Name: Swyfr Glenfyndor son of Cyndyll

Age: One and Forty

Gender: Male

Race: Woodland Elf

Rank: Iron

Appearance:

There is an amused air about the young elf, as if he were about to burst from excitement. He has a disarming smile, charming with a hint of mischievousness for his grin contains fangs both figurative and literal. He dresses in the customary buckskin clothing of his folk, pale brown animal hides, fringed on the seams and richly adorned by amber jewelry marking him as an elf lordling. His feet are covered by thin slippers made of rabbit fur so soft he could walk on dry twigs and make nary a sound. His hair is long, wild and golden and his eyes are like twin bits of emerald. His features lack the weight of centuries most of his kind possess and instead presents an untapped glee at a world of opportunity and feyish trickery. Swyfr is tall and springy, like a yew sapling, pairing the agile grace of elves with his youthful vigor. He would be considered a handsome lad, (by human eyes at least) if he weren’t so offputtingly strange, given the way he stares at people without blinking like a cat. Or how his eyes glint in the dark when a light is cast on him. Or how alien his movements and mannerisms are. Most recognize woodland elves to be creatures of good nature and friendly demeanor, but that does not change that they are oddities, different, and unknown. Swyfr is no exception to this rule.

Personality:

Swyfr is an odd fish, even or especially amongst elves. Named by his kin for the laughing red squirrel, he has proven himself worthy of the title time and again. He is insatiably curious and infamously crafty. His face is constantly plastered by a large toothy grin as he pokes and prods at whatever takes his fancy. He does not care about tact, and he has yet to learn the delicacy of handling interracial affairs. He is not malicious in his lack of sensitivity, simply unknowing and somewhat uncaring. For the ages have not yet laid a coating of wisdom upon him, much to his father’s anguish. Nevertheless, most will find he is a willing worker, longsuffering in hardship, never once losing his sense of cheerful inquisitiveness. He possesses a pleasant laugh, and does so often even at the expense of others. He is prone to losing his feet and falling to the ground where he will share his mirth amongst the flowers and grass. Sometimes his humor and what causes it is strange to the minds of men, who scratch their heads and wonder what madness had possessed the gleeful elf, only for Swyfr to double up and laugh more. For elvish folk do not scratch their heads when they’re confused, and this is most amusing.

At his center is a good soul, wishing to be helpful and to learn. Pride and dignity do not hold him back from erudition from the so-called mortal beings, like it does for so many other elder races. He is one of the few of his kind who would forsake the woodland and adventure wide and far just for the sake of the journey. To see what is beyond the next hill. His pranks and comments are not meant to deride, but to see how different beings respond to new stimuli. His lordly parents claim he will outgrow this youthful vagabond phase once he reaches the turn of the century, but Swyfr would only smile, and wave, and laugh.

Brief Backstory:

Elvish children are a rare and exciting time for the Clan of Woodland elves. When Cyndyll son of Syndr, and Rwenhild Daughter of Nymlith announced they would gift their folk with a child there was excitement and celebration. For the elflord and lady had not yet been blessed with an heir. Perhaps the precious gift they expected was not the adventurous prankster they received. Nonplused Cyndyll and Rwenhild carried on, teaching and guiding the best they could. Elves measure the development of their children in decades, and the success of their wisdom in centuries. They found the best method of control for the young Swyfr would be to send him on scouting expeditions to the far reaches of their forested realm alongside mentors and guides, where he might foster his curiosity. These forays were dangerous affairs in the wildlands, and before he reached his thirtieth year he bore the scars of several hard learned lessons. As the years advanced so to did his abilities and he was entrusted to lone hunting trips and scouting missions. His adventures had reached their logical extent within the confines of the woodland. Eventually he built up the courage and entered the outskirts and wandered amongst the human settlements there, though he never strayed far from beneath the trees.

At last, upon leaving the early years of elvish childhood and advancing into later adolescence he expressed his desire to venture further afield, to walk amongst men and all the beings of the world and see what lies beneath earth and sky. Despite his mother’s protests, his father Cyndyll gave his blessing. Requiring only that Swyfr return before his hundredth year so that he might be welcomed into full noblehood with the proper ceremonies. Thus prepared for a long journey Swyfr struck due north, intent on reaching the nearest town and joining the Adventurers, a Guild of heroes he had heard so much about from his time amongst the settlements. His joining was considered uncommon, yet not unwelcome. For there had been wolf sightings amongst the sheep pastures and a group of copper adventurers was needed to send them off. Swyfr's talents proved vital in tracking the pack to its den, and his sling sent more then one to the darkness of death. He and his two companions at the time proved their worth and earned their rewards. From there on Swyfr found work aplenty in his first year amongst the brave champions and learned much. His companions would find his company welcome for Swyfr rarely claimed his portion of the reward or loot desiring far more the experiences gained and the battles won.

Equipment:

Swyfr’s primary weapon is an elk sinew sling and a pouch of rounded river stones. He is a deadly shot at forty paces, and can load, swing, and release in a matter of seconds. The sling itself once loaded can be utilized as a flail, nearly two feet long it is perfect for battering heads and hands alike should a foe draw to close. Should that prove inadequate he carries a long bronze knife, adaptable at skinning prey and slitting foeman’s throats. He carries very little else besides the clothes on his back, having little need for camping supplies or coin.

Skills:

Taught for over two decades by the finest woodland rangers, Swyfr is a superb hunter. Stalking his prey across miles of rugged untamed wilderness, sneaking until he is nearly on top of them before striking swift and lethal. Although he lacks experience fighting proper opponents both armored and aware, he has won his fair share of scraps against dangerous fauna. Such as a battle against a puma which would often result in a young hunter’s demise. He survived, albeit barely and with the scars to prove the encounter, and a lesson in not trying to out sneak a cat.

He finds it simple to navigate most terrain, and can whisk up a tree faster then a squirrel should the need arise. By the stars and the sun he can set a course straighter then most. Thanks to his mother’s teachings he isn’t half bad at cooking the prey he snares, though as a woodland elf he prefers his meat rarer then humans would.

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...

- Name: Nevaris “Nev” Moonshard
- Age: 19
- Gender: Male
- Race: Human
- Rank: Copper (or Iron if that works better, I just imagine him as very green)
- Appearance:
- Messy black hair that flops forward over his eyes a bit
- Tan skin
- Irises a mix of brown and pale turquoise
- Dwarven rune imprint on the back of his right hand, usually covered by a black fingerless glove
- Plain linen clothes, with dark leather jerkin with violet accents over top
- Personality: Overly polite and gracious when first getting to know someone. Once he’s a bit more comfortable, he’s spacy and quiet. He tends to ponder outloud, which means that he will often say things or ask questions that make no sense out of context.

- Brief Backstory (tldr):

Nevaris is a ranger of middling talent who was orphaned at the age of 14. He was then rescued and raised by an eccentric dwarven runecrafter until the age of 19. During his time with the runecrafter, Nevaris was accidentally branded with a dwarven weapon rune on the back of his right hand. During a life-or-death fight, the rune flared with life and an ethereal blade appeared in his grip, allowing him to barely survive the encounter. The runecrafter told him that the dwarves could not help him understand how the rune was interacting with his own innate magic, so he decided to seek out the Adventurer’s Guild.



- Equipment:
- Hunting bow / arrow quiver
- Hunting knife
- Dark steel bracer on his left forearm that bears the Runehollow dwarven family crest
- Carries a heavy equipment pack, since he usually ends up carrying the extra weight from the other, more experienced adventurers.
- Skills:
- Hunting / tracking / archery
- Apprentice-level blacksmithing
- Basic knowledge of runecraft
- He is actually left-handed, but the weapon will only remain manifest in his right, so he is fighting at an automatic disadvantage

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.