• Name:
  Hyseleia Erenhart
• Age:
  23
• Gender:
  Female
• Race:
  Python Lamia
• Rank:
  Iron
• Appearance:
  If somehow, the first thing people notice about Hyseleia is her upper torso, they would find a strikingly beautiful, somewhat large woman in quite a few areas. Casually standing at almost six feet at a resting position, Hyseleia possesses long black hair that falls to her waist with a magically preserved flower -a gift from her father from one of his adventures - woven tied in place on her left temple along with a headpiece that fits snugly around her head. Long, pointed ears that twitch slightly in movement if curious or attempting to listen to something. Predatory crimson eyes with serpentine pupils and a pale complexion hidden under a simple dress and a thick warm looking hood that drapes across her shoulders and upper arms.
  
  Oh, and scales...?
  
  Typically, though, what most people would first notice is that her body past her waist is that of a large serpent, covered in a thick layer of greyish scales. Indeed, Hyseleia is one of the Lamia race. A Carnivorous race of folks not often seen, especially this far north. The tip of her tail is adorned with a simple jewel and around her waist a simple skirt.
• Personality:
  Hyseleia's personality can best be described as difficult at best. Not that she's unfriendly, at least she doesn't consider herself as such. Rather, spending fourteen of her formative years living alone with her mother and occasional visits from her father in a far off forest with only the animals she hunted, encouraged by her mother to be as...lets say, merciless as possible has colored her personality quite a bit. Driven, motivated, and tends to have a 'might makes right' view of the world. Ask for her opinion on something and she'll give it in the most blunt and brutal way possible. Ask her to do something? She'll do it, though not without commenting on how lazy you are for making her do it. She always has something to say, really, and she is not shy about sharing her rather brutally honest and brutal way of desiring to handle conflict.
  
  In broad strokes though, in her day to day she generally is a pleasant sort if you can handle words sharper than her fangs. While she does like spending time alone, she doesn't shy away from people joining her or finding someone to converse or hang out with. Often times, she finds a warm spot or fire to curl up by to read, drink, or simply laze about.
  
  And, on the off chance someone happens to be nearby, they may just find themselves occupied for the next hour being in a scaled prison. Not that anyone would ever admit that they don't want such a thing.
• Brief Backstory:
  Born to a Lamia mother in a forest in rural Estival, much of Hyseleia's early life and formative years were spent with just her mother, herself, and her dad when he wasn't busy out adventuring. Much of her life as a child was spent learning magic from her mother - a Lamia of some dubious origins who never learned magic from an official institution. A witch, or at least, a user of magic that wasn't trusted or looked well upon. Not that she concerned herself with such thoughts, no. She was too busy playing, learning, and generally just doing what she wanted.
  
  Occasionally playing pranks on adventurers and other folks passing through the forest, or simply watching them with keen curiosity.
  
  It wouldn't be until she was 14 that she actually got to see the wider world, much at her father behest. And to start with, she was enrolled in Estival's Mage College to lean some proper magic, much to her own chagrin. A serpent dragged out of their home and suddenly forced to adapt to city life. Not that she hated learning, no, she hated the more structured and academic nature of it all. It was no wonder then, perhaps her personality took a bit of a troublesome turn. While she did ultimately excel academically, she was always a source of trouble for both teachers and other students.
  
  Her time otherwise though, living with her Dad after he took time off from adventuring to raise her properly, was spent joyously. She'd also learn much more about his own exploits as Silver-ranked adventurer. Stories of his adventurers and time spent with his own companions, even if he was never a particularly famous. She took to city life surprisingly well, too, though she still finds it as noisy and the amount of people annoying, especially if they stare too long, since Lamia's are a bit of a rarity. Otherwise she spent her free time reading, sparring with her dad, and well...continuing her streak of playing pranks or otherwise messing with people. Especially those ignorant or more fearful or curious about Lamia's.
  
  Eventually she'd graduate from Estival's mages college with fairly high marks, and when presented with the option of returning to the forest her mother lived in or perhaps, making her own mark as an adventurer well...she would choose the latter, perhaps out of some silly sentiment and sense of adventure her father instilled in her. Not that she'd ever admit to such a childish desire.
• Equipment:
  Silver Floral Staff: A large, silver colored staff inlaid a large blue gemstone meant to be held firmly in her tail. A floral pattern is engraved on it and is of course, what she channels most of her magic through.
• Skills:

Hyseleia has a natural affinity for the water element, and as such, is naturally drawn to magic of the water nature. Often times she uses it to effectively create and manipulate water in a mostly violent manner. While she does minor in a handful of other areas, shes not particularly skilled in such areas, and is quite lacking in any support or defensive ability. Such things are both boring and ill suited towards her particular style of fighting. Her mother has also instilled her with a knowledge of some perhaps, things that would be considered a bit taboo or things that would be frowned upon knowing, though she has no interest in pursuing such knowledge herself.

For guild receptionist Ervan Seliac, it had been a slow day. There had been the usual early morning rush of junior adventurers picking up the local tasks but on a rainy day like this things tended to be quiet, and the quiet, bookish man was never the most popular of the receptionists to go up to. Fine by him – it gave more time to catch up on his studies: they could always use more healers and it paid much better than manning the desks.

With the polished tile approaching the counters and the well-lit main hall, it was easy to tell when someone was coming, even with his nose buried in a textbook. There was just a distracting drip, drip, drip…

When he looked up and adjusted his glasses, there was someone standing there, an awkward-looking figure with a slight frown marring what was visible of her features. An elf, obviously an elf with those long ears, figure swallowed under a rough, leathery mantle, the drip coming from the rain pooling off of her cloak.

“Ah… how can I help you?” How long had she been standing there waiting? Ervan leant forward slightly to try and gauge from the size of the puddle. That long? How had she crept up?

Her response was a quiet murmur. “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.”

“The guard have advised me to become an adventurer. The magistrate gave me this,” her voice was still soft and distinctly accented, but a pale hand carefully emerged and placed a sealed scroll on the desk.

Ervan took his time checking and breaking the seal before reading the contents – nothing unusual, dock a fraction of the bearer’s pay as fines, or report back to the authorities if they quit early – and tried to ignore the way her eyes seemed to constantly bore into the top of his head.

“This all seems to be in order. There’s some paperwork and an assessment to complete, if you don’t mind following me, miss…?”

“Quille.”

The short trip through to one of the guild offices, normally overboard for a simple onboarding but necessary with the additional legal complexities, was unnerving. More than once, the receptionist felt the need to stop and check that she was following, only to find the tall figure exactly one pace behind. It was just too silent.

Most of the paperwork was simple: name, agreeing to the pay garnishment, and so on. When it came to skills…

“We’d normally start any newcomers at copper rank, but if you have any prior experience or applicable skills, we can take that into account and arrange an assessment,” he explained, giving her a smile.

“I am a hunter,” there was a definitive tone that hadn’t been present in her previous answers.

“Ah, like deer? Or perhaps elk, maybe mammoths…?” Ervan clarified. She had been apprehended for poaching, and it was clearer in the office’s magical illumination that her heritage was of the northern folk. Definitely not a complete novice, but…

“When visiting the surface. I normally hunt anything beneath it, but I like karakmeli the best.”

“That would be…?”

“I think the translation is… rock eater?” Quille dug about beneath her cloak and carefully placed a cleaver on the table. The blade was odd, with a distinct metallic gleam to it despite being otherwise a creamy ivory; the blade and handle were carved from a single piece, leather roughly wrapped around it to provide more grip, “Teeth are better than steel for blades, very long lasting. But hard to work with.”

That was not a creature that he had realised could exist – one where a single tooth could be reworked into such a sizeable implement with a ready cutting edge. Definitely skilled enough for monster-hunting work, if that was Quille’s normal prey, but they would need a full assessment.

“I’ll see who we have available to test your skills.”

---

The assessment was easy to arrange; the Venne branch always had a few silver ranks hanging around and even a gold-ranked adventurer today, and they were happy to give up a little bit of time in exchange for some free drinks later. Despite the weather, they filed out to a nearby common, a few bored city folk lining up to watch what was going on.

When Quille shucked her cloak, one of the adventurers let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of knives.”

But nothing really in the way of armour, which went some way to explain the hunter’s silent movement… even if the knives ought to offset it somehow.

As a self-professed stealth specialist, the direct test of her combat ability was postponed, starting with an actual test of those stealth capabilities. One or two at a time acting as prey, while the others performed as examiners – and a mage they had wrangled doing her best to fake some cover or interesting features without ruining the common beyond their ability to restore.

The results were odd. Quille’s skills were clearly polished, refined, and tracking her was a veritable headache; if she started in someone’s blindspot it was very hard to catch a glimpse. But she’d get caught out by the oddest things. A novice might not notice the sudden crunch of leaves or the snap of a twig, or the slight hint of a shadow when the sun started to come out, but the more experienced adventurers in this rank could reliably pick it up in time.

When the roles were swapped, there were similar oddities, occasions where she might instantly pinpoint where someone was approaching from, but have to take longer to narrow it down when the terrain was open or muffled wood. Not a problem for your average expedition, but in a high ranked one…

There was a frustrated cast once again to Quille’s brow when they concluded after the combat assessment – her knife fighting skills, at least, were much above the expectation for a stealth specialist concentrating on instant takedowns, although much of that was a slipperiness and difficulty in pinning the woman down rather than out-and-out engagement.

“Does your guild have a large basement?”

Ervan scratched his head. It had several – there was lots to store, even if you only counted the beer and wine cellars. “It does, why?”

“One more test. There, in the dark.”

All the odd flaws finally came together once – after a promise of another round of drinks – the assessment was repeated, down there amongst the wine racks. It wasn’t completely perfect; they didn’t have an equally subterranean group to really contest her, only old Hjalmar. But with much more controlled light sources, or true darkness, and no plants…

Ervan’s wallet suffered at the extra round of drinks he’d had to pay out to make sure his girly scream was forgotten.

The strange, quiet elf was admitted to the guild as a steel rank that evening, as many of the usual crowd as possible making sure to buy her drinks and get to know her.

Against alcohol, she barely even rated a copper.

Name: Calaphindë, often called Calben after an unfortunate incident with someone that couldn't entirely read his handwriting and ended up misreading/mispronouncing his name.

Age: Approximately 150

Gender: Male

Race: Elf (Wood/High)

Rank: Copper*

Appearance: Grey-haired, bright eyed, smooth and youthful even by the standards of the ageless elves—despite the obvious intelligence shining within his green gaze, it's clear just looking at him that Calben is a quite young elf. 5'8" tall, thin, and perhaps a bit soft, coupled with the artfully made clothing he wears and lack of any sort of scarring, he does not cut a particularly adventure-y sort of figure. He's clearly physically fit, of course, and holds every weapon he has like he knows how to use it—but he lacks any sign of real life experience or hardship to lend gravitas to his features.

Of note are his curiously short ears for an elf.

Personality: Wide-eyed, idealistic, and absolutely delighting in getting to experience the world beyond his home. Calben clearly has the mind of a scholar, especially given his near-perfect recall of almost everything he witnesses, so long as he pays attention to it. With that comes a drive to learn more, see more, do more—he's a hard worker and doesn't shy away from nearly any challenge put before him, but tales of the capriciousness and flightiness of elves are proven in how he goes about whatever catches his fancy. Woe be to any who expect him to keep paying attention if he should spot some rare alchemical ingredient while they're walking down a trail...

Brief Backstory: Born in the Wood Elven city of Almindon, Calaphindë's father is a skilled archer and bowyer, serving within the city's guard, overseeing some training for them and any who may wish to volunteer for it in times of trouble, and selling his bows on the side; his mother is actually a High Elf, as skilled with magic as is expected of her kindred. The pair oversaw Calaphindë's education as soon as he was able to start, tutoring him in their respective skills while both fostered in him a general love of knowledge and scholarly mindset. His mother taught him of magical spellcraft and alchemy, while his father taught him not only how to fight with bow and spear, but also how to interact with other people, a valuable skill in his own work. His wider family taught him how to hunt, how to survive off the land, the laws of their settlement—all the general education that a young elf of Almindon would be expected to know.

Calaphindë took to most of it well, though not without a few hiccups here and there as he experimented with things he likely shouldn't have.

It has since been some decades since he last saw his mother, as she was called back to the family of her birth, behind Lethienvel, beyond even the settlements that the High Elves had made beyond the Veil. As such, his magical education could be said to have lagged somewhat compared to the more physical or social pursuits passed from his father—though as much of the city learned before he was very old, he never really forgot something that he put his focus on, and it's more a matter of practice. However, perhaps brought on by the same drive that first set his mother to set out so far from the High Elven settlements and come to Almindon, the elf boy was restless. The city and its immediate surroundings were not enough to hold his interest forever, not compared to the stories he'd heard from both his parents, the rest of his family, and the few traders that were allowed to come of the rest of the world beyond their city and their tract of forest, not compared to the tales and histories he could read in the books available to him.

Much like his mother, he was also not one for long goodbyes. With little enough said to ensure he'd be stocked well enough for the journey, Calaphindë set out from Almindon, and as he was in search of adventure, in search of the chance to verify and experience all the things he'd learned of, joined the Estivalian Adventurer's Guild at the first opportunity that presented itself. He quickly learned to be less artistic with his handwriting, after an unfortunately not-Elvish-experienced guild member thoroughly misread and mispronounced his name, giving him a nickname that has stuck ever since; the rest of the guild that tried to determine his skillset and placement found themselves with a dilemma of just how to rank him, with such a breadth of knowledge but no actual experience behind any of it.

To his (only mild) dismay, they assigned Calaphindë the provisional rank of Copper, and set him to work with more real-world experienced members of the guild to see if he was quick enough to actually cut it at Iron or Steel or if he'd really have to start from the bottom and work his way up.

Equipment: Other than general travelling gear, standard the world over, Calaphindë's possessions are totaled up in the form of a journal, a couple of books brought with him about general upkeep of the stuff he has and the sorts of materials he may be able to find while he's out travelling (he hasn't finished reading that one yet, so he just brought it with him), he has a longbow with arrows and a quiver (all lovingly made by his father) a somewhat long-bladed hewing spear (often finds itself used as a walking staff), and should all else fail (or he needs to cut through some particularly dense brush or the like), he has a small, light falchion/hanger type blade.

Notably, he does not have any special focus to channel the magic he knows through.

He may have forgotten it when he was packing to leave home.

Skills: Despite his parents' best efforts, he's not particularly great with other people. He's friendly, he can generally get along, but expecting him to be a leader or persuasive or the like is a stretch.

Other than that, though, he picked up on everything relatively well—fighting skills courtesy of his father, hunting and survival skills, even magic courtesy of his mother, though he's rather limited with the latter given a lack of practice and lack of a good focus to use in spellcraft, and the former has yet to really be tested. Perhaps most unique to him is his nearly photographic memory; for things that he experiences, whether that be reading them, seeing them, tasting, smelling, hearing, feeling—Calaphindë's recall is almost entirely perfect, barring the obvious inherent bias that every observer has.

Of course, that bias comes with one clear drawback—it is entirely focused on whatever he was focused on. And for him to recall anything, it has to catch and hold his focus enough for him to actually think about it, as any spontaneous memory is far more likely to be related to his interests that have captured his attention than for anything that might be directly helpful. For the guild, this is already a known struggle for those that have to deal with him to overcome, but if they're careful about it, it may be more useful than it seems...

Bios:

• Name: Lisianna “Liz” Bren
• Age: 26
• Gender: Female
• Race: Human
• Rank: Iron
• Appearance: Lisia is a tall human woman approaching six foot tall.
• Personality: Lisia is a plucky and cheerful woman, usually with a smile on her face that gives off a soft, motherly charm at times. She has fun in a fight though if things get a bit rough she takes it a lot more seriously. She’s also a lot more serious while she’s on the job than in her everyday behavior.
• Brief Backstory: In the capital, Venne, 26 years ago, Lisianna was given life. She was born the daughter of her father, the Captain of the Guard and a Mage mother. Her mother was busy with her work at the Mage’s College while her dad often brought her to the training grounds of the City Guard. Naturally, she grew up with a sword in hand though at times she felt reluctant about it, as he was harder on her about training than any of the actual guardsmen.
  
  Not that her mother was absent through her childhood, but she was a new teacher and struggled to keep her personal life and her professional life together at the same time. However, around the time Lisianna turned 12, she managed to find more time at home without being overwhelmed with other projects or work. Lisia asked her mom about the College and about magic and if she could use it. Boasting, her mother puffed out her chest and said, “Of course any child of mine can use magic!” After going through some testing, they found she had an affinity with lightning magic.
  
  Over time, she trained with both the sword and magic, figuring out how to infuse electricity into her blade as well as her other lightning spells. Occasionally, she would also accompany her mother to the College, usually carrying things for her that were a little on the heavy side.
  
  When she turned 18, she officially joined the City Guard. Between her two separate trainings, she spent six or so years helping around town. However, the one thing that the guard didn’t do for her was push her training to the limits. There was only so much she could do in the guard to train and get better. So she turned her eye to the Adventurer’s Guild. She decided to join the Guild to train herself to be stronger.
• Equipment: Lisia has a greatsword gifted to her between her mother and father for her 20th birthday that’s a bit more conducive to her magical energies. Her armor is insulated slightly against electricity so she doesn’t accidentally shock herself when she infuses her blade with lightning.
• Skills: Due to her intensive training with the Guard (her father, really) for most of her life, she knows all the ins and outs of her sword. Her swordsmanship is one of the four things she’s proud of in the world. Two of the others are both of her parents and the last thing is her magic skills.
  
  After her training with her mother, Lisianna considers herself proficient with her magical skills. She has an affinity for lightning magic which she uses in a more normal way as one might think of a mage, but she also infuses it into her sword to deliver shocking slashes.
  
  With her combined styles, she realizes she’s nowhere near challenging any of the platinum ranked adventurers, but she’s pretty confident that she’ll climb the ranks of the Guild in due time.
  
  
  Magical Abilities [+]

  Electrical Infusion: For a time, her blade is infused with electricity, making every attack that connects and is conductive shock the opponent.
  Bolt Discharge: Lisianna charges volatile electricity in her hand before discharging it out in a bolt that shocks the first creature it hits. It moves at a speed that if you blink, you might miss it.
  Lightning Speed: Lisianna embodies her electricity and moves and reacts at a faster rate of speed (approximately 25% faster reaction and movement speed).

Name: Eustace Wyndham

Age: 24

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Rank: Iron

Appearance:

Standing at 5’9, Eustace is slender, his frame only beginning to gain the musculature of an active life. His hands are fine-boned, his soft palms more used to a pen than a weapon. A gentle expression and faraway look soften his features, and he is quick to a quiet smile. Whatever scars he once bore had all been healed by his mentor. However, he has several tattoos – stylized stars arranged in constellations: the Weaver of Fates across his back, the Guide of the Lost over his chest, the Seven Fortunes along his left bicep.

Personality:

Eustace is thoughtful, quiet, curious, and creative. His interests are diverse but particular, and he might focus on what seem like odd details. Often, he’s felt out of sync with other people and the world at large, yet he eagerly seeks connection and understanding. He finds appreciation in the little, everyday things, and experiences a particular contemplative contentment in nature. He enjoys listening to others, especially if stories or music are involved, and has a habit of people-watching. Eustace can be a lively conversationalist, but experience tells him it is best if he speaks less rather than more. Get him drunk, however, and he will philosophize at length, pester you with questions or trivia, and launch into purple prose of dubious quality.

Despite all oddities, his is an undeniably kind soul. Too kind, perhaps, for he dislikes violence, even though he recognizes its necessity. A strange distaste for an adventurer, yet he has overcome it by viewing combat as a puzzle to solve; a challenge for the body and mind. That, and he finds questing a worthwhile pursuit which sates his wanderlust as well as fulfills his romantic notions of helping the weak or troubled. An idealist at heart, Eustace will strive for peaceful solutions whenever possible. While empathetic and attentive to others, he has little to no awareness of danger to his own being.

Biography:

Eustace was born to the baron and baroness of Venton, a town in northern Velt. Situated at the very foot of Cahladren, it was a hilly area rich with vineyards, farmsteads spanning the plains below. With a forest and a mine nearby, it had resources aplenty, and thrived as a crossroads for several key trade routes. The intricacies of its geopolitical positioning, alliances, and rivalries were matters Eustace’s parents and tutors worked hard to instill. He was not the heir, no, but as the delegated spare it behooved him to know the barony’s affairs – or so everyone insisted.

He was named in the hope that he would be steadfast, a dependable lord who assisted his older brother. Eustace disappointed every expectation. While he liked to learn, he did not have a practical bone in his body. When taught about Venton’s rivalries, he’d ask, “Why can’t we get along?” When instructed on their barony’s wines, their seasonal yields and profits, he concluded that adults simply liked numbers. So, he would question, “How many swallows flew past yesterday? How many beats of their wings did it take?” Then he would set off to find out.

Adults, as it turned out, did not enjoy many questions. Still, curiosity drew him to explore wherever he could. “Fey child,” the townspeople whispered. Naturally, he sought to learn all about fey, from legend to story to fact. Of course, his parents did not approve, having heard the same rumours. When his interest transitioned to elves, then deities, then the stars, and so on, the relief was overshadowed by despair as they struggled to figure out what to do with a boy such as him.

Eustace was talented at music and painting, but for a noble, that was a hobby at most. Besides, his utter lack of dedication to perfection was yet another failing. When he showed a knack for languages, a faint hope burgeoned that he could be a diplomat. But his poor social sense doomed that idea. He forgot nobles’ titles, was plainly bored by their habits, and skipped polite small talk for academic debate or overly personal inquiries.

By late childhood, his parents quietly chose his younger sister as the secondary heir, yet they still sought a role for Eustace. As a last-ditch attempt, they tested him for magic capability, then promptly hired a tutor upon the promising result. Showing an interest and aptitude for light magic, his teacher tried easing him into the venerated art of Astromancy. Even after two years, however, Eustace refused to learn anything remotely offensive. He remained fixated on the play of light – tricks better suited to an entertainer or a rogue.

Recognizing his inclinations and his family’s hopes, his mentor proposed an alternative: healing magic. At last something clicked. Eustace remained ill-suited to rigid lessons, but the desire to help others bolstered him. Guided by his teacher, he focused and improved. Upon reaching majority, he became an assistant healer, capable of basic spells, learning advanced techniques under supervision.

There were still incidents: he sometimes wandered off to offer his services to the poor for little to no pay. His parents grumbled, but he argued in an inspired bout of articulation that goodwill was a form of currency, and they reached a compromise. Overall, things looked promising.

So promising that his parents chose him as a delegate to a reclusive wood elven settlement, as he was the most fluent noble in elvish. First contact went well, and it seemed an agreement might follow in the near future. But on the journey home, things went wrong.

Buoyed by his success, Eustace celebrated late into the night at a local tavern. Drunk on wine and victory, he ventured out onto the moonlit path, intending to swim in the nearby lake. What happened next is hazy: he may have lost his way, or met a stranger too eager to share his joy. Whatever the cause, he awoke the next morning hungover and bound in a cart.

A bandit group had captured him. He overheard their talk of a ransom or selling him for a pretty copper. Drawing on his noble upbringing, Eustace told them which family to contact, and demonstrated his healing skills, hoping to make himself too valuable to harm.

That worked. Mostly. Months passed as the bandits evaded pursuit. Eustace learned firsthand the cruelty of men, and had long, lonely hours to ponder violence, isolation, and human nature.

In the end, a party of Estival adventurers found the camp, for the outlaws had crossed the border to evade Velt’s guards. Eustace was enraptured by the adventurers: there was a strange, almost ethereal beauty to their contest. The song of life and death, the interplay of good and evil, the clash of steel as lives and livelihoods hung in the balance. He had been to hunts, tournaments, and duels, had seen the bandits inflict harm on hapless souls, but he had never witnessed anything like this. It was pure, almost, undeniably if unexpectedly enchanting.

Or maybe he was delirious.

Even so, Eustace had tasted the unknown, and longed to understand. What was different about that encounter? Why did it move him so? Could he ever recreate it?

He returned home to prove he was hale, then announced his decision to become an adventurer. There was no stopping him once he made up his mind. Harsh as it seemed, his family recognized that his ordeal had changed him, and believed that seeing the wider world might grant him wisdom.

Living away from his family, away from expectations was a novel freedom. He even turned to combat, poring over neglected magical theory to incorporate battle spells, sparring, and polishing his healing craft. Over the next two years, Eustace came into his own as an adventurer, seeking new knowledge as he pursued that mystical, ever elusive song.

Equipment:

• Rapier – A melee weapon with a quartz gem inset in its pommel, his rapier doubles as a magic catalyst.
• Buckler – A defensive off-hand.
• Talisman – A necklace with a paired moonstone and sunstone jewel. A backup magic catalyst.
• Enchanted attire – Fancy clothing enchanted with protective spells.
• Hooded brown cloak – A cloak he always wears over the more distinctive garments. Don’t let it be said that one past kidnapping incident was not a lesson well learned.
• Bag with supplies – A satchel with travelling essentials; a bedroll, blanket, water canteen, compass, map, a selection of nonperishables et cetera. Alongside the necessities, he carries a leatherbound journal, implements for writing and sketching, a flute, and a monocular. Any coins on his person are hidden in a pouch sewn to the inner side of his shirt.

Skills:

Eustace is primarily a healer. He has a good sense for gauging how severe a given injury is, and can get a more accurate read with a diagnostic spell.

He can mend scrapes, bruises, and shallow cuts with ease. Stabs, gashes, punctures, and deeper slices will be dealt with the staunching of blood and an uncomfortable sealing of flesh mid-combat, while finesse is reserved for its proper time and place. He can temporarily reinforce broken bones to prevent further injury and enable semi-normal functioning. He can speed up the healing of breaks and fractures, but it is a mana-intensive effort. Internal injuries are tricky – a quick fix mid-fight might keep a combatant going for a bit longer, but can and often does complicate matters later on. Generally, it is best for severe wounds to be treated out of combat, as they require great focus as well as measured and calculated doses of spellcasting over a longer period of time.

Eustace cannot reattach severed flesh nor can he grow it or create blood. He can gather and purify a person’s lost blood, and channel it back into their body, but this procedure is too lengthy to be done in combat.

He can cast a spell to detect poisons and toxins; with it, he can uncover harmful substances in general, but so far, he can recognize only a few commonly used ones (such as nightshade, hemlock, aconite). With a general purifying spell, he can attempt to nullify a poison or slow its effects, however this is less likely to work on complex or unusual toxins.

Eustace dabbles in light magic, which he uses in a supportive role. He can generate light or manipulate existent light. It costs barely any mana for him to create a swarm of light motes to dazzle, distract or blind enemies. Thankfully, he has prudence enough not to confound his allies alongside his opponents. He can illuminate dark areas, conjure faux campfires or torches, and ‘stick’ a light to an opponent to mark them. He can trick enemies with very simple visual illusions: the glint of a thrown knife, a blurred shape in their periphery, the disguising of uneven terrain. However, the latter is very much a beginner’s skill, one he is not yet confident at. He is far more at ease when creating light shows and mirages for entertainment, but that is a very different matter.

Adding two combat spells to his repertoire has assisted him greatly in missions of the Iron rank:

• Barrier: Solidifying light, Eustace forms a protective layer formed of interlocking hexagons. He cannot cover a large area, and a single layer of the barrier lasts a few hits at most.
• Light ray: Gathering light in the palm of his hand, Eustace fires off one to three super-heated rays of light. They are fast, and can curve, but the moment of charging up the spell is a noticeable tell.

Technically, he was taught to duel as part of his upbringing, but though he’s been practicing since becoming an adventurer, he is a novice fighter. Usually, he will stand on the backline, trusting others to protect him while he keeps an eye on the general flow of the battle. Eustace does have a decent sense for strategy, and basic theoretical knowledge of it, but it is still developing in practice.

As far as any other marketable skills, he can sketch passable maps, speaks a fair few languages, and could earn at least a meal with a song.

- Name: Nevaris “Nev” Moonshard
- Age: 22
- Gender: Male
- Race: Human
- Rank: Iron
- Appearance:
- Messy black hair that flops forward over his eyes a bit
- Tan skin
- Irises a mix of brown and pale turquoise
- Plain linen clothes, with dark leather jerkin with violet accents over top
- Red tattoo on his right forearm that resembles a proud hunting hound running through thick woods

- Personality:

Reserved and polite when first getting to know someone. Once he begins to feel more comfortable, he will quickly become friendly and protective. A very emotional person, sometimes to the point of being volatile, his worst mistakes tend to come from acting without thinking, even if he means well.

He is known to hold grudges against those who wrong him, even slightly. He also has a competitive streak that can seem a bit out of nowhere to people who have only recently met him. This likely stems from a deep-seated insecurity about not actually being good enough for the path he’s chosen.

- Brief Backstory:

Born in the town of Felrist, Nevaris was raised to be a hunter by his parents from a young age. While he enjoys the profession as means of providing for his family and as an excuse to explore the great outdoors, he has always yearned for something more. He was enamored by tales of heroes and adventurers, regardless of whether the stories were fact or fiction. Unfortunately, he was always mediocre at best when it came to personal combat, and when he was assessed for any sort of magical ability, his mana potential was judged to be below average. While he was always handy with a bow, he had little experience killing anything that also wanted to kill him. Dejected, he resigned himself to being an adventurer only in his daydreams.

Then, early one morning, he awoke to screams outside of his window. A neighbor had been mauled to death by a large, unknown beast. Oddly, Nevaris’s dog Milo was also missing. After tracking the creature to the woods, Nevaris made the harrowing discovery that the creature *was* his loyal hunting dog Milo, somehow mutated into a towering beast by a strange disease or curse. Deciding to end the creature’s misery rather than let him be hunted by the townsfolk, he decided to kill Milo himself, though he barely survived the confrontation.

As he laid in the grass holding his mauled, ruined arm, a strange fae creature appeared to him, apparently having watched their battle. It was impressed with Nevaris’s conviction to kill the creature himself, as well as his ferocity when faced with death. The fae knitted his wounds closed using the blood of the beast, leaving a red tattoo of Milo running through the woods where the wound should have been. The tattoo allows for Nevaris to summon a magical sword of sharpened bone that can also give him a sudden boost in strength and speed at the cost of his blood.

While the fae’s true motivations are unknown, it has agreed to give Nevaris more tattoos with spells to summon magical weapons, but Nevaris has to provide blood from powerful creatures he has slain in order to do it. Seeing this as an opportunity to chase the dream that has always seemed out of reach, he sought out the Adventurer’s Guild.

- Equipment:
- Hunting bow / arrow quiver
- Hunting knife
- Outdoor survival equipment. Flint and steel, rope, fishing nets, etc.
- Skills:
- Hunting / tracking / archery
- Cooking
- Middling sword-fighting competency. This is usually supplemented by the temporary boost in physical ability that the bone blade gives him

The low, otherworldly growl shook the leaves, the branches, even the ground beneath Nevaris’s feet. Thick streams of blood dripped from the creature’s fangs. It was a hulking, hunched figure in a vaguely canine shape, the arch of its shoulders nearly six feet from the ground. Nevaris’s grip tightened around his bow. This thing in front of him that paced slow, menacing circles in the forest clearing was very familiar, but at the same time, very, very alien.

“M…Milo. That’s enough, boy.” Nevaris swallowed hard, struggling to maintain eye contact with the distorted, monstrous form of his once-faithful hound. “You’re just sick. I know you’re hurting… and scared. Just stop all this, okay? We’ll call the mages. They can make you better.”

His voice was thin, trembling along with the rest of his body. He knew Milo couldn’t understand him. In the past, he had imagined that he could; he would ramble all about his plans for the future. Adventures, danger, excitement. Big, silly dreams without a single foothold in reality. Milo always listened, enraptured like a loyal best friend, but Nevaris knew deep down that he didn’t understand his words.

It didn’t make lying to him any easier.

The gore that soaked Milo’s maw was that of a neighbor’s son - a friend that Nevaris had known for as long as he could remember, now nothing but a bloody stain on the ground. Even if the mages could cure this… disease, curse, whatever it was, the town wouldn’t just let Milo roam free. They would kill him. Several hunting parties were already out looking for him, but they didn’t know him like Nevaris did. This place was special: somewhere the two of them would rest during their long hunting days. If Milo had to die… then Nevaris would be the one to do it. It’s fitting that it would happen here.

Nevaris took a deep breath, in and out. He blinked away the tears pooling in his eyes and drew back an arrow. Milo stopped his pacing, head low. As they held each others’ gaze, Nevaris searched the beast’s eyes for any glimmer of the friend he had known. There was nothing. Just two burning red embers that yearned for blood.

“I’m sorry,” Nevaris whispered, and he loosed the arrow.

A blur of movement, and Milo’s form vanished from the arrow’s path and eclipsed Nevaris’s vision with otherworldly speed. In the next breath, Nevaris was slammed onto his back and pinned beneath the beast’s immense weight - it was all he could do to interpose an arm between the incoming fangs and his exposed throat. His scream echoed through the trees as the bite shredded his skin like paper and sunk into the bone of his forearm.

Pain and panic engulfed him. This wasn’t Milo - this was a monster draped in Milo’s skin. As the creature lashed back and forth, threatening to sever his arm with every pull, Nevaris desperately clawed at his side pocket, his own blood matting his hunting leathers.

Finally, he freed his hunting knife. His eyes went wide and he hissed through his teeth as the curved blade sank into the side of the beast’s throat. The vice-like grip on his arm didn’t even loosen. Instead, the beast flew into frenzy, pulling back with such force that Nevaris was lifted into the air before being slammed back down to earth. There was a sickening sound of cracking ribs.

Nevaris’s thoughts began to spin. I’m… going to die here. This thing is going to… kill me. KILL ME.

His mind went blank, except for one thought. SURVIVE. Knife still clutched in his free hand, he let out an inhuman shriek as he sank the blade into the beast’s throat again, and again, and again, his guttural cries becoming more and more incomprehensible with each strike.

The great beast cried out in turn: first a roar, then a series of grunts and groans, and then… whines. It shuddered in place before lilting to one side and slumping to the ground, finally relinquishing its grip on his arm. As the monster’s labored breaths began to slow, Nevaris forced himself upright, blood streaming from his arm and speckling the grass beneath him.

Once again, he found himself gazing into its eyes. Where there had been unholy embers only moments before, now there were two familiar brown eyes staring back at him. The pair beheld each other one last time, a moment of quiet reverence, before Milo finally went still.

Time didn’t seem to move. Nevaris could only look at the distorted corpse, his mind so far away that he didn’t even feel the searing pain in his right arm. The edges of his vision began to go dark as he fell deeper and deeper into numbness.

Then, someone began to clap.

Nevaris spun around. “Who’s there?!” His breath caught in his throat as his arm throbbed with the sudden movement.

Behind him, lounging on the stump of a fallen tree, was a creature from a children’s tale. Human-like, but with the legs of a goat, the torso of a man, and long, spiraling horns that curved back from its forehead. The hairs that coated its goat legs where sharp like the spines of a porcupine, and what should have been its skin more closely resembled the gray bark from an old, old tree. Its eyes were two empty, sunken sockets filled with a pale yellow light. The same yellow leaked from its mouth as it spoke.

“Quite impressive.” Its voice was like a hollow grave. “It’s not so often that the small things kill the big things. But of course, this is how it must be, lest the big things get fat and lazy.”

Nevaris fumbled and grabbed his knife from the grass, then shakily pushed himself to his feet, right arm dangling uselessly at his side. “What… Who are you? The hell do you want with me?”

It lifted itself from the stump, almost hovering in the air as it did so. “A pertinent question, little hunter, but a boring one. I am a simple thing of this forest: a thing of watching and knowing. But you… you.” It walked forward, hands outstretched. “You are a lovely, interesting thing. A delightful contradiction - pride and shame, ambition and sloth, bravery… and cowardice.” It looked him up and down, like a butcher sizing up a prize cut of meat. “You want the world, but you do not take it, because you know it is beyond you. But what if…” It was very close now - close enough to lay a cold, tender hand on Nevaris’s ruined arm. “…what if it weren’t?”

Every muscle in his body screamed for him to run. But… he couldn’t. He couldn’t even look away from this strange thing whose words crawled up his spine.

It continued. “You tell yourself that a simple hunter cannot achieve the great things that you want, the things you want deep, deep down in your bones. But answer me, my dear, is one who could turn his blade against his own hound truly a simple hunter?” It tilted its head. “You could have let the other hunters do it. But no, you saw your beloved thing, your Milo, heading to a wretched end, and you said no! The end would be you, instead.” It smiled then, wide and unnatural. “And you showed it who the real beast was, didn’t you? Oh yes, yes you did. It was wonderful.”

“How… do you know all this?” Nevaris’s voice was barely a whisper.

The thing closed its “eyes”, still smiling, and shook its head. “I told you, my dear. I am an old thing. An old thing of watching, and of knowing.”

Gently, it took hold of Nevaris’s wounded arm. There was a flash of sickly light and the wounds began knitting themselves shut. With its other hand, it coaxed the hunting knife from his grip, blade still wet with the beast’s blood. As the wounds were mended, it used the bloody knife to trace lines along the scars. These lines quickly began to take shape, red blood outlining a scene of a proud hunting dog bounding through thick woods.

Nevaris regarded the beautiful composition on his skin, mouth agape.

“Focus now,” the thing said, it’s tone low and sharp. “His spirit needn’t be gone from this world.”

Without taking a moment to question, Nevaris poured all of his will and focus into the mark. A vision flashed through his mind; once again Milo’s fangs were bearing down into his flesh, and the pain was as real as it had ever been. Nevaris screamed.

“Do not fight it, boy. Persevere!” the thing bellowed, more a command than comfort. “This pain will be your strength!”

He gritted his teeth, the pure need for survival pushing everything else aside. All at once, he was jolted back to the present. His hand felt heavy.

A sword of sharpened bone sat in his grip. It was bladed on one side with a gentle curve, and the guard was wrapped in wicked thorns. The weapon felt nearly alive in his hand, and as he held it, his body surged with energy.

The old creature stood beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There is power in blood, Nevaris. The small needn’t always be small. Just like a little hound can become a beast of nightmares, so might a little hunter become a hero.”