[color=f6b89d][b]Name[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]Dolveine[/i]

[color=f6b89d][b]Age[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]late[/i]
[color=f6b89d][b]Gender[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]male[/i]
[color=f6b89d][b]Height[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]middling[/i]
[color=f6b89d][b]Weight[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]lean[/i]
[color=f6b89d][b]Race[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]human (Luminera‑born)[/i]

[color=f6b89d][b]Natal[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]Martis Declines in the 3rd Court[/i]

[color=f6b89d][b]Tier[/b][/color] ⸬ [i]low[/i]

[color=f6b89d][b]Appearance[/b][/color] ⸬ In the mirror of thought I remember myself as gaunt, and strict. My posture rigid — accustomed to a vigilance largely indifferent to its own paranoia, its own faults. My tortile hair is full and sweeps like spills of ink across my pallid brow, my sloping shoulders. My long, brushed, oiled beard is as good as any nobleman’s rank. By stress, it streaks cobalt but wan. Not the bright cobalt of my miotic, searching irises. Eyes that saw war, but only as it hobbled back from indistinct, obscure carnage. While of average height I may be, a narrow reed strikes taller than an ample shrub. In the robes of my profession, that is a good thing. For I am an Inquisitor. I keep the law, and carry it in a little broad tome inside a folded void of my simple linen robe, an iron chain securing its binding to my gnarled amberweave cincture. In the cavity of my breast, glass irritates skin and the black tuft descending from my suprasternal notch down my trunk. A funerary phial, it is an empty and critical token of how even wizards are doomed to die.

[color=f6b89d][b]About[/b][/color] ⸬ I, Dolveine, entered the Scriptorium Annex of Luminera as a tyro bereft of great promise, but the world requires the mediocre so that it might exalt the mighty. There was the war when I was born, and the war when I died of stubborn old age. How could I conceive it as anything other than normal, lasting four millennia as it did? Curse the Linearity, and the profanation of technology — the terminus of nature’s immaculate order. It does not nurture, it synthesizes. It does not commune, it dictates. I, not by talent but by common necessity — a filler for empty boots — climbed to the rank of Inquisitor in the Mystic College. Some minds are learned in the arts, keen as mana blades; mine was not one such. What I possessed was an ear for lies, an eye for deceits. If rat I was, I knew my mind. To scent out the true heretics. What mattered to me in life, and in inescapable extinction was loyalty to the source of mystery that is our core and founding dogma.

[color=f6b89d][b][i]Abilities[/i][/b][/color]

[color=f6b89d][b]Solemn Inquiry[/b][/color] ⸬ Catching myself between breaths, I pause — focusing outward on the discipline, posture, and the sequence of time and the events it grasps. Potent inside that hold, I sense the falsehoods in others; even sometimes before spoken. A lie is but its own shadow. To contain it, I recite the simple but potent binding spells written in my tome of law. Deception is everywhere, in and outside of itself. Its self-contradictory nature inevitably succumbs to exposure — a hesitant voice, a stiff gesture, a resonance in a crafted object that strays the course, a hidden door, an empty wall. While I cannot compel truth, I attend to it, fastidious in my vigil.

[color=f6b89d][b][i]Items[/i][/b][/color]

[color=f6b89d][b]Regulus Tome[/b][/color] ⸬ Rapt vision raining across serpent-bound vellum given over to me by the art hereditary, I call forth from its marginalia and deliberate, minute ink scrawls the doctrine of my way, its thesis and antithesis. These are but some incantations of the Mystic Order, a primer to magic. Critically, in it are the Mystic’s edicts. My aptitude as a student merited no more and my loyalty no less, as is conspicuous along the margins in my cramped, benighted annotations. If anything, I all but regret their presence. Exposing the weakness of my mind, the slow pace by which I learned. Notes, especially my own, are often contradictory, rife with errors. I was young, then.

[color=f6b89d][b]Funerary Phial[/b][/color] ⸬ Wearing this on an iron neck chain, even dead I feel its deep roots, the stains and pulse from when it held my father’s essence. Ages ago in the midst of the long war. A long, narrow seam traces the glass like a serpent in torment from when I dropped it, a hurried fool. I know it is used but once a lifetime, and that briefly. On my neck, it hung empty. For not a long while it held me, the remnant of my soul.