Name: Markiel Sviatolev
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Borearion(Hrankrajanie)
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Languages: Arventian, North Jugkaraian, South Jugkraian.

Appearance:
Personal Effects: Arming Sword, Seax, Kite shield, Hauberk(scale), Surcoat, journal with writing instrument, coin purse, waterskin, travel pack with supplies, and cloak with hood.

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Role: Royal Knight
Backstory: Markiel is the youngest born to the Northern Sviatolev family. Born during the civil war that has ravaged the Jugkrai Kingdom. Markiel's early life was spent in his family's castle, staying safe as his father waged war to claim a title that he felt belonged to him. Learning the art of war and other topics as he grew older and watched as his older siblings endured strict training at the behest of his father. Strict training that he would undergo and find to be demanding and, at times, cruel. For his father wanted his children to be the best at war, so they could aid him in their fight with their cousins in the south.

But as the war drew on and more lives were lost. Markiel started to have second thoughts about the civil war and his father's drive to be king. Thoughts he would share with his mother, who while kept what he thought to herself. She tried to discourage him from such thoughts and to be a good son and support the family's claim to the throne. Markiel would listen to his mother's words, but still became more disillusioned with the civil war. More so, he started to notice that his father was growing more ruthless, and even his older brother, the heir, who was a kind man. Started to seem off to Markiel and was becoming more like his father. Then his other siblings seem to start to follow suit.

Markiel could not find a reason for this, and when his father discovered his thoughts about the civil war. He was brought before him in the throne room for all to see and was chewed out by his father. It lasted a good time, and by the end of it. His father would choose in anger to exile Markiel, and he could only return once he proved himself strong enough to bear the family's name and understand why only their branch can be rulers of the kingdom.

Markiel saw how none of his family stood up for him and let this happen unopposed. He begrudgingly obeyed and left the kingdom so after. But before he left, one of his sisters and his mother gave him gifts to help him on the road, and hoped that once the civil war was over and his father's anger would lessen. That he could return and reconcile with his father. A sentiment that Markiel did not share but chose not to reveal to them. He accepted their gifts and was reminded that some of his family still cared for him. Even if they would not stand up for him when he needed them.

So Markiel, after his exile, made the choice to see the world. Live on his terms and cared little about the requirements of returning home at the time. This brought him some peace as he saw a world that was at peace and not in a continuous war. Opening his mind to new things, he would be happy exploring and seeing the world. Becoming an adventurer, and for years it was like this, and Markiel had no plans of stopping. Though he would keep tabs on the civil war back home. Hoping that once the civil war was over, peace could return to the land, and who knows. Maybe his father would relax, and he could return. But until that day, life on the road was his, and a life of adventure was his life for now.

Character Intro: "So that is Ealdormuda," Markiel said to himself as he gazed at the city from afar. Standing on a grassy hill that gave a good view of the city. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face as he gazed at the city. He has heard much about the capital of the Eahamingas. Good things, and now it was his next stop.

He had never been to this city, but after his last job as a caravan guard. Markiel had heard enough about the city from the guards and the traders that he should visit the city. At least once, and he could only imagine what he would find there. He has not been in the land of the Eahamingas long and is eager to explore more of the land. Once he was done with the city, that is.

Then, as he finished surveying the city from afar. Markiel had a thought, and he reached for his necklace that was hidden on his neck. Loosely holding it in his hand as he inspected the sigil on it. How would his family think of his travels? Markiel knew the answers to that, or at least what his father would think. Bitter thoughts began to invade his mind. He closed his hand over the sigil and went back to hide the necklace on his person. Expelling the bitter thoughts from his mind in the process.

No, he thought, now is not the time for thinking about his family. More so him, and so with his last thoughts becoming focused on the now. Markiel walked down the hill in a casual manner and with a warm smile. He began his final trek to Ealdormuda. Time to see what the city has in store for him and what tales he will hear. Time for maybe another adventure.

Name: Síobhra ferch Aíbhinn
Species: Sylph
Race/Nationality: Binne Nechtain
Gender: F
Age: 36
Languages: South Sylpharimese, Arventian, Firindorian, & Sidfirian

Appearance:
Personal Effects: Síobhra travels light. She carries only the clothes, gambeson, and cloak on her back, two changes of clothes (one being nicer than the other, for occasions such as the feast in Ealdormuda), some needles, thread, a few ribbons and ropes, a hunting knife, a bow and arrows, a dagger, a bowl, a waterskin, and a small collection of provisions and dried medicinal herbs.

---

Role: White Mage
Backstory:
Character Intro:

Leofric, was only six when he was recruited by the Eruheronosetsy pri Ordynskaya Storozha, The Holy Militant Order of the Horde Watch, which for generations had guarded the main pass through the great Rzhagomir Mountains against the orcish hordes. Hundreds of years protecting Jugkrai, only to be stabbed in the backs by the very people they’d been sworn to protect.

The men that took Leofric in were the grizzled survivors of that losing battle, passing through Eahamingas on their pilgrimage south, seeking the benediction of the Sidfir before embarking on their great vision to redeem themselves and their order, and reclaim their holy citadel.

He was raised among these men. On their stories of the desperate fighting in the passes and in the unfamiliar snows. Training with them, as they travelled the land, recruiting, preparing, talking always of the great journey north.

Leofric grew strong among them. Trained as a shield-bearer - a squire - to the knights of noble men the Order took on. The Order taught him many things. He learned to speak northern jugkaraian, until his own native tongue began to feel clumsy and unfamiliar on his lips. He learned how to make camps, how to be a shield-bearer - but most of all he learned that if any of them were to survive they would have to train to fight. He learned and trained, until the mother and father and sister he’d left behind faded into distant dreams and he could no longer recall their faces or names.

Leofric was no knight, but he took to the blade. He trained like his life depended upon it. Trained whenever he could. The knights, who had honed their skills now with some of the finest warriors the world over found it amusing at first, then interesting - then useful. They tested each other constantly, honed their skills together until none could best him with a blade. As a young shieldbearer not yet come into his prime, already he was acknowledged as an emerging master of the sword and frequently began to train both knights and squires.

And then the day came when it was announced they would be returning to Junkai - for Leorfric, the first time, but he was confident. They all were.

Leofric won great renown for his surpassing skill with a blade as a squire in Jugkrai, both an instructor and fighting as a squire in many battles against both orcs and the Northern Jugkrai army. Unfortunately, mostly on the losing side.

Twenty years of fighting, and Leofric, son of Aelwin is done with Jugkrai and its wars, the Ordynskaya Storozha he joined is dead and gone, he’s done with dreams of knighthood, done with the other Eruheronosetsy orders, done with civil war and everything else around it.

He left Eahamingas a boy, with dreams of becoming a great swordsman and left Jugkrai, a bitter and jaded master of the blade after so many years with little ambition left save to continue perfecting the craft he'd taken up in youth - in truth more now from habit and stubborness than any real drive. Crossing half the world, through many trials, he returned to Eahamingas chasing work; a caravan guard while travelling, a deckhand at sea, he'd thought he might retire to teaching young nobles his craft, perhaps finding kindred spirits to follow in his footsteps but quickly found he had no stomach for youthful nobles. Eventually he sought out the half-remembered life and family he'd left behind, only to find them passed with barely a remembrance of the son that might have carried on their line.

Eventually, Leofric found work once again as a squire for an aging knight-errant on some quest or another, while Leofric confronts the trajectory of his life.

Leoka squinted into the golden sunlight that pierced his eyes from just above the treeline as he scanned the fallow field that stretched before him, searching for something, anything familiar. He glanced back over his shoulder down the narrow, muddly lane that wound its way down towards the village off in the distance, comparing the track against half recollected memories and dreams.

“Are you lost stranger?”

Leoka turned abruptly enough the weathered, middle aged man standing a distance away took a step back and gripped his pitchfork tighter. The man’s weathered faced regarded him with wary eyes beneath a brow etched with sweat as he planted the haft of his pitchfork in the earth. Leoka’s blue eyes searched the face and features as they’d searched the fields, but there was nothing familiar there either. “I lived here.” He was painfully aware of the thick Jugkrian accent that afflicted what was once his native tongue as he turned back again, searching one last time against the treeline for some trace of the daub and thatch hut he imagined from his youth. “Somewhere.”

The man’s face scrunched in disbelief though his shoulders relaxed and he leaned on his pitchfork, seeming less wary and more amused. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here. I sure don’t recognize you.”

“I was here all the same. My name is Leofric, son of Aelwin.” Leoka waved his hand, vaguely toward the field and back towards the village. “The homestead was here. I remember this. This lane, to the village. It was here.”

“Aye, Aelwin lived here…” The man’s face shifted, the disbelief given way to now searching Leoka’s face for something familiar, struggling to do so. He seemed to give up on the attempt pointing instead towards the distant treeline. “Over there.”

Leoka studied the treeline, the ground of it, trying to fit the fallow field and trees to his memory.

“Aelwin died, about ten years back. Not long after his wife passed if I recall. I don’t know I ever met a son…”

Leoka stood still a moment, and only nodded. He glanced back towards the village. “There was a daughter too. She was my sister…” He tried to remember the name, the face, but somehow it was lost to time. He’d known it once. As familiar as breathing but somehow, somewhere along the line it’d been lost. It hadn’t seemed important then, and now it was gone.

The man took a moment before responding. His previous standoffishness evaporated as something in Leoka’s bearing told him this man was exactly what he seemed. “The lord said she sold the sharecrop back after he passed, and left soon after. Not sure anyone did hear from her. You might ask at the manor house.”

Leoka said nothing, and just inhaled, taking in the smell of wet hay and manure sensing some distant memory linked to the scent drifting just beyond his ken.

“There was a cousin too, I think. Next village over.” The man offered after a fashion then, not getting a response ventured further. “You got a place for the night, Leofric?”

Leoka sensed an offer there, but his hand went instinctively to the pouch on his belt, his thoughts turning to the road, to costs, to how far he could get - his other hand coming to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Aye, I’m well appointed enough. I’d just hoped old Aelwin might take comfort, knowing his son was alive and made something for himself.”

“I am sorry friend.”

“What reason is there to be sorry?” Leoka asked brisquely, turning the faded holy emblem on the back of his weathered cloak to the man, while giving a conciliatory waive of his hand that whatever ill he’d done was forgiven. “This too is Eruharion’s grand Design. Who are we to complain?”

The man said nothing then. A simple grunt of acknowledgement to The Maker.

“Eruhu vamu spasi, good man.” Leoka gave the reign of his mule a tug, and the beast lurched forward following the warrior off, down the road.

The old farmer stood there a time, leaning against his pitch-folk as he watched the holy warrior disappearing into the setting sun. Finally stood upright, took a breath and turned back to his fields, resolved to ask the elders in town whether any among them recalled as son of Aelwin who’d gone off to one of the holy orders.

There followed for a few days among the elders in the village discussions and recollections of the day fine knights and riders, their armors gleaming had come riding through town and that poor old Aelwin had sent his son away with them to become a man.

Not that any of it mattered. The man himself was long gone, and never did return.

Name: Jair son of Rensar known also as Jair So’Ren
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Prathmava of the Wayfarers of Azure (Tridanu Plains)
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Languages: Central Valindorian (native), Arventian (fluent), fragmentary Sylpharim (picked up through traders and travelers)

Appearance:
Personal Effects:

• Rider’s Sword, single-edged, slightly curved; forged in the Tridanu for cutting from horseback.
• Steel Dirk forged with Azure markings and personally crafted oak handle.
• Short recurved bow and quiver of fletched arrows.
• Lamellar cuirass of leather and steel, with shoulder and knee plates added from Arventian trade armor.
• Azure headscarf marking his old tribe, worn in faded defiance.
• Traveling cloak and saddle-pack with dried rations, flint kit, rope, small tent, and an old bronze medallion depicting the Maidens of the Wind, once his tribe’s spiritual totem.
• Yade, a blue-grey Prathmava mare. Swift, loyal, and curiously attuned to her rider’s moods.

---

Role: Sellsword, wanderer, and guide. Formerly Sentinel of the Wayfarers of Azure.
Backstory:
Jair son of Rensar was born beneath the open skies of Tridanu, among the Wayfarers of Azure, a proud tribe of the Prathmava confederation. They were riders of legend, known for their herds and for their devotion to Eruherion’s Breath, a philosophy that taught that the wind itself was the purest expression of the Creator’s will. The Maidens of the Win would read the movements of air and storm as signs of Eruherion’s guidance. Among the Wayfarers, mares were revered for their strength and grace, and by tradition only the Maidens could claim them as mounts, no man could ever claim a mare.

From his father, a horse-tamer and poet, Jair inherited a restless heart and a fierce respect for the old songs of the plains. From his mother, a shieldmaiden of the Maidens’ court, he learned discipline and the harsh truth that honor was often the first casualty of tradition. By seventeen, Jair had served as a Sentinel of the Wayfarers, a scout on the windswept borders where the steppe met the Raxanor foothills.

When his elder brother fell defending a sacred herd from raiders, the Maidens decreed his death “the will of Eruherion.” To Jair, that answer was hollow. On the night after the funeral pyre burned down to embers, he went alone into the storm-lands, grief gnawing at him like frost. For three days he rode through sleet and thunder, searching for meaning — or perhaps punishment. It was there, amidst the howling plains, that he found her.

The mare was silver-grey, fierce and wild, the same that his brother had once tried and failed to tame. But when Jair approached her, he did not reach for the reins. He fell to his knees and wept. He spoke no command, only sorrow, and for reasons he would never understand, the mare did not flee. She came to him instead, lowering her head as if listening. From that moment, something passed between them — not of man and beast, but of two wounded souls recognizing each other. He named her Yade.

When Jair returned astride her, the sky darkened with swirling dust, and the Maidens cried blasphemy. To them, his bond was no miracle but corruption, man claiming a sacred connection forbidden since the elder days. They called it Eruherion’s Reproach, a curse born of arrogance.

By their judgment, Jair was given two choices: to take his own life and cleanse his name, or to slay the “tainted” mare and thus prove his soul loyal to the spirits. He refused both. When the tribe’s shieldmaidens advanced to carry out his sentence, Yade reared and struck them down, scattering the banners of the court in a fury of hooves and storm. The Maidens declared it proof that the pair were touched by the Wind’s Wrath as Jair’s soul had bound itself unnaturally to a creature of the divine, and that the wrath of Eruherion Himself would follow any tribe that took him in.

That night, the elders gathered in the circle of banners and pronounced Jair’s name accursed. He was branded Windbreaker by the elders, a Heretic by all means. They cursed him so that no other Prathmava tribe would ever take him in, for any who did would share in his doom.

Jair wandered the plains, and for a time, other Prathmava tribes took him in. Yet each stay ended the same with whispers, accidents, and fear that his presence invited ill fate. The word “Windbreaker” carried farther than truth and soon he became an outcast among all Prathmava. He turned west beyond the grasslands, taking work where he could. Sometimes a sellsword, sometimes a guide, sometimes a nameless hero in forgotten frontier villages. He fought for merchants and border lords, for the Empire of Varadaban, for men who would never remember his name. He suffered hunger and cold and loneliness in measures few could endure. Yet he always rode on, keeping to the code of his people: honor in trade, fairness in battle, never strike the helpless.

And through it all, Yade remained as the only witness to his better nature and his shame. In time, their bond deepened into something few could name. Those who fought beside him swore that when rider and mare moved as one, the air shimmered faintly with light, and wounds seemed to knit faster; that storms broke against them as if the wind itself were shielding them. Jair denied all tales of magic. “The wind remembers the free,” he would say. “That is enough.”

Now his road has brought him north to the port-city of Ealdormuda, where word spreads of a Sylpharim scout seeking companions for an expedition into the Grey Mountains. They say ancient Turakindi ruins lie buried there, filled with danger and old truths. Jair, weary of coin and conscience alike, listens in silence.

For the first time in years, he feels the pull of purpose, the faint promise of meaning. Perhaps it is the wind calling again, whispering of redemption. Or perhaps it is only the memory of home, and a man too stubborn to stop listening.
Character Intro: The inn smelled of rain and salt when Jair entered. The noise of the door dulled as heads turned, not from fear, but mild curiosity. The white headband with blue markings, the kind worn only by the Prathmava of Tridanu, was a rare sight this far north. He set his bow against the wall and ordered water for his mare before ale for himself. When he drank, he did not smile. The firelight caught on the azure threads of his scarf, and for a moment, he looked less a wanderer than a ghost of a people long forgotten.

Talk drifted between tables, of mountains, the Grey Mountains, and a winged woman calling for riders to brave them. Jair listened in silence, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug, eyes half on the rain that lashed the shutters. Beyond the wall, Yade stamped once, and he felt it before he heard it, a flicker of impatience that stirred behind his ribs like a whisper not his own. She wanted to ride. To move. To answer whatever call the wind carried.

“Mountains,” he muttered, half to her, half to the storm. “If the wind calls, I’ll answer. For once, it may carry something worth hearing.”

He rose, leaving coin enough for the ale and the water and stepped out into the downpour. Yade was waiting, silver-grey and restless, eyes gleaming like steel. He met her gaze as he padded her mane, the rain running cold down his face, and without a word between them, the decision was made.


The Bond of Wind and Flesh
Scholars call it sympathetic resonance; Jair’s people once called it Breath-Shared. Whatever the name, the bond between Jair and Yade is a harmony of will between man and beast, they both seem to know where the other one is, if they're in harm or have been hurt. When they move in battle they do so with one mind, fighting as if guided beyond speech: the mare’s and rider's strengths are amplified, speed uncanny and devastating to anyone in their path, the mare's awareness is almost human. To see them ride together is to witness precision no training could teach.

Apart, they are ordinary; a weary man and his steadfast mare. Together, for fleeting moments, they are a powerful yet still mortal force, in perfect rhythm with the world.

The Curse of the Windbreaker
Superstition has a way of binding tighter than magic. The Maidens’ warning that misfortune would follow any tribe to shelter Jair spread until it became truth through fear alone.

He has lived under many skies since then, taken in by kind hearts and turned away when whispers caught up. To most Prathmava, his name is a story to frighten children, an ill omen. Because of this, Jair hides his lineage and his true self. Yet the secret carries risk as should a Prathmava recognize the mark or the name, it could turn allies against him or doom the company he keeps to mistrust.

In the silence between journeys, he sometimes wonders if the curse is real after all, or if the wind merely punishes him with solitude. He has stopped asking which would be worse.

Name: vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra” cut down.
Species: Scale Kin Beastmen
Race/Nationality: Scale Folk Clans.
Gender: Male.
Age: 26
Languages:

Arventian
Native language is a hybrid of multiple languages and has naturally evolved in the region. Its become a evolving language of many, and somewhat less advanced, it works for the scale folk...
Loan words and small amounts from other languages but far from fluent.

Appearance:

Serpentine typical of the Scale folk and a darkish brown fading into sand tones with stripes and patterns that break up the form instead of one solid colour. Scales are tough yet flexible and protect against natural harm at least.

A number of scars but these mostly show as paler lines of scales more than anything from a lifetime of adventures, fights and scrapes. Has tried snd got better armour since they started.

Personal Effects:

Iron tipped spear.
Seax style war knife.
Bow + arrows.
Leather armour reinforced with scraps of metal like coat of plates, chain mail, and other materials of Bronze, Iron laminar and such. Very much hand made and maintained.
Rough cloak to break up hard lines of silhouette like a gillie cloak

General survival gear.

An old amulet, metal and stone found in ruins. Silvery and unknown if ancient, dropped or just thrown away. On a rough leather cord. Could be cheap or a priceless relic. No one knows.





Character Intro:

Name: Ardashir son of Mehr of Navavasta, called by some the Farseeker, called by others "Arda"
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Austarion (Mitradaevka)
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty-seven.
Languages:
Appearance:
Personal Effects:

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Role: The Farseeker: the Searcher after Secrets, the Hunter of Hidden Truths.

Backstory:

What, then, would you have me tell you of my wandering brother? Would you hear that we knew all along that he was fated for a great destiny - that he would be chosen by the Ancient Fair Ones to seek the secrets of their past? Would you know what star he was born under, or what great deed he performed in the cradle to show that he was fated for such honor?

Well, I was there when he was born, and I can tell you that he seemed an ordinary enough child - at least to me, and at least for a while. We were, however, no ordinary family. 221 years before Arda was born, our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Zaranaka the Unbroken defeated the Nemrozan horde at the Battle of Navavasta, and saved the Empire of the Elf-Friends. We are his blood - the House of Zaranaka - and at Navavasta our citadel has stood ever since. There our family keeps its watch as Marzbans of Casm-Dahyu, the southern bulwark of Varadaban, sentinels against the return of the Nemrozan threat. Here Arda grew up, the second child but the eldest son and heir - heir not just to our land, but to our name and our legacy and our duty. Perhaps you can understand why I am not - that is, why I celebrate less than wholeheartedly his discovery of high purpose elsewhere.

But I must admit: even if Arda did not strangle serpents in his cradle, we still knew from an early age that he was a prodigy. He was one of those golden children who excelled at every task to which he applied himself, and for whom the only challenge was growing bored with his studies ere he had mastered them. In the combat ring and riding lists of the castle at Navavasta, our family's furusiyya-master Kurush taught Ardashir to ride and to fight. Arda was a magnificent horseman from a young age, and a competent archer with the recurve bow - both in the saddle and on foot; and he was graceful and precise in his practice of zourkhaneh, the Mitradaevka art of grappling and throwing and wrestling. He struggled at first with the sword, until Kurush - who understood Arda better than any of us, I think - made the training harder rather than easier: he took away Arda's shield and taught him the Arsama way of the sword. This is the most elegant and the most risky of all the furusiyya traditions, and requires the greatest skill to master: it shifts unpredictably between a one-handed and a two-handed grip, and uses an armored forearm to control and redirect the enemy's blows instead of relying on a shield to block them. Before he was ten, Arda had a dozen scars from training accidents. But he found Arsama a challenge worthy of his abilities, I think; and that is why he persisted until he was as fine a swordsman as he was a horseman, and his skill with a blade surpassed his ability with the bow.

But in Varadaban, the sword and the pen are never opposed; even on the frontier, we learned from our Immortal Teachers that the greatest weapon is the mind. So Arda did not spend his youth only in the combat ring. He also spent it within the walls of the castle, learning languages and history and philosophy, music and art and literature. Yes, he studied military affairs too: tactics, strategy, logistics; the design of fortifications, the construction of siege engines, the analysis of terrain. As he grew older, he joined our father and uncle on the periodic punitive expeditions that we launched to the south, to keep the Nemrozans quiet; he had plenty of chances to see his classroom lessons applied in practice. But Ardashir also learned the ways of the Empire's court: how to speak the truth without giving offense, and how to conduct himself at a kingly banquet, and how to sniff out deceit or intrigue without missing a step of a formal dance. Our tutors taught Arda to play the oud and the ney, to write poetry in Mitradaean and Sidfirian, to design an irrigation system or diagnose a disease. We are the Elf-Friends; of all the peoples of this fallen age, I think, we best remember and most revere the wisdom of the past; and so a Varadaban classical education is without equal in Minadra. That was the gift we gave Ardashir, and in the end it was that gift that cleaved him from us.

The Sidfir took notice of him, I believe, for the ways in which he surpassed his tutors. Not in raw magical power: for though we learned soon that he had the gift of the Creator, never was Arda's ability so wondrous as to attract the attention of our Teachers. Rather, Arda surpassed his tutors in the independence and clarity of his thought. When he was taught a simple charm, he suggested a new way to make it simpler still; when he was taught an equation, he invented an alternative proof; when he was taught to mix a potion, he introduced variations, and tested them by trial and error until he had improved on the original. I think that for the Deathless, there is nothing so intoxicating as novelty. And so the Sidfir came to us one day when Arda was twelve, and asked to take him into their kingdom to teach him what little of their ways a mortal mind could encompass. I think that for my father, it was the greatest honor our family had received since Zaranaka prevailed at Navavasta.

Arda has never told me exactly what he learned, in the four years that he spent in the Vale of Lomendil. Perhaps he was sworn to secrecy, or at least not lightly to share the Fair Ones' lessons. Certainly, he returned to us having waxed greater in sorcery, though still he was far from mastery. Mostly, though, he seemed to have learned more of the past than seemed natural for a mortal - and certainly for a youth of sixteen. He spoke the Sidfirian tongue as one born to it; he would talk with longing of the ivory spires of Telepimas, as if he had been shown them in a dream. What we had learned from tomes of history, Arda had heard from those who had witnessed it themselves. It worked a change in him. Ever since, I think, he has walked the world with one foot in the present, and the other in ages long past, and felt in his secret heart that the latter are more to be prized than the former.

In any case - Arda returned to us a young man, and not a moment too soon. Ruin had befallen the House of Zaranaka in his absence. Our father, on his last campaign, had been ambushed by a coalition of Gurzat and Nemrozans; neither he, nor any of his company, had come home. Then his brother Ariaspes had seized the marzbanate, and he was a man both corrupt and cruel, so that the people groaned and I myself lived in fear to see to what bloated old sardar my uncle would sell me in marriage. When Ardashir returned to us from the Ancient Fair Ones, therefore, he gathered those few of our father's men who remained loyal, and set out to into the desert to find the rightful marzban and to bring him home. Long he journeyed, far beyond the edge of the map, and the survivors of that expedition told me many tales: of strange beasts and jungles, of basilisks and giant serpents, of abandoned cities of onyx stone. Tales of my brother, too: of how Arda could study a rock and know whether water was to be found nearby; of how he could place snake venom into his glass alembics and somehow distill from it an antidote to save a man's life; of how he was captured and tortured by the Gurzat, and of how he escaped by tricking them into letting him play his flute, with which he ensorceled them with Sidfirian melodies. At length, I am told, my little brother stole into a camp of the Enemy deep within a ruined city of long-lost ages, and Arda found there our father: who was wounded sore, and on the verge of perishing, but who before dying blessed his son and pressed into his hands Nashkasta, the Unbroken Blade of our ancestor Zaranaka. And with that sacred sword - and our family's honor - Arda returned alive from lands where hardly a Graced foot has ever trod.

Our uncle Ariaspes, upon beholding Arda, suddenly found his presence urgently required at court. He fled to Ap-Vio, and we made ready to proclaim Ardashir, son of Mehr, the rightful Marzban of Navavasta. It was then that Arda solemnly told us that he was called - by the Ancient Fair Ones, and more importantly by his soul, through which Eruherion speaks to all that He hath made - to a different purpose than the guardianship of the frontier. He gave to me the seal and signet of the marzban, and explained that he was bound to wander in search of the ancient secrets of former ages, of which the Sidfir had showed him much, and which he longed to behold with his own waking eye. He asked only a yearly share of gold from the marzbanate's revenues - one third, which I granted gladly - and Nashkasta, which I could scarcely deny him when he had returned her with his own hand from the camps of the Nemrozans. So we embraced, and I blessed his name, and he blessed my rule, and Arda went his way.

That was ten years ago, now. I have not seen him since.

But I have heard stories. I have heard that his road led south again, at least at first: for he copied the glyphs with which the ancient onyx cities are inscribed, and sought to decipher them. There, too, Arda tracked and found the Nemrozan chieftain who had captured our father and tortured him unto death - and he discovered that this warlord was, in truth, a witch of the Unseelie, whom he dueled with sword and spell. She had nearly overcome him when, with some alchemical potion, Arda ignited the whole cursed cave in which they fought - burning away the Shadow that concealed his foe's minions and that nourished her strength. Then, as she stood illuminated in cleansing flame, Arda took her life, and avenged our father's torments.

I have heard that Arda next sojourned for a time among islands of white sand, where pepper and cloves grew wild and coconuts littered the ground. Here he found a crew of strange-speaking Firindor, and a graceful dhow, and he sailed up the southern sea from beyond the edge of the map until at last he arrived back in lands that are known, and docked in Segestia. Here, they say he passed a year or two in study at the knee of the great Arventian sages, and spoke to them of their kingdom's past, and learned what they knew of the ancient ways of the Valindorians in the Silver Age: in remembrance whereof the Arvenses outstrip all other mortals, just as we of Varadaban surpass others in our acquaintance with the Ancient Fair Ones. The Arventian scholars awarded Ardashir a seal of the Universitas Segestiae, in recognition of his studies among the Sidfir; but he delved too deep into the sages' archives, as was ever his wont, and found certain secrets concerning the War of Arventian Succession that had been meant to remain hidden. So Arda left Segestia in the middle of the night, under hot pursuit by assassins who wore angelically beautiful masks of bronze, and fled into the Taurethil Forest.

There Ardashir remained for several years. He sojourned in Nimrithil, where a wight of the deepwoods troubled the Firindor hunters; Arda tracked the wight to its tomb, and by magical skill escaped with his life. Then, by long research in the city's archive, he found who had been laid to rest in that tomb, and the circumstances under which he died. In so doing, Arda solved a murder from two centuries ago - and when he shared his findings with the city guard, and the murderer was at last brought to justice, so the wight returned to its tomb and troubled Nimrithil no more.

Next Arda climbed the passes of the Ambarrones, and learned the Skyborn tongue in Binn Nechtain, and compiled a collection of Sylpharim tales and legends. He was thereafter a guest in the deep-delved halls of Stormfjellheim, and helped to excavate one of the vast Turakindi ruins nearby - where Arda found a collection of surviving letters from the Silver Age, exchanged between great lords of the giants and the High Elves. He wrote me after that, for the first time in months, and his own letter was filled with the exhilaration of a purpose confirmed and a dream achieved. And so, by small steps, my brother came to the sea of grass at the heart of Minadra, and traveled into Tridanu.

Here, in a small city of tents upon the windswept steppe, a mighty chief of the Prathmava offered Ardashir her hospitality. She was Opoea, sister of King Ardaros - a great warrior and seeress. She was intrigued by this stranger from far Varadaban, and feasted Ardashir in her tent, and much he taught her of the deep history of the world, and much she shared with him of her own ancient people's cherished lore. It was here that Arda met Sahar, the mad mare of Opoea's herd, whom no Prathmava horse-lord had ever been able to ride: for she was cursed. Long did Ardashir toil with that horse, attempting one treatment after another, magical and medicinal and both combined, until finally he discovered a rune cut into the mare's flesh that bore the curse of madness. This evil spirit he mastered, and cast out into a flock of goats, who raced into the waters of Belkhazun and there destroyed themselves. Thereafter the mare would not be parted from Arda, and he named her Sahar, and made ready to go his way again. And at this the Lady Opoea was sore grieved, for I have heard that she had loved Arda, and that he had passed the nights those many months in her tent; and perhaps he returned her love, for he tarried in those grasslands longer than anywhere else in his journeys. But he had a different path to walk; and so he journeyed on into the waste of Morgador.

There, the report of Arda is that he fell in with a tribe of the Scale Folk, whom he recruited as guides to the ruins of that desolate place. Long months he spent alone among the serpent creatures, exploring the buried cities of lost ages, filling notebooks and sketchbooks with ancient glyphs and street-maps and renderings of the shattered statues of dead kings - and fighting off the blighted monsters, weapons of long-ago wars, who linger in the places time forgot. Arda wrote to me of the end of that adventure: at last, deep beneath the earth in an Elf-hall lost for countless millennia - a place whose very stones were turned to glass by the heat of Apocalypse - he found a treasure so fair, a secret so profound, that even to behold it struck his scaly guides blind. But when Ardashir reached out his hand to claim it, it vanished from his grasp, and instead that entire ancient city quaked and began to crumble around him, so that he fled through passages that filled with sand beneath his feet, and barely escaped with his life. And afterward, Arda found that he could not recall what he had found beneath the earth, for the curse that buried the city had buried its secret as well, in a place so deep that even memory could no longer touch it.

It was after that, alone and harrowed, that Ardashir came to Eoham. He has learned, I think, that there are some things too vast for a mortal mind to compass - even Arda's mind. But he is no less determined to learn what he can; his commission from the Ancient Fair Ones will permit no less. There are rumors of lost cities in the Grey Mountains, and if I know my brother, he is already seeking guides and guards and supplies to pursue them. He has, the Creator knows, enough money: one third of the revenues of one of the Empire's great provinces. Perhaps soon he will find what he is looking for; perhaps then, he will come home.

But I doubt it. A mortal life is but the flare of a lamp-wick to those who sent him out, and my brother will be old and grey and dead before he has found what our Immortal Friends lost to the sands of time before any of us were born. So be it - a life pledged to such a quest is spent, not wasted. And the Sidfir would not have chosen him were he not equal to the task.

I know. All of this I know of Ardashir the Farseeker, slayer of monsters and explorer of lost cities. Yes, I know.

And still: I miss my little brother Arda.

Character Intro:

Name:Aderynel ferch Modrena
Species: Sylpharim
Race/Nationality: Northerner
Gender: Male
Age: 27
Languages:North Sylpharimese, Arventian, adequate South Sylpharimese and some limited Eahamish

Appearance: Aderynel is average height for Sylpharim (5'2''), though her wings add extra height when they are folded and it is easy enough to pick her out in a crowd of taller races. She is a slim, shapely creature with soft hands unusued to heavy labour or martial pursuits. The keener observer will note that there are often tell-tale black ink stains on her fingers, pointing to the fact she writes for a living.

Aderynel is a fair woman with greyish-blue eyes and long hair that has been described as amber or dark blonde. She takes pride in her physical appearance and is usually well presented, her hair well combed or worn in a tidy bun (particularly when flying). Her wings are black feathered and attractively glossy, though this particular detail is lost on most non-Sylpharim people.

Aderynel favours colourful, plaid patterned clothing, of the kind typical in her native homeland and usually wears tall, sturdy boots to assist with landing.


Personal Effects: Aderynel travels light but, currently, has a reasonably purse of money, mostly made up of Arventian denarii, which are regarded as a solid currency with no history of debasement. She currently has a wardrobe with a few dresses, some in her native plaid and others in the plainer style of Eahamn.

Perhaps surprisingly, she has no jewelry or other expensive trinkets on her person though she does have a journal, ink and quills kept in the room she is renting and a selection of 'essential' cosmetics (including oil for her wings).

Similarly, she doesn't carry any weapons save for a utilitarian seax, which she is capable of defending herself with if necessary.

---

Role: Historian
Backstory: Aderynel grew up in the, often chaotic, society of the Sylpharim people, in the great city of Bryncaer, nestled amongst the snow-capped peaks of the Bodeira Mountains. Unlike the peoples from the world below, Aderynel did not grow up with any sense of having a particular place in the world other than that which she could carve out for herself.

Her parents were fighters, but she much preferred books and writing and, as a 14 year old girl, was showing enough aptitude for reading and research that she was taken under the wing (metaphorically speaking) of the respected historian, Cynfelyn. Cynfelyn was an old man, already in his 60s, but quickly bonded with his young apprentice, who's energy for learning seemed to give him a new lease of life as well.

At the age of 20, Aderynel graduated from her apprenticeship, finding a junior, stipended position at the University of Bryncaer. The university was a respectable institution (at least amongst the Sylpharim) where one could learn the arcane arts of Cuivethir and Súlendur along with studying the many more mundane arts, such as History.

Despite having achieved a good position, especially considering her age and (lack of) experience, Aderynel began to quickly feel a sense of dissatisfaction set in. While she enjoyed researching the ancient history of her people, she longed for better lodgings than the drafty, cold room she inhabited in the university. She longed for a better-paid, more prestigious position, but she was still very young and there were many eminent people ahead of her in line for when those positions became vacant.

Late in the year of 4016, however, an opportunity presented itself. Every four years the citizens of Bryncaer, aged 25 and over, gathered to elect a Lord Mayor and 4016 was one of these years. The incumbent Lord Mayor, Maelgwn, had been in place for the last 12 years, though Aderynel was drawn to the impetuous, handsome, young Blaenfael as a candidate.

After attending several symposiums hosted by the Blaenfael, Aderynel began to strike up a friendship with him and, by all accounts (other than Aderynel's own), became somewhat infatuated by him. When Blaenfael approached her with documents indicating that Maelgwn's ancestors had conspired to allow gurzat to infest the Bodeira mountains, and offering her a sum of money to write an article on the subject, she was horrified and immediately agreed, accepting Blaenfael's coin. In a moment of rash foolishness that was generally atypical of the young Historian, Aderynel made no attempt to verify the documents, writing up a defamatory article on the Lord Mayor which was read-out, to considerable public outrage, shortly before the election.

Nevertheless, Maelgwn still won the election by the slimmest of majorities. In the aftermath, Blaenfael slipped out of the city. Alarmed by his sudden disappearance, Aderynel looked at the documents he had given her again, this time with more suspicion. To her horror, Aderynel quickly began to find inconsistencies that pointed to a forgery.

The next day, armed with the documents given to her by Blaenfael and her notes on the subject, Aderynel set off for the magistrate's court, though on passing through the square in front of the building, by sheer good fortune, she happened to stop for a moment by the notice board. Here she discovered, to her horror, an arrest warrant posted for her.

In a blind panic, Aderynel fled back to her room, collected her meagre savings, the money given to her by Blaenfael, and what few possessions she could carry and fled by wing, with the law hot on her tail.

For the past few months, Aderynel has been working in the city of Ardbenn Solas, eeking out a living as a scribe for a local merchant, though she longs for the opportunity to clear her name, restore her honour, atone for her sins and return home. Ideally, without ending up in a pillory, or worse.

Over this time she has picked up quite a bit of the South Sylpharimese language (it is not too different from her own). While the Southern Sylpharim tend to remain aloof and apart from humans, the Northerners do not, and Aderynel is no exception to the rule, often coming down from the mountains to spend time amongst the Eahimingas people, whom she quite likes (and who are quite curious about her). She has even begun writing a travel journal, cataloguing the many differences between the Eahamingas and the Pellmorwyr people she grew up around.

It was on one flight between Ealdormuda and Ardbenn Solas, that Aderynel stumbled across something quite exciting...
Character Intro: roleplayerguild.com/posts/5628026

Name: Sir Hagen son of Griffon
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Stromfolc
Gender: Male
Age: 36
Languages:Stromish, Eahamish, Arventian and Ledoseveran - all quite fluently.

Appearance: Hagen is a tall (6'2''), lean, muscular man. He has dark brown hair and a dark eyes and usually has a short scruffy beard, having no particular desire to actually grow a beard but, similarly, no inclination to regularly shave. He has a long, oval shaped face with a straight nose and a strong chin. His face is patterned with a number of scars from previous battles lending him a rugged look that some (though certainly not all) might find handsome.

Hagen is capable of dressing well and has the coin to afford fashionable clothing, though he is more commonly found wearing hard-wearing, simple tunics and hose.


Personal Effects: Hagen carries a large round shield painted red with three golden bees (his personal sigil). Hagen carries a beautifully made steel spatha he has named "Gurzats' Bane" with a scabbard decorated with Ledoseveran designs. a pair of wicked throwing axes and a seax (just in case). In battle he wears an old, but well-maintained steel habergeon and a steel spangenhelm with, spectacle and cheek guards guards, bronze ornamentation around the bands and a red, horse-hair crest.

---

Role: (Foot)Knight errant
Backstory: Hagen is a knight of the Strommark, hailing from a small coastal village on the country's Western border. He was born to this role (the younger son of one of his Lord's leading knights), spent his childhood training for it and is intensely proud of his martial heritage. Growing up on tales of adventure, Hagen was eager to grow up and join his Lord's retinue, imagining a world full of daring adventures.

His parents did not neglect Hagen's education more broadly and he is literate, able to write with a quill (and fashion his own from a feather), numerate and was taught to understand the tongue of the Eahamingas (whose villages they visited frequently) along with Arventian.

Unfortunately for Hagen though, the Strommark has been a peaceful place fir centuries, gradually growing wealthy off trade along the West coast of Minadra. Hagen spent some time onboard ships, guarding his Lord's cargo, though, while there were stories of pirates and sea monsters, in his two years aboard, Hagen saw nothing more dangerous than a shark off the stern. When stories of a wyrm from the Grey Mountains terrorising villagers circulated during a time on shore, Hagen was eager to volunteer to help rid the land of the beast.

After fruitlessly searching for it for the best part of a month, the local sheriff discovered that the story stemmed, in truth, from the attempts of a local farmer to get away with a murder. Arrests were made, though while Hagen had found no creature, the quest had awakened his sense of adventure and he requested that his Lord release him from his oath of fealty so that he might travel to the Kingdom of Ledosever and join the defense of the free peoples against the darkness.

His Lord agreed and, at the age of 20, Hagen took a ship North to the frozen lands of the Northern kingdom.

Here, Hagen did find adventure, pitting his strength against roving gurzat, entering the cauldron an unbloodied, though well trained youth, and emerging again, many years later as a seasoned, deadly veteran.

By the time he was 35, and thinking about returning home and his own legacy, Hagen had acquired comfortable amount of coin from bounties. Being a frugal man at heart he had spent little on anything other than his weapons and armour in the intervening time, though those investments (particularly his helm and shield) had made him a recognisable figure in any battle line: a figure that, when sighted, spread hope amongst his friends and fear amongst his foes.

Imagining it might be fun to build a homestead and raise animals back in his homeland, perhaps find a wife, Hagen travelled back to the Strommark intending to help his father with his manor for some time, to get an understanding of what he might need to do. Rapidly though, he discovered that he found everything about farming incredibly boring and longed to travel in search of adventure once again.

Hearing rumors of lost Sidfir artefacts in the forest West of the Vale of Mists, Hagen decided to investigate, taking a ship bound for the South of Eaham where the Mitradaevakan traders come to ply their wares - as close as any ship from the Strommark comes to those strange woods.

Character Intro: The inn was a cheerful place with a roaring fire at one end that took the chill from the cool night air, "So there we were, three of us against a score or more of gurzat led by one of those big, hulking thaurindor creatures. I can tell you now, that we gelt at that moment like our doom had come upon us."

"Couldn't you have run?" one of the patrons, an older, balding man asked.

Hagen shook his head, "Retreat would have been my first option when so outnumbered, but those creatures were between us and where we'd tied the horses and over distance those creatures do not tire easily. With the mountain to our back, the best we could hope for was to scramble up and try to give ourselves the high ground. We found a spot between two boulders where it would be hard to flank us and made our stand. gurzat aren't the most cunning things and they came at us straight, like a wave of fell fury."

He paused for dramatic effect. The dozen or so people clustered around him seemed to be enjoying the story and Hagen enjoyed telling it. Within the safe comfort of the tavern, with the crackling fire and a warm mug of mulled wine, they seemed a lifespan away from the small skirmish on the Ledosever border. And here, in this comfortable setting, there was nothing to truly fear, "But we had chosen our place well and they struggled to use their numbers to their advantage. Still, it was a hard fight. I felled three of the fiends, though a took a beating in the process," he tilted his head to one side, tracing the shape of a long scar on his cheek, "That's how I got this one. Blade bounced off the guard by my eyes and slid in between that and the cheek guard. Though at that moment the pain didn't really register, I just ran the creature through and kept on fighting."

One of the women in the group, he noticed was a sylph... you didn't see them much in Ledosever, though he remembered encountering a few of the winged folk during his childhood.

"I said gurzat aren't the most cunning creatures. They also aren't brave and while they might well have overwhelmed us in a few more moments, they fell back down the mountain to regroup. They might have run if it wasn't for the thaurindor, physically shoving the foul creatures back."

"What does a thaurindor look like?" that would came from the woman who was acting as innkeeper.

"Big," Hagen chuckled, realising it wasn't the best description, "They look a bit like us, but with less hair in places they should have it and more in places they shouldn't. Their faces are twisted, like they are half-beast and their skin is all manner of unhealthy shades. They look much like the gurzat, but they're bigger, stronger, faster and much more vicious. Bigger, stronger and faster than any man I've seen." She nodded thoughtfully and he continued, "If it had attacked us first, the fight might have gone differently. Well the damned creature stepped out in front to bellow some war cry. It sounded like a wounded bull. But at that moment it lowered its shield and a threw one of these."

Hagen patted one of the axes he had on the bench next to him. The edge of the axe gleamed in the firelight. Freshly sharpened and oiled you could imagine the damage the weapon could do, "And by luck more than skill on my part, it struck the thaurindor clean in the face, dropping the monster like a felled tree." He paused again, hearing a gasp and a few chuckles from his audience, "And that was enough for the gurzat, I think there were eight of their dead on the field and the thaurindor and both I and my two companions, were still standing if bloodied. They fled," he grinned wryly, "So before they could realise their mistake, we ran back to the horses."

There was a murmur of approval. A couple of people clapped, "Tell us another, Sir Knight!" one man called.

Hagen raised his mug in gracious thanks, "Later, later, good ladies and gentlemen, at least give me the time to enjoy this mug of wine before I spend my voice regaling you with another story!"

People began to shuffle away, to acquire food or drink, though the sylph didn't. Boldly, she sat down across from Hagen, switching to fluent Arventian but with that melodic lilting accent that placed her as one of the Northern tribe of her people, "I think I caught some of that, but my Eahamish isn't so good... I gathered you're on some personal quest to find some ancient Sidfir artefacts?"

"Aye," Hagen nodded, "Thought I'd put together an expedition while I'm here. Maybe charter a ship to take us down the coast," he gave her an appraising look. He knew sylph women could be fighters but she didn't look like one. She didn't have the build of someone who spent their life with weapons and he caught ink stains on her fingers. She looked... bookish, "You want to sign on?" he asked, trying to keep the edge of incredulity out of his voice.

"Oh goodness, no!" the sylph laughed, "There are potentially Sidfir ruins out in that forest. It is a strange, dangerous place that few venture into and you would be walking about blindly, hoping to come across something," she paused, before adding, "But what if I told you there was a known, and unexplored ruin but a few days from here? Turankindi and infested with troglodytes and Eruherion knows what else!"

Hagen thought about that. For all of about three seconds. He smiled, "Full of troglodytes you say? Well I suppose you could do with a knightly escort. Sir Hagen," he introduced himself, "Though don't worry about the 'Sir' bit. Hagen is just fine."

"Aderynel," she introduced herself, extending a hand across the table.

Name:Quintus Laeca
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Arvenses
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Languages:Arventian. That is all.

Appearance: At 5'8'', Quintus is not a tall man, though neither is he regarded as particularly short. He has dark brown hair and, unusually, for one of the Arvenses, steel-blue eyes. He has a square jaw and wide nose that can give him a somewhat brutish look. While Quintus tries to remain clean-shaven, as is the fashion amongst the Arvenses, he often has visible stubble, especially when travelling in the wilderness.

Quintus is usually found in a simple inky black tunic, though he will change into more colourful tunics with Arvensian geometric designs embroidered on them if the occasion calls for it. When not wearing a helmet, Quintus prefers to wear a fur cap.


Personal Effects: Quintus has a horse and is well equipped for wilderness survival.

Along with two hard-wearing plain tunics, Quintus carries a formal, dark blue tunic with geometric designs picked out in white. He also has a fur cap he is quite attached to and a brown woolen cloak.

Like most travelers he caries a thick woolen blanket; a tinderbox and; some basic tools for cleaning, maintaining and repairing his clothes, weapons and armour.

Quintus prefers to go into battle with a compound bow. He carries this, along with an extra bow string and a dozen arrows. Additionally he carries a simple steel spatha, a hatchet (mostly for cutting wood) and a seax (mostly as a utility knife).

In battle he wears a chain habergeon and a ridge helmet.

---

Role: Archer
Backstory: Quintus, as his name might imply, is the fifth son of a Provincial noble family from the Eastern borderlands of the Regnum Arvenses. Quintus was not expected to inherit the family estates and was, rather, groomed for a life in the military, given the necessary education and, at 18, the money needed to afford equipment and a commission as a Decurion in a local cavalry regiment - the 'Equites Sagittarii Loricati'.

The Loricati were a slightly unusual regiment of armoured horse archers, put together b the local Governor to hunt down gurzat raiding parties. They were stationed outside of the Regnum, along the Sea pass, guarding it from marauding gurzat from out of the Windy Mountains. For the most part the work was not the most interesting, riding patrols from out of one of the series of small fortresses along the lonely, misty coastal road.

Quintus spent a lot of time in the saddle, a lot of time taking part in archery contests at barracks. The monotony was very occasionally broken by an actual fight, usually with a gurzat warband though they typically turned tail and fled upon sighting the Cavalry.

After 10 years in the Loricati, Quintus chose to resign his commission, imagining himself making a career as a bucellarius (mercenary) amongst the skeropalian cities.

Before setting out for Skeropalia though, Quintus decided to take a few weeks to visit his Uncle in Segestica. It was on the North Road, heading to Segestica, that Quintus happened upon a Firidorian maiden named 'Tárwen'...

Character Intro: The North road was a lonely place, a dirt trail that moved between small villages, the forest creeping in on the right, stony pastures grazed by scattered flocks on sheep to the left. Clouds skipped overhead, dark, dismal and promising rain in the near future.

Quintus glanced upwards at the sky, wondering if, perhaps, he should call it a night the next time he encountered an inn somewhere even though it would likely be with several hours of daylight to spare. Better that than caught in the downpour.

From somewhere up ahead he heard a woman's voice yelling something. She sounded... frightened? Perhaps fear mixed with an edge of excitement? He paused, reigning in his horse and hopping off to string his bow, bending the limb between his legs to attach the string before hopping back on.

The wind carried her voice again and he spurred his mount forward into a canter. Around 100 yards ahead the road bent around a copse of trees and there, as he rounded the corner, Quintus saw her. Tall, clad is an olive green dress and waving a large stick at a trio of vicious looking harpies - feathered eagle type creatures with huge wings, vicious claws and emmaciated human-like torsos. Their faces were something between human and bird, large predatory eyes gleaming with malice.

One dived at the woman. She yelled something in a language Quintus didn't understand and abruptly the staff blazed with a blinding light that caused Quintus to shield his eyes. It had even more of an effect on the beasts, with the diver loosing control, crashing into a nearby tree with a crunch, tumbling to the ground where it lay unmoving.

Without even needing to think, Quintus nocked an arrow, spotting another diving towards the woman from behind. He drew and loosed, his arrow striking the creature in the chest. It gave a horrid screech, crashing down beside her horse. She looked up, blue eyes registering Quintus' appearance as the third beast, sensing the odds were no longer in its favour, beat a hasty retreat across the sky.

Quintus grunted, as he tracked its movement. Too far, too fast. He'd never hit it. Instead he placed the bow back in its saddle holster and jumped down. The harpy he had hit was still moving though it was bleeding profusely. He drew his sword, putting the creature out of its misery before retrieving his arrow, "Well that was a bit exciting wasn't it!" the woman declared, switching from whatever she had been speaking before to Arventian.

He looked up at her. She was young, blonde... and had the distinct pointed ears of one of the fair folk that meant she might be nowhere near as young as she appeared, "You have a strange sense of fun m'Lady," he said with a slight chuckle, "Those things would have torn you limb from limb."

"Well it's a good thing you were on the road as well," she declared. There was a familiar smoothness to her tones and the way she emphasised the first syllable of her words... she was Firindorian. A proud, hostile race... at least according to the stories. He had seen them around, traders and emissaries. Heard their voices, though none had ever spoken to him before, "Say... you aren't headed Westwards are you."

"Aye," Quintus nodded, "Visiting a relative in Segestica."

"Oh good!" the woman declared, "We can travel together... at least for a while," she paused, eyeing Quintus up and down, "A soldier?" she asked.

"Formerly a decurion," he confirmed as he mounted his horse again, "Now seeking to find my own way as a bucellarius."

"Is that so," the woman cocked her head to one side, "Well if you're happy to take Elarion coin, then I might have work for you... we can of course make your visit first! I'd rather arrive late that never."

The Kingdom of Elarion had a negative history with the Regnum Arvenses. But Quintus didn't much care for that. He'd been willing to travel into Skeroparalia to work there... though he would prefer to spend Elarion coinage outside of the Regnum if he could. He gave a short laugh; this hadn't been the plan, and she hadn't said how much she was willing to pay yet, but he was willing to talk, "I have no problem with your coin or your company, Elarion... just as long as we're going further afield so I can actually spend it without getting suspicious glances from the merchants."

She gave a light laugh in response, "Eaham work for you? ... oh and it's Tárwen."

Name:Tárwen daughter of Elenarë
Species: Firindorian
Race/Nationality: Elarion
Gender: Female
Age: 125
Languages:Firindorian, Sidfirian and Arventian, all fluently. Can also read Turakindian reasonably well but will pronounce it wrong.

Appearance: Even amongst her own people, Tárwen is a tall, shapely woman, though at 5'10'', she stands as tall as most human men. She has deep gray-blue eyes and long honey-blonde hair which she usually wears loose. She has a slender nose, a cleft chin and pointed ears which mark her as one of the 'Fair folk'. All of this, combined with her fair complexion mean that Tárwen could pass as one of the Gwylfinn, rather than the 'fading' Firindor people.

125 years is not a huge length of time for the Firindor and Tárwen is still considered to be in the prime of her life.

Tárwen favours practical clothing in forest greens and browns and rarely wears either ostentatious colours or jewelry. This is fairly typical of the Firindor who tend to prefer muted, discrete tones, complimenting the natural stealthiness of the fair folk.


Personal Effects: Tárwen has a horse. Everything she carries with her fits into the saddle bags.

She has a handful of dresses in a variety of muted colours, a brown woolen sleeveless jacket and a thick grey-green woolen travelling cloak. Hard wearing leather boots complete her clothing ensemble.

An accustomed traveler in the less inhabited parts of the world, she carries a thick woolen blanket; a down pillow; a tinderbox; tools for cleaning, sewing, etc.; along with a selection of cosmetic products (including hair brushes) for when she needs to present herself to people of significance.

Tárwen carries a small seax as a utility knife rather than a weapon. Instead she carries a 5' long hornbeam staff, which as well as serving as a walking stick and more than adequate bludgeon, also acts as a magical conduit.

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Role: Mage
Backstory: Tárwen is the youngest daughter in a family of three. Her father is a miller and belongs to the local militia. Her mother is a weaver. Tárwen initially intended to work as a weaver with her mother though during her 40s (while she was still far too young to be considered marriageable), she spent quite a lot of her spare time with a young man from the Elarion Mage's Guild.

While the relationship didn't last into adulthood, Tárwen was discovered to have considerable aptitude of her own and was brought under the tutelage of a mage named Curuwen. Curuwen was a good teacher and over the 75 years since Tárwen entered the guild she has become reasonably proficient, though mostly in the art forms more associated with the Fair Folk.

Tárwen is an expert illusionist and can cast spells to hide an area from people though this takes time and effort to enact. In a pinch, she can make her cloak appear as if it is a part of the natural surroundings, hiding herself and potentially another person with her.

She can produce light from her staff, which can be blinding, particularly to creatures from the Hosts of darkness who typically despise bright lights.

She is also an adequate healer if someone is injured. She can save people from mortal wounds, speed up the healing of those with less severe injuries and slow (if she's doing a particularly good job) or sometimes even stop the spread of disease from cursed injuries.

In 3975, 42 years ago, when she was still an apprentice, Tárwen travelled Curuwen and several other Elarion mages to a Conclave in Segestica which was hoped would be the beginning of a rapprochement between the Kingdom of Elarion and Regnum Arventia which had been frosty since the War of Gallus Nasica, which had been fought before she was born.

While the Conclave was a failure, Tárwen drew the notice of the Valindorian mage, Calanthor, who discerned in her a willingness to set aside the petty concerns of her short lifetime and that of her Kingdom for the greater good of the Graced peoples of Minadra - something he found many of the people of the Age of Steel lacked. He brought Tárwen into his confidence and the pair began a correspondence over the next few decades, discussing everything from the art of sorcery to the strange animals of the lands south of Varadaban.

Over the course of her letters with Calanthor, Tárwen became fascinated by the lost Gulcenedril artefact, an ancient device constructed in the first days of the Age of Steel, designed to allow the King of Caryandor to speak to the Turakindi Kings in the South, raising the alarm quickly should the Host of Darkness ever reappear.

While the first part of the artefact remained in Caryandor, the half belonging to the Turakindi had been lost in the last days of their Realms, though Calanthor assured her it had not been destroyed - it was someplace dark, though aside from that, nobody knew where. Since completing her apprenticeship some 20 years ago, Tárwen has launched several expeditions, with the people of Stormfjellheim, to explore the ruins of the Morgador in search of the Gulcenedril. Though they have located some interesting treasures, the Gulcenedril has never been amongst them.

In early 4017, Tárwen received an unexpected letter from Calanthor, asking her, in urgent terms, to meet him in Ealdormuda. While his reasons were not explained, Tárwen recognised the urgency of his tone and quickly packed a travelling bag, setting forth on to meet her friend. While Tárwen has travelled extensively in the Morgador and Taurethil forest, she has not made any forrays into human lands aside from the Conclave of 3975 and the trip is an adventure she was looking forward to.

Character Intro: Tárwen shifted on the bench she was sitting at, enjoying the warmth of the fire against her back. She kept her hood up. She wasn't sure the last time one of the fair folk had stepped foot in Eoham, but the locals were certainly curious about her; her ears were hard to hide. Almost inevitably they would conclude she was Sidfir, which she was not, which led to further interest. There wasn't any problem with the interest people showed her, it was not malicious, but sometimes it was nice to have a quiet evening with a mug of mulled wine.

Besides, some old soldier was regaling the crowds with war stories. She couldn't speak a word of the local language, so didn't know what they were, but she recognised the scene. Quintus, her bodyguard on the road, had taken himself to their room for the evening. He probably would have enjoyed the story... though he didn't speak the local language either.

She cast an idle eye across the other people in the inn... one of the Skyborn. That was unusual. While she had encountered the Skyborn before, in her limited experience she had believed they preferred the company of dwarves to humans. She took a sip from her mug of wine, realising it was the last of her drink.

She put the mug down, considering if she should, perhaps call it a night... but the night was young. But the night was young and while she doubted she would be swept up in any eager revelry tonight, Tárwen had no desire to take to her bed prematurely. So she waved to the innkeeper with her mug and a bright smile, signaling for another.

A few moments later, there was a scatter of applause as the old soldier signaled the end of his story. People seemed to be moving away from him, though the Skyborn sat down next to him. Tárwen paid them little mind, thanking the innkeeper as another mug of wine arrived.

A snippet of conversation from the other table drifted across. They were speaking Arventian. Then another. Turakindi ruins? This far West? Instantly her interest was piqued.

She hesistated a moment, she was meant to be meeting Calanthor here, in this inn... though he was a week late. What could be holding him up? The thought that anything might have happened to the old mage did not cross Tárwen's mind. There were few, if any, mortal beings more dangerous than Calanthor.

Turakindi ruins. She heard the skyborn say it again. If there were more ruins this far West that nobody had known about until recently, that would explain why the Gulcenedril had proven so hard to find. Could it be wherever this skyborn was heading? She considered what to do for a moment more, then resolved to approach her. Lifting her staff in one hand and mug of wine in the other she stood up, , crossing the few feet to where the pair were talking.

The old soldier looked up as she approached, raising an eyebrow in enquiry, "Hello!" Tárwen greeted the pair cheerfully, in fluent Arventian, "I apologise for intruding on your conversation but I couldn't help but hear you mention Turakindi ruins."

The skyborn turned to her, peering up at Tárwen with thoughtful blue eyes, "Yes, but you know that kind of place is dangerous."

Tárwen nodded, "I'm well aware. I am prepared for danger," the old soldier's eyebrow climbed a little higher, she noted, "I hadn't realised there were ruins this far West."

"Not many had," the skyborn replied.

"Are you sure you are prepared for danger, girl?" the soldier asked, "As much as I'm sure scholars and the like would love to get their hands on whatever is in those ruins, I only have the one sword arm."

"Girl? Oh," Tárwen glanced around furtively, then leaned forward, "I imagine my friend, that I'm probably older than your parents," she swept her hood back, letting the points of her ears show, "Tárwen of Elarion," she introduced herself, "I am from the Mage's guild, waiting for a friend in this city. Though he is late and your ruin could, potentially, hold something I've been looking for."

"What?" the skyborn asked.

"The Gulcenedril?" Tárwen looked between blank expressions, "It's a device to communicate over vast distances. The Turakindi made it. We have one half, the other is lost and nobody knows how it was made, making the first half a useless trinket. I would like to see if these ruins hold any clue as to its whereabouts." She saw the pair glance at each other. They still weren't sure she would be useful... "I can also heal wounds and produce light in dark places. And I've travelled in the Morgador before... I am not one of your mages who spends their whole life pondering the nature of magic in an esotericist community surrounded by servants. I am quite capable of surviving in the wilderness. And I come with a bodyguard. Arvensian fellow, called Quintus, quite handy with a bow."

Name: Oddveig; Mainly Fig, sometimes (don’t) Odd or Vei
Species: Gundrukan
Race/Nationality: Fjallborg
Gender: Female
Age: 41
Languages: Gundrukanian, Arventian, North Sylpharimese

Appearance:

By Gundrukan standards Fig is but a sprout in age and stature. She’s not the typical burly cave dweller associated with her kind; and while she is somewhat broad-shouldered, it’s more genetics than physical training with Fig’s frame noticeably leaner when standing next to a fellow shin-kicker (not that she cares).

Personal Effects:
A journal she’s affectionately called “Small observations by tiny people”, charcoal because she’s a cheapskate “Ink ‘n quill, you daft bastards think I’m made of coppers?”, some excavation tools like a small pickaxe, chisel and hammer - Oh, and a dagger on the off chance someone - or something - is within jabbing range.

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Role: Archivist, the world is vast and its historical secrets infinite.

Backstory:
As a Gundrukan you either smith steel or live long enough to see yourself wield it. Fig was more infatuated with the natural wonders of Mindara and chose neither. She longed to write her own findings - not that rubbish any of the teachers back home forced down her skeptical little noggin. So once she got her parents to stop nagging to find a real job, Fig set off into the world with a grin bolted on her face and an empty journal ready to be defaced with several inappropriate doodles.

She’s wandered since. Across mountains and plains, through caves, forests, and ruins, chasing whatever caught her eye and curiosity.

Somewhere between the vines and half-collapsed archways of an old Mindaran ruin, Fig ran into Elenor, quite literally, if you count a lantern to the elbow. The Sylpharim was there to map the terrain; Fig was there to make sense of the stones. Their introductions weren’t exactly warm. But mutual wariness turned to shared theories soon enough, and between the two of them the ruins didn’t stand a chance. They’ve been wandering together on and off since.

Character Intro:

Name: Elenor ferch Morgan
Species: Sylpharim
Race/Nationality: Northern Sylpharim
Gender: Female
Age: 25
Languages: North Sylpharimese, Arventian, plus a smattering of Gundrukanian

Appearance:
Personal Effects:
As could be expected of her kind, Elenor travels light, carrying a backpack with a few vital camping supplies, as well as quills and ink with plenty of parchment. More an explorer than a warrior, she carries an axe, seax and shortbow for self-sufficiency on the long and winding road. For protection she wears a set of boiled leather armour, complete with greaves.

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Role: Pathfinder

Backstory:
The only daughter among her half-dozen brothers, Elenor grew up as "one of the boys", outspoken, adventurous and prone to getting into the odd scuffle from an early age. With a hectic home life, she tended to go out flying whenever she wanted some time to herself, often daring herself to soar further and higher a little more each time.

Drawing was one of her many pastimes, gravitating towards cartography once she began sketching the landscapes from a bird's eye view. She often thought about visiting more distant lands and doing the same there, encouraged in part by the tales she'd heard from travellers hailing from those regions.

Eventually bidding her family a fond farewell, Elenor packed her bags and ventured forth on her journey. She roamed far and wide, making a decent living from selling the maps she made along the way.

One day, while exploring a series of ruins Elenor had spotted on one of her flights, she all but tripped over Fig, a Gundrukan scholar who was also studying the place. While the air between them was tense at first, they took a shine to one another once it was clear that neither of them was a potential threat. Ever since then, the two have been near-inseparable.

Character Intro:
The wind buffeted against Elenor's face as her wings rode the thermal, the parchment lashed to her writing board rustling wildly. Observational drawings from this high up presented their own unique challenges that Elenor was determined to overcome. It was a bit of an ask to maintain a steady position this high up, for one. Never mind having to keep a damn good grip on her quill.

It was, at least, enough for... well, "good enough". The rough draft, as it were. She'd got the scale down pat, plus a general idea of the terrain, but for anything precise she still had to make like the groundwalkers and have a closer look-see on her own two feet.

As if she'd have time for all that. Or that her companion could keep up.

Speaking of whom, it was almost time for them to meet back up. Almost a shame - Elenor could have gone for another half-hour of this, at least. With practised care, the sylph stowed her tools of the trade and adjusted her bearing for the smooth descent back to earth.