CaptainBritton

All for One for All! | A WHFB Adventure [APPLY]

”All things eventually come to Morr. By one way, or another.”

_{Style of side-chapel described.}

A raven entered his view, clouding his vision as he darted his pupils around. Black, grey, and white were all he saw for a silent moment that seemed to last forever.

At once he opened his eyes, breathing hard. His eyes watered, the sting of harsh incense and candles lashing against him. His heart pounded and he mustered a cough. He nearly fell from where he sat as he pushed to his feet, the bare feet clutching to cold, damp stone. His robes furled at his ankles, his hood hanging low and pinning the collar against his neck.

The Altar before him was no more than a stone slab and an effigy of rock, carved as a gaunt figure holding a scythe in his left hand. Erwin pulled the collar from his neck, turning to leave the small side-chapel he inhabited.

The service in the main Chapel was still ongoing, a morning mass to Morr. Their chanting could be heard throughout the Great Cathedral of the Mourners, the grandest Abbey of Morr in the Empire besides that in great Altdorf itself.

Erwin slipped into his shoes at the end of the hall, and made towards the open door to his right. Entering the dining hall, he found the table immaculately set, ready for the ascetics which were praying to satisfy themselves upon. Loaves of rye bread, low-quality cheese, bowls with oats made of grain fit barely for a cock. And he’d lived this existence himself, for twenty-odd years of his own life.

There was no desire to stick around, not with his reputation. Erwin descended on the table, swiping a half-loaf of the rye and stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed, and swallowed the sourdough-leavened bread, nearly choking on the dryness in his gullet. He stole a gulp of wine from a goblet and then turned to make his escape.

There before him was all six-feet-one of an aged, bald man. His face was wrinkled and contorted into an ornery expression, and he had no facial hair to speak of, simply a scowl which scrutinized Erwin’s very being.

“Greetings, Master Reine-.” Erwin greeted the Abbot with the customary salute of Morr, pulling his hand down his face and throat as to simulate the last rites of the dying or dead.

“Not staying for the morning meal?” A nasally, agitated voice spoke from Abbot Reiner, the master of the Abbey of monks which accompanied the Cathedral.

“No, Mas-”

“Good.” A voice interrupted, holding up a hand, palm-inward. “I was just about to ask that you get on your way. You are still on your ‘pilgrimage’, you know.”

“Yes, Master. I was just leaving.” Erwin replied, attempting to be polite as one could be with stolen sourdough bread and a goblet in his hands.

The Abbot looked him up and down, and scowled harder than before.

“No matter. Depart at once.” The Abbot turned and left without another word.

Erwin looked on, flabbergasted. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect this outcome, but this was perhaps one of the only stays he’d gotten at a place of Morr where he’d been able to leave unharmed and unchallenged. Before he could jinx himself further, he stuffed the remainder of the bread into his mouth and downed the wine, setting the goblet back, heading towards the side entrance and out into the Gardens surrounding.

---

Erwin found himself on the streets of Nuln at just the right time, it seemed. At first the clouds above were light, then dark. First the rain began a drizzle, then a downpour. Men and women fled the streets as the rain came down harder, leaving the Priest of Morr in his soaked black robes to wander the pathways unhindered.

The odd shopkeeper who had an awning casted a glance. Bar patrons from inside their open-window places of gathering shared words, some kind, some benign, almost all motivated by inebriation. Erwin walked on, until a building at the end of the street called out to him. His pale green eyes fixed on its exterior, and he thought back to what he was told.

He entered and was welcomed, extending the kindness back to the benefactor he was told to meet. He met at the booth, where already a plate-clad man and the rotund noble he’d met at the door seemed to be sat. He made room for himself letting his hood down to keep its wetness from his hair. Of his order: simple beer. From their house keg, the best they could muster.

All for One for All! | A WHFB Adventure [APPLY]

Erwin

Full Name and Aliases (if any): Erwin Sauer

Race: Human

Homeland: Erwin hails from a village by the name of Basdahl in Middenland in the heart of the Empire of Man.

Faith: Devout follower of Morr, the God of the Dead and Prophecy

Sex: Male

Appearance: Erwin is a nondescript male Human, an Imperial of 5’10” (177 cm) and with a thin, lithe build, weighing in at no more than 140 lbs. Despite his appearance, he does have some muscle, albeit without much mass and none of it toned. It seems to be more borne out of practicality and daily labor than any form of actual concerted effort to bulk up. His hair is a sandy blonde, kept in short style and shaved down on the sides, seemingly allowed to grow only on top of his head. He keeps a beard, darker in shade than his hair and well-trimmed at a middling length. His eyes are a pale greenish-hazel, notably changing between the two with the change of seasons. His face under the beard seems rather gaunt and long, but his absence of wrinkles puts his age as likely only in his mid-thirties at best.

Picture

The Bait: Erwin was born in the Grand Duchy of Middenland some years ago, the child of an undertaker and his wife, destined for mundane things such as carpentry of coffins and the burial of the dead. His father, close to the local Conclave of the Shroud in the city of Brockel-Guthugel, was an associate of the Cult of Morr and thus the spiritual and practical advisor of all things concerning the dead.

Erwin was a happy child, but once he was seven or eight, a malady struck him. He would often wake drenched in sweat, screaming and crying for mother about a bony face, nightmares of mist and cold, damp catacombs. His father assured him it was nothing, but still he prayed to Morr to keep his faith strong.

It was when a plague came into the village of Basdahl that the father’s faith was tested. He soon after perished burying bodies of the deceased, as did Erwin’s mother, who cared for his father in the final moments. Erwin was spared, yet three quarters of the village died out. It was when the Shroud’s representatives visited weeks later that they decided to take in the young orphan and give him a life in the Conclave.

Erwin was judged to be a good pick on the part of the representatives. From a young age he was stone-faced on the matters concerning the deceased, yet could show empathy and spiritual guidance when that too was required of him. But his one strongest trait: singular hatred for the Plague Lord. From the time he heard Nurgle’s name uttered, he felt a deep hatred for that which took his parents from him. In his time growing in the Conclave, he learned from its master fencers the way of the lange messer and shield, and from others the proper carpentry of a coffin, rites of cremation, and all the minor incantations a guardian of the Portal would need to dispel corruption in death, wherever it would be found.

It was on his twentieth birthday that he was given the opportunity to make the pilgrimage to Luccini on the Tilean Peninsula with the chosen representatives of the Conclave. On the nearly year-long trip south, Erwin was exposed to cultures from the decadent high nobles of Altdorf to the creative and progressive peoples of Tilea. Their domain was providing funerals wherever they could on their trek, giving Erwin a unique insight into the various Electorates and their constituents, and served to mellow his internal turmoil with the plague.

Their trip back took twice as long, and Erwin was nearly twenty-five by the time they set foot in the Conclave of Guthugel. He was changed from the quiet observer and the obedient guardian, he was inquisitive and more outspoken. He’d taken to hobbies foreign to the majority of the Conclave. While this rarely bothered his peers, the followers who singularly devoted themselves to worship, swordsmanship, and stewardship, those who strived for the Black Guard, felt that such a character would bring shame to their Conclave. The Abbot agreed, and Erwin was sent on a six-year exile.

During his exile, he basked in the difference of other cultures in the places to which he traveled. The years passed by without incident, the now-jovial man that was Erwin pursuing his calling with glee, even if he was cast out by his Conclave. This persisted until once again he clashed with his old enemy: Plague. An outbreak in Talabecland made his services required as he stayed there.

He fled in the night. His old enemy bested him not physically, as it had bested his parents, but on the field of the mind. An act which, if found out, could damn him eternally to never walk the Gardens of Morr, he strives to do penance for his crime, and as a renegade priest and now hunter of necromancers and Chaotic corruption, he has lobbied for membership to the Black Badges.

The Catch: Erwin is a fully fledged member of the Cult of Morr and thus knows their incantations and a baseline of their divine lore. He can commune with the spirits of the deceased in a way others cannot, and his singular knowledge of the processes of death make him a shoe-in as an investigator of all things dead, whether it be homicides or deaths by other causes. He is not completely useless in combat, however. He is quick with a messer and shield, and sharp enough to take advantage of circumstances in combat.

As for why he was attracted to the Black Badges, it was part necessity, as he needed something to belong to else his communion with the God of the Dead would be impossible. The other part is his own vendetta. As a simple priest he was tired of sitting idly by as people died, especially from the plagues which had taken things dear to him. Now he can take out his anger on corruption everywhere.

Initial Possessions:

• A messer, a small, broad-blade single-handed shortsword, carried in a leather sheathe on his left hip above his robes.
• A Tilean dagger made of steel and in a leather sheathe on his right hip, just below his robes.
• A square wrist-shield akin to a buckler in purpose, made for fighting paired with a messer and emblazoned with an effigy of a raven, the symbol of Morr. Fits over the grip and upper end of the sheathe of his messer and can be worn comfortably as such, but it often is left behind unless battle is expected.
• A set of street clothing, namely some hosen and bourgeois clothing such as a thigh-length tunic and a feathered brim hat.
• His normal black robes, worn over a set of leathers which offer a small amount of protection from cutting strikes (albeit not the kinetic impact).
• A bandolier of finely sharpened wooden stakes worn around the waist under his robes.
• Tome of Morr, which is guarded with his life and never leaves the leather book case at his side.
• A canvas haversack with two nights’ provisions between stops, a bedroll, and a miniature wash-basin.

Current Possessions: Mirrored above.

All for One for All! | A WHFB Adventure [APPLY]

Erwin

Full Name and Aliases (if any): Erwin Sauer

Race: Human

Homeland: Erwin hails from a village by the name of Basdahl in Middenland in the heart of the Empire of Man.

Faith: Devout follower of Morr, the God of the Dead and Prophecy

Sex: Male

Appearance: Erwin is a nondescript male Human, an Imperial of 5’10” (177 cm) and with a thin, lithe build, weighing in at no more than 140 lbs. Despite his appearance, he does have some muscle, albeit without much mass and none of it toned. It seems to be more borne out of practicality and daily labor than any form of actual concerted effort to bulk up. His hair is a sandy blonde, kept in short style and shaved down on the sides, seemingly allowed to grow only on top of his head. He keeps a beard, darker in shade than his hair and well-trimmed at a middling length. His eyes are a pale greenish-hazel, notably changing between the two with the change of seasons. His face under the beard seems rather gaunt and long, but his absence of wrinkles puts his age as likely only in his mid-thirties at best.

Picture

The Bait: Erwin was born in the Grand Duchy of Middenland some years ago, the child of an undertaker and his wife, destined for mundane things such as carpentry of coffins and the burial of the dead. His father, close to the local Conclave of the Shroud in the city of Brockel-Guthugel, was an associate of the Cult of Morr and thus the spiritual and practical advisor of all things concerning the dead.

Erwin was a happy child, but once he was seven or eight, a malady struck him. He would often wake drenched in sweat, screaming and crying for mother about a bony face, nightmares of mist and cold, damp catacombs. His father assured him it was nothing, but still he prayed to Morr to keep his faith strong.

It was when a plague came into the village of Basdahl that the father’s faith was tested. He soon after perished burying bodies of the deceased, as did Erwin’s mother, who cared for his father in the final moments. Erwin was spared, yet three quarters of the village died out. It was when the Shroud’s representatives visited weeks later that they decided to take in the young orphan and give him a life in the Conclave.

Erwin was judged to be a good pick on the part of the representatives. From a young age he was stone-faced on the matters concerning the deceased, yet could show empathy and spiritual guidance when that too was required of him. But his one strongest trait: singular hatred for the Plague Lord. From the time he heard Nurgle’s name uttered, he felt a deep hatred for that which took his parents from him. In his time growing in the Conclave, he learned from its master fencers the way of the lange messer and shield, and from others the proper carpentry of a coffin, rites of cremation, and all the minor incantations a guardian of the Portal would need to dispel corruption in death, wherever it would be found.

It was on his twentieth birthday that he was given the opportunity to make the pilgrimage to Luccini on the Tilean Peninsula with the chosen representatives of the Conclave. On the nearly year-long trip south, Erwin was exposed to cultures from the decadent high nobles of Altdorf to the creative and progressive peoples of Tilea. Their domain was providing funerals wherever they could on their trek, giving Erwin a unique insight into the various Electorates and their constituents, and served to mellow his internal turmoil with the plague.

Their trip back took twice as long, and Erwin was nearly twenty-five by the time they set foot in the Conclave of Guthugel. He was changed from the quiet observer and the obedient guardian, he was inquisitive and more outspoken. He’d taken to hobbies foreign to the majority of the Conclave. While this rarely bothered his peers, the followers who singularly devoted themselves to worship, swordsmanship, and stewardship, those who strived for the Black Guard, felt that such a character would bring shame to their Conclave. The Abbot agreed, and Erwin was sent on a six-year exile.

During his exile, he basked in the difference of other cultures in the places to which he traveled. The years passed by without incident, the now-jovial man that was Erwin pursuing his calling with glee, even if he was cast out by his Conclave. This persisted until once again he clashed with his old enemy: Plague. An outbreak in Talabecland made his services required as he stayed there.

He fled in the night. His old enemy bested him not physically, as it had bested his parents, but on the field of the mind. An act which, if found out, could damn him eternally to never walk the Gardens of Morr, he strives to do penance for his crime, and as a renegade priest and now hunter of necromancers and Chaotic corruption, he has lobbied for membership to the Black Badges.

The Catch: Erwin is a fully fledged member of the Cult of Morr and thus knows their incantations and a baseline of their divine lore. He can commune with the spirits of the deceased in a way others cannot, and his singular knowledge of the processes of death make him a shoe-in as an investigator of all things dead, whether it be homicides or deaths by other causes. He is not completely useless in combat, however. He is quick with a messer and shield, and sharp enough to take advantage of circumstances in combat.

As for why he was attracted to the Black Badges, it was part necessity, as he needed something to belong to else his communion with the God of the Dead would be impossible. The other part is his own vendetta. As a simple priest he was tired of sitting idly by as people died, especially from the plagues which had taken things dear to him. Now he can take out his anger on corruption everywhere.

Initial Possessions:

• A messer, a small, broad-blade single-handed shortsword, carried in a leather sheathe on his left hip above his robes.
• A Tilean dagger made of steel and in a leather sheathe on his right hip, just below his robes.
• A square wrist-shield akin to a buckler in purpose, made for fighting paired with a messer and emblazoned with an effigy of a raven, the symbol of Morr. Fits over the grip and upper end of the sheathe of his messer and can be worn comfortably as such, but it often is left behind unless battle is expected.
• A set of street clothing, namely some hosen and bourgeois clothing such as a thigh-length tunic and a feathered brim hat.
• His normal black robes, worn over a set of leathers which offer a small amount of protection from cutting strikes (albeit not the kinetic impact).
• A bandolier of finely sharpened wooden stakes worn around the waist under his robes.
• Tome of Morr, which is guarded with his life and never leaves the leather book case at his side.
• A canvas haversack with two nights’ provisions between stops, a bedroll, and a miniature wash-basin.

Current Possessions: Mirrored above.

Good Ol' Boys

@role model Only children could be drafted. The only caveat was if they were the sole surviving male in the family due to another service death. For example, if their father or brother died in the line of service, they were technically ineligible, but the prospective draftee had to prove this on an application after their number got drawn in the draft. The policy in question is covered under Dept of Defense Directive 1315.15, titled "Sole Survivor Policy".

On another note, @Polyphemus, should have a character up soon-ish. It's been a busy week.

Spearhead in the Gap; A WWIII war game (1985)

0655 hrs

"E-T-A thirty seconds on fire mission, over."

Lieutenant Colonel Ethan Rose held the receiver close to his ear, keying down the Push-to-Talk.

"Orchard copies."

"Verified, Notary out." The battalion net went quiet.

Rose leaned against the rear of his commander's hatch, knocking back a swig of lukewarm black coffee from his metal mess cup. It was by no means gourmet, but it was better than nothing after being awakened at oh-dark-thirty for this shit. It was mind numbing, the constant pitter-patter of small arms, the far-off snaps and booms of cannonry. It was almost enough to give someone sensory overload if they weren't focused.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Three distinct sounds, followed by three far off explosions. The LTC brought the pair of binoculars hanging from his neck to his eyes, observing the carnage. It was all shrouded in smoke kicked up by the high explosives, but it had hit exactly where a column was passing. It was called dead on.

He keyed up his receiver again, setting his mess cup on the lip of the cupola.

"Orchard to Notary, good effect, repeat fire mission. B-D-A to follow, over."

"Notary to Orchard, wilco, out." A voice read back to him, the voice of Captain Scott Battle, his Fire Support Officer in the FIST-V sitting about 20 meters to the command tank's rear. Its laser designator pod panned idly, no doubt gauging ranges, grid coordinates, and all other useful information.

Tucking the receiver back into its loop on his crewman flak jacket, he focused his eyes front, snapping out of the musing he had been doing on the artillery strike, as captivating as it was. Pulling the microphone on his CVC helmet closer to his mouth, he keyed his tank's net.

"Paul, gun up, think I see something bearing about seventy-five."

Without response, the gunner went to work, the turret moving slightly left with a mechanical whirr, tragically knocking over the coffee in the mess tin which LTC Rose had left on the cupola, which earned a groan of disdain from the commander, yet he brought up his binoculars to check the direction in question. This, however, was cut short by a loud snap and a branch above his head splitting in two. A DShK had honed in, and Rose dropped into the commander's seat with a thud, rounds zipping over him wildly. Barely managing to close the hatch, he called over net. "Whatever the fuck that is, engage it!"

The cannon fired with a thunk, the breech knocking back in the turret satisfyingly.

"One times T-80 immobilized! The gunner barked back over net.

"Keep engaging 'em, guide on the other tank with tracers!" Rose ordered, before moving to press his eyes against his periscope, trying to ascertain the strength of their enemy. His receiver came to life with chatter, forcing him to sit back once more.

Before he could even ask for authentication, an anguished voice blew up the net. "Flash, flash, flash! We just got strafed, we lost our second platoon! Savinski's down!" The voice was Captain Parks, the C Company commander, and the Savinski in question was his second-in-command, First Lieutenant Savinski.

"Orchard copies, continue counterfire, updated orders to follow!" Rose barked back, hoping to God that he wouldn't be next. The cannon fired again, and then a third time. The hull shook between loads, a 'tink' sound and a thud that let them know they somehow bounced a shot. The turret loaded, and fired a fourth time, and all crew held their breath.

"Second T-80 is down! No other targets visible!"

For one cherished moment, they could take a breather.

Good Ol' Boys- A Different Kind of Organized Crime RP

Interested.

Spearhead in the Gap; A WWIII war game (1985)

@Landain to you as well.

Avatar - The Fall of Si Wong City

B A T U

---

The saddle bounced hypnotically throughout the grueling ride. Batu patted his ostrich horse’s neck gently, looking up towards the horizon. Dusty cliffs and crags as far as the eye could see, with endless dunes even beyond. It was only mid-morning, but the sun had been beating down as if it were the dead of noon. Truth be told, Batu had set out at first light, hoping to take advantage of the twilight before the heat could become an issue, but like many things in his life, he’d judged poorly.

His eyelids drooped. A mere three or so hours in the saddle, and he was as exhausted as if he’d been riding for a full day. His face baked, his already dark complexion getting a thick layer of sunburn atop it. He forced his eyes down to his belt, feeling around with his hand, before producing a water skin. Twisting the yak bone stopper, he knocked back a mouthful of the already warming liquid.

Uyanga, his trusty ostrich horse, brayed raspily, a discontented yowl followed by chitters. Batu lowered the water skin, squeezing the beast’s mouth full as he had his own. The animal chirped, satisfied. From behind him, a noise somewhere between an angry gull and a dying elephant assaulted Batu’s ears. Throwing back his gaze, his eyes settled on Wangu, the camelephant that Batu was still unsure was worth the crowns he’d cost.

“Silence yourself, beast! You’ve enough water in that hump for all of us to drink all the way to Si Wong!” Batu called back jokingly, trying to keep a lighthearted spirit during the trying journey.

He had to admit, it was a far cry from the steppes and mountains he’d called home. Even the remote villages from there to Harushima were more hospitable, and there was always wild game to hunt on the trek northwards. Come to think of it, he’d seen nothing even dare try and live in this wasteland in his miles of riding, save him and his herd. It was sobering to be this far from real civilization, even for a nomad.

Snapping him out of his deep thought was the distinct sound of wind in his ears. Batu hadn’t encountered any sort of wind since he’d set out this morning. The wind tie he’d secured to Uyanga’s saddle had been stationary save for the bounce of the ride, but now it blew full mast. Batu thought back to the advice he’d been given at the last bazaar by those odd insect-helmeted traders. Wind was not an idle thing in the desert, and great dust storms could come at a mere moment’s notice. The native tribes called these winds Shamals, and the only way to survive one was to shelter in place.

Batu grimaced, railing another swig of water before putting his weight back in the stirrups. Cocking himself to one side, he dismounted with a groan, rubbing at his aching back.

“Uyu, down.” As he ordered, the bird-horse-thing folded her legs, sitting on them that they were not at all exposed. Batu wrapped a hand around canvas and animal skin, a tarp lodged in the leather ties of the saddle. Pulling it free, he brought with it two iron-tipped wooden stakes. He acted fast to pull the tarp over his trusty steed, securing it down on both sides with grunts of effort.

Directing his gaze to the horizon once again, the danger now presented itself. Mere miles out, a wall of dark, oppressive brown sand towered higher than the Walls of Ba Sing Se. His expression softened, a realization of his predicament. Throwing his gaze back to Wangu the Camelephant, he thought: If he can’t survive this without a tarp, he’s not worth a damn anyways. With that last thought, Batu retreated under the tarp with Uyanga.

---

The man and his beast cowered under the tarp for what felt like in eternity. In all reality it had been less than an hour, but already what had to be feet worth of sand was building up on the tarp, which fought each gust of wind with all its might, held down more by the weight of the sand than any stakes which had been driven.

Batu had prayed to every deity and spirit he knew at least once thus far, and held with a white knuckle grip onto the tarp for dear life. Uyanga hadn’t stopped chittering discontent since the storm started, not that it was audible over the hissing wind and whipping tarp.

Batu had a pit in his stomach. Sure the storm was the greatest of his concerns currently, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he was being watched. Observed, maybe even stalked. Surely nothing could reliably function out in that dust, could it? Batu’s thoughts were interrupted harshly as a particularly strong gust of wind blew, and a coarse ripping sound tore the tarp in two, taking it away in two neat pieces.

They were now exposed to the elements, as particulate lashed Batu’s face and flayed his hands. Uyanga sprung to her feet, only to be blown back prostrate again. Batu thought he heard voices, but swore it was only Wangu’s cries distantly behind him. Until the sounds became clearer, and clearer.

”We have to take these ones now! The storm won’t last much longer!” He heard one voice call.

”This damned camelephant won’t take a lead!” Another called back.

Batu became keenly aware of his situation at once. Bandits. Sandbenders, if the storm was anything to go by. Batu called out.

“YOU DAMNED THIEVES! I’LL HAVE YOUR HEADS!”

He’d barely managed to utter the sentence before he was knocked back, landing square on his buttocks in the shifting sand, as if a fist made of coarse, rough earth had hit him in the gut. Batu launched himself towards Uyanga, managing to slip a foot in one stirrup before a similar gust knocked him down again. Uyanga did not stand idly, springing up with a shrill cry. Only she succeeded where Batu failed, and off into the sand she went, or so Batu thought, before he found himself dragged by his leg, still caught in the stirrup.

His mouth filled with sand and he nearly passed out at once from the shock. He was keenly aware of figures in pursuit, silhouettes of sails and wooden decks in the rapidly dispersing storm.

He delivered a swift kick to Uyanga’s backside with his free foot, forcing her to ride faster.

Avatar - The Fall of Si Wong City

Batu

B A T U

_{’Times are not always the same; the grass is not always green.’
-Bataaran proverb}

Character Age: 28
Character Gender: Male
Character Race: Bataar Nomads (Earth Kingdom)
Bending: Non-bender

Skills:

• Mounted Warrior: Batu is a trained cavalier of the Bataar Plains Nomads, proving himself formidable when in the saddle of an ostrich horse or any other similar mount. Using a recurve short bow with remarkable accuracy on the move and a short sabre for in-close encounters are both major facets of his training, rooted in the pursuit predation tactics necessary for survival in the open steppes.
• Hardy: The reality of the open plains which stretch from the Kolau Mountains to the Si Wong Desert is a near-tundra of permafrost and high-altitude cold, creating a lifestyle of scarcity. While not adapted to the swelter and heat of the Si Wong Desert, Batu’s upbringing instilled survival principles which allow him to cross swathes of uncivilized land with little issue.

Weaknesses:

• Poor Defense: The doctrine of Batu’s fighting style emphasizes a decisive overwhelming onslaught, a stark contrast to the Earth Kingdom Army’s overall philosophy, with his fighting style more in line with the Fire Nation’s ethos. However this proves a significant disadvantage against any opponent who presses the attack effectively, making Batu likely to give ground rather than press a defense.
• Heedless & Lighthearted: Batu is a very carefree and rather gullible individual. His ruggedness and passing abrasiveness easily give way to an unserious and humor-minded man. His lackadaisical attitude and arrogance often become his downfall in both matters of war and peace.
• Non-Bender: While the ‘shamans’ of the Bataar Nomads tend to be Earthbenders themselves, Batu is one of the majority who have no such special inclination. While normally a non-issue for most, in a melting pot which includes an abundance of benders, it puts him at a significant combat disadvantage.

Possessions:

• Sabre: A curved blade single-handed sword designed for use while mounted on ostrich horses, but it can be used to some effect on foot as a slashing weapon. Carried in a yak bone and leather sheathe as Batu’s choice sidearm.
• Composite Recurve Bow: A shortbow also designed for use whilst mounted, it is made of birch wood hardened by the cold steppes and reinforced with joints of yak and goat bones. Carried in a removable leather sheathe either on his thigh or the side of his chosen mount.
• Quiver: A medium-sized arrow quiver made of animal skins either carried on his back or the side of his mount.
• Lamellar Cuirass: A long coat of boiled leather reinforced with iron lamellars (small rectangular overlapping plates) along the front and back of the torso. It is rarely worn except in overt battle, otherwise stowed on his mount.

Biography: The Bataar people are an ancient nomad culture inhabiting the steppes and coniferous forests which stretch from the Kolau Mountains in the shadow of Omashu to the western edge of the Si Wong Desert. Tangentially related to the tribes of Sandbenders which inhabit the inner spheres of the desert, the Bataar trace their lineage back to a splinter tribe which did not continue the migration into the sand wastes, instead settling in the colder high-altitude plains around the desert.

Some time within the last three decades, a boy named Batu was born. His name meant ‘Strength’ in the language of the Bataar, given such a name due to surviving a birth in which his mother did not. His father, an Earthbending shaman and important advisor to the Chieftain of the tribe, took great pride in his only son despite the grievous loss of his wife. Batu would have a troubled infancy due to complications from his botched delivery, but by the age of four developed into a rather normal child of the tribe.

The tribespeople by culture raised children as a collective. Even as family units and clans were separate in all other cases, children were the responsibility of all. But in particular, Batu took up with a young tanner’s apprentice named Xanadu. Xanadu, along with Batu’s father, schooled the young child in the arts of horsemanship, archery, and tannery, until the age of ten.

At that young age, custom of the Bataar people dictated that every child, male or female, was to be tested for bending potential. This test is perhaps the only point where Batu disappointed his father, showing no proficiency whatsoever, despite being a direct descendant of such a powerful Earth shaman, a ‘mountain mover’ as they were called in the native tongue. Nonetheless, Batu was enlisted as a tanner’s apprentice under the now master tanner Xanadu, albeit Batu also showed little skill in that field.

Sometime within Batu’s childhood, riders dressed in elegant robes and bearing the seal of the Earth Kingdom rode into the encampment of the tribe, carrying news of a rebellion against the Earth King. While the Bataar never maintained exemplary relations with the Earth Kingdom, they were at the very least cordial so long as the sovereign allowed them to live freely on the steppes. The men of the tribe were to be levied as soldiers for an army to put down a rebellion in Harushima province to the northwest. Their best riders were to make up the cavalry arm in the left wing of the Earth King’s army, with the rest of the able-bodied men as foot archers.

Batu, too young to serve, was left as one of the few remaining males in the tribe, now key to ensuring the survival of their people while the rest fought the war. Batu’s story lulled as grander things were at play:

The Bataar horsemen arrived in Harushima province to find a beleaguered army, hearing tales of a fearsome commander of the rebellion who managed to turn back the Earth Kingdom forces in a series of decisive early battles. Indeed this streak may have continued had the Bataar peoples and the reinforcements they brought with them not arrived. But the maneuverability and hit-and-run tactics of the horsemen became an integral part of the effort to bleed the Harushima Rebels of supply and morale, culminating in the final siege of Harushima City, where Bataar dismounted archers played a key role in the numerous attacks on the outer wall, until Beifong’s pride (and leg) was crushed.

The war was not without losses. In the two and a half long years of combat, Batu’s father was among the dead, dying along with his unit of fellow Earthbenders to a man. Xanadu lost a leg and an arm, held in a Earth Kingdom field hospital for the duration of the war thereafter. The Earth King, ever paranoid after the failed rebellion, gathered the various auxiliaries of his forces in the walls of the destroyed city. In an unprecedented act of cruelty, the wounded were slaughtered, and the able bodied were disarmed forcibly and imprisoned, sent on death marches to Ba Sing Se, reasoned as the Earth King feared closeted traitorous indigenous soldiers bringing the spark of rebellion back to their homes.

Batu was utterly devastated. The tribe practically dissolved over the incident, the wholesale killing and imprisonment of the male population making survival untenable. Some left to assimilate into other tribes who had larger and more sustainable populations. Others stayed put to live in squalor, praying to the spirits to deliver them from their suffering. And finally, a fringe group, in traditional nomad fashion, packed their bags and saddled up their ostrich horses, striking out from the steppes. Among them was Batu, now of a practically dead lineage and without much marketable skill other than hunting and fighting, untested in combat and utterly inexperienced with any cultures outside his own.

Supporting Cast:
Uyanga: Batu’s trusty ostrich horse, his chosen beast of burden and war mount. A mare, she is of the plains variation, measuring at a much smaller size than the average specimen. She has a golden brown coat and a light gray undercoat, matched by a completely gray face and head.

Wangu: A stubborn camelephant currently possessed by Batu in order to carry his heavier supplies. The beast and its master are not at all bonded, and the last-minute purchase of the animal may have been more trouble than it was worth.

Avatar - The Fall of Si Wong City

Batu

B A T U

_{’Times are not always the same; the grass is not always green.’
-Bataaran proverb}

Character Age: 28
Character Gender: Male
Character Race: Bataar Nomads (Earth Kingdom)
Bending: Non-bender

Skills:

• Mounted Warrior: Batu is a trained cavalier of the Bataar Plains Nomads, proving himself formidable when in the saddle of an ostrich horse or any other similar mount. Using a recurve short bow with remarkable accuracy on the move and a short sabre for in-close encounters are both major facets of his training, rooted in the pursuit predation tactics necessary for survival in the open steppes.
• Hardy: The reality of the open plains which stretch from the Kolau Mountains to the Si Wong Desert is a near-tundra of permafrost and high-altitude cold, creating a lifestyle of scarcity. While not adapted to the swelter and heat of the Si Wong Desert, Batu’s upbringing instilled survival principles which allow him to cross swathes of uncivilized land with little issue.

Weaknesses:

• Poor Defense: The doctrine of Batu’s fighting style emphasizes a decisive overwhelming onslaught, a stark contrast to the Earth Kingdom Army’s overall philosophy, with his fighting style more in line with the Fire Nation’s ethos. However this proves a significant disadvantage against any opponent who presses the attack effectively, making Batu likely to give ground rather than press a defense.
• Heedless & Lighthearted: Batu is a very carefree and rather gullible individual. His ruggedness and passing abrasiveness easily give way to an unserious and humor-minded man. His lackadaisical attitude and arrogance often become his downfall in both matters of war and peace.
• Non-Bender: While the ‘shamans’ of the Bataar Nomads tend to be Earthbenders themselves, Batu is one of the majority who have no such special inclination. While normally a non-issue for most, in a melting pot which includes an abundance of benders, it puts him at a significant combat disadvantage.

Possessions:

• Sabre: A curved blade single-handed sword designed for use while mounted on ostrich horses, but it can be used to some effect on foot as a slashing weapon. Carried in a yak bone and leather sheathe as Batu’s choice sidearm.
• Composite Recurve Bow: A shortbow also designed for use whilst mounted, it is made of birch wood hardened by the cold steppes and reinforced with joints of yak and goat bones. Carried in a removable leather sheathe either on his thigh or the side of his chosen mount.
• Quiver: A medium-sized arrow quiver made of animal skins either carried on his back or the side of his mount.
• Lamellar Cuirass: A long coat of boiled leather reinforced with iron lamellars (small rectangular overlapping plates) along the front and back of the torso. It is rarely worn except in overt battle, otherwise stowed on his mount.

Biography: The Bataar people are an ancient nomad culture inhabiting the steppes and coniferous forests which stretch from the Kolau Mountains in the shadow of Omashu to the western edge of the Si Wong Desert. Tangentially related to the tribes of Sandbenders which inhabit the inner spheres of the desert, the Bataar trace their lineage back to a splinter tribe which did not continue the migration into the sand wastes, instead settling in the colder high-altitude plains around the desert.

Some time within the last three decades, a boy named Batu was born. His name meant ‘Strength’ in the language of the Bataar, given such a name due to surviving a birth in which his mother did not. His father, an Earthbending shaman and important advisor to the Chieftain of the tribe, took great pride in his only son despite the grievous loss of his wife. Batu would have a troubled infancy due to complications from his botched delivery, but by the age of four developed into a rather normal child of the tribe.

The tribespeople by culture raised children as a collective. Even as family units and clans were separate in all other cases, children were the responsibility of all. But in particular, Batu took up with a young tanner’s apprentice named Xanadu. Xanadu, along with Batu’s father, schooled the young child in the arts of horsemanship, archery, and tannery, until the age of ten.

At that young age, custom of the Bataar people dictated that every child, male or female, was to be tested for bending potential. This test is perhaps the only point where Batu disappointed his father, showing no proficiency whatsoever, despite being a direct descendant of such a powerful Earth shaman, a ‘mountain mover’ as they were called in the native tongue. Nonetheless, Batu was enlisted as a tanner’s apprentice under the now master tanner Xanadu, albeit Batu also showed little skill in that field.

Sometime within Batu’s childhood, riders dressed in elegant robes and bearing the seal of the Earth Kingdom rode into the encampment of the tribe, carrying news of a rebellion against the Earth King. While the Bataar never maintained exemplary relations with the Earth Kingdom, they were at the very least cordial so long as the sovereign allowed them to live freely on the steppes. The men of the tribe were to be levied as soldiers for an army to put down a rebellion in Harushima province to the northwest. Their best riders were to make up the cavalry arm in the left wing of the Earth King’s army, with the rest of the able-bodied men as foot archers.

Batu, too young to serve, was left as one of the few remaining males in the tribe, now key to ensuring the survival of their people while the rest fought the war. Batu’s story lulled as grander things were at play:

The Bataar horsemen arrived in Harushima province to find a beleaguered army, hearing tales of a fearsome commander of the rebellion who managed to turn back the Earth Kingdom forces in a series of decisive early battles. Indeed this streak may have continued had the Bataar peoples and the reinforcements they brought with them not arrived. But the maneuverability and hit-and-run tactics of the horsemen became an integral part of the effort to bleed the Harushima Rebels of supply and morale, culminating in the final siege of Harushima City, where Bataar dismounted archers played a key role in the numerous attacks on the outer wall, until Beifong’s pride (and leg) was crushed.

The war was not without losses. In the two and a half long years of combat, Batu’s father was among the dead, dying along with his unit of fellow Earthbenders to a man. Xanadu lost a leg and an arm, held in a Earth Kingdom field hospital for the duration of the war thereafter. The Earth King, ever paranoid after the failed rebellion, gathered the various auxiliaries of his forces in the walls of the destroyed city. In an unprecedented act of cruelty, the wounded were slaughtered, and the able bodied were disarmed forcibly and imprisoned, sent on death marches to Ba Sing Se, reasoned as the Earth King feared closeted traitorous indigenous soldiers bringing the spark of rebellion back to their homes.

Batu was utterly devastated. The tribe practically dissolved over the incident, the wholesale killing and imprisonment of the male population making survival untenable. Some left to assimilate into other tribes who had larger and more sustainable populations. Others stayed put to live in squalor, praying to the spirits to deliver them from their suffering. And finally, a fringe group, in traditional nomad fashion, packed their bags and saddled up their ostrich horses, striking out from the steppes. Among them was Batu, now of a practically dead lineage and without much marketable skill other than hunting and fighting, untested in combat and utterly inexperienced with any cultures outside his own.

Supporting Cast:
Uyanga: Batu’s trusty ostrich horse, his chosen beast of burden and war mount. A mare, she is of the plains variation, measuring at a much smaller size than the average specimen. She has a golden brown coat and a light gray undercoat, matched by a completely gray face and head.

Wangu: A stubborn camelephant currently possessed by Batu in order to carry his heavier supplies. The beast and its master are not at all bonded, and the last-minute purchase of the animal may have been more trouble than it was worth.