Fantasy CS — INHERIT THE EARTH

leviathan. · Apr 7, 2020

inherit the earth

dramatis personae.

alabast · Apr 7, 2020

[div class="root"] [div class="flexcontainer"] [div class="flexbox"] [div class="seikamainL"] [div class="seikaIMG clicker" style="background: url('https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1491566102020-21838225c3c8?ixlib=rb-1.2.1&ixid=eyJhcHBfaWQiOjEyMDd9&auto=format&fit=crop&w=611&q=80') 50% 25%/400px 600px no-repeat;"] [div class="name"] [div class="JP"] NO TIME [/div] [div class="EN"] Alistair Fontino [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div] [div class="tabarea"] [div class="tabs basicstabs tabselect"] [div class="tabtitle"] BASICS [/div] [div class="tabsubtitle"] general appearance personality [/div] [/div] [div class="tabs detailstabs"] [div class="tabtitle"] DETAILS [/div] [div class="tabsubtitle"] history relationships trivia [/div] [/div] [div class="tabs extratabs"] [div class="tabtitle"] OTHER [/div] [div class="tabsubtitle"] about the player [/div] [/div] [div class="hometab unclicker"] [div class="tabtitle"] HOME [/div] [div class="tabsubtitle"] role [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div] [div class="flexbox"] [div class="scrollbox1"] [div class="JP" style="margin-top: 25px;"] APOSTATE [/div] [div class="EN"] ~~the priest~~ [/div] [div class="bodytext" style="font-style: italic;"] noun

[/div] [div class="indented"] A person who renounces a religious or political belief or principle.

"a holy magus from inside the Great Barrier, the priest is a well-intentioned, if rather sanctimonious, worshipper of Siamorphe. while spending an afternoon in prayer within the security of the Illederon Keep, the priest received a prophecy a year and eight months into the Holy Silence that compelled them to go with four other heroes on a quest for the lost city of El-Kaor to cure the common peoples of the accursed magerot. met with skeptical disbelief and outright denial from their fellow worshippers, the naïve priest left on their journey to the city in disgrace, ignorant of how their actions are rousing the scrutiny of...certain powers that be. recently, they've been staying in a seedy inn in Waterdeep, a waystation for middling adventurers and disheveled wanderers in the vain hope to find the rest of the prophesied five. they haven't had much luck, but that all changes when..." [/div] [/div] [div class="scrollbox2"] [div class="content basicsinfo"] [div class="line" style="margin-top: 6px;"] [div class="lineheader"] general information . [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] name [/div] [div class="answer"] julian fontino [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] alias [/div] [div class="answer"] alistair [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] pronouns [/div] [div class="answer"] he/him [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] age [/div] [div class="answer"] 31 [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] species [/div] [div class="answer"] aasimar [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] hometown [/div] [div class="answer"] baal-Illed [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] role [/div] [div class="answer"] the priest [/div] [/div] [div class="line"] [div class="lineheader"] appearance . [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] height [/div] [div class="answer"] 5ft 8in [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] weight [/div] [div class="answer"] 133lbs [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] ailments [/div] [div class="answer"] magerot [/div] [/div] [div class="accentheader"]
inventory [/div] [div class="indented"] shortsword, small silvered knife, two signet rings (one of carved iron, the other of gold with an orange gem set in the middle) , a pouch of gold, silver and copper pieces, a few candles, flint and steel, mess kit, a kit with a few needles and thread, backpack, prayer book, notebook, ink bottle, quill pen, a few hidden pieces of jewelry [/div] [div class="accentheader"]
wardrobe [/div] [div class="indented"] He dresses plainly and practically in dark colors, donning a heavy double-breasted black coat and a half cloak attached to the back. Leather armor is clasped around his forearms and legs. Underneath he wears a doublet over a robe, along with well-fitted pants and boots. A shortsword is sheathed and hooked upon the belt around his waist. His hands are always clad in sheep-leather gloves, intricately sewn with the patterns of the sun. [/div] [div class="bodytext"]
Alistair is not an outstandingly tall man by any means, with bony cheeks which narrowed into thin lips and a sharp chin. Thus, when he finds that he’d prefer not to be bothered anyway, the two worked out rather nicely. His skin is the one of a being who hasn’t seen the light of day for more than brief glimpses in years, certainly not helped by magerot either; the ashiness of his face only contrasts against his wavy black hair, falling messily at chin length. The shine of a dark metallic brown has vanished, washed out by magerot. A few strands of his hair is fading into gray. His eyes have lost the majority of its once opalescent shine to the disease, leaving behind only an empty white, making it difficult to discern his true identity as an aasimar from a human. He's missing half of his left ring finger. [/div] [div class="line"] [div class="lineheader"] personality . [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] alignement [/div] [div class="answer"] true neutral [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] faith [/div] [div class="answer"] lathander/amaunator [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] fears [/div] [div class="answer"] dying 'average', losing the gods' favor, becoming the villain, failing the prophecy [/div] [/div] [div class="accentheader"]
Vices [/div] [div class="indented"] bitter, two-faced, self-righteous, detached [/div] [div class="accentheader"] Neutrals [/div] [div class="indented"] forward, ardent, competitive, prim [/div] [div class="accentheader"] Virtues [/div] [div class="indented"] fearless, adaptable, resilient, devoted [/div] [div class="bodytext"]
He's all perfect pleasantries until he realizes that, you, in fact, are not the novice rumored to have been sent by the head priest to re-evaluate devotions of several priests.

Alistair is not cruel by any means, but since his removal from the Church of Lathander, his tone has gained a new tang of bitterness and impatience. A sharp reply isn't rare. After all, though he is a man with little attachment to most, loss of the ones that do gain his attention tend to set in a deep grudge within him. Still, as he was before, he is willing to put aside these bits if it is the cost required for his aims. He reads the situation quickly, and adapts accordingly. Some would even refer to him as two-faced, with how he'd seem to enjoy one's company one moment, yet show irritation once he's out of the room, though he simply believes he's putting on tact.

Even for him, however, it is difficult to keep patience after weeks of no results as he searches for the ones his god promises. Towards most, he is forward and unflinching, rarely able to be startled. He's got quite a competitive streak, having always had layers of expectations placed upon him. He rarely admits mistake, and nor does he easily give up.

At heart, however, Alistair still holds a want to be good. If his service as a priest (albeit, a defrocked one, though he'd like to think it's a quite temporary position, thank you very much) is required, he will do so. If one would like to shed their struggles, he will listen. If another is in suffering, he will do his best to ease this pain. Despite his sullied cool demeanor, he is genuine in his devotion to his faith and his belief of a greater destiny. After all, though this relieves him of being troubled by other reasons, it also becomes his only crutch. His life surrounds the idea of a destiny, and his duty to complete it. If he absolutely had to choose between this supposed destiny and helping one in need, he'd choose the former. For he's certain if he's doing something wrong, then his god would've stopped him. Thus, is how he's certain he is on the right path.

He takes pride in his works as a priest, and his inherited blood as an aasimar, even if it currently another thorn in his path. Perhaps equally, if not more, is he proud of his work as a scholar. Alistair has always sought for answers since young, and it reflects in his works as well. He's fascinated by the mysteries within history, having put the majority of his efforts at the conservatory on uncovering these unknowns. Within day-to-day, he is so as well. He does not take a denial of answers easily, instead holding many speculations he has of things big and small. If there's one thing he's never been afraid of, it is to question why.

[/div] [div class="accentheader"] ideals [/div] [div class="indented"] Knowledge: If one has the choice to learn the truth, it is foolish to choose anything other than acceptance of the offer. Though he may never know anything, he always strives to uncover more to gain a better understanding of both the world and his own faith. Even if he has accepted a fate, he is still one who seeks an explanation- and he's certain there is one out there.

Destiny: Certain something was planned out for him by something beyond his perceptions, Alistair strives to complete this path as his purpose. Despite his initial reluctance when he first received the prophecy, he's certain it is his duty to share and complete it, whether the church supports him or not.

Recognition: Though he will not admit it openly, he wants to be honored and respected by the world one day for the deeds he's completed. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] motive [/div] [div class="indented"] To complete the prophecy and cure magerot, regain his status as a priest, and save his own life in the process. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] one secret [/div] [div class="indented"] The money and name he used in order to travel to the conservatory, along with his tuition, are twice-stolen; once from the original owner, and once when he took the whole loot when he was supposed to split it with the rest of the group who performed the heist. The money was originally intended to help all the individuals involved to leave the slums of Baal-Illed. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] happiest memory [/div] [div class="indented"] [/div] [/div] [div class="content detailsinfo hidecontent"] [div class="line" style="margin-top: 6px;"] [div class="lineheader"] history . [/div] [/div] [div class="bodytext"] TLDR: aasimar betrays thief guild and gets his happily ever after, but is then discredited and thrown to the mercy of the ones he betrayed in the past

Born to human parents in the hovels of Baal-Illed, he lived the first years of his life in poverty, but as a normal child with a sister. Julian was a bright child growing up, and yet his parents knew he’d never be able to get the education he wanted to learn from with what they could provide. The few church and charity funded schools were simply too far away. However, when he first started getting visions and thoughts from his angelic guide around twelve, his parents grew scared. They were fearful of his inhumane traits, which suddenly seemed more alien instead of only odd, and decided that certainly the priests could handle it better and sent him off to the abbey and school of Ilmatar all the way across the city. Though they feared what he is, they still hoped he'd find a way. Though the priests treated him as best as he could, the priests' hands were always tied by the ever-present suffering of Baal-Illed, where every individual was in need. Resources were sparse, and they reluctantly accepted Julian due to his potential connection to something greater and the fact that he was old enough to help around.

When he grew older, he started to question his past and self more and more. To reassure him, the priests would tell him that the gods have simply planned something better for him, and his parents only wanted the best for him. They would tell him stories of great heroes, but what Julian always loved the idea of was destiny. Something that promised something better, even if you can’t imagine it right now. Even more, it reminded him of the stories his mother told him as a child.

Yet though the priests are the ones who claimed so, they always treated him with skepticism (the way you’d refrain from telling a child that the creatures in their imaginary story aren’t real) when he started getting alien emotions and visions in his dreams. Mhm, they’d say to him, before asking if he can bring the bucket to that leaking roof, yet Julian was certain since young he’s got to be special and one-day things will be better. Perhaps if the priests were listening closely, they would’ve recognized him as similar to the tales of a certain species called Aasimar, but at the time, they were troubled by seven other teenage identity crisis.

In lessons, Julian was always a voracious reader and a clever student, both at academics and at magic. The study of history and theology fascinated him even more, however; though he never quite connected with the faith of Illmatar, he did find it interesting. He knew he had some relation at birth to something beyond this world, but never knew what. However, it frustrated him to no end that he was stuck in Baal-Illed, probably forever. He can’t imagine ever finding the funds to get to the airships supposedly at the Illederes Isles, let along pay the tuition for the nearest school of further education beyond the basics. The Conservatory of the Dawn’s Arts, a school funded by the Church of Lathander and one of the most prominent in the land of Feyst.

Then came into his life a woman named Givian, the year he was sixteen. Though Julian was certain she was not more than five years older than him, she certainly seemed to know a whole lot more, and promised so as well. Though they met on accident, she saw promise in his knowledgeability and small size (at the time), promising him that if he joined her thieve’s guild, he’d get a chance to leave Baal-Illed. Already frustrated and still naive at the time, he accepted, despite getting a huge wave of alarm in his dreams that night after.

Thus, he started holding a double life, in the abbey by day and out on the streets by night. He never did any thieving, only taking the information he learned from visiting various establishments while running tasks for the priests and providing such. The promise Givian gave was that they’ll earn enough, and split the pot, and the small- yet loyal- group believed her. Their big heist was stealing from a local merchant family, known by all to be corrupt and dealing in crimes anyways. He would finally be free.

Yet when the planned date grew near, it was learned that their original member designated for distraction was caught. Unable to find a trustworthy replacement soon, Julian was placed on the front line. He could only stand the guilt by justifying that they were stealing from evil. However, when the heist went awry, Julian knew he was the only one not caught yet. Faced with the choice of taking the money and leaving, or getting caught, he chose the former.

When he finally got to safety however, he realized the money would be enough to achieve his dream- the conservatory. With his previous cut, the best he’d get is some school in Baal-Illeda, maybe even Illed if he’s lucky. But with all this… he could finally be somebody in this wretched world. Justifying it to himself that someone should put the money to use (and ignoring every little thought, like the fact that he can try to save the guild) and it was dirty money anyways, he left for the Illederes Isles and boarded an airship, finally leaving Baal-Illed for good.

The conservatory was everything and more than he expected. With the signet ring also taken from the merchant, a fake story made up about his deceased family, and a hefty sum of gold, he was in. Even more, he ran into the headmaster of the conservatory the day he arrived by accident when he returned the other’s dropped bag of gold pieces. By some more fool’s luck, the headmaster had made a (fake) claim to several other priests that a descendent of Lathander is arriving soon into their midst. (to please the head priest of the church on his deathbed) With one look at Julian’s topaz eyes and a few more inquiries about this strange boy’s supposed dreams of visions and voices, Julian suddenly found himself declared sent by Lathander himself.

And for Julian? Well, to him, this only confirmed that this had to be his destiny, surely. What other way can you explain this? Perhaps he is sent by a god after all- it’d explain the strange traits of his, certainly.

At the academy, he was suddenly put into the spotlight, the new destiny child of the church. He was declared practically a part of the headmaster’s family, who wanted to take as much credit as possible. Indeed, Julian was a promising student, and he remained to teach and continue his studies at the conservatory even after graduating and being admitted as a priest, taking on the name Alistair. He’s always been used to pleasing others since his days at the abbey, and he did the same as well at his new dwelling. Even with all the new pressures atop him, it did not hinder him. Instead, he finally found a purpose in his new faith and his new role. He’s finally found his happily ever after.

However, time does not stop. Eventually, Alistair grew … bored. At first, he’d started to idly guess which student had done their homework or not, but quickly it grew. His fascination with knowledge dripped from the academic setting to the common daily life, because Lathander, life at the conservatory was boring. It was repetitive, and it was exhausting. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed the excitement he used to feel when now… he has everything he wanted, right?

With time as well, his popularity dimmed down. Despite his supposed divine nature, he didn’t often get signs. Alistair was a devout scholar, often shut away in his room for days, even weeks once, and it was unavoidable for rumors to spread. It also led to him being unaware to the more corrupt sides of the church. Yet nothing changed, and nothing likely will until the Holy Silence struck.

Suddenly, it felt as if the whole church turned their attention to him. They demanded an answer, yet no matter how meticulously Alistair prepared rituals and prayed, there were no signs. With each passing week, he stopped going out in public more and more, flipping through every single document he can find for an answer. Any answer. While the outside world grew more and more distraught, he was isolated in his private world of frantic, endless searching. Without the guidance of his gods, Alistair was lost. No, he can’t be, he has a destiny, right?

It was some time after he’d been removed along with the top staff and their relatives from the conservatory to the Illedres Isles (to which, in his frenzy, did not even have a chance to enjoy despite it being a childhood fantasy of his), when he finally found his answer. A prophecy, a vision in the dead of night.

Overjoyed, he went to announce it to the head priest of Lathander, only to be laughed at. Instead, he was labeled a heretic and thrown out- no one willing to believe him when faith in his supposed “divine nature” has been dwindling for the past years anyways. Meanwhile, his old headmaster was tossed out as well to the streets of Baal-Illed with him as well, since Alistair proved to not be from Lathander.

However, the streets were dangerous, filled with enemies of a past from decades ago. While his old headmaster was torn to shreds by an angry mob against the Imperial Collective, Alistair barely escaped with his life using old familiarity with the city. Still, he was determined to fulfill the prophecy, because, in all honesty, he has nothing else to rely on anymore when he contracted magerot while on the run in the city.

Because dammit, even if he had no god left, he was not going to just sit still and let a disease take his own life. [/div] [div class="line"] [div class="lineheader"] xwhat brings you to the widow's lodge? [/div] [/div] [div class="bodytext"] "The usual, if you will."

He added a perfunctory smile, despite his downturned lips and defeated poise as he slipped into a chair with familiarity. That is, a familiarity which also happens to grow at an alarming rate with each passing day. For one, the chair to the left had the tip of its front leg broken off, making one too many fall victim to ale-soiled shirts when the traffic behind shoves the chair in the back. Termites from who-knows-where were caught on in the chair to his right. Of course, neither had the chance to be replaced, and he guessed they won’t in the near future either.

"Please." Alistair added, after a pause.

It would certainly be a hassle if the drink ends up poisoned by the gods for foul manners to those providing services, after all.

Allowing himself to settle, Alistair took a deep breath, before exhaling heavily. Gloved fingers drummed soundlessly against the cracked wood as he glanced out the bustling doorway and into nightlife of Waterdeep.

Five days.

It has been five days since he had arrived at Waterdeep, and along so, this dingy inn that is nestled within the equally unpleasant city. He hardly blamed the people, however; he's yet to wander upon anything better -if not worse-in his weeks of journey. Following his journey from Baal-Illed all the way here, he saw his arrival as a success and yet…

No promised heroes turned up yet.

Oh certainly, he’s tried his damn hardest -even double, no triple checking just in case, because for Lathander’s sake he will not screw up the world’s fate because he may have judged a passed out drunkard an inch. Oh, what will the Morninglord think of him, if-

“The bar’s finest wine, sir-!”

He blinked out of his distraction, staring down instead at a wooden tankard, roughly slammed down in front of him. Even with the rough treatment, however, was not enough to bring the wine within even close to spilling.

Reaching for the handle unhurriedly, he was addressed once again before he can finally relax. He raised his head with annoyance again.

“So… not to be rude or anything, but ya sit here from dusk to dawn, buy the most expensive wine at morning, then disappear upstairs- can’t blame me for being slightly curious. You don’t look like you belong.” The barmaid who had interrupted waved her hand at the ornate gloves and carefully woven coat. “Waiting for someone or somethin’? A friend? Lover?” The barmaid quirked her eyebrow, one elbow propping her head up on the other side of the bar. He shrank a little backward as she continued, “Perhaps I can help if you’re seeking-”

Before the barmaid could finish, Alistair snapped, “As if you can.” He gave a glare back, trying for the third time to see if he’ll recognize her face from the vision, even if he knew she was not it five days ago. Realizing he’s staring, he looked down at the tankard again.

“Apologies, but I am in a foul mood, as you can see. I suppose I do owe you at least some explanation then.”

“Humor me.” She chuckled, bringing up a rag to wipe away the pooling drool of a slouched elven woman, passed out cold. “You from Baal-Illed or somethin’?”

“Ho- what makes you think that?” He frowned, adjusting his tone carefully. Perhaps he does need to catch some rest if he's slipping.

She shrugged. “Just a hunch. You sound kinda like a cousin of mine. Ah, and it’s gone- maybe I heard wrong. So, about this explanation…”

“Yes, so... I am seeking four individuals,” he said, slowly, proceeding to give a vague description of each. After all, he had no reason to trust a stranger to not be a henchman of evil and attempt to stop the prophecy by killing the four. Lathander shall stop such doings, but it would be a hassle.

“And none have shown up, despite our arrangement.” Of which they aren’t aware of, but that is not important when fate is playing a hand.

“Oh? Perhaps they have forgotten.” She shrugged, wiping the table vigorously as she tried to defeat a stubborn stain.

“Impossible.” He snorted. Little do you know, Lathander does not lie and certainly, his prophecies don’t either. A greater being beyond us all is at play, and it is one who does not make mistakes. “They will come, I know.”

“If you say so.” The barmaid replied skeptically, slapping a half-orc besides Alistair on the arm. “Hey you! Wake up and pay up!”

He scoffed as the slumped form started to shift groggily. “Well, do tell me if you see anyone resembling those friends of mine.” His words, however, went mostly unheard by the barmaid, as the half-orc started to awaken and immediately tried to flee, clearly not wanting to pay.

"Whatever you say! Pay the coppers later, will ya?"As the barmaid leaped over the counter with surprising agility (a note to not pick a fight later; perhaps she is an assassin after all, he mused) and the chaos of the inn started to roll up again, he took another long sip.

For now, they can ignore him, but just wait until the day he brings back the cure to this cursed disease…

And well, maybe save his own life in the process. [/div] [div class="line"] [div class="lineheader"] xrelationships . [/div] [/div] [div class="accentheader"] the warrior [/div] [div class="indented"] n/a. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] the warlock. [/div] [div class="indented"] n/a. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] the healer [/div] [div class="indented"] n/a. [/div] [div class="accentheader"] the bard. [/div] [div class="indented"] n/a. [/div] [div class="line"] [div class="lineheader"] trivia . [/div] [/div] [div class="listwrap"] [div class="question"] theme [/div] [div class="answer"] “A Beginner’s Guide to Destroying the Moon” - by Foster the People [/div] [/div] [div class="bodytext"]

Learned Elvish, Abyssal, Infernal and some Primordial in secret for academic reasons, and studied Celestial as well.
Speaks with light Illedian accent normally, but when provoked, slips back into Baal-Illedian accent. (Though to natives of both, he doesn't sound native)
Though it's been a while, he can still defend himself with a sword or a knife (though his skills are rusty) and he certainly isn't afraid to.
Since magerot has taken away most of his external inhuman traits, he often lies and claims to be a human to hide his aasimar blood

[/div] [/div] [div class="content extrainfo hidecontent"] [div class="line" style="margin-top: 6px;"] [div class="lineheader"] about the player . [/div] [/div] [div class="accentheader"] name [/div] [div class="indented"] ray [/div] [div class="accentheader"] timezone [/div] [div class="indented"] PST/PDT [/div] [div class="accentheader"] pronouns [/div] [div class="indented"] he/they [/div] [div class="accentheader"] romance? [/div] [div class="indented"] If something happens, sure, though I'm not feeling up to it currently. [/div] [div class="bodytext"]
Hey, Ray here. I'm the co-gm for Inherit the Earth, and I help around as much as I can. However, all worldbuilding, plot, etc. are all to faust's credit. Feel free to ask me any questions and I'll answer to the best of my ability. (don't worry, I have almost no clue about the plot, so I won't spoil you accidentally) [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div]

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alistair fontino.

the priest • aasimar •

— introduction.

name.

julian fontino

alias.

alistair

pronouns.

he/him

age.

31

hometown.

baal-illed

— appearance.

overview.

Alistair is not an outstandingly tall man by any means, with bony cheeks which narrowed into thin lips and a sharp chin. Thus, when he finds that he’d prefer not to be bothered anyway, the two worked out rather nicely. His skin is the one of a being who hasn’t seen the light of day for more than brief glimpses in years, certainly not helped by magerot either; the ashiness of his face only contrasts against his wavy black hair, falling messily at chin length. The shine of a dark metallic brown has vanished, washed out by magerot. A few strands of his hair is fading into gray. His eyes have lost the majority of its once opalescent shine to the disease, leaving behind only an empty white, making it difficult to discern his true identity as an aasimar from a human. He's missing half of his left ring finger.

height.

5"8'

weight.

133 lbs

ailments.

magerot

— inventory.
shortsword, small silvered knife, two signet rings (one of carved iron, the other of gold with an orange gem set in the middle) , a pouch of gold, silver and copper pieces, a few candles, flint and steel, mess kit, a kit with a few needles and thread, backpack, prayer book, notebook, ink bottle, quill pen, a few hidden pieces of jewelry

— wardrobe.
He dresses plainly and practically in dark colors, donning a heavy double-breasted black coat and a half cloak attached to the back. Leather armor is clasped around his forearms and legs. Underneath he wears a doublet over a robe, along with well-fitted pants and boots. A shortsword is sheathed and hooked upon the belt around his waist. His hands are always clad in sheep-leather gloves, intricately sewn with the patterns of the sun.

— persona.

overview.

He's all perfect pleasantries until he realizes that, you, in fact, are not the novice rumored to have been sent by the head priest to re-evaluate devotions of several priests.

Alistair is not cruel by any means, but since his removal from the Church of Lathander, his tone has gained a new tang of bitterness and impatience. A sharp reply isn't rare. After all, though he is a man with little attachment to most, loss of the ones that do gain his attention tend to set in a deep grudge within him. Still, as he was before, he is willing to put aside these bits if it is the cost required for his aims. He reads the situation quickly, and adapts accordingly. Some would even refer to him as two-faced, with how he'd seem to enjoy one's company one moment, yet show irritation once he's out of the room, though he simply believes he's putting on tact.

Even for him, however, it is difficult to keep patience after weeks of no results as he searches for the ones his god promises. Towards most, he is forward and unflinching, rarely able to be startled. He's got quite a competitive streak, having always had layers of expectations placed upon him. He rarely admits mistake, and nor does he easily give up.

At heart, however, Alistair still holds a want to be good. If his service as a priest (albeit, a defrocked one, though he'd like to think it's a quite temporary position, thank you very much) is required, he will do so. If one would like to shed their struggles, he will listen. If another is in suffering, he will do his best to ease this pain. Despite his sullied cool demeanor, he is genuine in his devotion to his faith and his belief of a greater destiny. After all, though this relieves him of being troubled by other reasons, it also becomes his only crutch. His life surrounds the idea of a destiny, and his duty to complete it. If he absolutely had to choose between this supposed destiny and helping one in need, he'd choose the former. For he's certain if he's doing something wrong, then his god would've stopped him. Thus, is how he's certain he is on the right path.

He takes pride in his works as a priest, and his inherited blood as an aasimar, even if it currently another thorn in his path. Perhaps equally, if not more, is he proud of his work as a scholar. Alistair has always sought for answers since young, and it reflects in his works as well. He's fascinated by the mysteries within history, having put the majority of his efforts at the conservatory on uncovering these unknowns. Within day-to-day, he is so as well. He does not take a denial of answers easily, instead holding many speculations he has of things big and small. If there's one thing he's never been afraid of, it is to question why.

alignment.

TRUE NEUTRAL

faith.

LATHANDER/AMAUNATOR

fears.

DYING 'AVERAGE', LOSING THE GODS' FAVOR, BECOMING THE VILLAIN, FAILING THE PROPHECY

vices

bitter, two-faced, self-righteous, detached

neutrals.

forward, ardent, competitive, prim

virtues.

fearless, adaptable, resilient, devoted

ideals.

Knowledge: If one has the choice to learn the truth, it is foolish to choose anything other than acceptance of the offer. Though he may never know anything, he always strives to uncover more to gain a better understanding of both the world and his own faith. Even if he has accepted a fate, he is still one who seeks an explanation- and he's certain there is one out there.

Destiny: Certain something was planned out for him by something beyond his perceptions, Alistair strives to complete this path as his purpose. Despite his initial reluctance when he first received the prophecy, he's certain it is his duty to share and complete it, whether the church supports him or not.

Recognition: Though he will not admit it openly, he wants to be honored and respected by the world one day for the deeds he's completed.

motive.

To complete the prophecy and cure magerot, regain his status as a priest, and save his own life in the process.

secret.

The money and name he used in order to travel to the conservatory, along with his tuition, are twice-stolen; once from the original owner, and once when he took the whole loot when he was supposed to split it with the rest of the group who performed the heist. The money was originally intended to help all the individuals involved to leave the slums of Baal-Illed.

happiest memory.

info.

— backstory.
TLDR: aasimar betrays thief guild and gets his happily ever after, but is then discredited and thrown to the mercy of the ones he betrayed in the past

Born to human parents in the hovels of Baal-Illed, he lived the first years of his life in poverty, but as a normal child with a sister. Julian was a bright child growing up, and yet his parents knew he’d never be able to get the education he wanted to learn from with what they could provide. The few church and charity funded schools were simply too far away. However, when he first started getting visions and thoughts from his angelic guide around twelve, his parents grew scared. They were fearful of his inhumane traits, which suddenly seemed more alien instead of only odd, and decided that certainly the priests could handle it better and sent him off to the abbey and school of Ilmatar all the way across the city. Though they feared what he is, they still hoped he'd find a way. Though the priests treated him as best as he could, the priests' hands were always tied by the ever-present suffering of Baal-Illed, where every individual was in need. Resources were sparse, and they reluctantly accepted Julian due to his potential connection to something greater and the fact that he was old enough to help around.

When he grew older, he started to question his past and self more and more. To reassure him, the priests would tell him that the gods have simply planned something better for him, and his parents only wanted the best for him. They would tell him stories of great heroes, but what Julian always loved the idea of was destiny. Something that promised something better, even if you can’t imagine it right now. Even more, it reminded him of the stories his mother told him as a child.

Yet though the priests are the ones who claimed so, they always treated him with skepticism (the way you’d refrain from telling a child that the creatures in their imaginary story aren’t real) when he started getting alien emotions and visions in his dreams. Mhm, they’d say to him, before asking if he can bring the bucket to that leaking roof, yet Julian was certain since young he’s got to be special and one-day things will be better. Perhaps if the priests were listening closely, they would’ve recognized him as similar to the tales of a certain species called Aasimar, but at the time, they were troubled by seven other teenage identity crisis.

In lessons, Julian was always a voracious reader and a clever student, both at academics and at magic. The study of history and theology fascinated him even more, however; though he never quite connected with the faith of Illmatar, he did find it interesting. He knew he had some relation at birth to something beyond this world, but never knew what. However, it frustrated him to no end that he was stuck in Baal-Illed, probably forever. He can’t imagine ever finding the funds to get to the airships supposedly at the Illederes Isles, let along pay the tuition for the nearest school of further education beyond the basics. The Conservatory of the Dawn’s Arts, a school funded by the Church of Lathander and one of the most prominent in the land of Feyst.

Then came into his life a woman named Givian, the year he was sixteen. Though Julian was certain she was not more than five years older than him, she certainly seemed to know a whole lot more, and promised so as well. Though they met on accident, she saw promise in his knowledgeability and small size (at the time), promising him that if he joined her thieve’s guild, he’d get a chance to leave Baal-Illed. Already frustrated and still naive at the time, he accepted, despite getting a huge wave of alarm in his dreams that night after.

Thus, he started holding a double life, in the abbey by day and out on the streets by night. He never did any thieving, only taking the information he learned from visiting various establishments while running tasks for the priests and providing such. The promise Givian gave was that they’ll earn enough, and split the pot, and the small- yet loyal- group believed her. Their big heist was stealing from a local merchant family, known by all to be corrupt and dealing in crimes anyways. He would finally be free.

Yet when the planned date grew near, it was learned that their original member designated for distraction was caught. Unable to find a trustworthy replacement soon, Julian was placed on the front line. He could only stand the guilt by justifying that they were stealing from evil. However, when the heist went awry, Julian knew he was the only one not caught yet. Faced with the choice of taking the money and leaving, or getting caught, he chose the former.

When he finally got to safety however, he realized the money would be enough to achieve his dream- the conservatory. With his previous cut, the best he’d get is some school in Baal-Illeda, maybe even Illed if he’s lucky. But with all this… he could finally be somebody in this wretched world. Justifying it to himself that someone should put the money to use (and ignoring every little thought, like the fact that he can try to save the guild) and it was dirty money anyways, he left for the Illederes Isles and boarded an airship, finally leaving Baal-Illed for good.

The conservatory was everything and more than he expected. With the signet ring also taken from the merchant, a fake story made up about his deceased family, and a hefty sum of gold, he was in. Even more, he ran into the headmaster of the conservatory the day he arrived by accident when he returned the other’s dropped bag of gold pieces. By some more fool’s luck, the headmaster had made a (fake) claim to several other priests that a descendent of Lathander is arriving soon into their midst. (to please the head priest of the church on his deathbed) With one look at Julian’s topaz eyes and a few more inquiries about this strange boy’s supposed dreams of visions and voices, Julian suddenly found himself declared sent by Lathander himself.

And for Julian? Well, to him, this only confirmed that this had to be his destiny, surely. What other way can you explain this? Perhaps he is sent by a god after all- it’d explain the strange traits of his, certainly.

At the academy, he was suddenly put into the spotlight, the new destiny child of the church. He was declared practically a part of the headmaster’s family, who wanted to take as much credit as possible. Indeed, Julian was a promising student, and he remained to teach and continue his studies at the conservatory even after graduating and being admitted as a priest, taking on the name Alistair. He’s always been used to pleasing others since his days at the abbey, and he did the same as well at his new dwelling. Even with all the new pressures atop him, it did not hinder him. Instead, he finally found a purpose in his new faith and his new role. He’s finally found his happily ever after.

However, time does not stop. Eventually, Alistair grew … bored. At first, he’d started to idly guess which student had done their homework or not, but quickly it grew. His fascination with knowledge dripped from the academic setting to the common daily life, because Lathander, life at the conservatory was boring. It was repetitive, and it was exhausting. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed the excitement he used to feel when now… he has everything he wanted, right?

With time as well, his popularity dimmed down. Despite his supposed divine nature, he didn’t often get signs. Alistair was a devout scholar, often shut away in his room for days, even weeks once, and it was unavoidable for rumors to spread. It also led to him being unaware to the more corrupt sides of the church. Yet nothing changed, and nothing likely will until the Holy Silence struck.

Suddenly, it felt as if the whole church turned their attention to him. They demanded an answer, yet no matter how meticulously Alistair prepared rituals and prayed, there were no signs. With each passing week, he stopped going out in public more and more, flipping through every single document he can find for an answer. Any answer. While the outside world grew more and more distraught, he was isolated in his private world of frantic, endless searching. Without the guidance of his gods, Alistair was lost. No, he can’t be, he has a destiny, right?

It was some time after he’d been removed along with the top staff and their relatives from the conservatory to the Illedres Isles (to which, in his frenzy, did not even have a chance to enjoy despite it being a childhood fantasy of his), when he finally found his answer. A prophecy, a vision in the dead of night.

Overjoyed, he went to announce it to the head priest of Lathander, only to be laughed at. Instead, he was labeled a heretic and thrown out- no one willing to believe him when faith in his supposed “divine nature” has been dwindling for the past years anyways. Meanwhile, his old headmaster was tossed out as well to the streets of Baal-Illed with him as well, since Alistair proved to not be from Lathander.

However, the streets were dangerous, filled with enemies of a past from decades ago. While his old headmaster was torn to shreds by an angry mob against the Imperial Collective, Alistair barely escaped with his life using old familiarity with the city. Still, he was determined to fulfill the prophecy, because, in all honesty, he has nothing else to rely on anymore when he contracted magerot while on the run in the city.

Because dammit, even if he had no god left, he was not going to just sit still and let a disease take his own life.

— what brings you to the widow's lodge?
"The usual, if you will."

He added a perfunctory smile, despite his downturned lips and defeated poise as he slipped into a chair with familiarity. That is, a familiarity which also happens to grow at an alarming rate with each passing day. For one, the chair to the left had the tip of its front leg broken off, making one too many fall victim to ale-soiled shirts when the traffic behind shoves the chair in the back. Termites from who-knows-where were caught on in the chair to his right. Of course, neither had the chance to be replaced, and he guessed they won’t in the near future either.

"Please." Alistair added, after a pause.

It would certainly be a hassle if the drink ends up poisoned by the gods for foul manners to those providing services, after all.

Allowing himself to settle, Alistair took a deep breath, before exhaling heavily. Gloved fingers drummed soundlessly against the cracked wood as he glanced out the bustling doorway and into nightlife of Waterdeep.

Five days.

It has been five days since he had arrived at Waterdeep, and along so, this dingy inn that is nestled within the equally unpleasant city. He hardly blamed the people, however; he's yet to wander upon anything better -if not worse-in his weeks of journey. Following his journey from Baal-Illed all the way here, he saw his arrival as a success and yet…

No promised heroes turned up yet.

Oh certainly, he’s tried his damn hardest -even double, no triple checking just in case, because for Lathander’s sake he will not screw up the world’s fate because he may have judged a passed out drunkard an inch. Oh, what will the Morninglord think of him, if-

“The bar’s finest wine, sir-!”

He blinked out of his distraction, staring down instead at a wooden tankard, roughly slammed down in front of him. Even with the rough treatment, however, was not enough to bring the wine within even close to spilling.

Reaching for the handle unhurriedly, he was addressed once again before he can finally relax. He raised his head with annoyance again.

“So… not to be rude or anything, but ya sit here from dusk to dawn, buy the most expensive wine at morning, then disappear upstairs- can’t blame me for being slightly curious. You don’t look like you belong.” The barmaid who had interrupted waved her hand at the ornate gloves and carefully woven coat. “Waiting for someone or somethin’? A friend? Lover?” The barmaid quirked her eyebrow, one elbow propping her head up on the other side of the bar. He shrank a little backward as she continued, “Perhaps I can help if you’re seeking-”

Before the barmaid could finish, Alistair snapped, “As if you can.” He gave a glare back, trying for the third time to see if he’ll recognize her face from the vision, even if he knew she was not it five days ago. Realizing he’s staring, he looked down at the tankard again.

“Apologies, but I am in a foul mood, as you can see. I suppose I do owe you at least some explanation then.”

“Humor me.” She chuckled, bringing up a rag to wipe away the pooling drool of a slouched elven woman, passed out cold. “You from Baal-Illed or somethin’?”

“Ho- what makes you think that?” He frowned, adjusting his tone carefully. Perhaps he does need to catch some rest if he's slipping.

She shrugged. “Just a hunch. You sound kinda like a cousin of mine. Ah, and it’s gone- maybe I heard wrong. So, about this explanation…”

“Yes, so... I am seeking four individuals,” he said, slowly, proceeding to give a vague description of each. After all, he had no reason to trust a stranger to not be a henchman of evil and attempt to stop the prophecy by killing the four. Lathander shall stop such doings, but it would be a hassle.

“And none have shown up, despite our arrangement.” Of which they aren’t aware of, but that is not important when fate is playing a hand.

“Oh? Perhaps they have forgotten.” She shrugged, wiping the table vigorously as she tried to defeat a stubborn stain.

“Impossible.” He snorted. Little do you know, Lathander does not lie and certainly, his prophecies don’t either. A greater being beyond us all is at play, and it is one who does not make mistakes. “They will come, I know.”

“If you say so.” The barmaid replied skeptically, slapping a half-orc besides Alistair on the arm. “Hey you! Wake up and pay up!”

He scoffed as the slumped form started to shift groggily. “Well, do tell me if you see anyone resembling those friends of mine.” His words, however, went mostly unheard by the barmaid, as the half-orc started to awaken and immediately tried to flee, clearly not wanting to pay.

"Whatever you say! Pay the coppers later, will ya?"As the barmaid leaped over the counter with surprising agility (a note to not pick a fight later; perhaps she is an assassin after all, he mused) and the chaos of the inn started to roll up again, he took another long sip.

For now, they can ignore him, but just wait until the day he brings back the cure to this cursed disease…

And well, maybe save his own life in the process.

— trivia.
+ Learned Elvish, Abyssal, Infernal and some Primordial in secret for academic reasons, and studied Celestial as well.
+ Speaks with light Illedian accent normally, but when provoked, slips back into Baal-Illedian accent. (Though to natives of both, he doesn't sound native)
+ Though it's been a while, he can still defend himself with a sword or a knife (though his skills are rusty) and he certainly isn't afraid to.
Since magerot has taken away most of his external inhuman traits, he often lies and claims to be a human to hide his aasimar blood.

vinn · Apr 7, 2020

oops :3

sdks · Apr 7, 2020

placeholder - bard

banshees · Apr 7, 2020

[div class="button"]the healer

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requisite.

[div class=tag]name

Juno Dafaren

[div class=tag]age

24

[div class=tag]pronouns

he/him

[div class=tag]species

Half elf

[div class=tag]hometown

Hebron

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[div class=tag]role

The Healer

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appearance.

[div class=tag]PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:

Juno’s elven blood barely makes itself known in regards to his appearance. He stands at about 5’8, but his constant slouch brings him down an inch or two. He’s lean, almost unhealthily so, but soft-bellied, unathletic. Juno carries himself like a man who has been caught outside without a coat; turned inward, fighting to walk against a wind that nobody else can feel. His complexion is dark yet sallow, almost gray around the edges. Warm brown freckles erupt from his skin during the warmer months, then linger through the winter. His hands are long and thin; if he didn’t practice surgery, he could have been a musician. Juno has a triangular face with a pointed chin. His nose is strong and straight, and his nostrils flare when he’s frustrated. His dark brown eyes are deep-set and round. However, poor eyesight (blame his human father) causes Juno to squint almost constantly. Because of this, others assume he’s annoyed, which is only true most of the time. His brow is thick and often furrowed. The only physical evidence of his elven blood are his pointed ears, but to combat alienation from humans who might not take so kindly to his mixed heritage, Juno lets his dark hair curl to his shoulders, hiding all traces of his bloodline.

[div class=tag]wardrobe

Juno values comfort and practicality over fashion; besides, it’s not wise to get attached to clothing when his work involves so much bodily fluid. He wears baggy dark shirts and wide-legged pants. He doesn’t like shoes, but wears clunky thick-soled boots in public to avoid having people ogle at his prosthetic. Juno’s favorite article of clothing was passed down to him by his father when he finished his healer’s apprenticeship. It’s a raggedy brown jacket lined with numerous pockets, both secret and not-so secret. It nearly reaches his ankles, and he wears it everywhere.

[div class=tag]inventory

Herbalism kit, minor surgical tools (scissors, small saw, etc), little jar of leeches, field journal, a very meager sum of money, and a few strips of dried meat.

[div class=tag]Ailments

He’s missing his left leg from the mid-calf.

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psyche.

[div class=tag]alignment

Chaotic neutral

[div class=tag]Ideals

Creativity. Juno felt like his experiments and his abilities were being suppressed by his father’s adherence to tradition, but now that he’s alone, he is free to use his talents without limits. Free thinking. Juno has an ever-evolving idea of what is right and what is wrong. He cherishes unconventional ideas. Knowledge. His personal goal is to become a master of his medicine. Being able to better serve his community is just an added bonus, or maybe even an afterthought. He just wants to know how things work, and why.

[div class=tag]Faith

He personally doesn’t really adhere to religion, but regularly leaves offerings for Oghma and Silvanus-- you know, just in case. Juno also incorporates faith into his medical practice sometimes, just to put certain patients at ease, but he’s never really been able to put his heart into it.

[div class=tag]Personality overview

Under normal circumstances, Juno is timid at best and grouchy at worst. He keeps to himself and keeps his head down, tries not to rock the boat. His top priority at all times is to be left alone. When his privacy is threatened, he lashes out. He’s quiet, but observant, so when he’s thrown off-kilter, he knows how to do or say exactly what will hurt you the most. He rarely keeps close ties with people and ends friendships easily. This is because Juno is afraid of letting people down, and knows that letting them down is inevitable. He fades in and out of conversations. When he does remember to listen, he picks and chooses which part of the question to answer. It’s not on purpose, but it’s rude nonetheless, and he rarely remembers to apologize for it. Recently, though, Juno has been changing. The pressure of the crisis in his community has forced him to reanalyze the way he connects with his people. For the first time in his life, people need him, and he’s reacting in curious ways. He’s frazzled and wired, moving faster than he usually does, thinking less, speaking more. He was easy to irritate before the crisis, but now, his desperation for a cure has turned that irritation into full-on anger. All of it, though, is rooted in care. He cares deeply for the health of others; as much as he tries to deny it, he has the healer’s instinct. He can’t stand to see others suffer for no reason.

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[div class=tag]fatal flaw

Self-doubt. Deep down, Juno feels utterly powerless and incapable. It terrifies him to have this responsibility thrust upon him, because he’s sure that when the time comes to do something important, he’ll mess everything up. His lack of faith in his own abilities causes him to freeze up when others need him the most. He would rather run away than fail.

[/div]

[div class=tag]fears

Failure. Juno hates that he’s the one who has to save them all. He feels completely incompetent. Intimacy. Juno finds it really difficult to allow people to know him. He’s also really afraid of his prosthetic failing on him-- he works on it every night to make sure it's stable and well-maintained. Finally, he has a lot of anxiety around horses, but he can ride one if he absolutely must. It just won’t be a fun time for anybody.

[/div]

[div class=tag]one secret

The accident that cost him his leg was not quite an accident. Juno always told his father that he was playing in the stables alone when the horse shattered his leg, even though small children weren’t allowed around the plow horses without an adult. The truth is that he was with three other children when it happened. They promised to run and get help when the accident happened, but Juno waited for an agonizing hour before he realized nobody was coming. He was so embarrassed that they cared more about staying out of trouble than saving him, so he’s never told anyone the truth. Those three children--adults, now-- are the only ones who know, and he doubts they even remember.

[/div]

[div class=tag]happiest memory

When he turned twelve, he formally began his apprenticeship with his father. As a gift, his father took him on a hike to one of the little ponds in the glade. They swam and ate crumbly little apple tarts that fell apart in his hands before they even made it to his mouth, and while they were drying off in the sun, his father retold a story Juno had heard a million times before; how he met Juno’s mother. Before they left, Juno found a leech stuck to his father’s shoulder. His father chided him when he tried to pull it off in alarm. That leech was the very first in Juno’s collection.

[/div] [/div]

[/div] [/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents04"]

history.

[div class=tag]skillset

Juno’s specialty is herbal medicine. He’s familiar with every local flora and fauna, and has extensively studied herbs/plants that are too exotic to get a hold of in Hebron. He uses this knowledge to make salves and tonics as well as poisons. That last bit is not something he advertises. He learned a great deal about surgery and biology from his father, who lacked magical talent and instead turned to “traditional” medicine. Juno has a higher affinity for magic than his father, but is uncomfortable with using it and usually only engages with it when he needs to do chores or find a lost book.

[div class=tag]weaknesses

Juno is not clumsy, per se; he has surgeon’s hands, and he’s inherited a bit of his mother’s elven grace. However, he lacks the instincts of a fighter. Maybe it’s just cowardice. His father tried and failed to teach him how to use a crossbow-- he flinched away every time it kicked back at him. Additionally, he is terrible at communicating. It’s very hard for him to put his plans into words, so he usually just does it and hopes other people understand what he’s getting at. This means he has a terrible bedside manner; he’s often forgotten to inform a patient that their limb needs to be amputated until he has a saw hovering above them. He believes that he is extremely logical, which is true, but logic isn’t the only thing one needs to formulate a solution to a problem. He approaches the world like a math problem. This gets in his way often, because the world is much more complicated than a math problem.

[div class=tag]backstory

Juno was born to a human father and an elven mother. His father met his mother during his healer’s apprenticeship. He was attacked by a wolf while searching for a rare flower, and Juno’s mother, journeying outside her camp to trade with human settlements, found him in the forest. She set up camp with him and nursed his wounds. Eventually, they fell in a tentative sort of love. It was more like an exchange of minds. Her pregnancy was a surprise to both parties, and his mother was not prepared to leave her community behind in order to start a family. They spent a year in the mountains together, but when Juno was a month old, his mother departed, leaving Juno in the care of his father with the promise to visit them in Hebron as often as she could, which wasn’t often enough. She came often until Juno was a toddler, but he began to recognize her less and less, and her frequent departures sent him into dark, irritable moods. By the time he was five, both parents agreed it was better for her to stay away.

His father loved him dearly, but he often treated him like a student instead of a son. It blurred the lines between their relationship. There was nothing Juno hated more than being quizzed on the uses of a herb and getting the answer wrong, because it was more than just getting a question wrong; it meant his father was disappointed with him. He was a happy child, but at the same time, life felt like one long, neverending test. Life was good, though. He lived with his father in their healer’s hut. There were always books to read, skulls to play with, fresh bread to eat. The windows were never shut. Childhood was a summer breeze, his father’s fingers turning a page, the gentle clink of glass vials on the shelf.

Being a teenager was harder. The pupil must always diverge from his teacher, but it becomes more complicated when the teacher is also your father. Juno wanted to innovate; his father wanted to uphold tradition. He had no power to explore, because his father was his master. He spent more time alone. He had private journals. He practiced magic, but he was never very good at it. He regrets that, now. When he turned twenty, his father fell ill with a sickness neither of them could identify. His father instructed him to perform a simple blood transfusion. Juno refused; he had a plan to save him, a unique plan, and he carried it out without his father’s permission. It backfired. He keeps his father’s ashes in a little pouch around his neck, to remind him to be cautious.

[div class=tag]what brings you to the widow's lodge?

“What?” Juno asked, digging deep in his pocket for his little pouch of coins. When his journey proved fruitless, he started patting himself down with both hands. He looked up at the barmaid, eyes wide beneath the wet curtain of hair hanging in front of his face. “Sorry. That was rude. I heard you. I’ve come from Hebron.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” the barmaid said, mouth thin but slightly turned up at the corners, like she couldn’t decide whether to be amused or irritated. Her mood would probably take a trip down south if she saw the puddle forming beneath his feet, so Juno temporarily abandoned his search for coins and shuffled closer to the counter.

“Most haven’t,” he said. “We like it that way. I’ve never been this far from home, but we’re in a bad spot right now.”

“You and everyone else,” the barmaid sighed. “What makes you special?”

“Not much,” Juno admitted, “but I’m-- they need help. They’re sick. I didn’t think it would happen to us, and I didn’t prepare, and that’s on me. So I’m fixing it.” He shut his mouth quickly. That was far much more information than she asked for. He would have to get used to life outside of Hebron; he didn’t consider himself friendly by any means, but by outsider standards, he was probably coming off as a grinning country bumpkin.

“You’re a doctor, then?”

“Something like that. I patch them up when they need it.” Gods, they needed it. They needed him now more than they ever have. He couldn’t dwell on it for too long without feeling like the roof of the inn was crumbling down around him. Juno stood up a little straighter and heard the coins jingle in his pocket. His stomach rumbled in response.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but I would love a meat pie.”

[/div]

[div class=tag]theme song

The Enemy - Mumford & Sons

[/div] [/div]

[/div] [/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents05"]

the player.

[div class=tag]timezone

central

[div class=tag]pronouns

she/they

[div class=tag]comfortable with romance?

yes, if it adds to the plot/isn't forced!!

[/div] [/div] [/div][/div] [/div][/div] [/div][/div]

[div class=link]code by natasha.

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blackout · Apr 7, 2020

[class=background] height: 222px; width: 400px; margin: auto; [/class] [class=imageb] height: 201px; width: 170px; clip-path: polygon(50% 0%, 100% 25%, 100% 75%, 50% 100%, 0% 75%, 0% 25%); background: #454545; position: relative; left: 170px; top: -20px; [/class] [class=image] height: 198px; width: 168px; clip-path: polygon(50% 0%, 100% 25%, 100% 75%, 50% 100%, 0% 75%, 0% 25%); background: url('https://i.pinimg.com/564x/74/7f/1d/747f1da09ebc034600cbd04c6eeb8cb7.jpg'); background-size: cover; filter: brightness(85%); position: relative; background-position: center center; left: 1px; top: 1px; [/class] [class=text] font-family: Abril Fatface; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 18px; z-index: 10; position: relative; top: 100px; line-height: 15px; [/class] [div class=background] [div class=text]the warlock.
image: 000fesbra00 [/div] [div class=imageb][div class=image][/div][/div][div class=flowers][/div] [/div]

GH0STM0TH · Apr 7, 2020

The Warrior // placeholder

persephonelied · Apr 8, 2020

— ❝ REQUISITE. ❞
[div class=container][div class=window][/div][div class=content]NAME: Perric Febrill
PRONOUNS: he/him
AGE: 22
SPECIES: Human (Quarter-Elf, really)
HOMETOWN: He grew up on the outskirts of Westbridge, just beyond the forest line.
ROLE: Healer
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Perric is unusually tall, clocking in at a respectable 6'2". While he keeps himself in decent shape, it's hard to build muscle with his lung condition, so he skews to the skinny side. He keeps his hair short enough to stay out of the way, and long enough on top for him to run his fingers through when he's thinking.
WARDROBE: Not something he puts much thought into, as long as it's clean. When he isn't out among the public he tends to prioritize comfort over decency, loosening collars and doffing vests, paying little mind to tears and holes.
INVENTORY:

An old, beat-up six-chamber revolver that he's never had to use. His mom told him it was his father's.
A pack of twelve bullets for said revolver.
1 oz pipeweed.
A lovely wooden pipe for said pipeweed.
An eighth of crispyleaf, essential for traveling on a budget.
A flick knife.
30 ft of wick that can function as twine if needed.
2gp, 25sp.
Various herbs, barks, and cuttings picked up along the Long Road.
Several small cloth bags for keeping said resources separate.
Vials filled with sap and alcohol. Used for storing liquids and gases with special properties. At least one of them has soap in it but he's not entirely sure which one.
Mortar & pestle.
Needle and disinfected twine.

AILMENTS: Poor lungs since birth, worse now that his mother's potions aren't working. He knows he should quit smoking, but he's not very motivated to actually do so.[/div][/div]
— ❝ PSYCHE. ❞
[div class=container][div class=window][/div][div class=content]ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good
IDEALS:

Ingenuity. The ability of sentient creatures to make creative solutions to their problems inspires him to the point of tears (but he'd never admit that).

Information. Knowing's half the battle. He believes that everyone should be able to make informed decisions in their lives, and does his best to combat ignorance with gentle education.

Loved ones. Though he tends to keep to himself, once someone works their way into his good graces, he never wants to let them go. All he really wants to do with his life is pass the days in peace with the people he cares about.

FAITH: He tends to put in small offerings to a few different gods depending on what he needs their favor with, most often Oghma, Silvanus, and Tymora. However, he thinks of it more as insurance than as an act of spirituality. He is a man of scientific observation, and repeated observations have shown that he definitely would rather be with the gods than against them.
PERSONALITY OVERVIEW:

Sensitivity. Perric hides it well, but he's the type to shed a tear while watching a play, or get choked up when having an intimate conversation, or become anxious in tense situations.

Mile-a-minute thoughts. He's the type to get really latched onto a thought and carry it on in his head faster than he can speak it out loud until eventually his brain gets confused trying to manage the two streams of - wait, what?

Curiosity. It's inextinguishable. He never actually left the phase 4-year-olds go through where the only valid response to information is "Why?" (He just learned that there are rules governing how far you can take that in a conversation.)

Stupidity. Light unstable chemicals on fire just to see what happens? Great idea! For someone as smart as him, he sure is dumb.

FATAL FLAW: Curiosity killed the cat. He just can't seem to leave well enough alone.
FEARS: Since the magerot stole upon her, his mother hasn't been quite the same. She sometimes stays in bed all morning weeping. She sometimes stares at things only she can see in the distance. He's afraid of going down the same path as his own meager magic abandons him, but even moreso he's afraid of losing his mother to the worsening disease.
ONE SECRET: Back in his teens, Westbridge was shaken by a series of graverobbing incidents. He was the thief. He doesn't feel bad, exactly (he only wanted to dissect bodies for educational reasons), but he also doesn't think anyone would be very understanding if they knew (not even his mother, who he believes suspected him). He stopped when a childhood friend of his died. He stole the body, but couldn't bring himself to cut into it, and decided he had learned enough. He returned the body to its grave and no-one was the wiser.
HAPPIEST MEMORY:

"I think maybe magic is just a part of nature that creatures don't understand yet," Perric was musing to his mother as she blew smoke-rings (of which he was quite envious).

She handed the pipe to him. As he lit it, she said, "I think if anyone could break it down to a science, it'd be you."

Surprised and already having trouble holding the smoke, he coughed and spluttered, making his mom chuckle and clap him on the back a few times. With watering eyes, he managed, "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

She blinked. "A compliment, Perric. I admire your nature and I hope to support it for as long as I can. I wonder where it came from. I don't think you got it from me. And you certainly didn't get it from your father."

He wasn't sure what to say.

"Really," she continued. "You have a gift just as special as a talented mage's. I can't wait to see what you do with it."

Blinking back emotions and trying to rub the heat from his cheeks, he muttered, "Don't get your hopes up." But inside, a pleasant warmth was spreading through his chest, and it wasn't from the pipeweed.

[/div][/div]
— ❝ HISTORY. ❞
[div class=container][div class=window][/div][div class=content]SKILLSET:

Primitive chemistry. Salves, Elixers, Powders. "They're not potions, they're medicines. Nothing magical about it."

Primitive biology. Triage, Splints, Stitches. "You're lucky. It didn't hit anything vital. How do I know? Uhhh... let's skip that one."

Primitive physics. Gravity, Friction, Density. "Stop, stop, you're going to throw your back out pushing that thing. Just... here. Wedge this and then... ta-daaaaa."

(he is the science boi.)

WEAKNESSES:

No reflexes. His hands and mind are deft, but the rest of him is not.

No stamina. The boy gets a little breathless just going up a flight of stairs.

No charm. It's a bit of a different story around people he's comfortable with, but those aren't the people that need manipulating.

No passive perception. Anything outside his tunnel vision may as well not exist to him.

BACKSTORY:

Family: His mother is close-lipped on her past, but he knows she used to travel with a group of adventurers. He suspects it was a group of some renown, and that his father traveled with them too, but he can't say for certain. Whatever adventures may have occupied her past, these days his mother is known only among Westbridge, and only for her healing. This is the legacy he carries on today.

Birth: Perric never knew his father. His mother was alone when she birthed him, and they have lived together in a small hut on the outskirts of Westbridge for as long as he can remember. He does not physically resemble his mother, nor did he inherit her great aptitude for magic.

Growing Up: On the contrary, even the most basic cantrips eluded him for a long time, and he was often the subject of teasing from other children in the town. Regardless, he made several friends and lived a very happy childhood. He developed a reputation for mischief largely by accident. He never schemed or played tricks; he simply had a habit of getting into anything and everything. More than once, his mother had to pull him back from something dangerous just in the nick of time. Into his teen years, he finally got a grasp on a few basic spells, but he never advanced past this. In potion-making, however, he became rather skilled, but he often postulated that it wasn't really a very magical practice at all.

Present: At the outset of this adventure Perric is working at his mother's practice. In the wake of the magerot he finds that the townspeople have begun to treat him with a respect that was once reserved for his mother. However, the supplies are dwindling as the world collapses, and he wouldn't feel right sending his ailing mother.

WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE?

"Supplies," he answers politely. "The import store and the apothecary should have items from further south that I can't collect myself." Items, he privately hoped, that may help him cure his mother of the Rot.

"Supplies? What do you do?"

"I'm a doctor."

"Like a healer?"

"That too."

"Where from?"

"Westbridge."

The barmaid blinks a couple times. "Oh my. Ten days from here, is that?"

"Nine."

"You must be tired."

He glances at the inn sign and sighs. He was never very good at small talk, and the little devil in his head often becomes annoyed when it takes conversations like this one just to get a pot of stew. Quelling that thought, he shrugs and says, "Hungry, too. What's in the kitchen?"

[/div][/div]
— ❝ THE PLAYER. ❞
[div class=container][div class=window][/div]TIMEZONE: EST (UTC-5)
PRONOUNS: she/her I guess, I don't really care much
COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE? (NPC, PC, both, none) As long as it isn't forced he'll woo and be wooed by whoever.[/div]
[class=container]
display:flex;
clear:both;
padding-right:10px;
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float:left;
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align-items: stretch;
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[class=content]
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[/class]

perric febrill.

the healer • quarter-elf •

— requisite.

name.

Perric Febrill

pronouns.

he/him

age.

22

hometown.

He grew up on the outskirts of Westbridge, just beyond the forest line.

appearance.

Perric is unusually tall, clocking in at a respectable 6'2". While he keeps himself in decent shape, it's hard to build muscle with his lung condition, so he skews to the skinny side. He keeps his hair short enough to stay out of the way, and long enough on top for him to run his fingers through when he's thinking.

inventory.

+ An old, beat-up six-chamber revolver that he's never had to use. His mom told him it was his father's.
+ A pack of twelve bullets for said revolver.
+ 1 oz pipeweed.
+ A lovely wooden pipe for said pipeweed.
+ An eighth of crispyleaf, essential for traveling on a budget.
+ A flick knife.
+ 30 ft of wick that can function as twine if needed.
+ 2gp, 25sp.
+ Various herbs, barks, and cuttings picked up along the Long Road.
+ Several small cloth bags for keeping said resources separate.
+ Vials filled with sap and alcohol. Used for storing liquids and gases with special properties. At least one of them has soap in it but he's not entirely sure which one.
+ Mortar & pestle.
+ Needle and disinfected twine.

wardrobe.

Not something he puts much thought into, as long as it's clean. When he isn't out among the public he tends to prioritize comfort over decency, loosening collars and doffing vests, paying little mind to tears and holes.

ailments.

Poor lungs since birth, worse now that his mother's potions aren't working. He knows he should quit smoking, but he's not very motivated to actually do so.

— psyche.

alignment.

Neutral Good

ideals.

Ingenuity. The ability of sentient creatures to make creative solutions to their problems inspires him to the point of tears (but he'd never admit that).
Information. Knowing's half the battle. He believes that everyone should be able to make informed decisions in their lives, and does his best to combat ignorance with gentle education.
Loved ones. Though he tends to keep to himself, once someone works their way into his good graces, he never wants to let them go. All he really wants to do with his life is pass the days in peace with the people he cares about.

faith.

He tends to put in small offerings to a few different gods depending on what he needs their favor with, most often Oghma, Silvanus, and Tymora. However, he thinks of it more as insurance than as an act of spirituality. He is a man of scientific observation, and repeated observations have shown that he definitely would rather be with the gods than against them.

overview.

Sensitivity. Perric hides it well, but he's the type to shed a tear while watching a play, or get choked up when having an intimate conversation, or become anxious in tense situations.
Mile-a-minute thoughts. He's the type to get really latched onto a thought and carry it on in his head faster than he can speak it out loud until eventually his brain gets confused trying to manage the two streams of - wait, what?
Curiosity. It's inextinguishable. He never actually left the phase 4-year-olds go through where the only valid response to information is "Why?" (He just learned that there are rules governing how far you can take that in a conversation.)
Stupidity. Light unstable chemicals on fire just to see what happens? Great idea! For someone as smart as him, he sure is dumb.

fatal flaw.

Curiosity killed the cat. He just can't seem to leave well enough alone.

fears.

Since the magerot stole upon her, his mother hasn't been quite the same. She sometimes stays in bed all morning weeping. She sometimes stares at things only she can see in the distance. He's afraid of going down the same path as his own meager magic abandons him, but even moreso he's afraid of losing his mother to the worsening disease.

secret.

Back in his teens, Westbridge was shaken by a series of graverobbing incidents. He was the thief. He doesn't feel bad, exactly (he only wanted to dissect bodies for educational reasons), but he also doesn't think anyone would be very understanding if they knew (not even his mother, who he believes suspected him). He stopped when a childhood friend of his died. He stole the body, but couldn't bring himself to cut into it, and decided he had learned enough. He returned the body to its grave and no-one was the wiser.

happiest memory.

"I think maybe magic is just a part of nature that creatures don't understand yet," Perric was musing to his mother as she blew smoke-rings (of which he was quite envious).
She handed the pipe to him. As he lit it, she said, "I think if anyone could break it down to a science, it'd be you."
Surprised and already having trouble holding the smoke, he coughed and spluttered, making his mom chuckle and clap him on the back a few times. With watering eyes, he managed, "Is that a compliment or an insult?"
She blinked. "A compliment, Perric. I admire your nature and I hope to support it for as long as I can. I wonder where it came from. I don't think you got it from me. And you certainly didn't get it from your father."
He wasn't sure what to say.
"Really," she continued. "You have a gift just as special as a talented mage's. I can't wait to see what you do with it."
Blinking back emotions and trying to rub the heat from his cheeks, he muttered, "Don't get your hopes up." But inside, a pleasant warmth was spreading through his chest, and it wasn't from the pipeweed.

— history.

skillset.

Primitive chemistry. Salves, Elixers, Powders. "They're not potions, they're medicines. Nothing magical about it."
Primitive biology. Triage, Splints, Stitches. "You're lucky. It didn't hit anything vital. How do I know? Uhhh... let's skip that one."
Primitive physics. Gravity, Friction, Density. "Stop, stop, you're going to throw your back out pushing that thing. Just... here. Wedge this and then... ta-daaaaa."
(he is the science boi.)

weaknesses.

No reflexes. His hands and mind are deft, but the rest of him is not.
No stamina. The boy gets a little breathless just going up a flight of stairs.
No charm. It's a bit of a different story around people he's comfortable with, but those aren't the people that need manipulating.
No passive perception. Anything outside his tunnel vision may as well not exist to him.

background.

Family: His mother is close-lipped on her past, but he knows she used to travel with a group of adventurers. He suspects it was a group of some renown, and that his father traveled with them too, but he can't say for certain. Whatever adventures may have occupied her past, these days his mother is known only among Westbridge, and only for her healing. This is the legacy he carries on today.
Birth: Perric never knew his father. His mother was alone when she birthed him, and they have lived together in a small hut on the outskirts of Westbridge for as long as he can remember. He does not physically resemble his mother, nor did he inherit her great aptitude for magic.
Growing Up: On the contrary, even the most basic cantrips eluded him for a long time, and he was often the subject of teasing from other children in the town. Regardless, he made several friends and lived a very happy childhood. He developed a reputation for mischief largely by accident. He never schemed or played tricks; he simply had a habit of getting into anything and everything. More than once, his mother had to pull him back from something dangerous just in the nick of time. Into his teen years, he finally got a grasp on a few basic spells, but he never advanced past this. In potion-making, however, he became rather skilled, but he often postulated that it wasn't really a very magical practice at all.
Present: At the outset of this adventure Perric is working at his mother's practice. In the wake of the magerot he finds that the townspeople have begun to treat him with a respect that was once reserved for his mother. However, the supplies are dwindling as the world collapses, and he wouldn't feel right sending his ailing mother.

— what brings you to the widow's lodge?
"Supplies," he answers politely. "The import store and the apothecary should have items from further south that I can't collect myself." Items, he privately hoped, that may help him cure his mother of the Rot.
"Supplies? What do you do?"
"I'm a doctor."
"Like a healer?"
"That too."
"Where from?"
"Westbridge."
The barmaid blinks a couple times. "Oh my. Ten days from here, is that?"
"Nine."
"You must be tired."
He glances at the inn sign and sighs. He was never very good at small talk, and the little devil in his head often becomes annoyed when it takes conversations like this one just to get a pot of stew. Quelling that thought, he shrugs and says, "Hungry, too. What's in the kitchen?"

nymphadora. · Apr 8, 2020

the warrior.
— i said hello satan, i believe it’s time to go. —

dae mec · Apr 13, 2020

Sardis Emere

PRONOUNS: she/her
AGE: 25
SPECIES: Fire Genasi
HOMETOWN: Baldur's Gate, a city-state to the south.
ROLE: Warlock

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Once, she had a mane of flaming hair, ember red skin, and golden eyes. Now, all Sardis has is a layer of dull red fuzz, skin with a growing tinge of gray, and a haunted gaze. She's not particularly tall, standing at five-foot-five, but she's fit and stocky. She was once striking and proud of it, but the looming death sentence has caused her to neglect her appearance. Besides, there's a smaller chance she'll be recognized in this state...

WARDROBE: She wears simple linen trousers, loose long-sleeved shirts, gloves, and a gray cloak. The elegant dresses of her past have all been sold to fund her escape. Well, all except a single gold one Sardis keeps in the bottom of her pack.

INVENTORY: Several daggers, lock picks, disguise kit (cosmetics, props, etc.), belt pouch, a sensuous gold dress, deck of marked cards, sturdy silk rope, boots with a false bottom to store gold in, a dull once-magical ring, and a torn page with instructions written in primordial.

AILMENTS: Besides magerot, Sardis has nasty burn scars over her left arm and stomach. They ache before it rains, and she doesn't have full mobility in her left arm. (She didn't quite believe she'd lost her fire resistance until then.)

— ❝ PSYCHE. ❞
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

IDEALS: She had been a strong follower of her personal 'holy' three: might makes right, pleasure over everything, and look out for yourself first. Sardis' faith in her own ideals has been shaken, however, because she's no longer at the top. She's suffering the direct consequences of her ethos from the other side. Right now, she's just doing her best to survive... but Sardis is overdue for some soul-searching and reevaluation.

FAITH: Sardis makes nominal offerings to Tymora, goddess of good fortune, and Mask, the god of thieves. It's less out of genuine devotion and more for insurance. (She won't admit it to anyone, but her prayers have become more desperate and sincere even though she knows they can't hear her.) Her warlock patron is (was?) Vishka, a noble genie residing in an elemental plane of fire. Their relationship isn't that of a god and their worshiper but is rather transactional. She scratches their back, they scratch hers. Metaphorically, that is.

PERSONALITY OVERVIEW: Impulsive and destructive, Sardis is like the worst qualities of fire. When she wants something, she wants something, damn the consequences. She used to have some of the best qualities, however: Sardis was once alluring, decisive, and powerful. Losing her power shook her to her core, and she feels burned out and uncertain. The charm and brute-force confidence she once relied on was replaced with wary intensity and paranoia as she does her best to survive. Still, the fact that Sardis has survived so long is a testament to her sheer stubborness and adaptability. She takes things in stride, never lingering on the past or fumbling at the unexpected. While on the run, Sardis hasn't had time to think about who she is now. As brittle as she feels, Sardis isn't sure she wants to...

FATAL FLAW: Sardis has an overwhelming need for instant gratification. Why work hard when she can take the selfish, easy way and get what she wants now? Why keep her mouth shut when she can say the rude comment and get that instant rush? Sure, people might get hurt, but people always get hurt. As long as it's not her, Sardis doesn't care. Unfortunately for her, this flaw is already having immediate consequences. All the people she stepped on during her way to the top? Now that she can no longer burn them to death, they're eager to enact their revenge.

FEARS: Ironically, she has a great many fears: death, physical pain, public humiliation, drowning, and so on. Her two deepest fears are two "truths" that Sardis can't quite admit to herself. First, she's been wrong about her personal creed this entire time, and second, she's ultimately powerless in this chaotic world despite her best efforts.

ONE SECRET: Sardis has nightmares about her first kill. Occasionally, other dead faces enter into these terrors, but she can't get rid of the image of the light fading from her once-friend's eyes. She has never told anyone about this weakness.

HAPPIEST MEMORY: It used to be the day she made the pact with Vishka and gained power beyond her dreams. The realization that she was now free is one that was intoxicating beyond all measure. Now, however, the memory is bitter ash. The memory that Sardis uses to comfort herself is one of revenge. After a long, protracted conflict with her rival for power, Sardis finally won. She burned his body, strolled into his headquarters, sat on his chair, and demanded the obedience of his underlings. She spent a full week enjoying this stolen wealth, indulging in debauchery of every kind, revelling in the sheer victory. Sardis promises herself that she'll return to those heights of power again. One day. One day.

— ❝ HISTORY. ❞

SKILLSET: Sardis used to rely on her magic, on the destruction of fire, on the power her patron bestowed upon her. She can't do that anymore, so she's fallen back on skills that she hasn't used in a decade: running cons, swindling fools, breaking and entering, thieving, and other small criminal acts. Sardis is decent with disguise, losing a trail, and being generally sneaky. After so long without using these skills, she's a little rusty, but it's much like riding a horse. Sardis can be charming, but it takes more effort and energy than she generally has nowadays. She doesn't hesitate to use violence, but she's stuck with using her knives, and she's only passable with them.

WEAKNESSES: Her first instinct is to reach for her magic, which means there's always the slightest delay. Sardis never really cared about education, so the only smarts she has is street-smarts, and even that is debatable. Her impulsivity mean that she's easily distracted and makes rash decisions. However, she used to be more prideful, but that's been worn out--or at least ground deep down.

BACKSTORY: Sardis was raised by a kind-hearted, decent woman who was constantly ground down by society. Doing the right thing made her happy, but Sardis didn't see it that way. All she saw was someone being taken advantage of, again and again and again. Bitter, Sardis sought out power in the way she could. She decided she could take instead of give. She worked with other misfit children, learning the tricks of a world where personal power mattered more than the rules. During an assignment to steal a tome from a powerful wizard, her partner (and friend) got cold feet and wanted to back out. The cold feet turned out to be more than that: he was a spy for the rival criminal organization the wizard worked for. In the scuffle, Sardis ended up killing him.

She returned with the book and handed it over to the leader, sans one page. Written in primordial, Sardis was able to read it and, through some twist of fate or luck, she summoned a noble genie. This capricious elemental being was amused by her and agreed to make a pact. Sardis' mild affinity for fire became something much, much more. She used her magic to set herself up as a powerful criminal independent, a woman who used violence to get what she wanted, who'd hire her skills out in return for money and pleasure.

Then, the magerot came. Her skills were taken from her, and she was given an inevitable death sentence. All the people she spat on now had the chance to strike back. Since then, Sardis has lived on the run, always looking over her shoulder, living on the foolishness—or kindness—of others. She would do anything to cure her magerot. Anything.

WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE?:

"Nothing!" she snaps, eyes darting from side to side. Did someone set the barmaid up for this?

Offended, the barmaid pulls back, but Sardis is already sighing and offering a forced smile. Her paranoia makes her jump at shadows, but being rude attracts more attention.

"Sorry, sorry, it's been a long day." Sardis fiddles with the thin ring on her finger, turning it around and around again. It's odd to wear a ring above gloves, but she can't part with it. "I just need a drink. A strong drink."

The barmaid, still disgruntled, fetches her a pint without another word. She sets it down in front of Sardis with a little more force than necessary, and Sardis tries again to smooth things over. First, though, she takes a long swig.

"So, what's a lovely lady like you doing here?" The barmaid is pretty enough for the compliment, though Sardis can't muster enough charm to make it stick. Gods. Just a few years ago, Sardis would have said exactly what she'd wanted, offended whoever she wanted, damn the consequences. (That's a lie. A few years ago, Sardis wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.)

The barmaid sniffs and walks away. Sardis heaves another sigh, lifts the drink to her lips, and thinks better of it. If she's going to swindle fools out of their coin, she better stay sober.

THEME SONG: Toxicity - System of a Down

— ❝ THE PLAYER. ❞

TIMEZONE: EST
PRONOUNS: She/her, they/them.
COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE? (NPC, PC, both, none)
Sure, I'm fine with both NPC and PC romance with characters of all gender identities.

SoulHunter · Apr 15, 2020

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[div class=square1][/div][div class=square2][/div] [div class=ba][/div] [div class=bb][/div] [div class=bc][/div] [div class=bd][/div] [div class=line][/div] [div class="tab tab1 chosentab" style="top: 85px; transition-delay: 2s;"]home[/div] [div class="tab tab2" style="top: 135px; transition-delay: 2.1s;"]Requisite[/div] [div class="tab tab3" style="top: 185px; transition-delay: 2.2s;"]Psyche[/div] [div class="tab tab4" style="top: 235px; transition-delay: 2.3s;"]History[/div] [div class="tab tab5" style="top: 285px; transition-delay: 2.4s;"]The Player[/div][/div] [div class=border3][div class=contents] [div class="tabContents tabContents1 show"]

[div class=roleline style="left: 67px;"][/div] [div class=roleline style="left: 132px;"][/div] [div class=role style="top: 30px; left: 50px;"]the[/div] [div class=role style="top: 65px; left: 115px;"]Warrior[/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents2"][div class=scroll][div class=tag]name[/div] Kavarian Nighthunter Vathunaga [div class=tag]pronouns[/div] She/her [div class=tag]age[/div] 23 [div class=tag]species[/div] Goliath [div class=tag]Hometown[/div] The Mountains [div class=tag]role[/div] The Warrior [div class=tag]description[/div] As a Goliath, Kavarian stands at generous 7'5" (~226 cm). Wavy, charcoal black hair pulled back into complex viking braids extend to the middle of her back, a few strands loose, framing her face. Cobalt blue eyes contrast against the gray hues of her skin, making them almost glow. Due to the effects of magerot the vibrancy of her hair, eyes, and skin has dulled. Her skin appears more sickly. Her hair and eyes faded giving her an even more monochromatic look. Overall, Kavarian's features are defined and sharp. A strong jaw, high and broad cheekbones, and a once refined nose that has been broken several times characterize her face. Typical of her race, Kavarian's skin contains darker patches, the same deep black of her hair before magerot. Rising from her neck three patterns akin to twisting, gnarled branches cover her cheeks. The highest of the three markings extending to the bottom lash line of her eyes. The lowest marks rise to meet with the corners of her mouth. From her hairline, more of these branch-like patterns encompass her forehead. Cutting through some of the patches on her face, two sharp scars run across her right eye from the middle of her forehead to the top of her right cheekbone. At the corner of her eye, a third faint scar runs through her skin. These same branching patterns cover Kavarian's arms, legs, torso, and back. Across the entirety of her body, scars mar the once smooth surface of her skin. Kavarian's sober neutral face is severe, giving off a look that she could snap you in half. However, when drunk Kavarian's face is quite welcoming and bright as she animatedly tells stories and finds new friends. [div class=tag]Wardrobe[/div] Typically, Kavarian is dressed in a sleeveless top with a v-neckline. It's made of a soft hide, dyed a soft brown. The bottom of the top extends a few inches below her chest, stopping midway to her bellybutton. Simple pants dyed a similar color to her top adorn her legs. The waistband stops just below her bellybutton. She wears leather boots inlaid with several buckles that stop at her knee. A serious of straps cover her legs and waist that both hold several different pouches while also tying pieces of torn cloth that hang from her front and behind. [div class=tag]Inventory[/div] Strapped to Kavarian's back is her greatsword passed down to her from her father. Strapped to her waist in individual sheaths rest two simple hand axes. Also strapped to her waist near one of her axes, resides her money pouch, which was looking a little worse for wear. A well worn deck of cards is shoved into her money pouch, remnants of life as a guard behind the Great Barrier. A cheap, beat up flask roughly shoved into one of her many pockets resides opposite her money pouch. The last thing Kavarian carries is an explorer's pack, the only thing she had time to grab before she was thrown out of the Great Barrier. [div class=tag]Ailments[/div] Alcoholism. When idle, Kavarian results to drinking any money she has away. But when some poor fool chooses to hire her for a gig, she manages to get on the wagon for a while, sobering up to complete the job. Once that job is over however, she falls right back off, drinking away what money she earned. [/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents3"][div class=scroll][div class=tag]alignment[/div] Lawful Neutral [div class=tag]ideals[/div] Instilled in her since birth, Kavarian believes strongly in the idea of fairy play. Working as a guard always puzzled her, the relationship between nobles and the peasants is a dynamic she doesn't fully understand. A problematic king should be replaced by someone of superior skill. Any persons unable to contribute to the good of their people should be expelled. Alongside her belief in fairness, honestly is rooted in Kavarian's bones. Honesty helps bring order to forefront. If you're not being honest, you're throwing the whole system away. Honesty also implies reliability, which is paramount when living in the harsh mountains. An unreliable person is likely to bring death to themselves, or other members of the tribe. Even if you're doing bad things, if you're honest about it, you could be considered all right in Kavarian's book. [div class=tag]faith[/div] Kavarian follows the path of Kelemvor, the god of death. On her belt, she carries a simple pendant of an upright skeleton arm holding balanced scales. Knowing that death is a part of life, and the chance that she would probably die young, led Kavarian to follow Kelemvor. Death is part of the journey without any deception. [div class=tag]personality[/div] Overall, Kavarian's demeanor is very jovial. Even when in a drunken stupor she is very jolly, unless she's passed out, then she's not much of anything other than a large mass covering the table. Going with her festive disposition, Kavarian is loud. Though a female, her large frame gives her a booming voice that can be heard from afar. Her boisterous personality fit well with her tribe and the guard. However, because she is on her own, wandering from place to place, most people get startled and scared with her jovial yelling. Being a Goliath tends to intimidate some people. The look of her makes it seem as though she'd kill you on the spot, but once getting to know her better, that doesn't appear to be the case. A competitive streak runs through Kavarian and she more likely to settle arguments with contest, not words. A silver tongue, she does not posses. While not being stupid, Kavarian can be quite dense and instead of struggling through an argument, she picks up her sword or her axes for a more trial by combat approach. In a serious fight, her attitude changes. An intense blood lust can consume her. And where you once have though she wouldn't kill you, she'd now do it without a second thought. [div class=tag]fatal flaw[/div] Kavarian has two fatal flaws. One is her alcoholism, a habit she developed once cast out from the rest of her family and tribe. There are brief moments where the need for alcohol does not consume her, but those are so few and far between. The only time she isn't drinking is when she's passed out, or on the rare occasion that someone has the balls to approach her hulking figure to request her help. With a goal in mind, and a little blood lust, Kavarian can focus for a while and earn herself a little coin. Too bad she just spends it all on more booze. Her other fatal flaw, is her competitive streak. Living in the mountains is harsh. Finding shelter, food, and water were always difficult tasks. A single mistake and it would all be over for both you and the tribe. Goliaths all tend to have this problem, constantly counting their deeds, striving to best others and themselves. Kavarian is no different. And why would she be? [div class=tag]fears[/div] Facing her tribe and family after abandoning them is the biggest fear that Kavarian has, hence why she did not go back to her tribe after afflicting magerot and instead chose to wander from place to place. Kavarian also fears getting trapped into civilization and high society as she was in the Gilded Guard. Her life in the guard made her realization that life wasn't for her. Glory in battle is paramount to goliaths, so if Kavarian doesn't best her past feats or if she loses, she feels as though she failed and is unworthy of her heritage. [div class=tag]secret[/div] It a secret she holds close to her, something she's actually told no one. Whenever she was asked why she left her tribe, she always lied. She never said she abandoned her people. The lie usually consisted of her tribe being terribly afflicted by magerot and most of the members died in the beginning. Slowly over time the mage rot sonsumed her tribe until there were only a few left. So when the Gilded Guard came, she was pushed to leave by her father. But that's not how the story goes at all....And the guilt eats her alive every day. [div class=tag]happiest memory[/div] The happiest moment of Kavarian's life was when she earned the two scars above her eye when she was protecting another tribe member's life. It is also how she received the nickname Nighthunter.[/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents4"][div class=scroll][div class=tag]skill set[/div] Kavarian's set of skills is not diverse. Ultimately, it consists of fighting, intimidation, and survival. All things she picked up in her early childhood. She's an adept warrior, using her great sword to bring enemies down to their knees. Though more rarely used, Kavarian will use her hand axes to carve and slash her way through her opposers, leaving no one left. Due to her immense height and mighty look, an air of intimidation surrounds the Goliath. Though it is not an aura Kavarian tries to have, it something that just innately surrounds her. The circumstances of her homeland, as well as her vagabond lifestyle, has made Kavarian a proficient survivalist. No matter the circumstances, Kavarian will survive in the wilds. [div class=tag]weaknesses[/div] Many weaknesses exist within Kavarian. A main one being a weakness to alcohol. Outside of fighting and surviving, the Goliath doesn't have any particular skills. She has no ability with words. Most attempts with persuasion fail with the lack of her silver tongue and brute speech. Stealth and thievery don't come easy to her. Her hulking form doesn't quite allow for stealth. Kavarian has found it a little hard to hide her 7'5" form. Her large, calloused hands are useless when it comes to healing. Her hands are put to better use holding her sword or axes and swinging. Helping people is something that comes naturally to Kavarian. When seeing someone in danger or in need of help, it is hard for Kavarian to not offer her assistance. This is especially true when it comes to children. Having several nieces and nephews, a soft spot has formed within the goliath. Couple this with one of her proudest moments being she saved one of the tribe's children, means that when Kavarian sees a child in danger, there is nothing that will stop her from trying to save that child. [div class=tag]backstory[/div] Her homeland was bleak and desolate. One look at it and you would think that there wasn't a living creature that would call it home. However, her tribe thrived in the mountains, killing the dangerous animals and monsters that threatened their existence, making shelters and cloths from the pelts. It was in this severe landscape that Kavarian and her siblings were born. Her parents gave birth to her brother first, then came Kavarian, and finally her younger sister. Growing up in the mountains with her siblings and the other tribe's children offered many opportunities for sparring. From the moment they were born, Kavarian's father taught his children to fight. They were practically just out of the womb when he threw down a wooden practice sword to teach them how to wield a weapon. From the moment she was born, Kavarian was made to fight. Her childhood consisted of battling the weaker monsters that ventured near the settlements of Kavarian's tribe. Until, at the age of 10, Kavarian upgraded to helping her father and the other warriors of the tribe fight the big monsters threatening their livelihood. It was around this time that Kavarian's father truly noticed her proficiency in combat. It surpassed her older brother's, and she quickly rose to being a top warrior for her tribe. Her father gave her special training and even sought out the famous warriors from other tribes for her to learn from. Despite being a better fighter than her brother, he held little animosity towards his younger sister. He knew it wasn't her fault that she was a good warrior, but he did resent his father for favoring his sister so. Even though he didn't really resent his sister, he was still deeply competitive with her. He always tried to find some feat to best whatever her most famous accomplishment was. Not realizing her brother's feelings, Kavarian reveled in the rivalry she had with her brother. It always gave her a reason to be at the top and find ways to best herself. Kavarian's sister was simply not that adept at fighting. Despite her inabilities with the sword, her sister was a great hunter. With the little game that passed through, Kavarian's sister was often the one who took down the largest kill. Even though she didn't fight that well, her sister found her own use within the tribe. Building shelter from the pelts of both her hunts and the monsters brought in by her siblings, Kavarian's sister helped keep the tribe alive in the severe weather and terrain. It was from her that Kavarian learned the survival skills that she has now. When Kavarian was 16, misfortune struck the tribe in the form of a large eagle. It flew down when the tribe least expected it, snatching the smaller children, and flying away before any of the warriors could get a good hit on it. The tribe chief wasn't coming up with good plans to fight against the eagle. Frustrated and angry, that her tribe was being terrorized like this, Kavarian took matters into her own hands. After the eagle's most recent attack, Kavarian watched it's flight pattern and followed after. The eagle's flight back to it's nest was long, and it didn't stop until well after night fall. Kavarian stalked it for miles, her anger and blood lust never allowing exhaustion to overcome her. Eventually the eagle settled back in it's nest atop a craggy perch high on a mountain cliff. It took her several hours of mountain climbing, but Kavarian finally made it to the nest. Peering over the edge of the nest, the child was still alive, though barely after being pierced by the eagle's fierce talons. Without hesitation, Kavarian leaped into the nest, startling the eagle who had settled down to rest after it's hunt. The battle wasn't easy, and Kavarian came out of the fight battered. The eagle had managed to scrape it's talons across her arms and torso, landing one powerful blow to her face that left scars over her right eye. However, in the end Kavarian won, slaying the giant bird. After the bird was dead, Kavarian found out why the eagle hadn't eaten the child immediately. Behind the form of the eagle were several baby eagles, still full from the last child the mother had fed them. Filling once more with rage, Kavarian slew the babies, never giving them a chance to wreak the same havoc as their mother. Strapping the child to her back, Kavarian climbed back down the mountain recklessly, knowing she didn't have a lot of time for the child. She slid more than climbed down the rock face and sprinted home with the child in her arms. Luckily, a party of the warriors lead by her brother found her on the way back, the child's life hanging by a thread. Noticing her missing, her father sent several warriors after her against the chief's orders. When the group made it back to the tribe, the current chief was removed from his position, finding his skills lacking. Her father was the next chief while Kavarian earned her title of Nighthunter. Six years after Kavarian's feat, magerot appeared in her tribe. Luckily, it didn't affect them too terribly, but many of the more magically inclined Goliaths had trouble. Kavarian was lucky to escape the tragedy of magerot, though not many other in her tribe did. All her family contracted the disease, and tribe life in the mountains grew more severe. One day, guards appeared, looking for people to join the Gilded Guard to help protect the nobles in Illederes. They spun tales of glory and unimaginable feats, all things that drew Kavarian in. Her father refused any aid, lying by saying all in his tribe were afflicted by magerot. The tribe didn't have any unafflicted members to fight for the nobles. So, the guards left. But Kavarian, entranced by the false tale the guards spun, went after them to seek more glory. After a few months of being with the Gilded Guard, Kavarian knew that what she was told was a lie. There was no glory to be found here. Just breaking up petty fights between the nobles and catching simple thieves. The only fun came after shifts where she could spar with her fellow guards, though nobody could really best Kavarian. In the back of her head everyday, the thoughts of her family and tribe lurked, filling her chest with guilt. One day, after sparring, Kavarian looked down at her hands and saw that her nails were black. Those she sparred against saw and immediately called for back up. Kavarian was able to avoid the other guards in time to grab a few things from her bunk before she was cast from Illederes. Abandoning her tribe while they were in a time of need filled Kavarian with such guilt that she had no hopes of ever returning. She'd betrayed her tribe and she was fearful to find what state they would be in now. She sees her sister, her belly swollen with children that would need care. She sees her mother, the magerot affecting her harder than most Goliaths. She sees her brother with his wife and children. She sees her father, disappointment heavy in in his gaze.No, she could never return. Instead, she wandered from town to town, drowning her guilt with booze. When her purse ran empty from drinking expensive liquor (the cheap ale did nothing to her, it was practically water), she'd find simple jobs tasked with killing things to earn a little coin. Then she'd take that coin straight to the next pub to drink away. [div class=tag]What brings you to the widow's lodge?[/div] "Yes, tiny human. Can I have some of your strongest?" Kavarian asks, trying to settle herself onto small chair at the bar. She barely fits onto it, most of her mass spilling over the edge. Watching the barkeep, Kavarian noticed that they seemed a little nervous by her presence, yet still poured her drink. Good sign. She wasn't immediately kicked out of this bar. Handing Kavarian her drink, the barkeep asked what they ask most patrons, though this time it seemed to make sure the goliath wasn't going to cause a ruckus. Kavarian let out a hearty chuckle, joy at being able to share her recent conquest lighting up her face. "Brace yourself, faintheart," she began, before launching into her tale. It was a short, but bloody story about her rescuing some human child from some monster. Kavarian wasn't that great at keeping true to the small details, mostly skipping over them, saving her breath for the best part: the kill. A fire lit behind her eyes, her face becoming more animated as she described her fight with the monster. As Kavarian spoke, horror slowly spread across the barkeep's face. When she got to the final blow, Kavarian slammed her fist on the table in her enthusiasm, starling the elven patron next to her. She placed a large hand on his shoulder in apology, before her attention returned back to the barkeep as she finished the tale. "That...sounds...amazing," the barkeep choked out, covering their mouth from a sudden rise of bile. Kavarian released a booming laugh, taking a swig from her tankard. "'Twas a great fight, no?" she asked. "But not nearly my favorite. Would you like to hear another?" The barkeep gave a swift shake of their head, walking off to take care of another patron, not caring if the goliath started a fight anymore. "Another time then!" Kavarian, taking no offence by the sudden exit, turned to the elven man next to her. He seemed more relaxed now, somewhat soothed by her apologetic gesture earlier and her sociable demeanor. She pulled out her deck of cards. "Game, elf man?" she asked. Confused by the generic name, the elf agreed to the game whereupon he received a hearty clap to the back that almost sent him sprawling across the bar. Starting an animated conversation with the man, Kavarian dealt a hand. [div class=tag]Theme song[/div]Victory- Fire From the Gods[/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents5"][div class=scroll][div class=tag]Time zone[/div] PDT (Pacific Daylight Time) [div class=tag]Pronouns[/div] She/Her [div class=tag]Comfortable with romance?[/div] If there's a spark, who am I to extinguish it? [/div][/div] [/div][/div][/div][/div]

coded by constellation.

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kavarian v.

the warrior • goliath •

— requisite.

name.

Kavarian Nighthunter Vathunaga

pronouns.

She/her

age.

23

hometown.

the ursur mountains

appearance.

As a Goliath, Kavarian stands at generous 7'5" (~226 cm). Wavy, charcoal black hair pulled back into complex viking braids extend to the middle of her back, a few strands loose, framing her face. Cobalt blue eyes contrast against the gray hues of her skin, making them almost glow. Due to the effects of magerot the vibrancy of her hair, eyes, and skin has dulled. Her skin appears more sickly. Her hair and eyes faded giving her an even more monochromatic look. Overall, Kavarian's features are defined and sharp. A strong jaw, high and broad cheekbones, and a once refined nose that has been broken several times characterize her face. Typical of her race, Kavarian's skin contains darker patches, the same deep black of her hair before magerot. Rising from her neck three patterns akin to twisting, gnarled branches cover her cheeks. The highest of the three markings extending to the bottom lash line of her eyes. The lowest marks rise to meet with the corners of her mouth. From her hairline, more of these branch-like patterns encompass her forehead. Cutting through some of the patches on her face, two sharp scars run across her right eye from the middle of her forehead to the top of her right cheekbone. At the corner of her eye, a third faint scar runs through her skin. These same branching patterns cover Kavarian's arms, legs, torso, and back. Across the entirety of her body, scars mar the once smooth surface of her skin. Kavarian's sober neutral face is severe, giving off a look that she could snap you in half. However, when drunk Kavarian's face is quite welcoming and bright as she animatedly tells stories and finds new friends.

inventory.

Strapped to Kavarian's back is her greatsword passed down to her from her father. Strapped to her waist in individual sheaths rest two simple hand axes. Also strapped to her waist near one of her axes, resides her money pouch, which was looking a little worse for wear. A well worn deck of cards is shoved into her money pouch, remnants of life as a guard behind the Great Barrier. A cheap, beat up flask roughly shoved into one of her many pockets resides opposite her money pouch. The last thing Kavarian carries is an explorer's pack, the only thing she had time to grab before she was thrown out of the Great Barrier.

wardrobe.

Typically, Kavarian is dressed in a sleeveless top with a v-neckline. It's made of a soft hide, dyed a soft brown. The bottom of the top extends a few inches below her chest, stopping midway to her bellybutton. Simple pants dyed a similar color to her top adorn her legs. The waistband stops just below her bellybutton. She wears leather boots inlaid with several buckles that stop at her knee. A serious of straps cover her legs and waist that both hold several different pouches while also tying pieces of torn cloth that hang from her front and behind.

ailments.

Alcoholism. When idle, Kavarian results to drinking any money she has away. But when some poor fool chooses to hire her for a gig, she manages to get on the wagon for a while, sobering up to complete the job. Once that job is over however, she falls right back off, drinking away what money she earned.

— psyche.

alignment.

Lawful Neutral

ideals.

Instilled in her since birth, Kavarian believes strongly in the idea of fairy play. Working as a guard always puzzled her, the relationship between nobles and the peasants is a dynamic she doesn't fully understand. A problematic king should be replaced by someone of superior skill. Any persons unable to contribute to the good of their people should be expelled. Alongside her belief in fairness, honestly is rooted in Kavarian's bones. Honesty helps bring order to forefront. If you're not being honest, you're throwing the whole system away. Honesty also implies reliability, which is paramount when living in the harsh mountains. An unreliable person is likely to bring death to themselves, or other members of the tribe. Even if you're doing bad things, if you're honest about it, you could be considered all right in Kavarian's book.

faith.

Kavarian follows the path of Kelemvor, the god of death. On her belt, she carries a simple pendant of an upright skeleton arm holding balanced scales. Knowing that death is a part of life, and the chance that she would probably die young, led Kavarian to follow Kelemvor. Death is part of the journey without any deception.

overview.

Overall, Kavarian's demeanor is very jovial. Even when in a drunken stupor she is very jolly, unless she's passed out, then she's not much of anything other than a large mass covering the table. Going with her festive disposition, Kavarian is loud. Though a female, her large frame gives her a booming voice that can be heard from afar.

Her boisterous personality fit well with her tribe and the guard. However, because she is on her own, wandering from place to place, most people get startled and scared with her jovial yelling.

Being a Goliath tends to intimidate some people. The look of her makes it seem as though she'd kill you on the spot, but once getting to know her better, that doesn't appear to be the case. A competitive streak runs through Kavarian and she more likely to settle arguments with contest, not words.

A silver tongue, she does not posses. While not being stupid, Kavarian can be quite dense and instead of struggling through an argument, she picks up her sword or her axes for a more trial by combat approach. In a serious fight, her attitude changes. An intense blood lust can consume her. And where you once have though she wouldn't kill you, she'd now do it without a second thought.

fatal flaw.

Kavarian has two fatal flaws. One is her alcoholism, a habit she developed once cast out from the rest of her family and tribe. There are brief moments where the need for alcohol does not consume her, but those are so few and far between. The only time she isn't drinking is when she's passed out, or on the rare occasion that someone has the balls to approach her hulking figure to request her help. With a goal in mind, and a little blood lust, Kavarian can focus for a while and earn herself a little coin. Too bad she just spends it all on more booze. Her other fatal flaw, is her competitive streak. Living in the mountains is harsh. Finding shelter, food, and water were always difficult tasks. A single mistake and it would all be over for both you and the tribe. Goliaths all tend to have this problem, constantly counting their deeds, striving to best others and themselves. Kavarian is no different. And why would she be?

fears.

Facing her tribe and family after abandoning them is the biggest fear that Kavarian has, hence why she did not go back to her tribe after afflicting magerot and instead chose to wander from place to place. Kavarian also fears getting trapped into civilization and high society as she was in the Gilded Guard. Her life in the guard made her realization that life wasn't for her. Glory in battle is paramount to goliaths, so if Kavarian doesn't best her past feats or if she loses, she feels as though she failed and is unworthy of her heritage.

secret.

It a secret she holds close to her, something she's actually told no one. Whenever she was asked why she left her tribe, she always lied. She never said she abandoned her people. The lie usually consisted of her tribe being terribly afflicted by magerot and most of the members died in the beginning. Slowly over time the mage rot sonsumed her tribe until there were only a few left. So when the Gilded Guard came, she was pushed to leave by her father. But that's not how the story goes at all....And the guilt eats her alive every day.

happiest memory.

The happiest moment of Kavarian's life was when she earned the two scars above her eye when she was protecting another tribe member's life. It is also how she received the nickname Nighthunter.

— history.

skillset.

Kavarian's set of skills is not diverse. Ultimately, it consists of fighting, intimidation, and survival. All things she picked up in her early childhood. She's an adept warrior, using her great sword to bring enemies down to their knees. Though more rarely used, Kavarian will use her hand axes to carve and slash her way through her opposers, leaving no one left. Due to her immense height and mighty look, an air of intimidation surrounds the Goliath. Though it is not an aura Kavarian tries to have, it something that just innately surrounds her. The circumstances of her homeland, as well as her vagabond lifestyle, has made Kavarian a proficient survivalist. No matter the circumstances, Kavarian will survive in the wilds.

weaknesses.

Many weaknesses exist within Kavarian. A main one being a weakness to alcohol. Outside of fighting and surviving, the Goliath doesn't have any particular skills. She has no ability with words. Most attempts with persuasion fail with the lack of her silver tongue and brute speech. Stealth and thievery don't come easy to her. Her hulking form doesn't quite allow for stealth. Kavarian has found it a little hard to hide her 7'5" form. Her large, calloused hands are useless when it comes to healing. Her hands are put to better use holding her sword or axes and swinging.

Helping people is something that comes naturally to Kavarian. When seeing someone in danger or in need of help, it is hard for Kavarian to not offer her assistance. This is especially true when it comes to children. Having several nieces and nephews, a soft spot has formed within the goliath. Couple this with one of her proudest moments being she saved one of the tribe's children, means that when Kavarian sees a child in danger, there is nothing that will stop her from trying to save that child.

background.

Her homeland was bleak and desolate. One look at it and you would think that there wasn't a living creature that would call it home. However, her tribe thrived in the mountains, killing the dangerous animals and monsters that threatened their existence, making shelters and cloths from the pelts. It was in this severe landscape that Kavarian and her siblings were born. Her parents gave birth to her brother first, then came Kavarian, and finally her younger sister. Growing up in the mountains with her siblings and the other tribe's children offered many opportunities for sparring. From the moment they were born, Kavarian's father taught his children to fight. They were practically just out of the womb when he threw down a wooden practice sword to teach them how to wield a weapon. From the moment she was born, Kavarian was made to fight.

Her childhood consisted of battling the weaker monsters that ventured near the settlements of Kavarian's tribe. Until, at the age of 10, Kavarian upgraded to helping her father and the other warriors of the tribe fight the big monsters threatening their livelihood. It was around this time that Kavarian's father truly noticed her proficiency in combat. It surpassed her older brother's, and she quickly rose to being a top warrior for her tribe. Her father gave her special training and even sought out the famous warriors from other tribes for her to learn from. Despite being a better fighter than her brother, he held little animosity towards his younger sister. He knew it wasn't her fault that she was a good warrior, but he did resent his father for favoring his sister so. Even though he didn't really resent his sister, he was still deeply competitive with her. He always tried to find some feat to best whatever her most famous accomplishment was. Not realizing her brother's feelings, Kavarian reveled in the rivalry she had with her brother. It always gave her a reason to be at the top and find ways to best herself.

Kavarian's sister was simply not that adept at fighting. Despite her inabilities with the sword, her sister was a great hunter. With the little game that passed through, Kavarian's sister was often the one who took down the largest kill. Even though she didn't fight that well, her sister found her own use within the tribe. Building shelter from the pelts of both her hunts and the monsters brought in by her siblings, Kavarian's sister helped keep the tribe alive in the severe weather and terrain. It was from her that Kavarian learned the survival skills that she has now.

When Kavarian was 16, misfortune struck the tribe in the form of a large eagle. It flew down when the tribe least expected it, snatching the smaller children, and flying away before any of the warriors could get a good hit on it. The tribe chief wasn't coming up with good plans to fight against the eagle. Frustrated and angry, that her tribe was being terrorized like this, Kavarian took matters into her own hands. After the eagle's most recent attack, Kavarian watched it's flight pattern and followed after. The eagle's flight back to it's nest was long, and it didn't stop until well after night fall. Kavarian stalked it for miles, her anger and blood lust never allowing exhaustion to overcome her. Eventually the eagle settled back in it's nest atop a craggy perch high on a mountain cliff. It took her several hours of mountain climbing, but Kavarian finally made it to the nest. Peering over the edge of the nest, the child was still alive, though barely after being pierced by the eagle's fierce talons. Without hesitation, Kavarian leaped into the nest, startling the eagle who had settled down to rest after it's hunt. The battle wasn't easy, and Kavarian came out of the fight battered. The eagle had managed to scrape it's talons across her arms and torso, landing one powerful blow to her face that left scars over her right eye. However, in the end Kavarian won, slaying the giant bird. After the bird was dead, Kavarian found out why the eagle hadn't eaten the child immediately. Behind the form of the eagle were several baby eagles, still full from the last child the mother had fed them. Filling once more with rage, Kavarian slew the babies, never giving them a chance to wreak the same havoc as their mother. Strapping the child to her back, Kavarian climbed back down the mountain recklessly, knowing she didn't have a lot of time for the child. She slid more than climbed down the rock face and sprinted home with the child in her arms. Luckily, a party of the warriors lead by her brother found her on the way back, the child's life hanging by a thread. Noticing her missing, her father sent several warriors after her against the chief's orders. When the group made it back to the tribe, the current chief was removed from his position, finding his skills lacking. Her father was the next chief while Kavarian earned her title of Nighthunter.

Six years after Kavarian's feat, magerot appeared in her tribe. Luckily, it didn't affect them too terribly, but many of the more magically inclined Goliaths had trouble. Kavarian was lucky to escape the tragedy of magerot, though not many other in her tribe did. All her family contracted the disease, and tribe life in the mountains grew more severe. One day, guards appeared, looking for people to join the Gilded Guard to help protect the nobles in Illederes. They spun tales of glory and unimaginable feats, all things that drew Kavarian in. Her father refused any aid, lying by saying all in his tribe were afflicted by magerot. The tribe didn't have any unafflicted members to fight for the nobles. So, the guards left. But Kavarian, entranced by the false tale the guards spun, went after them to seek more glory.

After a few months of being with the Gilded Guard, Kavarian knew that what she was told was a lie. There was no glory to be found here. Just breaking up petty fights between the nobles and catching simple thieves. The only fun came after shifts where she could spar with her fellow guards, though nobody could really best Kavarian. In the back of her head everyday, the thoughts of her family and tribe lurked, filling her chest with guilt. One day, after sparring, Kavarian looked down at her hands and saw that her nails were black. Those she sparred against saw and immediately called for back up. Kavarian was able to avoid the other guards in time to grab a few things from her bunk before she was cast from Illederes.

Abandoning her tribe while they were in a time of need filled Kavarian with such guilt that she had no hopes of ever returning. She'd betrayed her tribe and she was fearful to find what state they would be in now. She sees her sister, her belly swollen with children that would need care. She sees her mother, the magerot affecting her harder than most Goliaths. She sees her brother with his wife and children. She sees her father, disappointment heavy in in his gaze.No, she could never return. Instead, she wandered from town to town, drowning her guilt with booze. When her purse ran empty from drinking expensive liquor (the cheap ale did nothing to her, it was practically water), she'd find simple jobs tasked with killing things to earn a little coin. Then she'd take that coin straight to the next pub to drink away.

— what brings you to the widow's lodge?
"Yes, tiny human. Can I have some of your strongest?" Kavarian asks, trying to settle herself onto small chair at the bar. She barely fits onto it, most of her mass spilling over the edge. Watching the barkeep, Kavarian noticed that they seemed a little nervous by her presence, yet still poured her drink. Good sign. She wasn't immediately kicked out of this bar. Handing Kavarian her drink, the barkeep asked what they ask most patrons, though this time it seemed to make sure the goliath wasn't going to cause a ruckus. Kavarian let out a hearty chuckle, joy at being able to share her recent conquest lighting up her face. "Brace yourself, faintheart," she began, before launching into her tale.

It was a short, but bloody story about her rescuing some human child from some monster. Kavarian wasn't that great at keeping true to the small details, mostly skipping over them, saving her breath for the best part: the kill. A fire lit behind her eyes, her face becoming more animated as she described her fight with the monster. As Kavarian spoke, horror slowly spread across the barkeep's face. When she got to the final blow, Kavarian slammed her fist on the table in her enthusiasm, starling the elven patron next to her. She placed a large hand on his shoulder in apology, before her attention returned back to the barkeep as she finished the tale.

"That...sounds...amazing," the barkeep choked out, covering their mouth from a sudden rise of bile.

Kavarian released a booming laugh, taking a swig from her tankard. "'Twas a great fight, no?" she asked. "But not nearly my favorite. Would you like to hear another?" The barkeep gave a swift shake of their head, walking off to take care of another patron, not caring if the goliath started a fight anymore. "Another time then!" Kavarian, taking no offence by the sudden exit, turned to the elven man next to her. He seemed more relaxed now, somewhat soothed by her apologetic gesture earlier and her sociable demeanor. She pulled out her deck of cards. "Game, elf man?" she asked. Confused by the generic name, the elf agreed to the game whereupon he received a hearty clap to the back that almost sent him sprawling across the bar. Starting an animated conversation with the man, Kavarian dealt a hand.

source · Apr 15, 2020

[class name=container] margin: auto; height: 250px; width: 400px; [/class] [class name=containercont] height: 240px; width: 390px; [/class] [class name=chapterpic] background:URL(https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/754d956e-dc4a-42a8-bfa1-4821979da544/djaqwj-ce80b193-a995-4e8d-bbbd-69191fbde305.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzc1NGQ5NTZlLWRjNGEtNDJhOC1iZmExLTQ4MjE5NzlkYTU0NFwvZGphcXdqLWNlODBiMTkzLWE5OTUtNGU4ZC1iYmJkLTY5MTkxZmJkZTMwNS5qcGcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.F7qf7ZJ58XQSMgqVGTNx0Gfh6C0VvhrbpJk22PHUSVk); float: left; height: 240px; width: 190px; background-size: 125%; background-position: -25px -40px; [/class] [class name=scroll] float: right; height: 240px; width: 190px; overflow: hidden; margin-left: 5px; [/class] [class name=scrollbox] height: 98%; width: 100%; overflow-y: scroll; padding-right: 17px; [/class] [class name=text] font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; [/class] [class name=title] font-size: 18px; text-align: center; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #b7c7d4; [/class] [class name=codetag] font-size: 9px; text-align: center; margin-top: 3px; [/class] [div class="container"][div class="containercont"][div class="chapterpic"][/div] [div class="scroll"][div class="scrollbox"][div class="title"]THE BOY, THE BARD, THE "HERO" OF CRES.[/div][div class="text"]

"I can't come back empty handed. I just can't."

— ❝ REQUISITE. ❞

NAME: Kearo Naerli
PRONOUNS: he/him
AGE: 17
SPECIES: Human
HOMETOWN: Cres
ROLE: Bard
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Solidly 5'6, Kearo doesn't present all too much with his height. His irises are a smooth and shiny black to match his hair. There are exactly two hairs that are graying on the back of his head, much to the disdain of his mother. Some would describe Kearo as "rough around the edges", and other particularly blunt ones would probably say "smells like sawdust". His diet of his mother's own pickled cabbage and pork blood soup doesn't necessarily promote weight gain, leaving him at the build he brandishes today.
WARDROBE: Kearo dawns his favorite pair of wool "shorts" and shirt. They are proudly spotless and patch-less, courtesy of his mother. On his head rests his floppy leather hat that has definitely seen non-floppy days. It droops and sags when it isn't on his head.
INVENTORY:
Inconspicuous Naerli brand flute, intuitively named "Flute". It seems to have a mind of its own, one that is slowly disappearing.
A leather satchel with a flute strap. Inside:
A bent photo of a young woman and a smiling, middle aged man in front of a storefront. "Naerli Instruments" reads on the sign.
Flute mouthpiece
Depleted water containment device
Stone dagger. It's dull.
AILMENTS:
N/A

— ❝ PSYCHE. ❞

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good
IDEALS:
Family is the root of every person. Kearo holds his mother, Laika, the closest to his heart. His grandfather Malachi is both his mentor and idol.
Adventure! Fascinated with ancient tales of mages, warriors, kings, and princes, exploring the world and being a "hero" while doing so has been a not-so-secret dream of Kearo's.
Anarchy. One could count the things that Kearo wouldn't do on their fingers.
Confidence. Some could confuse this with brazen stupidity, which would probably be less confusion and more accurate.
If home is where the heart is, then Kearo would definitely love to be a heart. Cres, a small town of less than 250 people, is home to Naerli Instruments, selling only the finest of magically powered and bound instruments.
FAITH: Whilst citing the fact that he "doesn't need the help from invisible things", a particularly careful person could catch Kearo giving a prayer to Torm, the god of courage, and Helm, god of protection.
PERSONALITY OVERVIEW:
Kearo is a teenage boy with what seems the intelligence of a piece of wood. He seems to dream of everything yet accomplish nothing, what seems to be the symptoms of "motivated laziness". This boy, some might happily say child, wastes away his day dreaming of a grand plan to save some nameless town that nobody has heard of and justifiably would not care of hearing of. There seems no shame in the eyes of this child, and the townspeople of the places he seems to just "appear" in mark him as a painful distraction who at best can keep the children entertained. Inside the head of this lazy musician, however, grows the weeds of doubt on the fruit of optimism that his music will attract a person, a clue, anything that will lead him to the salvation of his plague-stricken hometown.
FATAL FLAW:
Wits of a piece of driftwood he may seem, sometimes he may be. Awareness is key, and a crucial sound or an important flash in his peripheral vision could bypass him as quickly as it came.
FEARS:
Heroes are scared of death, and Kearo is more so. His own mortality and the mortality of the people he holds dear seems to always be whispering in the back of his mind, even more so with magerot.
Unable to speak to anyone back home, he fears what havoc has wreaked upon his hometown over the time he has been gone.
ONE SECRET:
Kearo has never learned the flute. He has always been a pianist, but after leaving his hometown in his grand search, lugging an upright everywhere you go isn't the most efficient way to play on the go. Luckily a bit of talent and "musician's intuition", which is really just winging it, can help.
HAPPIEST MEMORY:
"If you open up your chest, the larger your lungs can expand," the gentle woman said. "Then you can sing as loud as you want."
"Okay!" follows suit, a ear-wrenching screech, a young boy's grin, a warm mother's chuckle.
"Perhaps you'll develop into a tenor," the woman said, flattening her wool dress. "Since you were so great, how about we head to Yordr's for some cookies?"
Two quick nods signals a gentle hand to take a child's hand. Cookies with the best singer in the world.

— ❝ HISTORY. ❞

SKILLSET:
Musically inclined, could understand the basics of an instrument after a week or so without any prior experience
Relatively experienced with the flute
Talented with the keys
Relatively charismatic (you like jazz?)
WEAKNESSES:
Very bad at everything he isn't good at
Incognizant, especially when distracted
Distracted easily
Impulsive (definitely would blow all of his money on a game of poker)
BACKSTORY:
Birthed from a traveling performer and a talented singer, Kearo has seen his father a total of twelve times throughout his life. Checking back more simply as an obligation than through familial ties, Kearos suspects that he has more than several step siblings. His grandfather, the father of his mother, is the current owner of Naerli Instruments, a shop passed on by a long line of Naerli ancestors. The shop was once a large brand known for selling the finest of instruments to the wealthiest of the wealthy, but with the growing popularity of non-magic instruments, magical instruments have fallen by the wayside, slowly shrinking the business to its last location in the nameless valley town of Cres. Many years have past, and now Naerli instruments serve Cres and its townspeople with all the music they could ever need. After magerot had somehow found its way into the quiet town of Cres, many of the peasant buildings began to collapse on in on themselves, and the ones still standing too structurally unsafe to live in. The Naerli Instruments shop was the only building within Cres built with its own structural foundation and not magic due to the shops wealthy origins. Witnessing his town fall into ruins with buildings collapsing on themselves everyday, Kearo planned his escape from the town to find a remedy to this curse that seemed to destroy not only the health of the people and buildings of Cres, but the music produced by Naerli magical instruments. Deep into the escape, and he was caught by his grandfather, who lacked any resistance to his escape. The grandfather gave to his grandchild a flute, one to where the magic imbued within the instruments now resided. The magic of all the instruments, stored into one flute. Kearo took off, with the clothes on his back, a satchel flying behind him, and a dying magical flute in his hand.
WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE?
"Huh? Ah, looking for a place to spend some time," he said, licking his teeth. "Say, who can I talk to for a gig for these fellow tavern-goers?"
"Music? For the tavern? Oh, I suppose you could.. do you even have an instrument?"
"Of course I have an instrument! This is called Flute," he said, pulling the flute out of its strap. "Not the song I'm about to play, the instrument's name is Flute. Because it's a fl--"
Cut off by the piercing sound of glass crashing onto the ground, Kearo's lips droop into a quick frown, followed by a not-so-happy look from the barmaid.
"Whoops," an airy exhale of a chuckle. "I'll play for free..?"

— ❝ THE PLAYER. ❞

TIMEZONE: MST (UTC -7)
PRONOUNS: he/him
COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE?
i dont see why not

[/div][/div][/div] [/div][/div] [div class="codetag"]coded by ukiiyo[/div]

shapeshifting · Apr 15, 2020

~BASICS~

NAME: Reverence Darkwell
PRONOUNS: he/him
AGE: 25
SPECIES: Tiefling
HOMETOWN: A small town outside of Imperial Collective's main city. He does not know his original hometown.
ROLE: Warrior
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: The first thing that stands out about Reverence is his deep blue skin. His face, covered by straight thin black hair is angular and square with a strong jawbone. He has big oval-shaped eyes that are clouded a deep creamy yellow color with no pupils. On his head you can see black, short stumpy horns seeming to have been cut off. Reverence has a muscular yet lean build. His arms and chest are broad and well-defined from years of carrying armor and wielding greatswords. He stands 5'11''.
WARDROBE: Reverence is usually clad in his now tattered silver heavy imperial armor. The sigil is marked clearly on the chest plate.
INVENTORY: well-made greatsword, bread, small repair kit, lots of booze, 10 gold
AILMENTS: magerot(unable to use magical powers, blackening nails, pale skin), typically drunk, a few scars er and there

~PSYCHE~

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good
IDEALS: I will redeem myself in the name of the Collective through the acquisition of power. I stand for honor and duty and I will stop at nothing to protect those I love and uphold my loyalty. I swear I am better than what I appear. (Redemption, Honor, No limits)
FAITH: Torm
PERSONALITY OVERVIEW: proud, loyal, fearless
FATAL FLAW: has a thirst for power and also has auditory hallucinations from another plane of existence.
FEARS: failure, dishonoring clan
ONE SECRET: Reverence secretly despises certain aspects of ruling in the Imperial Collective
HAPPIEST MEMORY: Playing with a young farm boy once, and being completely accepted for who he was.

~HISTORY~

SKILLSET: combat, intimidation, strength
WEAKNESSES: charisma, dexterity, impulsiveness

BACKSTORY: Reverence grew up inside the safety and luxury of the Imperial Collective. He was only a baby when he was found amongst the rubble of a rebellion that had gone too far. A noble human woman took pity on the baby and saw a great promise in what many others would call "devil eyes". She swore to raise him as her own and brought him into the safety of aristocracy. So she brought him out of the small hut hiding him and to her dwelling within the Imperial Collective's ruling. However, as Reverence grew the judgment of the townspeople grew too heavy for him and others to bear. He was very quickly torn away from noble activities such as reading, writing, and advanced magic. Reverence at the age of 4, was thrown into the training yard where the guards trained, slept, and ate. Although mostly shunned out of town, Reverence holds no ill-will towards them. He believes himself to be a damned creature as well. Reverence worked hard to prove his loyalty and became one of the Collective's best warriors. He has many tales of glory in combat, which he tends to drunkenly overshare and exaggerate these days. However, he can back up his grand stories as he is highly skilled in combat and sword fighting. His main motivation is to regain his position in the imperial army and restore the common people's faith in him as once the hero of the Collective.

WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE?: "They threw me out like old trash... after everything I've trained for." Reverence looked at his own hands, slightly paler than his usual deep blue color. "I am of no use to them, those that I love I can no longer protect." The barmaid overhears the newly-made regular's mumbling about days past."Have one on me." she says as she sets the tankard next to the disheveled man. It wasn't his first and it wouldn't be his last. He had made this small lodge his home for now, since being kicked out of the Great Barrier. He decided he would slowly waste away his life here, spending all he had on booze and entertainment and he was running out, fast.
"Widow's lodge... heh.. kinda like the sound of that"
THEME SONG: hehe had to

~THE PLAYER~

TIMEZONE: CST
PRONOUNS: she/her
COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE? yea

(both)

gouache · Apr 16, 2020

NAME:
Shmuel Dov

PRONOUNS:
He/Him

AGE:
27

SPECIES:
Half-Elf

HOMETOWN:
The Dales

ROLE:
The Bard

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:

He has a heart-shaped face, with a sharp jaw-line, and a prominent chin. His body shape is mostly slim shaped, appearing slightly built, with wide shoulders, and slender but lightly calloused and scarred hands and feet. His skin tone is an olive, bronzed, and warm color, with only a few freckles. He's prone to getting freckles when he's out in the sun, so he's frequently seen wearing large hats to avoid getting any more spots, which looks very dorky. He works very hard to make sure his skin is kept in it's best condition.
His elven ears are miniature in size but have a defined, sharp, and pinched end that is the only very distinctive part of his elven features. From many years of having his hair tied up as a child, he has a severe discoloration on his ears from so much exposure to the sun. He has warm brunette hair that appears almost reddish in the light that is exceptionally thick with tousled tight waves. He has a very hard time managing to brush through his hair, so he often just leaves it unkempt and mismanaged. He stopped caring for it, giving up, and only really messes with it if he absolutely has too. Shmuel often deals with a severe case of bed-head (his hair naturally is a bush) and will just throw on a hat- even though he doesn’t like the feeling of his head being “restricted”. His eyebrows are equally as thick, but are shaped and well taken care of compared to his bushy head of hair. His eyes are hazel-colored, almond shaped, and deep set, with long upturned auburn eyelashes. He often wears a pair of tortoise colored, round framed glasses in private when not around company. He has a regal, greek-looking, and defined nose. He has had sun damage on his nose, showing a vague blushed discoloration. He has full, naturally upturned, long fox-like lips that are always usually in a frown, or a smile- with no inbetween.

WARDROBE:

He has a very distinct and unconnected sense of style and wardrobe all depending on what he is doing and the kind of people he is interacting with, all being dependent on the matter at hand. If not in a specific dress code for what he is doing at the time, he is always seen in a roughed up, russet colored, wool, long length, monastic shaped, with a hood lined in faux fur, and a leather faced belt. Undeather is coat, depending on the weather, he wears a loose fitting beige cropped tank top that is usually always tucked into his high waisted pants. If the weather is hot, he will just wear whatever tank top he has on hand, with his coat draped over his shoulder, or barely stuffed into his bag. He prefers the colder weather for this reason. He most always wears a pair of very worn and antique looking high waisted brown leather pants. If not his leather pants, he wears loose and baggy, harem style, coffee colored pants. Shmuel wears a pair of faux suede boots with a western design, that are knee-high shaft with curved top and dual pull-tabs, pointed toe, side zipper, and a low stacked block heel. His boots are very well-worn, as well as faded from the years of use- considering these are his only shoes. In case of a bad hair day, he throws on a shabby, frayed, coffee colored western style hat, which is basically a cowboy hat. It’s the only hat he has, but he is very attached to it, and in fact would go as far to say he loves it. He has a short bow tied around his back from being wrapped in one of those blanket-like baby slings he was given by his father that he wore while carrying him around as a baby.

INVENTORY:

He has two handed-down switch blades.
He makes a lot of weapons out of wood with actual weapons. Shmuel has made many wooden knives with an actual knife, which happen to be very sharp.
He will often give others wooden knives if he feels they are deserving of one of his fine, authentic, creations.
Excluding the weapons, he just has a ton of interesting objects he makes out of wood. A particular thing he enjoys making is fake finger nails.
He collects the shells of cicadas for really no reason at all beside just for the sake of momentos, or to keep himself busy.
He has a couple very used things of chapstick, and packets of gum he’s found while looting around for supplies.

AILMENTS:
He is extremely dyslexic. He reads really slowly. (For example, if you were in class, he is the one who reads in the type of way that is really frustrating, but you feel so bad for wanting for him to stop because you can tell he never gets the chance to read to anyone already.. so you just patiently wait it out.)

ALIGNMENT:
Chaotic Good.

IDEALS:
Shmuel believes in the power of self sacrifice for the ones you love, and the innocent. He sees others who don't believe in this as well, are selfish as scum of the earth, and frankly will do whatever he can to keep them out of sight. He believes others should have the same core ideals as him, because to him it is the most important characteristic a person can have- is to be completely selfless, even in times that you should feel compelled to be selfish for small, harmless, reasons. This being considered- he will definitely loot if given the chance.

FAITH:
Torm.

PERSONALITY:

Shmuel would be described as cunning, outgoing, hearty, determined, stubborn, empathetic, and immensely emotional. He is sociable and needs human interaction, attention, and to feel listened to too. Shmuel is what you would consider a stereotypical extrovert, always willing to get to know and understand people better- with the exception of needing to be completely alone to concentrate. He naturally is a schmoozer, obnoxiously charming, and playfully flirtatious. Shmuel toys with his "food", he wants to get to know the in and outs of a person before taking the risk of leaping into it- or sleeping with them. He has a photogenic memory, and a sensitive point of view- he can take things seriously when the time calls for it. He is extremely empathetic, and is a main factor in what drives him to get to the bottom of things. His compassion and sympathy for others becomes overwhelming for him- and is definitely known as a cry baby. He isn’t shy of being persistent and voluble. He is an astonishing and deeply layered type of person, and is known for how well thought, detailed, and circumstantial he is. He will not give up on whatever he has set his mind to, even if it comes with a cost, willingly putting himself in danger if it means getting what he wants. He doesn’t let go or forget anything- like the actions someone did or said. His stubbornness is a fault of his, but can also be a good thing depending on the situation at hand. Shmuel is easy to set off because of his rapport, and will have bouts of anger due to it. He struggles with not being able to help everyone, and it weighs heavily on him- making him feel helpless. He is somewhat unstable, reacting on impulse instead rationalizing a situation before going into it. Shmuel can be dramatic, not being one to hold back his emotions or how he feels about something. He has an extremely hard time controlling his laughter when he’s nervous, upset, or even scared. When in a rational state of mind, he is exceptionally bright, clever, and quick-witted.

FATAL FLAW:
He will impulsively jump into dangerous situations if it means protecting someone who needs it.

FEARS:

He lives in fear of the dreaded “silent treatment.”
He hates the feeling of having to run for his life.
Shmuel is very emetophobic, and reacts terribly to himself or anyone else throwing up, or even something small like gagging.
He has a huge fear of snakes and rats.

ONE SECRET:
As a child, he accidentally walked away from a farmers market without paying for a few apples. His father told him to return it, but he didn’t. He still feels very bad about it to this day, often staring up at the ceiling in silence from the guilt of it all, or punching the air.

HAPPIEST MEMORY:
The time his dad fell off the side of the boat while trying to go pee. Him and his brother worked hard to get him back into the boat, but took forever to get the floatie to him because they couldn’t throw it far enough. Once they got their dad inside the boat, they both got in trouble for laughing at him the entire time. Afterwards they went and got something sweet to eat.

SKILLSET:

He is talented at archery, taught by his brother in childhood. He is specifically swift at marking his target and firing, like it’s nobody's business.
Shmuel is also an expert at hand to hand combat, after decades of training with his father.
He’s speciality is rope tying and hunting, all of this being learned from his experience living on the land growing up. He is skillful at making items out of anything he can find, especially when it comes to needing shelter, weapons, food, etc. He can easily set up camp, knowing how to quickly start fires.

WEAKNESSES:
He really sucks at close distance fighting when it comes to the optentant having a weapon, such as a sword. He is best at hand to hand combat, and struggled to predict the moves of someone with a weapon unbenounced to him. Shmuel is also near-sighted, so he has a hard time seeing what's obviously in front of him.

BACKSTORY:

Shmuel was raised on the outskirts of Feyst, The Dales, in a small village, which consisted of just vast fields of farm land, and various types of agriculture. He has a older brother, Mitch, and a human father- who is the only working single parent in their family, considering their mother left them soon after Shmuel was born. At a young age, Shmuel was immediately put into helping the family by working on the farm with his brother and father. He would be up at sunrise tending to the live stock and harvest, and continue this until dawn. He had a relatively happy childhood, even with such a hard work ethic his father instilled into him- Shmuel was still very close with his father. They made somewhat of a good living with the other villagers living on the land using their farmwork to care for their own needs. His family's work is what really kept the village together, but once news of the plague began, it quickly drowned out their small village in the silence of it all. The other villagers up and left, deciding they needed to find a safer place, or even manage to try and get into the Illederes. Shmuel, his brother, and father remained there, their father refusing to leave their farm behind. They lived on the land, but without payment, or really any help- their family began to fall into disarray. His father fell into a depressive state, unable to function by himself with the weight of their destroyed home that he felt he deserved to take blame for. As fast as the plague began, only months later did their father took his life in the shed of their home, leaving Shmuel and his older brother devastated and alone. Now with both the brothers plagued by magerot, they had to quickly decide their plan of action. Mitch already had himself a family, a wife and two children, so he decided to leave the village with them, wanting to bring Shmuel with him. Shmuel chose to go his own path in search of something, in his own heavy overbearing grief, deciding it was something he wanted to do alone. After much time traveling alone, he often seeks out other means of interacting with others to help turn his lonliness around, and to be apart of something greater than himself.

WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE?:

“Could I please have one glass of water?” Shmuel asked in a confident but shaky voice, his hands trembling from exhaustion as he motioned to the barmaid to be quick. “Yeah..” The barmaid just gave him a long look, as if to study to see what exactly was going on with this disheveled person slumped over at the bar. “Just give me a moment.” She exclaimed, quickly turning on her heel to reach for the glasses. Shmuel just flopped his head onto the table with a thump, groaning uncomfortably to himself in the irritation of having to depend on someone just for a couple sips of water. The brunette slowly reached his hand to the bar table, clinging desperately to his conscious state of mind before he would inevitably crumble into a heap of sweat and dust. “Here.” The barmaid placed the glass of water beside his hand, causing Shmuel to fling his head up from it’s flat position, before aggressively grabbing the glass with both his trembling hands. Shmuel threw back the water into his gaping mouth without hesitation, now breathing heavily through his nose to catch his breath while violently chugging down the water. He made insanely loud gulps with his throat, even beginning to start coughing, but kept guzzling it down anyways. “You’re going to choke-” The barmaid gasped, but Shmuel bodly stuck up his index finger at the barmaid before she could continue to keep her from interrupting him. Finally, he finished the last drops of his water, now trying to take a deep breath in between harsh hacking before eventually setting the glass back onto the table. “More, please.” He managed to blurt out, pushing the glass toward her again. “What the hell did you just come back from doing?” The barmaid quickly went about making him another glass of water after seeing how much he really needed it from that insane display. “Running.” Shmuel gasped out, his face now becoming flushed from all the blood welling up in his cheeks from the lack of air he was getting. “Running? From what?” The barmaid asked with a small laugh, before she handed the glass to the disordered brunette again. This time she just stood there and watched him drink with great interest.

Shmuel took a few more gulps of the water with heavy breathing from his nose, clutching the glass of water with both his still trembling and calloused hands. Finally, he set down the glass onto the table with a very heavy sigh. “I don’t know..” Shmuel ran a hand through his hair to try and get it out of his face to get a better view of the barmaid. “You don’t know what you were running from?” “I didn’t look.” He sniffled from water having gone up his nose, before brushing his coat sleeve underneath his nose. Shmuel squinted and rubbed at his eyes, trying to get rid of the blurriness out of his eyes. “I just heard the noise and I ran.” “What noise?” The barmaid folded her arms across her chest, now raising a brow with a smirk. Shmuel blinked a few times, looking ahead to finally have a clear view of the barmaid. “I don’t know.. It sounded like a snake in the bush.” “Oh.. I see.” The barmaid laughed through her nose quietly, before she nodded her head slowly, as Shmuel once again started to nurse the water to his lips with both hands. The barmaid pointed at the glass in his hands, “Hey, why do you do that?” She said in an eager tone of voice. “Do what?” Shmuel asked with a puzzled look on his face, unsure of exactly she would want to know about him. He set the glass back onto the table, now staring at her with brows knitted together. “You hold the cup like how children drink.. With both hands.” She laughed hardly to herself, only for Shmuel to roll his eyes and give her a bashful scoff. “Wow…” Shmuel murmured, “Can’t a guy just drink some water in peace without being judged..” He groaned, half heartedly holding the glass with one hand, taking a few more sips of the water. “Did no one teach you how to drink from a cup? You look to be a grown man.” The barmaid went about fixing the bar up, still continuing to keep eye contact with him. Shmuel wrinkled his nose, dismissively waving her off with a flick of his hand. “I came in here for some cold water.. Not to be penalized for my drinking technique.” He grumbled and rested his chin in the palm of his hand, now beginning to question where he was exactly. All he remembered was running for his life from an unknown creature, he assumed it was a snake, only to see the light from the bar, and just slid inside without a second thought.

THEME SONG:
“Baby Hotline” by Jack Stauber.

--------------------

THE PLAYER:

TIMEZONE:
CDT!

PRONOUNS:
They/them

COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE?
If you're okay with romancing a himbo.... then I'm absolutely okay with it.

(edits to put actual art of shmuel)

Psychonaut · Apr 16, 2020

B A R D
wip

Semblance · Apr 16, 2020

[class=border] --bkgd-colour: #ffffff; --text-colour: #000000; --accent-1: #b05f5f; --image-1: url('https://i.pinimg.com/564x/61/e3/e5/61e3e5250814d78aa4ca9a0db5e8ba5e.jpg'); --image-2: url('https://i.imgur.com/ITFDkRe.png'); --image-3: url('https://i.imgur.com/y1i9ePz.jpg'); [/class] [div class=container][div class=border][div class=image][/div] [div class=title]KAYDA ARZEL
THE WARLOCK[/div][div class=line][/div] [div class=inner][div class=innerfade][div class=header]KAYDA
ARZEL[/div] [div class="tab tab1 chosentab" style="top: 5px;"]requisite-[/div] [div class="tab tab2" style="top: 17px;"]psyche-[/div] [div class="tab tab3" style="top: 29px;"]history-[/div] [div class="tab tab4" style="top: 41px;"]player-[/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents1 show"][div class=scroll]

NICKNAME [div class=answer]Kay

PRONOUNS [div class=answer]She/Her[/div] AGE [div class=answer]24[/div] SPECIES [div class=answer]Quarter Elf (Yuir)[/div] HOMETOWN [div class=answer]Veltalar, Aglarond (near Yuirwood)[/div] ROLE [div class=answer]The Warlock[/div] PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION [div class=answer]Standing at 5'7" and weighing about 130 lbs, Kayda has a lean, athletic build. The first feature one probably notices is the thick scar that runs from the middle of her forehead diagonally down to her left eyebrow. It looks like it never quite healed correctly, giving her a rougher look. A pair of sharp light amber eyes watch her surroundings observantly, always on alert. Her amber eyes complement her dark red hair, making her whole complexion seem brighter. Her cheekbones have a splash of pink, under which her dark lips are thinly parted. A mop of wavy, dark red hair pours down from her head, but she often ties it back and to the side into a loose pony tail, letting it hang over her right shoulder so that it does not get in the way of her daily movings. A pair of wiry ams hang at her side and strong legs keep her standing tall and strong. Because she is only a quarter elf, most of her elvish features have disappeared, as she looks mainly human. However, if she has her hood down (which is rare), an observant onlooker might be able to notice that the tips of her ears are just slightly more pointed than the average human. [/div] WARDROBE [div class=answer]Kayda is generally clad in protective yet comfortable clothing that allows her easy and free movement. She wears black leather pants, filled with many zipped pockets, with a pair of tall leather boots. On her torso, she wears a black long-sleeved woolen shirt under a protective, brown leather tunic that hugs her torso nicely. Her tunic also has a hood, which she is almost always wearing on her head. She also has light pieces of metal armor donning both of her arms to protect her in hand-to-hand combat, particularly fights using knives. Around her neck, she always wears the gold necklace that her brother gave her before they set out on the expedition that took his life. [/div] INVENTORY [div class=answer]Preferring to travel light, Kayda somehow manages to fit everything she has (which is not much) into just her pockets. Sharp twin daggers hang from the belt strapped around her hips and small throwing knives are hidden in the many pockets along her pants. Her coins are hidden in a cloth pouch, tied to her belt loop with wire, so that it doesn't slip out from her fast movements. Her leather bound journal rests in her thigh pocket, filled with sketches and drawings of places she has been and people she has met.[/div] AILMENTS [div class=answer]- Migraines. Occasionally, a splitting headache will tear her brain apart, seemingly coming out of nowhere. During these episodes, there is not much she can do but bury her head into her arms and wait for it to go away. She has learned to keep silent through the excruciating pain, as they have happened during the most inconvenient of times, such as when she's planning a raid or attack. The pain is generally focused on her left forehead, which is where her scar is located. Thus, she believes that the broadsword which gave her this scar was cursed with a life-damaging spell. Recently, ever since the spread of magerot, she noticed that her migraines have gone away. - Insomnia. It's a rare night when she can sleep through the entire night without waking up. She'll spend hours lying in bed, not being able to fall asleep and ruminating on thoughts in her head. Even when she finally falls unconscious, she's a light sleeper who easily wakes up at the smallest change in stimulus, or sometimes for no apparent reason at all.[/div][/div][/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents2"][div class=scroll]

ALIGNMENT[div class=answer]Chaotic Neutral

IDEALS [div class=answer]- Freedom. She follows her own heart and shuns tradition and rules. Her own freedom comes before anything, or anyone, else. - Adventure. She loves traveling to new places and experiencing everything the world has to offer, the good, the bad, and the ugly sides. - Redemption. Kayda blames herself for her brother's death and lives with an incredible amount of guilt eating away at her. She's not sure how to redeem herself, but she has come to terms with the fact that she will bear this burden for the rest of her life. [/div] FAITH [div class=answer]Relkath of the Infinite Branches, who is a chaotic and unpredictable giant treant deity amongst the Yuir elves. Although Kayda is a quarter Yuir elf, she had forgotten most of her elven roots as she grew up in a town run by human thieves and pirates. That is, until Relkath saved her life when she and her brother were lost in the Yuirwood. Since that day, he has been her patron and they've been bound for life. According to Yuir legend, forests were said to sprout wherever he touched the ground and whilst he was known to defend the Yuir elves, he also took action against some of them, turning priests into trees and villages into forests.[/div] PERSONALITY OVERVIEW [div class=answer]Kayda has come to be a rather hardened and rough young woman. Private and reserved, she does not offer up many words if it's not necessary, preferring to watch and listen. It takes her a very long time to trust others, and after the death of her brother, she has not learned to trust anyone else. Underneath her cold exterior, however, lies a complex heart, filled with clashing moralities and wrought with guilt from past decisions that led to her brother's death. Often, the only thing that can get her really talking is art. Relkath, her patron, has a penchant for the finest art pieces, from paintings to sculptures to drawings to photography and everything in between. This passion was passed onto Kayda, who will do anything in her power to acquire a good piece of art into her possession. Here, her moral boundaries certainly become blurred, as she is even willing to kill to get her hands on something she desperately wants. She is extremely determined when she has a goal in mind and will not stop until it's achieved. Although she has to give all the high-value pieces to her patron, Relkath allows her to keep a few here and there as well. Practicing her own hand, Kayda spends hours drawing from her own imagination or sketching what's in front of her. Due to the nature magic she received from her patron, she was able to understand and trust animals, as they generally they found her to be nonthreatening. Thus, she feels a high affinity for the forests and mountains, always enjoying her solo strolls through the more peaceful natural forests, preferring the company of chippering birds over people. Now that she has lost her magic and patron, she grows more fearful of the world around her, especially in nature, a once safe haven for her has now become a strange land once again. Additionally, Kayda has a very observant eye, spending a lot of her time sitting on rooftops or hiding in alleyways, just watching a bustling crowd of people. Highly detail-oriented and able to pick up on reoccurring patterns, her logical and problem-solving mind is good at concocting plans for her raids or heists on valuable art pieces. [/div] FATAL FLAW [div class=answer]- An especially beautiful piece of art. She can't stand not getting her hands on them, and neither can her patron. If something catches her eye, she must have it and she will do anything in her power to get it. - Raw guilt over her brother's death. It eats away at her every day and images flash in her head every night. If someone wanted to play with her head and manipulate her, using this guilt would get her to do anything. [/div] FEARS [div class=answer]She's afraid to die too soon. There's a few things she believes she must do before she meets her death. For one, she wants to redeem herself for her brother's death. She also wants to experience the type of trust and comfort she felt with her brother again with someone else. Finally, she wants to find a place that she will truly be able to feel at home again. Kayda fears that she will never be able to experience any of this. [/div] ONE SECRET [div class=answer]How she caused her brother's death. No one but her patron knows about what happened, and it's a carefully guarded secret. [/div] HAPPIEST MEMORY [div class=answer]Before her father got sick and before their town was overrun with thieves and pirates, Kayda, her brother, and her father would take walks by the sea after eating dinner together. The setting sun would cast a beautiful golden, pink light over the sky, painting the clouds a mixture of yellows, reds, and oranges. Once, her brother bent over to dig out a seashell he had spotted in the sand just as the the next wave came crashing in. Kayda took the bottom of her feat and kicked his butt, sending him flying face first into the wet, salty sand. She and her father cracked up laughing uncontrollably, while her brother, with a mischievous grin on his face, picked himself back up and tackled her into the soaked sand.[/div] [/div][/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents3"][div class=scroll]

SKILLSET [div class=answer]-Wielding her twin daggers. Kayda is well-versed in using her two sharp metal blades in a close combat fight, as this was how she mainly defended herself before she met her patron diety, Relkath. - Throwing knives. Practicing on trees in her free time, Kayda has precise aim when throwing her knives at a target from afar. She's still a little rusty, since she had mainly been using her magic to defend herself for a long time, so she has lost some touch to it. - Artistically inclined. Often drawing in her journal in her free time, Kayda has enjoyed sketching and painting ever since she met Relkath. This is one of the few things that still reminds her of her patron diety and that she will hold onto forever. She has a good eye for the aesthetically beautiful and enjoys replicating that onto paper. - Stealth and thievery. After spending the better part of her life planning heists to steal high-value art pieces, she's mastered the art of the shadows, sticking closely to walls as she moves and feeling more comfortable under the cloak of the night. Her preferred method of combat is lack thereof. Ideally, she'll be around the corner with whatever she stole stuffed into her back pocket before her enemy even realizes something was off. *- Nature magic. Kayda feels a strong affinity towards the trees, forests, plants, and living nature around her. Before the spread of magerot, she was able to understand an animal's way of communicating, often soliciting their help. For offense, she was able to conjure up lashing thorny vines out of the ground and attack her enemy. Likewise, she could cause about a 20-foot radius of hard spikes and thorns to twist and sprout out of the ground. Finally, for defense, she could quickly cause the point of impact on her body to thicken into a bark-like armor, allowing her to block the opponent's strike. These powers of nature had been bestowed upon her by Relkath. After the spread of magerot, however, she finds herself now mostly powerless. Occasionally, in her desperate moments, a small burst of magical energy might come back, but even then, she's not able to do much with it.

WEAKNESSES [div class=answer]- Hand to hand combat. As she relied on her nature magic for so long and on her daggers before that, she is rather clunky when it comes to hand to hand fighting. - Clumsy with big weapons. Weapons such has big swords, axes, machetes, and the like are often too heavy to her and she has a hard time wielding them. - Not academically inclined. She stopped formal studies when she was 15 years old, which is when she met Relkath and left her hometown. She does not feel the need to read many books and most bookish knowledge flies over her heard. [/div] BACKSTORY [div class=answer]Kayda Arzel's ancestors were Yuir wild elves, populating the once dense forests of Yuirwood. Once spanning the entirety of the Aglarondan peninsula, the human settlers of Aglarond caused the forests boundaries to recede to the center of the peninsula. The humans mixed with the elves, allowing Kayda to hold some elven blood today. Kayda grew up in the Veltalar capital of Aglarond, a mainly human settlement. As such, she has very little connection to her elven roots and lived most of her life as a human would. Because the Pirate Isles lay only a hundred miles off of the Aglarondan islands, over time, the capital became overrun with pirates and thieves, turning the very heart of Aglarond into a wretched hive of scum and villainy. This is the type of place that Kayda grew up, living with her older brother and father. Kayda and her brother, Kayden, grew extremely close navigating the rough streets of Veltalar together. Their father wrestled with health issues his whole life, so he didn't have the energy to monitor them too closely. The two quarter elves watched each other's backs, getting into mischief and running free through the city. They learned to pickpocket unknowing bystanders and steal from the back alleyways of jewel shops. This became their main source of income, as their father was too sick to work, so they were constantly living on the edge of hunger. They learned which corners and nooks of the city to avoid, as those were filled with notoriously brutal gangs, but soon, they learned the city like the back of their hand. Meanwhile, Kayda's father was getting more and more sick. The two of them tried to steal medicine for him but nothing was working. One day, Kayda was hiding behind a stack of wooden crates in an alleyway when she overheard a group of pirates talking about a magical healing potion she had looted from another ship on their way here. Under the dark cloak of the night, Kayda stealthily slipped onto the pirate ship and rummaged through the pirates' booty, looking for this healing potion. Down in the treasure chamber of the ship, she was trapped when the five pirates, including the captain, confronted her in the middle of their search. Kayda immediately threw one of her throwing knives at the closest pirate, slicing his shoulder. However, she was no match for the five veteran pirates and their sharp swords. "How dare you steal from me!" The captain bellowed. In anger, he sliced a gash across Kayda's forehead, leaving the scar she has today. As the first mate stepped forward to end her life, the captain stopped him. "We can put this scoundrels to some good use," he said with a glint in his eye. The pirates sent Kayda deep into the woods of what was left of Yuirwood in search of a legendary treasure they had heard of. It was supposed to be a beautiful painting of a genie, and anyone who acquires it will be granted any wish in the world. If she was able to bring the painting back to the pirates, her life, and her family's lives, would be spared. When Kayda told Kayden what had happened, he immediately insisted that he go with her. She knew that she should have refused, but she was scared of venturing into Yuirwood alone, so she agreed. They wandered for days deep in the wilderness with only their daggers to protect them. The trees seemed to get thicker and denser the further they ventured. Meanwhile, they grew weaker and weaker as they ran out of food and water. On the 7th day, they heard a terrible screech behind them and out of the bushes came a monstrous spider. It lunged towards them with sharp, poisonous pinchers. Kayda swiped at its many beady red eyes, trying to blind it, but the slashes only angered the monster more. The giant spider shot its spider silk out at Kayden, knocking him back into a tree, unable to move. The monster lunged towards Kayden, its pinchers aimed at his throat. Kayda jumped at the spider at the same time, hoping to stop it, but she was a split second too late. Kayden's shriek of pain echoed through the woods as his throat was sliced apart. Kayda cut the spider's neck off and it dropped to the ground with a dead plump. "No, Kayden!" Tears ran down her face as she held her dying brother in her arms. As he took his last breath, Kayda looked at her own dagger and wondered if she should do the same to herself. Kayda wandered aimlessly around the forest with no purpose to her life. She didn't care if she died. Finally, weak from lack of water and food, she laid down under a large twisted tree, ready for death to take her. Suddenly, the tree above her began to move. Roots broke out from the ground and leaves began to fall from the infinite moving branches. The large tree conformed itself into the form of a giant human made of bark, branches, and leaves. Kayda smiled weakly at the giant treant diety. She remembered stories that her father used to tell her, about the remaining gods still leaving in the Yuirwoods who watch over us Yuir elves even today. "I am Rekalth of the Infinite Branches," the treant diety said softly but firmly, his eyes filled with pity for the girl lying at his feet. "I sense your Yuir blood, so I will help you. However, I request something in return." Kayda felt energy return to her body, bringing herself back to life. However, she sensed something new, something even stronger surging through her veins. She looked around and suddenly all of the trees, the grass, the animals, felt like home to her, like she belong here somehow. Kayda extended her hand at a spot on the ground and a thorny, lashing vine grew out of the dirt, ready to attack anything she wished. She had acquired the magical powers of nature. It turns out that Rekalth was the one in possession of the sought-after genie painting, as he had a large penchant for beautiful art. For the rest of her days, her job was the scour the world in search of specific high-value art pieces that he requested. In return, she could keep her magical powers and he would be there to protect her always. She returned to her hometown and easily killed the pirate gang with her new powers, avenging her brother's death. When she got home, however, she found her father's still body on his bed. It was too late. Suffering the death of the only two people she held close to her, Kayda ran far from Veltalar, as far as she could. She spent most of her days traveling from one place to another, drawing everything she could into her little notebook. Kayda planned heists into pawn shops, high-class art galleries, and people's homes to obtain these valuable art pieces at the request of her patron. She was willing to do whatever it took and took out anyone who got in her way. Underneath this pursuit for material art, the guilt of her brother's death continued to gnaw away at her. She was the one who failed to acquire the healing potion for their father and put them in the mess with the pirates. She was the one who let her brother come with her into the woods. She was the one who didn't kill the spider in time. She caused his death. Ever since the spread of magerot, however, she has felt very lonely in the silence of the world and Rekalth's absence. Although she still holds onto her passion for art, she feels like her life has lost its meaning. Recently, Kayda has been holed up in Waterdeep, staying at Widow's Lodge and drinking away her despair.[/div] WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE WIDOW'S LODGE? [div class=answer]Kayda opened the wooden entrance to the Widow's Lodge, her sharp amber eyes scouring the place. She took her usual spot at the bar and waved at the barmaid, not bothering to vocalize her order, as she had frequented this dingy tavern often enough to become a regular. A beer was set down before her and she took a sip. She tried to hide the distaste on her face, but the barmaid made a sour face at her. "Doesn't meet your standards?" she asked, her arms crossed. "Just hate beer," Kayda replied. "You come here and drink every day," the barmaid retorted. "There's nothing else to do," Kayda sighed. "Nothing in this world anymore." Familiar with the disheartened traveler, especially in this day and age, the barmaid walked away. She came back with a glass of whiskey and set it down before her. "Maybe this will make you feel better." Kayda took the whiskey and took a giant gulp, feeling the alcohol slide smoothly and warmly down into her stomach. "Now that's what I'm talking about." [/div] THEME SONG [div class=answer]The Kite String Triangle - The Devil You Know[/div] [/div][/div][/div] [div class="tabContents tabContents4"][div class=scroll]

TIMEZONE[div class=answer]Eastern Standard Timezone (EST)

PRONOUNS [div class=answer]She/Her[/div] COMFORTABLE WITH ROMANCE? [div class=answer]If there's chemistry, it would be a crime to deny it

[/div] FC CREDIT [div class=answer] Enchanted Anna[/div] [/div][/div] [/div][/div][/div][/div][/div] [class=container] width: 550px; height: 350px; margin: auto; cursor: url(https://66.media.tumblr.com/232c090ebdd37ae4bc17adb54e1e0344/tumblr_inline_ol4nwhvSwg1uxxza6_75sq.png), auto!important; [/class] [class=border] position: absolute; width: 450px; height: 350px; margin: auto; background: var(--bkgd-colour); margin-left: 50px; display: flex; align-items: center; [/class] [class=image] width: 120px; height: 300px; left: 380px; position: absolute; border: 2px solid var(--bkgd-colour); background: var(--image-1); background-position: center; background-size: cover; z-index: 1; transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=title] color: var(--text-colour); position: absolute; font-weight: 100; line-height: 35px; padding: 5px; width: 330px; font-size: 30px; text-align: left; left: 20px; [/class] [class=line] background: var(--accent-1); opacity: 3; Width: 380px; height: 1px; bottom: 135px; position: absolute; [/class] [class=inner] position: absolute; right: 0px; height: 300px; width: 0px; background: var(--bkgd-colour); transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=slide] left: -50px; transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=expand] width: 378px; transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=tab] width: 120px; background: none; line-height: 10px; font-size: 11px; position: absolute; right: 15px; color: var(--text-colour); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 5px; text-align: right; cursor: url(https://66.media.tumblr.com/6fb38fc5e97353c67e3fc3a2e2b29bf9/tumblr_inline_ol4nwisGdu1uxxza6_75sq.png), auto!important; font-family: Acme; transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=header] line-height: 25px; font-size: 24px; position: absolute; color: var(--text-colour); text-transform: uppercase; padding: 5px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: left; font-weight: bold; position: absolute; top: 0px; left: 10px; height: 20px; width: 220px; text-decoration: underline; text-decoration-color: var(--accent-1); [/class] [class name=tab state=hover] color: var(--accent-1); transition: 1s all; [/class] [class=innerfade] height: 100%; width: 100%; opacity: 0; transition: 0.3s all; pointer-events: none; [/class] [class=fadein] opacity: 1; transition: 1s all; transition-delay: 0.8s; pointer-events: auto; [/class] [class=tabContents] position: absolute; border-right: 5px solid transparent; box-sizing: border-box; top: 85px; left: 35px; width: 325px; height: 200px; font-size: 10px; line-height: 20px; font-family: PT Serif; text-align: left; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: justify; overflow: hidden; color: var(--accent-1); opacity: 0; [/class] [class=answer] text-transform: none; line-height: 15px; padding-bottom: 15px; color: var(--text-colour); letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre-line; [/class] [class=show] opacity: 1; transition: all 1.5s; z-index: 1; [/class] [script class=border on=mouseenter] addClass slide image addClass expand inner addClass fadein innerfade [/script] [script class=border on=mouseleave] removeClass slide image removeClass expand inner removeClass fadein innerfade [/script] [script class=tab1 on=click] addClass show tabContents1 addClass chosentab tab1 removeClass show tabContents2 removeClass show tabContents3 removeClass show tabContents4 removeClass chosentab tab2 removeClass chosentab tab3 removeClass chosentab tab4 [/script] [script class=tab2 on=click] addClass show tabContents2 addClass chosentab tab2 removeClass show tabContents1 removeClass show tabContents3 removeClass show tabContents4 removeClass chosentab tab1 removeClass chosentab tab3 removeClass chosentab tab4 [/script] [script class=tab3 on=click] addClass show tabContents3 addClass chosentab tab3 removeClass show tabContents1 removeClass show tabContents2 removeClass show tabContents4 removeClass chosentab tab1 removeClass chosentab tab2 removeClass chosentab tab4 [/script] [script class=tab4 on=click] addClass show tabContents4 addClass chosentab tab4 removeClass show tabContents1 removeClass show tabContents2 removeClass show tabContents3 removeClass chosentab tab1 removeClass chosentab tab2 removeClass chosentab tab3 [/script] [class=chosentab] color: var(--accent-1); transition: 1s all; z-index: 2; [/class] [class=scroll] width: 100%; height: 100%; overflow-y: scroll; padding-right: 17px; [/class] [class=leftpic] float: left; display: inline-block; width: 145px; height: 180px; margin: 5px 0; [/class] [class=rightpic] float: right; display: inline-block; width: 145px; height: 180px; margin: 5px 0; [/class]

MToki · Apr 17, 2020

[class=content] position: relative; width: 300px; height: 400px; margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto; overflow: hidden; --bkgd-color: #FFE7AD; --text-color: #000; --accent-color: #00A68C; cursor: url('https://i.imgur.com/eyUJ9gM.png'), auto; [/class] [class=homebkgd] box-sizing: border-box; position: absolute; width: 100%; height: 100%; background-color: var(--bkgd-color); [/class] [class=intro] position: absolute; width: 100%; height: auto; color: var(--text-color); font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 5px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; top: 10%; [/class] [class=name] position: absolute; width: 100%; height: auto; color: var(--text-color); font-size: 22px; letter-spacing: 5px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; text-shadow: 2px 2px 0px var(--accent-color); top: 13%; [/class] [class=role] position: absolute; width: 100%; height: auto; color: var(--text-color); font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 5px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; top: 20%; [/class] [class=line] position: absolute; width: 80%; height: 1px; border-radius: 10px; background-color: var(--accent-color); top: 28%; left: 10%; [/class] [class=icon] position: absolute; width: 5%; height: 15px; background: url(https://imgur.com/EHavE1R.png); background-size: 100%; top: 32%; left: 47.5%; transition-duration: 0.5s; animation:{post_id}throb 10s linear infinite; [/class] [class=pic] position: absolute; width: 80%; height: 52%; background: url(https://i.pinimg.com/736x/35/2f/01/352f01a14baa717e730f7e6f637bf655.jpg); background-size: 100%; background-position: 0% 40%; top: 40%; left: 10%; border: 0.5px solid var(--accent-color); [/class] [animation=throb] [keyframe=0]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [keyframe=10]transform: scale(0.95);[/keyframe] [keyframe=20]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [keyframe=30]transform: scale(0.95);[/keyframe] [keyframe=40]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [keyframe=50]transform: scale(0.95);[/keyframe] [keyframe=60]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [keyframe=70]transform: scale(0.95);[/keyframe] [keyframe=80]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [keyframe=90]transform: scale(0.95);[/keyframe] [keyframe=100]transform: scale(1.5);[/keyframe] [/animation] [script class=button on=click] addClass slideup homebkgd [/script] [class=slideup] animation-name: {post_id}slup; animation-duration: 1.7s; animation-fill-mode: forwards; [/class] [animation=slup] [keyframe=0]transform: translateY(0%);[/keyframe] [keyframe=100]transform: translateY(-100%);visibility:hidden;[/keyframe] [/animation] [class=bkgd] position: absolute; width: 100%; height: 100%; background-color: var(--bkgd-color); [/class] [class=header] position: absolute; width: 80%; height: auto; color: var(--text-color); font-size: 22px; letter-spacing: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: left; top: 6%; left: 10%; [/class] [class=tabcontainer] position: absolute; height: 20px; width: auto; top: 7.2%; left: 63%; [/class] [class=tab] position: relative; color: var(--text-color); width: 20px; height: 10px; display: inline; font-size: 15px; padding: 0px 5px 0px 6px; transition-duration: 0.3s; [/class] [class name=tab state=hover] color: var(--accent-color); transition-duration: 0.3s; [/class] [class=textcontainer] position: absolute; overflow: hidden; top: 18%; left: 10%; width: 90%; height: 75%; [/class] [class=text] position: relative; overflow: auto; width: 255px; height: 100%; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px; color: var(--text-color); text-align: justify; text-transform: lowercase; padding-right: 50px; [/class] [class=tag] position: relative; display: inline; width: auto; height: auto; color: var(--accent-color); text-transform: uppercase; margin-right: 5px; text-decoration: underline; font-weight: 700; [/class] [class=credit] position: relative; overflow: hidden; width: 100%; height: 10px; text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 8px; color: #dedede; opacity: 0.25; [/class] [script class=tab on=click] hide tabsContent set currentTab (getText) if (eq ${currentTab} 1) (fadeIn 500 tabsContent1) if (eq ${currentTab} 2) (fadeIn 500 tabsContent2) if (eq ${currentTab} 3) (fadeIn 500 tabsContent3) if (eq ${currentTab} 4) (fadeIn 500 tabsContent4) [/script] [div class=content] [div class=bkgd] [div class=line style="top: 5%;"][/div] [div class="header tabsContent tabsContent1"]REQUISITE[/div] [div class="header tabsContent tabsContent2" style="display:none;"]psyche[/div] [div class="header tabsContent tabsContent3" style="display:none;"]history[/div] [div class="header tabsContent tabsContent4" style="display:none;"]the player[/div] [div class=line style="top: 15%;"][/div] [div class=tabcontainer] [div class=tab]1[/div] [div class=tab]2[/div] [div class=tab]3[/div] [div class=tab]4[/div] [/div] [div class="textcontainer tabsContent tabsContent1"][div class=text] [div class=tag]name:[/div] Altis Iphel

[div class=tag]alias:[/div] Thil (the name he had as a child, but those who knew him as a youngster still call him this.)

[div class=tag]pronouns:[/div] he/him

[div class=tag]age:[/div] 105

[div class=tag]species:[/div] Elf

[div class=tag]hometown:[/div] Vieta, a rather large village in the Feywilds

[div class=tag]role:[/div] the bard

[div class=tag]physical description:[/div] Altis is rather interesting looking for an elf. Standing at a meager 5’7, he hasn’t received his ancestor’s grace of height, but his rather slim and slender build fits in with what most expect. Sharp, pointed ears frame an oddly round face, which aside from the aforementioned ears, holds only soft features that makes him look decades younger than he is. The rest of his appearance has been drastically altered by magerot. Where once emerald green eyes shimmered like a meadow covered in fresh dew, now stands almost white pools of mist, that have only been kissed by its prior color. His straight blonde hair, which curtained half his forehead in a blanket of soft wheat, now has turned into brittle locks of white. His skin, tanned and golden for many days spent under the sun, is now replaced by pale, ashy skin, like a maiden who used too much powder. However, the worst affected are his hands. Although calloused by strings of his lute, his hands were graceful dancers from which music and magic erupted from. Since his infection, the nails have turned black and fallen off, a painful sight to behold. Now bandages and gloves cover hands that looked as if death had personally held them.

[div class=tag]wardrobe:[/div] A lot of his clothing is reminiscent of moon elves, with detailed weaving and of the finest textiles but simple in design. Bright colors are essential to him, and many of his outfits seem rather showy, however, he will sacrifice appearances for movement if need be. Although Altis likes flashy clothing, he is not a fan of unnecessary accessories and addons, often finding jewelry getting in the way of his performances. The only thing on his person that could even remotely be described as dull, are his brown leather boots, which he prefers to have sturdy and durable rather than decorative.

[div class=tag]inventory:[/div] As a traveling bard, he doesn’t like to carry much, what he does have, he holds dear, Every item in his little knapsack has history and value:

A lute made of strong redwood with floral carving etched on its face
Various journals and papers, each with almost unreadable handwriting that hold every song and story he knows
A beautifully carved flute worn from time
A simple pencil
A small bottle of ash and antler shavings, given to him by his mother
A Waterskin
2 daggers, one of intricate silver and the other of normal iron
A silk pouch where he keeps his coin

[div class=tag]ailments:[/div] N/A [/div][/div] [div class="textcontainer tabsContent tabsContent2" style="display:none;"][div class=text] [div class=tag]alignments:[/div] Chaotic Neutral

[div class=tag]ideals:[/div]

Stories. As a bard of lore and legend, Altis believes stories hold secrets to a better life. Every story, true or not, has a lesson, whether that be as simple as "Don't trust shady figures in the night" or as specific as "A heart may not hold love for one forever, new interests will bloom and your heart will chase others, and what you do next is your choice, but do not blame the beating organ in your chest when your other half finds you in another's bed." Stories teach people about life.
People. People are the heart of every tale, song, and work of art. Their individuality, their creativity, their unpredictable emotions, every part of them is filled with so many stories. Altis strongly believes that in the end, the people will always succeed. No powerful government, no grave curse, not even a deity could stop their will and their inherent sense of justice. Little, chaotic beings with little wisdom as they may be, the people will never cease to surprise and surpass.

[div class=tag]faith:[/div] Altis mainly worships Milil, a deity of the arts under Oghma, but he also sends prayers to Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune. He has a little silver medallion with a harp of leaves to show his faith, which he clutches when scared or stressed out.

[div class=tag]personality overview:[/div] Altis frequently says that he was “Born to be a bard and nothing else.” and his personality reflects that. Vibrant and loud, he isn’t afraid to draw attention to himself, often thriving in the limelight and unable to function in complete silence. Even with the attention that could be described as negative, he doesn’t mind. As a result of his immense enjoyment of being seen and heard, the elf never seems to shut up, which can lead him to ramble on and on about irrelevant information. But don’t take his ramblings as those of a common fool, for he may not be the most educated, he holds a century’s worth of wisdom. Because this isn’t a fool who has spent their life in the court of nobility, he has traveled to faraway lands, watched heroes in action, and been on journeys worth hundreds of songs. As you might be able to tell, Altis does not deal well with complacency. He wants adventure and strives to create new stories of his own. His endless love affair with tales has made him rather fearless and, perhaps even more so, reckless. He’s become more and more impulsive over the years, often considering his actions after they’ve taken place. However, do not mistake his careless behavior for selfishness, as the bard wants nothing more but experience and companionship. Even though he cannot live with others in his life, Altis has a bad tendency to hide his true feelings, especially if he believes that it’ll make him appear weak.

[div class=tag]fatal flaw:[/div] Overconfidence. The bard is not a fighter, but he will pick fights. He is not an artisan, but he will challenge them. He is not a gambler, but he will bet his life. In every sense, Altis is too confident in his abilities, especially those he doesn't have. This ties in with the fact that he never seems to stop talking, which has gotten him into trouble several times in the past.

[div class=tag]fears:[/div] Altis tries to come off as fearless, and he is rather unafraid of most things, but he has one fear that trumps all others, which is spending the rest of his days alone. He can be unloved, he could even handle being despised, but being left by himself, more specifically ignored, to him that's fatal.

[div class=tag]one secret:[/div] Many know that the bard hails from the Feywilds and they all assume that he has simply traveled to grace the humans with his stories, but will return home, or does so regularly. However, the truth is Altis has been banished from his home and is to never return. Why you may ask? He’s been accused of murdering a noble Eladrin and is now seen as a traitor to his kind.

[div class=tag]happiest memory:[/div] A day where he performed for his first crowd, and even though no one was paying attention, his mother was there, smiling, a real smile. [/div][/div] [div class="textcontainer tabsContent tabsContent3" style="display:none;"][div class=text] [div class=tag]skillset:[/div]

Entertainment. With his life spent performing, Altis has gotten quite good at entertaining people in a variety of ways. Acting, singing, storytelling, and even fire spitting, anything that involves an audience and keeping them enamored, he has mastered or will soon. He can play an array of instruments, though the lute is his favorite, can do simple card tricks, which comes in handy every so often, and can dance as if he were raised within high castle walls.
Deception. To Altis, lying is just acting, so for him, it comes as easily as breathing. He has no tell or trouble when it comes to deceiving others, being able to make even the most outrageous statements sound possible. In fact, he often brags that he can convince a man that his own wife is a witch.
Illusionary Magic. Although his arcane abilities have left him since his run-in with magerot, Altis used to be rather skilled when it came to illusions. Mostly using it for performance purposes, he could create and amaze with his use of magic. From atmospheric sounds to large creatures of convincing appearance, the vast uses of his abilities were almost endless.

[div class=tag]weakneses:[/div]

Combat. With little physical strength and uncoordinated agility, Altis can’t put up much of a fight. He isn’t scared of battle, far from it, but he is of little use in combat, often hiding away to observe the fight from a safe distance. Weapons are foreign to him, his reflexes too clumsy to be useful, and what agility he has is purely for show.
Survival. Don’t misconstrue this, because he has survived situations with a mountain of luck stacked against him, however, put him into the middle of the forest with nothing but his wits and he’d be dead within the hour. He is a man of urban living, so rural skills have no hold on him. In the past when he’s been forced to camp out in the wilderness, Altis has always had a companion with him to make sure he survives through it.
Pain. There’s little he can endure when it comes to pain. Anything from a few hits to a shallow cut will have him groaning. It wouldn’t be right to say that he’s afraid of being hurt, just that he’s rather sensitive and that torture is very effective.

[div class=tag]backstory:[/div] It isn’t exactly clear when or where he was born, but a baby Altis was brought to an artisan's cottage where he was then passed on to Varisa, a woman he considers his true mother. She was a cleric hired by a local elven lord, known for her charming but apathetic nature, and for whatever reason, she decided to raise him. Most of his younger years were spent wandering the castle she was staying at and following her around as she conducted her duties. On one of these jobs, they went to an instrument shop to heal the sick owner, once back to full health, the owner was so grateful that they gave Varisa a beautiful flute, which she nonchalantly passed onto Altis. This is where his love for music began. Although he wasn’t exactly a savant at first, even annoying several other castle residents to the point of frequent complaint, through enthusiastic practice and Varisa’s encouragement, he eventually became somewhat competent. Around his adolescence, his mother began to teach him the basics of the arcane arts and her goddess, Beshaba. For a brief period of time, Altis thought of being a cleric alongside her, but as his interest for the divine arts lessened, his dreams of performing grew. Varisa saw this, and trying her best to support her son, offered to teach him some illusionary magic to help attract some attention. Years passed and after a bunch of practice, he made a name for himself enough to perform for a few taverns. However, he soon lost inspiration for his songs and sought to travel out of the Feywilds to the mysterious land of the humans. Reluctantly, his mother allowed him to travel. During this time of his life, Altis journeyed to several different lands, accompanying anyone who smelled of adventure and heroism. After a few decades of collecting stories and entertaining the various inhabitants of the mortal realm, the bard returned to the Feywilds. Being newly turned adult at the age of 95, as a birthday gift of sorts, his mother got him an opportunity to perform for a noble Eladrin and he’d truly be a fool to turn an offer like that down. Altis pulled out everything for his performance. All his best spells, songs, and stories, to entertain the Eladrin court. When the night was done, he was exhausted and quickly fell asleep. But when he awoke the palace was in chaos. The lord was dead. He had been murdered during the night and no one knew who had done it, except for his advisor who was quick to accuse Altis. Through some further investigation, a wizard proclaimed that they could sense Altis’ magic on the lord. And that was that. He was a murderer. The only reason he wasn’t killed was because of his mother's close ties to the goddess of misfortune. But he couldn’t go unanswered for his crimes, so Altis was banished from the Feywilds forever. It’s been a decade since that day and every year he tries to send letters to the high fey court to prove his innocence. Recently he’s found the wizard that claimed to see Altis’ magic on the body, they confessed that they were actually paid by the advisor to accuse him. With testimony under his belt, the high court agreed to hear his case, but before he could make it home, he was infected with magerot. Now he travels the land, performing for anyone who will pay him in the hopes to buy a cure.

[div class=tag]what brings you to the widow's lodge?:[/div] “Me? Well, fair maiden, to share my tales of wonder with this lovely town!” The elf happily answered, strumming a chord on his lute. “Your first time in Waterdeep then?” The barmaid asked curiously, placing down a drink in front of him. “No, no. I’ve been here plenty of times, but every journey here feels like the first time.” Altis smiled, before taking a sip of his drink. Although he enjoyed the company, he would rather not have to mention his reason for returning to Waterdeep. In reality, he was having some trouble acquiring money and Waterdeep always paid pretty well.

[div class=tag]theme song:[/div] stuck in the middle with you - stealers wheel [/div][/div] [div class="textcontainer tabsContent tabsContent4" style="display:none;"][div class=text] [div class=tag]timezone:[/div] MST

[div class=tag]pronouns:[/div] he/him

[div class=tag]comforatble with romance?:[/div] Both PC and NPC are fine image credit [/div][/div] [/div] [div class=homebkgd] [div class=intro]introducing[/div] [div class="name button"]Altis Iphel[/div] [div class=role]the bard[/div] [div class=line][/div] [div class="icon button"][/div] [div class="pic button"][/div] [/div] [/div][div class=credit]code by [COLOR=#dedede]sox[/COLOR][/div]

perric febrill.

the bard • elf •

— requisite.

name.

altis iphel

nickname.

thil (the name he had as a child, but those who knew him as a youngster still call him this.)

pronouns.

he/him

age.

105

hometown.

vieta, a rather large town in the feywilds

appearance.

altis is rather interesting looking for an elf. standing at a meager 5’7, he hasn’t received his ancestor’s grace of height, but his rather slim and slender build fits in with what most expect. sharp, pointed ears frame an oddly round face, which aside from the aforementioned ears, holds only soft features that makes him look decades younger than he is. the rest of his appearance has been drastically altered by magerot. where once emerald green eyes shimmered like a meadow covered in fresh dew, now stands almost white pools of mist, that have only been kissed by its prior color. his straight blonde hair, which curtained half his forehead in a blanket of soft wheat, now has turned into brittle locks of white. his skin, tanned and golden for many days spent under the sun, is now replaced by pale, ashy skin, like a maiden who used too much powder. however, the worst affected are his hands. although calloused by strings of his lute, his hands were graceful dancers from which music and magic erupted from. since his infection, the nails have turned black and fallen off, a painful sight to behold. now bandages and gloves cover hands that looked as if death had personally held them

inventory.

as a traveling bard, he doesn’t like to carry much, what he does have, he holds dear, every item in his little knapsack has history and value:
+ a lute made of strong redwood with floral carving etched on its face
+ various journals and papers, each with almost unreadable handwriting that hold every song and story he knows
+ a beautifully carved flute worn from time
+ a simple pencil
+ a small bottle of ash and antler shavings, given to him by his mother
+ a waterskin
+ 2 daggers, one of intricate silver and the other of normal iron
+ a silk pouch where he keeps his coin

wardrobe.

a lot of his clothing is reminiscent of moon elves, with detailed weaving and of the finest textiles but simple in design. bright colors are essential to him, and many of his outfits seem rather showy, however, he will sacrifice appearances for movement if need be. although altis likes flashy clothing, he is not a fan of unnecessary accessories and addons, often finding jewelry getting in the way of his performances. the only thing on his person that could even remotely be described as dull, are his brown leather boots, which he prefers to have sturdy and durable rather than decorative.

ailments.

none

— psyche.

alignment.

chaotic neutral

ideals.

stories. as a bard of lore and legend, altis believes stories hold secrets to a better life. every story, true or not, has a lesson, whether that be as simple as "don't trust shady figures in the night" or as specific as "a heart may not hold love for one forever, new interests will bloom and your heart will chase others, and what you do next is your choice, but do not blame the beating organ in your chest when your other half finds you in another's bed." stories teach people about life.
people. people are the heart of every tale, song, and work of art. their individuality, their creativity, their unpredictable emotions, every part of them is filled with so many stories. altis strongly believes that in the end, the people will always succeed. no powerful government, no grave curse, not even a deity could stop their will and their inherent sense of justice. little, chaotic beings with little wisdom as they may be, the people will never cease to surprise and surpass.

faith.

altis mainly worships milil, a deity of the arts under oghma, but he also sends prayers to beshaba, the goddess of misfortune. he has a little silver medallion with a harp of leaves to show his faith, which he clutches when scared or stressed out.

overview.

altis frequently says that he was “born to be a bard and nothing else.” and his personality reflects that. vibrant and loud, he isn’t afraid to draw attention to himself, often thriving in the limelight and unable to function in complete silence. even with the attention that could be described as negative, he doesn’t mind. as a result of his immense enjoyment of being seen and heard, the elf never seems to shut up, which can lead him to ramble on and on about irrelevant information. but don’t take his ramblings as those of a common fool, for he may not be the most educated, he holds a century’s worth of wisdom. because this isn’t a fool who has spent their life in the court of nobility, he has traveled to faraway lands, watched heroes in action, and been on journeys worth hundreds of songs. as you might be able to tell, altis does not deal well with complacency. he wants adventure and strives to create new stories of his own. his endless love affair with tales has made him rather fearless and, perhaps even more so, reckless. he’s become more and more impulsive over the years, often considering his actions after they’ve taken place. however, do not mistake his careless behavior for selfishness, as the bard wants nothing more but experience and companionship. even though he cannot live with others in his life, altis has a bad tendency to hide his true feelings, especially if he believes that it’ll make him appear weak.

fatal flaw.

overconfidence. the bard is not a fighter, but he will pick fights. he is not an artisan, but he will challenge them. he is not a gambler, but he will bet his life. in every sense, altis is too confident in his abilities, especially those he doesn't have. this ties in with the fact that he never seems to stop talking, which has gotten him into trouble several times in the past.

fears.

altis tries to come off as fearless, and he is rather unafraid of most things, but he has one fear that trumps all others, which is spending the rest of his days alone. he can be unloved, he could even handle being despised, but being left by himself, more specifically ignored, to him that's fatal.

secret.

many know that the bard hails from the feywilds and they all assume that he has simply traveled to grace the humans with his stories, but will return home, or does so regularly. however, the truth is altis has been banished from his home and is to never return. why you may ask? he’s been accused of murdering a noble eladrin and is now seen as a traitor to his kind.

happiest memory.

a day where he performed for his first crowd, and even though no one was paying attention, his mother was there, smiling, a real smile.

— history.

skillset.

entertainment. with his life spent performing, altis has gotten quite good at entertaining people in a variety of ways. acting, singing, storytelling, and even fire spitting, anything that involves an audience and keeping them enamored, he has mastered or will soon. he can play an array of instruments, though the lute is his favorite, can do simple card tricks, which comes in handy every so often, and can dance as if he were raised within high castle walls.

deception. to altis, lying is just acting, so for him, it comes as easily as breathing. he has no tell or trouble when it comes to deceiving others, being able to make even the most outrageous statements sound possible. in fact, he often brags that he can convince a man that his own wife is a witch.

illusionary magic. although his arcane abilities have left him since his run-in with magerot, altis used to be rather skilled when it came to illusions. mostly using it for performance purposes, he could create and amaze with his use of magic. from atmospheric sounds to large creatures of convincing appearance, the vast uses of his abilities were almost endless.

weaknesses.

combat. with little physical strength and uncoordinated agility, altis can’t put up much of a fight. he isn’t scared of battle, far from it, but he is of little use in combat, often hiding away to observe the fight from a safe distance. weapons are foreign to him, his reflexes too clumsy to be useful, and what agility he has is purely for show.

survival. don’t misconstrue this, because he has survived situations with a mountain of luck stacked against him, however, put him into the middle of the forest with nothing but his wits and he’d be dead within the hour. he is a man of urban living, so rural skills have no hold on him. in the past when he’s been forced to camp out in the wilderness, altis has always had a companion with him to make sure he survives through it.

pain. there’s little he can endure when it comes to pain. anything from a few hits to a shallow cut will have him groaning. it wouldn’t be right to say that he’s afraid of being hurt, just that he’s rather sensitive and that torture is very effective.

background.

it isn’t exactly clear when or where he was born, but a baby altis was brought to an artisan's cottage where he was then passed on to varisa, a woman he considers his true mother. she was a cleric hired by a local elven lord, known for her charming but apathetic nature, and for whatever reason, she decided to raise him.

most of his younger years were spent wandering the castle she was staying at and following her around as she conducted her duties. on one of these jobs, they went to an instrument shop to heal the sick owner, once back to full health, the owner was so grateful that they gave varisa a beautiful flute, which she nonchalantly passed onto altis. this is where his love for music began. although he wasn’t exactly a savant at first, even annoying several other castle residents to the point of frequent complaint, through enthusiastic practice and varisa’s encouragement, he eventually became somewhat competent. around his adolescence, his mother began to teach him the basics of the arcane arts and her goddess, beshaba. for a brief period of time, altis thought of being a cleric alongside her, but as his interest for the divine arts lessened, his dreams of performing grew. varisa saw this, and trying her best to support her son, offered to teach him some illusionary magic to help attract some attention. years passed and after a bunch of practice, he made a name for himself enough to perform for a few taverns.

however, he soon lost inspiration for his songs and sought to travel out of the feywilds to the mysterious land of the humans. reluctantly, his mother allowed him to travel. during this time of his life, altis journeyed to several different lands, accompanying anyone who smelled of adventure and heroism. after a few decades of collecting stories and entertaining the various inhabitants of the mortal realm, the bard returned to the feywilds. being newly turned adult at the age of 95, as a birthday gift of sorts, his mother got him an opportunity to perform for a noble eladrin and he’d truly be a fool to turn an offer like that down. altis pulled out everything for his performance. all his best spells, songs, and stories, to entertain the eladrin court. when the night was done, he was exhausted and quickly fell asleep. but when he awoke the palace was in chaos.

the lord was dead. he had been murdered during the night and no one knew who had done it, except for his advisor who was quick to accuse altis. through some further investigation, a wizard proclaimed that they could sense altis’ magic on the lord. and that was that. he was a murderer. the only reason he wasn’t killed was because of his mother's close ties to the goddess of misfortune. but he couldn’t go unanswered for his crimes, so altis was banished from the feywilds forever.

it’s been a decade since that day and every year he tries to send letters to the high fey court to prove his innocence. recently he’s found the wizard that claimed to see altis’ magic on the body, they confessed that they were actually paid by the advisor to accuse him. with testimony under his belt, the high court agreed to hear his case, but before he could make it home, he was infected with magerot. now he travels the land, performing for anyone who will pay him in the hopes to buy a cure.

— what brings you to the widow's lodge?
“me? well, fair maiden, to share my tales of wonder with this lovely town!” the elf happily answered, strumming a chord on his lute. “your first time in waterdeep then?” the barmaid asked curiously, placing down a drink in front of him. “no, no. i’ve been here plenty of times, but every journey here feels like the first time.” altis smiled, before taking a sip of his drink. although he enjoyed the company, he would rather not have to mention his reason for returning to waterdeep. in reality, he was having some trouble acquiring money and waterdeep always paid pretty well.

Fantasy CS — INHERIT THE EARTH

leviathan.

road shimmer, wiggling the vision

alabast

𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦

vinn

New Member

sdks

comfortable chickadee

banshees

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GH0STM0TH

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persephonelied

𝒅𝒖𝒉

nymphadora.

𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙤𝙮.

dae mec

Birds are cool. 🐦

SoulHunter

Aspiring Ghost

source

wa-wa-waaa

shapeshifting

shapeshifting

gouache

cold and planetary.

Psychonaut

this is a god-dream

Semblance

↣↣↠◇↞↢↢

MToki

Just trying my best

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