Fantasy Project Grozny: Prologue CS

[Pilgrim59]

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[div class=fyuriwrapper][div class=imageheader][div class=header]Silver Company Archive[/div][/div][div class=fyuricredit]code/design by @Fyuri[/div]

Midrick Uasal Ayama rakshasa TheInsanityOfBobSemple Ramjammer Zariel
Feel free to code it however you like, but should include the following:

[picture here]

I. General Info
Name:
Title / Alias:
Race:
Gender:
Age:
Height:

II. Personal Profile
Personality: (outline or description)
Biography:

III. Silver Company Service
Class: (defender, archer, supporter, mage, ... etc.)
Abilities:
Weapons / Equipment:[/div]

 

[Pilgrim59]

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[/div][div class=under][div class=header]Sylvia of Verdan[/div]
Title / Alias(es):
- Angel of Verdan
- Savior of Onyx Valley
- Grand Commander of Haven Expeditionary Force

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: 22

Height: 5 ft. 9 in. (175 cm)

[div class=header]Appearance[/div]
Sylvia is an average young adult who usually falls short of the taller ones. Her determined crimson eyes gives off an stern, yet composed aura - receptive of those that meets her. Her long silver hair are adorned with fashionable ties and sometimes ruffled after returning from the field.

Sylvia has fair pale skin that generally glows pinkish when exposed to direct sunlight. She is usually seen in her immaculate white armor, laden with series of black and gold trims. Her apparel's lining are dyed blue similar to Haven's foot soldiers with their regimental colors. Sylvia generally has her weapon sheathed in a mana pocket for concealed carry, and only rarely seen outside of her armor.

[div class=header]Extra[/div]
Sylvia loves apples and mushroom soup.[/div] [/div]

[div class=textarea][div class=header2]Personality

[div class=txtbox][div class=dot][/div]Sylvia is a relatively modest and generous person of interest. She is focused and lends an ear where needed, never shying away from problems that arises. She is usually reserved and well-spoken in her ways, engaging others in a calm, and determined demeanor. Even in battle, she tends to keep a cool head and orchestrates her plans properly. While stern, and often times nonchalant to a certain extent, Sylvia is quite friendly towards her peers - evident in her leadership abilities.

Where she is receptive of strangers and friends alike, Sylvia tries her best to keep her Companions and soldiers in the light - by empathy and personal insights. Accompanied by her intrigues to engage herself in community services, Sylvia does not stray far from one's perception of an idealized hero. However, behind her nonchalant smiles and soft voice, there resides a certain reservation of unspoken gloom and self-deprecating thoughts. At times, she can be seen in her self-endowed melancholy when alone. While disciplinary when it comes to dire situations, Sylvia is generally well-respected for her past deeds, and ongoing efforts to bring an end to the war.[/div]

[div class=header2]Biography[/div]
[div class=txtbox][div class=dot][/div]An enigmatic young girl, with no memories prior to her awakening on the streets of Verdan, where it came under siege by the Dark Lord's Shadow Legion, Sylvia was only given a name after the ordeal. It was here, among the chaos and bloodshed that she inadvertently picked up a certain lance and hurled herself at the hordes of undead, driven by a certain sensation that she could not make sense of, even to this day.

She quickly came to realize her innate abilities of unknown origins, accompanied by the mysterious weapon that she had gotten her hands on, and put them to good use. Before she knew it, Sylvia had managed to hold out long enough for the town to evacuate. While the rest of the folks had made it out, Sylvia continued to fight. And fought she did. For two days straight, she would adapt to hit-and-run tactics, using the ruins of Verdan as her concealment and cover. Slowly but surely, she managed to dwindle the Shadow Legion's forces enough for the knights of Haven to recapture it on the third day.

Amidst the ruins, the knights found a young girl, drenched in mud and ashes with the fabled sword, or in this case, had taken on the form of a lance, in her hand. They called her Sylvia, due to her misty silver-ashened hair. The young sixteen year old girl would come to be heralded as the 'Angel of Verdan' by her deeds. She would later go on to serve in the army as a knight, slowly rising up in the ranks for the next six years. Picking up a diverse cast along the way, Sylvia eventually formed the Silver Company, composing of unique individuals that have fought by her since her prophesied awakening in Verdan. Partaking in the Battle of Onyx Valley, Sylvia and her Companions managed to turn the tide of the war, and with the subsequent series of decisive victories - the end of Sertek's reign seemed certainly within their grasps.

The Island of Saarema, at the edge of the world, home of the Dark Lord Sertek, was now the final part of the Hero's journey. The eyes of Grozny is upon Sylvia, her Companions, and the soldiers of Haven Expeditionary Force. One last campaign, and the world will finally know peace. Or will it?[/div]

[div class=header2]Silver Company Service[/div]
[div class=txtbox][div class=dot][/div]Class: Lancer

Abilities:
[Solomon's Vindication]
Sylvia's lance channels a surge of concentrated mana that can pierce through any armored target upon direct contact. The bigger the target, the more energy is needed to break their armor.

[Sacred Volley]
Sylvia imbues her weapons with light magic, before letting loose a volley of concentrated rays that pierce through her opponents. Especially lethal against undead and any creatures of darkness.

Weapons / Equipment:
[Solomon's Fate]
A magical weapon mentioned in the Vardanian Fables. It is said to be crafted with pure rune elements, rather than earthly metals, emulating the user's soul to mold and materialize its shape. The lance is able to retract into a short warhammer for close quarter fighting. Solomon only binds itself to those worthy of its cause, making it as light as a pen, yet durable enough to sustain overwhelming force or heat. As such, the weapon is impervious to any attempts to destroy it, and is fated to encounter a hero whenever darkness threatens the land. Or so the fable goes.

[/div] [/div][/div][/div][/div][div class=fyuricredit]code by @Fyuri[/div]

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[Ramjammer]

• Basic Info
• Appearance
• Personality
• Ghan
• History

• 
  Name: Nemir Cesti.
  Applicable Titles: Lady. Templar. Captain Buzzkill.
  Gender: Female
  Age: 46
  Alignment: Lawful Neutral.
  Class: Templar
  
• 
  
  
  Spoiler: Nemir

  
  Spoiler: Armor

  
  Spoiler: Raumspalter

  
  
  
  
  
  Nemir is rather unassuming in her general appearance, bearing no distinguishing features save for the tell tale crookedness of a nose broken and healed repeatedly. Thickly braided, brown hair stands in even contrast to the woman's dark skin and seems to be the only vanity that Nemir allows herself, as she spends and inappropriate amount of time maintaining it.
  
  A lifetime spent training for, and engaging in battle has instilled a deep respect for labor in Nemir, and it shows plainly in her physique. An assortment of scars covers the Templars well-muscled frame, many the result of near constant battle, and a few from various mishaps.
  
  She trains relentlessly with her blade, a strict practitioner of Martial skill and war tactics that go hand in hand with her religious upbringing.
  
  A noticeably deep voice accompanies the woman's elegant speech. Often giving her words a greater sense of gravitas than others.
  
  Nemir chooses to don a fearsome set of black armor in battle. The snarling fangs and abundance of claws certainly give the Judicator the appearance of a Demon more than a Knight. But its effect is unmistakable. Fear, and a sense of foreboding are as good a weapon as any blade in Nemir's eyes.
  
  
• 
  Positive Personality Traits: Honest. Dependable. Patient. Stable.
  Negative Personality Traits: Arrogant. Vindictive. Fanatical. Ruthless.
  
  "There is Iron in your blood, Squire. A paltry amount. No more than can be used to forge a single nail. But it is there. And by that single nail is your soul tethered to your bones. Those same bones, are filled with minerals. Hidden away under your flesh, the way soil and stone hide precious ores. The Earth you serve does not merely rest under your feet, boy. That Nail forged from your blood, and those Minerals found in your bones do not belong to you. They belong to the Earth. It has left it's mark on you, from the very day that you're born. And it will take your blood, your bones, and the Iron therein back when you die. You may as well give your life and all the devotion in your heart for the duration."
  
  -Lady Nemir Cesti.
  
  
  Fanaticism, an unshakable set of morals, and a willingness to condemn those deemed too lawless for good company, doesn't earn a person many friends. At least, not in most parts of Haven. Certainly not in the wake their ongoing war with the Shadow Legions. With the sundering of the Realm and the chaos it brings, there always comes a certain distaste for the law. And especially there comes disdain for those that upheld it.
  
  Nemir knows this. And for that reason, she unflinchingly walks the path set before her, as great change can only come through great hardship.
  
  Ambition resides deep within the woman. Gnawing at her insides and clawing just beyond the boundries of her own conciousness. She keeps it well tethered. Constrained and tempered by a cool demeanor and a critical manner. Nothing worthwhile has ever been earned through haste, and Nemir embodies this in her seemingly boundless patience. She approaches tasks and decision making carefully, not wanting to worsen things with misguided haste. This in turn makes Nemir slow to act. But with her gaze set firmly on the future, each choice the woman makes can be felt long after the deed is done.
  
  That limitless patience however, hides a deep rooted vindictiveness within the woman. All slights, no matter how small are committed to Nemir's memory. Never forgotten and allowed to fester within her heart. She weighs each crime, internally compiling a list of offensives for one and all. The higher the count grows, the harder Nemir works against her foes. Often bringing the very Laws that she so reveres, to bear in their full crushing weight against them.
  
  As a Templar Nemir holds an intimate knowledge of Haven's laws and is one to make use of hidden loopholes and doublespeak in order to get her way. A level of underhandedness not uncommon in her line of work. She believes that this says less about her, and more about the state of Humanity. Flawed beings create equally flawed laws, no matter how noble their intent. In this regard, Nemir believes that only the laws of the Gods are truly without reproach.
  
  Her House has long boasted a string of individuals particularly close to the Gods and Nemir is no different. Impressions of potential ends often plague her mind, especially in her dreams. She meditates often as a result, studying and weighing these probable, yet faint futures. Some consider it a from of subtle precognition. An ability to scry the future and bring about the changes one most desires. Nemir understands the truth of the matter. The Blessing is not so much future sight, as it is an odd form of heightened instincts. Allowing those touched to read their environment in muted ways, and better avoid coming obstacles.
  
  But Nemir does little if anything to put a halt to these beliefs. Haven is a land of deep rooted spirituality, and reverence for its Gods. And a Blessing is just that. To shun the reverence her people hold for House D'eshem's closeness to their God, would be to shun the God himself. An offense inconceivable.
  
  Unsurprisingly, Nemir does not get on well with Nobility . She finds most of them too soft, and too degenerate to be deserving of their titles. To know nothing of the burdens of War would be forgivable if Haven was at peace. But the constant turmoil plaguing the realm leaves little excuse for the lack of involvement from many of the Houses and those that lead them. Practicing swordsmanship for the sake of entertainment and one's own ego is an especially foul offense in the woman's eyes. The matter of the blade is not one that Nemir takes lightly. And to see the art reduced to a mere hobby among the Houses grates on her especially.
  
  That is to say nothing of their distance from the people that they supposedly serve. While Nemir cannot be considered the most warm hearted of individuals, her concern for Haven's territories and the people that reside in them are foremost in her mind. And the concerns of the people that she's sworn herself to protect can't be taken care of from atop a self made pedestal. Calloused hands, and a listening ear have garnered Nemir more support from the common folk, far more than a storied bloodline ever could.
• A drooling mass of fangs and fur, Ghan can be counted among Nature's many mistakes. But as far as Nemir is concerned, the Hyena is a pleasure to have around. Sporting a pair of ears just too small for his head, and a set of teeth slightly too big for his mouth, Ghan is a disproportionate mess. Prone to knocking over furniture and tackling guests, Ghan spends his days terrorizing everyone on with sloppy kisses and overwhelming affection. Hyena's aren't particularly common pets in most parts of Haven, but the can be spotted here and there. The large chuckling beasts make for good war hounds and are excellent trackers. Ghan is no different in either of those regards. Sporting almost as many battle scars as his Mistress, the Hyena's bite is something to be feared. His constant laughing bark amidst the carnage of war only makes the ordeal that much worse.
• 
  
  "All things die child. You stand here before me and call that unfair? Little fool that you are, you cannot see death for what it is. There is no greater fairness, nor any greater equalizer than the embrace of the grave."
  
  -Aurelius Cesti. Last Patriarch of House D'shem.
  
  Most Children look to the future. They consider the weight of their name. They envision the path forged by their ancestors that lays sprawling before them. They dream of what they might build and add on to their own House.
  
  But all that Nemir knew, and all that she ever foresaw was the final end of her own bloodline.
  
  House D'shem was once proud. It was once powerful. Its ties to the to the Land andthe Gods that ruled them were more than clear. House D'shem produced generations of Spiritual leaders. Priests and Caliphates all, the once noble house stood as an example of Spirituality and kinship with the Gods. A closeness since a time unwritten only further served to increase their sway. House D'shem birthed a caste of Warrior-Priests unyielding in their strength and unshakable in their conviction.
  
  Those were truly the glory days. Where evil sought to creep into the cracks of society, House D'shem would loose its Sons and Daughters upon it, beating back the dark and restoring order. It was simple, and moreover it was right.
  
  But when one spends too long with their heads in the clouds, they soon forget that their feet still touch the earth. House D'shem had always been small. Seeing no need to expand, nor expressing the interest to. Their sole interest was and would ever be the protection of the realm. To right all things wrong. And to rout the evil wherever it might appear. What greater glory could there be, than service to one's own Gods?
  
  And so it was. And so it would be. Each engagement dwindling their numbers, and weakening their grip on their already shrinking territory.
  
  But House D'shem would not swayed. Not from the path that each member saw so vividly laid out before them. Their had always been rumors surrounding the odd family. How each successive generation produced an heir capable of foreseeing things to come. They would always remain so. Rumors and the prattling of Housewives with nothing better to do. Yet the House's insistence on following a path that spelled their ultimate demise seemed almost uncanny. Every soul eerily fixated on a point in the future where they claimed that the Gods would no longer need them.
  
  If House D'shem knew something that no one else did, it was strictly between the Gods and they. The world still turned, and men still lived their lives. Wars came and went, and the House retreated finally into itself and dwindled further.
  
  By the time Aurelius Cesti was born, all that he had to his name were overgrown wild lands, a sword that had never known anything but the taste of blood and a crumbling Keep perched atop a wind beaten cliff. And all that he had to pass onto his only daughter was more of the same.
  
  As a child, Nemir saw an unfairness in her lot. Born to a slowly dying bloodline, and plagued by dreams of any possible end that it might reach. Life was bleak, and it was cold. Aurelius, stern and unyielding merely assured her that this was the mark of their House. One bright, and filled with life, now dying like embers from a fire left in the cold. There was little else that he could give her. Her Mother, sick of her Husband's grim insistence to kill what remained of his heritage left home when Nemir was scarcely a year old.
  
  "She doesn't even look like me. When I look in this child's eyes, all that I see is an emptiness. Keep her. She's cursed to become like her Father, not matter what I do."
  
  A childhood with no Mother is not easy on a child. And a childhood where everyone in the Village knew that she was gone merely because she didn't want you was far harder. Nemir doesn't recall her childhood with great fondness. Between the villiage gossip, and her Father's stern teachings it was clear to her, even from a young age that nothing was gained without great cost.
  
  The only real credit that Nemir could give to her Father is that he never ceased teaching her. And that despite his feelings concerning the death of his own bloodline, there was a small and unspoken part of him that wanted Nemir to become something greater than he.
  
  Aurelius taught Nemir to read and write. He spoke constantly of the God's teachings. Ensuring that the young girl wouldn't be left ignorant to what had once made them great. She practiced swordsmanship, hunting and tracking. All in preparation for the day that would eventually see her out into a world that had no real use for her. But that, he told her again and again, didn't matter. For the Gods still needed House D'shem and so they still needed Nemir.
  
  Her coming of age was a bleak affair. The passing of age old burdens, collecting dust from one set of shoulders to the other.
  
  "Take Raumspalter now that you are old enough. And make whatever life that it will allow you to. That blade, and the Gods will see fit to determine what you become. I hope it's something far greater than I."
  
  There were very little options available to Nemir then. Her Father had been a soldier, but not a particularly notable one. All he'd passed down to Nemir was some knowledge of blade work and a reverence for the Gods.
  
  A Templar seemed as good a choice as any. But their numbers were low for a multitude of reasons. They were picky about their stock, training took a lifetime, and not everyone survived it. Nemir was young, she wasn't exactly remarkable but was willing to try, and she expected to die eventually. It had stopped mattering to her a long while back.
  
  It was almost fitting. The last Daughter of House D'shem seeking a place among the same caste of Warriors it had a hand in creating. The irony was almost poetic. But it was mostly bitter.
  
  True to form, not all of Nemir's fellow students made it through training. The clever ones quit once they saw what lay ahead of them. The foolish died in their stead. It didn't matter to Nemir in the end. She could scarce recall their names or faces. Training was better than sitting around contemplating ones own death. Praying provided the comfort that a family rightfully should have. Becoming a Judicator quickly changed from a task meant to pass the time until Nemir's inevitable demise and instead became as close a reason to living as the woman could muster.
  
  It became an easy role to fall into. A simple ideal to uphold. For good or for Ill.
  
  Nemir proved to be efficient at her job. She was untested, but refused to remain that way for long. Her blood belonged to the Earth and to the Gods, and she would see it returned to them as offering one way or another. But in the end, Nemir spilled far more blood than she lost. She would restore order, forcibly if necessary to whatever town or village needed. It was the one thing that she was good at.
  
  Nemir's foreboding appearance struck fear into weak hearts more than it offered reassurance. As a result she became something of a small legend. Not in the sense that the woman would nobly appear in a burst of light to save tortured souls. But more that she'd rise from the pits of Hell to drag the lawless there kicking and screaming.
  
  The Templar didn't really mind. If local superstition was enough to keep the peace, Nemir was happy to let it be so. But someone, somewhere always sought to test their luck. And on those days, Nemir would appear with Ghan in tow. Together, they would put blade and tooth to the necks of anyone hoping to subvert the laws of the land and the Gods for their own gain.
  
  It was simple, and it was right.
  
  But the Shadow Legions did not wait All that that they did was hunger. And so they came, ravenous and without number. The rolling fields, hills and mountians were awash with fighting. Villages were razed overnight, and countless souls were lost in the storm of chaos.
  
  Killing Demons and Undead was simpler than killing men in that neither wasted time begging for their lives. They sought to cause as much pain as they could, and where one would fall his brother would kick aside his corpse to take his place. Raumspalter had known battle since it was first forged, and its fate was such that like its wielder it served but one purpose. To fell the hordes of evil, and mend the broken realm.
  
  Things easier said than done.
  
  Verdan was not the first City to fall under the crushing might of the Shadow Legion, and it would be far from the last. They came without end, and blackened the sky. Screaming heresy and threatening only doom. The the sun, long blotted out by the mass of bodies cast a heavy gloom over everything. Nemir had never been so certain of her own death. For miles, onto the horizon the Shadow Legion's army stretched. There were not enough men and women in the Kingdom to fight them and there never would be.
  
  
  Nemir could never say how long she fought. Hours stretching on without end. Possibly days. Few lived to speak of that last great battle, and all wished that they could erase it from memory. Raumsplater grew heavier with each swing, and Nemir knew that soon she'd be unable to lift it at all. Death had come for her, and for every man and woman around her. There was nothing else to be done.
  
  
  She was right, in a way. Death did come, swarming the land with terrible intent. But it was met head on by a force of shining conviction that defied all logic. And there among the muddied ruins of a once proud city, Sertek's forces were routed. Picked apart little by little over the course of hours. Superstition ran deep among the souls of Haven, and there were none more superstitious than fearful soldiers up to their necks in enemy forces. Nemir had never made it a point to listen in on whatever talk consumed the campfires at night, but she'd had have to have been both deaf and dumb to miss the words whispered over and over in the shadow of Verdan's ruins.
  
  
  "They say it was an angel. Came down from the sky to smite those damn Hell beasts!"
  
  
  "No it weren't! Was a damn ghost. A banshee. Some poor sap's wife that's gone and got too angry to rest."
  
  
  On it went. And Nemir could scarce tell who among them might be telling the truth. If there was indeed any grain of truth to what the common rabble was saying. But as it ever did, the truth came out. Unexpectedly,a and with no small amount of fanfare.
  
  
  Apparently, they'd found something. Or moreover, someONE and the entire detatchment was atwitter with excitement. They were supposed to have been looking for survivors, those were their orders. While a single soul saved was a blessing, it wasn't one considerable enough to halt operations altogether.
  
  
  It was with this in mind that Nemir shoved herself to the forefront of the gaggle of Havenites gathered around something and talking excitedly among themselves. What the Templar found was neither a Banshee, much less and Angel despite the assertations of the men and women around her. But a lifetime spent reading the signs that the Gods saw fit to grant her, told the woman all that she needed to know.
  
  
  "This is a gutter rat." She said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, pointedly ignoring the gasps and exclamations of outrage around her. She knelt before the girl huddled on the ground to inspect her closely. She was a waifish thing. No more than skin and bones and covered from head to foot in mud, gore, and ash. None dared to voice their displeasure any further, and the small group fell silent, eyeing the Templar with some level of trepidation. They too knew the signs, but the matter of discerning the will of the Gods was left to one who'd spent their life doing so.
  
  
  As far as Nemir had been able to tell, the young woman looked no different from any other lost orphan left to wander ruined streets and muddy roads. Save of course, for the fabled weapon she clenched tightly in a pale fist.
  
  
  "Do you have a name, orphan?" She'd asked. She had to wonder how she must have looked then. Some hulking individual dressed head to foot in snarling black armor, accosting some poor girl while a scruffy Hyena leered at her side. Perhaps it had been trepidation that kept the chose Hero's lips sealed at the time. Though it was soon enough revealed that she had no name she could recall. It was not Nemir's place to say. Only to do as both Fate and the Gods ordained, regardless of her own misgivings.
  
  
  "I did not see you in my dreams." She'd rumbled. "But here you are."
  
  
  Nemir stood, leaving the girl where she sat and roughly jostled the soldier nearest her with an armor clad shoulder. "Get her cleaned, and her wounds tended to. Feed her if she's hungry." The man looked ready to argue, both as a point of pride and for the Templar's utter disregard for the chain of command but she'd already begun to lumber away.
  
  
  "A summit needs to be called."
  
  
  
  
  "We've talked and talked in circles, and for hours. The signs are clear, and there isn't a single person among our numbers who can deny them. Lady Cesti, you've asked that the girl choose her fate and that is why we're here. She's chosen to throw her lot in with yours. It's almost poetic isn't it? Your house was the first of our kind, and now its last daughter is tasked with mentoring this generations Chosen Hero. We wish you all the best."
  
  
  -Eldgard Glorysnow, High Templar.
  

Skills

Templar
The Law doesn't keep itself, and it is the fatal flaw of man to try and avoid its gaze. Where words and ink will not sway the hearts of the guilty, blood and steel can.

Nemir stands as but one of many Templars spread out over the Kingdom. Not so much an occupation as it is a way of life, to be counted among the ranks of the Haven's Templars is an honor highly sought out by the nation's most pious citizens. The laws of the realm can be recited from front to back by any among their number. And the willingness to enact them runs deep in every soul. A ruthless, and almost fantical devotion to Justice, Order, and above all else, the teachings of the Gods is but standard fare for a Templar. Nemir is no different.

Martial prowess comes part and parcel to those that call themselves a Judicator. The Laws of the land, and the Laws of the Gods exist for a reason. Any that fall outside their boundaries, or seek to subvert those holy words long ago written down, must be brought to justice by any means. And if the guilty are unwilling to face the justice as deemed fit by Haven's Courts, then they will be sent to face that Justice before the Gods themselves in short order.

Wilderness Survival A Templar is on the road almost as often as they are in the comfort of their own home, if not more. Evil does not rest, and so Nemir has no excuse to sit idle while it works tirelessly. A comfortable Inn isn't always guaranteed during her travels, and so Nemir has learned to make do in the wilds of Haven. Hunting, trapping and fishing keep the stomach full. And knowing how to construct both a fire and shelter keeps the cold and beasts well away.

Weapon of Choice

Nemir can scarcely recall a time when she did not know Raumspalter's familliar weight. A comfort in those times when she felt most unsure. The Greatsword knows well the taste of blood. An ancient family Heirloom, Raunspalter has seen more wars, more battles, and more death than any single person can ever attest to. And after generations of gorging itself on the lifeblood of the unworthy, Raumspalter now rests in the hands of House D'Shem's last living member. When Nemir leaves the land of the living, and her name fades from memory, so too will the sword and all that stands as a reminder of a long dying bloodline. But until that day long written in the woman's bones, Nemir will wield Raumsplater with the brutal efficiency, and stark cruelty it has come to represent.

'Like the Vulture, I feast on the bones of both the small, and of the great. Both are one and the same once I have been drawn.'

-Inscription written on the First Blade of House D'shem

Fighting Style

"You don't have to yield now. Only when you're ready. I'll still be here when that time comes."

-Nemir Cesti.

Haste can ruin a woman's life worse than any amount of village gossip. Nemir has spent her life moving at her own pace, and she's never been particularly interested in how that may affect others. On the battlefield, this may seem odd. Out of place. Suicidal, even. When one second, one misstep can spell disaster, and your death, what right does one person have to drag things out?

Those, are the words of the impatient, the young. The needlessly hasty. A single battle, a war is won long before two swords first meet. Victory does not hinge upon one lucky moment. But a lifetime of moments, planned, executed and refined. The sum of all leading to the experience that only true warriors can claim.

Nemir's pace is not quick. It is slow, plodding and measured. But it has nothing to do with the pounds of steel she encases herself in. Endurance training the likes that would make even the dead quake have afforded Nemir some measure of comfort within her armor. Her breath doesn't run short as quickly as it would for another. Her movements are fluid from ease of practice. Decades spent honing her body, and her craft given devastating life in each swing.

Faster opponents, nimble and sure footed are wont to dance around the woman. Hoping to tire her out. But Nemir's slowness grants time. Time to plot. And time to read the environment around her. Each step she takes is measured and sure. Inch by inch, second by second Nemir herds her foes into the direction that she need them. Even those that see the trap for what it is always think themselves too quick, and too clever to be boxed in. If they'd bother to pay attention, they'd recall how the old snapping turtle waits. Blind and ancient. Too slow to run from danger. Too slow to do anything at all.

Until it truly matters.

Raumspalter is almost the length of Nemir's body, and it's blade is heavier than it should rightfully be. It crushes almost as much as it cuts, and the truth becomes clear in one single devastating moment.

Time is on Nemir's side. Death comes sooner or later. And the Tempolar's patience is long.

 

[Uasal]

I. General Info
Name: Banrí Oighir

Title / Alias:
-Demoness of Verdan
-Banrí of the World's Edge
-Demon Bane Banrí
-Arch-Mage Banrí
-Banrí the 'Sorceress of a Thousand Tomes'
-(Redacted)


Race: Enchanted (Altered Human)
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Height: 5ft 11

II. Personal Profile
Personality:
Banrí is a very calm and passive woman almost never losing her cool regardless of the situation. Even as she and everyone was being overwhelmed by forces in Verdan, Banrí remained calm and was able to think of a strategy to counter. The only time she loses her calmness is when the situation is beyond her ability to cope such as Sylvia’s near scrape with death.

Banrí is described as a very mysterious woman as many who know her have a difficult time telling what she is after. She expressed excitement when the demon lords forces attacked Verdan, primarily knowing she could gain a large amount of information from their appearance and also is noted for taking an interest in Sylvia’s powers and prowess due to the many mysteries surrounding her. According to Sylvia, Banrí tends to take an interest in anything that is considered "rare" such as reliquary powers and various Demons she can use for her experiments. Even Demons have a hard time understanding what she's after.

Despite her mysterious nature, according to Sylvia, Banrí is a very kind and cheerful woman. She is normally kind and polite to everyone around her, even those she does not know. She also has a motherly side, treating children with great bias over adults when it comes to aid while also being deeply saddened over their deaths when it’s a result of over spilled combat such as in Verdan.

Banrí does have a merciless and cold side when it comes to battle, feeling no remorse for the lives she takes while also finding it hard to understand why her torturous 'experiments' on captured Demons are looked down upon.

Biography:
Banrí was born in (Redacted), the old capital of the wizards, which remained neutral in the conflict with the Demon Clan thousands of years beforehand. She was taken on the path of wizardry by her father and the Acting archmagi Necron. Banrí was born with the strongest and most unique natural attributes for magic the wizard capital had ever seen, besides being a prodigy with enough talent and wit such that she surpassed the ‘wise men’ of the capital.

Together with other children that had a given aptitude for magic, Banrí was experimented on by the people of wizard capital as a test subject under the pretext of researching the ultimate magic. In reality, they sought to turn the children into weapons for future use against the high ranking demons. Each Child was subject to enhancements and enchantments one by one and just like that each and every child began dying from overexertion save two. Banrí and a child called Zero. Both children were then taken and subject to intense magical training and study day in and day out. Upon their 13th birthday’s each child was taken and a final act was performed on each, this being a body fusion with that of the legendary philosophers stone. Zero was first to be fused and he survived a mere week under the stress of the stone. Banrí then followed but her body took to the stone as if it was always meant to be. With that Banrí’s enhancements were all complete and until her 20th birthday, she was subject to even more study and training under the archmagi himself.

Unfortunately, demons soon learned of this plot to make a weapon and the demon lords forces came crashing down on the capital. Banrí was put to her final test and in it she prevailed. She fended off the hordes of hell and defended her home single handily for an entire week. But as fate is a cruel maiden the demon lord himself launched an attack soon after. Banrí put up a good fight but eventually was defeated by the demon lord who burned her home to the ground and slaughtered all her people before casting a curse upon the lone surviving mage. A curse that rendered her trapped in stone for thousands of years.

seven years ago Banrí was freed from the effect of the curse and for the past seven years has set about seeking vengeance on the demon lord who slaughtered her people. Now a companion of Sylvia’s, Banrí is assisting as best she can.

The simple mention of her birthplace (Redacted) and her true name has been noted enough to frighten even high station soldiers in the Demon Lords army and has even been known to send some of the lower-level demons fleeing for their life.

Banrí is not as powerful as she once was, the stone within her has been greatly drained of power over the thousands of years it kept her alive while cursed. However, her magic is still leaps and bounds stronger than even the most talented of modern-day mages.

III. Silver Company Service
Class: Mage

Abilities:
Basic and Advanced Elemental Spells
Basic and Advanced Support and healing Spells
Forbidden and Forgotten Spell Caster
Basic and Advanced Ritual Spells
Demonic Magic Caster
Explosion Magic

Grand-Teleport: High-level teleportation magic that allows Banrí to appear and disappear at precise locations and teleport groups of people instantaneously. The spell effect radius of Banrí's teleportation is several miles wide.

White Nova: Fire and Light spell; The strongest magic spell that Banrí can use without using rituals. On the tip of her staff, a pure white fireball about the size of a ping-pong ball is produced. The fireball then falls to the ground at a lax speed. The instant the fireball touches the ground, it will split open in a pure white flash with a thunderous roar--a disintegrating annihilation due to magic power should be repeatedly happening in the effect range of the attack. The effective range is a semi-circle that spans a mile from the caster's feet. Its power is tremendous enough to defeat high-level monsters in one hit. However, the weakness of such a powerful spell is the huge MP consumption along with how it takes time before the spell can be invoked.

Apocalypse Abyss: A Forbidden Spell. A ritual magic that is cast via the establishment of thirteen magical power points surrounding the area of its effect. Its power is extremely high with an enormous aoe. without a doubt, this is the strongest spell In Banri's arsenal. Within the set range, pillars of light rise up from the thirteen magical power points. The four classical elements then rage about within while all physical objects change into dust entirely. Lightning runs around, magma flows and targets that become frozen burst in an instant. All while a current of magical power swirls around preventing escape. The four classical elements eventually collide becoming a tornado tinged with lightning, Ice and fire before finally rising to the heavens swallowing up the area in the set range causing immense damage. This spell requires all of Banri's mana and also must be carefully set up in terms of the runic placements.

Grand Cast Explosion: A Long-Range Artillery spell akin to that of an atomic bomb.

Weapons / Equipment:
[The Philosophers Stone]
The philosophers stone is an ancient relic that posses unfathomable amounts of magic capability. Or at least did thousands of years ago. Currently, the stone grants Banrí the ability to convert anything into mana through equivalent exchange while also acting as a storage device for said mana greatly boasting her reserves.

[The Grand ArchMagi Staff]
A staff inherited by the Archmagi of (Redacted). The staff is expertly crafted so that all forms of magic can be cast using one staff without diminished results.

[The Twin Tomes of (Redacted)]
These twin tomes contain all the spells gathered by the wise men of (Redacted). With these tomes, Banríhas access to her studied magics at all times while also having access to complex spell formations on the fly. Note: Both books continue to fill with spell and information Banrí finds herself.


​

​

​

 

[Rielaix]

I. General Info
Name: Pola of White Rift

Title / Alias:
- The Menace of Chernova
- The Loremaster of Lenino

Race: Snow Draconian
Gender: Female
Age: 194
Height: 4 ft. 9 in. (144 cm)

II. Personal Profile
Personality:
Pola is a simple draconian with little words to spare. While she is well-versed in a variety of archaic and modern language of Grozny, she just choose not to exert herself until she is needed. Pola's gestures are simple to read. One tug at your apparel means "feed me", and two means "please pat my head". While diligent in her studies and fondness for knowledge, Pola can be remote at times when she is disinterested. Despite her wiser years, she is still a child at heart, and usually look up to her fellow Companions. Figuratively and literally.

While Pola is not exactly a naïve person, she is somewhat easy to bribe when her own interests are aligned, especially when food is concerned. Her nonchalant attitude towards most situations had inadvertently made her stumble upon awkward situations quite frequently than not. Pola once wandered into a Shadow Legion fortress and then promptly exiting out the front door, while she was chasing some butterflies for research. Her small figure, in addition to her remarkable ability to daydream her way past the enemy lines, makes her a formidable Companion in psychological warfare. Although to Pola's own contemplation, she just felt it not worth her time.


Biography:
Pola is a snow dragon that spent most of her lifetime in the tundra woods north of Lenino. The people of Lenino have always been under the protection of the White Rift Dragons, and in return, the humble folks of Lenino would offer food every full rotation to honor the tradition formed between the two. The legacy of this coexistence between humanity and dragon made Pola very receptive of her mortal peers. Endowed with great intellectual capacity, Pola spent most of her time doing research and partaking in the arcane arts. She is most gifted with runes and enchantments. A prodigy with enhancement magic and medicine, as her time in the White Rift forged her botanist and foraging knowledge.

When the Shadow Legion attacked Lenino, Pola had no choice but to fight, despite her docile nature. She was saved from certain death by the Sylvia of Verdan during the withdrawal of the Northern forces from Lenino. A debt owed in blood must be honored, as was the tradition of her clan. As thus, Pola formed a pact with the Hero, and have accompanied them ever since.

Pola was treated well among her Silver Companion peers, and spoiled the most by the Hero. Her most notable feat during the war was the destruction of the Shadow Legion's encampment outside of Chernova. As the tales were told, Pola wandered straight into their encampment on a cloudy day, posing as a malicious dragon wishing to join the cause. She didn't even try to play one, just waltzing in the gate with a nonchalant face. Even the legionnaire didnt question her purpose. When Pola had successfully infiltrated, or rather, walked into the enemy camp, she set the munition depot ablaze. Several days after the ordeal, she would be found by the Companions, after she was separated from the main battle at Sealow Heights. In other words, the draconian was lost and inadvertently destroyed the enemy's encampment in the process.

Other tales of her exploits included a tale of challenging a Shadow General to an eating competition, a mathematical quiz with an Oni strategist, and annoying the Shadow Legion into letting her go after being captured at Onyx Valley.

Pola looks up to Sylvia as her big sister, mainly to beg for food or attention. Occasionally, she can be seen foraging things for thr Demoness of Verdan, and procuring ice teas for Lady Cesti the Templar. All for a couple of head pats and attention.

III. Silver Company Service
Class: Support Sage (Buff / Debuff)

Abilities:
[Ice Magic]
Using ice magic, Pola can immobilize or slow her opponents within the perimeter. If the target is armored, the frost effects will tamper with their movement, significantly slowing them down. She can also erect an icy barrier to deflect incoming attacks. Or at other times, extra ice for her beverage.

[Little Hand]
Pola can buff her allies with an array of protection spells, wards, and enhancement abilities. She can cast runes that reduces the effects of received afflictions, limited-duration speed and agility, or magnifying their physical and magical output. She can also expedite healing process for a short time to seal wounds and stem bleeding, but not treat them fully.

[Draconian Pact]
Pola is a dragon in nature, despite taking on human form most of the time. Having formed a pact with the Hero, she is bound to accompany the hero until their death. When called upon by Sylvia's command, she turns into a dragon and unleashes her frost breath that immobilizes or out right freezes her target.

Weapons / Equipment:
[The Lore of Xyne]
A book that Pola always carry with her. The book itself was crafted by dragon magic, and act as a manifestation device to speed up her spell-casting process. At times, it also serves as an elevating stage for her to reach the cookie shelves.

[Dracorin]
Dracorin is an anklet that Pola wears to retain her human appearance, suppressing her innate dragon form. When she is called upon by the Hero, Dracorin will break. Dracorins are limited in numbers, as it requires Draconian craftsmanship. Thus, Pola's transformation are best used as a last resort.

​

 

[TheInsanityOfBobSemple]

"I am a Black Watcher. I am empowered to deliver justice wherever I see it lacking. I am empowered to punish cowardice. I am granted the gift of total authority to judge in the name of Haven and her people on the field of combat. I will do my duty. I will enflame the weak, support the wavering, guide the lost. I will be all things to all soldiers or leaders who need me. But I will also punish without hesitation the incompetent, the cowardly and the treasonous. None are above my watch save the Throne."

-Black Watcher Krechetnikov Fennstrum





I. General Info
Name: Krechetnikov Fennstrum
Title / Alias:

-Black Watcher
-The Black Executioner
-Coward's Foil

Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 38
Height: 1.78 Meters

II. Personal Profile
Personality:

He is a harsh man that wears a stoic suit of silver armor. Like most of his class, he is stalwart, stoic, unflinching, uncompromising, and never tolerates incompetence. He thinks extremely highly of the idea that every single soldier in the Army of Haven has the duty to give their life for their nation and people. "Duty is its own reward," he has often said. He believes strongly that it is his duty to help others achieve theirs, even if they want to or not. This makes him often seem stuck-up, arrogant and aloof to his peers. He views all who serve Haven as tools to be used in its name and is ready to, without doubt nor hesitation, use and break them. He has a strong sense of justice and he sees that none are above punishment or being found wanting. He is often called to be the third party in discipline issues where both sides are heavily biased. He displays a great aura of confidence in his actions in order to show the other men that they can do what he does. It is very rare he doubts his actions because if he does, he wouldn't be a very good member of the Black Watch, would he?

Despite his loyalty to the Great State, he does have his ambitions of progressing his career. He is a shrewd political animal who learned how to survive very long in his position, facing foes from within. He's not above manipulating people out of his way and into his pawns. He knows how to twist facts, making defeats seem like heroic last stands and turning victories into biblical acts. In fact, he views the so-called Hero of Verdan as a possible way to eventually take up an extremely high seat in the government, the leader of the Black Watch for example. He's patient like a Tiger, waiting for his moment to claim glory and fame.

Committed to the cause to a near-insane amount, he is willing to do anything it takes to claim victory over the forces of the Dark Lord, no matter what lengths he has to go through. He sees that this war is a total war, that every single person in Haven should be ready to sacrifice their lives for the cause. He is a fanatic and looks down on any who doubt Haven, often condemning them as traitors. Despite his rank among the feared Drakensreiters, he prefers to inspire through displays of virtue, not the imposition of terror. He places a strong emphasis on zeal, mettle, and bravery in those around him But make no mistake, he has shot soldiers for cowardice commanders for incompetence, and damned traitors to hell. No matter how high the rank, if one is found wanting in his presence, they shall be punished. Not even the Hero of Verdan is above him.

Biography:

He never met his mother for she had died in childbirth. He only ever had an absent father who was an executive officer to the 7th Light Brigade. Instead, he was raised by his family's servants. His father only ever visited once, on a cold autumn night, unannounced and left before daybreak. Fennstrum woke up in time to see his father leaving down the path from their house, never ever seeing his face. He was more often visited by his "uncle," Kardus Jantine, the commander of the 7th Light and a close friend of his father. He was a gentle giant who often played games with young Fennstrum on the porch, teaching him the names of the Stars and how they had been named after the many heroes of Haven that had given their lives in the name of the people. When he was seven, his Uncle visited him to tell him grave news. Fennstrum learned from Jantine that his father had died in battle against the Legions of the Dark Lord. Despite, his father never really being there, Fennstrum had so dearly wished to know his father, to love him. This opportunity was now forever robbed away from him and he hated the Dark Lord and those he called his servants forever.

As he was an orphan and that his "uncle" felt sorry for him, he was inducted into the feared Drakensreiters, to be trained fit in their feared black armor. He was trained relentlessly and for years. It was brutal with him being forced to go on long force marches through harrowing blizzards, in training exercises using live rounds where you could be killed at any moment, on five hours on sleep, facing the sociopathic drill masters, and made to lift weights that would break his bones. The only thing that kept him going was his hate for the Dark Forces and his desire not to fail his Father or "Uncle." Partway through his training, it was noticed that the boy possed unbreakable zeal and faith in Haven. So he was transferred to become one of the feared Black Watch, a Political Officer class designed to oversee the loyalty, discipline, and mettle of Haven's troops. He is compelled to do such things under the threat of execution, though he knows that field discipline of such level should only ever be used as a last resort.

During his training, he became interested in the career of his father. He heard his name whispered in the halls of the Scholam with great respect and so delved into the archives to find out more about the man he had never met yet wanted so desperately to know. To his utter dismay and confusion, all records of Major Fennstrum pertaining to his death had been destroyed or so classified he couldn't read a single sentence. All of this appeared to have happened on the day of his father and enacted by someone in the 7th Brigade.

As a Cadet he received a field assignment to a Lord Black Watcher by the name of Paradus Longlas, serving with him for five years before gaining the full rank of Black Watch on Longlas' deathbed after the Lord Black Watcher was poisoned by spies of the Dark Lord, the thrice-damned devil. Shortly after his full commission to a Black Watcher, he was attached to a unit entrusted with guarding a major pass in the Sealow Heights. During his garrison duty, they were taken by complete surprise by a large marauding band of Black Legion, commanded by the feared Heritor Apsodel, known for his terrible metal heresies and the fact he had replaced much for his flesh with cold steel. This brutal engagement would known as the Battle of Hill 3234. For a week, the garrison held out under impossible odds. Fennstrum took command after he executed the commanding officer and much of the HQ staff after he caught them attempting to desert their posts. Under his determined command, they survived until reinforcements arrived and threw back the Heretical scum. Fennstrum lead the counter-attack that forever destroyed the band. Heritor Apsodel strode through that final battle on the back of a hideous woe machine made with the flesh of the Heaven dead and metal. Heritor killed thousands before he finally fell Fennstrum's sword. But in his dying moments, Heritor attacked Fennstrum's mind with unholy magic. He held off the assault and cast the Heritor off the face of a moutian

During that psychic torment, Fennstrum realized that they were some truths to the visions that the Heritor had given him. He delved deeper into the archives and questioned men of the 7th Brigade quietly. Eventually, he found the truth. He discovered the fate of his father: the elder Fennstrum had served on a mission to an enemy-held land but had been abandoned by the cowardice of General Jantine and left to die. He discovered as well, a long series of disgraces that had followed "uncle" and knew what had to be done.

When circumstance brought Fennstrum and his "uncle" together in the field once more, Fennstrum condemned Jantine for high treason and cowardice, stripping him from his rank, even his name, and cursing him to hell. Jantine, going mad, attacked the Black Watcher with his sword. While he succeeded in killing Jantine, and avenging his father, Fennstrum suffered near-mortal injuries from his "uncle"'s blade and forever after possessed a jagged scar across his stomach.

He first met the Hero of Verdan during his action during the Battle of Sealow Heights, shortly after his execution of Jantine, leading a blocking detachment of Black Watch troopers to fill in the hole that had been left by the 891st Battalion shattering and fleeing off the field. His company was nearly wiped out but he managed to crush several enemy counter-attacks with a platoon of flamethrowers that he took control of. That day was full of ash and soot as they burned their way forward. He was seen that day, leading from the front, shooting dozens of them with his Executioner or slaying them with his Saber. It was said in the aftermath of that battle that he was so completely covered in blood, it looked as if he had been deliberately painted. It looked quite terrifying to the little Snow Draconian he stumbled across as he returned from the line. He was quite shocked to learn that this little beast had destroyed an entire enemy encampment, cutting off reinforcements of the Heretical Forces and allowing him to destroy hundreds of them in the process. He was even more shocked to learn she was of the retinue to the famed Hero of Verdan.

Fennstrum brought the little thing back to her "owner" and met Sylvia for the first time. He regarded her with suspicion, not really believing in prophecies and being nervous with her sudden appearance. But the Hero saw something in the cold Black Watcher stained with blood and asked him to be part of her famed Silver Company. Perhaps she saw the fire burning inside of him and his unbreakable loyalty. Only Sylvia herself knows. The Government of Haven saw an opportunity with Fennstrums appointment to the Silver Company and inner guard of the Hero of Verdan. She was always a fairly controversial figure within the capital, seen as an element rapidly gathering power and the adoration of the people without any influence by the state on her actions. So, soon after getting his new position, he was approached by the High Blackwatcher and asked to keep an eye on Sylvia in the name of Haven, ensuring she never turned into a rouge element and remained loyal to Dragonsreach. He was their representative in these matters and as far as Fennstrum was concerned, he spoke with their authority. Without hesitation, he accepted his charge to oversee the Hero yet fight for her.

At Onyx Valley, he was at Sylvia's side as she charged Sertek, the cursed Dark Lord. But as she fought his way to her with a platoon of soldiers, he was confronted by a restricted Heritor, who had been ripped from the afterlife and given a rotting form. Using his magical smite, he burned the souls out of the men of the platoon and almost succeed with Fennstrum. The Black Watcher resisted it and cut down the shocked Heritor, unbelieving that this simple mortal had foiled him for a second time. This time, he made sure the Heritor stayed dead, ripping out the Heretic's heart. He carved the name of his Mentor into it before driving a fire torch into it. He turned the Heritor to ash with holy fire.

III. Silver Company Service
Class: Enforcer/Support
Abilities:

[No Fear! No Doubt!]

Trained in the way of morale, Fennstrum knows how to inspire. He gives those around them an infallible will to do their duty in the name of Haven and the Throne. He posses supreme confidence and zeal that often spreads to others. He nullifies any sense of fear or doubt in his charges, pushing them on to greater and greater feats of valor. However, he knows that sometimes cowards and those who are willingly incompetent are to be punished harshly.

[Mettle]

Trained with the elite Drakensreiters for nearly a decade and a half, through many brutal battles, he is an experienced veteran of war. He is very well skilled with his Executioner pistol and his Holy Saber, tearing through dozen of lesser foes. He knows how to read a battlefield and use the environment to his advantage, increasing his chances while reducing room for error.

[Dragon Rider]

Despite never truly becoming one of the famous dragon riders of Haven, he was trained in how to tame such beasts and use one to his advantage. He can ride a dragon with decent skill but it is the taming part that is often the hardest. A dragon rider often spends year attempting to form a bond with a beast, often failing. Fennstrum has no time for that and can temporarily control a medium-sized one for a limited period of time.


Weapons / Equipment:

[Executioner]

A weapon that was awarded to him after his first kill with a lance. An extremely powerful pistol with high stopping power. The bullet themselves have been blessed and made holy by a Priest of the Faith, making them extremely harmful to the most unholy beings. A flare gun's tube is attached to the bottom of the revolver that serves as a long-range grenade launcher, allowing him cases to many types of ammunition. They vary from fragmentation, HEAT, and even flammable rounds.

[Holy Saber]

A Calvary Saber he was given when he became a Black Watcher. It is extremely sharp, generating a disruption field. The blade is sheathed in a lethal corona of disruptive energy. This energy field allows the blade to carve through flesh, bone and most forms of armor plate alike

[Light Armour Plate]​

 

[Midrick]

I. General Info

Name:
Marcus Vik

Title/Alias:
-Bloodthirster
-Knight Encarmine
-Butcher of Svolensk
-Soul Hunter


Race:
Vampire

Age:
24

Height:
6'0" ft.

Appearance:
Marcus is of average height and build, if he was wearing normal clothes it would be hard to tell he was anything but a normal human besides the blanched hair and red hued eyes, trademarks of vampirism. In reality his body is almost pure and highly defined muscle and he is incredibly strong, even for a vampire. Like most blood knights his skin does not possess the ghostly pallor of normal vampires and he is perfectly fine in direct sunlight.

Marcus's armor is as fierce as his combat capabilities, the plate armor being colored deep crimson, as well as having an intimidating design that makes him easily recognizable as a Blood knight.

II. Personal Profile

Personality:
Vik is a man of action, his inductance into the blood knights from a young age instilled in him a sense of stubbornness and grit, only the strongest candidates were allowed to join its ranks. Marcus is curt, direct, and blunt. There is no peace for someone, or rather something like him, and this fact drives him to constantly strive for improvement and strength. He's also developed a dark sense of humor as well as sarcasm to boot.

His actions in combat mirror his personality, unlike the knights of other orders, Marcus does not make a show of combat, whenever he fights its usually very brief and a very violent event. The Blood knights advertise themselves as professionals and Marcus is a shining example of their creed of action over talk. Much like any Blood knight, Marcus takes his personal honor very seriously, any disrespect or questioning of his capability will often be met with a challenge to a duel, he demands respect of anyone he works with.

There is also an underlying bitterness that he holds for humans as well as the other races of Haven, the Blood knights are often treated as a weapon for those around the kingdom and whoever they are enlisted by, being called upon in a time of need only to be treated like monsters and freaks after they have been used for the task required of them.

All blood knights disdain magic out of martial pride, no warrior would pride himself on using anything other than his own strength to best an opponent. But Blood knights hold a special hatred in their half dead hearts for wizards, for it was a sorcerer who cursed them with vampirism. Marcus shares this disdain for magic and especially magic users with the rest of the knights in the order.

Biography:
Marcus originated from a small town that he has no fond memories of, he was born into a minor noble family, but he would not be treated as one. He was the youngest of three children, making him practically useless in his father's plans of advancing his position. Marcus wasn't subject to the lessons on history and strategy that his brothers were, instead he was taught the ways of fighting, he had an aptitude for it from a young age, and quickly learned a multitude of different weapon disciplines. Marcus was being trained to act as the family's levy should the king of Haven ever require troops, his father was not influential enough to simply pay off the summons, and using Marcus in this way would ensure that his more immediate heirs would be spared a fate in the army.

Marcus would not be levied, but sent to what others might see as a fate worse than death. In a bid for a more prestigious position in the power circles of the kingdom, his father enlisted a taboo band to help expel the rising number of bandits from the surrounding territories. The mercenaries in question were the Blood Knights, a group of knights who had fallen to the curse of vampirism. The Blood Knights destroyed the bandit clans that had terrorized the countryside quickly, earning his father the adoration of the people and his desired advancement. When the Blood knights came to collect, they were offered Marcus instead of gold. The Knights took him, reminding his father that if Marcus was killed in the trials that they would be back.

Marcus was then taken to the mountain fortress of the Blood Knights in Sealow Heights. For two years he trained with the master armsmen of the Blood Knights. When he was 15 his trial to become a Blood Knight took place. After the initial combat trials where he was almost killed by the knight he was choosen to duel, the second and most harrowing part of the trial began. He was taken into treacherous landscape of the forest deep in the mountain range and left with a sword. These were no normal woods though, the Blood Knights used these wooden because of the myriad of nightmare beasts that the cursed wood contained. He was given three days to return to the keep by himself, the creatures that inhabited the area were most active at night, but Marcus knew that even if he made good progress in the daylight that he wouldn't make it back in time. After marching for two straight days he marched his way through the twisted trees he finally found one of the monstrosities that the
knights had spoken of, but this was more uniquely dangerous, it was a Vargheist. He would learn later that they were a mutant strain of vampire that was unwillingly overexposed to dark magic. He had no choice but to fight. Outmatched, tired, and rapidly losing light. By all rights Marcus should have been killed, maybe it was his drive to defy the cruel powers that had made his life hell, or the years of repressed anger and rage, but he killed the Vargheist and took its head as a trophy. He returned to the keep mauled and on deaths door, but his grim trophy and the fact that he was able to make it back saw him inducted into the ranks of the Blood Knights.

Five years later he had become one of the best in the order, along with his transformation being completed on his 21st birthday, making his already impressive skills and attributes almost demi-godlike. His restraint however in keeping his affliction in check was lax however. The Blood Knights were not true vampires, by disciplining themselves into masterful control of their thirst and rejection of dark magic, they were able to keep their human qualities and are not true undead. They are mortal and able to be harmed by normal steel. The vampirism greatly elevated their strength, agility, senses, and vitality. However neglecting to regulate their power would see a blood knight degrade into a full fledged undead, the signs of this begin with the blanching of the hair and eventually the skin. Despite the acknowledgment that he was one of the best among them, Grandmaster Wilhelm kept Marcus on a short leash after his hair whitened. Fearing that he was still too young to temper the beast within.

After the siege of Verdan and the subsequent battle of Onyx Valley saw the Blood knights ride out and help the saint of Verdan break the back of Serteks legion. Marcus was then tasked with destroying one of the last strongholds of shadow legion. The blood knights were chosen to lead the assault, their improved abilities and expendablility making them perfect candidates in the eyes of the commanders of the Havenite Army.

The Blood Knights managed to do in 5 hours what the Army had tried to do in 5 months. After multiple night raids, the assualt finally came. While feigning an attack on the walls, a small group led by Marcus infiltrated the city through the sewers and opened the front gates. Some would call the battle of Svolensk a great victory, the Havenite commanders called it a massacre. The blood knights slaughtered all within, regardless of who or what they were. It was a message to the Dark lord as well as the Havenites, If the Blood Knights were treated like monsters they would act like it. Marcus's highly successful but heavy handed assault was met with uproar, and demands for his condemnation as a war criminal were echoed throughout the kingdom. Marcus was only acquitted after his reminder that some of the only people left in Svolensk were those who had sworn loyalty to the dark lord, and deserving of the fate that he had dealt. His moniker as the butcher of Svolensk stuck with him though.

He was moved into the silver company in order to keep him under control after he had ignored orders from pompous commanders that had thought of him as below them. This move angered a great many in the haven armed forces, as well as people within the silver company itself.

III. Silver Company Service

Class:
Berserker

Abilities:
[Rip and Tear]
Marcus can heal himself by consuming the blood or equivalent life force of an enemy during a battle. The regeneration is not instantaneous and takes longer the more severe his wounds are.

[Magic resistance]
Being spawned from a dark curse, Marcus has an immunity to most types of dark magic and can resist normal magic with the exception of holy spells and rituals.

[Curse of the Varghulf]
One of the unfortunate aspects of the Blood Knights is the beast within can be made manifest. Most Blood Knights will never have to be concerned with this particular aspect of the curse. A varghulf is a vampire that willing embraces their more base instincts. The result is a hulking brute of bat like features and immense strength not unlike the lesser Vargheist's. What they gain in physical strength a Varghulf loses in mental capacity most only being able to form the simplest sentences and smart enough to use ambush tactics, others go completely feral or insane. The transformation into a Varghulf is thought to be permanent, The Blood Knights haven't been able to confirm this as they have quickly killed any of their own who have turned. Only one Blood Knight has survived with his mind intact after becoming a Varghulf and he is one of the most well guarded secrets of the Knights.

Spoiler: Varghulf

Equipment:

[Unmaker]
A sword that has gained cursed properties after piercing the body of a greater demon of Serteks legion. Blood Knights believe that they're preferred weapons have a soul, many have claimed it's a perfect match for Marcus's bloodlust, and even that the blade has to draw blood before it can be re sheathed. the sword itself seems to wound the soul as much as the body of whatever it cuts into and stays unnaturally sharp.

[Blood Plate]
The high quality armor that Blood Knights wear, each set is fashioned from a standard template, but the wearer will often customize it after they find a preferred method of fighting. The plates that go into the armors construction have the blood of necromancers worked into it during the forging which increases the wearers resistance to dark magic.

[Nightpiercer]
Marcus's second blade, the Nightpiercer possesses a blade that is black like volcanic glass and hard enough to pierce the thickest armor, the blade is incredibly light despite its strength and his favored instrument for more precise riposte's, parries, and counter attacks. The Nightpiercer is much shorter than his main sword and is about the length of a long knife.
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