Led onto a mission deep into the Viridian Sea, Serafina reflects with her charges as she begins their field training far from the bones and whispers of the strongholds of old.
[CHAR] An Earthen Lament
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- GM mickilennial
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 __________________________________________ Serafina of Gaddonfly _______________________________________________________________ 37 | Female | Southron _______________________________________________________________ ▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height - 5'9" ► Weight - 175 lbs ► Build - Athletic ► Hair Colour - Raven Black ► Eye Colour - Grayed Blue ► Origin - The Village of Gaddonfly, Southern Confederacy - ▼ S K I L L S E T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Swordplay - Skilled Duelist ► Archery - Sharpshooting Threat ► Monster Lore - Adept Bestiary - | D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sera, is, as other wardens say, demure and ghast-like. Born with a naturally light complexion, the years of traversing thick woodlands and dark caves has left her with a pale appearance that is riddled with battle-proven scars and markings. Though, the strange part is the woman appears broken and sickly, though the seriousness of her illness is hard to say as she often relishes in the distance of strangers and wardens alike. Some of her betters consider it a symptom of the persona she has adopted while others believe that she is genuinely on her last legs. It’s hard to tell which is the truth. Her eyes are reminiscent of the southron lakes. People oft are caught by their gaze and their nerves tickled, almost caught by the disheveled eye-shadow and scarred cheekbones as if they had no choice in the matter. The female warden is naturally athletic and well-built, but she is not particularly stocky or dense. She is of a peasant stock, so she is hardier than most yet she holds a rather typical height. None too tall nor none too short. Her equipment tends to gravitate toward complimenting this fact, allowing for mobility over being a moving tank. After all, wearing full-plate in the bog is a death sentence. Even when in informal dress she is never far from her sword or dagger, and she prefers to appear as destitute as possible beyond such weapons. Loose-fitting, cheap fabrics often accompany her dress, with a tattered, old cloak as their companion. |
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 __________________________________________ Thomas Rosemont _______________________________________________________________ 22 | Male | Northron _______________________________________________________________ ▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height - 6'0" ► Weight - 162 lbs ► Build - Wiry ► Hair Colour - Dirty Blond ► Eye Colour - Emerald Green ► Origin - The Barony of Rosemont, a subdivision of Wessumbra County in the Kingdom of Anemor - ▼ S K I L L S E T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Swordplay - Skilled with sword and shield ► Horsemanship - Capable rider, lancer ► Noble's Upbringing - History, Courtly Manner, Politics - | D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E A youth born of gentle birth, Thomas Rosemont stands a head taller than most and shares the angular jaw of his grandfather. Any sense of nobility these traits might conjure is broken by the presence of his button nose, rosy cheeks and wiry frame. His once fair skin has been shaded by the kiss of the sun, owed entirely to his fancying elk and boar hunts over stuffy courtly proceedings. Brown hair flecked with gold frames his square face, dropping down to just below his ears in length and contrasting sharply with the emerald in his eyes. And while he does his best to keep his face shaven, Thomas has fancied as of recent to let his side whiskers grow out to better define his rounded cheeks. Apart from his boyish looks, Rosemont's worst feature is easily his awkward demeanor. Thomas never took to the training of his tutors when it came to gentlemanly behavior and etiquette; not to say he was intentionally rude, per se, but that he was so intensely insecure that he of came across as aloof and dreary. He still to this day carries his shoulders in a low slouch and walks in short strides with his head tucked down, despite more than a decade of chiding from his family and teachers. Owing to his station as the son of a minor noble house, Thomas's clothing and equipment is always of quality make. He favors thigh-length tunics, long cloaks and riding boots for general use- typically in dark reds, golds, blacks and whites. When entering combat Rosemont dons the iron half-plate, chemically washed a porcelain white, his family's armorsmith fitted for Thomas specifically. The metalwork, while of excellent quality compared to what many of lower birth use, is still a step below that of a knight or lord's full harness. |
Growing up in abuse and hardship required that Thomas adapt to cope with his situation if he wanted to maintain his sanity. He chose to deal with it by putting distance between himself and his despondence with a layer of sardonic detachment, finding humor in even the worst moments. That sort of coldness has bled into all aspects of his personality, where in even positive or safe environments its incredibly rare for Rosemont to appear comfortable.
He's never felt any particular connection to others of his class, as most nobles look down their nose at him for being a bastard or, worse, a Rosemont. And he never had much of an opportunity to interact with others of different standing. Thomas was never too bothered by the lack of proper companionship, though, finding solace in his vices and other, less harmful outlets, like week-long hunts for elk and boar, or digging his nose into some stuffy tome he liberated from the family library.
There'd never been any line for Thomas to cross before he entered the service of the Blackwardens. There were things he wouldn't do, of course, but never because he'd developed some strong sense of right and wrong- all he had to go on was an intuitive feeling in his gut to act as his moral compass. Those were ideas he thought belonged to knights and noble kings and their like; Thomas's only goal was to avoid notice and survive. It wasn't until he was introduced to the warden's creed, The Path, that he began to consider such heady things as good and evil.
Some parts of the creed were more digestible than others. Evil lingering in all men was something he'd seen himself. It was easy to believe that, given the right circumstances, just about anyone could commit incredible acts of cruelty that they'd normally think revolting. Other things, like the preciousness of life or that none deserve to suffer, were...harder to contend with. He'd met many a person so gratuitously brutal that there was little they weren't deserving of, and their lives meant precious little to him. Still, if he were to ever actually be a Blackwarden, those were ideas he'd have to actually reckon with.
He's never felt any particular connection to others of his class, as most nobles look down their nose at him for being a bastard or, worse, a Rosemont. And he never had much of an opportunity to interact with others of different standing. Thomas was never too bothered by the lack of proper companionship, though, finding solace in his vices and other, less harmful outlets, like week-long hunts for elk and boar, or digging his nose into some stuffy tome he liberated from the family library.
There'd never been any line for Thomas to cross before he entered the service of the Blackwardens. There were things he wouldn't do, of course, but never because he'd developed some strong sense of right and wrong- all he had to go on was an intuitive feeling in his gut to act as his moral compass. Those were ideas he thought belonged to knights and noble kings and their like; Thomas's only goal was to avoid notice and survive. It wasn't until he was introduced to the warden's creed, The Path, that he began to consider such heady things as good and evil.
Some parts of the creed were more digestible than others. Evil lingering in all men was something he'd seen himself. It was easy to believe that, given the right circumstances, just about anyone could commit incredible acts of cruelty that they'd normally think revolting. Other things, like the preciousness of life or that none deserve to suffer, were...harder to contend with. He'd met many a person so gratuitously brutal that there was little they weren't deserving of, and their lives meant precious little to him. Still, if he were to ever actually be a Blackwarden, those were ideas he'd have to actually reckon with.
---O R I G I N
Thomas was born fourteen years before the Age of Dawn to Baron Cedric Rosemont. Cedric's wife, Eveline, was never fond of keeping the servant girls around once the bastards were born, so it wasn't any surprise the boy never knew his mother. He was the second youngest of seven male siblings and a half-score of sisters, all born either from one of Cedric's three legitimate marriages or any of his many extramarital affairs- earning Cedric the nickname 'The Salacious.'
As one of Cedric's legitimized bastards boys, Thomas wasn't raised for succession- but to act as an instrument of the family's will. He was training in swordplay when he was strong enough to hold one and was riding horses when he was tall enough to reach the stirrup. The trainers encouraged fierce competition among the siblings, punishing compassion and rewarding ruthlessness where they saw it. Thomas was never the best of them, but he managed to avoid the whipping's that came with repeated failure...most of the time, anyway.
The children were assigned work in their later years based on their aptitude for various things growing up, some going on to become stewards, others diplomats, spies or enforcers- Thomas fell into the last role, owing to his swordsmanship and his impatience for work in courts. It was his duty to act as retainer to his father during travel, to accompany the tax collectors and to deal with criminals, debtors, and threats to the baron as requested of him.
Nothing good was ever asked of Thomas. There were no knightly heroics or daring adventures, just the bloody work of a nobleman's thug: capturing runaway slaves, dragging indebted fathers from the arms of their families, and picking villagers clean of the little coin and bread they had. Thomas grew to hate it, choosing to distance himself from it by indulging in wine, girls and hunting at every moment. It was easier to drown his miseries away in frivolous luxury than to actually confront the things that bothered him so.
He wished he could say things changed because he tired of acting as a tool for evil men. Say that he came to a revelation and chose to confront the baron. Things were never as romantic as they were in the stories.
It'd been a late night out hunting down a gang of poachers when Thomas and his brothers road back to the town of Redbrook, the seat of the barony and Rosemont Keep. They'd already been drinking on the ride back, but Rowlan, the eldest of the bastards, suggested they stop at the alehouse to celebrate. Thomas, feeling particularly miserable that night, indulged more than usual. In a drunken haze he mouthed off at Rowlan, letting slip more than he'd wanted about his family's cruelty, and the trading of words quickly became physical. Rowlan was far stronger than Thomas and had little trouble putting him on his back. There was talk of dragging the boy before their father for his insolence, though they came to the collective conclusion that waking up Baron Cedric in the middle of the night to deal with this wasn't wise; instead, they'd tie Thomas up in the stable and deal with him in the morning.
Covered in mud, his nose shattered and in a drunken stupor, they tied Thomas to a post and left him there for the night to contemplate his fate. He wasn't particularly hopeful about his father's judgement, having seen what happened to others that stepped out of line firsthand. If it weren't for the kindness of a stranger its entirely possible he wouldn't live to see the next day. A young stablehand, woken up by the racket, wandered outside to find Thomas in his sorry state and chose to cut him free. Thomas took the opportunity to gather his things and flee south, never turning back.
It was in some shoddy, roadside tavern where Thomas was drinking himself under the table that a Blackwarden recruiter just happened to notice the sword on his hilt, the noble's sigil on his brooch and offered him a second chance at life.
As one of Cedric's legitimized bastards boys, Thomas wasn't raised for succession- but to act as an instrument of the family's will. He was training in swordplay when he was strong enough to hold one and was riding horses when he was tall enough to reach the stirrup. The trainers encouraged fierce competition among the siblings, punishing compassion and rewarding ruthlessness where they saw it. Thomas was never the best of them, but he managed to avoid the whipping's that came with repeated failure...most of the time, anyway.
The children were assigned work in their later years based on their aptitude for various things growing up, some going on to become stewards, others diplomats, spies or enforcers- Thomas fell into the last role, owing to his swordsmanship and his impatience for work in courts. It was his duty to act as retainer to his father during travel, to accompany the tax collectors and to deal with criminals, debtors, and threats to the baron as requested of him.
Nothing good was ever asked of Thomas. There were no knightly heroics or daring adventures, just the bloody work of a nobleman's thug: capturing runaway slaves, dragging indebted fathers from the arms of their families, and picking villagers clean of the little coin and bread they had. Thomas grew to hate it, choosing to distance himself from it by indulging in wine, girls and hunting at every moment. It was easier to drown his miseries away in frivolous luxury than to actually confront the things that bothered him so.
He wished he could say things changed because he tired of acting as a tool for evil men. Say that he came to a revelation and chose to confront the baron. Things were never as romantic as they were in the stories.
It'd been a late night out hunting down a gang of poachers when Thomas and his brothers road back to the town of Redbrook, the seat of the barony and Rosemont Keep. They'd already been drinking on the ride back, but Rowlan, the eldest of the bastards, suggested they stop at the alehouse to celebrate. Thomas, feeling particularly miserable that night, indulged more than usual. In a drunken haze he mouthed off at Rowlan, letting slip more than he'd wanted about his family's cruelty, and the trading of words quickly became physical. Rowlan was far stronger than Thomas and had little trouble putting him on his back. There was talk of dragging the boy before their father for his insolence, though they came to the collective conclusion that waking up Baron Cedric in the middle of the night to deal with this wasn't wise; instead, they'd tie Thomas up in the stable and deal with him in the morning.
Covered in mud, his nose shattered and in a drunken stupor, they tied Thomas to a post and left him there for the night to contemplate his fate. He wasn't particularly hopeful about his father's judgement, having seen what happened to others that stepped out of line firsthand. If it weren't for the kindness of a stranger its entirely possible he wouldn't live to see the next day. A young stablehand, woken up by the racket, wandered outside to find Thomas in his sorry state and chose to cut him free. Thomas took the opportunity to gather his things and flee south, never turning back.
It was in some shoddy, roadside tavern where Thomas was drinking himself under the table that a Blackwarden recruiter just happened to notice the sword on his hilt, the noble's sigil on his brooch and offered him a second chance at life.
---E Q U I P M E N T
- Arming sword, 'Littlethorn,' banded hilt & rose-engraved pommel
- Heater shield, emblazoned with familial heraldry
- Lance
- Javelins (x3)
- Half-plate armor
- sallet helm
- mail hood
- breastplate & pauldrons
- greaves
- gauntlets
- riveted tassets
- mail faulds
- Female courser, Wander
- riding cloak
- Satchel
- journal
- bundle of maps
- provisions
- flint and steel
- lantern
---O T H E R
Thomas, ironically enough, has a pollen allergy.
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Mcmolly D-List Cryptid
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 __________________________________________ Sybil, Daughter of Daumm _______________________________________________________________ 18 | Female | Southron _______________________________________________________________ ▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height – 4’11" ► Weight - 100 lbs ► Build - Slight Runner ► Hair Colour - Black ► Eye Colour – Dun Gray ► Origin – Unnamed or Unknown, Southern Confederacy - ▼ S K I L L S E T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Swordsman ship – Relentless harasser, ferocious and formidable ► Blood Magic – Blood for Brawn, understanding of the nature of sacrifice ► Dauntless – Voracious in the face of adversity, unblemished by fear - | D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sybil is much bigger on the inside than she is on the outside. She stands a head or two below her peers, even in greaves, and has a habit of lugging things around that put her size into an unfavorable perspective. Her physique is wanting for the focused muscle of a would-be warden, and instead she bears the build of someone who spent their life walking, and often enough, running. Otherwise, while not shying from exercise, she’s never put much stock into it. It’s not as though muscle would make her any taller. To compensate, she has mastered the art of the glower. The glare, the scowl, the knives-in-the-eyes-and-soon-in-your-spine stare, and it’s just about bolted on. She keeps her soot-colored hair in a short bob, her face framed by blunt bangs and dirt, neither of which lend her any disarming qualities. Her attire is a motley collage of southron culture, crossed with all the chic of a hedge knight with no money. Patchy cloths and dark leathers shift and chafe under joint segments of armor. The sword she carries stands nearly as tall as she does, and when it isn’t strapped to her back, she’s dragging it along like a dead animal. She cleans them when she cleans them, which just happens to be past the threshold most people do—people who don’t understand the value of a dirt sheen. At a glance Sybil may look like someone’s grumpy, ill-tempered niece, but in reality Sybil doesn’t have any aunts or uncles. |
There’s something unsettlingly vicious about Sybil, from the way she speaks and carries herself, all the way down to her personal ideologies. She has a low tolerance for socialization, and an indiscriminate temper that often leaves people with a low tolerance for her, and that’s all before the garnishing of sadistic tendencies and a wicked napoleon complex.
Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.
But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?
Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.
Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.
But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?
Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.
---O R I G I N
The wardens really will take just about anyone.
Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.
It made him terrible at pulling out.
Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.
It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.
But in another, important way, he was very different.
He was a mage.
More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.
At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.
Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.
Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.
So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.
Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.
The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.
Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.
It made him terrible at pulling out.
Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.
It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.
But in another, important way, he was very different.
He was a mage.
More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.
At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.
Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.
Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.
So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.
Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.
The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.
---E Q U I P M E N T
Arms and Armor
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak
Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak
Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"
---O T H E R
Utilizing her father’s unsurprisingly poor teaching, Sybil has learned a particular style of blood magic called Burning. This allows her to enhance her physical strength in exchange for blood. The greater the enhancement, the greater the cost, and for someone of Sybil’s build and stature, there’s a higher buy-in just to break even with most people. Because of this, she suffers in prolonged engagements, but can be quite deadly in bursts.
As well, Sybil generates blood at a quicker pace than is natural. Not enough to make a difference in combat, but enough for her to regain in hours what may have normally taken days, or to offset the cost of burning to lug her sword around.
As well, Sybil generates blood at a quicker pace than is natural. Not enough to make a difference in combat, but enough for her to regain in hours what may have normally taken days, or to offset the cost of burning to lug her sword around.
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