Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by HeySeuss
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HeySeuss DJ Hot Carl

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<OOC>
<Chat>

Illustration kindly loaned by Brand. Check the man's gallery!

Instructions
- Post your character sheet here using the template provided below.
- Please do not post anything else here, all questions and comments should go to the OOC thread.

Character Sheet (Template Here)
Name: Please avoid modern naming and try to play with syllables and sounds, perhaps using names from various ancient cultures as a basis for this mix and match
Age: Twent
Gender:
Race:
Physical Description:
It's probably best to actually describe the character if you are going to rely on a picture, or you can
do without the picture if you like, but definitely describe.

Skillset:
Talents one has either naturally or through education or training of some sort.

Far Ancestry:
The mythological/ancient origins of your character; it should be something more than a dull family history -- it should be, in some sense, a link between your character and a more fantastic ancient past.

Character History:
Explain how your character got there -- no 'the story will come out in RP' lines, please -- I want a feel for where your character is coming from. Feel free to work up names and places and so forth. Be sure to mention feuds and debts and the such.

Psychological Profile:
An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history. Most importantly, how did they react to the confrontation with Pykas and Cyrabassis -- because Cyrabassis was wielding magic (not heavy stuff, but way more than most have ever seen or would believe) and Pykas was possessed with something not of the world. They barely survived by the skin of their teeth. So the characters have baggage from that fight.

Equipment:
The character's equipment. Any magical items should be dormant, but maybe a character has one for some reason, such as a memento or a good luck charm or family heirloom.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:
What sort of position the character occupies in the city, whether it is a business or a magistrate's position or similar. This should include prominent servants and properties as well as followers. For example, if a character were a high priest, a description of the temple and its influences within the city/its worshipers would be nice.

Relationships
The character's relations with the other characters.
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by HeySeuss
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HeySeuss DJ Hot Carl

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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Byrd Man
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Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro

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Character Sheet

Name: Rickas Bannon

Age: 48

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Physical Description:

Rickas has short brown hair dotted with gray streaks that's kept groomed and combed. He's of medium height, but of pudgy build with a good sized paunch that's developed since his retirement from adventuring. The extra weight has given him a slight double chin and chubby cheeks. A long, jagged scar on his left cheek is a memento of his old adventuring group's run in with Pykas. Rickas will not fail to use the scar as political leverage to prove to whoever he is talking to that he has and will do what is necessary to help people in need. He has brown eyes and a partially upturned nose with a small cleft in his chin. While not wearing any particular form of jewelry, he does wear the finest fabrics and clothes befitting a man of his means. A dazzling orator, Rickas has a deep voice that carries well in crowds and has a malleable quality that can help him sound like a man of the commoners or the most elite of the blue bloods depending on where he is.


Skillset:
A former rogue Rickas was never a master thief, but he was an expert actor and orator. His elocution skills and acting made him into a top notch confidence man who could sway nearly anyone into giving him anything. RIckas ability to debate with cold reason and fiery passion equally well has him a highly sought after advocate. As a fighter he was less than effective, preferring to operate from long range with a bow and arrow. He was always proficient with the bow and crossbow, though those skills have diminished. His years as an advocate has also given him an expert knowledge of the laws and customs of Dara.


Far Ancestry:
In their homeland the Bannons are known for their idealistic nature and lofty dreams. The Bannons also, however, lack practicality and common sense. Yorma Bannon, Rickas' grandfather, went bankrupt trying to turn a small farm with poor soil into a thriving plantation. Before that he tried his hand at being a merchant, only to have his partner embezzle all their money and flee. The old man died penniless in the house of his son, Synbal, Rickas' father. Synbal Bannon was a charming and intelligent man who fancied himself as a merchant and politician. Coming from the lands of freemen and representatives, Synbal was able to become one of a small handful of local leaders that represented his area to the nation's parliament. Synbal proved to be an idealistic and crusading representative who fought for the people who had elected him as well as the poor and downtrodden. He spoke for the people no matter how much trouble it caused him. His lack of compromise or give with the old money of the nation led to his exile from office. He threw himself into his business interest by becoming attempting to become a shipping magnate. Placing all his money on three small ships, he was wiped out financially when pirates and storms destroyed all three ships a year into his business. He never became rich or powerful like had desired.

On the flipside the Morgun family, the family of Rickas' mother, were known for their abilities to succeed in nearly any endeavor they attempted.They claimed to have traced their ancestry back all the way to Margorath, the king of old who sold his soul and his first born son to a witch for the ability to bewitch men's minds and make them do things the would never want to do. That magic was said to have passed down to the Morguns and expressed itself in the family's ability to be shrewdly pragmatic and gifted in matters of business and politics. They were known to be tough, fair, and able to read men like open books. Magdar Morgun, Rickas' great grandfather was a long-serving member of the national parliament and a successful farmer. His uncle Belkas Morgun was a priest who spellbound followers with his passionate rhetoric. Sanol Morgun, Rickas' grandfather, was an able businessman who didn't want his daughter marrying Synbal Bannon, but at the time the young man's prospects were so high he allowed it.


Character History:


Rickas was born during the last few years of his father's term as a member of parliament. One of his earliest memories was going to the capital and seeing his father debate and attack the nobility for their lack of understanding and compassion for the poor. When Synbal was run out of office and then lost all his money, times were hard on the Bannon house. Rickas and his four brothers and sisters went days without eating while their father roamed around the country looking for work and their mother gave up on trying to keep a clean and neat house. Their mother soon turned to the bottle and became a drunk. Thirteen years old and sick of being hungry and dirty, Rickas left home and never looked back. He went back to the capital and became a street urchin and low level pickpocket. Two years into stealing change he was caught by a man who was a member of the local thieves guild. Seeing a spark in the boy, the took him in and showed him the potential of the long con. Rickas learned under his tutelage for many years, becoming an expert confidence man. Abiding by his master's rules, they never robbed from anyone but the upper crust. The people who could afford it. Their partnership came to an end when the capital guards learned of one of their cons. Rickas' master was captured and executed while Rickas fled the city and the country, heading to Dara.

It was in Dara that he met a group of adventurers. While they all provided something, Rickas acted as their mouthpiece. He used his conning skills to talk them out of more than a few sticky situations. He was in it for the money until the people of Dara needed the group's help. Against his better judgement, he went with his friends on the raid into Cyrabassis' lair. In the fight, Rickas was scarred across the face by a broadsword. After the defeat of Pykas, the group disbanded and went their separate ways. Rickas found his calling as a legal advocate. Those skills that he had used to con the wealthy also worked to convince a magistrate that he and his client were in the right. His money, power, and influence soon skyrocketed Rickas into the upper class of the city.



Psychological Profile:

Rickas is very friendly and warm as any politician must be. He has a great memory and uses it to his advantage when he can, by remembering something about a certain person they may have forgotten or wish to have forgotten. He uses his charm and warmth to get close to those he needs. If you're someone he doesn't need he can be cold and demanding. Rickas sees himself as practical and pragmatic, extremely so. This is a conscious decision to rebel from his father's way of doing things, to show that the only way to be successful is to not believe in ideals and dreams. He can convince an aristocratic blue blood that he is against the common plebs and then turn around and call out the wealthy and corrupt gentry of the city at a rally of the working class. While he is pragmatic, he does have a idealistic streak that he will entertain as long as it doesn't interfere with any political plans. He is a great reader of other people's emotions and wants which makes him a good diplomat and negotiator. While he does want to help people, he also wants power and craves the power that would come from being a Guardian. He honestly believes that only though the benevolent wielding of supreme power can people really be helped.


Equipment:
Nothing out of the usual clothes. He has his armor and weapons from adventuring, but they have been put up for a long time. He carries a dagger on his belt as a means of self-defense, he is after all a former thief. He also wears an emerald pin on his lapel, the green symbol all Guardians wear to identify themselves.


Titles/Holdings/Power Base:
Rickas is chief advocate of Dara, the top advocate to argue legal cases either representing Dara or someone in need of his help. His years as an advocate has led to him amassing a handsome personal fortune and a large house in the nicer part of the city. He has the money to buy several sellswords as he wishes. Rickas also has many contacts within Dara politics, from magistrates and council staff members to commanders in the city guard. He has many friends and former clients in the business sector of the city. At one time he has represented nearly every single one of Dara's oldest and richest families. Alongside the rich and connected he also has the poor on his side. With his reputation as a reformer and a man of the people, he is popular among the working class and can use them to sell his ideas to the rest of the city.


Relationships
TBD
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Clumsywordsmith
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Clumsywordsmith

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Name: Sher'Fon'ahn

Age: Forty-One

Gender: Male

Race: Human, Desert Tribesman

Introduction:

The dull red of a dying sun fades away into blackness, allowing the steel-grey of twilight to finally beckon the night to her side; there are no stars in this sky – only the gaping black of an empty void, an endless horizon of jagged teeth framing the light's decay: peaks seeming wrought of the darkest obsidian – though were it a trick of the eyes or their true nature might be hard to tell – while perhaps the only sign of life in all that stretch of silence rests in a small figure, standing erect, upon a distant outcropping.

Features lost in shadow – the expanse of a cloak covering face and form alike – he stands unmoving... stands for such a length of time indeed than an observer might well begin to think him nothing more than another feature of the rock itself.

But I am no rock. I feel the cool winds of the young night tugging at the hem of my cloak – pawing insistently at the brim of my hood – the urge to reach up a hand, to swipe away at the searching fingers as though they were something more than sighing whispers. A man's mind will invent many things in the depths of such a night. This, perhaps, were no exception. I turn my head, ever so slightly – to the vibrant lands far, far to the west: my eyes, perhaps (or just as well the imagination) can make out the faintest shades of gold and umber red beyond the sun's last rays... and then... and then nothing... Only waiting. Waiting as the winds rise, and the fingers scratch, then claw and – finally – blow into a frenzied gale of rage; silence now replaced with tortured screams, every needle's edge of rock becoming a portal to some long-forgotten depth of pain. Still, I wait.

Wait as the pale silhouette of an eager moon throws its light across the darkness, gentle rays scattering into a thousand facets of mirrored silver as they bound and play about the craggy surface of the rocks. But more striking still the reflection from below: for what once was vanished into a murky pool at dark, now shimmers into view... an open sea of shifting sand, fading away into the curve of the world far beyond the furthest point the eye might see. Grey, now blue – caught somewhere half between – an ocean of silver right to the looming black of the encroaching range, driving a jagged slash between the eastern light and western dark.

But then I finally move, shift a hand beneath my cloak and reveal what I had been holing there – tightly clenched – all along; a small phial of darkest onyx, and pulling forth the stopper I release its contents to the winds... a spray of sand, glimmering at once gold and amber, flashing in a twinkling before vanishing to the unknown. The words, though unbidden, come in a quiet stream – quiet and snatched at once, taken by the greedy wind and borne far, far aloft and away. Stretching over the lands I once called home.

“Take me with you, when you go,
through legends, lore and lands untold:
Your home is lost, your people gone,
the last since slipped behind the sun;
yet you are here, and with me now...

So take me with you, when you go...”

I could go no farther. The sand now stung at my face, burned my eyes as the wind spat laughing in my face. I swept my cloak about me, turned and began the perilous descent... the last few trailing words seeming to echo behind me with each step:

“Take me with you, When you go...”

Physical Description:

A harsh steam rose from the fire between us; I brushed away at the smoke and vapour alike with the edge of my cloak, revealing for a moment the young man seated opposite me: slim, serious, erect and alert... I closed my eyes for but a moment and almost imagined that I might see him as he was long since: Taller, by a small margin. But still slim, lithe and brown-skinned, long dark hair tied back in the manner of our people... but the attire – and the eyes!-- the eyes; they were a strange grey... and so I opened my own. Looked into his. Brown, as they ever were. A strange chill tore its way down the back of my neck. I proffered Fon'ahn the bowl, waiting. Watching to see if he would partake.

Skillset/Far Ancestry (Wound up kinda merging themselves into one):

“Some stories, young Fon'ahn, have no end – they go on and on and on – wrapping around themselves over and over again, until perhaps as the sand itself they might roll over all that once was and begin anew...” The young boy frowns at this, places a slender brown finger against his lower lip – both eyebrows are etched into a graven line of thought, and with the sudden exhalation he seems upon the verge of speaking....

And then old Da'fur laughed. I remember he laughed! I saw him laugh, the lines of care and pain smoothed in an instant – smothered away by the crinkle of brown skin, the glimmer of white teeth. Laughed even as a man I did not know sat in a cold tower of lands beyond... drew and scrabbled at some thin bit of... of what might have been cloth with a grey feather. A thin flame, somehow, burned in a shallow basin behind him... and I found myself so caught by its gentle wavering. Quietly, swaying... to and fro as an adder prepared to strike... and without warning he lunged!

I was almost caught off guard, the sweeping shimmer of a brazen blade slicing past the air where my neck had been mere moments before... a distant voice broke forth in my head “For when the mind comes to fullness with the body, and the body to fullness with the mind.... then might the two strike as one. Look outside the immediate! See what is beyond!”

A young man whirled to the side, lithe figure of brown skin and taut sinew dancing through the air as though their form held no weight; another blow, and then another – one sent skating across the surface of a small buckler, the other singing with a quiet call of dismay as it met the haft of a spear... but both were such a burden. Not the light hide of a shield that I had been accustomed to. Not the perfect balance of a lance that I had trained with. And yet in that moment I was aware – aware of myself, the man upon the arena sands. Aware of the crowds, the crowds screaming and crying for blood... blood... blood...

Aware that I was watching myself. A surely as I was myself. And with that it ended all in an instant. The searing heat of the desert sun as it parches the last of an oasis pool. The wretched cry of a dying creature as it embraces finally the eternity of death. The rush of air against the tip of a spear as it plunges into the dark hole of an endless plummet... I fall and fall, images and thoughts piling one atop the other at such a rate that I finally cease to even attempt to parsing one from the other. Rather I simply am. And fall.

And with an undignified thud the nude figure of a man lands unceremoniously upon the edge of a dune; a groan follows, one bloodied eye cracks open... and then gravity takes its turn, the body tumbling, tumbling down the embankment, spray of sand and dust flying in its wake. All finally comes to rest at the edge of a perfect pool: pristine, its surface marred only by the mirrored image of dunes and blue sky and endless, golden sand.

But I am thirsty. So thirsty! And bend to scoop water from the pool, to drink... to drink! Only to cough and splutter, choke on each drop as the water turns to sand in my mouth, the burning force shoved down my throat, burning through the depths of my bowels. I collapse to the ground, crawl to the pool. Cast myself in. Only to sink in a constant depth of burning sand, each breath a tearing rasp upon my lungs. Each clawing effort to escape only sending me further... further into the abyss.

And then Fon'ahn awakes. Awakes to find the impassive face of the old Shaman watching him; he struggles, moves his lips as if to speak – as if to convey in words the thousand impossibilities that have since crossed his mind – only to have his attendant shake his head several times, to mouth the word 'Sleep' before adding:

“Remember, young adder... remember that as many tales might have no end, just as many might have no beginning: to seek answers in such regard might be as foolish as to seek guidance from the stars themselves...”

But I could sleep only poorly. And in my dreams the countless numbers of our kind threw themselves heedlessly into a pit full of obsidian daggers... and at the end only I was left – and the last of them it was who tried to drag me down as they jumped.

Character History:

I rubbed at my temples. The night was wearing on me, and no matter how I struggled it seemed the greatest wealth of words might never suffice to describe it all. The Elder Shaman's words to me – mere moments before my initiation all those years past – had stayed with me ever since... and in truth, I do not suppose I truly could remember my story's beginning. Only the years since that moment. The changes in the skies, the drying of the oasis...

It had been years since any Shaman had pierced the time beyond veiling; gazed across the vast expanse of sand and known for a surety that what he saw was to come – I believed it myself no more than anyone else might have, and so kept it to myself. Only to question the visions for all the years afterward. The Great Exodus, the descent from the mountains... the reception our combined tribes met at the hands of our more 'civilized' counterparts.

Perhaps it was mere luck. Perhaps it was skill. Perhaps it were fate that had kept me alive all these years; from the battles with the strangers, to the final defeat of outsiders in a foreign land... to the eery moment of reliving those moments upon the arena sands in the flesh, to now. Now as I sit and write out every word by hand, the flickering light of a low lamp hanging behind me. Did I see myself then, as I am now? Or... did I merely imagine such things by a freak of circumstance?

Psychological Profile:

Such thoughts came often – often and unanswered – until that moment when an outsider was given the chance to help shape the fate of his captors. Not that I was still a captor at such a point. It would be a difficult matter, indeed, for any man, beast – elf or dwarf – thrown to the gladiatorial pits to survive an encounter with a Shaman of the Shifting Sands... half trained as I was... even lacking every last ounce of power that our tales have told of the heroes of the past. Still, there is something to be said for the adroit study of body and mind alike, and the simple power of reflexes well honed, combined with a mind well sharpened... well, at times this is enough.

But something more to be said for the sights I saw with my comrades then. An opening of awareness, as if all the tales I had been told as a child suddenly were to gain new life. Things I had long since ceased to question once again opened to inquiry. Perhaps there -was- a truth to be found in the uncertain tales of the sand.

Equipment:

I paused for a moment in my thoughts. They were running amok again. A swift swallow from the decanter near at hand settled the nerves a bit... memories running too close to certain occurrences in the past were bound to bring forth such a feeling. I sighed. Wiped my lips. Brought my hand to my breast... encountered the phial; there was still a bit of the sand from my homelands left – carried all this way, emptied to the winds every seven years. Emptied and then filled again. Filled in memory and in hope. Hope... such a thin, word – that. More often still I found myself relying upon the spear that always rested just behind me; a thin and wondrously balanced piece of deadly artwork – bladed on both ends, detachable in the centre... a gift from that rare moment where I had been a hero. Or, at least, respected. That along with the shield. My cloak, also, was slung over the back of my chair. As dull as the desert sands themselves, yet I bore it with pride.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:

A pride some might think baseless, when I consider my current lack of any grand title or position here – save as once-hero... yet where others might have permitted their memories to shift away into nothingness... I... I have been left to ponder it all these long years. Thrice since my capture now I have visited the Obsidian mountains... thrice have I revisited the years of my youth – the lost traditions of my people. And though the powers that once may have been remain – perhaps – forever dead to me... still I search. I write. I seek endlessly for any last shred of knowledge. What I saw upon those fateful days has remained a part of me, and together with the long and historied myths of my lost people... well, perhaps it truly is a story that has no end.

Or at least, if it does, then I mean to find it.

Relationships:
Will work on this as I see more Character Sheets and send out a few PMs.
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Ruby
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Ruby No One Cares

Member Seen 17 days ago

Name: Valmoria
Age: 41
Gender: Female
Race: Elf
Physical Description:
An unworldly beauty in her youth, tall and fair and athletically built. Known for lilac colored eyes and an untamed mane of dark red hair that shined red-gold like copper in the sun of Aluth, just as much as she was known for full lips always seeming to wear a daredevil's grin. Though she has aged well, the most prominent change to her appearance is her once wildly kept red hair is now snow white, and carefully combed, typically pulled tight and tied behind her head.

Skillset:
Master tracker. Just as talented with bow and arrow as she is the Elvish short swords/long daggers that were once always worn on either hip. Though she has never truly stopped adventuring, Val used her success to become one of the best known Servant Brokers in the city. Though, secretly, Val has used the Indentured to also become one of the best Information Brokers in the city.

Far Ancestry:
Valmoria's father famously claimed descent from the ancient Elven sorceress-queen of aluth, Serrasora. Many within the wandering small Elven tribe her father led believed this to be simply a way to legitimise his authority, though her father, Halla the Healer, never once waivered in his fanatical insistence upon this claim--whether in public, or in private to his daughter.

The Healer claims his ability to heal is aided by the last lingerings of this magic bloodline, just as he claims Valmoria's natural affinity for tracking and marksmanship are aided by the same.

Valmoria, for her part, believes her father a romantic old fool more fond of dreaming about yesteryears than he is facing the harsh realities that exist within their tomorrows. She attributes her skills to being raised an Elf, and spending all her formative years in the wilds of Aluth.

Character History:
Tragedy and star light brought Valmoria into the world. Born on a night renowned for the sudden appearance and brightness of a 'wild star' in the sky above, by morning Valmoria's mother would be dead. Callaelena had always been a sickly, frail, thing...but not that, or Halla, could keep her from motherhood. That she would always have her mother's love, Valmoria has never been able to doubt.

Where her mother was well known for being bookish and well learned, Valmoria was always a stubborn student, in no small part due to being possibly the most restless child in history. If she was not losing herself in the dangerous wilds of Aluth, where simply being there could be a test of survival, she could hardly sit still for long.

Her companion for much of her life's travels was the best young scout of her tribe, Arcayssa. He taught her what her healer father knew less of, and her father taught her what he told her Valmoria's mother would want her to know. Her life remained on this mostly happy course into young adulthood, when her father suggested she, life her mother had before, journey to Dara to learn from the human wisemen and the guilds of learning. She flatly rejected the idea, only changing her mind when Arcayssa revealed romantic intentions days later.

Valmoria would never reach Dara directly, instead coming across the outriders of a mercenary group north of the human city. Though she had been warned about humans and their base instincts, Valmoria was too curious to not shadow the human riders. When they were surprised by a roaming band of Orcs, Valmoria quickly jumped in to even the playing field. The grateful humans invited her back to camp for celebration, an invitation she was prehaps too quick to accept. The food was greasy and primitive, but surprisingly good. She declined many bawdy invitations, but did accept the invitation from the outrider's officer to go out with them again. Valmoria had never extensively traveled in the wilds around Dara, and still wanted to test herself against the best of the humans.

It was during this period that a reputation in Dara of an Elf girl with serious skills began to build. When Pykas attacked the city, Val was asked if she would consider joining the defense. At first she assumed the Guardians were hoping she could enlist an Elven tribe or two to assist, and was ready to disappoint them. Instead they wanted HER, for some madness involving a trek to the heart of darkness itself. Her knowledge and experience of the continent was a boon, but when lethal danger appeared Valmoria proved herself to be pure steel. At some point during the final clash, Cyrabassis began to specifically target Val. The Elf was harder to pin down than a shadow, but whether it was the sorcerer's skill or her own misstep, the man man's magic struck home and put Val down.

Though she would shock the sorcerer by climbing to her feet and rejoining the fight eventually, she was clearly not the same as before, and in more ways than one; such as the sudden appearance of a streak of snow white running through her otherwise fiery red hair. Over time, Val regained everything the blast took out of her. Except for her red hair, as the streak of snow white would only grow over time until not a strand of red remained.

After the fight, Val barely stuck around long enough to re-enter the city. The last report of her was guardsman seeing her riding out a city gate, headed northwest, at full speed. And that would remain the last image of Valmoria for the city of Dara until her re-appearance over a decade later, when she began to settle into the city, doing nothing of public note for yet another decade, except getting to know the city, and the people in it, freely using her reputation as a heroine to advance her social standing with numerous factions of the large city's population.

Valmoria would also finally begin to study within human houses of wisdom during this period, a practice she has yet to stop, even now. Much as even after making the city her home, Val is still known to just go missing for weeks or even months on end without any warning at all. Those closest to her say the Elf has to go, and do, or else. Others suspect the Elf is checking in with her old tribe. Whatever the case, the more her presence in the city grew, the more popular the mystery has became.

Feeling as if she adequately knew the city and those within it now, Val began to act in areas of public interest. She began investing in various ventures throughout the city, but none more than the brokerage of the Indentured. As an unusually connected, and popular, non-human, many poor attempting to make a life in the city simply felt more comfortable coming to Valmoria, primarily non-humans at first, then quickly humans as well. Secretly Valmoria began using the brokerage as a front for a different sort of network, one for information gathering purposes, one kept covert and in secret--even if it meant blood to silence loose lips.

Though the powers of Dara know there is a shadow player among them, few had bothered from their lofty perches to invest much in finding more about it. And those that have suddenly found themselves with more pressing matters when the attack on the Guardians came. And even Valmoria herself is absolutely lost on what happened that day, though she intended to find out, even before the surprise of becoming a Guardian herself threw countless more doors open to her.


Psychological Profile:
In her youth, she was a free spirit fond of bawdy jokes and usually seen smiling or whistling. Charm has always been a strength of Valmoria's, though she tends to shut it on and off as required, fond of privacy and distance when she isn't needing to play some part or be a charming elven ranger among the wilds. Her time with human men only increased her need for distance, and to keep her guard up. The encounter with Pykas and Cyrabassis darkened her spirit and sent her reeling into a bleak, long, period of isolatism. Only after traveling beyond her homelands and finally returning was Valmoria ready to face her past, her present, and her future.

With the wisdom of age has come something of a balance between Val's younger days and her new demons, though her wit and cunning remain sharper than ever--as does her ability to charm. What's changed, many would say, is her newly developed capacity to intimidate. As one of few non-humans with real popularity and power within the city, she has a habit of looking out for the lower classes of society, and encouraging the old powers of the city to follow the example.

Equipment:
Two Elven short swords, curved with simple wooden handles wrapped in leather. They shine green in light. Her bow looks like an old, tried and true, Elvish hunting bow. No one has ever guessed what wood it's made from, which even Val would admit in private is difficult considering it isn't one wood, but many together as one. Upon a silver chain around her neck bluish green crystal with a naturally roundish shape. It has belonged to her family since anyone can remember--impressive for an Elf. Valmoria simply calls it a charm, though her father the Healer called it a protection pendant. She's known to dress as in various styles, from dusty leathers to exotic works of Elven fashion.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:
One of the wealthiest non-humans in the city, some think she still retains wealth from her adventuring years, though for certain much of this is due to investments and the brokerage of Indetureds. The brokerage, as well as the fortified complex she calls home, both reside within the Shava District, a place she is known to walk about at random times, often eating in the same pot shops many of the city's laborers eat at. This behavior, as well as countless charitable acts behind the scenes, has moved Shava to adopt Valmoria as their own in a way. This is surely not accidental, and has not kept Valmoria safe all the time, but it does certainly make an assassination attempt sticky within the Shava district.

Relationships
Um, we'll figure it out?
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Polyphemus
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Polyphemus They/ Them

Member Seen 2 yrs ago

Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Bainshie
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Bainshie

Member Seen 8 yrs ago

Name: Barmaetus
Age: 43
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Physical Description:
A thin tall figure with fair skin indicative of his distant heritage. Short black hair is neatly and simply cut, matching with plain tight fitting clothing giving the indication of usability rather than style being the main focus. The facial features come together nicely, to suggest at one point he may have been considered handsome, if not for the left side of his face. A half metal mask covers the remains ravaged by magical fire, pitted scar issue never truly healing, the eye it hides useless and unseeing. The large walking stick he carries with him can often creates an incorrect aura of frailty.
skillset:[/b]

His main talent is life: the ability to heal, fix, mend, make better. Years of knowledge, research and experience has allowed Barmaetus to have an almost mystical ability to keep people alive. Spending his spare time surrounded by books has given him a well rounded knowledge in a variety of subjects, especially in mythologies and far off lands.

While one of the weaker fighters in the group, Barmaetus has a surprising quickness, as well as experience in using the walking stick he carries around with him in a more offensive capability, allowing himself to more than keep up.

Far Ancestry:
Kingdoms come and kingdoms go, adventurers rise and are risen upon, time after time in hundreds of places around the world. Once there was such an adventurer far far to the south, a place not of sand, but of forests and rolling hills. Like many of his kind he started out with noble intentions to save the innocent and right the wicked. And like many his power and prowess grew month by month, deeds and fables spread throughout this land.

But life is never as simple as fables and legends would make them seem, for the world is a hydra of evil; cut one down, right one wrong and two will spring up in its place. And slowly but surely these poisons eroded the once naive innocence of the adventurer, demanding ever increasing compromises. The power to defend wasn't enough to stop the wrongs, so he took the power of kingship, leading a coup against the old ineffective nobility. The power of kingship wasn't enough, so he took the power of information, ensuring he knew everything about his people in order to protect them. But that wasn't enough, so little by little he took more and more power became more and more brutal in an ever increasing desire to stop the thing he was becoming.

And sure enough eventually the people rose up and cast him aside, tearing down the dungeons and gulags, dismantling the military networks that had been so misguidedly setup, toppling the statues and traces of this tyrant as the land healed and forgot the damage of one attempting to do so much in the name of the greater good.

Nobody quite knows what happened to this adventurer. Some that he was torn apart by his own grusome totrturers, others that he managed to escape into another dimension, to one ay return more powerful than ever. But in actually he went North, making the nearly impossible journey across the great dessert, still reeling and dazed by what he had become, introspective and regret baring down on him harder than the harsh Northern sun. Upon which he finally found a kingdom who knew not of his name or his lands, a woman who loved him with no knowledge of his atrocities, and a child, a healthy bouncing baby boy: a chance for at least one thing to be without regret in his life.

Character History:
Barmaetus had always grown up around the farm, the son of a simple farmer on the outskirts of Dara, known within the small community as a bright happy young child. But even at such an age a thirst of knowledge was made apparent: Not just the fantastic tales from his father of wondrous lands and tales, of giants and jungles, but also of a second love: Fixing life. The ability to mend and heal had always fascinated him, a desire more than encouraged by his parents, scraping together any books or knowledge for Barmaetus to greedily devour. This was also widely received by the community at large: Animals always got sick, and farm work was fraught with injury.

Maybe his fate would have been to continue as a local doctor, something his father would have been more than happy to see - A purveyor of life rather than death - if not for the knock on the door. It had been late at night when the frantic thudding had awoken Barmaetus, barely seventeen, swinging open the door to find the armored group of adventurers, bloodied and worse for wear in desperate state.

He did was he could, bandaging broken wounds, fixing bones and doing the best that he could for these strange travelers. And during this time the stories they told, of adventures and tales, sparking that old longing found in fathers tales. And so when the time came for them to leave, the young man had also left with them to make his way through the world.
However the campaign to Melazus had an effect during his travels. The optimistic naive child who swore never to kill to his worrying mother had slowly been chipped away. Friends lost, horrors and evil seen, and even his promise he had held dear now broken. This accumulated into the final battle with Pykas, the magic permanently scaring him for life and removing the sight from his left eye.

Afterwards, Barmaetus had settled into a more peaceful life, bringing his healing to the temples of Dara. Yet the things he saw, he couldn't let go. During the time he wasn't aiding the ill and insured he spent trawling through books of lore and tales of anything even similar to the magic he had witnessed. Academics, shady street vendors, anyone with even the slightest claim of magical affinity was investigated, and in the end dismissed as yet another charlatan or crazy tale.

Psychological Profile:
The effects of adventuring have given Barmaetus a harsh cynical view of the world, giving him a often hard edge. The childlike wonder that he originally started his journey with has been stripped away long with his innocence. This makes him often very sarcastic and dry, with very little time for fools. Nightmares about both the fight and the death of Darvius (Member of the party who died along the way), with feelings of guilt regarding the latter - including the rage afterwards being the only time he's personally killed anyone.

However, the child he originally was is still there to some extent, often spouting enthusiastically about some long forgotten lore, or new medical knowledge when given the chance. He still helps those who needs it, and often those who don't deserve it, and avoids killing at almost any cost. Was one of the few unwilling to ignore and forget what he saw, creating a bitterness surrounding thoughts of the others, and the fact that they seemingly gave up as soon as something new appeared, and even broke all contact. [INDENT]
Equipment:
[INDENT] Medical pouch: Filled with a wide variety of bandages, tools for make shift surgery, and a small selection of herbs for common ailments.
Walking stick. A solid carved tree branch with a hefty weight behind it. Decorative markings from a known culture far to the South adorn it.

Face mask: A simple steel mask covering half his face. Eyeless. Hooks onto the left ear.
Necklace. Passed down from his father, this once represented the power the highest post of the land could hold. For Barmaetus, it's simply a sentimental trinket.

Titles/Holdings/Power Base:
Doctor. Barmaetus doesn't have a central base for his work, preferring to use the facilities found in the temples around the city, believing that every religion deserves aid to some extent. However most of the major temples of the city have at least some provision and space for his work.

Personally, he mostly keeps to himself, spending his time and money on an extensive library covering almost everything medical and mythological. The rest of his earnings are used to track own anything that might be magical, including a considerable bounty for anyone able to prove use of such powers.

Relationships
TBD.
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This is a WIP but an almost finished WIP

Character Sheet
Name: Meletia Desenchel

Age: 46

Gender: Female

Race: Malvelin (A lineage rumored to be born from a long ago union between men and water spirits)

Physical Description:
Meletia would be tall if she could stand up straight. Since she cannot she is roughly 4'11 instead of the near 6 foot height she would have. Her spine is curved differently and this forces her into a hunched over posture. She has bluish skin, just enough to be noticeable and not Her eyes are large and the large irises are a brilliant yellow. Her nose is flatter than a human's would be and the skin of her face always looks damp and sagging. Even so her face is appealing and the lines of her features are exquisite beneath the sagging skin. She lacks visible ears, instead a patch of membranous skin is stretched over a boneless spot in the side of her head. The sides of her neck have a series of six slits on each side that look like scars but can in fact open and function similarly to gills. Meletia's hair is a damp and peculiar mix of greenish blue and brown that manages to look appealing but only with a great deal of effort. Her arms have an extra joint similar to a second wrist in the middle of what would be a human forearm and the fingers on each of her hands have vestigial membranes connecting the lower knuckles together on all fingers other than the thumb. Similarly to her arms, her lower limbs also have an extra joint between the knee and the ankle and this gives her a peculiar gate when she walks. Other than the curved spine, slightly sagging skin, and noticeable lack of ears she is quite appealing and were it not for the most obvious deformity, the spine she would be regarded as a beauty.


Skillset:
Meletia is a magician by trade. True magic has been mostly gone from the world for a long time but parlor tricks and sleight of hand still remained. Meletia knows how to make many useful things and the art of smoke, mirrors, and deception can be potent. She can craft an explosive powder that when exposed to high heat or flame erupts in smoke and a flash of the flames, make liquids that change colors and boil without heat, ect. Many of her 'spells' are derivatives of real magic that now are just strings of words and flashy gestures to draw attention away from the true mundane sources of her tricks. Some may be intact enough to start working in a fashion if magic was to return. Really though a lot of her skill is in acting, she has a wonderful voice and can easily draw attention to things she wants focused on. Magic is 9/10ths distraction after all.


Far Ancestry:
Once there was magic and in the long ago days of magic's height there was a nation. Once that nation had a king who was great in might and magic both. With power and deceit he charmed the spirits within the waves thinking they had a secret to immortality. From a union of an ensorcelled spirit of the seas, some claim she was the daughter of the old father of waters himself, and this great king of myths came six children. Three daughters as beautiful and fair as sunlight upon still waters, and three sons who held within them the fury of the raging waves. Legend says the three sons wed the three daughters at their father's commands and that in this golden age these unions birthed the Malvelin.

The tales of the earliest Malvelin are many and varied. There was the Dread Sorceress Avalyce whose songs ensnared the wills of mortal men, Rylthin Of The Storm who could call upon cyclones and once summoned a wave so great that it washed a city out to sea, the noble Magistra Lylins Desen who held back the wrath of sea and storm for generations, Lothril The Proud who it is said could make blades from nothing more than solid water, Mystra the Weeper whose sorrow brought mists so thick that the air became as the sea and men drowned upon the land, and many tales lost to time...


Character History:
Meletia Desenchel was born to two relatively pure Malvelin and cursed with an unfortunate deformity at birth. Her father and mother were members of the court in Satharas, the last city where a ruler of Malvelin descent still ruled. When she was born deformed the aged King Sythelis Desen saw the birth of a deformed child to his advisers as a malefic omen. Her father renounced all claims to his daughter in accordance with the king's decree and saved his position by doing so. Her mother refused and King Sythelis in his aged paranoia exiled her from the court.

Meletia's earliest memories are of her mother and frequent rides in dusty carriages. For a number of years her mother travelled back and forth in the cities surrounding Satharas seeking a position at the courts. But there was no permanent position to be found and eventually Meletia's mother was forced into a different trade. She was a nearly pureblood Malvelin and her bodily services were prized quite highly. Even though her mother was forced into whoring herself out Meletia did not have a deprived childhood since her mother was not a common whore. Meletia's mother did not want the life she ended up with for her daughter and as Meletia grew older her mother taught her the same trade that had once been hers before misfortune.

Sadly Meletia grew up to dislike her mother and to views her as a failure who had disgraced their proud heritage. When she was old enough she left her mother and the whole area behind. Satharas and it's subsidiaries were but one piece of the world, a piece where her mother had disgraced herself, and a piece where her crooked back meant she was an ill omen. It was in her quest to see the world and find a more welcoming place that she stumbled upon Dara and found herself wrapped up in a quest straight out of the ancient myths and legends of her people. Everyone knows the official story of what happened on that quest and she returned to Dara triumphant as a hero.

Meletia had been determined that she would not end up in the same situation as her mother but in a way she ended up doing something similar. She also whored out something, though she did not whore out her body, instead she sold her heritage. Meletia combined her tricks and 'magic' with the ancient stories of the great Malvelin of old to make productions that shocked and awed many people. In time she began to incorporate other lore and other stories into her repertoire as well. Now Meletia is a well known performer in Dara, hired for dramatic storytelling at events and for other shows that she puts on periodically.


Psychological Profile:


An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history. Most importantly, how did they react to the confrontation with Pykas and Cyrabassis -- because Cyrabassis was wielding magic (not heavy stuff, but way more than most have ever seen or would believe) and Pykas was possessed with something not of the world. They barely survived by the skin of their teeth. So the characters have baggage from that fight.


Equipment:

Masks: Meletia's masks are copied out of the old tales about ancient Malvelin from myths and legends. Each of them has the detailed likeness of one of the famed figures of legend carved into it.
Robes: Meletia finds the fashions of Dara not to be too alien and willingly wears the traditional Daran robes. Her robes are made of silk and most often either blue or green as those are the colors that she looks best in by far.
Pouches: Meletia's robes have many hidden pouches and compartments sewn into them to help her in her trade. Many of them hold various powders and vials that can be used to great theatrical effect such as making clouds of smoke or making fires burn with different color flames.


Titles/Holdings/Power Base:
Work In Progress


Relationships
TBA
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