Fantasy Truth at the End of Time: Character Sheets.

[Malphaestus]

This is the place where characters will be submitted, and where discourse about them will be laid. There is no need for you all to be worried should I make comments about your characters, we're not enemies. It is healthy to discuss, and for that reason we will speak about potential revisions here. You will also submit your character for acceptance here, in case it was not obvious. Below is the character sheet, it isn't massive, but I expect all of you to think about it to a sufficient degree. I want thought-out characters.

The Template. -

Image.

Name: What were their name.
Title/Moniker: A summation of who they were, once, in the form of a sobriquet.
Race: Humanoids only, no animalia.
Age: How old were they when they died.
Gender: This will not necessarily relate to appearance, though make notice of why there might be a divergence should they be transexual within the character's story segment.
Appearance: Should you decide not to have an image, or if you want to add a written discriptor for potential divergences from the image which are present on your character, take note of those here. Write however much you feel is sufficient, remember that the better the quality the more appreciative I'll be. Don't let it inhibit your writing, though, if thinking about that makes you anxious.

Personality: I am not one who appreciates the bulletpoint personality trend, so I'd greatly appreciate a written descriptor. Make note of personality quirks, so I can account for them. I like substance, so the more I can work with, the merrier I'll be. But do not write more than what you feel is sufficient. Remember that this character has fallen at the apex of their prime, or after having withered into obscurity. I advise you to first write the Tale, and then return to this section to give shape to this individual who's lived their life, and returned. To put it simply, your character should be a 'completed' journey at their back, weights upon weights of whatever they might have done as baggage. Thrust into the unknown, I hope this will aid in how your character will interact with it

Tale: The most character-defining and crucial section. Let's be clear, your hero or villain, or whatever it be, has already died. But whatever they'd done, that is something worthwhile. Truth did not resurrect a farmer, for the task which he demands is not a farmer's job. Not that they'd know. This section should discuss their life, and no matter of fantasy is off-limits save for race. You are human, or human-adjacent. No reptilian crocodile-headed theocrats.

As substantive as possible, you are writing the recollections of a great individual. Whether Emperor, Mercantilist, Theologist, Arcanist, or savage Rogue, their journey is what you will be laying bare here. Note, that whatever arcane force may have aided in the ventures of former archwizards and grand witches, are no longer in effect. There are new forces at play in the land beyond the end of the time. Truth would not have chosen to resurrect an individual who he could not tame, so laughably evil characters are not what they are, though a dubious morality is not beyond them.

Burial Heirloom: You will enter the world solely with what you were buried with, take into account the tale of their life, and as such, they'd no doubt reflect in death. The clothes will be a free bonus, and remember that I will not allow you to have whatever items you might want them to have, but do not feel aggreieved. Having back and forths between a GM does not mean you are being slandered. We're just talking things out, and all I want is for all of us to find this interesting.

 

[Larry]

​

Name: Ógan Ó Érimón.
Title/Moniker: An Bródúil, or 'the proud'.
Race: Human.
Age: 27.
Gender: Male.
Appearance: Ógan has a spindly-physique, and so most clothes seem to hang off him as though they were fitted loose.

​

Personality: Ógan, throughout his life, has been one that possessed a haughty demeanour. However, his intelligence and quick wit have often made it seem like the most natural course of action for him to take. Always assured of his own success, Ógan would often rush headlong into whatever faced him, whether it be battle or arguments, with little thought for prior-planning or any sort or premeditation; reaction was just as good, if not better, than such forethought. Outwardly dismissive of other's thoughts, relating as they did to the topic at hand, Ógan would secretly make note of what they had said...in order to make sure that his dismissal of them was justified. If it would so happen that the person whose remarks he was trying to mock, actually happened to make a pertinent point, that it was sound would be indicated by Ógan's silence: in his eyes, it was preferable to be stubborn than concede a point. As it is with such individuals, or at least in Ógan's case, there a certain streak within them that tends towards thrill-seeking or to overcoming difficult hurdles, whether they be of the physical kind, trying to persuade stubborn persons (which annoyed him greatly) or even theoretical problems. Of course, that the problems be resolved was important, but not as important as his name being attached to the solving.

Tale: Ógan was born in the year 179 D.I. (dissulutio imperii), as firstborn and heir to Brian Ó Érimón, ruler of the kingdom of Nua Róimhe. Of a size just under 18,000km^2, Nua Róimhe was one of the larger of the various small-kingdoms in the north-east of Milesia. Dwarfed by larger clump states to to the west and south-east in the aftermath of the collapse of the Dál Riathan Empire almost 179 years ago, the smaller states, comprising nearly the whole former province of Árdcaislean, bound themselves to each other in a pact in the year 113 D.I., deridingly named the Kinglet Accord by larger powers bordering the region. It was in this environment that Ógan was brought up, impressed as it was on him to form relationships with the other heirs, to strength the bonds between their various states to ensure future abiding of the pact. Suffice to say, it was not an environment that the prince was too fond of being in; comradery, equality, such things felt below him. From a young age, Ógan had shown a sparkling intelligence, keen to pick up on the various areas of mathematics, history, rhetoric, theology that his governess brought before him. Not only with scholarly efforts was he proficient, but in the realms of warfare, such as wrestling, sword-fighting and equestrianism, he was also quick to learn and apply himself. This aptitude, as it might in most persons, led the then-child to develop something of a haughty manner about him, often affectionately called bródúilín or 'little proud one' by his mother at the time. Naturally enough, this would, and often did, lead to disagreements and incidents at the various carousing events the kings organised to allow their sons to develop relationships with each other, prior to their ascending the throne in later years. Sword-fighting, with wooden swords of course, was the most popular event amongst the children, and per his character, when he were to win, Ógan was wont to show no mercy: utter submission was it he insisted on. This attitude, not surprisingly, generated discontent amongst the other princes at these gatherings, and scuffles tended to break out in the aftermath of his victories. The young prince never felt bothered by these occurrences; rather, he felt they were fitting, in a incisive turn of phrase to his father, that he was "stamping authority."

In the year 198 D.I., one event shook the kingdom of Nua Róimhe and its allies to the core; that being, the death of King Brian. What was more astounding was that it seemed that the king, only 55 years of age, died of natural causes. However, suspicion arose at court that the now-24 year-old Ógan had been complicit in bringing about the death of his father. The young man's first act as king was to execute those who had, in hushed messages and gossiping, branded him with the stain of patricide. "Those who impugned the name of the king and assaulted the bond of filial love between my father and I, have been done away with" was his announcement to the people upon his ascension to the throne. And this was to be the least of his concerns; almost two weeks later, a messenger arrived at court, bearing news from the Kingdom of Mhí: war had been declared. It seemed that spies, learning of the fractious relationship between Ógan and his fellow kinglets, and of the degree of distrust still present in the population over Ógan's supposed 'role' in his father's death and his actions towards those who stirred the rumours, reported back to their ruler, that the time was ripe to add to their domains, the House of Dearg being supremely focused on restoring the empire. The King of Nua Róimhe was uncharacteristic in his response; letters were speedily dispatched to the potentates in the accord, calling upon them to recall the actions of their forebears in brokering this agreement, and how peace had won out in the face of their petty squabblings. As is always the case, Ógan had ulterior motives; if he could blunt the military power of his immediate rivals whilst thwarting the imperial ambitions of Mhí, he could acquire land up to the river Ériu, which would provide a natural border between his kingdom and that of the House of Dearg's and then seek to dominate the other kindgoms to his north, east and south-east.

It would prove to be fatal ambition.

The allied armies gathered at Bothar no Croise, and a war council was drawn together where the petty kings discussed strategy. Ógan, propounding a guerrilla-warfare style approach to the war, where the allied armies would operate in smaller contingents to sap the energy and morale of the invading forces, through systematic targeting of provisions/material and 'lightning strikes' that would strike at Mhí's armies without a moment to apprehend their presence. Given that the vast majority of the warfare would be fought within the borders of Nua Róimhe and the kingdom of Dún, commanders from those areas would have greater sway in the running of operations. Begrudgingly having to admit that Ógan's proposals were sound, the more discontent amongst the kings assented to the young man's suggestions. In the next few years, the strategy adopted by the rulers of the Kinglet Accord would prove to be inspired; given the overwhelming manpower reserves that Mhí possessed, it proved to be the most feasible course of action, with attacks occurring near border-crossings proving to be debilitating on soldiers morale. A particularly-impactful victory near the Shannon tributary brought great acclamation for Ógan and it was seen as potentially a turning-point in the war, with the petty kingdoms seeming to be in the ascendancy. It was in the morning after the battle however, that Ógan felt himself in a state of grogginess. What was even more perplexing, and worrying, was that the king had not imbibed any alcohol the night before. Shuffling around, only for his movements to slow to maddening paralysis, Ógan then found the king of Dún, Eoghan Ó Conchobar, sitting in a chair across from him. Almost presciently, he informed Ógan that they too, the other kings, had their own plans in the wake of the war. Eoghan then explained that an agreement had been made between themselves and Mael, King of Mhí, that Nua Róimhe would be divided between themselves and the former's kingdom, and that they would offer yearly tribute in exchange for Mhí's recognition of their state's borders.

As he slowly succumbed, knowing that not only was his life lost, but that of his kingdom also, Ógan swore perpetual hatred, as his soul made is way to the beyond.

Burial Heirloom: Ógan was buried with a gold bracelet his mother had gifted him, engraved as it was to resemble a lion chasing after its tail (picture the Midgard Serpent swallowing its tail) and a falchion his father would have used in his days as king.

 

[Pilgrim59]

TRAGEDY OF ASHER

The Dragon Slayer

OST: Unsung Tribulation

• General
• Personality
• Story
• Heirloom

• Name: Primula Asher
  
  Title/Moniker: Her Majesty the Queen of Norlake; The Cerulean Jury; The Dragon Slayer.
  
  Race: Human
  
  Age: 32
  
  Gender: Female
  
  Appearance:
  Primula is an average young adult who stands at a medium height for her age. She bears a pale complexion, as her jaded blue eyes radiate a certain melancholy sentiment, easily mistaken for a poised gaze. Her long silver hair is often let down and unkempt, with some occasions being fashioned into French braids, albeit with less care attended to compared to her apparatus. She has a visible scar down her right eye, a souvenir of her violent but necessary past. Immediate visibility distinctions include her reinforced plate armor complemented by a cerulean cloak.
  
• Personality:
  Primula is a gloomy personnel, who tends to be dismissive and distant with immediate associates, while level-headed at the slightest notion of a threat. While she possess a reserved attitude towards most things, Primula also displays a certain sense of temperamental emotions to usher in a reaction urgency. Primula is considered a detached creature of various habits, and her allegiance is often staked by the necessities of faith. Despite her established principles against certain acts, there are times when her survival instincts override her sentiments. That is to say, she prioritizes the needs over the wants. Far from a stubborn individual, she is malleable with most situations and personnel, allowing her to engage and disengage with little attachments. Primula is tolerant of most, but will not hesitate to dispute a claim in contrast of hers in the name of reasons. Despite her distant gaze, she engages with others in order to cope with her unspoken woes.
  
• Tale:
  A fractured world, torn apart by centuries of conflict. A young orphan, raised by the wild and nurtured by the wisdoms of the wandering druids, first stepped forth into a wicked world by mere chance. A destined path for a wildling worthy of civilization, she was taken in by a farmer. Her new life contradicted with her old. Subsistence replaced by desires and practicality shrouded by emotions. A gift dwelled within her, sealed by the misgivings of those that tossed her out into the wild to be forgotten. The firestorm that swept the world drew near, as fiery fiends of the black sky and nightmarish amalgamations of their offspring beyond the ocean began to surface. The seal undone, and the Mythic Masters roamed the skies once again. Fire consumed their home, as Primula drew her strength from anguish. Words travelled, echoing the deeds of a girl that slew a winged beast. Hope returned, prompting many faces to resist the looming darkness that is bent on consuming the whole world. From the ashes, arose the Dragon Slayer, whose fiery eyes glowed beneath their helmet. A faceless soldier among the rest. Years passed her by, as she became accustomed to the endless bearing of her blade against the tainted scales of her winged foes. Her temperaments disguised by her expressionless armor. She kept mostly to herself, and avoided the populace's cheers. Among the gifted individuals of her time, she was celebrated for her righteousness. This life in the shadows ended when she stumbled upon the Prince of Norlake, Jyn Asher. The latter of whom would become the leading figure of humanity's stand against the dragons of the Black Gate. The Savior of Norlake. By his side, the Dragon Slayer earned a place within the Annals of the Winterland.
  
  She fell in love, after years of accompanying him, despite certain oppositions of his heroic entourage. While united in name and purpose, Primula suffered much from her comrades' daggered smile. Primula was instrumental in many battles that Jyn waged. A pivotal speck of dust that managed to tip the scale on several occasions, saving Jyn's life more times than he could count. Yet, she knew only the swiftness of her blade and was conscious of her lack of homely abilities. Despite this, she confessed to the Prince and the two were engaged before their final battle upon the Frozen Gate. Seasons became years, as she found herself imprisoned behind the walls of the Keep. Her adventuring days were over, as she now became a victim of Norlake's political intrigues. Yet, she stood beside Jyn with unwavering faith - becoming the one to carry his burdens. A popular regent worthy of Jyn's mighty strength, she helped usher in an age of prosperity and justice for the people of Norlake. For years that came to pass, Primula helped to secure the Ashers' influence throughout Norlake. However, it became apparent to her gradually that Jyn's affections had waned, now that he was corrupted by the demanding crown. The hero that she looked up to was gone, vanquished by the treacherous silhouette of an ambitious conqueror. When there was no more demons to slay, it did not take long for mankind to turn upon one another. Having failed to bear him a child, Primula fell in depression as her husband began to distance himself. The hardships that they had endured, scattered among endless moments of shared endeavors were easily discarded by a man she no longer recognizes. Primula remained at the Keep, voided of purpose and drowned in misery as her husband disregarded her for numerous other mistresses. The Dragon Slayer faded into obscurity, but not before resigning to her fate at the hands of her husband. The man had little needs for a woman that was no longer of use to him. Dried of affections, Jyn gave her the liberty of her early retirement from the Keep in the countryside.
  
  Arriving in Vino Veritas, Primula was accompanied by a young knight that oversaw her needs in exile. Despite Primula's quiet side, Friedrich often causes her to spill the unsung legends of her livelier past. The two opened up to one another, as Primula took to heart her acquaintance's stirring adorations. Some said that Primula and Friedrich were engaged in a romantic affair, others speculate an unshakable friendship. Like the withering blossom near spring's end, it did not take long for such developments to reach the King's ears. Blinded by rage, and perhaps out of jealousy, Jyn sallied forth to Vino Veritas. On a certain fateful day, Primula watched as Jyn dragged Friedrich to the gallows - charged of treason. Primula made her stand, fighting through the legions to save Friedrich. She crossed blades with the Jyn, but not before succumbing to her sustained wounds. Forced to watch Friedrich's execution, Primula fell into despair. With her wounds, she could not resist the King's might. When the affair had died down, Primula was forced to return to the Keep. There, she spent the rest of her life in solitary confinement, fearful that those she cared for would share Friedrich's fate. Unable to bear living on in abject misery, the discontented Queen made her decision. Upon a winter's night, the very day that she confessed to Jyn many years ago, Primula ended her life. While they had their distances, Jyn gave Primula a proper burial in her full armor. Eventually, she would be forgotten with the remaining years, like many that came before her.
  
  In this World beyond time that she found herself in, the Forlorn Queen of Norlake had every reason to question the horrors of eternity for her supposed death only marked the beginning of a new detail. So says the stranger before her.
  
  
• Burial Heirloom: Dragonbane
  A famous blade forged from the kindles of the Eldekronz remains on Norlake. Obtained by Primula Asher after she defeated the Elder Dragon, the Dragonbane served as an instrumental device to slay Eirwen the Glacial Wings.

"I am nothing but a name, to be forgotten all the same."​

 

[Malphaestus]

View attachment 897011 ​

Name: Ógan Ó Érimón.
Title/Moniker: An Bródúil, or 'the proud'.
Race: Human.
Age: 27.
Gender: Male.
Appearance: Ógan has a spindly-physique, and so most clothes seem to hang off him as though they were fitted loose.

​

Personality: Ógan, throughout his life, has been one that possessed a haughty demeanour. However, his intelligence and quick wit have often made it seem like the most natural course of action for him to take. Always assured of his own success, Ógan would often rush headlong into whatever faced him, whether it be battle or arguments, with little thought for prior-planning or any sort or premeditation; reaction was just as good, if not better, than such forethought. Outwardly dismissive of other's thoughts, relating as they did to the topic at hand, Ógan would secretly make note of what they had said...in order to make sure that his dismissal of them was justified. If it would so happen that the person whose remarks he was trying to mock, actually happened to make a pertinent point, that it was sound would be indicated by Ógan's silence: in his eyes, it was preferable to be stubborn than concede a point. As it is with such individuals, or at least in Ógan's case, there a certain streak within them that tends towards thrill-seeking or to overcoming difficult hurdles, whether they be of the physical kind, trying to persuade stubborn persons (which annoyed him greatly) or even theoretical problems. Of course, that the problems be resolved was important, but not as important as his name being attached to the solving.

Tale: Ógan was born in the year 179 D.I. (dissulutio imperii), as firstborn and heir to Brian Ó Érimón, ruler of the kingdom of Nua Róimhe. Of a size just under 18,000km^2, Nua Róimhe was one of the larger of the various small-kingdoms in the north-east of Milesia. Dwarfed by larger clump states to to the west and south-east in the aftermath of the collapse of the Dál Riathan Empire almost 179 years ago, the smaller states, comprising nearly the whole former province of Árdcaislean, bound themselves to each other in a pact in the year 113 D.I., deridingly named the Kinglet Accord by larger powers bordering the region. It was in this environment that Ógan was brought up, impressed as it was on him to form relationships with the other heirs, to strength the bonds between their various states to ensure future abiding of the pact. Suffice to say, it was not an environment that the prince was too fond of being in; comradery, equality, such things felt below him. From a young age, Ógan had shown a sparkling intelligence, keen to pick up on the various areas of mathematics, history, rhetoric, theology that his governess brought before him. Not only with scholarly efforts was he proficient, but in the realms of warfare, such as wrestling, sword-fighting and equestrianism, he was also quick to learn and apply himself. This aptitude, as it might in most persons, led the then-child to develop something of a haughty manner about him, often affectionately called bródúilín or 'little proud one' by his mother at the time. Naturally enough, this would, and often did, lead to disagreements and incidents at the various carousing events the kings organised to allow their sons to develop relationships with each other, prior to their ascending the throne in later years. Sword-fighting, with wooden swords of course, was the most popular event amongst the children, and per his character, when he were to win, Ógan was wont to show no mercy: utter submission was it he insisted on. This attitude, not surprisingly, generated discontent amongst the other princes at these gatherings, and scuffles tended to break out in the aftermath of his victories. The young prince never felt bothered by these occurrences; rather, he felt they were fitting, in a incisive turn of phrase to his father, that he was "stamping authority."

In the year 198 D.I., one event shook the kingdom of Nua Róimhe and its allies to the core; that being, the death of King Brian. What was more astounding was that it seemed that the king, only 55 years of age, died of natural causes. However, suspicion arose at court that the now-24 year-old Ógan had been complicit in bringing about the death of his father. The young man's first act as king was to execute those who had, in hushed messages and gossiping, branded him with the stain of patricide. "Those who impugned the name of the king and assaulted the bond of filial love between my father and I, have been done away with" was his announcement to the people upon his ascension to the throne. And this was to be the least of his concerns; almost two weeks later, a messenger arrived at court, bearing news from the Kingdom of Mhí: war had been declared. It seemed that spies, learning of the fractious relationship between Ógan and his fellow kinglets, and of the degree of distrust still present in the population over Ógan's supposed 'role' in his father's death and his actions towards those who stirred the rumours, reported back to their ruler, that the time was ripe to add to their domains, the House of Dearg being supremely focused on restoring the empire. The King of Nua Róimhe was uncharacteristic in his response; letters were speedily dispatched to the potentates in the accord, calling upon them to recall the actions of their forebears in brokering this agreement, and how peace had won out in the face of their petty squabblings. As is always the case, Ógan had ulterior motives; if he could blunt the military power of his immediate rivals whilst thwarting the imperial ambitions of Mhí, he could acquire land up to the river Ériu, which would provide a natural border between his kingdom and that of the House of Dearg's and then seek to dominate the other kindgoms to his north, east and south-east.

It would prove to be fatal ambition.

The allied armies gathered at Bothar no Croise, and a war council was drawn together where the petty kings discussed strategy. Ógan, propounding a guerrilla-warfare style approach to the war, where the allied armies would operate in smaller contingents to sap the energy and morale of the invading forces, through systematic targeting of provisions/material and 'lightning strikes' that would strike at Mhí's armies without a moment to apprehend their presence. Given that the vast majority of the warfare would be fought within the borders of Nua Róimhe and the kingdom of Dún, commanders from those areas would have greater sway in the running of operations. Begrudgingly having to admit that Ógan's proposals were sound, the more discontent amongst the kings assented to the young man's suggestions. In the next few years, the strategy adopted by the rulers of the Kinglet Accord would prove to be inspired; given the overwhelming manpower reserves that Mhí possessed, it proved to be the most feasible course of action, with attacks occurring near border-crossings proving to be debilitating on soldiers morale. A particularly-impactful victory near the Shannon tributary brought great acclamation for Ógan and it was seen as potentially a turning-point in the war, with the petty kingdoms seeming to be in the ascendancy. It was in the morning after the battle however, that Ógan felt himself in a state of grogginess. What was even more perplexing, and worrying, was that the king had not imbibed any alcohol the night before. Shuffling around, only for his movements to slow to maddening paralysis, Ógan then found the king of Dún, Eoghan Ó Conchobar, sitting in a chair across from him. Almost presciently, he informed Ógan that they too, the other kings, had their own plans in the wake of the war. Eoghan then explained that an agreement had been made between themselves and Mael, King of Mhí, that Nua Róimhe would be divided between themselves and the former's kingdom, and that they would offer yearly tribute in exchange for Mhí's recognition of their state's borders.

As he slowly succumbed, knowing that not only was his life lost, but that of his kingdom also, Ógan swore perpetual hatred, as his soul made is way to the beyond.

Burial Heirloom: Ógan was buried with a gold bracelet his mother had gifted him, engraved as it was to resemble a lion chasing after its tail (picture the Midgard Serpent swallowing its tail) and a falchion his father would have used in his days as king.

There are no issues which I can raise at the implementation of this character. Therefore, Ógon is accepted.

TRAGEDY OF ASHER

The Dragon Slayer

OST: Unsung Tribulation

• General
• Personality
• Story
• Heirloom

• Name: Primula Asher
  
  Title/Moniker: Her Majesty; The Cerulean Jury; The Dragon Slayer.
  
  Race: Human
  
  Age: 32
  
  Gender: Female
  
  Appearance:
  Primula is an average young adult who stands at a medium height for her age. She bears a pale complexion, as her jaded blue eyes radiate a certain melancholy sentiment, easily mistaken for a poised gaze. Her long silver hair is often let down and unkempt, with some occasions being fashioned into French braids, albeit with less care attended to compared to her apparatus. She has a visible scar down her right eye, a souvenir of her violent but necessary past. Immediate visibility distinctions include her reinforced plate armor complemented by a cerulean cloak.
  
• Personality:
  Primula is a gloomy personnel, who tends to be dismissive and distant with immediate associates, while level-headed at the slightest notion of a threat. While she possess a reserved attitude towards most things, Primula also displays a certain sense of temperamental emotions to usher in a reaction urgency. Primula is considered a detached creature of various habits, and her allegiance is often staked by the necessities of faith. Despite her established principles against certain acts, there are times when her survival instincts override her sentiments. That is to say, she prioritizes the needs over the wants. Far from a stubborn individual, she is malleable with most situations and personnel, allowing her to engage and disengage with little attachments. Primula is tolerant of most, but will not hesitate to dispute a claim in contrast of hers in the name of reasons. Despite her distant gaze, she engages with others in order to cope with her unspoken woes.
  
• Tale:
  A fractured world, torn apart by centuries of conflict. A young orphan, raised by the wild and nurtured by the wisdoms of the wandering druids, first stepped forth into a wicked world by mere chance. A destined path for a wildling worthy of civilization, she was taken in by a farmer. Her new life contradicted with her old. Subsistence replaced by desires and practicality shrouded by emotions. A gift dwelled within her, sealed by the misgivings of those that tossed her out into the wild to be forgotten. The firestorm that swept the world drew near, as fiery fiends of the black sky and nightmarish amalgamations of their offspring beyond the ocean began to surface. The seal undone, and the Mythic Masters roamed the skies once again. Fire consumed their home, as Primula drew her strength from anguish. Words travelled, echoing the deeds of a girl that slew a winged beast. Hope returned, prompting many faces to resist the looming darkness that is bent on consuming the whole world. From the ashes, arose the Dragon Slayer, whose fiery eyes glowed beneath their helmet. A faceless soldier among the rest. Years passed her by, as she became accustomed to the endless bearing of her blade against the tainted scales of her winged foes. Her temperaments disguised by her expressionless armor. She kept mostly to herself, and avoided the populace's cheers. Among the gifted individuals of her time, she was celebrated for her righteousness. This life in the shadows ended when she stumbled upon the Prince of Norlake, Jyn Asher. The latter of whom would become the leading figure of humanity's stand against the dragons of the Black Gate. The Savior of Norlake.
  
  She fell in love, after years of accompanying him, despite certain oppositions of his heroic entourage. While united in name and purpose, Primula suffered much from her comrades' daggered smile. Primula was instrumental in many battles that Jyn waged. A pivotal speck of dust that tipped the scale on several occasions, saving Jyn's life more times than he could count. Yet, she knew only the swiftness of her blade and was conscious of her lack of homely abilities. Despite this, she confessed to the Prince and the two were engaged before their final battle upon the Frozen Gate. Seasons became years, as she found herself imprisoned behind the walls of the Keep. Her adventuring days were over, as she now became a victim of Norlake's political intrigues. Yet, she stood beside Jyn with unwavering faith - becoming the one to carry his burdens. A popular regent, worthy of Jyn's mighty strength. For years that came to pass, Primula helped to secure the Ashers' influence throughout Norlake. However, it became apparent to her gradually that Jyn's affections had waned, now that he was corrupted by the crown. The hero that she looked up to was gone, vanquished by the treacherous silhouette of an ambitious conqueror. When there was no more demons to slay, it did not take long for mankind to turn upon one another. Having failed to bear him a child, Primula fell in depression as her husband began to distance himself. The hardships that they had endured, scattered among endless moments of shared endeavors were easily discarded by a man she no longer recognizes. Primula remained at the Keep, voided of purpose and drowned in misery as her husband disregarded her for numerous other mistresses. The Dragon Slayer faded into obscurity, but not before resigning to her fate at the hands of her husband. The man had little needs for a woman that was no longer of use to him. Dried of affections, Jyn gave her the liberty of her early retirement from the Keep in the countryside.
  
  Arriving in Vino Veritas, Primula was accompanied by a young knight that oversaw her needs in exile. Despite Primula's quiet side, Friedrich often causes her to spill the unsung legends of her livelier past. The two opened up to one another, as Primula took to heart her acquaintance's stirring adorations. Some said that Primula and Friedrich were engaged in a romantic affairs, others speculate an unshakable friendship. Like the withering blossom near spring's end, it did not take long for such developments to reach the King's ears. Blinded by rage, Jyn sallied forth to Vino Veritas. On a certain fateful day, Primula watched as Jyn dragged Friedrich to the gallows - charged of treason. Primula made her stand, fighting through the legions to save Friedrich. She crossed blades with the Jyn, but not before succumbing to her sustained wounds. Forced to watch Friedrich's execution, Primula fell into despair. With her wounds, she could not resist the King's might. When the affair had died down, Primula was forced to return to the Keep. There, she spent the rest of her life in solitary confinement, fearful that those she cared for would share Friedrich's fate. Unable to bear living on in abject misery, the discontented Queen made her decision. Upon a winter's night, the very day that she confessed to Jyn many years ago, Primula ended her life by hanging. While they had their distances, Jyn gave Primula a proper burial in her full armor.
  
  In this World beyond time that she found herself in, the Forlorn Queen of Norlake had every reason to question the horrors of eternity for her supposed death only marked the beginning of a new detail. So says the stranger before her.
  
  
• Burial Heirloom: Dragonbane
  A famous blade forged from the kindles of the Eldekronz remains on Norlake. Obtained by Primula Asher after she defeated the Elder Dragon, the Dragonbane served as an instrumental device to slay the Eirwen the Glacial Wings.

"I am nothing but a name, to be forgotten all the same."​

Doubly so, the dragonslaying swordmaiden lives another life, in the untimely world. Primula is accepted.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Name: Leouric Sprague
Title/Moniker: Sir. Sprague, and Drake Skinner;
Race: Human mutate; Due to a mutation, Leouric's body is naturally resistant to high temperatures and direct fire. Although, there is no indication of permanent immunity to heat.
Age: 42
Gender: Male
Appearance: Leouric, for lack of a better term, is a behemoth of a man. Exceptionally tall, broad, and a wall of muscles coupled with dense bones. His short, black hair with signature, handlebar moustache, and ginormous, scarred nose give Leouric a distinctive face behind his armoured helmet. His hands lay bare the Drake Skinner's history through their disfigurements: cuts, flattened nails, and Leouric's pinky finger along with his right ring finger are crooked due to healed bones.

Personality: The Drake Skinner is a giant, well-mannered man. He is not an artisan, not a scholar but he is not unintelligent. Brutally honest, Leouric loathes deception and urges others to be honest; nicely or otherwise. He is also a reasonable man, he understands that lying is a tool, a vile one but a tool nonetheless; so he won't tongue lash you for it if you decide to use it. Sprague is very protective even from an early age of people weaker than themselves, although he knows that he can't be everywhere so he urges others to train themselves. To be self-sufficient in any way they can. His stay in Winslow Manor did teach that he liked the fancy-schmancy things of nobility. Though he admits that he won't die without them.

In his later years, he has grown tired of conflicts and seeks to avoid them. A stunning contrast to his younger self. Not just in battle, but in society as a whole.

Tale: The Drake Skinner, a title known well back in his ancient times. It belonged to a town-dweller, by the name of Leouric Sprague. He lived in Tessia, a tightly-knit settlement surrounded by tall grasses of yellow pigmentation. The sun shone all year round, blasting the locals with troublesome rays, but they were used to it. The occasional plain predator would come to feast on their livestock, but again, they managed. Life, while uncomfortable, was bearable for the people. It did not last when suddenly, a massive infestation of scaly stalkers descended upon their beautiful lands. Wingless beasts with frightening speed ran through their plains; slaughtering, butchering, and feasting upon whatever scrap of meat they could get their toothy jaws on.

Leouric Sprague, a fresh-faced teenager at the time, had to watch his home torn to shreds by jagged teeth, and sharpened claws. These damnable beasts made of titan-strong scales had made an enemy for life. Although young, Leouric began his preparations for their next attack. Together with the men of Tessia, they barricaded their homeland with spiked barricades of wood. They armed themselves with spears, swords, maces, whatever they could scrounge up. Armouring was the same story: some wore leather, others padded, one man even had plate armour ready. They won't take these monsters laying down, that is certain. Leouric himself was armed with metal mace and a round wooden shield.

The townspeople waited for two days, primed at the ready to meet their attackers. They had come at dawn, eager to sate their ravenous appetite. However, they had made the mistake of blindly charging. A dozen of them were speared by the wooden barriers. Quickly, they figured out the treachery and began using the stuck bodies as a ramp to leap into their hunting ground.

Screams of fear and hatred echoed against the morning sun. As spears stabbed, swords slashed, mace mashed, claws cut, and snaggletoothed mouths bit. A bloody massacre of life. Leouric was in the thick of it; once he had a smooth face, now covered in the blood of man, or beast. Wrist bruised from the poor handling of his mace, his shield kept him alive. He thought it was humiliating to them, that they would be taken down by someone who has rarely lifted a weapon like this before. He revelled in that thought, it carried him through the battle while his comrades were getting cut down.

It lasted hours, yet felt like an eternity of gore and fluids. By the end, many were devastated and most of the drakes were put to the sword. Leouric was one of the survivors. He had dragged a drake carcass into a neighbour's house; butchering it for one last time before slipping its' scaley hide on his head.

When the dust finally settled, the ruination had been completed. Although many survived, their quaint town's devastation could not be shoved aside. They gathered everything up—everything they could—to walk away into a new world.

Years later, New Tessia had found itself bordering a monumental conflict between two sister nations. Each looking to absorb the other, but subjugate the populace to one ideology. New Tessia had a dilemma, side with one of them or perish for neutrality. As a representative, Leouric in his new-fangled scale and plate armour was sent to join House Winslow, the leading family of West Ragban. The choice was entirely based upon friendliness and prior experiences, being treated more favourably at the West than the East.

After negotiations—brief as they were—went smoothly, Leouric allowed New Tessia to be used as a stop-point for Ragban's army and his enrollment (with others) into the fray for House Winslow.

War did not take kindly to Leouric, or him to it. He found it difficult, initially, to take human life. Plus his opponents were mixed-bags, some were predictable, others weren't, and all were dangerous in their own ways. Regardless, the war continued.

They battled for an entire year, decisively West Ragban won. Leouric was commemorated for his deeds and given a plot of land. Winning your first war isn't something to scoff at, but Leouric only wished for his brothers-in-arms to have made it as well. Well, at the age of twenty-seven, he still had a future to follow.

Due to the recent surge in activity from the United Ragbans, Leouric decided to expand and take ownership of the current tavern/inn at New Tessia. To say that it was a learning experience for the big oaf is an understatement. He had neither the knowledge of how to operate such a place nor proper staffing. Through perseverance, mistakes, and a sick stomach or two: he learned how, and even hired people!

He grew proud of his little establishment, but weary of foul actors and worry for his own employees. So the simple situation was to train them in self-defence, that should deter any ne'er-do-ells.

He very much appreciated his business, however, the craving for one last battle hung in his mind. He just couldn't get the feeling out of it, it pestered him day in and day out. Even when he got married, he still thought of it on that special day. So he kept his ear to the ground, listening for any beast that could sate his hunger. Until one day, he did—a beast of monumental proportions. A flying, armoured creature that is said to possess unmatched speed!

So, he petitioned any mages to bestow upon him and his armour any enhancements that they could conceive. He visited the smithy to arrange for tools such as a heavy bow with special arrows like ropes, burning and others. With morningstar, shield in hand, quiver and bow on back, Leouric was ready to face this grave threat.

His eyes caught the creature looming overhead: With wings of titanic proportions, scales of sky hue, eyes of space, a glistening trail emanated from its' wings.

It spots him, Leouric's eyes widen when he sees what it can do. The sky collapsed within the creature and it blinked out of reality, before emerging like a predator that just stepped in and out of the shadows. Of the sky!

Leouric regained his composure and like a cat jumped back from the crushing claw. Dirt, roots, shrubbery were kicked up all at once from the creature's lightning-quick impact. Those magick enhancements were no joke. Before it could take off again, the Drake Skinner threw himself at it with all his might, becoming a crimson ballista bolt with a spiked end.

Sadly, he is still human, with or without the mage enhancements. The hide held, undamaged by the Morningstar. It flew back in the air, preparing its' next strike. Crash again like thunder, this time Leouric was flung into a tree. His shoulder blade shattered, losing his shield arm.

Leouric knew not to linger, quicking rising with one arm—the man dashed into the trees before the creature could take off again. Hiding in a cave, he tended to his injury. It was very painful, but he grit his teeth.

An hour or two passed before, he saw his attacker again but this time, he observed. Patiently, he learned.

And he found something interesting: One- the creature does not lose momentum after teleporting, Two- It can teleport into objects, as observed by leaves getting stuck in its wings after porting over high trees.

The plan created, Leouric waited for the right time to strike. His shoulder held together with spit-n-hope allowed him to notch a rope arrow through his bow. And let it fly true. It nailed the creature and Leouric with his good hand gripped tightly before being flung off into the air. Pain overwhelmed his body, as he began to climb. Luckily, the creature didn't notice the stuck projectile.

The winds battled him each step of the way, even when he climbed atop the creature's back. He was noticed then, it panicked from the feeling/sight. It attempted to roll over but, Leouric remained steadfast. He lifted the Morningstar above his head and came down on the creature's left eye. It roared mightily, picking up its' speed.

The beast tried to transport, which is what Leouric wanted. Leouric began to crawl back, not wishing to experience what happens next. His sight suddenly stretched out into the infinite, before coming to a sudden crash. Literally. The creature crashed its' head into a mountain, staining it with blue blood.

Leouric managed to land on a small plateau before violently vomiting his stomach. And blood. Teleporting is not for mortal men, he thought.

Returning home, he was hailed as a conquering hero. Many praises were thrown on him. And he felt satisfied. No more will he take up a blade, his shoulder saw to that, but he is content to live out his life.

The real battle was fatherhood anyway. A father at thirty-six, imagine that. He was a mess, he did not know how to care for such a little thing. It overwhelmed him greater than any man, woman, or beast. He watched his son grow over the years, while he himself aged.

Tragically, at the age of forty-two: He was murdered while taking out the trash. Some street scum snuck up behind him and plunged a dagger most devious into his liver. The fabled Drake-Skinner felled by a tiny dagger.

Burial Heirloom:
Ceremoniously, he was buried with his scale and plate armour. It was the jewel of his eye before his son's birth and his family thought it would be appropriate to bury him with his most beloved possession.

 

[Malphaestus]

Name: Leouric Sprague
Title/Moniker: Sir. Sprague, and Drake Skinner;
Race: Human mutate; Due to a mutation, Leouric's body is naturally resistant to high temperatures and direct fire. Although, there is no indication of permanent immunity to heat.
Age: 42
Gender: Male
Appearance: Leouric, for lack of a better term, is a behemoth of a man. Exceptionally tall, broad, and a wall of muscles coupled with dense bones. His short, black hair with signature, handlebar moustache, and ginormous, scarred nose give Leouric a distinctive face behind his armoured helmet. His hands lay bare the Drake Skinner's history through their disfigurements: cuts, flattened nails, and Leouric's pinky finger along with his right ring finger are crooked due to healed bones.

Personality: The Drake Skinner is a giant, well-mannered man. He is not an artisan, not a scholar but he is not unintelligent. Brutally honest, Leouric loathes deception and urges others to be honest; nicely or otherwise. He is also a reasonable man, he understands that lying is a tool, a vile one but a tool nonetheless; so he won't tongue lash you for it if you decide to use it. Sprague is very protective even from an early age of people weaker than themselves, although he knows that he can't be everywhere so he urges others to train themselves. To be self-sufficient in any way they can. His stay in Winslow Manor did teach that he liked the fancy-schmancy things of nobility. Though he admits that he won't die without them.

In his later years, he has grown tired of conflicts and seeks to avoid them. A stunning contrast to his younger self. Not just in battle, but in society as a whole.

Tale: The Drake Skinner, a title known well back in his ancient times. It belonged to a town-dweller, by the name of Leouric Sprague. He lived in Tessia, a tightly-knit settlement surrounded by tall grasses of yellow pigmentation. The sun shone all year round, blasting the locals with troublesome rays, but they were used to it. The occasional plain predator would come to feast on their livestock, but again, they managed. Life, while uncomfortable, was bearable for the people. It did not last when suddenly, a massive infestation of scaly stalkers descended upon their beautiful lands. Wingless beasts with frightening speed ran through their plains; slaughtering, butchering, and feasting upon whatever scrap of meat they could get their toothy jaws on.

Leouric Sprague, a fresh-faced teenager at the time, had to watch his home torn to shreds by jagged teeth, and sharpened claws. These damnable beasts made of titan-strong scales had made an enemy for life. Although young, Leouric began his preparations for their next attack. Together with the men of Tessia, they barricaded their homeland with spiked barricades of wood. They armed themselves with spears, swords, maces, whatever they could scrounge up. Armouring was the same story: some wore leather, others padded, one man even had plate armour ready. They won't take these monsters laying down, that is certain. Leouric himself was armed with metal mace and a round wooden shield.

The townspeople waited for two days, primed at the ready to meet their attackers. They had come at dawn, eager to sate their ravenous appetite. However, they had made the mistake of blindly charging. A dozen of them were speared by the wooden barriers. Quickly, they figured out the treachery and began using the stuck bodies as a ramp to leap into their hunting ground.

Screams of fear and hatred echoed against the morning sun. As spears stabbed, swords slashed, mace mashed, claws cut, and snaggletoothed mouths bit. A bloody massacre of life. Leouric was in the thick of it; once he had a smooth face, now covered in the blood of man, or beast. Wrist bruised from the poor handling of his mace, his shield kept him alive. He thought it was humiliating to them, that they would be taken down by someone who has rarely lifted a weapon like this before. He revelled in that thought, it carried him through the battle while his comrades were getting cut down.

It lasted hours, yet felt like an eternity of gore and fluids. By the end, many were devastated and most of the drakes were put to the sword. Leouric was one of the survivors. He had dragged a drake carcass into a neighbour's house; butchering it for one last time before slipping its' scaley hide on his head.

When the dust finally settled, the ruination had been completed. Although many survived, their quaint town's devastation could not be shoved aside. They gathered everything up—everything they could—to walk away into a new world.

Years later, New Tessia had found itself bordering a monumental conflict between two sister nations. Each looking to absorb the other, but subjugate the populace to one ideology. New Tessia had a dilemma, side with one of them or perish for neutrality. As a representative, Leouric in his new-fangled scale and plate armour was sent to join House Winslow, the leading family of West Ragban. The choice was entirely based upon friendliness and prior experiences, being treated more favourably at the West than the East.

After negotiations—brief as they were—went smoothly, Leouric allowed New Tessia to be used as a stop-point for Ragban's army and his enrollment (with others) into the fray for House Winslow.

War did not take kindly to Leouric, or him to it. He found it difficult, initially, to take human life. Plus his opponents were mixed-bags, some were predictable, others weren't, and all were dangerous in their own ways. Regardless, the war continued.

They battled for an entire year, decisively West Ragban won. Leouric was commemorated for his deeds and given a plot of land. Winning your first war isn't something to scoff at, but Leouric only wished for his brothers-in-arms to have made it as well. Well, at the age of twenty-seven, he still had a future to follow.

Due to the recent surge in activity from the United Ragbans, Leouric decided to expand and take ownership of the current tavern/inn at New Tessia. To say that it was a learning experience for the big oaf is an understatement. He had neither the knowledge of how to operate such a place nor proper staffing. Through perseverance, mistakes, and a sick stomach or two: he learned how, and even hired people!

He grew proud of his little establishment, but weary of foul actors and worry for his own employees. So the simple situation was to train them in self-defence, that should deter any ne'er-do-ells.

He very much appreciated his business, however, the craving for one last battle hung in his mind. He just couldn't get the feeling out of it, it pestered him day in and day out. Even when he got married, he still thought of it on that special day. So he kept his ear to the ground, listening for any beast that could sate his hunger. Until one day, he did—a beast of monumental proportions. A flying, armoured creature that is said to possess unmatched speed!

So, he petitioned any mages to bestow upon him and his armour any enhancements that they could conceive. He visited the smithy to arrange for tools such as a heavy bow with special arrows like ropes, burning and others. With morningstar, shield in hand, quiver and bow on back, Leouric was ready to face this grave threat.

His eyes caught the creature looming overhead: With wings of titanic proportions, scales of sky hue, eyes of space, a glistening trail emanated from its' wings.

It spots him, Leouric's eyes widen when he sees what it can do. The sky collapsed within the creature and it blinked out of reality, before emerging like a predator that just stepped in and out of the shadows. Of the sky!

Leouric regained his composure and like a cat jumped back from the crushing claw. Dirt, roots, shrubbery were kicked up all at once from the creature's lightning-quick impact. Those magick enhancements were no joke. Before it could take off again, the Drake Skinner threw himself at it with all his might, becoming a crimson ballista bolt with a spiked end.

Sadly, he is still human, with or without the mage enhancements. The hide held, undamaged by the Morningstar. It flew back in the air, preparing its' next strike. Crash again like thunder, this time Leouric was flung into a tree. His shoulder blade shattered, losing his shield arm.

Leouric knew not to linger, quicking rising with one arm—the man dashed into the trees before the creature could take off again. Hiding in a cave, he tended to his injury. It was very painful, but he grit his teeth.

An hour or two passed before, he saw his attacker again but this time, he observed. Patiently, he learned.

And he found something interesting: One- the creature does not lose momentum after teleporting, Two- It can teleport into objects, as observed by leaves getting stuck in its wings after porting over high trees.

The plan created, Leouric waited for the right time to strike. His shoulder held together with spit-n-hope allowed him to notch a rope arrow through his bow. And let it fly true. It nailed the creature and Leouric with his good hand gripped tightly before being flung off into the air. Pain overwhelmed his body, as he began to climb. Luckily, the creature didn't notice the stuck projectile.

The winds battled him each step of the way, even when he climbed atop the creature's back. He was noticed then, it panicked from the feeling/sight. It attempted to roll over but, Leouric remained steadfast. He lifted the Morningstar above his head and came down on the creature's left eye. It roared mightily, picking up its' speed.

The beast tried to transport, which is what Leouric wanted. Leouric began to crawl back, not wishing to experience what happens next. His sight suddenly stretched out into the infinite, before coming to a sudden crash. Literally. The creature crashed its' head into a mountain, staining it with blue blood.

Leouric managed to land on a small plateau before violently vomiting his stomach. And blood. Teleporting is not for mortal men, he thought.

Returning home, he was hailed as a conquering hero. Many praises were thrown on him. And he felt satisfied. No more will he take up a blade, his shoulder saw to that, but he is content to live out his life.

The real battle was fatherhood anyway. A father at thirty-six, imagine that. He was a mess, he did not know how to care for such a little thing. It overwhelmed him greater than any man, woman, or beast. He watched his son grow over the years, while he himself aged.

Tragically, at the age of forty-two: He was murdered while taking out the trash. Some street scum snuck up behind him and plunged a dagger most devious into his liver. The fabled Drake-Skinner felled by a tiny dagger.

Burial Heirloom:
Ceremoniously, he was buried with his scale and plate armour. It was the jewel of his eye before his son's birth and his family thought it would be appropriate to bury him with his most beloved possession.

There is little I can say to deter my implementation of this character in the roleplay. Be aware, however, that his armour will no longer retain the magic which it may have been imbibed. +2 for slaying dragons, and -1 for there being dragons. Leouric is accepted.

 

[Celestial Speck]

Beast Master Serr of the Deep Wood

​

"They said the howls of Serr's legion of wolves could once be heard all across the battlefield- yet now, only echoes of their memories remain upon the woods they were born from..." Unknown scholar

Description​

An old human gentleman donning old decrypt armor from days of glories now lost. Scrawny and almost weak at first sight with these bits and pieces scrapped and combined by him, but appearing as an aged veteran. Forty years of battles and hunts weight down his pale body, greying black hair had lost its luster alongside brown eyes that had seen one too many battles. He stands a little taller than his fellow men, but by no means comparing Leouric the Drake Skinner.

Personality​

Serr is a quiet and professional fellow, yet a particularly ambitious one, carrying himself with a somewhat pride air despite the tragedy that befell him and his Legion, yet it becomes clear that is less due to a lack of emotional connection to them and more of a way to honor them. For he knows that even if they would hold ill-thought of him for the tragedy he led them towards, to see their leader broken and regretful would be shameful, even if for some reason, they sought to enact revenge upon him. A reality he knows would happen if possible, even if one might tell him otherwise, for he knows he isn't the bravest nor the most honorable if the way he lost his life is any indication.

His lack of honor often shows itself when fighting enemies too, not particularly bothered with fighting fairly, focusing on keeping the enemy at bay and causing them pain, often appearing in the form of pseudo-sadistic tendencies with how inhumanely he might treat others, for he was one who tamed and broke the spirits of beasts. Notably, however, when not in a fight, he treats nobles or knights with respect, but not, necessarily, in a formal way, speaking rudely with them and not bothering to change his language or manner of speech.

He is not without his empathy, however. He often shows a strong respect for comradery and loyalty amongst his fellow companions, or even enemies, believing it to be a powerful uniting tool for ambition, but strongly believes in the shallow-minded belief one shouldn't blind himself in their ambition, not exactly knowing where one might draw the line between 'too much' or 'too little', making him seem ill-advised despite such worries coming from a personal place within his heart.

Tale​

Serr's tale begun weaving itself in the pettiest way before it even started, for as long as he could remember, he lived in cells as a petty burglar. Stealing coin and supplies for surviving, carrying himself with an air that neither noble nor crude and being constantly chased and thrown into prisons by guardsmen nobler than him. He was one amongst his city's petty thieves, thriving, or perhaps surviving with wit and will, never truly being a well-known name nor a threat, but never amounting to anything significant, either.

At some point, however, things changed. Autumn came, winter right on its tail as leaves fell and the cold air touched their city. Still deep in his cell, knowing well the cold would claim him once it came, the iron bars were opened and his weak body guided and placed inside a caravan, guided to the north. It was said that during these times, where burglary and crimes ran high, those helpless and unchanging were sent to the Deep Wood of the North to appease its residents, the Bark Witches and their beasts guarding the labyrinth where one could only enter and exit in seasons such as those, where trees were the weakest, and the shadows of the woods subsided for but a season, allowing the safe passage of men.

There, cold and lost alongside fellow thieves and murderers, he knew that even if he could see the sun's rays, exiting the Deep Wood in but a day was impossible with no mount, supplies, and possessing a weak body.

He watched as some that were carried with him walked away on their lonesome, confident in a chance of escape, only to have their bodies, mangled and bloated, be seen not mere hours later. Indeed, to exit the Deep Wood when one is left for dead upon its heart, even if possible, was a task many failed. As such, leading a small team with those that weren't foolish to tempt the old tales of this place, they sought out an exit from such a place. Their trek was long and painful, the residents cruel and claiming more than one of them... terrible beasts larger than a horse but the bodies of wolves and the hunger of a duke. Yet, they persevered amongst those terrible odds and found themselves amongst a small clearing, a single tree with leaves and fruit still ripe greeting them.

The voice was kind and had pride upon it, like a great scholar finally finding his equal after so long. It was feminine and young, perhaps too young for a place such as this. She had no name but seemingly knew theirs, the moment their bodies ate from the wood's resources. She was the Bark Witch Kylvää, and they were the first amongst many foolish men to be able to rest at her door.

'But perhaps not for long,' she had claimed, not needing eyes to see that their bodies and weary and tired, yet another night with nothing but their own skill perhaps being their last. 'Yes, yes, these woods in which my veins stretch out towards are cruel and dangerous to outsiders, yet you were all so careful not to harm me, for that I'm grateful. You all lived and survived, why not accept my help? I must warn you though, outsiders: if you do, even if you are able to bask upon the sun again, I and you will never be able to stand too far from this place.'

She spoke oddly and vaguely, her true words not being understood by that moment, yet she was never untruthful about her wish to help, as those companions who had formed a pact to survive reached out their hand to the heart of the Wood and accepted her and her body, as around Serr's middle finger, bark formed, and a green flower bloomed, before the same occurring to his companions. Their bodies felt no longer tired, and hunger felt like but a suggestion to them as they stood next to the smiling and kind Bark Witch.

Those rings of flower, an extension of her, had arcane potential like no other, forming a shapeless purple haze upon the air that caused the beasts that once hunted them and tried to claim their companions to wail in pain, eventually causing the great wolves to become submissive. They rode atop their manes across the woods that now felt so open and clear to them, like an open field in summer, and soon, saw themselves upon the exit, and basked upon the glorious sun once more. Thusly, it was the start of Serr's Legion, even if he and his companions foolishly didn't think upon their savior's words.

With their newfound potential and beasts, they raided against fellow bandits and rose in numbers in the span of a decade, becoming a known mercenary group upon the land: battling in any battle that paid the right price, their loyalty only being shared one another and their beasts, with Serr, their leader, being known as the Beast Master who had survived and claimed territory upon the Deep Wood, the ferocious power of his beasts and spell subjugating those who became their enemies.

Years passed and glories were earned, the pride and dreams of his men being like his own as they spoke of their past and their future under a dark wood, as rings of bark deepened their hold onto them little by little, before the flowers upon them became ripe, and the Witch let out a sigh, as her leaves bore new fruit.

Those who once claimed the beasts and the lands, upon their greed, became one with it. Serr's men and brothers in arms, once so prideful and filled with life, became the eternal protectors of the wood his legend started, riding upon the beasts they had claimed without glory or tactic, acting like the same wild animals that had hunted them, only stronger and more capable now, with bark growing from within them, armors abused and forgotten, while Serr still kept his senses, riding off into the exit of the forest with a heavy heart from the memory of his companions led into death by him, and from the Witch's woods to him all those years ago.

His body became heavy like it was his first days upon the wood, rolling and sinking into the ground as he found himself too weak to even stand up as he stood by the edge of the forest, the ring upon his finger becoming like a beast trying to replace his arm, and his companion beast watching upon him with an expectant look, for these woods cycle and grow like any living being would, erasing traces of disease, building immunity to it, or in its case, adapting it to themselves. For the Witch never lied to them, she only offered a chance of surviving the inevitable to meet yet another inevitable, cruel end only much later in their lives, with him knowing well of but one fact: he should have died that autumn.

Drawing an old blade, Serr aimed towards his neck as he spoke to his companions- the woods- one last time.

'Let this blood of mine be the only thing that scars these woods with its dry mark alone, and let this body of mine find a grave in one place that isn't this own: a cell, a tomb, or even where no names are given to things.'

His sword ran deep, and Serr lost his speech before he did life, his body being found but a few days later, and the word of his legion falling to the Woods as many did before being carried around the land, before silencing itself just as quickly as it came, for they knew the Deep Wood's name and its curse. This story does not feature a happy ending, but it does not feature an ending where death is meaningless: for Serr didn't become only famous thanks to his legion, but for his body being the first to finding peace and a burial somewhere away from the place that had claimed him. A man famous in life, but only legendary in death.

Burial Heirloom​

Serr's Hook Whip:

A long whip used by those in Serr's Legion to control the beasts that once tried to claim their lives. The tip is filled with metal prodding out that almost looks akin to scales, the edges tinted in red from the flesh cut with it. A weapon effective against those not wearing armor and perhaps used to disarm the opponent if one is useful enough, but lacking in close-range combat due to its form, and ineffective against scales and actual armor.

Deep Wood Shield:

A dry wooden shield of once a vibrant color. Now dead like its user, it only offers moderate protection with its medium size. Some manner of emblem once stood upon it, now gone with the ages as its user rests deep below the earth. Perhaps for the better.

 

[Malphaestus]

Beast Master Serr of the Deep Wood

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"They said the howls of Serr's legion of wolves could once be heard all across the battlefield- yet now, only echoes of their memories remain upon the woods they were born from..." Unknown scholar

Description​

An old human gentleman donning old decrypt armor from days of glories now lost. Scrawny and almost weak at first sight with these bits and pieces scrapped and combined by him, but appearing as an aged veteran. Forty years of battles and hunts weight down his pale body, greying black hair had lost its luster alongside brown eyes that had seen one too many battles. He stands a little taller than his fellow men, but by no means comparing Leouric the Drake Skinner.

Personality​

Serr is a quiet and professional fellow, yet a particularly ambitious one, carrying himself with a somewhat pride air despite the tragedy that befell him and his Legion, yet it becomes clear that is less due to a lack of emotional connection to them and more of a way to honor them. For he knows that even if they would hold ill-thought of him for the tragedy he led them towards, to see their leader broken and regretful would be shameful, even if for some reason, they sought to enact revenge upon him. A reality he knows would happen if possible, even if one might tell him otherwise, for he knows he isn't the bravest nor the most honorable if the way he lost his life is any indication.

His lack of honor often shows itself when fighting enemies too, not particularly bothered with fighting fairly, focusing on keeping the enemy at bay and causing them pain, often appearing in the form of pseudo-sadistic tendencies with how inhumanely he might treat others, for he was one who tamed and broke the spirits of beasts. Notably, however, when not in a fight, he treats nobles or knights with respect, but not, necessarily, in a formal way, speaking rudely with them and not bothering to change his language or manner of speech.

He is not without his empathy, however. He often shows a strong respect for comradery and loyalty amongst his fellow companions, or even enemies, believing it to be a powerful uniting tool for ambition, but strongly believes in the shallow-minded belief one shouldn't blind himself in their ambition, not exactly knowing where one might draw the line between 'too much' or 'too little', making him seem ill-advised despite such worries coming from a personal place within his heart.

Tale​

Serr's tale begun weaving itself in the pettiest way before it even started, for as long as he could remember, he lived in cells as a petty burglar. Stealing coin and supplies for surviving, carrying himself with an air that neither noble nor crude and being constantly chased and thrown into prisons by guardsmen nobler than him. He was one amongst his city's petty thieves, thriving, or perhaps surviving with wit and will, never truly being a well-known name nor a threat, but never amounting to anything significant, either.

At some point, however, things changed. Autumn came, winter right on its tail as leaves fell and the cold air touched their city. Still deep in his cell, knowing well the cold would claim him once it came, the iron bars were opened and his weak body guided and placed inside a caravan, guided to the north. It was said that during these times, where burglary and crimes ran high, those helpless and unchanging were sent to the Deep Wood of the North to appease its residents, the Bark Witches and their beasts guarding the labyrinth where one could only enter and exit in seasons such as those, where trees were the weakest, and the shadows of the woods subsided for but a season, allowing the safe passage of men.

There, cold and lost alongside fellow thieves and murderers, he knew that even if he could see the sun's rays, exiting the Deep Wood in but a day was impossible with no mount, supplies, and possessing a weak body.

He watched as some that were carried with him walked away on their lonesome, confident in a chance of escape, only to have their bodies, mangled and bloated, be seen not mere hours later. Indeed, to exit the Deep Wood when one is left for dead upon its heart, even if possible, was a task many failed. As such, leading a small team with those that weren't foolish to tempt the old tales of this place, they sought out an exit from such a place. Their trek was long and painful, the residents cruel and claiming more than one of them... terrible beasts larger than a horse but the bodies of wolves and the hunger of a duke. Yet, they persevered amongst those terrible odds and found themselves amongst a small clearing, a single tree with leaves and fruit still ripe greeting them.

The voice was kind and had pride upon it, like a great scholar finally finding his equal after so long. It was feminine and young, perhaps too young for a place such as this. She had no name but seemingly knew theirs, the moment their bodies ate from the wood's resources. She was the Bark Witch Kylvää, and they were the first amongst many foolish men to be able to rest at her door.

'But perhaps not for long,' she had claimed, not needing eyes to see that their bodies and weary and tired, yet another night with nothing but their own skill perhaps being their last. 'Yes, yes, these woods in which my veins stretch out towards are cruel and dangerous to outsiders, yet you were all so careful not to harm me, for that I'm grateful. You all lived and survived, why not accept my help? I must warn you though, outsiders: if you do, even if you are able to bask upon the sun again, I and you will never be able to stand too far from this place.'

She spoke oddly and vaguely, her true words not being understood by that moment, yet she was never untruthful about her wish to help, as those companions who had formed a pact to survive reached out their hand to the heart of the Wood and accepted her and her body, as around Serr's middle finger, bark formed, and a green flower bloomed, before the same occurring to his companions. Their bodies felt no longer tired, and hunger felt like but a suggestion to them as they stood next to the smiling and kind Bark Witch.

Those rings of flower, an extension of her, had arcane potential like no other, forming a shapeless purple haze upon the air that caused the beasts that once hunted them and tried to claim their companions to wail in pain, eventually causing the great wolves to become submissive. They rode atop their manes across the woods that now felt so open and clear to them, like an open field in summer, and soon, saw themselves upon the exit, and basked upon the glorious sun once more. Thusly, it was the start of Serr's Legion, even if he and his companions foolishly didn't think upon their savior's words.

With their newfound potential and beasts, they raided against fellow bandits and rose in numbers in the span of a decade, becoming a known mercenary group upon the land: battling in any battle that paid the right price, their loyalty only being shared one another and their beasts, with Serr, their leader, being known as the Beast Master who had survived and claimed territory upon the Deep Wood, the ferocious power of his beasts and spell subjugating those who became their enemies.

Years passed and glories were earned, the pride and dreams of his men being like his own as they spoke of their past and their future under a dark wood, as rings of bark deepened their hold onto them little by little, before the flowers upon them became ripe, and the Witch let out a sigh, as her leaves bore new fruit.

Those who once claimed the beasts and the lands, upon their greed, became one with it. Serr's men and brothers in arms, once so prideful and filled with life, became the eternal protectors of the wood his legend started, riding upon the beasts they had claimed without glory or tactic, acting like the same wild animals that had hunted them, only stronger and more capable now, with bark growing from within them, armors abused and forgotten, while Serr still kept his senses, riding off into the exit of the forest with a heavy heart from the memory of his companions led into death by him, and from the Witch's woods to him all those years ago.

His body became heavy like it was his first days upon the wood, rolling and sinking into the ground as he found himself too weak to even stand up as he stood by the edge of the forest, the ring upon his finger becoming like a beast trying to replace his arm, and his companion beast watching upon him with an expectant look, for these woods cycle and grow like any living being would, erasing traces of disease, building immunity to it, or in its case, adapting it to themselves. For the Witch never lied to them, she only offered a chance of surviving the inevitable to meet yet another inevitable, cruel end only much later in their lives, with him knowing well of but one fact: he should have died that autumn.

Drawing an old blade, Serr aimed towards his neck as he spoke to his companions- the woods- one last time.

'Let this blood of mine be the only thing that scars these woods with its dry mark alone, and let this body of mine find a grave in one place that isn't this own: a cell, a tomb, or even where no names are given to things.'

His sword ran deep, and Serr lost his speech before he did life, his body being found but a few days later, and the word of his legion falling to the Woods as many did before being carried around the land, before silencing itself just as quickly as it came, for they knew the Deep Wood's name and its curse. This story does not feature a happy ending, but it does not feature an ending where death is meaningless: for Serr didn't become only famous thanks to his legion, but for his body being the first to finding peace and a burial somewhere away from the place that had claimed him. A man famous in life, but only legendary in death.

Burial Heirloom​

Serr's Hook Whip:

A long whip used by those in Serr's Legion to control the beasts that once tried to claim their lives. The tip is filled with metal prodding out that almost looks akin to scales, the edges tinted in red from the flesh cut with it. A weapon effective against those not wearing armor and perhaps used to disarm the opponent if one is useful enough, but lacking in close-range combat due to its form, and ineffective against scales and actual armor.

Deep Wood Shield:

A dry wooden shield of once a vibrant color. Now dead like its user, it only offers moderate protection with its medium size. Some manner of emblem once stood upon it, now gone with the ages as its user rests deep below the earth. Perhaps for the better.

Serr is accepted, the Abyss Legion is the best boss after the Twin Princes.