[hider=Madame Morvanne] [center][h2][color=BlueViolet]Madame Morvanne[/color][/h2][/center] [b][color=BlueViolet]Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:[/color][/b] A human of 32. [color=BlueViolet]Or so she thinks at least[/color]. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years. [b][color=BlueViolet]Appearance:[/color][/b] A tall, slender, willowy woman, who looks as if a stiff breeze would cart her up into the air and carry her away, into [color=BlueViolet]places unknown[/color]. The good madame has long locks of flowing, wispy flaxen hair kept neatly tucked inside a full set of modest bonnets, a milky complexion and pale eyes that can never quite decide if they should be blue, grey or green, depending on the condition of light or shadow [color=BlueViolet]forces beyond the day[/color] or how wide her pupils are. Her clothing is common for Trist burghers – warm colours, good hearty fabric like wool and linen, with minimal but present details. In other words, clothes of good quality and pleasant make, but not overly expensive, accented with well-made but unexceptional jewellery. She does have more practical garbs for hard treks or blending into foreign cities, but much prefers her comfortable homely wares. In Trist, makeup is considered the purview of either the very wealthy or ladies of the night and she’d be horrified at the implications should someone suggest she should be wearing it. [hider=History] Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth, and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down. The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasant folk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over. Although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine. This was the land where Madame Morvanne was born to, as wind and rain crashed against sturdy stone walls, where the cries of her mother were drowned out by the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. She had a first name, [color=BlueViolet]once[/color], [color=BlueViolet]of that she is sure[/color], but she has found that whatever it was has become [color=BlueViolet]quite superfluous now[/color]. In fact, many things about Madame Morvanne have turned out to be [color=BlueViolet]quite irrelevant[/color] over the years. Even to herself, her life is a patchwork thing, stitched together from threads of recollection around memories [color=BlueViolet]who have found new uses[/color]. Yet just because she does not remember them does not mean they never happened. A child to a family of burghers - those who learn crafts like the peasantry yet live behind high stone walls, she was raised to be a lady-in-waiting, as it is the custom in Trist for wealthy women to have a learned assistant to help with managing their house in ways mere servants cannot. She learned to read, to write, to stitch together flesh so a doctor might not be needed, to count coins and tighten a purse, and to dress and undress another faster than they could do so themselves. She was apprenticed to a family of minor nobility, but she quickly learnt that little was well within her new home. Her mistress was a weak-willed woman and she had a husband who used this against her and the rest of his household, heavy with his hand, harsh with his tongue, and prone to strong wine that made him all the worse for it. Morvanne learnt quickly that the one place her master rarely bothered to tread was the library of the house - a marvellous thing, but left neglected in the basement, where it secrets had been forgotten beneath the slowly gathering dust. As she spent her time down there, blowing away cobwebs and parting parchment that had not seen candlelight in far too long, she began to read of things that perhaps ought to have been forgotten. She read of the [color=gold][b]Sun[/b][/color], and the splendour it [color=black][b]once had[/b][/color]. She learnt of the [color=red][b]Flame[/b][/color], the Tenfold Essences of the soul, of how autumn did not lead to winter, but instead the [color=white][b]Silence[/b][/color], and then she learnt of the [color=BlueViolet][b]Threshold[/b][/color], and [color=BlueViolet]she began to understand enough[/color]. One day, her mistress noticed that she had not seen the young madame Morvanne around for an unusual while. Nor had her servants, and the master of the house could not remember a young woman by the surname Morvanne having ever worked at their estate before. Soon enough, the servants could no longer remember a madame Morvanne either. When the master of the house passed away - a tragedy for a sleeping sickness to strike like that, it truly was, all memories of Morvanne had left the house entirely, along with the quiet library buried in the earth. But not all are as susceptible to such things as unwitting nobles, and not all are pleased by the twisting of [color=BlueViolet]shoulds and should-nots[/color]. Among Trist's people are those wise to the ways of ancient memories, and Movanne, with no tutor to guide her beyond the books, was not terribly apt at disguising the profession in which she found herself. When Wych-Finders came to her new abode she was forced to flee, and then flee again, until at last she realised that, for now, Trist was unsafe for her to say in. The Pilgrim's Caravan came at an apt time to allow her to quietly slip away, but she knew more than most that Trist is an [color=BlueViolet]old[/color], [color=BlueViolet]forgetful land[/color]. She will return there, one day. Of this she is certain. [/hider] [b][color=BlueViolet]Personality:[/color][/b] The good Madame is a quiet, studious sort, who tends to travel alongside unusual companions wherever she can - the more unusual the better. She is the sort to listen, long and hard, the kind of listening that can rarely be feigned and she seems to take great and legitimate interest in the things that others have to say. She is fond of books and tea, of long strolls to [color=BlueViolet]nowhere in particular[/color], of the houseplants she tends to in her wagon and in the careful sorting of the many curiosities and knick-knacks she has accumulated. In short, she is a regular homebody, except one whose home now rolls along the road. [b][color=BlueViolet]Motivation:[/color][/b] If she had her way, Morvanne would be back in Trist, sat beside a small hearth in a pleasant house nestled firmly behind a set of thick walls. Perhaps she would even have a husband and let herself grow heavy with child, but above all she would have her library. Until Trist has forgotten her, she works on this last objective most of all. At every stop along the journey, and indeed between stops as well she goes about, gathering literature, cataloguing it and then, most of the time, selling it or gifting it onwards. Most of the caravan probably knows her best as a book merchant and librarian, which suits her just fine. [b][color=BlueViolet]Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:[/color][/b] Morvanne is an occultist - but mind how you refer to such a thing around her, because to Madame Morvanne, the 'occult' is not the domain of fussy old fellows in Hermetic Lodges or tentacle-wielding scholars muttering at skulls. Her practices are easy to miss. She does not read the cards or cast the bones, nor do her spells pour forth darkness or sunder skin from bone. She reads, and she writes, and things that oughtn't ought, and things that ought oughtn't and peculiar [color=BlueViolet]bargains[/color] lead to peculiar [color=BlueViolet]happenstance[/color]. [hider=Morvanne's Occultism] In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the [b]Oblitarchy,[/b] and the Tenfold Essences that Obliturges categorise. Morvanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the [color=BlueViolet]Threshold[/color], associated with the essence of Hypist. This is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the [color=BlueViolet]Threshold[/color] is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in twilight. Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the [color=BlueViolet]Threshold[/color], she also dabbles in the essences of [color=darkblue]Syis[/color] and [color=white]Senopy[/color]: Change and Silence. Her lucky escapes and the sudden sickness that took her employer have not been entirely happenstance or accident. To call upon these powers Morvanne must conduct rituals: long-winded things requiring careful preparation, the right ingredients, and potentially hours of tongue-twisting work to complete. Calling upon an essence requires items, people, times or places strong in that essence: A bloody knife for [color=black]Ravume[/color], a lover’s assistance for [color=crimson]Percus[/color] or the deep midwinter for [color=white]Senopy[/color]. For more complex rituals other, occasionally conflicting essences must be called upon and the more powerful the ritual, the more intense the essences going into it must be. A small [color=BlueViolet]Hypist[/color] ritual might only require twilight, but for the greater rituals… Well, a [color=BlueViolet]city on wheels is rather liminal[/color], is it not? [/hider] [hider=The Oblitarchy] The ‘Gods Before Gods,’ the Oblitarchy are a lost pantheon of deities who have, according to their believers, existed before anything else. Before there was Alwyne there were two of them: [color=slategray]The Nowhere[/color] and [color=Yellow]The Glory[/color], consisting of existence and everything outside of it, locked in an eternal dance which neither could overcome. The Nothing however, begot [color=black]The Sunderer[/color], and living up to their name they slew [color=Yellow]The The Glory[/color] and usurped [color=slategray]The Nowhere[/color], and from this calamitous beginning, all other Oblitarchs would rise, each one domineering an aspect of the mortal world that had formed with their struggles. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kvYcZg7.png[/img][/center] The Ten Oblitarchs and their Essences are typically depicted around a ten-pointed star, showing their relation to the other Oblitarchs. Clockwise, from the top: [color=gold][b]The Sun Divided[/b][/color] is the truest form of the slain Glory, heading the triarchy known as the Gods ex Solari. It is the rising sun – a peerless, wrathful, and unforgiving deity that seeks to bring forth the hours of The Glory once again and to gather all other essences within itself, to remake the universe as it once was. Its essence is Ejas, and it consists of the waking mind – higher intelligence, the drive of knowledge for knowledge’s sake, and the unrelenting progress of mortals. [color=lightpink][b]The Chalice[/b][/color] is the second of the Gods ex Solari: Once the warmth and comfort of the sun that nurtured life, the Chalice still holds that benevolent spirit. Its essence, Prist, is the only of the ten essences that can be physically touched, for it consists of the physical body – bones, muscle, sinew and blood. [color=BlueViolet][b]The Threshold[/b][/color] heads the diarchy of the Gods Obsucras. The Threshold is twilight – it is soft and dimly lit, existing between day and night, and holds dominion over all that is liminal. Its essence is Hypist, and where Ejas is the waking mind, Hypist is the dreaming mind. It is a master of irrationality and illogic. It holds memories and recognition, half-truths and lies, and shares freely, although not without cost. [color=darkblue][b]The Prism[/b][/color] is the other of the Gods Obscuras and one of the more esoteric of an already esoteric lot. Shunning one form, the Prism is ever-changing and ever-formless, refusing to be neatly categorised or pinned down. Much like itself, its essence, Syis, is the constant drive for change and evolution, although it cares little for the direction that this change takes. [color=slategray][b]The Nowhere[/b][/color] is the oldest of the Gods ex Nihi, and is the only of the Oblitarchs to have lasted unchanged from the dawn of nothingness. If the Oblitarchs can indeed dwell in our reality, The Nowhere holds itself somewhere far beyond the comfort of Alwyn, out in the unforgiving darkness where nothing dwells and nothing can ever dwell. It exists in contrary to anything else, and has created only once – its greatest mistake. The Nowhere’s essence is Nihi, and it is true illogicality. Things which must not be known and cannot be known, places where life itself has been banished, never to return, - these are where Nihi is strongest. Those few mortals brave enough to try to master Nihi are known as apocalypsists and almost inevitably meet untimely demises. [color=black][b]The Sunderer[/b][/color] heads the Gods ex Nihi, having overthrown its parent and shattered the Glory. It measures itself not on its own merits, but on how effectively it contrasts the Sun Divided, the pair locked in eternal enmity just as the Glory and the Nowhere once were, long ago. The Sunderer’s essence is Ravume, and although often categorised as nothing more than hatred, jealousy, ego and anarchic rage, is far more about contest and competition, thriving where there is conflict, and quick to raise a blade when offended or challenged. [color=white][b]The Silence[/b][/color] is an oft-forgotten member of the Gods ex Nihi, which is ironic, for it is the ultimate fate of all mortal life. The Silence reigns in the ice of deepest winter, at the bottom of the darkest caves and in the endless abyss deep beneath the ocean’s surface. Its essence, Senopy, is the quiet death that comes to all mortals not slain in piques of Ravume – old age, sickness, cancer and frailty, those things that linger deep within the bones of mortals that comes out one day to claim them – this is Senopy. [color=orangered][b]The Constant[/b][/color] is the lesser of the diarchy known as the Gods Exertus, and is as much a contrast of the Prism as the Sunderer is the Sun Divided. It not static, but instead driving ever-forward, an unrelenting force that refuses to allow others to slow or divert it. Its essence, Effiv, is willpower and fortitude, and sheer dogged determination – the drive to climb the highest peaks and cross the deepest valleys for no other reason than that they are there, and therefore should be conquered. [color=red][b]The Flame[/b][/color] heads the diarchy of the Gods Exertus, and is one of the most intimately mortal of all the Oblitarchs. The Flame is ingenuity and skill, progress not for progress’ sake, but for improvement and inspiration. Its essence, Emiv, was there when mortalkind first learnt to make sparks to tame the flames, and has been there for every subsequent step of the way. It is technology, learned skills and craftwork, and it will only grow stronger. [color=crimson][b]The Delight[/b][/color] is the last of the Gods Ex Solari, and is the rawest form of the Glory – its explosive force, its pulsing rhythm, its undulating colours. Its essence, Percus, is lust and gluttony, sloth and pride, but also delight, love, happiness and all the other of the myriad emotions that swell a mortal’s heart. [/hider] [b]Possessions:[/b] Morvanne’s Wagon: A comfortable and cozy construction, Morvanne’s wagon is carved from hardy oak and stuffed with all manner of scrolls, books, trinkets and of course, plenty of tea. It even has its own sleeping area so she does not need to pitch a tent every night. Unending Odds-And-Ends: Although Morvanne is best known for her trading of books and scrolls, she is also a well-known oddities merchant. Family heirlooms, archaeological artifacts, coins from dead kingdoms and sometimes genuine magical items are all collected and categorized. Most of these she sells on, but some she keeps, and puts away for her own uses. [hider=Notables of Her Collection] [color=white]An Ancient Whisper[/color]: It is said that once upon a time there was a winter that refused to end. At the ends of Alwyne, where the temperature never goes above freezing, there is water that has never known a form other than ice. Now it refuses to melt even when thrown into fire. A gemstone-sized piece of this ancient whisper resides in a small dish atop Morvanne’s hearth. [color=darkblue]A Bell-Jar of Moths[/color]: On hazy nights, when the sky is dark and the air is fresh and clear, moths are irresistibly drawn to the small drop of incense left at the bottom of the bell jar. They always find their way home, in the end. [color=black]A Hand of[/color] [color=yellow]Glory[/color]: Stolen from a gibbet, prepared in a mixture of nitre, salt, ashes and incense, dried in the days where the red star hangs low in the sky, hung from an oak tree to see three nights, then impaled to a temple to a false deity for a day. It takes a ritual to make such a powerful tool. A Conclave of Candles: Each one embraced in its own case, each one a different peculiar colour. They smell of [color=gold]old books[/color] and [color=lightpink]fresh blood[/color], of [color=red]newly minted coins[/color] and [color=crimson]fresh flowers[/color]. Morvanne lights them sparingly and always burns them to completion when she does. [color=BlueViolet]A Lethey Concoction[/color]: Anaesthetic and amnesiac both, the waters of the Lethe are found best in one’s deepest slumber. Only a drop must be stolen from a dream to brew a full pot of sweet-smelling oblivion. [/hider] An Ironwood Wand: Not all Morvanne’s tools are connected to the Oblitarchy – some would be common to any studious spellcaster. Ironwood is known for its strength and sturdiness, and makes perfectly functional, if unimpressive wands. This one has been imprinted with a simple force spell, suitable for bowling down foes, blowing heavy objects about and helping shift a stuck wagon from a rut. It serves as Morvanne’s main defensive option should she be accosted. An Unending Ledger: Average to look at, this plain leatherbound ledger holds a peculiar trait to it: perhaps an enchanter’s first project or an attempt at a truly endless book that ended poorly. Once the last page of the ledger is filled up the first page will lose its ink, allowing for one to write over ancient transactions with fresh ones. Very convenient for a woman like Morvanne. [hider=Optional: Extra Details] [center][color=BlueViolet]What They Most Want:[/color] [color=blueviolet]Secrets[/color], [color=white]Safety[/color], [color=darkblue]Eternity[/color] [color=BlueViolet]If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:[/color] True Neutral [color=BlueViolet]Three Likes:[/color] A fresh set of tea samples, a well-loved tome, a lost secret rediscovered. [color=BlueViolet]Three Dislikes:[/color] Uninvited guests, being left out of the loop, unfortunate reminders. [color=BlueViolet]Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:[/color] Mind. One cannot blindly follow their heart in her field of study – it never ends well. [color=BlueViolet]Worst Fear:[/color] In her darkest dreams, where the line between [color=blueviolet]The Threshold[/color] and [color=slategray]The Nothing[/color] are too blurred, she sees an unlit pyre, surrounded by high-collared hunters with manacles at their waists and torches in hand. [color=BlueViolet]Favorite Color:[/color] [color=blueviolet]Isn’t it obvious by now?[/color] [color=BlueViolet]Most Like The Animal:[/color] Perhaps a little stereotypical for someone as fond of books as she is, but an owl suits Morvanne quite nicely. She is quiet, wise, and does all her greatest work under the cover of darkness. [color=BlueViolet]Favorite Time of Day:[/color] Twilight. [color=BlueViolet]How They Dress:[/color] See appearance. [color=BlueViolet]Favorite Season:[/color] She [i]should[/i] like Winter the most, as it’s very easy to weave with [color=white]Senopy[/color] when snow lies heavy on the ground, but in reality she’s particularly fond of early autumn. [color=BlueViolet]What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):[/color] [b]Cough[/b] [/center] [/hider] [/hider] I'm reposting Morvanne because she's basically content complete. I'll need to do some more edits, mostly proofreading and completing all the various colours that need to be done, but the core won't change from this unless she needs to be overhauled in any way!