[PF-1e] Carrion Crown

[pianoman90]

~Open to new applicants until 5pm AEST Friday 10th September!~

~Carrion Crown~

Chapter 1 - The Haunting of Harrowstone

Plot Summary Tales are told throughout Golarion of shadowy figures that lurk in dark corners—stories recounted at children’s bedsides feature bestial creatures that come out only when the moon is right, and fireside legends speak of otherworldly beings beyond reckoning, whose very existence is more than the human mind can bear to know. These are the legends that explain where the blood of the family cow went, and why clerics spend so much time ensuring the proper Pharasmin rites are observed at gravesites throughout the Inner Sea. One can write them off as simple, scary stories in Absalom or Westcrown, but in Ustalav, everyone knows the truth of the things that go bump in the night... The Tale of Harrowstone Prison, AR 4661 Some small towns grow up around a university, their shops and other offerings catering to a scholastic clientele. Others boast famous festivals or specialized industries that draw skilled artisans and craftsmen. But in the sad case of Ravengro, the town’s claim to fame is a prison. And not just any prison, for Ravengro supported one of Ustalav’s most notorious jails—Harrowstone. Twice a year, a prison convoy rounded up the worst of the worst from smaller, less secure jails across the principality and transferred them to Harrowstone, often to await death by hanging, but always to live out the rest of their lives as prisoners. Already the home of dozens of notorious criminals, the mid-year prisoner convoy of 4661 ar brought a particularly horrendous batch of criminals all at once. Among them were five particularly notorious convicts: the Lopper, the Piper of Illmarsh, Father Charlatan, the Mosswater Marauder, and even the infamous Splatter Man. Not even Harrowstone was adequately equipped to handle these criminals, and as their execution dates drew near, the Lopper and the Splatter Man, working together, picked their moment and staged a desperate attempt to seize control of the prison and, perhaps, escape. Yet while they managed to turn the tables on Harrowstone’s guards and, for a few minutes, held control of the prison, they did not anticipate an act of self-sacrifice by Harrowstone’s head warden, Lyvar Hawkran. Only a few minutes after the prisoners seized control of Harrowstone’s lower level, Warden Hawkran triggered an emergency deadfall that sealed the dungeon and trapped everyone (including himself and most of the prison guards) within the prison’s dungeon, leaving the only way out a supply lift that couldn’t be activated from the dungeon level. It was via this lift that the Warden and other trapped guards initially thought to escape, but before they could make it to safety, they were overpowered by the rioting prisoners and taken hostage. The prisoners attempted to use their hostages to force the few guards who remained on the floor above to lower the lift, but the guards were too well trained. Even with their warden and most of their friends trapped below, they continually refused to lower the lift—further, they set guards around the lift’s shaft above so that any prisoner who attempted the nearly impossible climb would have to contend with crossbow bolts raining down from above. Eager to avoid sparking a panic in Ravengro, the guards holed up and did a masterful job keeping the truth of the riot contained while they desperately tried to work out a plan. Yet several hours later, after Lyvar failed to return home for his customary dinner, the warden’s wife Vesorianna crossed the prison grounds from her home to the central prison. In their panic, the guards had left the main entrance to the prison unlocked, so Vesorianna was able to enter the prison with ease, only to find it strangely empty. Following the sound of shouting, she came to the training room where the remaining guards were gathered near the lift shaft to the dungeon. When Vesorianna learned from the increasingly frantic guards that her husband was trapped with the madmen below, she pleaded with the guards on the ground level to remove the deadfall and stage a rescue. When they repeatedly refused, she went into hysterics. She managed to dodge the guards, run to the lift’s winch, and throw the release, causing the heavy wooden platform to plummet into the dungeon below in the hope that her husband could leap onto it and be pulled to safety. In actuality, the lift crushed several guards and a few prisoners who had been standing directly below it—the horrified Vesorianna was convinced her husband was among them. Taking advantage of her shock, several guards managed to finally apprehend her and swiftly bustled her off to the prison workshop at the other end of Harrowstone, locking her inside for her own safety. The remaining guards worked frantically to keep the prisoners from escaping—with the lift below swiftly filling with eager prisoners, they couldn’t simply pull it back up. And as other prisoners began climbing the chains that connected the fallen lift to the upper level, the guards grew desperate. Knowing that they were about to be outnumbered by lunatics, they made a fateful decision— they began rolling barrels of lamp oil from the nearby storeroom into the hole, hoping to dislodge prisoners from the lift and dissuade them from climbing. But when one of Harrowstone’s most notorious prisoners, the spellcasting murderer known as the Splatter Man, stepped into view and began using his magic against the guards, desperation gave way to blind panic and one of the guards threw a lit torch into the oil-soaked depths, figuring that if the lift were burned, order would be restored. Unfortunately, the resulting conf lagration was much bigger than anyone could have expected. The huge oil slick below caught fire and spread throughout the lower cellblock. The ensuing flames incinerated both the screaming prisoners and surviving guards below, while thick plumes of smoke swiftly worked to suffocate those above. The remaining guards on the ground level fled, only realizing much later to their horror that no one had bothered to release Vesorianna Hawkran from the workshop. The town of Ravengro mobilized to extinguish the fire before it spread, but the damage had been done. One of Ustalav’s most notorious prisons was no more. In the 50 years that followed the Harrowstone Fire, the town of Ravengro moved on to become a pleasant (and perhaps even boring) farming community. Yet the town’s old-timers remember well the eerie prison caravans that carried monsters through the town. And none in Ravengro can ignore the brooding, dark ruin of the old prison that looms on the hill overlooking the town. Tales of the prison being haunted are traded by Ravengro’s youths, and on certain dark nights they taunt each other to touch the rusting bars on the prison windows. Dares to spend the night in the edifice are routinely posed and never accepted. In the Carrion Crown Adventure Path, the horrors of the night become undeniably real as you undertake a journey that will decide the future of a nation. Ustalav rests in your hands now - will you answer the call?

Application I am after 5-6 players to take through this AP, possibly running the game with two groups if there is enough interest. Sources for mechanics and character creation will be paizo only and come from d20pfsrd.com and/or aonprd.com. Any other official sources you can show me will be considered. Posting rate: This is an adventure path, a long-haul style of gameplay. I expect that posting rate doesn't need to be more than 2-3 per week, but if there is no action on your character within a week I will NPC to help move things along. I will keep combat moving in particular, posting GM updates twice a week and NPC'ing as needed. In these situations, you can leave notes or general outlines of character decisions and I will work within those parameters. Burnout is real! Real life is real! Communication is key-let me know if something is up and we can work around it. Game Folder Background Information on Ustalav and Ravengro Applications Name: Race (15RP or lower allowed): The greater population of Ustalav is generally split in the following way: 90% humans, 2% elves, 2% dwarves, 1% halflings, 1% gnomes, 4% other. The other races are likely to be distrusted, with racially intolerant residents potentially common in the smaller, remote towns spread across Ustalav. While I do not want to discourage any race in particular, out-of-the-ordinary races will likely be under greater scrutiny. Class: Core, Base, Hybrid, Occult and Unchained classes allowed. 1 per class limit Background and Personality: You are allowed to be from anywhere in Golarion, though there is a stack of information specific to Ustalav here, should you wish to tie your character into that country. Relationship to Petros Lorrimor: This is tied into your campaign trait, so read the Player's Guide (linked below) and link this in to your character's background. Motivations to visit Ravengro (Secreted): Far apart from hearing the call to attend Petros Lorrimor's funeral, what else drew you to Ravengro? Perhaps you have heard a rumor or two, perhaps you know something of the history of the town, and the prison that once drew the worst of the worst behind its walls. Perhaps you might just be a monster hunter, seeking a shred of evidence to find the Beast of Lepidstadt. Whatever it is, please place this behind a secreted spoilerbutton in your post. RP sample:   The Letter To Whom it May Concern, You are summoned to the funeral of one Professor Petros Lorrimor, Scholar and Emeritus Professor of the University of Lepidstadt, resident of Ravengro, Canterwall County, Ustalav. The funeral will be held on Starday, Calistril 18 at the Temple of Pharasma, Ravengro under the guidance of Father Vauran Grimburrow. Professor Lorrimor has named you as a beneficiary and has requested you to bear his coffin to its final resting place in the Restlands. You are to arrive at the home of Kendra Lorrimor on the morning of Starday, Calistril 18 to be present for the wake and funeral. Should you choose to decline these instructions, you tacitly declare your entitlement to Professor Lorrimor's will null and void. Signed and Dated, Starday, Calistril 4, Councilor Shanda Faravan Please write a RP sample in character, outlining what you were doing and where you were when Professor Lorrimor's letter was delivered. Were you difficult to find? Were you in a big city, or the middle of nowhere? Was it hand-delivered, or sent through the postal system? *Players guide: There is a players guide, found here. There is no need to make a character sheet for this adventure yet, but if you would like to base your character around one of the campaign traits go right ahead! Any questions, please feel free to ask-I will keep an FAQ spoiler at the bottom of this first post. Deadline: 5pm (AEST) Dec 12

Character Creation Technical Details Pathfinder SRD Only: No 3rd party material. Starting Level: 1 Wealth: Maximum starting level XP: Fast track Class: Core, Base, Hybrid, Unchained and Occult. Emerging firearms only. Archetypes: 1 per class limit Races: 15 RP or lower Alignment: No evil Stats: High Fantasy, 25-point buy HP: Full at level 1, rolled thereafter. Traits: Choose 1 in addition to the Campaign trait, no drawbacks Alternate racial traits: Allowed, but must be thematic. Additional house rules: Hero points will not be used. Background skills will be in play. Elephant in the room feat tax will be utilized.

[Ziether]

Objection! Name: Finneaous FastidiousF. Facklebar, Esq. Race: Halfling Class: Inquisitor of Abadar (Infiltrator, Inevitable Subdomain) Alignment: Lawful Neutral Age: 37 Role: Face, Conscience, Magic Device Specialist, Limited Healing, Two-Sided Social Specialist Description:   Finneaous’ parents had hopes that their choice of middle name would be a reminder to their son, but “Fastidious” came to define the young halfling more than they could have possibly desired. For a young man who spends so much time living out of a trunk, he is obsessively organized and clean. In no instance will he allow himself to be seen looking truly casual, but he seeks to present a suitable image for the circumstances he finds himself in. In town, a crisp, pressed suit with appropriate ornamentation is the bare minimum, a fancy wig added to the ensemble when appearing before a magistrate. Beyond the limits of civilization, Finneaous brings order with him in the form of a stiffly starched linen shirt and an exactingly tailored waistcoat. Bright blue eyes draw the gaze up from his elaborate attire, while short, well-kempt hair never threatens to distract from them. As part of his daily routine, Finneaous makes sure to trim his facial hair to just barely emerge from his skin, showing his maturity without the annoyance of needing to maintain further shape. Personality:   Patience and ambition mark the young jurist more than anything else. Finneaous seeks to exemplify the precepts of the Church of Abadar in a constant quest for greater prestige in the organization, as well as for the glory of his god. The little lawyer has a chip on his shoulder the size of an ogre, and it is displayed in his fiery determination to preserve that which is just and prove himself a reliable rhetorician. Logic rules his life to a point, understanding that he is very mortal and that unnecessary risks are stupid, but at the same time, he is prone to moments of rash pride, putting proving his point over his own safety. He loves travel, especially the chance to meet new and interesting people, and looks at every town he visits as an opportunity to spread the influence of the Church. His discernment is considerable, and he will champion the cause of the slighted without worry about payment as long as he feels it is both morally right and that it has the potential to raise his standing in the Church. Behind the facade of competence, wit, and wisdom, Finneaous is a complicated man. While his faith is unwavering, a product of both his natural inclinations and the indoctrination he has undergone as part of his training, his mortal fears are very real. Halflings are notoriously not large creatures, and he realizes that as strong as his mind might be, his body is limited by the form he was born into. As such, he bears a healthy respect for almost any creature whose errant footstep might cause grave harm. He dislikes truly dark places, manifesting in a constant need for some sort of illumination, even when sleeping in a safe place. Ambition is Finneaous’ true crux. Advancement in the church is his path to notoriety, and from there, power either within that organization or the secular leadership of a settlement. He is not picky about where he ultimately puts down roots, but he plans to use his experiences as an itinerant solicitor to ease his transition into a more sedentary life. Background:   An Andoran citizen by birth, Finneaous was born into one of the best places a halfling might call home. His mother, a respected scribe, and his father, a painter of some note, were devout Shelynites, and raised their seven children to value the beauty of things from the mundane to the spectacular. The Facklebar children were attended by a series of private tutors who taught a wide array of practical matters, as well as introductory dogma of each of the deities most commonly venerated in Andoran, which is what led young Finneaous to become intrigued by the teachings of Abadar, the god of civilization and law. While Andoran was largely founded on such principles, he saw easily how the people’s desire for individual liberties complicated the concept of justice, and also fell into a deep love affair with the beauty of the creation and execution of law. He could see the touch of the hands of people such as his parents on the course of his nation, and wanted nothing more than to be one of the architects of civilization one day. When the time came to take on an apprenticeship, Finneaous’ most recent tutor asked him if he might be interested in learning from a court scribe who happened to be an initiated priestess of Abadar, in one of the lower courts of Almas, the nation’s capital. Distance weighed on him, but the fire of his drive to ascend to the position he sought called even more loudly, and he secured permission from his parents to make the journey. The will to do what was needed before anything else cemented his path, and he never looked back. While apprenticing to the court scribe, Finneaous was approached by one of the priestess’ superiors, a member of the Church’s internal Inquisition. The lad’s zeal for the law was evident, and his devotion to his studies impressed the spy. Seeing his chance, Finneaous agreed, and was placed into a program to teach him the deep parts of Abadar’s doctrines alongside legal training. A decade of intensive study followed, never leaving the cloister in Almas except to attend court sessions. When all was complete, he was presented to the court as a newly minted solicitor, and given a first case to present. As a measure of his unquestioning loyalty to the Church and to Law itself, he was tasked with defending a local ordinance that made life hard on the poor, but had been duly certified by the people of Almas. The law put a bitter taste in the young halfling’s mouth, but he knew that to change the law was not his duty, but that of the people. Speaking eloquently of this principle, the sanctity of the democratic process, he spent two weeks sparring over the nuance of the law until the magistrate eventually sided with him. Relieved, he retched horribly as soon as he left the courtroom, proving his heart still lay within him. With his initiation complete, the Church issued Finneaous his holy symbol and a mission: to travel the Inner Sea region, journeying from local church to local church to assess the effectiveness of the missions in each region, keeping the Abadaran faith pure. While individual cells of the Church are forbidden from infighting, the Inquisition is the ultimate arbiter of orthodoxy. As cover, the lawyer presented himself as exactly what he appeared to be, a legal expert who fought for what was codified by a nation’s government. A decade of service in this manner was required, and by the end he would be the most renowned halfling attorney the land had seen in a century. Connection to Professor Lorrimor:   On the Payroll: Legal counsel is a common need for a man of academia, especially in archaeology. Convincing landowners to allow excavations on their property or navigating ancestral claims to artifacts and remains uncovered requires ironclad legal work ahead of time, and sometimes in the middle of an excavation. Finneaous was called upon to draft several legal documents to grant the professor expanded access to a dig north of the Exalted Wood in Razmiran, and the halfling caught the man’s attention for his competence and the love he showed for the law in all of its forms. While Finneaous was only on retainer for a few months, he found himself spending a decent amount of time with the professor, and fondly remembers the chance he got to associate with another agile mind. Motivation to Visit Ravengro:   Post Link: Link, link, linketty link RP Sample Insult to Injury Sunlight had faded hours ago, and Finneaous F. Facklebar, Esq remained hidden deep in the bowels of what passed for a courthouse in the haphazard capital of Nirmathas, a small city called Tamran. The day had been long even before it began, with rushed legal preparations after a court order changed some of the charges filed against his client along with both a change of venue and the naming of an alternative magistrate to oversee the proceedings. Needless to say, the day had gone downhill from there. One more week, and then I can move on. Just one more week. The halfling lawyer’s mission had him traveling between churches devoted to Abadar, and the fledgling one in Tamran was too small to require much more inspection. His day job providing legal services kept him busy, but the nation’s judicial system was frustrating at best. Knocking back a fifth glass of brown liquor, more than enough to thoroughly intoxicate his small body, he packed up his scrolls and took one last look at the open page of The Order of Numbers. "Law is necessary for civilization, and the advancement of law is never futile." The words rang hollow after the day’s defeat, but they reminded him exactly what purpose he served. With a weary sigh, he finally packed up the tome and made his winding way through the corridors to emerge into Tamran’s night. "Agent Facklebar? I was told to look in Tamran for a Finneaous Facklebar, and that the courthouse was the best place to look." A tall man with the slightly pointed ear tips of a part-breed elf looked relieved at the smaller man’s arrival. A badge bearing the image of a golden key rode on the breast of his waistcoat, proclaiming him to be an official messenger of the Church of Abadar. "A letter came addressed for you at the temple in Almas. I’m sorry to say that the Inquisition unsealed it before it could be forwarded." At a nod from the halfling, the emissary passed over a carefully-lettered parchment bearing the marks of a long journey from Ustalav to Andoran, along with an official stamp of the Church of Abadar to explain its state. "It seems you were important to somebody." "I-" Finneaous started to speak, but cut himself off. Important to someone? What in the nine Hells? He reached into a pocket and pulled out a notebook and charcoal pencil. "Your name? I want to make sure your superiors know of your dedicated service." Paying the man would be unthinkable. He obviously earned a wage, so the best tip was a good word. He dutifully jotted down the information. "Pardon me, but I should probably go somewhere less public." Tipping his cap, the small man nodded graciously and beat a hasty retreat back to the inn, not stopping until he had locked the door to his room behind him. The words flowed smoothly and quickly. There was no emotion. Finneaous had known the professor for a few months and held a fondness for the man, but it was a business relationship, not a personal one, at least not much of a personal one. It stung slightly, knowing that a decent person had passed, but knowing that the scholar had desired his presence meant a great deal. Ravengro? In Canterwall? Canterwall held great curiosity, as a beacon of democracy beyond the borders of Andoran. You’ve always wanted an excuse to visit Canterwall. There was no guarantee he could attend. It would need to be cleared by the Church. This would require persuasion. Pulling out a chair, he sat and extracted his best inkpen, carefully laying out intricate calligraphy across a lengthy sheet of parchment. This will work. His arguments were always sound, and the Church loved itself a good argument.

[pianoman90]

Phew! That is the quickest app I have seen land on any of my game threads ever. Thanks Zie!

*NB-no insider information was shared, Ziether probably has super sleuth skills and found the advert thread in the game folder which I have been working on for a week or so.

[Ziether]

Originally Posted by pianoman90

Phew! That is the quickest app I have seen land on any of my game threads ever. Thanks Zie!

*NB-no insider information was shared, Ziether probably has super sleuth skills and found the advert thread in the game folder which I have been working on for a week or so.

To be quite frank, I did find Pianoman's folder a few days ago, and I've applied to a Carrion Crown game before, so the flavor was something I was already familiar with. Finneaous largely came to me wholesale, with minor alterations over the days of prep.

No, there was no insider information shared. Pianoman plays in the game I run, and he doesn't have his site activity set to private, so when I click on his profile to get to various things, sometimes I stumble across evidence of previously-hinted-about games.

[SalmonMax]

Name: Arcata Dulat
Race: Human (? maybe half elf?)
Class: Arcanist
Background and Personality: Arcata is a member of a once-noble house now fallen on hard times.

Relationship to Petros Lorrimor: Pending

Motivations to visit Ravengro (Secreted):

RP sample: Pending

[MoonZar]

Tales are told throughout Golarion of shadowy figures that lurk in dark corners—stories recounted at children’s bedsides feature bestial creatures that come out only when the moon is right, and fireside legends speak of otherworldly beings beyond reckoning, whose very existence is more than the human mind can bear to know. These are the legends that explain where the blood of the family cow went, and why clerics spend so much time ensuring the proper Pharasmin rites are observed at gravesites throughout the Inner Sea. One can write them off as simple, scary stories in Absalom or Westcrown, but in Ustalav, everyone knows the truth of the things that go bump in the night...

The Immortal Principality of Ustalav lies on the northern shore of Lake Encarthan, a grim bastion of civilization amid the barbarian north, where a harsh landscape and a history rich in tragedies inspire a wary population with skepticism, religious devotion, and superstition. Modern Ustalav is split into thirteen distinct regions called counties. Hannah was born in Canterwall, into a large farmland located between Tamrivena and Ravengro. The place was prosperous, her father employing fifty farmers. The only child of Ulrich Von Wagner and Katrina Lorrimor was an ordinary girl until she blossomed into an unusually beautiful and tall lady. Gracious, yet strong like two average men, she was gifted in many ways. Hannah's father was able to afford higher education. As a religious man, Ulrich chooses a famous girl school in Tamrivena organized by a branch of the Pharasma's sisters. Hannah's life was otherwise unremarkable.

Life in Ustalav always been hard and unforgiven for most people. Beasts, monsters and orcs rampaging through the land were routine, winter was merciless, disease and starvation were too common. Regardless, Wagner's family managed to stay out of trouble until their daughter's eighteen birthday.

This is the tragic story of Hannah Von Wagner, the grey maiden.

They came for me under the cloak of night, like a whisper in the wind.

When I woke up, they already butchered half the men.

My mother was cut into pieces under my very eyes.

The cabal of necromancers harvested her organs, collected her limbs, skinned her. Her pieces preciously put in a cart with the remains of many others who suffered the same fate.

It was an act of pure horror well beyond what mortals could do as some of those monsters were not alive.

I wish I would have been killed. Captured, they kept me alive in their lair with a greater plan for me.

For days they stitched together body parts of my family and some townfolks together to create an abomination.

I only learned their true motive when their creation was ready. They wanted to take revenge on Petros Lorrimor, my uncle, by using the soul of one of his own to fuel an unstoppable golem of flesh that would hunt him down and destroy Ravengro in the process.

No words could describe accurately the terrors I saw, frozen in death, in an iron cage, helpless.

One night I woke up slowly, feeling groggy and out of place.

My head pounding and my body is sore.

As I opened my eyes to see where I’m, I saw nothing. No light, no door, no window, nothing. Solely a pitch black empty room.

It was very small… And had satin…

I reached up only to have my hand abruptly hit the top of whatever I’m in.

Slowly I felt around, and much sooner than I’d like, I found out what's happening, and this discovery made me scream in terror.

I have been buried alive with that corpse, the same body that was stitched together by the necromancers.

Pounding on the ceiling of my box, I panicked and calmed down only on the verge of passing out.

Tears started to well up in my eyes, but I no clue what to do.

Even if I were to clawed and scratched and do everything I could to get out, I would never be able to break through the coffin.

Might as well just let it happened I thought.

But I wanted to live! Why, oh why did I had to go through all of this?

To wake in total darkness when all I wanted was fresh air and even some sunshine!

All I wanted is to wade in a pool of water or feel the soft grass beneath my bare feet.

The quiet was deafening, and the darkness consuming.

Slowly I faded away... out of air... and I died... I thought...

A few days before Petros Lorrimor's death...

It's pouring on the insignificant town of Ravengro, a settlement located in the west of the county of Canterwall. Regardless, shadows of men were doing shady things in the graveyard, but none of the nearby villagers were courageous enough to look into what those people are doing out there. They brought a coffin with them, and after a few hours, they were gone without it.

- " NOOOOOO!!! Let me out someone, HELP!!!! CAN SOMEONE HEAR ME? DAMN IT!!!! "

With the wind blowing and thunder cracking into the sky night, nobody hears the faint voice several buried several feet into the mud.

The voice fades into the night, and only the rain falling on the mud can be heard for miles.

Pharasma intervene, disrupting the necromancers' experiment with her wrath. Just before dawn, a massive divine lightning strike illuminates a brilliant pathway above, lifting the eyes of all the villagers to their windows, bringing even the slowest soul-pulses back into a steady and strong rhythm.

The explosion reanimated Hannah and dug a six feet deep crater.

Petros Lorrimor is the first to arrive at the scene. Soak wet with rain, with his feet drowning in the mud they try to protect his eyes. The middle-aged man falls on his knee in the middle of the cemetery, in front of grey flames defying the rain in a hole full of mud, rain and roasted body parts. A few minutes after his daughter Kendra joined I'm with an umbrella she has difficulties controlling it in the storm.

- " Holy mother of graves... what the heck? " The man's words become silent when the flames are finally defeated by the rain and an arm burst suddenly out of the mud. Something is getting out, fighting the ground, desperate to live, reaching out for air. Covered in mud, the old father thinks for a moment that it's an undead or a ghoul bringing eternal damnation with it. But no... It's a woman, a young woman trying to crawl out of a bloody hole. - " Help... HELP ME! " Hannah struggles, but her strength gave up as she disappears into the pool. - " Father, it's Hannah... I think. help her! I recognize her voice. Quick! "

Hesitant, the man breaks from his fear and provides assistance before his niece drowns in that corpses soup. - " HANNAH!!! What are you doing here?! " The scholar pulls her out of her misery. - " Uncle... Kandra? Is that really you. They... They killed all of them... " Hannah is crying in relief, broken. Kandra notices a small burned tattoo on her right shoulder that is steaming under the rain. It's Pharasma's holy symbol, but there's a grey rose on the pattern. - " Look father... " They never saw that drawing before, intrigued. - " Can.. you stand? Come, the house is nearby. " She stands on her long and athletic legs with a bit of help from Kandra and her uncle. - " Let's get you out of that dreaded weather. "

Hannah spent the next few days in bed at the Lorrimor's residence. Her young body quickly recovering. Her innocence was killed by what she witnessed but was replaced by something else when Pharasma's lightning stroke her. Divine power was flowing through her body and soul, she couldn't understand it, or control it. Yet, something was calling to her. It wasn't a simple feeling of revenge, but a greater calling of becoming the wrath of heaven. Hannah didn't know anything about violence before the tragedy. She never held a sword or hurt anyone for that matter. Still, something changed in her, as if whatever stroke her from the sky gave her knowledge and purpose. The walking deads needed to be dealt with.

Petros visited her daily until she was back on her feet. He appeared nervous and more weird than usual. Regardless, Hannah Keep the promisewas grateful that he arrived just in time to save her from drowning with Kandra, she was in his debt and swore to help him hunt down the family enemies. Back on her feet, she didn't have time to get outside that the news of Petros' death at Harrowstone was brought to her by a weeping Kandra. Hannah wasn't particularly close to him, but in the space of a few days she lost her parents, her friends and now her uncle. His death is suspicious to say the least after those necromancers just tried to create some kind of monsters to get rid of him and the town of Ravengro.

Kandra and Hannah are now the only survivors of the Lorrimor's bloodline.

Bio Name: Hannah Von Wagner Class: Paladin of Pharasma - Undead Scourge Race: Human Age: 18 Trait: Making good on promise Personality: Her heart is big as the country, but a bit rough around the edges after the horrors she has seen. Hannah is a compassionate and caring lady. but changed much since her parents' death. She is full of anger and wrath when the whispering way undead or necromancers are mentioned. Suffering from post-traumatic stress and nightmares, she doesn't sleep much and is having trouble making new relationships and express how she is feeling. The only important person remaining in her life is her cousin Kandra. Appearance: Noticeably tall and fair-skinned woman with straight waist-length silky black hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders. She is young and attractive in appearance, sporting a voluptuous frame with a sizable bust and well-toned yet muscular build. Background: See intro Relationship to Petros Lorrimor: She is Petros’ niece, from Petros' sister, Katrina Von Wagner Motivations to visit Ravengro (Secreted): See intro roleplay. RP sample: See intro roleplay

[Begon Ugo]

WIP

Willow Green Name:Willow Green Race:Human Age: 32 Class:Witch (Insanity) Intended Role:Debuff Alignment:Neutral Traits Making Good on Promises, Reactionary   Background and Personality: Willow was not a lucky woman… not at all… and it wore on her like a moth eaten cloak, frayed at the edges and fastened too tightly around the neck. Being born in Barstoi was the first strike against her… being born in Barstoi to a devotee of Pharasma… well that was just plain torture… torture indeed. Willow is only thirty two years old, yet to look upon her she does not seem a day under fifty. The beauty that lies beneath the pained creases of her weathered face speaks to a misery that rotted the poor woman from the inside out. Her mother had deserted her young, escaping into death, away from the tyrannical rule of her husband… Willow’s father. Never one to bend the knee to perceived authority, Willow butted heads with her father from a very young age and in doing so she paid a heavy price… a physical price… and as was later revealed an emotional and mental price as well. Years of abuse unhinged the poor girl’s mind, leaving it untethered from reality and open to the influence of other beings… beings that promised power… freedom. The first symptoms that manifested were hysterical fits of laughter… laughter directed at her father when he tried to discipline her… cackling laughter that drove him away clutching his head in pain. That was the beginning and the end. Willow had embraced her shattered psyche and in act of defiance and possibly suicide, declared herself a witch. The reaction was predictable, from her father and the witch hunters of the Chapel of Guilts… she was to die.   Relationship to Petros Lorrimor: Of course Willow ran… not that she feared death, only that she desired to bring her father more pain. To have his own daughter a witch! Pursued by the Witchfinder no less… there could be no worse embarrassment for the pious man. Once the decision to run had been made… Willow had to turn her thoughts to where she would run to. She had nothing. By hook or by crook, Willow decided that her only hope of freedom… that blessed word whispered incessantly from afar into her very thoughts… was to head as far away from Barstoi as she could. But that was a dream… the chances of her making it out of Vische alone where insurmountably thin and the inquisitors were closing in. It was then that Willow Green met Professor Petros Lorrimor. She never did find out why the man was in Vische. She can’t remember if she ever even bothered to ask. The one thing she does know is that the Professor saved her life… of that she has no doubt. The fledgling witch had been hiding for weeks, rotating between different livestock stalls, emerging only at night but someone must have seen her… the Witch Hunters approached her in the open daylight, aware that she would most likely be sleeping… and she was… blissfully unaware of the danger, lost in her own disordered dreams. Willow would have died that day if not for the professor and his blessed barrels. As the hunters moved forward, a shouted warning from behind rang out… two barrels… somehow aflame, fell from the professor’s cart, bouncing on the uneven cobblestone as they rolled. The noise was enough to wake Willow and like a startled cat she bolted even as the barrels smashed against the side of a nearby stone building. The witch hunters scattered like birds, never noticing the ghost-like waif vanish down a back alley. That night, as Willow made her way out of the capital she hugged the main road but stayed in the bush to avoid detection. Yet she soon heard the sound of an approaching wagon...a wagon that slowed to a stop as it came near. “Please… won’t you join me?” the Professor grinned as he patted the seat beside him. “It’s a long ride to Ravegro and I doubt you want to stay here any longer than necessary!”   Motivations to visit Ravengro (Secreted):   RP sample: The dappled morning sunlight danced through the dangling tendrils of the willow tree as they dipped low towards the lazy river gliding by. This was the witch's favorite spot… the one spot where she let down her guard, allowed her mind to relax. It was a secluded grove, a place of solitude and when she came down from her mountain, Willow expected to find it empty. She was not happy when she found that it was not. A man stood, leaning his back against her tree, his legs crossed as he whistled a jaunty tune. Willow swept into the grove, no pretense towards stealth needed. “What are you doing here!” she snarled as she stomped forward, holding the trailing edges of her dress up with her balled up fists. Kill him… eat him… but do cook him first, the voices said and Willow broke out in a nervous tittering even as she shushed the voices, glaring at the handsome stranger as she ran a hand through her briar entangled hair “I will give you one chance… and one chance only to leave!” the witch warned as she waved her hands about menacingly. The theatrics had no effect and the man only smiled as he retrieved an envelope from a satchel and held it out in a steady hand. Willow stared at the envelope, then at the man… a feral look dancing in her eyes as she darted forward and snatched the envelope, tearing it open with teeth and claws. She quickly read the missive and unbidden tears began to flow from her eyes. Her professor had gone to his rest and sadness fell upon her with a heavy weight. She looked down at her tattered clothing, again running her long, thin fingers through her tangled, prematurely greying hair. Willow smiled a queer little smile at the strange man as she sniffled and wiped the tears from her face. “By chance, you wouldn’t have been sent with some coin? I would like to look my best for the Professor… I owe him that much at least.”

[Preacherwolf]

Krieger Dichter Name: Krieger Dichter Race: Human Class: Gunslinger (Musket Master) Alignment: Chaotic Good Age: 21 Personality: Krieger is a mixed bag. On the one hand, he's a solider and a mercenary. A man cold and calculating, who's grit and resolve has seen him through many hopeless fights and even worst employers as those around him die. On the other hand he's a man who enjoys the likes of Elven poetry, Dwarven artistry and gnomish wines. A cultured man who understands the nuances of fine dining and passion of an authors words. Krieger tries his hardest to compartmentalize his two sides, the solider and the poet. In this way, the horrors of fighting allow the poet to flourish and the poet's soft hart doesn't get the solider killed. Background:   Krieger Dichter started out life as a gutter rat orphan in a city he doesn't remember. The name was unimportant to him and all he really remembers from that time is the constant need for food and shelter. As he become a young man, he sneaked into theaters and public houses. First to ostensibly steal food and money, but over time he became fascinated with the theater and the way poets and actors spun their tales. He spent hours and days just watching them and being inspired by their tales. Of course, being a gutter rat in a establishment like that meant that it was just a matter of time before Krieger was arrested on suspicion of...well it didn't really matter what. He was a penniless orphan in a theater, they just wanted him out. After his arrest he was given a choice, join the army of Count Galdana or rot in jail. Kreiger chose the Army and hasn't looked back. Army life gave him a new lease on things. While it taught Kreiger the basics of how to fight and kill, it also gave him access to proper books for the first time in his life and Kreiger took to them like a fish to water. He devoured all forms of literature he could find, and by the time he was dismissed from the army, he had mastery over several languages. After the army, Krieger traveled. Having read all about the continent, he took up arms as a mercenary and earned his keep helping various lords, mayors and towns as a bodyguard or extra grunt. When that failed, he found work as a scribe and meager poet on the street. It was during these travels that brought him to Ravengro the first time... Relationship to Petros Lorrimor:   Chance Savior - It was sheer luck that meant Krieger was walking by the alley when the Professor and his daughter were set upon by dwarven thugs. Thankfully Krieger is a finer shot than most and while the professor and Kendra are no slouches in combat, being ambushed by superior numbers is tough for even seasoned fighters. Still, the battle was short and quick. Professor Lorrimor's gratitude was effusive, and he promised that he would never forget Krieger. For his part, Kreiger never really forgot the mad looking professor and his lovely daughter Motivations to visit Ravengro (Secreted):   Sample RP:   Krieger was having a rather vigorous debate. His opponent was well versed in the usual rhetoric and was giving him rather good sport. His opponent was clearly a well trained sort of chap, one that had spent many years honing his skills, thankfully so had Krieger. His opponent send a particularly sharp rebuttal to him but Krieger had anticipated the shot and swiftly sent a sharp retort of his own back. The enemy was good, but a philosopher once said "The best is the enemy of the good," and Krieger was the best. Firing back with his own volley of arguments Krieger awaited his erstwhile adversary's response, and sure enough a reply was swift and sharp. Krieger took a deep breath. This was drawing out too long and he needed to finish up. He peaked around the tree he was hiding behind and started doing calculations to where his "debate" opponent was hiding. An elven archer 100ft away, almost no crosswind between them, at this range the bullet should take less than a second to reach the archer. No usually an issue but this elf has to have some kind of enchanted armor or ring because he's unusually fast and had been dodging his shots all day. Not today Krieger lined the shot up in his mind. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the air flow from his mouth to the tip of his hands and back. He focused his mind on the rhythm of his breathing, adjusting his aim for the cadence of his chest moving. He envisioned the bullet's path, on each foot of its one hundred feet journey. Past the trees, rocks, bushes and the elf's armor as it hits him just slightly down and to the right of his chest and pierces his heart. Krieger opened his eyes and stepped out of cover and took his shot... Krieger was drunk. But the happy kind of drunk that came after a good days work and a better days pay. The tavern was alive and well with patrons enjoy a good pint and roast, with laughter filling the hallways. Amidst this a spindly courier handed Krieger a letter and gave his condolences to him. Confused Krieger hastily opened the letter and read its contents. So the mad professor was dead, Krieger felt a pang of sadness for that. He didn't know him well or even good, but he felt sorry for his passing. A second thought crossed his mind, one had filled his spirit to the point of bursting. A new kind of energy filled him as he paid his tab and practically skipped out of the tavern. "Time to chase that sweetest joy and that wildest woe" he thought to himself as he collected his things and began his journey

[SonofSamWich]

The Lady Ashmanaille Teldas Lady Ashmanaille "Ash" Teldas, Ifrit Swashbuckler, Inspired Blade, Fencer Extraordinaire Role: Melee Combat, Charismatic Wordplay, Knowledge of History and Nobility Alternate Racial Traits: Mostly Human, and possibly Wildfire Heart Appearance: Ashmanaille is of regal bearing. Of Taldan heritage, she takes after her mother. She stands tall at just under 6 feet, with a lithe, athletic physique. She’s well proportioned and quite attractive, but something about her hints at an otherworldly nature. Maybe it’s the way firelight glints off her eyes, or her lightly tanned skin, always abnormally warm to the touch. Her facial features are round, with a small, almost button nose and amber eyes. She has short, wavy, bright red hair, reaching down to her jawline. She wears fine clothing, immaculately pressed and cut, with fashionable colors and accents, as well as jewelry fitting her high station. Personality: Where she inherited much of her mother’s physical traits, when it comes to her personality, Ashmanaille takes after her father more than she would like to admit. Some would call Teldas vain, and they’d be partially correct. She takes great pride in presenting herself, attempting to maintain a clean and fashionable appearance. She’s not necessarily afraid to get her hands dirty to perform her duty, but she’ll complain about it to any who would listen. She has a strong sense of honor, though, and this sense of duty is what drove her to divorce herself from her family. She is quick to anger, quick to forgive (usually), and steadfastly loyal. Background:   Silver Spoon, Silver Blade Lady Ashmanaille Teldas was raised in the lap of luxury. The only daughter of a noble house in Molthune, and distant cousin of the Imperial Governor, Markwin Teldas, she was brought up in the Sweet Orchard district of the capital, Canorate, where she enjoyed the privileges of upper-crust society. Extravagant meals, expensive tutors, and elegant dresses were what she knew and loved. She attended a lofty institution of higher learning, being taught politics, mathematics, the sciences, and history. In addition to this, she took fencing lessons as well, as was the tradition for women in her family. Her excellence was a mark of pride for the Teldas family, as Molthune’s militant culture lauded those who could master the martial disciplines. The young Lady Teldas was becoming disillusioned with her lot in life, however. While she still loved the finery, the navigation of high society, the social events and, of course, her continued lessons in the blade, she began to take lessons with a renowned traveling professor, one Petros Lorrimor. His lessons on the history and ruling class of the various nations of the Inner Sea region opened her eyes to the different methods of governance, and the way it affected the governed populace. As she grew more aware of the political landscape around her, she also developed a distaste for her own family’s political leanings in particular. A rift began developing between herself and her father in particular as she began voicing these dissenting opinions. The disagreements soon became arguments, which devolved into yelling matches, ones that could be heard across the manor house. In addition to her growing independence, she was also developing other ‘abnormalities’, as her father usually put it. They would often find her reading in darkness. Her skin began feeling hot to the touch, as if she were running fever, but the physicians could find no illness causing it. Her father’s distrust of his daughter slowly grew, fearing what she may become. He decided, therefore, to marry her off, arranging a marriage with the cousin of General Hakar in far-off Fort Ramgate, where she could do no harm to his reputation, while still strengthening her family’s political power. When Ashmanaille found out by ‘accidentally’ reading one of the missives sent to her father, the confrontation was a conflagration. In a fit of rage, the young woman set fire to the table in the dining hall by accident, her latent bloodline finally coming in full. Terrified, her father disavowed her, banishing her from the manor and disowning her from the house Teldas. Relationship with the Late Proffessor: Teacher's Pet   History of the Inner Sea, Part 1 While still living at her parent’s estate, Ashmanaille attended a highly regarded college in Molthune, where she learned much, especially under the tutelage of Professor Lorimmor. He saw in the young Lady Teldas a passion for learning, especially of history, and government. He took her for many one-on-one lessons, and provided plenty of fantastic reading material to help her widen her breadth of knowledge on the subject, and this education is what began her search for independence from her family and their totalitarian leanings. Reason for Visiting Ravengro:   RP Sample:   The Loss of a Good Man Ashmanaille sighed as she stood, filing out of the courtroom with the small handful of people here to observe the trial. The proceedings had been long and arduous, and she was especially impressed by the halfling attorney. From what she had gathered, he was ill prepared, but through no fault of his own, and he still held his ground formidably. As she made her way outside of the ‘courthouse’, she stretched and took in a deep breath, feeling it stretch out her chest and lungs. While the city of Tamran, if you could call it a city, was nowhere near as opulent as her home city of Canorate, its rural flavor was refreshing to her none-the-less. She had come here to observe the benefits of a meritocracy in action, studying such things as the judicial system in action, and talking to officials whenever she could borrow their time. While her father had said he would disown her, he never followed through with the proper channels, so she was still legally a member of the Teldas family, and enjoyed all the benefits of such a noble title, including being able to request the audience of important people. Being from Molthune, it was a more difficult task, considering the conflict between their nations, but people tended to err on the side of respect when it came to dealing with nobility, even that of a nation with whom relations were tense. Maybe especially then. Plus, picking Nirmathas for the first leg of her journey was a wonderful way to thumb her nose at her father. Childish, maybe, but still vindicating in a sense. While the nation here wasn’t as prosperous as Molthune from an economic standpoint, the people as a whole seemed much happier. Given time, and a reprieve from Molthune’s meddling, Nirmathas could possibly even grow into a successful nation in its own right. She headed to one of the local inns where she was currently boarding. Her room was the nicest in the city, or so the innkeeper liked to boast good-naturedly, and while she didn’t know if that was really the case, it was comfortable, if a little more… cozy than she was used to. As she stepped into the building, the innkeeper looked up, and smiled jovially. "Lady Teldas, welcome back!" The man wasn’t bothered with the politics between Molthune and Nirmathas; so long as a customer’s coin was good, he had nothing but hospitality for them. "A letter arrived for you while you were out." He fished under the counter and produced a small stack of paper. He flipped through it, and picked out an envelope, a little worse for wear, but the wax seal intact. "All the way from Ustalav, or so the courier said." She took the letter, looking slightly hopeful. She had sent letters to the University of Lepidstadt recently, after hearing of their highly renowned dueling clubs, and excellent curriculum, of course. But no, she didn’t recognize the seal, so it wasn’t from the University. "Thank you for holding this for me sir, I appreciate it." She smiled warmly, and produced a few silver pieces. "I’m weary from the day, so I shall retire for the evening. Please have a meal delivered to my room in an hour’s time, if you would be so kind." Dropping the silvers in his pouch, he nodded, "As you wish, Lady Teldas, one hour’s time." She nodded and made her way up the stairs in the back of the common room, all the way down the hall, to the last door on the right, room number 10. She moved inside and sat on the bed with a comfortable sigh of contentment. Ash looked at the envelope again, now with slight bemusement. Who in Ustalav would contact her, if not the University? She broke the seal, and pulled the letter forth. As soon as she read the first sentence, a pit grew in her stomach, and a pang of loss struck her heart. It had been a couple of years since she had taken classes with Professor Lorrimor, but he had been a kind soul, and had taught her much. As she finished the letter, she bowed her head, and allowed herself to cry, mourning the loss of a good man.

[Panthas]

Workshopping Name:Zurzam Termian Race: Halfling Class: Summoner Role: Melee/Damage, Mayhaps a bit of buffing, mounted Alignment: Chaotic Good Campaign Trait: Chance Savior Background: Born in the devilish tyranny of Cheliax, but cradled in the oddity that is Brastlewrack, Zurzam lead a generally peaceful life in his youth whilst the rest of the empire suffered. Brought up amongst the constant craze of the gnomish city, the young halfling had his fill of whatever new wonders he wished, but always with the knowledge of the world beyond the walls of his haven. The oddity of being a halfling amongst gnomes, an entire city of them, was actually ignored in his youth. There was always some new wonder, some refreshing invention around the corner. But his parents made sure he knew of the rest of the world beyond He didn’t know their sources, but he was aware of the slavery, how he was favored amongst his people for being untouched by it. That all came to an end when his family decided to leave Cheliax, to escape the threat of chains, even though they were free, having worked off their debt that the scheming Cheliaxians had forced upon the enterprising young halfling couple years ago. On the way to the border, his family caravan was overtaken by brigands turned slavers, looking for the easy money of always popular halfling slaves. Still a youngling, the small halfling was discarded along the way, but found the strength to follow. With the help of an unexpected ally who emerged from the night, he rescued his family and made it to Andoran.   Abandoned and Allied The taste of earth on his tongue mixed with the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, no amount of spit could wash it away, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Sitting there crouched in the dirt, pants scuffed and torn from where he had hit the ground and slid when the human on horseback had backhanded the young gnome with as snarl, the image of his face burned in his mind even as the abrasions on his knees throbbed. Pushing himself up into sitting, Zurzam scanned the horizon, hazel eyes twitching back and forth, seeing even the dust cloud had faded away now, his life and family having disappeared with it. With a hiss of pain and a grit of teeth, jaw muscles tightening as he clenched them and pushed himself up, uncoiling from the ground, ungainly body wobbling and the wind plucking uncaring, greedy fingers at his clothes as he stared dejectedly into the distance. After staring too long, a figure frozen on the plains, tiny and insignificant against the backdrop of the world around him, he tore his eyes from the horizon that held no promise and looked at himself, scuffed, bleeding, knees a mess of drying blood and grit, hands reaching to dust off his red linen shirt out of reflex, but gasping lightly in pain as his scraped palms rolled dust and dirt into the wounds there. Scratched and grimy arms fell to his slender sides, turquoise hair waving in the wind, the tips of his hair brushing against his skin unnoticed. Why? They had been so close to the border, the gateway to a new life just out of sight, the promise of a world beyond Cheliax, the fear of slavery falling upon them would be a dream, instead it had come out of the sky like a thunderbolt and struck his family, leaving behind only him. He couldn’t make it to the border by himself, he couldn’t even survive the wilderness, he was just one halfling, untrained in the ways of surviving in the wild, and he hadn’t the faintest clue as to if there was even a steading or village nearby. Every ounce of the weight of his situation pressed upon him as the tears began, silent except for a sniffle that was carried away on the wind, chest heaving, stomach churning and tightening in a nauseating fashion. Shaking his head to try to clear out the despair, he did the only thing that his mind could grasp and here was a crunch in the air as he slowly lifted up on booted foot, pebbles and gust falling from the sole of his lifted foot before he placed it back down, taking a step towards the last place he had seen his family as the laughing raiders had carried them off, trussed up and flung over the back of their horses like sacks of vegetables. The world narrowed, the despair fell away, oh it was still there, but it was second place now, all he had was determination to follow. But as he moved his other leg, he cried out in pain, a lodged rock digging into his knee, rubbing the scrapes, and sending pain throbbing lancing into his leg. He gasped and stumbled but caught himself with a whimper, hand reaching down to blindly find the stone through the tear, fingernails scraping at it before they could grasp it and he pulled it out, not even seeing the indentation it left behind as he dropped it and took another step. Fresh blood ran down his leg, but he didn’t care, he continued on, eyes barely even seeing the path ahead, the hoofprints in the dust and the track left behind by the weight of a wagon filled with his life rolling away to who knew what destination. The evening drew in, the cold starting to sink its hungry tendrils into the tired halfling, sore feet hurt from hours of walking, his steps were heavier, but he walked still with an odd sense of purpose, feet striding forward one after the other, small legs carrying him along. Even though his body moved, his eyes were half blank, looking out at the lands ahead, keeping him vaguely aware of the path, but his mind was elsewhere. For the past hour or so, unheard, a prayer had been whispered by Zurzam’s mind, undirected, a combination of despair and hope, radiating out and repeating with every tired step he took. Please help! Help me catch them. Don’t let me lose them, I don’t want to be alone. A repeating mantra, for he knew that he couldn’t catch them himself, not when they were on horses, even if he somehow found the strength to continue walking through the night. He doubted anyone would here, he didn’t know who to pray to, he was just a youngling without any other choice, tramping through the wilderness of a place he had tried to escape from. And as the night closed in, sun setting in the distance and his eyes started to try to shift to making out details in the dusk. When darkness finally closed in though, he was blind, vision spotty and failing more often than not beneath the starry sky with no moon yet to light his path. Finally he stumbled, tired feet dragging the ground too much, making scraping sounds in the night before he tumbled down into heavy grass that cushioned his fall, but the motion still tore open his scraped knees and his hands that caught him. Crouched there on hands and knees, he began to weep, tears funning down his face and watering the grass that had cushioned his fall. "Help, please." The words slipped from his lips, a plea in the emptiness, echoing inside of him as well as the despair of the futile nature of his circumstances sank barbed hooks into his heart and he realized that he was lost, alone, without friend or family, and he would die out here. Shudders ran through his body, part shiver, part tiredness, the motion of resignation and wracking his body like a storm battering a ship at sea. He closed his eyes, the tears continuing as he saw in his mind the image of his mother and father, looking down at him, loving, caring, his mother with her hair pulled back while she had been working at the loom, his father covered in spices and flour. He looked up, even though they weren’t really there, opening his eyes to apologize before they widened in surprise instead. Standing before the young halfling what a vision, an apparition, surely such a thing wasn’t real? Standing on four strong legs that ended in claws that glinted dully in the starlight, holding up a muscular body that was feline? Or was it like a wolf, he didn’t know, but it towered over him, its body sleek and dark in the night. He couldn’t tell if there was fur, though it looks like it should be mammalian, its sides seemed smooth and was that a mane? There was definitely a fluffiness to its neck that led up to a head that was like a fox, no a snake, no……he didn’t know, it was no wholly animal like, pointed and toothed though it was, with horns growing out of its head like some sort of monstrous goat. It was like something out of one of the books he had seen in Brastlewrack, a fairy tale creature, not wholly of this world. Rocking back onto his thighs, he looks along it, noting the tail, though details were hard to make out, but the eyes were looking down at him, glittering in the night, seeing the halfling perfectly and there was a rumbling sound that sounded suspiciously like a deep bass laugh. Toothed maw parted and a voice, solid and strong emerged. "Come now little one, now is not a time for despair, tell me what need called me?" Called? Zurzam didn’t know what the creature meant, but the words were intelligent, and he tried to make sense of it. Shaking his head though, he couldn’t fathom it, but it seemed friendly and was offering to help? Sniffling in the dark and wiping his eyes dry, he pushed himself up to his feet and stepped forward. "My parents, they took my parents." His voice was just barely a whisper, a tremor of hope making it quiver in the night and the creature nodded and sank down onto into a crouch. "Then there is no time to lose, climb on and we shall retrieve them." The halfling stared for a moment and then stepped up close and reached out his hands, placing them on the creature’s shoulders, feeling the softness of fur in the dark and she gripped and coiling his legs, jumped up, half pulling himself up the beast’s back and onto it, trying to think of this like riding all those war dogs he had been on in Brastlewrack. He could feel the warmth of it beneath him, muscles clenching and shifting under him and he reached out in the dark, small hands feeling around and finding something firm and strong to hold onto, an unseen spine in the dark rising off the creature’s neck and he grasped it, seating himself more firmly. Without another word, the newfound ally beneath him sprung into a lope of speed, moving not at all like a dog or pony as it bounded across the plains and carried the halfling off in the direction he had been following as a small candle of hope kindled in his young heart. With a new fire lit within, or at least smoldering, the young halfling was left in the care of a distant cousin in Andoran, his parents leaving to return to Cheliax and fight to free more of their kind.After spending time simply working to make ends meet, the smoldering coal within kindled to show him his passion for freedom, a mark from his attempted enslavement. His efforts however lead him away from the hustle and bustle of civilization, off to more truly find himself. Spending time in the Verduran Forest and the town of Fusil, the hafling finally learned of the ally who had aided him in rescuing him those years ago. The bond they shared, the unspoken pact they had made, came to light and Zurzam finally met his savior, Beriton, an eidolon given form by his need. Engaging in private contemplation with Beriton, he explored the abilities of his newfound companion, forming a personal bond beyond something supernatural, finding a kindred spirit. They traversed the Verduran forest, exploring its darkened areas, but always returning to Fusil and the comforting promise of it, the small settlement amongst of the trees, living in harmony with the forest instead of a battle against it. Finally, when his feet would not stop their itch, he set out again and halfling and eidolon set out to explore more of the world, venturing beyond the borders of Andoran, leaving behind the logging tortured forests of the nation of the free, powerless before the will of the Lumber Consortium, hungering for the lifeblood of the world. The hungry devouring of the beautiful trees by the industry of Andoran left him saddened, but the true pain was in realizing that to save them was beyond his ability. So instead he set out to explore, to grow, and maybe become a person that could stand against the might of any gluttonous industry. Personality: While Zurzam is as amiable and generally cheerful as the next halfling, his life circumstances have scarred him in odd ways. Growing up in the chaotic city of Brastlewrack left him with a very skewed view of cities, and he finds areas of large population to be somewhat stifling. Instead of the carefree, explorative nature of the gnomes, most cities are more confining and rigid, incarnations of law and order on a level that the halfling finds claustrophobic. Instead these days he opts for the wide open spaces of field and plains, or the roofing of a forest rather than the closed in “comforts” of a city. In urban settings or out, he is still a jovial companion, finding laughter and a flashed smile far better company than brooding over things he can’t control. Having been brought up amongst gnomes, the halfling is more disposed to chaos and japes, though he has never quite fathomed their humor and love of odd practical jokes, he still enjoys a laugh. He oftentimes gets caught up in nature though, happy to wile away the hours admiring the beauty of a group of flowers and watch the insects flit amongst them, or tromp through a forest, trying to find as many different mosses as possible. He is used to a life with few people, only the company of his companion on the road, but is happy to pitch in and join a group that he matches up with. He will cheerfully cook for them, swap stories, or outrageous lies, something he picked up amongst the gnomes. But when things turn to cities, or the law in general, his mood seems to shift. Zurzam is rather confrontational with he law, his early years in lawful, yet slave ridden Cheliax soured him on the concept, and he finds that laws let people live without thinking. Twas a fact laid bare living any a city full of freedom loving gnomes who contributed without thought to the cruelty of the empire. So when slaves come into view, the halfling will have to resist jumping onto Beriton’s back and hying off to free them, having learned that if his companions are amiable, he can have allies in the battle. Freedom is his bread, and expression his butter, and he views the law as a curdling force upon the meal of his life. Description. If he were stockier, Zurzam might be mistaken for a short dwarf. With a well grown beard and luxurious hair that tends to grow to messy lengths when living amongst nature, the halfling is more like a short lumberjack than he is a typical halfling. His hair is an unnatural shade of bluish-green, like water on a stormy day, or a stream flowing past mossy banks, the result of consenting to some odd taste testings in a gnomish city. While he barely breaks the three foot tall mark, he is well muscled, moving less fluidly than some of his fellow halflings, but secure in his strength and a bit fuller in body than is normal. His hazel eyes are intelligent but kind, touched by laugh lines rather than frowns, and his lips are always quick with a smile and a deep voice that rings out merrily. He tends to dress simple, tunic and pants, a warm cloak, the sort of thing one wears upon the road, as he always seems to be. He has little use for gilding or ornamentation on his clothing, sticking to clean, simple patterns and focusing on durability. Relationship to Petros Lorriomor: Having quit Fusil for a period, the same people in the same place, doing the same things for too long had gotten to the halfling, Zurzam and Beriton had been meandering south through the Verduran Forest, exploring pathways he didn’t get to explore as much and catching very occasional sight of the more reclusive members of the forest. By chance, the two arrived at Black Forks at the time of the new moon, a time he would generally rather not be there, as he never trusted the mysterious individuals that congregated for their odd rites. The whole place was steeped in evil from the history he knew of, tainted, like a cankerous sore upon the beauty of the forest. But all the locals avoided it, so he was rather surprised to find an individual camped out not far from it. Drawn by the fire, he learned that the human guide was escorting what she considered to be a rather eccentric individual that had gone up to the ruins, against the warnings of her local knowledge, or perhaps because of it. Shaking his head at the foolishness of some, he hurriedly mounted Beriton and sent the eidolon haring off towards the ruins, with a whispered prayer that his companion’s speed could outrun the foolishness of men. Happily he arrived, slowing down and with Beriton padding in quietly, to the sight of a completely engrossed professor oblivious to the rest of the world, watching the rituals of the sinister individuals. Slipping up behind him, and raising to stand upon his mount’s back, the halfling clapped his small hand over the man’s mouth to prevent noise, and drew his attention back enough to explain in very, very hushed tones to the professor that he should under no circumstances take actions of break into or interrupt the rites of the figures. Once confident that the man understood the situation, he pulled back a bit, observing, staying within distance of helping if it was needed, but mostly watching the fool of a man and shaking his head. In the end the man, a Professor Lorrimor, had the sanity to keep his peace and depart in time to avoid any detection, alongside the halfling. While startled at first by the halfling, and with Zurzam considering the man a bloody fool, from this encounter blossomed a relationship held by correspondence across the leagues. They kept in touch, once Zurzam rode out of the eccentric academic’s camp, and through this, the halfling was employed various times across the continent, during his travels, by the ever roving Lorrimor. Motivations to visit Ravengro:   RP Sample: A Final Letter The tiny hamlet was well away from civilization, perched near the Southern Hymbrian Forest, the border with the River Kingdoms closer and comfort for some. For Zurzam though, it had represented a chance to purchase something more flavorful than water and a meal that involved spices he had run out of. The town itself didn’t have much to recommend it, a single inn, a blacksmith, and the other normal accoutrements of a frontier type town, but it was far from the madness of Isarn and Litran and Zurzam was eager to shake the dust of the entire country from his boots, thus his making a path towards the River Kingdoms, being sure to swing west of the road to Liberthane. He had spent the day resupplying in town, buying what little he could, for the tiny village had little to sell of use, with the situation in Galt, but it would be enough to get him across the border and into somewhere a bit more stable. Now though he was sat at a table at the inn, an empty bowl of soup before him and he contemplated it in silence. The sounds of the inn flowed around him, the chatter of farmers come in for a drink, the low tones of people talking in a country where the wrong word could be the last. He could feel the tension, and the stares that followed him occasionally were starting to wear at him. Glancing around, he caught the darted glances of a pair of farmhands that had been looking at the new arrival in the village. Keeping a smile to himself, he pushed the bowl away, having found the meal decent. It might be a small inn, but whomever the cook was, they knew their business. Pulling his mug of ale closer, the clay jug chipped and worn, he took a gentle sip, wary, but surprised as it seemed whoever the brewer was knew a bit about alcohol. Taking a longer sip, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste upon his tongue and leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the last few weeks. Galt was not what he had hoped or expected, though he had heard the occasional whisper of the place over the years, to actually see the hand of the Revolutionary Council writ large was terrifying. The place reeked of fear and violence and he was looking forward to getting out. Come to that, Beriton had been warning the halfling for some time now that he should leave. While halflings were usually taken more for granted as background, it still was not a safe place to be, so the eidolon was out foraging now and scouting the way ahead. The sound of footsteps approaching and a cleared throat drew his attention and he opened his eyes, all eyes in the room on the figure that stood in front of his table. A young woman, wearing hard wearing leathers, and dusty from the road. Her blond hair was bound up in thongs of leather and she was looking rather intently at the halfling, with blue eyes that sized him up against something only she knew. "Zurzam? I’m looking for a halfling of that name." Tilting his head to the side, rather surprised to be on anyone’s list of looking for, the halfling nodded and gestured with a smile to the other chair at the table. " You have found him then, I am Zurzam, though I can’t imagine what brings you after me." His brows knit, had he done something to upset the local authorities, was he about to be scapegoated? His questions were not eased by the lady pulling a rather official looking bit of paper out, folded and sealed. Eyebrows arching, he leaned in as she looked up from the letter. " I was tasked with bringing this to you, you weren’t exactly easy to track, but I’ve found you now and can discharge my duty." Her accent was odd to his ear, it wasn’t Galtan, that was for sure. Curious, he reached out for the letter, his other hand dipping into the pouch on his belt and he pulled out several coins. "Thank you for your work then, I hope the journey wasn’t hard." In return she offered him a faint smile, shaking her head, pocketing the coins, and without another word, she rose from the seat and left to approach the counter. His curiosity whetted from the exchange and the fact that it didn’t seem to be Galt related, the halfling looked over the letter an then taking out his belt knife, he slid it under the wax seal and leveraged it up, opening the missive. As he read, his brow grew craggy, eyes darkening and when he finished the short letter that must have cost quite the pretty copper to send, he folded it closed and slid it inside of his tunic. Sitting in silence, he reached for and picked up his mug of ale, taking a sip and looking forlornly at the table. " Well then, it seems you have no more need of my services, my friendly academic, save one last task for me it seems." His voice, quiet, meant only for himself, was equal parts acerbic and humorous filled, a sad smile tugging at his lips. He drained his glass and left coin on the table, pushing up out of the seat that dwarfed him and headed for the door, the messenger watching him go. As he stepped out into the night air, he glanced around quickly and then headed out with purpose, his cloak settling around his shoulders as he made his way away from the town, putting the hubbub of people behind him, eyes only half seeing for a moment before he shook himself out of his reverie, time enough for mulling on the road ahead. Making for his camp and hoping Beriton had returned, he cut a lonely figure striding across the quiet openness. It seemed his journey and destination was far more than just the other side of the border, though that would be the first stop for real provisions before he made his way north. Time to see Ustalav then, time to pay respects to an eccentric old man he had once saved from his own foolishness.

[Ericg1s]

Name: Everly Reed
Race: Human
Class: Kineticist; Earth focus.
Age: Young Adult; 30.
Combat Role: Primarily ranged support. Would focus on keeping foes at range. Can fight in melee with a spear or dagger, but does not have the feat support to be effective.
Party Role(general): Mainly a damage source, but infusions grant some ability to get to places others have trouble reaching.
Appearance: Rather short and plain; about 5 feet tall, with pale eyes, skin, and hair. Body and facial features are rather rounded.
Personality/Alignment: Lawful Neutral. Somewhat shy/born follower-tends to try to melt into the group and not stand out as an individual. If she finds her place, she make become a bit more assertive.
Connection to Professor Petros Lorrimor: She studied under him to try to understand her powers.
Campaign Trait: Teacher's Pet: She has studied under the professor in private.
Motivations to visit Ravengro:

Background: Everly Reed was raised by simple parents, who worked with low-grade gems, making copper rings for merchants rather than gold for nobles. Her family might have been from Taldor, but she didn't grow up there. She was near Ustalav, but not part of the drama going on there. Her parents taught her the value of community and hard work, and that the value of your goods is less important than the value of your character. From the rest of the community her parents worked with, she learned that being a 'common member' of society is nothing to be ashamed of, and that the protruding nail will be hammered. From the religious and political leaders, and the counter-example provided by failed plots against them, Everly learned the value of obedience. She discovered a connection to the element of earth, which manifests itself in rocks moving around slightly. Although this is useful for digging a garden or searching for a lost item, it was worrying that she had such powers. She tries to learn from the University of Lepidstadt, but was not permitted to attend as a full student (mainly due to her parents not having a lot of money to donate to the University Endowment Fund.) A few of the professors, especially Lorriomor, helped her to better understand her power via private sessions. She has wandered somewhat for the last few years, trying to find a place to fit in.
Archetype: No special archetype.
Alternate race: No special alternate race. Does not take any infusions that alter her race type.
Character Sheet: http://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=86791
RP Sample:

 

Traveling through Ustalav, near the border. Everly had heard there was a message waiting for her here.
A scream comes from the couriers' exchange office, and then broken common....
Goblins not read and not want to learn-goblins make the scrolls all burn!"
Everly Reed gathers a small amount of energy from the earth and shifts the dirt around herself slightly, causing a noticeable rumbling noise. For 20 feet in all directions, dirt and dust rise slightly into the air.
The goblins probably do not merit force or violence, if a mere threat can force them off.
"LEAVE NOW, OR FACE THE POWER OF EARTH!"
She begins to tremble with the strain of keeping the power under control-it is clear that she is holding back a massive outflow of occult energy, and losing control could prove disastrous!
((This would call for an intimidate check, but I do not wish to roll dice in the application, so we will assume taking 10.))
[For game mechanic purposes, this would be a move action to gather power, and a standard action to intimidate.]
The goblins flee in terror, followed a moment later by a rock smashing straight into the ground.
(([This represents throwing a 'blank' blast at nothing to safely expend the gathered power the next combat round.]))
Checking the scrolls reveals that there was little damage. It also reveals that she has received a letter, inviting her to the funeral of her old mentor...
She says nothing, but quietly heads to the room she has been staying at, where she tells the landlady she will have to leave.
Only once no one is looking does she collapse weeping. A rock feels no pain, but her heart is not COMPLETELY stone.

Sample Post:
https://www.rpgcrossing.com/showthre...=197626&page=3
I don't know how to link to a specific post, so I am including a link to the thread which contains my post.
I am aware the my posts are often rather brief. I simply don't feel inspired to write very lengthy posts.

[Icereach]

Unchained or Unhinged? Oseran, the Prisoner Elven Wizard (Necromancer)Freed Man, Socialite, Historian The Prisoner is an interesting case. I doubt he realizes how much I still watch over him. Or that I know how he calls himself when he's alone. He worries me. He claims to not realize how handsome he still is, but through my agents I watch him glide into society with grace and charm. In public he's smiling and genteel, even a tad beneficent. Unthreatening in his mild infirmity. His wit and openness put others at ease with his notorious past, and for that, at least, I am thankful. However. I know something lurks beneath the well tailored suits and immaculately groomed locks. If you watch carefully, you can see the color leave his pale eyes when the gate opens. His smooth forehead doesn't deign to wrinkle, but his brows draw close. The sculpted lobes holding back his platinum hair seem suddenly sinister, wicked. That is when the Prisoner rises, and Oseran dies once more. -Lorrimor

The Splatter Man's Legacy   Professor, I have done as you asked and am eager to be rid of it. Per your request, I've included with this package a written account of as much of my time incarcerated as I can bare to commit to paper. I still find it curious that you should want such an account of one such as me, but as you have me in your debt, I can find no reason to object. Your insistence that reliving all of that pain again will help me move past it has, however, not proven true. At least so far. Of my life before that night I wrote little. The precious moments Hadren and I shared before his death are too painful for me to examine closely, even after all these years. For similar reasons I found myself vague on the details of the night in question. Should some scholar find a use for my story, as you assert, they'll be better served by the public court documents and sworn testimonies of the trial to exonerate me. As His Honor Lord Fargought destroyed all of the records from my original trial they shall survive as the only written record of Hadren's death. I am at peace with that. The body of the text details accounts from my day to day life lost and forgotten in the system. I only put down the injustices that truly stood out over the forty odd years yet they still make a dauntingly large story on their own. I tried to focus much of my work on your involvement in my freedom (for which I am eternally grateful and still somewhat befuddled) and the events directly leading to it. As it is not public record, I included a detailed account of your discovery that Hadren's killer was the early work of the infamous Splatter Man. Did I ever tell you, Hadren had no idea of the origin of his surname? Such an obscure thing, to make him the victim of such a vicious fate. The rest of the manuscript details my freedom, such as it has been. As you well know, I put my later years in prison to good use, training my mind while my body rotted. I've put it to good use in my current life, a well, and now enjoy modest success as a local scholar. I have a stipend and a comfortable home in a quiet neighborhood. My years in solitude must have awoken some deep hunger in me; when I'm not buried in my studies I feel driven to seek out polite companionship. I seem to have developed quite the little social circle. I'm highly regarded, for the first time in my life. It is only my work, however, that can draw me out of the blackness that sometimes overcomes me. I realize I should appear more gracious; do not think that I am insensitive to the expense you have incurred on my behalf. Indeed, I am beyond thankful to feel the sun upon my skin once more, though after decades in darkness I fear I shall always carry an unhandsome pallor. I awake every morning in my own home, atop sweet smelling bedding, free to carry on my own enterprise. I go about my days well groomed, with clean hair, clear eyes, and dressed in the finest fabrics my station can afford. It would seem logical that this excess in wealth later in life should subsume the hardships it first bore. Yet... There are scars. As you can plainly see from my penmanship, the tremors in my hands have subsided greatly, though they still trouble me. I cannot bare to have anyone peer at the wasted, scarred flesh beneath by pressed tunics and starched trousers. I fear I try even the marvelous physician you have recommended to me on that account. He has pronounced me whole or as whole as I should expect to be. The body of any elder, and I yet to cross my seventeenth decade. If my face carried the same scars I doubt I would be welcome by my well to do friends. Then there are the deeper scars. The ones no healer can see. No language, not even my native one, can begin to encompass the severity of them. The words used to describe them are just too small to contain the wounds they hold closed. Those are the ones that inevitably drive me from my shining friends, back into the dark. Though I keep a small reception room upstairs to entertain guests, I've located my true study in the cellar beneath my house. It feels more... Appropriate. My studies have gone well, especially in developing my spell craft. I must confess, in fact, that I have made something of an obsession in learning about the man for whom I suffered so much. Forgive me for not following your advice in this regard. I am driven by forces beyond my control. I plan to visit the remains of Harrowstone soon in furtherance of my research. Best not to speak too plainly of it here. There are many who would not understand. At last we come to my true reason for writing. Though I tempt fate to ask more from you than you've so freely given, there are resources I must procure that are currently beyond my means. I was hoping that I may offer you service in some regard in exchange for your assistance in procuring Lacrimore's Twelve Hauntings, Anbrahim's Bindings, some pure obsidian out of Cheliax... Eventually the Prisoner set down the pen. As he did so, the vestiges of the man he projected began to fade. Here, in this private sanctuary under the earth, Oseran wasn't needed. He glanced at the sand glass on his desk. There was still plenty of time before he must don the mask again - time for one last experiment. He rose from his desk and paused, letting his body tell him how it would move rather than force the issue. It was always like this after he'd been sitting for some time. Once his nerves sorted themselves into something resembling order, he made his way across the room to a marble plinth rising from the floor. A plain black cloth covered a cube secured to its platform. Rough grinding noises chewed their way through the hanging. The Prisoner regarded the covered cube with his near colorless eyes. Its contents represented a significant portion of his savings over the last twenty years. Should it be discovered in his possession, he would likely share the Splatter Man's fate. All of this was truth stark enough to deter any sane man. The Prisoner, however, could not be denied. He raised a wasted hand over the pillar and spread his trembling fingers. After years of grueling work, the Font of power came to him readily. He felt it trying to climb his throat, to express syllables that could reshape reality. Instead of scalding one of his hard earned arcaneries from his memory, however, he diverted a sliver of the Font into his palm. He closed his eyes to concentrate and pushed outward from that one focused point. The Prisoner felt it as the dark wave pulsed through him. The grinding noise under the fabric fell still. The Prisoner knew his success deep in his bones. He shouldn't lift the cloth, expose his sin. He didn't have to. He'd survived so far on a surplus of caution. He was also powerless to keep himself from checking. His hand descended and drew aside the draping without flourish. His narrow lips trembled as he peered in to the small cage. Set within sockets of bleached bone, the dead rat's gaze burned with unlife as it looked up at its new master.

[SelfAwareNPC]

The Relic Thief MR. SCORN, Acquisitions Consultant True Neutral Half-Drow Occultist Burglar | Merc for Hire | Frontline Scout (Mood Music) "So long as greed exists, there will always be a need for a man like me..." Mister Scorn is as spider-like in appearance as a hominid could possibly be given his long limbs, skittish mannerism, and unsettling demeanor that can make one's skin crawl. He dresses heavily in black leathers and dark overcoats even during a hot summers day, mainly to avoid the sunlight itself. He keeps his white hair shorn to represent his own distancing from his old culture, even though the heavy scarring about his body serve as constant reminder. He walks about in near silence as a force of habit, clinging unconciously to the shadows and often sneaking up on people by accident, giving him a reputation as a creeper. His eyes are always on the lookout for some danger, some trap, or some unattended treasure. He speaks very little, and his gangly limbs and large spectacles can give one the false sense of security that Scorn is a physical pushover. But nothing could be further from the truth as the proves himself time and time again to be more than capable with a blade. Personality An unnaturally calm, calculating and almost predatory demeanor came about due to early childhood trauma that has crystalized to become the detached and guarded man Scorn is today. A lifetime of fear and physical torture has been pushed to the far corners of his psyche, and he lives his life day by day now, unfeeling in emotions and uncaring for moral nuances. He keeps mainly to himself to avoid complications, but knows enough to be polite and inquisitive when searching for merc work or acquisition gigs. He is low-key rather cunning, which he uses to maintain secrecy for his mission for good or for ill, and he does his best to avoid extremes lest he gain undue notoriety for his deeds. He is cultivating a reputation of reliability and competence for his services, and wants to keep himself approachable by anyone. Lawman or Crook, Hero or Villain. So long as the coin is good. Background   WIP   WIP   WIP

[Wisp]

Renata Lovasz The Basics Name: Renata Lovasz Race: Human Alignment: Neutral Good Class: Divine Hunter ArchetypeHunter Deity: Gozreh Traits: Subject of Study Appearance Standing in at 5'2", Renata is a small individual with a slight frame that packs a surprising amount of power in such a small package. She has light olive skin that is marred by various scars, some old, others new, but all are lessons in one form or another, each one a story of what not to do in a given situation. While most remain covered with her earth-toned attire a set of three run along the left side of her face, barely missing one of her brown eyes. In addition to her eyes, Renata has long and thick brown hair that is oft tied in a pair of braids with one on either side of her head, though they are far from neat. A fact that can be applied to most things regarding the young woman, she doesn't much care for presenting herself in any fancy way and puts little effort into her appearance, often coming into cities with dirt-smudged cheeks or torn clothes from her time on the road. An unsurprising fact is that Renata values function over form. Her clothes are simple and lack stylistic flair, not to mention the colors are dull and meant to help her blend in rather than stand out. The few accessories Renata wears are simple and items she received as gifts, most often from her parents or grandfather. These consist of a pair of wooden earrings, and simple woven bracelets adorned with iron beads. All in all, she appears plain to most, and that's fine with her. Personality Renata is a quiet sort. She rarely speaks unless spoken to and prefers to watch people from a distance rather than interact with them directly. The reason for this? Simple, people make her nervous. They're all different, unpredictable, and as liable to hurt you as they are to help you. It doesn't help that the young woman is suspicious by nature and has a habit of assuming people are out to get her rather than help her. Doubly so for elves, gnomes, or any other particularly exotic-looking race. Her actions are always carefully calculated and made to draw the minimum amount of attention possible, all to keep herself as invisible to the world as she can manage. Small-talk and pleasantries make her uncomfortable, she can barely keep eye contact when talking with strangers, and to top it off she has a nasty habit of freezing up when people try to do anything more than say a quick hello to her. Often her voice will rarely come out above a whisper, all in a desperate attempt to get out of whatever social situation the young woman finds herself in. In short, Renata is terrified of people because people are unpredictable. Yet despite her quirks, and lack of social graces, Renata has her strong points. Intelligent and wise beyond her years, the young woman has a knack for problem-solving. Add on to that a courage rarely matched by even the most steadfast soldiers. She's a reliable companion to those who earn her trust and loyal to a fault. Due to this, it isn't surprising that towards the few friends she has Renata is fiercely protective, much like a mother bear towards her cubs. This, in combination with her surprisingly kind demeanor, and willingness to help others can take people by surprise. But, that doesn't stop her from doing what she can to make other's lives easier without the want or expectation of thanks. Another surprise to most is the young woman's devotion and reliance on her faith in times of hardship or struggle. That said, she has never been vocal about her faith and isn't out to push it on others, preferring to practice her faith in peace. All in all, underneath her lack of social skills and general distrust of others, lies a kind woman who has a stronger will than most would guess. History   Renata Lovasz is the second child and only daughter born to two hard-working vale folk who made their home in a sleepy forest encircled mountain village in the county of Amaans. Her mother died when she was barely old enough to have even a single memory of her, and as such both Emil, her elder brother, and Renata herself found they spent the majority of their time with their grandfather Kolos. He was an old adventurer who regaled them with tales of his travels, and secretly got them both rather entranced by the Gozren religion which Kolos himself was a part of. Renata had a simple but mostly happy life for the majority of her early years, spending her days paging through old books of her grandfather's or exploring the woods surrounding her home. Slowly learning she much preferred the solitude and peace of the forest to the hustle and bustle of her village. It wasn't until she was ten years old that tragedy reared it's head again. During a simple outing the young girl found herself assaulted by a creature tainted with dark magic, a horrible thing that smelled of rotting flesh and seemed determined to end her life. Through equal measures of luck and tenacity she fought it off enough to flee. Returning to a village that while concerned for the young girls safety questioned whether she should even be able to stay in the village. To assuage the panicking villagers fears, Imre Lovasz, Renata's father, got into contact with an old acquaintance of his one Professor Petros Lorrimor, who was a bit of an expert on the unusual. The pair met only four days after Renata's encounter with the creature, soon to be proclaimed undead, and was cleared of any lingering effects it may have inflicted...though the thing itself was never seen again and what truly happened to it is a mystery. Over the years Renata kept in contact with Petros, both to answer his questions on what she experienced that day and to learn more about undead as a whole. Less to know about they're habits, or what they tend to do on a daily basis and more to know how to make them hurt, and the most effective ways to kill them. The pair exchanged letters every few months and while the majority of the knowledge she received from Petros pertained to undead he also gave Renata a bit of insight into the world outside of her village. In addition to learning of undead from Petros, Renata's father, Imre, took it upon himself to teach both Emil, her elder brother, and Renata how to fight. It was far rom in-depth as the man only had what their grandfather taught him when he was a boy to go on but it was enough to keep them safe. Renata showed exceptional promise with a bow and began tagging along on hunting trips to help hone her skills. It was during one such hunting trip when Renata was but fourteen that she found her now constant companion, Istvan. The creature in question was a grounded owl, a particularly large specimen, who at the time had injured his wing and was unable to fly. After dispatching the wolves the young girl insisted that she would look after it, and she did. It took a good three weeks and resulted in more than one exceptionally close with her hand and his beak, but by the end she'd earned the bird's trust and the pair have proven nigh inseparable sense. The bird's timing for entering her life was exceptional as after a month passing since Istvan joined the family Kolos left it, old age finally caught up to him. The loss hit the young woman hard and she began to spend more time in the woods than at home, claiming it made her feel better, like Kolos was still with her, he had instilled his love for the natural world in Renata and at the time she wanted nothing more than to be as close to her grandfather as she could...even if he wasn't really there. For the next two years Renata found herself wandering the woods around her village, keeping it safe from less than pleasant things rather than actually living in it, much to her family's dismay. Of course she dropped in regularly both to keep in touch with Petros, and to check in on her father and brother But she found being out in the forest kept her mind from wandering to things she'd prefer not to dwell on, namely loss. It was something the young human found she had a great deal of trouble handling, and was going to put it off for as long as she could. Instead focusing on keeping the wood she explored since she was a child free of what corrupting influences she could. Both to keep her home safe and in service to Gozreh, for nature was something to be protected and the unnatural things that called Ustalav home need to be dealt with. Yet at the age of sixteen loss reared it's head again when her father vanished without a trace. Most simply claimed he'd fallen victim to the fey tricksters that made their home in the woods, even Emil. But, Renata couldn't swallow that, her father was too smart, and she'd been all through the woods with nary a sign of such creatures. Though deep down that thought gnawed at Renata, after all, she herself would have said the same had anyone but her father been the one to vanish it was what she'd been taught all her life. To this day Renata is unaware of why her father truly disappeared, or even if he's alive or dead and that fact haunts her just as much as the loss of her grandfather. A combination of these factors caused Renata to leave her home and venture east towards the border Amaans shares with Virlych, her goal? To hone her skills and continue to protect her little section of Ustalav as best she can...though one person can only do so much, particularly when you need to run more than you can fight. It can be disheartening but despite that Renata has chosen her path and intends to stick to it, if not for herself than her father and grandfather. Professor Petros Lorrimor and Ravengro Renata became acquainted with Petros after an encounter with a rather unsavory undead, he was contacted by her father who met him in passing years prior While his interest was purely academical at the outset Renata showed genuine interest in his work and the two kept in contact through mail throughout the years. While their relationship could never truly be considered friendly Renata would consider herself one of his pupils. To her he was a teacher and someone who shared information that she wouldn't otherwise be able to attain. Renata took his words to heart and viewed him as a mentor and someone to respect and listen to, for he was one of the few people she's known who truly knew what they were talking about. In other words Renata and Petros Lorrimor had the relationship of a teacher and student. One where Renata truly did respect Petros and thought highly of both the professor and the opinions he held. She valued his research and enjoyed learning what she could from him, and while the two rarely met face to face for the nine years she knew him they kept in touch through mail well enough. RP Sample   Renata was recovering from a long day. Her eyes drifted ever closer to closing as the embers of a small fire dwindled to nothingness at the mouth of the small opening in the mountainside she called home. Sleep stalked ever closer as the minutes continued to pass and the streak of visible sky the woman could see continued to darken. Yet her peace was interrupted by a single noise, a noise that made her go from relaxed lounging to alert sitting in a second. Istvan beside her stiffened, his wings flexing outwards in anticipation. Silence settled over the scene for a brief moment before the same sound echoed through the empty space. "Uh, hello?" The voice that called out was foreign, and Renata could felt her nerves tense. Whoever this was, the young woman did not know them. Instinctively her hand sought out the hilt of a dagger she kept just off to the right for such occasions. While her grip tightened around the small blade's hilt she waited, hoping who, or whatever this was would leave. "Renata Lovasz?" The voice caused Renata to start, it knew her name, how? That wasn't possible, she didn't know anyone who would wander this far off the beaten path just to find her, other than her brother and this certainly wasn't him, so what on earth was this thing? How did it know her? Such thoughts raced through the young huntress' head while the oversized owl beside her let out a confused hoot. "Shh, it's okay," Renata whispered to her companion, reaching out to rest a hand on the bird's side for a few seconds before getting to her feet. Hunching slightly to not hit the rock ceiling above. The woman strode forward stopping a few inches from the mouth of the cave, heart pounding in her chest as a million different ideas of what could be waiting past the edge of the assailed her thoughts. The woman's stomach twisted in knots as the grip on her dagger became white-knuckled but with a quick breath, she took the final leap and poked her head out of the opening of her safe place. It didn't take long for her gaze to land on a humanoid figure standing at the base of the mountain she called home. "Who are you?" Renata called down not daring to venture further, fully expecting either no answer, a blatant lie, or some kind of attack. "A messenger who's been trying to get a letter to you for a while, you are not an easy person to find," The individual spoke, their voice laced with exhaustion and a hint of frustration. Though Renata herself shook her head, a messenger made no sense, her brother wouldn't send a letter and the only other individual she had constant contact with would have left the letter with her brother. "Who's the letter from?" Was Renata's called response, and she heard the individual below her sigh. Istvan's curiosity got the best of him and he joined Renata, popping his head over the ledge, and letting out a hoot while staring down at the stranger. "A councilor from Ravengro, and it seems important, so if you'd be so kind as to get down here so I can give it to you I'd appreciate it," The individual, a man if Renata had to guess, the voice had too much of an edge to be feminine, well, compared to the people she'd spoken to in the past. Not that it mattered, Renata didn't know a councilor and was about to retreat into the confines of her simple abode but the name Ravengro struck her as oddly specific. The professor lived there, why would she be getting a letter from a councilor? While her nerves ate away at her she slipped the dagger she'd been holding into a sheath, and swung herself out the opening before her, then began the climb down. Once her feet hit the bottom she turned to face the messenger who swiftly produced the letter and held it out just as Istvan landed silently next to Renata, getting the, now apparent, man to jump as the piece of parchment was handed off. "I'll be going then," The man said shifting a glance from Renata to Istvan as he backed away towards a horse the huntress assumed was his. "Right," It was all Renata could manage as she watched silently as the messenger left her alone once again. Sending a look towards the owl at her side she gave a low whistle and sent a nod in the stranger's direction. Without question, the owl took off silently trailing after the stranger to make sure he made it to the closest road safely. With a sigh the young woman pocketed the letter before climbing back up the rockface behind her, taking a seat next to the dying fire before she opened the piece of paper. Tears clouded the young woman's eyes and a hand instantly shot to her mouth in an attempt to keep whatever sound wanted to come out in. That didn't stop the tears. The professor was gone and that was an unpleasant shock to her system. While she knew him mostly through letters that didn't make him any less of a mentor, and she had never dealt with loss well, unsurprisingly this was looking to be no different. Renata stared at the letter, only looking up when the ruffle of feathers hit her ears. Looking up she saw Istvan perched beside her, and without missing a beat she leaned into his fluffy feathers while wiping away the few remaining tears on her cheeks. "The professor's gone," The woman whispered as she stared at the now smoldering embers of the fire, as she finally decided to attend the funeral she'd been invited to. "We're going be walking for a while."

[Begon Ugo]

I do believe Willow is complete. Any and all feedback gladly welcomed!