Hogarth listened to Nova's answer intently after turning towards Old Ben and nodding positively at the sound of his surname. Borrowed time, life debts, and most importantly, some form of adoption? It all sounded so very quaint and almost made him feel bad for not having motives as deep, or a similar story of his own to share. His excitement had certainly doubled, though, knowing that he'd work beside such colorful and varied individuals. Only when the girl was done speaking, however, did he realize that he, too, had to answer Ben's question. His speech put Hogarth in the mood for sure, although in such an emotionally overwhelming moment, he found it harder to form coherent sentences. Not that his reasons for joining were complex enough to need a detailed description, though. After a few moments of blankly staring, first at Nova, then back at Ben, his grin reverted into a small, honest smirk as he lowered his head, staring at the floor. He shuffled on his seat, and, rubbing the back of his neck he proclaimed, with a voice that somehow managed to be both smooth and shrill.
Hogarth had been waiting in the sitting room the entire day, occasionally giving the girl near him a few stray curious looks. He really, really didn't want to be late. Not that he minded the waiting, the old decrepit structure had quite the pleasant atmosphere, or so he thought anyway, and his overwhelming enthusiasm kept him occupied and unaware of most of his surroundings. His wildest dreams would, perhaps, come true any moment now. The only downside of this waiting was that approximately three hours of constant grinning had left his face in great pain. Not that he cared, anyway. He adjusted his bandolier for the thousandth time, made sure his all his vials were in their proper place, for the hundredth time, and ran his fingers across one of his axes, which he had unsheathed, and whirled it in his hand, for gods know how many times. Practice paid off.
Even though not formally trained, the young man, among his countless hours of isolated studying, had come across a good number of arms manuals, and with constant repetition had managed to grasp more than the basics, eventually becoming quite the user of the throwing axe. Having no instructor to guide him, however, most weapons, especially the heavy ones, remained far beyond his grasp. But, as he told himelf over and over in one of his nigh-unstoppable inner monologues, practice made perfect, and he was absolutely determined to master the famous Grave Keeper shovel, even if it meant to he had to face a hundred malefactors.
A sound broke Hogarth's daydreaming. Could it be? It was none other than the famous Old Ben speaking. Here, in the flesh. Quickly he sprang to his feet and, clicking the heels of his massive boots together, gave the man a military salute, and afterwards stood in attention. But his discipline was short lived. In an instant, he returned to his usual slouch and brought his hands together, twiddling his thumbs in nervousness and stared at the old man, still wearing that wide eyed smile, in complete silence.
On an unrelated note, I think we should gather information about player-made kingdoms and organisations, both active and defunct, in a post. So far, if I'm not mistaken, we have @The Harbinger of Ferocity's Lords of the Wild and @Mr Rage's elven kingdom. If it's okay, I would also like to add a few things about Ebonwood's organisation.
Posting my cs, it only needs a picture. Also, I've some questions I gotta ask. First of all, can the Grave Keepers use magic, and if so what types? Where do they stay? Can they live inside the graveyards they protect? And, do they carry standard issue weapons or are we free to write in our own? Thanks in advance, and tell me if I have to change anything.
Name: Hogarth Nethayr
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Appearance: Hogarth is a cheerful, wiry young man, dressed exclusively in black. He looks nearly emaciated, and stands about two meters tall, despite his slouchy, s-shaped posture. His choice of attire, however, slightly hides his thin frame. Namely, he is never seen wearing anything other than thick, ankle length coats, knee high steel reinforced leather boots and light plate gauntlets. A large hat with a sown-in strap is commonly seen atop his head. Hogarth is rather thin in the face, and posesses a snow-white complexion. His features are sharp and slightly sunken while his hair reaches just below his shoulders. Lastly, the most common expression his face takes is that of a wide eyed, teeth clenched grin.
Backstory:
Hogarth's early years have been utterly uneventful, if somewhat dull. Born to a family of simple merchants, he has never experienced the ravages of poverty, nor the comforts of wealth. Being interested in scholarly matters from an early age, his father eagerly supplied the young boy with any tomes he could procure, eventually creating an impressive library. The more the boy grew and read, however, the more he developed an interest in the macabre and morbid. In fact, the only thing slighty unconventional about Hogarth's life was Hogarth himself.
Even though the boy was joyful and well-mannered, he would, occasionally isolate himself from his peers and family, and would lock himself in the house's cramped reading quarters for hours on end. He'd fill these quarters with notes upon notes on increasingly disturbing subjects, casually adorning them with sketches depicting death's heads, wights, and other ghoulish creatures. Other times, he'd sink into mirth filled monologues regarding unpleasant matters, most common being the dead, both walking and not. When he was finally of age, it came to no one's surprise when he cheerfully proclaimed that he was joining the Grave Keepers. Now, he is most commonly seen wandering about the outer graveyard with a smile on his face, even when off duty.
Other:
Equipment:
Bandolier: A tanned leather bandolier consisting of a torso and belt part helps Hogarth store numerous vials of potions and his weapons.
Axes: Hogarth is not the best when it comes to handling meelee weapons, with the exception of his two small throwing axes, used to quickly incapacitate hostile undead, or humans.
Stake thrower: A medium to short range repeater crossbow customized by Hogarth, it is small enough to be fired from one hand if the need arises.
Backstory: A cloaked revenant clad in century-old armor and weilding an enchanted bastard sword, Zareketh travels from town to town, remaining in total obscurity. Only fresh corpses provide any evidence of his travels. Most of the time, cutthroats are found dead, others, the finds are more worrying. A rich mearchant, a poor beggar and even a mayor may suffer his wrath. While each town's officials handle each case in a typical manner, rumors exist, in a few remote areas, of the vengeful Sir Zacharius of Ebonwood who died centuries ago, yet could not rest as long as injustice reigned over the land. Due to the seldom occurrence and vast distance between each unsolved murder, paired with a natural lack of contact between communities and the sheer absurdity of the tale, such a possibility is universally dismissed as superstitious ravings, provided it is mentioned at all.
Abilities: Zareketh's most formidable ability is his undead condition. As a member of the restless dead, he cannot tire, hunger or sleep. His strength has grown to the point where he can lift an ordinary man with one hand, and his agility and physical resilience have been massively increased. Pain and fear can no longer be felt. Undeath has brought with it some massive weaknesses, however, and any spells, especially holy, that would normally heal or rejuvenate a living being backfire instead and harm Zareketh greatly. Furthermore, being in close proximity of a blessed artifact or stepping on holy ground gradually sap his strength.
He is also able to cast certain non-combat magic that can be used for utility purposes such as limited scrying, detecting and enchanting. These spells require rare materials and memorization rather than an inherent talent.
Lastly, Zareketh's original, harrowing training and many decades of combat experience render him a truly frightening opponent.
Spellguard: This bastard sword is Zareketh's only defence against magic users and most prized possession. It can cut through magic as it cuts through flesh, being able to "parry" spells and harm magical creatures.
Old armor: A suit of armor clearly not of this age, mixing plate, and chainmail under a leather overshirt to offer adequate protection without limiting mobility.
Cloak: A long, tattered cloak used to conceal Zareketh's face and help him remain hidden at night.
The Order of Merciful Knights, or, The Order of Ebonwood It is said, that at the times before the Khan's armies first began to ravage Theros, a mysterious figure that later came to be known only as the Confessor, emerged from a then unnamed forest that was long since considered cursed. Rumors existed, that spellcasters were unable to call upon their powers when surrounded by it's leafless, twisted trees, and that it owed its' property of being extremely hard to find to the fact that it was not fully integrated with the mortal world. Truly, one had to be all but lost to see its' blackened flora, and aimless wanderers or travelers who had lost their way were the most common ones to find their way to it.
The Confessor was a man of massive stature, but of his appearance nothing was ever seen, save for the thick black armor and greathelm he used to wear. His first undisputed sightings were in knightly tournaments where he competed, without the aid of a sponsor, against others of his kind. Be it honorable duel or joust, every knight that faced him was beaten effortlessly, eventually leading many into believing that he was some sort of demigod. Prevailing in tournament after tournament he was eventually sighted in the Kingdoms' largest, one which the king himself spectated. It was named "The Red Sun's Feast" and the participants were perhaps the best the realm had to offer. The reward was simple. Anything the victor asked for. Untold riches were given away, lives of entire families were changed as their childrens' children lived in safety and luxury.
Again, the Confessor plowed through his opponents with the same ease he had defeated pettier adversaries. Kneeling before a dumbfounded crowd and an impressed king, he asked not for gold or jewels, nor hands of noble ladies, but of lawful authority, authority to create and lead an order of knights dedicated in fortifying the peace within the King's lands. The ruler accepted, and when the time came, the Confessor had gathered the first wave of aspirants from all across the realm. All of them, even though hand-picked, seemed average at best. Some were past their prime, while most were nothing but commoners. Yet, as if aided by magic, the Confessor had chosen the best possible candidates. After three twelvemonths, only ninety nine withstood the borderline inhuman initiation training.
The Confessor then lead them back where he was rumored to have first emerged. He called these woods his home and named them Ebonwood, and eventually lead the Ninety Nine before a mighty hilltop keep. Its' dark grey walls had the same color as the natural stone found about in the forest, and it seemed as much a part of it as the fog and soil. Inside, they were taught strange magics that allowed them to see into the hearts and minds of men and beasts, they were presented with armor that did not weigh them down, cloaks that allowed them to meld into the night, and blades that could cut a falling leaf in half with a well-aimed swing.
In the following years, the Ninety Nine were transformed into weapons of absolution. They patrolled the vast kingdom, reaching into the souls of sinners and criminals, delivering punishment paired with mercy, and dispatched those who would not accept it. They helped those riddled with guilt or grief to cast their pain away, and turned lives around, liberating both lord and peasant from their inner demons. Even restless souls bound to this world found solace and some passed to the worlds beyond with their aid.
The Confessor, now a Grand Master in his own right, sat pleased in his keep. He rarely left his seat of power, save for when great need arose, and personally saw to trials of exceedingly notorious malefactors or ones that were otherwise impossible to bring to an end. It was said that the Confessors eyes burned with a bright red that the accused could feel in his insides, forcing them to divulge their sins, if they had any.
Years passed, and one day the Confessor vanished as suddenly as he appeared. He left the nine commanders of his Order to lead the rest as a council, and gave them the final command of never changing their Order's number. Even though stricken with great grief themselves, the Knights persevered and carried on as before. Using the teachings of the Confessor, both spiritual and magical, they were able to locate new members each time one was lost or became too old to continue, and trained them in the same grueling fashion that they themselves were. The order continued its' operations for centuries, hoping for their Grand Masters' return. But that day would never come.
The Order was far too idealistic and stern for its' own good. The Confessor's story was all but forgotten, times changed, Kings arose and fell, and noble houses appeared and vanished. Even after all these years, the Order was unrelenting in its' task of undoing the wrongs of the sinful, and quite the formidable foe. All it took was a single, powerful family to decide that they were potentially more harmful to the kingdom than they could be useful, and, with the aid of other nobles proceeded to declare the Order of Ebonwood outlaws and vigilantes. The knights themselves were not interested at all with politics, and would seize both noble and lowborn all the same, thus creating numerous enemies and making their downfall certain. Even after their official disbanding, they carried out their usual operations in a more discreet fashion for months before it was deemed necessary to end their activities with force.
Of the Siege of Graykeep, not much is known. Only that it lasted no more than ten days, and that every Merciful Knight died fighting taking twenty men with him. It is said, that once the final knight died, an unearthly wail echoed all across the forest, as mist thick as smoke poured out of it, covering the opposing army. Once the victorious forces had left, Ebonwood was forever lost. From that day on, not even stray wanderers reported seeing its' blackened, withered trees in the distance.
In a few backwards and remote communities of the Kingdom, legends exist, however, of a lone Merciful Knight who had been sent on a week-long journey, only to return to find his order and his friends wiped from the face of Theros. So great was his grief, that he could not find rest even after he claimed his own life. But that is nothing other than an obscure story, still lingering in the minds of few old men and women, and should not be taken seriously.
I'd like to claim the Wandering Knight card if that's okay. Hope you approve.
Tarot Card: The Wandering Knight
Name: Zareketh the Wanderer
Age: ???
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Backstory: A cloaked revenant clad in century-old armor and weilding an enchanted bastard sword, Zareketh travels from town to town, remaining in total obscurity. Only fresh corpses provide any evidence of his travels. Most of the time, cutthroats are found dead, others, the finds are more worrying. A rich mearchant, a poor beggar and even a mayor may suffer his wrath. While each town's officials handle each case in a typical manner, rumors exist, in a few remote areas, of the vengeful Sir Zacharius of Ebonwood who died centuries ago, yet could not rest as long as injustice reigned over the land. Due to the seldom occurrence and vast distance between each unsolved murder, paired with a natural lack of contact between communities and the sheer absurdity of the tale, such a possibility is universally dismissed as superstitious ravings, provided it is mentioned at all.
Abilities: Zareketh's most formidable ability is his undead condition. As a member of the restless dead, he cannot tire, hunger or sleep. His strength has grown to the point where he can lift an ordinary man with one hand, and his agility and physical resilience have been massively increased. Pain and fear can no longer be felt. Undeath has brought with it some massive weaknesses, however, and any spells, especially holy, that would normally heal or rejuvenate a living being backfire instead and harm Zareketh greatly. Furthermore, being in close proximity of a blessed artifact or stepping on holy ground gradually sap his strength.
He is also able to cast certain non-combat magic that can be used for utility purposes such as limited scrying, detecting and enchanting. These spells require rare materials and memorization rather than an inherent talent.
Lastly, Zareketh's original, harrowing training and many decades of combat experience render him a truly frightening opponent.
Spellguard: This bastard sword is Zareketh's only defence against magic users and most prized possession. It can cut through magic as it cuts through flesh, being able to "parry" spells and harm magical creatures.
Old armor: A suit of armor clearly not of this age, mixing plate, and chainmail under a leather overshirt to offer adequate protection without limiting mobility.
Cloak: A long, tattered cloak used to conceal Zareketh's face and help him remain hidden at night.
Edit: corrected some typos and added another paragraph in the abilities section.
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