Greetings Tel`Quessir
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Fantasy B L O O D S W O R N ❧ CS
- Thread starter Lekiel
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Lekiel
Two Thousand Club
Before creating your Character, it would be good to keep all these in mind about the story:
1. Tel`Quessir have been at war with The Wretched for over a thousand years, barely holding on. They're all that's left (in the known world) of the sentient creatures of Order.
2. The Tel`Quessir recently retook their ancient capital, Tal`Velahr, so everyone is rejoicing as they have never pushed the Wretched back so far before. (our rp will begin about a year after the retaking of Tal`Velahr). Although they have gained ground, the Wretched are still very much a threat throughout the lands, even behind the defense lines.
3. But between a very detached high king and a rather selfish crown prince, the Tel`Quessir pretty much put a fullstop to their fight and called it a day, celebrating their 'victory' as if retaking the capital was the main goal afterall, instead of eradicating the Wretched. Despite that, certain quarters still call for vigilance and for the Tel`Quessir to continue to press the fight. Namely the First Princess (which I will play) the Grandmagus and a few other generals. But due to the holding order from the high king, any sort of counter-attack by the Tel`Quessir is moot. **RP will start roughly here** Worse still, a 'mysterious figure' will appear and bring darker tidings. That the retreat of the Wretched is just a distraction, and that a huge force of Chaos is preparing to sweep out of Blightreun and decimate the Tel`Quessir once and for all.
But there is hope! An ancient treaty (that's the weird language bit in 'forgotten promises' tab in the main thread) signed by the long forgotten races with a Great Elven King from a time passed, Sildorin Velahr who sacrificed himself to end the Wyrmwars (crazy dragons basically). The catch is, according to the treaty, the Saelas and dwarves will only answer to someone from the bloodline of Sildorin Velahr. And his last descendant died fifty years ago without an heir. BUT the mysterious figure will reveal that there is indeed an heir to the Velahr bloodline, and that King Erlathan was not the last. I could go on, but we're already past spoiler alert territory
4. Knowing all this, Princess Amaranth will have to gather a group of highly esteemed individuals, people that she eventually learns to trust, to find this heir. Seek the aid of the dwarves and saelas before the Wretched begin their attack! So yes, there is a 'quest' (adventure), there is political intrigue (cos the Crown Prince is uhm... lets say, deluded for now and will do anything to see himself in control of everything), and yes friendship (cos we're people on a quest! also,
Hell0NHighWater
will be co-GM with me, and will be playing Amaranth's childhood friend. hence' there will be some romance (within the usual guidelines ofc))
*if any of you wants to step up I don't mind discussing the finer details of plot with you guys too. . . I've opened up the spot of her younger sister if anyone wants to pick a canon character role.
Your CS will be approved when I 'Like' it.
~*~
You may use your own CS as long as all the important bits are clearly seen. Alternatively, you can make use of this form (credits to @RI.a for the nifty coding!), the capitalized parts is where your suitable background/character image is placed by simply pasting the URL between the quotations marks :
1. Tel`Quessir have been at war with The Wretched for over a thousand years, barely holding on. They're all that's left (in the known world) of the sentient creatures of Order.
2. The Tel`Quessir recently retook their ancient capital, Tal`Velahr, so everyone is rejoicing as they have never pushed the Wretched back so far before. (our rp will begin about a year after the retaking of Tal`Velahr). Although they have gained ground, the Wretched are still very much a threat throughout the lands, even behind the defense lines.
3. But between a very detached high king and a rather selfish crown prince, the Tel`Quessir pretty much put a fullstop to their fight and called it a day, celebrating their 'victory' as if retaking the capital was the main goal afterall, instead of eradicating the Wretched. Despite that, certain quarters still call for vigilance and for the Tel`Quessir to continue to press the fight. Namely the First Princess (which I will play) the Grandmagus and a few other generals. But due to the holding order from the high king, any sort of counter-attack by the Tel`Quessir is moot. **RP will start roughly here** Worse still, a 'mysterious figure' will appear and bring darker tidings. That the retreat of the Wretched is just a distraction, and that a huge force of Chaos is preparing to sweep out of Blightreun and decimate the Tel`Quessir once and for all.
But there is hope! An ancient treaty (that's the weird language bit in 'forgotten promises' tab in the main thread) signed by the long forgotten races with a Great Elven King from a time passed, Sildorin Velahr who sacrificed himself to end the Wyrmwars (crazy dragons basically). The catch is, according to the treaty, the Saelas and dwarves will only answer to someone from the bloodline of Sildorin Velahr. And his last descendant died fifty years ago without an heir. BUT the mysterious figure will reveal that there is indeed an heir to the Velahr bloodline, and that King Erlathan was not the last. I could go on, but we're already past spoiler alert territory
4. Knowing all this, Princess Amaranth will have to gather a group of highly esteemed individuals, people that she eventually learns to trust, to find this heir. Seek the aid of the dwarves and saelas before the Wretched begin their attack! So yes, there is a 'quest' (adventure), there is political intrigue (cos the Crown Prince is uhm... lets say, deluded for now and will do anything to see himself in control of everything), and yes friendship (cos we're people on a quest! also,
Hell0NHighWater
will be co-GM with me, and will be playing Amaranth's childhood friend. hence' there will be some romance (within the usual guidelines ofc)) *if any of you wants to step up I don't mind discussing the finer details of plot with you guys too. . . I've opened up the spot of her younger sister if anyone wants to pick a canon character role.
Your CS will be approved when I 'Like' it.
~*~
You may use your own CS as long as all the important bits are clearly seen. Alternatively, you can make use of this form (credits to @RI.a for the nifty coding!), the capitalized parts is where your suitable background/character image is placed by simply pasting the URL between the quotations marks :
Code:
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[div class=textbox][font=Timelord]Name:
Age: (This does affect your character's skills and background. Do note that elves are not considered a full adult until they are 30. Recommended age for elf, 25-200. Human, 20-50.)
Location of Birth: (One of the major cities, or a smaller village/town of your own imagination! But please provide extra background in this case)
Appearance: (include one realistic (basically non-anime design/colours) art picture, if you can't find one I can help!)
Equipment: (Be reasonable, you can't carry a house)
Class: (see the available character classes for further details. Other generic 'medieval fantasy' jobs are also permitted. e.g. guardsman/solider (warrior), thief (rogue), divine priest. But they must first be approved by me)
Personality: (flaws and virtues, you don't need to be overdramatic, but do try to distinguish yourself!)
Title: (include how you were given/named. e.g. Luthien Goblinsmacker. Famed for killing a hundred goblins with a flyswatter in one night.)
Backstory:
Story Relation: (If you know any of the other characters. Your character's thoughts on the Chaos War. Should the Tel`Quessir bolster their defenses as the Crown Prince and High King wishes? Or press the attack as Princess Amaranth and the Grandmagus calls for. Do note that regardless of your view, you will eventually have to team up with the Princess on her quest.)
Skills, Interests and Fears:
Spells: (For Mages only. Describe in sufficient detail the extent of your abilities)
Other: (Character Theme Song)
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
[/font][/div][font=Timelord][div=text-align:center;font-family:Karla;font-size:0.5em;letter-spacing:0.3em;opacity:0.6;]code by Ri.a[/div][/font][/div][/div][/centerblock]
Last edited:
Lekiel
Two Thousand Club
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[div class=textbox]
Name: Princess Ameranth Faenalla "Silverhand"
Age: 99
Location of Birth: Numenlad, though her home has always been An`Falithe
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Appearance: Ameranth has auburn hair reminiscent of the autumn hues of the great trees surrounding her home of An`Falithe. They cascade in soft waves down her back reaching her shoulder blades. When heading into battle, she twists two braids on either side of her head while still keeping the rest unfettered. She stands at a respectable 5 ft 7 inches (170cm) and is of slim athletic build with just enough curves to appear feminine. Her eyes are a pale blue which does much to soften her otherwise austere features.
Equipment: Other than the usual supplies and herb poultices, Ameranth carries a finely crafted Ghaastwood bow and elven longsword named Anorlindir (Dawnsinger). Both weapons belonged to her late mother, with their polished wood surfaces alabaster white and inlaid with runes. Anorlindir will gleam a soft amber glow when creatures of Chaos are nearby. Ameranth often dons a dark green cloak and a well-made albeit simple mail armor, fashioned with the bronze scales of a Dremorian Hydra. When dealing with issues of court, her official garb is a decently fashioned light blue dress.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Class: Ranger Enchanter
Personality: Ameranth has always been a very empathatic soul which did much to bring her down to the ground level despite her noble birth. Taught from an early age by her mother to take notice of the plight of her people, and to never take her position in society for granted, but instead to use it to help better the lives others. This instilled in her a constant drive to engage herself in politics, though her motivations were often too idealistic to the extent of being naive. She has learned much from the conniving political maneuverings of others over her lifetime, and has wisened up but nevertheless still finds it difficult to imagine any elf capable of selfishly harming their own people what with the ever present threat of Wretched; this internal conflict is especially apparent in her dealings with the Crown Prince and the High King as time and again, she has put her hopes in them only to be proven wrong.
Regardless, Ameranth has a quick mind, proving to be an asset on the field of command in the battlefield. However, being so used to smarting her way to success, on the rare occasion that things take a turn for the worse, she can get overwhelmed with frustration if left on her own.
Title: Silverhand. A title given to her from soldiers on the battlefield. As during her earlier years and even now, she was often seen near the frontlines using her divine providence to the Goddess Felariel to heal the wounds of the injured, having nearly lost her own life on several occasions. She has a scar on her chest from a black arrow just above her heart and three gashes at her lower back to the right side of her waist.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Backstory: Ameranth Faenalla is the oldest daughter of the then advisor to the king, Althuras Faenalla and Elmyra Ellrohir. Her early years growing up as a child was pretty normal as far as children of the Highborn go, if a little subdued. Her mother had been suffering from an illness caused by the very same type of arrow that would very nearly claim the life of her daughter many years later. Nevertheless, Elmyra would live on for several more decades. It was said she never quite fully recovered, leading to her death after giving birth to her third child.
As Ameranth reached her adolescent years, she took an interest in the Priestesses of Felariel, having volunteered to perform during one of the festive dances on the festival of Faradome on her sixteenth birthday. During her time at the temple, she witnessed the priests healing many of the sick and injured. The elevation of the suffering of others struck a chord within her and she requested to join the ranks of the priestesses. Nevertheless, growing older also came with other frustrating nuances, namely her brother's incessant attempt to arrange her to be wed. Though largely irritating, she did tolerate the customary visits though it was more out of courtesy, and her nature of trying to find the gentlest approach to turn people down. The last straw came when out of the blue, her father himself remarked about the possibility of Ameranth marrying the High King, as he did not seem interested in taking a queen from any of his previous courtships.
Frustrated at her family's disregard for her own individuality and seeming lack of focus on the Chaos War, she asked for her mother's blessing to join the Ranger academy so she could serve the Tel`Quessir on the frontlines. A former ranger herself, Elmyra was at first reluctant, but eventually succumbed to her daughter's pleading. Her actions did not go unnoticed, and one day, she was visited by Grandmagus Kharis Bhallen, who was impressed that such a young noblewoman would give up her life of privilege to serve her people on the front. Ameranth eventually found a kindred spirit in the elderly isilhin and often took to the Arclord for wise counsel.
Story Relation: Ameranth believes that her brother and father have become too comfortable with the status quo, afraid of risking their comforts to lead their people against the Wretched. She still believes in them, especially her father who had once been a very astute and brilliant general.
Israfael, Castien Aeris - Being highborn, there was no shortage of peers for Ameranth to get acquainted with, but none stuck with her quite as closely during her childhood years as the adopted noble-boy she met on her first visit to Ilshari. She had been so taken in by the great tree-houses of the moon city that she wandered away from her attendants. Distracted by a particularly alluring sight, she slipped off the pathway and tumbled into a shallow river. She landed conscious but had fractured her arm and was unable to climb her way back out. It was fast approaching twilight and the river was in a quieter part of town. All of a sudden, a pale-skinned isilhin boy poked his head over the side of the riverbank. Young Ameranth had been so relieved she did not allow the boy to leave to get help, threatening to scream her lungs out if he did. Eventually, he calmed her down enough to allow him to call for help and save the day!
Their friendship blossomed after that, with Ameranth finding the smallest reasons to visit her newfound friend from Ilshari. But as they grew into young adults, her duties and the increasing threat of the Wretched made traveling between the two cities difficult and they grew apart. But the sun elf never forgot her days spent with Israfael, longing to be with him once again until one day, he appeared to her in the dark of night with a blade to her throat. She would've been horrified at what he had chosen to become had she not been so relieved to see him again.
[/div]
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Skills, Interests and Fears: While Ameranth is an accomplished ranger and fully capable of holding her own in a fight, upfront battle has never been and will never be her forte. Nevertheless, she has decent skill with the bow and can be quite the marksman when she puts her mind to it. Conversely, she is an adept at healing magic and has a wide understanding of concocting healing salves and poultices.
She loves the finer arts of dancing (from her time in the Temple of Felariel) and tailoring.
She fears the idea of being powerless (also applies in instances of facing insurmountable odds) and of course, losing loved ones.
Spells: (For Mages only. Describe in sufficient detail the extent of your abilities)
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Other: Ameranth's Theme - Lady Of The Hunt
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Name: Princess Ameranth Faenalla "Silverhand"
Age: 99
Location of Birth: Numenlad, though her home has always been An`Falithe
[/div]
[div class=textbox2]
Appearance: Ameranth has auburn hair reminiscent of the autumn hues of the great trees surrounding her home of An`Falithe. They cascade in soft waves down her back reaching her shoulder blades. When heading into battle, she twists two braids on either side of her head while still keeping the rest unfettered. She stands at a respectable 5 ft 7 inches (170cm) and is of slim athletic build with just enough curves to appear feminine. Her eyes are a pale blue which does much to soften her otherwise austere features.
Equipment: Other than the usual supplies and herb poultices, Ameranth carries a finely crafted Ghaastwood bow and elven longsword named Anorlindir (Dawnsinger). Both weapons belonged to her late mother, with their polished wood surfaces alabaster white and inlaid with runes. Anorlindir will gleam a soft amber glow when creatures of Chaos are nearby. Ameranth often dons a dark green cloak and a well-made albeit simple mail armor, fashioned with the bronze scales of a Dremorian Hydra. When dealing with issues of court, her official garb is a decently fashioned light blue dress.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Class: Ranger Enchanter
Personality: Ameranth has always been a very empathatic soul which did much to bring her down to the ground level despite her noble birth. Taught from an early age by her mother to take notice of the plight of her people, and to never take her position in society for granted, but instead to use it to help better the lives others. This instilled in her a constant drive to engage herself in politics, though her motivations were often too idealistic to the extent of being naive. She has learned much from the conniving political maneuverings of others over her lifetime, and has wisened up but nevertheless still finds it difficult to imagine any elf capable of selfishly harming their own people what with the ever present threat of Wretched; this internal conflict is especially apparent in her dealings with the Crown Prince and the High King as time and again, she has put her hopes in them only to be proven wrong.
Regardless, Ameranth has a quick mind, proving to be an asset on the field of command in the battlefield. However, being so used to smarting her way to success, on the rare occasion that things take a turn for the worse, she can get overwhelmed with frustration if left on her own.
Title: Silverhand. A title given to her from soldiers on the battlefield. As during her earlier years and even now, she was often seen near the frontlines using her divine providence to the Goddess Felariel to heal the wounds of the injured, having nearly lost her own life on several occasions. She has a scar on her chest from a black arrow just above her heart and three gashes at her lower back to the right side of her waist.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Backstory: Ameranth Faenalla is the oldest daughter of the then advisor to the king, Althuras Faenalla and Elmyra Ellrohir. Her early years growing up as a child was pretty normal as far as children of the Highborn go, if a little subdued. Her mother had been suffering from an illness caused by the very same type of arrow that would very nearly claim the life of her daughter many years later. Nevertheless, Elmyra would live on for several more decades. It was said she never quite fully recovered, leading to her death after giving birth to her third child.
As Ameranth reached her adolescent years, she took an interest in the Priestesses of Felariel, having volunteered to perform during one of the festive dances on the festival of Faradome on her sixteenth birthday. During her time at the temple, she witnessed the priests healing many of the sick and injured. The elevation of the suffering of others struck a chord within her and she requested to join the ranks of the priestesses. Nevertheless, growing older also came with other frustrating nuances, namely her brother's incessant attempt to arrange her to be wed. Though largely irritating, she did tolerate the customary visits though it was more out of courtesy, and her nature of trying to find the gentlest approach to turn people down. The last straw came when out of the blue, her father himself remarked about the possibility of Ameranth marrying the High King, as he did not seem interested in taking a queen from any of his previous courtships.
Frustrated at her family's disregard for her own individuality and seeming lack of focus on the Chaos War, she asked for her mother's blessing to join the Ranger academy so she could serve the Tel`Quessir on the frontlines. A former ranger herself, Elmyra was at first reluctant, but eventually succumbed to her daughter's pleading. Her actions did not go unnoticed, and one day, she was visited by Grandmagus Kharis Bhallen, who was impressed that such a young noblewoman would give up her life of privilege to serve her people on the front. Ameranth eventually found a kindred spirit in the elderly isilhin and often took to the Arclord for wise counsel.
Story Relation: Ameranth believes that her brother and father have become too comfortable with the status quo, afraid of risking their comforts to lead their people against the Wretched. She still believes in them, especially her father who had once been a very astute and brilliant general.
Israfael, Castien Aeris - Being highborn, there was no shortage of peers for Ameranth to get acquainted with, but none stuck with her quite as closely during her childhood years as the adopted noble-boy she met on her first visit to Ilshari. She had been so taken in by the great tree-houses of the moon city that she wandered away from her attendants. Distracted by a particularly alluring sight, she slipped off the pathway and tumbled into a shallow river. She landed conscious but had fractured her arm and was unable to climb her way back out. It was fast approaching twilight and the river was in a quieter part of town. All of a sudden, a pale-skinned isilhin boy poked his head over the side of the riverbank. Young Ameranth had been so relieved she did not allow the boy to leave to get help, threatening to scream her lungs out if he did. Eventually, he calmed her down enough to allow him to call for help and save the day!
Their friendship blossomed after that, with Ameranth finding the smallest reasons to visit her newfound friend from Ilshari. But as they grew into young adults, her duties and the increasing threat of the Wretched made traveling between the two cities difficult and they grew apart. But the sun elf never forgot her days spent with Israfael, longing to be with him once again until one day, he appeared to her in the dark of night with a blade to her throat. She would've been horrified at what he had chosen to become had she not been so relieved to see him again.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Skills, Interests and Fears: While Ameranth is an accomplished ranger and fully capable of holding her own in a fight, upfront battle has never been and will never be her forte. Nevertheless, she has decent skill with the bow and can be quite the marksman when she puts her mind to it. Conversely, she is an adept at healing magic and has a wide understanding of concocting healing salves and poultices.
She loves the finer arts of dancing (from her time in the Temple of Felariel) and tailoring.
She fears the idea of being powerless (also applies in instances of facing insurmountable odds) and of course, losing loved ones.
Spells: (For Mages only. Describe in sufficient detail the extent of your abilities)
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
Other: Ameranth's Theme - Lady Of The Hunt
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
[/div]
code by Ri.a
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Last edited:
shadowz1995
Amoeba of Wisdom
Jayson Velian
Race: Human
Age: 32
Location of Birth: Numenlad
Equipment: A staff made of Yew wood with a steel core and steel caps at the end for striking. (Default Weapon)
A simple steel spear with a steel cap at the butt end (when on the battlefield or expecting a big fight)
Cloth robes with hard leather covering vital areas (chest, shoulders, thighs, etc.)
Leather Vembraces with steel plate underneath (when expecting a battle. Like the spear)
Steel greaves (when expecting a battle. Like the spear and vembraces)
A worn leather satchel over his shoulder that holds his journals and medical notes along with a separate pocket for storing ingredients for mixing.
A leather belt that contains various pouches with various medicines, salves, potions, etc. inside.
Class: Warmaster/ Herbologist
Personality: Jayson has renown and is well known among the foot soldier for two things. His near infinite disregard for his own well-being when it comes to the life of his brothers-in-arms and as one of the kindest souls in the main army.
Truly, Jayson's capacity for kindness knows no bounds and is only matched by the ferocity he displays when protecting his own. What he lacks in sight, he more than makes up for in heart. That being said, having a big heart only means it is a bigger and easier target for those with ill intentions. Jayson is no politician and his willingness to help others often ends up with him being the brunt end of a cruel joke. With his heightened sense of hearing, he can tell when a person is lying and still, he frequently believes that showing kindness and patience will eventually make people come around.
This does not mean he is naive. He has enough years under his belt to know that some people exist that are just beyond redemption. Beyond saving. But he still holds out the hope that everyone, even the most vile of people, have a little good in their hearts. As long as he believes that, he will always try to appeal to it.
For example, he frequently finds himself being harassed by Elves and to this day, after all of his service in the military and the countless lives he has saved (both human and elven), Jayson is still treated like a lower class citizen. It is to be expected. Luckily, his warm demeanor has won him many allies from many different races and he is never without a friend somewhere.
Title: The Blind Guardian.
A title earned for his outstanding courage and nigh suicidal runs into enemy lines to pull wounded soldiers out of danger, stabilize them with his medical knowledge and herbology, and carrying them back to allied territory. All while protecting the wounded with spear or staff. No matter his own injuries and with little regard to his own life. He is hailed as a small time hero among the common human soldiers. A guardian of the fallen.
Backstory: Numenlad was once a quiet town. There was never any real problems with the place. Sure, a town with a high population of humans meant that... questionable things happened here and there but it was never anything too serious. The scourge known as the Wretched was the only real problem the place had and that meant that it had a big damn problem. The town had been turned into a war zone time and time again as the scourge mounted full assaults on the kingdom. Jayson had lived a relatively normal life until that point. His father was strict but fair in his guidance. His mother was incredibly kind. He had 4 younger siblings who all looked up to him and relied on him to take care of them when mom was busy and dad was away.
The fighting was brutal and spared no one. Jayson's own father died defending their borders when he was 17. A ripe age to be conscripted into the nation's army as a foot soldier. The training was harsh. Being away from his precious family was even harshest. Forging bonds with his fellow humans in training only to have those bonds brutally severed when they got out on the field was the harshest thing imaginable.
Jayson's first real battle was a crushing defeat. The commander had underestimated the enemies numbers and it cost them a large bulk of their fresh recruits. The kingdom's armies were able to repel the assault but they sustained a staggering amount of casualties as a result. No one in their right mind could call it a victory. In particular, Jayson barely survived the fighting. He watched close friends get unceremoniously slaughtered by The Wretched forces and suffered grievous wounds both physically and emotionally. His body had been scarred along with his heart.
Still, he was a soldier now. A soldier that could not bend nor break after having survived a single battle. No matter how horrendous the defeat, the enemy would not wait for them to grieve or despair. Again, The Wretched pressed down on Numenlad and again, the army suffered heavy casualties during the fighting. Jayson can still remember clearly how the forests and valleys where the battles took place looked. The soil was scarlet and muddy. Slick with the blood of humans, elves, and demons alike. The grass was black from dried lifeblood.
Still, Jayson survived. Still, he needed to push on. The war was not over.
As the months ticked by, Jayson transformed from boy to man through the cruel fires of war. Yet, to everyone's surprise, the warm attitude he displayed months ago as a recruit never truly faded away. True, it was tempered and measured but the kind-hearted soul that was Jayson Velian still remained. The difference was that his old reluctance towards violence turned to conviction. His fear of The Wretched evolved into rage. His pain of lost kin turned to reckless abandon to save everyone he possibly could. His despair turned to courage. His courage turned to leadership and charisma.
Jayson was often called mad or insane for the absolute fervor for which he dived into situations that were near impossible to survive. Just to save the life of a common soldier. An expendable life for all intents and purposes. Yet, it made him a near hero among the commonfolk. That even if you were to fall in battle, Jayson Velian may be nearby and would weather death in all forms to save your pathetic life.
He trained himself vigorously with spear and staff and studied herbology and medicine endlessly. Normally, people would burn out at the rate he consumed knowledge but the thought of saving more lives than he already did proved to be a nigh infinite fuel source.
Everything he did, he did for the betterment of those chances. To raise the odds of saving lives and reduce the number casualties in the war. Every concoction he learned and every strike he mastered was for his fellow soldiers.
Eventually, roughly after the year mark since his conscription, Jayson paid the price for his foolhardy courage and was critically wounded himself trying to save an Elven Ranger. The young human soldier was already injured when he dove in to save this ranger. Not only punctured by 2 arrows but had several deep sword cuts on his chest, back, and left shoulder. He was carrying the elf over his shoulders, retreating back to his allies before another arrow struck his leg and grounded him. Nothing could stop the small horde of goblins that fell upon the wounded pair and began slashing at them will small daggers. The elf and human fought back as much as their injured bodies could manage but neither could hold out. It was there that Jayson was robbed of his eyesight. A particularly nasty goblin decided to take things slow and tore a slash across Jayson's face, blinding him.
It was actually the young 18 year old's screams of agony that prompted some soldiers to break formation and rush forward to his aid. It later turned out that the soldiers who risked everything to pull Jayson away were actually people he had saved, more than once in the past.
It is no exaggeration to say that Jayson survived by the very skin of his teeth. The clerics and enchanters were only barely able to save his life. But certain wounds he received were too deep to heal. Like the one to his eyes.
Though, in a strange way, after a few years of adjustment, Jayson was sharper without his sense of sight. His other senses were heightened well beyond normal human capacity. He resumed his active duty as a soldier despite warnings and trained intensely until he was not only as good as before but even better.
Almost two decades have passed of nothing but fighting and survival before a true victory was finally achieved. They were able to push The Wretched back out to the west and Jayson finally knew some measure of peace. He was considered a war hero among his men and tales of his unbridled courage and reckless abandon had spread among the men for years. Those that didn't believe the stories of the spear wielding blind man, often found themselves being rescued by him.
That being said, the war was far from over and Jayson knew that. As long as The Wretched lived, more people would die. And where there was death, Jayson followed. He followed to try and keep the casualties as low as possible. Truly, earning his title as "The Blind Guardian".
Story Relation:
Not yet.
That being said, the war was far from over and Jayson knew that. As long as The Wretched lived, more people would die. And where there was death, Jayson followed. He followed to try and keep the casualties as low as possible. Truly, earning his title as "The Blind Guardian". -Excerpt from Jayson's backstory.
Frankly, Jayson is fine with shoring up the defenses or with pushing the scourge back to whatever hole they crawled out of. As long as he is saving soldiers from needless deaths, he is content.
Skills, Interests and Fears:
Expert Herbologist- Jayson is considered an elite in herbology and medicine. There are none in the main army that rival his knowledge on herbs and plants that can be used for all manner of injuries and the techniques to treat them without magic.
Polearm Expert- During his years in the war, Jayson became well versed in a multitude of weapons but his default and preferred weapons is the staff. Considering humans cannot be armed when off-duty, he found keeping a staff on his person and using his blindness as an excuse to have it was rather clever. Though, when there is fighting to be expected, Jayson switches to a personalized spear that allows him to deal lethal strikes to the enemy more effectively than a staff ever could.
Heightened Senses- Having his vision stripped away from him has done anything other than weaken Jayson. Granted, it took several years to adjust but once he did, his lack of sight only seemed to enhance his prowess. In both combat, locating injured troops in the chaos of the battlefield, and in daily life. There are certain luxuries he cannot enjoy anymore but the pros outweigh the cons in his opinion.
Agility/Speed- Jayson's strength and combat experience is nothing to be sniffed at but his years of dodging swords, arrows, spells, and goddess knows what else, while carrying or dragging another person with him, have made him incredibly nimble and quick on his feet. Having extra weight on his shoulders barely puts a hamper in his step as he has had to carry fully armored soldiers out of hellish situations time and time again.
Music- Jayson actually has a strong interest in music and is quite a talented hand when it comes to performing. Sound is a pleasure he takes far more seriously without eyesight and his ability to tune in to the smallest frequencies allows him to make beautiful melodies. He's also a fairly good singer. In another life, without The Wretched, he may have been a bard.
Writing- The guardian has a tendency of writing down all of his experiences and musings in his many journals that he keeps in the satchel he carries with him. Notes from potential medicinal salves or simple entries on how his day went that day. Perhaps, a short story he had been day dreaming about. A nightmare he had. Many things find themselves on the pages of his journal and he isn't one to keep them private either. All are open to read them. They just need to ask.
Failure- Death was a fear that Jayson overcame long ago. He would not be able to save people as efficiently as he does if he feared death. What he does fear... is losing. The Wretched are absolutely merciless and he had seen the atrocities they were capable of long before his was blinded. He does not fear failing to save every life he can. He is aware not everyone can be saved. In fact, more often they will die. Jayson is afraid of losing this war. His father died in the war, his mother has long since passed away to illness and his younger siblings rely on him heavily despite being grown adults already. The thought of losing them and everything he loves to The Wretched terrifies him more than simply being beheaded on the battlefield ever could.
Spells:
Other:
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
The sound of a sink's faucet could be heard in the small one/one apartment along with a hiss of, what sounded like, pain. Within the cramped bathroom, was something of a hulk of a man. At six feet two inches, Sebastion certainly wasn't the tallest man in the world but he was definitely tall. Combined with 227 pounds of trained muscle, he looked like he could crush a human skull with his bare hands.
The current view of him seemed a tad bit more humble than that.
A white dress shirt lay draped across the toilet seat alongside a black suit jacket. Both pristine in condition if not for the half dried, brownish-red hue that marred the sleeves of the apparel. The cause of Mr. William's pain was the nearly closed up hole in the middle of his hand that was causing the water to become tinted with red. It was nearly completely healed but that didn't mean it didn't sting to high heaven and back.
If only his entree of healing came with a side of pain nullification. Then he would really be in business. But alas, no use crying over things that cannot be.
Sebastian reached into discarded suit's pockets and fished out his half-empty pack of smokes, pulling out one for himself. He had to pat around a bit for the lighter before remembering it was in his back pocket. He grumbled to himself as he retrieved the desired object from his dress pants. Lords above did he need this smoke.
The lighter sparked to life and in turn, set the cigarette's end ablaze. The near-immortal took a long drag before exhaling slowly with sweet, sweet relief and satisfaction. The smoke enveloped the small lavatory that would surely take days to air out but it's not like Sebastion cared. He wasn't going to stick around for long. Now, he just needed to get his hands on some scotch. Nice and neat.
Luckily, he had just that.
Williams opened the door of the bathroom, light wisps of smoke trailing after him as he walked. He kicked off his Oxfords and pulled the black tank top up and over his head, before tossing it on the rundown recliner.
The apartment was a real shithole. It looked more like a cockroach den than a living space but it provided what he needed for the time being. A place to put his head down for a few hours before continuing his search in London. He had been hearing whispers and rumors through the grapevine of a gathering of power in London. Naturally, Sebastion had made his way over to verify the validity of those rumors, as he always did. That was when the storm came and the subsequent explosion that had everyone and their mothers in a buzz. Sebastion had no idea what caused it, nor what kind of power was needed to create such damage but there was one thing he was certain of... things were changing. Powerful forces were on the move and he needed to find out what the devil was going on so he could steer clear. Most people would argue to just stay away from London in general if that was the goal but in Seb's experience, knowing what was coming made it much easier to avoid it. You didn't have to know everything... just enough.
As things stood, Seb knew nothing of the events that transpired and that was why he was here. It was why he rented out this shitty apartment for the week and took a job as a bouncer at a club as a cover for his presence.
It was also the reason he had a fresh hole in his hand. He had been assigned to keep a VIP lounge private. The client was some rich, young, stubborn prick with too much cash to blow and too many women doing the blowing. It was a long cry from his glory days back in the 1900s but so be it.
As it turned out, one of the female fratenizers was the girlfriend of a very jealous, possessive, and borderline psycho drug fiend. Apparently, he had caught wind of her activities to earn money and had snuck into the club with murder in his eyes. Sebastion was more familiar with the look in someone's eyes when they planned to kill than he cared to admit and so, he immediately moved to stop the man from getting any closer. The preventative action caused a hidden knife to be introduced to his neck.
Luckily, Seb saw THAT one coming from a mile away and quickly put up a hand to stop the knife from piercing his throat. Sure, it pierced his hand and it hurt like fucking hell, but it was better than his throat. The knife was buried handle deep and Williams simply closed his hand around the attacker's and with his free arm, brought 227 pounds of immortality trained muscle up into the druggie's sternum. His whole body lifted off the ground with the blow before collapsing into a barely breathing, unconscious heap.
Seb pulled the knife out, discarded the druggie out the back, and received a bonus for his service from the client. All without anyone really noticing what happened. Just some random idiot stirring up trouble at the VIP lounge area. It's just another night on the job for a bouncer.
Unfortunately, he came out of the club empty handed in terms of information.
"Ah, there you are."
The bottle of Scotch had finally been located. He grabbed a glass, added two ice cubes from the freezer, and topped himself off before heading to the recliner. His cigarette sat half smoked in one hand with a full glass of scotch in the other, in some rundown apartment, with nothing to on.
"Feels like a damn Noire movie...."
"And I'm the jaded detective on the case."
He let out a grunt of a laugh before taking a swig of liquid liver killer. Another pull from the cigarette followed.
The abnormal reached into his pocket and set his alarm for the evening. He had the night off due to incident several hours ago. That means he had a whole night to find what he was looking for.
About an hour passed until the cigarette was out and the glass was empty. After that, Seb merely crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and let the sweet embrace of unconsciousness take him. As always, sleep came almost too easily for him and he was out within minutes.
The current view of him seemed a tad bit more humble than that.
A white dress shirt lay draped across the toilet seat alongside a black suit jacket. Both pristine in condition if not for the half dried, brownish-red hue that marred the sleeves of the apparel. The cause of Mr. William's pain was the nearly closed up hole in the middle of his hand that was causing the water to become tinted with red. It was nearly completely healed but that didn't mean it didn't sting to high heaven and back.
If only his entree of healing came with a side of pain nullification. Then he would really be in business. But alas, no use crying over things that cannot be.
Sebastian reached into discarded suit's pockets and fished out his half-empty pack of smokes, pulling out one for himself. He had to pat around a bit for the lighter before remembering it was in his back pocket. He grumbled to himself as he retrieved the desired object from his dress pants. Lords above did he need this smoke.
The lighter sparked to life and in turn, set the cigarette's end ablaze. The near-immortal took a long drag before exhaling slowly with sweet, sweet relief and satisfaction. The smoke enveloped the small lavatory that would surely take days to air out but it's not like Sebastion cared. He wasn't going to stick around for long. Now, he just needed to get his hands on some scotch. Nice and neat.
Luckily, he had just that.
Williams opened the door of the bathroom, light wisps of smoke trailing after him as he walked. He kicked off his Oxfords and pulled the black tank top up and over his head, before tossing it on the rundown recliner.
The apartment was a real shithole. It looked more like a cockroach den than a living space but it provided what he needed for the time being. A place to put his head down for a few hours before continuing his search in London. He had been hearing whispers and rumors through the grapevine of a gathering of power in London. Naturally, Sebastion had made his way over to verify the validity of those rumors, as he always did. That was when the storm came and the subsequent explosion that had everyone and their mothers in a buzz. Sebastion had no idea what caused it, nor what kind of power was needed to create such damage but there was one thing he was certain of... things were changing. Powerful forces were on the move and he needed to find out what the devil was going on so he could steer clear. Most people would argue to just stay away from London in general if that was the goal but in Seb's experience, knowing what was coming made it much easier to avoid it. You didn't have to know everything... just enough.
As things stood, Seb knew nothing of the events that transpired and that was why he was here. It was why he rented out this shitty apartment for the week and took a job as a bouncer at a club as a cover for his presence.
It was also the reason he had a fresh hole in his hand. He had been assigned to keep a VIP lounge private. The client was some rich, young, stubborn prick with too much cash to blow and too many women doing the blowing. It was a long cry from his glory days back in the 1900s but so be it.
As it turned out, one of the female fratenizers was the girlfriend of a very jealous, possessive, and borderline psycho drug fiend. Apparently, he had caught wind of her activities to earn money and had snuck into the club with murder in his eyes. Sebastion was more familiar with the look in someone's eyes when they planned to kill than he cared to admit and so, he immediately moved to stop the man from getting any closer. The preventative action caused a hidden knife to be introduced to his neck.
Luckily, Seb saw THAT one coming from a mile away and quickly put up a hand to stop the knife from piercing his throat. Sure, it pierced his hand and it hurt like fucking hell, but it was better than his throat. The knife was buried handle deep and Williams simply closed his hand around the attacker's and with his free arm, brought 227 pounds of immortality trained muscle up into the druggie's sternum. His whole body lifted off the ground with the blow before collapsing into a barely breathing, unconscious heap.
Seb pulled the knife out, discarded the druggie out the back, and received a bonus for his service from the client. All without anyone really noticing what happened. Just some random idiot stirring up trouble at the VIP lounge area. It's just another night on the job for a bouncer.
Unfortunately, he came out of the club empty handed in terms of information.
"Ah, there you are."
The bottle of Scotch had finally been located. He grabbed a glass, added two ice cubes from the freezer, and topped himself off before heading to the recliner. His cigarette sat half smoked in one hand with a full glass of scotch in the other, in some rundown apartment, with nothing to on.
"Feels like a damn Noire movie...."
"And I'm the jaded detective on the case."
He let out a grunt of a laugh before taking a swig of liquid liver killer. Another pull from the cigarette followed.
The abnormal reached into his pocket and set his alarm for the evening. He had the night off due to incident several hours ago. That means he had a whole night to find what he was looking for.
About an hour passed until the cigarette was out and the glass was empty. After that, Seb merely crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and let the sweet embrace of unconsciousness take him. As always, sleep came almost too easily for him and he was out within minutes.
Attachments
Last edited:
Darth
spacefaring vagrant
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Writing Samples
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[div class=textbox]Name
Elidyr Yllaris
Age
111
Race
Isilhin
Location of Birth
Ilshari
Appearance
Elidyr is of tall and slender build. His muscles are lean, strengthened from his practices as a warrior. Elidyr's is an ashen moon elf with hair as white as bone. His hair is thick and long, draping just below his shoulders. Elidyr often braids the strands to keep the hair from invading his vision. As for his face, Elidyr's eyes are a silvery grey, cheekbones high and pale. As a warrior, he is no stranger to the gifts that battles leave. His sternum and arms are lined with deep slashing scars from hard-fought victories.
Equipment
Elidyr’s prized possession is his longsword Ithilwen, the “Moon-Maiden.” A family heirloom passed down his family for generations. The sword has seen countless battles since it was forged some two thousand years ago. Crafted by a masterful elven metallurgist in Tal`Velahr, it is made of pure silver. The blade is also endowed with an enchantment. When night falls, the blade will glow gently in the dark, offering a source of light. It is said that the Ithilwen cleaved the heads of two Greyskins in a single swing. Elidyr also dons a set of formidable plates made from elven steel. The plates cover only the vital areas of his body and lack full protection from attacks. This is to allow greater movement and agility during combat. The areas between the armor are filled with leather and simple linen. Elidyr also carries a small dagger for more intimate encounters. This blade holds no enchantment, just old fashioned steel.
Class
Warmaster
Personality
Elidyr is well known for his perfectionist desires and strives to be the best he can be. This craving for perfection comes out in many different forms. Elidyr ensures his attire and hygiene are clean, appropriate, and with purpose. He would train himself in the art of sword in long hours at a time, stopping only when he knows he had improved. His room and desk would be in perfect alignment to the edges and arranged just so. But where his perfectionist habits truly showed it’s full might was in combat. Elidyr is a renowned swordsman and dualist, as every step, every pivot, and every strike is with precision and with purpose.
Where Elidyr excels in logic and dexterity, he lacks in creative interpretation. Elidyr usually only sees a single solution to any one issue. And, should his solution fail him, Elidyr will often struggle to escape the problem. If per say, Elidyr is faced with a numerous enemy, he would sooner remain steadfast than find better ground or flee. One might call it stubbornness or just plain foolhardy. But, in reality, Elidyr simply does not see another solution. Quick on his feet, but slow in the mind.
Apart from his internal affairs, Elidyr is quite proficient in the social arena. He is outgoing and rather talkative. Elidyr is also known to be honest, brutally, on some occasions. If, perhaps, Elidyr comes across a particularly repulsive individual, he is likely to tell them exactly what he thinks of them right then and there.
Title
Nimblefoot, a title earned for Elidyr’s remarkable quickness and grace in battle. Though, one should take care not to speak this name, as Elidyr sees this name as rather vulgar and offensive. The name strikes not fear but evoke laughter and lacks the words to describe Elidyr’s full ability.
Backstory
The House of Yllaris was merely a minor noble family amid the denizens of Ilshari. Yet, his house still held much prestige with many of its descendants serving as valiant warriors. In fact, the family owns an ancient sword to symbolize it’s militaristic traditions.
Elidyr is the last trueborn son of House Yllaris. Elidyr was the youngest of three additional brothers, all of whom perished while fighting the wars against the Wretched. Elidyr’s mother, Ciliren, fell into a deep depression. Elidyr’s father, Sundamar, was almost unable to withstand the grief of losing his sons. He never again wanted to bear the pain of grief and swore a life to celibacy. Though Elidyr was the son that returned, he was the least favored of his brothers. Sundamar and Ciliren admired Elidyr’s eldest brother, Naertho, the most as he was an accomplished warrior and respected courtier. Naertho held the highest potential to bring further glory to house Yllaris. After Naertho’s death, Elidyr struggled to fit into shoes that were far too large. It seemed as if Elidyr’s parents wished that Naertho, or any of his other brothers returned rather than him, and Elidyr would spend years trying to please his parents' wishes. Alas, it seemed, all Elidyr ever amounted to was a mere disappointment. Still, Elidyr tries to perfect himself, albeit, fruitlessly. Every day he tries to make himself seem worthy in the eyes of his parents. And the only way to do that it seemed, was on the battlefield fighting the Wretched and demonic horrors.
Now Elidyr is an adept warrior, filing in with ranks of the Elven warmasters. Among this warrior caste, he learned to importance of tactics. Fighting the enemy where you are at your highest capability. Elidyr learned to have boldness in battle, and to never let his enemy catch his breath. Elidyr was among the warriors who helped retake his people’s ancestral capital Tal`Velahr. He fought with the heart of a lion, personally responsible for felling a fair amount of petty orc and goblin savages. Perhaps his finest moment in the battle was a duel with a berserker Greyskin. He had never fought their kind before and welcomed the challenge. The duel lasted for an hour at most before Elidyr, with a swift cut from Ithilwen, removed the Halduk’s head from its shoulders.
Story Relation
Elidyr is known to few important figures in high society. Which, of course, is something he is trying desperately to change. However, House Yllaris is known by many of the older Elven nobles, and are merely unaware of Sundamar’s surviving son.
As for the High King’s current policy for dealing with the Wretched threat, Elidyr believes they are leaving themselves open for attack. He believes they should press the offensive while they have the advantage. Sitting with their swords in the sand is a deathblow waiting to happen. Why give the enemy the initiative? Why now, when the enemy has turned tail?
Skills, Interests, and Fears
Elidyr is finely attuned to the art of single-sword fighting. Combined with the use of evasive tactics and precision strikes, Elidyr can wear an opponent down with disabling cuts and sheer attrition. Dueling is Elidyr’s specialty.
Elidyr has always had a massive appreciation for the lore of his people and the history of his family. In the long hours of the night, one might find Elidyr nose deep in books and scrolls.
Elidyr fears social disapproval the most, never wanting to bear embarrassment or, worse, further diminish his favor with his parents.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Name
Elidyr Yllaris
Age
111
Race
Isilhin
Location of Birth
Ilshari
Appearance
Elidyr is of tall and slender build. His muscles are lean, strengthened from his practices as a warrior. Elidyr's is an ashen moon elf with hair as white as bone. His hair is thick and long, draping just below his shoulders. Elidyr often braids the strands to keep the hair from invading his vision. As for his face, Elidyr's eyes are a silvery grey, cheekbones high and pale. As a warrior, he is no stranger to the gifts that battles leave. His sternum and arms are lined with deep slashing scars from hard-fought victories.
Equipment
Elidyr’s prized possession is his longsword Ithilwen, the “Moon-Maiden.” A family heirloom passed down his family for generations. The sword has seen countless battles since it was forged some two thousand years ago. Crafted by a masterful elven metallurgist in Tal`Velahr, it is made of pure silver. The blade is also endowed with an enchantment. When night falls, the blade will glow gently in the dark, offering a source of light. It is said that the Ithilwen cleaved the heads of two Greyskins in a single swing. Elidyr also dons a set of formidable plates made from elven steel. The plates cover only the vital areas of his body and lack full protection from attacks. This is to allow greater movement and agility during combat. The areas between the armor are filled with leather and simple linen. Elidyr also carries a small dagger for more intimate encounters. This blade holds no enchantment, just old fashioned steel.
Class
Warmaster
Personality
Elidyr is well known for his perfectionist desires and strives to be the best he can be. This craving for perfection comes out in many different forms. Elidyr ensures his attire and hygiene are clean, appropriate, and with purpose. He would train himself in the art of sword in long hours at a time, stopping only when he knows he had improved. His room and desk would be in perfect alignment to the edges and arranged just so. But where his perfectionist habits truly showed it’s full might was in combat. Elidyr is a renowned swordsman and dualist, as every step, every pivot, and every strike is with precision and with purpose.
Where Elidyr excels in logic and dexterity, he lacks in creative interpretation. Elidyr usually only sees a single solution to any one issue. And, should his solution fail him, Elidyr will often struggle to escape the problem. If per say, Elidyr is faced with a numerous enemy, he would sooner remain steadfast than find better ground or flee. One might call it stubbornness or just plain foolhardy. But, in reality, Elidyr simply does not see another solution. Quick on his feet, but slow in the mind.
Apart from his internal affairs, Elidyr is quite proficient in the social arena. He is outgoing and rather talkative. Elidyr is also known to be honest, brutally, on some occasions. If, perhaps, Elidyr comes across a particularly repulsive individual, he is likely to tell them exactly what he thinks of them right then and there.
Title
Nimblefoot, a title earned for Elidyr’s remarkable quickness and grace in battle. Though, one should take care not to speak this name, as Elidyr sees this name as rather vulgar and offensive. The name strikes not fear but evoke laughter and lacks the words to describe Elidyr’s full ability.
Backstory
The House of Yllaris was merely a minor noble family amid the denizens of Ilshari. Yet, his house still held much prestige with many of its descendants serving as valiant warriors. In fact, the family owns an ancient sword to symbolize it’s militaristic traditions.
Elidyr is the last trueborn son of House Yllaris. Elidyr was the youngest of three additional brothers, all of whom perished while fighting the wars against the Wretched. Elidyr’s mother, Ciliren, fell into a deep depression. Elidyr’s father, Sundamar, was almost unable to withstand the grief of losing his sons. He never again wanted to bear the pain of grief and swore a life to celibacy. Though Elidyr was the son that returned, he was the least favored of his brothers. Sundamar and Ciliren admired Elidyr’s eldest brother, Naertho, the most as he was an accomplished warrior and respected courtier. Naertho held the highest potential to bring further glory to house Yllaris. After Naertho’s death, Elidyr struggled to fit into shoes that were far too large. It seemed as if Elidyr’s parents wished that Naertho, or any of his other brothers returned rather than him, and Elidyr would spend years trying to please his parents' wishes. Alas, it seemed, all Elidyr ever amounted to was a mere disappointment. Still, Elidyr tries to perfect himself, albeit, fruitlessly. Every day he tries to make himself seem worthy in the eyes of his parents. And the only way to do that it seemed, was on the battlefield fighting the Wretched and demonic horrors.
Now Elidyr is an adept warrior, filing in with ranks of the Elven warmasters. Among this warrior caste, he learned to importance of tactics. Fighting the enemy where you are at your highest capability. Elidyr learned to have boldness in battle, and to never let his enemy catch his breath. Elidyr was among the warriors who helped retake his people’s ancestral capital Tal`Velahr. He fought with the heart of a lion, personally responsible for felling a fair amount of petty orc and goblin savages. Perhaps his finest moment in the battle was a duel with a berserker Greyskin. He had never fought their kind before and welcomed the challenge. The duel lasted for an hour at most before Elidyr, with a swift cut from Ithilwen, removed the Halduk’s head from its shoulders.
Story Relation
Elidyr is known to few important figures in high society. Which, of course, is something he is trying desperately to change. However, House Yllaris is known by many of the older Elven nobles, and are merely unaware of Sundamar’s surviving son.
As for the High King’s current policy for dealing with the Wretched threat, Elidyr believes they are leaving themselves open for attack. He believes they should press the offensive while they have the advantage. Sitting with their swords in the sand is a deathblow waiting to happen. Why give the enemy the initiative? Why now, when the enemy has turned tail?
Skills, Interests, and Fears
Elidyr is finely attuned to the art of single-sword fighting. Combined with the use of evasive tactics and precision strikes, Elidyr can wear an opponent down with disabling cuts and sheer attrition. Dueling is Elidyr’s specialty.
Elidyr has always had a massive appreciation for the lore of his people and the history of his family. In the long hours of the night, one might find Elidyr nose deep in books and scrolls.
Elidyr fears social disapproval the most, never wanting to bear embarrassment or, worse, further diminish his favor with his parents.
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code by Ri.a
[/div][/div]Writing Samples
Miklos took another sip of his wine glass as he sat alone in his study. He stared blankly at his desk, his mind adrift in thought. The room was eerily silent, save for the quiet ticking of the old clock in the corner. It was late evening, and the distant Swiss Alps were silhouetted against an orange-tinted sunset. Miklos gingerly took another sip of wine and his eyes began to divert to the pistol resting on the desk. It was a Model 1929, his personal weapon. He stared at it intently, imagining the texture of the grip in his hand. He could almost feel the cold steel in his palm; the curve of the trigger. He closed his eyes and felt the barrel rest itself on his temple. Miklos tapped his finger on the glass as he imagined squeezing the trigger.
A knock came at his door, and Miklos lurched back into reality. He set the glass of wine on the table next to the pistol and got up from his chair. He approached the door and leaned in to listen.
“Grand Regent?” a voice asked, slightly muffled by the door.
“Yes?” Miklos replied, “what is it?”
“There is someone here to see you…”
“Can it not wait?” Miklos said, turning away from the door. “I will retire to my quarters soon...”
“I believe this is urgent Grand Regent,” the voice replied anxiously, “I would advise against keeping a Hapsburg waiting…”
Miklos’ eyes widened, and he quickly reapproached the door. The door swung open with a painful groan as Miklos emerged from his study. The open door revealed one of Miklos’ personal advisors.
“He awaits your presence in the parlor,” the advisor said, “He also requests this audience be private…”
Miklos nodded and walked briskly down the long corridor. The hall was lined with numerous rooms. The estate itself was old and smelled of must. Nearly every room was empty, aside from Miklos’ staff and personal guard. Miklos and his retainers arrived at this aged Alpine estate in the summer. Many months have passed, and winter now casts its icy grip along the walls of the estate. Being so ancient, it had limited heating capabilities. The residents were often forced to find alternate sources of warmth. Miklos turned the corner to see the long stairwell leading into the east wing. At the bottom of the steps, he saw a prestigious looking man, clad in a black suit, standing patiently. The man turned to face the top of the steps.
“It has been some time…” Miklos said, keeping his voice low.
“Yes, yes it has,” the man said, “I believe we have some things to discuss…”
Later, the two men found themselves walking in the silent garden outside the estate. Miklos hadn’t seen Otto von Habsburg in over 20 years. He had grown since then. The young man Miklos once knew was gone. In his place, a proud gentleman filled with conviction.
“You made the right decision,” Otto said as they continued their nighttime stroll. Miklos gritted his teeth “Right or not, are homeland still lies in the hands of monsters” Miklos said. “I cannot help but feel I’ve doomed our people to a terrible fate.”
“There are rumors in Poland…” Miklos stopped, turning to face the Hapsburg. He leaned in and spoke barely above a whisper. “People are disappearing,” he said. “German soldiers hauling truckloads of people away to an uncertain fate…”
“I don’t trust them, I trust Hitler less so…” The Hapsburg smiled and placed his hand on Miklos’ shoulder. “As you said, they are rumors,” he said, “It is likely just talk from people who are scared. This is a time of war, fear spreads quickly.”
“We mustn't invoke hysteria, such would only worsen their moods.” Miklos looked off to the side.
“I suppose you’re right…”
A knock came at his door, and Miklos lurched back into reality. He set the glass of wine on the table next to the pistol and got up from his chair. He approached the door and leaned in to listen.
“Grand Regent?” a voice asked, slightly muffled by the door.
“Yes?” Miklos replied, “what is it?”
“There is someone here to see you…”
“Can it not wait?” Miklos said, turning away from the door. “I will retire to my quarters soon...”
“I believe this is urgent Grand Regent,” the voice replied anxiously, “I would advise against keeping a Hapsburg waiting…”
Miklos’ eyes widened, and he quickly reapproached the door. The door swung open with a painful groan as Miklos emerged from his study. The open door revealed one of Miklos’ personal advisors.
“He awaits your presence in the parlor,” the advisor said, “He also requests this audience be private…”
Miklos nodded and walked briskly down the long corridor. The hall was lined with numerous rooms. The estate itself was old and smelled of must. Nearly every room was empty, aside from Miklos’ staff and personal guard. Miklos and his retainers arrived at this aged Alpine estate in the summer. Many months have passed, and winter now casts its icy grip along the walls of the estate. Being so ancient, it had limited heating capabilities. The residents were often forced to find alternate sources of warmth. Miklos turned the corner to see the long stairwell leading into the east wing. At the bottom of the steps, he saw a prestigious looking man, clad in a black suit, standing patiently. The man turned to face the top of the steps.
“It has been some time…” Miklos said, keeping his voice low.
“Yes, yes it has,” the man said, “I believe we have some things to discuss…”
Later, the two men found themselves walking in the silent garden outside the estate. Miklos hadn’t seen Otto von Habsburg in over 20 years. He had grown since then. The young man Miklos once knew was gone. In his place, a proud gentleman filled with conviction.
“You made the right decision,” Otto said as they continued their nighttime stroll. Miklos gritted his teeth “Right or not, are homeland still lies in the hands of monsters” Miklos said. “I cannot help but feel I’ve doomed our people to a terrible fate.”
“There are rumors in Poland…” Miklos stopped, turning to face the Hapsburg. He leaned in and spoke barely above a whisper. “People are disappearing,” he said. “German soldiers hauling truckloads of people away to an uncertain fate…”
“I don’t trust them, I trust Hitler less so…” The Hapsburg smiled and placed his hand on Miklos’ shoulder. “As you said, they are rumors,” he said, “It is likely just talk from people who are scared. This is a time of war, fear spreads quickly.”
“We mustn't invoke hysteria, such would only worsen their moods.” Miklos looked off to the side.
“I suppose you’re right…”
The forest fell into an abrupt silence and Ibba motioned for the hunting party to freeze. Each man put his ear to the wind, listening for anything out of place. Alaric stood up, listening intently along with the others. The treeline began to emit a thick cloud of mist, gradually engulfing the party in a thick fog.
“We are not alone…” Ibba hissed, “Quickly, we must be away from this place.” He gestured towards the stag’s carcass, and one of the hunters moved swiftly to gather the corpse. But, before he could reach it, an earsplitting shriek pierced eerie silence. The intense high pitched howl made the hunters wince at the sound of it. The scream was like the offspring of wolf’s howl and a banshee’s wail, only if that volume was increased tenfold. As the hunters regained their senses, they spotted a number of shadowy shapes moving through the mist. The shadows were giant-like, and seemed to flicker about, like the flames on a pyre. The figures drew nearer before emerging from the mist. They became harsh white blurs as they came into view. Pale, naked giants with tree-like limbs. The hunters looked on in horror as these nightmarish creatures fell upon them. The hunter nearest to the stag froze with fear as one of the monsters charged him, his eyes gaping with dread. The pale giant impaled the poor hunter with its claws and lifted him into the air. The hunter’s body suddenly drained of color and his eyes shrunk into oblivion, leaving gaping holes in its wake. The demon threw it’s a victim from its grasp, it twitches violently before suddenly jerking its gaze towards Alaric. The demon was faceless, save for to black abysses where it’s eyes should be. No nose, no mouth, just a smooth canvass of white flesh. Its eyes reflected that of his newly found victim: empty and devoid of light. The fiend then turned its body and rushed towards the boy. Alaric found himself paralyzed by fear as the demon charged. Its movements were erratic and violent, twitching and stuttering as it went. It let out another scream as it came closer. Alaric closed his eyes tight, anticipating its claws digging into his small body. Alaric winced as he heard the resounding noise of meat tearing. Yet, he felt no pain, only a brush of wind that pushed his hair behind his ears. Alaric slowly opened his eyes to find the gaunt face of his mentor staring back at him, and a pale claw, saturated in a bright crimson, sticking out from his gut.
“Run…” Ibba whispered. His eyes slowly collapsed, and all aspects of color withdrew from his features.
Alaric spun around, sprinting into the thicket. Alaric rushed through the undergrowth, branches and shrubbery slapping into him as he scampered through the forest with reckless abandon. Alaric tried to shield his eyes from the relentless whipping as the brush left his face bloodied. Alaric emerged from the undergrowth and into a clearing. He whipped his head around trying to get his bearings. Night fell fully upon the forest now, the darkness hid the way in a veil of darkness. Alaric glanced around in panic for a moment, not being able to see until, off to his left, Alaric spotted a flickering light bobbing up and down in the distance. Alaric hurried after it, calling out for the person to stop. The blurry figure came to a halt before another inhuman shriek echoed through the wood. Alaric quickly dived into the dirt and hid behind a bush. Alaric could hear rustling before another scream, a human scream. The awful sound of a man’s fearful howl urged Alaric to stay silent, and the light fell from its perch and into the shrubbery. Alaric waited a moment before crawling towards the source of light, its rays of light splitting off into different directions from the undergrowth. Alaric pushed past a brier to find a lonely torch resting on the ground. The sounds of shifting leaves urged Alaric to quickly grab it. Alaric stood up and spun around, pointing the torch towards the darkness. He saw nothing, only a thick blackness before him. Alaric felt almost relieved until he felt movement behind him. The sound of gentle footsteps made his senses heightened and his hairs stand on end. Alaric turned slowly, allowing the torch to chase away the shadows. The light revealed the pale demon, silently looming over Alaric. His throat clenched up as he froze once more. The demon sat utterly still, it’s arms and claws hanging just above his head. It’s eyes staring holes into Alaric’s soul. The forest lulled as the monster and Alaric stood frozen in each other's gaze. Alaric blinked quickly as he let out out a slow breath. He noticed more features of the demon, now that he found it so close. It’s head oval-like at the top before coming together at a sharp angle at its chin. Its body reflected that of a starving beggar, it’s rib cage protruding through it’s smooth, pale skin. The gaunt stature of the fiend sent chills down Alaric’s spine. The longer he stared, the heavier his sense of dread became. Alaric took a step backward, inching towards the brush. The monster did nothing, standing completely still. Alaric quickly turned around and began to sprint. The sound of rushing movement and violent footsteps soon followed from the darkness behind him. Alaric whirled again, shining the light towards the sounds. The demon halted in the torch’s illumination paused in the middle of its stride. Alaric swallowed hard as he took another step backward, not daring to turn his back to the creature again. As the light slowly abandoned the features of the monster’s face, Alaric could hear the beast gradually approaching him until it’s face shone within the halo once more. Alaric gritted his teeth and continued to inch backward into the darkness…
“Open the gates!” the guards shouted. The men on the palisades scrambled to the ropes and heaved the two wooden doors ajar. A murder of crows could be heard flying overhead, cawing as they flew over the keep. Their presence marked an omen, a sign of misfortune.
A bearded man, tall and draped in a bear-hide cloak hurried towards the entrance of the keep. As the wooden doors creaked open, a boy shuffled through. His face and clothes were dirtied with mud, dust, and saturated in blood. The bearded man shed his cloak and to embrace the boy.
“Oh Gods!” he said, “I thought I’d lost you…” The bearded man held the boy tightly, squeezing him into his breast, and he tried hard to fight back tears from falling down his cheeks. After a brief moment of embrace, the man held him outward, looking the boy in the eyes. The young boy’s eyes gave him only a cold stare, seemingly petrified. The bearded man squinted and stared back.
“Are you alright Alaric?” he said softly, glancing behind the boy. “Where are the others?” The man looked back into his son’s eyes.
The boy said nothing and simply turned to point towards the distant wood. The boy’s arm shivered as he raised it. The man felt a chill run down his back, as he cradled the boy to his chest again. The boy, eyes still retaining the cold stare, returned the embrace. Alaric turned his head to whisper into his father’s ear.
“They were hiding in the dark…” The bearded man gently grabbed the boy’s head, pulling it closer to him.
“It’s alright, you’re home now…” he said. The boy pulled away, looking his father in the eyes with an empty gaze. Alaric opened his mouth and spoke ever so softly.
“They’re afraid of the light…”
“We are not alone…” Ibba hissed, “Quickly, we must be away from this place.” He gestured towards the stag’s carcass, and one of the hunters moved swiftly to gather the corpse. But, before he could reach it, an earsplitting shriek pierced eerie silence. The intense high pitched howl made the hunters wince at the sound of it. The scream was like the offspring of wolf’s howl and a banshee’s wail, only if that volume was increased tenfold. As the hunters regained their senses, they spotted a number of shadowy shapes moving through the mist. The shadows were giant-like, and seemed to flicker about, like the flames on a pyre. The figures drew nearer before emerging from the mist. They became harsh white blurs as they came into view. Pale, naked giants with tree-like limbs. The hunters looked on in horror as these nightmarish creatures fell upon them. The hunter nearest to the stag froze with fear as one of the monsters charged him, his eyes gaping with dread. The pale giant impaled the poor hunter with its claws and lifted him into the air. The hunter’s body suddenly drained of color and his eyes shrunk into oblivion, leaving gaping holes in its wake. The demon threw it’s a victim from its grasp, it twitches violently before suddenly jerking its gaze towards Alaric. The demon was faceless, save for to black abysses where it’s eyes should be. No nose, no mouth, just a smooth canvass of white flesh. Its eyes reflected that of his newly found victim: empty and devoid of light. The fiend then turned its body and rushed towards the boy. Alaric found himself paralyzed by fear as the demon charged. Its movements were erratic and violent, twitching and stuttering as it went. It let out another scream as it came closer. Alaric closed his eyes tight, anticipating its claws digging into his small body. Alaric winced as he heard the resounding noise of meat tearing. Yet, he felt no pain, only a brush of wind that pushed his hair behind his ears. Alaric slowly opened his eyes to find the gaunt face of his mentor staring back at him, and a pale claw, saturated in a bright crimson, sticking out from his gut.
“Run…” Ibba whispered. His eyes slowly collapsed, and all aspects of color withdrew from his features.
Alaric spun around, sprinting into the thicket. Alaric rushed through the undergrowth, branches and shrubbery slapping into him as he scampered through the forest with reckless abandon. Alaric tried to shield his eyes from the relentless whipping as the brush left his face bloodied. Alaric emerged from the undergrowth and into a clearing. He whipped his head around trying to get his bearings. Night fell fully upon the forest now, the darkness hid the way in a veil of darkness. Alaric glanced around in panic for a moment, not being able to see until, off to his left, Alaric spotted a flickering light bobbing up and down in the distance. Alaric hurried after it, calling out for the person to stop. The blurry figure came to a halt before another inhuman shriek echoed through the wood. Alaric quickly dived into the dirt and hid behind a bush. Alaric could hear rustling before another scream, a human scream. The awful sound of a man’s fearful howl urged Alaric to stay silent, and the light fell from its perch and into the shrubbery. Alaric waited a moment before crawling towards the source of light, its rays of light splitting off into different directions from the undergrowth. Alaric pushed past a brier to find a lonely torch resting on the ground. The sounds of shifting leaves urged Alaric to quickly grab it. Alaric stood up and spun around, pointing the torch towards the darkness. He saw nothing, only a thick blackness before him. Alaric felt almost relieved until he felt movement behind him. The sound of gentle footsteps made his senses heightened and his hairs stand on end. Alaric turned slowly, allowing the torch to chase away the shadows. The light revealed the pale demon, silently looming over Alaric. His throat clenched up as he froze once more. The demon sat utterly still, it’s arms and claws hanging just above his head. It’s eyes staring holes into Alaric’s soul. The forest lulled as the monster and Alaric stood frozen in each other's gaze. Alaric blinked quickly as he let out out a slow breath. He noticed more features of the demon, now that he found it so close. It’s head oval-like at the top before coming together at a sharp angle at its chin. Its body reflected that of a starving beggar, it’s rib cage protruding through it’s smooth, pale skin. The gaunt stature of the fiend sent chills down Alaric’s spine. The longer he stared, the heavier his sense of dread became. Alaric took a step backward, inching towards the brush. The monster did nothing, standing completely still. Alaric quickly turned around and began to sprint. The sound of rushing movement and violent footsteps soon followed from the darkness behind him. Alaric whirled again, shining the light towards the sounds. The demon halted in the torch’s illumination paused in the middle of its stride. Alaric swallowed hard as he took another step backward, not daring to turn his back to the creature again. As the light slowly abandoned the features of the monster’s face, Alaric could hear the beast gradually approaching him until it’s face shone within the halo once more. Alaric gritted his teeth and continued to inch backward into the darkness…
“Open the gates!” the guards shouted. The men on the palisades scrambled to the ropes and heaved the two wooden doors ajar. A murder of crows could be heard flying overhead, cawing as they flew over the keep. Their presence marked an omen, a sign of misfortune.
A bearded man, tall and draped in a bear-hide cloak hurried towards the entrance of the keep. As the wooden doors creaked open, a boy shuffled through. His face and clothes were dirtied with mud, dust, and saturated in blood. The bearded man shed his cloak and to embrace the boy.
“Oh Gods!” he said, “I thought I’d lost you…” The bearded man held the boy tightly, squeezing him into his breast, and he tried hard to fight back tears from falling down his cheeks. After a brief moment of embrace, the man held him outward, looking the boy in the eyes. The young boy’s eyes gave him only a cold stare, seemingly petrified. The bearded man squinted and stared back.
“Are you alright Alaric?” he said softly, glancing behind the boy. “Where are the others?” The man looked back into his son’s eyes.
The boy said nothing and simply turned to point towards the distant wood. The boy’s arm shivered as he raised it. The man felt a chill run down his back, as he cradled the boy to his chest again. The boy, eyes still retaining the cold stare, returned the embrace. Alaric turned his head to whisper into his father’s ear.
“They were hiding in the dark…” The bearded man gently grabbed the boy’s head, pulling it closer to him.
“It’s alright, you’re home now…” he said. The boy pulled away, looking his father in the eyes with an empty gaze. Alaric opened his mouth and spoke ever so softly.
“They’re afraid of the light…”
Last edited:
Elucid
Pearannoyed
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[div class=textbox]Name: Reynard de Sorel
Age: 26
Location of Birth: Yefim's Holdfast, a structure borne out of necessity more than anything else. The near constant raids on supply caravans running up and down the the path between Numenland and An`Falithe, compelled the erection of a series of guard towers and holdfasts across the breadth of the region. Yefim's Holdfast, was one of these hastily constructed monstrosities, with its damp and blackened stone walls and imposing height bringing some small comfort to the tradesmen making the trek all the way to the frontlines. As often happens with such structures meant for soldiers, the baggage train brought with it numerous camp followers - wives and children, cooks and seamstresses, sutlers and whores. In no time did the holdfast turn into a market town of sorts with a modest amount of land nearby put to the plough; it proved a welcome spot of rest and recuperation for weary travelers, letting its mostly human residents scoop up a modest livelihood, just enough to get by.
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Appearance: Reynard is perhaps best described as being of a comely sort, although the scars of battle have served to somewhat dampen what would've been a fairly handsome face, he is still considered to be a fine human specimen. Like many of his human brethren south of lake Elena, Reynard has deep blue eyes and a silvery blond mane which he keeps cropped at the back and sides, a remnant of his days on the frontlines. Six years of continuous war have left the man with a statuesque figure; broad shouldered, muscular, standing tall at 6ft 2 inches the very embodiment of a valiant bluecloak.
Equipment: Used to trotting along with a heavy backpack from back in his soldiering days, Reynard carries a number of tools with him on any prospective adventure, these include; a small knife, torches, a tinderbox, rations, a waterskin, a bedroll, two cases for maps and scrolls, a mess kit, parchment, a book of lore and a change of clothes. The pack also has 50 ft of hempen rope strapped to the side of it for emergencies.
Class: Stormlord, Nefari of Storms
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Personality: Even as a boy Reynard was not very keen on making friends, perhaps, it was the result of growing up in such an unforgiving environment where survival was one's only priority. It isn't as though Reynard was completely without humor however, he was once a solider after all, he's had his share of bawdy japes and heavy drinking. Although, it must be said that the man's better in person than in groups, as those in his old regiment will surely testify. As is probably evident, the mage school at An`Falithe did much to temper his stoicism, though it should not be forgotten that there's still a sizable number of those who consider the admission of humans into institutions such as these a travesty, an insult to all true Tel'Quessir. So, most of his time was spent with elvish sympathizers and the rare human searching the old libraries for the occasional tome or lore book that spoke of the forbidden knowledge their mentors so often railed against.
Title: The de Sorels, his father told him were a noble house that could trace their origins back before the doom in the east, before, humanity had resigned to its fate as slaves to the Tel'Quessir. They were treated hospitably at first, but there is only so much time one can spare for the lord of nothing. Before long, only the humans who'd heard or remembered something of what the old kingdom was like showed them any modicum of respect. And soon, even that faded, only one thing remained, reminding them of their hallowed past. The family heirloom, a blade of silver with the de Sorel stag shown prominently on the pommel of the sword. A blade, which as tradition demanded passed onto the oldest male heir upon reaching manhood.
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Backstory: The signs had always been there, at age six the village stores would be lit alight; with a shuddering, scared little boy in their fiery mist, his wooden sword, a plaything his father'd carved, charred beyond recognition. They would not speak of it however, Reynard's father had secured a position of repute for himself and no one would dare oust his son as a magic user. There were many who still thought of the magus' and stormlords as being of purely elvish stock, some went so far as to blame them for continuing plight of the humans, for if the Tel'Quessir did not have their elemental magic, the humans would've risen up in rebellion long ago and the heads of the dreaded High Kings would no longer remain stuck to their bodies. The fact of Reynard's proficiency for magic could not be kept secret for long however, for as he grew older the incidents became more frequent and chaotic; charred fields, collapsed houses, tremors under the earth. Something had to be done about the boy and staying at Yefim's Holdfast would bring undue attention to the family, so it was decided that the best place for him would be in the military. The de Sorels have been military men for generations and it was undoubtedly the path they'd have wished Reynard take, so what if he was being sent to war at fourteen. He looked the part, already muscular for his age and he had the consent of his parents which meant the recruiters didn't ask many questions, besides they had a blight to fight it wouldn't do for them to be choosy.
The military suited Reynard, the daily regiment kept his mind off of everything that had happen or could happen, he'd even made a few close friends; brothers, in all but name, for in war the differences between men mattered little, especially when they'd all be fed to a pack of Gorlocks in the morrow. Even the outbursts had become somewhat of a rarity, and when they did happen they were usually mild and never in full view of the rest of his regiment. Until that fateful day, when he and a group of five others were tasked with scouting ahead of the main force making sure that nothing was awry. Everything had gone as planned, they'd kept watch in turns, looked out for scents and footprints of predator and prey alike, they even took to marking their path out on trees just to make sure the army would take the same route. That's when disaster struck, one of the men who'd been assigned the job of marking the trees they'd pass by with some distinctive symbol was suddenly lifted into the air, his screams of terror bringing a chill down Reynard's spine - it was an A'rachas, terrible creatures that camouflaged themselves in the thick of the forest in hopes of catching their prey unawares. Before they even had the time to react to this new threat, they'd hear goblin horns bellow behind them and pretty soon they'd find themselves surrounded on all sides by the wretches. What happened next Reynard, could not say, only two men survived that day, the forest around them, torn asunder.
The very next day, Reynard was carted off to An`Falithe, the capital, by a blue cloak simply named Duncan. They said he had a purpose to fulfill, a service he must render for the gifts he'd been endowed with. That, the first step in fulfilling such a purpose was the school for mages at An`Falithe. Now, there is much that could be said about his time at the mage school but none of it would be very interesting, suffice to say that his time there was mostly spent studying with the very occasional soirée across town. Upon finishing his education, he was sent to the local bluecloak chapter where he was initiated into the order as a stormlord. He'd expected to be immediately sent back down to the frontlines but as fate would have it Duncan had taken a liking to the boy and recommended a posting within the household of a local lord seeking to posses one of the fabled bluecloaks.
It was here, in the halls of power that Reynard found a new appreciation for Tel'Quessir society, the poise with which the lords carried themselves and the nobility of their character impressed him greatly. They were nothing like the monsters edan grandmothers made them out to be; flesh eaters and blood mages the lot of them. Here, Reynard was respected, the little lordlings would always want to play with the "valiants" asking them incessantly to perform some neat trick. It made Reynard wonder, could it be that the predicament the edan found themselves in was of their own doing? mayhaps the ban against carrying a weapon off duty was for their own good? humans after all were known to be violent to their core, a nature that could only be tempered by their worship of Felariel.
Story Relation: Reynard has always wished for an end to the war, many good men die with every push they make to reclaim territory, there are those who have known nothing but war for the entirety of their lives. They deserved above anything else, to be sent back home to see their families, to mourn the fallen and tend to the farms they left behind, now in disrepair.
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Skills, Interests and Fears: As a scout in the Tel`Quessir military, Reynard has acquired a number of skills which would certainly aid him if he ever found himself lost in the wild. The ability to make camp with limited resources, forage for food, track animals both big and small and most importantly lay traps are all handy skills to have while out adventuring. He isn't too shabby with the sword either, although years of sitting at a table with candlelight, going over dusty scrolls have dimmed that instinct a bit.
Reynard has always had a keen interest in animals, the first thing he did after getting his folks situated inside the city and availing his pay was to buy a small plot of land where he'd raise a number of unimposing farm animals. Other than simply providing a nice source of income the farm proved to be a welcome place of rest, away from all the intrigues of court. Recently, Reynard's added a number of palfreys to the plot, but only because they were being sold at bottom barrel prices, he promised.
The one thing that Reynard fears the most has always been loosing his family, even when on the frontlines he'd write letters daily urging them to leave Yefim's Holdfast and head for the capital, news about raids near Numenlad would keep the boy up for days and any new information he'd learn about troop movements and changes in the battlelines that could possibly affect his family would reach them by the morrow.
Spells:
Elemental Bolts: Fires small projectiles of various elements that can harm or kill an enemy.
Winter's Grasp: The caster envelops a target in frost, freezing their lower-levels solid, the spell does also on occasion cause the area in front of the target to freeze about ten feet wide. Although, a particularly easy spell to master it does not take away form its effectiveness.
Chain Lightning: A simple offensive spell, where the caster looses bolts of light at multiple targets, that may burn holes through lightly armored enemies.
Static Cage: The caster traps enemies inside an electricity field that may paralyze or even kill those that try to leave. Visually, the target(s) is enveloped in a ball of swirling electricity that only dissipates once the caster chooses or when he runs out of mana. The spell is a constant drain on the caster's mana and thus cannot be used to entrap an enemy indefinitely.
Maelstrom: The caster summons a huge column of swirling flame. Targeting all in its path, the spell requires a great deal of concentration and mana and is very often unstable, meaning that Reynard only considers using it in the most dire of situations.
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[div class=textbox]Name: Reynard de Sorel
Age: 26
Location of Birth: Yefim's Holdfast, a structure borne out of necessity more than anything else. The near constant raids on supply caravans running up and down the the path between Numenland and An`Falithe, compelled the erection of a series of guard towers and holdfasts across the breadth of the region. Yefim's Holdfast, was one of these hastily constructed monstrosities, with its damp and blackened stone walls and imposing height bringing some small comfort to the tradesmen making the trek all the way to the frontlines. As often happens with such structures meant for soldiers, the baggage train brought with it numerous camp followers - wives and children, cooks and seamstresses, sutlers and whores. In no time did the holdfast turn into a market town of sorts with a modest amount of land nearby put to the plough; it proved a welcome spot of rest and recuperation for weary travelers, letting its mostly human residents scoop up a modest livelihood, just enough to get by.
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Appearance: Reynard is perhaps best described as being of a comely sort, although the scars of battle have served to somewhat dampen what would've been a fairly handsome face, he is still considered to be a fine human specimen. Like many of his human brethren south of lake Elena, Reynard has deep blue eyes and a silvery blond mane which he keeps cropped at the back and sides, a remnant of his days on the frontlines. Six years of continuous war have left the man with a statuesque figure; broad shouldered, muscular, standing tall at 6ft 2 inches the very embodiment of a valiant bluecloak.
Equipment: Used to trotting along with a heavy backpack from back in his soldiering days, Reynard carries a number of tools with him on any prospective adventure, these include; a small knife, torches, a tinderbox, rations, a waterskin, a bedroll, two cases for maps and scrolls, a mess kit, parchment, a book of lore and a change of clothes. The pack also has 50 ft of hempen rope strapped to the side of it for emergencies.
Class: Stormlord, Nefari of Storms
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Personality: Even as a boy Reynard was not very keen on making friends, perhaps, it was the result of growing up in such an unforgiving environment where survival was one's only priority. It isn't as though Reynard was completely without humor however, he was once a solider after all, he's had his share of bawdy japes and heavy drinking. Although, it must be said that the man's better in person than in groups, as those in his old regiment will surely testify. As is probably evident, the mage school at An`Falithe did much to temper his stoicism, though it should not be forgotten that there's still a sizable number of those who consider the admission of humans into institutions such as these a travesty, an insult to all true Tel'Quessir. So, most of his time was spent with elvish sympathizers and the rare human searching the old libraries for the occasional tome or lore book that spoke of the forbidden knowledge their mentors so often railed against.
Title: The de Sorels, his father told him were a noble house that could trace their origins back before the doom in the east, before, humanity had resigned to its fate as slaves to the Tel'Quessir. They were treated hospitably at first, but there is only so much time one can spare for the lord of nothing. Before long, only the humans who'd heard or remembered something of what the old kingdom was like showed them any modicum of respect. And soon, even that faded, only one thing remained, reminding them of their hallowed past. The family heirloom, a blade of silver with the de Sorel stag shown prominently on the pommel of the sword. A blade, which as tradition demanded passed onto the oldest male heir upon reaching manhood.
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Backstory: The signs had always been there, at age six the village stores would be lit alight; with a shuddering, scared little boy in their fiery mist, his wooden sword, a plaything his father'd carved, charred beyond recognition. They would not speak of it however, Reynard's father had secured a position of repute for himself and no one would dare oust his son as a magic user. There were many who still thought of the magus' and stormlords as being of purely elvish stock, some went so far as to blame them for continuing plight of the humans, for if the Tel'Quessir did not have their elemental magic, the humans would've risen up in rebellion long ago and the heads of the dreaded High Kings would no longer remain stuck to their bodies. The fact of Reynard's proficiency for magic could not be kept secret for long however, for as he grew older the incidents became more frequent and chaotic; charred fields, collapsed houses, tremors under the earth. Something had to be done about the boy and staying at Yefim's Holdfast would bring undue attention to the family, so it was decided that the best place for him would be in the military. The de Sorels have been military men for generations and it was undoubtedly the path they'd have wished Reynard take, so what if he was being sent to war at fourteen. He looked the part, already muscular for his age and he had the consent of his parents which meant the recruiters didn't ask many questions, besides they had a blight to fight it wouldn't do for them to be choosy.
The military suited Reynard, the daily regiment kept his mind off of everything that had happen or could happen, he'd even made a few close friends; brothers, in all but name, for in war the differences between men mattered little, especially when they'd all be fed to a pack of Gorlocks in the morrow. Even the outbursts had become somewhat of a rarity, and when they did happen they were usually mild and never in full view of the rest of his regiment. Until that fateful day, when he and a group of five others were tasked with scouting ahead of the main force making sure that nothing was awry. Everything had gone as planned, they'd kept watch in turns, looked out for scents and footprints of predator and prey alike, they even took to marking their path out on trees just to make sure the army would take the same route. That's when disaster struck, one of the men who'd been assigned the job of marking the trees they'd pass by with some distinctive symbol was suddenly lifted into the air, his screams of terror bringing a chill down Reynard's spine - it was an A'rachas, terrible creatures that camouflaged themselves in the thick of the forest in hopes of catching their prey unawares. Before they even had the time to react to this new threat, they'd hear goblin horns bellow behind them and pretty soon they'd find themselves surrounded on all sides by the wretches. What happened next Reynard, could not say, only two men survived that day, the forest around them, torn asunder.
The very next day, Reynard was carted off to An`Falithe, the capital, by a blue cloak simply named Duncan. They said he had a purpose to fulfill, a service he must render for the gifts he'd been endowed with. That, the first step in fulfilling such a purpose was the school for mages at An`Falithe. Now, there is much that could be said about his time at the mage school but none of it would be very interesting, suffice to say that his time there was mostly spent studying with the very occasional soirée across town. Upon finishing his education, he was sent to the local bluecloak chapter where he was initiated into the order as a stormlord. He'd expected to be immediately sent back down to the frontlines but as fate would have it Duncan had taken a liking to the boy and recommended a posting within the household of a local lord seeking to posses one of the fabled bluecloaks.
It was here, in the halls of power that Reynard found a new appreciation for Tel'Quessir society, the poise with which the lords carried themselves and the nobility of their character impressed him greatly. They were nothing like the monsters edan grandmothers made them out to be; flesh eaters and blood mages the lot of them. Here, Reynard was respected, the little lordlings would always want to play with the "valiants" asking them incessantly to perform some neat trick. It made Reynard wonder, could it be that the predicament the edan found themselves in was of their own doing? mayhaps the ban against carrying a weapon off duty was for their own good? humans after all were known to be violent to their core, a nature that could only be tempered by their worship of Felariel.
Story Relation: Reynard has always wished for an end to the war, many good men die with every push they make to reclaim territory, there are those who have known nothing but war for the entirety of their lives. They deserved above anything else, to be sent back home to see their families, to mourn the fallen and tend to the farms they left behind, now in disrepair.
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Skills, Interests and Fears: As a scout in the Tel`Quessir military, Reynard has acquired a number of skills which would certainly aid him if he ever found himself lost in the wild. The ability to make camp with limited resources, forage for food, track animals both big and small and most importantly lay traps are all handy skills to have while out adventuring. He isn't too shabby with the sword either, although years of sitting at a table with candlelight, going over dusty scrolls have dimmed that instinct a bit.
Reynard has always had a keen interest in animals, the first thing he did after getting his folks situated inside the city and availing his pay was to buy a small plot of land where he'd raise a number of unimposing farm animals. Other than simply providing a nice source of income the farm proved to be a welcome place of rest, away from all the intrigues of court. Recently, Reynard's added a number of palfreys to the plot, but only because they were being sold at bottom barrel prices, he promised.
The one thing that Reynard fears the most has always been loosing his family, even when on the frontlines he'd write letters daily urging them to leave Yefim's Holdfast and head for the capital, news about raids near Numenlad would keep the boy up for days and any new information he'd learn about troop movements and changes in the battlelines that could possibly affect his family would reach them by the morrow.
Spells:
Elemental Bolts: Fires small projectiles of various elements that can harm or kill an enemy.
Winter's Grasp: The caster envelops a target in frost, freezing their lower-levels solid, the spell does also on occasion cause the area in front of the target to freeze about ten feet wide. Although, a particularly easy spell to master it does not take away form its effectiveness.
Chain Lightning: A simple offensive spell, where the caster looses bolts of light at multiple targets, that may burn holes through lightly armored enemies.
Static Cage: The caster traps enemies inside an electricity field that may paralyze or even kill those that try to leave. Visually, the target(s) is enveloped in a ball of swirling electricity that only dissipates once the caster chooses or when he runs out of mana. The spell is a constant drain on the caster's mana and thus cannot be used to entrap an enemy indefinitely.
Maelstrom: The caster summons a huge column of swirling flame. Targeting all in its path, the spell requires a great deal of concentration and mana and is very often unstable, meaning that Reynard only considers using it in the most dire of situations.
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Kipsy
Socially Anxious Chocolate Addict
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"keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground"
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The Velveteen Rabbit
A Fluffy Bun
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[div class=textbox]Name: Shiera Vaelur "Moonblade"
Age: 35
Race: Isilhin
Location of Birth: Numenlad
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Appearance: Shiera is a very beautiful and attractive young woman, who almost has a doll-like appearance with a fair complexion, slender frame and a womanly semblance. She has long black hair that has a slightly silver hue in different lighting and a pair of brilliant emerald green eyes. Most often styled into a partial braid, her silky hair cascades down her back and could reach to the floor if she stooped low enough. Petite, yet toned with a slender build, she does not stand at a very tall height and is only 5 feet 5 inches. There are several deep scars streaked across her back in a violent pattern; an unforgiving reminder of battle.
Equipment: As she travels far and wide, Shiera carries a small leather pouch secured to her waist, a fair amount of herbs and small glass bottles containing deadly poisons nestled inside. She wields many weapons, such as throwing knives and serrated daggers which are strapped to the inside of her thigh, both hidden from view. A finely crafted bow and a holster of poison-tipped arrows sit comfortably on her back as another addition. However, Shiera's most prized possession and commonly used weapon is a very odd contraption indeed: a set of metal claws that slip over her fingers and wrists like gloves, resembling the claws of a large feline, but much sharper and deadlier. Made from a fine, sturdy silver metal, Shiera also dons her feet with the same weapon which is secured tightly over her heels and ankles, armed to the teeth with razor-edged talons. Oddly enough, the weapon leaves behind a track of paw prints as she walks across the earth, making her untraceable. A name most fitting, she calls these unique weapons Tiger's Bane.
Golden-chained headdresses, stunning emerald earrings, necklaces and rings can often be found adorning her physique. When in battle, Shiera prefers to wear a lighter set of clothing that allows her to move more freely, but is quite revealing. Exposing her curvy midriff and long legs, she simply wears a leather bra and a flowing black skirt. Aside from battle, Shiera wears a black dress with golden shoulder pads as a daily outfit. A gold necklace with a rare turquoise gem dangles around her neck and she is never seen without it due to the fact that it was a gift from a very special person in her life.
Class: Moongarde/Bladedancer
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Personality: Growing up as an orphaned child soldier in the army who was treated as a mere tool, Shiera is not socialized like a regular person should be and does not understand emotions well. She was raised in a military setting from a very young age and had grown into a person who could not perceive or express feelings, no matter how hard she tried. Due to this reason, Shiera is easily mistaken as emotionless or robotic. Shiera does not fully understand people's emotions or feelings in general, which is why her actions come off as eccentric and lacking. However, she is polite, careful and deliberate in her actions as well. A person whose speech is polite, yet she never flatters anybody. Although she can't help it, she naturally comes off as insensitive, but is blunt, honest, and unafraid to speak her mind if she thinks something isn't right. It's obvious she puts a distance between herself and others, but she shows no signs of despising loneliness. Despite her odd traits, Shiera is also described as a persistent, dedicated, and a dignified woman who is not likely to back away no matter how much others urge her. Being expressionless and straight-laced, she never hesitates when she does something, creating a level of unpredictability that many others find unnerving.
Shiera is not only known for her expertise in combat, but also for her high level of intelligence. Even though many people don't know it, she is actually very aware of the fact that she is inexperienced in understanding emotions, which is why she constantly tries to find new ways to improve her empathy. Helping when she can and being there for those who need her, she has proven to be a loyal companion, despite her lack of emotions. She is also known as an incredibly quick learner, and Shiera absorbs knowledge and performs flawlessly, making her a very skilled killer in combat. She displays a calm, elegant, and firm attitude in tense situations or while under pressure.
Title: A deadly yet fitting title, Teuvel or Moonblade, is a name whispered out of fear or intrigue. Shiera earned such a mysterious title after single handedly eliminating a Wulver on a rare night where the moon was no longer milky white, but red. She was young and vulnerable at the time, no older than the age of 16, but her heart was empty; a soundless void. Blood painted the forest floor, a girl with emerald eyes calmly standing over tufts of fur and a shredded body. It was a shocking sight, and one group of souls happened to witness her killings; a squadron of soldiers who happened to pass by at the right time. News spread like wildfire through the work-ridden streets of Numenlad, and Shiera was no longer known as 'the orphaned elf', but as a weapon of mass destruction.
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Backstory: Back when she was a young girl, Shiera was found outside the walls of Numenlad alone after a squadron of legionaries happened to pass by. She was standing over the body of a Wulver with a fallen soldier's sword in hand, streaked with dirt and blood, hair matted, and cuts embedded in her knees. The young girl didn't have a name at the time, and the soldiers were unsure if she had recently become orphaned or suffered an accident outside the city walls. A few subordinates of the group approached and reached down to grab her, and she responded defensively. Shiera attacked viciously, managing to cut down one of the soldiers before she was successfully subdued by the others . The general of the group looked on in horror and could not believe his eyes. Although she does not remember her family and could not speak, read, or write, there was only two things she knew how to do: kill and survive.
That was the day her whole life changed. The general saw potential in the young orphan and managed to capture her with the help of more soldiers. Upon returning to the city, Shiera was soon enlisted into the military as a secret weapon after several experiments were conducted. If a general pointed to an animal and said "kill", she would immediately do so. This applied to enemies of Chaos as well, such as goblins. Despite her inability to speak or understand language except the order to kill, she was still forced to be a soldier. To this day, no one knew where Shiera came from or how she killed that Wulver. Even before she was found and taken into the army, she couldn't understand human speech, only understanding orders to kill. She did not possess any sense of right or wrong from the start. As a young child among soldiers, she merely chased after the adults who gave her orders. She followed the idea of "kill or be killed", and thus could kill countless of enemies without feeling guilt or remorse.
A cruel and unforgiving moongarde took her under his wing, and she did everything he asked of her. If she showed any signs of exhaustion, Shiera was beaten. It wasn't until the moongarde's brother, Selles, stepped forth and convinced his brother to allow himself to train the child instead after seeing the way she was being treated, that everything changed. Reluctantly, the cruel man agreed, and Shiera began training alongside Selles. Even though he was ordered to treat her as a weapon with no mercy or compassion, the young moongarde couldn't bring himself to do so and was strongly against the idea. As Shiera grew older, Selles taught her to read, write, and speak in private, as well as giving her the name "Shiera" in hopes that she would finally grow into her own person. He quickly became an important figure in Shiera's young life and someone that she held dear to her heart. Selles was the family she never had and more, and bit by bit, he showed her that she was not a tool of war, but a person with feelings that mattered and was loved. Over time, Shiera grew to love him, even though she did not know how to show it.
There came the fateful day, however, where Selles' superiors forced him to put Shiera in the frontlines due to her combat abilities. They fought together, where she proved to be a valuable asset in winning key battles. However, a large group of goblins accompanied by an orc breached the frontlines, and Shiera watched in horror as Selles was killed. Her only friend and the person who'd raised her had died right in front of her. It was the first time she'd shown real emotions and she cried hysterically, ripping and clawing as she tried desperately to drag his body away from the chaos. She refused to leave him behind and managed to drag him all the way back to the city where she was met by another group of soldiers, tears staining her blood-splattered cheeks.
After that dreadful battle was over, Selles' family came into contact with Shiera through a letter and she was adopted into the Vaelur family. They took her away from the military and allowed her to live at their estate, where she currently resides.
Story Relation: Being in war herself, Shiera has seen the death and chaos up close and personal. As a citizen of Numenlad, she wishes for the war to end and for their forces to fixate themselves on protecting the living.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Due to her doll-like nature, Shiera doesn't have many interests, however she wishes to learn more about human emotions and to understand them better. She is constantly trying to improve herself and become her own person. Her fears are not so obvious, but she cares deeply for those around her and does not want to lose anyone else to the Wretched.
Fighting Skills and Strength - As a former child soldier, Shiera has received military training from a very young age and is incredibly skilled in combat. Her combat capabilities are monstrous and described to be far beyond what a human is capable of. Even as a child, she was capable of massacring numerous groups of enemies with ease. She is quick-witted, agile, and highly capable. As seen in the war, she has exceptionally high stamina and speed. She has fast movements and can dodge other enemy attacks while attacking others. Not only that, but she doesn't react strongly to pain and can endure a lot of it during battle. Her skills surpass many of her peers, and she can defeat/kill several enemies, one after the other, in a short time. Most commonly known as blade dancing, Shiera can slice and dice through enemies with ease, performing great acrobatic feats while doing so.
Use of Weapons - Shiera is noted to be very proficient in the use of weapons, whether it be throwing knives, bows, or her prized hand claws. Whatever weapon she is using currently, she can wield it flawlessly to kill those around her. Able to attack while moving, she can fling throwing knives and shoot arrows while sprinting with great accuracy, as well as kill from a distance. Her intuition is also great as she can find out her enemies sly attacks in a matter of seconds.
Martial Arts - Although she is proficient at using weapons, Shiera is talented in minimizing the advantages of larger, stronger opponents through kicks, punches, throws, holds, and other techniques. She is also trained in self-defense and will protect herself fiercely if the situation calls for it.
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[div class=textbox]Name: Shiera Vaelur "Moonblade"
Age: 35
Race: Isilhin
Location of Birth: Numenlad
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Appearance: Shiera is a very beautiful and attractive young woman, who almost has a doll-like appearance with a fair complexion, slender frame and a womanly semblance. She has long black hair that has a slightly silver hue in different lighting and a pair of brilliant emerald green eyes. Most often styled into a partial braid, her silky hair cascades down her back and could reach to the floor if she stooped low enough. Petite, yet toned with a slender build, she does not stand at a very tall height and is only 5 feet 5 inches. There are several deep scars streaked across her back in a violent pattern; an unforgiving reminder of battle.
Equipment: As she travels far and wide, Shiera carries a small leather pouch secured to her waist, a fair amount of herbs and small glass bottles containing deadly poisons nestled inside. She wields many weapons, such as throwing knives and serrated daggers which are strapped to the inside of her thigh, both hidden from view. A finely crafted bow and a holster of poison-tipped arrows sit comfortably on her back as another addition. However, Shiera's most prized possession and commonly used weapon is a very odd contraption indeed: a set of metal claws that slip over her fingers and wrists like gloves, resembling the claws of a large feline, but much sharper and deadlier. Made from a fine, sturdy silver metal, Shiera also dons her feet with the same weapon which is secured tightly over her heels and ankles, armed to the teeth with razor-edged talons. Oddly enough, the weapon leaves behind a track of paw prints as she walks across the earth, making her untraceable. A name most fitting, she calls these unique weapons Tiger's Bane.
Golden-chained headdresses, stunning emerald earrings, necklaces and rings can often be found adorning her physique. When in battle, Shiera prefers to wear a lighter set of clothing that allows her to move more freely, but is quite revealing. Exposing her curvy midriff and long legs, she simply wears a leather bra and a flowing black skirt. Aside from battle, Shiera wears a black dress with golden shoulder pads as a daily outfit. A gold necklace with a rare turquoise gem dangles around her neck and she is never seen without it due to the fact that it was a gift from a very special person in her life.
Class: Moongarde/Bladedancer
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Personality: Growing up as an orphaned child soldier in the army who was treated as a mere tool, Shiera is not socialized like a regular person should be and does not understand emotions well. She was raised in a military setting from a very young age and had grown into a person who could not perceive or express feelings, no matter how hard she tried. Due to this reason, Shiera is easily mistaken as emotionless or robotic. Shiera does not fully understand people's emotions or feelings in general, which is why her actions come off as eccentric and lacking. However, she is polite, careful and deliberate in her actions as well. A person whose speech is polite, yet she never flatters anybody. Although she can't help it, she naturally comes off as insensitive, but is blunt, honest, and unafraid to speak her mind if she thinks something isn't right. It's obvious she puts a distance between herself and others, but she shows no signs of despising loneliness. Despite her odd traits, Shiera is also described as a persistent, dedicated, and a dignified woman who is not likely to back away no matter how much others urge her. Being expressionless and straight-laced, she never hesitates when she does something, creating a level of unpredictability that many others find unnerving.
Shiera is not only known for her expertise in combat, but also for her high level of intelligence. Even though many people don't know it, she is actually very aware of the fact that she is inexperienced in understanding emotions, which is why she constantly tries to find new ways to improve her empathy. Helping when she can and being there for those who need her, she has proven to be a loyal companion, despite her lack of emotions. She is also known as an incredibly quick learner, and Shiera absorbs knowledge and performs flawlessly, making her a very skilled killer in combat. She displays a calm, elegant, and firm attitude in tense situations or while under pressure.
Title: A deadly yet fitting title, Teuvel or Moonblade, is a name whispered out of fear or intrigue. Shiera earned such a mysterious title after single handedly eliminating a Wulver on a rare night where the moon was no longer milky white, but red. She was young and vulnerable at the time, no older than the age of 16, but her heart was empty; a soundless void. Blood painted the forest floor, a girl with emerald eyes calmly standing over tufts of fur and a shredded body. It was a shocking sight, and one group of souls happened to witness her killings; a squadron of soldiers who happened to pass by at the right time. News spread like wildfire through the work-ridden streets of Numenlad, and Shiera was no longer known as 'the orphaned elf', but as a weapon of mass destruction.
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Backstory: Back when she was a young girl, Shiera was found outside the walls of Numenlad alone after a squadron of legionaries happened to pass by. She was standing over the body of a Wulver with a fallen soldier's sword in hand, streaked with dirt and blood, hair matted, and cuts embedded in her knees. The young girl didn't have a name at the time, and the soldiers were unsure if she had recently become orphaned or suffered an accident outside the city walls. A few subordinates of the group approached and reached down to grab her, and she responded defensively. Shiera attacked viciously, managing to cut down one of the soldiers before she was successfully subdued by the others . The general of the group looked on in horror and could not believe his eyes. Although she does not remember her family and could not speak, read, or write, there was only two things she knew how to do: kill and survive.
That was the day her whole life changed. The general saw potential in the young orphan and managed to capture her with the help of more soldiers. Upon returning to the city, Shiera was soon enlisted into the military as a secret weapon after several experiments were conducted. If a general pointed to an animal and said "kill", she would immediately do so. This applied to enemies of Chaos as well, such as goblins. Despite her inability to speak or understand language except the order to kill, she was still forced to be a soldier. To this day, no one knew where Shiera came from or how she killed that Wulver. Even before she was found and taken into the army, she couldn't understand human speech, only understanding orders to kill. She did not possess any sense of right or wrong from the start. As a young child among soldiers, she merely chased after the adults who gave her orders. She followed the idea of "kill or be killed", and thus could kill countless of enemies without feeling guilt or remorse.
A cruel and unforgiving moongarde took her under his wing, and she did everything he asked of her. If she showed any signs of exhaustion, Shiera was beaten. It wasn't until the moongarde's brother, Selles, stepped forth and convinced his brother to allow himself to train the child instead after seeing the way she was being treated, that everything changed. Reluctantly, the cruel man agreed, and Shiera began training alongside Selles. Even though he was ordered to treat her as a weapon with no mercy or compassion, the young moongarde couldn't bring himself to do so and was strongly against the idea. As Shiera grew older, Selles taught her to read, write, and speak in private, as well as giving her the name "Shiera" in hopes that she would finally grow into her own person. He quickly became an important figure in Shiera's young life and someone that she held dear to her heart. Selles was the family she never had and more, and bit by bit, he showed her that she was not a tool of war, but a person with feelings that mattered and was loved. Over time, Shiera grew to love him, even though she did not know how to show it.
There came the fateful day, however, where Selles' superiors forced him to put Shiera in the frontlines due to her combat abilities. They fought together, where she proved to be a valuable asset in winning key battles. However, a large group of goblins accompanied by an orc breached the frontlines, and Shiera watched in horror as Selles was killed. Her only friend and the person who'd raised her had died right in front of her. It was the first time she'd shown real emotions and she cried hysterically, ripping and clawing as she tried desperately to drag his body away from the chaos. She refused to leave him behind and managed to drag him all the way back to the city where she was met by another group of soldiers, tears staining her blood-splattered cheeks.
After that dreadful battle was over, Selles' family came into contact with Shiera through a letter and she was adopted into the Vaelur family. They took her away from the military and allowed her to live at their estate, where she currently resides.
Story Relation: Being in war herself, Shiera has seen the death and chaos up close and personal. As a citizen of Numenlad, she wishes for the war to end and for their forces to fixate themselves on protecting the living.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Due to her doll-like nature, Shiera doesn't have many interests, however she wishes to learn more about human emotions and to understand them better. She is constantly trying to improve herself and become her own person. Her fears are not so obvious, but she cares deeply for those around her and does not want to lose anyone else to the Wretched.
Fighting Skills and Strength - As a former child soldier, Shiera has received military training from a very young age and is incredibly skilled in combat. Her combat capabilities are monstrous and described to be far beyond what a human is capable of. Even as a child, she was capable of massacring numerous groups of enemies with ease. She is quick-witted, agile, and highly capable. As seen in the war, she has exceptionally high stamina and speed. She has fast movements and can dodge other enemy attacks while attacking others. Not only that, but she doesn't react strongly to pain and can endure a lot of it during battle. Her skills surpass many of her peers, and she can defeat/kill several enemies, one after the other, in a short time. Most commonly known as blade dancing, Shiera can slice and dice through enemies with ease, performing great acrobatic feats while doing so.
Use of Weapons - Shiera is noted to be very proficient in the use of weapons, whether it be throwing knives, bows, or her prized hand claws. Whatever weapon she is using currently, she can wield it flawlessly to kill those around her. Able to attack while moving, she can fling throwing knives and shoot arrows while sprinting with great accuracy, as well as kill from a distance. Her intuition is also great as she can find out her enemies sly attacks in a matter of seconds.
Martial Arts - Although she is proficient at using weapons, Shiera is talented in minimizing the advantages of larger, stronger opponents through kicks, punches, throws, holds, and other techniques. She is also trained in self-defense and will protect herself fiercely if the situation calls for it.
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Hearing Xander's response made Clyde frown, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth pursed, but the royal adviser did not protest to the king's words. He gave a curt nod and stepped away from him just as he did. There was something about this entire situation that bothered him to no end, and no matter how hard the adviser poked and prodded, Xander wouldn't budge on the subject. Clyde had advised the king since he was merely a young prince, and although he had his downfalls, Xander never made decisions as drastic and careless as this.
Clyde shook his head lightly to clear away any unwanted thoughts and focused on the present moment. Seeing the two royals together like this was still rather unexpected, and Clyde cast his gaze towards their clasped hands as if to make sure what he was seeing was real and not some trick. It was no secret that Xander's adviser was quick to notice such minuscule details that many others could not. He knew the king was incredibly embarrassed and it was quite amusing to see such a stoic and serious man crumble underneath the princess' touch.
Folding his hands behind his back, Clyde bowed quickly to acknowledge the king's wishes.
"As you see fit, your Majesty. I will accompany you to the throne room." He explained while straightening his posture to a normal stance. As the royals conversed with one another, Clyde observed silently, an amused grin on his face that he couldn't seem to shake. Evangeline was suddenly ripped from her troublesome thoughts at the sight of Xander swiveling to meet her gaze, stepping more closely to her now. The feeling of his hand continuously embracing her own was enough to comfort the worried princess and she mustered a small smile.
"We're doing this because we have to... not because we want to." Evangeline reminded him in a soft whisper, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. When all was said and done, and they began to follow Clyde down the hallway, she could feel her heart grow heavier and heavier with each step. Feelings of dread and fear set in instantaneously, haunting the princess and her thoughts. The Merus and Gwirellan families had been lifelong allies for as long as history foretold, and they supported each other loyally throughout many wars and complications, never failing to be there for one another. Although Evangeline refused to admit it, this was a betrayal that wouldn't be so easily repaired.
As the three stepped into the throne room, and Evangeline's gaze fell upon the familiar faces of the Merus royals staring back at her with those kind eyes she knew so well, the princess fought back the urge to cry. A lump appeared in her throat and the hand entwined with Xander's began to shake ever so slightly. It took every ounce of willpower she had left, but she managed to force a smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions bombarding her all at once. She couldn't bear to face the king in such a state as she knew how guilty it would make him feel, so she let go of his hand without a single glance of acknowledgement and walked forward.
King Garen was the first one to speak up, breaking the silence.
"Princess Evangeline and King Xander, it is lovely to see the two of you. I must once again thank you both for allowing our family to visit on such short notice. Although we have never been well acquainted, I am pleased to say we have all enjoyed your company." Garen said to Xander with a beaming smile and a nod of acknowledgement, bowing to show his gratitude. Prince Zen and the king's wife followed and soon returned to their normal stances behind him. As always, the Merus royals showed nothing but kindness and generosity, and Evangeline couldn't help but wince, feeling as though a bee had just stung her. She cleared her throat and tried her best to appear undisturbed, returning their friendly smiles with her own.
"Xander and I are honored by your words, Garen. However, despite our pleasantries, the reason we have invited you here is... not so pleasant." She could feel herself beginning to shake and her hands balled up into fists behind her, knuckles white. The Merus king quirked an eyebrow and the smile faded from his lips, his head tilting slightly to the side.
I can do this.
"Oh? May I ask why we have been called here then?" His tone lowered and he spoke more gravely as he glanced between Evangeline and Xander, his expression darkening.
Her heart began to race. The lump in her throat began to rise once more, and for a few moments she could not find the words to speak. Everything around her began to blur into a blob of swirling color, red mixing with white and so on. The muffled sound of Garen's voice calling out with a concerned "Evangeline?" failed to reach her as she did not respond. Finally, Evangeline opened her mouth to speak.
"Xander and I have come to a decision-"
I'm sorry.
"-that I must bear with a heavy heart." Evangeline could feel the tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill. She sucked in a quick breath and held it.
Please, don't say it.
"We have chosen to break away from our alliance with Merus." Her voice began to falter as she spoke those dreaded words aloud.
Forgive me.
Silence encompassed the throne room. Not a single sound was heard. Evangeline's heart was beating so hard that she was surprised no one could hear it. The look on Garen and Zen's faces was almost enough to push the princess over the edge as they stared up at them in disbelief, eyes wide and mouths open. It was clear Garen could not believe what he had just heard, and his pale blue eyes darted between Evangeline and Xander, finally settling on the Severrald king.
"What is the meaning of this? Explain yourself." Garen spoke with a stern voice.
Clyde shook his head lightly to clear away any unwanted thoughts and focused on the present moment. Seeing the two royals together like this was still rather unexpected, and Clyde cast his gaze towards their clasped hands as if to make sure what he was seeing was real and not some trick. It was no secret that Xander's adviser was quick to notice such minuscule details that many others could not. He knew the king was incredibly embarrassed and it was quite amusing to see such a stoic and serious man crumble underneath the princess' touch.
Folding his hands behind his back, Clyde bowed quickly to acknowledge the king's wishes.
"As you see fit, your Majesty. I will accompany you to the throne room." He explained while straightening his posture to a normal stance. As the royals conversed with one another, Clyde observed silently, an amused grin on his face that he couldn't seem to shake. Evangeline was suddenly ripped from her troublesome thoughts at the sight of Xander swiveling to meet her gaze, stepping more closely to her now. The feeling of his hand continuously embracing her own was enough to comfort the worried princess and she mustered a small smile.
"We're doing this because we have to... not because we want to." Evangeline reminded him in a soft whisper, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. When all was said and done, and they began to follow Clyde down the hallway, she could feel her heart grow heavier and heavier with each step. Feelings of dread and fear set in instantaneously, haunting the princess and her thoughts. The Merus and Gwirellan families had been lifelong allies for as long as history foretold, and they supported each other loyally throughout many wars and complications, never failing to be there for one another. Although Evangeline refused to admit it, this was a betrayal that wouldn't be so easily repaired.
As the three stepped into the throne room, and Evangeline's gaze fell upon the familiar faces of the Merus royals staring back at her with those kind eyes she knew so well, the princess fought back the urge to cry. A lump appeared in her throat and the hand entwined with Xander's began to shake ever so slightly. It took every ounce of willpower she had left, but she managed to force a smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions bombarding her all at once. She couldn't bear to face the king in such a state as she knew how guilty it would make him feel, so she let go of his hand without a single glance of acknowledgement and walked forward.
King Garen was the first one to speak up, breaking the silence.
"Princess Evangeline and King Xander, it is lovely to see the two of you. I must once again thank you both for allowing our family to visit on such short notice. Although we have never been well acquainted, I am pleased to say we have all enjoyed your company." Garen said to Xander with a beaming smile and a nod of acknowledgement, bowing to show his gratitude. Prince Zen and the king's wife followed and soon returned to their normal stances behind him. As always, the Merus royals showed nothing but kindness and generosity, and Evangeline couldn't help but wince, feeling as though a bee had just stung her. She cleared her throat and tried her best to appear undisturbed, returning their friendly smiles with her own.
"Xander and I are honored by your words, Garen. However, despite our pleasantries, the reason we have invited you here is... not so pleasant." She could feel herself beginning to shake and her hands balled up into fists behind her, knuckles white. The Merus king quirked an eyebrow and the smile faded from his lips, his head tilting slightly to the side.
I can do this.
"Oh? May I ask why we have been called here then?" His tone lowered and he spoke more gravely as he glanced between Evangeline and Xander, his expression darkening.
Her heart began to race. The lump in her throat began to rise once more, and for a few moments she could not find the words to speak. Everything around her began to blur into a blob of swirling color, red mixing with white and so on. The muffled sound of Garen's voice calling out with a concerned "Evangeline?" failed to reach her as she did not respond. Finally, Evangeline opened her mouth to speak.
"Xander and I have come to a decision-"
I'm sorry.
"-that I must bear with a heavy heart." Evangeline could feel the tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill. She sucked in a quick breath and held it.
Please, don't say it.
"We have chosen to break away from our alliance with Merus." Her voice began to falter as she spoke those dreaded words aloud.
Forgive me.
Silence encompassed the throne room. Not a single sound was heard. Evangeline's heart was beating so hard that she was surprised no one could hear it. The look on Garen and Zen's faces was almost enough to push the princess over the edge as they stared up at them in disbelief, eyes wide and mouths open. It was clear Garen could not believe what he had just heard, and his pale blue eyes darted between Evangeline and Xander, finally settling on the Severrald king.
"What is the meaning of this? Explain yourself." Garen spoke with a stern voice.
code by Ri.a
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Last edited:
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
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Name: "Israfael" Castien Aeris
Age: 102
Location of Birth: Ilshari
Appearance: Standing at approximately 6'0" with a lithe but muscular build, Israfael is an imposing figure who can just as easily command the attention of the entire room as he can blend into the background. Like all Isilhin, Israfael has such pale skin that it is almost a ghostly white. His silver hair adds to the paleness of his appearance which is contradicted only by the emerald of his eyes. A defining feature are the tattoos that start from his right hip, run all the way up his side, and end at his temple. They seem to be script of some sort, but he has never told anyone what they mean.
Equipment: Dual daggers, a leather pouch full of coin, a vial of poisonjust in case you know? and birdseed?
Class: Rouge| Infiltrator
Personality: A man of few words, Israfael has always preferred remaining quiet until there is something that is worth being said. However, due to his upbringing he can be slightly charming when he needs to be but the facade is tiresome and he would rather not exert the effort if it is not needed. There are few things in life that Israfael applies himself to, he has never been overly ambitious and his high intellect has been both a blessing and a curse. The memories of the worse parts of his childhood have left him with a motivation for wealth and a life far beyond his status. If the price is right, he will do almost anything. He has never seen himself as a man of honor and keeps his emotions locked within himself preferring to live life behind a mask of nonchalance and impassiveness.
Tagline: The Prince of Shadow, a man featured mainly in the horror stories and gossip surrounding the Conclave of Shadows, is a title that has belonged to many within the shady organization. Though none of his predecessors have been as....invested in the name sake. It is said that the Prince of Shadow is the best assassin in the order and that his allegiance is only to those who have enough coin. He is known to be there one minute and gone the next, just like a shadow.
Backstory: Born Castien Aeris, an orphaned boy in the city of Ilshari, life had never been easy for the young moon elf. He was adopted at the mere age of six by some bleeding heart nobles who thought that giving an orphan a home would increase their standing with the local populous. He was renamed Israfael and as expected as the ward of a noble house he became versed in their culture, their mannerisms, but no matter how well he was educated or cared for there was something darker that stirred in the depths of his soul.
As a teen, Israfael was no stranger to trouble. Often seen getting into fights with other boys his age, his adoptive parents decided to place him in Ranger training hoping that the anger that consumed him would have a healthier vent.
Israfael was a ranger for years, joining the Moongarde albeit reluctantly, he lived on the edge of their code of honor only doing the bare minimum with no real interest to apply himself. Then one day he received an offer. In a breach of moral code, the Rangers were forced to terminate his service. The Conclave of Shadow, however, saw his potential and inducted him into the order.
Israfael became yet another tool, a blade in the darkness, and the only thing those who believed themselves untouchable came to fear. He never questioned his marks and eventually earned the moniker Prince of Shadow. That is, until a mark claimed an old friend of his. A woman who he had not seen since they were children and despite his training he found himself unable to send her soul to the unseen world. The only person in his entire existence that he considered a true friend. Instead of plunging his blade into her heart, he pledged it to her cause and swore an oath that bound his life to hers.
Story Relation: Having been a victim of the Chaos War himself, Israfael has always believed that it would be better to take the fight to the enemy instead of cowering behind the walls of some Capital that has been overrun before. The Tel`Quessir are not invincible. The Crown Prince and the High King would bleed as any other, yet they do not wish to face the reality of the situation having been pampered by the false safety of the castle walls. Princess Amaranth and the Grandmagus are the best option for the survival of their people.
Not that it really matters much to him either way. He is a weapon, a tool, and all she needs to do is give him a Mark.
Skills: As a Ranger, Israfael learned how to handle all sorts of weapons though he is most proficient with daggers and a bow. He never had much for the affinity of communication with the forces of nature and his outward lack of magic was always seen as a disgrace to the noble family who adopted him. Even so that didn't stop him from training until he was an expert with dual-wielding daggers and stealth. His time with the Conclave of Shadow has shown mass improvement in his skills, yet strangely he still has no ability to control any kind of magic.
Interests: Spying, gathering information, crowns (specifically gold and I mean the currency),owls, reading, and training.
Fears: Watching the ones he cares for die.Deep bodies of water
Other: Every so often, Israfael is seen with an owl of snow white feathers and onyx eyes named Salazzar.
Link to RPing/Writing Sample: Futuristic - E D E N S E E D
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[div class=textbox]
Name: "Israfael" Castien Aeris
Age: 102
Location of Birth: Ilshari
Appearance: Standing at approximately 6'0" with a lithe but muscular build, Israfael is an imposing figure who can just as easily command the attention of the entire room as he can blend into the background. Like all Isilhin, Israfael has such pale skin that it is almost a ghostly white. His silver hair adds to the paleness of his appearance which is contradicted only by the emerald of his eyes. A defining feature are the tattoos that start from his right hip, run all the way up his side, and end at his temple. They seem to be script of some sort, but he has never told anyone what they mean.
Equipment: Dual daggers, a leather pouch full of coin, a vial of poison
Class: Rouge| Infiltrator
Personality: A man of few words, Israfael has always preferred remaining quiet until there is something that is worth being said. However, due to his upbringing he can be slightly charming when he needs to be but the facade is tiresome and he would rather not exert the effort if it is not needed. There are few things in life that Israfael applies himself to, he has never been overly ambitious and his high intellect has been both a blessing and a curse. The memories of the worse parts of his childhood have left him with a motivation for wealth and a life far beyond his status. If the price is right, he will do almost anything. He has never seen himself as a man of honor and keeps his emotions locked within himself preferring to live life behind a mask of nonchalance and impassiveness.
Tagline: The Prince of Shadow, a man featured mainly in the horror stories and gossip surrounding the Conclave of Shadows, is a title that has belonged to many within the shady organization. Though none of his predecessors have been as....invested in the name sake. It is said that the Prince of Shadow is the best assassin in the order and that his allegiance is only to those who have enough coin. He is known to be there one minute and gone the next, just like a shadow.
Backstory: Born Castien Aeris, an orphaned boy in the city of Ilshari, life had never been easy for the young moon elf. He was adopted at the mere age of six by some bleeding heart nobles who thought that giving an orphan a home would increase their standing with the local populous. He was renamed Israfael and as expected as the ward of a noble house he became versed in their culture, their mannerisms, but no matter how well he was educated or cared for there was something darker that stirred in the depths of his soul.
As a teen, Israfael was no stranger to trouble. Often seen getting into fights with other boys his age, his adoptive parents decided to place him in Ranger training hoping that the anger that consumed him would have a healthier vent.
Israfael was a ranger for years, joining the Moongarde albeit reluctantly, he lived on the edge of their code of honor only doing the bare minimum with no real interest to apply himself. Then one day he received an offer. In a breach of moral code, the Rangers were forced to terminate his service. The Conclave of Shadow, however, saw his potential and inducted him into the order.
Israfael became yet another tool, a blade in the darkness, and the only thing those who believed themselves untouchable came to fear. He never questioned his marks and eventually earned the moniker Prince of Shadow. That is, until a mark claimed an old friend of his. A woman who he had not seen since they were children and despite his training he found himself unable to send her soul to the unseen world. The only person in his entire existence that he considered a true friend. Instead of plunging his blade into her heart, he pledged it to her cause and swore an oath that bound his life to hers.
Story Relation: Having been a victim of the Chaos War himself, Israfael has always believed that it would be better to take the fight to the enemy instead of cowering behind the walls of some Capital that has been overrun before. The Tel`Quessir are not invincible. The Crown Prince and the High King would bleed as any other, yet they do not wish to face the reality of the situation having been pampered by the false safety of the castle walls. Princess Amaranth and the Grandmagus are the best option for the survival of their people.
Not that it really matters much to him either way. He is a weapon, a tool, and all she needs to do is give him a Mark.
Skills: As a Ranger, Israfael learned how to handle all sorts of weapons though he is most proficient with daggers and a bow. He never had much for the affinity of communication with the forces of nature and his outward lack of magic was always seen as a disgrace to the noble family who adopted him. Even so that didn't stop him from training until he was an expert with dual-wielding daggers and stealth. His time with the Conclave of Shadow has shown mass improvement in his skills, yet strangely he still has no ability to control any kind of magic.
Interests: Spying, gathering information, crowns (specifically gold and I mean the currency),
Fears: Watching the ones he cares for die.
Other: Every so often, Israfael is seen with an owl of snow white feathers and onyx eyes named Salazzar.
Link to RPing/Writing Sample: Futuristic - E D E N S E E D
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code by Ri.a
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Last edited:
Axel The Englishman
The Holy Crusader
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[div class=textbox]Name: Edric Herman
Age: 32
Race: Edan
Location of Birth: Wickshire; once a small human logging village bound to the northwest of An`Falithe, all but wiped off the map after a raid sixteen years ago.
Appearance: Edric looks nothing handsome nor anything ugly: fairly average for a human. His tanned skin is course and rough, and battered with scars both fresh and old. He stands fairly tall, at 70 inches or so, with a muscular physique. His curly brown hair is cut short, yet almost completely shaved around the ears and back.
Equipment: Edric carries his signature Gryfmawr - a morning star with a ball-shaped head affixed to a reinforced shaft. It is clearly the weapon of an Edan, lacking the distinctive grandeur of elven craftsmanship. For armour, he wears an incomplete suit of steel plate and chainmail underneath, with similar architecture to that of his weapon.
Class: Warmaster
Personality: Edric is rough, both in character and presentation. He forgoes the courtly mannerisms expected from high society despite his prestigious position: typical for a man of his common upbringing. Many would consider him too vulgar and unrefined when it comes to his social dealings. Perhaps Edric is better known for his wit; his dry sense of humour, at times, has charmed his fellow man. Oftentimes, Edric indulges in drink, seemingly dependent on hooch. His alcoholism has culminated a rather feisty temper with a short fuse, and many a time has his anger gotten the better of him. Yet neither his discourteous nature nor his foul temperament is what makes him famous. Edric is renowned for his resourcefulness, and his ability to devise clever schemes when he isn't on his binge. His war plans have secured many victories, especially against the Wretched hordes.
Title: The Warplanner. A simple name, but one that carries with it a great deal of prestige. Edric earned this name in recognition for his victory over the brigands of the Falting Grove, leading a small company of armed peasants to an unprecedented victory. Though far from his greatest achievement, it is certainly one of the most important in his career.
Backstory: Edric was born a mere commoner in the little village of Wickshire. He was the only son of a carpenter, who lost his wife during childbirth, yet Edric had a close relationship with his father growing up and served as his apprentice in his workshop, though he aspired for greater things. He wanted to see the world. Whenever he wasn't working, he wandered along the surrounding woods in search of adventure: so much so, that it he memorised every nook and cranny there was to see.
At the age of sixteen, little had changed. Edric was a free spirit yet to be quenched, but the forest had grown boring. Still, it was all he had. But one day, as the sun hang low just before the hills, Edric returned to find his village set ablaze. The wicked dance of fire chewed through the wood and straw of buildings defenceless to its onslaught. Only the stone foundations withstood its torrent. And the people; oh, how they screamed. Screams that were etched into Edric's memories. He knew every one in the village, from the old man missing his leg to the little girl who loved the bees that came in spring. And Edric could do nothing. He could do nothing. No matter how hard he tried, their fates were already sealed. His father, and everyone who knew, perished.
But this couldn't have been an accident. Someone had to have done this. Such devastation could only come at the hands of a man. He looked for something; anything that could suggest foul play. Edric found exactly that. Iron torches, crude and misshapen, left near every building. But the village had little metal in possession, and only in the form of pots and nails. And then he found footprints that sunk into the mud, as if they were weighed down, and unnaturally large for a mere man. He followed those footprints for nearly two months until he finally caught up. It had been a party of orcs. It made sense. Greenskins found pleasure in acts of savagery. To them, this was merely a pastime.
He could not let them continue on, but he was in no position to fight actually fight them. He needed a plan to wipe them out. He lured them to an abandoned mineshaft, playing the role of a helpless soul easy enough to kill, before forcing it to cave in once they were in position. He left them to their demise, and saw it as a befitting end for the suffering they had caused.
But his revenge had been without satisfaction. Aye, he made the bastards suffer, but now he was without purpose - and without a home. And so he travelled across the land. On occasion his skill as a carpenter put a few coins in his hand, but the work had only been temporary and he was forced to move on. During his travels he crossed paths with a band of peasants that had been forced from their homes by a band of bandits. He sympathised with these people, and he could not let them follow down the path he was forced to walk. Arming themselves with what they could, Edric lead his little militia to retake what had been lost, leading to the Battle of the Falting Grove. In the end he was victorious, and he now realised who he was. He was a leader. And a decent one at that.
Many years later, Edric had rose to prominence. He fought many battles, and with each victory he grew evermore famous. It seemed he even caught the attention of the Tel`Quessir Warmasters themselves.
Story Relation: Edric is in the belief that the elven forces must push. They have had plenty of time to recuperate, and now they must press the advantage before the Wretched have the opportunity to do the same. He cares not for what the High King thinks. Simply waiting for the enemy to land the next strike is foolish at best.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Edric is a capable fighter, believing in the principle that all who lead should fight shoulder to shoulder with their men. His skill in combat is further enhanced by his tactical brilliance, for he could easily formulate a plan to best a superior opponent.
Yet Edric is best known for his leadership. Rallying men behind him is only second nature, and leading them to victory is what made him famous in the first place.
Edric is not without his fears. Whilst he is afraid of little, he is often petrified by fire.
Spells: N/A
Other:
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
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[div class=textbox]Name: Edric Herman
Age: 32
Race: Edan
Location of Birth: Wickshire; once a small human logging village bound to the northwest of An`Falithe, all but wiped off the map after a raid sixteen years ago.
Appearance: Edric looks nothing handsome nor anything ugly: fairly average for a human. His tanned skin is course and rough, and battered with scars both fresh and old. He stands fairly tall, at 70 inches or so, with a muscular physique. His curly brown hair is cut short, yet almost completely shaved around the ears and back.
Equipment: Edric carries his signature Gryfmawr - a morning star with a ball-shaped head affixed to a reinforced shaft. It is clearly the weapon of an Edan, lacking the distinctive grandeur of elven craftsmanship. For armour, he wears an incomplete suit of steel plate and chainmail underneath, with similar architecture to that of his weapon.
Class: Warmaster
Personality: Edric is rough, both in character and presentation. He forgoes the courtly mannerisms expected from high society despite his prestigious position: typical for a man of his common upbringing. Many would consider him too vulgar and unrefined when it comes to his social dealings. Perhaps Edric is better known for his wit; his dry sense of humour, at times, has charmed his fellow man. Oftentimes, Edric indulges in drink, seemingly dependent on hooch. His alcoholism has culminated a rather feisty temper with a short fuse, and many a time has his anger gotten the better of him. Yet neither his discourteous nature nor his foul temperament is what makes him famous. Edric is renowned for his resourcefulness, and his ability to devise clever schemes when he isn't on his binge. His war plans have secured many victories, especially against the Wretched hordes.
Title: The Warplanner. A simple name, but one that carries with it a great deal of prestige. Edric earned this name in recognition for his victory over the brigands of the Falting Grove, leading a small company of armed peasants to an unprecedented victory. Though far from his greatest achievement, it is certainly one of the most important in his career.
Backstory: Edric was born a mere commoner in the little village of Wickshire. He was the only son of a carpenter, who lost his wife during childbirth, yet Edric had a close relationship with his father growing up and served as his apprentice in his workshop, though he aspired for greater things. He wanted to see the world. Whenever he wasn't working, he wandered along the surrounding woods in search of adventure: so much so, that it he memorised every nook and cranny there was to see.
At the age of sixteen, little had changed. Edric was a free spirit yet to be quenched, but the forest had grown boring. Still, it was all he had. But one day, as the sun hang low just before the hills, Edric returned to find his village set ablaze. The wicked dance of fire chewed through the wood and straw of buildings defenceless to its onslaught. Only the stone foundations withstood its torrent. And the people; oh, how they screamed. Screams that were etched into Edric's memories. He knew every one in the village, from the old man missing his leg to the little girl who loved the bees that came in spring. And Edric could do nothing. He could do nothing. No matter how hard he tried, their fates were already sealed. His father, and everyone who knew, perished.
But this couldn't have been an accident. Someone had to have done this. Such devastation could only come at the hands of a man. He looked for something; anything that could suggest foul play. Edric found exactly that. Iron torches, crude and misshapen, left near every building. But the village had little metal in possession, and only in the form of pots and nails. And then he found footprints that sunk into the mud, as if they were weighed down, and unnaturally large for a mere man. He followed those footprints for nearly two months until he finally caught up. It had been a party of orcs. It made sense. Greenskins found pleasure in acts of savagery. To them, this was merely a pastime.
He could not let them continue on, but he was in no position to fight actually fight them. He needed a plan to wipe them out. He lured them to an abandoned mineshaft, playing the role of a helpless soul easy enough to kill, before forcing it to cave in once they were in position. He left them to their demise, and saw it as a befitting end for the suffering they had caused.
But his revenge had been without satisfaction. Aye, he made the bastards suffer, but now he was without purpose - and without a home. And so he travelled across the land. On occasion his skill as a carpenter put a few coins in his hand, but the work had only been temporary and he was forced to move on. During his travels he crossed paths with a band of peasants that had been forced from their homes by a band of bandits. He sympathised with these people, and he could not let them follow down the path he was forced to walk. Arming themselves with what they could, Edric lead his little militia to retake what had been lost, leading to the Battle of the Falting Grove. In the end he was victorious, and he now realised who he was. He was a leader. And a decent one at that.
Many years later, Edric had rose to prominence. He fought many battles, and with each victory he grew evermore famous. It seemed he even caught the attention of the Tel`Quessir Warmasters themselves.
Story Relation: Edric is in the belief that the elven forces must push. They have had plenty of time to recuperate, and now they must press the advantage before the Wretched have the opportunity to do the same. He cares not for what the High King thinks. Simply waiting for the enemy to land the next strike is foolish at best.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Edric is a capable fighter, believing in the principle that all who lead should fight shoulder to shoulder with their men. His skill in combat is further enhanced by his tactical brilliance, for he could easily formulate a plan to best a superior opponent.
Yet Edric is best known for his leadership. Rallying men behind him is only second nature, and leading them to victory is what made him famous in the first place.
Edric is not without his fears. Whilst he is afraid of little, he is often petrified by fire.
Spells: N/A
Other:
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
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code by Ri.a
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Last edited:
Ashside
New Member
Name:
Tiri Urya
Race:
Anarhin
Age:
120
Location of Birth:
Ilshari
Equipment:
A very large greatsword that she wields with either both hands or one if she’s desperate.
Heavy plate armor that she rarely removes.
Hardened leather armor in case the plate armor would be too cumbersome.
Six daggers that are always on her person, just in case.
Class:
Warmaster
Personality:
Typically quiet and reserved around most people she has a habit of flat out ignoring people in instead of having to engage with them. She’s passionate, and not afraid to speak her mind on something. She can come off as a hard ass. She makes an effort to not antagonize every random individual she see's, but if prompted she will retaliate in kind. She is very blunt, and honest believing that wasting her time with lies, and trickery.
Title:
Kinslayer
A few years into her service she was assigned on a scouting mission with a small squadron of soldiers on the orders of her father who was then at the time in command of their encampment.
Eager to finally make her father recognize her as someone to be proud of, Tiri placed all of her focus into preparing for the next day. She’d made sure that her armor was in pristine condition, and that her greatsword was ready for the coming day.
Unknown to her however her father had finally seen this as the day to rid himself of the shame that had the potential to consume his name and leave him only with a tarnished reputation, and broken alliances between other noble houses. Her squadron was ordered to kill her, but report that she fell in battle as a noble warrior. After all what’s loyalty in comparison to the guaranteed backing of a major noble house and a decent sum of money accompanying it?
Tiri didn’t find their behavior strange. It wasn’t the first time that her squadron would ignore her before typically among most elves that knew of how she came to be regarded her with a disdain similar to the level of respect that most humans would receive with the added benefit of your family regarding as beneath them. So the silence as they went away from camp was fine, and for the next three days it was a similar experience to her other expeditions.
However that all changed when in the middle of the night she was awoken by a stirring of leaves that served as her only warning before her squadron set upon her. She’d been betrayed, but literally getting stabbed in the back wasn’t something she was exactly familiar with. The exact events afterwards would remain as mostly being a blur as she had felt herself get consumed with a rage so potent that all she had seen was red before she went and proceeded to slaughter her squadron all, but one remained and he was just as severely injured as she was, but he didn't have a numbing rage that fueled her every movement.
The only survivor of the would be assassins would then proceed to tell Tiri everything he knew, how a Noble had offered a sizable reward for her death. Tiri assumed that it was her father who hired them she left the sole survivor of the would be assassins alive in the now destroyed camp.
The following days back were a blur with her killing whatever hostile being made their way in front of her. A part of her believes that Anara had blessed her keeping her injuries from impeding her walk back.
Upon entering the main encampment she was swarmed by the healers for treatment, and before she finally fell unconscious to the combination of the exhaustion, and her wounds she asked for the healers to leave the scars. So that they would serve as a memory on the cost of letting her guard down.
Upon waking up three days later in a jail cell for the ‘Unjustified Slaughter’ of her squadron. Apparently the one she let live knew enough healing magic to keep himself alive and well back to the encampment, and upon hearing that Tiri was still alive he'd told the rest of the encampment how she had gone mad, and slaughtered the rest of the squadron in her madness. Eventually she was able to barter for her freedom in exchange for her completing various dangerous missions that they'd rather not risk sending their soldiers only for them to wind up dead, and it would be her contributions in clearing out enemy encampments near the capital that would earn her her freedom.
Backstory:
Born the bastard daughter of an Isilhin Nobleman and his wife’s Anaharin handmaiden she grew up surrounded by the disdain, and contempt of the local nobility. In fact the only positive memories she has of her childhood is whenever she was alone with her mother. Her mother taught her plenty of things how to sing, how to write, how to read, but most importantly she taught Tiri to endure.
Tiri's mother had endured the contempt dealt with having Tiri with a strength that inspired her daughter, because if her mother can endure the constant slander, and belittlement by their ‘Betters’ than she wouldn’t let them get to her ether. Her mother remained a beacon of strength even when she would later fall ill, and they couldn't afford any proper care for her, because apparently her illness was complex, and difficult to treat. They would need the service of a rather expensive healer. At first Tiri wanted to ask for the assistance of her father, but her mother discouraged the idea not wanting to give the man she loved even more trouble.
So in a moment of desperation Tiri enlisted in the military effort simply, because there was a monetary incentive that would’ve provide her mother with at least six months worth of medicine. However when she came back home she would find her mother already dead her sickness having taken her while Tiri had been going through the enlistment process. Her father handled the arrangements after Tiri told him, much to her surprise, however he did so on the condition that Tiri wouldn’t attend saying that it’d be a burden on his family if she was present for the occasion. Her father hadn't known of her existence until she had asked for him to provide the arrangements, and she was sure that his wife wouldn't be all too pleased with the fact that proof of her husband's infidelity was alive and well, and it was probably the potential negative reaction of his wife that encouraged him to add the stipulation of Tiri's absence at the funeral.
That was the only reason that Tiri could come up with that was able to keep her anger in check. She had to be strong. She had to endure. Her father would guarantee a proper burial for her mother, and that’s all that mattered. Besides Tiri was certain that her mother wouldn't have wanted her to cause trouble for her dad. Even if she couldn't see exactly why.
With her mother gone Tiri followed through with her enlistment in the fight against the wretched. Besides her father was soon to head back out into the field so it’s possible that this was the perfect opportunity to finally earn the favor of her father, and possibly get a chance to visit her mother's grave afterwards. Hopefully she'd accomplish enough in the military that it would warrant her father's pride in some fashion.
Except it didn’t exactly pan out that way. Her origin as a bastard of a married noble and his servant was known wherever she went, and every Isilhin and Anaharin looked at her with an air of contempt, and honestly that wasn’t all that unfamiliar considering how she was rather infamous in Ilshari so the Anaharin catching wind of her origin wasn’t that much of a surprise, but she thought it was strange when the humans began behaving in a similar manner. Maybe it was that they could finally find some form some kind of camaraderie over disdain for her.
The only friend she was able to make was with a fellow outsider of sorts, and her soon to be teacher. Standing at 6’6 Tormund the Unyielding was a mountain of a man. His size, and strength served him well in combat, but would put most of the other soldiers on edge. There were rumors that floated around, and clung to him while the other soldiers avoided him like the plague. He had a history crushing skulls, and there were tales that told of how he would consume the blood of the wretched to gain his strength. No one dared approach him simply, because they were either too afraid or disgusted to interact with him, believing it better it for their health.
So you can imagine her surprise, and slight fear when Tormund approached Tiri while she was attempting to gain a handle of how to swing a greatsword. He placed a palm on her shoulder before letting out a gruff grunt of "Weak. Bad with sword. Get strong. Good with sword." it was then, and there Tormund had given her his first bit of advice, and after seeing her rather static shocked expression for a couple minutes too long he the picked her up with one arm, and put her onto his shoulder. “I make strong. You no die.” Tiri was still so shocked that she was only able to mutter out a weak thanks in return.
Without Tormund’s training she wasn’t sure if she would have lived as long as she did. Despite his limited vocabulary he taught her a lot, what to eat to build muscle, how to place all of her weight and power in a strike, he built her up to become her own force of physical might, and endurance. He also taught her his philosophy how the only true honor one could gain was death in combat, he was surprisingly strict on her usage of form, and technique. He told her of his days as a renowned underground fighter, which later inspire her idea to participate after leaving the military. He had also taught her how in fighting the only true honorable method was to not desecrate the corpse of her opponent. He’d even taken to call her “Small Red.” instead of “Weak One.” after a few years. He’d listen to her distress about her father, and provided her comfort, and warmth that she’d only found with her mother beforehand.
A part of her realized that she saw him as the father that she never had, and that realization only hurt when Tormund the Unyielding died in battle. They were assigned a scouting mission that would take them rather close to the then Wretched infested capital. They had come during the night, and Tiri had woken to Tormund’s shouts as cleaved through Wretched After Wretched, but they were chipping away at him, because he couldn’t fight with full abandon of his safety, because he was protecting Tiri’s tent. Her cry of surprise and fear was enough for the man to turn his attention to her for a second leaving an opening for a goblin to give Tormund a fatal stab in the chest. Then they set upon him as he refused to fall beating off whatever goblin he could.
Tiri doesn’t wholly remember what happened after that. All she can recall is picking up her greatsword and cleaving three goblins in half, before everything went red. When she got out of her haze she Tormund standing amongst his own corpse pile of goblins his breathing labored. He looked up with his now one eye with a small smile before falling backwards with a thud onto the ground.
He was dead before he even hit the ground.
Tiri carried his corpse back to their encampment. Where he was given a burial by the humans present. It was the first funeral she had gone to, and she felt a part of her harden in determination to destroy all of The Wretched.
In a year Tiri would be betrayed by her squadron while on an expedition mission, and the string of events that followed earned her the title "Kinslayer" among her fellow elves. After that she would be assigned missions nobody was meant to come back from, rescuing a crucial piece of Intel from extremely dangerous areas to slaughtering a cavern full of wretched as a means of taking time off of her jail sentence. After completing enough of these missions one after the other until eventually earning her freedom with her contributions to reclaiming the capital. After being free she had a brief stint in the underground fighting ring that Tormund had been a part of seeing it as a good a place to lay low, and practice her hand to hand combat.
A year after that she would experience the second assassination attempt on her life. Her father upon receiving word that she was no longer an asset that was watched closely whenever not completing a mission, or off in an area that'd be a suicide mission for almost any assassin that he send after her, and so with her no longer being unreachable through the usage of assassins he'd be able to send an assassin to end her before she had the chance to bring any harm to his name or the reputation of it, and if that attempt failed he'd just keep sending them after her. This recent spike in assassins was mainly because her father's wife had been progressively convincing him more and more throughout the years about the danger Tiri poses to his house, and his name. Tiri remains conflicted on the matter, because on one hand her mother's last words to her on how she didn't want to cause trouble for Tiri's father, but on the other hand she's getting really tired of the assassination attempts being made on her life, and finds her resolve to not ruin her father's reputation tested after every encounter with an assassin.
With whatever cover she had in the underground fighting ring being exposed to she now had no more reason for being there. Now she does mercenary work specifically any that involve killing any of The Wretched.
Story Relation:
Her father is the head of a noble house with plenty of political ties that he could lose should Tiri's existence as his bastard be made known to the other houses. SO to keep her from Though typically this results with just her gaining another scar, and there being one to three less assassins in the world.
Opinion on defending vs attacking:
Tiri believes that the true way to root out the corruption of the world is to destroy it, and would take any opportunity to do so.
Skills/Abilities:
Great Weapon Expert- Tiri has found the use of two handed heavy weapons to be the most effective weapon for her. Using her brute strength to cleave through her enemies. Her preferred weapon is a greatsword, but she’s able to handle most giant weaponry with ease.
Brawler- Even when unarmed she still poses a considerable danger to those within punching distance. She makes use of various things that she’s learned from fighting in a tavern to her brief stint as a competitor in an illegal fighting ring which served to be a valuable experience in case she’s ever attacked without her having a weapon on hand.
Supreme Strength/Endurance- Tiri possesses immense physical strength and endurance able to push through practically any obstacle in her path.
Interests/Hobbies:
Singing- Though she only knows a few melodies taught to her by her mother she’ll regularly sing one to remind herself of the love, and care that her mother had given her. Singing these songs is usually the only method for her to calm herself to sleep, or just to calm her down in general. Sometimes when she hears a melody that sounds particularly nice she’ll stop what she’s doing and just listen to it thinking of her mother.
Sparring/Training- She takes great interest in bettering herself in combat, and finds the most effective method is to train. Training has been a coping mechanism of sorts for her since she was able to. Physically exhausting herself to her absolute limit was always something that she could do to take her mind off of things, and focus on a single concrete goal.
Fears/Flaws:
Betrayal: Ever since the night where he squadron had betrayed her she’s remained guarded refusing to allow herself to trust anyone. She’s made it a habit of keeping people at a distance, and to be suspicious of anyone that dare try to get closer. She now always has some means of defense against would be assassins on her person. When she goes to sleep she doesn’t just lock her door she bars it as well as her windows, typically. In fact it would not be unusual to find her asleep with her greatsword ready to kill at a moments notice.
Rage: Typically when she’s enraged while in battle she’ll essentially have tunnel vision as she attempts to break whatever or whoever is making her angry. This isn’t something that’s easily caused, but it’s also not something that’s easy to break her out of either.
Writing Sample:
Tiri Urya
Race:
Anarhin
Age:
120
Location of Birth:
Ilshari
Equipment:
A very large greatsword that she wields with either both hands or one if she’s desperate.
Heavy plate armor that she rarely removes.
Hardened leather armor in case the plate armor would be too cumbersome.
Six daggers that are always on her person, just in case.
Class:
Warmaster
Personality:
Typically quiet and reserved around most people she has a habit of flat out ignoring people in instead of having to engage with them. She’s passionate, and not afraid to speak her mind on something. She can come off as a hard ass. She makes an effort to not antagonize every random individual she see's, but if prompted she will retaliate in kind. She is very blunt, and honest believing that wasting her time with lies, and trickery.
Title:
Kinslayer
A few years into her service she was assigned on a scouting mission with a small squadron of soldiers on the orders of her father who was then at the time in command of their encampment.
Eager to finally make her father recognize her as someone to be proud of, Tiri placed all of her focus into preparing for the next day. She’d made sure that her armor was in pristine condition, and that her greatsword was ready for the coming day.
Unknown to her however her father had finally seen this as the day to rid himself of the shame that had the potential to consume his name and leave him only with a tarnished reputation, and broken alliances between other noble houses. Her squadron was ordered to kill her, but report that she fell in battle as a noble warrior. After all what’s loyalty in comparison to the guaranteed backing of a major noble house and a decent sum of money accompanying it?
Tiri didn’t find their behavior strange. It wasn’t the first time that her squadron would ignore her before typically among most elves that knew of how she came to be regarded her with a disdain similar to the level of respect that most humans would receive with the added benefit of your family regarding as beneath them. So the silence as they went away from camp was fine, and for the next three days it was a similar experience to her other expeditions.
However that all changed when in the middle of the night she was awoken by a stirring of leaves that served as her only warning before her squadron set upon her. She’d been betrayed, but literally getting stabbed in the back wasn’t something she was exactly familiar with. The exact events afterwards would remain as mostly being a blur as she had felt herself get consumed with a rage so potent that all she had seen was red before she went and proceeded to slaughter her squadron all, but one remained and he was just as severely injured as she was, but he didn't have a numbing rage that fueled her every movement.
The only survivor of the would be assassins would then proceed to tell Tiri everything he knew, how a Noble had offered a sizable reward for her death. Tiri assumed that it was her father who hired them she left the sole survivor of the would be assassins alive in the now destroyed camp.
The following days back were a blur with her killing whatever hostile being made their way in front of her. A part of her believes that Anara had blessed her keeping her injuries from impeding her walk back.
Upon entering the main encampment she was swarmed by the healers for treatment, and before she finally fell unconscious to the combination of the exhaustion, and her wounds she asked for the healers to leave the scars. So that they would serve as a memory on the cost of letting her guard down.
Upon waking up three days later in a jail cell for the ‘Unjustified Slaughter’ of her squadron. Apparently the one she let live knew enough healing magic to keep himself alive and well back to the encampment, and upon hearing that Tiri was still alive he'd told the rest of the encampment how she had gone mad, and slaughtered the rest of the squadron in her madness. Eventually she was able to barter for her freedom in exchange for her completing various dangerous missions that they'd rather not risk sending their soldiers only for them to wind up dead, and it would be her contributions in clearing out enemy encampments near the capital that would earn her her freedom.
Backstory:
Born the bastard daughter of an Isilhin Nobleman and his wife’s Anaharin handmaiden she grew up surrounded by the disdain, and contempt of the local nobility. In fact the only positive memories she has of her childhood is whenever she was alone with her mother. Her mother taught her plenty of things how to sing, how to write, how to read, but most importantly she taught Tiri to endure.
Tiri's mother had endured the contempt dealt with having Tiri with a strength that inspired her daughter, because if her mother can endure the constant slander, and belittlement by their ‘Betters’ than she wouldn’t let them get to her ether. Her mother remained a beacon of strength even when she would later fall ill, and they couldn't afford any proper care for her, because apparently her illness was complex, and difficult to treat. They would need the service of a rather expensive healer. At first Tiri wanted to ask for the assistance of her father, but her mother discouraged the idea not wanting to give the man she loved even more trouble.
So in a moment of desperation Tiri enlisted in the military effort simply, because there was a monetary incentive that would’ve provide her mother with at least six months worth of medicine. However when she came back home she would find her mother already dead her sickness having taken her while Tiri had been going through the enlistment process. Her father handled the arrangements after Tiri told him, much to her surprise, however he did so on the condition that Tiri wouldn’t attend saying that it’d be a burden on his family if she was present for the occasion. Her father hadn't known of her existence until she had asked for him to provide the arrangements, and she was sure that his wife wouldn't be all too pleased with the fact that proof of her husband's infidelity was alive and well, and it was probably the potential negative reaction of his wife that encouraged him to add the stipulation of Tiri's absence at the funeral.
That was the only reason that Tiri could come up with that was able to keep her anger in check. She had to be strong. She had to endure. Her father would guarantee a proper burial for her mother, and that’s all that mattered. Besides Tiri was certain that her mother wouldn't have wanted her to cause trouble for her dad. Even if she couldn't see exactly why.
With her mother gone Tiri followed through with her enlistment in the fight against the wretched. Besides her father was soon to head back out into the field so it’s possible that this was the perfect opportunity to finally earn the favor of her father, and possibly get a chance to visit her mother's grave afterwards. Hopefully she'd accomplish enough in the military that it would warrant her father's pride in some fashion.
Except it didn’t exactly pan out that way. Her origin as a bastard of a married noble and his servant was known wherever she went, and every Isilhin and Anaharin looked at her with an air of contempt, and honestly that wasn’t all that unfamiliar considering how she was rather infamous in Ilshari so the Anaharin catching wind of her origin wasn’t that much of a surprise, but she thought it was strange when the humans began behaving in a similar manner. Maybe it was that they could finally find some form some kind of camaraderie over disdain for her.
The only friend she was able to make was with a fellow outsider of sorts, and her soon to be teacher. Standing at 6’6 Tormund the Unyielding was a mountain of a man. His size, and strength served him well in combat, but would put most of the other soldiers on edge. There were rumors that floated around, and clung to him while the other soldiers avoided him like the plague. He had a history crushing skulls, and there were tales that told of how he would consume the blood of the wretched to gain his strength. No one dared approach him simply, because they were either too afraid or disgusted to interact with him, believing it better it for their health.
So you can imagine her surprise, and slight fear when Tormund approached Tiri while she was attempting to gain a handle of how to swing a greatsword. He placed a palm on her shoulder before letting out a gruff grunt of "Weak. Bad with sword. Get strong. Good with sword." it was then, and there Tormund had given her his first bit of advice, and after seeing her rather static shocked expression for a couple minutes too long he the picked her up with one arm, and put her onto his shoulder. “I make strong. You no die.” Tiri was still so shocked that she was only able to mutter out a weak thanks in return.
Without Tormund’s training she wasn’t sure if she would have lived as long as she did. Despite his limited vocabulary he taught her a lot, what to eat to build muscle, how to place all of her weight and power in a strike, he built her up to become her own force of physical might, and endurance. He also taught her his philosophy how the only true honor one could gain was death in combat, he was surprisingly strict on her usage of form, and technique. He told her of his days as a renowned underground fighter, which later inspire her idea to participate after leaving the military. He had also taught her how in fighting the only true honorable method was to not desecrate the corpse of her opponent. He’d even taken to call her “Small Red.” instead of “Weak One.” after a few years. He’d listen to her distress about her father, and provided her comfort, and warmth that she’d only found with her mother beforehand.
A part of her realized that she saw him as the father that she never had, and that realization only hurt when Tormund the Unyielding died in battle. They were assigned a scouting mission that would take them rather close to the then Wretched infested capital. They had come during the night, and Tiri had woken to Tormund’s shouts as cleaved through Wretched After Wretched, but they were chipping away at him, because he couldn’t fight with full abandon of his safety, because he was protecting Tiri’s tent. Her cry of surprise and fear was enough for the man to turn his attention to her for a second leaving an opening for a goblin to give Tormund a fatal stab in the chest. Then they set upon him as he refused to fall beating off whatever goblin he could.
Tiri doesn’t wholly remember what happened after that. All she can recall is picking up her greatsword and cleaving three goblins in half, before everything went red. When she got out of her haze she Tormund standing amongst his own corpse pile of goblins his breathing labored. He looked up with his now one eye with a small smile before falling backwards with a thud onto the ground.
He was dead before he even hit the ground.
Tiri carried his corpse back to their encampment. Where he was given a burial by the humans present. It was the first funeral she had gone to, and she felt a part of her harden in determination to destroy all of The Wretched.
In a year Tiri would be betrayed by her squadron while on an expedition mission, and the string of events that followed earned her the title "Kinslayer" among her fellow elves. After that she would be assigned missions nobody was meant to come back from, rescuing a crucial piece of Intel from extremely dangerous areas to slaughtering a cavern full of wretched as a means of taking time off of her jail sentence. After completing enough of these missions one after the other until eventually earning her freedom with her contributions to reclaiming the capital. After being free she had a brief stint in the underground fighting ring that Tormund had been a part of seeing it as a good a place to lay low, and practice her hand to hand combat.
A year after that she would experience the second assassination attempt on her life. Her father upon receiving word that she was no longer an asset that was watched closely whenever not completing a mission, or off in an area that'd be a suicide mission for almost any assassin that he send after her, and so with her no longer being unreachable through the usage of assassins he'd be able to send an assassin to end her before she had the chance to bring any harm to his name or the reputation of it, and if that attempt failed he'd just keep sending them after her. This recent spike in assassins was mainly because her father's wife had been progressively convincing him more and more throughout the years about the danger Tiri poses to his house, and his name. Tiri remains conflicted on the matter, because on one hand her mother's last words to her on how she didn't want to cause trouble for Tiri's father, but on the other hand she's getting really tired of the assassination attempts being made on her life, and finds her resolve to not ruin her father's reputation tested after every encounter with an assassin.
With whatever cover she had in the underground fighting ring being exposed to she now had no more reason for being there. Now she does mercenary work specifically any that involve killing any of The Wretched.
Story Relation:
Her father is the head of a noble house with plenty of political ties that he could lose should Tiri's existence as his bastard be made known to the other houses. SO to keep her from Though typically this results with just her gaining another scar, and there being one to three less assassins in the world.
Opinion on defending vs attacking:
Tiri believes that the true way to root out the corruption of the world is to destroy it, and would take any opportunity to do so.
Skills/Abilities:
Great Weapon Expert- Tiri has found the use of two handed heavy weapons to be the most effective weapon for her. Using her brute strength to cleave through her enemies. Her preferred weapon is a greatsword, but she’s able to handle most giant weaponry with ease.
Brawler- Even when unarmed she still poses a considerable danger to those within punching distance. She makes use of various things that she’s learned from fighting in a tavern to her brief stint as a competitor in an illegal fighting ring which served to be a valuable experience in case she’s ever attacked without her having a weapon on hand.
Supreme Strength/Endurance- Tiri possesses immense physical strength and endurance able to push through practically any obstacle in her path.
Interests/Hobbies:
Singing- Though she only knows a few melodies taught to her by her mother she’ll regularly sing one to remind herself of the love, and care that her mother had given her. Singing these songs is usually the only method for her to calm herself to sleep, or just to calm her down in general. Sometimes when she hears a melody that sounds particularly nice she’ll stop what she’s doing and just listen to it thinking of her mother.
Sparring/Training- She takes great interest in bettering herself in combat, and finds the most effective method is to train. Training has been a coping mechanism of sorts for her since she was able to. Physically exhausting herself to her absolute limit was always something that she could do to take her mind off of things, and focus on a single concrete goal.
Fears/Flaws:
Betrayal: Ever since the night where he squadron had betrayed her she’s remained guarded refusing to allow herself to trust anyone. She’s made it a habit of keeping people at a distance, and to be suspicious of anyone that dare try to get closer. She now always has some means of defense against would be assassins on her person. When she goes to sleep she doesn’t just lock her door she bars it as well as her windows, typically. In fact it would not be unusual to find her asleep with her greatsword ready to kill at a moments notice.
Rage: Typically when she’s enraged while in battle she’ll essentially have tunnel vision as she attempts to break whatever or whoever is making her angry. This isn’t something that’s easily caused, but it’s also not something that’s easy to break her out of either.
Writing Sample:
Tiri eyed the parchment from her spot in the bar. She had been nursing a drink that hadn’t done anything except lighten the load of her purse by a bit. From what she could see it looked like a promising job. Getting advanced pay, and it was a decent upfront pay, with it being five times that amount afterwards was also really interesting. Add in the fact that she’ll most likely kill some of the Wretched along the way, AND get paid for it was what sold her on the idea.
When she got up the stool she had been sitting on made an audible creak of relief as the combined weight of her and her armor had been testing it throughout her time in the tavern. As she got up she heard some snickering that was rather close to her. Taking a second to focus she heard something along the drunken lines of.
“That poor chair. The Kinslayer’s guilt must’ve weighed it down. Huehuehue or maybe it was just her fat a-” His friend, who seemed to be more observant than his friend must’ve realized that she could hear him.
Tiri glanced in the general direction of where she heard the voice. To her expectations they were both elves, and Isilhin by the looks of it. Bothe looked to be civilians, and particularly affluent one’s at that. They wore decorative clothing that had the moon in all it’s glory as a golden tapestry piece on their chest, and it was surrounded by twinkling little sparks of silver that Tiri assumed were the stars. The entire outfit was seemingly to fit the motif of a beautiful midnight sky with the base coloring looking as if it were a mix of various shades of blue and purple all swirled together across their outfit. As was typical of Isilhin they were both very pretty. Most likely belonged to some noble house or something. It’s possible that they’re her half brothers.
Without looking back at them she remarked allowed as if it were a question. “I wonder why two of the prince’s whores are just strutting about, and not licking the dirt of his feet?” She heard an affronted sort of gasp choke noise that she assumed was from the elf that had needed to shut up, and some quietly shared chuckles were among some of the Tavern’s patrons.
As she reached out to grab the poster a hand had gripped her armor, and a familiar voice began saying “Listen here I am the hei-” was about as far as he got before she punched him in the solar plexus. Not enough force to kill him or cause any real damage to him internally, but it was enough for him to lose his grip and fall to his knees.
When she got up the stool she had been sitting on made an audible creak of relief as the combined weight of her and her armor had been testing it throughout her time in the tavern. As she got up she heard some snickering that was rather close to her. Taking a second to focus she heard something along the drunken lines of.
“That poor chair. The Kinslayer’s guilt must’ve weighed it down. Huehuehue or maybe it was just her fat a-” His friend, who seemed to be more observant than his friend must’ve realized that she could hear him.
Tiri glanced in the general direction of where she heard the voice. To her expectations they were both elves, and Isilhin by the looks of it. Bothe looked to be civilians, and particularly affluent one’s at that. They wore decorative clothing that had the moon in all it’s glory as a golden tapestry piece on their chest, and it was surrounded by twinkling little sparks of silver that Tiri assumed were the stars. The entire outfit was seemingly to fit the motif of a beautiful midnight sky with the base coloring looking as if it were a mix of various shades of blue and purple all swirled together across their outfit. As was typical of Isilhin they were both very pretty. Most likely belonged to some noble house or something. It’s possible that they’re her half brothers.
Without looking back at them she remarked allowed as if it were a question. “I wonder why two of the prince’s whores are just strutting about, and not licking the dirt of his feet?” She heard an affronted sort of gasp choke noise that she assumed was from the elf that had needed to shut up, and some quietly shared chuckles were among some of the Tavern’s patrons.
As she reached out to grab the poster a hand had gripped her armor, and a familiar voice began saying “Listen here I am the hei-” was about as far as he got before she punched him in the solar plexus. Not enough force to kill him or cause any real damage to him internally, but it was enough for him to lose his grip and fall to his knees.
Last edited:
doneanddusted
Two Thousand Club
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[div class=textbox]Name: Nymeria “Misha” Faenalla
Age: 20
Location of Birth: An’Falithe
Class: Ranger Enchantress /Spoiled Brat
Title: She ain’t got one.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Appearance: Nymeria stands at 5’ 5” and has a slender, slight build. She has pale blue eyes and long, auburn hair, which she’ll usually have tied up in at least twintails.
Equipment: Among her usual supplies is a pan flute that she’d built with the help of the Felariel priestesses, two daggers, and maybe some moon sugar. In the castle, Nymeria wears comfortable pastel dresses. On the streets, she wears what could probably be considered “common clothes”.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Backstory
As the youngest child of the royal family, Nymeria had no memory of her mother. After Queen Elmyra’s death, the subject of her became taboo- nobody wanted to upset the king. Nymeria came to know of her mother through the occasional whisperings of the servants around her. Apparently, she was the spitting image Elmyra; so much so that upon seeing her, Althuras would get absolutely hysterical.
Needless to say, Nymeria preferred to keep her distance from him.
Nymeria was raised first by attendants and tutors, and then by the priestesses of Felariel. Her sister also gave her some basic ranger training- though Nymeria wasn’t particularly skilled in that. Where she really shined was in her connection to wildlife. When Nymeria found Enchantress magic to be rather enjoyable, she took to studying it extra hard.
Often, Nymeria would sneak out of the castle, or reasons she could only describe as boredom. She’d go out and talk with animals, or she’d play with other children. As time went on, Nymeria would solidify her alter-ego, giving it the name of “Misha”.
One day, Nymeria witnessed a fight between the Wretched and some soldiers. She didn’t realize the true weight of what was going on before that. Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t know quite as much as she thought she did. She took to reading as much as possible after that.
When she was a bit older, Nymeria bumped into a group of kids around her age. She found herself quickly making friends with them. She’d run along with them, proclaiming the folly of the bourgeoisie, smoking moon sugar, and just causing general mayhem. Typical teen stuff. Nymeria wanted to be like one of the normal kids. Or at least, she wanted to not be Princess Nymeria, youngest child of the Faenalla family, insignificant in just about every way. So Nymeria lead a life of duplicity: in the castle she was Nymeria, your poster princess; on the streets she was Misha, some trouble-making street kid. Internally, she had no idea who she was- all she could say was that both egos were not really her.
Story Relation: Nymeria doesn’t know very much of the war, both because she hasn’t lived long and because she’d been relatively sheltered. She knows damn well that the war isn’t really over, but she also knows that she doesn’t have much understanding of anything about it. Thus she can really only say that the war sucks.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Personality
Nymeria’s adventurous and outspoken, the kind of idiot who’s curious but not careful. Though she’s a bit naive, Nymeria by no means foolish- she has a strong desire to understand the world and its workings, and it shows. Nymeria can be a bit of a rebel, which is probably in part a result of her growing up. She’s always been self reliant and, despite being warm and friendly, prefers to keep a certain distance between herself and the people around her.
Skills
✦ Enchanter magic - a talent of hers ✦
✦ Playing musical instruments, and singing! ✦
✦ Nymeria’s also a rather good runner. So. ✦
Interests
♡ She likes partaking in “interesting conversations” (though sometimes hard concepts go right over her head) ♡
Fears
✿ Loss - losing her freedom, losing her friends… ✿
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Other:
It’s her mom that dies but this song’s a bop so.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Name: Nymeria “Misha” Faenalla
Age: 20
Location of Birth: An’Falithe
Class: Ranger Enchantress /
Title: She ain’t got one.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Appearance: Nymeria stands at 5’ 5” and has a slender, slight build. She has pale blue eyes and long, auburn hair, which she’ll usually have tied up in at least twintails.
Equipment: Among her usual supplies is a pan flute that she’d built with the help of the Felariel priestesses, two daggers, and maybe some moon sugar. In the castle, Nymeria wears comfortable pastel dresses. On the streets, she wears what could probably be considered “common clothes”.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Backstory
As the youngest child of the royal family, Nymeria had no memory of her mother. After Queen Elmyra’s death, the subject of her became taboo- nobody wanted to upset the king. Nymeria came to know of her mother through the occasional whisperings of the servants around her. Apparently, she was the spitting image Elmyra; so much so that upon seeing her, Althuras would get absolutely hysterical.
Needless to say, Nymeria preferred to keep her distance from him.
Nymeria was raised first by attendants and tutors, and then by the priestesses of Felariel. Her sister also gave her some basic ranger training- though Nymeria wasn’t particularly skilled in that. Where she really shined was in her connection to wildlife. When Nymeria found Enchantress magic to be rather enjoyable, she took to studying it extra hard.
Often, Nymeria would sneak out of the castle, or reasons she could only describe as boredom. She’d go out and talk with animals, or she’d play with other children. As time went on, Nymeria would solidify her alter-ego, giving it the name of “Misha”.
One day, Nymeria witnessed a fight between the Wretched and some soldiers. She didn’t realize the true weight of what was going on before that. Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t know quite as much as she thought she did. She took to reading as much as possible after that.
When she was a bit older, Nymeria bumped into a group of kids around her age. She found herself quickly making friends with them. She’d run along with them, proclaiming the folly of the bourgeoisie, smoking moon sugar, and just causing general mayhem. Typical teen stuff. Nymeria wanted to be like one of the normal kids. Or at least, she wanted to not be Princess Nymeria, youngest child of the Faenalla family, insignificant in just about every way. So Nymeria lead a life of duplicity: in the castle she was Nymeria, your poster princess; on the streets she was Misha, some trouble-making street kid. Internally, she had no idea who she was- all she could say was that both egos were not really her.
Story Relation: Nymeria doesn’t know very much of the war, both because she hasn’t lived long and because she’d been relatively sheltered. She knows damn well that the war isn’t really over, but she also knows that she doesn’t have much understanding of anything about it. Thus she can really only say that the war sucks.
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Personality
Nymeria’s adventurous and outspoken, the kind of idiot who’s curious but not careful. Though she’s a bit naive, Nymeria by no means foolish- she has a strong desire to understand the world and its workings, and it shows. Nymeria can be a bit of a rebel, which is probably in part a result of her growing up. She’s always been self reliant and, despite being warm and friendly, prefers to keep a certain distance between herself and the people around her.
Skills
✦ Enchanter magic - a talent of hers ✦
✦ Playing musical instruments, and singing! ✦
✦ Nymeria’s also a rather good runner. So. ✦
Interests
♡ She likes partaking in “interesting conversations” (though sometimes hard concepts go right over her head) ♡
Fears
✿ Loss - losing her freedom, losing her friends… ✿
[/div]
[div class=textbox]Other:
It’s her mom that dies but this song’s a bop so.
[/div]
code by Ri.a
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Lefic
Professional Idiot
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'With Eyes open, walk with Shadows'
Name: Sanine Drahril, “Cutter of Throats and Purses”
Age: 24
Location of Birth: Numenlad
Appearance: Sanine is an Edan who stands at around five foot eight and has a lean, strong build that’s reasonably curvaceous. Her hands are calloused from holding weapons and scaling walls. Her skin is a rich, dark brown that seems to glow in the sunlight. Lying above her plump lips, Sanine has a golden nose piercing that’s accompanied by two golden studded earrings. However, the most eye-catching feature of her face is her eyes — piercing, apple-green orbs that, depending on the circumstances, can be alluring or terrifying. She has coarse, dark brown hair running down to her chest, though she tends to tie it up for convenience's sake. A large burn scar covers the majority of her back, stretching from her shoulder-blades to above her hips. Patches of shiny, taut scar tissue can be found along her limbs. Her facial expression is usually stilled into a poker face, but at moments of intense emotion, her feelings can betray her through her expression.
Equipment: She has two main daggers strapped to her thighs and a one-handed war axe that she keeps strapped across her back, hidden behind a cloak that she wears. Sanine always has extra weapons hidden away somewhere on her — usually throwing daggers kept in creative places. She can sometimes be seen with an incredibly sharp hairpin. The clothes and armours she wears aren’t the most attractive but they’re functional. She likes wearing armours that protect her enough from basic attacks but are light enough so that her agility isn’t hindered and so that enemies aren’t alerted of her presence when she’s sneaking toward them. Whatever she wears rarely matches, as they're either looted, sewn together, or bought from various different shops with stolen money.
Class: Rogue Infiltrator in the Conclave of Shadows
Personality: It’s very hard for Sanine to develop an emotional bond or attachment to somebody. She always pushes them away so she doesn’t feel bad when she eventually robs them for all they’re worth — or if she receives a Mark to kill them. However, her greatest fear, though she may not admit it, is losing somebody she cares about so, she closes herself off, makes an effort to limit her socialisation and often acts rude or cold to repel others. On the surface, Sanine appears solemn and gruff, often brooding on something quietly. Over her time in the Conclave of Shadows, Sanine's remorse has slowly drained away, leaving her as a perfunctory killing machine who holds no real value on the life of others. Whenever out of the tavern, she seems bored.
Growing up in Numenlad, Sanine learned to become very distrustful of anybody. If anyone is ever nice to her, her first thought will be: “What do they want from me?” Her view on people is very pessimistic, believing that almost everybody is vile, selfish and immoral. The only people exempt from this view were her parents. She knows that if they saw what she’d turned into, they would be disappointed in her. She likes to tell herself that she doesn’t care.
She’s very conflicted inside. She blames everyone and herself for the death of her parents, making her very resentful. In her dreams, she sees her parents die, over and over again with nobody being able to do anything about it, and in her reveries, she goes through several what if...? scenarios in which her parents are somehow saved.
The thief also has her mischevious side which flares up quite often around others. She loves the thrill of a challenge and won't hesitate to aggravate others until they fight her.
In assassinations, she's chillingly detached and calculating, but in battle, Sanine becomes brutal and savage, taking out all her pent-up anger on her opponents. She can become so blinded by her rage that she fails to notice near-fatal wounds or approaching enemies.
A surprising fragment of tenderness yet survives from Sanine's childhood. When she's alone or absent-minded, Sanine can be found singing to herself or making flowerchains like she used to with her mother. Though she rarely gets the chance to enjoy them, she enjoys music and the prettier things in life.
Tagline: She’s nicknamed the “Cutter of Throats and Purses” due to her methods of making money: funded assassination and thievery.
Backstory: Living on the outskirts of Numenlad with her parents, Sanine’s childhood life was turbulent, to say the least. Without enough money to move to another city — or at least further into Numenlad where their daughter would be just a little bit safer — anyone would think her parents would lose hope, give up amidst the chaos all around them, live in fear before their almost-certain deaths. But they didn’t. Or, at least, if they did, then they were damn good at hiding it. Every battle, every nearby pillaging, every ‘disappearance’ of a neighbour or a friend, Emilia and Melgron Drahril would hold their daughter in their arms, kiss her on the head and tell her that that sort of thing would never happen to them because their family were ‘special’. Sanine wanted to believe — did believe — that they were telling her the truth.
That was until one night, when Sanine was but a child of nine, her family stopped being ‘special’.
She had woken up in the middle of the night from nightmares of the Wretched. Her senses dulled by sleep, she couldn’t hear the crackling of the fire that she had shut her eyes to, nor could she hear the sounds of screams and shouts intermingling around her in a cacophony. Snuggling further into her parents’ arms, leaning her head against her father’s chest, all she was focused on was the blissful feeling of being sheltered between her parents — this was how they slept every night. They were warm — hot, even. Sanine quickly grew uncomfortable under them and shuffled to try and put a little distance between her and her feverishly hot parents. That was when she realised that it wasn’t just them; she was hot, too. Then her senses rushed back to her, clearing the clouds of sleep that had addled her brain.
She could see the ranks of flames eating away at her wooden house, crackling in mirth as they destroyed all she had known for her whole life. She could see the thick, black smoke lying in the air lazily, making her head pound. She could feel the frantic pace of her heart, beating so wildly like a mad drum in her chest that she feared her ribs would be shattered by the sheer force.
But most of all she could smell the scent of burning flesh flooding through her nostrils.
She screamed until her throat ran dry. And when she couldn’t scream, she wept almost as loudly. With weak and feeble arms, she tried to drag her parents out of that hell, adrenaline numbing her to the fire licking up her legs. Had a soldier not arrived then, Sanine would have died there; she would have gone to sleep, for the last time, between the arms of Emilia and Melgron Drahril. For a long time after that, she wished that she had.
With nowhere else for her to go, the warrior who had saved her took her to an orphanage near the centre of Numenlad. She thought it was terrible — nothing there could surpass the love shown to her by her parents — and so she escaped. But she’d overestimated the difficulty of surviving alone on the shady streets of Numenlad. So she adapted. With her keen eyes, she observed thieves pickpocketing their unknowing victims and then mimicked their sly movements, resorting to thievery herself; she witnessed con artists fool civilians out of their (presumably) hard-earned money with rigged games, robbed those same con artists, and then carried out the scam herself; she studied the technique of brawlers and, when she was old enough, entered taverns to earn her own fortune through fisticuffs; and she learned to sleep with a dagger by her side every night because she never knew what could happen to her. However, her transition to a jack of all (illegal) trades was not an easy one: she had been caught many times and her retributions ranged from having everything she owned stolen from her to being beaten to a pulp.
Not long after her nineteenth birthday, she was invited to join the Conclave of Shadows. She jumped at the opportunity to make coin and to feel like part of a group again — even if only by alliance. It didn’t take long for her to transfer her skills over to killing and since then she has become a highly-skilled assassin.
Story Relation: Sanine hates the Chaos War for ripping her parents away from her. She hates the Wretched for their merciless onslaught and hates the Tel’Quessir for not doing more to stop them. She believes the Tel’Quessir need to press the attack until the Wretched are wholly eradicated.
The soldier who rescued her took her to Ameranth, who treated Sanine's burn-wounds and comforted her when she was heavily traumatised. The Princess became a light in her life after all the tragedy that Sanine had faced. But Sanine knew that it couldn't last due to Ameranth's busy life and, soon enough, she was alone again. Sanine is bent on repaying Ameranth if she ever sees her again because, despite genuinely being grateful for what both of them have done for her, Sanine hates feeling indebted to anybody.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Due to the way she has lived, Sanine is skilled at sneaking around undetected and stealing just about anything. She’s skilled at quiet assassinations, working the best when she applies her sneaking skills to creep up on someone before slitting their throat. Though she prefers to avoid fights to the death when it comes to assassinating her targets, she’s quite good at it due to having to defend herself innumerable times. Though effective, her fighting style is undisciplined and dirty—a product of her own personal years of fighting experience rather than a learned form. Tavern brawling is also a skill she's picked up over her time in Numenlad.
She’s interested in flowers, singing, sweet treats, listening to stories rather than reading, and drinking.
She’s terrified of watching her loved ones die and fires. Both of these deep-rooted fears are due to traumatic experiences during her childhood.
Sanine is literate enough to just about understand the names given to her by the Conclave but reads with a stumbling slowness. Books are hated by her as it takes her years to read one unaided.
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
'With Eyes open, walk with Shadows'
Name: Sanine Drahril, “Cutter of Throats and Purses”
Age: 24
Location of Birth: Numenlad
Appearance: Sanine is an Edan who stands at around five foot eight and has a lean, strong build that’s reasonably curvaceous. Her hands are calloused from holding weapons and scaling walls. Her skin is a rich, dark brown that seems to glow in the sunlight. Lying above her plump lips, Sanine has a golden nose piercing that’s accompanied by two golden studded earrings. However, the most eye-catching feature of her face is her eyes — piercing, apple-green orbs that, depending on the circumstances, can be alluring or terrifying. She has coarse, dark brown hair running down to her chest, though she tends to tie it up for convenience's sake. A large burn scar covers the majority of her back, stretching from her shoulder-blades to above her hips. Patches of shiny, taut scar tissue can be found along her limbs. Her facial expression is usually stilled into a poker face, but at moments of intense emotion, her feelings can betray her through her expression.
Equipment: She has two main daggers strapped to her thighs and a one-handed war axe that she keeps strapped across her back, hidden behind a cloak that she wears. Sanine always has extra weapons hidden away somewhere on her — usually throwing daggers kept in creative places. She can sometimes be seen with an incredibly sharp hairpin. The clothes and armours she wears aren’t the most attractive but they’re functional. She likes wearing armours that protect her enough from basic attacks but are light enough so that her agility isn’t hindered and so that enemies aren’t alerted of her presence when she’s sneaking toward them. Whatever she wears rarely matches, as they're either looted, sewn together, or bought from various different shops with stolen money.
Class: Rogue Infiltrator in the Conclave of Shadows
Personality: It’s very hard for Sanine to develop an emotional bond or attachment to somebody. She always pushes them away so she doesn’t feel bad when she eventually robs them for all they’re worth — or if she receives a Mark to kill them. However, her greatest fear, though she may not admit it, is losing somebody she cares about so, she closes herself off, makes an effort to limit her socialisation and often acts rude or cold to repel others. On the surface, Sanine appears solemn and gruff, often brooding on something quietly. Over her time in the Conclave of Shadows, Sanine's remorse has slowly drained away, leaving her as a perfunctory killing machine who holds no real value on the life of others. Whenever out of the tavern, she seems bored.
Growing up in Numenlad, Sanine learned to become very distrustful of anybody. If anyone is ever nice to her, her first thought will be: “What do they want from me?” Her view on people is very pessimistic, believing that almost everybody is vile, selfish and immoral. The only people exempt from this view were her parents. She knows that if they saw what she’d turned into, they would be disappointed in her. She likes to tell herself that she doesn’t care.
She’s very conflicted inside. She blames everyone and herself for the death of her parents, making her very resentful. In her dreams, she sees her parents die, over and over again with nobody being able to do anything about it, and in her reveries, she goes through several what if...? scenarios in which her parents are somehow saved.
The thief also has her mischevious side which flares up quite often around others. She loves the thrill of a challenge and won't hesitate to aggravate others until they fight her.
In assassinations, she's chillingly detached and calculating, but in battle, Sanine becomes brutal and savage, taking out all her pent-up anger on her opponents. She can become so blinded by her rage that she fails to notice near-fatal wounds or approaching enemies.
A surprising fragment of tenderness yet survives from Sanine's childhood. When she's alone or absent-minded, Sanine can be found singing to herself or making flowerchains like she used to with her mother. Though she rarely gets the chance to enjoy them, she enjoys music and the prettier things in life.
Tagline: She’s nicknamed the “Cutter of Throats and Purses” due to her methods of making money: funded assassination and thievery.
Backstory: Living on the outskirts of Numenlad with her parents, Sanine’s childhood life was turbulent, to say the least. Without enough money to move to another city — or at least further into Numenlad where their daughter would be just a little bit safer — anyone would think her parents would lose hope, give up amidst the chaos all around them, live in fear before their almost-certain deaths. But they didn’t. Or, at least, if they did, then they were damn good at hiding it. Every battle, every nearby pillaging, every ‘disappearance’ of a neighbour or a friend, Emilia and Melgron Drahril would hold their daughter in their arms, kiss her on the head and tell her that that sort of thing would never happen to them because their family were ‘special’. Sanine wanted to believe — did believe — that they were telling her the truth.
That was until one night, when Sanine was but a child of nine, her family stopped being ‘special’.
She had woken up in the middle of the night from nightmares of the Wretched. Her senses dulled by sleep, she couldn’t hear the crackling of the fire that she had shut her eyes to, nor could she hear the sounds of screams and shouts intermingling around her in a cacophony. Snuggling further into her parents’ arms, leaning her head against her father’s chest, all she was focused on was the blissful feeling of being sheltered between her parents — this was how they slept every night. They were warm — hot, even. Sanine quickly grew uncomfortable under them and shuffled to try and put a little distance between her and her feverishly hot parents. That was when she realised that it wasn’t just them; she was hot, too. Then her senses rushed back to her, clearing the clouds of sleep that had addled her brain.
She could see the ranks of flames eating away at her wooden house, crackling in mirth as they destroyed all she had known for her whole life. She could see the thick, black smoke lying in the air lazily, making her head pound. She could feel the frantic pace of her heart, beating so wildly like a mad drum in her chest that she feared her ribs would be shattered by the sheer force.
But most of all she could smell the scent of burning flesh flooding through her nostrils.
She screamed until her throat ran dry. And when she couldn’t scream, she wept almost as loudly. With weak and feeble arms, she tried to drag her parents out of that hell, adrenaline numbing her to the fire licking up her legs. Had a soldier not arrived then, Sanine would have died there; she would have gone to sleep, for the last time, between the arms of Emilia and Melgron Drahril. For a long time after that, she wished that she had.
With nowhere else for her to go, the warrior who had saved her took her to an orphanage near the centre of Numenlad. She thought it was terrible — nothing there could surpass the love shown to her by her parents — and so she escaped. But she’d overestimated the difficulty of surviving alone on the shady streets of Numenlad. So she adapted. With her keen eyes, she observed thieves pickpocketing their unknowing victims and then mimicked their sly movements, resorting to thievery herself; she witnessed con artists fool civilians out of their (presumably) hard-earned money with rigged games, robbed those same con artists, and then carried out the scam herself; she studied the technique of brawlers and, when she was old enough, entered taverns to earn her own fortune through fisticuffs; and she learned to sleep with a dagger by her side every night because she never knew what could happen to her. However, her transition to a jack of all (illegal) trades was not an easy one: she had been caught many times and her retributions ranged from having everything she owned stolen from her to being beaten to a pulp.
Not long after her nineteenth birthday, she was invited to join the Conclave of Shadows. She jumped at the opportunity to make coin and to feel like part of a group again — even if only by alliance. It didn’t take long for her to transfer her skills over to killing and since then she has become a highly-skilled assassin.
Story Relation: Sanine hates the Chaos War for ripping her parents away from her. She hates the Wretched for their merciless onslaught and hates the Tel’Quessir for not doing more to stop them. She believes the Tel’Quessir need to press the attack until the Wretched are wholly eradicated.
The soldier who rescued her took her to Ameranth, who treated Sanine's burn-wounds and comforted her when she was heavily traumatised. The Princess became a light in her life after all the tragedy that Sanine had faced. But Sanine knew that it couldn't last due to Ameranth's busy life and, soon enough, she was alone again. Sanine is bent on repaying Ameranth if she ever sees her again because, despite genuinely being grateful for what both of them have done for her, Sanine hates feeling indebted to anybody.
Skills, Interests and Fears: Due to the way she has lived, Sanine is skilled at sneaking around undetected and stealing just about anything. She’s skilled at quiet assassinations, working the best when she applies her sneaking skills to creep up on someone before slitting their throat. Though she prefers to avoid fights to the death when it comes to assassinating her targets, she’s quite good at it due to having to defend herself innumerable times. Though effective, her fighting style is undisciplined and dirty—a product of her own personal years of fighting experience rather than a learned form. Tavern brawling is also a skill she's picked up over her time in Numenlad.
She’s interested in flowers, singing, sweet treats, listening to stories rather than reading, and drinking.
She’s terrified of watching her loved ones die and fires. Both of these deep-rooted fears are due to traumatic experiences during her childhood.
Sanine is literate enough to just about understand the names given to her by the Conclave but reads with a stumbling slowness. Books are hated by her as it takes her years to read one unaided.
Link to RPing/Writing Sample:
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code by Ri.a
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boo.
keep precious things
[div class=fyuriwrapper]
[div class=headerleft]Basic[/div]
Name: Alre Qrashna "Bowstringer"
Age: 87
Race: Anarhin
Gender: Male
Location of Birth: An` Falithe
Class: Ranger
[div class=headerleft]Appearance[/div]
[/div]
Alre is calm and personable, often finding a way to make acquaintances with everyone he comes into contact with. He has a way of analyzing people that aids him in getting on their good side -- it is possible he could do the same to annoy them, but his gentle temperament forbids him from doing so. His personal code of honor is one that leads him to treat everyone with respect and give all the benefit of the doubt as much as he can. You won't find Alre with a temper unless he sees it suitable, which isn't often. If he does get angry, it is most visible through his body language, which becomes stiff and unwelcoming, which is a strict opposite of his usual temperament. Alre is a problem-solver, and takes the most technical routes he can to fix said problem. He weighs every option until he finds a solution that benefits all, or at least one that is practical and aligns with a general moral code.
Alre is not a fan of pranks or mischievousness, and as a result, can appear overbearing when it comes to tricksters. He can pick up on sarcasm, but doesn't find it possible to converse in that elusive tone of speech. This can make him seem boring or flat when he deals with sarcastic individuals, but he really does mean the best. Alre's problem is that he seems to care too much; his entire soul goes into his work, as well into his relationships with others. Because of this, he can neglect his own cares and wants, and will go so far as to deny himself basic needs in order to satisfy the wants of others. Alre is aware of this fault, and does his best to know where a boundary should be drawn, but it is a work in progress.
Virtues:
- generous
- hardworking
- respectful
- loyal
- supportive
Vices:
- obsessive
- coarse
- vague
- unimaginative
- materialistic
[div class=headermain]Equipment/Skills[/div]
Alre is realistic and realizes that what he carries should only be what he really needs. Across his back is a longbow carved from dark hickory wood. Freshly polished, it gleams like steel and fits smoothly into almost any hand. This bow is strapped across Alre's back, where it is easily reached. On his right hip is his leather quiver, which holds a stock of arrows furnished with silver-steel and hawk feathers. Alre crafted all of these himself, as his family business has done for years, and feels a certain protectiveness over them. There is a silver-steel dagger that curves almost like a scythe strapped to his left thigh and a sack full of supplies and a waterskin on his back. In addition, Alre possesses a small kalimba crafted with silver tines that produces an almost magical tone. He has put that with his supplies, aware that it is a simple triviality, but keeps it as a reminder of home. Alre has little that would classify as armor, and instead wears the simple garb of a traveler prepared for a long journey.
In the case of skills, Alre is gifted in the art of bowmaking, as the profession has run in his family for years. As a result, he is somewhat skilled with the longbow. In his younger years, he was more talented than many when it came to target-shooting, but the loss of vision in his left eye has resulted in a loss of depth and perception. This is crippling to one aspiring to be a Sunguarde, so Alre has worked exceptionally hard on getting his skills back. He has his moments of frustration, but has solid aim in the moments that need it most. Alre is also skilled at reading emotions and can work out body language even through a short dialogue. He also has a fine voice and sings often -- only when he thinks no one can hear him.
[div class=headermain]Backstory[/div]
Alre's family has been in the bowmaking business for years, providing many a Sunguarde with flawless bows and arrows that fly true. One of his family's greatest skills is making the arrowheads themselves, which are crafted from a mixture of silver and steel, which has proven to be light and exceptionally strong. From a young age, Alre aided his family in the business, forbidden from the pots of molten silver-steel until he was old enough to be safe around them. It was in a case of young foolishness that gave Alre his scar; as he often saw his father do, he tried to pour a small vat of melted silver-steel into a mold of his own creation. It was too heavy, and he dropped it, sending droplets of the boiling liquid onto his face and scarring it severely. This was how he came to lose the vision in his left eye, and how his silver-green cysts formed as they grew around the drops of silver-steel. Before he had been scarred, Alre was exceptional with the longbow, even at his young age of 15, and aspired to be a Sunguarde. In fact, his skill had almost secured him a place as one.
After his deformity, Alre never gave up on his dream, despite him knowing the odds of regaining his skill. Years passed, and his vision would not allow him to accurately judge the distance of his targets. However, his skill in bowmaking attracted the attention of the Sunguarde body, and they hired him to provide the ranks with bows and arrows because of this skill. Alre is so temptingly close to becoming a Sunguarde; he is friends with many, but knows that if his skill does not improve drastically, he has no chance at all.
[div class=headermain]Miscellaneous[/div]
Title: Bowstringer; many know Alre simply as Bowstringer because of his profession.
Interests: Alre has a love of silver, though not a greedy one. It's more of a fascination of workmanship. He also enjoys watching bow competitions and has a fascination with fireflies and small glowing objects. In fact, any glowing object that is somewhat unexpected will delight Alre to no end.
Fears: Alre has an irrational fear of birds; he knows they're always plotting something.
Story Relation: Alre has not been personally affected by the Chaos War. In fact, it has been rather good for business. But he realizes the evil of the Wretched; he knows the king and crown prince ought to do something. Alre just thinks that he personally doesn't need to be involved.
Writing Sample: here
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[div class=leftside][div class=FC]
[div class=headerleft]Basic[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Name: Alre Qrashna "Bowstringer"
Age: 87
Race: Anarhin
Gender: Male
Location of Birth: An` Falithe
Class: Ranger
[div class=headerleft]Appearance[/div]
[div class=tri]
[/div]Alre's face is hard to miss. It's the first thing judged, the last thing remembered, and often assumed to be the result of some fantastic battle. While the result of a much less-exciting event, the scar on his face stretches from the left side of his lip to his left temple almost to his hairline, bunching the skin around it into smooth bumps and ripples. The scar has faded drastically, and the coloring of the scar now almost matches the rest of his skin, which is not pale but has not seen too many days of intense sun. His lip curves and notches where the scar cuts through it, and in a similar fashion his left eyebrow is notched. Alre's left eye has glazed over and become completely blind, a paler mirror of his right eye, which is an icy blue. Scattered across the far left side of his face are spatterings of silvery-green bumps, not unlike large freckles, which were a result of his accident as a young elf. They are like permanent cysts, and almost glimmer like dull emeralds.
Alre's hair is a brownish-red -- not strikingly bright, but enough red to be like a cool, dark flame. Often it's a bit longer than he'd like, in which case he ties it back, just to get it out of the way. Right now, it's long enough to be just slightly annoying, but not enough so to pull back. You'll often find him brushing it out of the way, but not complaining, because he doesn't find much use in it. Alre is tall and well-built, strong arms from his profession and nimble fingers for decorating his silver works with fine flairs and designs. He stands confidently, but with a friendly expression despite his ugly scar.
Alre's hair is a brownish-red -- not strikingly bright, but enough red to be like a cool, dark flame. Often it's a bit longer than he'd like, in which case he ties it back, just to get it out of the way. Right now, it's long enough to be just slightly annoying, but not enough so to pull back. You'll often find him brushing it out of the way, but not complaining, because he doesn't find much use in it. Alre is tall and well-built, strong arms from his profession and nimble fingers for decorating his silver works with fine flairs and designs. He stands confidently, but with a friendly expression despite his ugly scar.
[/div]
[div class=headermain]Personality
Alre is calm and personable, often finding a way to make acquaintances with everyone he comes into contact with. He has a way of analyzing people that aids him in getting on their good side -- it is possible he could do the same to annoy them, but his gentle temperament forbids him from doing so. His personal code of honor is one that leads him to treat everyone with respect and give all the benefit of the doubt as much as he can. You won't find Alre with a temper unless he sees it suitable, which isn't often. If he does get angry, it is most visible through his body language, which becomes stiff and unwelcoming, which is a strict opposite of his usual temperament. Alre is a problem-solver, and takes the most technical routes he can to fix said problem. He weighs every option until he finds a solution that benefits all, or at least one that is practical and aligns with a general moral code.
Alre is not a fan of pranks or mischievousness, and as a result, can appear overbearing when it comes to tricksters. He can pick up on sarcasm, but doesn't find it possible to converse in that elusive tone of speech. This can make him seem boring or flat when he deals with sarcastic individuals, but he really does mean the best. Alre's problem is that he seems to care too much; his entire soul goes into his work, as well into his relationships with others. Because of this, he can neglect his own cares and wants, and will go so far as to deny himself basic needs in order to satisfy the wants of others. Alre is aware of this fault, and does his best to know where a boundary should be drawn, but it is a work in progress.
Virtues:
- generous
- hardworking
- respectful
- loyal
- supportive
Vices:
- obsessive
- coarse
- vague
- unimaginative
- materialistic
[div class=headermain]Equipment/Skills[/div]
Alre is realistic and realizes that what he carries should only be what he really needs. Across his back is a longbow carved from dark hickory wood. Freshly polished, it gleams like steel and fits smoothly into almost any hand. This bow is strapped across Alre's back, where it is easily reached. On his right hip is his leather quiver, which holds a stock of arrows furnished with silver-steel and hawk feathers. Alre crafted all of these himself, as his family business has done for years, and feels a certain protectiveness over them. There is a silver-steel dagger that curves almost like a scythe strapped to his left thigh and a sack full of supplies and a waterskin on his back. In addition, Alre possesses a small kalimba crafted with silver tines that produces an almost magical tone. He has put that with his supplies, aware that it is a simple triviality, but keeps it as a reminder of home. Alre has little that would classify as armor, and instead wears the simple garb of a traveler prepared for a long journey.
In the case of skills, Alre is gifted in the art of bowmaking, as the profession has run in his family for years. As a result, he is somewhat skilled with the longbow. In his younger years, he was more talented than many when it came to target-shooting, but the loss of vision in his left eye has resulted in a loss of depth and perception. This is crippling to one aspiring to be a Sunguarde, so Alre has worked exceptionally hard on getting his skills back. He has his moments of frustration, but has solid aim in the moments that need it most. Alre is also skilled at reading emotions and can work out body language even through a short dialogue. He also has a fine voice and sings often -- only when he thinks no one can hear him.
[div class=headermain]Backstory[/div]
Alre's family has been in the bowmaking business for years, providing many a Sunguarde with flawless bows and arrows that fly true. One of his family's greatest skills is making the arrowheads themselves, which are crafted from a mixture of silver and steel, which has proven to be light and exceptionally strong. From a young age, Alre aided his family in the business, forbidden from the pots of molten silver-steel until he was old enough to be safe around them. It was in a case of young foolishness that gave Alre his scar; as he often saw his father do, he tried to pour a small vat of melted silver-steel into a mold of his own creation. It was too heavy, and he dropped it, sending droplets of the boiling liquid onto his face and scarring it severely. This was how he came to lose the vision in his left eye, and how his silver-green cysts formed as they grew around the drops of silver-steel. Before he had been scarred, Alre was exceptional with the longbow, even at his young age of 15, and aspired to be a Sunguarde. In fact, his skill had almost secured him a place as one.
After his deformity, Alre never gave up on his dream, despite him knowing the odds of regaining his skill. Years passed, and his vision would not allow him to accurately judge the distance of his targets. However, his skill in bowmaking attracted the attention of the Sunguarde body, and they hired him to provide the ranks with bows and arrows because of this skill. Alre is so temptingly close to becoming a Sunguarde; he is friends with many, but knows that if his skill does not improve drastically, he has no chance at all.
[div class=headermain]Miscellaneous[/div]
Title: Bowstringer; many know Alre simply as Bowstringer because of his profession.
Interests: Alre has a love of silver, though not a greedy one. It's more of a fascination of workmanship. He also enjoys watching bow competitions and has a fascination with fireflies and small glowing objects. In fact, any glowing object that is somewhat unexpected will delight Alre to no end.
Fears: Alre has an irrational fear of birds; he knows they're always plotting something.
Story Relation: Alre has not been personally affected by the Chaos War. In fact, it has been rather good for business. But he realizes the evil of the Wretched; he knows the king and crown prince ought to do something. Alre just thinks that he personally doesn't need to be involved.
Writing Sample: here
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The Gunrunner
Elder Member
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"Survival at any cost."
Name: Karcel Teutogen
Age: 134
Location of Birth: Born around the Bloodwilds, roughly south of Tel'Velahr
Location of Living: Numenlad
Appearance:
Karcel is a hardened warrior, one glance being enough to pick him out from the common peasantry. He is a fiery red Anarhin, with a trimmed beard and short stubbly scalp attached to his bronze-tanned flesh. A scarred depression in the left cheek trails down over his split lips and to his chin, a thick jagged line suggests his right hand was once split partially in half, a pattern of scars on the left forearm show where a beast managed an assault, and there is an additional pattern underneath the armour which shows where a bite nearly ended his life. His armour is buffed and polished, but the old scratches and dents are still noticeable upon inspection - His equipment has all been used, and it shows. There is no part of him that hides his past, even down to his face where the partially sunken eyes tell of a story where there is no good or evil - Only survival.
He has a series of maps tattooed on his body - One complete map of the forests surrounding the bloodwilds on the collective back of his hands, and other more specific maps on the arms, with a series of emblems marking 'points of interest.' The depths of the bloodwilds themselves is a shadowed in hole, with the vague etchings of a monstrous depiction within them. This has become a known custom of the Outriders.
Equipment: In battle, Karcel steps to the field covered in armour: A rounded kettle-helm with chainmail cascading over the face and neck, along with a full-body suit of splints over gambeson, and metal vambraces and greeves. Five small war darts are fixed to a sash across the chest, a bag of caltrops on the right side of his belt, with a curved and thin-bladed falchion on the left side, quillon dagger, and a sturdy short-spear.
His stag is similarly armoured, from head to hoof - A cascade of scales giving exceptional protection to the beast, and metal tips to fashioned antlers to maximize its ability to fight on its own.
Class: War-master
Personality: As per the nature of being an Outrider, Karcel had to grow up quickly in an unforgiving and dangerous world. He is blunt, straight to the point, harsh, and down-to-earth, with little understanding of the etiquette of the civilized world. Still, he can be joking and caring in his own way. He is used to desperate situations, and thus can make ruthless decisions more easily than most, and has become somewhat desensitized to them. He is no sociopath however, and cares about those he comes to trust, but he is from a place where one must constantly fight to survive. Despite him and his people being accepted back into the empire, Karcel is suspicious and somewhat paranoid from the prejudicial treatment he suffers. Additionally their laws and etiquettes are still things he struggles to follow, and has occasionally earned himself the title of 'barbarian.' He is a leader at heart, and via his nature struggles to recognize his place amongst his superiors. Sometimes it is a useful thing, though usually it does nothing but annoy the officers.
Title: The War Duke; A proven warrior, and former leader of the Outriders before their merging back into society. His ability to lead and fight has earned him an unorthodox position within the military, acting as a consultant and trainer for officers and NCOs.
Backstory:
"The old world is dead - Gone. Do not cry or pray for yourselves, we do not have time. This is our life, the only life left. We are family, a family of warriors, scavengers, survivors. Kill for yourselves, and kill for each other."
Karcel is born in a dark world, a dead world - The Tel'Quessir are all gone, save for the tribe. The Edan are all gone, being used up as a sacrificial commodity for the dangerous tasks that ceased being avoided long ago. Civilization is gone, save for whatever you could call the commonalities of the tribe. Born into a dead world, Karcel matures quickly - He learns to fight, scrounge, and hunt, as they all do. Those who do not learn will die, it is just the nature of things. Karcel learns the meaning of necessity, dangerous sorties, hunts, and migrations are commonplace - Death, despite all attempts to help each other, is commonplace.
The world is dead, but not gone - Its remnants still exist. Karcel frequently listens to the stories and teachings of the tribe's elders - Those who are the closest in the line from those who originally witnessed the fall of Tel'velahr: A great horde of monsters, of abominations belonging to the deepest and blackest pit of the world. It spewed them out, rejecting them from even hell and into our world. At least, that is how the story goes - The elders have some interest in preserving the past, but their thoughts are tied too closely to those beat down by traumas of what they had experienced to put a true effort in it; those who were there when the capital fell, when the imperial army was cut off from the refugees, when they were abandoned in the bloodwilds with no hope in sight. The original witnesses tried to pass on what they saw, but saw little purpose in it - This cynicism is thick in their lessons, and permeates from those who best remember. Those farthest from their blood barely understand what is lost - Only the eldest do, and it is seen as best to spare the others the extent of their knowledge. In order for one to want to preserve the past, the motivation must be nurtured alone. Karcel is young, but he is not naive, and he has the will to drive himself.
Karcel learns to read from the others, and uses this skill every day - In sorties for food and supplies, he frequently scours the ruins for the history of the Tel'Quessir. Nearly every day he reads, on anything he can find about the empire - History, poetry, law, philosophy. Interesting, but the topics he focuses on, when he is able, are war, tactics, and strategy; in order to preserve what remains, and possibly rebuild, one must continue to fight the Wretched.
Years pass, deaths common in the day-to-day, but Karcel survives this brutal existence. Not only does he survive, but becomes stronger - Learning and fighting, adapting to pains from wounds or hungry, all of the adversity molds him into an educated warrior. His abilities are not ignored by the rest of the tribe, and there are suggestions that he may even be the next candidate to become chief. He is not the first to seem the next in line, of course, but he does slowly become the most likely - In the culture of the Outriders, leadership is decided by popularity and strength; if one is hated by the tribe, who would follow him? If he can not fight, how can he survive long enough to lead? Candidates, when able, spar each other to show their worth for the role. Karcel becomes one of the candidates worthy enough to be worth sparring - He wins his first challenge, defeating the prime candidate; then the second; the third; the forth; and so on and so forth. His authority is absolute, second to the chief and the collective elders, and it is in time for the dark clouds to come.
The Wretched push into the Bloodwilds from the south - The dangers build slowly, but gradually; the frequency of their sightings, then the size of them, more and more. The Outriders must migrate constantly, and rarely are they able to settle or stock their provisions before another sighting forces them to draw swords or run. Fighting grows more and more in frequency, swords hacking away for another fight before the blood has begun to dry. The chief sees it as an attack - The Wretched have finally come for them in force, and this is only the beginning of the storm. However, Karcel disagrees; the Wretched run with an air of disorganization, as if from something - Arrows and bladed wounds are common amongst them. The chief sees it as nothing to note; the Wretched battle amongst themselves, chaotic creatures that they are, and there is nothing else it could be. Again, Karcel disagrees - The wounds are frequent, and the make of the arrows is different than usual.
These oddities are frequent on Karcel's mind as the Outriders are pushed further and further north, slowly nearing the end of the forest where the monsters are most common. Still, the Chief believes they must run, but Karcel sees it as certain death. True, there is no certain telling what is south, but if his suspicions are correct then it is the best chance of survival. However, it is a chance, and the Outriders have not survived on optomism. Karcel is able to have the tribe see his point of view, but they also see the Chief's - There is no right answer, and neither man is willing to submit to the other. Thus, to save the tribe, Karcel challenges the chief for leadership.
The duel is quick, formality having been excused long ago, cold practicality demands speed in these matters. The challenge is accepted, and both men draw swords. It is one of the toughest fights of Karcel's life, combating a man of ancient years of experience and training. Karcel's just barely blocks a slash, saving his life but not his flesh; the tip of the blade slashes from his cheek to the chin, a mark deep enough to scar him for the rest of his days - If there are any more he will live to see. The chief had experience and training, but he was born in a more civilized time - When chivalry was anything more than a joke. Karcel, however, never learned such impracticality. A handful of dust, a straight kick to the knee, a headbutt which breaks the nose, a jab to the throat, whatever it takes to gain an edge. It is a brutal exchange, where lifetime companions must do everything and anything to kill one another, but Karcel has one glimmer of light in this dark moment: He is the victor. The chief lies bleeding at his feet, a deep gash having opened the neck down to the bone. Karcel is now the chief, and the Wretched are coming.
The Outriders have a long history of hardship: The loss of their home, the constant migration, starvation, famine, disease, combat, and never was there hope for anything better. There is, finally, hope that something waits for them at the end, but there is a carpet of crimson that will have to be shed to get there. A path of slaughter is waged over a period of two weeks, Outriders often continuing despite hunger or fatigue - The journey is kept on by nothing but rations and blind hope, and comrades who die on the path are left behind where they fall. However, their efforts are rewarded; the Imperial army fights the waves to take back the capital of Tal'Velahr, having experienced the many surprises of the Wretched. However, what came that day they never expected - Stag-riders, with wild elven riders, eyes burning in an animalistic frenzy, cutting their way through the swarm of monsters.
The Outriders cut their way to the Imperial army, playing a part in the retaking of Tal'Velahr's outer walls. Upon reaching the army, the culture-shocked tribe follows their new chief to continue the fight they'd just found themselves in the middle of. They fight until the last Wretched is killed and burned outside the city walls, and they are finally informed on all that they have missed.
It's enough to bring Karcel to tears - The world was not dead, civilization was not gone. There were other Edan, other Tel'quessir. The Outriders no longer had to scrape by just to survive, they could merge back into society. Many do, though integration is another matter - Despite technically being Tel'quessir, they are outsiders in every other way; their ways are strange, their accents are strange, their experiences are strange. Some join the imperial army to escape from the every day life they can not adapt to in the cities, though most try to endure.
Karcel, no longer a chief, tries to adapt to society. He tries for a while, but it is not his path; he remembers the world that the Wretched would create if they fail, and he has spent his whole life surviving against it - The empire exists, and by joining them he can help fight against it. However, it is not that simple; the High King has no intention of organizing an offensive, and in Karcel's military experience comes to doubt even his ability to organize a proper defensive. These are dark times for the Empire, and Karcel will die before he sees it destroyed again. However, he is able to do very little on his own; with no formal training or official record of service, he remains in a token position where he acts as a military trainer and consultant rather than a leader. So he sits, begrudgingly, watching the lines wither away, waiting for an opportunity to do something more.
Story Relation: Karcel grew up believing that the world had already fallen, and the hope that he felt realizing he was wrong was overwhelming. Still, he is no fool: Defending may mean maximum casualties in the long term, but an improper attack will mean maximum casualties in the short term. There must be an offensive, but it has to be at the right moment. Despite this, he believes the High King is the wrong man for the time - Wracked with guilt and indecision, Karcel sees only the weakness in him and believes it is enough to doom Andarun.
Skills Interests and Fears: The Outriders have to constantly be on the move, avoiding more engagements than they ever take on - When they do fight, they needed to end it quickly with minimal casualties. As a result, they are skilled Great Stag riders and survivalists. Karcel knows everything there is to surviving in the wilds, and is quite literally a living map of the land behind enemy lines. In combat, he can fight on or off his mount; a skilled swordsman, absolutely, though true to his teachings he prefers throwing honour out the window to favour dirty tricks and throwing weapons when able.
Karcel wants to keep his people safe, and fight back against the Wretched. He's lost many of his family, and believes that though the cost is high many must risk paying it to survive. Despite this, he does not wish to be a grunt; he is a commander, and a commander he will remain. This is not so much out of selfishness, but because he believes his plans are better.
There are many things to fear in this world, but nothing can be worse than failure; he saw what that world would look like, and that can never become a reality.
Spells: N/A
Other:
Link to RPing/Writing Sample: (I'll do it if you want, leaving it blank for now as I'm exhausted.)
[/div]
[div class=textbox]
"Survival at any cost."
Name: Karcel Teutogen
Age: 134
Location of Birth: Born around the Bloodwilds, roughly south of Tel'Velahr
Location of Living: Numenlad
Appearance:
Karcel is a hardened warrior, one glance being enough to pick him out from the common peasantry. He is a fiery red Anarhin, with a trimmed beard and short stubbly scalp attached to his bronze-tanned flesh. A scarred depression in the left cheek trails down over his split lips and to his chin, a thick jagged line suggests his right hand was once split partially in half, a pattern of scars on the left forearm show where a beast managed an assault, and there is an additional pattern underneath the armour which shows where a bite nearly ended his life. His armour is buffed and polished, but the old scratches and dents are still noticeable upon inspection - His equipment has all been used, and it shows. There is no part of him that hides his past, even down to his face where the partially sunken eyes tell of a story where there is no good or evil - Only survival.
He has a series of maps tattooed on his body - One complete map of the forests surrounding the bloodwilds on the collective back of his hands, and other more specific maps on the arms, with a series of emblems marking 'points of interest.' The depths of the bloodwilds themselves is a shadowed in hole, with the vague etchings of a monstrous depiction within them. This has become a known custom of the Outriders.
Equipment: In battle, Karcel steps to the field covered in armour: A rounded kettle-helm with chainmail cascading over the face and neck, along with a full-body suit of splints over gambeson, and metal vambraces and greeves. Five small war darts are fixed to a sash across the chest, a bag of caltrops on the right side of his belt, with a curved and thin-bladed falchion on the left side, quillon dagger, and a sturdy short-spear.
His stag is similarly armoured, from head to hoof - A cascade of scales giving exceptional protection to the beast, and metal tips to fashioned antlers to maximize its ability to fight on its own.
Class: War-master
Personality: As per the nature of being an Outrider, Karcel had to grow up quickly in an unforgiving and dangerous world. He is blunt, straight to the point, harsh, and down-to-earth, with little understanding of the etiquette of the civilized world. Still, he can be joking and caring in his own way. He is used to desperate situations, and thus can make ruthless decisions more easily than most, and has become somewhat desensitized to them. He is no sociopath however, and cares about those he comes to trust, but he is from a place where one must constantly fight to survive. Despite him and his people being accepted back into the empire, Karcel is suspicious and somewhat paranoid from the prejudicial treatment he suffers. Additionally their laws and etiquettes are still things he struggles to follow, and has occasionally earned himself the title of 'barbarian.' He is a leader at heart, and via his nature struggles to recognize his place amongst his superiors. Sometimes it is a useful thing, though usually it does nothing but annoy the officers.
Title: The War Duke; A proven warrior, and former leader of the Outriders before their merging back into society. His ability to lead and fight has earned him an unorthodox position within the military, acting as a consultant and trainer for officers and NCOs.
Backstory:
"The old world is dead - Gone. Do not cry or pray for yourselves, we do not have time. This is our life, the only life left. We are family, a family of warriors, scavengers, survivors. Kill for yourselves, and kill for each other."
Karcel is born in a dark world, a dead world - The Tel'Quessir are all gone, save for the tribe. The Edan are all gone, being used up as a sacrificial commodity for the dangerous tasks that ceased being avoided long ago. Civilization is gone, save for whatever you could call the commonalities of the tribe. Born into a dead world, Karcel matures quickly - He learns to fight, scrounge, and hunt, as they all do. Those who do not learn will die, it is just the nature of things. Karcel learns the meaning of necessity, dangerous sorties, hunts, and migrations are commonplace - Death, despite all attempts to help each other, is commonplace.
The world is dead, but not gone - Its remnants still exist. Karcel frequently listens to the stories and teachings of the tribe's elders - Those who are the closest in the line from those who originally witnessed the fall of Tel'velahr: A great horde of monsters, of abominations belonging to the deepest and blackest pit of the world. It spewed them out, rejecting them from even hell and into our world. At least, that is how the story goes - The elders have some interest in preserving the past, but their thoughts are tied too closely to those beat down by traumas of what they had experienced to put a true effort in it; those who were there when the capital fell, when the imperial army was cut off from the refugees, when they were abandoned in the bloodwilds with no hope in sight. The original witnesses tried to pass on what they saw, but saw little purpose in it - This cynicism is thick in their lessons, and permeates from those who best remember. Those farthest from their blood barely understand what is lost - Only the eldest do, and it is seen as best to spare the others the extent of their knowledge. In order for one to want to preserve the past, the motivation must be nurtured alone. Karcel is young, but he is not naive, and he has the will to drive himself.
Karcel learns to read from the others, and uses this skill every day - In sorties for food and supplies, he frequently scours the ruins for the history of the Tel'Quessir. Nearly every day he reads, on anything he can find about the empire - History, poetry, law, philosophy. Interesting, but the topics he focuses on, when he is able, are war, tactics, and strategy; in order to preserve what remains, and possibly rebuild, one must continue to fight the Wretched.
Years pass, deaths common in the day-to-day, but Karcel survives this brutal existence. Not only does he survive, but becomes stronger - Learning and fighting, adapting to pains from wounds or hungry, all of the adversity molds him into an educated warrior. His abilities are not ignored by the rest of the tribe, and there are suggestions that he may even be the next candidate to become chief. He is not the first to seem the next in line, of course, but he does slowly become the most likely - In the culture of the Outriders, leadership is decided by popularity and strength; if one is hated by the tribe, who would follow him? If he can not fight, how can he survive long enough to lead? Candidates, when able, spar each other to show their worth for the role. Karcel becomes one of the candidates worthy enough to be worth sparring - He wins his first challenge, defeating the prime candidate; then the second; the third; the forth; and so on and so forth. His authority is absolute, second to the chief and the collective elders, and it is in time for the dark clouds to come.
The Wretched push into the Bloodwilds from the south - The dangers build slowly, but gradually; the frequency of their sightings, then the size of them, more and more. The Outriders must migrate constantly, and rarely are they able to settle or stock their provisions before another sighting forces them to draw swords or run. Fighting grows more and more in frequency, swords hacking away for another fight before the blood has begun to dry. The chief sees it as an attack - The Wretched have finally come for them in force, and this is only the beginning of the storm. However, Karcel disagrees; the Wretched run with an air of disorganization, as if from something - Arrows and bladed wounds are common amongst them. The chief sees it as nothing to note; the Wretched battle amongst themselves, chaotic creatures that they are, and there is nothing else it could be. Again, Karcel disagrees - The wounds are frequent, and the make of the arrows is different than usual.
These oddities are frequent on Karcel's mind as the Outriders are pushed further and further north, slowly nearing the end of the forest where the monsters are most common. Still, the Chief believes they must run, but Karcel sees it as certain death. True, there is no certain telling what is south, but if his suspicions are correct then it is the best chance of survival. However, it is a chance, and the Outriders have not survived on optomism. Karcel is able to have the tribe see his point of view, but they also see the Chief's - There is no right answer, and neither man is willing to submit to the other. Thus, to save the tribe, Karcel challenges the chief for leadership.
The duel is quick, formality having been excused long ago, cold practicality demands speed in these matters. The challenge is accepted, and both men draw swords. It is one of the toughest fights of Karcel's life, combating a man of ancient years of experience and training. Karcel's just barely blocks a slash, saving his life but not his flesh; the tip of the blade slashes from his cheek to the chin, a mark deep enough to scar him for the rest of his days - If there are any more he will live to see. The chief had experience and training, but he was born in a more civilized time - When chivalry was anything more than a joke. Karcel, however, never learned such impracticality. A handful of dust, a straight kick to the knee, a headbutt which breaks the nose, a jab to the throat, whatever it takes to gain an edge. It is a brutal exchange, where lifetime companions must do everything and anything to kill one another, but Karcel has one glimmer of light in this dark moment: He is the victor. The chief lies bleeding at his feet, a deep gash having opened the neck down to the bone. Karcel is now the chief, and the Wretched are coming.
The Outriders have a long history of hardship: The loss of their home, the constant migration, starvation, famine, disease, combat, and never was there hope for anything better. There is, finally, hope that something waits for them at the end, but there is a carpet of crimson that will have to be shed to get there. A path of slaughter is waged over a period of two weeks, Outriders often continuing despite hunger or fatigue - The journey is kept on by nothing but rations and blind hope, and comrades who die on the path are left behind where they fall. However, their efforts are rewarded; the Imperial army fights the waves to take back the capital of Tal'Velahr, having experienced the many surprises of the Wretched. However, what came that day they never expected - Stag-riders, with wild elven riders, eyes burning in an animalistic frenzy, cutting their way through the swarm of monsters.
The Outriders cut their way to the Imperial army, playing a part in the retaking of Tal'Velahr's outer walls. Upon reaching the army, the culture-shocked tribe follows their new chief to continue the fight they'd just found themselves in the middle of. They fight until the last Wretched is killed and burned outside the city walls, and they are finally informed on all that they have missed.
It's enough to bring Karcel to tears - The world was not dead, civilization was not gone. There were other Edan, other Tel'quessir. The Outriders no longer had to scrape by just to survive, they could merge back into society. Many do, though integration is another matter - Despite technically being Tel'quessir, they are outsiders in every other way; their ways are strange, their accents are strange, their experiences are strange. Some join the imperial army to escape from the every day life they can not adapt to in the cities, though most try to endure.
Karcel, no longer a chief, tries to adapt to society. He tries for a while, but it is not his path; he remembers the world that the Wretched would create if they fail, and he has spent his whole life surviving against it - The empire exists, and by joining them he can help fight against it. However, it is not that simple; the High King has no intention of organizing an offensive, and in Karcel's military experience comes to doubt even his ability to organize a proper defensive. These are dark times for the Empire, and Karcel will die before he sees it destroyed again. However, he is able to do very little on his own; with no formal training or official record of service, he remains in a token position where he acts as a military trainer and consultant rather than a leader. So he sits, begrudgingly, watching the lines wither away, waiting for an opportunity to do something more.
Story Relation: Karcel grew up believing that the world had already fallen, and the hope that he felt realizing he was wrong was overwhelming. Still, he is no fool: Defending may mean maximum casualties in the long term, but an improper attack will mean maximum casualties in the short term. There must be an offensive, but it has to be at the right moment. Despite this, he believes the High King is the wrong man for the time - Wracked with guilt and indecision, Karcel sees only the weakness in him and believes it is enough to doom Andarun.
Skills Interests and Fears: The Outriders have to constantly be on the move, avoiding more engagements than they ever take on - When they do fight, they needed to end it quickly with minimal casualties. As a result, they are skilled Great Stag riders and survivalists. Karcel knows everything there is to surviving in the wilds, and is quite literally a living map of the land behind enemy lines. In combat, he can fight on or off his mount; a skilled swordsman, absolutely, though true to his teachings he prefers throwing honour out the window to favour dirty tricks and throwing weapons when able.
Karcel wants to keep his people safe, and fight back against the Wretched. He's lost many of his family, and believes that though the cost is high many must risk paying it to survive. Despite this, he does not wish to be a grunt; he is a commander, and a commander he will remain. This is not so much out of selfishness, but because he believes his plans are better.
There are many things to fear in this world, but nothing can be worse than failure; he saw what that world would look like, and that can never become a reality.
Spells: N/A
Other:
Link to RPing/Writing Sample: (I'll do it if you want, leaving it blank for now as I'm exhausted.)
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code by Ri.a
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