Holgarth Half-Blood, King o' the Hills and the High Places

Half-Giant

Male

35

Hair: Shoulder length, coal black, rough like horsehair
Eyes: Dark and challenging
Skin: Tanned, weather worn, tattooed, scarred
Length: 200cm / 6ft
Weight: 120kg / 265lbs
Build: Heavily muscular, broad chest, straight back
Clothes: Loincloth and boots, all leather

Say one thing for the King o' the Hills, say he's a hard bastard. Holgarth is focused to the point that he is sometimes percieved as humorless by other people. He's infamous for his fiery temper, judging quickly and harshly. Once Holgarth has set his mind on something it is hard, if not impossible, to sway him from his course. This stubborness of character doubles as bravery in battle, which he persues fearlessly when given the chance. Holgarth is that man that fighting men dread having to face, the kind that smiles and licks the blood of his teeth after you've punched him square in the face.

Holgarths philosophy can be quickly summed up as "Might makes Right". If you can take a thing, it is yours. If you can force an opponent to submit with violence, your position is the superior one. In his mind, violence is the supreme authority from which all other authorities are derived. This belief has bestowed him with a somewhat surprising respect for King Tyronde, whose force conquered Hogarths own. He is not one to submit, however, having vowed revenge and intending to collect Tyrondes head one day. He looks forward to the struggle with all his heart.

Bearing this in mind, one could be led to believe that Holgarth is nothing more than a mindless, bloodthirsty brute. Nothing could be further from the truth. The King o' the Hills and the High Places is a cunning man; perhaps not learned, but in possession of an uncanny guile forged from years and years of wars and battles. Holgarth knows that telling a man you will kill him does not make it so. The true warrior hides his blade in the grass and strikes when least expected. All in all, the Half-Blood is a very dangerous man to count among your enemies.

Holgarth was born to certain stars by uncertain parents under a bloodied moon somewhere in the High Places of the Westerlands. His mother, a human whose name has been lost to history, died giving birth to the giant baby. The abomination was quickly discarded by the tribe she belonged to, put in the wilderness to be eaten by wolves. They had not counted on Holgarths father to care for his offspring, but he did. The stars told of a promising future for the youngling, and the giant took him on to explore what destiny had in store. Not much is known about Holgarths formative years, but the rumor is that his giant father fed him blood instead of the mothers milk he was robbed of.

Many years later, Holgarth returned to his mothers tribe. She had been of noble blood, and the Half-Blood came demanding his position as chieftain of the tribe. They flatly refused, and so it came to be that Holgarth slew the twelve men that dared challenge his claim. The tribe reluctantly decided to accept him for fear of losing all of their warriors, and Holgarths life as a leader began. He wasted no time in demanding submission from the rest of the tribes in the Hills, conquering them one by one in a decade now known to the hillfolk as the Red Years. Finally, with noone left to challenge his rule, Holgarth named himself King o' the Hills and the High Places, and for a short while there was peace.

Not that there wasn't violence, though. The Half-Blood had barely consolidated his reign before he found other things to battle besides rivalling tribes. There were monsters in the hills, and warlocks, and roaming giants, all waiting to feel the bite of Holgarths blade. One of his most noted battles was his duel against the ancient undead giant warlord Geur-Nagh Under-the-Hill, from which Holgarth stole the Underblade; a terrible weapon, forged from Starsteel by the secret blacksmithing of the giants of old.

There came a day, however, when Holgarths reign would come to an end. A new King, Tyronde, was rising in the west, and he wanted the Hills for himself. The Half-Bloods forces met those of the White Tiger in the Valley of Fangs, and for a time they were evenly matched. Holgarth, excited about the strength of his foe, called on the White Tiger to meet him in single combat to decide once and for all who would be the victor, and to his great joy his adversary agreed. Only he didn't come himself. He sent a champion. He sent the Warden.

When he stared into the Wardens eyes, his gaze meeting those dark pits of cosmic horror, Holgarth knew fear for the first time in his adult life. The duel was over before it even began. The next thing he knew, Holgarth was no longer in the High Places, but in a cold and dark cell inside the Maw. Why they let him live, he cannot say, but he has sworn a sun-oath and a moon-oath for vengeance against those who bested him that day.

The Blood of Giants: Holgarths veins flow with the blood of his fathers people, the giants. This renders him stronger and tougher than humans, as well as speeding his recovery from injuries and granting him an innate resistance to magic. Unlike other men, Holgarth will never cease to grow, although he will never be the size of a true giant.

Forged from War: The Half-Blood is a monster in all forms of melee combat. The skill and ferocity with which he fights sends even hardened warriors scrambling in panic as their comrades are hacked to pieces by the fury of the madman. Though defeated by the Warden in their duel, Holgarth has never actually yet been bested in hand-to-hand combat.

King o' the Hills and the High Places: Holgarths name carries weight in some parts of the kingdom. Some still revere him with respect, while others cower in fear by the mere mention of his deeds. He still very much regards himself as King, and has the gravitas of character to back it up.

Barbarian: Holgarth is not a learned man. He has no academic training of any kind, and is even unable to read or write. He knows nothing of history, heraldry, or any other useful knowledge outside of combat and bushcraft.

Arcanophobea: Holgarth is incredibly wary of magic, to the point that he fears it. The one thing that has ever brought him to his knees is sorcery, and it was not a pleasant experience. This fear is multiplied by a lot where the Warden is concerned. Holgarth hated and fears her like the night does the day.

King o' the Hills and the High Places: Holgarths name is a two-edged blade. It inspires as much hate as it does fear, and there are many grieving widows and orphaned children out there who have sworn revenge for his crimes. Holgarths high thoughts of himself as King also comes with drawbacks of their own; arrogance, for one, and a sometimes unfounded demand for respect and authority.

The Underblade: Holgarths most prized possession. The blade is black as tar, and was supposedly forged from Starsteel by giant master smiths in the time before time. It was weilded by Geur-Nagh Under-the-Hill until Holgarth stole it from the undead giant warlord. The blade is seemingly unbreakable and cuts through most armor like a hot knife through butter. It is said that once the blade is drawn, it must have its fill of blood before being sheathed again, lest its wrath be awakened.

Name: Christoph
"Just Christoph. Family name? Rest assured, if I have any family left, they have almost certainly forgotten me."

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Character Age: 24
"25? 26? 35? Apologies, I haven't really been keeping count."

Appearance: "By all means, feast your eyes." He says, smiling.
Christoph is a well groomed man. Clean shaven, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. It's difficult to tell his true age, but he looks like a young man - a somewhat thin frame is accented by light musculature. A mischievous smile seems perpetually plastered on his face. His once fine clothes lie somewhat tattered on his body, and his hands seem constantly on the move, fiddling with whatever they can reach.

Personality: A liar and a charlatan, it's hard to take Christoph's words at face value. He has no regard for the past and little concern for the future. Life is one big game to him, and all he does is play. Such lowlives can be found in droves in the back alleys of any city of the Westerlands, but what sets Christoph apart is his unrelenting thirst for gambling. He plays large with every bet, wins a fortune and risks it all again. He has played every game there is to play, clutching glory from the depths of despair and defeat from the hand of victory. Despite the innumerable setbakcs he has doubtlessly suffered, no loss has ever quenched his penchanct for gambling. His habits have generated much infamy for this man, and along with the powers granted to him by his infernal patron, he has become a very dangerous person.
"A liar, you say? I do my very best to be honest. Am I really at fault for the misunderstandings of others?"

Background: Ask Christoph about his story and he'll tell you any number of conflicting things. A writer, a mucisian, a priest, a stage actor, an orphan... But some things are known for certain. People of his disposition tend to not last very long, losing their life to some godforsaken gambit or getting on the wrong side of a powerful man. But the gangs that prowled the back alleys of the Westerlands have been encountering Christoph for decades. Rumor has it that he struck a deal with a demon, as those in extreme circumstances are so wont to do. But it wasn't strength, or wealth, or life that he traded for. Somehow, he had struck a bargain for a part of the demon's own power.

In the years since that fateful day he spent every day much the same, only he no longer gambled with wealth. His new gift allowed him to usurp the immaterial; to take one's names, their social status, their lives, like he would take their coin. The sad irony of his newfound prosperity, however, was that it never sated Christoph's love for gambling. It seemed like every day he took one more stupid risk, one more bad bet. Just a little more and it would all be over. Somehow things always went well, and he would always be pulled out of disaster at the last second. Like some watchful deity, or crafty demon was looking over his shoulder in amusement. But one day, his luck finally ran dry when he took the wrong thing from the wrong person.

Really, it wasn't his fault. How was he to know that the noble lady he had seduced was the daughter of a Duke? And how would he know that she was the unrequited paramour of the newly reformed Kingdom's prince? So when an angry young noble arrived in front of him barking obscenities, Christoph did what he always did. He made a bet with him, and he won. Christoph waited comfortably, prepared for any revenge the foppish young noble cpuld bring. What he couldn't have anticipated was half the guards of the capital coming after him, along with the of the girl's father. After a long, harrowing chase, he was finally brought down. His crimes were heavy, but in light of his... unusual talents, he was broughtto the Maw. Perhaps they could put his talents to use for the glory of the kingdom.
"Oh come now, I only took a few years from his lifespan. He's the prince, he has plenty to go around."

Talents:

• Dark Wager
  Borrowing the power of demonic contracts, Christoph has the power to offer (and receive in return) anything in the world, under certain conditions. Firstly, the offered and gained items must be equivalent in value. Secondly, the items must be offered as a wager on a game. Lastly, the game must be agreed on by all parties involved. The game in question is moderated by an unseen arbiter, and rewards are distributed immediately on victory. Winner takes all. Naturally, only the truly desperate would trade their greatest gifts, and Christoph has burned his bridges many times over. He has retained some wagers he has gained over the years; the ability to run quickly and the ability to temporarily gain an orc's strength chief among them. But the rest have been gambled away.
• Infernal Luck
  It seems that Christoph's infernal patron has a vested interest in seeing him live. Whether it's simply to secure his investment or out of some dark amusement, no one can say. He occasionally shows his favour in subtle ways, and only in the direst moments. A small nudge here, a little slip there, just enough to tip the scales in contractee's favour. It's hard to tell when and where the shadowy fiend has interfered, Christoph only knows that he has, and will do so again. But he knows that, if he wants his patron to have a more direct hand in things, he needs to be ready to lose something.
• Sleight of Hand
  Despite his insistence that he does not cheat during his games, Christoph has considerable expertise in underhanded tactics. Whether it's from natural talent or carefully honed technique, his excellent dexterity allows him to manipulate small objects in subtle ways.
• Glib Tongue
  Christoph speaks in a very insincere manner, making it difficult for others to believe in his honesty. But on the other hand, it makes it very easy for him to weave truth into lies, to weave a web of deceit around others.

Flaws: First and foremost amongst his weaknesses is his love for gambling. He will never take the safe path when a risky option is available. It's less of a thought and more of a compulsion of his. He finds it difficult to control himself, and usually will not even attempt to do so. And secondly, he is not a very potent fighter. Christoph's talents lie in subtler fields, gleaning information with daggers in the dark. He leaves the fighting for others to handle.
"I live to gamble and gamble to live. I unfortunately have not had much time for other pursuits."

Equipment: A deck of cards, a pair of bone dice.
"Unenchanted, of course. I never cheat in my games, whatever help that is to you."

Name

Borslev "Bors" Titanstone

Race

Mountain Dwarf - Titanite Clan

Gender

Male

Age

71 (dwarves age slightly slower then many races. He's the equivalent of a 30 year old Human)

Appearance

Black Haired, ruddy pale skin, grey eyes, grey like granite, his eyes are lidded heavily, unused to sunlight, used to the dark of caves and the red of lamp light or candle light. A full black beard running down to his waist, with the tip just reaching below his groin, thick long black whiskers, often braided by his own hand, with a few small effigies hidden within the braids. The dwarf weighs atleast 277 pounds of solid dwarven muscle, most of it in his chest, arms and neck which are thick and corded. His build is squat and powerful, muscle all about his chest, neck, arms and shoulders, built from hard work, and deep hardship, every second of which he's damned proud of. He wears thick leather clothing, of dwarven design, which before it was taken from him was the padding under a Dwarven Deep Miners Adamant Steel armor. Now it's one of his very few outfits, and damn if anyone is going to take it from him. He has a pair of rings, one of his left pinky the other on his right forefinger. The left one is marked with the Titanite Clan sigil of two crossed hammers on a blue azurite background. The right one is the sigil of the Titanstone Family Mining Company, a pick crossed over a mining charge laid with silver on a onyx stone in a silver band. He broke the skull and nearly killed the guard who tried to take them, the other guards left it be after he near throttled a second guard who tried to take the rings.

Personality

Bors is gruff, easy to anger like alot of dwarves can be yet kind and initially seems like an affable and courteous type. Far from the kind of person who should be in the Maw. Until we realize all that kindness and courtesy hides a seething rage and easy wish to hurt people. He can be laughing and popping dirty jokes and limericks one second before launching into a near psychopathic rage and wailing on someone with anger controlled strikes of brutal hands and feet.

The dwarf exhibits all the hidden signs of some who temper is held barely in check by a powerful willpower and need to be useful.

Likes - Good tools, beer/ale/whiskey, the quiet of a deep mine and the strike of an axe pick on stone, finding that rare treasure in the dark of the mine.

Dislikes - Braggarts, loud environments, rowdy company, getting a raw deal.

Background

It's a fine tale we weave sometimes.

Borslev Titanstone, born into the parent family of the Titanite Clan. Third son to Lord Mine Keeper Talosin Titanstone and his wife Lady Keykeeper of the Mine Reia Titanstone nee Stormpick of the Stormstone Clan. Both of Bors parents coming from valued and powerful families. The Stormstones being one of the most wealthy when it came to property among the Clans. While his father being the current Lord Mine Keeper of the Titanite mining empire, fourth largest mining family and company in the dwarven under kingdom of The Westerlands, and the other three mining clans just barely kept their lead out of yields rather then through sheer size. So Bors was brought up in very prestigious settings. A fine strapping lad from birth. coming into the world with lusty wails and has been said to have kicked his father in the nose when his father first came to pick him up from his mother's arms.

But as fits the third son he was told if he inherits it'd be only if his older brothers were to die or be exiled. Bors didn't mind.

He threw himself into his education as soon as he could. Dwarven schools being more apprenticeships then human schools. He bounced from master to master for the years between 9 and 13, getting a taste for the 5 main trades of the Dwarven kind, blacksmithing, silversmithing, goldsmithing, brewing and mining. With sometime also looking at soldiering, growing food and artificing. He took to mining with gusto, apprenticing to one of his uncles in one of the Titanite cadet families the Titanhammer family. Taught how to read write and figure beside his lessons and training in strength, endurance, tunnel digging and how to handle an axe pick properly. The details of how to spot hidden cracks in stone and what to watch for to escape accidentally waking the things that sleep in the deep of the earth. His early life into his 30s was spent learning and finding his place in the mines and in the family. When he reached 35 he was asked to pick an advanced vocation, and chose the role of Deep Miner. Those Dwarves who brave the deepest part of a mine places where a pick hasn't struck yet, where things in the deep may lurk, a place where the dim light of a candle maybe the only light you see for weeks before you break into a hidden cavern of diamond or mythril deep in the earth.

Upon reaching 40 he returned to his family, welcomed by his father and mother, and officially welcomed into the main family mines. It wad one of the finest days of his life. And he worked until 50 years old without problems.

Until his 57th year. He had gone out to a tavern with his mining squad. This was the day he killed for the first time that wasn't some deep mine beast or feral goblinoid mine invader. A bar fight broke out, but Bors believed he was far enough away he could ignore it. And putting it out of his mind he drank and ate. And was happy with his ale and meal that he didn't hear the fight getting closet. Until someone crashed unto him, and his ale, stew, bread and waiting bread pudding ended up into his beard. He got to his feet, turned and swung he heavy steel tankard in his hand at the closest member of the fight. The dwarf went stiff and pitched to the floor. Unbeknownst to Bors the dwarf was dead a single hefty blow having killed him, even more unknown was the dwarf had been the captain of a noted mining militia. Bors left before the death wad found out. But was found the day after as he wad making ready to head into the mine. Bors was taken away and questioned, only after 7 hours did his father find out and by them Bors had been beaten, the Militia colonel trying to make his confess to a murder despite it being an accident. His father and his lawyers though showed up and cowed the colonel into leaving it be. But this was the start of Bors internalized rage. He stuffed all that anger over being interrogated down for now, holding it deep deep done like the mine and cave passages he traveled in.

It was a few weeks later when he killed for his second time, a member of that militia tailed him and tried to meters out revenge foe the killing of the captain. The soldier jumped Bors and tried to choke him out between mine passages. But the big dwarf that he is Bors lifted the Dwarven soldier and in a fit of anger pitched him down a mine shaft. Bors reported the assault this time. But he secretly reveled in having killed the dwarf.

Over the next year he'd be challenged too no less the four duels by progressively higher ranked dwarven militia and soldiers. Until one fat he was in the Grand Arena of the Dwarven High Kings Hold, facing off against a General of the Dwarven Self Defense Force. The kings envoy had told him specifically that he was going to throw this fight, to stop this farce of high ranked dwarves either dying or being humbled by a mere deep Miner. The duel was one sided alright. But this was the first time that Bors family got to watch that hidden rage in their scion. The general came into the arena decked out in ceremonial leather armor made for show with a ceremonial double bladed battle axe. Bors entered with his axe pick sharpened to a gleaming finish, his heavy thick Adamant armor, freshly mended with new plates and chain mail added. The fight was one sided alright. Bors' anger and rage was silent only voiced by his soft grunts of effort as he hacked and pierced at the general with powerful swings. Eleven minutes the duel lasted. Eleven minutes where Bors ended up leaving nine huge gashes in the general armor, nine bleeding holes. And Bors only grew to hate and rage even more when the High King stopped the duel then the High King of the Dwarves ruled in favor of the general even as the general lay bleeding. Bors swallowed that rage and anger. And left. Returning to the mine, but dwarves knew something was deep inside Bors something angry, something waiting.

It'd be in his 68th year that he was strangely called to the High Hold again. And when he would kill his highest ranked people ever. He was shown into a parlor in a very elegant restaurant. Met by three people. A human envoy from the Westerland court, a Dwarven Thane Lord. And Prince of the Dwarven Realm Naluir Goldbeard, son of the High King. A noted deep.miner sitting in the same room as such august people. What the hell?

Soon though Bors rage and anger began to boil roil and seeth. The thane and the prince had invited Bors not ad a guest but as a joke, they recounted Bors duels like they were children's tails to the human calling Bors and his family liars and cheap fools. The laughter and gaiety were loud and raucous. Until everything went quiet. For an extended time. Finally a servant entered the room. And found only Bors alive. Covered in a layer of blood and viscera. The envoy dead, the thane dead and the prince...hung from a rafter by his innards. All showing signs of being beaten and killed in a rage filled attack.

His father couldn't safe him now, not when it was recounted Bors had just continued eating and drinking even as the Hold Guards arrived and arrested him. And certainly couldn't help him when during the trial before the mourning high King it was retold how Bors had nearly beaten the interrogator to death as well.

The deepest gaol mines were too good for Borslev Titanstone, it was said, execution was too good. The High King petitioned The Human king to send Bors to the Maw.

Yes it's a fine, terrible story we weave.

Talents

Mining - No stranger to moving and working in Confined spaces, a close understanding of the hazards of the deep places.

Explosives Training - Learned in the creation, usage of and capabilities of explosives, especially in the case opening charges.

Heavy Arms and Armor training - A deep Miner will live or die by how well maintained his armor and axe pick are.

Close Quarters Fighter - Used to close spaces and fight so close you can feel your opponents breath and smell their sweat.

Understanding of Old terrors - Has been witness to some of the things that live in the deep deep dark places of the world, things, beasts and demons that some can only imagine.

Flaws

Deep Rage - Bors is not well. He appears to be kind and approachable but deep in the core of his being, is a rage that is so lead dense and hard as steel that its almost supplanted his other emotions.

Light of the sun - Ah fuck that's bright ahh why am I up here!

Fear of Old Terrors - Once you've seen something made of shadow, lightning and beaks boil up out of hard stone and swallow another dwarf whole, and leave you alone with not a single sound made even you would fear them.

Lust for the Deep Rage - I think he likes it...dear gods...I think he likes it!

I need to mine, I want to mine! - Mining is his coping mechanism, so to keep him calm he's allowed to help broaden the Maws underground facilities...under close and strict watch of course.

Equipment

Full suit of Adamant Steel armor - made from mythril, mixed with dwarven steel, meteorite iron and diamond dust, a suit of Adamant armor is the only thing that can stand the pressures of the deep mines and the shadowed claws and teeth of the things down there

Head torch - Candle powered head torch casting a small pool of yellow light

Deep Mines axe pick - a mining pick and a battle axe married as one versatile tool

Deep Mines Face Mask - Part breathing mask part face protection one very scary metal visage.

Miscellaneous
If I think of more I'll put it here

Name

Qal

Race

Satyr

Gender

Non-binary

Age

27

Appearance

Personality

Qal is a very introspective person, quiet and reserved, they often seem to be observing a situation before acting. The real truth is that Qal often gets lost in thought and zones out, and usually only tunes back in when they are required to, making them quite good at acting quickly and faking that they know what’s going on.

They do prefer the company of animal companions over sentient beings, but that’s mostly due to not knowing very many people - living alone deep in a distant forest doesn't often give Qal the opportunity to make friends with people.

The beast is always hungry and enjoys the taste of human the most, though it will happily eat anything humanoid. It will not eat any creature with magic, and often leaves them alone unless provoked. It tends to attack the strongest target first.

Likes: rodents, fungi, hand-crafted trinkets, rain, thought-provoking questions, spleens
Dislikes: large birds, procrastinating, assumptions, intestines

Background

Qal was cursed to turn into a mindless beast every new moon by a jealous druid who hated Qal's natural connection with nature. The cursed beast was meant to hunt and kill the forest creatures until the forest corrected the balance of things and killed Qal. However, even as a beast, Qal could not bring themself to harm a single creature in the forest, and instead fled, finding their way to a small village and slaughtering the entire population in their bloodlust.

After that, Qal tried to look for a cure and locked themself up every new moon, but over time, they started to connect with their beast. Feeling bad about keeping a part of themself locked up, both metaphorically and physically, Qal stopped holding back and let themself run free during the new moon.

Of course, word of a monster going on a rampage every month eventually got around and rumors of this beast being an old demon accomplice of the Fallen King started to gain traction. Hunters tracked Qal down after a new moon, and since Qal was no longer a beast during the day, the hunters turned Qal in instead of killing them - though after being imprisoned, Qal wonders if dying would have been the kinder fate.

With nothing to do but think and talk to the rats, Qal has become closer to their beast, and while they haven’t fully mastered it, Qal has started to learn how to transform outside of a new moon. With this stronger connection - or because Qal is no longer fighting the part of them that is the beast - Qal no longer completely forgets everything while transformed, experiencing it much like a dream: with little control and a vague remembering upon waking up.

Talents

• has immense knowledge of plants for alchemical purposes & knows recipes for various healing potions and poisons
• has an incredible sense of sight and smell
• always knows which way is North
• can talk to most animals, though not always accurately
• if fatally wounded, will turn into the beast to heal

• the beast has incredible strength and senses - 10x that of Qal
• the beast can detect any traces of magic
• the beast moves so fast, most believe it teleports - only those with extraordinary vision or senses can tell when it moves
• the beast can freeze anything it touches and always exudes a cold aura
• the beast is immune to cold and ice
• the beast's hide is tough and is difficult to cut through
• the beast is stronger and faster the darker and colder it is
• the beast can heal almost any wound instantly - the only exceptions being silver and fire, which heal at the same rate as Qal's regular wounds

Flaws

• turns into a beast every new moon
• is unable to ignore an animal in distress
• is immediately distrustful of anyone with magic

• the beast is very sensitive to bright light
• the beast has very little intelligence - if things can't be smashed to solve the problem, it is unsolvable to the beast
• the beast is considered a demon and shares a weakness to celestial/radiant attacks
• the beast does not like fire - for both how hot and how bright it is

Equipment

• squirrel skull necklace - made from their first familiar, Hawl, as a memento to remember him
• bag of various herbs and plants
• belt of bottles and vials - some filled, most empty (8x empty, 2x healing salves, 1x acid potion)

Miscellaneous

The beast is based off of a wendigo, and the transformations after Qal fully connects to the beast will function much like the Hulk does. The druid who cursed Qal is named Liea and she is a human.

Ferns the Frail


Half-Orc


Male


33


Feras isn't your typical half-orc. Rather than bulging with meaty muscle his build is lean and lithe, more dancer than prize fighter. Hes still as tall as the rest of his kin though, easily standing over 6 foot with change. His skin, where it is not criss-crossed with silvery-grey scarring, is a pale green. His hair is dark, grown long and braided on one side of his head, shorn to the skin on the other. That, coupled with his winter blue eyes lends him a rather striking appearance.


Calm and thoughtful, well-spoken and better educated than his background would suggest, Feras is a true oddity. His wry observations and sardonic wit bely his quick mind.

Life as both a Half-Orc and a peasant has taught Feras that life isn't fair, especially not for people that look like him. He has learnt that the only way to get through life is to be careful, to consider all the angles, and plan for all eventualities. If that all fails, then it pays to be adaptable, and he's anything if not adaptable. If there's an easy way through life, he hasn't found it yet, but he's working on it.

All that said, he's still a half-orc, his rage runs as hot as any other greenskin's. He's just learnt to hide it better. Piss him off and he might not charge you down with axe drawn then and there, but he'll mark the slight down and plan to return the favour in future. Revenge is a dish best served cold, after all.

If you ask him he'd say he prefers the simple things in life, though as it's only the simple things that have been open to him that may not be by choice. Nevertheless a refreshing pint on a hot day, a hearty bowl of warm soup in winter, the smile of a pretty girl, swapping stories with good comrades around the camp fire; these are the things that keep him going. Or at least that's what he tries to convince himself.


Like many a Half-Orc Feras doesn't know who his parents are. Whatever maternal instinct that entices the mother to carry the baby to term usually stops short of actually raising the little monster. Still, Feras was luckier than most. At least his mother dropped him off on the steps of an Abbey, rather than off a cliff, which isn't an unheard of fate for his mongrel kind.

His luck held out insofar that this Abbey did not follow the ways of the Temple of the Sun, and were in fact more accepting of monsters and demi-humans. The Monks there raised the baby Feras, educating him when he grew old enough. He eventually learnt that they meant to induct him as a lay brother in their order when he reached his twelfth birthday. As much as he appreciated them taking him in and looking after him for as long as they did, the thought of surrendering himself to their boring, ascetic lifestyle horrified young Feras. He fled the Abbey the night before his birthday, with no idea of where he was going to go, but knew anywhere he ended up would be better than swearing his vows to God.

It didn't take long for him to fall in with the thieves guild. The guild were only too happy to accept a youngster with as quick hands (and even quicker wits) as Feras. It also helped that he was handy in a scrap, be that with rival gangs or the city guard. He spent years in the guild, learning the skills of the pickpocket, the footpad, the burglar, and eventually the enforcer. The guild got too big too quickly though, eventually earning themselves the attention, and the ire, of the Crown. Soldiers flooded the streets, clamping down on all Guild activities, and throwing any guild members they found in irons. Recognising his time in the city was up, Feras had a forger contact craft him up some fake documents that allowed him to sign on with the Kings Commandos, a specialist unit of foresters and rangers primarily made up of non-humans, who were heading out into the wilds on an Orc hunting expedition.

With the Commandos Feras travelled the length and breadth of the Kingdom, fighting a every sort of vicious beast, monster and barbarian to slink out of the shadows of untamed wilderness and sink its teeth into civilisation. It was a hard life, but Feras grew to enjoy the camaraderie, the excitement and the danger. He revealed himself to be an excellent tactician, and his superiors marked him for a leadership position.

Things changed when King Tyronde took the crown though. Under his new reign a mixed force of armed demi-humans couldn't be permitted, at least not one as autonomous as the Royal Commandos. They were ordered to surrender their weapons and stand down. However the Commados had heard of Tyrondes purges, his executions, and the sacrifices he allowed the Temple of the Sun to commit, and believed that was what was in store for them if they complied with his demands. They chose to disobey the King, and go on the run.

Long years of a deadly game of Cat and Mouse followed, the Commandos performing a guerrilla campaign against the Crown and the Temple, always persuade by Royalist forces. While they enjoyed some initial success the Commandos numbers were eventually whittled down, piece by piece, until only a few dozen remainder, led by Feras. Surrounded, starving, and outmatched, Feras was convinced by his men to treat with the Royal forces. Assured that his men would be spared if they surrendered, Feras called a cease to the hostilities. He was split from his men, sure that he would be executed as the sole remaining leadership figure of the Commandos.

To his own surprise he was instead thrown in chains and brought to the Maw. His mission now is to escape the hellish prison he finds himself in, and to track down his serving men and somehow escape the Kingdom that has betrayed him and all like him.


His childhood at the Abbey has left Feras with a quite comprehensive (for a peasant) education. He knows his history, literature, Royal genealogy, theology and arithmetic, more so than would be expected of any impoverished orphan. Of special note is the fact he can read, a skill he utilises often, but rarely reveals to those around him.
The Thieves Guild taught him stealth, pick pocketing, and lock breaking. Show him a rich merchant's house and he can break in, sneak around, and be out with the valuables in a matter of minutes and without the owner being any the wiser. They also taught him to fight, in a rough, brutish, brawl-like manner anyway. It wasn't pretty, but damn if it wasn't effective.
His time with the Commandos took all this skills and refined them unto excellence. Under their weapon masters he became a combatant that could give even the most experienced of knights pause for thought. With their rangers he learnt to move like a ghost, and to fall upon his enemies like a storm. And under their commanders he was taught all the intricacies of warfare; how to read the terrain he fought upon, how to inspire his men, how to strike fear into his enemies, when best to retreat from superior foes, or how to best punish an enemies weaknesses.


Feras is almost completely uninitiated in magic, and so holds a healthy fear of all magic users, and will always think twice before facing one.
His rage is also something of an issue. While not the frothing-at-the-mouth brute that most other Half-Orcs are, he still has a hotter than most temper, one that sees him pursue grudges long after he should, or make choices that could be generously described as ill-advised in pursuit of those grudges.
He's also something of an idealist. While he has seen the worst of what the Kingdom has to offer he is, somewhat subconsciously, always looking for the best in life and those around him. Not a useful trait in the Maw, perhaps even a fatal one.
While being a Half-Orc has its perks, he's still just a mortal. He can't rely on godlike strength or sorcerous powers to get him out of scrapes. Instead he has to use his skill at arms, his wits, his cunning, and a fair measure of luck to help him survive. All that on measure, shooting fireballs out your eyes would probably be more helpful.


Feras' equipment had long been removed by the time he had entered the Maw. As a commando he was never particularly fussy about what weapons he carried. Battle is a chaotic thing, so you're better being able to fight with the tool that suits the job rather than relying on one catch all weapon that might be good for some tasks and bad for others. He'll wield a mace if he has to fight Knights in plate armour, a dagger if he's sneaking about in the dark, a shield if he has to fight in the wall. The smell goes for armour.

Sariel

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Name

Sariel Amastacia

Race

High Elf

Gender

Female

Age

27

Appearance

A high elf, touched by the slow beginnings of undeath, Sariel is said to have been cursed by her close association with the undead. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight, and her eyes seem almost to glow with a cold, baleful blue light. Hidden beneath a layer of fabric, her right arm is skeletal, and moves through arcane means.

The light of the elves has begun to fade from her being. Warm joy now turning to cool detachment. Sariel moves no longer with the effortless grace of her people, but with the ghostly agility of the undead. Her visage has become that of a fell apparition, conjured from the depths of some long forgotten tomb.

Personality

Sariel is a creature driven by her singular obsession with understanding the cosmic forces of life, death and undeath. Marked by her studies, her emotions have been tempered by the wisdom of the grave. She feels all that she once did, but she notes a growing detachment in her passions and a cold chill that has begun to envelope her soul.

Far from menacing in most situations, Sariel is polite, kind even, if permitted such graces by the situation or those she encounters. She knows that many fear her. She knows that many revile her. She holds little hope for reconciliation. The Maw is proof enough of the paltry mercy offered by the kingdom. Sariel does not deceive herself. She sees no advantage in such desperate deception. They will not free her, all know this to be true, but the dead counsel her to be patient, and Sariel intends to heed their whispers.

Imprisonment has done little to dampen her confidence. However, Sariel remains far from reckless and the dark, damp cell in which they have left her has only sent her gaze further inwards. Even in the Maw there are dead to speak to. They can take her arcane components. They can take her possessions. And they can take her beloved grimoire. Sariel does not dispute this. Yet, a wizard, a necromancer, a true seeker of the truths that lie beyond death itself cannot be so easily dissuaded.

In happier times, Sariel was disagreeable only when faced with the ignorant and those quick to judge her for her vocation, reviled as it is across the land. For all her differences with her kin, she still possesses the storied charm of the elves, transformed as it has been into the dread presence of the grave. She navigates social interactions in the Maw with unexpected ease for a wizard with a habit of engaging in lengthy conversations with the dead.

Uninterested in tradition wreathed in ceremonial judgment, Sariel is unconcerned with the social mores and taboos that would restrict her practice of necromancy. In turn, she would happily offer others the same freedom and keeps an open mind.

Background

Talents

Spell Caster with a Capital S - Sariel is no mere hedge wizard, no unstudied practitioner of magic, and no unrestrained spellcaster. No, she is a wizard, a true wizard, a supreme magic-user who draws on the subtle weave of magic that permeates the very cosmos to cast powerful spells.

Necromancer - Sariel is a necromancer, a feared and hated wizard concerned chiefly with mastering the school of necromancy magic. Her spells manipulate the power of death, unlife, and the life force that animates all living creatures.

Arcane Scholar - Deeply concerned with the underlying mechanics and nature of magic, Sariel is an ardent student of the arcane. She seeks to uncover arcane secrets through extensive studies, even trapped as she currently is in the hellish pit of the Maw. Steeped in the writings of mages past and the cryptic advice of the undead, Sariel possesses an extensive knowledge of arcane lore and history of the realm.

Flaws

Necromancer's Stubborn Pride - Sariel is prideful, convinced of her own righteousness, how else could she wander a path that most perceive as leading only to inescapable damnation? Her pursuit of arcane knowledge has grown beyond mere obsession and Sariel is unwilling, perhaps unable, to consider the dangers inherent to such unwavering single-mindedness.

Undead Torpor - At times, Sariel appears to be wracked by the apathy often identified in the spirits of the dead. The concerns of the living no longer seem quite as important to her. The petty squabbles and bloody wars of the narrow-minded now seem beneath her enlightened mind. Even death has begun to feel like an old, familiar friend, rather than something she should be afraid of. Rousing Sariel from such musings and moods can require significant effort.

Still Human - Besides a skeletal arm and her slow transformation into something undead, Sariel remains distinctly mortal, a noticeable disadvantage when compared to some of the other prisoners in the Maw.

Equipment

Taken from her when they tossed her into the Maw, Sariel's arcane grimoire contains the culmination of her study of necromancy. It is no exaggeration to say that Sariel would do anything to recover her ancient tome. She can see the silver ruins inlaid into the black leather cover in her dreams.

Another of her prized possession lost to her jailers was a bag of holding containing a number of arcane components and small items of comfort.

Predictably, her guards also took away her ornate silver dagger, an enchanted blade that courses with the souls of more than one willing sacrifice.

Her final piece of confiscated property is a long robe, a gift from a patient demilich amused by her questions. An elegant garment made from exquisite black cloth, woven into the robe are protective magics far beyond mortal understanding.

Miscellaneous

Weaves-in-Shade

Moonwalker

Female

1,164 Moons (Approximately 96 Years)

• Hair: Long, black, and silky.
• Eyes: Reddish brown, unfocused, and impassionate.
• Skin: Sun-kissed—unusual for the notoriously pallid race.
• Height: 237 cm / 7'9"
• Weight: 97.5 kg / 215 lbs
• Build: Tall, spindly, and uncanny.
• Clothes: Exceedingly exquisite, but that's typical of Moonwalkers.
• Other: Some say she has an aura of grace, but really, she just walks slowly to let shorter creatures keep pace with her.

Moonwalkers are thoroughly inexpressive creatures, as emotionally distant as they are physically distant in height from other beings. So the legends say, anyway. "Weaves" remains mostly silent unless spoken to, but is nonetheless quite open with her views, if one only gathers the courage to ask—or knows where to look. Moonwalkers express feelings through poetry and art rather than facial muscles or emotional outbursts as humans do. On one hand, this gives Weaves an air of grace and elegance that is perhaps undeserved, and on the other, it creates a sort of emotional language barrier between her and her allies. If you were to ask her, Moonwalkers are much more similar to humans than they appear, the strangest thing about humans being that they keep their written language, suitable only for recording mundane details. Why fight so hard to preserve that which nature deems unimportant? For if it was important, it would be remembered—or so her shallow logic goes. She's a mellow and easygoing sort, for the most part—content to focus on the big picture, and let details and sleeping dogs lie where they may.

Generally speaking, most races have an innate fear of Moonwalkers—though they don't commonly know them by that name. Weaves does eschew some of their notorious traits, though. When appropriate, she will at least try to smile, though it remains unnatural and physically challenging for her to do. She also tries to avoid having such a looming presence, though there's only so much she can do about it without coming across as condescending. Weaves could be described as either a stern yet gentle giant, or a non-aggressive terror of the night, depending on who you ask. On the battlefield, however, she's best described as "serenely destructive." While other denizens of the Maw show violence in an impressively explosive or subtly festering way, Weaves' unique brand of cruelty is pure and structured—sadistic artistry, polished to a mirror sheen. It's entirely natural within that context to see her as an emotionless psychopath, but if you were to ask her, she'd describe her wrath as a purely corrective force of nature, and a righteous indignation with punishments to match the crimes committed by her enemies.

Like others of her kind, she has an innate affinity for nature, art, and culture. The Moonwalkers preserve their secrets through their oral traditions, and in stories brought to life through embroidery and cave drawings, with symbolic imagery readily understood by Moonwalkers but rendered opaque and esoteric to humans. Moonwalkers detest loud noises and bright lights, and have quietly fled further and further from human civilization as a result, relegating their very existence to the domain of folklore, doubtless responsible for many a grim tale of unnaturally tall and spindly beings who kidnap children in the woods. Her voice, like a mournful song, makes a fine addition to any choir, and her skilled hands will leave any damaged garment better than its original state. Weaves can endure the sun's light, but still doesn't particularly care for it. She has no strong feelings one way or the other towards any other creatures, regarding them all in much the same way as humans see livestock. Her palate is strange, preferring earthy, gamey, smoky and spicy flavors, and detesting all things salty and sweet. Her culinary creations would offend the "refined" palates of the nobility, but the denizens of the Maw tend to enjoy them immensely.


Moonwalkers are a discreet race of nocturnal, humanoid cryptid beings—or, they are supposed to be. Weaves was none such character, living in the light and making no concerted effort either to avoid or to mingle with humans, who posed no real threat to her and her terrifying magic power. When she was discovered, it wasn't due to any particular action or negligence on her part. The humans had simply encroached upon her neck of the woods, and she had refused to move on. When the humans would clear an area of trees, they would return the next day to find new trees in their place. At first, they questioned their sanity. When they eventually laid eyes on the monster responsible, they would instead question everything they thought they knew of the world. Reports from the gold prospectors trying to settle in that remote and mountainous region would reach human civilization, and reactions would be mixed. Some sought to slay the beast which drained lumberjacks dry of blood with an oversized needle, injecting it into the ground and creating new life with it. Others aimed to seek it out and worship it in secret.

With some difficulty, the latter humans were able to communicate with the creature, who spoke a unique language with some similarities to an elder tongue, obscure and seen only in old magical texts. They learned that it did not kill the humans out of malice, or so it claimed. Its only real goal was to reclaim its territory, and it used the incarnum energy of those who destroyed it to repair the damage. It seemed the creature really just wanted to be left alone. It had no use for the gold its lands supposedly held, but wasn't interested in trading it for anything the humans could offer it, either. Regardless, the humans formed cults in the woods, and fostered an uneasy relationship with the being, who tolerated their presence so long as they were quiet and didn't destroy the forest. However, these humans pursued strange magicks, sacrificing all manner of creatures including their own kind. Eventually, one thing became clear. These humans were... incompetent lunatics.

Their magicks did not do anything, save to waste the blood of living beings for a bit of short-lived revelry. They didn't create anything in place of that which they destroyed. Only Weaves could do that, they said, asking the impossible of her. No matter how many sacrifices were offered upon an altar, a human corpse could not be returned to a pristine, autonomous, soulful state. They refused to understand, and so she tired of their presence on her land, slaughtering them all, creating unnaturally large trees in place of their camps. This only served to encourage more humans to come and admire the trees, some adorning them with strange markings and worshiping inferior beings beneath them. It was all so very tiresome. No matter how many she killed, more seemed to come, drawn by the legends of the "goddess" of the mountain. It was, unbeknownst to her, quickly spiraling into a political issue of grand proportions. Human civilization was unifying and rallying against the false gods, and the so-called goddess of the mountain was an obstacle to the king currently consolidating power and fortifying his wealth.

One day, no humans came. Instead, there was only the Warden—one whose empty eyes could match those of Weaves, and if it were possible, could even draw color out of them yet. Those dark voids seemed to her to promise a fulfillment of all her desires, some of which she didn't even know she had. For one, she'd have a well-defended home, filled to the brim with others just like her. She would have time to do other things besides killing and rebuilding, should she wish. If, however, she was ever feeling the urge to "paint," the Warden would always be ready to prepare a "canvas" for her, and a list of their crimes to serve as her "muse." She'd just need to do a little something for her, and unlike the humans, the Warden wasn't stupid. She would ask Weaves to do things she could actually do, and strangely enough... she'd do them.

• Fell Seamstress, Cryptid Huntress, Culinary Fiend: Understated, mundane survival skills, refined to a razor's edge.
• Hauntingly Beautiful, Devilish Charm, Quiet Strength: Oft mistaken for exotic nobility, she exudes unearned authority.
• Esoteric, Forbidden, Occult Magic: No greater deterrent than fear of the unknown—and no greater advantage.

• Indiscreet, Conspicuous, a Looming Terror: She can run, but she can't hide—neither her massive form, nor her predatory nature.
• Blank Stare, Uneducated, Illiterate: Not quite raised by wolves, but Moonwalkers lack a distinctly "human" form of intelligence.
• Concerned Citizen, Oddball, the "Weak" Link: Possibly the kindest soul you'll find in the Maw—not that it sets the bar very high.

Marrow: A spindle-like, long and sharp stick of uncannily hard ironwood, light in weight but fierce in its application—and yes, she does speak softly while carrying it. A sleek and elegant weapon of fully terrestrial origin, unrivaled in its ordinary-ness. In other words, it's an exceedingly pure weapon, perfect for channeling its wielder's magic. It's both quite durable and resistant to catching fire.

• Transmutation ~ Mirror of Life: Absorbs incarnum through the slaughter of living beings and uses it to create lesser forms of life.
• Transmutation ~ Mirror of Creation: Absorbs the potential energy of matter and converts it into lesser forms until it degenerates.
• Enchantment ~ Mirror of Hearts: Alters a living being's emotional state, inducing lesser autonomic arousal and perceptual awareness.
• Dunamancy ~ Mirror of Worlds: Creates a localized distortion of spacetime which accelerates the decay, rot, and rust of objects.
• Dunamancy ~ Mirror of Reality: Uses a reflective surface—such as a body of water—as a portal, to travel by means of alternate reality.
• Note: Lunatic magic must be channeled through a weapon of exceptional purity, to avoid harming herself or destroying her weapon.

• Her full name is slightly derogatory, not that anyone would know. Doing something "in shade" implies "during the day." Scandalous!
• No credible scholar actually believes that Moonwalkers are from the moon, despite ancient and discredited texts alluding to the contrary.
• Her spells were designed with "high strangeness" in mind. Crop circles, cattle mutilations, unexplainable disappearances, lost time, etc.

Gangraena

Undead Proto-Human

Female

Unknown, even to her.


Standing at around one hundred and eighty four centimeters and weighing ninety kilograms (two hundred and four kilograms while armored) this terrifying undead warrior commands an imposing presence on the battlefield. While fighting foes might give wonder as to how this threat manages to even move under the layers upon layers of armor that's been bolted onto the suit over time, let alone so deftly, but even the wildest speculations fail to capture just what exactly lurks in the dark recesses of this metal behemoth.

For a corpse that has been lost in the great oceans for eras upon eras she looks relatively okay, albeit still wholly unearthly as something returned from a watery grave might. Her flesh remains largely unscoured by the tides and while patches here and there have been nicked and pierced the only major sign of deterioration is the hollow sockets that remain where once eyes rested. Any who stare into them would find only not even the back of her skull to gaze upon, just an infinite abyss with the only feature standing out from it being a distant yellow light, one for each socket, like a gleaming star far up into the ever vast night sky.

Apart from that eyes her skin is blue from asphyxiation and her hair remains a disheveled kelp green color, a characteristic of her ancient and long forgotten heritage. Her droning voice seems to echo from her, originating from her chest but also not. Her build is broad, lean but muscular as she was a warrior once in life, just as she continues to be in death. She is rarely seen outside her armor, though for the time being her recent defeat and subjugation at the hands of the warden have left her equipment in their mercy.



Terrifying, brutal, relentless. These are words all who've fought her would use to describe her save her last foe.

Actually talking to her however and you'd realize that this large imposing zombie is actually quite pleasantly chipper, albeit slow of speech and a fair bit confused to the world as a whole. Though she has no need to eat nor drink nor even sleep she enjoys the simple things in life. A glorious sunrise, a calm meadow, the smattering of light through a tree's canopy or even a merry tune, Gangraena doesn't need much and is rather happy with what she gets. She is no stranger to violence and speaks it's language well but she rarely means ill of it. It's simply something that she does, both a mere fact of life and the mercenary business where she plies her trade readily and without much question.

Having spent as much time lost in the deepest recesses of the ocean floor for as long as she has she's developed a great amount of patience, years passing not unlike the days themselves. She's not one for long grudges nor great bouts of anger. She is also not overly critical of others for their vices, beliefs or characteristics. The whole world is strange to her but she welcomes it's many wonders as well as any break from monotony or solitude.

One oddity about her is that she herself isn't terribly clear on who she is herself. She has memories of her past but so much time has past their details have grown fuzzy, inaccurate even. As for what she even is she hasn't much the faintest clue either.



Gangraena was born long ago, in a civilization that predates many kingdoms of man. In an era of things lost to the ages, where humanity flourished before a great fall cast it all under the rug of history, a time once mere myth now simply forgotten, there was a family of great warriors who fought on behalf of the glory of their gods. This family bore three brothers and six daughters, one of which was named Gangraena. She was the strongest of them all, able to move most naturally in heavier armor. Her wits however were perhaps as sharp as her mace. She never had an affinity for matters of great complexity, always a creature of simplicity. Despite her shortcomings she was still deemed fit to fight the unnatural in the names of their gods.

Of course, she would never see her first crusade as the waves claimed her before any blade, tooth or claw could. When a terrible storm struck her sea vessel the chains around an anchor bound her leg and drug her overboard once it's restraints had snapped. Like a metal pebble in a great big pond she sank in her heavy plated suit of armor, now a watery coffin as she swiftly drowned. This was the end of Gangraena.

_
When her body reached the ocean floor however something else happened upon her corpse, one of a few that were brought down there and not by chance. These drowned were selected and drawn to an ancient altar lost to the tides from times ancient even back in these times lost to time. Upon this altar an ancient being that remained trapped below the great waters sewed into these vessels dark spirits which animated them. These dark spirits would take these new shells of theirs and return to the surface and sew the ancient being's influence about the world once more, corrupting and weakening it until the time was right for it to escape it's oceanic prison and consume the world just as it tried to do once before.

The dark spirits kept the memories of the drowned as a guide to help them navigate the surface. Many of them ventured forth, each one meeting any number of different fates, none truly successful. Gangraena's host however did not find it's way back to the surface. Due to being bound to both her body, her armor and her anchor as it could not discern them apart from one another the dark spirit could not simply float up from the depths like the others. This dark spirit was forced to wander, anchored to the ocean floor as it trudged through valleys deeper than any known to the surface world, over mountains taller than any that could be found above. Due to inheriting the drowned's poor sense of direction it remained lost for countless centuries, walking to and fro across the vast ocean landscape, often times finding itself going in circles.

This continued for so long that the spirit's own mind started to warp. Delirious from the ceaseless tedium of wandering without ever finding land this dark spirit started finding itself mixing it's own memories up with that of the host it had taken. What once was a map slowly grew to become it's identity as it eventually lost sight of it's very purpose. It no longer remembered the very purpose it was given to this host for, nor of the being that put it inside this shell in the first place. All that it knew for real mingled with the life that Gangraena had known until a muddy sheet of indistinct memories both native and inherited blurred into one single past. All that it cared for now was to find the surface. It couldn't remember why it wanted to but it seemed like the right thing to do.

_
Eventually the dark spirit who believed itself to be the very shell it inhabited found it's way to dry land. What she found delighted her as she wandered the beaches until shortly happening upon a humble fishing village. The villagers were frightened but reluctant to flee and abandon all their belongings. Instead they complied to her wishes and relieved to find that she was relatively peaceful, speaking in an unknown language with an eerie voice but not aggressive. It was here that she started learning the land's language, listening to the village people speak and figuring out their words while she helped chop and carry firewood for them during her stay.

Eventually a mercenary company by the name of The Grey Auxilliary docked at their little village for supplies and happened upon Gangraena. Now able to carry a rudimentary conversation she spoke with the captain of these mercenaries, impressing them with her unnatural might. Seeing if this strange being was amicable they offered her employment and she accepted. To them this might of been the breakthrough they needed to help stand out from other upcoming mercenary companies and earn themselves a reputation. To her this was just another chance to see and experience new things while also getting the chance to fight which was fun too.

A decade of fighting later and this company had slowly but surely dwindled until only their captain and Gangranea remained. Their times together were glorious and many a battle was won but unlike Gangraena the men and women of this company were mortal. Be it death in combat, injury or longing to start a family the various members of their crew each fell way whilst Gangraena remained, an unchanging feature which had cemented herself in this company's renown. Their leader, old man Grey Hound was growing too old and injured to fight himself too. Seeing as Gangraena had kept with them through the greatest times of their career he passed leadership of the company onto her before he retired from the life of a mercenary to enjoy his hard earned cash.

Gangraena was now the only remaining member of The Grey Auxiliary. She never made an effort to recruit more members, largely as the very thought never entered her head. Instead she simply kept taking jobs and killing on behalf of those who'd give her money, stripping away armor from those she slays and crudely bolting them onto her platemail which is how she eventually became a metal behemoth of some fame amongst warriors around. It seemed she wasn't weakening either, her strength no longer comparable to mortal men and women of mundane make.

However with fame comes attention and her exploits eventually drew the ire of the king himself. Whatever his reasons he set up a trap, a false job which she took. Upon arrival she was swarmed with men. Their weapons could not best her great armor and their own protections offered no safety from the great anchor she swung with the same grace and precision one would swing a sword. Of course there was something present that she had not encountered yet: Magic. Divine casters beseeched their god and smote her with their holy magic. Not able to guard against it she eventually collapsed, men rushing her prone form and lashing her down with ropes and chains. While she had not perished again from their divine assault as she had grown quite powerful, enough even to withstand more than most undead could ever hope to, she was not able to continue the fight in her state. Fighting more would of simply resulted in her dying again and that didn't sound fun.

Thus, she resides now in the oubliette of great threats simply known as The Maw. Amongst the most dangerous foes the king's laid claim to for purposes known only to himself and select others she finally fits in, though there's still not a lot of things truly like her.

At least, none where anyone can find them.



Starting with her skills she is a trained warrior, educated from youth in warfare and battle. Having spent a decade putting that knowledge to use has helped in giving her the practical experience she needed to become an experienced warrior, honing her skills against many a foe. Her other skills and knowledges largely compliment her trade, having a basic knowledge of metal and leather working so that she may upkeep her weapon and armor.

As for her abilities her most noticeable features are that of undeath. Being undead she has no need for food, water or even sleep. She can see in the dark no less than she can in the day and she is not beholden to fatigue. Without pain she cannot feel discomfort from heat or cold, only suffering degradation to her material form from extremes of either temperature. All that can stand to put an end to her once and for all would be destruction of her material form or magic of sufficient potency, her organs only remaining because nothing has given them cause to leave her body.

Her true power however comes from the more sinister function of her dark spirit: The ability to devour the souls of those slain by her. The spirit passively consumes the souls of her victims, unaware that it's even doing so. With each soul devoured Gangraena slowly gains in might, little by little. This is what has given Gangraena the strength of ten grown men and also part of how Gangraena wears her armor and wields her anchor so easily. The dark spirit partially haunts the armor and anchor so it lets Gangraena move them around almost like they were her own limbs. In time as the spirit gains strength she may be able to eventually even move her armor and weapon on their own with her very mind, albeit slowly to start. What else might rise from her spiritual growth remains unknown to many, herself included.

Aside from all that Gangraena also possesses an immunity to the damaging influences of the ocean due to an old pact between it and the entity her dark spirit was manifested from. She will suffer neither deterioration from the salty waters nor be crushed by the weight of the depths and many of the predators which lurk deep in the dark waters below will simply ignore Gangraena unless she threatens their safety.



As an undead creature her greatest flaw is that she does not heal naturally. Any harm dealt unto her physical vessel must be repaired manually using parts from another body to fill in for what is missing. These parts may inherit her will but will not carry her strength until they've remained with her for some time, the longer the better. Much the same applies to her armor and weapon, both needing upkeep when damaged as they are a part of her. Being separated from her armor reduced her overall might by a third and once again should she be separated from her anchor, reducing her down to a single third of her original might.

Being an undead creature magic that affects the undead will affect her similarly, weakened by her overall might but all the same a hurdle unique to undead like her. As for her darkvision while she is able to see in the dark no less than she can in the day she cannot see colors, her entire worldview stuck perpetually in monochrome. There are also certain limitations imposed by her armor's design such as a limited field of view and range of motion allowed for her arms. Practice has allowed her to better work around these but only to an extent.

As a person her biggest weakness is that she is a simple creature at heart. She doesn't plan far or deep, has no talent for complex ideas and can become easily confused in this world now well removed from the one she faintly remembers. If someone needs a person with quick wits and an even quicker tongue to solve a predicament then she'd be the last candidate to ask.

Worst of all is that she came with obligations. She may have forgotten them but something out there still remembers and is still waiting... Watching.



The only equipment kept by Gangraena are those she perished with: Her plated armor and her anchor. Both are crafted initially with fine steel, iron and other such terrestrial metals being slapped on to patch them until both armor and weapon now resemble a patchwork of different fixes. Despite this they are also partially haunted by her dark spirit, each a part of her no less than her arms or legs. You can take the armor off Gangraena but you cannot take Gangraena off the armor, at least, not without deep arcane know-how.



Gangraena is left-handed.

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Name: Ciannait Duanei
Race: Dark Elf Vampire
Gender: Female
Age: Two centuries
Appearance:

This girl reminds you of a dangerous spider. She has almond-shaped eyes the color of blood. Her fine, straight, neck-length hair is the color of fine china, and is worn in a severe style. She is tall and has a lithe build. Her skin is a bluish-gray. She has thick eyebrows, pointed ears, and thin lips hidden by an iron half-mask covering the lower half of her face. It keeps her from feeding or talking above a whisper, and it locks in the back.

On her chest is an ancient slave brand, marking her as the property of House Donovani.

Cian wears a strangely repellant metal seal as a pendant on a necklace. A hard tug on the necklace will cause it to break away, she is forbidden from removing the seal herself.

Her wardrobe is a dark hooded woolen cloak, leather armor styled in some ancient pattern, and an adventurer's satchel, with pockets along its wide strap.

Personality:
Cian is lazy and will argue about everything, but is always concerned about her appearance being immaculate and keeping things organized.

Talents:






Flaws:






Equipment:




Miscellaneous:

Sir Brandon of Bainbridge, formerly Knight Captain of the Order of Saint Helios, Sworn Sword to Royal House of Vortigern, Champion of the Crown, Third Blade of the Kingdom, Knight Paragon of the Virtues of Duty and Vigilance. Now known as Sir Brandon the Broken Blade, Traitor and Apostate to the Crown and the Church.

Human

Male

Forty Four

Sir Brandon is a tall man, standing easily over six feet in height. His build is muscular but lean, Brandon's physical prowess always relying more upon his speed than his brawn. His skin is tanned from long hours riding under the sun and time spent pursuing outdoor activities. A lifetime of combat training and actual warfare has left him with a number of faded silvery scars that mostly cross his upper limbs and face.

Brandon's face would generally be considered handsome, if a little bit stern and brooding. It's are long, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. A pair of grey eyes stare out from under a dark furrowed brow. Similarly dark hair frames it, shot through with a scattering of grey, and a short beard hides his chiselled jaw.

Captivity has changed him somewhat however, he is thinner than he was before, paler, more dishevelled. Fresh scars and old bruises mark his face and body, the skin at his wrists are raw and bloody from long periods spent wearing irons. Where before his dark hair was merely lightly flecked with grey, it is now well and truly streaked with it, and almost completely silver at the temples. But more than just those external changes, something more fundamental has changed inside of Brandon. There's a look in his eyes what wasn't there before, an emptiness, a void of despair and self loathing even deeper than the prison they have cast him into.

Duty and diligence are the two ideals to which Brandon has organised his life. First to his father and family, later to his lord and liege, and finally unto the Crown itself. Always, he has put the desires and ambitions of others before his own. Always he has done what others have asked of him to the best of his abilities. Brandon was a man made to serve, much more comfortable following orders than being the person giving them out.

He is a man of few words. When he does talk, he speaks slowly in a careful and deliberate manner. His speech is far from coarse, but there is a degree of plainness to it. In fact there's a degree of plainness about Brandon in general. He dislikes ostentatious dress or drawing undue attention to himself. Despite his considerable martial prowess he was never considered much of tourney knight, only ever entering the lists at the command of his superiors.

A stern knight of few words could easily come over as a cold or unfeeling individual. But where he could Sir Brandon would always try to temper what he had to do with other ideals a knight was supposed to uphold. He tried to offer mercy where he could, he tried to be chivalric, defend the poor and the weak from the strong and the wicked. From behind his stony mask he tried to uphold both, his duty and his conscience.

Then it all went up in flames.

Brandon is a lost man. A broken blade. A mess of despair and self-loathing. He has committed crimes against his King and Country and even worse crimes against his own conscience. Sometimes he wishes he did not feel empathy, so he could have done what they asked of him without it destroying him. Other times he wishes he had plunged his sword into Tyronde's heart the first time he had laid eyes on him. Mostly he wishes that he was dead.



Third Blade of the Kingdom: At one point in time Sir Brandon was considered one of the greatest knights of the Westerlands. Particularly skilled with a blade, there few other than the most elite of swordsmen could stand up to him in single combat.

Knight Paragon: Sir Brandon was once a member of the nobility, and served in the Royal Court for many years. He understands court politics, heraldry, the history of the great houses of the Westerlands, and how to conduct oneself amongst the aristocracy.

Knight Captain: Sir Brandon was once a military commander as well as a champion. He knows how to command and discipline men, how to plan a campaign, how to employ military strategy. Some of his former subordinates might even still have a degree of loyalty to their old commander...

Broken Blade: Sir Brandon is not the disciplined and dutiful knight he once was. He is broken man, his convictions shaken, his faith shattered. He despises himself for what he has done both for and against the Crown. Sometimes he thinks it would have been better if he had let himself fall in battle than endure the despair he lives with every day.

Traitor and Apostate: When he killed an Inquisitor of the Sun Temple and forsook his vows to the King, Sir Brandon became more loathsome in the eyes of many than those monsters and heretics the Inquisition dealt with. After all, many were born evil or did not know any better than to believe in evil demons and spirits, but Brandon was raised good true in the Faith and yet still chose heresy and treachery.

The Pyre of Children: He still sees it his dreams. Still hears the screams. He cannot face it again, not in the waking world. Brandon loathes fire, and there is nothing in this world than could compel him to raise his blade against an innocent child again. He would rather die.

Though he mostly discarded his knightly regalia during his attempted flight to exile. Sir Brandon retains a serviceable set of steel chainmail, along with a breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, and an open faced helmet. His shield is oak banded with iron, and his sword, although exceptional fine, is unenchanted and largely unadorned. A dark hooded cloak helped to hide his identity before he was finally apprehended.

The Fallen King's Tactician, the Mastermind of the Maw

Name: Aoife “Mouse” Shadowclaw (Aoife is pronounced “EE-fa”)
Race: Halfling
Gender: Female, she/her
Age: Mid-50s (by halfling standards she’s still a young adult and appears as such)

Appearance
Aoife is small, even by halfling standards. She barely breaks 2 ½ feet tall and weighs about 30 pounds. She’s spindly and petite, with delicate girlish features that make her appear younger than she is. Her skin is fair, with a dash of freckles across her nose and cheeks–these freckles also dance along her shoulders, back, and down her arms. She has short and unruly dark hair that often falls into her face. Her wide “innocent” eyes are a warm and friendly black that encourages trust. Her clothing is bland but presentable–she doesn’t wear any shining armor or grand robes or mysterious cloaks. She prefers to dress in simple tunics and trousers that allow for movement and comfort, usually with a teal or blue coat. She is never without a white feather charm that she wears in her left ear. If you get her to laugh or smile wide enough, you can see that she has buck teeth that might’ve inspired her nickname.

Reference pics below


Personality
Aoife's nickname of “Mouse” suits her quiet and harmless nature. She rarely speaks unless directly spoken to, but doesn’t come off as aloof or rude. She is pleasant and polite when she needs to be, but usually spends her time listening and watching instead. She comes across as genuine, shy, and gentle, someone who wouldn’t ever be a threat–-which works to her advantage.

Beneath her “shy and innocent” appearance, Aoife has a clever and conniving mind. She was the Fallen King’s trusted tactician and strategist, the one who he counted on as his chief advisor and “right hand man” (er… “right hand halfling woman”?). Aoife is incredibly intelligent and quick-witted, her “mousey” demeanor perfectly crafted to appear as non threatening and easy-to-trust as possible. She is constantly surveying her surroundings and the people within, able to understand and manipulate any situation that could arise. She is just as likely to help and praise you as she is to stab and leave you for dead, depending on her needs at any given moment.

That is not to say that she is heartless, of course. Once her trust and respect is earned, she is a loyal mastermind who will use her intelligence to assist in any goal. Unfortunately, this is what has landed her in the Maw–-she is still loyal to the Fallen King, and will do anything to overthrow the Tyrant who killed her best friend.

Background
The Shadowclaw family served the royal family for three generations before Aoife was born. No one really remembers why, but the Shadowclaws were always treated fairly and with respect, and always allowed their freedom if they desired–-which fostered more loyalty. Aoife was expected to be like the rest of her family-–they usually served the court as bards, healers, cooks, or personal seamsters (despite their intimidating name!). Aoife, however, was much more interested in learning–-she adored the royal library and spent much of her childhood simply reading whatever she could get her hands on. Her family tried to push her to learn a role that would better suit the court, but she was hilariously bad at all of them (she ended up banished from sewing due to getting blood on a wedding dress from how clumsy she was with a needle!).

She ended up becoming close friends with the Fallen King-–before he ascended to the throne, he had to learn his duties. He quickly found that the halfling had eidetic memory and could remember any miniscule detail of a treaty that was hundreds of years old. The two became fast and loyal friends in their childhood–he offered her access to more knowledge, and she helped tutor him on them. Their relationship continued once he became king–-he appointed her as his chief advisor and court tactician, and she was always close at his side when he navigated his tasks as king. Their relationship was purely platonic (never anything more), and the trust they had in each other–-him in her intelligence, and her in his ability to lead–-was unshakeable.

And then the Fallen King was murdered by his traitorous brother, the Tyrant.

Aoife’s entire world shattered in an instant. Her entire identity, her entire purpose, went with the Fallen King’s death. The warmth and zeal she had for life was ripped away from her, replaced by cold hearted revenge. She began to serve the Tyrant... She knew her best chance at revenge would be from the traitor’s side. She began to hatch a plan to avenge her best friend, she vowed to overthrow the man who’d plunged the peaceful world into war. She was no warrior or mage, though–-she had only her mind, and it would be her weapon.

However, the Tyrant must’ve known Aoife’s intentions to betray him when he least expected it. No sooner had she begun to put her plan into action (a scheme that would frame the head of the King’s One Temple as the mastermind behind poisoning the Tyrant), she was immediately arrested and sent to the Maw. She has been there ever since, proclaiming her innocence and keeping to her story that she was sent there simply because she served the Fallen King.

She still has no idea how she was figured out–-or if she even was. Her masterfully crafted plan hadn’t even come to fruition! She shared the scheme with no one. She wore her amulet that protected her from divination magics! Had she simply been sent there because the Tyrant realized she was more intelligent than she let on? Was she in the Maw simply for being the Fallen King’s best friend?

It doesn’t matter to her anymore-–all that matters is getting out, so she can destroy the king and the kingdom he built that took everything from her.


Eidetic Memory: Aoife can recite anything she has seen or read, word for word. If she sees or hears something, she will remember it.
Quiet as a Mouse: Her small stature, unassuming appearance, and quick and quiet movements make Aoife very stealthy.
Slippery Stature: Her small size makes it awkward for larger opponents to strike, carry, target, and/or restrain Aoife. She can also fit into small spaces where a “normal” sized humanoid would never fit.
Always Prepared: Aoife always has a plan–-and backup plans. Her backup plans have backup plans. If something goes awry, she is usually the first to react and know what to do.
The Mastermind: Aoife knows how to manipulate anything and everything around her for a favorable outcome. She will not hesitate to use others for her benefit… She’s the one who gives candy to a kid because it distracts the mother, not because it makes the kid happy.


Only Mundane: Aoife has no physical or arcane talents at all–-she can do nothing against a sword or fireball.
Small Stature: Although her small size can be a benefit, it is also a flaw when it comes to speed. Compared to most humanoid races, she just can’t keep up.


Amulet of Divination Protection: A gift that the Fallen King gave to her, as it was necessary for her to fulfill her role as his tactician. It protects Aoife’s mind and body from any magic that would try to peer in–-telepathy, scrying, mind control, voodoo magic, etc. Anyone who attempts these magics against her simply receives nothing in response. It is an enchanted white feather that she wears as an earring.