[Characters] Applications

[Moridain]

Norisaldier Race: Elan Class: Psion (Egoist) 10/Metamorph 10 Early life: Born to a family of poor human farmers, his deformed leg was quickly spotted. Not able, or willing, to feed a 'useless' mouth they gave him to a local monastery. Raised among them they discovered his talent for both Psionics and Martial abilities, though his crippled leg proved to be beyond the places means to repair. Always ashamed of his twisted leg, seeing it as far worse an injury than it truly was, he wished to be able to change himself. To become bigger, stronger. Better. Then one day a person with flaming red hair and a wicked smile came to the monastery and-zzZZzzzzz -End of Memories- Optional but Influential: A twisted leg, such a small thing in modern days but where he was born on a harsh mountainside where farming is the only way of life and the unfit are treated as unworthy of life it was massive. Even after years of being raised and living with non-judgemental psionic monks it still defined his view of the world, making him in turn judge those around them. Master Clo'then, a Psion of the temple, was of great influence in turning him from what could have been a horrific life of lonely coldness. The ethics and self-worth he helped instil in him did not get rid of his focus on the physical bodies around him, but his views became more sympathetic than judgemental. Though nowhere near the martial fighters they were, at least not initially, the martial focus of the monastery lead his psionics down the physical and internal path it did. Other: Sitting in the bar the creature looked at their hands, blank and featureless and without distinguising features. They weren't a human, as they remembered being once upon a time. And to call themself a male would also be wrong, as an examation in a mirror earlier testified. Looking around, they see the bar remains empty. They had arrived with some fanfare after all, naked and curious but not fearful. A man had approached them, he had attempted to push them around. They had been afraid for a time, but only until they felt themselves shifting into... something else. For a time he had been big and strong and male and powerful, and the man had been thrown through a nearby wall. But then they shifted back into this... Always to this... "I do not know who I am." they admit after a moment, thinking about that, about the ramifications. Something tells them they should be full of worry about this fact, to have a desire to regain their memories. But in truth... They are happy. Smiling they stand up, stretching the strong arms and legs suddenly under their control. They feel powerful! Nearly indestructable! And with this body, they can run! Laughing now, the sound discordant as if from one who has never laughed before but is simply copying those of others, they run down the street. "I CAN RUN!" they cry, smiling at those they pass. It is a warm, genuine smile but it still puts them on edge. They don't mind though, spreading their arms and warping themself into a massive bird with a head. She cried out "I CAN FLY!" She flies out of the town, the birds voice crying out her exaltation! Note: I see him being fairly somber much of the time, but he is also very genuine. He will express his feelings and desires openly and with no shame.

[grenadierman]

Name: Bardi Kolsrud
Race: Human
Class: Ranger
Early Life: The sole of his right foot gave a painful itch, bleeding out a trail as he dragged and limped his frail self back home. He was lightheaded, a blow to the back of the head left it bleeding and he found it difficult to keep one of his eyes open. It hurt every time he tried. The thought of coming back to his adopted father's home slowly waded in to mind, and the boy stopped in his tracks his lips pursed. He hobbled instead to the treeline beside the trail, the wet grass cool beneath his feet and offering a small relief for the sharp debris nestled deep in his right foot. There, he found himself a tree, settled down against it and made himself comfortable, waiting for either the wolves, bandits, dire hunger, brisk cold of the night or his foster parents to find him.

There was no one on the trail when he sat down, but when he opened his eyes again there was one. A hunched over figure, hooded and using a walking stick for assistance she slowly made her way to him. Bardi felt no desire to move or stand up, in fact he was feeling quite warm where he was despite wearing tattered rags in the cold evening. He did not so much as raise his head to look at the hunched thing, even. "Boy." the elderly voice made Bardi assume the worst: a hag, come to take his soul. "My time draws near, and I have nothing to afflict upon the world. I've weathered many a winter and toyed with just as many witch hunters, but there isn't one that would remember me should I die. So, boy, would you like to parry Death itself?"

Personality: Because a rough childhood is the only thing he can remember currently, he has a rather quiet, almost brooding demeanor to him. The greatsword and longbow he carries seem to be the tools of his trade, and his ability to trek and survive outside of man's domain is exceptional. Though his memory is muddled, he almost instinctively puts great care into taking care of his wolf companion and seems to at least remember the wolf's name, Magda. The same name of the old crone who talked to him before what must've certainly been a final night for him.

Description: The man carries a strong stench of the outdoor wilds, and indeed his hands and feet are calloused from what appear to be years, or at least a whole decade of hard labour. Labour which, were it not for the young dragon's head and bounty paper he kept in his bag would not have been mistaken for anything other than that of a lumberjack or farmer. He has the build to match the former, at a little past 6 feet in height and with muscles that might crush a young man's head if he wrapped his arms around it. His black hair cut short, practical and his habit of close shaves keeps him free of facial hair. His most recognizable trait however are his eyes, rich in the same silver colour as that of his sword sets him apart from most people at a glance. Curiously, a gold wedding ring is seated snugly to his ring finger, with the initials JB stamped underneath it.

[Eviltedzies]

Eviltedzies Application "To win, but not destroy; to conquer, but not humiliate: That is what true conquest is!" Name: Karanos Sarakinov III Race: Human Age: 18 prior to memory loss Homeland: The Kingdom of Iskanthar Class: Warlord (Fighter otherwise)   Description Standing at 6’4” with a chiseled body of chorded muscle crisscrossed with various scars, Karanos strikes an imposing figure to any who face him on the battlefield. His wild dark red hair flows in the wind as he rides his chariot into battle booming forth his battle cry “Alalalala” in a commanding voice. His preferred garment consists of a bronze breastplate intermixed with studded leather that is completed with a set of grieves and cuffs. Despite his intimidating appearance, his slowly growing facial stubble and eager personality reveal his youth far more than his physical prowess. On the battlefield Karanos is a sight to behold as he runs down his foes on horseback while slicing through them with his father’s spatha. Even on foot when blood and sweat cover his sun tanned skin, Karanos shouts out cries of encouragement to his men in a voice that shows no fear. Off the battlefield, people find Karanos easily able to shed his intimidating appearance with a hearty laugh, wide smile, and one look from his crimson eyes.   Personality Karanos does not try to hide his great ambition to conquer the known world. His passion for wanting to see all there is to see inspires those around him. He values his companionship with his fellow soldiers and citizens and can slip into a jovial mood as easily as he can outdrink just about any of them. He is an honorable, yet fierce fighter. Every worthy foe he faces is given the chance to join him or surrender. Those that don’t are overwhelmed by the ferocity and cunning that Karanos brings upon them on the battlefield. Those who have known him often remark on his towering figure and the noble air that he gives off as he speaks. Karanos holds no misgivings about how others might view his dream as “tyrannical”, yet Karanos is determined that for all the tears he may shed he will never regret chasing after his dream.   Background Born the heir to the kingdom of Iskanthar, Karanos was destined for greatness. As the only son of King Sarakinov II, Karanos was given all manner of teachers and training during his childhood. The country of Iskanthar was strong militarily and its prince was drilled from the day he could walk in all manner of military stratagems. Yet at the insistence of his mother, Karanos was also tutored in reading, writing, and history so he could better understand the country and the people he would one day be meant to rule. Karanos looked up to his father as a man who fought side by side with his men and shared in their victories and defeats. As soon as he was old enough, Karanos enlisted in his father's army and refused to be given a higher rank due to his birth. Karanos stated that he wished to earn his rank and in making such a statement he earned the respect of many of his fellow soldiers. His years in the army began to reveal his father's blood in him as Karanos grew to tower over most normal men. In addition, Karanos became well known for his skills in battle as well as his ability to inspire those around him no matter how dire the situation. Outside of battle, his love of sports, riding, and drinking endeared him with the citizens who saw him as truly one of the people. King Sarakinov II continued to inspire his son with his massive military campaigns. On the rare nights when Karanos and his father were alone, Sarakinov spoke to his son about the wonders that lay out in the world and how he would one day expand Iskanthar to encompass it all. Sadly, during one of his latest expansion campaigns into a land rife with green as far as the eye could see Karanos' father took ill from an unknown disease and was forced to pull his forces back. King Sarakinov died before he could make it back to his homeland, but not before writing out his final words to his son. When Karanos read his father’s dying words he shed not a tear. The flame of conquest that had burnt so brightly in his father's heart had passed from father to son. His father's death stoked Karanos' passion to see the world and unite it all under the kingdom of Iskanthar. Karanos took the throne on his 18th name day wearing no crown or fine garments; instead, he wore a simple soldiers uniform and bearing his father's sword at his side. Karanos had decided to hold his father's funeral on the same day to honor his name and legacy as a king. As he lit his father's funeral pyre, he called out to the throngs of soldiers and citizens that lay spread out around him. “People of Iskanthar! Let us not weep for my father as he would not have wept for you. My father would have toasted in your name and boasted of your proud accomplishments in life. He would have remembered you in his heart as his people and his friends. So let us now do the same for him as he would do for us. Now raise your heads high as the hopes and dreams of the king lies within each and every one of you, just as it does with me. ALL HAIL KING SARAKINOV!” A thunderous roar echoed across the land for miles as the citizens of Iskanthar paid their final respects to their former king and saw the rise of his son’s era just beginning. That night would be the last night Karanos would ever see his beloved people again…… Adventuring Major Motivations: Finding the remnants of his kingdom and conquering the known world! Fitting Music: Coming soon…..

[JKTrickster]

Application Jack Gallifrey Hey! Hey, w-wait! Wait! Here just....just give me one more moment! Damn it! Damn it! Why can't I have just one...more...second..." - Words Jack will never forget. Race: Human Class: The Temporalist and Master of Time Theme Song: Reluctant Heroes The cover is particularly important because it is much softer and less resolute than the original song. I can imagine Jack himself singing it Appearance: Jack is rather tall, standing at just above 6'2'' but he's hardly an imposing figure. With a slim body and narrow arms, Jack looks more like a marathon runner than an actual warrior of any kind. While Jack is certainly toned and muscular, he body actually looks rather feminine. His thin waist and just slightly wide hips make his form look much softer than it actually is. It doesn't help when his skin is almost perfectly smooth and flawless, like he had never had to suffer through anything in his life. In effect, he looks more like a boyish model instead of a grown up adult. Although Jack certainly isn't the most handsome fellow around, he is definitely easy on the eyes. His most stunning features are his eyes and his hair. His soft, long white hair is definitely strange for someone who otherwise looks so young. It's obviously not dyed or anything, but instead it actually looks like Jack lost all the color in his hair. On the flip side, his bright blue eyes look strained and tired. For someone who looks so young, his eyes simply look so...old. He's really carefree and laid back and he doesn't really stand as straight as he could. He always talks excessively and he can't help but move his hands whenever he starts to get excited. His voice often goes up and down during conversation, and he can't help but get animated about even the smallest things. Unlike the picture, he isn't really someone who goes around posing or looking into the mirror. He only cares about being neat and he hates going without a shower or a bath. So while he might not smell like roses and dandelions, he doesn't smell bad either. Early Life:   Something must be understood about Jack's early life before you make any judgments on his character. So while he isn't merely the sum of his experiences, he's definitely had a...more interesting journey than most. Jack had always grew up with an interesting perspective of what time meant and his relationship with time. While he wasn't able to control it outright, it definitely flowed differently for him. As a little kid, there was nothing better than winning a footrace with that extra second or getting away from his teacher just before he got in trouble. Never realizing he was any different from others, Jack felt life was really easy and relaxing. Jack simply never had to feel rushed or impatient - he always had enough time to finish everything; when he got bored, time sped up for him instead of slowing down. When he felt stressed, time naturally slowed down so he could finish in time. So even from a young age that made him seem calmer and wiser than most other children. He had a feeling that everything would work out, so why would he ever have to worry? It wasn't until he was a teenager that Jack became painfully aware that he was different. For the first time, he felt that he had control over his talents and he quickly realized that no one else was similar to him at all. Once, in a fit of panic, he accidentally froze time for almost a full minute. As a teenager who only wanted to fit in, being able to completely freeze the world was terrifying. He never felt more alone or isolated in his entire life when time was frozen. As everything was stuck in time around him, Jack swore that he would never depend on these powers ever again. He didn't want to be alone, didn't want to be different anymore. Ironically, Jack started to always be late. Without his powers, Jack just couldn't manage to be on time. At first he tried his best to be on time, but eventually he just gave up. He would laugh it off and just say how he would have made it he just got "one more second". That became his favorite phrase: "one more second". He would repeat to his friends, to his teachers, to his family, everyone. It seemed that there was never an occasion that he felt he had to be on time for. Jack never even thought about using his powers again - and after a while, he even believed that he didn't have them anymore. He believed that he was just a normal child, in a normal world and he never had to be alone anymore. On his eighteenth birthday, Jack never felt better before in his whole life. He had his closest friends and family around him. He still remembers the sweet smell of the cake his mother baked and all the smiling faces around the table. He never really laughed more before in his life. It was really the last happiest memory he could think of. Misfortune tends to strike when you least expect it, and always where it can hurt the most. It didn't happen out of malice and honestly it wasn't even that unexpected. Just as everyone left, his Dad walked over to congratulate him. It seemed like he had something to say, something important to tell him. But before he could even open his mouth, his face twisted as he yelled out in pain. Clutching his chest, he collapsed on the ground. At first Jack thought he was joking around, but as the seconds ticked, he felt a growing sense of dread. Kneeling down, he realized his Dad has already stopped breathing. His hands pale and shaking, Jack tried to feel for a pulse, a twitch, anything that might show him that his father was alive and just faking it. "Hey! Hey, w-wait! Wait! Here just....just give me one more moment!" Panicking, clutching his father's body and not even realizing what was happening, Jack closed his eyes and focused. For an eternity he searched his soul for that gift he had long abandoned. And like magic, time started to slow down again. His father's eyes fluttered open as he felt time slow down around him. But it wasn't enough. Jack could barely hold time still for even a second before it was wrest away from him again. Just as he could get it under control, it slipped away. It hurt him even more to see his father's face twist in pain as time washed over him in waves and suffocated him. "Damn it! Damn it! Why can't I have just....one....more....second..." Gritting his teeth, fighting with all his strength, Jack bent time to his will. He felt a pain settle in his chest and his eyes as he pushed harder and harder on the walls of Time. Something that used to come so easy to him...was this the price he paid for neglecting his gifts? But Jack was persistent and he pushed past the pain. He ignored that searing sensation that spread across his head as he screamed. He only wanted one more second. Couldn't the world just bend for one second? Just as he was about to lose hope, Jack felt Time slowly ease up. For just a moment, the world buckled and bent its knee. Time stopped as Jack's father was finally able to breathe easily. Looking up, he only had a smile on his face. His father didn't say much as he touched Jack's face. Looking around, he could the frozen hall of his home and how everything was standing still. But instead of reacting with surprise, Jack's father only smiled on."Heh. Knew you could do it all along, kiddo. Don't be such a dense brick next time around, okay?" Before Jack could even reply, his father shushed him and held him close. Jack had so much he wanted to say but in that moment it didn't matter. With those words, his father was gone. To the outside world, it looked like Jack screamed and managed to catch his father's body just in time. But immediately after, a bright flash exploded outward. Jack collapsed on his father's body, his hair burned white from the sheer stress and toil. Like a small child, his head rested on his father's chest with a face of stress and pain. But even in his death, his father was calmly petting his head, trying to tell him that everything was alright. That he never was the only one alone in the world who could see it frozen and stand still. Personality: More than anything, Jack regrets turning away from his powers when he always had the chance to develop them. Even though he says he doesn't think about it anymore, he knows that he probably could have saved his father. After all if you can control Time, what can't you do? Jack is slowly developing a Messiah complex - he feel personally responsible for everything around him and he wants to "save everybody" and make sure everything is alright. He still doesn't have the wisdom to determine what he can and what he can't change so he always tries his hardest to control himself. He believes that if he can just train up, he can eventually becoming strong enough to never let anyone die ever again. However Jack is still (mentally) young and he is overconfident to a fault. He just knows that he's meant to save the world. With all this newfound power, Jack actually believes he can do it all. So instead of using it with caution and care, and thinking things out, Jack believes that he's finally done it. He can save everyone now. He has the ability and the drive, so now he just has to make it out of here in one piece. After that Jack has to make up for a lot of lost Time....but that isn't hard for him anymore.

[sertaki]

Name: Garad
Race: Human
Class: Soulknife (Gifted Blade, Deadly Fist) 17 / Dread 1 / Monk (Master of Many Styles) 2
Character Sheet
Theme Music

 

Awakening Garad slept in a crowded cell. At least that's where he remembered falling asleep after a night of breaking noses and smashing skulls with beer mugs. Was worth it, even after the orcish brute decided to throw him against the stone wall head-on. He woke up bathed in light. Someone touching him and muttering things - he didn't really listen at first. His head felt heavy, his senses clouded. Not unlike the nights he took too much gray dust, but with less halluzinations. He felt bare steel under his body. He was naked and lying on some kind of table - a medical examination judging from the words he started to notice. Must have been a rougher night than he thought. Suddenly the table gave away and he slid down towards the ground. It happened fast, but he was aware of the fall in a way he was never before. Landing with the grace of a cat he noticed the strangely small gnome, but with a great shock also his own appearance. Where he expected muscular arms and hands, he saw thin sinewy limbs. A ragged white beard has grown on his face, and when he felt for his hair, he found it mostly gone. He looked down again and found his former athletic body replaced by the broken form of an old man, and he despared.

Background Garad lived the life of a ruffian. He was 20 years old when his memories broke off, working part time jobs, mostly in construction or as a bodyguard. He had the muscle and not much brain. Easy to anger and quite eager for trouble, he was a notorious rowdy and regular in the prison - if never for long. After all, he never did anything that endangered "important people", just other low scum as they were called. Well once or twice he robbed rich people, but only when he was unable to find a job and only after making sure he would not be recognized. He wanted to be an adventurer since he was young, but his first try at it went wrong with all his friends dying at the hands of a pack of werewolves. Bad idea that one. He was barely able to hold a sword back than. But after all these years of hard work and bar brawls, he was sure to get it done right. One last night of merry fighting and then off towards glory! That was the plan. Some rich excentric was assembling a party of mercenaries for "important work, no questions asked".

Appearance Once a prime example of masculine power, today Garad lives in the body of a grandfather. 60 years old, mostly bones and skin, rugged white beard - Only necessary muscles left. He could be taken as an easy target for robbery, but then, he wears only simple clothes. Nothing to steal here. And those who would decide to try it anyway might get scared away by his eyes, a look a constant rage hidden in them.

Build Garad led a long life of adventure, in which he learned to control the anger that was his eternal companion. This led him down a path of mental discipline and peace of mind, enabling him to unlock his latent psionic talents and channel his inner rage into devastating attacks. He learned to manifest a few chosen powers, but mostly he concenctrated on the perfection of martial arts. His mind sharpened his own fists into a weapon, one not to be underestimated. The dip in dread is used to give him devastating touch, allowing for the broken dreams style feat chain. This shows his special fighting style, in which he unleashes the pure anger he stores to devastate foes. He is not really a dread in the nightmare-inducing sense of the word, but instills fear in anybody who has to battle him and witnesses his unleashed fury.

 

1. Would you allow the dread power "Lingering Touch" to affect all attacks in a full-attack ?
The damage from his devastating touch is applied to all attacks thanks to broken dreams style, so it should work i think.

2. If i buy a monk's robe, would the improved damage (1d8) also count for his deadly fists (with all enhancement boni)?

[Hanz]

"When there's no more room in hell...
...The Dead shall walk the Other Hell."

Level 5Level 15 Half-Undead

Die Hard

Jean was a great warrior, a powerful cavalier at the head of his country's legion, and a revered leader in a vast army. During a massive battle, his cowardly commanders abandoned him, leaving him for death.

He fought the enemy with all his might, taking 32 other souls with him before he was finally subdued. He was taken as prisoner, his sword arm was cut off, and he was tortured for years, before he finally succumbed to death from his unhygenic prison cell.

When the slain Jean arrived to the underworld, Calistria, the goddess of Revenge, was enraged at how the brave hero was treated. She allowed Jean to return to the world as a Vengeful Spirit. A Ghostly black armored Cavalier with a Black mechanical Flintlock for an arm, riding upon a pitch-dark steed who walks upon the shadows, to come after the selfish commanders who had wronged him in his past life and achieve his revenge.

Vengeful Spirit

Dressed in full black, a long smelly trench coat, studded with powerful metal bolts and engraved in weird Eldrich lettering. He wears a Huge Black Hat, buckled in and firmly gripped onto his skull. People who see Jean never notice his grotesque skeletal figure, for his face is always hidden by a scarf, an eyepatch, and his big hat, hiding away what is left of his frail skinless body.

Even though he is entirely skeletal, Jean can do almost anything a normal human can, Including riding his favorite hose, Shadowrun. A Great Big Black Horse Maned with spice-red hair, his hooves covered in steel studs and his breath stinks of Death, Shadowrun has been Jean's companion ever since his arrival, being a gift from Calistria herself.

[aerondor]

Name: Humility (ex Fisherson; ex Lakeman; ex Smithson)
Race: Human (Mostly Varisian, but gets her hair from Ulfen heritage)
Homeland: Ustav (county of Amaans) a small fishing village on the shore of Lake Kavapesta.
The Darkness within: When night comes and all the lights are out, Humility sees nobody and nothing. Just herself, all alone, with nobody to love, and nobody to love her.


Description:
(appearance) Humility stands tall for a Varisian. That together with her blonde hair tell tale of an Ulfen ancestor somewhere in her families past. Her face is beautiful, but there is a sadness about her eyes that speaks of loss that detracts from the rest, making the totality of her features somewhat less than the sum of the parts.
(dress and movement) She generally dresses simply in the garb of fisher folk and walks lightly with the swaying gait of someone who has spent a large part of their formative years on a boat.
(scent) Those close to her sometimes notice the smell of herbs about her. It may come from her hair, or perhaps from a little medicine bundle that she normally keeps close.
(voice) The voice of Humility matches her looks. It is calm and rarely raised - certainly not in anger, but again there is something a little too controlled about it, as if she is keeping a strict hold on her emotions.
Background:
Humility's life to date has been defined by her losses. Five times she has loved and lost, each time in a slightly different way.
Humility was born in Lakesedge (that was what the locals call it, however it's size is such that it is doubtful any cartographer through the small cluster of houses was worth putting on a map).

 

Humility was born to Zandarian and Ezelika Fisherson. Zandarian was a man full of piety for Pharasma and resolved to provide his children virtue names, thus the naming of his first and only child as "Humility" rather than more traditional Varisian names.
By all accounts hers was a happy infancy. However shortly after her third birthday a sudden storm swept out of the Hungry Mountains over Lake Kavapesta. Zandarian and Ezelika were out of the lake when the storm hit. No sign of them or their small fishing boat was ever seen again. While Humility has no solid memories of her parents, she does have occasional flash backs, images of two tall people in a fishing boat. The unfortunate sundering of what was a solid bond forged in love was but the first of the losses that Humility would suffer.

 

The day her parents died, Humility was being looked after by her father’s sister Annika. Of Annika and her husband Loizelani Lakeman Humility has many memories. Her earliest memories that can be consciously recalled are of the small fishing shack. Annika had no children of her own and loved her niece as well as any mother could her own children. Loizelani, wary of the fate of his wife’s family would not let Annika sail the lake with him, but as Humility got older she was allowed out on the lake sometimes. These were good times, the only father she could ever remember was as doting as she could wish, and she learned to sail, to read the weather and to fish. With no children of their own, her parents doted on her. Her father would bring interesting things he found - odd fish, or a beautiful rock that had washed up on the shore.

Few things change overnight. But things do change, and as the years passed Humility continued to grow and mature. By the time she was thirteen she had started to develop into a beautiful young woman. And as her mother aged, the attentions of Loizelani slowly changed as well. Annika was not unaware of the growing attraction between her husband and her niece, and she was not about to stand by and let things go unchecked.

The day after Loizelani returned from selling his fish at the Kavapesta market with a beautiful hair net for his daughter, but only a new pot for his wife, Annika acted. It was a short conversation and one that Humility has never forgotten.
"Humility, put away the herbs and sit down. I love you dearly. You are the daughter I never had, and the niece in the world that I love the most. You are a woman now, and need to find a place of your own. Loizelani is my husband, and I love him dearly too. He however is just a man, and subject to temptations. What he does while selling fish is his business, what he does under my roof is mine. He will remain my husband. He is gone for the day. Now is the time to pack your things. If you are still here when the sun is overhead, Pharasma guide me, but I will drive you out with my broom. Now, let me help you pack."
There was to be no debate or discussion. When her mother spoke so, things were. And thus Humility lost her second family, the only one she could remember, and was suddenly alone in the world.

 

With little options, Humility travelled to Kavapesta. The road is no safe place for an individual, especially a young one, and a beautiful young woman least of all. What may have been her fate was prevented by her meeting on the road a young Varisian paladin by the name of Vavian. Vavian followed Shelyn and in the beautiful young Humility he saw a work of art that he would not let be destroyed.
The church of Shelyn within Kavapesta is not especially large, but in it Humility found a bit of what she had been looking for. A place where she was not seen as a child, and an environment to grow in.

Young attractive women in cities however attract a certain amount of attention, especially amongst the not quite so young male population. Humility was not used to the attractions and distractions of a big city. Nor the amount of focused attention that a young man of even modest means could direct at her. Zori Smithson, unsurprisingly an apprentice blacksmith himself was lucky to spot her early and Humility easily fell into the easy charm of the attractive young man. He was eighteen (so mature!), strong of arm and with a degree of easy charm that quickly won her heart. He wooed her for almost a year before she finally wed him before her fifteenth birthday when he was granted his chit as a journeyman smith. She fell pregnant soon after, and born him a son named Zandzori. Again, her life fell into a happy pattern, growing son, talented and loving husband, good life. Perhaps it was her abrupt departure from her first two families, but even though there was nothing 'wrong' with her life, Humility felt ill at ease. Twice before she had been sundered from a happy family... would lightning strike a third time?

Yes. Within the year an outbreak of the Whithers swept through the city, claiming both husband and child. Bereft of family for a third time Humility entered a short but passion filled part of her life.

 

Humility lived for a short while with her father and mother-in-law. But with no babe left to provide a link, she quickly found her welcome worn out. She was working in a tavern for food, board and a small amount of coin when she first noticed the enigmatic Zephyr. He had obviously noticed her long before, but sitting quietly in a rowdy tavern, there had been other distractions. He was tall, taller than Humility, which was unusual. Pale he was, with chiselled looks that could have been carved from stone. From a beautiful stone. His voice was like a feather, tickling her in just the right way. And his eyes were pools of darkness that drank her soul.

From the moment that she set eyes on him, Humility was determined that Zephyr would be hers. In the past she had been the one pursued, but now she knew what she wanted. To her few friends, the change was unmistakeable. She was almost a different person. From withdrawn and dowdy dressing, she became vivacious. She spent her few coins on beautiful trinkets to put in her hair (and work into the hairnet from her adopted father that she keeps to this day).

For the best part of a month she lived as only the heroines in stories live. Moment by moment. Zephyr himself took her to the best places to eat and drink, and was free with his purse. And she was free with her bed. The barriers she had been erecting since she lost her first parents at three were torn down and fed to the fire of her passions. She lived and loved then as freely as she ever has. Then she fell pregnant again, and Zephyr was gone.

 

As her belly grew, waiting tables became harder work. The pregnancy was not easy. Zandzori had been easy. Now Humility felt sick each morning, tired during the days, and even her eyes started to burn during the height of the day. The midwives and herb women could do little to help.
Still, Zephyr may be gone, but a bit of him remained, inside her. The new baby would never replace Zandzori - but the thought of another baby was enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

It was at this time that Sir Vavian (for he had been knighted in the passing years) returned to Kavapesta. His return reignited the worshipers of Shelyn. Where Humility had somewhat lapsed in her devotions, news the return of the still young paladin inspired her to seek him out. However there first meeting was not as she had anticipated.
A look of concern crossed the face of Vavian. "Humility, what have you done to yourself?". Then out came the tears and the story. The love, the loss and her current condition. It was the current condition that concerned the young paladin. "Humility, I have not met his 'Zephyr' but if you do again, you must avoid him. The news you don't want hear is that your sickness comes from your child. Humility, your child is Dhampir."
Of the horrors she had considered, this was never one. "I'll not give him up" was the only words that came out. A surprise even to herself.
"Shelyn teaches there is beauty in everything Humility, even the Dhampir. I'd as rather break a beautiful vase than have you kill your baby. There are rituals... they can help. With the right help we can keep you well and give your babe the best chance to bring its own beauty in the world. To do this you must leave the tavern. Come with me. Let me help."

So Humility and Sir Vavian travelled to the closest established church of Shelyn. There she was tended by priests. For the last trimester her life hung by the thinnest thread of a spider web as the holy men and women did all the could to save her and the baby within.

As the date of her delivery approached dark clouds gathered around the small cloister and as the sun set so did her labour begin. Lightning crashed, and thunder boomed, but to Humility there was naught in her world but pain and the words of a priest praying that she hold on until the touch of dawn.

At the stroke of midnight a crash rang out against the churches doors, and Sir Vavian in full battle array (she she had never seen him before) strode forward to guard the churches entrance. She remembers the sound of wolves baying and the fluttering of bats in the rafters. She remembers the crash of the church doors flying inwards and the soothing voice of Sir Vavian. She remembers the feel of the feathery voice of Zephyr too. But that is distant.

Hold on until dawn she did, and within an hour of the sun rising, her daughter Aster was at her breast.

She learned that Sir Vavian had fallen at the church doorway after driving off Zephyr and thus while the vampire was not destroyed, somehow the knights sacrifice had warded the church in a manner that Zephyr would never be able to enter it. She also learned that she could not stay. So once again, she must lose. Either leave Aster in the church and lose her, or take Aster with her and lose her.

Sick and Sore Humility left Aster in the care of the church, vowing to return for her one day.

Having lost not one but two sets of parents. Not one, but two lovers, and not one, but two babies, Humility didn't know what to do.

 

Humility was hungry. Sure there was work for an attractive woman, but she wasn't that desperate. Over the year since giving up Aster, Humility had left Amaans and wandered extensively. On the road she had met people, some of which would probably have been friends, but after her latest hurt she kept her feelings close. She had picked up some herb lore in the years, and as well as having born two children herself had helped out as a midwife. These skills generally kept her fed. Where they failed there were generally tables to wait. It had been a few days since her last good meal and her belly growled.

She didn't even know the name of the town. Somewhere in Canterwall for sure. The body of water reminder her of home. Home? Was she sick for home? She shrugged and headed towards the lakefront. Maybe she could mend some nets in exchange for food. It was there that she saw the black cat. It was scrawny and looked as hungry as she felt. As she watched it crept up to the nets of one of the fishermen and slowly extracted a fish. Without a backwards glance it dragged it away, to somewhere quite close to Humility. There it sat and ate, keeping a quiet eye on the large human. When finished, it walked over and sat down next to her feet, offering its back to her hand.

The complete selfishness of the cat caused her to laugh. The sound was a surprise and she admitted to herself it had been too long since she had laughed. Too long... since... since she knew that Aster was going to be a Dhampir. She reached down to stroke the cat. "Okay sinner, lets go earn some food for ourselves."

And now it appears she has awoken and found she has lost yet again - a whole chunk of her life - gone.

 

Class: Witch (hedge)
Alignment: Good, probably chaotic good.
Music: For a theme, imagine the Duck from Peter and the Wolf.
Quirks:
(a) Humility is by nature a flirt, however as her few years have worn her down she has worked at restraining her basic impulsive nature.
(b) She would rather not develop a friendship than have it fail on her suddenly.
(c) She still chews the end of her hair.
(d) Having spent more than enough time working taverns, she prefers not to drink herself, but doesn't make a big thing of it if actively offered some.

[zarzak]

Working on it.

Will get more info up and prettify it as the day progresses

Sym Name: Sym Race: Sorcerer (Arcane+Draconic Bloodlines (cross-blooded)) Class: Human Sensory Description: Sym is a handsome young man of an indeterminate age (16? 17? 18? It's hard to say). His skin is a smooth alabaster, his features sharply defined - almost as if he was carved from a block of marble. His eyes are a piercing purple, with unexpected depth to them. Oddly enough his hair is snowy white, with flecks of grey throughout. When he speaks his voice is a deep and resonant, with layers of warmth, inflection, and power. He has a clean scent about him, like that of a crisp winter morning. Striking violet tattoos spiral about his skin, forming intricate patterns in some places, sinuous lines in others. Early Life: For such a young looking man, Sym remembers surprisingly little of his childhood. He remembers a house on a farm, pleasant smells, the sound of wheat rustling. More impressions, really, as if being viewed from a long distance. He remembers a twin sister, an older brother, and playing pranks together. Minor magical pranks - turning each other's hair green, for instance. Of course, Sym was very proud of his black hair, so that annoyed him to no end (and on that note ... black hair? But his hair is white now ... what happened? Was it ever really black?). A happy childhood. He remembers working on the farm as a teen, plowing fields, the smell of dirt. He remembers trips to a nearby town, a pretty innkeeper's daughter. He remembers his 18th name day, and the small merchant caravan that had arrived in town days before, needing to hire laborers. On oddly specific memory that (at least compared to most of his other memories). And then ... he remembers nothing. Personality: Sym is surprisingly calm for his apparent age, with a reserved and confident nature. When he speaks his voice carries authority and weight far beyond his years. His eyes are constantly active, rarely clouding over in contemplation. And when he focuses on a person or thing, his gaze is penetrating. Despite his usually placid demeanor, it is easy to see that this is a young man who is fully immersed in his environment - always living in the moment, and always taking delight in living. He is quick to laugh, and quicker to smile. In every way he is the picture of a powerful, virile youth. The Build: I've built the character out, from level one to level 20. I know why his hair is now white instead of black. And I know where I'd like to go with the character. What I don't know (I'd like some mystery ) is the rest of his life. Quote: Sym can't remember much of his life, must less any specific quotes. And having just woken up on some strange slab, he isn't exactly feeling normal. However, later, this is how I imagine his personality to be, once (if) normality has returned. "Don't look so glum, friend. So you lost some money on that bet, it's not as if some love one had died. Haha! You can always make more! ... Oh. So you needed it for healing for your mother ... well ... the perhaps a lesson in betting away essential funds ... Whats that? Help you out? Well, I also lost money, friend, and my pockets are unfortunately light right now ...." Portrait: Incoming, if I can find an appropriate one. I have a specific image in mind.   Link to the site with the picture   Theme Song: I'm terrible at these - if I listen to something that sounds 'right' today I'll post it.