[CHAR] The Silver Dagger

[Riknas]

Name: Vincent Thaler
Age: 42
Gender: Male
Description: 5’11”, with short cropped, light brown hair, and olive skin tone. With green eyes, He is mostly seen wearing the guardsman uniform of grey-iron chainmail, though he has added metal plates added to the chest, back and the joints. The front has a gryphon emblem, and a tower on the back.
Occupation: Temrin Guard Captain
Intro Post:

Now Hiring

It was a cloudy morning. Temrin’s population was in no hurry to wake up. A few people trickled out of their homes, preparing for the lull that accompanied your typical work day. In the newly finished garden district, tradesmen and merchants shuffled out of recently constructed cottages that encircled the small park that had been erected at the center of what was once an ash laden crater. Dew glistened on the flower petals and bush leaves that had been planted along the park’s edges. Trees rustled at a mild breeze as men and women gradually made their way around the wooded area along the cobblestone pathways.

Robins and Jays fluttered through the thin branches of young trees while pigeons skittered from one clay roof shingle to the next. A woman poked her head out from a balcony to hang the morning’s wash, while her husband pushed his way out the door below. The heavyset man carried a small leather sack on his back that matched his boots. The smooth handles of well-used tools poked up from his belt. He looked over the horizon of buildings just in front of him and spotted his destination. A high scaffolding was erected just a few blocks from where he lived. It had been a year and a half, but there was still plenty of work that needed doing.

A man bumped into the worker, causing him to lose his balance.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going!” the carpenter spat.

“Sorry,” the man said, but he didn’t look up. His clothes were patchy, and the leather he wore over them was dry and cracked. A small sword hung from one side of his belt; he rubbed anxiously at the cross guard. A heavy travel sack weighed him down, and a bottle filled with some indiscriminate liquid was clenched tightly in his fist. Thaler took a heavy swallow.

“Fuck you,” the worker said, and kept walking.

Thaler ignored the comment and continued forward. He weaved through the new part of town with a lazy familiarity. He had been a voice in the early part of the planning, so he knew it well. His destination was a particular piece of property that sat on the corner of a four way intersection a few blocks from the park. His one boon for fifteen years of hard service.

The building was larger than most in the vicinity. It stood at least a story higher than the next tallest. A simple balcony jutted out from the middle floor and overhung a small section of the street. It had three main components on the outside portion of it. To one side was a compound stable, just large enough to house three or four horses within the limits of the street. The other side had a small basement entrance, with a shallow staircase leading down to an unassuming door. Lastly, in the front, a set of double doors stood facing the street corner. Above it in simple black script were the words The Silver Dagger.

Thaler reached the entrance and eyed a note sticking out of an aperture in the doorway. He took another swallow from his bottle and unfolded the note.

Vincent, a case came up early this morning. I’m heading out to investigate it, so I was hoping you could watch things while I’m out. I’ve had no responses to the flyers I sent out, but I’m sure something will come around soon. Not sure when I’ll be back.

-Jalen Brint

He turned the note over and found just such a flyer.

Help Wanted!

Full time positions being offered for those willing and able to investigate and tackle problems of a supernatural persuasion.

If interested, please contact either Vincent Thaler or Jalen Brint at the Silver Dagger building just north of the Garden District.

Guild Master
Jalen Brint

Thaler smiled. The flyer was short but to the point. It wasn’t much to go by, but it was bound to at least get interest from somebody. It hadn’t been long ago since he had chosen Brint to be the new leader of the Silver Dagger, but so far he had not disappointed. Then again, he hasn’t really had the chance to be.

The former captain of Temrin’s guard crumpled up the flyer, took a swig of his drink, and walked inside.

[Eschatologist]

Name: Alexander Branwen
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Description: Alexander is a big man in most every way imaginable. He is tall, standing at nearly seven feet. He is large-framed, even for his height, boasting muscular arms sprouting from a barrel chest, long thick legs and wide, firm hands. His head, though normally proportioned, sports a massive smile nearly constantly, standing prominent on a field of mottled stubble. His eyes are wide and his nose scarred and deformed from several run-ins with hard steel or angry fists. His voice is loud and boisterous, deep and commanding but quick to jape and quicker to laugh a laugh that fills rooms to near bursting. His tan skin is marked and cratered, each inch bearing a remnant of some past service to crown and coin, weathered and calloused and in general disrepair. His short brown hair, the exception to the rule, sits atop his head short and unobtrusive, kept fastidiously short. Clad in a dented plate harness when trouble is afoot, in roughspun and patched cloth when in relaxed company, he never gives too much mind to his sense of fashion, rarely having enough money to warrant the thought.
Occupation: Ex-Mercenary in the Dragon-Tooth Company, looking for gainful employment in the business of monster hunting.

Example Post

Alexander’s boots crunched along the ill-tended byway, the dew frozen to the ground voicing its discontent with every heavy footfall. Had Alexander been in better spirits, he would have said the morning was beautiful. The ground sparkled as though it were laced with diamonds and sapphires, the reflective patterns changing with every step taken, stretching out before him as he climbed the shallow hill. The forest enclosed him on all sides, the long boughs of leaning evergreens grasping plaintively towards the center of the road, still but for the occasional gust of morning breeze that shook them from their stillness in languorous, twisting arcs, eventually settling back to their rest to repeat the process. The air smelt of crisp morning and damp forest, a familiar scent to any seasoned traveler, and one that would, to a happier man, speak of enticing mystery and beautiful vistas.

Alexander, unfortunately, was not a happier man. His usual smile and poorly-whistled tune were replaced with grimaces and shifting eyes, his confident long strides replaced with a mix of paranoid caution and hurried fear, speaking of a man profoundly uneasy.

“Damned forests. Nothin’ good ever came outta woods that weren't with a hunter, I say.”

Alexander rarely spoke to himself, but in his solitude he indulged in it, for no other reason than to cut through the oppressive silence. He had never liked the silence; he’d spent his whole life amongst thousands of people, and the few silences he’d been in were always right before some of the worst times of his life. There was a silence deeper than the ocean before Bright Forest. Mad name for a wood you couldn’t see the sky in, he always said, and a madder battle still. He remembered the silence in the lines before the ambush, a near-unbearable weight of tension, cut with the quietest of whistles from the captain. The part that followed had kept to the trend: all screaming men, no-one sure who was on whose side, fear and noise and stench and dark deeds and pain, all a whirl of adrenaline and britches-wetting terror.

Alexander shook his head and cleared the memory from his head. He replaced it with warm campfires, of drink and women and laughter, of dancing and singing and being paid. His jollity pressed him to start whistling again, like he had along the coast road behind him. The quiet, innumerable trees watched, and the song felt wrong. Alexander considered stopping, but he was too determined to spit in the face of his childish fears and melodramatic rememberings, and so he kept going. The whistle turned into a hum, the hum into a song, and by the time he emerged from the forest no more than an hour later he was singing and capering all around the road, the songs changing from bawdy drinking tunes to military marches to mournful shanties. Probably gave the woman he nearly ran into at the crossroads a fright, some giant come out of the forest, massive sword over a shoulder and clattering pack over his back, singing obnoxiously about some lass from Gullsbury and her bright fair hair.

The embarrassment he felt at the woman’s confused and scared expression pulled him out of his memories and placed his awareness fully back into the present. He apologized and looked out over the plains to his destination, the sight of it filling him with that familiar joy of seeing the end of a long journey. The city of Temrin stood like a mountain among the flats of the countryside, and from it snaked a dozen roads, each covered in people despite the godless hour of the morning it was. The unfriendly memories threatened to return for a brief moment, seeing on the plains around Temrin illusory siege camps, identifying good knolls to hide from arrows and pieces of sturdy ground to erect siege engines. Alexander was out of the woods, his spirits high and completely at ease, and so the unpleasant thoughts found no purchase and faded to the background, excited thoughts of warm beds and hot meals filling his mind instead.
The last leg of the journey was brief and uneventful. A quick walk along the flats, his pace speeding slightly to escape the chagrin of the old woman who apparently was headed in the same direction as him, brought him to the gates of the city, odd looks from passersby drawn to him like flies to a candle. The attention of the civilians was nothing he was bothered with, but the attention of the guards was more of an inconvenience, and when he approached the gate he could see the handful of soldiers on duty tense and prepare themselves for a fight they no doubt thought was imminent. Alexander made no sudden moves, calmly explaining to them his reason for being in the city, and after several pointed questions he was allowed entry.

He made his way through the crowds, his height garnering him not only a wide berth but an excellent vantage point to find a tavern. He came upon the “Prancing Unicorn”, and entered. It was an upscale establishment, wooden floors and tables polished and clean, glass in the windows and a large fire heating the grand main room and its only occupant, a bald barkeep polishing colorful bottles of no doubt expensive liquors. Alexander was incredibly tempted to sample a few, but he had business to attend to, and he could drink later. He walked to the bar and sat loudly, catching the barkeep’s attention. Not waiting for the formalities to begin, he spoke, his loud voice filling the quiet tavern despite his best intentions, still used to the usually-noisy road and packed streets.
“Ere, barkeep, you ever heard of an’ organization goes by the name of…” and Alexander paused for a second to remember the name before snapping his fingers in epiphany and continuing.

“Callin’ themselves the Silver Dagger?”

[potatochipgolem]

Name: Ro'en Vessen
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Description: The burly but lean individual stands at a modest height, taller than the average male but not staggeringly so. His dark brown hair is of a medium length, swept back away from his forehead and girds his face generously with a bristly mane and sideburns. His similarly coal coloured irises sheen with an unnatural gleam, especially under the shadow of his wide brimmed hat, in stark contrast to his pale almost-sickly skin.

This day he dons a suave outfit of a thin hide coat, with high collars and a swallow-tail hem. Trousers, gloves and boots all of similar material and hue. His shirt is lightly stained from the concoctions of leaked vials, many of which he has refilled and still carry. But the most prominent item on his person still remains the contraption holstered to his belt, a long, barrelled piece almost as lengthy as an arm with a wooden handle frilleegreed with metal - brass, by the looks of it. Some would recognize it as imported from the eastern lands, but even fewer would know what it did.

Occupation: The Local Alchemist, owns the Raven's Knock reagent shoppe.

By Candlelight

Moonlight poured through fractured glass into a dusty room. The dim glow of quaintly lit candles danced across a cluttered desk, where a shivering figure hunched over with a quil in hand. Shadows flickered across the walls with every gust and the noise of paper being scratched has incessantly gone on for the past two hours, barely muffled by the cold wind that howled through the boughs of the barren trees outside., Only once in awhile did everything take on an eerie silence, when for the briefest moments he contemplated on a bloodstained spot of the floor.

It was exactly two months ago when in this very study, that a bloody battle occured, one of the monsters that this town has stood vigilantly against had made it past the walls and intruded into the privacy of a home in it's thirst for blood. It was just his rotten luck that he had built his livelihood along the outskirts far removed from the neighbourhood, thinking of only the peace and quiet he would have back then. He was warned by a wise soul on the day of construction, that such a notion would only come back and bite him one day, and it has.

Though he was one of the survivors,

.... the trauma of what transpired continued to haunt him vividly still. He clutched his sides, fingers digging through bandages to ease the itch of still sensitive flesh as his eyes never leaves the bloody memory, the shattered furniture that surrounded the table made his imagination even more real. Even the gouge marks on the floor, he swore, sometimes still creaked like the horror that made them had just walked on it.

The door behind him creaked open, his gaze flung towards it and his breath came to a harsh stop.

"You shouldn't stay up so late, you know." A young woman, no older than twenty, with bright gold tresses and dusky night gown chided him from the doorway.

"R-rright, erm, Mari. Just in time." He raised the back of his hand to let out a civillized and covered cough, shaking off the gurgle in his throat. "-!.... I've put you as the proprietor of our shop."

He watched quietly for a long while as she stood unmoving, apparently gathering her wits for a reply.

"You'll be running our store." Concerned that she did not understand, he simplified his sentence along with a very quizzical look.

"...are you inf---" She started to ask.

He quickly raised his hand, cutting her off mid sentence. "Yes." He nodded, she put her hand to her mouth. Marijiole had grown sharp of mind, hopefully in part due to his tutelage but no doubt, in time, would too make a fine alchemist in her own right. ...This, this was just something he rather not confide, not tonight.

Closing the door she saw, in the corner of her eye, the fleeting glint of a single polished silver dagger.

[Envy]

Name: Ariadne Locke
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Description: 5'7, with long white hair kept back in ponytail. Deep grey eyes. Outfit consists of leather armor, marksman's gauntlets, and a bow and quiver. Her knapsack can be found full of various herbs and and tinctures, and a knife in her boot.
Occupation: (Former) Chambry Village night watch

Intro Post:

Soft boot heels thudded across hard stone floor as the young woman entered through the city,staring in marveled amazement. It was her first time in the city; a bit of childlike wonderment could be permitted given the circumstances. The most structurally advanced piece of masonry in her small forest village had been the mill, and there really wasn't much to get excited over; just stone and a donkey inside walking in a very boring circle. Here though, here there were floors. Multiple floored buildings lined the streets. There were roads wide enough to fit multiple carts, and still have room for market stalls. All of those stalls were currently empty but that was probably for the best. Otherwise, Ariadne would never have had the focus to reach a destination.

The young woman reached down into her boot as she stepped forward, pulling out a blade wrapped in wool. The wool (once a stinky old sock) and the blade had once both belonged to her brother. It was all that remained of him, truly. There had been no explanation as to how or why these items had managed to arrive to her father's doorstep. It was the only thing of material wealth she even had to remember the fool by.

Ariadne stopped in the street for a moment, pulling back the wool to admire the craftsmanship. Such care had been put into the work, it was sure to leave a trail back to its maker. Sure enough it had, and that journey had brought Ariadne to the city of Temrin with only a few shillings on her person, a quiver and bow strapped to her back like some backwoods bumpkin, and a week's worth of rations starting to get concerningly low. Food would come later, though. The last person she had stopped and asked for directions had admitted just how close she was to finding what she sought. From her spot on the side of the road, as merchants moved to set up shop for the day, Ariadne could just spot the shape of the building right where the guard had said it'd be.

The worn boots of the hunter carried her across the street, pausing only for a creaky carriage pulled along by an aging mare, the clop-clopping of her hooves sounding half hearted, the wheeze of the coachman carrying even less resolve for life. When the last of the creaky wheels passed, Ariadne hurried up the way towards a sign that proudly displayed The Silver Dagger.

Well, not so much proudly displayed as just begrudgingly admitted. Tucking the blade down to her side (Nothing screamed "I should really open this door!" like a random person standing on the steps with a weapon drawn), Ariadne rapped a knuckle five times against the door and promptly waited for service.

[Inlaa]

Name: Ayla Nic Lanrogh
Age: 33
Gender: Female
Description: Imposing is not a word used to describe most women, but Ayla is the exception. Though she isn't terribly tall - five feet and nine inches - her weathered face has a weary look, and she walks like someone who is used to commanding others. Her brown hair is tied back in a single braid that stretches down to the bottom of her back, and her green eyes have a tendency to narrow in a harsh, scrutinizing fashion. She has a squarish sort of build, sporting broad shoulders and thick limbs that are indicative of either a stout bloodline or a lifetime of hard labor (or perhaps both). Still, she is not always austere; she can smile as readily as anyone. Her smile just doesn't seem very mirthful.

Ayla wears simple leather armor with matching boots and carries several axes on her belt. Each of these axes has softly-glowing runes etched on its blade. A blue cloak dangles behind her. She appears to have some sort of wrapping around her left hand, but closer inspection reveals this to be a sling. A wooden shield, runed like the warrior's axes, rests on her back. Beneath this equipment she wears a plain white tunic and brown breeches made for travel. In the pouches of her belt one can find a small hammer, a carving knife, a chisel, chalk, powdered silver, and various warpaints.
Occupation: Former Rebel; Mercenary Runemage

Rune Magic

A less flashy form of magic, Runic spells are enchantments that are placed on non-living items. A blade might be made sharper and stronger; a gem might be made to glow on command; a door might ring out an alarm when someone passes through its portal. Though very useful, runic magic is utilitarian, and it lacks the destructive potential of other forms of magic. Creating a runic spell takes time, usually a minimum of five minutes, and becomes longer and more difficult the more complex a spell is. A runic spell may also fade away with time, so it's necessary to have a Runemage around to "refresh" the spell. Simple runes may only last a few hours (especially those made from chalk), but others may last years.

Ayla is a Runemage. She enchants her axes to be deadlier and more accurate when thrown, and her shield to be sturdier. She uses her tools to cast her runic spells. Her warpaints have only religious significance.

Example Post

The clansmen roared.

There were no words. None were needed. Words did not echo with the fury of the soul. Words were for mewling pigs, not Mordane warriors. Let the invaders bang their drums and give their speeches; the Mordanes answered with their sky-ripping battle cry. The time for killing had come. Blood demanded blood.

The first boulder slammed against the palisade walls, splitting the wood like a bundle of twigs. The Mordane vanguard poured in from the treeline, the shieldbearers hurling javelins and the others swinging their massive axes to knock aside Belgardian pikes. The first screams of death rang; wood splintered and cracked; swords were dropped from dead hands and the grass was painted red.

Ayla threw herself into the thick of it, smashing through a shakily-held spear and burying her axe into the poor man's chest. As he lay on the ground, gasping and pleading, she yanked her axe out and finished the felled man with a blow to his skull. The fear in the air was palpable; cries for mercy were answered with death.

There could be no more mercy. Blood demanded blood. The obedient hound had been whipped one too many times.

More fell beneath her axe. A young lady rushed out to embrace some fallen boy, probably a lover of hers, her face wet with tears; Ayla kicked the girl off his chest and methodically silenced her. Some vengeful soul launched an arrow into her waist, but she did not fall; she whipped up a second axe and hurled it across at him. Its aim was true. It caught him in the throat. He gurgled. He fell.

She could not stop herself. All she could see was her brother's corpse being fed to pigs and her daughter being burned at the stake. Blood demanded blood.

The vengeful mage marched to the church where her men stood over the bodies of their kin and the enemy's temple knights. She stared up at it. Its bell rang loudly overhead as the desperate defenders tried to gather the attention of the main army out in the fields where it battled the High Chief's men. It was too late, though. The town would burn.

Alya took a torch from the warrior by the door, breathing deeply. The floors inside were made of wood. She knew that from many a morning spent in prayer. Pulling her arm back, she hurled the torch through the window, shattering the beautiful stained glass. She stood there as fire began to crackle and cries for help rose from the temple of the Gods. A sardonic smile cracked her stony visage.

"Burn them all," she snapped to her men. "Kill anyone that tries to escape."

Blood demanded blood.

---

Crack.

Ayla awoke from her sleep with a snort, eyes snapping wide. She was sweating.

Around the warrior looked, her hand already gripping the haft of her axe. Embers fell from the crackling campfire, but that was not the source of the sound. The wind whistled softly, brushing leaves against each other - also not the sound she'd heard. No, she knew that sound; someone had broken a branch beneath their boots. She knew that sound very well.

Groggily, the woman reached down and gripped her stone amulet, rubbing her thumb across its edge. She stared from one end of the camp to the other, slowly rising from her seat by the log. All seemed quiet... save for the sound of breathing in the bushes between the trees.

There, she thought, unable to hide a small grin. She smeared the chalk off her amulet and held it out toward the bush, unleashing a bright wave of light that illuminated everything in the area. She saw a scruff of hair and heard someone let out an "oof" as they stumbled back. It was child's play to snatch the intruder by their neck and lift them up to eye level.

Ayla frowned. She held a child's throat in her hand, probably around nine or ten years old, and probably a girl if her dirty face was anything to go by. She seemed thin, and she was definitely terrified.

"Well?" Ayla demanded. "Tell me what you're doing here. Answer me, girl!"

"I jus- I just- Bu-" The girl stammered, trying to find the words and her breath at the same time. Sighing, and knowing full well why she was at her camp, the veteran walked back to the log and set the girl down on the wood.

"I'm not going to kill you," Ayla said firmly, giving the child a stern look. "But you'd best not try that on another stranger. Hell, were you to have woken me up a few seconds earlier you might've gotten an axe in you."

The girl merely nodded, otherwise petrified as she sat on the log, her hands clutching her knees tightly. Ayla sighed, turning over to the rabbit on the spit over the fire. It was a little burnt. She shouldn't have laid her head down while it was roasting.

"Here," she said, setting a bucket of mostly cold water down beside the girl and handing her a bar of soap wrapped up in linen. "Clean those hands. If you're going to split this rodent with me, you'd best have clean hands."

Only crickets spoke back to her as she turned toward the rabbit, turning it over on the spit. The bottom had been cooked rather well and was crisp, but the hare's back was still a bit raw. She set about remedying that, pausing only to glance at the starry sky and then back at the girl slowly calming down on the log behind her.

"What's your name?" she asked the child, noting the ragged state of her dress. It was a good dress, once. She came from a wealthy background.

"Isolda," the girl mumbled. "M-my name's Isolda."

"That's a good enough name. I'm Ayla," the armored woman replied, smiling a very small, thin smile back at the girl. "T'ain't as fancy as yours, I'll admit. Do you like potatoes, Isolda?"

The young girl nodded.

"Good," Ayla said, jerking her head toward the backpack by the log. "See the torn flap on the side? Pull it open. Get me those potatoes inside."

The night went on like that for a time. Ayla did most of the talking, and the child obeyed her commands when she gave them. She cooked potato soup to go with the burnt rabbit. It was a filling, if not very tasty, meal. The child used copious amounts of salt. Ayla didn't blame her.

"So," Ayla began, chewing quietly from her seat on the grass, "what are you running from?"

"Monsters," the girl mumbled, looking away. "Monsters in Temrin. I was running from them."

"In Temrin, eh?" Ayla raised her eyebrows, glancing up at the girl on the log. "Well, hang me by a mule's ear; that's where I'm headed, girl. Is it that bad there?"

"It's that bad," the girl mumbled, gathering up her dress in a bunch. Her voice grew shaky. "My ma, my da, they were taking me from that place. It's cursed, people say. They got killed by this... wolf-thing on the road."

Werewolves, Ayla mused, her face becoming serious. She reached out and grasped the girl's arm gently with her hand, making her jump, and she made a soothing "shh" sound. "Oi. Take a deep breath. That's what I'm here for. I'm here to kill monsters."

"You can't kill them," the girl mumbled, her eyes growing teary. "They'll kill you. They kill... they kill everyone."

"Hah!" The warrior rose up to her feet, shoving her thumbs into her belt. She gave the girl as encouraging a grin as she could. "Bet not. See this, girl?" she began, tapping her axe. "This is a runeblade. It's more'n just a nice axe; it's a magic axe. It can fell wicked things like little plum trees, it can. There won't be any more monsters when I'm done."

But it wasn't what the girl wanted to hear. Ayla knew very well what the girl wanted, but she couldn't promise to bring back her parents. Still, the child nodded, sniffled, and mumbled some sort of thanks.

"Listen." Ayla sat down beside the girl and looked her in the eyes. "Listen. There's a village not far from here called Elburgh. Now, there's a nice man that runs an inn there, Aefric's Place, that needs someone that can clean dishes. The man's got plenty of spare beds, and I can give you some coin so you'll be able to get along just fine. Do you want me to take you there?"

Isolda was quiet for a moment, looking very torn and distraught. Ayla waited. "Are there monsters there?" the child asked.

"Oh, no monsters."

"And does - does Elburgh have walls?"

"Oh, big walls," Ayla assured her. "Big ones. They rise up high. You could stack four of me atop each other and the person on top still couldn't reach the top."

The girl stayed quiet a while longer, shivering. She stared into the fire all the while. When she spoke, her voice was muted. "Okay."

"There's a good girl," Ayla muttered, tugging her cloak off. "Here. You can sleep in this. We'll start walking in the morning."

[Mysaren]

Name: Mysaren Fortier
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Description: 6'3, with her hair usually kept in long, black dreadlocks that go down to just above the middle of her back. She has dark brown skin, and deep blue eyes. Her face is littered with scars and burns. She's usually seen wearing long black robes with a red trim. Underneath, she just wears a grey tunic and black pants. She carries around a knapsack, which is filled with various books, ink, and parchment. She keeps a short sword on her belt for protection.
Occupation: Scholar at the local college. Works translating old texts for the library.

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear

The library's lanterns were blown out one by one as the night crew worked to give everything ready for tomorrow. Mysaren bit the skin of her left thumb as she worked, right hand working diligently to finish her latest project. Ash shiasta yi ifieth, it's translation being, The history of the dark, was turning out to be a bit more interesting than her other translation jobs. Instead of some old farmer's logbook or the history of irrigation, it seemed to be about something the author referred to as Ash Harai Cas.

In all of her other texts, she couldn't seem to find any other mention of Ash Harai Cas. The only words she could translate were Ash, which means The, and Cas, which means ones. So, the Harai ones. Harai being the word that was lost. It didn't matter much to her, though. The book seemed to be a rather niche read, speaking in almost entirely in metaphor about some strange, dark creatures that lived on the outskirts of the universe. Her head started to throb a bit as she read more about them, so she skipped ahead a few pages.

The part she was working on now almost read like a ritual, talking of eyes of dragons and various plants and herbs. Summoning the Ash Harai Cas seemed to take a lot of work, and before she knew it, it was midnight. Her eyes strained from working by only candlelight, she shuffled the texts into her bag before gathering her things and making her way to her home.

Glad to be within the confines of her own property, she noticed a flyer stuck to the door of her home. Help wanted! Full time positions... The Silver Dagger? She looked the flyer over a few times, wondering if it was perhaps some odd joke. It seemed to be completely serious, and it seemed like quite the opportunity. Her interest in the supernatural and her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she held onto the flyer tightly, as if it would go away if she let go. Besides, she could always go with a bit extra money.

However, it would be in poor taste to go this early in the morning, she had decided, so she slipped inside of her home. The flyer was slipped under her pillow, andt she quickly fell into a deep sleep. A shroud of darkness soon fell over her, and quickly overtook her.

[Henwen]

Name: Veslemoy Jorunn
Age: 25
Gender: Female

Description: 5'5", and all of it lean, whipcord muscle from living rough off of nature's bounty. Her skin is a dark tan from years in the sun and dusted with freckles that bring out the green in her hazel eyes. Her hair is a light brown, sunkissed into a golden copper color. Her clothing and armor are all handmade and well cared for and consists of a shirt and vest in natural colors, buckskin boots and trousers worn soft with a multitude of pockets, and a large heavy wolfskin cloak. She's armed with a taut and strong yew bow and a quiver of arrows slung low at her hip. She has her hair pulled up with an assortment of beads and feathers in her braids, as well as a set of carved talismans of animals that hang around her neck. The only things not readily made about her person is the set of daggers she keeps tucked on her belt. She smells of pine and wildness, and her eyes are as keen as a bird's and her reflexes just as swift.

Occupation: Wandering Woodsman Warrior, Worshipper of the Animal Gods

Intro Post:

where the wild things are

The early dawn was fast fading, the morning dew a slow swirling mist as it rose, wisping away in the tall grasses that hushed her tread. She moved as a wild thing would, the singing insects barely pausing in their songs as she passed them by. The day was young, but the children of nature were wide awake- the birds giving voice for all to hear, and the deer grazing peacefully in the meadowsweet.

She stilled and grew tense, arm drawn back to her cheek...

This was the time that she felt most at one with the Divine Animals of the world, when it was still yet hushed yet waking. Her father had taught her well, to understand the beast as well as know them, and their place among them. For what is man but a thinking animal, a feeling beast just like any other- and to deny that was to deny an inherent part of self and run the danger of falling into arrogance and willful destruction.

She'd learned well, and although the man was as hard and unyielding as stone he was not unkind. Blistered hands were tenderly wrapped after he'd gruellingly instructed her in her bow work- again and again, until she could sight a bird a second, and drop it in three. Holding her gently as she wept at killing her first hare, praising her on the clean quick kill...

The deer looked up, sensing the threat of a predator nearby as all prey animals do- a moment too late. Her loosed arrow did not even whistle as it flew fast and sure through the air. The deer leapt and fell, the head and shaft buried deep into its heart- its cry starting the meadow larks into flight before falling silent at last.

Drawing near she inspected her kill, clean and quick as was good as always. She stroked the soft fur of it's neck, murmuring quiet encouragement and praise as the young buck's eyes finally dimmed. A good kill.

They weren't always, but her ill shots were a thing left in the past with her young childhood. She could not bare to see an animal suffer unduly. Like one would at the hands of the Behemoth.

She could still remember when she first encountered it's evil work...
The Jorunn clan had traveled through towns and villages before, their static strangeness and bustling herds of people intimidated her and caused her to shy even as the chaotic hurry fascinated her young mind. By the time they would leave she'd be exhausted and longing for the home-like comforts of dense woodlands and forests ways... but this time her parents found her dragging her feet and they soon realized what had happened.They had a straggler following them as they left the village.

The mongrel was thin and scrappy, obviously ill treated and people-shy. But it had gathered it's courage to take scraps of bread and meat from the tiny girl with kind eyes and whom smelled like the forest, and she soon found it dared come close enough to touch and the little mutt leaned into her touch as if starved for affection and not just for food. Busy with trading, her parents did not realise she'd found herself a friend...

She was allowed to keep the ugly thing, and she loved him as she would a sibling. She called him Tollak, and for near six months they were inseparable- always playing, or hiking, or running. Tollak, was well named for he was as playful as she was and they were always getting underfoot or in some sort of mischief.

But slowly it became clear something was not right with the little scrappy Tollak. His playful ways lessened abruptly, his appetite ebbed and waned, frequently becoming ill and sicking up whatever he had eaten. Her father had looked on with growing sorrow and a knowing eye...

Eventually Tollak was so weak he could no longer lift his head and the poor dog refused to eat. Crying bitterly as she held the frail wheezing body of her dearest friend, she asked her father why...

"It is the Behemoth," he'd answered gravely, his voice gentle at her tears, "The Behemoth which invites destruction, which takes and does not give back, and it has brought its parasites to consume Tollak and take him from us.

"Tollak is very ill, my Veslemoy, and he will not be getting better." He continued, and despite the onslaught of fresh tears, pressed a sharp dagger into her weak hand, "It is best to give him mercy, and end his suffering..."

She had done so that night, and buried Tollak under a dogwood tree where her friend could rest and feed the earth with his life's energy. She'd learned her lesson well that night, that the Behemoth was cruel, unrelenting and cared not whom it inflicted with it's poison. And now that she was old enough to venture on her own, to protect the forest ways as the Jorunn clan always had, she would make good of her vow, and she would end the blight of the Behemoth wherever she may find it, and slay its spawn wherever it may be found.

The deer was dead, and had not suffered and so she went about her work without a heavy heart. The day was brightening now, the mist long gone and the sun making its eternal trudge across the sky. The warming air stirred a breeze, and she lifted her head a moment to cool her brow when a stirring sound in the meadowsweet caught her attention.

There tangled amongst the tall stems and tender leaves was a bit of parchment- crumpled and ragged as if it had been thrown away or caught by the wind for some time. Squinting, she pondered the letters and slowly read its message sounding them out as she did so...

The Garden District, there was one of those in the town of Temrin- which was only a little over a day's walk way. And the creatures that were of the 'supernatural persuasion' were often the kind that would affiliate themselves with the Behemoth... although to go and investigate the information of this castaway parchment would take her away from the forest pathways that she had set out to patrol...

Kneeling in the damp earth as the last of the mist faded away, she considered her options when the hoarse cry of a bird drew her attention upwards. A turkey vulture circled overhead, drawn by the scent of her fresh kill- the young stag whose blood lay still cooling at her feet.

An omen, she was assured and standing she hefted her kill up and slung it over her shoulders. The deer's fur catching in the fur of her wolf-pelt cape, her feathered braid jostled by the action and tickling her cheek, she steadied herself before setting out at a relaxed yet ground eating lope.

The forest paths may not be wholly free of those who would do the pilgrims who take them harm, but the Behemoth did not care about paths or people and would spread wherever it will. And if her vow took her off the beaten path then so be it.

She would have many miles to go if she wanted to make it to Temrin before nightfall.