[CHAR] Phosphoros

[Monkeypants]

Citalli

Name: Citalli Nahuatl 'Cita'

Sex: Female

Place of Origin: Roshad

Appearance:


Cita stands around 5'5, bringing her to an average among her family. She however usually appears a few inches shorter due to a slight slump in her posture. Though this is not due to any genetic restraint, she can just be merely lazy.

She has a very slender frame, but still muscular enough to brandish a bow with deadly efficiency. She is fit due to consistently training her agility.

Cita possesses a deeper voice for a female, but is very smooth and obviously feminine. She does have a bad habit of placing a slight emphasis on random words when speaking, "So, i See you're here For a fight Huh?" Giving her a very dynamic sounding range with her speak. Though not to the point of being obnoxious.

Psyche: Cita is usually an understanding and reserved individual, having been long trained in the scholarly ways of her homeland. Her father was a strict believer in patience being a virtue, and always told her "Look at things from every angle. Challenge everything you hear and see with reason.", A mindset that she still holds true, though it has been twisted at times, believing she has to correct those whom are wrong when she becomes agitated. She is not a fan of "dumb" people, and will actively use people of inferior intellect for her aims.

She enjoys haggling, debating and loves a thrill. She can become overly excited when certain trials are placed before her, such as delving into a deep ruin. She has fought many creatures, some fierce and some questionable as to if she was exaggerating or even being truthful.

The, "Beware the Were-Mare there..", being one of her more prolific, seemingly fanciful tales.

This has given Cita a somewhat cocky outlook, as there has yet to be a creature or person she couldn't best. And has grown some Masochistic tendencies, often choosing to fight things that would be far beyond most.

Skills: Cita has rarely matched agility, skills with Daggers, swords and Pole arms. Cita is also well versed in archery, spending years in the wilds helped her to hone those skills. Cita has epic skills shields, skills in being terrible with them. She is an avid crypt robber, ancient lands adventurer and all around wanderer. This constant travelling has earned her a position as a guide with some nobles and other high profile people.

However, its her knowledge that has garnered her the most prestige such as learning to read and write, something that is not as common in the areas she prowls. She teaches people Astrology usually once a month, but her true passion is what she spent a lot of time working on in Roshad, Alchemy and its sorcery applications. It started with Herbology, making potions and poisons from the strange plants and animal parts of the wilds.

This led Cita into the realm of summoning. Using things like bent twigs and or powdered rocks. Salts or any other item needed to swirl otherworldly creatures into existence. She is in no way a master conjurer, despite what she may say. But she does know how to make some formidable thralls. Her favorites being the ones people have an innate fear of, such as Hornets, Snakes, and her personal favorite, Big spiders.

Equipment: Cita carries only two things no matter what, A necklace with a small stone head with a pentagram carved into its forehead. This represents the god "Xmahti", Who is known as the Traveler. Xmahti was always depicted as a great adventurer who would seek out treasures, be it Tangible or metaphorical treasures. All in the name of exploration and discovery.

Her other item is an ornate Dagger "Wulfen". She came across it sitting on a stone pedestal while exploring some old ruins about seven years ago. She has told many stories as to where she thought it came from. Some were about gods leaving weapons for the brave to find, or that ancient warriors had hidden their treasures for the worthy to find. But in all reality, a young noble had it inscribed with his surname, and then hid it there in his paranoia. How that noble acquired something like it, is unknown.



She does wear a variety of different clothing, most suiting the weather but during the warm months, she wears clothing similar to whats pictured above. In the colder months, she will wear heavier furs or robes made of thick fabrics. During her cave adventures, she will don thick leather armors and one thing she keeps in reserve is her "heavy" armor. It is iron plate that fits well over most clothing. Chain maille shirts and iron shin guards supplement this.

Her weapons of choice are knives and pole arms, specifically Naginatas and throwing spears. Though she is decent with archery, she rarely brandishes a bow except for hunting. Though she has various bows in her possession, some short bows, others are long bows with long reach.

Cita's "Heavy Armor"

The "Heavy Armor" is a iron plate cuirass and arm plates that she uses on occasion. It has origins in a much older iron plate set she found in a old crypt. It was bent and beat up when she got it and had long considered selling it. When a travelling merchant visited her on his monthly rounds, he saw it and told her not to sell it. It was cursed, due to some markings it had on the inside of its chest plate. Cita of course laughed it off but out of some fear in the back of her mind, decided to have the towns smith repair it and clean it up. When she wore it the first time, even being heavy iron plating, it felt extremely light. She originally thought it to be just a cheap metal plate, but it was able to deflect blows just like any other iron plate. There are two reasons for its light weight. It really -is- cursed or enchanted, or its the fact she has grown pretty strong with her constant training, and excessive use of the Naginata 'Borea'.

Borea, Her custom Naginata

Borea is her favored pole weapon, it was forged for her personally by a blacksmith turned noble some years ago. Cita was travelling with him when assassins, specifically sent to kill the Noble, were murdered violently by Cita and her ornate Dagger "Wulfen". The last assassin turned and fled, only to be impaled by a cheap spear she used to hunt boar with. The Noble thanked her for saving his life and the two parted as to not attract more attention. Roughly three months later, a young male met with her, claiming to be the cousin of that noble. He informed her of his death to another set of assassins. There was one assassin that had died in the fight, impaled by the pole weapon Borea. The Cousin had heard of Cita's exploits from him, and decided it best she have it. It is rather unique in that it is not made of wood with a metal fitting, but rather the entirety of it is iron, making it exceptionally heavy compared to its typical counterparts. She has used it on nearly every adventure since she has obtained it.

Slashmir

As a joke, the blacksmith next door crafted a blade for Cita on the anniversary of her opening the Ale-House. She had originally thought it to be a cheap blade and never took it on any adventures. One day though, she forgot she sold her favored sword and only had this weapon as her option. Cita traveled far to a barrow that supposedly housed a mythical shield. Upon arriving, the shield turned out to be a ploy by a group of bandits looking to capture and rob people like Cita. She however, impaled the first with Borea, then rapidly recoiled and sent it flying into the face of another.

Two more rushed her and she was left with two options, Use the dagger Wulfen, or get some reach on her foes with Slashmir. She chose the latter, expecting the blade to break upon an enemies sword with ease. Quite the opposite happened. When it collided with the first mans sword, his sword blade broke in half. The second, not realizing what had happened, rushed in, only to have his gut cut open but the mighty Slashmir.

Now, Slashmir is a favorite or her. Knowing that even as a joke, that blacksmith poured his entire knowledge into the forging of a blade he thought honored the one who saved their town from mediocrity

Bio: Cita was born into a wealthy family in her homeland of Rashod. She was privileged with attending the higher end places of learning as her parents, especially her father who was very well respected. She had nearly full access to the institutes of her home, far more freedom than most ever had. And with that freedom, she acquired familiarity with Alchemy and perhaps her most prized skill, being able to read, write, and speak most languages in the known world.

A rival family who had long been jealous of Cita's fathers higher social status, had taken interest in her. They sought to undermine Cita's family by playing to her intense patriotism for Roshad. The Rival family offered to pay for a top combat trainer and the promise to serve as an high ranking soldier, for their described "meager exchange" for marrying their eldest son. Cita graciously accepted but under the stipulation she be married after her training. When her parents found out, they were furious and openly declared their hate for the other family. They told tales of failed marriages and ancient betrayals. Cita, being headstrong, ignored all of these things and left to train.

Once Cita was done with nearly two years of daily training, she returned home to find a locked door, with eyes peering from the window angrily. A small envelope with her Amahti necklace, and a small sum of coins were slid under the door. And the simple words, "You are not worthy of our love." It broke her heart at first, but some were stuck in the old ways and she was quick to accept this. Cita returned to the rival family to pay her part of the bargain, but was quickly turned away as well. The Rival family had got what they wanted.

Her first attempt to integrate into society as a loner with a family that shunned her was to directly join city guards. It didn't pan out as she never saw herself standing blankly at a gate. And after her parents declared her disrespect to her family name, many didn't want Cita around. Cita's pride took her to the capital city, and there she tried to start again, showing off her skills in Alchemy, but many thought it was flukes, as she would summon harmless creatures. People wanted vicious beasts. She knew how to do it, but Cita repeatedly told people, the city is not the place. She was shunned for taking their safety into consideration. And at that point she began looking down upon those she deemed stupid, and those who had "stupid ideals".

There was however, a market in the other nations for Alchemists and Scholars. So she went traveled to Silesia, learning how to live off the land on the way. In Silesia, Cita learned the finer points of economy, and ownership. So with all this knowledge, she traveled to a small town at the far northern reaches of Silesia named Sorase, and purchased the local inn with what money she had left. The beginnings were rough as she spent most of her money on schooling in Silesia. This is when Cita first ventured into dungeon diving, and after a while she managed to accrue a large selection of armors, old weapons, ancient pointed rocks. and people would buy all that stuff. She didn't know why, but people from all around the region would travel monthly so see what Cita had gathered.

After a few years she grew fairly wealthy and decided to expand the inn, eventually adding a full fledged Ale house to it. She became rich in her own right, gathering enough to hire people to work in her stead. Two Silesia natives, A brutish male, excessively tall and bulky bouncer named Geart and a aged, frumpy maid named Sheska. Alongside a thin and busty Mannon waitress named Kahlai.

Today she is well known in eastern Silesia for her wares and adventures, still loving to go questing at every opportunity. She has a strong desire to learn about these ancient places and the thrill of fighting beasts and people that could possibly lead to her death. And of course he potential coin she gets from the useless junk she always seems to find.

The Village of Sorase

The Village is located west of the mountains between Mannon and Silesia

Sorase maintains an average population of thirty to forty year round. There are roughly twenty structures within the village, fourteen of them being houses, one blacksmith, a store house, a mill, the stables, a town forum and Cita's Inn and Ale house. The village has two streets two main streets, in a T shape. At the top of the T are six structures, with the other homes being on both sides down the length of the lower half. At the point where the T peaks, is the towns well. With Cita's Inn and the forum being at the middle of the top row.

Three roads lead from the village in each direction, leading to winding, nearly overgrown paths to the various other towns in the area. North of the village is the main farming fields, which grow wheat in abundance. To the east and west are smaller fields that grow figs and apples. Beyond all three fields is thick forests with many small streams littered throughout.

[Dead Cruiser]

KYON

THE WARHOUND

Name: Kyon

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: Kothar

Appearance: Kyon is a towering brute of a man, standing well over two meters tall, with a dense, muscular body that weighs nearly twenty stone. Kyon's body is of a sturdy musculature, bronze skin, and coarse, dark hair. An extensive network of scars cover both his form and his face, lining his body with countless dark fissures. His features are rough and square, as though hewn from stone, and a particularly brutal scar along his jawline pulls his mouth into a near-constant sneer. Dark eyes peer out from deep, tired sockets, and while alert and predatory, they take on a true fire when Kyon is in battle. He keeps his hair- turned grey at the edges prematurely- cropped short, and does his best to stay clean-shaven. His dress sense is utterly utilitarian; riding leathers and sandals, save for the ring of tarnished silver he wears on the smallest finger of his left hand.

Psyche: Kyon is regarded by many as a hard man; a hard man to know, and a harder man to like. Stoic and introspective, he emotes little and says even less. When he does speak, he is utterly blunt- vitriolic, even. He is generally a man without artifice, with little patience for deception or decorum. He is pragmatic by nature, not prideful in the least, and while uneducated, possesses a particular low cunning. He is not without virtue, however, as he possesses a fierce and protective sense of loyalty (to those that manage to earn it), and detests slavers, rapers, liars, cravens, and others that prey upon the weak and vulnerable. His sense of personal honor extends to a general disgust for witches and monsters as a whole, and takes quiet satisfaction in their killing. In battle, he can seem to many like a different man, as what was originally his stony exterior explodes into a howling battle-fury, stopped usually when there is no more blood left to spill. In battle does his sheer willpower show through best, as he is as bendable as a mountain, often pushing well past the point where his body has failed and broken.

Skills: Kyon is an experienced and skilled soldier, a veteran of dozens of battles, and many more duels or common brawls. His command of the blade is admirable, as is his brutal efficiency with his bare hands. A mercenary by trade, he is generally self-sufficient, more than capable of hunting, camping, fishing, cooking, arms and armor maintenance, rough field medicine, and general navigation, and has some experience in horsemanship and bartering. Quite notable is Kyon's sheer physicality: stronger even than his size and musculature would suggest, and with perseverance that outstrips just about any man he's ever met.

Equipment: Kyon travels light, with a knapsack full of generally-useful supplies and tools for traveling on the road, and an iron hatchet. His armor is light, consisting of an unpainted bronze breastplate, greaves, gauntlets, and helmet. His primary weapon is a broad cavalry-blade, a meter and a half in length, meant for unhorsing riders at a distance; Kyon swings the blade around as though it were no heavier than an arming sword.

Bio: The origins of the man known as Kyon are hazy. His earliest memories are of his childhood in the war-camps of one of Kothar's many slave legions. His parentage is utterly unknown to him; he supposes he was some sort of war-orphan taken in by the slaves- possibly of the Baccum, given his monstrous size. Regardless, he was raised as a slave in his earliest memories, living on scraps, and silently enduring beatings and other brutality at the hands of masters and elder slaves alike. For this, the child was called "Kyon" by the other slaves, a crude name meant to evoke the scavenging gutter-dog he so resembled.

Pity was taken on Kyon by one of the oldest slaves, an elderly veteran known as Arcturus the Grey Wolf. In another life, Arcturus had been known as Arcturus Lupercalia, the Wolf Knight: a heroic kestaphos of Mennon, and a descendant of the mythic barbarian queen Regina Lupercalia, the She-Wolf. Captured in one of Mennon's many skirmishes with Kothar, he was prized as a trophy for some time, spent years in gladiatorial arenas, and was eventually sent to fight his own people as a slave-soldier. Knowing that Kyon had never known a life outside of suffering and slavery, Arcturus took the boy under his wing and taught him the sword. His training was brutal, but Kyon took to it, growing into a formidable warrior by the time he could grow his first chin-hairs.

Kyon fought alongside the other slave-soldiers for some years, cutting his teeth on the vicious and dangerous battles that the slave legions were marched into like so much fodder. It took particular prowess and determination to survive where their Kotharan masters dared not send their professional soldiers, and while Kyon was tested, he persevered. As this continued, he, Arcturus, and the other slaves plotted violent rebellion against their masters, which they enacted at their earliest opportunity. The slave rebellion was quick and bloody, and while it claimed the life of Arcturus, the man Kyon had come to regard as a father, he had won his freedom, and set off into the world.

Knowing no other trade but warfare, Kyon sold his services as a mercenary. In this field he gained a considerable reputation; a vicious warrior with the strength of ten men, some claimed. He could walk into a melee and slay a hundred men on his own, claimed others. Kyon paid little attention to rumors, focusing on honing his skills and finding his next battlefield. In time he was followed by a particular sobriquet: the War Hound. Kyon did not mind this, as it mostly replaced a different, humiliating designation that had also begun to built around him: the Slave Knight.

As years and battles wore on, Kyon's skill grew, and so did his scars. Not merely scars on his body, but on his soul. The loss of Arcturus was merely the first of many. He lost so much in those first few years. Comrades, friends, brothers, even lovers, all turned to ash in the fires of war. He grew cold, retreating to the silent perseverance that had kept him as a child. Kyon did not trust himself to feel anything beyond the rage of battle, fearing no man but he that called him friend.

[Dr Catfish]

Cical Cumlainn

Twin Speared Savior

Name: Cical Cumlainn (Si-Sahl Koom-Lahn)
Sex: Male
Place of Origin: Baccum (Exiled)
Appearance:

Appearance

Hailing from Baccum is never a good sign for modesty, and if the image of Baccum was almost nude men covered in tattoos flexing and eating each other, Cical would be their flag icon.

Standing six feet, two inches and weighing a little under two hundred pounds at 196, Cical could compete with a weak man from Kothar in terms of musculature. However it was doubtful said Kothar man was anywhere near as defined as Cical. Ever inch of his rather lithe figure twitches with underlying muscle. Skinny and thin, he has built up the muscles beneath to such a degree they could more than likely compete with marble statues. Both in figure and in hardness. Toting rigid pecks, arms and legs that looked to be in the verge of splitting open and the aforementioned "carved from stone" six pack, there was little doubt the man exercised.

Messy, strung about blond - almost white - hair fell down from his head, almost concealing sharp sapphire eyes. These orbs seemed to pierce through whatever they were looking at, almost as if they examine everything about a person and beyond. Regardless, his gaze was almost warming and tranquil. His face was angular, sharp jaw and cheekbones complemented with small whitish scars in a handful of places. His lips, always seemingly turned upwards in a cheeky smile, held a single scar near the right corner only rising a half inch upwards. All this and a stout masculine nose show precisely why he was nicknamed "The Prince of War" in his teens.

Across his entire body is an incredible design of tattoos. From his feet to his collarbone, intricate tribal markings coat his entire figure in varying levels of intricacy. Across his right pectoral, a large swoosh overtakes most of his skin in black. In fact, at least one third of his body was inked. In some places, it even went into his groin area which lead to thoughts of awkward moments between him and the woman handling his tattoo work. Similar to the tattoos, scars lacerated his body. Be it thin, cat-like scratches of hardly visible detail or rather large gashes which had head uncleanly, leaving bulging sections of overlapping flesh. While these almost mortal-looking wounds were few, there were enough to stop any questions on the man's survivability.

For clothing, there was a rather distinct lack of it. That wasn't to say he was nude, just that he was very very close to it. Covering his groin was a swatch of leather which did little more than conceal his families pride and most of his rear end. On the top of the article, were three silver rings embedded within the leather. These attached to straps that went up along the curve of his midriff and cinched down against him. There were three of these, with rather equal spacing between them. They served to add some aesthetic, as well as force his sides in to keep his back straight at all times. It probably assisted in keeping his loin cloth up as well, heaven knows what might happen in a fight if it were to get yanked on.

Tight around his neck, is a silver chain that seems to flex and move comfortably with his throat. Hanging off his left ear, is a gold earring. It's of incredibly intricate design, with gold filaments like paper thin butterflies suspended off minute near invisible strings. With each movement they seem to dance and flutter and even make paper wing-like sounds. Their durability is rather insane, and upon close inspection by anyone with magical attunement, one could see they were blessed. Or rather, they held a small fragment of one's soul, their spirit.

Being almost nude all the time, and being outside for most of that; Cical developed a well tanned complexion marred by a handful of freckles across his body. The parts of him that weren't tattooed black, were a nice caramel colour.

Psyche: Bloodthirsty, courageous, selfish, untrusting, cocky, hardened, carefree. (In no order, with varying degrees of severity. You can decide for yourself)
Skills: To say Cical is an assassin is untrue, be it how uncouth his methodology may be. To say he is a front-line grunt is similarly untrue. This is not because he doesn't fill those roles, quite the contrary. It is simply because he does not fit the descriptions of either. He is incredibly skilled in combat from his history and experiences, utilizing his learned ambidexterity to wield two spears. Each spear is used with the same finesse as other men place into one. Their combat advantage is unparalleled when placed against standard soldiers.

Over time during his exile, Cical has gained an uncanny resilience to natural elements and forces of mortality. That is, he has trained his body by experiencing said forces. Forces such as hunger, thirst, hypothermia, hyperthermia, exhaustion, pain, blood loss, broken bones and bruises as well as simply being alone for extended periods of time. That's not to say he is invincible, far from. Cical is still very much a mortal man, however his mind closes off the irritation of mortal problems and forces his body forwards; even if that would result in death. This skill also allows him to live and navigate around the wilderness with only slight issue. During his time in the wilderness, he has acquired a riding skill from the horses of Mennon as well as Qualin from his home. However, the four legged beasts seem to dislike the presence of the man and frequently disobey directions, or simply buck.

Hailing from Baccum did grant him at least something for his troubles. When he did pay attention, or after spying on the Shaman, he picked up quite a bit on herbology. Even though he hardly had to care much about healing or drug use - as he was cared for by a dedicated healer to the soldiers - he learned rudimentary recipes. Things for healing wounds, with different mixes for mild to severe injuries. As well as a sleep inducing concotion, which Cical has and would mainly use as a tranquilizer, dousing his weaponry in the blend before engaging.
Equipment: Not much for wearing clothes (let alone armour), Cical has few pockets to hold trinkets. However, the most notable item in his use are his twin spears. By him, they are named Zi and Kio for short and long respectively. The names meaning he has yet to disclose.
The only other pieces of equipment he has at his disposal is a silver dagger, two small crystals hanging off his hip and a leather satchel full of ashes on the other.

Zi

Zi, the short spear, is a rather brutal looking three foot long single tipped weapon with the blade composing a foot of that length alone. The blade is similar to an extremely stretched broad-head of an arrow, two large prongs come back behind where the head connects to the shaft before going towards the tip. If the blade were fully embeded it would not be easy to pull out, but would destroy a targets body if it were. Both the staff and head of the spear are enameled in a peculiar ivory. It is not paint, nor is it some sort of coating. The entire material is made of this foreign substance. When scratched or sharpened, like the edges of the blade, it takes on an eerie black coloration.

Kio

Kio, the five and a half foot long spear, is of contrasting design. Being as how it was made in Baccum by human hands. The staff is of a black material, with wrappings of sisal both halfway and towards the bottom of the weapon, similarly painted or burnt to be black. The blade is a much more streamlined design. Still near a foot long, it does not have the wicked barbs sticking out the sides, however it does have peculiar snake like embossment running all the length of the shaft. The spear tip is just as wide as the shaft, making it appear more to be a thrusting spear than a slashing one. Being so, it could do both jobs well in the right hands. The material of the spear tip is a bluish, purplish, pinkish gray. The myriad of colours which dance across it's surface in the light are rather intriguing to look at. Off the bottom end, hangs a small leather wrapping with feathers and small paws of animals. Most likely mementos or trophies of some sort.

Bio:

Bio

Born to a rather poor impoverished family in Bacccum, Cical underwent a rough yet thankfully brief childhood at the hands of a living mother and abusive father. After beating his wife, he would take out the remaining rage on Cical. The boy never blamed him however, he only pitied the man that couldn't hold his anger in.
When sat in front of the Shaman with the other children, he was incredibly bored and neglected to pay attention to the craft most famous in their civilization. He focused more on the nearby regiment of training foot soldiers, marveling at the use of peculiar weaponry and the training to both mind and body they all underwent. However he was curious as to why they didn't use two spears instead of one. Wouldn't double the spear mean twice the effective attack?

In his teens, Cical had thrown away any remnants of magical learning he held onto and replaced it with raw experience in sparring. The kid was unstoppable, taking blow after blow only to shakily get up and challenge the next soldier. He was standing in to fight training soldiers in a spar. He was being used as an "inexperienced civilian" who happened to fight back, and fight did he ever. Only after the thirtieth man had cracked him over the head with his staff did the boy not recover and that was simply because he was knocked into a small coma. He slept for a whole day, waking up to notice his first ever tattoo still stinging on his right arm. A looping chain of tribal curves and hooks.

The older he grew, the more refined and masculine he became. Due to the sheer amount of trauma and exercise he forced his young body through, he took on the appearance of a young adult man despite being only sixteen. Still he returned to the sparring ring with the trainees, still he was beaten senseless into a battered, bruised coma. However, he was overcoming some of the larger men now.

On his eighteenth winter, he asked to use two spears. Such a request was so foreign to the Arms Master it was accepted just out of curiosity to see what the boy would do. Rapidly, the boy - now man - learned that two long spears was too much weight and became a disadvantage. Chopping the new staff in half proved much more efficient, allowing the boy to parry and counter one weapon, while preparing his own retaliatory strike with the other. The first time he broke out this tactic, he won ten out of thirty four spars. It had been six more than he had ever done before. The next? Sixteen out of twenty nine. Again? Twenty four out of thirty nine. The more he learned his weapons of choice, the more he began decimating the competition.

On his nineteenth winter, he was permitted to join a hunting party as he was now a fully recognized man of Baccum. He would be expected to support a family, as well as the people of Baccum themselves. Should he not find a woman within two years, one would be chosen for him by his family. Cical did not mind, women had thrown themselves at him for years now. He could choose whichever one suited him most. Young love is fickle that way, you could love or not love on a dime. During his time hunting, the boy was credited with saving the entire party from a band of ravenous gorrak by using himself as bait and distraction. He managed to kill a good handful before they ran off, leaving him to limp home severely wounded. The Shaman decided to award the young man with a spear collected in another hunting parties travels. The spear was too short for anyone else to use effectively, and happened to match Cical's style. It wasn't until he met the Shaman's daughter: Hipalia, that he found love. She was beautiful, and captured the spear-man's heart instantly. He thought of her during hunts, during sparring, even in his dreams (which was more than enough for the spiritually devote of Baccum) and while alone... She was his infatuation.

Yet she was the Shaman's daughter. The Shaman's, daughter. The shaman, who was the equivalent to the pope, was nothing if not strict. His daughter was to be chaste, a virgin and innocent so that he may find a worthy suitor to give such unspoiled fruit to. (In exchange for a healthy dowry) And Cical, the poor boy who fought with two sticks was far from suitable. He had indeed asked and had been both laughed at and struck by the Shaman's staff. Later he would feel something deep within him hurt, however he brushed it off. Without knowing, the two mimicked Romeo and Juliet, longing for one another with the separation of their families. However, rather than an unfortunate ending; they both got what they desired. One night in an old cellar owned the Arms Master was all they had, and they certainly made the most of it.

Happy endings sometimes flip, or they were never truly endings at all. The Shaman had invaded Cical's dreams and discovered their plan, or so he told the people later. He stormed to the cellar and flung open the doors to the people crying out: "See for yourself! The Prince of War and my beloved daughter copulating in the shadows! Come, come and burn their bodies so we may save their souls!" He cried, assembling a mob of people who wanted them both to pay for the deeds. However, the more Cical thought about it in his older years, the less he believed the Shaman could see dreams and the now he believed that has are Arms Master had ratted him out.

Only by Cical's quick talking, threats of violence and good acting on Hipalia's part did he manage to stop them both from being burned alive. He claimed that he had lightly hypnotized the woman, who suddenly acted as if she had no idea where she was. After much arguing and mumbling on part of the people, it was decided that as punishment, Cical would be banished from Baccum permanently and if he ever returned, both him and Hipalia would be executed. Without hesitation, he accepted. So long as Hipalia wasn't executed and lived in the safety of Baccum he was comfortable to having anything happen to himself.

Before leaving, Cical was given Deavich and his families spear. Their family having never before been a military family, the spear had been recently crafted for Cical specifically for him to pass down and use. There was no point in keeping it in Baccum. Hipalia also gave him something, one of her earrings. Through a brief kiss she explained that the earring was made during her birth, where her father asked her still-forming spirit to grant him a token of good luck for the child she was to be. It came in the form of two earrings. While the luck would only work on her, it would serve another purpose to Cical.

If she were alive, the earrings would exist in the world. If she died, so too would the earrings. It would be a reminder to him that she was still alive, and that they would be together again sometime in their lives. She had said it so quick, but every word she spoke had been committed to the strongest memory Cical had. As he clutched the earring in his hand, he became lost in thought before suddenly turning with his weapons on his back. He gave one last look at the place he had once called home before wandering away, destined to find a new place to settle down.

Not knowing of any maps or cartography skills, the man relied on his experience as a Hunter, he quickly found himself.... Absolutely goddamn lost. He had no idea where he was or where Baccum even was anymore. Maybe this was why he never lead hunting parties. Couldn't find game if you couldn't even find yourself. As time went on, stories and rumours of a twin-speared man saving men, women and children from vicious beasts started to spread through Baccum. Nobody dared mention the Prince of War, as some of the details on his appearance were off slightly. The spears were always generally the same. A short one in the left, a long one in the right. Typically the man left after he was done without saying the words, in some extravagant and incredibly far fetched stories, he brought the saved individuals into a massive castle in the Brimlands full of gold and lavish trinkets of all sorts. This is where the Twin-Spear Saviour was born.

If asked, Cical would claim every single story to be a fake. However... Some were indeed true. Not the far fetched ones mind you, but some of the simple ones perhaps. Over time in his wanderings, Cical came to learn how to survive, even how to ride a horse. While he knew the names of various areas and civilizations, he didn't know their location and definitely didn't know the kind of people. All he knew was that Baccum was not his home any longer, and no where else could be his home either. When alone, he takes off his earring and gazes at it longingly. Like doing so would summon his love into his arms.

But every hero needs his crux, or else nothing would drive them to be heroes at all.

.
.
.

Word had recently arisen of a new job that would interest the exiled Spearman.
A small backwater town of farmers or something, was gathering heroes under a champion to defeat some grand evil. The usual story, only this time, the grand evil held some sort of wish granting device. Something that could bring a man to power, or make the Cradle a brimming utopia, or even make the Dark Lands... Not so dark. Or even... Well, he would think on it when the time came. He traveled towards the assembly anyways. While he wouldn't consider himself a hero, it might be interesting to see who would. Maybe some of them would be willing to spar. After all, if they couldn't get past some measly exiled spearman, were they really worthy of trying to surmount an evil wizard's plot?

[Romero]

Alcello Bas

Name: Alcello Bas

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: Mennon

Appearance:



Alcello is not an imposing figure at first glance. Standing a few inches short of six foot, and not particularly broad, it would be easy to dismiss the man at first. His common garb of a simple woollen cloak and hood only adds to this effect, by design.

But beneath the hood, Alcello’s face is weathered, scarred and hard-edged. His strong jaw is obscured by a thick beard, the same burnished copper as the rest of his hair, which is kept short. One of his eyes is a burning green, while the other is milky and blind, a long, prominent scar cutting across it. His nose is crooked, his lips rough and rarely curled into a smile.

Under the cloak that he wears, Alcello still wears the lamellar plate of his years as a kestaphos. Although it has been beaten, and even broken in places, leaving long, ugly scars across Alcello’s torso, he has carefully repaired it every time, and can rarely be found out of it.

His left sleeve hangs loose, a brace of chakram’s held within, and his bow and quiver are slung over his shoulder, and his bastard sword strapped across his back, and the bright ribbons of his legacy wrapped around his right arm are amongst the only sources of colour on his otherwise dull clothing.

Psyche: Alcello rarely partakes in the joy of friendship, or human company. He has spent long years on the road with no-one but his own thoughts for company, and it has left him a man who has little time for social etiquette. He speaks his mind, even it may not be welcome. He is cunning, and quick to act when it is needed. He has seen too often the corruption of souls, and does not allow himself to trust anyone, lest they cut his throat in the night.

Skills: Alcello is a skilled warrior, proficient in most forms of combat, both armed and unarmed. Although he has favoured his sword, bow and chakram’s since his hunt began, they are not the only weapons with which he has fought. He is also a skilled rider, although he has come to prefer travelling on foot, save for long journeys, enjoying the greater anonymity that a man on foot can possess.

But it is Alcello’s experience that is his greatest strength. Since he began his hunt, he has travelled to nearly every corner of the cradle, even traversing the Brimlands on several occasions, moving closer to the Deadlands than perhaps any alive could claim. And on his travels he has encountered the foulest creatures that the age of ash could ever birth. Hideous monsters, drawn from the darkest nightmares and made flesh, corrupted souls who call on magic to sate their heinous appetites, Alcello has witnessed them all, and put them all to the sword. There is little evil that roams the Cradle that Alcello has not hunted, and as the rumours of a dark sorcerer continue to spread, his experience may prove vital...

Equipment: Alcello is clad in fine lamellar armour, although it is far from the polished splendour that it was during his time as a kestaphos. Nonetheless, it is still a strong defence against the creatures that Alcello hunts.



When he does hunt, Alcello takes with him a simple composite recurve bow, well-made and carefully maintained, and a quiver of broad-head arrows. If his prey gets too close, then he still retains his chakram’s, the symbol of the kestaphos. For the killing blow itself, Alcello has come to favour a one-and-a-half hand sword, a bastard sword, forged by a fine smith and whetted with the blood of the wicked.

Bio: Alcello’s father was a kestaphos, and from as soon as he was old enough to swing a sword, and to ride a horse, Alcello was moulded for the day when he would take on his father’s mantle. His father was a proud man, and a gifted warrior, who had been given a narrow strip of land, on the far northeast border of Mennon, and ordered to defend it. Due to it’s proximity to Baccum, many foul creatures met their end on the tip of Alcello’s fathers spear.

When Alcello’s father finally passed, slain by a sickening infection that took a hold of a wound given to him by a rampaging gorrak, Alcello was still a young man. But the law was clear, and so Alcello took up his father’s spear that same day, and began his vigil. He had battled the beasts of the Cradle at his father’s side, so he was no novice, and he took to his duty with vigour. The people who called his strip of land home came to see him as a strong leader, and many of them enjoyed tankards of ale around the fire, sharing stories and laughing. But all this was to change.

A shaman, twisted by the callings of Mara and drenched in the blood of his village, stumbled onto Alcello’s land. By the time Alcello had gathered his most trusted men and ridden out to meet the threat, three villages had been slaughtered by the foul witchcraft of blood magic, only feeding the shaman’s strength greater. When they charged to slay him, the surrounding land transformed into a hell-scape. The ground ran red with blood, flames burst into life, and the very sky was stained red. The battle was nightmarish, the shaman summoning beasts and monsters of shadow and blood to fall upon Alcello and his men. Alcello cut down all that came before him, even as his followers were slaughtered all around him. Finally, he reached the shaman himself. Levelling his spear, he let out a wordless roar as he spurred his steed forward.

With an almighty crash, the two men collided. Alcello’s spear punched through the sorcery surrounding the shaman, the tip driving through his ribs and bursting his lung. But even as it did, the weapon shattered, and Alcello’s horse screamed as it was consumed by dread claws reaching from within the pool of blood at it’s feet. As his steed was dragged down, Alcello threw aside the shattered remains of his spear, and drove his dagger into the shaman’s throat, even as the other man manically laughed and grinned, washed in his own blood. Again and again Alcello drove the blade home, until at last the roars faded, the flames died, and the rivers of blood dried.

Gasping for breath, Alcello sunk to his knees, the dagger falling from his grasp. He was soaked with blood, and as he looked around, he saw that his land was scorched and wasted, his people dead, his home gone. With a grim face, Alcello took the bright ribbons, that had adorned his spear, and his father’s, and his father’s, tied them around his arm, and then started walking.

The first village he came across, deeper into Mennon, watched the blood-drenched man with distrust, but they recognised the armour of a kestaphos, and left him alone as he washed the blood from his clothes, bought supplies with a handful of coin, and then was gone just as quickly as he appeared. The rumour of the wandering kestaphos continued to spread, as Alcello walked from settlement, seemingly without direction and without goal, until he reached the towering walls of a Roshad city. How he obtained a meeting with the city ‘thinker’, and access to the colossal library, has been forgotten, but when he emerged, Alcello no longer walked without purpose.

He began to hunt. He would trace rumours of monsters, find the trail, and then unrelentingly pursue the creature until he put a blade through it’s black heart. Whether it was corrupted sorcerer’s, rampaging beasts, or the foul monsters of nightmares, Alcello would hunt it. His pursuits took him all over the Cradle, and deep into the winding mountain passes of the Brimlands, and his exploits became the subject of great epic ballads and poems, the story of a kestaphos who purged the evil from the world and then vanished into the shadows again. No-one knew his face, few knew his name, but his legend grows with each new village that is saved by the almost silent-figure.

With the tale of a dark sorcerer being whispered around fires all across the Cradle, it was almost inevitable that the hunter of monsters would appear and lend his almost unique talents to those who have set out to hunt them down.

---

[Briza]

افرايمعداءورقة

E f r a y i m W a r a q a t e a d a '

^{L I F E F E E D S O N L I F E .}

______________________________________ E F R A Y I M W A R A Q A T E A D A ' ______________________________________ 2 3 || ♂ || B A C C U M ______________________________________ R A S U L || H A W K || K A L P I I ______________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T • A R M O R • H E A D Band (Gold) • G O R G E T Fur (White), Leather (Black), Steel, Engraved • S H O U L D E R (Left), Bronze, Gold Leather (Brown) • H A R N E S S ( C H E S T ) Brown, Leather, Wraps, Gold, Steel • F O R E A R M S Brown, Leather, Wraps, Gold Studs, Bracelets • L O I N Brown, Leather, Steel • L E G S Cloth (White Pants) • S H I N S Boots, Brown, Gold, Leather, Steel, Toes (Hard) W E A P O N S • J A N B I Y A ( K N I F E ) Ivory, Wootz Steel, Wool Scabbard • T U L W A R ( S W O R D x 2 ) Double Edged, Curved Blade, Blunt Tip, Spiked Pommel • K I R P A N ( S M A L L D A G G E R ) Sharp, Size: One Hand, Leather Sheath S A T C H E L S • D R I E D H E R B S Acacia (Egyptian), Basil, Blue Lotus, Butterfly Weed, Cannabis, Chamomile, Gumweed, Henbane, Lavender, Lemon Verbena, Peyote, Poppy Seed (Breadseed), Rosemary, Sage (Golden, Purple) • O I L S • V A N I T Y Cloth (Char), Comb (Wooden), Compass, Icon, Ink, Fire Steel Lamp (Oil) Medallion (Betrothal), Mirror, Needles (Wood), Parchment, Pipe (Wooden), Pipe (Ivory) Quill, Spoon (Measuring, Ink, Embossed, Ivory) • W A T E R C A N T I N E S K I L L S • S K I L L • B O T A N Y Consumption, Hallucinogenic, Medicinal • D I V I N A T I O N Dream Reading, Hallucinations, Insight, Interpretation, Meditation, Prayer • E L E P H A N T Combat, Riding • M E M O R Y • N A V I G A T I O N • O R A T O R Articulate, Messenger, Storytelling • S C R I B I N G Recording, Writing • S P A R R I N G Grappling, Swordsmanship (Short, Long)	D E S C R I P T I O N Presumptuously intrepid in his tan buff and lack of wardrobe, Efrayim is almost unmistakably Baccumese. His dark hair is short with sides that are cleanly shaven, and a top that furrows as a hawk's feathers. He generally wears a smug grin, uncovered by facial hair that is maintained every morning and evening. He stands well above 18 hands, and his demeanor is nothing less than intimidating. His hawkish brown gaze can shutter stoicism from a distance, and his muscles are thick and strong and not easily ignored. His swift movements are keen and agile with precision. And, if not for the girth of his strength then the artwork that has been bestowed upon him tactfully with ink designs offer a warrant of dissuasion from onlookers. His noticeable tattoos may look insipid in picture at first glance, but in actuality, they offer details of elaborate markings that script tales and stories and legends alike, having been permanently written and drawn into his skin to accentuate his terrific visage. The most prominent tattoos are the ones that have been scarred over his back as a large scorpion in white and red. The inscription looks painful to the eyes, and the man is proud to display its properties as a icon of protection and courage; a transcendence into the spiritual realm upon death. P S Y C H E Efrayim is vicious in his thoughts and spirit to outsiders and quick with his orders and duty, followed by astute wit. The toughness exuding from him physically has woven itself into the inner fibers of his being. Thus, he is regarded as a very cunning minded man with little patience held for the nonsense of certain religious uprisings and other such outstanding and withstanding situations that threaten the long-held culture and civilization of Baccum. He is a protector of his own and holds himself accountable for this responsibility and resilient for his attitude. Foreign to an outsider's examination of him, Efrayim's caring nature is shown most often towards his own but especially his beloved and dearest Esterel. He holds the utmost loyalty to the Baccumese, chiefly his own village, above all else -- aside from Baccum's gods and would therefore proudly die for his people than ever betray them. As much as he would prefer to be married at home to his betrothed, he knows and honors his place with a deep understanding. Therefore, the importance to his own gifts him the necessary confidence to speak with authority and the expectation that people treat him with such respect. However, he is not punishing to those who do not owe him what he believes is due to him; he merely pities their ignorance. He is a merciful man by nature, but his looks and first gestures would never admit it. B I O G R A P H Y Born as the last son to the village Apeli's Shaman, Efrayim was graced with the Gift of Rasul. Kalpii visited his mother during childbirth through the greeting of the Great Lady during her labor. The Great Lady was known to visit many women during these moments with the Divine Sage often used as relief from the pain attributed to childbirth. For Efrayim, his mother was able to ascend the stair steps and receive a small scroll from the Great Lady. The scroll had written in gold ink from Kalpii himself, a prophetic commandment that her son would be the Shaman's last and that he was to be the Rasul (Messenger) of the Apeli. He was a swift learner (a characteristic of a good messenger) in many aspects and proved to be quick to speech as to walk. His largeness came handy in combat -- a playtime of juvenile wrestling encouraged for the children and taken far more seriously as they became older and wiser -- and proved himself able to remove himself from his tribe and nation for long intervals without displaying characters of weakness or failure. Efrayim was also diligent in learning swordplay. As young as seven, the children of Alpi began their training with weaponry. Efrayim was able to master the sword and dagger. As the youngest child, his older siblings made sure to keep him independent, aware of such atrocities that could befall the youngest of a family if babied and coddled. Instead, his older siblings, sisters and brothers alike, made sure Efrayim knew his place, which was not to be taken for granted. This behavior was true for most of the Alpi Tribe and Baccumese, in general. Since he is the son of a Shaman, Efrayim was trained in the art of interpreting dreams and transcribing them for other persons. This skill continued into elaborating his Gift of Rasul, enabling him to drift through the spiritual realm through the use of hallucinogenic herbs. Many of times, he was sent to other tribes to deliver and retrieve messages. He has also been granted rare blessings to leave Baccum. For these trips, he was given ownership to Charu, an elephant that Efrayim has known for almost a decade now. Charu is armed with tusk blades and decorated with skulls and maroon tapestry displaying gold embroidery and fringes. A mask dawning emerald jewels (marakata) believed to enchant the spirits of the gods for guidance. At the age of 23, Efrayim has faced and conquered many adversaries as a Rasul, but he has not yet been able to accomplish a settlement for his marital status with his beloved Esterel, a woman for whom he has deep rooted feelings. He sees her as the third most important thing in his life, first - the gods, second - Baccum, and third - Esterel. She was chosen for him during the Matchmaker's Ceremony, and his strength and hope for the gods only grew upon their blessing him with such a dream. He carries a medallion that was forged by the patriarchal side of of Esterel's family as an heirloom. He does not wear it but keeps it carefully secure in his satchel.

[Cleverbird]

Nekarta

Nεкαятα

_____________________________________ N E K A R T A 28 | ♀ | B A C C U M Sкιllѕ წ ⋉ Gεиεяαl ѕкιllѕ ⋌ Actor, skilled at mimicry and dramatics. ⋌ Defensive duelist, proficient at deflecting and riposting. ⋌ Dual wielder, ability to wield two (small) weapons. ⋌ Medic, capable of treating wounds. ⋌ Keen Mind, capable of tracking time and direction. ⋌ Linguist, capable of both writing and reading (braille only). ⋌ Mobile, exceptionally quick and agile. ⋉ Sρεcιαl ѕкιllѕ ⋌ Second sight, is capable of seeing a creature's lifeforce. ⋌ Observant (arcane), quick to notice arcane details in the environment. ⋌ Blood Magic, can cast blood magic. ⋌ Whip mastery, mastered whips. ⋌ Dagger mastery, mastered daggers. ⋌ Throwing dagger mastery, mastered throwing daggers. ⋌ Arcanist, has studied the arcane arts. ⋌ Historian, has studied history. ⋌ Alchemist, has studied the secrets of alchemy. Σqυιρмεит ჯ ⋉ Aямσя ⋌ Qualin leather cultist garb, white ⋉ Wεαρσиѕ ⋌ Marrasa Ceremonial, obsidian daggers commonly used by the Cult of Marra. They are single edged, long and curved, designed to cut and flay flesh. Since they are obsidian, they are incredibly brittle, but sharp. ⋌ A Bullship A braided whip with a small weight at the tip to inflict maximum lacerating damage. Woefully ineffective against plate armor, but extremely effective against flesh. ⋌ A Karambit A curved knife resembling a claw. Easily hidden. Used to finish off foes in close range. ⋌ 12x bronze throwing daggers Weighted throwing daggers. ⋉ Bαcкραcк ⋌ Herbs ⋌ Medical kit, gauze, antiseptics, sewing kit ⋌ Oils ⋌ Blood vials ⋌ Parchment ⋌ Bone charms	Ðεѕcяιρтισи Nekarta stands as a stark contrast to what people normally associate the Baccum with. Far from her more physically impaired brethren, the Nekarta bears an otherworldly beauty. Of course, beauty hardly only exists on the outside. Sculpted by the Fleshmasters of Marra from a young age, Nekarta is a beauty to behold. Standing at 1 meter 70 and weighing a mere 60kg, Nekarta is smaller than most Baccumese, and lacks the strength seen in most of the Baccum people. Her blood red hair is a sure-fire attention grabber and her body has an almost regal-like appearance to it. Her skin is unmarred by the tests of time, bearing a youthful look. Like all other Sisters of Marra, Nekarta's skin does bear a few marks dedicated to her dark deity. These include among others: the mark of the lord on her stomach; rendering her infertile to all besides her dark lord. Ritualistic marks on her arms and legs, which channel the surrounding energies used for spell casting. An intricate mark of a rose on her back, dedicated to her particular coven the 'Blood Rose'. Her eyes are a milky white, completely blind as per the pact of Marra. Pѕчcнε Power-hungry, manipulative and self-serving. Nekarta was brought up as a cultist of Marra and she will die as a cultist of Marra. As such, her views of the world is different, quite literally so as she's blind in a physical sense. Life holds very little meaning for her, as she believes all life sacrificed in the name of her dark lord is done for the greater good. A trickster and beguiler, she'll eagerly use her otherworldly beauty to entrance those gullible enough. Lacking in strength, Nekarta has to employ more underhanded tactics to get what she wants. As such, she isnt above employing Blood Magic to force others to see things her way. As all other members of the Cult of Marra, she's also a cannibal; eating flesh not just for the sake of sustenance, but for ritualistic purposes as well. Blσσd мαgιc Blood Magic is the corner stone of the Cult of Marra. Gifted to the followers through a ritual that robs the users of their vision, it instead grants them insights into the world no other person has. Through rituals, these users can consume bodyparts to learn of what the previous owners experienced. Eat an eyeball to view their last sight. An ear to hear their last sound. Or a tongue to speak their last words. Blood in particular holds a very powerful position in the Cult. It allows a Blood Magic user to divinate a person's thoughts and fears, even their physical attributes from simple appearance and smell to blood-relations if a user has tasted another family member's blood before. However, this also works in reverse. Make a victim drink a Blood Magic user's blood, and they will feel love, fear or even thoughts from the Blood Magic user. As such, it's a practice is viewed with a very wary eye by the tribes of Baccum; with some tribes seeing the practices as a way to reach a deeper understanding with the world, while others view it as an atrocity towards their gods. Blood is also liberally used in the rituals employed by the cult; such as in restorative salves or hallucinogenic tonics used during rituals. Blood is also used in the form of charms. Usually made out of bone, they are inscribed with the blood of a creature it's meant to ward the user from. While ineffective against creatures with higher intelligence, such as humans, it works to some degree against more instinct driven beasts who will feel an innate revulsion coming from the charm. Marra is the patron deity the cult worships. The being is depicted as a towering, hermaphrodite woman with three goat heads; one looking into the past, one looking into the present and the third looking into the future. It is often described as the god of knowledge, as it was Marra that gifted the cult with the knowledge of Blood Magic. The cult believes that one day Marra will return to the physical plane and wash the world away in blood, shaping it to it's will and breeding a new world with the chosen Sisters. OOC Probably never to be relevant; but Marra is an arch-mage from before the Omega who discovered the trick to immortality, just not in the way they envisioned it. Their soul was rend from their mortal coil and trapped in a realm outside our own, they only exist for as long as someone remembers them. Over the many, many, many years, this knowing evolved into a twisted form of worship. The Omega itself impacting Marra as well, shattering it's psyche and turning it into the mad, god-complex stricken being it is now. It uses what little force it has in this realm to commune with the truest believers, which is how the cult learned the practices of Blood Magic. Bισgяαρнч Like all members of the Cult of Marra, Nakerta was either bought or abducted when she was but a small child. All memories of yore have long since been burned away through the cult's strict indoctrination, which subject even young children to strong hallucinogenics. The hefty mortality rate has kept the cult number's small in the past, but as more and more members pass the first stage; so does the cult grow exponentially. Once past the first stage, Nekarta and all the others she was with were subjected to the Fleshmasters of Marra. Crones who mastered the art of manipulating flesh, sculpting the young girls into the ideal vision for their Dark Lord. This process wasn't easy and it certainly wasn't painless, as any semblance of her parents was painfully twisted and deformed into what constitutes as beauty. The only aspect of her body that could still be called natural, was her blood red hair; something the Fleshmasters had no control over. Though the cult only saw it as a portent to greatness. During her teenage years in the cult, she was taught to read, write and the history of the world as they saw it. The Cult believed that Marra was once a deity ruling over all life, and that it was Marra who caused the Omega in an effort to punish mankind for it's wrongdoings. Now the deity is biding it's time before returning, once more washing the world clean and ushering in a new age. A cultist doesnt become a full-fledged member until much later, when the indoctrination has run its course and the person would be willing to lay down their lives for their new family. The ritual simply known as the Pact is shrouded in mystery, even among the cultists themselves. They say it is different for every person. The only constant, is that each person who underwent the Pact either died, or lived and came out blind. Nekarta was led into a dark catacomb, where she was simply told to meditate to Marra. Locked in the gloomy chamber, she communicated to her lord in the only way she knew; by slitting her wrists and offering herself to her deity. While the dream as she was bleeding out was little more than a haze by now, she was instilled with a knowledge regarding blood magic, the keystone of the cult. But as with everybody else preceding her, her eyesight was taken as well. A small price to pay, for such knowledge. But aside from the knowledge, Nekarta was imparted with a vision; a vision of a world awash with darkness. But against it, stood a group of figures; valiantly turning back the tide. Nekarta didnt know who these people were, but she had a vague sense of a direction. A pull, if you want, that beckoned for her.

[Nib]

Character Sheet

Hakim

---

Sex: Male

Place of Origin: Silesia

Appearance: Hakim is an olive-skinned man standing at five feet and nine inches. He is a wiry man with toned muscles hidden beneath his layers of simple garb designed for travel. As such, he is easily dismissed and underestimated. Bandages wrapped up to his forearms cover an intricate tattoo across his right hand. He has a collection of scars across his arms, torso, and some even on his face from his years of training. Hakim’s face has sharp, hawkish features with a nose to match. He can usually be seen with a layer of dark stubble across his cheeks and jawline. Thick dark eyebrows rest over a pair of bright golden eyes with an unnerving feeling they are looking right through you. To stave off the sun, Hakim is known to obscure his features with a set of wraps. Beneath these wraps, his dark hair falls just short of his shoulders in a mess of curls.

Psyche: At his core, Hakim is a simple man. He was once content to sit idle and be someone’s blade, but he has recently broken away from that life and struggles to see himself as more than just a tool. He has been described as harsh and quiet. He is rarely known to speak, and when he does it is simplistic, blunt ideas that he shares. Philosophy and scholarship are completely foreign ideas to him, and one time he thought them to be things that only further complicated matters at hand. Recently, however, he has been shown how valuable they can be, and he struggles too with trying to learn new ideas.

Skills: Through years of training, Hakim has developed a range of abilities. He has become a near-master swordsman in the use of the two swords strapped to his waist. Though he is not a master by any means, Hakim is able to hold his own in hand-to-hand combat. Hakim is able to move about unseen and unheard when necessary. When fighting, he relies more upon his agility and chooses to forgo wearing heavier armor.

Equipment: Hakim’s main pieces of equipment are his swords with their long, curved blades fastened to his belt. Other than his weapons, Hakim carries simple travel rations, spare clothing, tools to care for his blades, and simple medicinal supplies all in a leather satchel slung over his shoulder with a bedroll made of horsehide strapped over it.

Bio: From an early age, Hakim’s life was rife with hardships; both parents died when he was barely seven years of age. After their deaths, he was left to fend for himself. To survive, he became like a feral animal, shrinking away from people and stealing scraps whenever he could, from whoever he could. Hakim became no stranger to beatings, and he went without food more than a few times. Many times while living on the streets Hakim was forced to fight others living like him. All the hardships of the street taught him to trust no one and do whatever he had to in order to survive. For years, he struggled and fought to survive until he and other children from the street were rounded up by the tribe leader’s men and were taken to a space of newly constructed barracks. The leader himself met them there and told them they would have a home and be fed, but they would have to earn it. For that first night they were all permitted to eat and sleep in the assemblage of tents erected for them. The beds and food provided were comfortable and feeling, but still the gathered children were on edge; they either broke off into groups of familiar faces or by themselves.

After that first night, the tribe leader returned with his man and showed the children how they would earn their food and bed. From then on, the leader’s men subjected the children to harsh training to mold them into blades for the leader’s use. Their training began with running them ragged with laboring tasks. The training slowly moved into training the children to fight with their hands against armed opponents. The division amongst the children grew as the training wore on, with several groups of the children attempting to gain power and influence over the others. This resulted in several fights, which the soldiers in charge of training did nothing to quell. They encouraged this behavior for a time, but eventually as the training grew more harsh and the soldiers began actually breaking the children down they began to punish any sort of disobedience severely. To further break the children, they began pitting them against one another and would force them even to go so far as to kill one another.

By the end of their training, the children had been broken down to the point of thinking of themselves as blades to be pointed. To show this, each was marked by an intricate tattoo, resembling a henna, across their right hand. For years, Hakim worked as one of these marked assassins for his tribe leader. He was as close to feeling content in this life as one could be after enduring what he did. He carried out his orders and silenced those who needed to be silenced, until he was sent to end the life of an elderly philosopher who spoke out against the tribe leader. Hakim paid him a visit under the cloak of night and found he was also a religious radical and adhered to ideals both of Ill’llii as well as other gods worshipped and spoken about throughout the Cradle. This alone was grounds to kill the man upon, especially on top of how outspoken he was against the tribe leader. Something stayed Hakim’s blade though, some strange sense of curiosity for the first time in a long time. Instead, he spoke with the man, and he told Hakim of other gods and philosophies and theories of how everything could traced back with a small singular strand of familiarity and of how much bigger a place the world was than their tribe’s home and even the Cradle.

Though the ideas largely flew over his head, he was fascinated and wanted to see more than what he had been told and led to believe. He returned to his leader and told him the radical had fled and was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, the leader was not a man to be tested ot to let grudges go easily. He sent Hakim and several other Hands to hunt this man on the road. Being trained as they were, they quickly caught up to him. When they moved in for the kill something in Hakim snapped, and before he fully realized what he was doing his blades were drawn and slashing through two of the four sent with him. The remaining did not fall as easily, and before he could dispose of them both they had managed to deliver a fatal wound to the radical. Injured himself, Hakim held the man as he died. His departing wisdom was to tell Hakim to travel, to learn, and hopefully to come to think of himself as more than a weapon to be used by another. As he breathed his last, he gifted Hakim a chain decorated with the symbols of gods worshipped all over the Cradle. Taking what he could from the dead around him, Hakim left his old life behind and struck out on the road.