Applications Go Here

[Ziether]

Please post your application below. If you have already applied in the recruitment thread, either copy/paste the entire application into this thread, or simply provide a link to the application. I will put a table in this post to organize everything.

Please do not post anything other than applications or links to applications in this thread. The OOC thread and the Recruitment Thread are both available for questions, comments, or anything else you need to say.

Please use the following format, or a close variation on it. If you wish to deviate from these, just make sure that everything I ask for is in there somewhere. Format is important. Please put a full line break between paragraphs. Please BOLD the title of each section. You may choose to use FIELDSETS or not. I like them, but I don't require them.

Application Requirements Name: Self-Explanatory Race: if you're designing it, work with me Class: If you have questions about Gestalt, as it isn't OFFICIALLY supported, ask. Age Category: Please at least be Adult. Take stat changes due to age category into account Alignment: don't tell me. Pictures/Music: please leave them out of the application. If you must, you may use them in the Game Thread if accepted. Description: don't go overboard Personality: again, be descriptive, but not crazy Background: here's your chance to wow me. RP Sample: no more than 1000 words Anything Else?: if you feel the application needs more, put it here.

[Majestic Pyre]

Here's my App:

Name: Kerzumal Silver-Ring
Race: Gripplis Wight
Class: Monk Archetypes, Ki Mystic and Weapon Adept (Nunchuku) Mystical Nunchuku Adept 10 / Rogue Archetypes, Rake and ScoutRakish Scout 10
Age Category: Undead, died at 17. (I.e Adulthood for a Gripplis.)

Description Kerzumal scale hide is bleached with his twenty-some years of undeath. He has many scars where he has been injured during his fights, both before and after his undeath. Standing just above 2 foot, Kerzumal weighs 29 pounds and his desiccated flesh is stretched taut over his stone-cold arms. His eyes shine with blood. To the untrained eye, he appears unarmed, but anyone who has seen death knows differently. From his waist, a long skinny pouch serves as a holster for several wands. His clothing is dyed dark, and is wrapped tightly around him to avoid rustling. Around his neck an amulet faintly pulses sanguine from time to time. And on his finger rests a silver ring inset with a fist.

Personality Kerz has become something of a free spirit, but he, like almost all of his brethren, considers himself the lucky recipient of a second chance. He is determined to pay it forward in any way he can. The most powerful force on his actions now is the Penance of Duty. If he is presented with an opportunity to do good, Kerzumal has a very difficult time passing it up. He often hates this compulsion, but considers it a necessary evil. Without the Penance of Duty, Kerzumal would never have understood true fulfillment. However, his life isn't sunshine and roses. He knows that he is an abomination; and the constant hunger can leave him moody and angry at times. Kerz tries to make his life his own in many ways, some not necessarily sanctioned by the order. Many older members of the Order consider Kerz a bit of a loose cannon. Ready to maul first, and ask questions later. They can only trust that the magic of his curse will keep him from straying to far from the fold.

Background   Gripplis Past Kerzumal grew up as plain and boring a Gripplis as ever hunted in a swamp. He fished and farmed mushrooms in his father's and grandfather's marshfield, just like his family had for generations. But this somewhat idyllic life wasn't fated to be. Kerz's swamp village was situated in close proximity to a road. Previously abandoned, it seemed to blossom with travelers over night. With a month, trade had flourished down this newly discovered highway. The Gripplis learned that a gnomish settlement had been started several leagues along the road, in order to mine a newly discovered deposit of gold and silver. The Gripplis boss wasn't stupid, he knew when life had handed him a treasure. He organized raiding parties, conscripting all the males in the village. They were put into bands, and set to waylaying small groups of travelers. Previously unknown, the swamp swiftly garnered a reputation for impish devils. Stories in the surroundings soon spoke of small spiked imps attacking merchants and wayfarers. Kerzumal's group thought they had gotten lucky. After two days of no fresh prey, they found a lone wanderer coming down the road. His name was William, and William was a dwarf Wight. Sent by the local chapter of the Silver Rings, he had been tasked to stop the bandits attacking travelers along the road. The Gripplis never saw it coming. One Gripplis, however, distinguished himself. Managing to sneak up on the dwarf, Kerzumal leapt and tried to plant his dagger in his back. The dagger bit flesh, but William didn't even slow. He spun around and grabbed the little lizard. Lifting him to look him in the eye, the Wight smiled. Darkness decended on Kerzumal. Eternal darkness.   Wight Past The first thing that Kerzumal remembers as a Wight is the hunger. It came upon him like a flood, like a high. A desperate need to draw breath and to fill his lungs with blood. Wights are compelled to kill and dominate, and Kerzumal was no exception. As he awoke from death, after the hunger filled him, Kerzumal looked around. In the corner of his eye, he saw someone. A person, pale as the night, but who shone like the sun. The dwarf, the Wight, said his name was William, and that he had created Kerzumal. William knelt down, looked Kerzumal in the eye, and said: I love you, my son. You must forget your last name. You are a Silver Ring now.The power of that command racked Kerzumal with pain. A searing fire tore through his mind, burning through every page of his childhood memory. In an instant, he was only Kerzumal, his last name was gone. Then William took a ring out of his pocket, and asked Kerzumal to put it on. He was so excited, elated at the prospect of making William happy. He put the silver ring on his finger. The change was slow this time, subtle. The hunger stayed, but it changed. It smoothly turned. The desire to dominate changed into a thirst for righteous satisfaction. William said it was called the Penance of Duty. It's something all Silver Rings feel. It's what drives them to help, to save people. The only way to satisfy the Penance of Duty is to do good deeds, to know the gratitude of people in need. They don't experience hunger or thirst, instead the Wights of the Silver Ring are driven by the compulsion to do good. The Penance of Duty was Aenglier's answer to the compulsion for destruction in the heart of all Wights. William led Kerzumal back to the his Monastery. Members of the Silver Ring are devoted to their pupils, especially those stationed permanently at monasteries. They make sure that the new members are equipped to fight evil and to fulfill the need to help people. William took Kerzumal under his wing, teaching him how to live life as a martial artist and fist of Justice. Kerzumal took to this life like a fish in water. He loved the morning training, the communal atmosphere. Dwelling on his past life only filled him with shame, and made the Penance of Duty stronger. Soon he learned to live quietly, peacefully, and to take joy in the simple services he could do for his fellow Wights. He began to believe in the Silver Ring's justice, to believe that the innocent needed champions. Kerzumal grew quickly to love the quiet devotion inherent in life as a Silver Ring. Within a few months though, this wasn't enough. The Penance of Duty became too strong to be sated by simple acts of kindness. Kerzumal decided that he had to go and act, that he was meant to be a member, not of the Army of the Servitors, but of the Pilgrim Society. It was time that he went out into the world to do some real good. That was 20 years ago. The impish little Gripplis of today goes by the name Kerz, and he is death to any bully or villain he meets. When he heard the call to arms against this upstart God... he couldn't resist.   Adventuring Kerz has grown up a lot since his turning. He's delved into countless dungeons, sometimes with a party, but not always. He has had to endure a ravenous hunger, the thirst for souls. And he has conquered that hunger time and time again. When he began his travels, he was innocent. He helped wherever he saw the need, or indeed, the opportunity. But he has been taken advantage of. Once, knowing his compulsion to do good and help the needy, a town begged for his protection. He could not resist. In the end, enemies stronger than he could surmount attacked, drawn by his presence. As the town burned around his slimy ears, Kerz could only shake his head. And that was only the first settlement he failed. Kerz became dishearted. He began attacking strongholds of relatively peaceful evil creatures. Gnolls minding their own business. A cadre of goblin necromancers, who were building up their armies... but not actually killing anyone yet. Kerz found that he very much liked pre-emptive justice. Leaving his past behind him, Kerz moved primarily in the night. He would scale a city wall, instead of announcing himself. He'd haunt the rooftops, waiting and watching. He found himself gaining more than simple passing familiarity with the dark, and began to crave the solitude. Eventually he found he preferred the darkness to the light. During his years abroad Kerz began to make quite a name for himself. Specializing in the living capture of his enemies, his services as a bounty hunter were ever in demand. Whether it was chasing down a criminal or retrieving a foolish runaway child, Kerzumal developed a reputation for efficiency. After almost 12 years on his own, he returned home. From there he sought direction, and left almost immediately. He was given a quest. He would seek out the grave of Aenglier, and once found, meditate there until he recieved enlightenment. The journey itself was arduous, detoured as Kerz was by every passing need that presented itself. But he was in no rush. He was on a quest of soul. It is assumed, amongst Silver Rings today, that Kerzumal was successful in his quest. He certainly returned to his home monastery as a changed Gripplis. No longer morose, or somber, now he was determined. He would wield the darkness against evil. And no might, moral or otherwise, would stop his pursuit of righteousness. Sometimes, it is is whispered amongst the undead hosts of the Silver Ring, that Kerzumal slew a foul monster that had perverted Aenglier's tomb. Some say it was a Beholder, others say it was a demon. Still other say that when he returned, a single smoking dragon tooth necklace was looped around Kerz's neck. A final, darker rumor suggests that Kerz slew no beast, but that Aenglier himself rose from his grave to possess the miniature champion. They say his shade even now compels the Gripplis to seek out evil, and cut it down to the last man, skeleton or orc. But these are all rumors, and no one but Kerz knows for sure. What is sure, is that amongst the Silver Rings, there is no more ruthless, stone cold killer than little Kerzumal. When the call for a champion came, the Three were in agreement of who amongst their number to send.

Role-Play Sample When Lothi finally stopped running his lungs felt thoroughly ravaged, but the smells of a city being put to the torch were still all around him. Ducking into an alleyway, he watched as a pair of soldiers dragged an obviously screaming girl out a door directly in his way. Her blonde hair fell bunched and matted, sticky with blood. Voice quavering, Lothi stood his ground. He was hardly defenseless. Put her down! He stuttered it as best he could. He'd never really mastered speech. Snickering, the soldiers looked at her, and they let go. Her head hit the pavement with a dull force Lothi felt through the soles of his feet. The one on the right drew his sword. He was saying something, but Lothi didn't even try to understand. He understood the man's posture just fine. Gripping the rod in his right hand, Lothi knew that his eyes were blazing. They always became more intense, when he cast one of his stilled spells. The soldier with his weapon drawn wheeled about. His eyes glazed, he swung his blade at his former comrade. Bewildered, the man threw up his arms, taking the slash across them. He squealed in pain. Panicked, the attacking soldier dropped to his kneels, attempting to staunch the bleeding. Feeling sudden pressure, he turned his head. Lothi rested a hand on the soldier's shoulder. He completed his spell, and the soldier felt a change come over him. He didn't feel well. In fact, he could feel something, vital, fleeing his body. Abruptly, he vomited. Then he fell face down in the street. Lothi watched the soldier crumple. The bastard would regret his attempt at crime, that curse would be damn hard to shake, with their crusade against magic. Lothi checked the other soldier. He was already unconscious from blood loss. He'd be dead in minutes. Turning to the girl, Lothi placed his hand on her as well, but the effects were all together different. Color immediately began returning to her breathless features. He read her lips, as she awoke. What happened? Who are you? He would have preferred to go it alone, but he needed the cover. Gnomes weren't native here. He'd stand out as magical, and be killed, if he wasn't careful. I saved your life... but now I need your help. Will you help me? Her hesitance was palpable, she didn't want to commit to anything. Lothi brushed the hair from her face, using the movement to disguise his charm spell. Suddenly confused, she nodded. You will pretend to be my mother, I'll be your son. We're getting out of here. As he helped her to her feet, he winked. I'll protect you... Mom.

 

Signature Weapon Sanguine Sleep Sanguine sleep is a small Adamantine Merciful Nunchuku with an enhancement bonus of +3. Gifted to Kerzumal by William, his progenitor, these weapons are particularly useful for adventurers. The metal is durable and strong... able to sheer through lesser weapons easily. Adamantine weapons are significantly denser than regular weaponry, and extremely valuable. Thus, they tend to become life-long companions to their wielders. William's progenitor gifted him with one, and William still has his. When he saw Kerz's budding skill with the nunchuku, he had one commissioned for the gripplis. When Kerz decided to leave the monastery, and begin his roaming, William gifted it to him, and suggested he magically upgrade it if he was given the opportunity. Kerz has done so, more than once, as he has grown in strength. Now the weapon is a rival to all but the totems of the long-destroyed gods.

Wight Racial Trait Undead Solemnity (Wight) The unlimited time available to you, as a reformed undead, helps calm your natural inclinations. Wisdom is often easier to achieve with time. Benefit: You may take levels in monk even while maintaining a chaotic good alignment.

The Silver Rings The Silver Rings are a philanthropic and martial organization that has been around for hundreds of years. It was initially started by a disillusioned elven monk, Aenglier Thruum, who was tired of bandits ravaging the countryside in his area. During his early life, he was a monk devoted to charity and love. He believed that if enough hope was sown, then it would spread... and change the world. Aenglier was a master at fighting undead, and Wights were his favored enemy. However, he changed after his daughter's husband was mugged and killed while making a delivery between villages, and she subsequently committed suicide. Aenglier locked himself away. He announced to his monastery, after several months of isolation, that he was converting. Simple charity was not a practical means of changing a world so far gone. It was time to fight fire with fire; to take the fight to the evil doer. Aenglir had been given a vision. Hidden away in his monastery, he spent several years mastering the profession of magical crafting, until finally his vision was within his reach. The first batch of Silver Rings numbered three, and were engraved with a symbol that has become iconic for unmerciful righteousness, a right-hand gauntlet held upright in a fist. These rings were powerfully enchanted to reverse alignment, a sick trick that had been used on cursed armor for a millennia; but Aenglier had thought of a new use for it. Once the rings were ready, he left his monastery and began the longest journey of his life. He would return many years later, silent about his adventures; and start a mysterious monastery manned by strange robed figures that seemed active both day and night. There were only three of them at first. They were the first Silver Rings, and they were Wights. Aenglier, during his time in the wilderness, had hunted down three Wights, subdued them, and forced the rings onto their fingers. His grand design was coming into fruition. Aenglier had realized that the best fighting force, the best opportunity the world had, was one that was passing them by. Wights were strong creatures that needn't rest nor eat, and they could spend an eternity hunting evil. Aenglier would go on to teach each of these three initial pupils the secrets to crafting the rings that he had forged. But above all, he taught them to spare evil no mercy. It is only by their power that the world might be shifted onto a better course. The Three, even today, enchant each new Silver Ring to utterly reverse the urges of unlife. The hunger inside every Silver Ring to do good and protect the innocent incontrovertibly aligns the Wights with Justice. In time, each of the three first disciples would go out to hunt evildoers, that they might be converted first into Wights, and then made to wear the ring of Justice. In this way the Silver Rings slowly grew. After some time, Aenglier died. It's been hundreds of years since this all happened. In that time, the Silver Rings have survived by keeping their organizations small, although now there are Silver Ring monasteries in every country and nation. The organization is still lead by the three wights initially subdued and ringed by Aenglier. Their names are Buren, Stre 'Ail and Graveel. It is said that they have been known to show up, on occasion, to combat injustice in person. You do not want to mess with one of these Ancient Wights. Silver Ring Wights are generally former members of the evil-aligned races, often were criminals of some type before their rebirth. This is also why there are members of every race amongst the Silver Rings. Every nation has it's ambassador's of undeath. Once the wight is initially turned, he or she is commanded by his creator to don a Silver Ring. This ring represses the natural inclinations of the undead. It upends their natural bent, instilling them with an artificial love of righteousness. It's fake, but its powerful. They call it the Penance of Duty, and it is the driving force behind the Silver Rings. After they are converted, they are then told to go about their way, to do good wherever they can, and (if they ever want to continue the legacy they have been given) to go to a monastery of the Silver Ring. These monasteries will give shelter to any Wight that comes knocking, only asking that during their stay any visiting Wights participate in the daily chores and charities in the area. Most members of the Silver Rings who choose not to attend a monastery are roamers, bounty hunters and do-gooders roaming the roads. They are compelled to do good by the Penance of Duty. Others become Priests, and pilgrimage from monastery to monastery in search of those who need protection or aid. Guards in most areas have come to realize that a Silver Ring engraved with an fist is reason enough not to ask questions. However, members of the Silver Rings also understand that it is their duty to keep the roads, caves and dark places of the world safe; and to maintain a proper fighting force to do so. Thus, every hundred years or so, once they feel the time is right, the three original Silver Ring Wights will temporarily retire to one of their monasteries, in order to forge new rings for new members. There are only two requirements that a Wight makes of his newly created spawn after he turns them, the first is that they forget their last name. This is done so that the newly created Silver Ring will understand the importance of the new role he or she has been given. The new Wight's history remains intact, and some members of the Silver Rings will seek out their old names, if they don't believe in the Silver Rings' methods. (The Silver Rings have a zero-tolerance policy for evil or injustice. Period.) But for the most part, Silver Rings are known by their first names only. The second, and final command a Silver Ring is given, is to put on the most important ring of his un-life. After the ring is donned, the newly christened Silver Ring is released from his master's dominion.

NPC's of Note The three primary leaders of the Silver Rings are the Wights Aenglier collared. It was only by their tireless hunting that the Silver Rings have acquired the amount of members they have. Over the years, their growing numbers have allowed the Silver Rings to specialize. They have different sects within the Order, corresponding to the different interests of Justice. The Penance of Duty affects everyone differently. At the hundred year anniversary of the founding of the order, the Three split the forces of the Silver Ring. One of these sects, headed by Bruen, is devoted to silent contemplation. It is this sect that is most focused to penance and purity. Entitled the Silent Sentinels, there are members of this group who have not spoken in centuries. The Penance of Duty felt by these members is sated through training and meditation. Every monastery has a dedicated sect of the Silent Sentinels, who often act as healers and buffers when the monastery goes to war. It is also their responsibility to maintain a constant stream of divinations, looking for evil on the horizon. Another of the three sects that make up the Silver Rings is the Army of the Servitors. These are the militia of the Silver Rings. Constantly training for battle in their cloisters, the Servitors are a standing force. They most often leave their monasteries to do battle with evil, although they may not be called on for decades at a time. Stre 'Ail is the leader of the Servitors, and only he can give the Call to Arms. Incredibly rare, a Call to Arms brings all the Armies, from all the monasteries, under one command: His. It has been used to turn back invading monstrous armies, and the last Call to Arms was instrumental in the First Age of War. With his armies of undead heroes, Stre 'Ail brought the fight to the gods' doorstep. Their help garnered the Silver Rings enough sympathy amongst the nations for the Silver Rings to be widely accepted, if not encouraged. Stre 'Ail is a powerful warrior. He was the first of the Three to be taken, and helped Aenglier capture Buren and Graveel. He is the best representative of strength that the Order of the Silver Ring has. Graveel is the leader of the most fractured and solitary sect of the Silver Rings. He has spent the last several hundred years becoming a powerful sorcerer by harnessing the power of his Wight blood. However, the Penance of Duty affects him the most strongly of the three. Staying in a monastery and praying is not enough for Graveel, and so he founded the Pilgrim Society. These members of the Silver Rings wander, walking from monastery to monastery. They guard the roads and protect other pilgrims. They are the first line of defense, handling small problems alone, and going to the monastery when they need help. Graveel has been the inspiration for many tall tales involving powerful robed strangers appearing out of nowhere to attack bandits and monsters.

Founding a New Monastery There are two criteria the Order looks for when selecting a place to build a monastery. The first of them is the obvious and official reason, that the monasteries of the Silver Ring needs to be far enough away from civilization that they won't be bothered or attacked. Some who disbelieve that any undead could be good might make trouble for a monastery too close to civilization. However, the second reason is a little more… embarrassing. It is a little known fact amongst outsiders that the Penance of Duty, while it does inspire the Wights with a desperate desire to do only good, does not remove the comfort and feeling of peace that the Wights feel when living in places touched by death. Thus ancient graveyards, battlefields, and like places are often sites for Monasteries of the Silver Ring.

Character Sheet: http://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=49702

[Reame]

Name: Lyrith
Race: Aasimar
Class: sorcerer/summoner
Age Category: Adult
Description:
Standing at six foot four he is slightly above average height for an Aasimar but he is still taller than quite a few of the other races standing out not only because of his height but his almost reflective sliver hair. Hiss hair is generally cut short but he does have a beard that runs down about a foot before stopping. Due to the nature of his power he has a maze of tattoos covering his body which glow slightly when he uses magic. He doesn’t like having attention drawn to him so he usually covers up his body with robes or other baggy cloths. He doesn’t like fashion considering it a waste as it serves no use but will get dressed up in nicer cloths if he needs to, such as a larger meeting or a big event.

His eyes shine a beautiful gold and are always half closed as if he was always thinking about something important. Given the right lighting both his eyes and his hair will seam to glow by reflecting the light.

Personality:
He is content with his life and sometimes distant to reality only realizing major events. His attention can never be held for long but he is none the less intelligent. He sometimes had mood swings causing him to either became saintly generous and kind or almost abusive. He has trained a bit to keep his mind from wandering and prevent drastic changes in personality but minor changes still exist from time to time. The cause of the mood swings and short attention span is the opposing bloodlines competing within him, a small price to pay for the ability to bring his wife back in his mind.

He has a wide knowledge of magic and is willing to teach others how to use it for little or no cost. He prefers to provide for himself and will try to turn down offers of charity but if someone refuses to turn down their offer he will take it gratefully.

Nothing means more to him than his wife. The both of them would do anything for the other and both are content with just spending their years together in peace. The big problem with just living in peace is the war itself and the problems caused by the new God

Background:
He was originally a middle class citizen with a wife and a job as a professor in magic, albeit not having magical abilities at that time, a small army of bandits attacked their town. While most were unharmed because of the towns defenses and a good number of citizens who fought back his wife, who was in the fields outside of town, was killed. The loss of his wife, the person he loved the most, drove him into sorrow. He eventually quit his job and used all his time for research into magic. One day, not only an angel visited him, but so did a demon. The two each tried to pull him over to their side, to get him to use their power. He knowing that a single angel or demon didn’t have enough power to bring back his wife chose a third option. He chose to gain the power of both the demon and the angel. They agreed with him and shared their power, leaving him soon after. With the influx of new power he was placed into a coma that lasted a month before he awoke with great power. Using rituals that he had found before his coma he used his new power to do the seemingly impossible. He brought back his wife from the dead. While she isn’t truly revived she is made out of flesh and blood and retains all memories and the soul of his wife. The only thing keeping her from being alive is the fact that she requires his constant power to stay in our world, or else she disappears. The city which he lived in soon became appalled by his choices and to prevent the citizens from harming him the city council sent him off for his own good and now he wonders the land teaching magic like he once had and living to together once again with his wife
RP Sample:
I woke up in the cot that I shared with my wife and lay there unwanting to rouse from slumber till I could no longer stay still and climbed out of bed. I found some cloths amongst our attire as I pulled back the curtain that closed off the wagon turning it into a room. I climbed down from my traveling house and bathed in a nearby spring before returning to the large camp to watch my newly woken wife feeding the horses and readying our own food.

While the two of us ate in silence I preened her wings, an activity she enjoys, she describes it like a massage but for her wings. She always had such pretty wings.

“Lyrith, I’ve been hearing strange rumors when we travel through town.” My wife spoke up ending the silence of the day. “People have been mentioning a new god that has been performing miracles. Do you think it’s true?”

“It’s not my place to say if it is” I replied leaning into her and putting my arms around her enjoying her company.

“I know it might just be nothing but I have a bad feeling about it, like something bad might happen.” She spoke leaning into me.

“I hope not, we’ve be through enough already”

Sheets:
Lyrith: Link
Wife: Link

Info about wife:

 

Name: Valkalla
Description:
She stands just shorter than her husband at six two. Her hair is a glistening gold that runs all the way down her back and naturally fans out. She is very thin for an Aasimar and looks somewhat frail. She was ever the strongest before she died but when her husband brought her back her body was given great strength far beyond a normal being. Another property given to her by her rebirth is some control over her hair allowing her to form it into tentacles though she finds it strange and doesn’t like messing with her own hair.

She has two large wings covered with beautiful white feathers sprouting from her back. Between her wings is a magic circle that binds her and her husband allowing her to stay in this world. She usually covers up the circle with the dresses she wears.

She is constantly glowing slightly, not enough to shed light but enough to be noticed by those around her. She is unable to stop herself from glowing and most catch on that she isn’t of this world very quickly.

Personality:
She is a very charismatic person finding friends in most people she talks to. She has a great memory and enjoys telling stories whenever she can. She doesn’t like to fight when she can talk out problems but she does know how to use a bow proficiently but mainly for defending herself.

She loves spending time with her husband and just enjoying her time with him no matter where they are. When she can she cooks for the both of them and has actually become good at cooking food while they have been traveling. She has also grown a taste of fashion and sometimes gets new dresses for her to wear based on the local tastes.

[spikehed]

Application Name: Voren Age: Adult Race: Alternate Racial Traits: Prehensile Tail, Scaled SkinRakshasa-Spawn Tiefling Class(es): Mysterious StrangerGunslinger 11 // Trench FighterFighter 4 / Oath of VengeancePaladin 7   Shoulder length hair of onyx and pale complexion places his nationality as Cheliax. Sharp features and thin stern lips are compounded by scales of a serpent that protect high cheek bones, chin, and throat. Consuming sapphire eyes hold a fierceness that conquers the aloof mannerisms. His clothing is of the finest tailoring, often muted charcoal tones and leather with an accent of cold metal.   Voren was once a very forceful and brash individual. He made decisions rashly, and was quick to verbalize his opinions and decisions to the rest of the world, intrusively giving orders and direction without a sound reason for doing so, and without consideration for the people involved. In the aftermath of the Henderthane affair, he became disenfranchised with the culture of his country and sees clearly the corruption and filth that lies behind the curtain of order and structure diabolism imposes. Despite a simmering calmness in place of his once outspoken mannerisms, there is little room for error in his world. Voren dislikes to see mistakes repeated, and has no patience with inefficiency. He becomes quite harsh when his patience is tried in these respects, because he is not naturally in tune with people's feelings, and more than likely doesn't believe that he should tailor his judgments in consideration for others. Voren has difficulty seeing things from outside his own perspective of black and white. He has little respect for people who do not see things the same way. He needs to consciously work on recognizing the value of different opinions, as well as the value of being sensitive towards others' feelings. In the absence of this awareness, he will be a forceful, intimidating and overbearing individual.   Background & Concept Elements Voren was raised at the Henderthane family estate. He had little contact with his mother and the servants had never spoken of who his father was or what had become of him. The turmoil and chaos of the civil wars influenced Voren's personality, resulting in a craving for order. During the wars, Voren saw his family's implementation of gunpowder and was enamored by it. The smell, sound, flame... everything about it appealed to his baser senses. When the head of the family, Einmarch, was killed and the throne ordered the deaths of his immediate family, Voren felt betrayed by House Thrune and the twisted laws of the diabolists. Voren was given a stipend and quickly whisked away during House Henderthane's restructure. Jaded but free, Voren has vowed to walk a path of structure that does not fall to the wickedness of the infernal or any other outside influence that would meddle in mortal affairs. Secrets Known - Voren knows that the patriarch of his family was killed by the very devils that serve the country, though he does not know the reason or individual devil responsible. Unknown - Voren is a result of an infernal plot by the devil Orxines to seed the ruling families with his hellspawned offspring. Unknown - Voren is the bastard child of Einmarch's daughter. To avoid discovery, loyal family members ushered him forcefully from the House. Contacts Ally - Yllavyre Hollysword, is a friend and drinking partner. A bard, and very carefree for an elf, Yllavyre loves telling stories and loves even more when a person shows actual interest in them. It was her that told Voren about the new God and the gathering support that set Voren's feet in motion. Neutral - Garibaldi Rumpelkin is a rotund halfling who secretly controls a smuggling ship that works from the city. The Halfling gave Voren passage from away from the family estate. The only payment Garibaldi ever mentioned was ”Consider it a favor.” Hostile - The crown's order is a direct threat to Voren, as is the devil Orxines. He does not know that an enemy would seek him or for what reasons. Memories Voren remembers vividly using black powder for the first time. While he can not explain it, he recalls the safety and pride he felt when the flash, heat and smoke rolled over his body. Each time he draws the weapon, his confidence in it’s protection is renewed and memories of the misdeeds against him are pulled to the forefront of his thoughts. Voren can barely recall ever seeing his mother. When he is in the company of normal families, a sense of shame and embarrassment washes over him. How horrible of a disappointment his birth must have been to his mother for her to abandon her own son to be raised by servants. Voren's remembers how his zeal and passionate disdain for all things infernal led him to so many clerics around the city. He made no headway to finding what his heart desired until Yllavyre happened to give him a copy of 'Blood for Blood, Vengeance Incarnate', one of hundreds of books she had collected throughout her travels.

[Schniderman]

Haruka Name: Haruka Race: Mutt (Kitsune / Lupos) Class: Magus (Kensai) / Samurai (Sword Saint) Age Category: Adult, 22 Description: Haruka is physically more imposing than most kitsune, often standing half a head or more over males at her height of six feet and one inch. A fairly well defined musculature fills out her build, keeping her height from making her seem too lank. Her fur is a golden brown hue, lightening towards her throat and chest. It seems less sleek and uniform than most kitsune, matted in some spots and stuck up in tufts at others. A thin scar runs along the left side of her muzzel, leaving a part in the fur there. Her eyes are a yellowy amber color, and widely spaced on her face. Her ears have a mostly triangular shape, and are quite near to the back of her head. Her right ear has a notch missing from the tip, about a quarter missing all told. The edge of the notch is cleanly cut, a wound from a blade. Her usual wardrobe consists of a kosode, haori jacket, hakama, and straw zōri sandals. The fabrics she wears are generally single tone, and she favors oceanic colors: navy, turqoise, sea green, black and gray. The designs of her clothes are often simple, without many embellishments aside from her family crest, a stylized wisteria blossom in silver thread. She always keeps her sword at hand, stuck through her obi on the left side of her hip. When traveling, she wears a mino raincoat and a sandogasa straw hat. Personality: Soft spoken and austere, Haruka often has difficulties warming to new acquaintances. To those that can accept her inflexible mannerisms and uncompromising morals, she proves herself to be equally unyielding in her loyalty and devotion to her friends and allies. She tries to live her life by a set of seven virtues: Rectitude, to perceive what is right and wrong; Courage, to be able to act upon what you perceive as being right; Benevolence, to display love and strength in equal parts, and to temper justice with mercy; Respect, to act with consideration to the sensibilities of those around you; Honesty, to be sincere in word and deed; Honour, to have a vivid consciousness of personal dignity and worth; and Loyalty, to strictly maintain fidelity to one's lord and one's companions.   Parents That Haruka was born at all was a strange twist of fate, as her mother and father were among the unlikeliest of lovers. Her father Marrok was forced to flee from the Remulon Dens when his emotional and impulsive temperament got the better of him, leading to the unsanctioned murder of a local underboss. After making his escape from the Dens, he took up a life of wandering banditry. On the other hand, Haruka's mother Kaede was the eldest daughter of an old, esteemed family of the Yūyō Collective. As she grew into womanhood though, her health began a steady decline. In hopes of improving her condition she moved to the hill lands of an outlying part of the collective, far from the bustle of civilization. When Marrok first found Kaede's cabin, she was out walking. The cabin was furnished modestly, and aside from foodstuffs, the only thing of value was a pewter hair ornament. He took the ornament and as much food as he could carry before quickly leaving, intending to come for the rest later. When he came back to the cabin the next day, the food he'd left behind had been neatly arranged on a platter with a note. 'Please take as much as you need'. He had expected the cabin's owner to make some preparation for his return, but this was baffling. Barred doors or hidden stashes he could have understood, but not this. On guard, he hurriedly began moving the food into his bag, and just as he did the cabin's sliding door clattered open. That was the first of many meetings between Kaede and Marrok, and although only the two of them know what experiences they shared, they eventually came to love one another. Haruka was born without complications, but Kaede's health worsened sharply following the birth. Wanting to make sure that Haruka didn't lose her connection to her family, Kaede told Marrok that the pewter ornament would serve as proof of her heritage. Kaede passed shortly after Haruka had turned one. Marrok took his infant daughter with him and left the cabin he'd come to call home, returning to a life of robbery. He continued to care for her, but as she grew older he lost confidence in his readiness to raise her. When she began speaking and toddling, Marrok sought out help from Kaede's family. Through an uncomfortable confrontation and explanation, it was decided that Haruka would stay with her uncle Hiroshi's family. Childhood Haruka's aunt Ueko did not welcome her presence in the household, and although her disapproval was subtle it was also inescapable. Haruka had two cousins, both boys; Ichirou, who was her age and Jirou, who was one year younger. Both of them followed their mother's cues and either bullied or ignored Haruka. That dynamic became harder and harder to maintain for them as the children aged, and Haruka quickly grew larger than either boy. Haruka was about seven years old when that turning point took place, when she realized that when her cousins pushed her around she could push back. Her aunt was horrified, and her cousins were less than pleased. "Haruka hit me!" became a refrain for the boys, magic words that brought their mother running to their rescue. Their weakness, rather than their strength became their means to coercing Haruka; they threatened to shout and cry whenever she didn't do what they said, and their mothers wrath enforced that threat. Eventually the boys' conduct earned the attention and ire of their father though. He seethed and told them they were men, and that it was shameful for men to cry at every little thing. Ueko took their side and said that Haruka's father's blood had made her violent and mean spirited. Hiroshi's response was to have Haruka learn Iaido to teach her discipline and patience, and provide an outlet for her energy. Needless to say, Ueko was scandalized at the notion of having Haruka learn to wield a blade, but Hiroshi wouldn't be dissuaded from the idea. Bushido At her uncle's behest Haruka began training under Sato Yuugiri, master of the Mushin Kenzen-ryū dojo. She spent many months just learning how to breath and walk properly before progressing to stances and motions. When Yuugiri was entirely satisfied with her foundations, he gave Haruka an dull edged blade. Haruka practiced determinedly, absorbing her lessons like a sponge. She soon surpassed each of the dojo's other students, all of whom were there to learn meditation and self-discipline like she was. Yuugiri felt something different in her though. More than just symbolic motions and breathing exercises, he began teaching her the way of the Kitsunebushi of old: true swordplay instead of static kata; anatomy, and which strokes would kill or simply incapacitate; invocations to bolster a sword strike; and finally the seven virtues of bushido. Haruka was a young woman when Yuugiri eventually relented that he could teach her no more. He declared her a master of Mushin Kenzen-ryū swordsmanship, and acknowledged her as his peer rather than his student. This was an unexpected development to Haruka, who didn't truly believe herself Yuugiri's equal. Having spent most of her life under his tutelage, being told that he had imparted all the lessons he could to her left her with little direction. Hero Haruka returned to live her aunt an uncle. Ichirou and Jirou had grown into young men, and proved to be less bothersome; it even seemed they had difficulty meeting her gaze, so perhaps they remembered their indiscretions and felt ashamed (or perhaps it was just less natural for young men to harass a young woman than for little boys to harass a little girl). At any rate, though her cousins seemed less against her presence, Ueko's vitriol was as potent as the day Haruka left. Haruka found it difficult to settle down in her family's household, there was just always a sort of polite distance between them. Though they were family, she had spent so little time with them that it was difficult to close that distance; that was perhaps the strongest motivation she had for leaving the way she did. One day a footman brought word to the family of a misfortune that had befallen a friend and trade partner of Hiroshi: a band of brigands had attacked a caravan laden with valuable cargo, without which their business would suffer gravely. Without a word to her uncle, Haruka took a horse and rode out to find the villains. That adventure began her on a long road of righteous deeds: slaying bandits, oni, and evil spirits. These exploits have earned her renown as a hero of the people. RP Sample: Snow falls on the wooded hillside in a gentle flurry, adding to the already ankle deep carpet that covers the ground. A woman bundled against winter's nip trudges alone through the white landscape, leaving a trail of upturned snow in her wake. With the sun setting in the sky, evening is at hand. Overhead, the wind blows through the boughs of leaf bare trees, making them rattle like dried bones, and the woman takes her cloak and draws it closer around herself. The crunch of snow underfoot sounds from steps she didn't take, and her gaze is drawn towards the noise, settling on broad tree trunk. A long moment passes with only the wind to break the silence, and she rests her hand on the scabbard of her sword, just beneath the cross guard. *Chkk* She pushes her thumb against the guard, showing the first inch of blade. "Whoa, hold on now!" came a startled voice from behind the tree, its owner soon to follow it as he stepped out into view with his hands above his head. The speaker was old, and looked to be a wood cutter. His fur was fully gray, his whiskers were long and crooked, and his eyebrows were so prodigious they threatened to completely thwart his vision. "I didn't mean no offense, no need for violence." He smiled disarmingly, his black lips pulling back to show yellowed teeth. Relaxing her shoulders and sliding her katana back into its sheath with a click, Haruka reached up and took off her hat, bowing her head to the old kitsune. "Forgive me, I took you to be a bandit at first. These woods have been dangerous as of late." The old man relaxed too, lowering his hands to his sides. "Don't I know it! Too many hoodlums wanderin' here and there. Actually, I was a might worried you were one of 'em." he said, chuckling as he walked over towards Haruka. "Why don't you come with me to my cabin, it's as safe a place as you'll find in these parts." he offered, gesturing in the direction of a nearby strand of trees. "It's jus' over yonder." Considering the woodcutter's offer for a while, Haruka smiles and bows her head again before giving her answer, "Well then, thank you for your kindness." Straightening up and putting her hat back on, she followed the man on his way. "My name is Haruka, niece of Hiroshi the silk merchant. Might I ask the name of my gracious host?" That drew a wheezy laugh from the woodcutter. "No one important enough to need such formal speech. I'm Kotaro the woodsman. Ah! We're here." Before the duo stood a small wooden cabin, no more than a dozen feet on a side. Surrounding the little building on three sides were split logs piled three feet high. By then the sun had dipped below the horizon and darkness was beginning to fall. Kotaro ushered Haruka inside and cleared a space by the hearth for her to unroll her bedding. He himself stoked a low fire before bidding his guest good night and crawling under his own blankets. With the warmth of the fire and the surprisingly snug shelter, it didn't take long for Haruka to fall asleep. She was roused by the sound of someone moving about within the cabin, and when she opened her eyes they fell on Kotaro, crouched beside her with a long, thin knife. When he saw her eyes flutter open he drove the knife downward, narrowly missing her neck as she twisted out of the way. Reaching for where she'd left her sword next to her, her fingers closed around air; it had been moved. "Die!" Kotaro snarled, moving to stab at her again, only to have his wrist caught and twisted painfully. Haruka hissed five rolling syllables and thrust her palm against the old fox's face. The sharp tang of ozone filled the cabin, and a flash of blue-white light bathed the walls for an instant before Kotaro slumped to the ground lifelessly. Breathing hard, Haruka's brow furrowed and she glared. "...Why?" she murmured to the woodcutter's corpse. Disturbed by his betrayal, she searched for some answer among his things in the cabin. Hidden amidst the logs of the kindling box was a hollowed message tube, and inside was a letter. ~~||~~ "Our informants tell me that the woman who ruined my plans at Akanagi is on her way here. Prepare a proper welcome for her." ~~||~~ Scowling at the letter, she tossed it into the embers of the night's fire and watched it slowly burn. Anything Else?: Character Sheet here

[Kshnik]

Name: Jai'jii
Race: Arthrop
Class: Monk 11//Fighter 6 (Lore Warden), Ranger 5 (Skirmisher, freebooter)
Age Category: Hard to tell unless you look at the coloring on the joints and have knowledge on the Arthrops. (Six years into adulthood - roughly 24-26 in the now extinct humans age)

Description: Jai'jii is an Arthrops which is a bipedal insect like humanoids with four arms and two legs with skin that has a carapace look, especially on his shoulders and joints. Jai’jii’s head and the back of his torso, arms and legs coloring is a muddle of dark purplish-blue and deep green. The coloring of the underside of his torso, arms and legs is a mixture of pale blue and deep green. His four hands, two long fingers and an opposable thumb, and his feet, three long wide digits, are a blend of light and dark brown. Along his torso, arms and forearms are hair like structures that provide sensory input of the surrounding area. Jai’jii is normal for a male Arthrop standing at 3 and half feet in height.

Jai'jii wears a piece of durable clothing, one might call it a robe, made out of some animal skin, that covers his shoulders and connects to his waist via a thin strip along his sides. The robe continues from his waist down to the middle of his thighs. Atop of this robe is a segmented belt holding a single scabbard containing a one handed saw like blade. On this thighs and two of his forearms, the lower ones, are sheaths containing a mixture of wooden stakes and iron spikes. Arthrops are a Crepuscular race; they are most active during the twilight hours (dawn and dusk).

Personality: Jai’jii understands and supports that the Arthrops structure is matriarchal and enjoys the freedom this allows for males. Within the male structure at very young age Jai’jii was taught that the role of Gentry was desirable but took individuals with discipline to obtain. Jai’jii set up goals for himself and worked hard to achieve them. His training paid off and he was quickly noticed and upon reaching adulthood was soon given the role. Jai’jii was ecstatic at reaching his goal but upon becoming a Gentry he soon found that this was not for him. Once his first rotation of breeding came to an end Jai’jii goals changed. He started to work hard at not being seen, hopefully ignored, and began to reveal nothing about himself to anyone but very close friends. Jai’Jii strived to excel in the skills he found attractive, while, at the same time, kept them hidden from others.

Jai’jii had learned that other races do not know much about Arthrops and what little they do know they do not take serious. Jai’jii believes it is his destiny to reverse this notion. Those of other races that have become acquainted with Jai’jii are still attempting to figure him out, as he is likely to see humor, as well as grief, in any situation. Jai’jii feels that his words are what defines him and will make every attempt to keep them.

Jai’jii character is similar, from an outsider’s perspective, with the average Arthrops. He enjoys working, laughing, singing, climbing, and playing. He is quick to pick up objects others do not cherish. Where he differs now from his fellow Arthrops, and a slight change from his younger self, is he does not avoid conflict; at these moments, Jai’jii does not care if he is noticed and if it comes to battle he is a whirlwind of fury.


Background: Jai’jii family is part of the vessel guild that made the skiffs and wagons for their settlement clan. Normally the Arthrops move with only what they carry on their back but during large migrations these vessels are used. As Jai’jii entered his young adult life, a member of his family, a male, invented the first amphibious vessel for the clan. This vehicle was a combination of a skiff and a wagon called a Scowdray. On land the wagon was pulled by Dark Cavy, rodent like creatures about four feet in length, while on water the vessel was moved by poles, oars, and, if no trees were around, a single kite-sail was launched. Jai’jii worked with his family on building, driving and sailing these new vessels.

Upon reaching adulthood Jai’jii began his training within the guilds militia focusing on tactics to defend and attack on the Scowdrays. The main weapons taught were boarding pikes, axes and grappling hooks. Jai’jii excelled and quickly became the top in his class and his family. He was awarded the role of Gentry and was stationed with another family within the same guild as a breeder. The first few days within this role Jai'jii was full of excitement, however as the days became weeks, Jai’jii became dissatisfied and was relieved when his time as a breeder came to an end.

Jai’Jii outlook changed, he still excelled at his martial skills but, kept them hidden, not wanting to be pulled into breeder status again. During one of his guild’s travelings they came across a Halfling in a robe battling goblins. Jai’jii was hypnotized by the movements and fighting style of this Halfling. The Halfling made short work of the goblins and Jai’jii introduced himself. After a few days he was able to convince the Halfling to allow Jai’jii to travel with him and teach him his style. Jai’jii eventually ended up in a monastery where he has spent five years training and fighting. After this time Jai'jii was informed that his training with the Monastery was completed and he headed home to rejoin his family.

Warmth had spread across his body as he stepped into the swamp for the first time after these many moons. Jai’jii hadn’t realized how much he missed the swamp; the sounds, the smells, air flow and the chemicals. He easily moved through the swamp, passing from branch to branch, jumping from one tree to tree, and gracefully across the ground. It took him a bit before he could determine the location of the family and guild within the clan. Upon arrival as tradition dictated Jai’jii approached the Mothers. They assigned him security detail with the Scowdrays.

Jai’jii enjoyed this work since it allowed him to move around the swamp. It also provided him the opportunity to train; training which brought forth a few inquisitive male relatives. Jai’jii began to include them in his training. The days passed peacefully outside of the few attacks from various swamp denizens.

Jai’jii, even a few times, took on the role of Gentry, but on his own terms; which caused a bit of a stir. However, his females could sense something about him, something they couldn’t pinpoint, and decided to allow him this freedom.

Presently, Jai’jii is working on various battle tactics with his students and other males within the detail of the Scowdrays.

 

short story The excited cry of a child Jai’jii, Jai’jii could be heard on the edges of the Halfling monastery causing a few to poke their heads above the walls and along with a few others to peer out from the walls' gate. These folks, males and females of multiple races, though a majority are halflings, were in time to see a young girl sprint past, arms flailing, and, about ten paces behind, another half a dozen of her peers following with a mixture of smiles and determination on their faces. The various onlookers smiled to each other before ducking back down or inside to continue with whatever chores or training they were performing. The young girl runs towards an odd looking humanoid that is coming down a well-worn path. In any other location alarms might have been raised, militia would be charging with whatever weapons that could be quickly snatched. However, in this area, especially this monastery, and a few others nearby, the sight of the creature is welcomed. The creature is returning and the children knew he would be bringing back fresh meat he had hunted in the southern mountain range. The creature wore odd piece of clothing were four arms and hands were poking out, two of which gripped rope that extended over his right shoulder, extending back to a large sled behind him, while the other two held onto a quarterstaff, being used as a walking stick at the moment. As the young girl was a few paces away, arms stretching outwards, the creature releases the rope and its staff, and with powerful legs jumps to the side. The young girl's expression saddens while the cries of glee arose behind her as the others realize the game is still on. The children pursued the creature that gracefully does a variety of twists and turns in-between powerful jumps. After a bit, the creature allows the young girl to be the first to tag him and hands her the prize, a small carved figurine; that of a rabbit she saw with excitement. The creature grunts happily to the child as it reaches down to pick up the rope with its two left hands and with his lower right hand grabbed the staff. The creature pulls on the ropes causing the sled, stacked with recent kills, to lurch forward. The creature mandibles move and a sound that sounds like a mixture of a growl and click speaks clearly now for my reward, tell me a joke my little flower. As the group of children and the creature walk towards the entrance to the monastery, the young girl tells her joke and, even though the creature had heard the joke multiple times, it’s still bellows with laughter at the punch line. As they stepped through the archway, past the wall, stood an older halfling, grey through his beard, the leader of the monastery, and with a smile speaks Welcome home, Jai’jii. Jala'si glances up at his chief, his mandibles quivered with happiness, and returns the greeting It is wonderful to be welcomed. Any issues with the dwarves. asks the head of Jai’jii order. I came across signs of a few of their patrols but if they saw me that is unknown. The halfling grunts in approval Praise the lady , and old saying from the time when the gods were alive. The halfling takes a sideward step around Jai’jii to get a better look at the sled as two more of his order arrive with greetings. The halfling, grunts again with approval, and motions to the male and female towards the sled before turning to face Jai’jii again I will meet you at the fire. Jai’jii steps out of way and heads towards the center of the monastery leaving behind the struggling effort of the two as they begin to pull the sled. In the center of the village is a fire surrounded by a barrier of helmet size crimson stones. Jai’jii releases his backpack and removes his fur robe places them carefully on the ground besides a stand holding a large pot of water. Jai’jii reaches for a cloth and dips it in the water and begins to clean himself. He takes his time making sure he has removed all grime. As he finishes, he returns the cloth and begins to dance around the fire. Jai’jii wraps his four hands around his chest and waist, and as his pace quickens he begins to sing. As Jai’jii finishes the last few steps, sings the last words, and completes the ritual, the old halfling approaches and speaks softly I have decided that you learned all that we can teach. Time for the student to teach . Moisture gathers around Jai’jii four small compound eyes as he hears the words and understands their meaning.

[Winter Wight]

Basic Information Name: Vatarin Race: Kobold [Day Raider, alternate racial trait] Class: Sorcerer 11/Monk 11 Age Category:Middle Age, 26

Current Character Detail Description: This aged kobold's green scales and yellow eyes contrast strongly against his tan vestments: a simple shirt with breeches that might be found on any commoner hiding the body wraps adorned beneath. A rust orange sash is tied about his waist and he wears specially tailored "sandals" to fit his draconian feet. He has a vertical scar over his right eye. A plain disc adorns his neck, fastened by a leather band. His stance is precisely balanced and eerily still except for his tail which alternates between resting to his left and right. Occasionally it curls, grasping at one ankle or the other. Vatarin walks softly; the effect of years of training followed by a life as an operative for the council has left him with the instinctive habits for remaining unnoticed. Personality: Less industrious than many of his younger brethren, Vatarin enjoys time in solitary meditation. Of course he's just as likely to fall asleep on a pleasantly warm and sunny rock as well. Having lived longer than many of his race, Vatarin has a justified sense of self-contentment many others lack. His age has also made him more far-sighted than usual and because of this he can often come across as arrogant and uncaring of temporary or minor setbacks. Vatarin would say this patience is the result of his draconic parentage. Of course that would only be partially true. Suggestions that the source of his particular talents may actually stem from a more unexpected source are one of the few things that can make him lose his temper.

History Background: Although born in the city of Pontun, Vatarin would never live the life of most kobolds. His initial years were spent in poverty, even for a kobold, and his clan's den was in one of the buildings made above-ground instead of the vastly preferred caves and tunnels. Despite the harshness of the sun, life in the desert suited Vatarin and he soon adjusted to the bright light. His proclivity towards spending time in the sun was only the first sign his blood ran thicker with magic. Soon the elders of his clan began to notice strange lights bounding through the den and the occasional hammer, gem, or other small objects deciding to defy gravity and chasing the lights in incomprehensible patterns. It did not take long for them to identify Vatarin as the source of the trouble. The moment he was discovered he was sent to the elder council, as are all kobold children born with sorcerous talent in the three cities. The elders had Vatarin trained through the rest of his youth in a special den alongside other young kobolds with similar gifts. The hope of the den was that the sorcerous talents of the young could be better controlled and enhanced by disciplined training. Unlike many of the other children, Vatarin excelled in martial training in addition to manifesting spells. He was an exemplar tribute to kobold industry almost assured of an eventual place on the elder council. At least, if not for an issue of blood. Kobolds are prideful of their relationship to dragons and it is no surprise that they value evidence of strong draconic lineage and also to be expected is the obsessive way they record the signs of such heritage. In this way, Vatarin was promising at first. Like the green dragons whose coloration he shared, he had a propensity for the use of acid in his magic but as he grew into his power and showed no other signs it became clear to the knowledgeable that any dragon-blood was as thin in his veins as any regular kobold. This meant that his blood was tainted, as the Elders saw matters, by another source. Since the discovery of his bloodline, Vatarin has been employed as an agent of the elder council in many tasks, often involving stealth and blood. He naturally excelled at these tasks. Despite the quiet nature of these operations the elder council knew that if he continued to prove himself he would undoubtedly find a way onto the council in one way or another. So it was that they gave him the impossible task of being the kobold to destroy God.

Miscellaneous RP Sample: Finally there was silence. Vatarin opened his unmarked eye. A few scant yards away was a statue of ice glittering in the moonlight. The grass was cool with fresh dew under Vatarin's feet as he crossed from the small boulder that had been his resting place. Keeping a cautious distance from the deadly ice Vatarin listened. The sound was faint but it was definite. His mark was still breathing. Vatarin frowned. He had modified the ice prison with acid and while it was impressive that an outlaw could survive even a single minute while ensnared within it was also damned inconvenient. Perhaps his information concerning this particular outlaw had been wrong. It would not be the first time one of his marks had unexpectedly had some item that enabled them to resist the spells damaging effects. With a quick bark of magical energy and a small rune traced in the air, Vatarin concentrated. It took only a moment. Three auras. Three? "Draconic- "Ashes!"Vignari!" The kobold spit the expletive in disgust but held his concentration upon the spell for another moment before releasing the magical energies back into the cosmos. Sure enough, one of them had been abjurant in nature. False information could get operatives killed and the information on this particular criminal made no mention of any magical ability or relation to someone with magical talent and certainly it was not expected that he could afford any magic. Vatarin sniffed. Something was wrong and he had a few ideas why. "I know you can hear me so here's what is about to happen. I will drop you into a pit and that magical ice around you will shatter. If you're lucky you'll die from the fall. If not you answer my questions. You can probably guess what they are. Who do you work for, where did you get those pretty magic auras about you, what did they ask you to do, and how did they know I would be hunting you. If you don't answer I'll see if whatever abjuration magic you have also protects against an old fashioned fist in addition to my signature acid. My bet is it won't. If that doesn't work we move onto this little blade I have here. Now a kama will take a while to kill you but I can make sure every moment is unpleasant. Then I'll drop you into another pit followed by a death cloud. The choice is yours. Die, answer, or die. You'll have one minute to start talking once you hit the ground so make it count or I'll just find out what I need from your blood." The silence was broken as the outlaw in the ice began to wail even as Vatarin stepped back and pulled a tiny shovel from his pocket. He barked another phrase of magic, striking the ground before him with a heel and mirroring the motion with his free hand. The ground beneath the ice prison dropped away as if it were putty being struck by some giant fist and the wailing became a shrill of terror as the figure dropped from sight into the darkness below. His fingers twitched. The chances of this intruding elf recovering enough to answer the questions before the pit reverted to normal ground was slim. Vatarin almost hoped the elf would run just so he could show how vastly superior he was in every way. Vatarin followed the sound of breaking ice down into the pit, slowing his fall by bracing against the walls. People never expected much from kobolds. Vatarin rarely found it useful to correct that thought process. However, he might have a few choice words with the Elders later concerning a possible internal threat. He could never implicate them directly, of course, but as long as they knew he knew they'd be less likely to hire a foreigner to kill their most effective agent.

Anything Else Link to character rolls. Character Sheet *Note: Temporary ability scores are as adjusted for items.*

[dpbj602]

Application Requirements Name: Adachio Janus Race: Elf Class: Ranger//Druid Age Category: Adult Dice Roll: 10d6+110 (6, 5, 5, 6, 2, 2, 5, 6, 4, 2)+110 Total = 153 (153) years old. Description: Adachio stands at a meek five feet tall, wearing onyx black hair freely down his shoulders. His face seems to have adopted some of the features of the wild beasts he morphs into, his eyes seem to almost (not quite) glow with a cat-like quality. Personality: Adachio seems to many like a kindly person, fiercely loyal to his friends. He fights to preserve the wild, being a bit of a jokester in social situations but a fierce warrior in combat. His proclivity to drink is a bit dwarven of him but it is largely ignored as part of who he is. Background: Adachio was born in Lohannel to the family of the High Druid, leader of the druidic conclaves of the nation. His ancestors had always been High Druids, raising their eldest sons (or daughters) to be the second to the High Druid and successor to his titles. His family has been a bit aloof from the goings-on of the world of the "civilized" folks, preferring to live as their ancestors did: in the trees or forest havens. It has been a half century since Adachio's release from his parents and dedication as his father's second. He is most comfortable going along with warrior entourages offering his magical support as needed. RP Sample:

[Drakeblade]

Application Name: Durzo Voidrunner Race: Darkling Class: Summoner x11 / Cavalier x11 (Beast Rider Variant) Age Category: 86 Adult Details Description:   In the dark, Durzo is an ominous figure to behold. The first things you would see are the eyes. Dark blue with waves of green staring back at you. His black coal colored skin would be almost invisible in the darkness of the caves he calls home, if not for the many scars that contrast in silvery lines. A conglomerate of Talon, Claw, Slashes and Arrow holes run down his arms and along his body. Standing at 4’ 2” his strong, lean muscles would be reminiscent of a panther stalking its prey. In combat Durzo is normally seen in darkened chain armor, obviously having seen its fair share of battle. Like all of his equipment though it is kept in excellent repair. He uses a lance from the back of a mount as a preferred form of combat. However he is known to use a nodachi if the situation isn’t favorable to mounted combat or forced into close quarters. He is rarely seen without his other worldly horror, Vel’kor. A monster that changes shape, but is always a sight that leaves the beholder at least slightly unnerved. It’s many eyes make it hard to discern exactly what the creature is watching. Possibly everything at once. Its skin, a black abyss darker than the night sky. Twinges of a dark violet light that flares then disappears. Much like stars, except moving around its body. It's skin gives the appearance of being texture less, looking like most objects would glide right off of it. When Vel’kor is present, Durzo shares these dark violet lights blinking in and out of existence on his forehead. Normally he keeps this covered with a Helmet or Headband as not to alert anyone not already aware of Vel’kor’s presence. Personality:   Looking back on his childhood as an orphan, he used to be much more cheerful. The military and constant fighting he had found himself doing most his life had hardened him. By no means a genius, he could however be seen as a clever man. He is very adaptive to situations and stays calm in the face of danger. Being very much a realist, he takes a very logical and systematic approach. Reading a situation and acting in a way that put himself in the best position to achieve his wants. Enjoying the challenge of hunting and discovery, he joined the Order of the Cockatrice. Always on the look for something bigger, rarer, better whether it be to claim it, or defeat it. Through doing these deeds he grows in power. He seeks glory at the cost of almost anything, though it is a personal need and as such never flaunting his glory. You could say that his journey is to become his very own sun. He works for others only when their is something to be gained. Otherwise he searches, believing knowledge is best learned though experience. History/RP Sample Background:   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Industry Guard Outpost 3. Incident report 7 Month: Sun / Week: 3rd / Day: Lasda Criminal: Hulghar (Deceased) Victims: Delhar Corinth (Deceased) and Vallin Corinth (Deceased). Durzo Corinth (Unharmed) Today another house was broken into during Night Watch. Hulghar seems to have entered via breaking a back window. After entering the house, he was confronted by Delhar and Vallin. Both bodies were found with marks that we concluded came from a crowbar. Death occurred from loss of blood after being knocked unconscious. Hulghar then proceeded to start stealing valuables. While attempting to open a chest in the storage room, something happened that killed him. It left no burns or trails, but it did left a hole through his torso. Their son Durzo is the only member to survive the incident. He supposedly walked into the room to see Hulghar have a “small dark being burst through his back.” This does give explanation for the massive hole in Hulghar. However no tracks have been found and nobody has reported seeing this “Being”. We believe Durzo was in shock and misinterpreted a magical ward triggering that must have been on the chest. The army has an early recruitment program for children like him. I imagine it will do him good, so he will be transferred to the Army in the morning. He will be allowed to take a single small bag of personal items, the rest will be sold to cover recruitment fees. -Lieutenant Fenrir ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Taking the old report back from her. Those events seemed so vivid to this day, but that had been well over 40 years ago. Snapping back to the moment at hand, continuing on “That was the start of many things. I learned in training that I wasn't crazy. The “Being” was Vel’kor a creature from another plane that bounded with me. I’m not exactly sure why but most likely because of my magical talent. He has grown with me as our travels constantly take us to more dangerous places. I serviced in the army for 8 years, fighting for the state and over time becoming a captain. After which I joined the Order of the Cockatrice and took the name Voidrunner. I now travel the land looking for lost artifacts and hunting both monsters and enemy combatants alike.” She just stood there for a moment then said “I know most of your feats since then, you spent a great deal of time hunting great beasts, the Tyrannosaurus I ride is one of the beasts you brought back from your expeditions. I also know of the Elves that you spent several years preying on in their forests.” Pausing for a moment with a look like she was contemplating something. Durzo, voiced in the moment of silence “I apologize Bright One Vindara, you praise me with your interest and presence. But I’m afraid I still don’t know why you called on me. Is their some matter that I can assist you in?”. Glaring slightly at me for talking out of turn “I will not warn you again, never, cut me off." in a voice so soft and pleasant, it was hard to tell that if was an actually threat. She continued "I have chosen you for task, to slay something that may very well not exist. I have no doubt you have heard of this “God” that has risen. Supposedly he has been granting priests that worship him power. Also rumors of humans always surround talk of this God. I want you to find out the truth of this false God and if... if any humans are found kill them as well. I will of course reward you handsomely for proof of the false Gods death. Take care of this matter, how you see fit.” Turning to a scribe.“Let it be known, Durzo now holds the title Harbinger and the rank Grand Master with Mastery of the Hunt. Let this false "God" know the might of the Dark Abyss nation and Harbinger. Let no one stop you on this mission.” Allowing himself a small smirk of both honor and honest excitement "I will do as you ask Bright One. I can't say I've had the pleasure of hunting a God before.". Bowing, taking in the moment for just a second before turning to leave. Character Sheets Durzo Vel'kor - Eidolon   Vel'kor, a being who seems like he should simply not exist. None would confuse him with a classic daemon, for he looks more like the void of space then anything spawned of satanic gods. While his shape changes time to time he always has an unnatural look and aura about him. He gives intelligent races a tingle just by looking a him. Normal animals panic and try to flee if they find themselves to close to him. Able to speak and comprehend common, he usually keeps most responses to single words or short statements. Cora - Animal Companion   Cora, shes a Velociraptor that was captured on one of several hatchlings that were caught on an expedition several years back. She now travels with him, using her to lure out things that might otherwise be compelled to flee from Himself or Vel'kor.

[kedcoleman]

Name: Irakli "Ira" Vakhtang
Race: Felinus (Catfolk)
Class: Mysterious Stranger (Gunslinger) | Gunsaint (Samurai)
Age Category: Adult

Description: Standing at 5'6", Irakli is of average height, with a lean build. He wears heavy, well-worn leather riding boots, brushed steel spurs attached at the heels. Dusty brown trousers and a pale, washed-out green shirt cover the rest of his body. Over his shoulders a darker green poncho, faded by dust, and trimmed with blue thread. A wide-brimmed leather hat sits atop his head, shrouding his face in shadow. Across his hips a thick leather belt from which hangs a holster, faded by age, containing a oiled and polished pistol.

Personality: Quiet and pragmatic. Living rough on the range has made Irakli understand that there is little time for niceties, especially when dealing with those who would do you harm. Justice must be swift and decisive. And justice is one thing Irakli values above all else - he has been taught, and believes, that law and order is essential to a functioning society. Because of his upbringing, and the society he grew up in, he values freedom almost as much as law. Irakli tends not to waste time and energy on unnecessary talking or action, keeping a tight rein on his emotions.

Background:

The Hyertine Plains. An arid, grassy, scrub plains dominated by the semi-nomadic Gnoll Clans. They are, however, not the only people to call the plains home. Some choose the plains for the freedom, the lawlessness, the ability to do what they choose, without the threat of reprisal. The Felinus who have carved out a home on the plains, however, are not those people.

Centuries ago, they lived among their brethren in the distant land of Caruthia's Rest, the ancestral home of their feline race. There, the people lived their lives peacefully, troubled only by the neighboring Goblins. Still, the Felinus enclaves' clung to the worship of the long-dead Caruthia. There were some among the Felinus who chafed under the ever-present religion, resenting its influence over the people. Had they not fought and died to be free from overbearing "Gods", and the chance to determine their own fate? The ultimate schism between the Felinus and those who left was painful and lingering, though bloodless.

Many long years the caravan of Felinus people crisscrossed the lands, looking for a place to make their home. Many died, never knowing rest, many left the caravan, never to return. Much diminished, the band of Felinus finally came to the Hyertine Plains. Ostensibly ruled over by the Gnolls, the leaders of their caravan negotiated a truce with the Clan Elders of the Gnolls: they could settle in the eastern ranges of the plains, in exchange for preferential trade agreements on farmed goods - something the nomadic Gnolls were in short supply of. And so the Felinus began the task of building houses and farms on the open land. Centuries later, that small village has become several, scattered across the eastern range connected by a network of dirt roads.

A land so expansive and populated by such an unpredictable people as the Gnolls is not easy to protect. Thee Felinus do not have the easy, peaceful lives of their distant kinfolk. Here, on the plains, life is hard, often brutally short. Wild Gnolls often roam the fringes of the Felinus lands, raiding farms and ranches for whatever they can make off with. Most Felinus young can shoot a bow before their 10th birthday. But bows and farmers are no match for the raiding Gnolls - and others, some perhaps worse than Gnolls - on their own. For that reason, the Felinus maintain a force for the protection of their lands and peoples; a highly-trained, dedicated, troop of soldiers trained in the mastery of firearms. The Marshalls are the best of the best - trained to shoot, ride, and enforce the laws of the Felinus lands. They spend their lives riding the plains going from town to town, keeping an ever watchful eye on the horizon for new threats.

This is the life that Irakli Vakhtang was born into. The third son of a Felinus rancher, he was taught from a young age to ride, shoot, and handle the animals on the ranch. Though they lived in untamed wild, Irakli was always taught that law and order was what separated them from the raiders, that without the structure of laws their society would dissolve into complete chaos. Anytime a Marshall came through the area, his father would point them out, telling stories of their amazing prowess and how important their job was. When he was old enough - barely 15 years old - he, inevitably, left the ranch to become a Marshall.

The training was intensive; morning to night, training, learning, riding, shooting. Irakli had never handled an actual gun, before joining the Marshalls. Within a few months he could strip, clean, and reassemble his pistol blindfolded. The gun was the most important tool in the Marshall's arsenal. The enforcing hand of the law - a Marshall without a gun was just man, no more or less. The recruits were taught to keep their weapon on them at all times, always prepared for danger. Drills would be staged at any time, day or night. Recruits would be expected to be up and alert at the drop of a hat. When they weren't training, they were learning - the letter of the law, geography, survival techniques. For four years this went on, until Irakli was given his badge, a fully-trained Marshall of the Felinus Range in the Hyertine Plains.

Irakli spent the years that followed living the life he had trained so hard for. Riding alone across the plains, keeping the peace. It was a hard life, one that demanded constant vigilance and alertness, and he only had the chance to see his family perhaps a handful of times over the course of those years, but it was a life he enjoyed. Perhaps he lived in discomfort, in constant threat of death or worse, but his perseverance meant that others - his family, the people in the towns, the livestock, travelers through their lands - could known at least a little peace and freedom. When the word reached the leaders of the Felinus in Hyertine, their decision was quick. They, the Felinus of Hyertine, had travelled across the lands, endured hardships for centuries, to be free of religion - for a new "God" to try to force itself on the people of the world would not stand. They picked one of their best and brightest - Irakli Vahktang - and sent him out from the plains to represent their interests to those who would put a stop to this unwanted religion.

 

Two days ride from Eagle Hollow. Two days ride from the closest thing to civilization anywhere around. Out here, it was just dirt, rocks, and the occasional patch of grass. And cattle. Nearby ranchers ran the herds through this expanse once or twice a year to market in Eagle Hollow. A couple miles to the south there was a narrow river, on both sides of the dusty grass, cliffs of red stone. A perfect spot for an ambush. Which is, one might surmise, exactly what the band of orcs hunkered around the fire there also thought, when they killed the ranchers and rounded up their herd. They left the bodies about a half mile north of their camp, dragged into a ditch.

The soft clink of spurs was almost quiet enough to be buried under the crackle of the fire and the noise of orcish conversation. The sound of the gun's hammer being pulled back, too. The orcs didn't even notice the lean man walking towards the campfire. "Seems to me we have some cattle rustlers," the silhouetted man says, stopping 30 feet from the fire. Startled, the orcs jump up grabbing their swords. "You are bound by law. Drop your weapons and --" The orcs howl, lunging forwards towards the man. The gunshot echoes across the valley like a crack of thunder. The largest of the orcs drops to the ground, a crater where the back of his head used to be. The other two orcs stop, taking a small step back but still brandishing your weapons. "As I was saying: drop your weapons and surrender. You will be taken to Eagle's Hollow where you will be remanded into their custody. There are two of you, and I have 6 more bullets. Reckon even orcs can count that high." A long second passed, the orcs looked back and forth between themselves and the man with the gun. They dropped the swords and raised their hands in the air.

The gunman slowly walks forward, into the firelight, the flickering flames illuminating the feline face under the wide hat. He keeps his steely gaze on the two orcs. He slowly holsters the pistol. "Good choice. Let's go."

[Battlechaser]

Name: Jorth
Race: Dwarf
Class: Monk (sensei, qingong) 4 - Inquisitor (spellbreaker, spellkiller) 7 // Druid 11 (menhir savant)
Age category: Old

What has come before "Focus!" The voice of his master drifted through the nothingness and shattered Jorth's meditation. Almost. The young dwarf's face sagged with disappointment. His sensei sighed. "If you get distracted that easily, how can you expect to join the Mountain Wardens? Again." Jorth assumed the Lotus-position - although he looked more like someone dropped a sack of bricks on the ground - closed his eyes and started to slow his breathing. As his meditative state deepened, Jorth's spirit expanded until... It met something else, no several...no one grand conciousness regarding the little dwarf with mild curiosity. He could almost feel the benevolent smile upon the entity's face. Wha.. Jorth started. What am I? It replied. I am the ground you walk upon, the tree you chop, the mosquito that stings, the eagle in the sky. Well, you get the meaning. By Bjornstadt's smelly breath. You're right. He really needs to brush his teeth. There was a distinct feminine quality to the chuckle that followed. Jorth's eyes went wide open and his eyebrows almost rose to the top of his skull. The first thing he saw was the grinning face of his master who said. "She does have a peculiar sense of humor. Welcome to the Wardens." Thus began Jorth's training for real. He learned the unarmed techniques from the Wardens. His connection with Earth deepened and he was at peace. Until that fateful day.

Hunt The sun beat down relentlessly on the grizzled old dwarf's bald pate. His skin had taken on the hue of darkened aged leather - the effect of spending most of his time outside exposed to the elements. Twigs and dust stained his pepper-and-salt colored beard and a passing sparrow used his left shoulder as a temporary resting place. Jorth didn't notice - well, actually he noticed, but he didn't mind. His attention was focused on the small assembly before him. Jorth had been following their trail after finding the mutilated corpses of a few ElvesLongears. Massacre The area of the slaughter was utterly devoid of life and animals and vermin gave it a wide birth. Jorth could almost taste the foulness that clung to this deadened stretch like a thin film of oil after a spill. "Necromancer." The dwarf gritted through clenched teeth and snapped his knuckles. "No bloody mage will do this in my mountains and live." After studying the tracks Jorth corrected himself. "Sort off." A bloody farruking lich. Why would he leave two good corpses behind?... He wouldn't. Swiftly he looked back at the remains - at least where he expected them to be. The cadavers shambled towards the stocky dwarf. "Idiot. Bloody f...ing idiot. Always check for undead. You should know better by now." Jorth did not wait for the zombies to reach him. He rushed towards the nearest one and punched his fist through the undead's skull - instantly snuffing out its animating force. The other one needed a few more blows before it finally stopped moving. The dwarf wiped the gore from his fists on a rock. "I'll get the bastard who's done this to you." Jorth vowed. He did not like elves, but no one deserved to be animated as a freaking zombie. It took him three days to finally track the necromancer down. It was accompanied by a score or more zombies and skeletons of different origins, even some giants. Learning from his earlier mistake Jorth extended his senses in all directions insearch of the walking dead. Except for the undead posse ahead of him nothing beeped on his radar. Good. Now what made you come here, by Bjornstadt's hairy but? The dwarf followed the lich, taking care to remain unseen. His mountains still held way too many secrets. If this necromancer led him to one, Jorth would make sure it continued to be secret. He had learned the hard way that some things are better left forgotten. Remembrance "Come on!" Yrsa yelled as she dashed over the narrow mountain path with the elegance of a mountain goat, her long red braid flapping behind her. Huffing and puffing the young Jorth followed his love. "We...we shouldn't be doing this." "What? Are you scared?" Yrsa looked back over her shoulder. "Scared? No." Jorth reacted indignant. "Nay, girl. It's called common sense. The Elders warned us to stay away from Mandril's Tower." "Elders schmelders." The girl teased. "Now move it, beardling. We're almost there." A few more turns and they came upon the vista of a bloodred tower cleaving the sky like an upright middle finger at the Gods. Rumors had it that Mandril was partly responsible for banishing the Gods, but had gone mad in the process. Having withdrawn in his tower, the hermit-mage tolerated no visitors. Everyone coming near Mandril's refuge was either blasted to smithereens or turned into a statue. But the last centuries no one had been killed and there were talks of some explorers even entering the tower. "We should turn back." Jorth put his hand on Yrsa's shoulder, who gave him a look he knew all too well. She would not stop until she had tried it. Sometimes you need to let go of the one you love the most. And that was what Jorth did -hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. Each year at the same day he goes to visit Yrsa's statue and repeats his vow. "One day I will find Mandril and force him to release you." More than a century had passed and Jorth had killed scores of mages but Mandril had eluded his hunt until now. His hatred had led him astray from the Wardens, yet he continued to protect his Mistress. The undead group took a twisting path through a narrow ravine and ended in front of a small cavern. The lich sent three zombies forward into the waiting dark, only to be be showered in various body parts after a series of muffled explosions. Ah, fodder. As the walking bag of bones started for the entrance, Jorth thought Now. He called upon his connection with the natural forces and created a chasm underneath the feet of a very surprised lich. An astonished "Oh sh.." was followed by several dull thuds as the undead connected with the spikes at the bottom of the pit. The druid knew this would not be enough and followed through with a pillar of bright fire that seared the contents of the pit before changing himself into a rough-crusted earth elemental. Sinking into the ground Jorth ploughed on, erupted into the chasm and started to pummel the lich into oblivion. The foul creature cast malicous spell after spell but Jorth just shrugged them off and continued to punching it, every hit crushing multiple bones until only pulp remained. Panting heavily from the exertion the - once again - dwarf sat on his hunches in front of the cavern entrance. After he regained his breath Jorth said, his voice weary. "I'm getting too old for this." Yet he knew he could not stop, no he would not stop even if his life depended on it. He would continue to protect his mountains, his land, his world. And threats just kept on coming.

[Panthas]

Name: Farash the Ebonhunter
Race: Tengu
Class: Ranger 11/ Wizard 11
Age Category: 30(Adult)

Description Piercing eyes look out of a ravenlike face, the eyes are an odd, deep red shade that take in all they see, shifting as they look over the object before them. The beak is a sleek black shade, sharp and wickedly looking, capable of piercing flesh with ease. His body is slender and atheletic, covered in wiry muscles honed for athletic ability. His feathers are sleek and well kept, a glossy black that seems to soak up the light. He stands at the short height of 4’5”, having to gaze up at most people. His clothes are travel worn but still in good condition. Sturdy dark green leather breeches reach down to his ankles, stopping just above his black clawed feet. Across his waist is a belt with several pouches on it, holding unknown items within. His shirt is tucked into his breeches and is a deep burnt orange color. Across his back is strung a lovingly carved bow, well taken care of, with designs running up and down its length. His quiver of arrows is usually slung from his hip, but sometimes it is across his back with his bow.

Personality Farash tends to be an odd individual. Having grown up in a rather secluded part of the world, he grew up to like the quiet and smell of the forest. He was tutored in the ways of nature, though he learned more the knowledge of it more than the skills. He is thoughtful and often quiet, with much of his focus being turned to the heavier questions of philosophy. Having spent his life contemplating the heavier subjects of arcane mysteries he does enjoy a good laugh and lighthearted fun. He isn't afraid to let his hair down and enjoy a night out, and he also is more than happy to argue, though if it is holding up progress he has been known to do what needs doing for the greater good. He is hopeful, hopeful that at the end of the day people think hard about their lives and what they are doing. They do not live in a perfect world , but they must strive, as a country, as a continent, as a world, to do better, the only question is one of how? Don’t mention his race though, he is touchy about other people talking about them, and he is touchy about them, due to having many an unkind thought towards their way of life. He is accepting the quest to end the rise of the church of God because he sees the danger in such a church. The Heroes of Old were right to end the old gods, they were the cause of war and hatred between people when there was enough of that with just racial tensions. The rise of one God could lead to more, and that must be stopped, and that is why Farash’s bow is read to fire.

Background: Farash is a ranger's ranger. His father was a ranger and he started to training Farash to be one from an early age. His mother was more a gatherer than a hunter, she liked to wander the forest for berries and mushrooms and she also helped keep the communal garden that their community had in the sunnier spots of the forest. Farash spent his youth out in the forest, hunting with his father, learning in whispered voices the way of nature and the role of the ranger. His father spoke glowingly of nature, of its beauty and elegance, but to Farash it was an ugly thing. He saw its blood and violence, and though he could see the beauty as well, he didn't ignore the rest. He was also very happy to learn gardening from his mother, who was quiet and thoughtful, but she loved plants and showed him much about them. He lived with them in the forest for well on 16 years as he trained, and it was not until he reached that age that he ever saw the outside world. On his 16th year, his father and mother were the chosen of the community sent to trade the community’s fur and goods in the Halfling Enclave. On that journey he saw so many things it felt like his head would burst with all the different places out there. He saw mountains and lakes, caravans and other races, and most of all, he saw the city. It was beautiful to him with its tall buildings, marketplaces full of all sorts of objects, belching clouds of smoke, and most of all….magic. He hadn’t seen much magic, only nature magic, plants and growth, but this, this was fire and light, thunder and cold, invisible forces moving things, transformations, it was beautiful. He left that city with a stack of books, precious magic books bought for him to read. He tore through them, even taking them on his hunts, and he and the natural world were very surprised on the day he was fooling around and suddenly bright light started pouring out of his bow. From then on he strove to become a mage, something vey few tengu ever did. He left the forest soon after, going out to see the world, to travel it, to tear down the world’s idea of a tengu. He first apprenticed himself to an elven wizard and learned with him for several years to increase his knowledge before he struck out on his own again. During that time he was exposed to the prejudice of other races and he learned of the elven hatred of their darker skinned brethren. He left his elven master very thoughtful, the information of the Drow and their fanatical devotion to their evil deity. Over the years his power grew, one of the most thrilling moments of his life was achieving flight by spell. It was something his people dreamed of constantly, and he now knew why when he swooped along the currents. The feel of the wind through his feathers, of being lighter than air, spinning through the air with the other birds, that was a day of much happiness and laughter in the lonely wilderness. His deeds and exploits as a wizard did filter back to his country, though he didn’t return there often, finding the forest to be a heavy, stagnating presence to him and very boring. He did return on his 28th birthday and found that his father had died after being gored by a bore and his mother was following soon after in her old age. That was a very trying and touching time, and not one he likes to talk about. His constant companion in life is his Roc Ialdo, he saved him as a chick, the nest had been robbed and the mother had been shot, her bloody, broken body had covered his egg, keeping it warm and Farash had found the nest, fuming about having not been able to catch up with the pack of poachers had been following. He had taken the chick with him, keeping it warm through magic and when the chick hatched it had bonded with him. They soared together now, sometimes with Farash riding Ialdo, sometime alongside each other, though Farash had a hard time matching the magnificent roc’s speed. Lately Farash has become an avenger of sorts of his people. They know how to contact them in times of stress and if the situation is beyond them he has been known to help out. He has become like a black shadow, stalking those that prey on his people and using his abilities to right the wrongs where his people cannot. Now if only they will learn to believe in themselves and draw strength from that to become more than victims.

RP Sample Rain still dripped from the trees, though the drizzle had stopped half an hour before. Farash sat upon a strong, thick limb, wet with the remnants of rain. He was huddled under a forest green cloak and his widebrimmed hat had drops of rain hanging from its rim. On a limb several yards behind him sits Ialdo, his friend and ally in life, his confidant, silent though he usually was. The roc had his eyes moving here and there, taking stock of the forest around him as Farash waited. In his clawlike hands was his bow, his thumb claw gently caressing the body of the bow, feeling the carvings he has worked into the wood over many years. He smiled, listening as he waited and he looked for a moment down at the arrow laid along the bow. "Death comes to us all, on silent wings, today it comes on swift ones." He said softly, just barely a whisper murmured to himself as he sat patiently. His prey would be approaching soon, the moment he had spent a week planning for, learning the habits of this one, its general path, habits, places it went. He was ready though. He raised his fingers in the air started to whisper, arcane words flowing from his tongue, carving a pattern in the air with his claws and that air seemed to shiver where his claws passed. His beak clicked softly as he spoke and then with a final word spoken with power the air shimmered and the condensed into the form of a cylinder that slid down and wrapped around his bow, making it vibrate and seem to swell slightly in his hand. He smiled and nodded before looking up even as Ialdo let out a soft call for him to hear, just loud enough, and he nodded and fell into his next casting holding up a small symbol of a target which pulsed for a moment as he uttered the syllables of the spell and then traced his finger along his arrow, causing it to shiver for a moment and then it was ready. As he looked up his target walked into the clearing. He smiled and drew his bow, feeling it in his hand, the bow flexing, the sound of the string pulling taunt as it held the arrow, ready to leap into action. As the figure moved to the center of the clearing he breathed out, his focus narrowed in on his target, seeing only it and the path to it. As he let out the last of his breath he let loose, the bow thrumming as the arrow slid against it and then it was off. Winging through the air, spinning and flying straight for its target, if it had had a voice it probably would have screamed out with glee. It cut through the air, zipping past branches and starling a bird in its nest as it went swiftly past. With a thud it sank into the neck of the prey, causing it to let out a gurgled not before it fell to the forest floor, blood running down its neck as it gasped out its last breaths. On the branch Farash nodded and whistled to Ialdo. The roc leapt off of its branch and came to Farash with heavy wingbeats. He leapt onto the back of his companion and they lifted up into the air. The throbbing sound of large wings pumping through the air made the air around him as he grinned and punched the air. He slipped his bow onto his back and let out a long breath as Ialdo brought them to the clearing and landed on a fallen log. He leapt from his back onto the log as well and then moved towards the body. His shadow fell across the body, the body of a male tiefling. He crouched down next to it, feeling for a pulse. He felt nothing and he looked down coldly at the corpse. Shaking his head he patted down the body, taking anything of value before standing up. " Those who prey on the weak and the different because of their race should be wary, for not all are weak, among them lurks defenders, with swift arrows." He turned and moved back to Ialdo, moving lightly so as to not leave prints. He leapt from the log onto the roc’s back and with a whistle they set off, flying onward on their journey, leaving behind the body of the cooling tiefling far below.

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[Nevrend]

Xavier Weirlind Name: Xavier Weirlind Race: Tiefling Class:Summoner(Synthesist Archetype)/Fighter(Polearm Master Archetype) Age Category: Old (-3 physical stats, +2 mental stats)   An elderly, grey skinned teifling with slicked back horns who looks like he was once a powerful warrior. The glint in his eye and the polearm he uses as a walking stick suggest that perhaps his fighting days aren't quite over yet.   20 feet tall with blood red skin, the other one is a terrifying figure. Tangled horns and spines cover his body from horrific head to whip like tail. Personality: Xavier can easily be described as calm and methodical. He always prefers to think his way out of difficult situations. At least when he is in his normal form...   Absolutely insane in every way, the other one enjoys all that others would dread. Though normally contained by Xavier, the other one always seeks to be free of his vessel's command.   In his youth, Xavier fought in many wars. His skills with the polearm were almost unmatched. Despite victory after victory, no one can evade the grip of time. Eventually years of combat began to catch up on the no-longer young warrior. After a grievous wound nearly slew him, Xavier decided that it was getting time to find a new profession to sustain him as he aged. It only took a few years for Xavier to realize that the only thing he was good at was fighting.. Unfortunately, his aged body could no longer withstand a battle. Not one to except fate, Xavier searched for a way to regain his former power. After years of searching, he came across a group of spell casters with a dangerous solution. By tapping into the fiendish power of his lineage, it would be possible to grant Xavier physical power beyond his wildest dreams. He gladly agreed to take part in the experimental ritual. Three months later Xavier woke up in the ruins of a halfling village. He quickly realize three things. The first was that he was covered in halfling blood. The second was that the experiment must have gone horribly wrong. The third was that he no longer was alone with his thoughts. Something else was sharing his body. It was 11 years and 23 massacred villages latter before Xavier managed to finally reign in control over his other occupant. Soon after he learned to utilize the powers granted by the other one. Armed with both spells and a terrifying ally Xavier returned to the battlefield as a powerful mercenary. While Xavier's spells rendered him quite useful, it was the other one that earned a reputation. Many armies learned the terror that the demonic form of the other one could inflict.   "You need me to fight the followers of a new god?" Xavier asks the recruiter. Hmmm, this could cause a great many problems. He thinks to himself.A new god? With an army to boot? So many to fight. A walking sea of blood. Such fun! Please let me at them. I haven't slaughtered the devote in thousands of years! Please, can I? A twisted voice in his head pleads in response. Xavier quickly realizes that, ironically, he won't get any peace unless he goes to war. "Very well you have my aid. Lead the way." Other: I have always wanted to play a fun character with an extreme split personality.