[hider=Aramir]UserName: Rtron

Character name: Aramir Ryk(generally does not give her last name) 

Age: 22

Mageblood type: Lux

Favoured Magic Class: Pyromancy

Previous Magic training: None. She's amused herself by making sparks or small balls of fire, but that's about it. 

Race: Snow Elf

Appearance: [img=http://lh3.ggpht.com/-R-tvnafQXlI/Tk-ngnyFOJI/AAAAAAAAD6w/5zOFljsZHRg/s800/Elf%252520Girl%252520Snow%252520Archer%252520-%252520Magick%252520Warriors%2525201.jpg]

Standing at two feet 11 inches and weighing 45lbs, Aramir considered herself on the taller side for a Snow Elf, and she was a little bit proud of that height...until she finally met others than those in her tribe that is. She has [url=http://content.photos-room.com/previews/Cold_as_Ice_by_lorency.jpg]ice blue eyes[/url], and matching tattoos on her left and right arms and on the left and right side of her face(seen in appearance). The golden tattoos(marking her tribe) stretch from below her eyes down to the edge of her collar bone, while the tattoos on her shoulder(marking her place in the tribe) go down her arm(occasionally splintering off in a jagged pattern, in a likeness to cracking ice, but still following a major path), till they split into five smaller line tattoos that end just behind her fingernails(with that same, but much smaller, occasional jagged pattern). The design on the back of her vest identifies her family in the tribe. Most of her hair is usually in a long plait. She has a scar on her side, as if someone had stabbed her with a knife and twisted, and half a dozen of scars on her back, right over where her vest is sewn, as if someone had slashed at her back with a sword. 

Short Bio: Aramir's earliest memories are that of struggle. Struggle to survive, to not be one of the ones yearly claimed by the Plains. To become a useful member of her tribe, She was taught from a young age how to handle a bow, her path as a hunter already predetermined by her family. She would have to earn her arm tattoos, straight lines that extend down to her wrists and stop on her upper shoulders in a hook, to mark her as an apprentice hunter before she could earn the additions to her arms that marked her as a fully fledged hunter, and then the golden tattoos that marked her as a full member of the tribe. However, she nearly never got the chance to earn those tattoos with a stupid mistake that she made when she was 8. She had been practicing her archery(at a snowman hastily constructed while the family prepared the camp for the freezing night), when the howling wind suddenly changed, sending her arrow far beyond and to the left of her her target. 

Instead of telling someone where she was going, and keeping the camp always in sight, she set off to find the missing arrow. She couldn't afford to leave it, wood wasn't cheap to come by. She got caught up in her search, wandered too far, and by then it was too late. The eternal blizzard worsened, till she couldn't see her hand in front of her face. It was still largely day time, and all she could see was white. That didn't bother her. She saw unending white all the time. For what seemed like hours she walked in what she was hoping the direction she came from, towards the camp. Then, night fell. Aramir had always had an irrational fear of the darkness. Now it came straight to the fore. Time ceased to have meaning, and she couldn't have told you how long she walked. All she was aware of was sheer terror, sobbing, and frozen tears on her cheeks. 

She finally collapsed from exhaustion, and the snow began to pile over her. Though she didn't know it at the time, her pyromancy was the only thing that saved her from freezing to death, though it nearly killed her in the process, as she instinctively overused her mageblood to heat the snow cocoon she had made. When she next awoke, it was to complete darkness once more, and she began to panic again, trying to claw her way out of what she thought was a snow tomb. Which is exactly when a pair of feet crashed through her 'tomb' and nearly landed on her head. Her heat had weakened the snow above enough that a snow elf from her tribe to fall down into her cocoon. After the joy and relief that she was alive was over, the scolding and punishment began. Aramir was too relieved to be alive and back with her tribe to be ashamed. She never did recover from the sheer terror of darkness she possessed.

At the age of 19 she finally gets her golden tattoos, three years after finishing her hunter tattoos. The year had been bad for the tribe. More members had died, all were hungry, and Aramir's group for the tattoo ceremony was the smallest that anyone could remember. There were mutterings that the tribe leader was leading them into disaster. Only from one or two members, the ones who felt the worst of the year. The next two years were successively worse and worse. The mutterings became talking. Then the talking became agreement. Finally the agreement became demands, shouting. The tribe began to divide into two camps. One still supporting the tribe leader, the other wanting him gone. Tension rose in the tribe, and shattered one night when Aramir and her friends went out hunting. 

They came back with a good catch, and were in high spirits. This would be the turning point of the succession of bad luck that had plagued the tribe for years. They could feel it. The Tribe leader himself came to congratulate them. As he was doing so, violence erupted. An arrow sprouted out of the Elf's chest. For a moment that seemed to stretch to infinity, there was nothing but silence. And then the killing began.

Aramir had thought her friends calm, cool headed. She herself had disdained from picking either side, urging the two sides to reconcile in the face of the harsh Plains, and had thought her friends had done the same. They proved her wrong immediately when the fighting broke out. Before Aramir could even attempt to bring order to the chaos, someone tried to kill her, for nothing more than the markings on her vest. The howling of the blizzard masked the screams of the wounded and dying, the falling and overturned snow covered the blood and bodies quickly, and the nature of the Glacier Lands froze the hot blood that was spilled almost immediately. Aramir and a few others were the only survivors. The tribe had been destroyed. Her family, killed.Sometime during the fighting she had set fire to something with a blue ball of flames. Heedless of her wounds(a deep gash in her side, and half a dozen cuts on her back), she left taking only her bow, a quiver full of arrows, what supplies she could scavenge, and a couple of hunting knives, taken from the corpse of a friend. 

She had heard of the Twilight College, down to the far south, out of the Frozen Plains. Maybe they could teach her to control her flames. Maybe they could help her forget. 

It took her another year to find her way through the strange lands to the College. And while the physical wounds of her tribe's self-destruction healed, the emotional ones were only scabbed over, ready to break and bleed again at the slightest hint of over stretching. 

Good Attributes: Though this can also be a disadvantage, she's very light, allowing her to go where heavier people are unable to follow. She's a master with her hunting bow, having used it from the time she could draw it to hunt in the harsh Plains(though, it is considerably weaker than a war bow). Aramir is also perceptive, a necessity when one is a hunter in the Glacier Lands, where the animals are all white in an unending white plain. She's nimble and quick(quite handy when one needs to climb quickly, or dodge an oncoming snow ball). She's comfortable in colder climates, used to the freezing temperatures of the Frozen Plains.

Bad Attributes: Obviously, she won't be any good in terms of strength(which stretches from simple tasks that require brute force to fighting in prolonged melee combat, and everything in between). She's also [i]very[/i] uncomfortable with silence or quiet places, used to the howling winds of the Frozen Plains. She's terrified of complete darkness, barely tolerating shadows. She's uncomfortable in hotter climates, used to the freezing temperatures of the Frozen Plains. She dislikes arguments, and while not going out of her way to stop them, will either stop the arguers if they carry on for too long or leave abruptly. She sleeps very little willingly, haunted by nightmares of her tribe tearing itself apart in front of her. 

Secret Word: Rebirth[/hider]

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[hider=Althalus] UserName: Rtron

Character name: Althalus Marik 

Age: 32

Mageblood type: Lues

Favoured Magic Class: Noxomancy(Shadows)

Previous Magic training: On the job training, so to speak. He's fairly quick at gathering shadows around himself to prevent horrid death.

Race: Human, Naersan. 

Appearance: Armor:[img=http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/326/9/1/lord_of_cannibals_1_by_zerofrust-d4h0fza.jpg]

The mask is nothing more than a scare tactic, having made a name of it(and thus, himself) when he worked as an assassin. Why fight when you can intimidate people? As a matter of practicality, his armor has runes of silence engraved(through Subscription) upon it all, combined with his, now unconscious, tendency to move in almost complete silence it gives him the unnerving(to some) habit of unconsciously sneaking up upon people, who only figure out someone is behind them through sound.

Face: [img=http://www.theaveragegamer.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Assassins-Creed-IV-Edward-Kenways-Face.jpg]

Althalus stands at five foot seven inches, a couple inches taller than your average Naerse human. He has golden eyes and a rather nasty scar going horizontally across his throat that gives his voice a slight rasp.

Short Bio: Althalus was born in Port Slaughter, son of a tavern owner whose wife was a rather skilled Vitalimancer who healed all the patrons who were injured. For a fee of course. For him, his older brother, and his younger sister born a few years later, it was a happy time. He had a caring father and a loving mother. Protection, warmth, shelter, food, and clean water. It wasn't so for a large amount of Port Slaughter. There are a few things one has to realize about Port Slaughter to appreciate how lucky Althalus was to be born to a Tavern Owner. There is only one rule that governs that town. Loyalty to Family. Whether they be adopted or related by blood, one doesn't betray, manipulate, cheat, or whatever else they do, their family, for any reason. Anyone who isn't family is a potential target or a potential victim. Most of the population is poor, and most of the population is tearing itself apart to survive. Muggings, scams. murders, thefts, the list goes on. 

Althalus grew up in this world, yet he and his siblings were sheltered from it. A tavern owner had wealth, denizens of Port Slaughter liked to drink away their pain, and wealth meant power. Althalus's father was able to pay bodyguards to not only protect his tavern, but also his children. Still, his father taught them how to survive on their own. How to be ruthless, cold, efficient. For Althalus and his younger sister, these never really stuck. It wasn't that they [i]couldn't[/i] be ruthless, it was simply that his sister was too young(just having turned four a couple weeks ago) and Althalus preferred to be friendly, rather than terrifying. Respected and liked, rather than feared. Of course, that wasn't able to work in Port Slaughter, but he never stopped giving people at least one chance. The lessons stuck with his brother. Perhaps too well.

Althalus was 13 when he began displaying his aptitude for Noxomancy(rotting a coin, rather than someone's face thankfully), around the same time his brother(two years older than Althalus), began displaying an aptitude for Psychomancy. While their father began to search for a teacher for one or both of them, their mother began making sure they wouldn't accidentally do something stupid...like kill themselves by overusing their blood. She even went so far as to delve into the legends of Wild Magic. Much to Althalus's brother's interest. 

In the following year his brother grew more withdrawn. Scribbling on a journal, talking, muttering, and snapping to himself, sneaking off at random times during the night(though only Althalus noticed this), he was jumpy, hostile, and seemed to be suffering from a decided lack of sleep. The family grew ever more concerned. He grew ever more withdrawn. The night of his fourteenth birthday(where his brother wasn't there) Althalus, overcome with curiosity, sneaked into his brother's room, determined to get a look at the journal. He had been lucky, and came at a time when his brother was gone. After a few minutes of dedicated searching, he was successful. Not the journal, but a page from it. Hidden behind the dresser, it appeared to be a list of names when Althalus unfolded it. 

That's when the screaming began.

Shoving the paper into his pocket, Althalus ran too the noise, picking out the baritone roars of rage from his father, the shrieks of his mother, and the terrified wails of his young sister. The screams were coming from the Tavern, a purplish light glowing behind it. Just as Althalus reached the door, the wails were abruptly cut off, and the roars of rage and the shrieks grew louder, torn with grief. As he opened the door, he saw what should have been impossible. His brother, bloody sword in hand, over the still bleeding corpse of his sister muttering something Althalus was only able to make out part of. '-ld!'. In quick succession, the blade flashed again as Althalus stood their, frozen. Two more corpses hitting the ground. Every part of him screamed the need to run, to [i]flee[/i], before this purple eyed monstrosity that had become his brother noticed and killed him. 

Too little, too late. Even as his feet began to move in retreat, his brother noticed him. And spoke only one word. "[i]Stay.[/i]" Althalus froze. His brother approached, slowly, blood still dripping from his blade. There were no explanations. No final words. No taunting. Just step, after step, until he was close enough to swing a the sword in a lazy arc towards Althalus's throat. To this day, Althalus has no clue what allowed him to break free. His own will? A mistake on his brother's part? Some small part of guilt? Whatever it was, it allowed Althalus to leap back. Far enough that he wasn't killed, but close enough that damage was immediately done. What happened next was a blur with brief moments of clarity. His brother, howling and gibbering as his body glowed with the purple light, twisting in inhuman ways. Stumbling out onto the street, looking for help. Collapsing in an alley. 

A terrible mask leaning over him, a voice speaking to him in a strange accent. Then, darkness. 

The mask wasn't, as it turned out, the person come to loot his corpse. Rather, it was someone to who Althalus was better off alive than dead. The man didn't give any name, didn't remove his mask, didn't do anything but be Althalus's mentor. "I need a partner. Getting too old to go alone on my missions. You're the lucky one who I decided wouldn't kill me later." 'Missions' turned out to be murdering people for money. Or, as Althalus's mentor insisted upon calling it, assassinating problematic people for a small fee. Though, he never did explain how a young girl could be 'problematic' to a young noble.

By the time Althalus was 22, he was good at his job. He helped his savior, and never even thought about betraying him. Name or no name. But, as the years had wore on, his mentor grew ever more paranoid. Till, the very night the man had been celebrating Althalus's birthday with him, he tried to kill Althalus. Althalus won, leaving the man gasping for breath with a knife in his ribs and his lifeblood pouring onto the ground. Althalus took the mask with him. 

Ten more years passed, and Althalus made a living for himself. Even gathered a small guild of Assassins to help him out. But his brother was always a persistent one. Mages came. Mages came with their spells Althalus could do nothing to respond forcefully too, and killed his guild members. Althalus, barely escaping with his life, decided to run to the College of Mages. There at least, he would be able to learn how to use his long neglected magic.

Good Attributes: Althalus is patient, fairly well versed in moving, and killing, silently, he's accurate with his throwing knives and competent with his array of daggers(hidden). He always has an optimistic, slightly defiant, outlook on life. He's also quick to react and quick with his reflexes.

Bad Attributes: Some, actually quite a few, would call him childish. Lazy. Due to his profession, open combat isn't exactly his style. He fights openly only when he has to, and even then he fights dirty and to get out of the open fight as quickly as possible. There's no such thing as a fair fight in his book. Despite everything, he's far too quick to trust and make emotional attachments to those he meets. 

Secret Word: Rebirth

[/hider]

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[hider=Uicle]UserName: Rtron

Character name: Uicle 

Age: 195

Mageblood type: Obligatio/Aqua

Favoured Magic Class: Necromancy/Hydromancy(not by choice, by necessity. Those are the ONLY mageblood classes he possesses.)

Previous Magic training: A variety of Necromancy teachers, as the God Aarem is easily displeased, and Uicle had the unfortunate luck of having the teachers to do that displeasing. His Hydromancy training came from years of study in Twilight College. He is currently the Necromancy teacher.

Race: Yarosmere Human(Formerly)

Appearance: [img=http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/gw/images/a/a6/Avatar_of_Grenth_concept_art.jpg]

A cruel joke from Aarem. Uicle's soul is bound to the staff, but he can stretch it out to possess whatever, or whoever, is holding the staff. In this case, it's a suit of armor. The suit of armor is about seven feet tall.

Short Bio: Uicle was born in Yarosmere, roughly a 100, a 110 years ago. For most of his life he worked with his father and his mother, helping them run their general store. He didn't display his original mageblood of Obligatio until the age of 29. Rather than be forced into the military for his mageblood, he left to go to the Mage College. He made it across Yarosmere easily enough, but when he got to Djarkel things got considerably more...difficult. Uicle wasn't a soldier, he was a store owner. He didn't even have his own mageblood yet. So when some bandit's came and decided they wanted both his money and his life, well, he put up a paltry resistance, but he still ended up with a dagger in his stomach, bleeding his lifeblood out onto the ground. There were very few Gods one could pray to who would stop the natural course of life. The only one who came to Uicle's mind when he was dying was that of Aarem. Having no other choice, and not wanting to die, Uicle offered his soul to the God Aarem in return for his death being prevented. 

Aarem granted his wish, though it didn't stop at preventing his death right then, it stopped his aging entirely. Uicle was immortal. And what was he to do with his new found immortality? Cause as much suffering to as many people as possible. For majority of his time as an immortal, Uicle shoved his morals and disgust at the actions back into his mind and did what he had to do. Hundreds, thousands, have died because of his actions. More have experienced days, months, years of intense suffering because of him. Poisoning wells. Burning down homes. Torture. Causing a local lord to crack down viciously on his subjects. Inciting a riot or a doomed rebellion. Causing a Snow Elf tribe to tear itself apart. Anything that would cause suffering, he did it. 

Over the years, however, it became harder and harder to repress his self-disgust and guilt. But he managed to hide it. He'd seen what Aarem did to those who started regretting their decisions publicly. It wasn't pretty, and it usually happened to his Necromancy teachers, ancient men who had grown sick of their foul work. Regardless, as he continued on, he began moving more and more away from innocents, and more into criminals and people he classified as 'evil'. He grew more reckless, hoping for a death that Aarem could call natural and not suspect the truth behind it. At first, Aarem didn't notice, and Uicle remained frustratingly alive. Eventually, however, the God [i]did[/i] notice his actions, and demanded an answer. Uicle gave an honest, and very hateful, spiteful, and regretful, answer. Naturally, Aarem was...displeased, to put it lightly, with this revelation. 

Still, he didn't immediately doom Uicle to a hellish existence. Uicle had been one of his most successful and longest lasting servants. Rather, he tried to 'persuade' Uicle to reconsider his decision. Which meant lots of pain and torture. Finally, when it became clear Uicle had resigned himself to his fate, Aarem just threw him away into one of his realms of eternal agony. Or, the god tried to at least. For reasons still unknown to Uicle, the god Ren intervened, saving his life...or what passes for life now anyways. Rather than letting Aarem throw Uicle into an agonizing existence, Ren forced the God of Evil to return Uicle to life. Perhaps he should have been a bit more specific. Uicle was returned to life, but as he is now. Trapped in a staff that used to be carried by a Hydromancer, whose armor Uicle now possesses. The Hydromancer was killed in Uicle's process of being returned to life. Aarem tried to cut Uicle off from his mageblood completely, but did something...peculiar by accident. 

Rather than leaving Uicle a soul in a staff, he only cut off half of his mageblood, and gave him the other half of the poor Hydromancers. Uicle suspects Ren had more to do with the latter than Aarem, but hey. When you're given such a gift, you don't question it. Up until about fifteen years ago, Uicle wandered the land, righting his wrongs. Unfortunately, he couldn't rebuild the tribe, it being destroyed. But he could do more for those who he didn't kill or destroy. Rebuild their homes, give them money. Help them out anyway he can. Eventually, he had done all he could to help, he decided to learn his new found mageblood a bit more. Years of study followed and he was offered the position of Necromancy teacher, as the other one had died of age. He accepted, and has remained in the College till this day. 

Good Attributes: Do to the nature of his soul, Uicle doesn't feel pain, and what would normally be a killing blow isn't. One could chop off his armor's head and he'd still be alive and kicking, as long as he possessed the armor. This, however, doesn't mean he can use unlimited blood. That, in fact, is where his green glow comes from. The more blood he uses and the closer he comes to over using his power, the dimmer the light becomes. 

Uicle can have 'an eye in the back of his head', so to speak. He can be watching from the front of his armor, while at the same time facing the glowing green part of the top of his staff backwards, seeing through that as well. Therefore, sometimes it is rather hard to sneak up on him. 

Uicle can't sleep. At all. He physically cannot go to sleep.

Don't have Uicle interrogate you. He will use very painful methods designed to cause a large amount of suffering. Aarem was good for something at least.

Bad Attributes: Uicle's entire existence hinges on that staff touching someone or something mobile. The second he's alone in the staff, he's useless. He can't manipulate liquids, or summon spirits from the Pit. If he's alone in the staff and someone breaks it...Uicle ceases to exist. No Pit. No rebirth. Just eternal torment at Aarem's hands.

Just because Uicle is no longer a servant of and can't be killed by Aarem, doesn't mean he still isn't punished by the God. Aarem, it seems, has made it a pet project to make Uicle pay for his betrayal. Uicle's life can be turned hellish in a second. To the casual observer he just has really, really, [i]really[/i] bad luck. The God of Evil is sometimes joined by others who don't feel a hybrid blood user should be walking around unpunished.

Secret Word: Rebirth

[/hider]