[Characters] Cast and Crew

[UrsprungDerLiebe]

Post your application here, along with a link to your character sheet when you get it up and running. Please post any questions in color in your post, in the OOC thread, or in PM to me; do not make multiple posts in this thread. When everyone's character is (more or less) ready to go, the game can begin; hopefully this can be as soon as Monday.

[Spud]

Good to go. Detect Magic at will.

Character Sheet Name: Stitch Occupation: Undertaker Age: 23 Skills and Feat: Profession (Undertaking), Spot, Use Rope, Listen, Craft (Coffins) - Improved Initiative Description & Personality: Long locks of black hair have grown to flow a bit over dark eyes, and naturally part to the side. He has a strong jaw, a tan face, nicely proportioned nose, and all that other nice man stuff. His eyes are a coal black, both black pupils, and black color surrounding. All in all, even though his face is lightly tanned, and has the classic strong jaw... He kind of has a "baby face". His features are all soft, and one would think he was "pretty" before they really decided he was "handsome". The rest of his body is quite average, tall and lithe, built with extremely slim muscle that has the tanned skin tightly pulled over it. If you wanted to say anything good about his "twig" of a body type, you could say it was built for... for speed. He is about 6'2 in height, and around 145 in weight. Stitch is a friendly kind of guy, who is quick to make conversation, quick to tell a joke, and quick to try and make friends. He is easy to like, though most will find he has a bit of a creepy aura. There is something about him that makes you pause, makes you a bit... held back. He seems nice enough, but with just a bit of awkwardness that plays off onto everyone around him. His hobbies are odd, as is his profession. Many friends, but few true ones. He is a lonely kind of guy. Even though friendly, he is somewhat quiet, usually going off into his own head to mull on a variety of things. Quiet, but social. A bit outgoing, but awkward. Personal God: He worships Ohā, as taught to him by his father. It is a faith that he eventually has come to hold as his own, even if it was first forced upon him. Power: Detect Magic. Story: His eyes flickered over the body as he carefully cleaned it, his silver tools flashing in the moonlight that shone through the small window of his house. Something bright flickered in his eye, and he paused a moment, tossing a hand over his eyes. What was that? The bright golden glow... it was happening again. It had happened on several of these bodies. Was it the same thing as before? Stitch helplessly tried to shove the nightmares of the past few nights into the back of his mind, going back to working on the body. It was a simple task, one that his now deceased father had taught him, all by practicing on his mother's pristine corpse. Clean the innards, wash the outsides, scrub the nails, style the hair, make the body look as pretty as possible. Prepare them for their loved ones to ooh and aaw over one last time... and then bury them. Furnish the casket, lay it in the ground, fashion the wooden tombstone... it was a lonely job, and a lot of work for one man... but then again, he was only serving about 100 people. It wasn't that big of a deal. And the busier he got, the less people there would be to serve. Ah, that was a morbid thought. Best to focus on the body. He grunted again as the golden glow blinded him once more, causing him to wince. Where was that coming from? He asked the question, but he knew the answer. The body. Like all the other glows. Underneath the tongue. He bite his lower lip, regarding this corpse. It was an older woman, a pretty one, someone who had likely been stunning in her younger years. She was pristine in her old age, apparently having died peacefully in her sleep. He hoped he would go like that. Who would undertake his corpse? Would there be someone to take over his job? Less than likely. The golden flash again. Glancing outside, he noted the flash of lightning. It always seemed to storm when his mind lit up with this glow. He took a deep breath, and reached down, prying open the lips of the old woman. Reaching his tool inside, he focused on the now steady golden glow that was coming from her head. A glow only he could see. With a shudder, he pulled aside her tongue, and then pushed his fingers in. With a bit of a dry heave, he clasped a tuft of black hair, and tugged. It came free, and he stared at it. They were showing up in the past few dead bodies. He couldn't help but think of Jackals. Those denizens of the Underworld. Lightning flashed again, and his hand shook. The tuft of hair fell, but he quickly snatched it back up. Turning from the corpse, he walked to a small glass jar on a nearby desk. He quickly pushed the hair inside, adding it to his collection. 10 tufts. 10 corpses. Interesting.

[Zealot]

Good to go. Arcane Mark 3/hour

General Information Name: Matthias Asmonean Occupation: Carpenter Age: 27 Skills and Feat: Skills ~ Craft (Carpentry), Handle Animal, Spot, Use Rope. Feat ~ Night Haunt (Complete Arcane) Description & Personality: Only the most hard-hearted and insensitive can dislike Matthias, as he is everyone's friend. He knows the right time for an encouraging word, an understanding nod, a moment of inviting silence, a lighthearted joke or a serious musing. He talks as well as he listens, he's always dependable, always willing to lend a hand, so how can anyone resent him if he asks a favour in return, "a small thing really, should be no trouble at all"? How could anyone deny that warm smile, that disarming sincerity of his gaze? And if they do, they might find themselves quickly swayed by clever arguments, gentle cajoling or some emotional story.Nobody is sure if this is totally the truth or is perhaps an act but he seems to be genuinely jolly and happy to help people and do odd jobs. He stands at around 5'8" tall and possesses almost a willowy look to him rather than the bulk one tends to see among farm communities. This is due to the mixed nature of his life in terms of work as well as having been a sickly child never quite fully gaining a man's build. His face is delicate and almost pretty with almond shaped sky blue eyes framed with long and curled eyelashes. Atop this is long and slightly wavy black hair which has been tied back to keep out of his face. The only other aspect of his appearance which is out of the ordinary are his hands which have long slim and very dexterous hands which when he is engaged in some task with his hands often seem to have a sort of magic about them. Personal God: Alpīrā Power: Arcane Mark (For Personalisation of Carpentry Work) Story: Matthias is a journeyman carpenter who due to the size of Tima does not always have a great amount of work and as such is not the most well off member of the community. As such he is forced to take odd jobs around the village wherever possible which have at times lead Matthias from carving a new table for the village inn to taking a job as a shepherd in the summer. It was while he was out tending the flock that he manifested his power for the first time. As was his usual habit he had taken his carving knives with him and was working on a knee of wood, gradually getting more and more irritated due to the habit of the sheep to wander out of his eyesight. His anger was only compounded when a second flock was brought out to pasture on the same hill as his, leading to him having no way of easily distinguishing between the sheep he was given to watch and the other group. It was with some shock however that when he was inspecting the sheep that he saw a glowing mark appear on each sheep as he ascertained it was one he was meant to be watching. After running to the other shepherds he began to realise that he was the only one who could tell the difference between the sheep. It seemed that the mark was invisible to all of them but himself, pondering this it was that he realised that upon concentration he could add this mark to the piece of wood he had worked upon. This has been his policy with every piece of work since and to him at times working through the village is an arena in which he can see how much of the village he helped to build and his attachment to the village has just grown. Ability Adjustments:+2 Con, -2 Str, -2 Wis Weapon Proficiencies: Quarterstaff

[Numen Wraith]

Good to go. ToF 3/day

Mister Judge Name: Forseti Judge Occupation: Vintner (Wine maker) Age: 30 Skills:Craft, Listen, Spot, Ride, Heal, Survival Feat: Self-Sufficient Description & Personality: Forseti lives on his vineyard well outside of town. His personality is about as dull it gets. He's a grouchy, solitary, and finicky man. Any one you asked would probably tell you that he's at least fifty years old. He is even regarded as 'Old Forseti' by men twice his age, but that is mostly a byproduct of his crotchety ways, advanced baldness, and greying beard. All this is slightly offset by his great physical being, but you'd have to be around him to see that side of him, and few ever are. He rarely entertains guests at his house, and most of the few are there on business. The only way you'd see him in public would be if he were on a reluctant shopping trip or if he were making a delivery, but even that is hard for most people, because he arrives early and is generally headed back to his homestead within moments of the shops opening. If you forced him to sit down and have a drink with you, you'd get just that. The whole thing would be forced. He's not a rude man; he just has little in common with common people. It's not that he doesn't care; he's just not naturally interested. If you happened to guess at something he was interested in, you'd see him light up like a child on Christmas, but most people don't put in that kind of effort, and fine by Forseti. Most people only get as far as trying to discuss his business, which in his mind is none of your business. Personal God: Caublā, for as much as it matters to him. He has an interest in the sun god, but doesn't think it's worth all the trouble he saw that Saunders boy get into a few years ago. Eldevā would seem like the obvious answer for someone dependent on crops for a living, but Forseti finds her 'cyclical nature' too trite and convoluted. He appreciates those gods who are simple like himself and support his living. Power: Touch of Fatigue Story: Normally children inherit homes from their parents when they pass on. Or, the parents bid farewell to their children after the child has married and moved to start their own life. Forseti had both of those experiences under unusual circumstances. His mother and father were never married, to each other anyway. His mother, Elana, was a young maiden in another town, waiting for her debutante ball, and Bal, his father was just a delivery boy, all of sixteen years old and full of... vigor. Now, boys will be boys, and young ladies will be... less ladylike than desired, and this can cause trouble when they're left unsupervised in a cellar while the master of the house is distracted with other business. These two often found themselves in that very situation, and quite by design. Elana was in charge of scheduling the deliveries to the manor, and developed quite the habit of making sure that Whenever Bal was due to bring his barrels, several other packages of various sorts would be arriving upstairs to keep her father busy. As the months rolled on, things developed, and soon Elana began to show signs that while she exceeded in scheming, she was poor at planning. Bal was forbidden to visit the manor and the wine orders ceased, for apparently, there was quite a supply already at the manor. A short time later, it would be Bal who was receiving a delivery. Elana was married off to a minor lord's late born son of little consequence, and Forseti was sent to be raised by Bal and his parents. Bal for his part was a horrible parent. He spent more time in taverns and brothels than he did with his own son, but Forseti's grandmother was a doting woman and tried to spoil the child in any way possible. Grandfather Judge was a stern man and would have none of it. He often remarked about how his grandmother's ways had created the trouble in the first place and set Forseti to work as soon as he could walk. There was no task that was too difficult or dangerous in his grandfather's mind. By ten years of age, Forseti could name any of the six varieties of grapes they grew by a single taste. By twelve, he could do it by smell. By the time he reached sixteen, which had been a troublesome age for his father, Forseti was essentially running the homestead and the winery on his own. His grandfather showed his approval sparingly, but made sure by the time he passed in Forseti's eighteenth winter all the skills and knowledge essential for running the business were in Forseti's hands. Grandmother Judge followed her husband to the grave the following summer. In the spring of Forseti's twentieth year, Bal announced that he had fallen in love with a widow named Helaina, and the two were to be married. Forseti showed interest in meeting the woman and immediately began speaking about preparations to receive her and set her up in the house only to have his father cut him short and explain that he was already packed and leaving the next morning. Asked about the wedding and who would be attending, his father faltered; they planned on having a private affair with no guests. Surely, he explained, his father would let him know where they were living so that he could visit; unfortunately, his father explained, his bride had raised seven of her own children and had no interest in gaining any more. As his father excused himself from the table, Forseti began to smile. He had long feared losing the homestead to his father, who was sure to drive it into ruin. He was glad to hear that the business would be left in his own capable hands. He was elated that his whore-rotted and beer-soaked father would be bound to another woman. He had finally received the inheritance he had earned and there would be a send off for the child that was his father. The next morning, as a cart pulled up to take his father away, Forseti was eagerly piling his father's belongings into the bed and thanked the driver graciously.

[BrianE]

Good to go. Mending 3 times per hour.

Elm Name: Roland Jethro Elm Occupation: Tinker, Inventor Age: 30 Skills and Feat: Knowledge (Architecture and Engineering), Profession (Tinker), Disable Device, Appraise, Decipher Script; Iron Will Description & Personality: Elm has been called a hermit. He's been called hateful. He's been subject to many unkind looks. But none of it is warranted. He simply doesn't leave his home very often. Those few who know him would describe him as overly friendly, but still quite shy. He will say absolutely anything and everything that is on his mind, without taking into account who is listening most time. Elm is rarely ever seen without his stained, old apron on. He is a craftsman. He creates small wonders that usually serve no purpose other than entertainment. Protruding from the pockets of his apron are the many tools required to give the small machinations "life", as Elm would say. His dark hair is cut short, making his already large forehead larger. Spectacles often sit on his nose. They don't actually aid his eyesight, they only act as magnifying glasses for his small creations. He's just a strange man living alone in Tīma. Personal God: Ohā Power: Mending Story: RJ, as he was called when he was younger, never knew his parents. He was two when they died. After their passing, he was put under the care of an Laera June, an old woman who took care of children who would be otherwise homeless. When he was 17, he was the oldest child living with Mrs. J (when they turn 18, she kicks them out). But, there were six other children living in the small house. RJ never went out to play with the rest of the children. He always stayed inside and read books or studied small objects. He always wanted to know how things worked. He was quickly established as the Fixer of Toys of the house. Whenever one of the younger children broke something of theirs, they would take it to RJ. He could fix nearly any toy they gave him within a day. One day, Kel, a boy living at Mrs. J's came to RJ looking distraught. In his hands, he held two halves of a small wooden sword that he particularly liked. To RJ, it looked beyond repair, as he had already patched it up many times. The thing was so worn down, there wasn't much else RJ could do. But, the look on little Kel's face made RJ take the sword from him and promise he would try to fix it up. That night, the pieces of the sword sat sadly on RJ's small workbench. The wood was splintered pretty bad and seemed very much to not want to go back together with simple adhesive. Feeling defeated, RJ grabbed both halves of the sword and pushed them together with all his might. Suddenly, there was a small snapping noise and a spark jumped from the crack in the wood. RJ was stunned. This must be my power. And from that day on, RJ was able to fix anything, even if it was beyond repair by ordinary means. After turning 18, he began apprenticeship with the local tinker. He now lives on his own but still works for the same tinker.

[Tahlon]

Good to go. CMW 3/day.

Name: Kalia Wright
Occupation: Farmer
Age: 16
Skills: Handle Animal; Craft: Seamstress; Healing
Feat: Animal Affinity

 

Kalia is pretty and confident- some might even call her headstrong. While the first trait is welcomed in farmers' daughters, the second often is not, and many townspeople whisper behind her back that she just needs to settle down with a firm man. Each of the village lads have taken a pass at her, but she has sent each of them packing, which is fine with her parents, at the moment, because they need her help around the farm. They are starting to notice that she is of marriageable age, however, which has, if anything, made Kalia a bit more fiery in temperament. Her preference for animals and books over handsome youths has also sent many good-wives' tongues tisking, but she pays them no more mind than need be.

In terms of dress, Kalia's is rather simple. She designs her homespun dresses more for utility than fashion, making sure that her skirts don't impede her movement. She does have a preference for light green dresses, which complement her emerald eyes and light brown hair. Freckles play across her heart-shaped face, but her eyes, brimming with intelligence, outshine all her other features. In terms of build, she is short, about 5' 2", and lithe.

Personal God: Like many of the townspeople, Kalia worships Cūyan, but she often also prays to Silonā, and she avoids disturbing moss whenever she can.
Power: Cure Minor Wounds

 

Kalia is a farmer's daughter, and her life looks much like that of the other farmers' daughters around town. While her father and older brother go off to the fields, she cares for the animals, mends clothes, and helps her mother and younger sister with the cleaning and cooking. She gets up before dawn each day to attend to her chores, but she often keeps the candle burning late as she reads the latest book she could get her hands on.

Kalia's younger sister lacks the ability to read and write- even her brother and parents have only as much skill as is needed to get by- but Kalia gained the ability from her association with the town priest. Given her ability to heal small wounds, her father sent her to the priest to learn a bit more of the healer's art, so that she could better attend to sick and pregnant animals. The gentleman obliged her with some instruction, beginning with lessons in reading and writing, so that she could read his one aging volume on veterinary medicine. She soon read through his tiny library and has since pestered every passing merchant for new books, though her family cannot always afford the expense.

She enjoys taking care of the animals, and they all seem to like her in return. Kalia's favorite animals are the goats, however. One kid in particular has taken to following her around the farm, even scampering into the farmhouse on her heels to trot up to her room. He is still tiny- smaller than the family's tomcat- but his attitude has won him the name "Spunk." Kalia had, of course, delivered the tyke, and his mother's labor had been long and troubled. Both mother and progeny were expected to die, but Kalia managed to save both, breathing life into the fragile newborn goat with her gift. Now she has grown accustomed to his company; she lays in bed and reads to him while he rubs against her leg, or sometimes she plays her small wooden recorder or sings to him.

[Wolesz]

Good to go. ToF 3/day.

Niels Markusson Name: Niels Markusson Occupation: Servant Age: 17 Skills and Feat: Profession(Cook), Profession(House servant), Profession(Stablehand), Profession(Teamster), Move Silently, Intimidate; Hostile Mind Personal God: Ohā Power: Touch of Fatigue Description: Niels is a young lad, quite tall, black-haired and brown-eyed. He is rather handsome and could be said to be agreeable if not for his behaviour, which is full of antipathy. When not at work, Niels engages in the usual unmarried village youth shenanigans: daring each other to pull up a local beauty's skirt, pulling pranks on whoever caught the lads' ire this week, drinking contests and drunken brawls. However, what puts Niels aside is the calm composure with which he does everything, and even if there seems to be no ill intent on his part, there is always an air of malevolence about him, as if even with the most innocent joke he meant gravest harm to its victim. Every insult and every injury seems to have origins in his heart. This attitude gave him little in terms of friends, but also kept him from having enemies. Personality: Niels is smarter than your average house servant, though like most of things about him, he conceals it. While he can be quite talkative, he reluctantly reveals his personal feelings on any subject. Niels has a simple, survival-of-the-fittest approach to life since a neighbour cheated his family out of land. While he is extremely bitter and sullen about this event(his parents died soon after), he rarely shows these feelings. What he shows, however, is his constant cold anger. He himself does not know, whether it is because of the wrongs in his life, or if he is born that way. He is torn between embracing that particular quality of his and denying it. Because of it, most people have a tough time putting up with him, and some even claim they feel physically bad because of his supposed spite. Story: It was certainly a good night for a burglary, and a good place - the household was one of the richest in the town, and one of the few that could afford a servant. Thus, the thief reasonably expected a good capture tonight. He slithered like a shade through the dark corridor, silently searching for spoils. But this shadow had a shadow of its own. Certainly not as deft as the thief, but quiet enough for him not to notice. And cautious enough to stop the moonlight from gleaming on the blade. A dutiful servant would raise alarm upon noticing a thief in the house. A faithful servant would rush to the master's chambers and ensure his safety. An experienced servant would have never let anyone break in in the first place. But Niels just snuck to the kitchen, grabbed the meanest-looking knife, and stabbed the bastard in the back. Repeatedly. Upon the blade's first drawing of blood, the burglar instinctively tried to run, but was stopped by a young arm wrapping itself around his neck. He gasped, and went strangely limp, to his own horror. Meanwhile, Niels stabbed, stabbed, and stabbed with grim and purposeful obstinacy. A final rasped plea for mercy went unheard, and soon the burglar lay stretched on the floor, his blood covering it and Niels' clothes in abundance. The boy smiled, and wiped the bloodied knife in his clothes. Realisation hit him then, and all the confidence crumbled in that instant. The weapon hit the ground with a thud, and the murderer screamed. Niels got commended on that act. While the excess of wounds raised a few eyebrows, everyone praised the lad for his quick reaction and cold blood. Soon the case was all but forgotten - who cares for burglars after all? Except Niels. Lately, he prays to Ohā with much more purpose than ever before. He prays and hopes the Goddess gave his victim a peaceful afterlife. He prays for the innate fury of his to disappear. So that he won't ever need to fear himself again.

[Sofinho]

Good to go. Magehand every d4 rounds.

Myla Name: Myla Ulriksdottir   will the Norse-sounding family name suit the campaign setting? Occupation: vagrant (former farm labourer) Age: 16 Skills: Climb, hide, survival, profession (farm labourer) Power: Mage-hand Description & Personality DESCRIPTION & PERSONALITY: Myla is a scruffy unkempt girl who could easily pass for a much younger boy. Years of irregular eating and malnourishment means she is very thin: she has a habit of devouring food very quickly, as soon as she gets her hands on it. A tangled mop of fair hair frames her scruffy face, her penetrating blue eyes belying an otherworldliness that many of Tīma's residents find unsettling. She wears crudely sewn clothes fashioned from sack cloth and the hide of small rodents she has caught herself, and keeps a small dagger strapped to her ankle, concealed from plain view. Throughout her short life Myla has learned to rely on her wits, first as a farm labourer and more recently as a vagrant. Her intelligence means she is a quick learner, but she's never received a formal education. There were no books in her household when she grew up. Her father has also spared her any kind of religious education. Myla has poor social skills and an almost feral nature, not helped by her present lifestyle (see below). Her only friends are Marek (the youngest of her three older brothers and the only thing keeping her in Tīma) and her pet rat, Kleb. A vagrant, Myla sneaks about town sleeping in barns and old buildings, sometimes beneath the stars. She forages for food in the wilderness, augmenting her diet by stealing from Tīma's better off families. Her new found power of telekinesis has been an excellent help in her efforts to pilfer food undetected. Recent events mean she cannot return to her drunken father's home, but she is loathe to leave Tīma whilst Marek remains at her father's mercy. Deity: Myla has grown up in a godless household and received no further education on the subject, but she does feel a strange affinty for a natural presence in the wilderness which some might speculate to be the work of Caublā... Story   Myla's family have always been held in contempt by the townsfolk of Tīma: her father is regarded as a lazy and indolent man who sends his four children to work for other townsfolk only to fritter their meagre earnings on barley wine. Her and her brothers have even been coerced into acts of petty crime at their father's behest. Ulrik's children are usually the first people to be blamed for any misdemeanor in Tima. Life has always been hard, but recent events have been particularly troubling. Myla noticed her father grow even more aggressive and ill tempered than usual following the poor harvest, but since the moon assumed its eerie red tint the behaviour of her two eldest brothers had grown progressively more peculiar. They would often mutter quietly to themselves, falling silent when they realised that Myla was watching, then fixing her with an unsettling stare. Marek noticed it too, but tried to reassure Myla by saying that everyone had been acting strangely in Tīma of late. One afternoon, Myla and her two eldest brothers were cleaning out the stables of a neighbouring family- a filthy, thankless task- when Ulf, the middle brother, attempted to wrestle her to the ground. Myla was not best pleased: it had been years since her and her brothers last engaged in play-fighting and whilst she managed to fend him off, Ulf was much stronger than she recalled. Ulf was unmoved and began to advance on her with that same unsettling stare that he had been fixing her with of late. Myla turned to run, only to find her path obstructed by her eldest brother, Erik. She fought savagely but was ultimately overcome by the combined strength of her eldest brothers. To her horror, she found that Erik had completely locked in a wrestling hold as Ulf advanced upon her with a pitchfork. She tried to scream but Erik's filthy hand completely covered her mouth. Powerless to move, her eyes darted about the stable, desperately seeking some means by which she might escape her brothers' attempts at sororicide. As Ulf raised the pitchfork above his head, she spied a heavy horseshoe just behind him. If Marek were there, he'd be sure to use that to strike Ulf down. With that thought still crystallizing in her mind's eye, Myla was astonished to witness the horseshoe hurtle through the air and bring Ulf to his knees. Immediately Erik released her, to see to their prone brother. Myla ran as fast as she could, tears steaming down here eyes... Erik's plaintive cries ringing out behind her "Myla! Wait! I don't know what happened!" He did not pursue her: it was as though the bizarre incident had snapped him from trance. Myla did not look back. Marek was not at the family hovel when Myla arrived breathless and terrified, desperate to find him. Her father snored loudly, his face buried in the kitchen tale, as she skulked through their home gathering things about her that she might need. Myla knew something sinister was afoot, and that she had to leave. But she knew she could not leave without Marek. She also knew, somehow, that the horseshoe had been something to do with her, and if she could harness this ability it could help her and Marek escape their old life and the peculiar fate befalling the town of Tīma. That was nearly a month ago. She has tried to persuade Marek to leave, thus far without success: at first he was too. Hiding in the shadows ad harnessing her ability to move objects with her mind, Myla has managed to survive on the fringes of Tīma's society, watching a strange force at play. The last time she saw Marek he was aggressive and short-tempered, a mean spirit had seemingly taken hold of him. Then, three nights ago, a terrible storm came... Myla took shelter in an abandoned barn, clinging to her pet rat, Kleb, terrified to venture out. The other townsfolk seemed to acquiesce. Then, on the third night, Myla was roused from her sleep by the otherworldly howling of a jackal...

Character sheet now updated.

Myla is light and exceptionally agile, but also suffered a poor diet growing up in her pariah family. I made this adjustment: DEX +2; STR -2; CON -2

I've then made a second adjustment of INT +2; CHA -2; WIS -2: Myla is an intelligent- if uneducated- young lady and a high intelligence also gives her the skills she would have developed to survive on the fringes of a rural society. However, her background and lack of concern for personal presentation doesn't make her immediately appealing (CHA -2). I suspect as she grows more comfortable around people this could change. Who knows, there could be a pretty girl under all the mud and dead animals! Or maybe a psychopath. As she's still a teenager I thought it appropriate to knock her wisdom down, too, despite her "street-smarts"...

[Sofinho]

@Tahlon your image of Kalia on the character sheet is exactly as I imagined! Going to be quite a contrast between the two females in the party. This game is going to be great.

[slydogg9692]

Good to go. Ghost sound every d4 rounds.

Character Application Name: Valderyn Tyrion Occupation: Farmhand Age: 19 Skills: Listen, Spot, Handle Animal, Bluff, Diplomacy Feat: Persuasive Description: Valderyn, or Val to those who know him more personally, is a young man who possesses considerable boyish charm. Standing at a below average height of about 5’6” and having a slim, well-developed build at a weight of roughly 130 lbs, he is always mistaken to be much younger than he actually is. Exacerbating this false perception are the soft features of his oval face accentuated by his short, ragged, chocolate hair; bright, gray eyes; smaller than average button nose; and the perpetual look of a slight smile on his lips. His somewhat prominent jaw is a bit of a saving grace in this matter, and his charm is also contrasted by the apparent hardness of his body which came from years of doing manual labor. Personality: At first glance, Val seems like a simple, outgoing person. An aura of innocence and light-heartedness surrounds Val all the time. Generally sociable, he has many people he can call friends, a good majority of which are part of the opposite sex. He is close to no one in particular though, much to the chagrin of his younger female friends. Val is gifted with a silver tongue, and this, combined with his charm, makes him adept at persuading others. He has an easier time convincing women though, and he is completely aware of this, typically taking advantage of it whenever possible. Although supposedly highly extroverted, Val does prefer being alone from time to time. He is a particularly fun loving person, but the way he derives fun is not always coherent with the laws of society. Underneath his bright persona lies something well hidden: a mischievous, and some might say troubled, personality. Seemingly a chronic liar, Val derives pleasure from deceiving others. He oftentimes lies to gain an advantage in something; avoiding apprehension or getting a better reward for example. This is not to say though, that he is a completely selfish individual devoid of any notion of good: he frequently does things considered good by most. Temptation is a constant companion of Val however, and all men have their limits when it comes to their self-control. Personal God: Riā. The goddess of love and beauty had always intrigued Val ever since he had learned of her. Power: Ghost Sound. Ever since he had discovered this power, Val frequently uses it for his pranks. Story: For the farmhand named Val, it seemed like it was one of those typical days when he had a lot of time on his hands; the planting of the crops had just finished last week, and there were no tasks assigned for him that day. At least, he hadn’t been told to do anything yet. It was around noon; the sun was high up in the sky, giving off just the right amount of warmth as it shined unobstructed by the few clouds that were present. Val was on top of a gently rolling hill, lying down on a patch of grass with his legs crossed and his hands behind his back acting as pillows. With a little downward tilt of the head, the fields of the crops he had helped plant the previous week were well within his view. A slight wind blew across the hill, providing a cool, comfortable sensation. It was a good day to rest, but Val had other things in mind; things much more enjoyable than working. He closed his eyes, and imagined this one particular prank he wanted to do to one of his friends. His thoughts were wandering aimlessly: it had started from pranks, then it lead to swords, and finally his train of thought led him to remember that old story his father used to tell him all the time. It was a typical good versus evil story, the one that ended with an epic duel between two knights in full armor. It was one of Val's favorite stories as a child; even now the story hold dear to him. He attempted to envision the battle, and did so successfully, having been doing so since he was a toddler. The scenery was vivid: the war-torn backdrop, the bodies strewn everywhere, and the two well equipped knights battling it all out in the middle of it all. It was a glorious battle, and Val wished he had been there to experience it, whether it was a work of fiction or not. His wish was almost granted real however, as Val heard the distinct sounds of metal clashing with metal accompanied with loud, effortful grunts. The sound had come from behind and it was near. Too near, in fact, that a startled and fearful Val stood up hurriedly and looked behind him to check if it was actually real. There was nothing there, yet the ‘battle’ was still ongoing. A confused Val cautiously looked around the area where the source of the sound was coming; there was no sign of any fight as far as he could see. His fear turned into annoyance, as Val was thinking that he had been tricked, by his so called friends most probably, by magic. “Haha. Very funny guys, now could you please stop it?” Said Val, managing to hide his annoyance, but the clanging was still very much there. Would you please just stop!? Val thought, trying his best to maintain his façade of kindness and innocence. The sounds abruptly ended. Relieved, Val proceeded to lie down again on the same patch of grass when a wild thought struck him: what if he was the one making the sounds? Certainly it could be the manifestation his power, which he though was long overdue. No longer will he be the one of the few left that was powerless among his friends. Taking his chances, he stood up, closed his eyes, and thought hard of the first kind of sound that entered his mind: walking. Sure enough, after exerting much effort, he heard the distinct sound of boots crunching grass as “someone” was walking past him. He opened his eyes, and there was nobody there but him; yet, he could still hear somebody walking away from him. There were no obvious footsteps around him, except those that he had made himself. The sound then trailed away until it became inaudible. Val’s face lit up with excitement. He had finally discovered his power! While rejoicing on this fact, he had a realiation: there were endless uses for this…gift of his. His mouth formed a sly grin, Val having been worked up with anticipation with all the loony antics that he had in mind.

[Baxder]

You don't have a feat on your sheet. Daze 3/day

Character Info Name: Endland Stackik Occupation: Page/Squire (or appropriate equivalent) Age: 19 Skills: Handle Animal, Knowledge (Local/Nobility), Slight of Hand, Hide; Deft Hands Power: Daze Deity: Endland was raised by his harsh father to be a follower of Cuyan, but has rebelled against it. Secretly idolizes the Sfimairā instead. Description and Personality: Endland is of average height, and a little below average weight, though his job is helping toughen him up. He is a very plain-looking boy, with a still soft and innocent face; over-large brown eyes beneath short trimmed brown hair and a quick, meek smile complete that look. Preferring to go un-noticed, this suits him just fine. It's worked for him so far, as he is really a mischievous snoop at heart...okay, maybe a little more than a snoop, if he's honest... Story: The only son of the poorest farmer in Tima, Endland has always been a malcontent. His father's harsh tutelage on the farm and his mother's blithe submission to his...personality turned him against his parents at an early age. He pleased them to avoid his father's abuse, but was merely biding his time. Having been turned away from his father's god as well, Endland became engrossed in the lore of the Sfimairā. These fortune-controlling creatures captured his imagination at the onset of his teen years, and he found himself secretly praying to them, beseeching them to provide him with an opportunity to escape the life he had been born to. Until such prayers were answered, in a town so small, there weren't many outlets for his frustrations he could get away with, so he learned to take them out in secret. At first he only targeted his father. A coin here, a small sack of seed there, things would get "misplaced" by his father just moments after he had set them down, much to Endland's secret satisfaction. Before long, though, he found himself grazing wider pastures like the marketplace, and once even snatching a miniature figurine of a Sfimairā from the temple. It wasn't long after this that he believes the creatures answered his prayers. The day he came of age, at sixteen, a call went out for young volunteers to serve at court as squires to the town's men at arms. His hand was the first to raise before the court official in the market that day, and he has never looked back. Here was a job that got him out of home, obscure enough to avoid real attention, and with enough nominal duties to allow him time to indulge his now nearly compulsive curiosity. At first, Endland actually was committed to his duties, and hoped for a chance at joining the fighting force one day. Before long though, it became clear he would likely never have what it took. He was too thin for starters, and had difficulty lifting many of the troop's accouterments to serve them, let alone wield their heavy weapons. And his lax attitude, developed over years of half-hearted obedience to his father hindered him greatly in competing with his more ambitious peers. He realized in his second year of service that he would never rise above the station of a lowly page. While the staff and soldiery he served never mistreated him, his own disappointment was enough to drive him away from any more hope of bettering his life...legitimately. It was then that he let go with his compulsions, reverting back to half-hearted service and avoidance of others to see how far his quick fingers could take him on the path of rebellion. Fortunately, his attitude went largely un-noticed; a result of his outward disposition and looks combined with his ability to remain just on the upper edge of mediocrity. Those above his performance excelled, those below were disciplined. Unfortunately, his snooping and petty thievery did not. Perhaps as another turn of Sfimairā directed fate, however, his power also developed in this year. He found that when caught committing an off-duty diversion, a simple act of his will could leave his would-be captor confused for just long enough to enable his escape. In a few rare cases, he had even managed to utilize the ability to redirect the person's attention in that moment, ensuring his ongoing presumed innocence. So things have progressed until now. Endland knows his luck will run out soon, even with the Sfimairā on his side. Perhaps this stranger will provide another longed-for opportunity: a chance to leave Tima!

[Lexkat]

Character Sheet Name: Qaella Occupation: Hunter's Apprentice/Scout 1 Age: 16 Skills and Feat: Hide, Move Silently, Survival; Track Description: Young, dirty, and feral. She wears a dirty old wolf skin, with plenty of fleas. Under the wolf head cowl, it's hard to tell what she looks like, due to all the dirt and grime. But her hair looks to be dark brown, and her skin is dark. No one gives her too much of a look over, as she growls at them, but she doesn't look to be very pretty. The only thing anyone says about her nicely, is her brown eyes are very pretty. The older women in the village swear they remind them of Clara, the dead daughter of the Mayor. Personality: Qaella lacks in manners, even for a country girl. She scratches herself everywhere, yes even there, while out in public. She uncouth, unlearned, and generally considered unpleasant to be around. Havric, the village hunter, never made her bathe, and never even tried to teach her basic manners. Luckily, just before the events of the Prologue, the priest took an interest in her and had begun to teach her some. But it is now too little, too late. Personal God: Hmmmm? Wha god? Power: Dancing Lights (at Will) Story:   Qaella is the village hunter's apprentice. Rumors abounded that she was his illegitimate child from the mayor's (or whatever his title is) daughter. Amazingly enough, the rumors are true. The daughter had died during childbirth, and the mayor wanted nothing to do with the child, so he had one of his men leave the newborn in the forest to die. Havric, the hunter, used his skills to follow where the child had been left. He arrived in time to find a she-wolf lifting Qaella by the neck and about to carry her off. With one arrow, Havric killed the wolf, and rescued the child from her fate. He carried her home, and for years kept her hidden from from the village of Tima. He was not a unkind man, but as Qaella grew out of infancy, he began to withdraw his affection, treating her more like a servant than a daughter, or even a son. He never told her his name, nor gave her one. When she was seven, Havric secretted her into the forest, and for the next six years began to teach her the ways of the wild. During this time, he built a small shelter to keep her safe from most animals, a determined bear could break through, but the wolves would leave her be. After the shelter was built, he began to teach her how to survive on her own. How to track, how to shoot a bow, how to skin the animals she killed, and how to cook them. He taught her which herbs and berries were good to eat, and which were poisonous. After about two weeks of this, he left her during the night and returned to his home. When he returned the next day, he found her awake, frightened, and shivering in her wolfskin against the wall. When she saw him, she jumped up and ran to him, crying with relief that he hadn't abandoned her. But before she reached him, he slapped her hard across the face. "You need to toughen up, if you are to survive these next few years." She just stood there, shocked at the sudden abuse. "Now get dressed. We're going hunting." And he stepped back out. As the time went by, Havric left her alone for longer periods, eventually not returning at all. She'd find him hunting game, but he never acknowledge her presence. Finally, fed up with being alone, Qaella tracked Havric back to the village as he returned home during the night. She watched from the shadows as he entered his house. She waited for a moment, watching the candle light begin to glow, and then a brighter fire come to life. Qaella crept to the door, and when she tried to pull it open, she was confused as to why it wouldn't open. She tried to push, and still nothing. Then she heard footsteps approaching. Suddenly fearful of what he'd do, she fled and watched again from the shadows as he opened the door with ease. After he closed it, Qaella searched the house, and found a one horse stable. Tired from her long day, she curled up in the hay, and fell asleep. As to not write a novel (unless you want me to ), Havric took her in, convinced her she had never truly met him before, announced to the village that he was taking the poor girl in to teach her civility after she'd obviously been raised by wolves or somesuch. When asked what her name was, Havric shrugged unknowingly. It was one of the tavern wenches that suggested the name Qaella. Though know one was sure why.   Qaella peaks open one eye and looks around when she hears the Jackal howl in her head. When she sees no immediate threat, she raises her head and looks out from the bed of hay she now called home. She has a look of confusion as she takes in the wonder before her. It cannot day already, can it? She crawls out toward the rain and cautiously raises a hand to catch some in her cupped hand. She sniffs at the water, then lets it fall from her hand. Hearing Havric’s door open, Qaella runs out to greet him, but stops at the corner when she sees the whole village up in arms, and heading toward the church. She holds her arm up to shade her eyes from the blinding light. It looked as if the whole village, including Havric, was heading there, and they were all armed. Not understanding what was going on, Qaella ran back to the horse stall and dug out her short bow. She then runs to catch up with Havric, following silently just behind him, and watching the other villagers warily. Then the priest appeared from the church door. He’d been kinder to her than most. He’d even begun to teach her to read words. So imagine her distress when he began to howl. She steps back, even as others step forward. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. She could sense it. Like the prey senses to hunter. Was she prey now? If so, who was the hunter? She watches as those closest to the church begin trying to break it down. Qaella must have missed when the priest went back inside, because she couldn’t see him anymore. She covers her ears as the piercing whistle sounds, and as she’s blinded by the bright red light, she turns away from the church, and begins to run from it, dropping her bow. She had to get away. When she finally came to her senses, she looked back at the scary villagers. What had happened to them? What was happening? Fear still gripped her heart, and she ran to Havric’s house again. She’d be safe there. As she shut the door behind her, she could hear the otherworldly chatting from outside. She stepped into the room, looking for a place to hide, when the door behind her opened violently, throwing her forward over the table. Qaella quickly turned over to find Havric bearing down on her, evil intent burning in his eyes. He was chanting along with the voice outside, starring at her with hatred. He lunged at her, reaching for her neck. She braced herself on the table, letting her legs be pushed against her chest, then shoved as hard as she could. Havric stubled back, almost collapsing. The table didn't have the same luck. The force of her shove, plus their weight atop it was too much for the poor thing, and it crashed to the ground, taking her breath away for a moment. And a moment was all Havric needed to regain his balance, and come after her again. Qaella rolled over and tried to run, but Havric grabbed her leg. She rolled back over and kicked at his face. When he let go, she stood up and ran for the door, putting her miniscule weight into shoving him aside. She didn't run far, before she had to stop and catch her breath, her chest felt as if it was on fire, and there was a sharp pain in her arm. Hearing footsteps behind her, she decided she'd had a long enough break, and continued to run. But again her run was stopped short, this time because she realized where she'd run to. Back toward the church. Qaella turned to run to the one place she'd always been safe. Away from the strange and scary world of the village, back to nature. As she turned, something got tangled in her legs, and she fell face first to the ground. Angered, she reached down to pull the offensive object away from her feet, and found her bow. Lucky! She clutched it to her, and once again ran. As she exited the village, she saw others running ahead of her. Feeling a connection to them, but not knowing why, she tried to call out. But she didn't know how to yell for help, stop, wait. She she screamed. Loudly, and waving her one good arm in the air. She thought one of them looked back, but none of them stopped. So she followed, hoping to catch up with them instead.

[Krazy]

Vetnes Paths Theme of Vetnes What happened before--   How long has it been since we left Tima? --but no, that's not right, I just left Tima-- --that wasn't Tima-- . . . let me start over again.   It all started the night of the full moon. A man rode into town; occupied the church. It was that day that Matthias said, "We're going on a hunt." Matthias. Sir Matthias. My master. I... well, I'll get to that, give me time. It wasn't time for a hunt. I had thought for sure he still wanted to wait for the blacksmith to finish work on his new sword before we did much work on anything, but then just like that, it was time to go. At the time, I felt a cold rush through my blood. If Sir Matthias was afraid of this business in the church. . . then what hope did I have? Now I'm not so sure it was fear at all. Now I almost wonder, well you see Matthias had always been a very susceptible man, very attuned to the weather. He knew things were going to be bad well before they actually were bad. That's why he said he was bracing me--he needed me to be ready. Ready to fight the darkness. "So you worship Eldevā?" I asked him once. I'm getting off track now but this will help explain. He said yes--he worshiped Eldevā because he believed every sun must set, every day must lead to the dusk, and that the moon watches always. But I did not understand why he would think in such a way--"I think I believe in Parpunā," I said, "really, isn't the only god that matters the one that can change the world?" "What does Parpunā matter if Ohā does not raise the sun into the sky?" he asked. "You know nothing," he said then, and perhaps he was right. I'm sorry--what I'm trying to say is that Matthias was a good man, a godly man, and he was well attuned to what was going on. He was also a temperamental man. I wonder, when we left that day and said we were going into the forest, if he wanted to serve Eldevā by hunting a bear, or whether or not he wanted to see blood. For we did see blood. Hanging from the trees; the bear we went to hunt. I do not know exactly what happened to it. But--something terrible happened to it, that's all that matters. Or maybe the bear doesn't matter. I don't know anymore. I don't know what happened to Matthias then. I don't know what he saw in the remains of the bear, hanging from the tree. "It is too late," he said. "It is all pointless now." He turned then. He had been my mentor, the stone I leaned on, for longer than I could remember. And he drew his sword on me. "It is better this way," he said. "Anything else would be cruel." "I don't understand," I said. "You know nothing, Vetnes," he said for the final time. I grabbed his shield--this shield--and I blocked his first swing. This made him mad. "Stop fighting it," he said. "You will just make things worse. The end comes." I blocked his second swing, as well. "If you are going to fight me, then fight me." I was the blacksmith's third son. A blacksmith does not need three sons. But I had grown up with a hammer, and I still had a hammer with me--one I made myself, at my father's forge, before he sent me to learn about the gods from Matthias. My blood boiling, I finally did swing at Matthias. "You're going to have to swing a lot harder than that. Faster, boy!" His sword slammed against my shield and I stumbled back, my shoulder slamming against a tree. I was panting now--he was staring at me, and that look in his eye-- I swung. I don't know why. But he just stopped right then. I thought he would duck back, I thought he would swerve away like he'd done a hundred times before. But my hammer. . . but Matthias. . . I didn't know what to do after it was over. I had to go back to town--they would understand right? Of course. . . when I got back to town, I saw what was happening to you. I didn't know what to do, why was everyone acting so crazy? What was going on? I've been out here all night, you see. I. . . I wanted to come in, and talk to you, but I just. . . I just don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore. What has happened to us all? Skills and Feats   Skills Concentration -- As part of his training, Matthias would duel him while demanding he recite the tenants of Parpunā. Craft -- While he was still living with his father, Matthias picked up many of the fundamentals of blacksmithing. Heal -- Matthias often won their practice duels; and in turn, he taught Vetnas how to tend to his injuries. Sense Motive -- Matthias was often hard to read; Vetnas spent years trying to understand how his mind worked and how to anticipate what he was thinking. Literacy -- Matthias insisted Vetnes learn to read the holy books of his faith. Level 1 Feat: Weapon Focus -- Vetnas grew up with his warhammer, and he is more familiar with it than with anything else. Human Feat: Power Attack -- Vetnas did not have many opponents to practice against, so he focused more on strength in his attacks than anything else. Light -- 3/hour   Vetnas has always believed that the light he has been able to create was a sign of his calling in life (the route of the religious defender)

[Feldring]

Name: Wil Parnock

Age: 19

Occupation / Class: Farmhand / Fighter

Background: Wil Parnock was about 12-years-old when his father, Brand Parnock, was found face down in Beldam Rill, a swift-flowing brook deep in the forest that runs out of the nearby woods and eventually widens into the village mill’s creek (it is usually just called the Millwater or Millcrick at that point, however, and fewer bother with the old name each year). As Brand was a reliable man and wasn’t known to go wandering in the woods, his death has remained a mystery. Wil’s mother Linny was unable to provide for her brood of children on her own even in a time of plenty, so she placed the oldest two where she could (Wil has a sister working in an apothecary’s shop one town over) and took her three younger children to live with her brother off in the mountains.

“You mind Master Redham now, Wil. He’s doing you a good turn. Work hard at what he tells you to do, and don’t ever make a fuss.”

With these words, spoken through tears, Linny Parnock left her son Wil in the care of Larner Redham and his wife Ella, ostensibly as an apprentice to the respected horseman and farmer; as it turned out, though, the boy was a convulsive, and the combination of his fits with his meager grasp of even the simplest household task proved such an unwelcome burden to his exasperated guardians that they could give him no job more difficult than mucking out stables for the first two or three years he was with them, at which point he understood enough of farm work and following directions to earn his keep as a stablehand (and to avoid being whipped).

Gangling and shy as a boy, Wil worked hard to please the Redhams and earn his place in their home, although he is well aware that he was thought of as an idiot by the village at large for most of his life. Even now that he is about 19 years of age and has grown out of the worst of his awkwardness into a warm-hearted and physically powerful young man, a few of his peers throw rocks when he isn’t looking or otherwise delight in playing tricks on the simple farmhand. Nevertheless, Wil has rarely experienced outright cruelty and holds no grudges.

Wil is most at ease among animals or young children; indeed, he is oddly beloved by the babes of Tima with whom he grins and laughs most foolishly, singing in his surprisingly clear tenor or carrying them about on his broad shoulders. Apart from his infrequent time spent with children or his work with the Redhams’ animals, Wil spends as much time as he can in the local church (as a boy he assisted the priest with sexton duties and helped keep the small temple clean); he also finds special solace in the woods and valleys surrounding the little village, although it is a simple love of trees and green growing things rather than any sort of religious understanding that motivates him.

Though otherwise healthy and physically capable, innumerable falls from innumerable fits have given the already plain-featured youth an almost brutish visage, covered as he is with scars and lumps (a split lip is his latest badge of shame, a quirk of the mouth that hasn’t healed right and reveals his long, crooked teeth). His smile is quick and genuine, however, crooked teeth and all. His sandy hair is shorn to a bristly shortness, further emphasizing the hard irregularity of his skull, and he is clean shaven (as Larner Redham requires all his farmhands to go without beards, hoping to foster an air of respectability among his people). Wil’s eyes are deep set and light gray in color, with the curious faraway glint to them common to epileptics.

Wil’s gift developed quite early in life – his infant brothers and sisters were found to stop crying if he hugged them, and as he grew he was able to disperse even headaches or the darkest gloom simply by laughing or kissing his family members. His touch can calm spooked horses enough to lead them to safety (a blessing during the last three days of weird weather), although they are not immune to further fright for very long.


The Storm Breaks (Story):

“Horses up tight,” said Larner Redham to his farmhand Samir, “you make sure of it. You and Wil.”

“Yes, sir.”

Master Redham was a man spare in speech and decisive in deed, but this was the third time tonight he had reminded his workmen to lock the stables. The entire household was on edge. Wil felt it keenly, a disquiet that radiated from each person and mingled with the frost of their breaths.

“Damn foolishness, this close to midnight. Horses aren’t going anywhere. Damn foolishness.” Samir’s grumbles competed with the nearly constant peals of thunder as the two youths shouldered their way through the wind and rain of the storm to the barn. The ground was cold and hard underfoot, and Wil found himself wondering about the weirdly unseasonable weather. Like a story, it is, he thought. I hope it snows.

“Samir?” asked Wil over the howling wind. “Hey, Sam. What if the rain turns into snow?”

By the time they got to the barn, he was in full grin at the idea of building a scarecrow out of snow at this time of year. Samir, short and strong and usually full of goofy good cheer, did not seem to be in the mood for Wil’s ruminations, however, as he struggled with the enormous padlock and chain on the door.

“Gods, Wil, leave off your idiot questions and help me with the lock: it’s stuck.”

Wil bent to the key, turning it as gently as he could. It wouldn’t even come back out, the lock was so cold and wet.

“It’s stuck, Sam.”

“Which I just told you that, dumb arse.”

Samir beat his arms and shivered. He jerked his head back toward the house. “Come on, nothing’s getting in or out. It was damn foolishness to come out here at this hour.”

Wil hesitated. “But the key…”

A particularly loud clap of thunder jolted their senses and shook the sturdy walls of the barn. One of the mares inside whinnied loudly in fright. Misty, thought Wil. Poor girl.

“Look, mate,” said Samir, stomping his boots on the ground to keep warm, “you can diddle the lock all night if you want to. You know I’m no shirk, but this is the third time tonight we been out here, and unless that bogeyman with the strange clothes has snuck into our barn – I’m kidding, Wil – then there’s nothing going on right now other than this accursed weather.”

As if to punctuate his words, the wind picked up its pace like a yearling given its head in a run on the first day of Vaivannā. A water trough at the corner of the barn screeched against its metal braces, rattling in place as if it would go flying off into the night at any second. Samir turned to go.

“Wait, Samir! Let’s check on the horses first. Don’t go home without me.”

The stocky figure of Samir said nothing but trudged all the way back to the main house, shoulders hunched against the pelting rain. Wil watched him until he disappeared inside, then turned back to the padlock. It was beginning to rust, as was the chain it was securing on the door, though it was newly made just before harvest. Strange. He stared at it for a time, mindful of the rain lashing his back and the wind whispering lurid secrets in his ears. It really sounds like someone talking to me. I wish they’d tell me how to get inside the barn. Wil shook his head, running a hand over his bristly scalp. Da would know.

Wil heard a loud knocking sound from inside, accompanied by more whinnying. They’re scared. Me too, a little. Wil found a muddy crowbar under a tub behind the barn and used it to smash the lock. It was satisfying to stretch out his strength for a good task like this, although he felt bad for the lock: it was now quite useless, his blow landing true right where the shackle hooked through the chain links, and the lock lay in two pieces on the ground.

Once inside, Will secured the doors against the wind with a mighty effort, hooking the crowbar through the handles. “All right, horses,” he called gently in his surprisingly clear tenor. “Nothing will hurt you. It’s just your Wil.” Even though the air inside was chill, it was still. The homey smells of hay and horseflesh warmed his imagination such that he “saw” the scents like colors, as if a small cheery fire was crackling away just outside his line of sight and its rosy glow was dancing around the edges of his vision. He smiled in the dark. “Good lads, there. Good horses.”

He took his time walking down the single aisle of box stalls, peering at each occupant and speaking quiet words of comfort. Misty and Meadowbock (a capering, foolish gelding; “You were the naughty one knocking against your stall, weren’t you?” he asked the gelding, laughing a little) each had their heads straining for a touch, so he patted them and whispered kindly nonsense until they whickered and withdrew.

The rain wasn’t letting up. The wind slackened a little from its earlier shrill pitch, though it still howled eerily around the gaps, rattling the door and moaning like a madman. Wil shivered and yawned.

“I can’t leave without I leave the door unlocked also,” he said to himself. “Right. I’ll miss my bed, but these poor beasts sleep without blankets all the time. Stay with them it is, then. Wil will take care of things.”

Decision made, Wil made himself a bed of clean straw and sung himself a silly song to keep away the chill that threatened heart as well as limbs. “Straw for strawberries, how very strange! Merry me, berry bee, the straw-sleeping man.”

His own red and gold words floated in his mind as he drifted to sleep, heedless of pelting rain and hungry wind.

* * *

Wil was in the woods in full day. Sunlight dappled the path he walked, and his eyes were dazzled with the greens and yellows of the lush branches that pressed in on every side.

”Da? Where are we going, Da?”

The young boy follows his father, watching his strong back as the man toils up the path that is suddenly heading uphill. His father is clad in a vest and a broad hat, but Wil cannot see his face.

“Da?”

The boy tries to remember his father’s face, picturing the strong chin and…

The man stops but does not turn around. Sunlight scatters all around them, nearly blinding; one of the branches pokes the child in his side.

I remember now, Da, Wil thinks in his own voice slurred with sleep, no longer the bright chirp of a child. You died in the rill. So pale, your face. Oh, Da.

He tries to reach out in his dream with his slender boy’s arms to touch his father, but he cannot move. Brand Parnock begins walking once more, disappearing up the path with surprising speed. A wind shakes the branches and leaves dance and crowd all around, blocking the departing figure from view. Wil is rooted to the spot. Da…

Wil surged out of sleep like a fish reeled in on a line. Something was wrong. He listened, stock still on his pile of hay. He heard nothing but the rain for a moment, but the silence had a thick presence to it: a heavy anticipation. He strained his ears.

Something screamed in the night, a wild wailing that wasn’t the storm. It made his flesh feel cold and crawly. Wil stood up in the dark, feeling for the wall and suppressing a shudder. He heard the ghastly scream again, this time much closer. A jackal here for the harvest, he thought a bit crazily, his mind still sleep-fogged. You’re late, brother. Who sent you?

The horses nickered quietly and he felt their fear even as his own began slowly melting away. “All right now, my beauties; it’s all right.” Wil continued to soothe them as he groped for the door. Why didn’t we bring torches? I’m such a dummy. The doors shivered in place, threatening to fly open. Light glowed from the cracks. Wil couldn’t find the crowbar he had left in the handles as a makeshift lock, so pushed open one side and peered into the night.

Rain puddled all in front of the barn, the ground still being too cold for it to do anything but run off. There was something queer about its color but it was too dark to say exactly what. Wil crept out and gazed across the Redham property. He could see candlelight in the farmhouse, but stranger by far was the light coming from the village proper. It wasn’t the light of torches, although now he could see men moving about down the nearby road, some of them with lit brands of fire, but something else entirely. The clouds reflected this eerie cold light, but Wil was too far away to see exactly what was happening.

Deciding to check in with his master, Wil left the barn as secure as he could by loosely looping the chain around the inside handles and tying it off before trotting through the rain to the house. At least this way the doors won’t fly all the way open. Jackals don’t eat horses, I don’t think.

END OF PART ONE