RP Based off the World of Andarun: ANDARUN - A World Reborn (wip) Interest Check: A Tale From Andarun - Small Grp Detailed OOC: City of Magic OOC New Characters Submission: City of Magic Characters ~City of Magic~ Due to the nature of this RP, the details of the story differ slightly, depending on the Homeland and class of your character. For simplicity's sake, the default alignment of your character will be 'The Dominion of Arya'. You may however, pick any nation. If you'd like to stick to the story strictly, Bloodsworn or Aryan characters are suggested, but not mandatory. Character Gender's available: - . . . . | . . . . It started in the most peculiar of ways. Though perhaps not the most unusual, depending on how you see it. A border town, within the northmost reaches of the Dominion comes across a decaying body of a soldier floating down the stream. Now, such floaters though very rare, was not unheard of by villagers. The truce between the three kingdoms opening up travel throughout the lands, giving the keys to errand adventurers to go out treasure seeking. This floater would have simply been dismissed as another stupid hapless soul, had 'he' (if you could give dead bodies gender) been discovered by simply folk. But as fate would have it, a particularly enthusiastic patrol captain and his men spotted the body as they were making their last rounds for the shift. Excited at the unusual sight (now, you must forgive him as patroling borders can be really boring as of late; the most action a Dominion soldier would have these days would be to see their Bloodsworn counterparts and hurl insults at the pointy ears. Unless one were placed within Wretched infested territory, but that's besides the point). Now, upon recovering the body and searching it, our dear captain discovered a tattered map carefully rolled up in a worn but otherwise intact leather casing, effectively protecting it from the stream waters. Eyeballing the corpse, our dear astute Captain deduced that this man was no simple adventurer. Though very much faded, one could assumed that he wore the colours of sorts. The body belonged to a soldier (there were also other trinkets found on the body to confirm the suspicion). Though from which army was the question. Fast forward a month or so (cause I'm really lazy at story-telling), the body and map now resides within the walls of Midranthos, capital of the glorious Dominion. Ambassadors from the other two regions had all but confirmed that the soldier belonged to neither one of their armies. Embroiled within their own internal politics, the Vanharen and Aryan Lord was quite intent on dismissing the peculiar situation; that is until their Bloosworn counterpart remarked that the map depicted a region towards the north of his Kingdom. Mr. Vanharen snorted the claim away and took his leave, all dramatic with his green smoke and eerie theatrics. Now, one must understand, that the people of Andarun understand, that their world does not end beyong the Skyreach Mountains north of the Bloodsworn. One should understand however, that it is extremely difficult and nigh impossible to cross said mountain range; as only a very small handful of people have ever done so. Reports of what lay beyond, was simply that of a winter wonderlan- I mean, desolate landscape, with nothing to offer. Long story short, Mr. Bloodsworn happened to know of some relatives who had been across the mountain range, (oooh destiny oooh plotfixing! oooh!) and thought it would be interesting to see what they could find. Mr. Arya, acting very "Arya-like" was not impressed that Bloordsworn had made up his mind based on Arya's own findings. Hence, he declared that he too will send an emissary to the north. You my friends will be playing an Aryan hero chosen by the Aryan Lord to partner on this expedition ^-^! It is worth noting that officially, the three kingdoms have no interest whatsoever to see what lies beyond the mountain range. The Bloodsworn have sent expeditions many many many years prior (though not very far north) and have seen nothing worth the cost (both monetary and lives) lost, and still maintain that view; the ambassador really just thought he'd send someone on a whim with zero expectations... cause... fate. The Aryans are in this because the Lord just didn't like the idea of someone potentially benefiting themselves at his expense (no matter how minuscule the possibility). How he decided to choose your character is up to you, as well as your character's personal motivations for going on the trip. I will be playing a Bloodsworn guide, one of a rare few people who has traveled into the Northlands *-*! ~Character Application~ For this RP, you may choose any of the 'normal', 'special' or 'elite' classes. Just a basic character skelley will do, as below: Spoiler Name: Age: Gender: Homeland: (The Bloodsworn, Arya, Vanharen) Race: Class: Equipment: (Please be mindful of the limit one person can carry ; ) Appearance: (at least 3 lines, include a picture if you have one. Otherwise, add more description to define your physical features) Personality: (Optional, can be discovered through the story anyway ^^) Character Background: (Character background and history) . . . . | . . . . ~THE CHARACTERS~ Tattered Map Talyndra Farandir Luis Hanar Nadya Lothric Sirris Regalia Glazist Phairnaul Wynnter Velatha 3 4 . . . . | . . . . @Lekiel Name: Talyndra kaelas`Farandir Age: 28 Gender: Female Homeland: The Bloodsworn Race: Anarhin (Sun Elf) Class: Stormlord Equipment: Silver bound spellbook, Heartwood dagger and Ghastwood elven longbow. Talyndra's ivory colored moonstrand mage robes is embroidered with gold threads and woven onto an enchanted leather bodice to make it more resilient than ordinary robes. Compact slingpouch with usual traveling supplies. She also wears a slim black choker, inlaid with a swirling milky white gem. Appearance:Talyndra is blessed with high cheekbones, chestnut brown almond shaped eyes and small slightly upturned nose giving her a rather impish look. Olive coloured skintone further solidifies her heritage as one of the anarhin. Luxurious amber coloured tresses falls to the small of her back, which she usually braids at the sides to keep in check. She stands at a towering 5 feet 6 inches, glorious! Talyndra possesses a petite body framework with just, only just, enough curves in the right places. Personality: (Leaving this out for now) Character Background: Talyndra, younger of only three children born to Lord Tasaldan Farandir, was what her people would call a larle`. In commons, bastard. Lord Tasaldan's only wife, having passed away giving birth to his first daughter. Talyndra's mother was a mere maidservant of the house, was compensated before being sent away shortly after Talyndra was born. Given the fact that she was the younger of two daughters, and an illegitimate child, Talyndra was fortunate that her father chose to acknowledge her; but only to the extent of providing for her needs and education. Despite his generosity, any sort of inheritance was entirely out of the question, not that Talyndra minded. Without the burden that usually comes with being a 'proper' child of a prominent elven lord, she was mostly left to her own devices. This gave her ample freedom to pursue art in all its forms, for she loved it; and would've spent all her days immersed in it if not for the fact that she was sent to Heartfire Academy to learn the ways of a Stormlord. Right at the onset, Talyndra proved to be trouble, trouble of a different sort. Talyndra's powers were sporadic to say the least. One moment, they would fail her completely and the next, they would be blazing uncontrollably albeit powerfully; to the cost of damaged school property. Her mentors blamed her lack of concentration for such uncontrollable magic. Despite that, she managed to complete her studies and even work, at her father's behest (well, he didnt speak to her... he wrot- he bade one of his servants to pen a suggestion), as a tutor at the academy. Talyndra knew her father was slowly wiping his hands clean off her, gradually cutting her off in what he deemed was the most ethical way. Talyndra's bow was given to her by Tanadris, her older sister and also Calenfar Captain. Also the only person in the whole House Farandir who didn't look at her askance. Tanadris taught her how to wield it, and though Talyndra's mastery of the elven longbow is fair, it is nowhere near as skilled as a regular elven Ranger. . . . . | . . . . @Blue Aisle Name: Luis Hanar Age: 27 Gender: M Homeland: (The Bloodsworn, Arya, Vanharen): Arya Race: Human Class: Inquisitor Equipment: - Crossbow - Poison + Holy arrows - Rapier (imbued a bolt sling) - Smoke bombs + poison vials on his belt - Pendant (a memento) Appearance: Unlike his siblings, Luis did not inherit the bright blue eyes of his mother, but instead sports an unsaturated grey, much like foggy glass. He has short black hair that's parted to the side, brushing over his left brow. His features are not grand or fancy, but simply clean and sharp, much like his steel. His robes consists of blues, blacks and silvers, allowing him to disappear into the night. Personality: Character Background: Luis was the second son of a hunter. His family consisted of his parents, sister, and older brother. Of all his siblings, he was the youngest. They grew up far from the glorious cities, in a modest dwelling in the deep woods. His father and brother would hunt for game almost every afternoon, but young Luis had not joined them. It was not because he was not interested in hunting, but he could not. As a child, Luis was rather sickly. His mother often brewed herbs for him, and forbid him to go out when the wind was high, or the air cold. On most days, he sat in his room, reading the impressively scarce collection of writing available to his father. He dearly envied his father and brother, as well has the great hunts they pursued. As fate would have it, however, a boon can come in disguise, as it was his weak body that had saved his life. One night, the older two men of family caught word of a great beast, apparently the height of a mountain. The two were awfully excited, and left the house immediately, only to never return. It was a heartbreaking dent in the family of course, but even their livelihoods have disappeared, as they no longer had game to sell, and no hunter to fill the winter stock. Desperate to keep her children fed, his mother moved them into the city, selling their old stone home to a local lord. There, she found work as a chambermaid, but it was still barely enough to feed her two children. Perhaps it was because of his mother's hardships, or because of his self loathing, Luis' illness had vanished as if by sheer willpower. He went under training to become an inquisitor, for it spelled for good coin, and because he enjoyed working in solitude. His strength laid in strategics, along with deft hands and a smooth tongue. His aim with the crossbow is immaculate, the blood of a hunter did run through his veins after all. In recent days, Luis received a letter from the King himself, detailing an expedition into unexplored territory beyond the mountains. He was confounded at this summon, for the King has never contacted him before. Perhaps he thought Luis had worked with too many of his officials. It's well known that an agent who knew too much was only a nuisance, and Luis wondered if this was an astute way of leading him to his grave. Regardless, he took the offer. The expedition itself was of little attraction for him, for he preferred to hunt men than animal. Indeed, there was another reason. It is said the mythical beast, perhaps the same one his predecessor had chased after, could be beyond the mountains. This was by no means a noble act of filial piety, but it was something he'd always wondered about. He desperately wanted to see the beast, to have a glimpse of the atrocious creature the two men had been tracking before they disappeared. . . . . | . . . . @yuckeroni Name: Nadya Lothric Age: 36 Gender: Female Homeland: Vanharen Race: Heaten`hua Class: Vackhan Equipment: Melora: A scythe that was created to be deadly in close range. The sharpened, bladed edges are meant to cleave through objects and living beings, if wielded correctly, those in front and behind the user will be hit. The blades are stained with gore and smell like strong iron if close enough to it. The scythe was previously unnamed, until after the user had been eliminated by her better half, her Bondmate. Clothes: Yet, the only clothes she has are the ones on her back, the numerous amounts of rags and robes that cover her being. Along with the warmth it serves, and hefty coverage from whatever weather, it also offers Nadya plenty of pockets and areas to stash trinkets, currency, paper, etc. Of course, these items would need to be light. Veil: An item that demonstrates her Heaten'hua culture, the veil covers and protects her face from dust. It's a little too dark under the decorated cloth, but Nadya has learned to discriminate the different colors. Appearance: Nadya is a little under the average human height, being 5'1" and weighing 107 lbs. Her black hair reaches her shoulders and is very much unkempt, as if it wasn't touched in days. Yet surprisingly, her hair stays pretty dry and oil-free. She seems a little sickly due to her pale skin and petite stature, but she's very much alive and well. Her eyes are a bright yellow, one of the most distinguishing features of her face. No scars are present on her face, yet all over her body there are bountiful spots of scratches, scars, burns, etc. Personality: (will add later) Character Background: Being born in Vanharen, into the nomadic tribe of the Heaten'hua, was of course, the extent of the life that Nadya Lothric had lived, up until the point she left her home for the Dominion. Nadya was an only child in her unfortunate family, all the children born had died just after and then the mother died in grief. So, she and her father lived off of collecting exotic spices and assisting with another family in their act of theatrics and performing arts. This is where Nadya would meet her future Bondmate, Melora, another young girl her age. They would become the best of friends, but unbeknownst to them, they would be chosen to be potential Vackhans. Due to their childish outlook, they would not know the true responsibilities of their sacred duty until later in life. All they knew was that their sacrifices would be beneficial to their race. As the two aged, they became even closer and stronger. The relationship between Melora and Nadya was now more than just a friendship, they were pretty much united through their love and kinship for one another. While Nadya wielded the bow, Melora was a master of the double-sided scythe. In all honesty, Nadya, compared to Melora, was weak and it was expected that the scythe-wielder would come out as the winner, but in the end, it had turned out to be Nadya who would emerge victoriously. Unsure of it was due to Melora's conscious wish or that Nadya simply knew of the other girl's weaknesses, Nadya herself was confused at her win, yet feels no regret, and so continues to fulfill her duties as a Vackhan. Once she reached the age of 26, however, she'd become bored of her tiring lifestyle, it had become too familiar and predictable for her liking, and so she escapes from her home (to the disappointment of her father and everyone else) to the comforts of Miransar, where she lives her rather fancy and luxurious life there. There, she lived by working doing odd jobs for Vanharen nobles who didn't want to do it themselves. Personally, she had no issue doing so, it was rather interesting and way more enjoyable than living her nomadic life. And so, due to the admiration of the Vackhans there, she managed to get chosen for the expedition, another adventure and odd job she's excited about, glad that it wouldn't be anything like her nomadic tribe. . . . . | . . . . @Con-Amore Name: Sirris of House Regalia, formerly Sirris Clegaine Age: 29 Gender: Male Homeland: Arya Race: Human Class: Regalian Equipment: Straight-sword- A standard, seemingly ordinary sword composed of solid silver but with a highly ornamental-organic looking hilt characteristic of a rapier. The blade itself exudes a soft radiance, dulled by conflict and plights long since vanished and forgotten. Prayer Book- Highly sentimental, contains scripture detailing practices of followers of lolos, as well as a variety of chants and incantations that manifest into divine magic. The pages are gilded in a brilliant gold; and its white leather exterior is inlaid with an ornate depiction of House Regalia's coat of arms in silver and gold leaf. Blessed Armor- Close-fitted Elaborate plate mail composed of silver and mythrill which has been consecrated and soaked in holy water. This does nothing to boost its efficacy in battle. Feathers of swans make up the entirety of its cape, which trails behind in the same fashion as a bridal veil. Over the years it has been stained a grave ashen hue. Its unique visage is iconic of Sirris' persona. Divine Blessing- A quarter-filled golden flask containing holy water blessed by the clergymen of Arya's church of lobos. It has the ability restore vitality and undo general irregularities, but it seems as if there isn't much remaining. Appearance: Sirris' face is very structured and symmetrical. His fair skin is indicative of Arya's nobility. His pallid hair, which is always cut short sets him apart from other Aryan youth, in his younger years it was viewed as a deformity. Sporting a decisively average build among soldiers, he stands at 5'11" Personality: Much to the dismay of his comrades at the serious, hyper-masculine house Regalia, Sirris is a grossly incandescent, flaming ball of positivity. He is an indispensable friend to many, but his habit of constantly showering peers with positive affirmations, and sense of humor--or lack thereof exhausts the energy of all those in his presence. Oftentimes, it takes him ages to understand jokes, leading people to wonder how he even got this far in life. Raised in high society, Sirris, apart from physical prowess has absolutely no practical skill or knowledge. He makes up for this with immense enthusiasm and passion; nothing he does is half-hearted. On the other end of the spectrum, he has an avid respect for the faith, which he feels forever indebted to. Humility is his best quality. And yet, insecurities often lead to self-deprecation and self-sacrifice. While it is difficult to offend him, he finds grudges difficult to appease. Character Background: "Oh, sweet champion of blessings, rise, if you would." Little is remarkable about Sirris' childhood. Unable to even enter the world correctly, he was conceived strangled by his umbilical cord. Through the efforts of the church, his life was spared; under the condition that he was promised to its service. In time he would take this obligation freely, and willingly. As a youth, much of his time was spent in poor health, and as a result he was not permitted to leave the estate, but, surrounded by his parents whom loved him dearly, that was enough; there was no greater joy. They worried that he wouldn't make friends, or his health would decline further, or that he wouldn't amount to anything productive in his life. And they chose to bury that fear inside themselves, for he was here, and they were happy. That was all that mattered. As he progressed into his pubescent years with newfound vigor, Sirris found himself drawn to the church of lobos. Though his father mandated that he serve as a page, he was still a devout follower, attending sermon every day of the week without fail. It was at this time that he forged a close connection with the church, and decided he would devote his life to it; he wanted to become an acolyte. His parents, enraptured that their only born finally found purpose was content in his decision, and supported him to the full extent. It would have worked out so well, had his proficiency with miracles not been so poor. Regardless of how fervently he prayed, his incantations rarely manifested into magic. And so, masking his ineptitude, he refused to neglect other sectors of his development and indulged in academics and swordplay. Much irony was found in the fact that he excelled in these areas, despite bearing no passion for either of them. After emerging victorious at multiple sword fighting competitions throughout his youth, it was apparent to everyone that his calling was among sweat and blades. He found success as a squire. Even the church declared he would become a fine warrior. He wondered if he would regret this, but every time he looked back at the smiling faces of his entourage he muted his distress. At the humble age of 17, Sirris was ordained into knighthood. In secret, he took every opportunity to hone his divine magic, and though great strides have been taken since his first prayer, his miracles could still only be considered mediocre at best. And yet, he was the only knight to possess this unique set of skills, and his efforts did not go unnoticed. After each war, he built favor with the church and the public. On one occasion, he used his divine magic to cauterize the amputated limb of a fallen comrade in the midst of battle. An action that saved their life. After the conflict boiled down, it was revealed that they were actually a Regalian, and consequently Sirris was offered a position within their ranks. With a heavy heart, he accepted the proposal; he knew that taking this path would mean abandoning his dream of becoming an acolyte. Sirris could not help his lack of talent in that regard. Passion should never overlap service. The church rejoiced at this decision. It was from them that his armor was bequeathed. In the following two years, he would adapt a unique fighting style combining his offensive miracles and swordplay. Despite his talent with the sword he is still, in comparison to other Regalian below average in terms of strength. For what he lacked in that sector, he made up with his higher proficiency with miracles. From time to time, he questions if he made the right decision, but finds comfort in his strong network of friends. Now, Sirris has reached a period of stagnation in terms of progress. He feels as though he has hit the pinnacle of what he can achieve within the borders of Arya. Once again, regardless of how hard he trains, or how fervently he prays, time has stopped for his reality. Sirris is the only member of the house of Regalia on standby as the Aryan Lord's request for an expedition far north arrives. Panic ensues, and Sirris' obsession with progression leads him to accept without much foresight. The world is so full of precious experiences and wonders. He can't afford to miss another moment. . . . . | . . . . @The Gunrunner Spoiler Yes, I dare to add a theme song. Name: Glazist Phairnaul, 'The Wanderer.' Age: 42 Gender: Male Homeland: Vanharen Race: Human - Undead Class: Deathknight Equipment: Full-body plate-mail, the rims lined with a thin layer of yellowed brass. The suit includes a customized Armet helmet, wherein the visor has been flattened for the purpose of better visibility. Chipped and battered two-handed danish Axe. Chop-focused arming sword, the crossguard and handle reaching equal length. The blade itself has been heavily inscribed in the vows and chants of the Order of Spring. Flat oval shield, the front showing no emblem. Appearance: A beast of nightmare capable only from the deadlands, he stands at around six feet with broad shoulders. The build suggested by the armour presents what is expected of a warrior, no more and no less, though much of the real damage is covered by the steel plates. Typically, it is only the face which is exposed - A face that holds no secrets to his state; the eyes are under a sheen of white, a paleness shared throughout his cold dead skin. The flesh of the face is torn in many areas, revealing muscle tissue and stained bone. Where the flesh remains, there is a sickly red lining the wounds. The armour itself is well made, and well kept after - Polished and shined, though the many scratches and dents show it is certainly far from new. The rims of the gauntlets, pauldrons, and helmet are lined with a yellowed brass. The helmet itself is a customized armet, wherein the mouthpiece is flatter than usual for the purpose of better visibility. The sword and armour together are covered in writing; the former features many of the chants and vows of the Order of spring, with "Of Life and Death I Am King, For Both Do I Bring" displayed along both edges. However, the armour is highly personalized, writings of a variety of exploits and experiences. It reads much like a personal account of the wearer's experiences, though whether or not they are his is to be discovered. Under the armour is a variety of similar wounds, a mix of gashes and cuts made by both weapons and bites. The body seems as if something had been feasting upon it before his resurrection. Of the wounds caused by weapons, many of such openings have been closed by stitching. But most attention-grabbing of all are his tattoos; from neck to toe, covering every inch of skin and bone under the head, are a massive variety of different forms of tattoos. They are a chaotic mess, difficult to understand at first glance; most are merely messages written in the common language, together reading like a mixture of reminders or short notes together forming a manner of visceral journal. Others are depictions of faces or scenes - The latter including everything from battles, to festivals, to interactions, and so on. Personality: (Optional, can be discovered through the story anyway ^^) You'll find out! Character Background: Clara, Federick. They are names he might have once felt certain about once - The names of his son and wife. But he could feel no certainty over them now, merely floating possibilities in a sea of his amnesia. When he was first raised, he remembered what was most recent; the assault on his patrol, his throat sore from yelling orders to the men, and the shock he felt when blades first started piercing his flesh. He was a sergeant in Haagsfrot's army - He knows that now. He was married and had a son, of that he was... reasonably sure. The nature of his family was still hazy, but he felt hopefully sure that there were no other children of his that he'd fail to recount. Thinking of his wife gave him a sense of loss, one of the feelings he'd come to learn how to use in his piecing together of the past - If he felt loss, then it meant their death was before his own. It seemed likely Clara's death was long before, and likely somewhat... peaceful, in a sense; sickness, or perhaps childbirth? Whatever the nature of it, she was not one of those to be claimed by what had overrun him and his men. His memories were fractured, but there were still things he knew and understood - He was part of the army during the Darkest Days, when Haagsfrot went under siege in the unrelenting swarms of the Wretched. When they brutalized their farms and villages, likely too damned stupid to even know they were slowly starving out the city. In their rush to evacuate, dark infections and other beasts had made their way behind the walls. He remembers the outbreaks of the slums, places who's history is still remembered in the continuing use of their names - Bloody Square, The Black Tavern, the Corpse Pit. Even in undeath, he would never forget those horrifying days. He was not the only soldier to reawaken from that horrible nightmare - Deathknights were not common, true, but following Haagsfrot's devestation it had immediately set itself on creating policy to ensure such an event never repeated itself. Such policies included hiring on veterans from across the Deadlands to train its soldiers, changing recruitment and equipment standards, creating new drill policy, and so much more. As Haagsfrot worked to recover and prepare for another wave, the fields of dead from the battles past were slowly being raised for combat. The plentiful dead and growing militarism of the city was extremely attractive to Harbingers searching for worthy Deathknights, and here there were many veterans of a brutal conflict. Those who were raised were one of the extremely lucky, to have been killed where there have been witnesses to their past experiences. Glazist could slowly learn of who he is, though it only bred a feeling of loss and confusion in him - What was he to do now? His wife died long ago, and his son did not survive in the starvation of the city. He had no family, and now so few friends. He was not alone, but this is where the history of the Order of Spring begins. Together, these Deathknights find solace with each other. The Order of Spring does not begin for some time later, but even so these men serve the military of their own will - Hunting the Wretched and serving alongside the military. The Deathknights slowly come under recognition, earning themselves the official titles of their being. It is from here that the resurrected theorize the creation of their order, a group dedicated to the ensuring Haagsfrot's history never repeats itself. It takes time, but the Creed is slowly created amongst fierce debate and consideration. Eventually, it is ready for official sanction - And so, the Order of Spring began. Glazist has served them ever since, lending his sword and axe to them for years. However, his service in Haagsfrot is considered quite short considering his years of service. Without doubt, he has spent far more time outside the city's walls than in. Glazist is one of the most well-traveled of the Order's members, having served throughout the Deadlands. From the northern woods to the eastern swamps, he has scoured the dying land hunting the Andarun's curse where he can. But yet again, he grows to feel he is not doing enough - Trapped within Vanharen's borders, hunting the scourge only in one of the three dominating nations. Then an opportunity comes his way: An expedition up north, collaborated between the three nations. Glazist gladly accepts, his combat experience and time in the wilds perhaps boon enough to assist the others. For himself, however, he hopes to create an opportunity for his Order to serve outside their homeland. The Order of Spring: "We dedicate our lives to what is beyond us. Suffering lives inside us, and one day only inside us. We have walked knee-deep in blood and bone, seen brothers and sisters fall, felt steel beneath the skin, seen our homes turned to ash. Shadows of what once was return, not to take vengeance but to protect. This is my sacrifice, of myself unto myself. I dedicate my life to the creed, and swear to do all I can so the Darkest Days or any other horror are never known again. Of life and death I am king, for both do I bring - For the Order of Spring." Many years after the Age of Decay, the city of Haagsfrot is slowly flooded by ever-burdening specks of Wretched across its farmland. The result is a lengthy siege, with soldiers fighting desperately until reinforcements finally arrive to relieve the city. Though Haagsfrot did survive, the horrors it faced has affected its culture heavily; its populace is heavily militaristic, frequently taking efforts to quell pockets of the Wretched wherever they are believed to be present. In this climate, the Order of Spring was born; an order made solely of the undead, originally of veterans from the 'Darkest Days' during the Haagsfrot siege. They were used to great effect against the continuing infestations deep in the city's woods, and have since become a highly recognized and respected asset within the city. Their creed is to protect all Higher Beings, believing from example that the horrors of the Haagsfrot siege could repeat itself elsewhere. Its members are meant to view themselves as a disposable necessity, their second chance solely a purpose to ensure others do not share their terrible fate. To that end, they are ruthless hunters of any threat to that deemed worthy of life - No mercy can be found for the wretched here. There are times where other Higher Beings are deemed unworthy of existence, though there are strict rules to qualify such individuals. Interestingly, a threat to an order member is not itself grounds for death, though it is frequently justified on the grounds that the death of an order knight means lack of protection for others. Regardless, the macabre point is made - The Order are second to the Higher Beings, and all must be done for their safety. The influence of the Order outside of Haagsfrot varies quite heavily; while they originate from the city, there is an uncommon practice wherein members ply their services elsewhere. To travel from the city and hunt for the locals of far-away towns and cities is neither encouraged nor discouraged from within, but highly respected if such a choice is made. Still, it is not common; the closure from the Order's teachings, and the new comfort found in the newfound comradery, are simply not available outside of their original city. Those who choose to serve elsewhere, and truly do so, are perhaps the best that even the order has to offer; the most dedicated in the creed, surpassing even its own teachers. Membership is highly difficult to obtain, limited to just one hundred knights, and potential candidates are tested to their extremities. Their will, mentality, and physical abilities must all match the standards of the order to be considered. Many have applied for their opportunity, hoping to find a sense of purpose in their unlife or a closure to the loss of their old life. Those who succeed do so from high dedication, and indeed find their place in the world as a result. . . . . | . . . . Name: Wynnter Velatha formally, or simply “Snow”. Age: 28, With a birthdate near the solstice of winter. Gender: Female Alignment: Neutral Homeland: She was born among Bloodsworn lands Race: Child of the moon, Isilhin Elf. Class: Rogue Equipment: Wynnter is a rogue, and only brings what she sees fit. In her possession, she carries a few essential items. That said, she hasn’t had the opportunity to purchase equipment for the journey quite yet. Locksmiths/Thieves tools. Adamantine Dagger (Weapon and Keepsake) Typically carries multiple “Disposable” Daggers, she currently has four. Small coil of rope Steel Necklace (Memento) 25 Empire gold coins Sealed Waterskin Appearance: As an Elf, she stands at an average height for females. She stands 4’9”, just beneath the shoulders of most humans. She has a manageable length of smooth, pale white hair, which falls just beneath her shoulders when let down. Her eyes are a pale green, almost like leaves on a tree amidst a cold morning. She is pretty, but in a subtle way, with smooth cheeks and a shimmer to her figure. But her looks will easily fool anyone, as she claims. She is typically seen wearing a cloak, over long sleeves and pants. She tries to hide as much of her pale skin as possible, usually under dark-colored clothing. Personality: Wynnter is a very odd character. As an acquaintance to anyone, she is very polite and almost formal. She is nice and warming, but at the same time distant, as if she is discussing business and barters. She believes that making enemies is actively working against oneself, and will avoid doing so. That said, she won’t hesitate if she sees no other means out of a situation. On a personal level, Wynnter’s character really starts to blossom. Being a rogue and all, she isn’t one to instantly trust someone, however she is still human, or rather, elf. She is a mix of loving, warm-heartedness and cold calculativity. She can be the nicest, most caring individual anyone could expect. Almost motherly, or at least in a way. Not much of a leader, she is a proponent of reliance on one’s self. She excels at doing so, but can work with a team if need be. She can be strong-headed and almost arrogant at times, but is a good person to befriend. (Her character is a tad complex, And she might not make sense right now. It should unfold better in story and dialogue.) Character Background: Wynnter was born amidst a harsh time within the Bloodsworn lands, or at least where she lived. Born in the winter months, her mother had little access to care during the harsh months. Raised by a father alone, she took after him in attitude and lifestyle. Her father was a soldier before his age got to him, and he settled down. He lived a roaming lifestyle, traveling among the many lands of Andarun to experience sights, or that’s what Wynnter thought. She later learned that her father was gathering knowledge as an Enchanter, one who imbued weapons with magic. He made small fortunes, selling his services for fractions of the cost of others. His profession kept the two happy for many years, traveling to ‘See the sights of the world.’ However, his profession slowly led him to involvement with many, well, outcast groups of people. Thieves, bandits, raiders and any of the sort came for his skills. Wynnter lived with her father until she was twenty-five years of age. On her 23rd birthdate, her father gave her a blade of extreme quality, a blade made of lightened Adamantine. A dagger of pristine quality, worth more than everything they owned, or so she thought. A stout six-inch blade inlaid into a silver hilt, that weighed less than one forged from steel. Little did she know, her father had stolen it from a very respected merchant, and one that forgot little, and forgave less. Her father, in the little time she saw him, taught her how to use the blade, along with others of its sort. He first taught her to use it plainly, in the palms of her hands. She learned how to use it in melee, and she proved herself a natural. She soon began wielding one in each palm, gaining the confidence to face her father with wooden counterparts. She always lost, of course, but the margins slowly began to close. He then taught her how to turn a simple blade into a projectile, lethal at short ranges. By the time she was 24, she was more than proficient in both throwing and fighting with daggers and knives. She had never used them, sparing her practices with her father, and she once hoped she never would have too. Nevertheless, she was comforted by their presence. She began carrying hers everywhere, hiding it in a sleeve or waistband. However, she never thought of why she did. She never thought much of the blade, except how to use it. Well into the next year, everything seemed to be doing just fine. It seemed her father was happy for once, they had even come into some money. Even though it was little compared to most, it was still enough for them, plenty even. But his past would catch up to him, and tear everything apart. She knows now that what happened was because of what he did, and wasn’t just meaningless assault. She later learned that between faulty sales and shady dealings, the merchant he stole from had came for her father. She lost her father that night, along with any resemblance of family. She’s remained alone since, where she traveled from city to city, before her name caught wind among the courts of the Bloodsworn. It didn't take her long to figure out she was being watched, but she couldn't fathom by who. She lasted three weeks in the wilderness, before a figure appeared above her in her sleep. She tried to fend him off, but she was little match for a Court Assassin. Call it a stroke of luck, or a change of fate, but the Assassin wasn't there to kill her. Because she was something the Bloodsworn needed, an outcast. Someone with no ties, no true friends, and someone without a reputation. She didn't have a choice if she went with the man or not, and was soon in a carriage being taken... somewhere. She was taken to the school of Infiltrators, a royal academy. Somewhere where she couldn't stick out more. Never told why, she was taught the basics of being an Assassin. and while she passed most her tests, she wasn't fond of not knowing why. It wasn't until nearly two months passed that she was pulled from her classes, and simply told to "Get ready to leave". She took everything of value with her, but little else. She was more than skeptical, but had learned the hard way that keeping silent was best for her. She was brought to a large, open field, where she was finally told her purpose. She was to cross the territory to the north, with only a handful of others. . . . . | . . . . . . . . | . . . . . . . . | . . . .