly, he will avoid those people, but he also knows that uncertainty and fear can be turned to his advantage if he does not like the situation with nothing more than a little posturing. It is natural, for him, to fall back on warning and threat in those instances, and to lie with his body language to gain the upper hand.

He knows to be observant, and to understand consequence, but he has not yet fully grasped the difference between thinking ahead and acting to avoid trouble, and thinking ahead to know the trouble your actions will cause. Mostly, this means he’ll try not to do anything others seem to think troublesome and that he’s still relatively straightforward to deal with. If he does not like someone, he will carefully observe them and grow snappish the closer they come. If he does not mind a person, he will mostly ignore them. The same if he thinks a person unimportant. If he likes someone, he will go out of his way to be friendly. Most familiar faces are somewhere between like and don’t care about, and most unfamiliar faces he merely distrusts until he’s been introduced. Sometimes, however, he can take an instant dislike to someone and not change his tune for anything. This can be as simple as because their laugh hurts his ears or as reasonable as because they are in the wrong area.

Sir is not easily frightened, though he can be provoked to greater caution; pain and the actions of those around him are good deterrents for impetuousness. He is also, however, not easily provoked into anger, and acts violent usually only when protecting himself or others, or believing he’s protecting them, and when hunting. But while he is predictable, he is also still an animal. If people do not respect his space, he won’t respect theirs and two way communication can be difficult. He is patient, but only to a point, and the more frustrated he gets, or anyone else gets, the less kindly he’ll respond as time goes on.

Backstory:
Sir was born in a large den beside a river town, near a heavy bridge that served as a central trading hub. Of course, this meant little to him or his siblings save that there was often noise well into the night. His mother and father paid slightly more attention to it however, as they were fed from the scraps it turned out and kept nearby to chase away vermin and the larger scavengers that could threaten the lives of livestock and traders alike. The whole town pitched in to look after them, though they were rather more self-sufficient than less. It paid to keep them happy and nearby, and full, so that they didn’t become scavengers themselves.

For the first two months of his life, all he knew was the faint silver sheen of the dirt around him and the brighter light of his littermates and the way his mother’s warmth and milk made him sleepy. But they did not stay in the den for long, and almost the same day his mother coaxed them out for the first time, the townsfolk sent the butcher to gather the pups so they could raise them the rest of the way themselves. The butcher being the one who had the most contact with the pair. His mother and father were still half feral, but if they accustomed the pups to human contact, they could sell them for further profit. And that is exactly what they did.

He and his two siblings spent the rest of the year playing in a fenced yard, eating, growing and putting up with daily visits from children and learning about the world. They were not completely removed from their mother’s care, as she could easily get over the fence where they could not. But she never tried to get them out as it seemed safe enough and she had nowhere else to take them. It was in that yard that Sir first learned to understand the tone of human language, and the differences between their strength and his. Even a pup could bite hard enough to break a human’s skin. And it was his own mother who disciplined him for that mistake when the child began to wail. He learned to be patient with pulled ears and a pinched tail, and how to tell a human to stop without going too far himself.

He also learned that humans were the source of his food as much as his mother was, and that when they asked something of him, he should try to do it. Often, during that first year, he’d go through every action he knew how to do, from running over to sitting, lying down, licking their face and knocking them over until they managed to show him what was wanted. They didn’t like that, and he figured out that patiently admitting his confusion by simply standing there and tilting his head could win him their favour, and the answer, far faster than trying to figure it out for himself.

At the end of the year, before he was fully grown, Sir and his siblings were put in a cage and fed drugged meat to get them asleep and docile. The cage was set on a boat and sent down the river to a larger market set up just beneath the king’s castle, where they were to be sold to the highest bidder. His sister was bought for the pitfights. His brother for a farming hamlet that needed the extra protection, and Sir was bought for a young lord who was pleased with his new pet for all of five minutes, before moving on to other things. His father was a travelling dignitary, there to attempt drawing out concessions from King Erasmus. He’d bought the pup in the hopes of keeping his son happy.

The man’s wife did not appreciate the gesture, and in a very calm fit of rage when the young pup ruined a dress worth more than he was, she picked the animal up by the scruff of his neck and brought him before the queen with a gracious smile. She gifted the Anan to her, claiming it to be a loyal companion and well worth royalty, hoping that she might forgive her for appearing so rudely before her in less than fine clothing with the gift. The queen, wise enough in the ways of both young boys and young dogs, accepted the gift with a smile, and promptly dumped the Anan into the care of the kennelmaster with the charge that he should make something of the beast.

The man, who knew what he’d been given, and didn’t really want the pup near his own hounds, spoke with the Captain of the Guard, who spoke with the chamberlain, who spoke with the king, who came down to the kennels to see this beast for himself. Sir was on his best behaviour, having fully realised he’d done something wrong, and won the king over with a well-timed whine and tail wag. It was agreed that if he could be trained as a guard dog, of which the kennelmaster was in no doubt, then the king would keep him nearby thereafter.

And so, Sir’s real training began.

The kennelmaster taught him how to behave indoors, and stay calm near crowds. He showed Sir where to get food, and inadvertently how to charm the cook, and ensured that he visited the king as often as possible, so they might be accustomed to each other. He was quite happy with the Anan’s treatment of the royal family when he was introduced to the children, and the queen even deigned to give him a pat on the head. Working with the guards, he was also taught that, sometimes, attacking a human was allowed. But also, that they could be harder to bite than usual and had sharp sticks that hurt. A lot. He had to learn how best to disable such an opponent and how to ignore any fear of being hurt himself that he might feel in the process. Mostly, he figured out that attacking from the back is a much better method than attacking from the front. He learned the basic commands that most household dogs should know, sit, stay, come, heel, down(that was an important one) and even fetch. But he also learned guard, hold and how to threaten when the king set his hand just so on his neck.

He was taught to listen only to the king and queen, and also, to think for himself. Although, that was a side effect of being rewarded when he did his job well.

When he reached his full growth and what the kennelmaster thought was his full potential, he was presented to the king and has been at the man’s side since. Or, at the very least, outside the door. The queen doesn’t like him in her bedchamber, and it was her forceful expression of that fact that broke his tail when she slammed the door on it. Sir still tucks his tail in whenever he has to go through or sit near doors now.

He has stopped two assassins since, leaving one dead and crippling the next, but has been of more use acting threatening in the courtroom than actively doing anything dangerous. And was always just as happy to doze under the weight of a grandson or daughter when they came to distract their grandfather as settle his chin on his master’s knee or go running beside his horse beyond the castle. He learned who was and wasn’t trusted by the king, and was well settled into King Erasmus’ routines when the sudden tension grew around them. He didn’t understand why, winter was usually the quiet period, when his humans didn’t want to go outside. But now he has learned that some humans do not care about the weather, and now they are inside while he is outside.

Sir did fight when the soldiers bulled their way through the castle, but the king’s last command was to guard the children. He kept them all in one room, and guarded the door. He was struck more than once across his face and chest, and killed more than one man, and might have kept them safe until others could arrive to get them out, but he had not remembered the other door, and the enemy found it first. He turned at their cries and saw most already dead. So, he picked up the nearest and ran, forcing his way through the press of strange soldiers as he searched for the king. He did not find him, but he did make it outside the castle walls with his burden, and dug himself and the child a snow den, where he curled around her and tried to keep her warm, licking his wounds and hers. But she bled out while he recovered.

Now he only wants to return to find his master, or any other he knows, and if they are strong enough, chase the invaders out of his home.

Notable Possessions: He’s got a few cow’s thighbones and hooves cached about the place, but has carefully kept them outside the castle since being sternly reprimanded for making the king’s royal bedchambers stink to high heaven by saving a whole leg for later under the bed and then being unable to reach it…
He also has a solid iron collar with the king’s sigil on it. It’s only a collar, though it is meant to protect his neck and throat in a fight.

Hank

Name: Nykerius “The Stormsinger” of Crevasse.
Race: Human.
Age: 67.
Position: Court wizard and advisor of the King.
Appearance: Dignified, bespectacled, greybearded, Nykerius is the model image of an aging sorcerer. His eyes are a brilliant shade of emerald, still sharp as ever, betraying his intelligence and keen awareness, but they are his only feature that has not aged. His shoulder-length hair is as grey as the aforementioned beard and his face is lined and weathered. With the aid of a walking cane to compensate for a slight limp, Nykerius reaches slightly over six feet at his full height. He dresses in surprisingly plain (but decidedly well-made) robes for someone of his station, preferring to understate his appearance. His presence carries weight, however, and his deep voice and piercing gaze demand respect from all but the most ignorant of curs.
Personality: The Stormsinger is a well-mannered, calm and occassionally humorous old man who has made peace with the fact that he is well beyond his prime. Bravado has made place for wisdom and where he used to lead armies with gusto, he now advises and counsels in gentle tones. Nykerius is a firm believer in giving everyone a chance, and treats friend and foe alike with courtesy and respect (though he may be more inclined to kill the latter – politely, of course). As such, he is quick to be friendly and many people throughout the kingdom of Altranor consider him their friend. Nykerius is a private person, however, and few people truly know him as well as they think they do, and he has no true close friends. He detests senseless violence, cruelty and rudeness. He quietly worships a god of magic called Sotharis, the patron of sorcerous scholars.
Backstory: Nykerius is of relatively high birth. He was born the eldest son of the Lord of Crevasse, the ruling noble of a prosperous port city not far from the capital of Altranor. The Lord of Crevasse was an accomplished military commander in his time, and Nykerius was expected to be no different. He was taught the art of warfare and tactical command from a young age. Nykerius never complained about this education, though he made it no secret to his father that he desired different knowledge altogether... the knowledge of arcane magic. His father was not an unkind man, and Nykerius was allowed to learn magic as well.

As a young adult, Nykerius attended a prestigious college in the capital of Altranor along with many of the other brightest minds of his generation. His prodigious intelligence and quick grasp of spellcraft did not go unnoticed, nor did his cunning and tactical command. Immediately following graduation, Nykerius became an officer in the Altranorian army, simultaneously a commander and a battlemage – one of the few to hold such a post. He was beloved by the men and well-liked by his commanders. He very rarely indulged in personal combat, instead preferring to lead and direct from the backlines, where he could work his particular brand of magic. His soldiers found themselves fighting in perfect conditions, while their various enemies crawled out of mud-stained camps, half-swept away by rainstorms the night before the battle.

His crowning achievement came near the end of his military career; the resounding victory that earned him the title of the Stormsinger. It was a pitched naval battle between Altranorian forces and the corsair fleet of a rival warlord. All throughout the night, Nykerius sang, his voice carrying far across miraculously still waters. Blankets of fog were coaxed out the darkness to cloak the ships of Altranor and confuse the corsair fleet. Then he sang to the sea, like a man slowly stirring his cup of tea with a spoon before drinking it. He sang to the wind and the clouds, forces that gathered above the corsair fleet, looming and dark. The sea became restless, waves beating against the wooden hulls of the Stormsinger's foes. The wind howled and whistled, blasting unwanted winds into sails that sent the ships twisting and turning, crashing into each other. And then with a final piece of magic, a carefully crafted verse, the sea opened up like the mouth of the abyssal sea-god Maelrawn. A great maelstrom swalloed the enemy warlord's flagship whole as lighting struck masts and decks. In this chaos, this legendary storm, Nykerius withdrew the cloaking fog and his fleet utterly crushed the enemy corsairs.

This feat of magic was widely celebrated throughout Altranor and Nykerius was immortalized as the Stormsinger, one of the great commanders that would go down in history. He retired from military service not long after, returning to the capital of Altranor to teach at the very same prestigious college he received his own education, instead of returning home to take up the mantle of the Lord of Crevasse. Instead, Nykerius's younger brother, Ezekyle, became head of the family and lord of the port city, an arrangement that was made amicably between all parties -- except the elderly Lord of Crevasse himself. The old man died still upset with Nykerius for what he saw as abandoning his post, and he never condoned Ezekyle as Lord of Crevasse. Nykerius, torn between duty and his own desires, returned to Crevasse to reluctantly become the port city's Lord. Ezekyle, however, did not agree. He had been promised the position, he argued, and claimed it was unfair that it was now taken from him. The truth was that Ezekyle desired power and wanted to escape from the shadow cast by the great Stormsinger. The two brothers argued vehemently but the situation remained unresolved when their father passed away. The port city needed its new Lord, now, and there was no time left to argue. Ezekyle seized the chance, claimed his title and had Nykerius deported from the city. Unwilling to fight his own brother and greatly saddened by his actions, Nykerius returned to the capital.

The rift between the two brothers did not heal for a long time. Nykerius settled at the college as a teacher and severed all ties with his family back in Crevasse. He influenced and educated two decades of bright minds while continuing his studies of meteorological magic, which remained his area of expertise. It was during this time that he became something of a friend to the royal family; Nykerius mentored a younger cousin of the king Erasmus himself. When the young man graduated, Nykerius was invited to attend the private feast in the king's court, and it was during this festive evening that Nykerius and Erasmus became friends. Four years later, Nykerius, now age 50, decided to also retire from teaching. He settled by the king's side as court wizard at Erasmus's own request. When news of this reached Ezekyle, he feared for his position. Now that Nykerius had the king's ear, surely there would be repercussions Ezekyle's actions? But months passed and no such repercussions came. Nykerius never spoke ill of his brother and he assured anyone who asked that they were on good terms. The next time Ezekyle traveled to the capital for an audience with the king, the two brothers came face to face for the first time in decades. They reconciled on the spot, and Nykerius spent the next 17 years of his life frequently traveling to Crevasse as often as his duties as court wizard and king's advisor would allow, quickly becoming the favorite uncle of Ezekyle's children. Nykerius himself never married and remained childless.

Until the fateful day that the Yellow Raven and his allies attacked Altranor. The Green Crow assaulted Crevasse while Bernard of Ghant's army marched on the capital, preventing the port city from sending reinforcements to the king's aid. Ezekyle fought valiantly, but he never had his older brother's knack for warfare and the port city fell. The Lord of Crevasse and his entire family were executed. When word of this reached Nykerius, he almost lost his senses and wanted to ride for Crevasse immediately, but it was too late. The Yellow Raven's army was there. Nykerius would have slain Bernard of Ghant, or died trying, if the man had been there, but he didn't even bother to show up. When king Erasmus fell from the tower, Nykerius knew it was all over, and hid. His own family killed and the entire royal family slain, he knew that he had one last duty left in life -- to avenge them all.

Notable Possessions: The Stormsinger's spectacles are inscribed with a simple shocking lightning spell for personal defense, and his walking cane doubles as a wind-caller. Other notable possessions include a veritable library of magical tomes, now probably lost & ransacked by the Yellow Raven's army, and a respectable sum of money.

Roderick de Walden

Name: Roderick de Walden
Race: Human
Position: Court Sage, warlock, adviser and agent to the late King Erasmus.

Appearance: Roderick is a fierce looking man in his early 40's, with an unruly shock of black hair, greying at the edges, and an unkempt beard. He has a tanned and weathered face with somewhat gaunt features, with a thin, prominent nose and pale blue eyes. He is tall and lean, with a surprising wiry strength born more of leverage and tone than any amount of muscle mass. His hands are large and callused, with twisted nails, and a fine network of scars runs up the length of his arms.

Whilst at court he usually wears finely cut plain dark robes with an embroidered cloak, though he is often seen leaving the castle in the garb of a woodsman or hunter; sturdy boots and leggings, a plain tunic and boiled leather jerkin. He is rarely without his bandoleer - a leather strap across his chest, supporting many pouches and containers for his miscellaneous spell components. Two long knives, as much for self defence as ceremonial work, hang from the lower end of the bandoleer.

Rumours abound of him in even stranger outfits; such as the skin and skull of a stag, complete with antlers, a rude smock woven out of vines and grasses, or one one occasion, a simple loincloth and a mass of intricate black and red tattoos. However he dresses when away from the castle, whilst at Court he is always at least vaguely presentable, even if there may be a mysterious stain on the edge of his cloak, or a smudge of dirt on his hands or face.

Personality: Some deep part of Roderick will always be the feral child they dragged out of the wild woods all those years ago; hissing, spitting and clawing at those trying to drag him to civilisation. Years of etiquette lessons from his adopted father slash mentor, the previous Court Sage, have mellowed him slightly, though he still enjoys a reputation as a wild man. This is due only in part to his position as resident warlock and expert on sympathetic magic, which is looked down upon by some as a barbaric throwback which has no rightful place in civilisation.

Roderick has always worn his heart on his sleeve. He is impulsive at times, with a strong reliance on his intuition and gut reaction to a situation, a befits a warlock. He is intensely loyal to his friends, as well as the King and Court, who make up the only family he has ever known. He revels in his mysteriousness, as it sets him apart from the more mundane day-to-day aspects of castle business, in which he has little interest. Stubborn and hot-tempered at times, Roderick can be boisterous but genuinely cares about those close to him, turning his rage and skills against those that cross him, his friends or the King.

He has a wary respect for arcane magic users, even if has no patience for that kind or amount of book learning himself. He has a certain admiration for the specific, repeatable results they can achieve, though he considers the whole thing overly complicated and showy compared to his deeper, far more instinctive, seat-of-the-britches art.

Backstory: There hasn't always been a Court Sage of Altranor; the position comes and goes, falling into and out of fashion with different monarchs as times and needs change over the years. Sometimes there isn't anyone qualified and willing to take on the job; seeing as many witches and warlocks shun most trappings of society for a simpler existence. Some Sages have been simple scholarly advisers to the King, whilst others like Roderick have been elbows deep in the practice of witchcraft and the King's hand in matters pertaining to the darker arts.

It was some thirty odd years ago that Francis Calen, the previous Court Sage, was on an expedition to the outlying island of Travenor in search of certain rare spell components. Shortly after arriving he began to hear tales of a beast-boy, a feral creature that lived in the wild woods, only emerging to raid homesteads and steal food. Beset by villagers asking for his aid, and spurred on by his own intuition, Calen agreed to help. Performing a ritual on a piece of hair left behind, Calen was able to lead a small group to the creatures lair, deep in the forest. After setting a trap and waiting for it to return, they were surprised to find the creature was a boy – covered in blood and worse, feral from years alone in the vicious and unforgiving forest.

The village, somewhat understandably, was less than keen to take back the boy that had been plaguing them for months – but was able to shed some light on his identity; Roderick, the son of a family that had been killed in a bandit attack some years before. Everyone had assumed at the time that he'd been taken as a slave or the body had been dragged off by bandits. Eventually Calen announced he would take the boy with him when he returned to the capital, figuring he could drop Roderick off at a temple or orphanage. Gaining his trust with patience and gifts of food, the two departed the island.

Somehow Calen never got around to dropping the boy off, and Roderick fell into something of a routine, following Calen around on his day-to-day duties and later formally becoming his apprentice. Not that it was all smooth sailing; there were many awkward questions about Calen's new charge, and it was a while before Roderick was half-civilised, clambering over the castle walls, hunting birds and getting into fights. Slowly Roderick started to mellow, turning his attention to his studies with Calen, learning all he could about sympathetic magic and witchcraft.

A decade after first Roderick first arrived at the castle, Francis Calen went on a mission for the King and disappeared. After a month of anxious waiting, word came back that his body had been found with his throat cut. Consumed by grief and rage, Roderick packed his bags and departed the castle that morning, seeking revenge. He knew Calen's last mission had been to investigate claims of a dark coven operating out of the northern mountains and rode that way with haste, without bothering to consult with anyone.

Letting his grief and rage guide him, Roderick slashed his own arm, drawing forth his blood and mixing it with rare herbs and crushed crystal from Calen's room, adding a lock of his departed mentor's hair. Painting a vicious sigil on the side of the mountain, screaming forth his rage, summoning a unnatural storm and fog that descended on the range, cutting it off from the outside range. Hunting the coven through the driving wind and rain, Roderick managed to separate them and hunt them down separately, exacting bloody revenge. When the storm finally abated witnesses describe Roderick stumbling out of the mountains, half dead from exposure and exhaustion. It took him some weeks to recover before he was ready to make the trip back to the capital.

Presenting himself to the King, Roderick prepared himself for come what may, having made peace with any consequences when he set out all those weeks ago. He was unsure of what would happen to him now, but King Erasmus named him the new Court Sage in his mentor's place and extracted an oath of fealty. Roderick has served the King faithfully ever since, acting as his adviser to occult matters, reading portents and trying to divine the future, and acting as his agent and emissary when dealing with witches and warlocks. Roderick would spend a lot of time in the field through out his career, acting as a forward scout in wild areas, dealing with dark covens and malicious presences, and occasionally acting as magical support to mundane troops, though this was a rare occurrence.

Notable Possessions:
A sight of witchsight glasses passed down through the office of Court Sage, and inherited by Roderick when he assumed the mantle. They are very valuable and rarely used outside of the castle, as he is obviously afraid to break or lose them in his more rough-and-tumble style of practice.

A sizable collection of rare ingredients and spell components gathered over the years, ranging from rare herbs and flowers, special minerals and crystals to hallucinogenic mushrooms and unusual items and talismans.

His bandoleer of spell components and twin ceremonial daggers

Charles VII Beradon

Name: Charles VII Beradon
Race: Human
Position: High general.
Appearance: Rugged is the first word that comes to mind when describing Charles; the hard jaw line, stubble, scars tissue build up on scar tissue as a network of old injuries still left their mark. While standing at a mere 5'8", his sheer bulky width of muscle giving the impression of being able to rip horse in half - With his determined piecing brown eyes giving the suggestion that he might actually do such a thing if required.

Personality: Charles had never been a pleasant man to be around, and with the fall of Altranor, this hadn't improved in the slightest. Punctual, to the point, and a severe dislike of incompetence or time wasting. Able to go from calm and calculating to a ferocious rage in a matter of seconds, many a spy or general had been psychically assaulted after an incorrect remark or failure to succeed. The personal nature of the defeat had also entertained a bitterness, a repressed sense of failure, turning the unlikable man even less so.

Backstory: The Beradon's had always been a military family. Generation after generation of sergeants, generals and advisors to the crown. Where ever you found a Beradon, you also found a solider willing to do whatever it took for the kingdom, laying down the sacrifice of blood, and reaping the rewards of such actions. Near any victory of Altranor, there was always a Beradon nearby.

Things had been no different for Charles, given a sword and rigorous training in both the physical and mental painting in the art of war, learning from fighters present in the daytime, while studying the marks of generals past at night, and as family tradition entailed enlisting as soon as of age. During the campaign to the north Charles showed himself to be as ferocious a fighting force as any Beradon was expected to be. But his mind soon bloomed into his greatest weapon, accumulating into the battle of straightsburg where 200 men lead by Charles managed to stave off the advance of two thousand as the forests themselves were said to move to his aid.

After such a victory the promotions an military feats continued. Never showing a hesitance or stumble as he danced mentally around every opponent with ease. Until Ghant that was. It had been a feeling brought on slowly, a sick sinking as the realization of coming up against someone who was finally his equal, or possibly even greater. Charles had been used to being the only person thinking outside of the box, but now every dance, every action he made, returned and greater opposite reaction. He destroyed their supply lines, they poisoned the waters. He countered with priests and they sent in the necromancers, slowly but surely approaching the destruction of everything his family had worked for over generations.

Notable Possessions: Crownbearer: An old hardened sword, battered and chipped as the kingdom it defended, yet still as sharp and swift as the day it had been made. Legend said that it had been forged by the first king himself, passed down generation to generation between the Beradon's

Rayn Night

Name: Archbishop Saig Heroldi, AKA Father Heroldi, Holy Crusader Heroldi
Race: Human
Age: 39
Position:
“Archbishop and Grand Master of the Churches of Kelquai”
“Military and Religious Advisor”

Appearance:
You would think of the Archbishop being this powerful, broad shouldered man who could pierce through a line of enemy soldiers and fight like a beast of the wild… Your assumptions would be partially true, yet a few details lack. When confronted with the man himself, he does not have that thick chest and large arms. He was rather an average sized of a hard-working farmer of the land, no taller than five feet six inches and weighing no more than one hundred forty pounds. Don’t let this fool you. He might not look like a strong man, but his has a lot more nerve than you think. It can be seen in his deep blue hooded eyes as they stare into the windows of your soul.

His fair complexion isn’t any different from those of the Duchy, but he bears the deep black hair that is generally uncommon from those lands that vary between light brown and dirty blond. Saig typically keeps it relatively short, no longer than two inches long. His Greek nose and fallen lips completely his somewhat attractive features, although most would turn away once the notice the three large scars running across his face… Small traces of his time in the holy army of Kelquai and the King.

The Archbishop is rarely seen outside of his saintly robes of his church; a long sleeved white robes bordered blackwith the symbol of Kelquai (A christian cross fitted on top a up curved crescent). The only other time is in time of combat and war, which he bores his full suite of splint mail with a chainmail hauberk underneath. A dirty white tabard of the Church usually covers the splint mail, but not in all cases.

Personality:
Stubborn as a mule and head-strong, it takes very little for Archbishop to intervene in discussions in a rude, provocative matter. He will not take any kind of shit from anyone but the King and a few people of the royal court. Even if he is a down to earth man, his way of speaking what he wants is brutish and direct at best, insulting and condescending at worst. He represents his goddess with pride, showing conviction and determination in his actions and his opinions. The Archbishop is not scarred of being wrong and will shut up when proven wrong, but he will put up a fight when he knows he is right. He also lacks a sense of humor and generally isn’t going to be “nice” and “polite” with even the most mundane things.

The only times you will see him with a kind, welcoming smile is when he is within the churches of his goddess, in which he seems to change to someone else entirely. Respectful and generous, he joins in prayer the people come in and takes a little bit of time to talk with the people. He is not present in the churches as much anymore, but when he is, he turns into a kind priest of his people.

Backstory: WIP

Notable Possessions: WIP

Such Haukes, Such Hounds

I count eleven separate users on this page alone. I'm torn between immense satisfaction that my game turned out so popular, and bitterness at having to turn down some of these sheets. I've been saying for a number of years that the Advanced section's gone to shit, but I'm glad to have been proven wrong. I see I chose a great time to make a comeback.

Raptorman: What matters is that you didn't insist on the otherworldly beauty. I don't see your possessions and contacts, though.

Everyone: Dammit, people, I'm not gonna remember all of that. Put it in your sheets. D: