[Characters] Bio's and Number Crunching

[Jordz92]

Can you guys copy your Character Bios from the interest thread into here and add your sheets.

Character Specs:
Starting level: 2
Races: PHB Only
Classes: All of the Allowed books, though I would prefer your initial class to come from the PHB.
Stats: 16, 16, 14, 14, 12, 12. You can assign these or edit them on a 1:1 ratio. e.g. 18, 18, 14, 14, 10, 10. Or 15, 15, 15, 15, 12, 12... [MAXIMUM 18 before Racial Modifiers]
Starting Gold: 1000gp
HD: MAX first, half max for rest of levels.

[Slolivin]

Left Game.

 

Name: Glen
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Race: Human
Class: Dragon Shaman Silver Dragon Totem(PHB II)
Alignment: NG

Physical Description: Glen stands at 5'8" with a frame that is nothing too remarkable. His muscles aren't large like a fighter or barbarian, but he isn't slight like a mage. He falls in the middle ground. The muscles he has are toned, his movements are well practiced and his mind is sharp. He has long silverish hair tied behind his head in a ponytail, bright blue eyes that seem to show his soul and a charming smile.

His shield and armor both are engraved with the a dragon which he shows proudly. On his chest is a tatoo of a dragon, wings spread and mouth open. This is rarely seen by others, but it is a symbol to Glen. It gives him strength, motivation and courage (no gameplay effects with the tatoo, just a little rp addition).

Background: Glen lived in the shadow of his father, a well known blacksmith in Guardvale. His father made the best swords and armor around and Glen never heard the end of it. Glen had no interest in his fathers talent, he would even say he despised it. He wanted to make something of himself, to make a difference in the world. How could you do that standing over an anvil all day?

His family wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, not caring what Glen wanted in life. Glen knew the nagging would never end so he left. He left and vowed to make a name for himself. He traveled to many kingdoms, hearing tales of dragons and became obsessed. He spent his time in libraries, learning everything he could. Dragon's became second nature to him, but he knew this was not enough for him.

He learend early on that making a name for the sake of showing his parents was foolish. he wanted to make a name for himself to pass his beliefs to the world. No ordinary man could do this, he would need a reputation, he would need to perform great feats. The war was a perfect palce to do this. He would join and show his worth. He would rise in rank and show that he was a great man.

Idea for Squad Role: Frontliner. Not the tank, but able to deal some damage and protect those behind him. His aura also helps those around him so he's a party buffer as well.

[Fading Echo]

Character Sheet

Cassandra, of the White Drake Clan
Age: 22
Race: Human
Class: Ranger
Alignment: Neutral Good
Squad role: Mounted Archer
Appearance:

Cassandra is tall and lean, her skin and appearance weathered by a lifetime in the wilderness-it is apparent she is no stranger to battle, nor to arduous traveling in difficult conditions. Her black hair is cut very short, almost a man's hairstyle, while her grey eyes miss little, recording and observing much. With her at all times is a large brown horse, quite unremarkable except for the fact that it follows Cassandra as assuredly as the companion of any ranger, and the bond between human and horse is apparent to all-she seems to spend more time in the company of her horse than most of her human friends.

When expecting battle, Cassandra wears light leather armor for herself and her horse, preferring to retain mobility and flexibility, usually dyed or painted in a semblance of camoflauge. Otherwise, she wears rugged hide and fur clothing, unless the environment and temperature make it impractical-she is not outright barbaric, but her primitive and nomadic background are plain to see. In hot climates, she wears only light clothing-when she has a choice, Cassandra favors browns, blacks, and other dark and subdued hues.

Background:

While not exactly an outright barbarian, Cassandra hails from a primitive society in the cold lands of the north-a nomadic society where skill with, and affinity for, horses and other animals is a vital part of everyday life. All members of the White Drake Clan, named after the most fearsome predator in their region, are expected to contribute to the clan's welfare in whatever means they serve best at, making no distinction between men and women. As it happened, Cassandra displayed a natural affinity for horsemanship, as well as a keen eye for hunting, marking her lot in life to be a hunter and scout for the clan.

Cassandra is already considered a mature woman in the eyes of her clan-life expectancies are shorter than normal in the north, and she has spent the better part of her life in the saddle, often traveling far away from her clan's lodgings in search of animals to hunt or new places to establish camp. Like many such light cavalry of her clan, Cassandra learned how to use a bow from the saddle, learning to shoot accurately and fight well from the back of her chosen horse, a sharp-eyed, if skittish, mare she named Amaur, after a spirit in her clan's mythos that watches over the clan's scouts and hunters. This proved auspicious, as Cassandra and Amaur have seen their share of action over the years, skirmishing with other clans for resources, and the occasional battle with the strange and terrible creatures sometimes found in the north.

The White Drake clan, unlike many such nomadic clans, long endeavored to maintain good relations with the civilized lands-truly dire winters or other disasters occasionally necessitate that the clan travel south, seeking aid and temporary shelter in civilized lands, and the White Drakes have never been numerous enough to afford being able to openly raid civilization for what they need, leading to the White Drakes being considered neither fish nor fowl in the eyes of other clans-neither true folk of the frontier, nor entirely civilized.

It was during one such exceptionally harsh winter that the clan heard of the war raging in the civilized lands-a war between good and evil that demanded all skilled warriors report. Weakened by the severely hostile environment and many skirmishes that went poorly for the clan, the chieftain of the White Drakes granted permission for any of the clan's warriors and scouts who wished to join the war to do so, provided they met the army's standards. Cassandra was among those who did, naturally finding a place as a mounted archer and forward scout.

She seems to enjoy army life-food is usually reliable, as are decent lodgings and equipment, and the environment is far less harsh than her home. Like her clan, the army operates with a clear chain of command, and she has settled into things quite well.

Personality:

Cassandra's clansmen have a reputation for being true to every barbarian stereotype-loud, crude, arrogant, and filled with bloodlust, but Cassandra proves that stereotypes are not entirely accurate-she is accustomed to operating alone in the wild, and is usually quiet and withdrawn, speaking little except when she has something important to say, though this reticence seems to be fading as time goes on and she starts to think of the army as her new clan of sorts-a grand, extended clan with all the trappings and methods thereof.

She is slow to take offense, often coming across as aloof or even arrogant in the face of people native to ways quite unlike her own, and is confident in the soundness of her own beliefs and methods. She accepts the advice and ways of others when they offer concrete benefits and improvements, but immediately seeks to work them into her existing methods and ways of thinking, rather than accepting them as genuinely new things.

Cassandra also tends to distrust the arcane in all of its forms, as well as clerical magics. Her clan relied on shamans and druids, and they were good enough for her people-she has no need to start worshipping the deities of other lands and races, nor any desire to learn anything about the arcane beyond what she absolutely needs-she feels that wielding magic erodes one's own willingness to work and put forth honest effort, using a short-cut to the wizard's desired result. In particular, she fears-and hates-spells that bewitch the senses or affect the mind, regarding them as proof of the hopeless inadequacy of the caster-and the fear they hold towards their intended target.

[MrCompetition]

Name: Kaleb Channing
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.
Class: Battle Sorcerer (UA variant of PHB Sorceror)
Squad Role: Artillery and secondary melee
Appearance: Kaleb has a rather plain face and a lighter build than most human males. With short black hair and brown eyes, he doesn't really stand out in a crowd. Being 5' 7" doesn't help much either. His normally light skin has recently gained a light tan (after being horribly burned of course). In fact his manner of dress doesn't even help him stand out, wearing simple breeches and shirt with a light jacket most of the time. The only unique thing about his appearance is the fact that he almost always has a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face.

Personality/Outlook: Kaleb views life as something to be enjoyed. You live, then you die, and that's it (unless you come back as a ghost or zombie or some other undead, but that's another story). So he tries to find enjoyment in all that he does, which can be hard at times due to a dislike of manual labor. That and his delusion that he is the best spellcaster around (so what if that guy can throw around more powerful spells, he can't do it with my style). But all in all, most people can get along with him.

Background: Growing up, Kaleb lived on the outskirts of Dragonport and as such, has listened to all the tales of glory to be had in the army. Believing in these tales as a child, he decided to become a soldier when he grew up. However, since he disliked actual physical labor, Kaleb decided to learn magic instead of the usual swordplay his childhood friends were being taught.

Due to his ego, Kaleb did not due to well when trying to learn underneath the wizards, so he ended up teaching himself most of his magics (hence the sorcerer class). Once he believed he had mastered his talents, Kaleb went and signed up for the army. Most of his delusions for grandeur have been crushed after going through basic training, but he holds onto some hope yet, if only to spite the drill sergeant....

Thanks for accepting my app, here's my character sheet Kaleb

[Eleanor Rigby]

Thanks for accepting my app

Name: Sahar
Race: Elf
Age: 120
Gender: Female
Class: Rogue
Appearance: Sahar is tall for an elf and pale. Her eyes and hair are dark. She has her hair held with a ribbon at its end. She is wearing "Aladdin Pants" that allow her to move quickly and silently.
Personality/Outlook: Sahar is usually very silent and calm, very calculated, but sometimes when she's very annoyed she can turn reckless and impulsive. Those incidents are rare, though. She usually expresses her feelings, but in such a quiet way, it sometimes take people a while to understand that she's angry at them.
Background: Sahar grew up in Guardvale. When she was a toddler her mother left the Elven village they lived in with her human lover, and took Sahar with her. She grew up there with her mother's lover and her newborn half-human half brother.
She felt lonely in the human city. Unlike her mother, she didn't choose to go there and didn't have much contact with any human, and therefore felt very lonely. She has few memories of the Elven village, but they were enough to make her feel not belonging.
As a child, she was touring Guardvale all around but left it many times for the wild outside it. Her mother died when she was a young teen. Her brother was now more adult then her because of his human blood, and her stepfather was a very old man. She always felt as a burden on him, despite that he was always nice to her, and now she was glad she finally had a chance to be usefull to him. She and her brother both had to take care of him now. Her brother was able to find a job, but she was too young and the only thing she could do was steal whatever she could find that could help them, focusing on the merchants who used to deceive their customers (which she knew thanks for her many travels around the city).
Not long after her stepfather died of old age, and her brother decided to attend the magic academy in the city. Sahar left Guardvale and tried to find the Elven village she was born in, but didn't have a clue where it was.
Meanwhile the war has started. when she traveled in the countryside, searching for the Elven village she was born in, she saw many ruined settlements, because of the attacks of the orcs. The fear that the village she was born in is - or will be - one of them struck her and she decided to do her best to stop it by joining the army. It was difficult for her for two reason: first, she hates being told what to do. Second, humans. She has mixed emotions about humans - on the one hand, she saw them, as the rest of her kind, as loud, rough and vulgar. On the other hand, she learned to respect her stepfather. The close contact with the humans in the army is difficult to her, but more and more she learns to like some of them.
Alignment: CG
Idea for Squad Role: As a rogue, she is usually sent to steal, find information, infiltrate and break into places.

Characrer Sheet

pic

[lcg16]

 

Name: Holly Reikstrum
Race: Human
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Class: Cleric of Heironeous (War and Nobility Domains)

Appearance: Holly has short cropped blonde hair and fair skin. Her blue eyes are sparkling pools that draw many in with their allure, and her figure, emphasized by her lithe armour plates, is rumored to have drawn more than one priest to take the holy vows. When not in armour, she wears simple clerical vestments. Her one vanity is she has a fondness for a pinkish hue, something noticeable even in her armour...

Personality/Outlook: Socially shy, innocent and unassuming, with a tendency to see only black and white, Holly likes nothing more than to be...well, useful. Her combat abilities are still minimal, and her healing skills aren't as good as those clerics more specialized in healing abilities, but she makes up for it in enthusiasm. She has a tendency to volunteer for any task, even things she was terribly unsuited for.

Why? Well, she has a boundless belief that Heironeous would keep her safe from anything, if only she would dare, an ideal pounded into her head by her superiors at the church. In fact, she had been sent to the front to learn just this very lesson, as shown below...

Background: Holly was born of an honourable but luckless noble house that had more offspring than business sense in Guardvale. Married as soon as she came of age and flowered, she endured the harsh touch of her unkind but rich and powerful husband dutifully for years, seeking solitude many a time in her family's patron temple of Heironeous.

However, gossip soon spread as many a time, she came with bruises, scratches and a dishevelled appearance. Her family was martial clan, but it did not have the pull it once did to challenge her husband and have the marriage annulled. No church would dare challenge the rich clan...except for one...

Yes, her family's long standing patron saved her. Or, well, tried. They were, after all, the embodiment of martial daring, and they owed the Reikstrums many a favour, for their valiant deeds in battles past. Besides, it appealed to many of the worshippers to be off doing their penance by rescuing a princess

Of course, their challenge to her husband, the great lord of Guardvale himself, angered the stern man, and fighting broke out in the streets about his estate as word got out of their attempt. They had managed to spirit Holly away to the temple. Meanwhile, the lord marched with his prestige guard, to seize his timid and hapless wife, despite the attempts of priests and paladins to restrain him.

At the altar, she knelt, watching him in fear as he trudged up the aisle, rapier in one hand, and soon, he was upon her. Terrified, the sleepy doe eyed lass desperately invoked the rite of sanctuary by shouting out the aforementioned word. Not that her husband would care. But when he tried to seize her, he found himself blocked, and then, suddenly hurled out of the temple.

Gaping priests watched the flustered noblewoman stand, then rush over to her husband's side, apologizing in horror as he stared blankly up at the sky, unmoving. But soon enough, he came to, but all that was in his eyes was astonishment at her. Immediately, he hollered for a document to be drawn up to the nearest priest of Heironeous, annuling her marriage to the woman, who, utterly confused, broke down in sobs.

He clutched her shoulder, then pulled her roughly upwards, before cupping her chin in his hand, and unexpectedly apologizing. When the priest came to them and asked what the reason would be, he stated, Another wishes to claim this lady. You want her freed so bad, it caught your lord's attention. Still, my honour is satisfied. I can claim a God took my leavings...

He stomped off, leaving both priest and woman staring at him, with his signature on the paper. Then, he added, Though, I doubt anyone will believe me. He's turned her maiden again, the honourable wretch. To be given only to her true love. Best be about quelling this mob...

And so, with that, Lady Helena Olivier Labellie los Yolanda von Reikstrum found herself become an initiate of Heironeous, for that, it seems, was the only honourable resolution that could satisfy the lord of Guardvale. A god had claimed his wife, and for that, and only that, would he willingly stand aside.

Being a lass of gentle nature, and no martial training, it took her surprisingly little time to adapt to the holy acolyte's life, at least, to the more peaceful parts of it. This was, of course, due to Heironeous lavish favour, bestowed upon her. Still, even the God of Valour could only do so much, for courage had to come from the inside. That was Holly's main barrier to attaining greater proficiency as a priestess.

Oh, her skill with a blade grew swiftly, but she cringed at the site of blood, and her nerve broke swiftly at the sight of sparking steel. Eventually, Holly's superior decided that the only way to temper her was to send her off to the brewing war with the evil Orc kingdom, for a sword had to taste blood, sooner or later...that, and for the more practical reason that they needed more medics at the front.

Holly managed to get through basic training well enough, but fear still had a tendency to grip her, and often, she questioned her reasons for being there. Had she just traded one unhappy marriage for another? Still, just as the noble maiden of the warrior line of Reikstrum had endured one terror out of duty, so would she endure this one...Unfortunately, she was uncomfortably aware that in this case, duty just might kill her...

Alignment: Lawful Good

Portrait of Holly von Reikstrum:

[VexedSerenity]

Name: Vorim Karakson, The Mad Lion of the Eastern Steppes.
Race: Human
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Class: Barbarian 1 / Cleric of Kord 1
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Idea for Squad Role: Primary Melee Front-Liner & Tanker / Backup Support & Medic

 

Vorim is a tall, broad shouldered brute of a man standing 6'3" and likely weighing somewhere around 205 pounds of muscle and hair. His skin is tanned and weathered in a reflection of his rugged lifestyle, various scars and hints of old wounds leaving a map of the various struggles endured across his body. The most notable of the past injuries engraved into his flesh as permanent markings are two sets of three parallel scars winding across his shoulders on either side of his neck, the result of a rather bloody struggle with a lion when he was younger. A thick, lengthy mane of dark blond hair hangs unbound and free about his head accompanied with a squared chin, flat nose, and bearded features of the same blond hues. His dark blue eyes hold an oddly regal glint in their depths, at times turning thoughtful should the casual observer take notice.

Upon his person is a collection of well-used armor and leathers, intended more for practicality than a polished and gleaming image. His body and armor is covered with an assembly of thick fabrics and furs befitting his life on the plains, intended to help weather blows and to ward against the elements when they turn cold and rainy. A small arsenal of weapons adorns his figure, an axe on one hip and a hammer on the other. However, it is the well-worn and massive greatsword with the grip wrapped in leather worn across his broad back that likely gains the first attentions of an onlooker. Then there is the wooden and somewhat crudely carved symbol portraying a devotion to Kord worn on a leather string hanging about his neck. A rather full pack bundled with a variety of equipment hung with relative ease across his wide back suggests that he carries most if not all of his worldly possessions on his person while he roams.

 

As experienced in his time growing up on the plains, existence is a harsh and often relatively short experience, and therefore it should be enjoyed to its fullest whenever possible. Life is hard but it is those struggles which shape and mold people into better individuals, and triumphs over these hardships are something which should be celebrated with the entirety of a person's being. He is often seen as a jovial, gregarious man with a boisterous voice and a rich, deep laugh. Vorim is always eager to share strong drink and glorious stories around a roaring fire with like-minded souls when the trials of the day are completed. With a heart as large as his figure he has a tendency to 'adopt' those who share in battle with him, referring to many a bewildered individual as his little brother or sister. Yet he does not mean 'little' in terms of age, but in regards to the fact that there are not many people in the world larger than himself.

Vorim had gained his nickname from a small group of mortified travelers who witnessed the man in action during a pitched battle. While scouting for game with a couple other men from his tribe they noticed a small caravan of merchants being set upon by opportunistic brigands. Determined to provide the thieves with a warrior worthy of combat instead of the innocent and rather unskilled guards of the wagon train Vorim launched himself headlong into battle with a mighty roar. Those who saw him fight would later liken him to a lion, indeed an animal spirit held in high regard by Vorim, his long unbound blond hair looking much like a mane whipping about as he carved a bloody and heedless path through the bandits. While doing so Vorim whipped himself into a reverent frenzy, chanting in his deep and booming voice his praises to Kord, punctuated by the occasional cackle of triumph. With the broad grin on his face given a proper fight in which to test his skill, and an attitude deemed entirely too cheerful to be proper, the outsiders seeing Vorim's behavior soon also dubbed this warrior of the plains a madman. It was then that Vorim became known as the Mad Lion of the Eastern Steppes.

Yet Vorim's existence is not entirely constituted by the presence of celebration, hunting, and inebriation. In fact on a few occasions, late at night when Vorim believes no one is watching him, some people have noticed a markedly different behavior from the normally rambunctious plainsman. He has been seen at times sitting off in solitary silence away from the dying embers of that evening's fire with his dark blue eyes pointed towards the stars. A contemplative expression would be fixated upon his worn features while entertaining thoughts known only to him and the gods.

 

As the mighty huntsman Kord wanders the stars above in search of worthy game, the herds of lesser beasts follow in his wake behind him hoping to avoid his notice. As these creatures endlessly roam the lands, Vorim's tribe of plainsmen follow the paths left by these animals in search of game to hunt as they are always in need of food to eat and hides to wear. Therefore as the herds follow behind Kord, and Vorim's people follow the herds, then the tribes follow Kord as a result. The great hunter is a figure of legend among the barbaric nomads, the tales of his strength and daring filling many an evening spent captivated around the campfires before slumber. Many men and even some women seek to follow the examples set by Kord, and among them Vorim seeks to prove his own worth through both deed and devotion.

Life on the wandering plains has persisted much like it has for those before him, and as he sought to continue proving himself as a hunter, warrior, and provider for his people. Vorim eventually took a wife named Velana of the Larendis clan and looked forward to raising a large family with his chosen beloved. His gigantic heart yearned for many children to lavish his affections and wisdom upon. However, the gods had other plans, and a few months after their union had been forged and consummated Velana would pass on from a wasting sickness. For weeks afterward the camps were diminished in their liveliness, deprived of Vorim's normally vigorous voice and laughter. Grief had reduced the hulking man to a silent, brooding shell of his former self. Perhaps one day in the future, after giving Velana's memory sufficient honor, Vorim would find another wife and realize his dreams of a family. Maybe one day, but for now it was time to quietly grieve and remember fondly their short and happy life together.

Yet the events which would transpire soon afterward left Vorim little more time to lament the passing of his lovely wife, reports from scouting parties telling of conflicts with savage and warlike green-skinned figures. The conflict between the civilized lands began to spill out to the plains as both sides sought resources and information in the surrounding lands. Soon after the tribe's tradesmen brought back word that the cities were recruiting for their armies and that a massive war between the nations appeared to loom on the horizon. If one day Vorim was indeed to wed anew and fulfill his desires to have a large family to love and cherish, the plainsman with the titanic heart would have to make certain that the future he brought his children into was a safe and nourishing one. The invaders would need to be vanquished yet he could not do it alone. He was a mighty warrior but even Vorim knew there was only so much one man could accomplish. Without a wife or family to provide for he announced to his tribe that he would be leaving, intending to join the armies of the civilized people to help them turn away the invaders. He would not return until the deed was finished, and perhaps then after all was done, life could at last go on.

So the Mad Lion of the Eastern Steppes sought out the nearest known city after a lengthy trek, volunteering his body and weapons to the fight on hand. Despite the small kernels of grief still resting in the center of his heart, the prospect of battle in which to prove himself and the strength of his people began to bring the Vorim most knew back to the surface. The rowdy, outgoing plainsman had returned in order to lend his hand towards putting things right once more.

[LoveBug]

 

Name: Lord Firael Algathrin
Race: Elf
Age: 123
Gender: Male
Class: Crusader (ToB)
Alignment: LN
Idea for Squad Role: Tank
Appearance: As all elves of Algathrin blood, Firael holds head high. Due to his profession he keeps his blond hair short; long hair is a detriment for a warrior. Steel gray eyes keep careful watch at all times. Four rings hang from each ear, one taken from each for the battles he's fought.

Though he does not quite live in his armor, he rarely takes it off in his waking hours. He holds his armor easily, as one who has worn it. His weapons he keeps polished and sharpened, ready for every battle. His grip on any one of them is steady, even in battle, as his training has taught.

It is only during the rare night that his head drops, his hand shakes, his armor weighs upon him. At all other times, he seems the picture of confidence.

Personality/Outlook: Honor. This one notion is the foundation upon which House Algathrin has been built. And for its youngest son, it is something he has lost. Though he hold himself to a standard as high as every other member of the stronghold, and, some would argue, higher, his blade has dishonored him, and claimed him a coward. This dishonor hangs over Firael, though he lets none see it, and it drives him to greater challenge. In battle he stands as a shield to others, hoping that the battles won will regain him the honor he has lost.

 

The house of Algathrin has long stood apart from the Elves. Before the beginning of the war we had built our home to the north of Guardvale. Some claim we had been diplomats to the other races at the time, others that we expected the troubles to come. To me, it has always been a place of war. Few dwell in that place who do not know it.

I was always to join the Alliance. I knew this. And well too, for it was always my desire. I studied since my thirtieth winter for the opportunity. Or at least I thought I had. It wasn't until my hundredth that my family began my training. I took after my mother, an excellent warrior, though not with the bow as she. So it was that I appealed to my greatmother, a powerful sorceress and the leader of Algathrin, for choice. Every child at their Hundredth Dawning was assigned a task by the Mistress Algathrin. It was only the rare that refused her task or appealed to choice. I was one of them.

I was not given special treatment for my birth; she considered it fairly. In the end, she agreed, though it would, in the end, be a mark on my honor and on the honor of our house. I was a child, and I did not understand at the time.

Algathrin had never been breached, not once in the centuries of war that battered against her walls. Not once had a single orc made it through her gates. An elf who chose the blade was a coward, for he could not fight.

But for my next twenty summers, I did not learn this. Every elf studies their craft for twenty years under tutelage before they see their first battle. The elves do not have the numbers to cast their lives aside easily as the humans do. So they train. For twenty years they train, so that when they are cast into battle, their body does what mind cannot. When mind is numbed and frozen at the horror of war, their body does what it has been trained to.

For three years after my training I faced no enemy. As it had since it began, Algathrin held her foes outside her gates, with bow and spell. My mother was a hero. My father had died and joined the everlasting for his valor. My greatmother was one of the most powerful sorceress among the elves. And I... I was now learning what it meant to be dishonored by my blade.

I left Algathrin. Greatmother was glad to see me go. No she wished no ill on me, nor did she hate my presence; she knew that my honor could never by found there. She sent me with letter to a Lieutenant Farhlan, a man who my father had fought with for a time.