Swarthy and dark-haired, Masef has always been possessed of a certain grace in form that took him from wiry and skinny as an adolescent into a flowing grace reminiscent of the elves. When he was a boy, he was pale of skin, but it grows darker with age. His eyes are similarly dark, but seem to be turning into a more amber color of late. In Vendish fashion, the land he grew up in, he goes clean shaven with hair tied back, and has turned the heads of more than a few in that country of light skinned people with his exotic look. His clothing reflects his most recent travels; a sand colored cloak with a deep hood that helps reflect the light and heat of a harsh noon sun back over a much-scuffed breastplate of lamellar scale. He now wears a bronze ring through his ear, signalling that he belongs to the Masad tribe of the Ibir.

Masef has a sharp eye; easily distracted, but nonetheless able to spot things that are overlooked. It makes him a superlative tracker and explorer. He prefers a longbow, but that is no surprise given how he was raised. He is a ghost over sand and meadow alike, but those are skills that all of Brand's Brood have. His years in the deserts gave him lots of practice however. There was not an oasis he wouldn't trek to or mountain he wouldn't climb.

His thirst for lore remains as ever, and he is starting to accumulate lore on the arcane, which is where his interests are compelled for a variety of reasons (more later). His favorite part of being a ranger always was the joy of discovery, whether a goat path or an ancient city, and he is adaptable, creative.

Masef wasn't even a toddler when his parents were killed in an ambush on their caravan upon the Pilgrim Road leading into Vendland, near enough the Nightwood that Brand found the survivors, including his dying mother and the baby she'd given her life to shield. She breathed his first name, nothing more, and expired. Brand, not being hard-hearted enough to leave a boy to fend brought him back to his other adopted children to take care of while he tracked the bandits to their lair and rooted them out root and stem.

As one of the youngest of the brood, Masef was also the one that would follow a sound into the wilderness, climb a tree just for the challenge and find his way into trouble in Bosfyrd with the village girls. Things seemed to whisper to him, even in the wild, though it might be a voice embedded in the wind or the way some rocks were aligned. He always found particular interests in some of the ancient ruins of the Nightwood, often spending time exploring them even though others had looted their treasures in long past days. As he grew older, there seemed to be the hint of powers and abilities neither he nor his adoptive father could fathom, and that was what led him away from Brand.

He bid a fond farewell with a promise to return and see him again, and then headed down the Pilgrim road that took the life of his parents. He followed the trail, using an amulet of his father's, all the way into the Tahzad desert, where he quickly acquired the language and learned the fundamentals of survival in the deserts and hills, plateaus and valleys, of that arid region, particularly around Daramalsh, the Great Whore. Working from that infamous city, he managed to glean a little about his father's ancestry; he was originally a member of the Masad clan of the Ibir tribes that set out as an adventurer and a merchant, afflicted with a wanderlust. When he located his father's clan, there was considerable surprise, but he showed them the amulet and gave them his tale.

They held a great celebration and hosted him for a few years as he familiarized himself with his ancestral desert home and took work that kept him afloat; eschewing mercenary work, he preferred to scout and survey, work with treasure hunters and academics looking to explore the ruins in the region -- a passion inherited from his days in the Nightwood. Of his mother, they could say little -- they knew her not, or that Jalal had married.

One such expedition took him into the depths of the ancient city of Mari, into a crypt none had found before. There, bathed in a fey light, he found more answers to disturb him, such as an ancestor by the name of Qazar the Cruel, the Warlock King of Mari, and the reason the Ibir were nomads (after their city was destroyed, and Qazar with it) that had been waiting for centuries for a suitable vessel to pass by that he might possess and live again. For reasons unknown to him, though Qazar's spirit claims its because he's a 'half-breed', he was not fully possessed by Qazar, but instead wrestles with the intruding consciousness within his skull, vacillating between his hunger for knowledge (including magical power) and caution against Qazar's power-mad ambitions.

Then, one day, he felt an overwhelming compulsion to return to the Nightwood; no news reached him where he was, but he bid the Ibir adieu and set north to see his adoptive father and beloved mentor. He heard the news further up the Pilgrim road, and that only hastened his step; he bought and sold horses along the way so that he could fly up the road more rapidly, exhausting the modest income he'd built up. Some things were more important than money.

Masef seems like an easy going, rougish sort, but he lives by a strong code of ethics imparted by Brand -- he might have grown into selfishness left to his own devices, but has always been surrounded by family of one sort or another. His siblings under Brand's wing as well as the Masad. Sometimes, it translates into an 'us versus them' mentality with Masef, but he generally is a man that will not harm innocents and noncombatants, even if there is some profit to it. He was raised better than that. Some of Brand is in him in that he cannot help but lend a hand to someone in a plight.

Masef has learned that once he gives a promise, he is compelled to keep it -- that's how he wound up on the road North before the news even reached him that Brand died. As best as he can reckon it, he was compelled north the day Brand died. It's happened before, but never quite like that, and he still isn't sure what it means. In any case, he is learning to be wary of promises, though the promise to see Brand again apparently is now a promise to see Brand honored properly.

Masef is naturally inclined to be a talker, an amiable companion and a man that enjoys good company and a story, but his ancestor, Qazar the Cruel, is different and sometimes that bleeds out -- he finds himself impatient when he would be more tolerant than before, and sometimes, when engaged in 'frivolity' starts tapping his fingers or toes in irritation. Inside his skull, there is a war on for control, and he's learned the hard way that taking the offered magic means letting more of Qazar in -- right now, he has a few minor spells at his command, and that already has Qazar doing more of the talking. Masef doesn't want to go there...except, well, he owes Brand much and he knows his siblings. There is no doubt he is riding into war, and with the knowledge and powers of a great and fell Warlock riding along with him. He understands, from Brand's strong imparted morals, that a ranger is a guardian, and his burden as a guardian is to ensure that Qazar the Cruel does not dominate again. The problem is, however, that Qazar is tempting.

Both Masef and Qazar are fans of knowledge and lore, it's one of the areas where they are in complete agreement, though Masef worries that the Warlock's spirit might try to use the gained knowledge to further the goal of usurping Masef.

Varrick and Masef are of a generation, but it's always been a sibling rivalry attitude that's prevailed, exacerbated by the differences. Masef prefers to play the rogue, and Varrick is just a little too full of his own noble shit sometimes for Masef's tastes. There was a taste of resentment in those days to Masef -- he had no idea where he really came from, and Varrick was always parading around with daddy's sword. Of course, daddy was no great loss except for the digestion problems he gave his serfs after they got a little too tired of the oppression and were pretty damned hungry...

Loden is not a big man, agility being his strong suit. He was built to run fast using his natural quickness as a means of evasion. Brute strength being the dominance of lager men, Loden would have none of that benefit. He wears a thick black mustache that extends past the corners of his mouth, ending at the jawline. A small patch of dark black hair denotes the location of his chin. It is a predominant feature on his tanned face. His dark colored eyes piercing, enhancing his exceptional vision. It serves him well when identifying marks in the soil or changes in the foliage.

Loden wears a brown studded leather brigandine with light leather britches tucked into soft leather brown boots that stop half way up his shin. He wears leather forearm guards that are studded on the outside and smooth on the inside of his arms. He also wears a mottled green cloak ending at the tops of his boots with a deep heavy hood. In warmer weather, he wears a light cotton vest under the Brigandine with exposed arms. In cooler months, he wears a light cotton shirt under a heavier woolen gambeson. He prefers lighter armor in order to enhance his agility and stealth.

Loden is quite the adept stealthy tracker able to spot the smallest clue to help him find his query. He paid careful attention to the lessons taught to him by his master, Brand of the Nightwood. Loden's favorite weapon is the longbow which he carries constantly, as well as a full quiver of arrows. If Loden were a pride-filled boastful man, it would be his skill at hitting targets at distance, he would talk about. But that is not Loden Grimm's way. Although he prefers the bow, Loden possesses some sword skills. With a narrow blade, his longsword is almost like a needle, used in a piercing penetrating motion, rather than a hacking or slashing motion. He also carries a half a dozen throwing knives, he is slowly acquiring skill with. A balanced dagger intended to never be thrown at anyone finds a home in a sheath at his side. It serves him more as a cutting tool than a weapon. Binding wounds and caring for the ill and injured is something that seems to come natural to Loden Grimm. He learned what he could from Brand, but there was always something more. Loden always felt he was destined to be a healer. He has learned what he could from Brand as well as others later when on his own. Even as a young child, he knew he received a healer's gift, he just wasn't sure exactly what it was. If he was blessed with a gift, it had not completely manifested itself in Loden Grimm.

Loden Grimm was born into a family of servants to the noble family of Westfeldt. Baron Richard Yaroglek ruled over the lands of Western Vendland known as Westfeldt. He was a leader of men, adored by the subjects of his province. Some say Richard the Benevolent was too kind, too generous to his subjects. At least that is what Gerold Tuldar said of Richard Yaroglek. The two Lords had been at odds for several years before Loden was born.

The Grimm family, like the subjects of the forested rolling hills of Westfeldt adored King Harold's vassal, Baron Yaroglek. The Grimm family served the Baron's family in the palace kitchens as well as tending to the Yaroglek children.

When Loden was born, the Lady Dianna Yaroglek allowed Loden's mother some leniency in order to care for her child while performing her duties to the family. Her kindness was appreciated and helped Loden's mother, who felt a warm kindness for the Yaroglek family.

Three months past Loden's fourth birthday, a group of assassins invaded the palace and took the lives of the Baron, his wife, Dianna, two of their three sons and ten of the servants to include the Grimms. At four years of age, Loden lost his parents to a group of anonymous assassins. Loden saw a family crest that day on one of the assassins. The colors and symbols he witnessed are imbedded in his memory forever. Whenever he has seen this crest, it fills him with grief for the loss of his family and his family's master.

The youngest Yaroglek son, Adrien was 29 at the time his family was killed. Somehow, he managed to escape the massacre with the young Grimm boy. As soon as the incident happened, he knew what to do. Believing he could not resist the assassins, Adrien chose to run. Loden believed Adrien, the new Baron of Westfeldt was suspicious of the House of Tuldar, but he had no proof. In fact, he had never known the name, Tuldar until years later. Young Loden had no clue, just that his parents were dead.

Adrien Yaroglek placed the boy in the saddle of his horse, between his legs and rode for several days through the eastern forest until they reached the Pilgrim Road. Baron Yaroglek recognized the a certain clearing along the road spurring his horse off the road. About an hour later he came to a largish house of wooden construction built amongst a few large boulders and some of the largest trees in Venland.

Adrien lowered the boy to the ground at the feet of Brand. Adrien met the old Ranger, while serving the king on campaign. The young Baron served as a knight for King Harold and fought beside Brand in many engagements including the Battle of Milendon Hills. It was there that Adrien's father had his first argument with Lord Gerold Tuldar. But Loden knows nothing of the animosity between the House of Tuldar and the House of Yaroglek.

Loden quickly grew accustomed to living at Brand's home in the forest. He learned the skills of a Ranger and helped his new family with many chores, including meal preparation, cutting trees and firewood, manufacturing bows from Vendish Yew as well as arrows and how to maintain such fine tools. Knowing where north was at all times, day or night is a skill Loden picked up quickly. He can never be lost, as long as he can see the sky. Being lost inside a cavern on the other hand is a real possibility.

If one of his brothers or sisters were injured or became ill, Loden Grimm felt a strong sense of empathy for their pain. He earnestly did what he could to assist Brand with healing the injured sibling. Loden's bed side manner was exemplary, making the patient feel warm and cared for. He would bring the child anything they wanted to help mend their spirits as well as their wounds. On one occasion, a young sister of maybe 12 years became ill. She had a fever, body aches, and chills, with a pale complexion. The sickness took everything out of her, sapping her strength. Loden was 16 at the time and touched the girl's forehead during the process of caring for her. In the midst of skin to skin contact, his hand and her face, he felt a tingling sensation and viewed a small glimmer of yellow light at the point where their skin touched. He was immediately frightened by the sensation quickly yanking his hand away. He rubbed it with his other hand close to his chest. The next morning, the girl's fever broke, she regained her strength and was up and around as though nothing had happened. She had no idea how she healed so quickly and neither did Loden. The experience frightened him more than anything and although he thinks about it often, he has never told anyone. He wonders if he is cursed.

The next summer, Loden chose to head out on his own and explore the world around them, taking the skills his master, Brand taught him. That first night, he felled a two hundred pound stag for a meal and decided to drag it back to Brand's home for a feast. He shared the meat with his family. He left on his sojourn the next day instead.

During the ten years Loden Grimm has been wandering the countryside, he has acquired more skills in the healing arts to include using mushrooms and certain plants containing medicinal properties. He has even used a bone saw to remove a limb from a man who's wound had become infected smelling foul like the stench of an ogre.

It was during this time, he acquired the skills of using the longsword from a man who hired him as a tracker during his third summer away from the Nightwood. With some of the money, he earned, Loden purchased a sword of his own, which he aptly named, Skarpinne, taken from an ancient language simply meaning, Sharp Stick. Loden's fighting style with Skarpinne is more elegant and graceful. He appears to be a ballerina, jumping, slipping, sliding and waving the sword around as though he were on display for Kings and Queens. He finds training with the longsword amusing and eagerly practices various forms with it.

Loden Grimm is a kind hearted man, empathetic to others. His heart brims with love and he wears his heart on his sleeve. Although he may not always express his emotions, he feels a deep connection with Brand and those boys and girls he lived with in the Nightwood. They are indeed a brother or sister to Loden Grimm. He has taken a silent vow to defend these siblings to the death if needed.

Loden has a preference to the healing arts, feeling compelled to help anyone injured or ill. He will not actively seek out injured persons, but when he learns of someone needing attention, he eagerly offers himself to assist. Caring for his fellow man is a priority for Loden Grimm.

As a Ranger, Tracker and in those rare instances, a mercenary, Loden has killed in the name of money and survival. He doesn't like it and his heart fills with remorse. Any time he has taken a life, he is filled with gloom and becomes silent and moody. He will pray to heaven above for forgiveness for what he deems to be the worst crime against humanity.

It has been about 23 years since Loden first came to live with Brand. He recalls brothers and sisters reaching an age of maturity setting off on their own. He recalls how ever year brothers and sisters left the family, but always new siblings would arrive.

When Varrick Tuldar arrived, Loden was 12 years old. He was curious about the boy and befriended him early on. At some point in that first year, Loden was reminded of his own parent's death by one of Varrick's possessions. It immediately frightened Loden, but he concealed his emotion. He kept a close eye on Varrick, but allowed their friendship to bloom. He did not care for the boy's arrogance, but soon discovered the boy had come from a noble family similar to the people his parents served as a child. He knew nothing about nobles and commoners accepting Varrick for who he was, his brother.

The infant known as Masef came to live with the family when Loden was five years old. He was curious of the child and played with him on occasion. As a baby, Masef enjoyed laughing and Loden enjoyed listening to the baby laugh. Later in life, Loden watched out for Masef as any big brother should, sticking up for him if any of the other boys tried to pick a fight with him. Loden saw himself as a self appointed protector for several of his younger siblings.

In the same year, Varrick Tuldar arrived at Brand's home in the forest, an Elven girl named, Ashira arrived. She appeared to be about the same age as himself when he arrived eight years earlier. She had received a head injury, which compelled Loden to look after her. He kept her wound clean and sat with her while she recuperated. The Ranger, Brand would often look in on the two as Loden told Ashira humorous stories. Ashira and Loden became close friends and when Loden left the family five years later, he believed the young Elf would sadly miss her big brother.

When Grey Balthan was carried into the glen, Loden quickly learned of the boy's injuries. Naturally, he could not stop himself from assisting Brand with the healing process. He sat by the boy's side and helped him to recover. He changed his bandages, binding splints where needed and using herbs to help heal the injured boy. The two spent many days laughing and joking about many things in life they found humorous. Although, Loden appreciated the warm and friendly nature of the boy named, Grey, he unfortunately did not get to spend much time with him. A year after Grey's arrival, Loden left the home to find adventure on his own.

Loden met Beren Edurus when he was only 14 years old. The younger boy had what Loden called an old soul. His physical appearance made him look younger, but as he got to know him, he had the characteristics of a much older man. It was an interesting duality between the boy's appearance and personality. Loden found the boy fascinating and listened to him tell tales about life with the Monk. They both shared a common interest in caring for others, Beren for animals and Loden for humans. They both learned medicinal skills sharing what they knew with one another. There was a sort of professional courtesy between the two as they collaborated on their efforts.

Kiera was someone who was there. He did not know her when he was young. He was four years old when he arrived and Kiera arrived about the same time. She spent most of those early years either in solitude or just not around Loden. Not being one to criticize or otherwise judge another, Loden respected her desire to maintain distance. When he was a few years older, he noticed a change in her behavior. She began to open up, speaking to others. It was as if her inability to view the world in the traditional manner was no longer an obstacle to her social demeanor. When Loden first approached her, he found her warm and inviting. He could tell by observing that although her eyes were a graying opaque hue, typical of blind persons, she could indeed see him. She was well aware of his presence and they slowly became friends even though she was seven years his senior. He appreciated her friendship as he was comforted by her wisdom, a quality rarely found in young people. His appreciation for her wisdom and clarity of vision helped to bond their friendship.

Although Loden remembers Sachevia at Brand's home, he always felt distant to the girl. She was only two years older than him, but she simply rubbed him in an odd way. He never felt comfortable around her and did not get too close. There was something about her that made him feel uneasy, but he could never put his finger on it. He didn't know what it was, but she possessed confidence, a rare quality for a teen-aged girl. He admired her confidence, but there was something about her behavior that generated fear within his heart. He simply could not figure out what it was.

Kiera makes an impression wherever she goes, and whether she wants to or not. Her skin, the blue-grey colour of a stormy sky after sunset mark her to any who care to look - one of the Dark Elves, those reclusive creatures of violence and legend. Her hair is a bright, ashen grey, and kept not-quite-boyishly short - just long enough to tuck behind an ear, but not long enough for a tail. Those locks frame elegant features with little of the haughtiness one might expect from the Elven races, her lips often tugged into the beginning of a knowing smile. Her eyes are wide and likely would be pretty - save that both are blind, milky and clouded-over. Though her people are smaller than the forest Elves of the world above, Kiera is small even by her own people’s standards, being half a head shorter than most humans. That doesn’t, however, leave her seeming frail or fragile - Kiera’s build is one of lean muscle and dangerous grace. Her figure, too, is slim and taut - but not one that anyone would mistake for a man’s. Her ears, pointed but not enough to interfere with her wearing a hat, hold a handful of metal studs each in a variety of designs, mementos of her travels around the world. Other than those, the only jewelry she makes a habit of wearing is a pendant Brand gave her many years ago. Kiera has several scars, some from wounds that were clearly life-threatening, scattered over her body, and no tribal or tattoo markings.

Her clothing is usually simple, preferring hard-wearing boots, trousers, and buttoning shirts, all well-tailored and well-made. When moving about in cooler weather, Kiera prefers to wear a long, dark grey cloak, since it keeps the chill off and lets her have a reason to wear a hood.

Easily the most remarkable thing about Kiera is her perception of the world around her. Being blind, she has a nearly perfect lack of visual information - the colour of a guard’s uniform or the shade of the sky is something she can never know. Instead, her experience of the world is to “see” flow of magic through reality around her, the warp and weft of psyche and will and fate. This means some things are very difficult or perhaps outright impossible for her to perceive - a fern that turns red at a traveler’s passing will mean nothing to her. Should that person be running from the murder of a relative, though, there’s an outside chance Kiera could “see” their passing in the slowly-fading pull they left on the world behind them.
(In purely mechanical, out-of-character terms, I’m envisioning her having no less visual acuity, but substantially different visual information, along with certain psychic impressions of what’s happened - or may happen - there within a short period of time.)

Like all of Brand’s adopted family, Kiera is a shadow in the forest, less than a shape in the dripping fog. She never was much of a ranged combatant, however - whether by dint of not having proper eyes for the hand-eye coordination of a longbow, or simple natural disinclination, the art of archery is one Kiera is barely adequate in. She is, however, a close-quarters fighter of exceptional skill, preferring to fight with a pair of daggers but almost equal entirely unarmed. Heavier weapons, including shortswords and axes, are things she has spent very little time practicing with, however.

Above and beyond the resourcefulness that any of Brand’s wards should have, Kiera is adept at making, repairing, and building things, from toys and intricate self-sealing ink pots to improvising crossbow bolts or shoring up a gate. Much of this is training gathered after leaving Brand’s company, but some is an innate understanding of what objects feel like they should go together to achieve a particular result. She is a skilled blacksmith, but only for smaller objects, from arrowheads to daggers. Kiera does not have the skill (or, likely, patience) to make swords or armor.

Kiera’s relationship with magic in the world is complicated. She has received very little formal training, though she spends a considerable amount of time experimenting with what she does know. She has, over the last few years, begun to learn how her own will can manipulate the world of magic and life around her, and to channel that into certain effects. She is no warlock - but she still might be a little surprising.

Finally, Kiera is a fine singer, though many of the songs she knows are the lilting, haunting music of her homeland, filled with the sliding, liquid syllables of her own language. She, of course, knows the songs Brand taught her, and a number of ballads from traveling bards, too.

There are many stories about the Dark Elves, and their famous reclusiveness makes verifying any of them enormously difficult. But there are pieces of truth hidden in the legends, gleaming gems among tavern-tale dross. Their underground cities rival those of the Dwarves in splendor and intricacy, and it is dangerous to go looking for their hidden entrances. They are distrustful of the surface world and indeed, everything not of their own culture - every new wonder built is only one more reason to believe those above the surface will come to claim the Dark Elven homelands, and so their people curl ever further in on themselves. And most of all, the Dark Elves are ruthless - with those who intrude on their domain, real or imagined, and, most of all, with one another. Entire Houses have been put to the sword for seemingly-minor slights - and deformities, inherited or otherwise, are harshly punished.

This is the world Kiera was born into. Daughter of an ascendant House, her milky, blind eyes raised questions from her first few breaths. Her House was watched closely, and the birth of an heir to the family’s power had been an event hotly anticipated in the volatile, vicious circles of Dark Elven nobility. They couldn’t simply kill the child and dispose of her body in the endless pits that filled the city - news of the death of an heir would rock their House, and especially right now that could topple the entire House. At the same time, she obviously could not be presented to society - not with so visible a deformity. Kiera’s father, a practical man, saw a neat solution to the problem. With a flash of steel and the clink of gold, all anyone knew outside of Kiera’s home knew was that Kiera’s mother had died in childbirth and that her father, grief-stricken, couldn’t stand to face society until a much later date, requiring time to devote to taking care of his House’s heiress.

For the next twelve years, Kiera lived in her family’s house, guards at every window and door preventing her from leaving or, indeed, even being seen. Tutors and governesses came to her, paid well to say only what her father wished them to say about Kiera to the world, and to teach Kiera how to behave. They taught her dances, how to write and, to their immense astonishment, apparently how to read. She learned how to dress, and how to comport herself with the public she knew she would never meet. She knew this because of the lesson everyone in her house, from her father to the cooks taught her - that she was a freak, a disgrace, an embarrassment, and that she deserved to die.

After her twelfth birthday, a year after her father had remarried, two of her step-mother’s personal guard came into Kiera’s room. Without ceremony, they rousted her from her bed and bound her, hands at the small of her back. Though she made no sound, they gagged her and though she was blind, they covered her eyes. Then they covered her in a prisoner’s cloak, and walked Kiera out of the silent House, through city streets emptied for the day. Part of her wondered at what she saw and felt, the world through her strange perceptions that none of her teachers cared to ask about.

The inside of her blindfold meant little, except for a slight dimming of the coruscating, whirling world everywhere she turned her head. She saw the domes and arches of buildings, their shapes and decorations and thousand intricacies pulsing incandescent in her awareness. She turned her head, looking up, down, side to side, an entire world she had barely glimpsed from inside her House surrounding her with its echoes, its smells, with the feeling of people passing through a market square or arguing outside a public house. She felt, for the first time, excited - but then one of the guards cuffed her along the back of her head and she let her awareness fade, looking down only at her feet.

She walked, her head down, and even though none of the men said a word, Kiera knew what they were doing. At any moment, she expected the guards to grab her, throw her into one of the depthless chasms, but they only kept walking, walking, walking, for what seemed like hours. Eventually, the feel of the air on her face changed, becoming less of the close-in warmth of deep underground. A few more steps, and for the first time, Kiera felt a breeze against her cheek, and she nearly stumbled from the surprise. With a growing sense of dread, they still walked. They walked until she felt the world change around her, a tingle across her skin, a quivering pulse in the way the lines and whorls of the world around her pulsed. Only then did the guards pause.

The sun rose, and the two guards spoke quietly to one another. They seemed to be arguing whether they were far enough away from the City, whether anyone would come this far out. The second said that this was the Nightwood, and that sensible people kept away. Kiera heard the sound of a sword coming out of its scabbard, and before she had time to be afraid, she felt a sharp pain on the back of her head and everything, even the whirling patterns of life and magic around her, went away.

She woke up, and immediately Kiera knew she was alone. She suspected she wasn’t supposed to wake up, but that seemed over with. For a long time, she lay where she was, only rolling her head slightly to keep pressure off the growing lump on the back of her skull. The guards had left her to die, she knew that much. Part of her couldn’t believe how long it had taken, part of her was angry that it had come now. After a long time, she tried her bonds, found they were still tight, her arms with nothing like the strength to help her. There would be no point in struggling, of course. She was a deformed, failed heir to her House. She was a wastage, a loss. She deserved to die…didn’t she?

Suddenly, Kiera felt very tired. She closed her eyes again, and the world drifted away from her.

The next time she woke, she saw a figure standing over her - a man in his middle years, with a heavy build and a kind soul. Still, she tried to jerk away from him, heart fluttering, and she gasped against the gag over her mouth. The man moved slowly, loosening the bands around her mouth, around her eyes, and from around her wrists, his hands moving with perfect confidence and gentleness. Kiera still said nothing, but turned to look at him when the blindfold came off. The man frowned, leaned forward to take a closer look, and frowned before leaning back on his heels.

He asked her if she understood him. The Common Tongue of the world above had been part of her lessons, and she nodded. He asked her if she was blind. She shook her head, and the man looked confused. In halting Common, thickly accented, she told the man she saw him, his hands, his beard. She said she could tell he was curious about her, but she didn’t understand why. Growing more concerned, but still with that infinite gentleness in his voice, the man said his name was Brand, and that this was his forest, and that what happened in it was his concern - though he said it with a quiet laugh.

They talked for some time, Brand with his slow, quiet, coaxing speech, Kiera in her slow, precise Common. At length, he asked why she had been left out here, bound and without supplies. Kiera hesitated, then told him what she had been told, what she had been waiting for, her entire life. She told him she should die, that she was meant to. He said that of course she was meant to, that all men were meant to die, his arms stretched out to encompass the whole world, his voice a rich, deep laugh. When he looked down at Kiera, the smile had stayed on his face, and she could see no deception behind it. Then he rocked forward and held out one hand, huge compared to Kiera’s small frame, and asked her a question that nobody had ever asked her before, one that would change her life.

Brand asked her if she wanted to die. And, though she was scared and more than a little confused, Kiera realized that she wanted to see more of this world, to know more of herself and what she saw, and she shook her head. She pushed herself to her feet and took Brand’s hand, and the big man smiled.

The next dozen years were less easy than Brand might have hoped. The girl was first shy, too quiet, too ready to acquiesce, and the other orphans he cared for treated her poorly. It took until Kiera was into her teens for her to start standing up for herself properly, and another year before she started slowly asking Brand questions about the world, and more specifically, why everyone called her blind when she certainly could see, after a fashion. Through simple trial and error, Brand began to find ways of teaching the girl, and he taught her what he could. Though the two never entirely understood one another, there was a deep respect between them, and Kiera, into her teens, took Brand’s lessons to heart - though sometimes she would have to find the place in her heart for those lessons before she understood them.

Brand taught her the bow, though she showed little promise in it. Later, he marveled at the speed and precision she showed with small blades, the perfect grace she moved over broken ground, and, if he was honest, the way her body curved away from a sword thrust. The two of them tried to extend and expand her understanding of her strange sight, with limited success. Even when magical scholars would stop by, few had heard of anything like her…conditions? Affliction? Blessing? And those that had would treat Kiera more like a curiosity than anything else. Around the house, Kiera would, when not otherwise occupied, find small things to fix, her nimble fingers weaving leather hinges back together, replacing shutters, or fixing a wobbly writing desk. Those skills Brand encouraged almost more than anything else - in such a remote place, having a chair that didn’t wobble at the end of the was a decadent luxury.

When Kiera left Brand, it wasn’t under the greatest of circumstances. For all his kindness, the man could never understand Kiera’s side of her upbringing and dismissed her culture as one of barbarism and viciousness. He told her that she would be better off forgetting all about them - even though everywhere she went, someone would remind her of her own heritage, even if she could manage to pull those first twelve years of her life from her mind. Though he never raised his hands in anger, she knew he didn’t care for her singing lullabies she remembered from her youth to the newer orphans the man took in.

Their differences mounted, each one a small stone layering on another. They argued about whether Brand was too soft with his wards, leaving them vulnerable to the liars and thieves outside the forest. They fought about how often he left them alone, the mischief that half a dozen teenagers could get into. One night, over the evening meal, Brand and Kiera quarreled - if you can call something that left a broken table and ringing arguments in three languages echoing through the house a “quarrel.” Kiera said things, cruel things, that Brand had no rebuttal for, though he said nothing like that back to her. Through the entire argument, Brand made no demand that Kiera leave - but in the morning, she was gone regardless.

For the better part of a decade, Kiera has been making her way slowly through the world. She has spent a considerable amount of time at a number of places of magical learning, trying to learn more about herself. For a number of years after leaving Brand, she tried to find one of the hidden entrances to the city she was born in, but gave up - for reasons of her own. She has been a caravan guard, a puppeteer, and a member of tavern staff in the distant parts of the Kingdom. Not long ago, at a public house near the Nightwood, uncomfortable memories bubbling to the surface, and after a long and dusty day of guarding a load of what she was increasingly sure were weapons, Kiera heard news that part of her had been dreading for years. That night, she left a stack of coins and an apology in her characteristically gorgeous handwriting in her room, and headed back to the Nightwood…

Kiera has always kept herself a little bit apart from people - even among Brand’s adoptive family there were few who could look past her race, or her blindness. She is deeply introspective, and part of her, a part that she strongly dislikes, feels like she almost has to apologize for still being alive - not necessarily that she deserves to be dead, and she’s anything but suicidal, but on long and lonely nights there are thoughts that bubble to the surface, that leave her wondering why Brand wanted to keep her in the land of the living. Even after all this time, Kiera isn’t entirely sure who she is. Though she tries to simply be the best person she can, virtually everywhere she goes, Kiera is confronted by a different set of legends about what her people are supposed to be like, ranging from stories of indiscriminate viciousness to equally indiscriminate promiscuity. Wherever she goes, though, she feels an urge to make things whole, make them just, and make them right - whether that means helping a poor family re-thatch their roof (If they’ll let her) or argue with the town guard about a street urchin. Brand taught her to try and see the best in everyone around her, which she tries to - even when she wonders what the worst might be inside herself. Though her anger at Brand has burned to ash, she still thinks that in many ways the man was a fool - but she maintains a fathomless well of complicated respect for the man.

Twenty-two summers have passed since Brand helped Kiera out of her bonds. Kiera knew Loden for the entire time she stayed with Brand, and watched him grow from a young boy to a young man, fascinated at his skill with healing. There was always a certain way that he pulled the world around him, as though his very presence could alter the future - to make something whole or give it a chance to live and thrive. He is probably the person she was closest to, save Brand, at the homestead - Grimm being able to look past the stories of her kind and her strange not-quite-blindness. She came closest to thinking of Loden as a brother, and still worries that her disappearance after an explosive fight with Brand may have ruined that. She is unaware that he left Brand's the same year she did.

Thickset man of average height, with the pale complexion of a Northerner. He is usually clad in dark leather armor and a black, travel-worn cloak. Balding, with a nose crooked from repeated breaks and cheeks scarred with the telltale pockmarks of a Plague survivor, Daigon boasts a luxuriant black mustache, a bright smile of white (false ivory) teeth, and arresting green eyes.

A good-enough swordsman, solid brawler and a capable tactician and commander, Daigon's real skill set lies in the dark arts. It is rumored he can commune with restless spirits, with spectres and devils, and even summon the shades of the damned to do his bidding. Whatever the truth of this, Daigon has a reputation as a dangerous sorcerer, and deftly uses the fear this reputation inspires to keep underlings in line and employers intimidated.

Witty and unflappable, with a taste for liquor and homespun anecdotes, Daigon is not without certain charm, often affecting bemused detachment to events unfolding around him. Behind the good humored mask is a chilly, manipulative intelligence, bent only on the increase of his arcane knowledge and might, a goal for which he is willing to sacrifice anyone and anything. Pragmatic, he is no gratuitous sadist, unlike many of the lunatic sellswords in King Harold's army.

.Sneak ↠ stealth. pickpocket. lock picking.
.Charisma ↠ situation adaption. silver tongued.
.Enchantment ↠ compulsion. charm.
.Apothecary ↠ general knowledge.

.Throwing Daggers ↠ made of a deep black metal and hidden upon her persons
.Hand Maidens ↠ quiet little things that trace behind her, skills unknown.
.Messengers ↠ ravens are widely used by all Sirens to spread secrets.
.Apothecary Supplies ↠ herbs, oils, animal skins/skulls, assorted others
.Clawed Gauntlets ↠ lightweight and decorated in runes and puzzling patterns.
.Trunks of Clothing ↠ what courtesan doesn't travel in style? Everything from leather to silk, midnight black to summer peach.
.Carriage & Horses ↠ sleek black metal carriage with well groomed gray dapple horses.

Standing slightly shorter then the average human northerner, and a inch or so taller then the average drow and dark elf. Hara is often considered a oddity, his hair has small streaks of green dyed into it albeit why he refuse divulge. His eyes are a violent, bright amber in color and his skin is paler and more ashen then a full blood. In fact, he has been told the dusky, washed out gray of his skin looks sickly and pallid. His ears while tapered are not as big or pointy as a full blood drow either. His hands and feet carry the permanent scars of hypothermia.

He wears easy smile on his lips and a knowing swagger in his steps. His body is lithe but powerfull underneath his clothes. His clothes themselves are practical and meant to allow movement as much as possible. But they are also showy, billowing arms and loose fabrics to make his movements more distracting and obscure. In contrast to this, he wears a sleeveless brigandine (Leather coat of arms with oblong metal plates fastened to it) ontop of the cloth.

Stealth: Sneaking, Staying hidden, Erasing traces and covering his tracks.
Survival: Tracking, Spotting, Wilderness lore, basic geography
Swordplay; Sabre and Dagger
Crossbows: Both larger and smaller variants.

Up in the north there is a cave system thats long since been cut off from the other subterran networks that provide shelter and home to many of the Dark Elves. Far removed from the Houses and their politics of stabbing one another in the back to get to the top. Here in cold, unforgiving harsness of long winters nad unforgiving storms the Mandi-Hariji live and breed. A offshot of the Dark Elves, they are akin to a death cult. Fiercly independant, matrichal and xenophobic, they guard their secrets with the fury and zeal of the religously brainwashed. Their Goddess is a obscure avatar of death called Moribia of Three Scythes.

Born to this cult was a boy named Hara. Or rather, a boy without a given name. Hara simply meant ”child” in their dialect of the Subterranean language and that was all he was called. He was not of pure blood and as such a blemish on his entire race. However, bastards and half bloods were believed to be a excellent sacrifices as according to lore, the only way to purge imperfections was trough death. They believed sacrificing him would be a mercy killing. But as many times is the case with the cults of the dead and damned, everything had a routine or a dogma that needed to be adhered to. In the case of Hara, he needed to be raised to a worthy state. As such, he spent the age of 6 up to his tenth year he was put trough the ”Purification” process. He was forced to eat only certein herbs, he was bathed in ice cold water to the point of near hypothermia and was put under any manner of sadistic tasks.

But he had a survivors streak in him from early age. A simmering, resilient core that he had inherited from his human father who had died a slave underneath the mountains shortly after the unfortunate tryst with Haras very essentric and dangerous mother. His mother was a different being all together. A high priestess of Death, she had sired him only for the sake of sacrifice.

When he was 11, fate intervened on the young halfbloods behalf. Deep Dweller Dwarves came across the cult. They were miners that had been making inroads into the Mandi-Harijis tunnels in their search for mithril and gems. The result was a violent skirmish that devolved into a full on war within the tunnels. During one Dwarven invasion, the high priestess chamber was breached and the chains holding Hara broke. He fled in panic and stumbled out into the harsh cold. There he would have perished had it not been for Brand. The ranger had come to investigate the disappearance of a friend. That friend turned out to be the biological father of Hara.

Brand had been busy elsewhere when his friend dissapeared and had not been able to make the long trek north up until a few month prior. When a dwarven contact told him about the Cult they had encountered, he realized there might have been foul play involved. When he came upon the boy, he had not hesitated to take him under his wing. It only took a little prodding to find out that the boys age correlated all to well with Haras fathers disappearance.

Under Brands tutelage, Hara grew. He had a hardheaded, angry streak and a dark almost melancholic nature to him. A trait Brand recognized both as heritage from his father and the natural consequence of years of abuse and degredation. Brand made it his duty to repair the boys faith in the world and to provide him both the means to keep such things from befalling him ever again aswell as a real sense of a identity.

It would take many years, and much blood and sweat before Hara came to fully trust anyone other then his adoptive father. The men and women who became his siblings were these. As Hara was one of the oldest, he took to help his father in raising the younger of his siblings. But as he grew older, he found the ghosts of his past still haunted him. The fact that he was conceived for the simple purpose of sacrifice and death weighed on him. He was one of the first to leave, intent on defying the fate he believed had been forced upon him. During his travels, he met other survivors, men and women of other races then him who had family taken up north. Many times he was met with understanding or pity, in others with rage and prejudice. More then once did he have to take a life outside the city limits as those who saw only a dark elf and not the man he was tried to kill him. He became a confident and powerful warrior in his own right as his path led him into the realm of sell swords. He spent some time aboard a ship, protecting fat merchants from pirates. There he aquired a rare bladsteel saber and complimentary dagger.

Somewhere during his travels, he began keeping notes of all the men and women he had duelled. It began to fill up disturbingly quickly as his reputations spread. For him, it was all training for the day he would challenge and kill his own mother. Somwhere in his travels however, he came upon a particular survivor of the Deep Dwarves that had unknowingly allowed him to escape. He told him his mother had died in the raids, killed by the Dwarves leader himself. Strangely, he was hit both with releief and a profound sense of loss. He would never get to look his mother defiently in the eyes. He had essentially been robbed of his revenge.

After being robbed of his purpose his anger and darker tendencies grew more unchecked, albeit knowing Brand was out there ready to come scold him helped keep the worse at bay. He also adapted a much more extroverted personality in his travels, a sort of defence against the doubt and nagging despair that hung over him like a dark cloud wherever he went. He traveled home as fast as he could, he dark cloud of anger and doubt now a storm of vengefull purpose. He would bring death upon those that had robbed him of his father.

A quick mouthed, selfassured and disarmingly forward person, Hara none the less struggle with his own nature. His mothers heritage stains his thinking, the eleven years of hell has instilled him with a sense of uncurable dread. But it has also made him view death in a whole different way. He does not fear it, but he respects it.

As a would be sacrifice to the death cult of his mother, he has a heatlthy dose of paranoia when it comes to all thing religous. He is not agnostic or atheistic but he does not hold any allegience to any god. What is more, he is a ball of pent up anger and violent, dark impulses behind his facade of calm confidence.

But this was very much tempered by his father, Brand, who instilled in him a sense of urgent dicipline. An idea that such unchecked behavior was selfdefeating and destructive in the end.

Upon the death of his father, part of his life quickly spiraled out of control. Brand, who had taken him from the clutches of death and cold and who had always been there when the nightmares started, was gone. And with him, one of the few things that could hold the darker natures of Hara at bay.

Being the oldest, he always felt like it was his duty to help around the home and to take care of his younger siblings. But he found that as he grew older, he did not trust himself to be the one others could look up to. His own self doubt, planted in him since childhood by his own mother, ate away at him.

He left as soon as he felt the older of his younger siblings had gotten strong and independent enough to help Brand out. Among his younger siblings, Sᴀᴄʜᴇᴠɪᴀ is one of the oldest and as such one of those he got to know best before departing. He holds the witchborn in respect, but is both fearful and mistrusting of her inner nature. In some ways, her heritage and devotions remind him to much of the cult that raised him to be a sacrifice.

He enjoys the company Loden when the two cross paths as the two have similar styles of weapons yet utilize them entirely differently. He always goads his "little brother" into a friendly spar or duel. Needless to say, he his very impressed at how nimble and fast Loden has gotten over the years.

He finds Gray something of a kindred spirit as the two are both half-blooded. He regrets having left before Gray could really gotten to know him. He regrets leaving most of his youngest siblings before he could see them grow and as such tries to make up for lost time when they meet.

.

Razan has short, trimmed black hair, with an equally trimmed beard. His small tusks are sharpened to a razor point and his skin is dark green, no doubt from his years spent in the Teresian desert. His physique is impressive, standing at 6 foot 3 inches with barely any fat on him. Though he does not have the build of a pure blood orc, he still has their capacity to gain and build muscle and their lust for battle, multiple scars adorning his torso and arms. Razan wears a black hardened leather set, it being light enough for him to dual wield his swords effectively but strong enough to allow him to survive fearsome blows from most weapons. He wears the fur cloak of a rare giant black wolf he slayed during his time with Brand, useful for sneaking at night and keeping his true race a secret from most. He also wears two gold earrings he made himself on his left ear, in honor of his fallen blood relatives.

-Expert Dual Wielding Swordsman: Trained in the Orcish tribe of Terrana as a young child, Razan never let this skill leave him and practiced even during his timed with Brand.

-Skilled Archer: Of course being the adoptive son of a ranger, Razan learned Archery and became adept at it, though he was nowhere near as good as Brand was.

-Talented Sneaker: Despite his large height and orcish blood, Razan proved to be a natural at sneaking, though some of his siblings out sneaked him, he was definitely one of the best.

-Master Smith and Craftsman: From birth, Razan was taught by his tribe that everything you make yourself will be more powerful because it has your blood, sweat, and tears in it. So Razan learned how to smith and craft everything he owns, from his clothing to his weapons to his earring remembering his mother and brother.

-Okay Tracker: For some reason, Razan has always been an average tracker, maybe it's his orcish blood butting it's big annoying head in or maybe he just never had the eyes for it, despite them being very good. Either way, he falls flat.

- Knowledgeable in Medicine: Razan has always had an interest in practical medicine, with herbs and poultices. Maybe it's due to his tribal heritage and maybe it's also due to the fact that he was often injured in some way or other, in any case he's become proficient in treating injuries with things such as splints, homemade bandages, herbal solutions.

- Proficient in Hand to hand Combat: Trained in Ravk Ma, the orcish martial art, Razan loves to test his mettle in hand to hand fighting.

Razan Ter was born to an Orc Mother and a Human Father. His father quickly fled Teresia, the desert homeland of many orc tribes, knowing that he could be killed for his unthinking loins. Razan's mother, Azania, took the new born back to their tribe and despite his mixed race, the tribe accepted him. Not so much due to their accepting nature, but due to the fact that Azania Ter was one of the most fearsome and respected warrior in Teresia. There were even rumors that the surname Ter, which is the root word of Teresia, was from the first Orcs, who drove the mythical insect species the Lhrazana to extinction.

Razan began to learn and fight by the time he was 5, he trained with his older brother Azan who was a pureblood orc. Razan proved to be a natural at many Orcish activities, becoming proficient in each within the short time he was with his tribe. Swordsmanship, Smithing and Crafting, Ravk Ma. But it was when he was 10 years old that his whole life changed. His tribe was attacked by their rivals, The Lahktah, and most were slaughtered, including his mother and brother. He slew his first man there, using the a traditional dagger to slice open the throat of an Orc who was strangling him. There were only 4 survivors that were captured of the tribe of 400. Razan was one of them, and was sold to slavers who sailed him across the seas to a strange and foreign land. The night they docked, after over a month of captivity, he escaped, killing two more men on his way out.

He ran all night and well into the day, the slavers pursuing him on large four legged beasts he had never seen before. He stumbled into a 'forest' he had heard some of the locals call it while he stole food. Razan trudged through it for half an hour before being found by Brand. He was immediately suspicious, but Brand's friendly and kind nature brought him around and Razan followed Brand to his home. No doubt Brand was worried, the young half-orc covered in blood with a tired and haggard look on his face and he didn't know a word in common tongue as well. Razan slept for 2 days straight, emerging from his room with a refreshed look then a sorrowful one as reality hit him. He managed to convey his story (Somehow) to Brand and accepted his offer of staying with Brand until he could figure out what to do next.

Razan stayed with Brand for 8 years, learning and training, honing the skills he had learned from his tribe and developing the ones Brand taught him. He eventually learned Common Tongue (though his accent is still somewhat strong, even to this day) and interacted with his adoptive siblings. Razan left Brand's home when he was 18, determined to return to Teresia and avenge the slaughter of his tribe. He traversed the sea separating him from his homeland. After a month of travel he arrived at Hlonath, the Orcish city-state, the only form of non-tribal Orcish government in Teresia, obviously heavily influenced by foreigners. He began the search for masters of Orcish arts such as Orcish Style Dual Wielding and Ravk Ma to finish his training, as well as began learning to use practical medicine. He stayed for a year in Hlonath, perfecting his training and skills before venturing out into Teresia, in search of the Orc who ordered the raid of his tribe.

Razan is cynical of anyone he doesn't know to say in the least. He will talk to them politely if a tad sardonic. He holds all adoptive children of Brand with a certain respect and favor, because he knows what they've been through, more so than others. He thrives off battle, he loves the adrenaline, the thrill, the crack of bone and sinew, the spurt of blood. Though he hasn't told anyone other than orcs because he fears they might not understand, one can clearly see it in battle, the look of pure joy on his face is unmistakable. And Razan is scared of nothing, except being rejected by Brand and his adoptive siblings, the only people he cares about in the world. But in any other case he is fearless, quite literally laughing in the face of death. He can come off as condescending to others, even if he doesn't mean to and even to his own siblings. His accent has lessened over the years, but anyone can clearly tell he is not a native speaker of common tongue. Razan suffers from mild PTSD, haunted by the brutal slaughter of his tribe for years. Razan is also extremely confident in his abilities, almost to the point of dangerous arrogance.

-Brand of Nightwood: Brand was Razan's savior quite literally. He gave Razan the skills and ability to avenge the death of his family. He also opened his eyes to the other walks of life. Brand was the father Razan never had.

-Varrick Tuldar: Varrick and Razan got along fairly well, sparring frequently with swords and the like, training alongside one another. Razan had only been with Brand for about a year when Varrick arrived and helped him with his sword techiniques and his fighting style. He felt like a Big Brother to Varrick at times and he didn't mind that feeling. @NickTrano

-Masef: Masef had been with Brand before even Razan had shown up and was about four years younger than him when Razan arrived. Still, they got along well enough and Razan enjoyed seeing the rivalry between Varrick and Masef blossom as they grew up together, remembering sadly that his relationship with his own brother was painfully similar. @HeySeuss

-Ashira: Razan always found Ashira to be curious, especially when they first met because he had never seen an elf before. Even before he arrived in the vendlands, he had seen human mercenaries come and go from his tribe's camp, but no elves. As they grew up, Razan always had his eye on her, making sure she was doing alright. He knew Grey was probably doing the same, but he was doubtful in Grey's ability to protect her. Ashira was one of the first and only people to make Razan laugh after the slaughter of his tribe and that went a long way. @AirBender

-Grey Balthan: Razan and Grey aren't the best of friends. While being adoptive siblings, a bond that can never break, Razan always saw Grey as always trying to be something he's not, always wanting to prove something. But still, that was a long time ago. Grey was 12 when Razan left and even then Razan hadn't known him too well. @R31GN

-Beren Edurus: When Beren came to Brand and they learned of his story, Razan knew all too well what it felt like. They quickly became friends, sparring and training on a daily basis with Varrick. Although it irritated Razan that Beren refused to hunt, he soon lived with it. @POOHEAD189

-Loden Grimm: Perhaps one of his closest friends among his siblings, Razan and Loden got along wonderfully. Loden was 11 when Razan arrived and consoled him, asking about Orc culture and the land with Brand (Sort of) translating. Loden taught Razan the effects of medicine and sparked his interest in it. He helped Razan hone his bow skills and practiced with him in hand to hand sparring. When Loden left when Razan was 15, it was probably one of the saddest days of Razan's life. @Gunther

-Kiera: Razan can't seem to remember whether Kiera was with brand when he arrived or after, but it doesn't matter. He was one of the first to approach he suspects. Some of the other orphans seemed to fear her blank eyes and dark skin, but Razan had no such fears. Nothing could scare him after what he had seen. He began to hang out with Kiera and slowly others started to warm up to her. Razan noticed Kiera had a knack for tinkering and that coincided with his skill for smithing and building things himself. They bonded over that and made some pretty cool stuff together. Razan isn't sure if he left first or her, it hardly matters now...@Naril

-Sachevia: Razan always found Sachevia strange, but never scary. There was no magic, no witches in his homeland so he didn't understand the fear the others had for her. So he spoke with her, told her his story (In Broken Common Tongue, but she got the message.) Every once in a while they would discuss herbs and apothecary supplies, Razan knowing that Loden always needed some but was sometimes too nervous to ask her. When she left, Razan often wondered where a girl like that would go in the world. @Noxious

-Hara: Of all his siblings, Hara is probably the one Razan respects the most. Hearing his story, he couldn't imagine being born to die. Razan suddenly was much more grateful for his mother's loyalty to him, as if not protected, the tribe could have easily killed him for being a Half-Orc before he had the chance to prove himself. Razan and Hara spent long hours sparring, as Hara was probably the only one besides Varrick that could stand up to him in melee combat. When Hara left, Razan knew why and hoped he could find peace. @Hellis

Please let me know if I messed up the timeline, if Razan should have met or not have met someone.