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: Ehrik Thorn
• Age: 38 (Older than he looks)
• Gender: Male
• Race: Half elf (High)
• Rank: Copper
• Appearance: See picture
• Personality: Ehrik often comes off as an easygoing yet excitable individual. Constantly smiling and wearing a carefree, playful demeanour.
He is fiercely loyal and believes in lofty ideals of truth and justice, quite often leaving himself open and too trusting.
He has a curious mind, a kind heart, and dreams of grandeur and fame.

He can be competitive, annoying when he is bored, yet also deadly serious when the time calls for it. Locked behind the soft facade is a man of solid boundaries who has enough familiarity and experience with his own pain, sorrows and evils to treat every smile earned and given as its own defiant victory.

• Brief Backstory:
Born amongst humans he lived with his elven mother, the court mage, of a noble household. They were surrounded by riches and wealth yet were forbidden to partake in the vast abundance.
They were just the hired help after all, treated poorly like most other servants. But it was all Ehrik had ever known, and as his mother always told him, 'things could always be worse.'

Ehrik was too young to know what his mother was running from or why she chose to stay here. Too naive to see the resentment and spite his mother held against the lord. Too innocent to understand the leverage that bound them.

As a young halfelf he followed in his mother's footsteps, this was encouraged by the house's lord. He trained extensively in the art of magic, even though his heart lay elsewhere. Lost as it was to the stories he read in between his long days of study, stories of epic adventures and mighty heroes. How he dreamed of a life beyond the estate.

Life went on like this for a while, but time does more than just age, it changes people, humans faster than elves, and not always for the better. As Ehrik became older and his magic grew, so too did his duties and involvement with the house. He was not treated any better for it but instead given a harsh insight into those who he served.

The house was corrupted to its core by greed, and something far worse.

One day, without reason or warning, his mother vanished. He was offered little condolences or explanation, no support or compassion, just forced to fill her role and punished for her absence.
Again, life went on. This estate his whole world, his only escape was the stories he read. He occasionally had opportunity to talk to visitors but that was few and far between, they were not always kind either.

One day he suddenly found himself amidst the carnage and chaos of the mansion aflame. Not sure how or why he got there or what was going on, he took the opportunity and fled.

That night is years behind him now. He got lucky and found a temporary home. Since then he has spent his time travelling and doing the odd job here and there. The screams from that night still haunt his dreams, the cries and unholy guttural growls.

• Equipment:
A suite of fine Armor.
A special sword stolen the night he fled.
A magic book on magic
• Skills:
Adept Mage/Demonologist
He has a strong grasp on basic magic but specialises in the darker more risky arts.
Capable of enchanting items, enhancing himself, placing curses and summoning demons.
Elven reflexes
Not overly physically strong he relies more or his natural speed and reflexes.
Basic Swordsmanship
Since his escape, whenever he can, he studies and practices the art of the blade. He still has a long way to go but he has found was to compensate his lack of experience with magic.

• Imp friend:

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 muscle of an active life. His hands are fine-boned, 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 seems 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 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 Astramancy. 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 bandit inflict violence 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 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.

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.”

- 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

Name:
Wynne Cricket

Age:
Unclear. Cricket appeared following the sprouting of an oak sapling one summer. The oak had produced at least one round of acorns, so likely around 20-50 years. After that it gets fuzzy.

Gender:
No.

Race:
Aessyr

Rank:
Copper

Appearance:
The 'Cricket' moniker is perhaps a bit more apt than the fairy would like to admit. At just shy of five inches tall, Cricket is a bit on the larger side for a fairy, and doubly so for a cricket. Their skin is a reddish-brown color near that of the bark of a tree, with leaf-like vein markings covering most of their body. A pair of bright, golden eyes peer out from underneath the shaggy green mess of a mullet which tops their head, falling down to the base of their neck, just barely brushing their shoulders. A set of translucent, insect-like wings extend from their back - fully functional too, should one believe hard enough.

With most of their kind content to flit about in forests far removed from the human settlements, fairies that DO frequent the settlements find themselves woefully underserved by the tailors of the realm. As such, most Aessyr find themselves at least dabbling in the world of plant-based fashion. Cricket's most recent work is a simple sleeveless tunic made from an autumnal leaf, tied off with a sash fashioned from a fern's frond. Their tights are actually cloth, stitched together from an old companion's hand-me-down gloves. For accessories, Cricket sports a cross-body bag made from woven leaves and fibers, and as many shiny bobbles and rings as they can fit onto their body. They wear several tiny metal clasps and ringlets as ear rings, with many others braided into their hair. Around their neck they wear a fine fiber adorned with shards and bits of shiny, reflective chitin.

Personality:
There exists in common consciousness this notion of faefolk as being these mischievous, tricksy creatures, selfishly having fun at the expense of anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in their company.

This is a completely reasonable and accurate take. If one were to believe otherwise, one need look no further than our very own Cricket to see a sterling example of all the worse traits their people are known for on full display. Cricket is this immature, selfish, stubborn hooligan, reckless to a fault. They love few things more than a good game - preferably one in which they win. The more the odds are stacked in Cricket's favor, the better.

But something Cricket does love more than games? Gold. Cold hard cash. Shiny bits and baubles. Valuables. Like a fairy tale dragon atop it's grand hoard, Cricket craves wealth. A product of a fairy spending too much time in mankind's society? Perhaps. They've taken to sin like a duck to water. Gambling, bartering, thieving, swindling. The only line Cricket will not cross is lying. The fae are many things - a concerning number of them very very bad indeed - but liars they are not. That being said...it's surprising just how malleable the truth can be, really. Their insatiable greed doesn't just stop at wealth - they're starved for stories. Being incapable of lying stifles certain elements of storytelling, so the rush of hearing a good story is damn near intoxicating.

Now while Cricket is objectively a bad person, they're not exactly a bad guy. Fairies are just a little bit extra in all aspects. For better or for worse, Cricket is an excellent hypeman, ready to encourage any bad decision their companions may be considering with all the energy their little heart can muster. They are gregarious to a fault - quite frankly, it's unclear if Cricket even has a concept of what a 'stranger' is. And their loyalty, once earned, is damn near unshakable. Sisterhood is forever, no matter how far your travel or how you wear your pants or what gender or species you are. Fairies protect their own, no matter what.

Brief Backstory:
Once upon a time there was a beautiful, lush forest, alive with the sounds of the creatures that called it home. The creatures of that forest lived in harmony, taking of its bounty until it was time to become that bounty in turn. And of these creatures of the forest, none were more jubilant than the faefolk, the children who frolicked amongst the ferns in endless games with endless laughter. They were the very joy of the forest made manifest, the magic of nature itself given flesh.

The forest kept ignorant of the world beyond the trees. The fairies dared not tread beyond the thickets, into the realm of man. For man was ugly. And angry. And hungry. All things foreign and unknown in the realm of fairies. But even knowing the danger, there were those amongst the fairies who found themselves unable to resist the whispers of curiosity which drove them closer and closer to the edge of the thickets.

In a fairy tale, perhaps there would be a lesson to be had. A chance encounter that resolved peacefully. A gruesome end to install some fear in children to correct their behavior.

In reality, there was no lesson to be had. Those curious fairies would fall to bolt and blade and trap and net. Those taken with violence were ground to dust. The others were bound in chains and bottles. The fairy would one day be dubbed Cricket was amongst the latter. Those that remained hidden would eventually see the mighty trees which made up their homes felled for lumber or set alight to prepare the land for agriculture. It's hard to say who the lucky ones were.

Our fairy was smuggled into the town of Cirvess and sold to a mage of no small renown. An exceedingly cautious man, the mage would harvest the fairy's innate magic, extracting just enough dust to put the fairy on the brink of death before letting them rest. It's hard to say how long the fairy endured their fate - the mage never spoke to the fairy in any real capacity. Time lost meaning. There was only extraction and recovery. Pain and rest.

That is, until one fateful night, when the wards over the lab's window were severed and a window quietly slid open. A handful of thieves had come to rob the mage, to make away with his greatest treasures. An easier task said than done. The mage's artifacts were sealed away, his research material locked up tight. There wasn't much that the thieves could take...but one of the burglars had noticed the weak creature in the bottle. The fairy was swiped, as was anything of any value that wasn't nailed down or buried in wards.

The thieves, once returned to their hideout, freed the fairy, unwilling to involve themselves in the slave trade. The fairy, both deeply overjoyed at their freedom and completely oblivious of the location or name of their home forest, decided to stick with the thieves. In the blink of an eye, four years passed. The fairy had grown close with the thieves. They had taught them the tricks of the trade, so that they might be useful on jobs. They had taught the fairy all sorts of new human games and filled their head with all kinds of stories. They had even given them a name. A new name. Cricket. On account of the fairy's constant, annoying chirping. There's power in name, shared with those closest to one's heart. All was well. For a time.

Until it wasn't.

All it took was one botched job for everything to go sideways. One of Cricket's companions fell to a trap the fairy had missed. Another downed by guards during their escape. The third - the lad that swiped them from the mage's lab to begin with - was betrayed by the forth, cashing in on a reward set regarding the group's capture. The third gave his life so that Cricket might flee. It should come as no surprise that it was the very same mage from whom the group rescued Cricket who set the bounty. Cricket would later learn that the traitor met a traitor's end when she attempted to collect her reward - immolation.

As for Cricket, well, the fairy headed east. Staying in Cirvess was not an option. One of her companions dreamt of one day going legit, of moving to the capital and joining the adventurer's guild. He wanted to see the world, explore ancient ruins and find long lost treasure and artifacts. It was a good dream. He wouldn't want it to go to waste so...Cricket did as he taught them.

Cricket stole the dream.

Equipment:




Skills:

Where Cricket lacks in combat prowess, they excel in utility. Their lightweight, diminutive size and innate capability of flight make them perfect for sneaking into places they probably shouldn't. A deft hand at lockpicking means easily making a entrance for their more physically gifted companions or freeing precious treasure from oppressive chests while their lack of presence gives them an upperhand in disarming traps without setting them off.

Cricket makes for a good scout, especially when factoring in their proficiency for illusionary magic. They're not capable of much more than simple glamours, but there's much that can be done by turning mostly invisible for a time.

Maybe not quite so important to some, but when it comes to actually turning recovered artifacts and 'treasure' into actual useable currency, Cricket's got connections. Now whether one should trust those connections - debatable.