Drokan Profile Thread

[Noob-Eternal]

In the interest of promoting a roleplay with a large, active userbase and avoiding the phenomenon known as ********, the following character guidelines will be set. It should be noted that those outside the main group may be expected to exercise patience in becoming intertwined with the main plot, and that forcing an illogical and untimely meeting for the sake of quick integration will result in much frowning and possible bannage. I think it should be noted here that we have every intention of breaking up the main group once the roleplay runs for a bit, so everybody will end up with a piece of the main story in their hand.

THE ROYAL PROCESSION: These are the characters that will, at the outset, form the group travelling with the Heir.

The Heir: The ultimate protagonist of our storyline, the position of the Heir will be handed over only if the applying roleplayer demonstrates exceptional ability as a writer in their profile. The Heir is in his* late teens, and he hails from the sleepy, well-to-do village of Owl's Landing on the Landa river. While the Heir has, like his close friends, the potential to be tremendously powerful and majestic and a hundred other things, he is currently just a child setting off on an adventure. The Heir can be male or female.

Groupies: We will be accepting FOUR profiles written from the perspective of childhood friends of the Heir. Just as the heir, they all currently reside in Owl's Landing (and are all there at the start of the roleplay), and just as the heir, each possesses the as of yet unrealized capacity for greatness. Any story that allows for a groupie to be anything other than human is going to have to be amazing, if you get my drift, and it is highly unlikely that there is a prince or the son/daughter of a fabulously wealthy merchant living in the boonies. Groupies can be either male or female.

The Guide: A seasoned traveller and friend of the Heir, it is the Guide who takes ultimate responsibility for leading the kids from Owl's Landing safely to Ishri. It should be noted that the Guide is someone whom the Heir and the Groupies trust well enough to follow more or less across the entirety of the known world, so it is unlikely that are violent, craven, or stupid. The Guide can be male or female.

Champions: We will be accepting THREE profiles written from the perspective of travellers and fighters contacted by the Guide and asked to run as bodyguards for the group. The Champions should possess considerable skill in arms, and each definitely knows the Guide and has probably at least heard of the other Champions. Champions can be male or female. Those playing Champions can expect to wait a few pages before being introduced to the rest of the group, as the Guide did not bring them with him for his visit.

THE WORLD OUTSIDE: These are the characters that will, through whatever twists the creators can imagine, become intertwined with the Heir and/or his allies. These characters can be anyone, from anywhere, so long as they obey the rules of good roleplaying and do not all magically appear to aid/hinder the Heir within two pages. Towards this end, it is strongly suggested that those joining as Outsiders do so in groups. I'm sure everyone reading this knows at least one roleplayer that they really like and get along with well. Ask that person to come with you. If you want to be a peddler, show up with a peddler's guard, or even a peddler's wife for all I care. If one wandering, hard-drinking dwarf is cool, two to three wandering, hard-drinking dwarves will be even better. Furthermore, expect how much power and prestige we allow your character to have to be based upon how well you write.

THE ENEMY: I won't lie, we haven't thought this one out very well. The position of head Bad Dude has been taken by the creator of the roleplay, so that would mean we might accept two or three profiles written as profiles from the perspective of Bad Dude's henchmen. Now, a note; given the ability of poorly played antagonists to rain down ruination upon anything they touch, I am going to be even more a**l about these profiles than I am going to be about the Heir's. More so then any other position, those serving the Great Enemy can expect to live their lives with the banhammer hanging over their head. Appear in a poof of smoke to bother protagonists regardless of how logical it is? B&. Go from murderous, raving, fanatical loon to loving compatriot just because you and whoever ends up playing the heir get along well in OOC? B&. If any one subset of individuals is most likely to inspire an episode of NERD RAEG, this one is it.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

[b][strike]{[/strike] Name [strike]}[/strike][/b]
[b][strike]{[/strike] Age [strike]}[/strike][/b]
[b][strike]{[/strike] Role [strike]}[/strike][/b](Heir, Guide, Groupie, Champion, Outsider)
[b][strike]{[/strike] History [strike]}[/strike][/b](Two paragraph minimum)
[b][strike]{[/strike] Personality [strike]}[/strike][/b] (Two paragraph minimum)
[b][strike]{[/strike] Skills [strike]}[/strike][/b] ('Skills' constitutes anything that your character is exceptional at. If you're a Champion, a Rogue, or the Guide, a description of how you fight would be most appropiate here. Keep in mind that skills can also be as mundane as cooking pro omlets or knowing how to spell omlets.)
[b][strike]{[/strike] Gear [strike]}[/strike][/b] (Everybody brings flint and tinder+rations+cloak, only mention gear here that would be [i]unique[/i] to your character, such as weapons and magical items. An exception to this rule if your mundane thing is something that you foresee as useful but would seem improbable if randomly pulled from your bum at a key moment in the story. A handful of industrial-grade corks that could be used to plug up a rupturing dam is a good example of this.)
[b][strike]{[/strike] Appearance [strike]}[/strike][/b] (Anime pictures make the whole thing seem like it should have the tone and feel of an anime, but use em if they're what works for you. Personally, I prefer a typed, two-three paragraph or so description that covers the face, general physique, dress sense, and whatever weird piercings/tatoos/scars that you might have.)

[i][b]After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?[/b]

[b]Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?[/b]

[b][strike]{[/strike] Played by [strike]}[/strike][/b] [/size]

This isn't hard, just fill out the profile skeleton and send it along to either myself, La Gnat, or Zerdiox. If anything in it might need revising, we'll all end up reading it and discussing it, anyways, so no need to worry about who gets it. If you're accepted, feel free to post your profile thread here, and if you're the type that worries about it you can update it as the story progresses.

ROLES

The Heir: Reserved (Altered State of Mind)

The Guide: Reserved (Isarde)

Groupie One: Taken (La Gnat)

Groupie Two: Reserved (Fyreflower)

Groupie Three: Taken (Dear S w e e t Alice)

Groupie Four: Reserved (Nightmarerush)

Champion One: Taken (Noob Eternal)

Champion Two: Taken (Lieutenant Candix)

Champion Three: Reserved (Darkness Revival)

Big Bad: Reserved (Zerdiox)

::OUTSIDERS::
None so far, but I promise, give me time and sufficient power over the direction the narrative takes and you WILL become enmeshed with the main story, somehow. Hell, round up a few friends to write profiles with you and you'll even have something to do while I railroad you into a position of importance.

[Noob-Eternal]

HERE LIES AN INACTIVE ROLEPLAYER

None, so far. I think we should work hard to keep it this way.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

August 27: All named roles are either taken or reserved, and we're off to a good start.

LINKS

Drokan OOC

Drokan IC

[La Gnat]

{ Name } Mora Mor
{ Age } Nineteen and three-fourths.
{ Role } Groupie
{ History }
As the sole child to Siv’er Mor and his first wife, Vonit—herself being the daughter of the local butcher and sister to the Heir's mother—Mora was breed to carry-on the fine tradition of concocting gruel and serving ale. It wasn’t long after her birth that Mora learned her place in the world: to serve anyone who could still stumble out of, and keep the tables clean at the Rotted Oak tavern. Her childhood was filled with wary travelers and the locals smoking pipes, swapping tales, and complaining of the times; it wasn’t a bad life, but her imagination often sent her to the places that the strangers spoke of.

On the days that her mother stayed home ill--this increased over the years—Mora would act out the fables she heard in the pub, entertaining the pile of blankets and cloaks that her mother was hidden underneath. Even in her youth, Mora was a bright dreamer, her mind constantly swimming with stories.

The internal light that illuminated the Mor daughter’s face faded one day; the cold, damp world they dwelled in finally took Vonit. And at the tender age of eleven, Mora was left without a mother.

Siv’er eventually wed a woman three years her senior when Mora was fifteen. Her step-mother was a beautiful lady, young and light in build and coloring. Laurette was kind, thoughtful and always had her head in the clouds.
From the marriage, Mora gained a friend and companion, but never a mother.

Mora watched the town around them with a vague sense of curiosity, shackled to the Rotted Oak by a will, and a sense of duty to her father.
So the years continued on, the daily life of the pub consuming her thoughts and taming her dreams.

{ Personality }
The three and a half years that she was left without a mum taught her more then ever before. Lessons of patience were learned by the side of the stream, washing rags and pots; the wisdom of elders was overheard as she stood elbow deep in fermented grape rinds; and lectures on sisterhood took place beside a candle while Laurette revealed the entire town’s gossip.

By the time Mora was eighteen, she had learned to take her mind off the pub’s day-to-day drudgery by constantly smiling. Yes, there was pain, anger, and confusion about her mother’s death boiling under the surface, but Mora knew how to grin and bare it. She understood her position in the universe and dutifully kept to it; becoming the left-hand to her father in the Rotted Oak, and preparing dishes from roots that couldn't have otherwise been edible. Any social life was compacted to a day off, that being the only time Mora displayed any of the dreamy innocence that still flickered within her. It seemed, sadly, that from the constant work her soul had matured beyond its' age to a glazed-eyed mother figure, smirking to keep her ideas and emotions hidden.
{ Skills }
Besides knowing what wine would best go with what dish, Mora is a crafty cook. Give her any vegetable and you’ll have a stew. Her resourcefulness has served many a times during a localized famine, or shortage. However, not much can be said about her riding skills since she never has even seen a horse apart from eating the leg of one. Fortunately, her ability to adapt to situations has spread to swordsmanship; although her right wrist is a bit shoddy after she fell from a tree, her fighting has progressed to the point that she is able to slice a pig to pieces in less then two minutes—of course, the future meal has to be dead first...

{ Gear }
As a “good-intention” gift from Laurette, a deck of gnarled, badly tattered but pretty cards has come into her possession. A skinning knife is usually found on her hip, tucked in a sheath for whatever purposes it can serve. Apart from the basic necessities of home, Mora has no furniture, no gowns, and no jewelry to her name.

{ Appearance }
There is no denying that Vonit was Mora’s mother. For those who remember the pale, raven haired coquette of The Rotted Oak, her slightly taller imitator still is confused for the deceased.
With tendrils of black hair to her elbows and a widow’s peak to further accentuate her heart-shaped face, Mora appears to be more of a china doll then a mortal. Whatever higher being is above created the girl with the softest tone of ivory skin, never defiled by scars or blemishes, but only by the crescent constellation of freckles that wrap around her left eye—a gift from her past mother as well. From the Mor lineage came the lengthy frame with alien-like fingers, the pouty lower lip, and the petite nose that is borderline microscopic. If ever heard of in such a time, or world, the tale of Snow-white would be a decent comparison to Mora, whose fragile features seem to be too delicate for the times in which she was placed in.

Even with her natural childlike splendor, her attire cannot be saved. Dressing in a simple, but usually filthy, grayish-blue skirt and tucked white tunic, the Mor girl is a proper example of the poor. To keep it out of the way, Mora tucks her hair into a bun that boils away from the nape of the neck since she has so many strands to control. Her shoes, if one could really call them that, are wooden clogs, most likely carved from two logs from their backyard. Like mentioned before, she has no jewels, no decorations, to adorn herself with, making her face the only gem within the entire Rotted Oak pub.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?
Take them away; after all hasn't some scholar proven that nurture trumphs nature? Perhaps they can grow to be something other then the beasts that their parents were.

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?
Something overly romantic no doubt; a good cheese would be wonderful--but only if it’s paired with the correct wine; otherwise it could ruin everything.

{ Played by } La Gnat

[Dear S w e e t Alice]

{ Name } Henrique Szymon Boscherow
{ Age } twenty three
{ Role } Groupie and friend of the heir
{ History } To him, Henrique's life was pretty bland. He grew up never knowing his mother, who had died in childbirth from disease, and with a great father. His father was basically exactly like him, emotional, always smiling, and cocky as hell. Henrique had always had a strong bond with him, it was his father that taught him how to camp in their time of crime, how to climb trees to the very top branches without falling and snapping your neck, he taught him basically all he knew. Through his childhood, Henrique worked with his father in his small buisness. It was almost like a small lost and found for the town. Henrique and him went on patrol everyday, scooping up random items that they found and holding them in the small hut they lived in. Towns people would stop buy to either gather what they lost, or even buy some items that they found.

Then his father died of diesease like his mother did, leaving with him his small hut and buisness when he was only eighteen. Henrique still continues on with the buisness reluctantly. The only reason he does it is so that he can get money to buy food and all the other necesities. Sure, he could TRY and steal some things--but he didn't want to make enemies in his own town, he rather do it someplace else.


{ Personality } Henrique is a fairly emotional person. I mean, he's not bipolar like or anything of the such, but he reacts greatly to everything. Such as the one time that he was caught stealing, he screamed and burst off in a sprint ((laughing his head off, none the less...)) and completly gave himself away. He has fairly well manners that he learned from years of watching people. One of his best traits is that he smiles and laughs at everything, almost nothing can get him down. But you'll only see this side of Henrique up-close. From far away, he seems like a fairly calm and collected person. Just doing what he need to survive.

When in a fight, or close quarter situation, Henrique gets a whole new side to him. He almost starts acting like a cornered animal. He gets very threatening and acts completly our of line. He's also way to cocky for his own good. He believes he's 'the best' ((although he could use A LOT more practice)) and he'll do anything to prove it. He'll even run blindly into a fight, of course being the first to get beaten up.

{ Skills } Henrique is very skilled in languages. He knows how to speak a little and read Elfin, he can fully understand and speak Dwarf, he, of course, knows English, and he can understand ((And slightly speak, but only basic phrases)) the Hybrid language. He's always fairly quick on his feet and quite the acrobatic. ((Since Henrique is training himself to become a master pick-pocket, he has to also be quick on his feet and able to escape silently.)) For example, Henrique can hang upside down from the smallest leverage and flip himself upwards graceful enough to automatically prance into a sprint if need be. He's also very skilled in climbing objects. He could climb the side of a wall with ease, as long as he has a small knife or something sharp on him. Spotting. Henrique is great at seeing things from far away and knowing exactly what they are, who they are, what they're armed with...He gained this trait after years of, basically, 'garbage hunting' with his father.

{ Gear } Henrique always has his silver colored crossbow on him. He straps it to his back with a leather holster that is easily assesible. He has the arrows for his crossbow at his lips in cylider like tubes. Those two tubes, on either hip, carry around one hundred arrows. Inside his overly-worn cloak, he holds a small dagger for either emergencies, food purposes, or to climb up and over obstacles.

{ Appearance } His normal attire is a white ((slightly brown with dirt)), slightly baggy, clothed tunic. It used to be a tunic with actual sleeves, but he wore it out to the point where he had to tear the arms off. Underneath that, he wears baggy tan pants wrapped in a few cloth bandages here and there to keep it from falling. The reason for the baggy clothing is so that he has mobility. For shoes, he just wraps his feet up with cloth bandage that holds leather to the bottom of his feet. He says that it's 'easier to move around with', but most people just call him crazy and yell at him to get real shoes. He wears brown gloves ((that cover his last two fingers on each hand, and half covers his thumb, pointer, and middle finger)) to help his grip. ((He laso holds his arrow buckets at his waist and crossbow on his back, but that's stated above.)) AS a finallaity of his attire, Henrique will sometimes wear a grey cloak when it gets cold or he wants to keep himself hidden. When he's not wearing it, the cloak is wrapped around his waist in a heap.

The first thing noticable about Henrique are his eyes. His eyes are a sharp orange, that would practically glow in the dark. He has fairly long black hair that he always has pulled back into a low ponytail to keep from his face. The only time he ever lets it down is when it's cold or he's resting. His skin is a creamy brown color. The kind of skin that has seen much sun. The next thing to notice about Henrique is his height and build. He's six foot flat and one hundred thirty-three pounds. The lankiest thing you'll ever see in your life. On his left arm, strectching from his shoulder down to his elbow is a tattoo of a snake. On his right ear he has two silver hoop ear peicings. He wears a gold chained necklace with a scrorpion shaped amethyest jewel passed down to him from his father. He always has it tucked beneath his tunic, for safety reasons. It's the most valuable thing in his life.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do? Leave them be. Let their natural instinct take over. They are what they are. Anyways, I enjoy causing troubles for others in the future.

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do? I would take them to the best place around, probably someplace filled with red silks and lavish carpets and the such. And I would feed them the best food in the whole land. Something along the lines of wine and fresh meat...Hey, they're the person of my dreams--they deserve it all.

{ Played by Dear S w e e t Alice}

[Lieutenant Candix]

(Editing is still in process.)
{ Name } Gilraen Lúthien Sycamore
{ Age } Four and Twenty half years
{ Role } Champion
{ History }Born in the city of Bargroust, Gilraen had no idea what had happened. Born after bloodshed, and the killing of the queen, she was left with parents that seemed to matter little to her position. It all started at the young, tender age of five years old, where her parents had taught her manners of a princess, and of yet, nothing happened to scar her. All day, however, on a lone summer’s eve, someone appeared on their quiet little doorstep at the outskirts of town.

Within’ moments, the man had knocked on the door, six children standing along behind him, assorted genders staring at the door with wide-eyed innocence, and some of them with their hands stuffed in their pockets. The door opened without a sound and a five year old Gilraen popped open the make-shift door, her lips tilted in a small frown. She had a right to feel that way, it was dark out, and the sun had long gone beyond the horizon.

“Hello.” She greeted coolly, “May I help you?” The man gave a gruff response, leaning forward slightly to peer at the little girl. He was a gruff man; broad shouldered that tapered down into a narrow, thin waist, with dark hair and young, weathered features. The muscled, bronzed skin rippled as he glanced inside the small home again, parting his lips to speak with the quiet, raspy voice of his.

“Is there any guardians here?” His raspy voice caressed her ears, a lisp attached as if he was trying to guard his words. Gil nodded, stepping aweay from the door after a quiet, “Please excuse me.” The door shut behind her, leaving the children that stood behind the door flabbergasted. Within moments, the make-s**t opened again, an exact replica of young Gil appeared, an older and more bodacious figure.


Through her travels with her Master, Gil has made many friends with many creatures, humans, dwarves, dragons, you name it, she probably met one and cowered in fear before knowing, but alas, her fear was overcome and she got to know them. Spanning through those that she has visited, she had learned their languages, and sometimes gets them confused, but she speaks them very well. Speaking that of many languages, with her many travels, when they arrived back in Bargroust she was versed in many arts. Visiting her once-loved, and joy filled home, only to find it as bare and desolate before made it worse than before. The depression returned, and she split from her Master, venturing on her own, and forever leaving her home city to wonder. Meeting people here and there, she has friends and connections in literally every place of the world.

{ Personality } Gilraen is a delightful young lady, polite in every sense of the word, fierce in places that needed, and even aggressive when turned to a foul mood. Spontaneous moods are often found in Gil’s range, and at the most range she has, she will be calm, collected, a tad shy to newcomers, and introverted. She has her moods where she is fairly extroverted, and doesn’t really care what people have to say of her --- but Gil will be Gil, and she is known for her polite, laid-back exterior.

In other words, Gil is very rarely worried, stressed, or in a bad mood. It is at times, when found in a foul mood that you run and hide behind a dragon’s scales and pray to whomever you worship that Gil does not find you. That, however is only a warning and is the least likely to happen. Loyal to those she has companionship with, Gil is found near them often, helping and being the good swords woman she is. If she isn't found around her friends, then she's found practicing.

She is determined, stubborn, annoyingly persistent, and willing to give her life to protect a friend, or a client. It is the way her Master has brought her up, and the way life has taught her.

{ Skills } Gil is good at most things she does. She has one of those rare talents that once she learns a few things about something, she will get better by studying, and just holding that object. Among that skill, having studied the art of weapons her Master had taught her, she has various skills concerning two-handed weapons, single-handed, tossing, throwing, bow and arrows, weapons that she has worked on with her Master. Learning to cook was another thing. Her Master was a horrible cook, and having spent all her free time with maids in the kitchen when she lived with her mom, she learned how to cook with them. She became better at it through the years, and now good with languages and weaponry, she can now add cooking to the list. Other than that, Gil is a good listener.

{ Gear } She brings along what is necessary. A bracelet her mother made for her when she was younger, and a hat her father gave to her before they mysteriously disappeared. A gift given from her master on her coming of age, is a leather thong donned by small, clear stones. Otherwise, Gil brings the two black-metaled swords that she made herself on her travels, and is accompanied sometimes by a dragon friend here and there. She will have the occasional dagger hidden in her brassiere, or up her sleeve.

{ Appearance } Gilraed is short, and slightly willowy. Ranging at the height of five foot and three inches, she is filled with thick muscle and beautifully tanned farmers skin due to all her traveling. With her slightly upturned, petite nose and the oval shaped face, and the random splatters of freckles here and there that are hardly visible due to her tan, she is a right beaut.

Draped over her shoulders, and falling down just past her waist, is the dark mane of hair that is as thick as a lions, has high and low lights naturally. The auburn color, accentuates her face, and leaving the dark, green almond shaped eyes to be freely styled. Kissing the collar bone is her soft leather thong that her Master had made for her on one of the many journeys they had been together in. Hanging from the hide, is a pendant of small, clear stones. A cream coloured blouse hides her full breasts, and a leather corset is worn around her flat stomach, over the material of the billowy blouse.

For abdominal wear, below the naval she wears a thick belt a four inches wide, that wraps loosely around her waist. Below are the hips of which many have called, 'lovely lady lumps' and those are covered by trousers that rest neatly above the heeled boots she calls shoes. Most of everything she has received, aside that of her two, large, looming dark blades on her back were gifts from her Master or from the elves.

The thick belt that I've mentioned earlier, holds literally everything for Miss Gil. Holds her money, some daggers, and the occasional bag or arrows. It even has the sheaths for her infamous dark blades that formed an 'x' on her lower back. It usually makes her appear as if she had lower dark wings.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc war band, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?
Little orclets...? I'm sorry miss or mister, but if I met disbanded orclets from their mother and father, I would kindly place them in the environment they had once lived, and visit them from time to time to make sure they're alright and suited as needed. Even if their nature is violent, it does not mean you can not try to improve their behaviour.

Grats buddy, the man of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do? I would go with them where they most wanted to go, allow them the pleasure of courting me (not the sexual stuff... bleh), and ask if they would want to go out for another dinner to further know each other if he is still interested.

{ Played by } Lieutenant Candix

[Noob-Eternal]

{ Name } Brennan Whytecroft.
{ Age } 31
{ Role } Champion
{ History }Brennan Whytecroft was born in the city of Hallenfell, located deep in the southeastern most reaches of the Wilderness. Like many children, Brennan spent his days dreaming of adventure and glory. When he turned seventeen, he was given the choice that all young men in Hallenfell were given. He could become an apprentice, likely to his father, and therefore cement his fate as a cooper likely for the rest of his days, or he could join the Hallenfell Watch. In nine out of time instances, this meant a lifetime of what was essentially police work. Brennan, who had always been a naturally skilled woodsman, decided to shoot for the one-in-ten. While drilling constantly and breaking up barroom brawls did sound better than making barrels, being one of the few who had the honor the trek into the forests and engage the hated beastmen on their own ground had the merit of sounding legitimately exciting.

A combination of luck and talent landed him a coveted position in the Duke Elect's Ranger's Battalion, and it was, initially, what Whytecroft had imagined it would be. When the job wasn't dreary, it was absolutely terrifying, but there was something in the art of hit-and-run warfare that Whytecroft found compelling. Part of it was mean vanity; he had never excelled so naturally at any other thing, even if he had been by no means a stupid child. Part of it was the moral glee that accompanied rooting out and destroying the very worst the world had to offer, wherever they tried to hide.

Unfortunately, the Duke Elect had plans for his burgeoning military that did not involve waffling about in the woods. Like many other Dukes or Mayors or Patricians in many of the other tiny cities that had grown up in the Wilderness, he was an ambitious man. He thought himself a King, and the fact that he was trapped with a city and landholdings worthy only of the title "Duke" an inconvenience and an accident of fate. These delusions of grandeur reflected themselves in the increasingly unsavory tasks the Ranger's Battalion was expected to perform.

At first, it was small things, like guarding the men that charged tolls at bridges they had neither constructed nor had any true claim to. Outlying hamlets and villages that had been ignored now found themselves visited by newly minted tax collectors, who always travelled with an escort of Rangers and more heavily armored Regulars. There were, surprisingly, no fights. The tax collectors sent for such tasks usually made compelling arguments, noting that they had long lived under the protection of the Duke's forces, and that the inhabitants of the city alone could not fund their defense forever. If any doubted the virtue of the cause, they were silenced by the close look they got, free of charge, at the good Duke's army. Feeling good about the progress he was making, the Duke expanded his influence further still, and in his excitement ran right up against the border of a neighboring city-burgeoning-into-city-state's border. Brennan was there for it.

He was, as he had been for the past eight months, running escort duty for one of the tax collector/recruiter's who secured promises of loyalty from previously unaffiliated villages. Someone else had, however, beat them to their most recent objective, by a margin of years. It, and all the people in it, considered themselves (at least, as the guardsman who explained it to them claimed) honor-bound to the city of Worcasel. And, as he added, they had suffered mightily for the frankly ludicrous toll rates that were being charged on every bridge that Hallenfell could get its hands on. So, the young Captain had explained with a wide smile, the little entourage had best turn itself around and forget that they had ever had any interest in chatting with the people of Anciers. It was the smugness that really did it.

The entire ordeal went badly. For everyone. Fighting from the advantage of the city's crude palisade, the Worcasel troops were able to repel the negotiators-turned-impromptu-invaders, forcing them to take cover in the tree line after slaying several soldiers with arrows, the ranking officer of the escort among them. Enraged, the men of Hallenfell waited for nightfall before launching a surprise second assault. Considerable experience saw them over the wall and into the town, upon which they extracted bloody vengeance before throwing a few torches and vanishing back into the night.

For the sake of not slipping into melodrama, 'bloody vengeance' will be left at that. Suffice it to say that they comported themselves as frightened, desensitized, angry soldiers often act when presented with defenseless enemies. Their experience against bands of beastmen and robbers had left them with almost no reference for dealing with civilians who happened to be in the wrong place, supporting the wrong people, at the wrong time.

The slow march back to Hallenfell was a nightmare. The company seemed split between those that were horrified at what had happened and those that seemed indifferent to it, and that disagreement very nearly sparked several fights that would have seen them killing one another. Hallenfell, where they were greeted as heroes and told that the Duke Elect had declared war upon Worcasel, was the final straw for more than a few. Still not quite having the words or the nerve to express their disgust at what they'd seen (done), some of the Ranger's simply deserted, Brennan among them. He had, after what had amounted to cold-footed, useless indecision at Anciers, found his stride again. Conveniently forgetting that he was, in many ways, just as guilty as the people who had done the actual roaring rampage bit while he stood by, Brennan killed several of his more sadistic comrades before vanishing into the woods, hoping that it would assuage his conscience and give peace to those that had died violentally. There is, to this day, a small fortune promised to anybody who can kill Whytecroft, although his penchant for travel well outside the southeast of the Wilderness, combined with his reputation, make bounty hunters a rare trouble indeed.

From that day forward, Brennan dedicated himself to the hefty task of atonement. While he is aware that on some level, no deed is so magnificent that it wipes away the stain of murder (save, perhaps, raising the dead), he also has no intention of committing suicide, or turning himself in to an authority that is both corrupt and murderous. For the last eleven years, Whytecroft has wandered the continent, taking out brigands and cutthroats where he can find them, sometimes going so far as to venture into a city and kill a troublingly belligerent nobleman or two.

/History will expand further as the roleplay begins/progresses. Relation of Champion to Guide indeterminable until Guide profile established./

{ Personality } Brennan is not a grim person, at least not anymore. One can only maintain the Guilt-ridden Avenger persona for so long, and Whytecroft has internalized many of his darker thoughts and moods. The resulting behavior is strange, to say the least.

On the inside, the man is as fervent an atoner as he was the day after he deserted the Hallenfell militia. He is a steadfast believer in the importance of justice, and in Brennan's mind there is no justice more infallible than an arrow to the heart or a knife to the throat. While flexible in his methods (indiscretion is death, and for the wrong person), the basic thrust of Whytecroft's plan almost always remains the same. Find the iniquitous, and kill them.

Also counted among Brennan's less obvious traits is his strong Royalist leaning. His experience as a soldier under a frankly egotistical and corrupt leader did not, as one would expect, dissuade him from believing in the need for a strong, central government. Instead, he came to the conclusion that men like the Duke would always exist, in any time, no matter how hard one fought against it, and that if left to their own devices, such people were capable of causing mayhem and grief that would not clear up until one such devious, power-mad loon came out as the clear victor. In short, Brennan sees two options. The political climate of Drokan can be allowed to stabilize on its own, in a process that will likely take decades of continuous, small-scale warfare. Or, someone with a mind specifically towards reuniting Drokan can be brought in, bereft of the caution and narrow-mindedness that characterizes the petty Dukes. No hundred years of watching people carefully build up their power-bases and alliances while they also bleed one another white and leave the small folk to whatever fate finds them. One push, backed by the allies the Guide so highly speaks of, and in twenty years time they'll be back to signing trade agreements with the nations in the North and mumbling caustically about taxes. Whytecroft has decided to throw his lot in with the latter scenario.

None of this, however, shines through to the man's exterior. He is, if not exactly cheerful, friendly enough in the way that distant acquaintances often are, and he is always willing to share his knowledge or practice swordplay with anyone who asks. The focus that his chosen field requires has become so ingrained in him that he can maintain it even while chatting about the weather. So seemingly friendly is his exterior that those few who meet him without having heard about him first are surprised when he turns out to be absolutely ferocious.

{ Skills } 1: While 'determination' seems more a personality trait than a skill, it is mentioned here because in Whytecroft's case, determination has morphed into a quasi-magical power all on its own. His own zeal seems to shield him from injury, warding away illness and allowing the man to shrug off what little magic is left to encounter. Brennan can work through all but the most debilitating of injuries, and when pressed desperately for time he can go for days without sleep or food, fueled by nothing but his own willpower.

2: Brennan is very skilled in arms. The man is a swordsman accustomed to fighting in the confines of dense woodland, and the compact, swift style that has developed as a result of this is visually ungainly but undoubtedly effective. His abilities with a bow are merely passable. As he himself will admit, his training focused more on rapid engagement of enemies at relatively close ranges, giving him a fast draw time and impressively quick rough aiming, but very little in the way of precision. He can put three arrows in three man-sized targets at thirty paces in the time it would take other men to fire two, but you would never want to put an apple on your head and tell him to have a go.

3: Brennan is an accomplished woodsman, reckoned among the best that Drokan has to offer. The man is a masterful hunter, whatever the prey may be, and his ability to avoid detection in the wild places of the world has earned him an entirely unfounded reputation for incorporeality. Perhaps most unfortunately for his enemies, Brennan possesses the tactical acumen to impart this wraith-like stealth to those who fight with him.

4: Where people are concerned, which is to say, where people can not be dealt with in a fashion entailing death, Brennan's tools are rather less varied. In this respect, he has two possible plans of attack. He can go with intimidation in the grimmest sense of the word, relying on reputation and the threat of physical discomfort to extract information. Or, he can lie. Quite convincingly, in fact. Nothing in his worldview makes misplaced honesty towards people who don't deserve it a virtue.

{ Gear }
-2 small flasks of unapologetically powerful alcohol, not for drinking. As far as disinfectants go, it's a hell of a lot better than water.
-A roll of gauze, thread, a needle, and some very small scissors.
-Compass. Also, map.
-One Falcata of Dwarvish make. The weight distribution in the blade (mostly centered at the outermost third) and the unique curve give the weapon a very deep bite when slashing against unarmored opponents. Is axe-like enough to also be used as a general-purpose tool when desperate. He wears it on his hip in a gray scabbard that is also of Dwarvish make.
-One hunting knife.
-One stiletto with an eight-inch blade. Handy for work that requires some discretion.
-One recurve short bow and a quiver with fifty arrows.

{ Appearance } Brennan has dark green eyes and short, flat-lying brown hair. He is six feet tall, and he has very visibly led a rough life. His nose is crooked, having been broken many times, and two triangular scars on his right cheek mark where he was shot by beastmen in his early days. His left ear is missing its lobe, courtesy a very sharp dagger in the hands of a man Whytecroft met in Jerak, and a loop of roughened tissue around his neck commemorates the hanging he was almost given by a few irate corsairs.

Such a history could go on for quite some time. From head to toe, the man is covered in little nicks and patches and memories of horrendous injuries sustained and overcome. He is fit and exceptionally strong without being bulky, and some of the older Dwarves he has met remark that there is something almost elvish in the quiet, careful grace of his movements. Brennan, who has only ever heard stories of mad Isaria and the depravity of the Bossenfolk as they neared their end, takes this rather the wrong way when it is brought up.

For clothing, the man dresses in nondescript hunter’s garments in various shades of green and gray and brown. His belt is covered in pouches, which hold a variety of handy knick-knacks, and he also carries a bandolier upon which are his two sheathed knives, his compass, and his two muted, hunter green flasks of alcohol. The man also wears a short brown mantle, with an attached piece of brown cloth that hides the entirety of his face from the eyes down. In colder weather, he will don over this a full-length cloak, although he finds them dreadfully inconvenient when one is trying to be sneaky.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?
What everybody else, everywhere, does when they get their hands on orcs. If ever their existed an orc that would not have dealt chiefly in violence when given the chance, may whatever god presides over such things strike me down.

Gee, I’m still here.

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?
No time.

{ Played by } Noob Eternal

[ASTRO - - p u f f]

{ Name } Pepper Kmetko


{ Age } 17


{ Role }groupie


{ History }When Pepper was born, her parent's weren't quite sure what she was. In their visions, the Kmetko's darling daughter had a rosy face, dimples, and soft blonde hair; instead they received a strangely pale child with darkest hair and silver eyes. The babe seldom cried and seemed to never see, just think. But of course, babies couldn't think. All they did was poop, eat, and cry.

Pepper was the daughter of the town doctor and herb healer. From an early age, her mother schooled her in the art of leaves, how to grind out the juices, dry and crush plants into powder, and how best to cultivate them. She stored this information in her mind more out of duty than desire. Sure, it was the family trade, but the usage felt like exploitation to Pepper. Her mother never nurtured the plants to their fullest perfection or placed them in the best soil. Perhaps what bothered Pepper the most was the way the herbs were treated like objects instead of living, feeling persons.

Around Pepper's eleventh year, her mother died. Her father diagnosed it as "heart failure due to old age." Pepper disagreed; she blamed the constant plant opiate usage, but who was she to argue with "the doctor?" The herb duties fell to her small shoulders, but she never minded. It just meant she had more time in the garden. Pepper grew more withdrawn from society and focused on the creatures whose language was gentler: plants. The town gossips blamed her mother's death and father's neglect. Thus, the biddies took it upon themselves to integrate the withdrawn girl. Obviously, Pepper loathed their attention, but some good came out of it: she finally made friends. They never thought her obsession with plant cultivation was odd; they understood the subtle art involved. Although Pepper would rarely say it, she loves those friends dearly.

{ Personality } It is not unknown that Pepper is icy to all she meets. Her apathetic complex chills people to their core, making them shun her. However, she cares not for the petty village folk. Her words are few, yet always thoughtful and wise, if a bit concise. She never speaks or acts drastically; deep thought goes into all of it.. Perhaps her slow and fully churned thoughts and long pondered actions reflect the slow and decisive natures of the plants she cultivates.

With this icy disposition, one would think that Pepper has no passions in life or any feelings; that is entirely untrue. She is particularly skilled at masking them. She never felt closely bonded to anything but the gentle earth and her companions. If you want her to speak, strike up a conversation about her garden, the forest, even farming! She loves it with all her heart, the soft green foliage and warm, brown soil. And, of course, her friends are also important. It's a bit funny that she cares not a lick for her father yet she'd sacrifice her soul for the only few people who accept her oddities.


{ Skills } If you hadn't noticed, Pepper is skilled in all things earth. She is a skilled horticulturist, herbalist, and overall gardener. She could coax a vibrant forest from salt-ridden ground. In addition to being one with the earth, she also is a decent cook. Her soups are flavored with interesting arrays of home-grown spices and she always knows the best berry hunting and leaf-picking grounds. However, the girl is hopeless at hand to hand combat. Her "fighting" skills lie with a bow and arrow, perfectly whittled for speed and distance.

{ Gear } No matter where Pepper is, she always has a small digging shovel and a packet of seeds.


{ Appearance } Some call Pepper Kmetko a lunar beauty; some call her dark ice. The appearance on this young girl is extraordinary. Her eyes shine with intelligence through silver windows. From the roots of her head grow tresses as dark as the the soils she works. However, she doesn't flaunt her beautiful hair in the style as most young women; it's cropped short and the tips brush the edge of her shoulders. This "unbecoming" haircut fits in her lifestyle: long enough to pull back but too short to make fuss while working the garden. One wouldn't think that Pepper cares a lick for her wonderful tresses, yet she grows her bangs to hide her face from the world.

Odd enough, Pepper has a milky, pale complexion. Perhaps it's the ice in her soul that reflects into her external appearance, but the sunny rays nurturing her garden do nothing for her. Her face is always a blank page-emotionless, pale, unblemished, a perfect match to her silver-grey eyes. But does this withdrawn person speak? Pepper's rare words are accompanied by an alto voice, not too low and far from a soprano. The tempo and meter of her words are smooth an a bit monotone to the untrained ear; only hints of emotion or feeling lift and raise her voice.

From a distance, one would view Pepper as a tall girl, perhaps a bit older than seventeen with such height. Her limbs are long and thin with few hints of curves on the bottom or the bosom. Genetics weren't generous to the proportions that gentlemen prefer. Yet, she doesn't mind. As she once said, "A large bosom only invites trouble for the one who possess it. She shall need a shovel to fight off the dogs." Needless to say, She genuinely doesn't care. The young girl is quite content with her five feet and seven inches.

When it comes to dressing, Pepper is as particular as she is with everything not concerning her garden. Her typical nonchalance puts off an odd vibe. The way she dresses is a constant thorn in her mother's side who always longed for a pretty, shallow girl. Pepper doesn't care for lacy frocks or elegant cloth; she only possess one dress, a violet gingham thing. Everything else she wears points to boyish origins: knee breeches, a loose shirt, and no corset to be seen in miles. However, the girl has an eye for color and pattern. She sews her own clothing and takes great care for their quality. Cotton is typically the texture, dyed with different colors inspired by the flowers she attends to.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?
I teach them to control their emotions


Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?
Psh, like that would ever happen.

{ Played by } f y r e f l o w e r e

[W e s t e r n WINDS]

Tiberius to Leona. History of Tiber.

{ Name } Tiberius - Tiber.
{ Age } Twenty and a five piece.
{ Role }As I've heard tell? A champion.
{ History } Where to begin with Tiberius, hm? I suppose it would be prudent to state this here, and now. Listen closely, for it is very important to know; Tiberius is a half elf. Hah! That wasn't so bad, was it? Now, before you get any romantic notions of frolicking in fields hither and yon, you'll note that he is only half of an elf and half of a man. To be frank, he is neither. His story begins as all stories do, at conception, though nothing so crass as the act in question. While it is uncertain how, why or when the two beings met, seeing as all elves were supposedly gone from the annals of history, the fact is as clear as day when you look at him. He was brought up in the Wilderness, an outlying village of no name that presided nearest Morak. To all appearances he was just another lad hunting with the rest of the small family that was his village, but it was readily apparent by the time he reached early adolescence that he wasn't, in fact, normal. No powers, or flashing lights, no speaking in tongues or hugging trees. No, the lad was just...different.

Other young men pursued such things as fornication and acts of supposed bravery; running into a cave absolutely off limits, throwing rocks at bears and boars, the like. Tiberius? He was ever the quiet one, ever the thinker and the philosopher. Boyish fun, as it always must, turns into teenage angst and violence. Humans have a tendency to fear that which they do not understand, and the family who had raised Tiberius found it harder and harder to hide their son from the eyes of the populace as the other boys grew boisterous and belligerent at the fact that one of their own looked more like an ugly woman than a growing man. It was incomprehensible to Tiberius, he did all the things they did; fought, romanced, hunted and dreamed. He was just better at it than they were, and because of that, he was persecuted and scorned. This is not a story of proving them wrong, or a tale on how he suddenly had notions of greatness and fitting in elsewhere, you've read to many tales of yore, mate.

On an eve in midsummer, when the wind blew to the east from the north, Tiberius simply packed his longbow and dagger and left his home. No long farewells, no lackluster attempt at settling things, it was in vain and he knew it. Yet, to tell the tale I suppose I must be completely honest, no? The truth was that Tiberius felt a wanderlust unlike anything he'd ever known, pulling - always pulling him towards somewhere on the horizon, or maybe to the south. The earth sung under his leather booted feet, and the wind in his hair was like the sweetest caress of a lover whom he'd not seen in a moon cycle. He was free of the trappings of village life, but he was not free of the fear. Peace, such as it was, did not mean that persecution simply ended because nobody had died in some time. Old wounds rise to the fore when a being is faced with reminders of its attainment, and with a pointy eared lad romping around your city, it is hard to keep the wounds from festering.

It was in a city, much like any other, that Tiberius had his first taste of the vileness man could inflict upon that which was not like them. He'd been on his own for nearly three months, a boy of merely thirteen winters, when he was caught by a group of drunken blaggarts who had read just enough to know that somehow, elves were responsible for something bad in the world. While not the brightest bunch, they were certainly armed well enough to stock a small village, and more than prepared to teach the "bat eared heathen" a thing or two about how great humans were. Tiberius was no coward, he'd hunted animals bigger than the tallest of those men before, but he was also not prepared for the clubbing. The first blow sent him staggering to the ground, and those that followed assured he wouldn't get up again to protest. His 'pretty face' was bruised and cut many times over; a scar running across the bridge of his nose permanent testament to this. His body was similarly marred and cut, his very human blood dripping out of his veins and upon the street.

He knows not how long it lasted, nor how long he was unconscious thereafter. When those eyes opened, caked with dried blood and stinging with unshed tears, there was a figure standing over him. The being was clad in shining chain with a tabard of colored silk that hung almost to his ankles, and piercing blue eyes that were focused on him to such an extent that it was almost as though he saw through Tiberius. He introduced himself as Ultrich and offered his hand, and a warning. "If you accept this hand, lad, you'll be accepting a place at my side. You're lucky we passed through at all, else I'm sure you'd have seen your last sunrise." There it was, an ultimatum. Friendship and loyalty, or disregard and freedom. The spite he felt for the men burned deeply in his chest, threatening to consume him and turn him into a ball of thirteen year old rage, for what it was. Yet, the eyes of the man spoke volumes, and it was obvious a promise made was a promise kept.

He took the hand.

In the years that followed after his tutelage under, as he came to find out, 'The Lion', Tiberius grew as never before. He was looked upon not for his heritage, parentage or racial traits, but for the work that he did for the people of the Wilderness. His training as a squire to a knight of the lands made him more cunning, more attuned to the ebb and flow that was the land. He excelled at close combat, favoring shortswords and daggers rather than his other companion's hefty weaponry. While it was uncommon to see a squire on the same field as the knight he tailed, these were uncommon times and the desire for men and women of courage remained. He fought beasts, beastmen and the occasional orc raiding party that wandered too close to human lands. Bow and sword, dagger and arrow, he was a force to be reckoned with on the field of battle. His love of philosophy won him the respect of his peers, and his strong sense of morality, in the face of what had been done to him, won him his Knighting.

He was merely eighteen at the time, though he held as many scars as any full fledged knight, and the stories to prove he got them, though they seemed to grow more outlandish the more they were told by his friends. The knighting was a formal one, though it was unorthodox, all the Knights of Sir Ultrich's company and their squires were in attendance, in their formal attire and armor that caught the sun and reflected it in a radiant cadence of dancing light. Upon bended knee did Tiberius go, and with the broadsword of his father's did Sir Ultrich declare Tiberius an honored Knight and Sword-Brother in his company. As a gift for his squire, and student, Ultrich had managed to fashion armor of plate and chain with his own hands. It was a little loose on Tiberius, much to the laughter of his fellows, but with a little more lifting, said one, he'd fill it out just fine.

Time passes, as it must, and with the change in seasons came the change in life. Ultrich, honored Knight Father of the Knights of the Lion, fell to a beastman blade while out on patrol, the tale of the knight. The other Lions mourned his loss, but found themselves similarly beset by chaos and skirmish. It was Tiberius who buried his friend and mentor, knowing not to who the man had been close, save for those in his company. A fellow Knight, having known Ultrich for some time, stated that his fallen friend had family in Owl's Landing. With his heart heavy with the news he had to tell to the family of his longtime friend, and with the wanderlust thick in his veins once again, Tiberius set out for the destination with the gold he'd saved for himself, and the sword of Ultrich. His journey was inconsequential, nothing out of the ordinary save for a few beastmen that had been unlucky enough to cross his path, but when he arrived it was anything but what he'd expected. The surviving member of Ultrich was not a grown woman, or a brother or son. It was a daughter, no older than five, who was being cared for by the village.

One look in those blue eyes, wide and innocent, caused Tiberius to catch in his breathing. How was he to tell this child that her father, perhaps the only true family she had left, was dead and would not be returning? That all he had left to give her was a sword she knew nothing about from an order she had nothing to do with? His heart felt fractured, and he suddenly wished, for one selfish moment, that he'd simply let his friend's legacy end in the forest. Yet, he knew he couldn't hold it from the people of the village, nor from the daughter that yet knew nothing of how cruel the world could be. He sat then, in the middle of the village, the girl on his lap, and the villagers around him, and recounted the tale of Ultrich, all of the stories he'd heard firsthand and from others. What he'd seen and done, all the tales, outrageous or not, to those that wished to listen.

In the end, when dawn's warming touch came over the horizon and banished the chilling caress of night, not a soul had left the spot. Wrapped in blankets and quilts, coats and furs, the village and the narrator sat watching the sword of Ultrich gleaming from it's place in the earth in the center of the village. The girl, Leona, asleep in his arms, her tears spent upon his tabard as she finally grasped that her father would not return, Tiberius stood and returned to his mount. He'd come with a sword, and would be leaving with a child, it seemed. Yet, the village could not take her, with the father gone and no income to feed yet another mouth, the family had no choice. He did not blame them, he didn't argue or fight, or try to impose. He would take her, as Ultrich had taken him so long ago, and he would try to repay the debt to his friend in a way that would make them both proud.

//More to come when the Guide makes their profile.
{ Personality } One might think, after his treatment at such an impressionable age, that he would be harsh towards others and aloof. In truth, the easiest way to explain Tiberius is to simply say; Intense.

He carries himself with a predatory grace earned both on the field of battle and as a woodsman. He is confident, though not arrogant. Quiet, but not shy. Curious, but never nosy. Equally patient as he is outgoing, and underlying it all he is driven. He will do whatever it takes to see peace brought to the land so that Leona doesn't have to live in a world that he was brought up in. In a world that her father was killed in, or that she could not be raised by friends in. He is fair in his judgment at all times, though to say he is always rational would be folly. He is a man, be he elf or human, and honor is placed highly on his list. If you wish to keep your innards where they are, or prevent a fletched arrow from sticking you, I suggest you watch what you say about his elven heritage.

When confronted with his title; "Lion of Landing", he is decidedly quiet. He wishes for no praise, no consolation for what he's done of his own will. Notions of glory and fame mean little to him. A smile, the laughter of the child he cares for, companionship and friends. These are things he values more than anything else, and it shows in the way he carries himself, the way he acts. Given a choice between riches or a meal with his friends, the choice is always incredibly obvious.

Ever the gentleman, he respects women to a high degree, whether the individual deserves it or not. When not threatened with mortal danger or a brewing fight, he can be seen as a loving caretaker. Playing with Leona, reading to her. Singing, even, as his voice is suited for it. He is many things, and yet simply a man in the end.
{ Skills } 1.) Focus - From woodsman to impromptu father, there is no greater trait than that, other than patience, in which Tiberius can direct solely to battle. Anyone who's ever held a bowstring taunt knows how hard this can be over a set period of time, especially when trying to attain a target and strike where it is most effective. In this regard Tiberius is most definitely in a league of his own, able to get through otherwise insurmountable odds if he has his sight set on something, a goal of sorts. Whether or not this comes into play if you piss him off is unknown.
2.) Martial Training - Like the other Champions, he is in his own class when it comes to combat. His blades dance as if of their own accord around him when he fights. A literal whirlwind of steel and blood, every pivot, riposte and counter cleaving flesh from bone and deflecting an attack that may otherwise fell him. His style is born from being in the middle of combat for prolong periods of time with far less manpower than the opposing side. His bowmanship is excellent as well, his eyesight above that of the average human. Supplement that with his dense bone structure, despite how lean he may appear, and you've got yourself a proverbial tempest in your midst.
3.) Scouting - He doesn't always wear his Knight armor, and when he is clad in leather and cloth his elven heritage comes to the fore in a big way. In plate he has mastered the movements and motions necessary for him to not make much of a ruckus, much to the chagrin of his foes, but in leather and cloth there is no such need. His footsteps are silent, and he ghosts through shadows as though he is one of them. Of course, due to his steadfast values on honor, he is loathe to do this. Yet, when the need arises, he will do so.
4.) Entertainment - Having to keep a child occupied, and lessons around the fire have taught him many things. He is an excellent singer, though you'll never hear it from him personally. His skill with a lute is likewise unbelievable, though he thinks it mediocre. From bittersweet tales of romance, to raucous tavern bits that are best left for when Leona is asleep, he can do it all.
{ Gear } Does a child count? Probably not. Other than Leona he has his Knight ordained armor and an insignia proving the legitimacy of the fact. He still has his boy that he used as a boy, though he's given it to Leona for her use now, now more of a tool than a weapon. He also has hit lute, which he keeps in a pack, but other than that and his weapons which are always buckled to his belt, there is nothing that cannot be replaced.
{ Appearance } Standing at five feet, eleven inches, Tiberius is not as bulky as most grown humans. His hair is naturally long, thick and red as the horizon at twilight. It is a courtesy, supposedly, of his father. His eyes are deep blue, cloudy and intense. Yet, that is where he supposes the handsomeness ends, as his face sports a long scar over the bridge of his nose and slightly upon both cheeks from his childhood.

His ears are slightly pointed, the only visual clue as to his true heritage, and there is a scar from just under his chin to the right side of his neck he received from an unlucky encounter with a bear. His skin is darkly tanned from years under the sun and out in the open, many more such scars adorn his skin from training and battle. Any soldier would have the same, else they shouldn't call themselves much of one. What might seem rather uncommon for a knight are the tattoos that stretch up and down both his arms, chest and back. They are the names of all his allies he'd lost when he was a knight, as well as others he'd met on his travels and a few words here and there from scripture he'd read. His musculature is like that of a hunter; lean, lithe and agile. While he may not appear it, his elven blood supplements his human bone structure to make the bones more dense without sacrificing mobility or agility.

He looks like anyone who has lived a life of battle should, scarred and dangerous. Though the smile that adorns his face most of the time dissuades many from simply thinking him a brute.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?

"I've already got a child to care for, though I would not simply leave them to die. It might be best, seeing as the world rarely awards those less fortunate, but I would guide them to a nearby camp, and pray that they take my good deed and return it some other time. Unrealistic, perhaps, but better than the alternative."

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?

"Its likely the 'dinner' you speak of will be on the battlefield, or in the woods, as I've no time to simply sit around and wait. Should that be so, she and I will have a nice time, though I'm not very accustomed to courting.."

{ Played by } oO S l u s h i e Oo

[ADobieReader]

{ Name } Zephyr Wolfen
{ Age } 23
{ Role } Outsider
{ History }

Zephyr's true birthplace is unknown. He was found by a poor woodcutter and his wife on their porch, apparently dropped off by a mysterious visitor in the night. The only things dropped off with him were a card with his name written on it and a deck of tarot cards in a leather pouch. Strange symbols that no one could decipher adorned the pouch.

The woodcutter-family immediately decided to take him in, as they had no children that still lived in the area of the village. They took care of him well, and he soon grew to be a robust and energetic youngster.

Zephyr stood out from the other children in more ways than one. First, he always had his tarot deck around his neck. Second, he sometimes had frightening visions and feelings that alienated him from others of his age. Finally, almost all of the children in the village had blue or brown eyes. Zephyr's eyes were of a brilliant green, like a splintered emerald.

Despite such difficulties early in life, Zephyr's warm demeanor and fiery spirit allowed him to get along well with certain people that admired such traits. These friends of his were the first to suggest that he leave the village in which he had grown up and explore the world. This seed of an idea summarily sprouted, and he struck out on his own with nothing save his cards, the clothes on his back, his brains, and his heart.

It has been whispered that Zephyr is a descendant of the great elves of old, specifically those of the Western Territory before the territories fused. The rumors were fueled when someone did some research into Elven lore, and found the word "zephyr" to mean "Westerly Winds."

{ Personality }

It was mentioned that Zephyr had a very outgoing personality, almost to the extent that it puts off more measured members of society. He has a very folksy attitude towards people, and believes that anyone that hasn't wronged him before can and should be trusted. He does tend to become defensive, however, when his abilities are questioned. Otherwise, he is always willing to help others and is incredibly reliable.

His biggest flaw is that it is easy for people to take advantage of him. In addition, if he does become upset, he will use his wit and savvy to slash down any argument, regardless of the people involved.

{ Skills }

Zephyr has an unusual affinity with nature. He can sense trends in weather and the Natural Magics better than anyone. His strange tie to the Natural Magics also allows him to have premonitions and feelings from people and objects (a lá Fiver from Watership Down). He can often tell when danger is afoot, though he doesn't always sense it. When he does, however, it is almost always correct.

In addition, he has his cards. His tarot cards are very much attuned to him, and his reading skills are top-notch. Naturally, of course, the cards can easily be incorrectly interpreted.

*NOTE: I read tarot IRL, so I know their limits and the meaning of each card.*

{ Gear }

His cards, his brains, and his heart. That is really all he has and believes he needs. He keeps a beautifully-wrought longsword beneath his cloak, though he tries to avoid using it.

{ Appearance }

Zephyr is of average build, but he is a bundle of lean-muscle. He is about six feet, two inches tall. As I said before, his eyes are a striking green that sets him apart from most others. His face is also rather fine, with high cheek-bones and a slender, graceful jaw. The intensity of his gaze is a stark contrast to the face that contains it. His hair is light brown, medium-length, with the bangs just obscuring his brow. It waves slightly on its own.

He wears a forest-green cloak draped over his shoulders. Beneath the cloak, he wears a white undershirt with a leather vest. He wears brown pants, supported by a simple leather belt. In contrast of this simple attire, the scabbard for his longsword is rather flashy. It is made of ebony wood, with silver accents at the top and bottom.

After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do? "I would train them in survival and socialize them. If they grew to be a lost cause, I would set them out on their own in a secluded portion of the Wilderness."

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do? "I would take her to the sea, and sit with her on the edge of a cliff and watch the sun set.

{ Played by } zeldanerd13

[DarlingMilo]

{ Name } Suki Anapaul Kite

{ Age} Nineteen

{ Role } Groupie

{ History }

Suki was born into a small family, consisting of two older brothers; Timothy, Julius, and her Mother and Father. She was the baby of the house, always ether getting yelled at by her older siblings to stop crying or her father whispering in her ear to never get married and live at home forever. Her mother was different from most though, always was out of the house leaving Suki to her brothers care.

Her child hood was an odd one, her father being a black smith always brought his work home. Suki at the right age of two years old was finally (by her fathers standers) old enough to be around him as he would worked. Suki instantly fell in love with watching him create such works of art. She could spend hours watching him hammer away on a sword, or carve away on wooden daggers. The fierceness in his eyes that she saw whenever he worked was startling but it only built up Suki courage and strength.
'
When Suki was roughly around ten years old, her brother in their early teens her brothers thought that instead of trying to build up her courage the would want to break it. Their lame attempts never worked though, Suki would ether get saved by her father or she'd simply be too brave to be broken. Stories were told, rocks were thrown, late night hikes were taken but Suki would never let out a cry for help or beg them to stop. She would laugh in their faces then beat them silly.In the end, all they did was make SUki braver, more courageous and up to anything. Their attempt to be mean turned into a gesture of love and kindness.

When Sukis mother had finally taken an interest in her daughters life it was around the time of her sixteenth birthday. Suki had grown up and was a young beauty, her mother finally saw a reason to speak to her. Her mother urge Suki to step back from sword play and roughing it like men and to take a notice in more lady like things. Meaning weaving, needlework and cooking. Suki pit at the thoughts of doing such things, her life goal was to be the best she could be and would she be the best she could be by weaving up a blanket! In then end Suki ended up in dresses rather then her usual trousers, but her mother ended up with a cold shoulder.

In the next few years Suki grew more serious into her fathers work, she would spend literally days watching;him seeing how he would hammer at this angle or carve with a special hold of the knife. With the battles with her brothers also became more training other than just fooling around, yet sometimes she stil cant help but treat it as a game.

Sukis days now as a nineteen year old girl are quite odd to even herself. She never knows what her days has laid out for her. It irritates her not having a schedule for life, but sometimes she just has to close her eyes and swing it. Her father is still proud of his daughter, her brother who have flown the house and are living with their many children and wives still find time to tease their little sister. Sukis mother is still very distant and doesn't approve of her daughters ways, it bothers Suki to see other mothers and daughters bonding and then her mother pretend doesn't even exist. Her feeling on the relationship are only known to Suki and no one else, she fears that if someone was to know her depressed and true feelings about her and her mothers relationship she would come off weak. Suki can be brave times and at others not.

{ Personality }

Suki is extremely thorough, responsible, and dependable. She has well-developed powers of concentration.She's well-organized and hard working, always work steadily towards identified goals.She can usually accomplish any task once she sets her mind on it.Yet when she looses her patience which happens easily her tantrums are a bit out of control. She regains herself easily, but then looses herself just as quickly.

Suki is beyond enthusiastic, idealistic, and creative. She always wants to live in the moment, even though sometimes she is unsure of where to go or what to do. She always excited by new ideas, but bored with details. She's open-minded to just about anything, but in the end she always tries to have her way.

Suki takes her relationships very seriously, but also approach them with a childlike enthusiasm and energy. She's warm, considerate,and highly invested in the health of her life. She is able to inspire and motivate others to be the best that they can be. Suki can be very energetic, but sometimes life catches up to her and she takes a break from training. Going off into the woods alone is a way for to clear her mind.


Suki's one of those girls who doesn't really take judgment well, her life motto is to treat people as they like to be treated, or otherwise. Mess with Suki, she'll mess with you. In her few years of life she's been told she can be quiet from some, but to herself she's one of the most talkative girls of the village. Suki overall is a very outgoing and eccentric girl. She is the one you count on, the shoulder you can cry on. The friend to defend you, or the one to make you smile when you wish to cry.

{ Skills }

Sukis skills consist of high ranking in combat of sword fight.Since her mother always persisted her to take better care of herself, and develop her womanly skills. Suki took an interest in cooking, but she burns just about anything she makes. Even water. She works hard at her sword play everyday, and falls on her face almost everyday. She doesnt give up her training but she easily grows annoyed at the people around her, and herself when she doesn't get it right the first time.

{ Gear }

Something Suki is never without, is a locket carved out of red wood. It has a very small scripture written on the back stating, "Here lies my heart". On the front of the wooden locket is a carving of a white rose. What lies inside the locket is what really counts though, inside lays a small vile, that contains just enough poison to kill someone.

{ Appearance }

Dressed in a pair of dark brown trousers, her beige blouse that cuts off right at her finger tips, and her black boot Suki is ready for a day of work, combat and more training. Sukis is quite pale for how much time she spends in the burning sun light, her freckled cheeks and wide eyes makes her stand out in a crowd. Her unusual short curly black locks of hair weren't chosen for looks, only to really keep her face clear of hair.

Sukis isn't tall, nor short. She is at the perfect height of 5'4 roughly 5'3 . She's been one for makeup, and besides shes in the dirt and dust all day, she doesn't care for what people think of her, or to please people with her looks. She is a natural beauty with a long torso and medium length legs. She nearly never wears a coat for her works always has her breaking out into a sweat but when she does it usually a waist long dark brown riding jacket.

When Suki is capture by her mothers claws, she'll had her hair tied up in a black satin ribbon, her face scrubbed clean only to get dirty again once she steps out of the house, and instead of her trousers, her mothers throws her into a long skirt, to which Suki will have torn up by the end of the day.

Some say she can cause someone to go breathless with her beauty, but to Suki she's like everyone else, except to her looks are a waste of time. She doesn't really care for peoples opinions of her, as long as she has her pride and sword Suki is proud with herself, which leads to her simply glowing every time you lay eyes on her.



After vanquishing the combat forces of an orc warband, you're left staring at an assortment of little orclets who, while helpless now, will almost surely grow up to be as brutish and violent as their parents. What do you do?
Isn't there a saying, it goes something like this 'Do on to others as they do unto you' Even though these children have a haunted future, and will probably kill many, Suki still believes that they should have the opportunity of changing. Yet again if she ever sees the children again and they haven't changed Suki would simply cut their throats. So to answer your question Suki would most likely help the children to a near town or village, help them get back on their feet then leave.

Grats buddy, the man/woman/??? of your dreams has finally agreed to go out to dinner with you. Where do you go/what do you do?
Like she would have the time or even the wanting of to be with someone, but then again minds can change.

{ Played By } Miyunna