Gowi
dreamer memer
Only post accepted character proposals in this thread.
Last edited:
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Fantasy An Earthen Lament | CHAR
- Thread starter Gowi
- Start date
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Rowan Íshár
[/div]
Female Human
Spirit Mage
[/div]
As much of a lithe beauty she appears, Rowan's interior hides a rowdy and boisterous side to herself-- one cultivated by having been raised as the youngest in a family of all unruly men. Her years at the magecarium gave her poise and intellect, but the crass candor she exhibits makes it clear she spent her childhood in a small, tight-knit village. When fully comfortable, or under the manipulative fingers of alcohol, her layers shear away to reveal the live fire beneath a mountain of ice. She loves to drink, and loves to show off how good at it she is. Rowan curses quite a bit too, and has little patience for slow people; her brain moves much too quickly and rapidly. Above all, Rowan knows how to survive-- and the sacrifices that come with it.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Rowan's actual birth remains a mystery, even to this day. Her adoption was an obvious one to the young girl, once she found a reflection and saw that she looked nothing like her dark-haired and tan-skinned brothers and father. There was never any tension in the family, and the brothers treated Rowan like the littlest brother, scoring the girl her fair share of bruises and bumps throughout her childhood. They lived in a small village, a couple week's journey south of Anemor. Malachi, Her father, was stern; he was not without kindness and diligence however, getting her reading by the time she was three. Malachi's own past was a mystery, and Rowan was only privy to it on an odd occasion or two when he was drunk. To an extent, it seemed that her father knew about Rowan's abilities, because before she even officially showed any magic she was carefully shipped away to the magicarium in Emberdawn.
To refute the change of scenery that came so abruptly, Rowan made sure to raise hell in her first years at the magicarium. She started fights, (may have started a fire once or twice), and routinely tried to sneak out. The girl made almost no friends, and began to resent her family and her life at the magicarium. The few close connections she made were only peers that she had lectures with or trained with. Rowan felt the monotony constraining, and it tortured the young girl. By her third year, one of the Enchanters reached out to Rowan. She was an older, sassy woman and Rowan found herself bonding with her. The Enchanter inspired Rowan that fighting would only make her years here more insufferable, but quietly told her to keep the flame alight; that it would be useful later to have someone as vivacious in her freedom as Rowan.
So, as the years passed she finally focused in on her studies and practices. Once she applied herself, Rowan excelled exponentially. Her magic was stronger than some of the others at her age, and this was eventually determined to be because Rowan had a stronger connection to the veil. No one could quite place why, and Rowan truly had no knowledge herself. Gaining prestige and renown among her peers, Rowan felt some trace of... belonging at that point. As a consequence, she held back the harder parts of her and maintained her air of mystique and control. But with her newfound growth came the harsh hand of the binds that were within the magicarium. Despite being praised by her peers, Rowan found new restrictions being slapped upon her like the same delinquent child that she was before. It infuriated the young woman, and something sparked within.
And indeed, just as the old Enchanter predicted, Rowan would use her flame of rebellion to inspire others. Under the wing of her 'mentor' of sorts, a small group of rebel mages began meeting in the off hours, when watchful eyes had less presence. Rowan, known as a bit of a prodigy among the others, was able to ignite similar fires within others. They preached about how unfair and unjust it was that they were coralled like cattle, and force fed writs and studies to be complacent and powerful toys. When in reality, Rowan would counter, that magic is far more of a gift that only magic-users could understand and use; not to rule unfairly with either, but to place their stake as more than prisoners of fear. The old Enchanter began to puppet Rowan for her own, rebellion-fueled intentions, and although Rowan began to see through the guise, she did not complain. She felt as if she were making a real difference, and could inspire change in those oppressed around her.
Things went horribly wrong when one of the men that Rowan knew, Jared, managed to escape with a priestess he fell in love with. Employing Rowan to help him escape, she encouraged the young man and his lover to find peace in the south, away from the harsh northern laws. Sometime later, Rowan heard the fateful news-- Jared had been slain after he let a demon wreak havoc, and possess him in turn. There were whispers among the magicarium, mostly from people who knew how close Rowan was with the rebel mage. Slowly over the course of a couple years, the wayward eyes of the guarding inquistors began to turn toward Rowan and the companions, and the walls of their rebellion began to crack bitterly. As well, those around her began to blame her for Jared's death and slip from sanity. Rowan came to find that these rumours started from the old Enchanter.
In an last ditch effort to avoid being pacified, or locked away, Rowan made her escape from the magicarium. But, not before attempting to squeeze the life out of the old Enchanter she thought she knew so well.
Rowan has been on the run, south now, for the last year or so. She's taken up different names and identities, keeping her magic well hidden. She hopes to find some answer to her birthright, and perhaps an idea of what made everything go so wrong.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Rowan took to her magic training very well at the magicarium, with a natural advantage to spirit magic and a slightly deeper reserve of mana. She has a base level of defensive and offensive spells, but her strong suit is indeed with spirits and the veil. She can pull barriers, strengthened by her relationship to the veil, and disrupt any area spells by enemy magic. She can heal as well, but it does take a stronger amount of mana to do such.
Aside from magic, Rowan has a pretty high survivalist and herbalist ability. She knows her way around flora and fauna and can craft reasonably strong poultices.
While not proficient in most weapons, Rowan is able to handle herself unarmed. She packs a wicked punch and can lift things almost twice her weight (perhaps augmented by her powers, but undetermined). Luckily enough, she was taught to use a bow and arrow for hunting by her ranger father, and although it was a long time ago, she still remembers at least an adept knowledge of using a bow and arrow.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 backpack and bedroll
1 medium sized spellbook, handwritten by Rowan
1 Focus, a simple wooden staff inlaid with striking silver veins. Rowan says it's for smacking people and definitely not for magic
2 small daggers, mostly for emergency only and tucked into her boots
1 bow and 20 arrows, hunting mostly but occasionally an arrow gets caught in someone's foot
1 waterskin, though it smells of alcohol sometimes
1 small bag containing edible flora, and enough rations for a week
1 small, silver locket gifted to her by her family before she left to the magicarium
4 health poultices, two of which are a much higher strength than the others
4 miscellaneous salves, some for burns, some for rashes
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[div class=headerleft]Rowan Íshár
[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Female Human
Spirit Mage
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Personality
As much of a lithe beauty she appears, Rowan's interior hides a rowdy and boisterous side to herself-- one cultivated by having been raised as the youngest in a family of all unruly men. Her years at the magecarium gave her poise and intellect, but the crass candor she exhibits makes it clear she spent her childhood in a small, tight-knit village. When fully comfortable, or under the manipulative fingers of alcohol, her layers shear away to reveal the live fire beneath a mountain of ice. She loves to drink, and loves to show off how good at it she is. Rowan curses quite a bit too, and has little patience for slow people; her brain moves much too quickly and rapidly. Above all, Rowan knows how to survive-- and the sacrifices that come with it.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Rowan's actual birth remains a mystery, even to this day. Her adoption was an obvious one to the young girl, once she found a reflection and saw that she looked nothing like her dark-haired and tan-skinned brothers and father. There was never any tension in the family, and the brothers treated Rowan like the littlest brother, scoring the girl her fair share of bruises and bumps throughout her childhood. They lived in a small village, a couple week's journey south of Anemor. Malachi, Her father, was stern; he was not without kindness and diligence however, getting her reading by the time she was three. Malachi's own past was a mystery, and Rowan was only privy to it on an odd occasion or two when he was drunk. To an extent, it seemed that her father knew about Rowan's abilities, because before she even officially showed any magic she was carefully shipped away to the magicarium in Emberdawn.
To refute the change of scenery that came so abruptly, Rowan made sure to raise hell in her first years at the magicarium. She started fights, (may have started a fire once or twice), and routinely tried to sneak out. The girl made almost no friends, and began to resent her family and her life at the magicarium. The few close connections she made were only peers that she had lectures with or trained with. Rowan felt the monotony constraining, and it tortured the young girl. By her third year, one of the Enchanters reached out to Rowan. She was an older, sassy woman and Rowan found herself bonding with her. The Enchanter inspired Rowan that fighting would only make her years here more insufferable, but quietly told her to keep the flame alight; that it would be useful later to have someone as vivacious in her freedom as Rowan.
So, as the years passed she finally focused in on her studies and practices. Once she applied herself, Rowan excelled exponentially. Her magic was stronger than some of the others at her age, and this was eventually determined to be because Rowan had a stronger connection to the veil. No one could quite place why, and Rowan truly had no knowledge herself. Gaining prestige and renown among her peers, Rowan felt some trace of... belonging at that point. As a consequence, she held back the harder parts of her and maintained her air of mystique and control. But with her newfound growth came the harsh hand of the binds that were within the magicarium. Despite being praised by her peers, Rowan found new restrictions being slapped upon her like the same delinquent child that she was before. It infuriated the young woman, and something sparked within.
And indeed, just as the old Enchanter predicted, Rowan would use her flame of rebellion to inspire others. Under the wing of her 'mentor' of sorts, a small group of rebel mages began meeting in the off hours, when watchful eyes had less presence. Rowan, known as a bit of a prodigy among the others, was able to ignite similar fires within others. They preached about how unfair and unjust it was that they were coralled like cattle, and force fed writs and studies to be complacent and powerful toys. When in reality, Rowan would counter, that magic is far more of a gift that only magic-users could understand and use; not to rule unfairly with either, but to place their stake as more than prisoners of fear. The old Enchanter began to puppet Rowan for her own, rebellion-fueled intentions, and although Rowan began to see through the guise, she did not complain. She felt as if she were making a real difference, and could inspire change in those oppressed around her.
Things went horribly wrong when one of the men that Rowan knew, Jared, managed to escape with a priestess he fell in love with. Employing Rowan to help him escape, she encouraged the young man and his lover to find peace in the south, away from the harsh northern laws. Sometime later, Rowan heard the fateful news-- Jared had been slain after he let a demon wreak havoc, and possess him in turn. There were whispers among the magicarium, mostly from people who knew how close Rowan was with the rebel mage. Slowly over the course of a couple years, the wayward eyes of the guarding inquistors began to turn toward Rowan and the companions, and the walls of their rebellion began to crack bitterly. As well, those around her began to blame her for Jared's death and slip from sanity. Rowan came to find that these rumours started from the old Enchanter.
In an last ditch effort to avoid being pacified, or locked away, Rowan made her escape from the magicarium. But, not before attempting to squeeze the life out of the old Enchanter she thought she knew so well.
Rowan has been on the run, south now, for the last year or so. She's taken up different names and identities, keeping her magic well hidden. She hopes to find some answer to her birthright, and perhaps an idea of what made everything go so wrong.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Rowan took to her magic training very well at the magicarium, with a natural advantage to spirit magic and a slightly deeper reserve of mana. She has a base level of defensive and offensive spells, but her strong suit is indeed with spirits and the veil. She can pull barriers, strengthened by her relationship to the veil, and disrupt any area spells by enemy magic. She can heal as well, but it does take a stronger amount of mana to do such.
Aside from magic, Rowan has a pretty high survivalist and herbalist ability. She knows her way around flora and fauna and can craft reasonably strong poultices.
While not proficient in most weapons, Rowan is able to handle herself unarmed. She packs a wicked punch and can lift things almost twice her weight (perhaps augmented by her powers, but undetermined). Luckily enough, she was taught to use a bow and arrow for hunting by her ranger father, and although it was a long time ago, she still remembers at least an adept knowledge of using a bow and arrow.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 backpack and bedroll
1 medium sized spellbook, handwritten by Rowan
1 Focus, a simple wooden staff inlaid with striking silver veins. Rowan says it's for smacking people and definitely not for magic
2 small daggers, mostly for emergency only and tucked into her boots
1 bow and 20 arrows, hunting mostly but occasionally an arrow gets caught in someone's foot
1 waterskin, though it smells of alcohol sometimes
1 small bag containing edible flora, and enough rations for a week
1 small, silver locket gifted to her by her family before she left to the magicarium
4 health poultices, two of which are a much higher strength than the others
4 miscellaneous salves, some for burns, some for rashes
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Last edited:
McMolly
New Member
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Frei Iordan
[/div]
Female Human
Knight Inquisitor
[/div]
Frei is at once overwhelmingly gentle, and intensely earnest; a woman of few and soft words, and brutally determined action. The divine virtues which bind the northron lands have guided her throughout her life, but she’s always been one to lean into their more protective and nurturing aspects.
There are parts to being an Inquisitor which Frei excels at. She’s a fantastic listener, a necessity when searching for mages in strange lands, and she has the patience of a saint, for when the searches drag on, or peter off into dead-ends. Her gentle, caring nature and penchant for charity mean that folk tend to trust her, or at least don’t shy to ask favors of her—the careful leveraging of which can also be crucial in the hunt.
Conversely, she falls short in other areas. An Inquisitor’s hunt often requires a degree of dishonesty, something which Frei is both intimately familiar with, and staunchly opposed to. This isn’t to say she’s guileless, or dense, but she has a propensity to speak bluntly and truthfully, even to those who should be her enemy. As well, and perhaps expectedly, Frei is often too trusting herself. She frequently projects the weight placed upon her own word onto the words of others, and as such, has a habit of choosing faith over evidence.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
In the cathedral-city of Eiel, the Divine Order reigns and the people flourish. Frei was born the eldest daughter of an accomplished Inquisitor by the name of Hyder. She and her younger sister, Eila, grew up idolizing the Order, and the protection it cast over Anemor. From her earliest years, Frei remembers wanting to be like her father: kind, just, a protector of the innocent, a shield against corruption and a blade against evil. An Inquisitor. Eila, more concerned with being by Frei’s side, was determined to follow her sister wherever she went.
Unfortunately, their paths diverged when Eila was discovered to have more potent magical capabilities than would be appropriate for an Inquisitor. The girl, still only a child at the time, was instead carted off to Eiel’s magicarium to learn with others of her kind, under the watchful gaze of an order she could never be a part of. Frei was conflicted, and often visited Eila in the company of their father to check up on her. Being young, Eila took to her lessons well, but this only seemed to disturb Hyder.
Frei’s own training progressed quickly. Under the tutelage of her father, she soon found herself apprenticed to one of his companions. What time she didn’t spend practicing swordsmanship, reading scripture, and learning magic-against-magic, she spent at the magicarium with Eila. Though her didactic training had made Frei cautious of Eila’s arcane nature, she couldn’t view her the way she was meant to. The Inquisitors saw mages as liabilities, like enemies-in-waiting, only a second’s breath away from causing chaos and destruction, but certainly Eila was different. She was a good girl, a smart girl. They’d wanted the same thing since they were both little, and while it might not have been fair that Eila was stuck in the magicarium, that didn’t make her evil. It couldn’t.
Eventually, to no one’s surprise, Frei was accepted into the order as a full Inquisitor. She spent her first year in Eiel’s magicarium, living up to every stereotype that the Inquisitor’s were little more than the mage’s sitters, but she didn’t mind. It was more time around Eila, who, despite the circumstance, was ecstatic for Frei’s accomplishment. Frei watched more closely as Eila’s lessons continued, and day by day she became convinced that there must be exceptions to the order’s exceptionless views. Eila was good. She never caused trouble, never shirked her responsibilities, and somehow, Frei thought her little sister harbored a hope that someday she might still stand beside her. Perhaps it wasn’t impossible.
When Frei underwent her Rite of Communion, she chose Aegis as her patron. The Arbiter of forgiveness, the shield of the brothers of divinity. She passed her trials, and she awoke not to celebration, but panic.
The Eiel rebellion was brutal and quick, by the time she’d reached the magicarium it was over. A small yet powerful collection of students had staged an escape, and in doing so had spurred many others to follow them. They left fire and death in their wake. She found her father in the destruction, far beyond saving. Dying and delirious, he swore to her with his final breath that Eila had aided the traitors.
Frei was stricken. When the dust had settled, and it was confirmed that her sister was missing, she didn’t know what to think. She knew what she should think, what she had been taught to think, but after so many years it was still inconceivable to her. Not Eila. Not her. There must have been a reason.
Eiel’s remaining Inquisitors were divided in duty. A majority remained in the city, to guard over the remaining mages and ensure through whatever means necessary that a similar catastrophe never befell Eiel again. The rest were sent out to track down the escapees, and any other rogue mages that might be plaguing the land.
Frei was among those released into the world. For the first time she left the northron lands, determined yet undeniably shaken. Though two years of searching yielded her justice for the order, she found no answers for herself. Still Eila was missing. Still, she didn’t know why. And she feared that perhaps she never would.
Currently she’s found herself in the village of Hleów, under the guise of a knight errant.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Having trained not only under her Inquisitor father, but his close companions, Frei has a firm grasp of the combative arts. Her aptitude for the sword set her apart from others in her class, as well as her tendency to eschew the standard shield for a second, shorter sword or dagger when she would spar against others. Graceful, but fierce, Frei herself dislikes combat, but recognizes the fact that the world, and those she chases, will likely not be reasoned with.
She also learned many of the magical skills iconic to her order. Though utilizing divine magics to hunt evil is poetically just, Frei still loathes to use spells, and this is certainly her weakest point as an Inquisitor. The spells she’s most adept with—perhaps even the only ones—allow her to combat minor diseases, project a thin ward against spells, cure smaller wounds. Those which rely upon faith are much easier for her than those which pull from a latent source of mana. The latter are often inaccessible to her without complete focus, meaning she won’t be calling them in battle any time soon.
Finally, Frei is a savvy traveler. Though she is fairly new to applying her training, she knows well enough how to traverse the southron marshlands. Sniffing out mages isn’t always simple, but at least she can follow their trail with a degree of experience.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 backpack and bedroll
1 longsword
1 shortsword
1 Focus, a ring, suitable only for minor spells
1 dingy set of armor, a roughshod mix of leather and plate
1 waterskin
2 coin pouches, one strapped to her belt, another—containing funds from Eiel—hidden in her backpack
1 Inquisitor’s Token, hidden in her backpack
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[div class=leftside][div class=FC]
[div class=headerleft]Frei Iordan
[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Female Human
Knight Inquisitor
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Personality
Frei is at once overwhelmingly gentle, and intensely earnest; a woman of few and soft words, and brutally determined action. The divine virtues which bind the northron lands have guided her throughout her life, but she’s always been one to lean into their more protective and nurturing aspects.
There are parts to being an Inquisitor which Frei excels at. She’s a fantastic listener, a necessity when searching for mages in strange lands, and she has the patience of a saint, for when the searches drag on, or peter off into dead-ends. Her gentle, caring nature and penchant for charity mean that folk tend to trust her, or at least don’t shy to ask favors of her—the careful leveraging of which can also be crucial in the hunt.
Conversely, she falls short in other areas. An Inquisitor’s hunt often requires a degree of dishonesty, something which Frei is both intimately familiar with, and staunchly opposed to. This isn’t to say she’s guileless, or dense, but she has a propensity to speak bluntly and truthfully, even to those who should be her enemy. As well, and perhaps expectedly, Frei is often too trusting herself. She frequently projects the weight placed upon her own word onto the words of others, and as such, has a habit of choosing faith over evidence.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
In the cathedral-city of Eiel, the Divine Order reigns and the people flourish. Frei was born the eldest daughter of an accomplished Inquisitor by the name of Hyder. She and her younger sister, Eila, grew up idolizing the Order, and the protection it cast over Anemor. From her earliest years, Frei remembers wanting to be like her father: kind, just, a protector of the innocent, a shield against corruption and a blade against evil. An Inquisitor. Eila, more concerned with being by Frei’s side, was determined to follow her sister wherever she went.
Unfortunately, their paths diverged when Eila was discovered to have more potent magical capabilities than would be appropriate for an Inquisitor. The girl, still only a child at the time, was instead carted off to Eiel’s magicarium to learn with others of her kind, under the watchful gaze of an order she could never be a part of. Frei was conflicted, and often visited Eila in the company of their father to check up on her. Being young, Eila took to her lessons well, but this only seemed to disturb Hyder.
Frei’s own training progressed quickly. Under the tutelage of her father, she soon found herself apprenticed to one of his companions. What time she didn’t spend practicing swordsmanship, reading scripture, and learning magic-against-magic, she spent at the magicarium with Eila. Though her didactic training had made Frei cautious of Eila’s arcane nature, she couldn’t view her the way she was meant to. The Inquisitors saw mages as liabilities, like enemies-in-waiting, only a second’s breath away from causing chaos and destruction, but certainly Eila was different. She was a good girl, a smart girl. They’d wanted the same thing since they were both little, and while it might not have been fair that Eila was stuck in the magicarium, that didn’t make her evil. It couldn’t.
Eventually, to no one’s surprise, Frei was accepted into the order as a full Inquisitor. She spent her first year in Eiel’s magicarium, living up to every stereotype that the Inquisitor’s were little more than the mage’s sitters, but she didn’t mind. It was more time around Eila, who, despite the circumstance, was ecstatic for Frei’s accomplishment. Frei watched more closely as Eila’s lessons continued, and day by day she became convinced that there must be exceptions to the order’s exceptionless views. Eila was good. She never caused trouble, never shirked her responsibilities, and somehow, Frei thought her little sister harbored a hope that someday she might still stand beside her. Perhaps it wasn’t impossible.
When Frei underwent her Rite of Communion, she chose Aegis as her patron. The Arbiter of forgiveness, the shield of the brothers of divinity. She passed her trials, and she awoke not to celebration, but panic.
The Eiel rebellion was brutal and quick, by the time she’d reached the magicarium it was over. A small yet powerful collection of students had staged an escape, and in doing so had spurred many others to follow them. They left fire and death in their wake. She found her father in the destruction, far beyond saving. Dying and delirious, he swore to her with his final breath that Eila had aided the traitors.
Frei was stricken. When the dust had settled, and it was confirmed that her sister was missing, she didn’t know what to think. She knew what she should think, what she had been taught to think, but after so many years it was still inconceivable to her. Not Eila. Not her. There must have been a reason.
Eiel’s remaining Inquisitors were divided in duty. A majority remained in the city, to guard over the remaining mages and ensure through whatever means necessary that a similar catastrophe never befell Eiel again. The rest were sent out to track down the escapees, and any other rogue mages that might be plaguing the land.
Frei was among those released into the world. For the first time she left the northron lands, determined yet undeniably shaken. Though two years of searching yielded her justice for the order, she found no answers for herself. Still Eila was missing. Still, she didn’t know why. And she feared that perhaps she never would.
Currently she’s found herself in the village of Hleów, under the guise of a knight errant.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Having trained not only under her Inquisitor father, but his close companions, Frei has a firm grasp of the combative arts. Her aptitude for the sword set her apart from others in her class, as well as her tendency to eschew the standard shield for a second, shorter sword or dagger when she would spar against others. Graceful, but fierce, Frei herself dislikes combat, but recognizes the fact that the world, and those she chases, will likely not be reasoned with.
She also learned many of the magical skills iconic to her order. Though utilizing divine magics to hunt evil is poetically just, Frei still loathes to use spells, and this is certainly her weakest point as an Inquisitor. The spells she’s most adept with—perhaps even the only ones—allow her to combat minor diseases, project a thin ward against spells, cure smaller wounds. Those which rely upon faith are much easier for her than those which pull from a latent source of mana. The latter are often inaccessible to her without complete focus, meaning she won’t be calling them in battle any time soon.
Finally, Frei is a savvy traveler. Though she is fairly new to applying her training, she knows well enough how to traverse the southron marshlands. Sniffing out mages isn’t always simple, but at least she can follow their trail with a degree of experience.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 backpack and bedroll
1 longsword
1 shortsword
1 Focus, a ring, suitable only for minor spells
1 dingy set of armor, a roughshod mix of leather and plate
1 waterskin
2 coin pouches, one strapped to her belt, another—containing funds from Eiel—hidden in her backpack
1 Inquisitor’s Token, hidden in her backpack
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idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald
[/div]
Race: Human
Age: 36
Class: Champion/Fighter
[/div]
A powerfully built man, taller than most and heavyset with muscle you wouldn’t see on any member of the gentility. His swarthy face brings out the stark silver of scars which are memoirs of tough battles and tougher decisions. Calloused palms and crooked incisors are a testament to his social status, whilst in any other case, one might have considered him handsome for all his flaws. The aquiline nose, marred with bumps from being broken, commands certain respect with a harsh gaze directed down it. Eyes, appearing more black than brown from the shadow of his brow, are only made further intense from his framed cheekbones. Wrinkles have begun to creep in, chiselling out laugh lines and the worries in his forehead with a life of hardships and late nights. Shaggy, grey hair is slowly coloured whiter by the day, his sideburns being the first culprits to turn their backs on the remnants of his youth.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Schwarzwald has never been nice. From the twist of his cynical lips and the bitter taste of coin, whatever manners had been imparted to him in his youth are long gone. Unsurprisingly stoic, Hun avoids being openly emotional, even his laughter being sparse and aligning with his dark, occasionally niche humour. Whilst he might appear detached, cool, and disinterested, Hunslaus suffers deep anxieties over how people view him, or how others might even aim to use him. Stuck in the past with no way of moving forward, he will often exhibit a strange, lost melancholy when questioned about it. There is more to life than merely surviving, but after all that has happened, survival seems to not quite cut it anymore. He has nothing and no one, no lands, no people, no ties. Almost forty and he's nothing to show for a life fraught with suffering. Most nights he’ll carve statuettes, small talismans, even playthings for village children. It keeps his mind from straying, a strategy to work through bad days. For there is more to worry about in his price of sin than there is petty troubles.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Hunslaus was born to the South, in a merchant town. One of three children, the only son and heir of his father. It was out there they owned a carpentry shop, a successful, respected business in the community. During hot summers their door would be propped open and out drifted the scent of sharp pine, soft varnish, the honey that accompanied beeswax. Floors thick with wood chippings and splinters aplenty. His mother washing laundry on the stone steps of the back entry, his sisters' complaints and chatter of the weather a grey background noise of gossip. In the winters, they worked closely by candlelight, father and son, squinting to see the grain of the wood as the sun dipped lower by the day. Sisters finding their entertainment in embroidery for fear of going out and catching illness before they caught husbands.
Hun found himself apprenticed to the family business when he was old enough to hold a chisel, it was never something he asked for. Yet it was in his blood, a trade they were slaves to. Learning a little literacy and arithmetic to help keep business simple - the paths to academics, aristocrats and romancers were not for those of his status. They were the workers, the builders, the ones lucky enough to know how to mould wood with their hands and earn more than pittance for it. The hearty laughs and hearty appetites, comfortable wives and children to work for you in old age. A good trade. A good place to be. Let no grand illusion have it ruined.
Fate had other plans in the works for the young boy. Whilst he grew into his father's boots, there came the pains that came with it. The strange teenage experience of girls and selfish desires. At fifteen, he and a merchant's daughter became entangled. She was above him in status, but to both of them, it would be a short summer thrill of escaping class and finding comfort in their differences. It was one of those nights, their stolen meetings, that she would never make it home. Confronted by her brother, they fought and whilst that merchant's daughter begged them to stop and tried to pull them apart - she fell. Backwards down a grassy slope, landing odd on her neck.
Hunslaus didn’t have time to defend himself from what would come. The belittling of court, accusations of rape and sexual deviancy, how he had killed her and been intercepted by her brother in his arrest. They paid to ensure he would die, set the world against him. His father never did look him in the eyes when Hunslaus begged to be heard for what truth was his own. Out of paternal love, strings were pulled to involve one of the local lords and under the table, came the offer of survival. It came packaged in a sinister contract, pledging his life away to become a man of war. Part of a mercenary group that the lord, in particular, had founded for his own interest and income.
Branded, shackled, cast off. No friends, no family, nowhere to call home. He was trained to fight, from sixteen he knew how to kill, and from seventeen he didn’t know right from wrong. His youth was lost the day he saw that pretty girl walk past the shopfront. Known to others for his previous crimes and as one of the few youngest members, Hun got his fair share of hazing. The men there had been saved by similar means and were cruel, exceptionally skilled, and equally unrelenting in their training.
He took the best and the worst. His hatred blamed the elves, the dwarves, the rich and entitled. He lost friends, gained brothers, betrayed them with promise. Still, he came out of every skirmish, every execution, every intimidation - unscathed. Undead. Unkillable. It didn’t last. He started getting older, started seeing more of what he was missing, the warm hearths and loving wives, the love that didn’t hurt you. Bands of workers that laughed, taverns spilling with sooty faces from work. He was twenty-nine summers when he worked up the plan to leave that contract. The one that saved him.
Hunslaus returned home to his town, wearier, older. His father's shop still stood, it still smelled of varnish and pine. Yet he never had the courage to approach the old, weathered man behind the counter. So he travelled to the marshlands for a new lease on life. Started his own mercenary business, did odd jobs, followed seasonal work. He’d hunt and sell the skins, join groups of adventurers for a slice of the bounties. A lot of caravan work which sent him back and forth, avoiding those who still searched for him. A bounty on his head - one which didn’t ask for him to be alive.
It was freedom, fulfilling to have it in his hands at last. And still, it was lonely. The long nights of contemplation and regrets - it's been seven years since then. Each having their ups and downs, friends and foes. Hearing of a caravanning job, however, Hun needed the money.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Besides being in fine physical health with good strength and reflexes, Hunslaus is an adept swordsman. On and off the battlefield, he’ll fight dirty without a sense of guilt for the rules combat being bent to his advantage and relies on common sense rather than twisting and turning like the whole thing is some kind of masterful waltz. Killing men has been a long time skill of his after all. Brawling, equally, is a second nature. From his tavern exploits to losing weapons in a fight, hand to hand poses no threat.
Besides his background as a mercenary, Hun is quite the tactician. From maps to in-the-moment, he's got wits about him to pull it off or run for the hills if need be. He might not be able to spell for shit, but he sure as hell manages to pull off the feat of a comprehensive attack plan.
An overall good negotiator from his personal worldly knowledge, aided by a healthy dose of intimidation - finer emotions are harder to work with. He might whittle down the price of a weapon, but pray to God he doesn’t have to handle a crying woman.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 x Backpack
1 x Bedroll
1 x Thick woollen fleece blanket
2 x Waterskins
2 x Sword (One-handed blade and shorter blade)
1 x Clay pipe and small bag of tobacco
1 x Penknife
2 x Basic salves for injuries, antibiotic and antiinflammatory
2 x Bandages/Dressings
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[div class=headerleft]Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald
[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Gender: MaleRace: Human
Age: 36
Class: Champion/Fighter
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Appearance
A powerfully built man, taller than most and heavyset with muscle you wouldn’t see on any member of the gentility. His swarthy face brings out the stark silver of scars which are memoirs of tough battles and tougher decisions. Calloused palms and crooked incisors are a testament to his social status, whilst in any other case, one might have considered him handsome for all his flaws. The aquiline nose, marred with bumps from being broken, commands certain respect with a harsh gaze directed down it. Eyes, appearing more black than brown from the shadow of his brow, are only made further intense from his framed cheekbones. Wrinkles have begun to creep in, chiselling out laugh lines and the worries in his forehead with a life of hardships and late nights. Shaggy, grey hair is slowly coloured whiter by the day, his sideburns being the first culprits to turn their backs on the remnants of his youth.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Schwarzwald has never been nice. From the twist of his cynical lips and the bitter taste of coin, whatever manners had been imparted to him in his youth are long gone. Unsurprisingly stoic, Hun avoids being openly emotional, even his laughter being sparse and aligning with his dark, occasionally niche humour. Whilst he might appear detached, cool, and disinterested, Hunslaus suffers deep anxieties over how people view him, or how others might even aim to use him. Stuck in the past with no way of moving forward, he will often exhibit a strange, lost melancholy when questioned about it. There is more to life than merely surviving, but after all that has happened, survival seems to not quite cut it anymore. He has nothing and no one, no lands, no people, no ties. Almost forty and he's nothing to show for a life fraught with suffering. Most nights he’ll carve statuettes, small talismans, even playthings for village children. It keeps his mind from straying, a strategy to work through bad days. For there is more to worry about in his price of sin than there is petty troubles.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Hunslaus was born to the South, in a merchant town. One of three children, the only son and heir of his father. It was out there they owned a carpentry shop, a successful, respected business in the community. During hot summers their door would be propped open and out drifted the scent of sharp pine, soft varnish, the honey that accompanied beeswax. Floors thick with wood chippings and splinters aplenty. His mother washing laundry on the stone steps of the back entry, his sisters' complaints and chatter of the weather a grey background noise of gossip. In the winters, they worked closely by candlelight, father and son, squinting to see the grain of the wood as the sun dipped lower by the day. Sisters finding their entertainment in embroidery for fear of going out and catching illness before they caught husbands.
Hun found himself apprenticed to the family business when he was old enough to hold a chisel, it was never something he asked for. Yet it was in his blood, a trade they were slaves to. Learning a little literacy and arithmetic to help keep business simple - the paths to academics, aristocrats and romancers were not for those of his status. They were the workers, the builders, the ones lucky enough to know how to mould wood with their hands and earn more than pittance for it. The hearty laughs and hearty appetites, comfortable wives and children to work for you in old age. A good trade. A good place to be. Let no grand illusion have it ruined.
Fate had other plans in the works for the young boy. Whilst he grew into his father's boots, there came the pains that came with it. The strange teenage experience of girls and selfish desires. At fifteen, he and a merchant's daughter became entangled. She was above him in status, but to both of them, it would be a short summer thrill of escaping class and finding comfort in their differences. It was one of those nights, their stolen meetings, that she would never make it home. Confronted by her brother, they fought and whilst that merchant's daughter begged them to stop and tried to pull them apart - she fell. Backwards down a grassy slope, landing odd on her neck.
Hunslaus didn’t have time to defend himself from what would come. The belittling of court, accusations of rape and sexual deviancy, how he had killed her and been intercepted by her brother in his arrest. They paid to ensure he would die, set the world against him. His father never did look him in the eyes when Hunslaus begged to be heard for what truth was his own. Out of paternal love, strings were pulled to involve one of the local lords and under the table, came the offer of survival. It came packaged in a sinister contract, pledging his life away to become a man of war. Part of a mercenary group that the lord, in particular, had founded for his own interest and income.
Branded, shackled, cast off. No friends, no family, nowhere to call home. He was trained to fight, from sixteen he knew how to kill, and from seventeen he didn’t know right from wrong. His youth was lost the day he saw that pretty girl walk past the shopfront. Known to others for his previous crimes and as one of the few youngest members, Hun got his fair share of hazing. The men there had been saved by similar means and were cruel, exceptionally skilled, and equally unrelenting in their training.
He took the best and the worst. His hatred blamed the elves, the dwarves, the rich and entitled. He lost friends, gained brothers, betrayed them with promise. Still, he came out of every skirmish, every execution, every intimidation - unscathed. Undead. Unkillable. It didn’t last. He started getting older, started seeing more of what he was missing, the warm hearths and loving wives, the love that didn’t hurt you. Bands of workers that laughed, taverns spilling with sooty faces from work. He was twenty-nine summers when he worked up the plan to leave that contract. The one that saved him.
Hunslaus returned home to his town, wearier, older. His father's shop still stood, it still smelled of varnish and pine. Yet he never had the courage to approach the old, weathered man behind the counter. So he travelled to the marshlands for a new lease on life. Started his own mercenary business, did odd jobs, followed seasonal work. He’d hunt and sell the skins, join groups of adventurers for a slice of the bounties. A lot of caravan work which sent him back and forth, avoiding those who still searched for him. A bounty on his head - one which didn’t ask for him to be alive.
It was freedom, fulfilling to have it in his hands at last. And still, it was lonely. The long nights of contemplation and regrets - it's been seven years since then. Each having their ups and downs, friends and foes. Hearing of a caravanning job, however, Hun needed the money.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Besides being in fine physical health with good strength and reflexes, Hunslaus is an adept swordsman. On and off the battlefield, he’ll fight dirty without a sense of guilt for the rules combat being bent to his advantage and relies on common sense rather than twisting and turning like the whole thing is some kind of masterful waltz. Killing men has been a long time skill of his after all. Brawling, equally, is a second nature. From his tavern exploits to losing weapons in a fight, hand to hand poses no threat.
Besides his background as a mercenary, Hun is quite the tactician. From maps to in-the-moment, he's got wits about him to pull it off or run for the hills if need be. He might not be able to spell for shit, but he sure as hell manages to pull off the feat of a comprehensive attack plan.
An overall good negotiator from his personal worldly knowledge, aided by a healthy dose of intimidation - finer emotions are harder to work with. He might whittle down the price of a weapon, but pray to God he doesn’t have to handle a crying woman.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 x Backpack
1 x Bedroll
1 x Thick woollen fleece blanket
2 x Waterskins
2 x Sword (One-handed blade and shorter blade)
1 x Clay pipe and small bag of tobacco
1 x Penknife
2 x Basic salves for injuries, antibiotic and antiinflammatory
2 x Bandages/Dressings
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Gowi
dreamer memer
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Isobel Underwood
[/div]
Female Human, Ranger
[/div]
Isobel looks like many southron natives. Dark hair, reminiscent to a raven's feathers with eyes of faded green. Her complexion is unshockingly pale, as her ventures ask her to skulk in forests and swampy marshes. She's neither short nor tall, standing at a sizeable five-foot-seven with an athletic albeit scarred body that has survived spear, sword, arrow, and beast's maw alike. Her hair is long and often unkempt, though pieced together in a loose ponytail for practical reasons.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Isobel has lived a lifetime of resentment and guilt as she moved from village-to-village to stay far from the reach of her uncle, Lord Domnall Blackwater of Swampglen.
This resentment and guilt has forged a character built of discontent, though generally Isobel is known as a woman who doesn’t provoke people without cause. She may be sarcastic and irreverent at times, but she is not prone to humiliating others or patronizing them in good company. Only when she has been spurned or offended does Isobel act unkindly towards others. She knows when to bite her tongue in the face of challenging men who she finds unseemly if it benefits her to do so. But eventually Isobel’s patience can break and when it does, one might imagine she is facing down Lord Domnall himself.
Beyond that, one might expect Isobel to be the typical breed and stock of the southern marshes. She is naturally suspicious of magic, though holds liberty and freedom to the highest regards. She distrusts northern values that have been taken by imperialism, though does not think lowly of the duty of Inquisitors as they are very similar to the southern tales of the Blackwardens.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
The Underwoods have persisted near the Viridian Sea for as long as there have been men in the Shattered Vale.
Throughout history, the Underwoods have persisted where it appeared that they had lost the favor of their ancestors. There was a Underwood at the back of the High King of the Southern Reach when the imperials arrived on the rocky shores of Marna. There was a Underwood in Aethelstan's brotherhood of heroes. It was a Underwood that begrudgingly sided with Theudelinde the Great. Perhaps it has always been a supporting role, but the Underwood Dynasty has been a major fixture in dictating the future of humanity. However, for the last two hundred or so years the house has found a shadow looming over its house.
Isobel Underwood, whether she deems it worthy of noting, is the last of her bloodline and one whom will never find sanctuary in Rersk again.
When Isobel was eleven years past her nameday, her lordling was stolen from her father after a feud between another southron house led to full-scale war. Employing the use of secret magicks and cunning intrigue, her maternal uncle betrayed her father as the full strength of House Underwood was occupied several provinces over. One of her father's retainers, a shrewd knight-ranger, carried her away from the castle before she too became a casualty of her maternal uncle's abhorrent insurrection. In the eleven winters since Isobel was forced into hiding the world she has found work as a scout, tracker, hunter, and hireling. Her mentorship under the knight-ranger who saved her had taught her well and with a fire burning instead her soul she soon found herself as skilled in many ways. She continues to remind herself of her oath to kill her treacherous uncle and bring justice to her parents--but even she knows that may not come for many years.
For now, in the present, it is her intention to continue to survive as she has done since she was a child.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
- Highly Skilled Archer
- Adept Swordsman
- Well-Versed Tracker & Huntsman
- Apt Cook & Survivalist
- Knowledgeable on Southern Fauna & Flora
- Highly Educated Childhood
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 Backpack.
1 Bedroll with a hide blanket.
1 Waterskin.
1 Hooded Lantern and a Flask of Oil.
1 Small Coinpurse holding eight gold and twelve silver.
1 Iron Pot and a set of Cooking Tools.
1 Flint, Tinder, and a Sharpening Stone.
1 Steel Arming Sword.
1 Darkwood Shortbow, armed with thirty arrows in a light leather quiver.
1 Pair of Clothes with light leather armor reinforcing it. Also, a cloak.
1 Skinning Knife.
1 Fishing Pole.
1 Set of Dried Meats; one week of trail rations.
1 Signet Ring, kept hidden.
1 Flask of Wyvern Blood for acid damage.
2 Healing Poultices that cure light wounds.
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[div class=headerleft]Isobel Underwood
[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Female Human, Ranger
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Appearance
Isobel looks like many southron natives. Dark hair, reminiscent to a raven's feathers with eyes of faded green. Her complexion is unshockingly pale, as her ventures ask her to skulk in forests and swampy marshes. She's neither short nor tall, standing at a sizeable five-foot-seven with an athletic albeit scarred body that has survived spear, sword, arrow, and beast's maw alike. Her hair is long and often unkempt, though pieced together in a loose ponytail for practical reasons.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Isobel has lived a lifetime of resentment and guilt as she moved from village-to-village to stay far from the reach of her uncle, Lord Domnall Blackwater of Swampglen.
This resentment and guilt has forged a character built of discontent, though generally Isobel is known as a woman who doesn’t provoke people without cause. She may be sarcastic and irreverent at times, but she is not prone to humiliating others or patronizing them in good company. Only when she has been spurned or offended does Isobel act unkindly towards others. She knows when to bite her tongue in the face of challenging men who she finds unseemly if it benefits her to do so. But eventually Isobel’s patience can break and when it does, one might imagine she is facing down Lord Domnall himself.
Beyond that, one might expect Isobel to be the typical breed and stock of the southern marshes. She is naturally suspicious of magic, though holds liberty and freedom to the highest regards. She distrusts northern values that have been taken by imperialism, though does not think lowly of the duty of Inquisitors as they are very similar to the southern tales of the Blackwardens.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
The Underwoods have persisted near the Viridian Sea for as long as there have been men in the Shattered Vale.
Throughout history, the Underwoods have persisted where it appeared that they had lost the favor of their ancestors. There was a Underwood at the back of the High King of the Southern Reach when the imperials arrived on the rocky shores of Marna. There was a Underwood in Aethelstan's brotherhood of heroes. It was a Underwood that begrudgingly sided with Theudelinde the Great. Perhaps it has always been a supporting role, but the Underwood Dynasty has been a major fixture in dictating the future of humanity. However, for the last two hundred or so years the house has found a shadow looming over its house.
Isobel Underwood, whether she deems it worthy of noting, is the last of her bloodline and one whom will never find sanctuary in Rersk again.
When Isobel was eleven years past her nameday, her lordling was stolen from her father after a feud between another southron house led to full-scale war. Employing the use of secret magicks and cunning intrigue, her maternal uncle betrayed her father as the full strength of House Underwood was occupied several provinces over. One of her father's retainers, a shrewd knight-ranger, carried her away from the castle before she too became a casualty of her maternal uncle's abhorrent insurrection. In the eleven winters since Isobel was forced into hiding the world she has found work as a scout, tracker, hunter, and hireling. Her mentorship under the knight-ranger who saved her had taught her well and with a fire burning instead her soul she soon found herself as skilled in many ways. She continues to remind herself of her oath to kill her treacherous uncle and bring justice to her parents--but even she knows that may not come for many years.
For now, in the present, it is her intention to continue to survive as she has done since she was a child.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
- Highly Skilled Archer
- Adept Swordsman
- Well-Versed Tracker & Huntsman
- Apt Cook & Survivalist
- Knowledgeable on Southern Fauna & Flora
- Highly Educated Childhood
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 Backpack.
1 Bedroll with a hide blanket.
1 Waterskin.
1 Hooded Lantern and a Flask of Oil.
1 Small Coinpurse holding eight gold and twelve silver.
1 Iron Pot and a set of Cooking Tools.
1 Flint, Tinder, and a Sharpening Stone.
1 Steel Arming Sword.
1 Darkwood Shortbow, armed with thirty arrows in a light leather quiver.
1 Pair of Clothes with light leather armor reinforcing it. Also, a cloak.
1 Skinning Knife.
1 Fishing Pole.
1 Set of Dried Meats; one week of trail rations.
1 Signet Ring, kept hidden.
1 Flask of Wyvern Blood for acid damage.
2 Healing Poultices that cure light wounds.
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Last edited:
Lekiel
Two Thousand Club
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Talaith Glasshand the Forsaken
[/div]
Gender: Female
Race: Nomadic Tylwyth Teg
Age: 27
Class: Druid/Nature Mage
Occupation: Herbalist/Apothecary
[/div]
Talaith stands at about 4 feet 9 and is of petite built.
She has slate-gray eyes and wavy flaxen hair that falls just past her shoulders.
The skin of her left hand, from fist to elbow, also appears to have hardened. It appears and feels akin to glassy marble. Nonetheless, she usually keeps it wrapped up in dark cloths to avoid unwanted attention.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Talaith is by heart and nature an exceedingly sanguine individual. Precociously bright from an early age with effervescent curiosity that sometimes pushes her across boundaries of what would be acceptable or safe to others. She gives off a cheery vibe, and by speaking to her, one would surely be able to feel a sense of wide-eyed wonder. An unsullied hope and excitement for what the future would bring. Nevertheless, exuberance can and does rub people the wrong way.
Having lived on her own for quite some time away from her erstwhile clan, she has turned into a much more reticent individual. A defense mechanism born out of necessity to survive among humankind. She'd long learned that to stick out from the rest was to invite trouble and heartbreak, things she learned from experiences that even now, haunt her deepest nightmares. Being Tylwyth Teg already meant sticking out, so she had to do everything she could to repress herself.
Nevertheless, her lucent spirit would truly never be allowed to die, and she longs for the day where she can be herself again. If one could look past her guarded tones and sometimes abrupt dismissive speech, one would see in her eyes, a soul longing to be freed.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Talaith Glasshand. Forsaken of Clan Virahnnen.
The Tylwyth Teg of Clan Virahnnen like most of their nomadic kin are staunch believers of the Old Paths. In as much as possible, they strive to keep the customs and traditions of their ancients alive. In particular, they revere a lesser-known god, Horweth the Wayfarer. Also known as the Great White Wolf and Guardian God of Travellers. The few shrines that remain in Lerenthia can be found amidst the thick forests of the Sendarfelds, a region of forests that borders the Southron marshes.
This is where Clan Virahnnen roam.
Talaith was the daughter of domestic elves, a pair of young lovers that aspired for a better life away from the stifling prejudice of their human 'betters'. As soon as Talaith could speak whole sentences, they fled from their home district in Anemor, finally glad to be free of the lowly gutter. It was a journey that took months as they sought any information that could point them to the various Wild Elven clans that roam the Southron lands. An arduous task but they never once gave up hope.
Eventually, they heard of the Virahnnen and sought them out despite warnings of the risks. The nomadic tribes were elusive, and many lost their lives to the wilds seeking them out. Nevertheless, Lyriandae seemed to watch over the small family and soon they found tracks that marked the presence of the clan. But just when things were starting to look for the better, the Goddess abandoned them. Beset by Swamp Trolls, mortal foes of the Virahnnen Clan, Talaith's father gave his life in sacrifice to buy time for his wife and daughter to escape. The Virahnnen arrived barely in time to save a very young Talaith; though her mother was gravely injured and died due to her wounds. The Virahnnen generally despise domestic elves, viewing them as weak and faithless and considered abandoning the young child.
But the Elder saw something in the child's eyes and he could not bear to leave her be. He decided to take her in. She grew up in his care, and despite her tragic beginnings, thrived on his love and proved herself to be particularly adept at druidic magic. Elder Arthfael held nothing back from his adoptive daughter and taught her everything he knew as long as she could contain it. Time passed and eventually, most of the Virahnnen began to accept her as one of them, though there were those that still despised her. Still, she worked hard and gave much to the clan eventually becoming poised to be the Elder's Second. One of the first elves to welcome her, now a dear friend, Iorweth was the Elder's first.
Alas, the dreaded Swamp Trolls returned in a horde of fury. The Tylwyth Teg rose up to meet them, seeking to rid themselves of the troll menace once and for all. Battle plans were laid out and a trap was set. A small party led by Iorweth and Talaith was sent to deal with a roving band of trolls split up from the main horde. The plan was simple. Their warriors would lure the trolls into an area of the swamps, seemingly cornered. All Talaith had to do was call upon her magic, using the mass of thick vines and sticky mud to thoroughly entrap their foes. But at the last moment, she froze. Visions of gnashing teeth and savage roars overwhelmed her. She was once again a weeping little child, dragged away by her mother as her father was crushed by a savage blow.
The fear consumed her and she turned and ran. All the warriors including beloved Iorweth perished. She returned to the camp a hysterical sobbing mass, terrified at the slaughter and ashamed for what she had done. Even if she hadn't confessed her cowardice hadn't gone unnoticed by the scouts. To make matters worse, all the initial prejudice towards the outsider was brought to the surface. She wasn't just a coward. She had betrayed her people at a crucial moment and should be punished. Conflicted about passing judgement but bound by duty, Elder Arthfael took Talaith to be judged by Horweth at one of his shrines before of the Clan. They were to perform the Rite of Judgement where the Elder announced the accusation before the witness of Horweth. Both Elder and accused would then spill blood on the statue before touching it. If she was guilty and worthy of the ultimate punishment, by touching the stone statue she would herself be turned to stone.
Lachrymose but accepting her fate, Talaith touched the rough white stone, and to her horror, pain shot through her hand as it took on a pale translucent hue. Her whole fist up till her elbow had become akin to glassy marble. Horweth had deemed her guilty, only in part. But the rest of the clan only saw blood. Arthfael had no choice but to banish Talaith if not to appease his people, then it was for her safety.
Thus she became Forsaken. Tylwyth Teg with no home. No family.
She survived on her own, eventually returning to the civilization of mankind where she makes a living as an apothecary. Staying just on the border of a Southron village where she serves any manner of people who require herbal potions.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Taught by a Tylwyth Teg Elder himself, Talaith has proven herself to be exceptionally skilled and gifted in the art of Magic. In particular, nature magic. As a druid, her powers extend towards control and enhancement of flora, able to influence their capabilities to a great extent. Twisting vines can be sprouted in a moment of time from seeds. Sharp poisonous plant needles can be flung to incapacitate or even kill enemies. Spores can be sprayed in the faces of foes, causing painful torns to sprout and tear victims from within.
She also has some measure of earthshaping, capable of causing a reasonable area of ground to turn into quicksand or erupt rocks from the ground to crush enemies. She can also move and shape the earth around objects, allowing her to imprison smaller enemies in rock and stone. Nevertheless, earthshaping magic is exhaustive and exponentially draining the larger the amount of earth she works with. Additionally, soft ground is easier to handle than hard rocky ground such as a mountainside.
Spending almost all her living years in the wilds with the nomadic elves has also enabled her to have unparalleled knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs. Coupled with her druidic experienced, she is very capable of producing various potions, poisons and unguents with various reasonable effects.
Talaith is indisposed to activities that require great physical strength. To make up for her lack of physical capabilities, and the fact that she has to use magic sparingly to avoid suspicion, she has become decently adept with flinging sharp objects (i.e. daggers, spiteful remarks). She is also very capable at being a slippery eel to get the hell away when running is the best option.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 x Backpack, Bedroll and general survival necessities.
1 x Simple long walking stick (No Ser, Inquisitor Ser, this is not a staff. Just a walking stick I assure you.)
1 x Leatherbound Journal (Nope, not a spellbook! Definitely not!)
6 x small throwing daggers
1 x hunting knife
2 x herb and seed pouches
1 x padded vial pouch
1 x Dark blue cloak
1 x pendant of wreathed vines, twisted around a milky dark blue gemstone.
1 x waterskin
A few vials of various healing, enhancing potions.
A few vials of poisons.
1 x small coin purse. Mostly for novelty purchases as she can live off nature.
Spare clothing.
1 x Sewing kit.
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[div class=headerleft]Talaith Glasshand the Forsaken
[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Gender: Female
Race: Nomadic Tylwyth Teg
Age: 27
Class: Druid/Nature Mage
Occupation: Herbalist/Apothecary
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Apperance
Talaith stands at about 4 feet 9 and is of petite built.
She has slate-gray eyes and wavy flaxen hair that falls just past her shoulders.
The skin of her left hand, from fist to elbow, also appears to have hardened. It appears and feels akin to glassy marble. Nonetheless, she usually keeps it wrapped up in dark cloths to avoid unwanted attention.
[div class=headermain]Personality[/div]
Talaith is by heart and nature an exceedingly sanguine individual. Precociously bright from an early age with effervescent curiosity that sometimes pushes her across boundaries of what would be acceptable or safe to others. She gives off a cheery vibe, and by speaking to her, one would surely be able to feel a sense of wide-eyed wonder. An unsullied hope and excitement for what the future would bring. Nevertheless, exuberance can and does rub people the wrong way.
Having lived on her own for quite some time away from her erstwhile clan, she has turned into a much more reticent individual. A defense mechanism born out of necessity to survive among humankind. She'd long learned that to stick out from the rest was to invite trouble and heartbreak, things she learned from experiences that even now, haunt her deepest nightmares. Being Tylwyth Teg already meant sticking out, so she had to do everything she could to repress herself.
Nevertheless, her lucent spirit would truly never be allowed to die, and she longs for the day where she can be herself again. If one could look past her guarded tones and sometimes abrupt dismissive speech, one would see in her eyes, a soul longing to be freed.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Talaith Glasshand. Forsaken of Clan Virahnnen.
The Tylwyth Teg of Clan Virahnnen like most of their nomadic kin are staunch believers of the Old Paths. In as much as possible, they strive to keep the customs and traditions of their ancients alive. In particular, they revere a lesser-known god, Horweth the Wayfarer. Also known as the Great White Wolf and Guardian God of Travellers. The few shrines that remain in Lerenthia can be found amidst the thick forests of the Sendarfelds, a region of forests that borders the Southron marshes.
This is where Clan Virahnnen roam.
Talaith was the daughter of domestic elves, a pair of young lovers that aspired for a better life away from the stifling prejudice of their human 'betters'. As soon as Talaith could speak whole sentences, they fled from their home district in Anemor, finally glad to be free of the lowly gutter. It was a journey that took months as they sought any information that could point them to the various Wild Elven clans that roam the Southron lands. An arduous task but they never once gave up hope.
Eventually, they heard of the Virahnnen and sought them out despite warnings of the risks. The nomadic tribes were elusive, and many lost their lives to the wilds seeking them out. Nevertheless, Lyriandae seemed to watch over the small family and soon they found tracks that marked the presence of the clan. But just when things were starting to look for the better, the Goddess abandoned them. Beset by Swamp Trolls, mortal foes of the Virahnnen Clan, Talaith's father gave his life in sacrifice to buy time for his wife and daughter to escape. The Virahnnen arrived barely in time to save a very young Talaith; though her mother was gravely injured and died due to her wounds. The Virahnnen generally despise domestic elves, viewing them as weak and faithless and considered abandoning the young child.
But the Elder saw something in the child's eyes and he could not bear to leave her be. He decided to take her in. She grew up in his care, and despite her tragic beginnings, thrived on his love and proved herself to be particularly adept at druidic magic. Elder Arthfael held nothing back from his adoptive daughter and taught her everything he knew as long as she could contain it. Time passed and eventually, most of the Virahnnen began to accept her as one of them, though there were those that still despised her. Still, she worked hard and gave much to the clan eventually becoming poised to be the Elder's Second. One of the first elves to welcome her, now a dear friend, Iorweth was the Elder's first.
Alas, the dreaded Swamp Trolls returned in a horde of fury. The Tylwyth Teg rose up to meet them, seeking to rid themselves of the troll menace once and for all. Battle plans were laid out and a trap was set. A small party led by Iorweth and Talaith was sent to deal with a roving band of trolls split up from the main horde. The plan was simple. Their warriors would lure the trolls into an area of the swamps, seemingly cornered. All Talaith had to do was call upon her magic, using the mass of thick vines and sticky mud to thoroughly entrap their foes. But at the last moment, she froze. Visions of gnashing teeth and savage roars overwhelmed her. She was once again a weeping little child, dragged away by her mother as her father was crushed by a savage blow.
The fear consumed her and she turned and ran. All the warriors including beloved Iorweth perished. She returned to the camp a hysterical sobbing mass, terrified at the slaughter and ashamed for what she had done. Even if she hadn't confessed her cowardice hadn't gone unnoticed by the scouts. To make matters worse, all the initial prejudice towards the outsider was brought to the surface. She wasn't just a coward. She had betrayed her people at a crucial moment and should be punished. Conflicted about passing judgement but bound by duty, Elder Arthfael took Talaith to be judged by Horweth at one of his shrines before of the Clan. They were to perform the Rite of Judgement where the Elder announced the accusation before the witness of Horweth. Both Elder and accused would then spill blood on the statue before touching it. If she was guilty and worthy of the ultimate punishment, by touching the stone statue she would herself be turned to stone.
Lachrymose but accepting her fate, Talaith touched the rough white stone, and to her horror, pain shot through her hand as it took on a pale translucent hue. Her whole fist up till her elbow had become akin to glassy marble. Horweth had deemed her guilty, only in part. But the rest of the clan only saw blood. Arthfael had no choice but to banish Talaith if not to appease his people, then it was for her safety.
Thus she became Forsaken. Tylwyth Teg with no home. No family.
She survived on her own, eventually returning to the civilization of mankind where she makes a living as an apothecary. Staying just on the border of a Southron village where she serves any manner of people who require herbal potions.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Taught by a Tylwyth Teg Elder himself, Talaith has proven herself to be exceptionally skilled and gifted in the art of Magic. In particular, nature magic. As a druid, her powers extend towards control and enhancement of flora, able to influence their capabilities to a great extent. Twisting vines can be sprouted in a moment of time from seeds. Sharp poisonous plant needles can be flung to incapacitate or even kill enemies. Spores can be sprayed in the faces of foes, causing painful torns to sprout and tear victims from within.
She also has some measure of earthshaping, capable of causing a reasonable area of ground to turn into quicksand or erupt rocks from the ground to crush enemies. She can also move and shape the earth around objects, allowing her to imprison smaller enemies in rock and stone. Nevertheless, earthshaping magic is exhaustive and exponentially draining the larger the amount of earth she works with. Additionally, soft ground is easier to handle than hard rocky ground such as a mountainside.
Spending almost all her living years in the wilds with the nomadic elves has also enabled her to have unparalleled knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs. Coupled with her druidic experienced, she is very capable of producing various potions, poisons and unguents with various reasonable effects.
Talaith is indisposed to activities that require great physical strength. To make up for her lack of physical capabilities, and the fact that she has to use magic sparingly to avoid suspicion, she has become decently adept with flinging sharp objects (i.e. daggers, spiteful remarks). She is also very capable at being a slippery eel to get the hell away when running is the best option.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
1 x Backpack, Bedroll and general survival necessities.
1 x Simple long walking stick (No Ser, Inquisitor Ser, this is not a staff. Just a walking stick I assure you.)
1 x Leatherbound Journal (Nope, not a spellbook! Definitely not!)
6 x small throwing daggers
1 x hunting knife
2 x herb and seed pouches
1 x padded vial pouch
1 x Dark blue cloak
1 x pendant of wreathed vines, twisted around a milky dark blue gemstone.
1 x waterskin
A few vials of various healing, enhancing potions.
A few vials of poisons.
1 x small coin purse. Mostly for novelty purchases as she can live off nature.
Spare clothing.
1 x Sewing kit.
[div class=headermain]
✤ ✤ ✤
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Last edited:
Cassie Lang
Junior Member
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Pippin Merryweather
[/div]
Female Human (Féngar)
Ranger | Lady of House Merryweather
[/div]
Pippin is as stereotypical as it comes to marshlanders.
Her distrust of magicians and other members of the otherworldly sort goes beyond even that of an inquistor. Perhaps because of her Southron heritage one could consider it being a rather biased opinion, but throughout the years Pippin has come to the conclusion that magic is inherently evil. From dragons burning down cities to witches cursing entire villages, Pippin sees no saving grace regarding any use of magic, for it has done more wrong than it ever will do right.
In turn, this superstition plays largely into the rest of Pippin's personality. Pippin's disgust towards magic has given rise to a quick temper that singles her out as an easy target to goad into lashing out. That being said, she is more likely to sling a hundred insults than swing a hundred swings of her sword (unless you're a mage, of course), knowing full well not to bring dishonor to her family's house.
Still, though she may be superstitious, loudmouthed and brash, however, Pippin firmly believes what she is doing for the good of her people—for the good of the marshland. Her hands must dirty themselves in sin so that the children of the marshes may sleep at night and spouses do not need to mourn the partner's death.
If being a despised brute is what Pippin must be for the better of her homeland, then so she will be. Whether or not it is the correct path is another question for another time.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Though Pippin had been the oldest of four, her destiny would not be made by politics and courtship; rather it'd forged by blade and flame. Like most Merryweathers, Pippin was but a young girl when she was inducted into the Blackwardens, an ancient order of sophisticated hunters of the occult that had been founded when the world was new.
Whilst it had been her father, Lord Giram Merryweather, who pressed Pippin into service, there was something she found enjoyable about her destiny. Though Pippin would rather chew her tongue off than admit it, she desired to be like her ancestor, Aethelstan, who had been said to have slain the elder dragon, Sandalphon, saving the Kingdom of Féngarde and all the marshland from destruction. He was a hero, and she wanted to be one, too.
This desire—along with the natural talent that resided within Aethelstan's bloodline—would prove Pippin a quick learner, taking to her new calling like a fish to water. It hadn't been long before Pippin was joining her father and his men on expeditions, flushing out the wickedness from deep within the marshes at the young age of sixteen.
For the next two decades, this would be her life. From cutting off the heads of known cultists to getting the snot kicked out of her by golems and other large marsh beasts, Pippin stood as a stalwart protector of the marshes.
Until now.
Recently, Pippin had been approached by a mysterious benefactor, one which claimed to know the location of Dragonsbane—the legendary sword of her ancestor. Though there was no certainty to the rumor, Pippin found herself compelled to at least consider it, for the rumor spoke of Salathiel, a mage of ill repute and prey that had proved to be rather elusive. She simply couldn't allow him to use the blade's power to fulfill his dark wishes.
Choosing to join a merchant's caravan, Pippin began the trek to Hleów, where Salathiel had last been reported to be near. She hoped the rumors were simply rumors, but ultimately, that would be a matter for the gods.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Though a member of the Blackwardens is destined to be skilled in many, many things, some of Pippin's traits inevitably stand out more than others:
Inspirational Willpower: Though Pippin tends to be ruthless with her words, there is no denying that she isn't a natural-born leader. The blood of Aethelstan runs within Pippin, commanding the loyalty and ensuring the morale of her comrades and followers as she stands fearlessly against the wicked threats of the marshes.
Occult Huntswoman: Despite her wariness towards magic and that of the otherworldly, Pippin has learned quite a bit about the nature of her foes as part of her Blackwarden training since she was just a wee kid. Though most of the information is situational, Pippin is rather capable of applying it to the field if needed.
Strong-armed: Unlike the frail, courtly ladies of some noble houses, Pippin is a monster of strength. She has a nasty throwing arm, being more than capable of sending a javelin flying into her target, and that the heavy weight of plate is more of an inconvenience than anything to Pippin. Rumor has it that Pippin once cleaved a man's skull through his helmet—a rumor she doesn't deny or admit to.
Weapon Versatility: Being both a noble and a warden, Pippin knows how to kill things in several different ways. Though she is primarily skilled in fighting with a sword and a shield, Pippin is also adept in using throwing javelins and bows within combat.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
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[div class=headerleft]Pippin Merryweather
[/div]
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[/div]Female Human (Féngar)
Ranger | Lady of House Merryweather
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Personality
Pippin is as stereotypical as it comes to marshlanders.
Her distrust of magicians and other members of the otherworldly sort goes beyond even that of an inquistor. Perhaps because of her Southron heritage one could consider it being a rather biased opinion, but throughout the years Pippin has come to the conclusion that magic is inherently evil. From dragons burning down cities to witches cursing entire villages, Pippin sees no saving grace regarding any use of magic, for it has done more wrong than it ever will do right.
In turn, this superstition plays largely into the rest of Pippin's personality. Pippin's disgust towards magic has given rise to a quick temper that singles her out as an easy target to goad into lashing out. That being said, she is more likely to sling a hundred insults than swing a hundred swings of her sword (unless you're a mage, of course), knowing full well not to bring dishonor to her family's house.
Still, though she may be superstitious, loudmouthed and brash, however, Pippin firmly believes what she is doing for the good of her people—for the good of the marshland. Her hands must dirty themselves in sin so that the children of the marshes may sleep at night and spouses do not need to mourn the partner's death.
If being a despised brute is what Pippin must be for the better of her homeland, then so she will be. Whether or not it is the correct path is another question for another time.
[div class=headermain]Background[/div]
Though Pippin had been the oldest of four, her destiny would not be made by politics and courtship; rather it'd forged by blade and flame. Like most Merryweathers, Pippin was but a young girl when she was inducted into the Blackwardens, an ancient order of sophisticated hunters of the occult that had been founded when the world was new.
Whilst it had been her father, Lord Giram Merryweather, who pressed Pippin into service, there was something she found enjoyable about her destiny. Though Pippin would rather chew her tongue off than admit it, she desired to be like her ancestor, Aethelstan, who had been said to have slain the elder dragon, Sandalphon, saving the Kingdom of Féngarde and all the marshland from destruction. He was a hero, and she wanted to be one, too.
This desire—along with the natural talent that resided within Aethelstan's bloodline—would prove Pippin a quick learner, taking to her new calling like a fish to water. It hadn't been long before Pippin was joining her father and his men on expeditions, flushing out the wickedness from deep within the marshes at the young age of sixteen.
For the next two decades, this would be her life. From cutting off the heads of known cultists to getting the snot kicked out of her by golems and other large marsh beasts, Pippin stood as a stalwart protector of the marshes.
Until now.
Recently, Pippin had been approached by a mysterious benefactor, one which claimed to know the location of Dragonsbane—the legendary sword of her ancestor. Though there was no certainty to the rumor, Pippin found herself compelled to at least consider it, for the rumor spoke of Salathiel, a mage of ill repute and prey that had proved to be rather elusive. She simply couldn't allow him to use the blade's power to fulfill his dark wishes.
Choosing to join a merchant's caravan, Pippin began the trek to Hleów, where Salathiel had last been reported to be near. She hoped the rumors were simply rumors, but ultimately, that would be a matter for the gods.
[div class=headermain]Skills & Abilities[/div]
Though a member of the Blackwardens is destined to be skilled in many, many things, some of Pippin's traits inevitably stand out more than others:
Inspirational Willpower: Though Pippin tends to be ruthless with her words, there is no denying that she isn't a natural-born leader. The blood of Aethelstan runs within Pippin, commanding the loyalty and ensuring the morale of her comrades and followers as she stands fearlessly against the wicked threats of the marshes.
Occult Huntswoman: Despite her wariness towards magic and that of the otherworldly, Pippin has learned quite a bit about the nature of her foes as part of her Blackwarden training since she was just a wee kid. Though most of the information is situational, Pippin is rather capable of applying it to the field if needed.
Strong-armed: Unlike the frail, courtly ladies of some noble houses, Pippin is a monster of strength. She has a nasty throwing arm, being more than capable of sending a javelin flying into her target, and that the heavy weight of plate is more of an inconvenience than anything to Pippin. Rumor has it that Pippin once cleaved a man's skull through his helmet—a rumor she doesn't deny or admit to.
Weapon Versatility: Being both a noble and a warden, Pippin knows how to kill things in several different ways. Though she is primarily skilled in fighting with a sword and a shield, Pippin is also adept in using throwing javelins and bows within combat.
[div class=headermain]Equipment[/div]
- Backpack
- 3x Dressings
- 1x Coin purse
- 1x Flask of spider ichor
- 1x Handwritten journal
- 50x Hempen rope (per foot)
- 1x Jar of ink
- 2x Medicated salves
- 1x Mess kit
- 10x Rations (per day)
- 1x Salt pouch
- 1x Tinderbox
- 10x Torches
- 1x Waterskin
- 1x Writing quill
- 1x Dagger
- 3x Javelins
- 1x Longsword, engraved with silver
- 1x Shield
- 1x Splintmail
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