Fantasy Freedom of the Nameless - applications

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Okay! So! Here we are: the character application thread! The CAT lol ;u;

Anyway, I honestly don’t have any intense requirements for your sheet. I should probably make it explicitly clear that you are not creating a typical DnD character sheet; you’re making a character for a regular ol’ group rp that has a strong DnD aesthetic. I don’t need stats and health points and all the number stuff, I’m just asking for your race and class. Does that make sense? I sure hope it does.

You can go absolutely wild with the kind of information and stories you want to include, but please have the understanding that for the sake of the rp you may have to tweak things to better fit the story should you get accepted.

As far as face claims go, I’m personally a fan of realistic ones. However, considering the DnD vibes, I’m fine with DnD-inspired art, too. Coded sheets are not required. Time, effort, and creativity are.

I am currently looking to fill the roles for the nomadic group of four, but if you are interested in potentially playing someone who’s apart of the royal family, the royal guard, or the Archmage, please let me know. If there’s enough interest we can have two storylines going on at once.

Let me know if you have any questions, and thank you again!

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- em

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Spoiler: spoiler

Ser Addam Helder

Full Name:
Ser Addam Malcer "Mal" Helder

Age: 23

Class:
Paladin

Alignment:
Neutral Good

Personality:
Addam seems to be your normal paladin. Steadfast. idealistic, and possessing an infinite amount of compassion for others. And for the most part he lives up to this cliche. Addam believes in doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. He doesn't want glory, he doesn't want money or love. He just wants to help other people. He has a gentleness to the way he carries himself, the way he speaks, the way he interacts with people. For a man trained for war he has an extreme aversion to violence and does everything he can to avoid it. But it's obvious he's hiding something. Every once and a while he'll stare off, as if he's remembering something he doesn't want to. Certain things make him freeze in terror, from smelts to sights. He's seen or done something that changed him forever, and he may never heal.

Background:
Addam was born the son of a humble farmer in the service of a Lord Karl Helder. Addam's father Bran was a good man, a good father. For a good amount of his childhood, the family were happy. until a hobgoblin legion came around, and decimated the village. Bran was among the casualties. Lord Helder, upon seeing Addam's mother, decided to at least care for her and her son, alongside many other widows. From here, Karl fell in love with the boy's mother, and before long Addam as now the Lord's stepson. As such, he was raised as a noble should be. He was given an education, hew as taught to ride, swing a sword, conduct himself with grace. As the second son, he would never inherit, but he was still expected to do the family proud. So, he was sent off to the nearest monastery to become a paladin. it was a great honor. Few were able to get this chance, and fewer succeeded. As his father expected, Addam excelled in his duties, and it wasn't long until he was given command of his fellow squires. He's never elaborated on what happened next, but whatever did got him knighted. He wasn't happy about this, so he requested he be made a knight-errant, so he could roam the lands righting wrongs. It was unheard of, for such a promising young paladin to request what was often seen as menial work, but it was accepted and he began his life as an adventurer, meeting the group not long after and staying as the moral compass, of sorts.

 

[idalie]

Spoiler

❝ FORGIVE ME FOR WHAT I HAVE FAILED TO DO. ❞

❝ BASICS. ❞

Name: Kazimir Vyhovsky
Title(s): Khorunzhy
Nickname(s): Kazik, Kazya, Kaz
Age: 30

Sexuality: Heterosexual
Gender: Male
Class: Barbarian Battlemaster
Alignment: Lawful Good

Height: 6'5"
Weight: 190 lbs
Appearance: Kazimir stands proud, rigid in posture and alarmingly tall with an essence of military airs. Heavy, honed muscle spans his shoulder width, matched by thick arms and legs designed to control a horse effortlessly and cleverly dance toe-to-toe with a swordsman’s gait. Hands of a labourer, calluses and rough sandpapery flesh have ingrained themselves with oil and grit, nails cut low. Scars criss-cross his fingertips and palms where unlucky strikes were met, though tattoos span the length of his arms and chest, interlocking in a series of dark green knots and mythological beasts.

Notable, however, would be to say his cultural dress. Kazimir’s attire reflects a tradition deep within the steppe tundras, from his long-tipped moustache used as a sign of seniority and power to the furs adorning his broad form. Steel plate armour is irreplaceable, often gifted at twenty-one and added to over a lifetime. From paintwork to family crests and heavy repairs.

Virtues:
Honourable, Brazen, Reliable, Benevolent, Unwavering

Vices:
Superstitious, Arrogant, Ill-tempered, Defiant, Aggressive

Equipment:
2 x Shashka Sabre - A notable sabre, slightly curved and single-edged with proficient ability to thrust and slash. Hilted by ivory and engraved with a strange Cyrillic language.

Provisions - Enough to feed a man for a week, dried rations and waterskins hang from the saddle of his horse. Among perishables is rope, candles, lanterns and bedroll for necessary camping.

Secondary Dagger - Half the size of his forearm, this dagger is kept close to Kazimir's person for close escapes and day-to-day chores.

❝ KAZIMIR VYHOVSKY.❞

—PERSONALITY.
The Kazak is a man of intimidating reputation, better known as unyielding and quick-tempered to those on the wrong side of his blade - though never far off a wry quip. Stern faced and ironfisted, Kazimir was bred to be a soldier and exhibits all signs of a weathered fighter; from his strict gait to a stout liver and a mean right hook. Dedicated to culture and tradition, his ideas of law and newfound societies can become crossed and disagreeable. What may be good enough for a serf, is hardly good enough for a man raised on tales of peasants taking freedom into their own hands. Massively focused on community and family, Vyhovsky has tried to avoid staying in one location for too long out of fear that he may not be able to leave. Thus, on surface level, the horselord presents as a cold, cruel character of apathetic intention with a heart of tarnished gold.

In truth, he takes great joy in caring for others and being surrounded by people. Kazya was never accustomed to being on his lonesome for long periods of time, preferring to cook and commit to acts of service as exhibiting his fidelity and affection of those around him. Paternally obligated, his penchant for being hard on the younger members of any group is derived from the need to ensure they survive, inclined to offer advice which may not sit well. Where he believes his chances of a future have been snatched, Kaz relies on a hope that others may succeed.

Exceptionally proud of his heritage and arrogant of his abilities, Kazimir disguises an inner child which likes showing off. Whether it be horse acrobatics or adding unneeded flair onto a rush of barbarian rage, he’s always been a performer. Including his swollen ego, he will often speak to blunt degrees of harsh truth, telling it as it is and unintentionally hurting others for it. He has yet to understand how flattery works in a place so far from the steppes, where one may ask something to receive an answer instead of dancing around the subject.

A connoisseur of teas, ales, and spirits, his soul finds joy in the simpler things, a little too aware of just how legendary men garner legendary waists. On a cold morning one may find him stoking embers of the campfire, nursing a hot drink, mumbling prayers long forgotten.

—BACKGROUND.
Kazimir was born to the barren North, on grand steppes of dry grasslands and harsh winters. Under those endless skies and flat earth, the Kazak Horselords formed communities of ‘free men’, fleeing from serfdom and social strata. At the height of their clan powers and early adventuring, they were once nomads, mapping and navigating the hinterlands between coasts and inland seas though came to form great settlements on the borders of Kingdoms and Duchies. Utilised for their impressive cavalry skill and militaristic culture, the Horselords were paid a King’s ransom to protect and fortify the last fraying frontiers. A people of whom every man could prove himself more than his birth.

Raised amongst a large family and close-knit community, Kazimir knew little peace from the moment he gained a flicker of cognitive function. There was noise and colour, singing and drinking, all from when you could walk till the day you participated. At only one season old, his father held him atop a great horse to ensure he’d be a good rider and healthy son - perhaps tradition ran away with itself but the Horselord’s held such little gifts dear. They were beloved, brave, charging on military campaigns and celebrating a good hunt where they could. Men of action, men of morals - no matter how foreign they ought to have seemed.

Kazya rode often with his father and brothers, practically destined for the saddle with an easy familiarity. Swordsmanship followed, and by seven he was already given his fair share of duties. Either labouring or running errands, training was partaken often to prepare them, hunting and fishing with the rest of the men. Fourteen and the Ataman of their clan declared him an adult worth standing on his own two feet.

Young men of his age were often tangled in horse racing and displaying their abilities, of which Kazimir proved no exception. Bumps, bruises, chipped teeth, foolish acts of daring-do, they were children - boys who liked to show off standing in their saddles and keeping a steady hand. Vyhovsky, however, was never one for a ranged approach. The Ataman himself would praise Kazimir’s natural stance with the sabre instead. He was not a Barbarian of some usual nature, but to have embraced savagery to the extent of beauty.

Fifteen seasons old and his father allowed Kazimir to join him on campaign with the rest of his brothers, cousins, and uncles. From that day til’ he turned twenty-one and received his armour, Kazimir had been bound by more than blood. His essence had been tied to that land, intrinsically linked by pure ancestral pull. Bitter winters and hot summers, the plains provided.

Kazimir himself was to be married the following spring. To start a family. To hold his child aloft a great horse and bless those sons to be swift riders.

Yet to lose it all - to scatter them to the winds of whence they came, blood stained the steppe red. In their absence, all were slaughtered to the last throat of every child, wise woman, and wife. Such was war. They buried their dead to the greatest reverence, grieving youth that had never grown, lovers who had been cut short beyond their years. Rage festers in men as disease inflames a wound, irritating and weeping before withering black. A necrosis on the hearts of honourable soldiers.

Eye for an eye.

Love for a love.

Suicide is what they had been prepared for, engaging with a foreign force thinly veiled under a guise of banditry. While the Horselords garnered an upper hand, ultimately they were outmanoeuvred after laying waste to majority of their opponents' men. Steeds and twisted Kazak’s lay, whimpering names of Gods who were long since departed. Old deities their forefathers had spoken with, spirits of whom grasped few powers. They were the light breeze through tall wheat, a child’s fistful of plucked flowers, the fleeting glance of your first love. Little Gods of little blessings. Little Gods of a graveyard.

Kazimir collapsed from eventual exhaustion, hidden among the carcasses of stallions only to be nurtured back to health by a scavenger who found him breathing. For a long month, he barely spoke. Spared for what purpose and by what luck he couldn’t say. Briefly, he returned to a neighbouring fort of a fellow clan, soon leaving to take up travel in the vein of old nomads. Years he worked with mercenaries, adventurers, half the man he once was. Committing acts he ought to have not.

By some luck he came to be amongst a small group of wanderers who were less inclined to ask questions. Initially, he thought it would be only a few months, nevertheless, the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

&&— ❝ the blood on my teeth begins to taste like religion. ❞​

 

[Loraenys]

Spoiler

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eira the hexblade warlock rogue

work in progress

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[Nevix]

Spoiler

Spoiler: Colm, Wayfinder

Name: Colm, Son of Tavish

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Occupation: "Wayfinder" (hired guide/navigatior/hunter)

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Spoiler: Appearance

Colm stands taller than average, either a hair over or a hair under six feet tall depending on how he stands, with a broad, musclebound frame. He has no slouch, but stands with his knees slightly bent, weight always shifting. He walks gracefully, without much noise, an amusing trait for a man of his size. Observant green eyes are set into a hard, angular face, laced with faded scars that also adorn his torso. He has medium-length light brown hair, often swept back and off his head, and a short beard a few shades lighter than the hair on his head.

Spoiler: Background

Colm was born to a human couple by the names of Tavish and Amelia. They were simple folk, neither could read or write. Tavish was a wayfinder, a sort of professional guide that a traveler could hire to escort them from point A to point B and keep them relatively safe and well-fed along the way. Amelia died shortly after Colm's birth, of an unrelated illness. Though Tavish had never stayed in one place very long, he took to wandering more aggressively after Amelia's death, and Colm was raised on the roads and trails between settlements. Tavish was a warm but exceedingly practical man, and from a young age he taught Colm how to hunt, trap, and navigate. Colm was as much Tavish's apprentice as his son, and he was nothing if not an eager learner.

By the time Colm was an adult, the two were more or less equal partners. They traveled from city to city, offering their services to whoever could pay for them, usually merchants, but occasionally groups of adventurers without knowledge of the region or else people who simply needed to get away. They did not discriminate, and wayfinders had a reputation of discretion. As Tavish grew older, though, the road became harsher. It was eventually clear that the elder wayfinder needed to settle down. The two found a golden opportunity when offered a job protecting a patch of forest on land belonging to an obscenely wealthy trader.

After a few months, though, it became clear that they were really only protecting the woods from the poor. They were expected to deal harshly with poachers from nearby villages while allowing the trader and his friends to overhunt to their heart's content. This ate at them, and especially on Tavish. The last straw was when he discovered the trader's intent to level half the forest for lumber. Tavish confronted the trader one night while Colm was away. It escalated, and in the ensuing scuffle with the trader's men, Tavish was killed. An effort was made to find and capture Colm, but he eluded his would-be captors. After a month, when Colm had mostly slipped from the trader's mind, the trader's manor and storehouses were burned down one night. No one was killed, but he was financially crippled.

Now a wanted arsonist, Colm found that the wayfinder lifestyle was a good one for a fugitive. His lack of a surname or real home made him all but impossible to find, and in no way impeded his career. He traveled to the far side of the realm, thankful that he and Tavish had traveled all over when he was younger, and once again began wandering and plying his trade, far away from his father's grave and the ashes of the trader's fortune.

Spoiler: Personality

The first thing most people pick up on, in regards to Colm, is that he is a man of few words. When he does speak, it is often in brief, choppy, staccato sentences. This leads many to think of him as grumpy or dour. That impression is probably justified, if not totally correct. The quiet is largely just a means of hiding a terrible case of social awkwardness. You can't stumble over your words if you rarely say more than a handful of them at a time. He doesn't really fully have a grasp on talking to people about things that aren't urgent or practical. The only person Colm ever really talked to was Tavish, himself a reserved individual. He's able to empathize with others, a good listener even, but a conversationalist he is not.

Colm has an almost-religious reverence for nature. He is not a druid, he cannot commune with animals or woodland spirits, but the wilderness is his home. When he hunts or kills anything; person, animal, or beast, he needs there to be a reason. You shouldn't snare a rabbit if you have dried meat in your pack, there's no reason to trample or hack through brambles if there's a trail around them, no need to start a fight with brigands if they only want your coin, all tenets taught to him by Tavish and upheld daily. He doesn't have much respect for property, but he holds a great deal of respect for life.

Colm can sometimes issue directions and instructions, but he is not a leader. He can take you by the hand and bring you from point A to point B, but he's the wrong person to ask to figure out where to go in the first place. While he's a fairly independent person, he has no qualms with being a follower sometimes. He doesn't have much regard for authority, but if someone seems to know what they're doing and how to go about it in a just way, he has no issue with tagging along.

Spoiler: Colm as a Party Member

Spoiler: Equipment

-Colm's Machete: A long machete with a wide, rectangular blade. It could be mistaken for an oversized straight-razor. Designed for hacking through vegetation, but perfectly able to be used as a weapon, and Colm is no stranger to doing so. About the length of a short-sword, with two sides for hacking and slashing, but it lacks a tip for thrusting.

-Tavish's Bow: A longbow almost as tall as Colm himself, it once belonged to his father, Tavish. It requires a fairly great effort to draw the string back, but fires an arrow very hard.

-Colm's Hunting Knife: A hunting knife, primarily used for skinning game and other mundane tasks. It could potentially be a weapon, but would be less suited to the purpose than a dagger or short-sword, and Colm has no experience fighting with it.

-Travelling Clothes: Rough spun traveler's garb of wool, fur, and leather. Offers great protection from the elements and the wear of the trail, but it is not armor.

-Wayfinder's Tools: Odds and ends that are useful on the trail. Needles and thread, gear for fletching arrows, wire for snares and fishing, and the like.

Spoiler: Skills + Weaknesses

Skills
-Wayfinder Knowledge: As a result of his upbringing and occupation, Colm is an adept tracker, navigator, and hunter. He an encyclopedic knowledge of woodland flora and fauna, and the skills to (at the very least) survive nearly anywhere in the wilderness.

-Machete Combat: Colm is able to use his machete sort of like a sabre or axe, hacking and slashing at opponents. He is not formally trained, but has a great deal of experience and physical prowess.

-Bow Hunter: From a lifetime of hunting game, Colm is a crack shot with a longbow.

-Folk Medicine: Colm's knowledge of plants, as well as some experience mending clothing, lend themselves to the ability to crudely (but effectively) patch up minor wounds.

Weaknesses
-Social Maladroit: Colm isn't terribly good with people. His aloofness might come off as rude to some people, and he certainly won't be talking his way out of any sticky situations.

-Illiterate: Colm doesn't know how to read or write

-Untrained Swordsman: Colm has no formal training in sword combat. He's strength and instinct is often enough, but he might find himself outmatched by fighters who really know what they're doing.

-Mundane: Colm has little-to-know knowledge of magic and how it works, and no magical ability himself. He won't know how to deal with magical issues that arise on the journey, and is more or less totally vulnerable to attack from a mage.

-Not a Leader: Colm is pretty adept at figuring out a plan once given instructions, but struggles to come up with "big picture" goals. In a fight, he will competently follow instructions or else rely on his instincts, but cannot be relied upon to direct other party members.

If it isn't clear, "wayfinder" is just a fancy word I liked to replace "ranger" lmao. I didn't want to call him a ranger because he doesn't have any of the druid magic that rangers can use in 5e, and I liked the idea of him being a navigator/tracker type, so I invented an occupation and gave it a cool name.

 

[Cosmo]

Spoiler

Name
Antonius 'Sigismund' Becker

Age
28

Race
Human

Class
Paladin

Alignment
Lawful Good

Appearance
Sigismund is an imposing man standing at 6'4 and being very broad of chest and shoulder, his skin is almost leathery from the constant exposure to the sun and elements as well as very coarse hands from a lifetime of holding a blade. He has numerous pale scars that cover his body especially around his arms and chest. Sigismund has shot blond hair that tends to be brushed back when able or, when on the road, tied and matted down from the sweat and pressure of his helmet. His chin is often covered in a short, thick stubble as Sigismund only shaves when it grows long enough to irritate him. Both his beard and his hair speak more to a man who doesn't bother with proper grooming and only really bothers when it starts to get in his way... and he tends to cut his own hair with his dagger making his hair slightly jagged and uneven. Under his thick, often furrowed, brow are steely green eyes.

Personality
Dutiful || Abrasive || Judgmental || Kind || Distant

At his core, Sigismund is dutiful. His oath to his lady, his oath to the clergy that raised him up off the streets, the strength and purity of his word, are what defines Sigismund and where he pulls his worth as a human, much less, a paladin of the goddess. Sigismund will always keep his word, he will always do his tasks and job even if they are entirely unpleasant because that was how he was raised, trained and 'groomed' to be. He is an unyielding force of nature as few things can budge him when he has set upon a path, once he has decided a course of action and nothing in the Nine Hells or the realms above will stop him from seeing it through. Without this, without his duty, without his oaths, without the things that make him a Paladin of the Lady, Sigismund has nothing, and deep down, he knows this and so fulfilling his oaths and keeping his word is more then just something he was taught to do, is more then just an inclination, it is a necessity to keep 'Sigismund' alive. This dogmatic pursuit of duty can make Sigismund rather difficult to get along with or tolerate being around for too long because its often hard to see where the 'Paladin' ends and the 'Man' begins. For his part, Sigismund makes no effort to be friendly or welcoming to those he meets, he tends to feel cold, almost dismissive, and his eyes always seem to be watching for flaw or fault, and he is always willing to call those out to the people who possess them. Sigismund is not purposely mean or boorish, but it is a byproduct of his oaths as Sigismund cannot willingly lie and he lacks the tack and etiquette to simply not speak or keep it to himself for the most part so Sigismund doesn't really have 'friends', at least, anymore and people he meets tend to be more acquaintances as the longer they stay in the company, the more his nature tends to irk and rub people wrong until the relationship sours beyond salvation.

This abrasive nature doesn't help when combined with his natural tendency to cast judgement upon others. Sigismund gives people the benefit of the doubt until he is given reason not to, but once he is given reason not to, his judgement on them is final. Their actions or deeds define who they are, and Sigismund will be the first to notice and call it out. If someone tells a lie to him, they will be a liar to the end of their days. A coward is a coward even onto their last whimper. A bird cannot change its feathers, just as a man cannot change who they are and once Sigismund has seen who they are, or at least who he thinks they are, there is no going back. Sigismund will not cast such people from him, for he understands that everyone has a place in the eyes of the Goddess, and is willing to work alongside cheats and liars, they will never climb back up in his esteem. Once cast from his good graces, it is nearly impossible to regain them. Despite this hardness to him, Sigismund is a truly kind man. He likes helping people, even if he sometimes has trouble showing it. He likes leaving places better then he left it, he likes bringing joy and hope to people in their times of need, he likes being relied on, he likes being the shield of his new party and of the Lady. Sigismund will help without being asked to and never needs a thanks or even acknowledgment of it, and would prefer it go without notice because flattery over his actions, which in his mind should be obvious and need no thanks or reward, just serve to embarrass and fluster the large man. If he had his way, the people he help would never know he helped them at all.

This good nature, this kind heart, is kept hidden under layers of duty and people kept at bay by an abrasive shell because Sigismund likes his distance, his isolation. He has only been close to one person and still carries the scars of that relationship in his heart and is in no hurry to repeat that experience. His life and profession don't really leave much room for friends or lovers, at least, that is what he has chosen to believe, and so he tries to keep all his interactions with others to lesser level, to keep them as acquaintances but never more. He will travel, sleep and eat with people, with companions and fellow adventurers, but when he leaves, he will not truly be missed because, if he has his way, they will have merely met the Paladin and not the man.

Background

Sigismund was an orphan abandoned at the temple of the Lady in the city of [Insert city name] with the name 'Antonius' written upon the basket. The sisterhood took him in as was their duty to the Lady. The sisterhood granted him the same last name they did all children that came to their door, that of 'Becker' which was also the street on which the temple rested upon. His name 'Sigismund' came when he turned seven and was chosen, along with one other, to become a Paladin of the Lady. Sigismund cannot say he was raised with love, or anything close to that, as the sisters never had any to give, but he was fed, clothed, taken care of and given an education which was more then what many can claim. As a child, he'd dream that his mother and father were nobility and he had been left behind because of some dastardly demonic plot and they'd someday find him, he'd have parents, a home and a purpose to why he was born.. It never happened, of course, it was simply the fantasy of a lonely child and as he grew older, this dream became replaced with the Lady. His Lady, his Goddess, was his mother, a mother that looked out for him, the blessed him with powers and abilities, his home was the temple and Her light, and his purpose was laid before him, as a Paladin of the Lady. The childish thoughts and dreams were pushed down, replaced by the training and lessons of the sisters, of the brutal training to bring forth his holy powers as well as his martial prowess.

At least, in his training, he had a friend, Lucius. Lucius was his 'brother', a fellow orphan chosen to become a Paladin and they were merely a year apart. They trained together, ate together and even slept in the same quarters. Many nights were spent defying the curfew and exploring the city, talking to one another of the grand adventures that would lay ahead of them, of the good they'd do, how their tale would echo through eternity in the pages of the holy scripture and, someday, kids just like them would follow in their footsteps. Their bond gave them strength, brought them closer and kept them going in the darkest of days. When Sigismund turned sixteen, he was given his armor and blade sent off on his Errant Quest. The quest to prove his skills and devotion to the lady. A small village had bene raided and pillaged by a small wandering tribe of orcs and the temple of the Lady had been sacked and her holy symbol taken and he was tasked to bring it back. Sigismund joined a small group of adventurers and sought down the orc tribe, together they triumphed and brought ruination upon the orcs.. And Sigismund learned that day of the nature of adventurers. They were often little better then hired swords. As he took only the holy symbol, they looted and pillaged. Took what once belonged to the slain villagers and pocketed it for their own coin purses. They scalped the orcs to bring back proof of their kills to gain coin for each. It... Sickened him. There was no honor, no duty, no purpose in what they were doing. Yet, even as it sickened him, it filled him with a perverse sense of pride. He was better then they. They fought for coin, for wealth, he fought for the Lady, for the people, he fought for something more then himself. This belief in his superiority acted as both a shield against the actions of adventurers and cutthroats as well as a wall that kept him away. He wasn't their comrade. He was just 'the Paladin'. Over the year, Sigismund kept traveling with various adventuring groups, doing quest and adventurers, turning over much of the coin he got to the temple as his tithe. Once Lucius passed his own Errantry Quest, the two traveled together and Sigismund was.. happy.

As the brothers traveled, the cracks formed. Small, almost invisible, at first but they grew as the months passed. They were brothers, Paladins of the Lady, they had grown up together, but their.. approach to their duties differed. Sigismund cared more for the spirit of the laws, while Lucius cared more for the letter. This brought them into debate and conflict more then a few times. As children and teenagers, this difference in views on their duties didn't matter, but as adults... In the field, faced with the consequence of every action and decision they make, as their blades took and saved lives, these could not be ignored and dismissed. Sigismund loved Lucius, he was the only friend he had, his brother, but something was not right between them and he could feel it. A rift had grown, and in that rift, had come resentment and bitterness. The resentment of two men, each believing they were right, each with strong personalities and an inability to keep their opinions to themselves and it boiled over when Sigismund was twenty-four and they had just returned 'home' to the temple on Becker street. They were discussing with the Matron Superior of their latest quest and mission which had brought them to a small farmstead where a farmer had been, allegedly, keeping his daughter and grandson imprisoned from her rightful husband. When they arrived at the farmstead, they found a battered and bruised woman clutching a small child to her chest as she hid in small closet from them. From what they pieced together, the husband believed she was unfaithful and had taken to alcohol to sooth his rage, but in his drunken stupor, he'd accuse his wife of infidelity and that their child was not truly his and... lash out. The opinions on what to do were divided, Lucius was of the opinion that the child had to go back to the father, there was no reason she had to return, but she could not take their child and flee, the child would return, with or without, her and the local officials would have to settle their dispute. Sigismund disagreed. The laws that prevented a spouse from taking the child away from the other was not intended to allow the child to be used as a hostage to force one into a cycle of abuse, merely to stop child abduction. The woman and her child should stay with her father until the matter was settled. The resentment, anger and difference between them that had built over the years boiled over and the debate was only settled when Sigismund pulled seniority, the mighty seniority of a single year, and forced Lucius to abide by his decision.

However, when speaking with the Matron Superior, Lucius revealed that after they had made camp that night, he had returned to the farmstead to see the law carried out as no man, not even his brother's, outweighed the law. When he had tried to bring the mother and son back, her father had tried to stop him and was cut down after multiple attempts to disarm and talk him down. Sigismund was beyond furious, furious at the betrayal, furious that his brother had decieved him, had lied to him, and furious that hte Matron Superior agreed with Lucius that the law must be carried out as it is written for they were the servants of the law, not its masters. To settle their dispute, they went into the training grounds to spar, to loose their frustrations and anger, to try and bridge the void that now engulfed their relationship. In happened in a flash, Lucius missed a step, his sword lowered, Sigismunds own came up, fueled by anger and betrayal.. and the dulled metal bit deep into the soft flesh of Lucius' throat. Blood ran freely down, it flooded between his fingers as he tried to stem the flow, as he desperately called upon his Goddess to, once more, grant him the power to heal, so he could mend what he had done, but she did not. The familiar warmth that would descend upon him accompanied by the scent of lilacs as she bestowed her power upon him was not there, only the cold, empty realization of what he had done. Lucius was saved by the sisters, but the damage to his throat remained. Sigismund had severed his vocal cords... An injury that Sigismund, a Paladin of the lady, should have been able to heal before the wound scarred and settled, but he couldn't. The lady had seen what he had done, looked into his heart, and cast her judgement... at least, that is what he believed. In that moment, he had strayed from her path, from her light, and this was what happened. Because of him, his brother would never speak again. Lucius would never look at him the same again, he had destroyed the love between them, he had destroyed a life long friendship with a single stroke of the blade..

The trial deemed it an accident. That while they were paladins, they were also humans and sometimes, service to the lady, made tempers and passions flare. Neither was to be punished... He did not understand it. Deep in his heart, he felt he deserved punishment for what he had done.. He could no longer look the Sisters in the eye, could not bear to see his failure reflected upon him, could not bear the ghost of memory that hunted the temple of his childhood, and so he left to go on a 'quest'. A quest of redemption, a self-imposed exile from the temple to regain what he had lost. His holy powers have returned, but they are not as they were. They feel hollow and empty. They lack the warmth of her grace that he felt before, but its enough. Its a sign, even a small one, that the Lady had not yet abandoned him and there was still hope for him. Hope that he could regain her love, her faith... regain what he had lost. For the last four years, he has wandered the land as both a Paladin and an adventurer, helping those in need, keeping himself fed and clothed with the rewards and trying to fix that which he broke even if he doesn't understand how to do so. He has bounced in and our of various adventuring groups as his welcome often wears itself thin as most cannot handle his company for too long, and he has only recently joined up with a new group, a group of three others.

Roleplay Intention
Since this is like an audition, figure I should write what I want to do in the RP! Never played a true Paladin in D&D, few times I played I tend to stick to martial classes [Fighters/Barbarians] and Clerics. So this seems like a really fun way to explore that. I didn't wanna make a character that would just instantly get along with runaway apprentice because where is the fun in that? I like the idea of like the grumpy paladin who wants to know where she came from and why she was running but as a Paladin, and a nice person, is going to look out for them and try to shield them when possible because under that gruff, rough exterior is a good soul. Also love the idea of a character being utterly obsessed with the idea of their purpose and duty, who is now on an almost self-imposed exile, meeting someone who has such a grand destiny ahead of them, a noble purpose, and ran from it. Just sounds like a ton of drama laced TNT ready to explode when that comes to head. Like finally coming to terms with his own past, his own actions, deciding if his oaths and duty to the Lady, the crown and its people outweighs his own feelings for his party and the runaway and what he believes is right and wrong on his path for redemption. [Plus I kinda like the idea of giving the runaway an extra reason why she'd want to hide who she is so the big angry Paladin doesn't try to drag her back. Add a bit of tension there especially as the relations with the group deepen.]

Also not sure if we are using D&D deities, you wanna make them or just throw random names at them, so I just referred to his deity as his 'Lady' and 'Goddess'.

 

[Ilikepie]

Spoiler

Spoiler: pic

Name: Pepper Moonrose
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Height: 2'5
Weight: 32lbs
Sexuality: Homosexual
Race: Fairy
Class: Circle of the Moon Druid

Personality: Pepper is easily excited upon seeing things she has never seen before. She is very friendly and unlikely to start any conflict with others preferring to make friends instead. She can get annoyed when humans call her a child, she is a fully grown woman and it's not her fault that the other races are so much taller than hers and most of them can't even fly.

Background: Pepper was born in a village of fairies away from the lands of man. She was taught at a young age the importance of the magic of nature and of the animals, but most importantly the magic of the moon. She would hear stories about the lands of man and how strange it is compared to where she grew up. Eventually she decided to leave her home to explore the lands of man and attempted to bring along her girlfriend Apple Morning Wind, but Apple wanted no part in what she considered to be a crazy idea that would get them both killed by things that they have never seen before and let Pepper go off on her own. Not staying in one place for long Pepper became an adventurer traveling around and helping others as traveled along. She would eventually find herself in a group of new friends to go on adventures with.

Equipment: She carries a wooden staff that she rarely uses in combat preferring to fight using magic or wildshapped into something else.
She carries a herbalism kit containing a variety of instruments such as clippers, mortar and pestle, and pouches and vials to help create remedies and potions when needed.
She also carries some basic traveling equipment in her bag that help her all the traveling around she likes to do.

Outside her ability to wildshape into other forms her magic focuses on the powers of nature and of healing. Her magic can allow her to speak with all of the animals and sometimes plants but plants are really dumb so she normally avoids using that spell.

Languages: Common the most commonly used language
Sylvan the language of the fairy and other Fey
Druidic the secret language only known by Druids
WIP I'll add some more stuff later

 

[Ian Temero]

Spoiler

Inari Maya
"Trust your guts, my dear, for your eyes may deceive you."
"And they will. One must read between the lines to know the truth."​

Name: Inari Maya
Age: 31 1,014
Gender: Female
Race: Human Kitsune
Class: Sorceress
"I am Kyubi-no-Kitsune. Tenko. The Nine Tailed Fox. I am one of the oldest of my kind, not because I'm special or anything, but because most kitsune chose to shed their mortal shells by the time they're my age."
Height: 5'3"
Weight: 119 lbs
Build: Voluptuous Petite
Complexion: Fair
"My true form is that of a sleek white fox, as big as a horse, with nine flowing tails."

Personality: Maya is a kind and motherly woman, easy to please and quick to welcome others into her family, with a hint of mischievousness occasionally poking through. However other than that, Maya is quite a mystery. She'll happily sit and listen to you talk for hours, but when it comes to herself and her life she'll either dodge the question or spin a crazy story, such as claiming that she's a messenger for the gods or that she's a demon in disguise. She has a strong dislike of dogs and water, avoiding them as much as possible, though she claims not to be afraid of them.
"As Yokai I am technically a demon, and I did actually serve the gods for a couple hundred years."

Background: Nearly fifteen years ago a half-dead girl from the eastern continent Rokugan stumbled into the small town of Avalon with nothing but the clothes on her back and a baby in her arms. While communication was difficult at first, the woman speaking almost no Common, it was eventually revealed that she had fled from the Eastern kingdoms when it's emperors had banded together and begun a witch hunt, killing and destroying anyone and anything associated with the mystical. The shrine that she had been serving as a priestess at was attacked and she barely escaped alive with the head priest's daughter. Scared and all alone in an unknown country, the town took the woman and her adopted daughter in. Maya eventually took over the apothecary she was nursed back to health in and she quickly became a member of the community. Then a few years ago Avalon was attacked and Maya and her daughter were separated in the chaos. Now Maya wanders around as an adventure, offering her skills to those in need, and hunting for any clue as to her daughter's location.
"A thousand years is awfully long time to be alive, and in that time I have lived many lives, from peasant to noble, samurai to miko, all too much to share in one sitting."

Skills
Medicine - Having worked and ran an apothecary Maya has advanced skills as a medic.
Handyman - Maya is a bit of a jack of all trades. If something needs done Maya can do it, though perhaps not at the same level as an expert.
Magic - Maya specializes in illusions to fool the senses, enchantments to beguile the mind, and a pocket dimension to store items in. If it comes down to fighting Maya can call upon fire and lightning to fry her foes.
"I'm also a rather skilled swordsmen, though it would be rather unfair and suspicious for me to be good at everything."

 

[Teltex]

Spoiler

Name: Nekri A’safir

Age: 20

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Class: Rogue/Illusionist

Appearance:

Nekri doesn’t always wear a mask, but even without it, it’s difficult to pin down a specific face or look to him. That’s because Nekri’s appearance constantly changes. Due to massive insecurities about his true appearance, Nekri always has an illusion wrapped around himself at all times, changing how he really sounds and looks. Mostly the appearances he’ll choose will be of men his age (of varying eye/hair/skin colour and height), but it’s not uncommon for him to take on the appearance of women or other species. Occasionally he’ll even choose to replicate the appearance of a fellow party member for a quick laugh. Sometimes, however, when he isn’t paying attention or his emotions are playing up, the illusion may flicker and give way for a moment, revealing the soft soul inside.

Personality

Nekri is a trickster and a storyteller. He sometimes plays harmless pranks on his friends with illusions. He has a way with words, and oftentimes is there to lighten the mood with a story when things get sour. Sometimes his lies and tricks cause conflict with the, er, more morally stringent members of the party, but it’s all in good faith. Nekri promises!

For a rogue, Nekri cares surprisingly little about money, instead finding value in those near him. He never shies away from a conversation or a story unless, of course, it’s got to do with how he really looks. He shuts those topics down immediately.

Nekri is fascinated with stories, and collects them to tell later. Some are true, some aren’t. Nekri won’t tell you which is which just to mess with you. But he will ask for your own life story, should you be willing to give it to him. He’s curious in that way.

Magic/Equipment:

Nekri’s equipment is scarce. All he carries (apart from his clothing) are about five different knives, all hidden over his person. His skill at acrobatics and his illusions helps him put them to good use.

Nekri’s magic is specialised in creating and shaping illusions. He can create illusions for all five senses, but usually sticks to sounds and visuals. He’s very skilled with the magic due to years of practice, but whenever his emotions flare up, his illusions flicker and morph into more abstract shapes before disappearing entirely. Whenever Nekri encounters another illusionist (or even if there’s another one in the party), he always takes up a little playful rivalry against them.

Background:

Nekri’s mother lost her way to the orphanage and decided to drop him off at an archive museum instead. Instead of throwing him out, the librarians took him in and raised him collectively. Nekri grew up surrounded by forgotten tomes and age-old manuscripts. Poor financial situations of the archive and Nekri's own childhood ambitions led to a wide variety of thefts around the town. He began practicing with illusions to recreate the scenes he imagined, and used them in his antics. Of course, he gave every cent he stole to those who raised him, but they admonished him all the same. Keep it up, and not only would Nekri's magic be fixed to illusions - he'd also give the archive a bad name. But Nekri continued.
One night, he awoke to the smell of smoke and burning parchment. A fire had started in the archive, and it had already engulfed the area where the librarians sleep. Nekri had his own room in the basement and managed to escape before the entire structure collapsed, taking all of the ancient stories and librarians who told them down with it. A simple fire had taken everything away. No malicious lords or angry locals. Just an accident. Nobody else in the town had thought to try and stop the fire or warn those sleeping inside. After all, they had 'raised that thief of a boy'. There was nothing left for Nekri in that smoky town. No one would take a thief in - why would they? Nekri left that place for good, unsure where his next steps would take him - until he encountered a group of travelling nomads. Nekri had caused a life’s worth of stories to burn to the ground… maybe the least he could do was go out in the world and discover some new ones.

Roleplay Intentions:

I’m stealing this section from Cosmo because it’s genius . I figure if others are going with a motherly/fatherly vibe, Nekri gets to be the cool brother *cue sunglasses*. Besides, I think every party needs a talker/comic relief, and he could clash nicely with some of the honour-bound characters here.

 

[AriAriAbabwa]

Spoiler

WIP

Spoiler

Tamara Eris
The Archmage
Human Warlock




Age: 44

Gender: Female

Height: 5'8

Personality: Tough as nails and cold as ice. A no-nonsense woman who will readily defend the kingdom to her dying breath. Someone who never falters against even the most harrowing of disasters. A headstrong person who fought through even the most difficult of times and losses, yet ending up on top. Someone who always knows what to do at any given time. A powerful Archmage with genuine care to those around her. The true protector of the kingdom. To the people, the Archmage is the epitome of a hero they need.

But for those who have never met the person, exaggerating is the best way to tell of a renowned savior.

Beneath Tamara's frigid exterior is a complex web of detached emotions and uncertainty like no other. She feels bound to the image and legend stuck on her name, constantly feeding an idea within her own thoughts that she doesn't deserve it. She blames herself for the deaths of her loved ones, nourishing that little voice in the back of her head that tells her of how terrible a mother she was. Since that day, she's grown accustomed to living alone or with scarce amounts of people. Because the truth is, she decided, the title of the Archmage only draws in venom and hurt to those around.

Tamara tries to keep others at a safe distance; an acquaintanceship at most. She enjoys the peace and quiet, and despite her powerful abilities will still flinch at certain things, such as the smell of blood and sound of fire. The only person she grew to truly care about as of late is the 18-year-old girl who became her apprentice—despite her numerous protests at first. But it was because of Tamara's own fear and anxieties that the apprentice was kept away from the outside world, confined with the safe walls of the castle for her entire life. It was where Tamara felt safest, anyway.

Tamara shies away from revealing too much of her Fiendish patron: How she formed the pact as a young, naïve woman, believing she could fend off its shady ideas. Over the years, she's learned to sustain an equilibrium between herself and the patron, but should the rage boil over, she's afraid of what may happen.



Background: Tamara was born to a dirt-poor family that lived in a crudely mage cabin with not a single thing to speak for themselves—not even a family name. Around the same time, a plague was sweeping through the frail populace, and their little hamlet fell into the sickness' grasp. Tamara remembers very little of her parents, only that the plague ended their lives in their own home. This was also where a group of doctors dispatched by the kingdom found her. Miraculously, there was not a trace of the illness on her, despite her entire village succumbing.

The girl was immune. This was the first reason that the group took her back to the kingdom. The second came after one of their members felt a tall presence of mana radiating from her. There was potential in her magic capabilities, but at the time they thought she would merely become an adept sorceress like many of the other skilled magicians.

Tamara had a fairly normal life in her younger years of learning. Nobody knew where the girl of bright blonde hair, unmarred skin, and bright eyes came from. When asked about her noble household, there was never an actual answer.

At some point in her scholarship, Tamara believed that her academics and education was most important in life. And, driven by an insatiable need for grander knowledge and power, was what compelled her into a pact. Tamara had sought out her patron as a young, naïve woman. She ventured from her academy to seedy locations devoid of light, desiring the only things she knew to be important at the time. And she received, forming a pact with a Fiend. A decision that would weigh on her for the rest of her life, as devilish ideas were fed into her mind. Though she was certain she could fend off such tendencies.

Into her teenage years, the plague still ran rampant throughout the kingdom. She'd attained a vast knowledge and grown as adept as her rescuers expected. When a task force was put together to attempt to plug the spread, she was one of the first selections. It was expected that finding an answer would take years. But, spurred by Tamara's relentless dedication, a cure of magic and herbs was put together within months. She was hailed as a genius by her peers. And so marked the beginning of her rise to the kingdom's Archmage.

She'd met the eldest of son a noble by the name of Delvin Eris. He was charming, kind, and stood by her side when she needed him. Tamara was 20-years-old when she first held her daughter, who she named Munia. They moved into Delvin's mansion where they would live peacefully for the next four years. Tamara only became better and better with magic, outranking all of her peers. But with no other achievements to speak for herself, it was simply a feat and nothing more. With a life no downs and only ups, it was as if the world was on her side.

But a smooth road can only last so long.

Tamara has not shared what happened to anyone. The first people to arrive at Delvin's mansion found the building in flames. Stumbling out the door was a heavily bleeding Tamara clutching onto a robed figure who desperately tried to flee. The guards who arrived apprehended the man and laid Tamara down for medical treatment.

All she tells of that day was that they were attacked. The attack rid Tamara of her eyes, her loving husband of seven years, and her daughter Munia at four years of age. Everything her life had built up to: gone in a matter of hours. The tendencies of her patron finally flooded over the dam she built.

Interrogation of the attacker gave away the name of those responsible. A noble household of the Rosmerta family. The Eris family was investigating a series of mysterious occurrences and getting to close to uncovering the conspiracy. They killed Delvin, Munia, and almost Tamara as a warning. Her entire life for a message. News would undoubtedly spread to the household in due time, and so the King swiftly put together a team to attack their manor. And to everybody's surprise, Tamara volunteered despite her injuries. She pushed past everyone who advised against it, and in the end was told to stay behind. They had good reason, but it wouldn't be enough to stop her.

And in the end, Tamara's arrival was the team's saving grace. With an entrance of rapid invocations and destructive magic of flames lobbed at their foes in quick succession, the Rosmertas' forces fell in minutes. Their manor fell, and its family apprehended.

The Rosmertas were planning a kingdom-wide coup, rallying many notable figures of the shady underbelly and corrupt nobles. Within their manor, hidden behind a bookshelf was a stash of papers and plans; names and locations, some even extending to neighboring countries. The names numbered in the thousands, from high to low class. It was eventually learned that these foreign sources were out of said kingdoms' control (criminal underbellies), but at the time lit a slow-burning fuse of a political powder keg. Upon learning of this, a force was quickly mobilized to hastily strike and take each prominent organizer. Tamara, in her literal blind rage, was placed at the helm of these swift attacks.

The next 7 months became known as the Reign of Terror, a mass hysteria that swept the kingdom while Tamara strategically stopped and captured the gears of the coup which now spun in motion. The insurgents showed themselves in mass attacks, and the kingdom had to strike back in the same swiftness and surprise. The people grew weary of their neighbors, not knowing when the next attack would happen and by who. At the rate it went, it seemed as if the kingdom was bound to tear itself apart.

But again, it was Tamara who held everything together. With the insurgents weighing heavily on her mind, she knew the people's minds were at stake, too. They only had the kingdom to turn to to ease their troubles, and so she took full advantage of that. With every capture of a prominent insurgent, Tamara had it spun as a mass victory, making the apprehended rat out names of other operatives in the area. Once a city was fully "cleaned," the kingdom sent squads of knights to pridefully patrol the streets and announce their safety; it was the most their hearts could be eased.

Come the end of the 7 months and the Reign of Terror, Tamara finally found the lead organizer of the coup: a peasant disgusted by the kingdom's royalty, fortunate enough to gain influential knowledge and charisma from passing travelers. He spread his ideas to those of similar mindsets and situations, reaching into crime syndicates, which escalated high into what it became. Without a second thought, she engulfed him in tar and set him ablaze; the same way Delvin was murdered—the king wanted his execution, anyway.

She'd destroyed those who ruined her life... but now that her vengeance was gone... there was nothing.

The kingdom celebrated their honorable Archmage for eradicating a massive threat to the kingdom. A tale was spun out of her family's death, the ensuing journey to avenge them, and stopping the uncovered coup and her efforts in the Reign of Terror; like a brave hero's adventure, meant solely to inspire the people of how much she "deserved" the high-ranking position. The stories of the knights who fought alongside Tamara and those who added extra dashes of action and drama in the epics solidified her status.

But nothing stopped the voices in the back of Tamara's head; that she failed her loved ones; that with all her power, she couldn't save her own family; that she was responsible for their deaths; that she was a terrible parent. All she could do was smile for the loyal people, who knew no better.

In the next one and a half years, Tamara was granted a high position in the kingdom. She didn't ask for much, only for shelves of books to refine her magical knowledge and a memorial for her family. She rarely went outside, and if so, only walking in the garden where Delvin and Munia's graves were placed. It was daily routine to make sure the memorials were in their best shape, asking the castle servants if the flowers were decaying or if the gravestones grew moldy. She'd be relied on for advanced magics and her knowledge.

At 26-years-old, two years after the death of her family, she was brought something that flipped her life for the next 18 years. A baby by the name of Salara Dur'rage. They wanted to make her the Archmage's apprentice as the "chosen one."

At first, Tamara turned a cold shoulder to Salara and her childish antics. She wished to keep their mentor-student relationship exactly how it was. There was no purpose in getting close to her. Even so, just being the Archmage's apprentice meant she was in danger. So, Tamara did what at the time seemed appropriately cautious: having Salara confined within the castle walls with her, where only a select few ever laid eyes on her. She only taught what the king wanted her to teach and the basics, initially viewing the girl as just another task.

But as her apprentice grew older, something in Tamara changed. There was something in the now-teenage Salara that made her think of her four-year-old, Munia. Perhaps, she thought, if Munia grew to be as old as Salara, this is what she would sound like. What she would act like. A diligent girl deep in her studies.

It was when she reached teenhood that Tamara peeked over her self-built walls to get closer to her. This peek escalated into a tear-down, and over a period of time, Tamara was steadily reverting to her former self: cordial, accommodating, loving; happy.

Despite this, there were some things that needed to be left in the dark; things that Tamara couldn't bring herself to tell Salara. When she asked about her parents, Tamara would tell of a long-lasting quest they're on; the details changed each time she asked. When she questioned her confinement, Tamara answered with the bogus excuse of "There are people outside the walls that very much would like to hurt you." But it was by confining and isolating herself from the rest of the world that Tamara felt most at peace. A way to sustain the equilibrium with herself and the patron lying in wait.

Feeding off her insecurities stemmed from the past, she decided that the current course of action was best for Salara. As long as she didn't know of the outside world and its ugly rear, she would be safe. She would not suffer the same fate as Munia. Tamara wouldn't lose another person she loved.

But Iin the end, it seems that no matter how hard she tries, nobody stays with her.

Reputation: The kingdom and its common folk view the Archmage as its hero and saving grace. It's not unusual to find paraphernalia tailored to encapsulate her image, whether to be sold for traveling tourists or to honor Tamara herself. Fueled by the exaggerated accounts of those who fought alongside her and the further-escalating epics spun by authors, her story is solidified as that of a heroic legend of hardship, drama, and action. The story of her losing her husband and daughter in one night is known to all, rather than about Delvin and Munia Eris themselves. Like side characters to Tamara's story. The authors wrote their own, tear-jerking, dramatic tales of what happened in the mansion. They believe she isolated herself in the castle walls as a form of "retirement" until another threat emerges, and that she's using her time to train her apprentice. None know just how much Tamara despises her outer reputation.

 

[Goonfire]

Spoiler

The Basics:
Name: Hulta Louhi
Age: 24
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Class: Witch/Medium

Appearance:
Hulta keeps her black hair fairly short, seldom reaching beyond shoulder length—a practical choice to prevent easy grabbing and pulling. For similar reasons, she tucks any loose sleeves into long gloves or arm wraps. She also avoids long, flowing robes, keeping hers roughly knee-length unless she is someplace safe. She still stays presentable, her makeup conveying an understated gothic elegance. Hulta stands 5'6 and appears to be in her own age group—neither younger nor older.

Personality:
Introverted and aloof, Hulta is seldom the one striking up a conversation. She may even seem morbid, pessimistic, and distrustful, though it’s partly because of her past and common people’s perception of her abilities. Her own powers can give her a scare, since mediums don’t always choose what they want to see. However, she has a strong will and a profound respect for the dead. Hulta is known to enjoy hearing about the past, collecting tales from both the living and the dead. Her first choice is to avoid conflict, but she is by no means a pushover, contributing cunning, creativity, and a dash of brute force to her party's efforts in a fight.

To Hulta, trust is something to be earned and more valuable than gold. She is slow to trust initially, but is a steadfast companion. She is discreet and secretive, capable of holding onto secrets and never divulging them. She can also be quite stubborn, as she tried adventuring alone before she met her companions. She is not quick to make a leap of faith, but when an emergency calls for it, well... she sincerely hopes it'll pan out as well as the last one, which got her where she is today.

Perpetuating the sort of "family" comparison, she would be considered the edgy, introverted sister of the team who rolls her eyes at silly jokes and pranks but may be laughing on the inside.

Skills:

• Arcana - She is somewhat well-versed regarding spellcasting, enchantments, and the undead.
• Religion - Despite being disgusted by temples, Hulta studies religious texts to better understand rites, customs, and lore. It often helps when communicating with the dead.
• Herbalism - a major part of potion brewing and a complex discipline composed of two skills—nature and medicine. Hulta has to know what she is putting in her cauldron and how to apply it so she doesn’t make a flawed brew with unintended effects.
• Stealth - While she isn't some dexterous rogue, she is still good at avoiding conflict by remaining out of sight.

Abilities:

• Mediumship - Hulta can meditate to speak with ghosts to learn their secrets and draw on their knowledge. She must use due caution, as it's possible for a spirit to possess her.
• Magic - Her more practical magic abilities revolve are derived from her communion with the spirit realm. She has learned a small handful of long-lost arts. Her patron is an unknown entity working through the spirit of Megaera, the ancient green hag.
  • Updo - Her normally short hair can grow to twice her height and animate, acting as a tendril that can lift, push, or drag objects without causing strain on her head or neck, or simply flail enemies. If she ends this strange enchantment, her hair reverts to its original length.
  • Cauldron - She can summon a cauldron infused with magic, which allows her to enchant mixtures poured into it. The magic typically manifests in the form of the classic "healing potion", foul toxins, or volatile compounds. In order for this to work, the mixture must consist of appropriate materials—medicinal herbs for the healing potion, poisonous plants or fungi for toxins, and gunpowder or peat moss for explosive compunds. The process is not swift, sometimes taking up to four hours to achieve maximum potency for the resulting small batch or thirty minutes for a simpler concoction.
  • Festering - Aiming with her wand, Hulta can shoot a bolt of necrotic energy that curses the living creature it touches. The curse interferes with the effects of medicines, potions, and light healing magic that would treat a wound. The maximum duration is one day.

Equipment:

• Wand - Hulta’s spell focus of choice appears to be made of some sort of black wood.
• Brewing tools - small tools for distilling the potions Hulta makes in her cauldron, such as spoons, alchemical bases, and vials.
• Healing potions - Two standard samples of her completed healing potions. The infused magic allows the active ingredients to more rapidly stimulate the healing processes, mending minor lacerations and fractures without a scar in mere seconds. More grievous wounds would require a stronger formula than these to fully heal.
• Blast potion - A dangerous peat moss-based concoction that explodes when its container is hurled violently and shattered. It causes minor fire damage, being a smaller vial and a less potent formula. Hulta rarely carries anything stronger than this because of the risks associated with carrying such volatile stuff.
• Ritual equipment - Salt, candles, and divining tools such as dowsing rods, which Hulta uses for séances.
• The essentials - rations and other basic needs for surviving her travels.

Background:
Hulta was born to a family of lower-middle-class tradesmen. From a young age, she could see things others couldn't—spirits and other ethereal entities. As a teenager, she started learning unsavory secrets, such as the magic of ancient fey-worshipping green hags that once terrorized the land, so she was shunned by her family and neighbors. She didn't seek redemption and continued to practice on the fringes of society, perfecting dark arts. This caught the attention of criminals who would love to use such abilities for their own agendas, and they relentlessly pressured and browbeat her into joining them. She doesn't talk about the final straw that made her flee town.

No matter where Hulta went and how hard she tried to mind her own business, people always had their suspicions about the “mysterious outsider”. The "good" wanted her gone and the "bad" wished to use her, but what did Hulta want, truly? While roaming the land, she realized she wanted independence, freedom from policing, authority, and domineering. She took up adventuring primarily as a way to do something interesting and impactful without interacting with people too much. Then one day, she found herself in a rough situation along with a small party of adventurers. They had to help each other out of the mess, and so they did. Although she was guarded at first, she warmed up to them, becoming a sort of friend, support specialist, and spiritualist for them. She is certain they appreciate her talents; she appreciates theirs, for sure.

 

[powerline]

tba; played by henry cavill
role; mother hen

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[Goonfire]

The Basics:
Name: Egil “E” Levan
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Class: Spellsword
Role: The hotshot

Appearance:
The hulking Egil stands 6’6, with a powerful build. He has unruly dark brown hair kept short, a well-trimmed beard, and amber eyes. His tanned skin is blemished with two scars on his left side—one by his shoulder and one on his leg. Egil carries an air of confidence and bravery, evident in his stance and gait.

He travels light, with steel armor covering his right arm, shoulders, and knees; bulky armor would interfere with his arcane gestures and sword stances. His garb is usually lighter and more breathable, with his shirts and waistcoats left partially open. Additionally, he wears a gold heirloom necklace, his fingerless sap gloves, a thick belt with sheaths for his daggers, sturdy boots, a leather pouch with his father’s inn’s insignia embossed on the flap, and a roll-up bag containing his other needs.

Personality:
Egil is a gung-ho seeker of fame and fortune. He enjoys being praised for his exploits and engaging in healthy competition. He's willing to try anything at least once; it's inadvisable to play "truth or dare" with him. He's a healthy level of talkative—not annoyingly so—and enjoys going deeper than small talk. His life is an open book; he doesn’t hide the past, instead reminiscing when given the chance. E is of moderate (not superior) intelligence and eager to learn during his travels, but not always wise enough to recognize the value of what he’s learning until later. He seldom makes long-term commitments, always keeping his options open.

To Egil, life is too short for tedium. He tends to be spontaneous and mildly irresponsible as a result. Due to an inflated ego, he may brag a bit and not see all his shortcomings. He may also make the occasional leap of logic and errant deduction, something with which his scholarly sister has fewer problems. The downside of his inquisitive nature is sheer nosiness; he involves himself in matters that don’t concern him, sometimes to his detriment. He also lacks the patience and technical savvy to understand complex machinery. Overall, he needs to acknowledge that he is one man.

Likes: Honesty, activity, spontaneity, adventure, wrestling, meat, mead
Dislikes: Secrets, laziness, schedules, repetition, archery, raisins, wine

Skills:

• Swordsmanship - Egil is an adept swordsman. He is proficient with most blade weapons and prefers broadswords, greatswords, and dirks. He is an aggressive fighter, forgoing a shield in favor of a heavy blade.
• Throwing - Because he can't quite grasp missile-type spells, he often hurls axes, daggers, and holy water vials to compensate.
• Athletics - He is an excellent climber, wrestler, and swimmer with experience hiking and scaling cliffs. It is advisable to let him take point so he can chart the best path up these surfaces.
• History - Interestingly, E enjoys searching for long-lost ruins, more so if they supposedly contain ancient treasures or groundbreaking secrets. He is sometimes seen scouring history tomes and maps in search of leads on his next great find.
• Improvisation - When he doesn't have the resources to surmount an obstacle, he cooks up a quick trick on the fly and makes full use of the resources on-hand.

Abilities:

• Sword Rush - One of E's signature moves is his lunge with his claymore. He likes to close distances rapidly and deliver crushing swings or forceful thrusts.
• Dagger Feint- His favorite use of throwing weapons is to distract an opponent with the initial toss, then close in to deliver a tricky blow with a melee weapon.
• Battle Magic - Perhaps surprisingly, Egil is capable of rudimentary spellcasting, though a dedicated mage could easily beat him in this department. He uses his limited magic to augment his attacks, adding fleeting quasireal blades for a quick flurry of attacks and gentle telekinesis to retrieve a lost weapon.

Equipment:

• Claymore - Egil’s heirloom sword features a 13-inch black leather-wrapped hilt and a well-maintained 42-inch steel blade. The custom sheath allows him to feasibly draw the weapon from his back.
• Dirk - This heavy dagger features a 12-inch blade and matches his claymore. It is ideal for fighting in tight spaces.
• Throwing daggers - four small blades balanced for throwing. They don’t have much bite, but can distract or debilitate.
• Sap gloves - Egil’s fingerless leather gloves are custom, with pockets of powdered steel sewn into the knuckles. His punches pack an even heftier wallop with these.
• Survival essentials - Rations, torches, and other small necessities for a journey. They won’t last forever, but a week’s worth of supplies is a good start.
• Climbing gear - Pitons, rope, climbing claws, and shoe spikes better prepare E for the rare treacherous slope or sheer cliff.

Background:
Osborn Levan was an adventurer of moderate renown. He had traveled with another adventurer named Ada for a few years before they decided to marry and have children. The first of which was a girl named Ingrid, then two years later came Egil. By then, the family had established a tavern decorated with repurposed findings from Osborn’s travels. Prominent in the front of the tavern was a bounty board, usually littered with basic jobs, wanted posters, and requests from Ada. It was an excellent environment for the two siblings, the rugged patrons sparking their curiosity about the world and its mysteries. Eventually, Ingrid became a scholar of antiquities, studying in more formal academia.

Meanwhile, the tavern nurtured many fledgling adventurers, including Egil. While Ingrid was away at college, E threw himself headfirst into the adventuring lifestyle, learning from a mentor who was a friend of his mother. For ten years, the veteran spellsword taught just about everything she knew, though Egil wasn't a flawless student. He focused less on the "spell" and more on the "sword", taking a headstrong and straightforward approach to many matters. Despite the protests of many companions, it's this unprecedentedly brazen approach that gave him his style and his small share of notoriety.

Though successful overall, E is somewhat of a misfit among guilds and organizations. He's well-equipped and quick-witted, but his penchant for charging headfirst into situations and insipid complaining about formalities, standard procedure, and bureaucracy make him a liability. He later became part of a new party of fellow outsiders who seem to handle him better than the others; one may even say they manage to keep the flighty warrior grounded.