Thrydwulf

Wild Heart

Minor editing issues. I had originally intended for her steed to be a female but for some reason it didn't seem to settle. Seems I didn't catch every instance of her premature sex change but thank you for being ever so attentive.

Wild Heart

Post is up.

Good reading everyone; entertaining stuff.

Wild Heart

Hayden Peak
The Territory of Byrn

There's something inconceivably cryptic of the arctic embrace. To the unacclimated it proved to be a force of egregious debilitation; it assaulted the senses and vitiated the spirit. It was treacherous and thorough; nothing assayed the conviction of a man with similar surety like time spent in the tundras of Byrn. Though for those with an enduring quality, a tranquility, lost to most, could be found on the snow-capped palisades and powdered dunes. A stillness undetectable to civilized consideration lie just beyond the bitter winds that howled with deafening audibility. Aelana smiled, because to her nothing could be heard but a symphony of life and complacency.

Indeed, she was a woman of station; something of a known figure among the ranks of the many militias who assumed the Whitewood banner as either their own or the protectorate it afforded them. At birth she was the indigenity of the wild and despite an entire lifetime of cultivation, there was a discernible beckoning felt from the spirit of the land. She always felt removed from the societal strata of Whitewood and the political intrigue that governed its very inner workings; unable to become as intimately involved as Ghandall. Tthen again, juxtaposed to his distinguishments and indomitable fervor, she was vapidly saturnine. Not to be dreaded however, there was a place for everyone and a demand for those as ancillary as her.

The winds were uncharacteristically reposeful on this morning; a young sun rose lazily in the horizon illuminating the land below with an arrangement of soft oranges and reds. It was still, almost picturesque. Came to the eye as intentionally gentle as if designed by some Afonian artisan. Aelana sharply inhaled as she hoisted herself up and away from the fire she was tending. "Commendable," she offered flatly, freeing her gear from the storm that had usurped her camp from the night before. "I was aware that men from your land were particularly lively and sturdy but even I must admit myself surprised by your standing." She collected some snow into a handful and threw it at him mindlessly. "I thought surely she would seize you, if you hadn't bled out by now. Though honestly, that might've been a more favorable fate for you."

Some distance away, bound at the extremities and neck by rope to the hearty trunks of three oaks, remained the assassin who had unsuccessfully attempted to impede Aelana's excursion. While effective in slowing her down the current predicament he haplessly initiated was met with dire regret and proved to be little more than an annoyance for the Templar. By some stroke of luck the elements had preserved his life; the lacerations to his chest and the twisted flesh of his neck separated by the serrated edge of an arrow had ceased issuing blood. His rugged brown eyes had abandoned the tone of naked confusion they fostered in the early night and now had frozen over into a cold, deceitfully blank gaze that, to some extent, betrayed the death that lingered just behind them. He was slowly losing his lease on life but a certain residual defiance could be observed.

Distressed and enervated, he followed Aelana spitefully wish his vision. "You've no idea, do you? Oh, you unfortunate girl; your naivety will surely bring you peril."

Aelana turned and walked purposefully closer to the man regarding him inquisitively. He had held his silence for nearly two days, warding off every single attempt at conversation with a dismissive nod of his head. The seared blades she applied to his chest and hours of concussive coercion were surprisingly ineffective. Shamefully so. "A cryptic tongue is as good as no tongue at all," she snapped. "Choose your words wisely assassin."

A harsh and ineffectual laugh broke the silence. "I'm on the verge of death woman, do you think I fear what fate awaits me on the other side. This instance, while uncomfortable, offers nothing more than the reassurance in knowing our cause is just. You humans have grown demented with power; your attrition on our kind is an assault on the very Rift itself."

"Incredible," she turned around and resumed collecting her belongings. Even she found herself at odds with the current ambitions of the Nightshade; a fervidity that lacked any justification and supported reasoning as misguided and unsubstantiated as the religion they clung to. The Templars were regarded with similar scrutiny but had gained faint favor for distinguishing themselves as a safeguard for humanity against the atrocities magical creatures committed and not some unjust prosecutors. However, not all shared that observation and many dismissed any notion that painted them as any less treacherous than the Nightshade.

"You must be hopelessly witless if you thought yourself merited enough to attempt the life of a Templar for nothing more than a sentiment of misplaced retribution. You're affront has rewarded you with nothing but misfortune and self-wrought peril," she remarked callously. "Ask yourself with your remaining breath if it was really worth it."

"I suppose not," his head slumped down to the ground and issued a defeated sigh.

Aelana wasn't nearly as barbarous as her appeal designated. Sure, she might not have operated on the nearly noble pretension of being a sentinel for humans that most other Templars assumed; but she wasn't entirely without benign inclinations. She possessed a constructed apathy that owed itself to years of necessary adaptation; reactions to a life of disadvantage and expectation and bereft of the graces of mercy most were privy to. There wasn't much room for compassion as a Templar, even more so, for any individual who found themselves in the precarious position of being Ghandall's most invested prize-dog.

"I'll leave you to your fate, whatever that might be. Hopefully the winds will take you before the carrion rob you of your flesh," she said coldly speaking of the birds-of-prey encircling the ill-fated man from above.

The land in it's complacency was suddenly perturbed by Aelana's shrill whistle. It was oddly melodious and carried itself on the currents of wind for a number of leagues. Her stallion was a sprightly creature; incapable of remaining by the camp and stricken with such a profound sense of wanderlust than even she knew how to manage. When in Whitewood, he would vanish for days on end yet sure enough when she beckoned him he would come. Faithful. Far off in the distance, the tree line broke and from it a black mare galloped forth; it's sinewy body rippling as it cut through the snow in ragged procession. It's movements weren't exactly laborious but certainly not as sure-footed as a creature acclimated to the frothy dunes of this terrain. Aelana suddenly released her grip on her belongings and grabbed the hilt of her long sword with murderous intent. Her horse didn't move like that; he was young and his gait resoundingly sure. His legs would have pressed through the snow, unhindered, in fluid strides. As if to reaffirm her acknowledgement; at random points in the distant woods the trees seemed to separate themselves and sanction a number of other horses to pass through. The leading horse wasn't just galloping towards her, he was mounting an assault.

"Tell me," came the voice of the man, surprisingly hearty and reassured, "how privy are you really to the matter of fate." Aelana spun around and stared in utter disbelief. The man, now liberated of his bonds, stood with purpose and a particularly dreadful confidence. Leering at her from behind him was some beastly creature; it's horned crest bobbed with each one of its jagged breaths. It stepped out from behind him and snarled with contempt; there was an unmistakable human quality to its regard for her, perhaps a little too intelligent to be a product of a natural disposition. 'I'd wager not too privy," the man retorted with malicious content.

Thrydwulf's Ensemble and Repository

Hayden Peak
The Territory of Byrn

There's something inconceivably cryptic of the arctic embrace. To the unacclimated it proved to be a force of egregious debilitation; it assaulted the senses and vitiated the spirit. It was treacherous and thorough; nothing assayed the conviction of a man with similar surety like time spent in the tundras of Byrn. Though for those with an enduring quality, a tranquility, lost to most, could be found on the snow-capped palisades and powdered dunes. A stillness undetectable to civilized consideration lie just beyond the bitter winds that howled with deafening audibility. Aelana smiled, because to her nothing could be heard but a symphony of life and complacency.

Indeed, she was a woman of station; something of a known figure among the ranks of the many militias who assumed the Whitewood banner as either their own or the protectorate it afforded them. At birth she was the indigenity of the wild and despite an entire lifetime of cultivation, there was a discernible beckoning felt from the spirit of the land. She always felt removed from the societal strata of Whitewood and the political intrigue that governed its very inner workings; unable to become as intimately involved as Ghandall. Tthen again, juxtaposed to his distinguishments and indomitable fervor, she was vapidly saturnine. Not to be dreaded however, there was a place for everyone and a demand for those as ancillary as her.

The winds were uncharacteristically reposeful on this morning; a young sun rose lazily in the horizon illuminating the land below with an arrangement of soft oranges and reds. It was still, almost picturesque. Came to the eye as intentionally gentle as if designed by some Afonian artisan. Aelana sharply inhaled as she hoisted herself up and away from the fire she was tending. "Commendable," she offered flatly, freeing her gear from the storm that had usurped her camp from the night before. "I was aware that men from your land were particularly lively and sturdy but even I must admit myself surprised by your standing." She collected some snow into a handful and threw it at him mindlessly. "I thought surely she would seize you, if you hadn't bled out by now. Though honestly, that might've been a more favorable fate for you."

Some distance away, bound at the extremities and neck by rope to the hearty trunks of three oaks, remained the assassin who had unsuccessfully attempted to impede Aelana's excursion. While effective in slowing her down the current predicament he haplessly initiated was met with dire regret and proved to be little more than an annoyance for the Templar. By some stroke of luck the elements had preserved his life; the lacerations to his chest and the twisted flesh of his neck separated by the serrated edge of an arrow had ceased issuing blood. His rugged brown eyes had abandoned the tone of naked confusion they fostered in the early night and now had frozen over into a cold, deceitfully blank gaze that, to some extent, betrayed the death that lingered just behind them. He was slowly losing his lease on life but a certain residual defiance could be observed.

Distressed and enervated, he followed Aelana spitefully wish his vision. "You've no idea, do you? Oh, you unfortunate girl; your naivety will surely bring you peril."

Aelana turned and walked purposefully closer to the man regarding him inquisitively. He had held his silence for nearly two days, warding off every single attempt at conversation with a dismissive nod of his head. The seared blades she applied to his chest and hours of concussive coercion were surprisingly ineffective. Shamefully so. "A cryptic tongue is as good as no tongue at all," she snapped. "Choose your words wisely assassin."

A harsh and ineffectual laugh broke the silence. "I'm on the verge of death woman, do you think I fear what fate awaits me on the other side. This instance, while uncomfortable, offers nothing more than the reassurance in knowing our cause is just. You humans have grown demented with power; your attrition on our kind is an assault on the very Rift itself."

"Incredible," she turned around and resumed collecting her belongings. Even she found herself at odds with the current ambitions of the Nightshade; a fervidity that lacked any justification and supported reasoning as misguided and unsubstantiated as the religion they clung to. The Templars were regarded with similar scrutiny but had gained faint favor for distinguishing themselves as a safeguard for humanity against the atrocities magical creatures committed and not some unjust prosecutors. However, not all shared that observation and many dismissed any notion that painted them as any less treacherous than the Nightshade.

"You must be hopelessly witless if you thought yourself merited enough to attempt the life of a Templar for nothing more than a sentiment of misplaced retribution. You're affront has rewarded you with nothing but misfortune and self-wrought peril," she remarked callously. "Ask yourself with your remaining breath if it was really worth it."

"I suppose not," his head slumped down to the ground and issued a defeated sigh.

Aelana wasn't nearly as barbarous as her appeal designated. Sure, she might not have operated on the nearly noble pretension of being a sentinel for humans that most other Templars assumed; but she wasn't entirely without benign inclinations. She possessed a constructed apathy that owed itself to years of necessary adaptation; reactions to a life of disadvantage and expectation and bereft of the graces of mercy most were privy to. There wasn't much room for compassion as a Templar, even more so, for any individual who found themselves in the precarious position of being Ghandall's most invested prize-dog.

"I'll leave you to your fate, whatever that might be. Hopefully the winds will take you before the carrion rob you of your flesh," she said coldly speaking of the birds-of-prey encircling the ill-fated man from above.

The land in it's complacency was suddenly perturbed by Aelana's shrill whistle. It was oddly melodious and carried itself on the currents of wind for a number of leagues. Her mare was a sprightly creature; incapable of remaining by the camp and stricken with such a profound sense of wanderlust than even she knew how to manage. When in Whitewood, he would vanish for days on end yet sure enough when she beckoned him he would come. Faithful. Far off in the distance, the tree line broke and from it a black mare galloped forth; it's sinewy body rippling as it cut through the snow in ragged procession. It's movements weren't exactly laborious but certainly not as sure-footed as a creature acclimated to the frothy dunes of this terrain. Aelana suddenly released her grip on her belongings and grabbed the hilt of her long sword with murderous intent. Her horse didn't move like that; he was young and his gait resoundingly sure. His legs would have pressed through the snow, unhindered, in fluid strides. As if to reaffirm her acknowledgement; at random points in the distant woods the trees seemed to separate themselves and sanction a number of other horses to pass through. The leading horse wasn't just galloping towards her, he was mounting an assault.

"Tell me," came the voice of the man, surprisingly hearty and reassured, "how privy are you really to the matter of fate." Aelana spun around and stared in utter disbelief. The man, now liberated of his bonds, stood with purpose and a particularly dreadful confidence. Leering at her from behind him was some beastly creature; it's horned crest bobbed with each one of its jagged breaths. It stepped out from behind him and snarled with contempt; there was an unmistakable human quality to its regard for her, perhaps a little too intelligent to be a product of a natural disposition. 'I'd wager not too privy," the man retorted with malicious content.

Wild Heart

History has been added in for those of you who care to read ;)

Thrydwulf's Ensemble and Repository

Corgula Bexley
Approx. 3 days from Afron's Capital

Aelana spent three days in soaked misery; perhaps not the worst of times, but certainly not the best. By the end of the second day, her horse was looking at her as if to say, "You daft bastard." She was a particularly keen horse.

Bexley didn't seem like much of a sanctuary, either, not to hear the tales of it; if she had her druthers, she would have rather tented down in the muck and bore the weather rather than sleep among the rogues and opportunists that wanted to knife you in the back -- they might not mean much in a standup fight, but only a fool slept among a hostile countryside; a smart individual got his arse in a castle or encamped only with alert guards. Though with the current attrition of magical creatures and the paranoia it propagated in everything with some exclusive claim to humanity, there really wasn't much asylum throughout the land. The fact that Aelana chose to travel without companion spoke of either morbid stupidity or arrogance.

As to which it was exactly was anyone’s guess. It was better this way. She was infinitely more effective when commanded to conduct on her own; she felt considerably more in tune with the nature of herself and that of the land when free of the burden of having to command a detail of men and cater to their mortal misguiding.

The White Tankard was not her sort of place, nor were the other inns scattered throughout the city; too many people, the stench itself was overwhelmingly stifling. It also didn’t help that Bexley had a particularly uncompromising intolerance of outsiders, be them human or otherwise, and the black cloak adorned on her head, worn to mask the obvious indications of her heritage was anything but nondescript. Usually such concealment wouldn't be necessary but she was without the boarders of her city and without the safeguard her station provided. She would need to find some manner of lodging but every inn possessed a certain level of obvious peril for her and she certainly wasn't going to finance a room to be murdered in whilst she slept. After hours of nonchalantly eliminating every establishment of respite, she deduced that comfort and security couldn't be granted inclusively and focused on securing the latter. Instead, she rode somewhat toward the outskirts of town until finding exactly what she was looking for: the town's agriculture district.

The farmer was wary at the approach of a stranger and Aelana figured she had the right sort of place; the price of a stay at the inn was what he offered in return for bedding for the night...in the barn, with the animals. More was offered for the farmer to occasionally wake from bed and watch the surrounding area for any approaching unit of people. The farmer didn’t seem at all obliged to do so, but she knew he’d be doing so anyways as a means of checking up on the stranger and ensuring that his neck wouldn't be slit as well.

"Alright," the farmer, grizzled and aged before his time, told her with his sons in formation, practically, behind him, menacing enough with wood-cutters axes and shovels, looking unpleasant and standoffish. The man took the coins and bit 'em, "Ye bed in the stables then, and mind ye yer eyes an' yer hands round me livelihood, unnerstand me then?" He looked wearily at Aelana as she finally undid the coat from around her head, but took the money all the same. It probably wasn’t the first time he had lodged a transient; and the coin offered was enough to make any human turn a blind eye.

"Of course," Aelana nodded in the direction of the farmer, whose sons helped her get her horse into the barn, along with many other beasts: clucking chickens, mooing cows, a couple plow mules. But there was room.

"So, why a barn? Fer that price, ye could 'uf had a room at an inn." the eldest son seemed a squinty sort, and was half in the bag for the evening, being that farmers found solace in their drink, but he wasn't a fool.

"A man can get killed at an inn, traveling alone, you know." she told the farmer, who accompanied Aelana with a dog at the leash; slighter than some of the shepherd dogs she had seen, but with a pointed nose and a black muzzle, and gold fur otherwise; long jaws and a bushy tail. The dog sniffed at her curiously, and licked the hand; she didn't stick it out under the dog's snout, because that was an invitation to be bitten; instead, she'd let the dog come to her.The farmer grunted, "Hungh. This one don't usually like folk much. But he's yer companion fer the night, we leave him out in the barn."

"Perfect," the Templar told him, and meant it; a dog was the best security available. She liked animals, as a rule, they weren't duplicitous beings like humans were. A good animal was faithful to the feeder, their most intricate scheme being feed and care. A human...well, he could figure out the need for long term care, independence and other troublesome notions. You couldn't keep a person like an animal, the person knew better. He tossed a piece of jerky from her rations to the animal, who snatched it out of the air and gobbled it. Good intentions established.

Inns had men in and out all the time, strangers passing through, folk used to it. And drunkards, all of whom could see the comings and goings of a stranger. A farm, ah, by contrast, was a lovely place to stay if one needed to stay hidden. Farmers tended to mind their business at the farm and it was lethal to approach one by night; the guard was up, because farms had one thing that bandits and other fellows wanted; food and drink. The farmer, by contrast of a normal citizen, had his own animals to worry about, and that meant that the farm wasn't about to go unwatched either -- farmers were used to having people try and steal their things. A farm had dogs, birds, animals that made noise when things tried to sneak through like a predator. Farmers tended to be light sleepers, always worrying that others would steal the fruits of their labor; he wouldn't be surprised if one of those sons were awake at any given hour, making sure foxes stayed out of the henhouse, that wolves didn't come for the milk cows or the sheep. There would be shepherding dogs out and about; much like the one he was going to wind up sharing the barn with.

"We catch ya near the house, lookin' to rob us, we'll string ye up."

Aelana took that as encouraging news, because it meant they were watching, even as she nodded somberly and the farmer left, feeling that the threat was sufficient.

Once left to herself, she started to bed down her animal; she started by checking hooves, currying coats and checking feed and water to make sure that they weren't tainted; but it was a healthy looking farm, and the animals were well kept. These fellows, they hadn't even given their names, seemed like they were an honest crew; Aelana had nothing against honest men, and didn't take their suspicion as terribly amiss. With her horse settled, she took out a shovel off the packsaddle and started digging a bit; the dog looked at him as if she were daft, but she just explained it to the dog, as if explaining it to an equal -- talking to animals was considered daft, but daft was not a bad defense in these parts; anything to keep a torch-wielding mob at a respectful distance.

"A fire, la,'" she told the shepherding dog, "Covered, to keep commoners from thinking some fool is bedding down in the barn. You never known when trouble's caught your spoor, and it's always good to think like it has, eh? Keeps a dagger out your ribs, that’s for sure."

Or so she hoped, as she built a hidden fire, sheltered so that the glow would not light up the barn in the night like a beacon. She used charcoal, which would stay warm, burn a while and not put off too much light, or even much smoke.

The dog sneezed at her in response and turned to find more interesting amusement. Following suit, she dug into the confines of her own pocket and withdrew the letter that contained the specifics of her proceedings.

With address to Aelana,

This letter is sent to you now, in the bitter hollowness of the morn, because in it is the collected information detailing the plight that nigh approaches us. With a firm ear in the Rift, I have discerned the contrivance of a being of incomprehensible malevolence. A being embellished by the collective vengeful promptings of those slaughtered at the hands of man in his attrition on magical beings. The darkness stirs restlessly, it has tainted the land's verse and threatens to purge the Rift of magic; it will consume those who are sensitive to the calling of nature and with their soul, I fear, even I, cannot fathom what will befell them.

Wild Heart

I'm gonna take full advantage of not having to be among the group at the start of the story by introducing a nefarious element to the plot. I imagine that Gideon will present some manner of villainy but I've always found that in a fantasy-based setting there is really no practical application for excessive opposition and I think introducing another villanous dynamic to the story will make it that much richer. I won't go in depth -- I imagine Dmytra would want me to consult with her prior to any public extrapolation -- but it will be hinted at.

Great reading so far everyone.

Those Exceptionally Literate and Creatively Proficient Inquire Within

August 8th's Obligatory Bump

Those Exceptionally Literate and Creatively Proficient Inquire Within

ADVANCED



Welcome.

If you find yourself more distracted by the presumably pretentious use of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France as an attempt to establish a feeling of sophistication than the long-winded and equally as excessive title of this thread than you would do well to consider yourself a prospective partner of mine. If you saw the picture but couldn't determine the logic behind it's employment or haven't reasoned that all of this literary-flamboyance is intended to scare away those who are less than compatible with my prose than I fear you have stumbled into the wrong corner of the Guild. Though fret not for you are but one button away from this meticulous and demanding hell-hole.

Relevant Information About Yours Truly

Excessive satire aside, welcome to my thread. I go by the name of Grayson though if you're more inclined to keep this business strictly interwebz appropriate than Thrydwulf is just as applicable. Astonishing, I know. I have been reading and writing since the early, formative infantile years but then again so has everybody else within a modern culture. The distinction --I find-- between forum-writers who are remarkably versed at their craft and those who give dire need for hierarchical skill designations is fostering a respect for not only writing but doing so collaboratively. I began recreational writing on the internet in my early teenage years back when 'instant messaging' interfaces dominated the field of virtual co-authorship and had about as much skill and regard for it as a teenage anime-junkie. Beyond a seemingly natural propensity for academics and being somewhat of a bibliophile as a kid, I began to realize that roleplaying effectively required a lot more than just a consistent ability to put words together and match up definitions like some literal algorithm. It was truly more of an art; something to be shared not scrutinized. Years of following constructive criticism and throwing myself into the water inhabited by, who I determined to be, literary sharks of the site allowed me to improve on my craft.

Currently, I'm in the Air Force reserves attending school in the western United States with aspirations to be a physician's assistant or perhaps a surgeon if I can somehow convince myself to commit a considerable fraction of my existence to academics. I am a full time student with an unhealthy collection of recreational hobbies as well as a medical biller and coder for a local hospital. I would proceed with the my fondness of long walks on the beach and conversation amiss candlelight but for some reason I don't think these sentiements would be wholly appreciated on a site like this

So You Wanna Be My Partner, Do Ya?

Yes. I did just assault the masses with a small TL;DR tactic; I find it to be rather effective at scaring away people who are more propense to superficially internalizing information. If you've made it this far than I am to assume you foster the level of patience and interest I would expect a partner to have. Having come this far, it might surprise you to discover that I am honestly not a proponent of requisites and specific standards; they tend to come off as incredibly meticulous and nit-picky to me. A mutual understanding between two writers and a shared respect for the craft inadvertently establishes the norms of punctuality, competency, and etiquette. The kind of writer I'm looking to work with is someone who doesn't need to see the rules to know they aren't in offense of any. Work with me in a timely-fashion, take pride in what you write, enjoy the experience, and inform me if you feel you can no longer do any of the above.

Simple. Concise. Understood?

Interests and Inclinations

Over the years, I've developed a fondness of most genres, though have somewhat of a partiality when it comes to science-fiction, modern themed, and light-fantasy genres. Separately or inclusive, it matters not; if you have an idea and you think it falls into or in between these genres go ahead and shoot it my way and we'll see what magic can be worked up. Alternatively, if you share my inclination for either genre but have no particular idea in mind, let's have a chat and see how deep our mutual appreciation runs and what similar elements we can pen out. It should be noted that I won't reject any idea on the basis of initial interest but I will reject a "specific pairing" plot lazily cast my way. I don't want you to have an entire roleplay planned out but in the very least would like for you to have a seed to plant in my mind. If you aren't terribly confident in any one idea but you have interests you would love to delve into or a fandom you're adamant on exploiting let me know. Even a cool picture that invokes awesome ideas but no real sense of direction is equally as acceptable.

You Should Click me Periodically

I'm currently aboard a plane exploiting the shoddy and intermittently accessible WiFi it provides but do intend to update this section of the thread with plots I've contrived or solid ideas.

Wild Heart

Name:

Aelana vos'nar Hagrovische

Age:

Twenty-seven.

Gender:

Female

Transformation:

cuol' Balfur

Appearance

Origin of the cuol' Balfur: The egregious incarnate of a wrathful spirit once thought to have been tempered by the restorative properties of benign magics. Quelled, though only momentarily, by self-induced respite after being beckoned by a warlock who's vengeful aspirations consumed him though not before lying to waste an entire providence. The warlock's gnarled, decomposing flesh never was incinerated and as such the vessel this wraith took to not wholly deconstructed. Upon the lapse of many decades and the accompanying bloodshed of many creatures, both mythical and not, the wraith nourished by the passionate slaughter manifested itself into an undying beast with horrific fortitude. For centuries to come, it ravaged the lands and engorged itself in the wars initiated by humans; appearing in the trenches, shadows, and fallen foe at equally opportune moments. Relentless and indomitable it finally met its demise at the hands of a cadre of Fae and their whispered employments whereupon it was suppressed and its magics sequestered. Being that no one found themselves capable or willing to handle the primordial magic it was disbanded and confined in the strongest bloodlines throughout the land. cuol' Balfur, a name carried by the bitter arctic winds throughout Byrn, is the visage of the wraith among the Yagdravir tribesman.

The Elder Fae were especially keen on using the Yagdravir tribe of the north to embody the greatest brunt of the wraith's energy; the land's ecological hostility and harsh climate birthed a heartiness in the indigenity and honed their faculties of survival to formidable repute. The first lineages who harbored the demon lived in constant degradation of the wrath that surged from within; their spirits tormented and their convictions abolished. They had neither friend nor adversary; attacking only in berserk and only ever for the purpose of bloodshed; beasts who were ultimately confronted with the option of lifelong confinement or euthanization conducted by the eigal himself. After years of hunting and murdering their own, morally exhausted and embittered, the Yagdravir approached the last of the northern Fae and in exchange for their eternal safeguard were granted a means to suppress the wraith's power by way of the Fae imbuing themselves into bodies of the afflicted. The symbiosis of these two spirits, both that of the Fae and the mortal man, existed as the only means to subdue cuol' Balfur's untempered promptings.

Personality:

Years of behavioral rectification and affected social assimilation have created a woman who, with her most practiced manageability, constantly finds herself at odds with those she comes across. While perfectly capable of competence; it's a challenge for her to grasp the niceties of being socially conscious and considerate and more times than not people mistake her general indifference as pretension or condescension. Aelana conducts herself in constant recognition of the wrath that emanates from within and in spite of this has grown complacent and tempered in her ways. Often times she resigns herself to the role of an observant, never getting ahead of herself and only offering her word when it is resourceful or needed. Her play in politics is as unyielding as she a tactician; with her true martial application being on the battlefield where the wrath from within is sanctioned to come forth. In the heat of battle, where the wake of death and bloodshed drowns all and the paranoia of warfare grips men at their throats, she finds herself bolstered and her purpose assured.

Characteristics:

Three Strengths

• Years of experience have bred an invaluable fighter proficient in open-warfare and espionage.


• Capable of incredible feats of strength entirely incongruent with her stature and incomparable to any man she's ever met.


• While scholars would shun her for sheer lack of academic training, strategists would exploit her cleverness and pragmatism eagerly. She may not be able to cite the geometric relation of the stars but she can prosper greatly from limited resources and has a heightened understanding of mortal motivations and capabilities.

Three Weaknesses

• The same magics that govern and permit the symbiosis within Aleana also work to prohibit her from a complete transformation. Though to some extent the barriers in place are permeable and from them the powers of Balfur do resonate resulting in a small permission of his manifested influence. Under instances of duress and exhaustion, she will assume certain physical traits that are not at all her own: eyes completely devoid of colour, claws and fangs, and an increase in the girth of her muscles but retain her overall human form.


• Social recluse, unsympathetic, disloyal, self-driven, guided largely by the promise of coin.


• Exploits her mortal condition as a means to avoid ordinance.

History:
At birth it was already suspected that Aelana was to be the Harboress. The current one, prior to her conception, had lived long past the expectancy for their kind and relinquished her life for fear of meeting the same fate as those before her. The only way to be certain whom the next afflicted would be, was the occurrence of maternal mortality: it was believed that the soul of two was consumed in the forging of one and always resulted in the mother of the child losing her life. Plagued with a sudden and dire onset of malaise, her mother became exceedingly fearful that she was fated to birth a child who would only know pain and abhorrence. For fear of her daughter living a life of persecution and paranoia, Aelana's mother and kin fled from their village with hopes that she would find more promise for her and her offspring.

Idealistically, Aelana's mother would've managed to carve out a nondescript existence in some remote pocket of the land where the inhabitants were too removed from her own culture to understand the danger her daughter presented. But never fortunate are the optimists of the world; Aelana was either fortunate or burdened to discover this truth early on in her life. Moments into her birth, Aelana's mother found herself overcame by an all-consuming bout of exhaustion; her eyes closed and she slipped into the lifeless void almost pleading that the gods favored her enough to take her child with her. From her corpse, Gvad --Aelana's eldest brother-- carved the babe out of his mother's womb, and within the guts of the Great Forests of the North the bloodied and morally distraught children managed to elude their pursuers.

For some time thereafter, Gvad and his kin managed to endure by employing his very rudimentary understanding of survival and even at that they barely managed to sustain themselves. Rather fortuitously -- circumstances and conditions considered -- they were ambushed by a cadre of mage-slayers bearing the golden crests of the Whitewood Stronghold who had mistaken them initially as hybrids they were tracking. The Templars of Whitewood, while infamous for a number of things, weren't particularly known for their unprovoked generosity; however Ghandall, their leader, did sense something ineffably moving in Aelana and because of it convinced himself of a need to apprehend her.

Whitewood

Thereupon the children were forcibly relocated to the the city of Whitewood; a forbidding construction of stately steel and stone sustained by the blood and ingenuity of its denizens and their primogenitors. Gvad, a young man by every standard save for his own and his standing more or less usurped by the state, was enlisted into the Wards of Whitewood guided by the promise that he and his sister would be Ghandall's sponsored. Ghandall was an illustriously draconian individual, though not unjustly so. He had quelled more tides of war than any man could claim and with the political backing of the king himself had engineered a state of soldiers that could combat the magical creatures of the land by employing their own magics against them. His fondness of Aelana was infinitely perplexing to his peers and a sentiment that Gvad found incredibly vexing; though he saw purpose in the girl and passionately sought to validify his faith in her by stirring the forces that lie in dormancy within her.

Aelana's upbringing was distinguished by rigorous martial applications and measures of training that flirted dangerously close to iniquity. As a girl she worked tiredly as a servant-hand in the militia's barracks; Ghandall's intention clear and simple: premature exposure to the lifestyle she would soon undertake. At the age of twelve she was enlisted into an institution of war and dedicated herself to the academia of war-waging, magic nullification, and battlefield stratagems. She'd almost a natural propensity for the art of war but no considerable knack for applying magic in combat and while few questioned Ghandall's regard for her, the prowess she displayed and manner of fierceness she conducted herself in was irrefutably domineering. At the age of twenty-three she became the second-youngest Whitewood Templar, preceded only by Ghandall himself, and had established a remarkable reputation amongst her peers and those of noble stations.