Notes for both:

• This is not a case of the whole being stronger than the sum of its parts; their skillsets don't synergise and Liliane's interest is so much on keeping her silly wife safe that they're functionally an iron/steel adventurer.
• Their twin daughters are 3, so not terribly important. Their names? Irénée Florentine Corinne de Tiffauges and Julienne Violette Liliane de Tiffauges. Yes, they're named after Corinne's parents.
• Indeed, two girls (or two men, although that's more complicated) can have children. Magic's handy.
• Corinne's overall reputation amongst the guild is one of general bafflement. She's nice and very earnest about doing the job and not just playing it… but she's the daughter of a duchess; it's quite strange.
• They like to hire adventurers to babysit and give the regular staff breaks.
• I mean townhouse in the very Georgian London sense. It's big, for all it might eventually share walls with something else.

• Name:
  Hyseleia Erenhart
• Age:
  24
• Gender:
  Female
• Race:
  Python Lamia
• Rank:
  Iron
• Appearance:
  If somehow, the first thing people notice about Hyseleia is her upper torso, they would find a strikingly beautiful, somewhat large woman in quite a few areas. Casually standing at almost six foot at a resting position, Hyseleia possesses long black hair that falls to her waist with a magically preserved flower; a gift from her father from one of his adventures, woven tied in place on her left temple along with a headpiece that fits snugly around her head. Long, pointed ears that twitch slightly in movement if curious or attempting to listen to something. Predatory crimson eyes with serpentine pupils and a pale complexion hidden under a simple dress and a thick warm looking hood that drapes across her shoulders and upper arms.
  
  Oh, and scales...?
  
  Typically, though, what most people would first notice is that her body past her waist is that of a large serpent, covered in a thick layer of greyish scales. Indeed, Hyseleia is one of the Lamia race. A Carnivorous race of folks not often seen, especially this far north. The tip of her tail is adorned with a simple jewel and around her waist a simple skirt. If she were to stand at her full height, she can easily dwarf most people.
• Personality:
  Hyseleia's personality can be described as difficult at best. Not that she's unfriendly, at least she doesn't consider herself as such. Rather, spending fourteen of her formative years living alone with her mother and occasional visits from her father in a far off forest with only the animals she hunted, encouraged by her mother to be as...lets say, merciless as possible has made her a bit abrasive. Driven, motivated, and tends to have a 'might makes right' view of the world. Ask for her opinion on something and she'll give it in the most blunt and brutal way possible. Ask her to do something? She'll likely do it if she likes you well enough, though not without commenting on how lazy you are for making her do it. She always has something to say, really, and she is not shy about sharing her rather brutally honest and brutal way of desiring to handle conflict.
  
  In broad strokes though, in her day to day she generally is a pleasant sort if you can handle words sharper than her fangs. While she does like spending time alone, she doesn't shy away from people joining her or finding someone to converse or hang out with. Often times, she finds a warm spot or fire to curl up by to read, drink, or simply laze about.
  
  And, on the off chance someone happens to be nearby, they may just find themselves occupied for the next hour being in a scaled prison. Not that anyone would ever admit that they don't want such a thing. Shes a pretty lady, after all. Nobody would dare.
• Brief Backstory:
  Born to a Lamia mother in a forest in rural Estival, much of Hyseleia's early life and formative years were spent with just her mother, herself, and her dad when he wasn't busy out adventuring. Her life as a child was spent learning magic from her mother - a Lamia of some dubious origins who never learned magic from an official institution. A witch, or at least, a user of magic that wasn't trusted or looked well upon. Not that she concerned herself with such thoughts, no. She was too busy playing, learning, and generally just doing what she wanted.
  
  Occasionally playing pranks on adventurers and other folks passing through the forest, or simply watching them with keen curiosity.
  
  It wouldn't be until she was 14 that she actually got to see the wider world, much at her father behest. To start with, she was enrolled in Estival's Mage College to lean some proper magic, much to her own chagrin. A serpent dragged out of their home and suddenly forced to adapt to city life. While she loved the learning, she hated the more structured and academic nature of it all. It was no wonder then, perhaps her personality took a bit of a troublesome turn. While she did ultimately excel academically, she was always a source of trouble for both teachers and other students. Causing trouble, seemingly picking fights, using magic loosely to solve 'problems' or insulting a noble simply because she doesn't care for such pathetic titles.
  
  Her time otherwise though, living with her Dad after he took time off from adventuring to raise her properly, was spent joyously. She'd learn much more about his own exploits as Silver-ranked adventurer. Stories of his adventurers and time spent with his own companions, even if he was never a particularly famous. She took to city life surprisingly well, too, though she still finds it as noisy and the amount of people annoying, especially if they stare too long since Lamia's are a bit of a rarity. Otherwise she spent her free time reading, sparring with her dad, and well...continuing her streak of playing pranks or otherwise messing with people. Especially those ignorant or more fearful or curious about Lamia's.
  
  Eventually she'd graduate from Estival's mages college with fairly high marks, and when presented with the option of returning to the forest her mother lived in or perhaps, making her own mark as an adventurer well...she would choose the latter, perhaps out of some silly sentiment and sense of adventure her father instilled in her. Not that she'd ever admit to such a childish desire.
• Equipment:
  Silver Floral Staff: A large, silver colored staff inlaid a large blue gemstone meant to be held firmly in her tail. A floral pattern is engraved on it and is of course, what she channels most of her magic through.
• Skills:

Hyseleia has a natural affinity for the water element, and as such, is naturally drawn to magic of the water nature. Often times she uses it to create and manipulate water in a mostly violent manner. While she does minor in a handful of other areas, shes not particularly skilled in anything except maybe a bit of herbology and magic theory and is quite lacking in any support or defensive ability. Her mother has also instilled her with a knowledge of some perhaps, things that would be considered a bit taboo or things that would be frowned upon knowing, though she has no interest in pursuing such knowledge beyond practicality reasons.

Name: Frieda 'Iron-War Beard' Emberforge (False Name: Freya Stonewall)
Age: 58
Gender: Female
Race: Dwarf
Rank: Iron
Appearance:





Height - 4'3” (129cm)

Wears a fake beard to further obstruct her face and maintain a false identity. Registered at the guild under the name 'Freya Stonewall'.

Her forearms possess various burn scars from her apprentice days, which she considers a badge of honor. However, because of how cautious she is of her identity in front of other dwarves, she hides them with a combination of wrapped bandages and long sleeves.

Personality:

At first glance, Frieda appears to be perpetually annoyed with...well, pretty much everything. Never short on anything to rant about, especially when it's in relation to her mountain home. Not one to follow the traditional rules set by the dwarven community, she was met with immediate judgment and scorn by her own family for years. Needless to say, her resentment towards the Draz'khzidra she grew up in remains strong as ever, and a sensitive topic all together.

While Frieda is prone to a fiery tirade, she is quicker to swing a hammer in retaliation. Her impulsive temperament regularly gets her into trouble, but that is easily quelled when she starts working with her tools, or chugging some fine ale. At one point, she confessed that her recklessness stems from simply wanting to test out her equipment.

During idle periods, she either dwells into her journal or performs regular maintenance. Her journal acts as both logs of her adventures and schematics for future projects. Frieda longs to bring these ideas to life whenever she gets her hands on the proper equipment. There is only so much she could do with on-road reforging and repairs.

Brief Backstory:

Hailing from one of the many back-breaking and well renowned blacksmith clans in Draz'khzidra, high expectations were set for Frieda since birth. From childhood, she showed exceptional skill with the hammer, rivaling the masterworks forged by adults of neighboring clans. Despite the praises and certainty for riches in the future, Frieda's aspirations lied beyond the mountain halls.

Overhearing foreign visitors that frequent the city, all this surface-folk talk about answering 'the call to adventure' put a what-if scenario in her head. Which in turn caused her dwarven family to believe she had been led astray. The idea of traveling, hunting monsters, and recovering lost dwarven artifacts appealed to her more than sitting at the forge for the rest of her life. Above all else, she wanted to fight beside her own creations! How could her family not support that, she wondered. In end, she came to believe the traditional values they uphold, simply did not fit her mold.

As time passed, her rebellious nature and reluctance to inherit the family's forge eventually led to her banishment from the mountain. The final straw being her failure to uphold the sacred dwarven tradition of pouring ale in respect to Krenhak. This was a bold decision on Frieda's part. After years of hesitation, she finally pushed herself into following her true desires, in one of the worst ways possible.

Initially, her choices came at the cost of being shunned by most dwarven establishments. This forced Frieda to adopt a new name for herself when she arrived to Estival and registered at the Adventurer's Guild. For eight years she resided in this kingdom, learning to become a warrior from scratch. She managed to attain Iron rank upon discovering a fighting style she's comfortable with.

Side Note: The nickname 'Iron-War Beard' stuck to her after a brawl at the tavern. Apparently, a bystander misheard her when she drunkenly declared “I earned my beer!”, prior to the chaos.

Equipment:

Frieda is well-versed in handling hammer based weaponry. It's as natural to her as breathing air. But, when the situations calls for slashing or 'chop chop', Frieda prefers to use a battleaxe. Both of these weapons are two-handed use, and are runeforged much like her tools. However, because carrying two heavy weapons is burdensome during travel, Frieda tends to leave one at her quarters.

Currently, both weapons are infused with wind-based magic, due to Frieda's preference for maneuverability assistance with these weapon types. Not exactly ideal for indoor combat or areas with restricted space.

The runeforged tools are Frieda's most prized possessions and are specifically designed to be utilized as nature intended them to be. As tools, definitely not because they are extremely expensive to upkeep and must be used sparingly. Unlike her weapons, her tools are infused with fire-based magic.

Of course, how could she leave for her travels without her flask of dwarven ale.





Skills:

Frieda is already an exceptionally gifted blacksmith and runeforger, but that's only in the professional setting. Ever since she's been banished, she had to improvise her craftsmanship with what she's got on hand. Relying on primitive methods to upkeep her equipment, her general resourcefulness proved to be quite beneficial when it translated to surviving away from civilization.

Her literacy in other languages is rather limited to specific terms. All of which involving engineering manuals and schematics she picked up during her apprenticeship. Part of her duties was to ensure the customer knew exactly what they were buying.

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

Age: Approximately 150

Gender: Male

Race: Elf (Wood/High)

Rank: Copper*

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

Of note are his curiously short ears for an elf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Name: Reeva Bonner
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Rank: Steel

Appearance:
Stands at 5’7” and possesses a lithe, athletic build. Typically favors light clothing as befits some sort of sneak thief, though with colorful flourishes such as jewelery. Her gaze is always searching and constantly on guard, speaking to a case of nerves or ingrained paranoia. Though anyone skilled in reading body language would eventually realize she carries herself in a more composed manner than her general demeanour indicates, if only unconsciously.

Personality:
Bubbly and extroverted at face value. While her cheeriness at least seems genuine, it’s also underscored by constant nervous glances and eyeing the nearest exit of whatever room she’s in at all times. Not uncommon traits for a thief by any means.

In truth, she’s at least partially putting on a front. Everything she displays is the truth, just exaggerated somewhat for believability. After all, such displays are more human than a dull affect. Her double identity as a spy for Velt means that her paranoia has some bearing in truth, though it’s largely directed towards whatever handler she has becoming dissatisfied with her work.

Reeva bears a strange mix of emotions to being an adventurer in truth: while it’s not the life she’d been envisioning for herself, she doesn’t hate it completely. Rather, there are times where she wonders what things would be like if there wasn’t the constant pressure of spycraft and espionage in the back of her mind at all times, but acting on such thoughts would almost certainly bring the wrath of the “old hag” down upon her…

Brief Backstory:
If asked, Reeva would shrug and claim that she was like any other urchin from any city on the continent: she picked pockets and locks to get enough to eat, and wound up becoming an adventurer because she had no intention to run with any gang or thieves' guild. While entirely true, this explanation omits many, many pertinent details that there's not a chance in hell she'd share.

For one, she's Veltish. Not necessarily a red flag on its own, but Velt has somewhat of a reputation abroad for the ease of which the crown acquires information and intelligence. Thus, some rather unfair assumptions are placed upon Veltish sneaks when in foreign lands. Unfortunately for Reeva, those assumptions would happen to be entirely true.

What she leaves unsaid when asked is that she was saved from the streets in her youth by a shadowy organization working under the Veltish crown. As it turned out, all of those rumors and hearsay had some basis after all. Crownsblade, Unseen, Third Hand, and many more names had all referred to these Veltish spies and assassins over the centuries, but Reeva has only ever known it as the organization.

They took her in, fed her, and trained her in the ways of assassination and spycraft for years. And then turned her loose on her first assignment…to disguise herself as an adventurer and report back on the inner workings of Estival’s adventurer’s guild. To say that Reeva was put out was an understatement. On one hand, it was probably easier to not be caught than as an assassin or direct spy. On the other hand, adventuring was dangerous, dirty, unglamourous work that she never thought she’d be doing. Nevertheless, she did as she was told. After all, her handler was the old hag herself, the most terrifying woman in all of Velt. Compared to the idea of being hunted down and eaten by her, Reeva would delve straight into the maw of whatever dark, dank, treasure-filled hole she was told to.

And delve she did. Over the next few years, she integrated herself into the Guild, taking on jobs as any other adventurer would and developing a reputation for being a talented sneak. Doors and chests needed unlocking, after all, and no one expected a thief like her to be some sort of frontline meatshield. Thus, her rise to Steel rank was largely due to her skills in the shadows, with the occasional need to hold her own in straight combat, the latter much to her chagrin.

Equipment:

• Common adventurer’s tools that no dungeon-delver would be caught without, such as rope and torches.
• Cutlass and hatchet, for direct combat. The hatchet also doubles as a useful tool for survival situations.
• Thieves’ tools: lockpicks, metal files, pliers, scissors, and any other tool she would need for getting through locks and traps.
• Daggers, throwing knives, and shortbow: more subtle weapons for stealth purposes.

Skills:
Reeva is a skilled thief and sneak, capable of getting through the majority of common locks with enough time and of getting into places where she isn’t welcome without being detected. Her skills in combat rate as slightly above average: definitely better than the average sword-swinger, but no combat monster in straight battle. Rather, she prefers to stick to the shadows, eschewing direct confrontation in favor of ambushes and stealth attacks. While expected of thieves and roguish types, she’s disconcertingly good at such things, her movements in the shadows speaking of professional training at times…

Name: "Sticky Pete" (Birth name unknown. Earned the "Sticky" appellation by way of the heavy elm branch found at his side by the adventurer who roused him from his catatonia, earned the appellation "Pete" by way of it being the name that hit his ear the best after "Sticky".)

Age: ??? (Could be anywhere from eighteen to thirty-three. Point is, he's young enough to handle himself in a brawl without growing too tired too quickly.)

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Rank: Iron, recently promoted from Copper after a streak of five successful jobs of largely menial grunt work, capped by the extermination of a goblin hive.

Personality: Even-keeled, earnest, and sometimes naive. Pete is by all accounts a genial guy with a permissive temper— perhaps owing to his lack of remembered hangups from the life before himself. Inwardly, he attempts to approach each day with as open a mind as he's able, all in the name of relearning whatever he may have lost— guided only by a deep-seated bedrock of common morality, he lets his personal judgement revolve around the gut feelings that ethical core imparts upon him, approaching each moment on its own. In sum, he has no creed, he remembers no coda, but the ethereal whispers of right and wrong still live in blood, in bone, deep the pit of his stomach. Whoever he used to be, they surely knew very well when they were doing the right thing, and when they weren't.

Inwardly, Pete worries that he may one day discover the rougher, crasser parts of him, those that don't do well with rookies or take some sort of pleasure in cracking skulls, may have stemmed from a man that was indelibly colored more by the latter than the former. He would be happy to never regain that part of himself, surely... but at the same time, he cannot escape the burning at the back of his head, where that heavy branch smashed through whomever that might have been, that he owes it to them to learn who they once were. Who he once was. It is by no means lost upon him that reviving the first may mean the death of the second. Even so, surely there was somebody there— someone who's missing from every life they touched, so long as he is here now. Maybe there is a way he can honor the man that was, without giving up the man that is— or maybe there's a way the man that is can remain, even when if man that was returns.

Outwardly, he's a bit stiff-humored, in a way that suggests a kind nature. Hardly one to balk at a joke, least of all at his own expense, but he seems to lack the bite that might drive a man to let cutting words fly. Content to admit that there is much he doesn't know of the world, he seems content to give most things a fair shake— even if it may lead to him letting somebody take advantage of his commitment to sincerity. At the other end of this, he's not a great teacher, in the rare instances where he encounters people that know less of anything than he does.

Brief Backstory: Found at dusk outside Venne beneath an old elm, with one of its' heavy branches broken off at his side. There were no possessions nor money to his name that could be found— even the clothes off his back were nondescript rags, as though a man deprived of every worldly possession, right down to his name. He awoke with memories of gray fog, flecked with dancing black sunspots, a massive swell upon his head, and a gaggle of unfamiliar faces standing over him. It was there that "Sticky Pete" would begin his life, taking a few days to recover under the watchful eyes of the adventurers of the guild that had taken him in. Eventually, when he was hale anew, his lack of librans would catch up to him well before his stagnant memory— and with the nearest work available coming from the same roof over his head, it seemed worth the old college try.

Equipment: The same heavy elm branch that robbed him of his memory now robs pests and most problems of their lives. It's half his identity at this point: hard to be "Sticky Pete" without the aforementioned Stick. Beyond that, he's earned enough to put some proper clothes on his back again, and is slowly collecting the adventurer's staples to fill a sturdy leather pack— rope, a wineskin, a prybar, a lantern, sturdy leather boots, sturdy leather bracers. He's saving up for some decent brigandine or a shield, next.

Skills: Tall, well-formed, and fell-handed, Sticky Pete is the beneficiary of a clear head in a scuffle, rarely being taken in by nerves or fear. His calm manner and mild disposition give him an easy time getting along with most people alive— already, he has a few friendships forming. Evidently, he's either literate, or has picked up the general gist of literacy quickly. Fairly dexterous with his hands, seems to know his way around a knife despite not remembering exactly why. Holds his drink well. It's been only a couple of weeks, so he doesn't have a lot to work with, but he budgets well— with money, skillset, and time all alike.