Race:

Human

Nationality:

Karliege was born inside the borders of the Justinian Imperium.

Occupation:

Sorcerer

Religion:

Karliege knows that there are beings greater than man, but doubts that there are any who deserve worship.

Appearance:

Karliege is a man of average height, but of a skeletal and waif like build. He has not seen his thirtieth year, but bears many of the hallmarks of a much older man. His pale face is lined and worn. His long dirty blonde hair is brittle and streaked with grey. His eyes are of a similar shade of misty grey, deep bags hang beneath them and along with his general air of weariness confirm that Karliege sleeps little each night. The features upon his gaunt and drawn face are fine and effeminate, though still relatively handsome. Handsome that is were it not for a crooked broken nose and an unsightly tangle of burn marks upon his left cheek: a branding mark, one that denotes him as excommunicated from the light of the God-King Justinian and his Church.

He dresses in various hues of faded blacks, covered by a hooded great cloak clasped with a silver ring pin. Around Karliege's neck hangs more silver, a great thick chain of silver links from which dangles a blue topaz the size of a child's fist. It seems to glow unnaturally in darkness. His right arm is bound and bandaged beneath his cloak and he walks with a slight limp in his gait. A stout iron shod staff of pale yew wood assists his movement.

Personality:

Karliege is cold and reserved, not in a cruel or uncaring way, but as if separated from all others around him by an immense unseen chasm. Distant is probably the lasting impression that he leaves on others. Even when he is direct conversation with his peers he has a habit of gazing off into the middle distance, almost as if he’s looking right though someone to something beyond. He’s quiet, in particular about himself and his history, and when pressed upon a subject he does want to discuss will shut down completely and withdraw. If he were to smile it would be a sad one. He sleeps little, haunted by nightmares that make him wake in fits of terrible screams.

There is madness in him as well, one that consumes him in periods of frantic mania followed by deep and dark depressions. During his mania he will often rant and rave about Justinian, theology, demonology and the nature of divinity. His eyes burn with consuming passion and its one of the few times Karliege truly seems to enthuse upon a subject. During his inward periods he becomes even more uncommunicative, scarcely eating or even moving until the fugue has passed.

Biography:

What happens to the children born within Justinian's Empire who are cursed with magic? Some repress their unnatural powers, others may embrace them. Karliege was one such child.

He was the son of a wool merchant who traded between the imperial core and the eastern marcher lords. Neither noble nor serf his family were comfortable, but not accustomed to the privileges of the aristocracy. Perhaps it was this liminal station between the great divide of feudal society that led Karliege to question the world around him. He was inquisitive and curious from an early age and showed great talent for book learning and the scholarly pursuits - something that was only encouraged by his parents who would have relished the opportunity to have a younger son enter the ranks of the Clerisy.

It was as Karliege approached the cusp of manhood that his magic awoke within him. At first he was shocked and saddened. How could he, one who was training for life in the priesthood of the great God-Emperor Justinian, be afflicted with the scourge of magic? But the more he dwelled upon his situation and the more he learned about magic, the more doubts began to creep into his mind. In the empire, magic was reviled, but the miracles attributed to Justinian were celebrated and revered. How did Justinian, a man, become a God, unless through the use of magic?

He continued his training as an official of the church, but most nights he trained in other arts. He learned from whatever sources he could lay his hands on. He read accounts of inquisitors who purged the land of magic and ancient tomes detailing defence against magic users. He would slip into the restricted sections in the dead of night and read books that had been saved from the pyre that had once belonged to witches and warlocks. He even found a trader who brought scrolls from across the southern deserts, for extortionate prices of course.

It was through this Karliege learned of the art of demonology, and the summoning of higher beings of magic with great power and knowledge. It was with this that he would discover the truth he so desperately craved, the truth of Justinian's divinity and the whether or not Karliege had pledged his life to a lie.

Alone one night in his sleeping cell surrounded by candles and using all he had learned, Karliege summoned one such demon. And it told him everything he had been taught was false. Justinian was no God, magic was natural, and the Clerisy was merely a tool to make sure none would ever rise to challenge Justinian's power. Karliege was shaken. He had always doubted some of the teachings of the Clerisy and had wondered at the nature of Justinian's divinity, but this was too much. He served an unjust warlord who proclaimed himself a God and would kill those who would use the very same powers. It was wrong, and Karliege believed it was his duty to tell the people.

He wrote pamphlets by candlelight detailing what he had been told by the demon and would slip them under doors or between shutters on long pre-dawn walks around the city. Naively, he believed that if the people knew, they would rise and somehow Justinian and the Clerisy would be cast down. He was wrong. Instead he was apprehended by the Inquisition and tortured in a cell deep beneath the altars he had once worshipped at.

They made him a sign a confession that he had been lured astray by dark powers, that all he had written was lie and that Justinian was a true and just God. They hauled him into the streets for public penance. Bloody and broken they marched him from square to square he be pelted with stones and spat at. He was stripped, both physically and of his position in Clerisy, and branded him with the mark of Excommunication. He would be bared from every church and temple, chased from towns and settlements, and shunned by any good God-fearing citizen of the Imperium. If they had discovered he was a sorcerer, they would have killed him.

For many years Karliege travelled, first south, then east in search one who could teach him more in the ways of magic. He had lost everything, his life, his family, his home, his mind even. All that remained to him was his magic and he honed it into a weapon to be feared. In the wastes of Nagath he served as apprentice to one of the greatest sorcerers of this generation, Colndil the Terrible, a dark wizard of sinister repute who was said to even be able to bind demons to his will. Karliege endured much, and learned much under the man. He now travels the wastes once again, claiming that Colndil is dead, and he is the greatest sorcerer of the east.

Equipment:

Karliege carries little accept a belt knife, a waterskin, his cloak, his staff and his amulet. Called the Eye of Daigon, it once belonged to Karliege's slain master Colndil and is reputed to have been amongst the crown jewels of the ancient Kingdom of Nargath before being re-purposed into a necklace.

Skills:

Karliege is intelligent and learned in many areas, but most of all he is a dangerous and powerful user of magic. His greatest power is that which he learned from his master Colndil, the art of binding a demon to a mortal's will. Karliege possesses one such demon, named Sarcen. It appears as a second shadow following Karliege, or perhaps a single white flame hovering in the air. It is incredibly powerful and dangerous, but it is also unpredictable and continuously fights its master in an effort to possess Karliege's body.

Motivation:

Karliege once thought if he told the citizens of Justinian's Empire that their God was a lie they would rise up and destroy it. Now he knows they must be shown that Justinian is a lie. He intends to show them that. He intends to kill a God and burn his church to the ground.

Name: Oray

Race: Human

Nationality/Nation description: Raised around the Marches.

Occupation: Scout for mercenaries and lookout for trade caravans.

Religion: Skeptical but seems to have a fair few superstitions regarding luck.

Appearance: Most folk who see her on the road can’t say for certain what Oray looks like beyond being relatively short and having a spill of dark, curly hair. When she’s not shooting Oray covers her face in a black veil and only moves it so much as to show her eyes in combat. She dresses in tatty rags fashioned like a poncho or a shawl overtop compressing leathers. Her colors range from brown to grey with a minimal amount of black.

Beneath all her veil is a face that she’s been told many times “would be pretty if she weren’t so severe”. Oray has no plans of being any less severe. A square jaw proves her hardest feature, nose button like and doe eyed despite the profound tiredness of her heavy lidded gaze. Her resting face put her thick brows in a persistent furrow and her mouth a vague frown, giving her the look of a woman who’s long overdue for a nap.

Oray is brown of skin and dark of eyes. She seems to have a fondness for smudging kohl around them even if there’s kohl left over from the night before. It doesn't help her look any less tired.

Personality: Oray is a dry, monotonic woman with an offbeat sense of humor. Oft times she leaves people uncomfortably laughing at what they hope is a joke. It’s usually a joke. She’s learned that people will believe anything if you say it with a straight enough face. Considering most people are speaking to her veil, she’s got a damn good poker face.

A woman of diametrically opposed ideals, Oray struggles with being a survivor while trying not to be absolute human filth. Oray has lied, cheated, stole, and slept her way through life but she’s trying not to ruin any lives in the process. Trying being the keyword. Particularly vile dealings leave her vulnerable to fits of compassion which she promptly tries to forget ever happened once they’re over with.

Biography: Oray doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Early in her life she can remember the smell of a verdant garden, teapots lined with gold filigree, long locks of dark hair. She thinks she can recall the streets of the Imperium. . . But she wonders if it’s all a vivid dream.

Beyond that all she knew was her grandfather, a stalwart wall of a man. Oray has spent most of her life moving from place to place, being taught to shoot a musket and how to skin rabbits since she was able to talk. Agarus, her grandfather, worked as a bounty hunter and didn’t much try to hide the reality of his work from her. Well, for as long as he could, anyway.

At twelve Oray watched her grandfather meet his untimely end at the hand of a bounty he decided to take. A slaver with a little too much mettle had found a way to shank Agares when his guard was down. In some other story this would end with Oray being snatched up and put on the market, a little lamb ripe for the slaughter.

This isn’t that story, however.

Oray didn’t watch the life leave Agares’ eyes, rather she saw the hope drain from them. A man who had dedicated his life to raising his granddaughter now watching helpless as a misstep failed him, failed her. The weight of his regret proved too much to bear for Oray. Taking up his musket Oray shot his murderer down. It was under the bone white sky of a bleak late winter that Oray was left with nothing but a musket and two bodies: one to bury and one for bounty.

Thus started her complicated foray into adolescence. Masquerading as a young lad? Check. Horrific, prophetic dreams? Check. Oray’s made attempts at ignoring what comes to her in dreams and tried to make as few enemies as possible. Guarding merchant caravans seems to be a good way to go about that, and thus that’s the profession she’s chosen. Occasionally she’ll act as a scout, though she tries to be selective about the job.

Over ten years of this life and Oray is at a loss for what she’s doing with herself. The thought of trying to settle down doesn’t sound terribly appealing. The thought of going on doesn’t sound terribly appealing, either. To find some modicum of purpose Oray has turned inward, looking to the strange dreams that have plagued her. Perhaps they’re not the source of residual trauma but something more profound.

Equipment: A musket slung behind her back and two daggers strapped to her thighs. A waterskin, for drinking. A flask, for drinking. Oray carries tobacco (or what the in world equivalent is) and a pipe with her.

Around her neck Oray wears a signet ring on a silver chain. Unbeknownst to her this proves to be the source of her dreams, oft times filled with dark murmurings and perhaps prophetic imagery.

Skills: Oray is a survivalist, about to live off the land around her and—usually—find north. Eerily quiet, Oray can keep her steps soft and her presence hidden. Taught from a young age to use a musket, Oray shoots straight and she shoots well. When that fails her she turns to her daggers. She’s got a good eye, you’ve got to when you spend half your life with a veil over them. In fact, she can read lips when able to get a good look at the lips she’s reading. She is, despite all odds, literate.

Motivation: Oray is driven by the pipe dream of a great beyond, the idea that there’s something more. She goes through each day hoping that there’s something better living hand to mouth, town to town. The opportunity to watch history unfold around her, to take part in something meaningful, the opportunity to be bigger than her skin wouldn’t be passed up. . . Though it’d be met with a healthy amount of skepticism.

Name: Lon

Race: Incredibly human

Nationality/Nation description: Raised in various villages throughout the Marches.

Occupation: Bard (Self-proclaimed).

Religion: Wherever the wind goes, so too go his beliefs.

Appearance: Lon is a man of small, inoffensive stature and dark skin and often has a toothy smile plastered onto his face. With little in the way of muscle or fat, one could mistake the poor man for a starveling from the streets of any given city. The mop of dark, dark hair atop his head, perpetually mussed and tousled and looking like he won a battle against a particularly brittle comb, lends credence to this idea.

But then you get to his clothes. Or more accurately, his cloak. It’s a cloak made for billowing if one was ever seen. Grand, green, seemingly made of material that’s lustrous and bright while retaining the toughness to rival the sturdiest of canvas, it seems likely that it could swallow him whole if he let it. Other than his cloak, the man dresses sensibly most times. Most being the operative word here.

Personality: Chatty is what his friends might call him but he’d call himself personable. What others might call him is best left unsaid in polite company. Lon’s the sort of fellow that’s friendly to a fault and has no problems striking up a conversation with just about anyone or anything.

It’s all something of a front, unfortunately. While he’s got a smile for everyone he sees and he’s more than willing to lend an ear to any and every tale there is to be told, Lon’s friendliness comes from a desperate place. It’s easy to forget one’s woes when you drown yourself in other people. Beneath the jokes and the songs that inevitably find their way to his lips there’s a loneliness that runs deep and chasm-like. The moment you think you see it, you’ll be told about that one time in Kragthorne where he saw a man ride a flying pig--yes, a flying pig! If only you’d been there.

Biography: Lon was born to a traveler, a woman by the name of Taryn, and she was someone who roamed the countryside with a song on their lips and a tune in their heart. The first thing he remembers is hearing a bawdy song while bouncing on a sailor's knee while his mother crooned filthy words to the crowd. In this way, he was a child of the people. In every town they visited there was a grandmother that would inevitably fawn over him, as he was a cute and curious child, or a mother that would scold him for sprinting through their laundry while chasing the wind. He learned his letters from a teacher in Stratam and his numbers from a farmer in Loti.

He never knew his father nor did Taryn ever speak of him, but the child wasn’t ever wanting for one. He had several, after all. Why, there was the man in Tust that frequented their camp and brought Lon wooden toys before slipping into his mother’s tent for the night. Or there was the one in Marchome that always brought him sweets and told him stories before Taryn would put her hand on his arm and tell Lon to be a good boy and go play with the other children on the village green. The number of fathers Lon had grew and grew. It wasn’t until he was older that he learned that they were often someone else’s father as well.

They never stayed in one place for very long--even if they did visit the same villages on occasion. More often than not they’d travel with a caravan that was leaving town; Merchants, soldiers off to be trained by one of the lords. This allowed them to survive the harsh wilderness where bandit attacks and mutterings of nearby orcs would bring any lone traveler little more than fear. Whenever the weather turned, Taryn would offer her voice and poems to the local tavern keeper for a night in the barn, next to the horses. Needless to say, neither of them ever knew luxury.

Taryn raised the boy to be keen and to be wary of the help offered by another when they claimed said aid was out of kindness and kindness alone. She taught him to sing, to poke fun in such a way that leaves a man’s ears burning but his temper stamped out by the ribbing of his friends. She taught him how to talk without saying much and not talk while saying a great deal. She taught him a great, great many things but the most important thing she taught him how to do was to live; Not in the ironic way that most people live. Day-to-day, dawn-til-dusk, a home, a family, a dog (though he’d not be opposed to the dog), but rather the way that the stars do. Bright and moving through the night sky, dazzling those who care to look.

Seventeen years did he live with his mother, wild and free. On the eighteenth day of his eighteenth year she told him that it was time to fly. Knowing the day would come, Lon packed his meager belongings, kissed his mother on the cheek and stepped out of the nest to fly on his own. It’s been another four years since that day. Taryn’s still out there, he’s sure, but he’s content enough to not go looking.

Equipment: Despite all appearances, Lon is far from unarmed. Within his cloak there are many things hidden within many pockets. They range from knives to explosive pellets all the way down to a handful of incredibly sharp rocks.

Within those pockets are other things, like very nice cheeses and crusty bread and maybe even an apple or two. A waterskin is surely in there somewhere.

A ragged lute is strapped to his back. Despite it’s appearance, he’s meticulous about keeping the strings fresh and well-tuned.

Most importantly, a small flute that’s carved of some sort of bone is perpetually at his side. A family heirloom, passed down through generations upon generations. Or so he’s told. The few times he’s used it the people who heard the tune became all too eager to get into a fight. Lon is loathe to play any songs on the flute these days and is convinced that it’s just horrendously out of tune.

Skills:There are few things in this world that Lon is truly proud of; Two of them are his singing voice and his quipping wit. With a voice like a choir, he’s able to belt out a song with the best of them. It’s a voice that’s suited to every and any song, brilliant trebles and deceptively low bass. The quickness with which he can turn anything into a song is both a boon and a way to bring harm to his and himself. In your average traveling group, Lon tends to fill the role of the talker.

Beyond those two things, he’s relatively decent with a knife. A life growing up inside of taverns that ran the gamut from ill repute to the sort of place where rich men “buy” favours from young boys led to the child becoming well acquainted with sinking a blade into the soft spots between another person’s joints. He’d not hold his own in a fight against a soldier, but your typical brute might find themselves with a nimble and slippery target that’ll probably shove a knife into their brain.

He’s also not too bad a survivalist and field medic. You pick things up on the road; Like which mushrooms you can eat without keeling over or how to stitch a wound up.

Motivation: Lon wants to hear your story. Yes, yours. He hikes along pathways and cliffs to travel from city to town to the smallest of farmsteads to entertain and catalogue the story of everyone he’s ever met.

Name: Adrianna Corvello
Race: Human
Nationality/Nation description: House Corvello of the Northern Marches
Situated in the Godsfang Mountains, House Corvello is the ruling chair of one of the Northern Marches controlled by Adrianna’s father Baron Durian Corvello.
Occupation: Warrior, diplomat, Baroness/Heiress (self-declared)

Religion:
“All men must die.” She does not believe Justinian is truly a demigod. Part of her suspects his seeming immortality is an elaborate hoax by the elders constantly surrounding him that creates the illusion thereof to control people through faith. The ruler and diplomat in her has studied the theory’s implications for government. She believes no religion, instead holding solely to her own code.

Appearance:
Adrianna is on the short side, but not significantly so. Her caramel blonde hair is a frizzed mess from wind riding through Nagath … still stretching down well past her shoulders. She pulls it back sometimes when she’s expecting a fight. She seems like a soft, caring person at first from her face but there is a fire in her eyes when one looks closely.

Her normal attire is far too elegant and valuable to have come from anywhere other than nobility. She sticks out like a sore thumb as an outcast from both the world around her and the world behind her, though she has grown not to care. She wears dark pants, shin-high leather boots, a loose fitting top, and parts of her armor all under a brown cloak. She keeps the upper chest piece, shoulder guards, bracers, and thigh pieces on most of the time, as she doesn’t fully trust anything in Nagath farther than she can throw it.

History:
Adrianna is the firstborn daughter of House Corvello. A son followed years later and only a year beyond that, twin boys. Her eldest brother is still four years her minor. Despite this, he is to inherit the kingdom. In all her studies and her fight training and her grooming to be a ruler herself, she was always told that it was the firstborn who would inherit the land. Nowhere was it stated it must be a son. She knew that in all the Northern Marches the daughters were married off yet Adrianna persisted with the intent to be a Baroness herself and not a trophy.

Her parents did try. They found themselves however in a predicament as House Corvello was not in need of any diplomatic marriages. Adrianna knew this from her studies. She proved to be “quite the handful” as one suitor put it. Her hand was offered to three men from other marches. Her eagerness & tact for governance was often considered as ‘overbearing’ from the men who merely wanted a simple wife. She is famously (within the family at least) quoted saying “I am a warrior and a diplomat. I am not some housewife to a spoiled man-child,” after the second attempt to give away her hand. Though Adrianna had evaded attempts to marry her off, her father - ever the traditionalist - still decided it must be the eldest son who ascends to power.

At first she was shocked and could not believe that he would deny her birthright from her. She jumped at every opportunity to prove herself worthy, as her father had promised he would allow. Every task, every challenger, and every single time she pushed herself hard and was the best she could possibly be. Still she was told time and again “Better.” Her disbelief turned into cynicism and disgust that she was to be barred from having what was hers by right. She was constantly angry at her brothers for being given the golden spoon – at her expense nonetheless – while she had to work to her limits and past them in vain to regain her claim to the throne.

Her older adolescent years were far from her most pleasant or personable. In her cynicism she was snappy and perpetually disgruntled by the smallest of things. Her temper was always short. On her 18th, she saw an armorer who fit her for a quality set of plate leather. While it was acknowledgement of her skills as a fighter, she still was unsatisfied. She had spent hours studying politics & diplomacy while her brothers played. Token recognition did not suit her. Even though she felt the gesture underhanded, she was quite pleased weeks later with the end result. Her personal armor set is something to behold: as much a status symbol as sturdy protection.

Her spoiled brother constantly made jokes about how it seemed so plain. Adrianna hadn’t wanted any large plates or elaborate helmets or shoulder spikes and similarly ridiculous garb her brothers were all obsessed with. The decoratives were in the details. A light scroll pattern on the plate and nothing more. Her forearm bracers though were as much a fashion statement as their other two purposes. The armorer had said their plates were forged from the remains of some of the greatest battle-tested armor ever. Little did she know that the steel in her favorite accessory had once belonged to the Dark Lord himself; they bore a power all their own.

In her permanent frustration, she was vulnerable to suggestion. The subtle power within her gauntlet pieces led her down a darker path. Her cynical complacence turned to a stubborn refusal to accept no for an answer. She became convinced not to be turned away quietly. More than once she confronted her father far more aggressively now, at one point straight up demanding she be given what is hers. With each successive denial and with their relationship straining, her father became the object of her fixation, and her fixation treaded into dangerously hostile waters.

After a final argument escalated to the point of guards being summoned – and summarily beaten into submission by a very angry Adrianna – she stormed out of the castle, hell-bent on proving herself worthy, dying trying, or finding the key to claiming the kingdom she is owed by force if necessary … whatever that key may be. She isn’t sure what she’ll find in the scorched ruins of Nagath, but something calls her there to realize her goals.

Personality:
She was raised to be a baroness. She knows how to be a lady of many hats and which face to wear in which situations. She is who she needs to be. At first meeting, she’s cheerful and nice and someone most people want to keep around. This more outgoing persona however does not last more than a few days. With most people, she has conducted her business and is long gone by then making it irrelevant. Those that stick around come to know that her youthful optimism is heavily tempered by a gruff cynicism. She comes across as far more of a realist – sometimes overly so – always preparing for whatever can be thrown at her.

Choose the right topic of conversation with her and you can bait out her darker side. She doesn’t ever choose to reveal it to people, but get her talking about the right things and it just kind of happens. Her goals, her ambitions, her family, etc. These bring out a side of her born of years of frustration and dark influences upon her mind. This is the side of her that will move Hell and Earth to get what she wants. Her ultimate goal: reclaiming the throne she considers her birthright, only ever exists in the back of her mind most of the time. When the pieces fall into place and she grows close enough to taste her victory, she becomes fixated – dangerously tunnel-visioned in fact – on finishing what she started, everything else be damned.

Adrianna maintains strong loyalties with anyone she believes can prove beneficial to her intents. She has no interest in maintaining relationships that have no present or future benefit to her. Her studies in politics and the arts of persuasion & coercion were primarily focused on the types of people she would deal with as Baroness. She could rhetorically twist the arm of a nobleman to get exactly what she wanted without even batting an eye. In the harsh wastes of Nagath, however, the people are far different and her silver tongue is worth little more than pewter. Her powers of persuasion are limited.

Equipment:
Full set plated leather armor – custom tailored. The bracers are one of the heaviest plates and also well decorated with a light scrolling work, hand-etched. These pieces specifically are forged from steel that has been melted many times and traces its origins back to the dark lord Daigon himself. She wears the upper part of the torso armor, the shoulder pieces, and the bracers most of the time.


She took a horse from the stable when she stormed from her home, taking with her some supplies to help her make it to a small town where she could stop over. She is ill-equipped for spending nights out in the wastes alone.

Skills:
Adrianna is a pickup fighter. She claims no one weapon as her own, but instead fights hand to hand and uses an opponent’s weapon against them. This makes her skilled and dangerous against a human opponent. Against the many monsters that roam the scorched lands of Nagath, she is of little threat and would easily become food. Her armor can resist a man’s blade but not the crushing blow of a five hundred pound beast.

She is also a diplomat at heart. She can negotiate for anything, or appropriately strong-arm for it if negotiations fail. She has studied rule and knows the ins and outs of how governance works. There are a variety of possible applications for this both benevolent and nefarious that she could offer a group.

Motivation:
There is no glory to be had in saving the empire, not in her eyes. She is here for her own goals and her own goals only. She’s not at all sure how she’s going to make it happen, but something in her mind tells her that she’ll recognize the key to her succession when she sees it.

Name:
Age:
Race:

Nationality:

Occupation:
Religion:
Appearance:
Personality:

Biography:

Equipment:

Skills:

Motivation: