DONE!
[hider=Calador of The Ninth Tide]

[center][sub][b]Calador of The Ninth Tide | 4037 | Species: Cellva[/b]
[i]Get comfy I have a lot to talk about.[/i][/sub][/center]

[sub][color=RoyalBlue][H3]Appearance:[/h3][/color][/sub]
[indent][indent]A tall, lank, string-bean of a Cellva. Calador tends to round his height up to a clean six foot, not that such things are of any importance to him or that he feels a quiet sense of smugness at being able to come up to the shoulder of the shortest Jotun and looming over most of his Cellvan peers. Like the plant life that his kind are so often compared to Calador's skin is a pale forest green that slowly becomes darker and more flushed with hints of brown and red around his face and extremities. Almost as if his body is taking on an all too human blush and his waxy cuticle skin begins to harden into something akin to plates of bark and spiraling knots in place of calluses and weathered cracks of age. 

His hair falls in long, wide, lilly white petals that frame his face and reach to the nape of his neck. In place of eyebrows Calador's cells have gathered and hardened into dark, thorn like fibers, that also occasionally sprout from his chin and cheeks. Though any extra strands are a rare thing and he tends to idly pluck at them when bored, stopping him from growing a thicket on his face. Yet for how strange and almost artificial his appearance can look to red blooded mammals the most alien thing about Calador are probably his eyes. Impossibly dark - as befits something so old - his pupils look to be permanently diluted and made to look even stranger as a sap coloured amber covers where a human iris and whites would be. 

While travelling Calador is usually found dressed in a flowing robe of lilac blues, made from a silken alloy harvested from the arach-mechs (a species of metallic spiders native to the cauldron woods west of Gaerth) traced with circuitboard like patterns and ancient runes. Besides a shoulder bag filled with knick knacks, poultices and souvenirs Calador doesn't seem to carry much on his person or any weapons of any kind. Such an assumption would be horribly wrong. Beneath his billowing sleeves his arms are practically covered in bracelets and charms, each one in some way attuned to help him commune with and command the spirits around him as he works his draft magic.[/indent][/indent]
 
[sub][color=RoyalBlue][H3]History:[/h3][/color][/sub]
[indent][indent]Where to begin with such a generously misspent lifetime? If Calador had his way and was given free reign to go into as much detail as he wanted the poor audience would be subjected to endless tangents and anecdotes until Calador forgot what his point was in the first place. So if this biography is to be ruthless he would have to cut away, down to the three groups and times in his life that would go onto define him.

[u]The Ninth Tide[/u]
A clan of Cellva that lived along the Northeastern coastlines. A small community, like all Cellvan groups, that was said to have its roots in the area before the coming of the long silence when their race was first born. During the silence and long after it the folk of the ninth tide worked the cliff lands and tended the shallow waters while their shaman looked to the deep waters. This was a clan that looked to live in harmony with the world around them, looking to the unseen spirits they knew as ai for guidance in the task passed down to them by the makers. To safeguard the world that had ended as it healed from the wounds inflicted by those that came before them.

Their home was a close neighbour to what would become the floating city of Varkhym. It was nothing but a ghost infested ruin during the time of the silence, as most places were, and its streets and waters were haunted by the horrors that ruled the time of the silence, things that were not willing to see the silence pass. So the stories go, for much of the history of the ninth tide is passed down through fables and parables meant to teach the young the meanings of things they cannot yet understand. 

But the silence passed and Varkhym was brought to life by the resurgence of man and the clan's real troubles began. For the merchant princes were a kind never satisfied, always looking to expand their territory and sphere of influence with the funding of new factories, fisheries and farms. This did not sit well with the clan and their shaman who protested these incursions into their ancestral lands and warned against such wanton acts of avarice that could only lead to a second falling of silence. 

The princes didn't take such warning seriously. Other Cellva clans left for unclaimed pastures or took up new roots in the city itself. The ninth tide did neither, refusing to give up the homes and culture they had made for themselves. The holding kept expanding, tensions rose and border skirmishes became more frequent. And the shaman of the clan splintered in what should be done. 

"Are we to spend our lives playing victim? Reacting to the actions of man and allowing the fate of our world to be decided by those with too short a life to see the consequences of their actions and memories too short to remember the mistakes of their fathers?" Came the cry of the young shaman of the third ring. 

Their eldest and leader, the first ring would not rise to his hot blooded challenge. "And what do you suggest, my apprentice? Do you dare to take on the title of war shaman and lead our people to battle against the holdings? We are few and they are many and spreading always. War would doom our clan and burn the history we keep. You would throw it all away for youthful pride and condemn hundreds to death." 

"We are already dead, elder!" The young Cellva spat back. "We exist as ghosts waiting to be exorcised. All things in nature must adapt and evolve with the changing of the winds. I would rather take my chance with action that spend the millennia rooted to the spot like a withered oak with poisoned roots!" 

They could not reach a compromise. Their words became more heated and friendships were broken. So the young shaman chose to leave before he was banished, turning his back on the elders he no longer respected and taking to the road like a leaf on the wind. 

And that is how Calador came to abandon his birth clan.
      
[u]The Priory[/u]
Truly alone for the first time in his life, an ancient in the eyes of those he met along the way, a petulant child to his own kind. Calador was lost. Without direction, purpose... without anyone or anywhere to call his own. And like so many lost souls the priory called to him. 

Still young as far as powerful organisations went, the priory was not yet the juggernaut it would become in nearly three thousand years time. But there was something comforting in the smaller scale it had at the time to a Calador that was so overwhelmed by the vast world ahead of him... and something emboldening in the ambition it had for itself. The young Cellva entered the fold, finding a mentor that shared his ambitions, finding a place that would nurture his talents and could achieve the things his won peers had once called impossible.

Calador became a fully fledged member of the priory. He practised and furthered his knowledge of drafting as it was now called. He found fresh answers and more questions than he knew to ask. He became a teacher, working at small schools in minor holdings and villages and even as a lecturer in the universities of Hektra. These were the happiest years of his life.

So of course they couldn't last. The priory grew, its libraries swelling. It should have been perfect. Calador saw knowledge spread to all the holdings and beyond, and with knowledge was supposed to follow understanding. The petty differences of mortals was supposed to be chipped at and broken away as folk set aside their differences. Yet for every piece he saw reach the public he heard of three that stayed in the priory's care. Knowledge that was deemed too dangerous for the average person, too valuable to be given away freely. The priory had become bloated with power. 

The final nail came with the first of the rituals. These self congratulating masses where people knelt before the altar of the priory! They were supposed to be teachers! They were supposed to help people find their own answers, point the way to paths even they didn't know of yet. Suddenly people were calling him a priest, a servant to a god he never chose, begging to be sent into the dark ages as the "church" decreed the their futures and commanded their souls! And just like before, Calador was outspoken in his distaste with this turn. Many argued that this was just easier. That people accepted them more easily this way, that their mission had not changed, they'd simply put a different face on it. 

It wasn't enough for Calador. The good they did was outweighed by the acts of self interest that supposedly outweighed them. He argues that the path of least resistance was not always right! That they discredited their early works! "Sure you can survive no matter what it takes... but I am not willing to live as the person that would make of me."

In the end he left, just like he did before. But he wasn't unprepared this time, taking everything he could carry, everything he'd EARNED Calador walked away on his own terms... even if it meant stealing away like a thief in the night. Of course they wouldn't let him take such powerful artifacts away with him, of course someone noticed... of cource they tried to stop him. 

Once again Calador came to but heads with his mentor. Another Cellva by the name of Talren, now Master Talren, who had helped train him in the further arts of the draft. To Calador's knowledge they covered up the fight and let history do the rest. Few people remember the fire that almost took the Andronicous library. The only memorable thing about it was how miraculous it was that no one was hurt thanks to the heroic actions of Master Talren who sadly lost most of the skin on his hand. 

No one reported on the writing Calador carved into the city walls when he left. 

APOSTATE AND PROUD
   
[u]The Swifts[/u]
So Calador struck out as an independent draft mage. Signing up with expeditions and independent merchants that had't had their contracts scooped up by the priory. It was a rough living at times but Caldor wasn't willing to trade the freedom he had to pursue his own studies and questions for any amount of coin. It was here that he found a partner in a fellow mercenary called Jonathon Swift. Everyone learns quickly in the wilds hat if you find someone you can trust to watch your back then you don't let them go and Jon was a titanium knight to Calador's plasma wielding wizardry.

It was Jonathon that convinced his Cellva pal to join up with him and this crazy blonde chick he'd hooked up with to form their own krewe. One meeting in a smokey bar, a drunken brawl and some bizarre flirting later and Calador was officially one of the founding members of "Lilith and the Lucky Stars".

(A note from Calador: Back the krewe culture was still finding its feet. We didn't have big brands like the Vigil. Most krewes were formed by a leader, a front man that served as the group's face. They were your living reputation, the thing that sold you to clients. Think back to Flint and the Foresters, or Rudy's Rust Merchants. Everyone had alliterative names back then, such was the style at the time.)

The Stars had good run, working together for almost a decade and it was easily one of the happiest times of Calador's life, a second burst at his prime and filed with countess jobs that would have ended the careers of lesser adventurers. It was good while it lasted. Until Jon and their eponymous Liith announced their retirement and engagement. A twist that surprised absolutely no one! The two had pooled their earnings and bought a prime pot of land in Plent.

Calador attended their wedding, standing by his friend's side and refusing to cry. He also refused to retire. He was still deep in his Cellvan prime and lusting after fresh mysteries to uncover. He would still visit Pent regularly, the city becoming a second home and an oasis after long times on the road. In the years that passed he and his friends got calmer, wiser, and older... just some did it faster than others. He stayed in the city for a year without leaving towards the end of Jon's life. Both felt the inevitable coming and though it was one of the harshest strains on their friendship he refused to wander too far from his old partner's side. 

He refused to cry at Jonathon's funeral and almost refused to stay, seeing this part of his long life ending just like all the others had. It was Lilith who stopped him as he packed his bags.

"Don't you go disappearing on me now, you thorny bastard. Last I checked Jon wasn't your only friend in the world, or are you going to forget I exist now so you can go off in your own head?" She went on to chide a being thousands of years her elder like he was a lost child. He did fee lost, Calador can admit hat now at least. 

"He's not gone you know. He's here..." She said in a soft voice Calador so rarely heard, placing a hand on each of their hearts. "The same place Jon and the kids keep you. So don't you disappear now,don't you dare be a stranger."  

Lilith took his hand in hers and made Calador promise he'd return. So he did time and time again. Making friends with the children that followed in his friend's wake. Sons and daughters that wanted to follow in the family business or needed a drafter's help in some great problem (He never needed to resort to magic for the smaller stuff but Calador did anyway for the fun of it). Becoming a walking inheritance of the swift family meant having to say some painful goodbyes through the years but no sort of pain could outweigh the loss of never meeting such people at all in Calador's eyes.  

The latest in this line was the fiery Edwina! A young girl who insisted on fighting and brawling and hauling her family name through the dirt as a wannabe hero. Calador was actually pleased to hear of her joining the riders of Plent. She'd get her fix of action and find someone to imbue her with some discipline. Still... a part f him was curious about the potential she showed and the drive that fueled her. That was why he gave her the old warrior charm. It was a dangerous thing, he knew, but such things aren't made to be safe. He made sure Ed knew what it was she had and how to use it. The knowledge was hers, what she did with it was her choice as was only right.

He was away again, getting ready to enter the rust sea when one of his tamed spirits brought him news that the charm had been used for the first time. He high tailed it back to Plent and to his horror learned about her near death. Even worse she wanted to go in for even worse gigs! Unable to convince Edwina to stick with the Riders or try her hand at farming he was left with no choice (he felt) but to go with her on her mission to make a name for herself. 

He met her on the road the day she left. "So... what adventure are you going to take me on?"  

To his dismay she signed them both up to The Vigil instead of a small indie krewe. Calador refuses to wear any of their paraphernalia with pride, seeing himself as being there for Edwina more than the job, even if he takes some pride defending a city wall from mad berzerkers with a barrage of wind blades. Ad if he comes out with some new toys thanks to this job well so be it.              

[/indent][/indent]

[sub][color=RoyalBlue][H3]Skills:[/h3][/color][/sub]
[indent][indent][b]Drafting[/b]: Calador's long life has given him the chance to learn at the feet of the shaman of his birth clan (often spending hours or even days communing with the spirits and heralds of the ai) and the scholars of the priory and he puts that training and experience to good use! Armed with an eclectic selection of charms and ancient talismans gained over a life of mixed study and exploration of ancient ruins. Calador's style of drafting has evolved into its own hybrid style of his native totemic spirit channeling and Priory approved physical techniques, allowing him to work his magic with minimalist hand movements and altering its effects based on his use of artifacts or vocal commands. Like all drafters Calador tries to keep a varied array of spells and enchantments at his fingertips but his go to castings are the sibling spirits of Zephyr and Ether. The former, a spirit of the wind that he's learned to tame in order to summon powerful blasts of wind, hardened air shields and concentrated strikes that can only be described as "Air blades". The latter is the rooted spirit that lives in the bonds between all things. Ether's bonding power is what Calador uses to reconnect the bonds of organic matter that have come undone, allowing him to heal grievous wounds and injuries. However he's still unable to turn its power onto healing poisons or sickness despite his studies. He [i]has[/i] witness Ether's darker side, its power to split these organic bonds asunder and has vowed to never use such terrible power or reveal it to others. He is unable to use the spirit to heal himself, such was the bargain they struck so that he might harness its power. 

[b]Dungeon Diver[/b]: Blame it on Cellvan nature and love of isolation as much as you like but Calador would tell you it was his own choice to wander the wilds. That the answers he seeks cannot be found within the lost places of the world and the forgotten corners of the wilds. Now no one can say that any two sets of ruins are ever alike or everyone with half a brain would agree that only a fool would wander into these places without the greatest care. No one could be arrogant enough to claim that they had tamed the ancient places left by the makers and all their works! But Calador is half way to being that arrogant. After over a thousand years of wandering the wilds and the wastes he argues that the observant adventurer will see patterns and a skilled draft mage will learn how to appease the spirits that guard these places and bypass the wards left to keep intruders out. Over time Calador has picked up a healthy bag of tricks to handle such traps and has become a self proclaimed navigator when it comes to such places. 

[b]Cellvan Historian[/b]: "Because all steryotypes have their little gounding in truth." Sardonically exclaimed the half-drunk Cellva. With over four thousand years under his belt and an academic's memory housed in his head, Calador has spent his life dedicated to learning. Be it from the oral history and parable based historied passed onto him by the Ninth Tide clan, or the dusty tomes of the libraries of Hektra. Though Calador's favourite way to get to grips with a place is to walk its streets and to explore the local attractions. Taverns are a reliable fountain of knowledge if you go at the right time of day. Each one comes with their own cast of talkative drunks and each one is happy to be offered a listening ear. Calador always recommends taking their word with a pinch of salt of course, but honest opinions offer their own challenges and chances to gauge local values and politics. That and simply by being around at the time of events that would become history have given Calador an extensive edge of non-Cellva historians.

[b]Singing[/b]: This isn't a skill Calador cares to brag about and in rare bouts of self consciousness Calador shies away from breaking his voice out in front of others. This comes from the old practices of his clan as the shaman of the Ninth Tide often verbally commune with the spirits of the ai to strengthen their bonds. They also learned that other nanospirits responded to spoken commands and signals, however sometimes exact wording in dead languages is not enough and the spirits will only respond to the appropriate tone. Which lead to the development of cultural songs and stories that help guide their acolytes through their training, meaning that any Cellva of the clan that wanted to learn the ways of the draft had better practice their vocal exercises. Calador did get good and in his youth even pondered taking up a career as a travelling minstrel instead of magecraft. Things didn't work out that way but back when he ran with his old krewe, and even today when he finds an expedition to link up with, he can be cajoled into giving a song around the camp fire.       
[/indent][/indent]

[sub][color=RoyalBlue][H3]Equipment:[/h3][/color][/sub]
[indent]- An ever clanking and jingling collection of pendants, charms and bracelets wrapped around his arms and neck. Each one contains some kind of ancient tech or magic that Calador has managed to work into his drafting, be it for major or minor works of sorcery.
- A flowing robe of silk alloy packed with a pair of deep pockets. Despite its fearsome origin the thing could never be considered a form of armour. Passably able to block a determined kitchen knife and little else. It is very breathable though! And the rain just slides right off it.
- A leather satchel bag filled even more odds and ends. Some poultices made of medicine or seasoning, Calador rarely labels which is which. 
- His grimoire. Once a codex of the priory, Calador held onto his field journal when he left and has steadily added to it over his years of travel. Of course this isn't actually the original book, the tome having grown too swollen and cumbersome to carry by this point, but the latest volume. Calador just speaks of them all as if they were a single item. Where the others are hidden is something he'll never tell. [/indent]

[sub][color=RoyalBlue][H3]General Nonsense:[/h3][/color][/sub]
[indent]The first generation of Cellva, the elders who witnessed the long silence, have only just started to die off from old age. Calador was in Varkhym when he heard, the news spreading through the holdings like wildfire. Ask any Cellva where they were or what they were doing when they were doing when they heard and they'll each remember it perfectly. Calador ended up getting very drunk over the next couple days afterwards (which didn't take much for him) choosing not to take part in the public mourning and wailing in the streets.
 
He knew they could die. Cellva had died before. He knew they could be killed, could fall sick, could get into accidents. Death was a possibility! But was something that had never claimed any of them until that point.
 The most prolific killer of the other races had passed them by until that point. He'd never thought of it claiming him until that point. He just thought... he just hadn't thought about it is all.[/indent]

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