The Character Partition
The Character Partition
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Digimon Recompilation
Name: Siobhán O'Riley
Nickname: Usually at the mercy of everyone else’s creativity, failing that: Shiv or Riley.
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Nationality: Irish (You don’t say?)
Defining trait: Inquisitiveness — a need to understand how and why everything works, people and programs alike.
Partner: Vemmon (Psyker Landshark)
Why were they partnered: She’s the only idiot who didn’t flinch when the poor thing appeared, falling apart at the seams. Just saw data begging to be debugged and gave it a go—talked it through stabilizing, and it stuck. Now she’s responsible for mothering it, apparently. Grand.
Digivice appearance: A compact, hexagonal device resembling a digital wristwatch clipped to her belt. The white-green casing emits a soft data pulse when active, its face displaying shifting lines of code instead of static icons.
Height: 5’9”
Weight: 140 lbs
Build: Long-limbed and lanky — “a walking stick,” as she puts it, though her appetite could fool you.
Skin tone: Pale and freckled. Sunbathing sits comfortably at the very bottom of her life goals, cheers.
Facial structure: Neck-length curly ginger hair, bright green eyes, soft round face — and no facial hair, you mad person.
Outstanding details: Square-rimmed glasses, a small piercing on her left brow, two in her left ear, and a barcode tattoo on the inside of her right wrist made entirely of 1s and 0s.
Clothing preferences: Jeans, sneakers, and her signature duo-tone hoodie — one side washed grey, the other deep red. Loose, comfy, and well-worn. She dresses for function, not fashion, and has the audacity to be fine with that.
Body language: Relaxed and slouched by default, usually wearing an easy smile. Pushes her glasses up when she’s thinking too much. She’s not exactly “laid-back” — just quietly entertained by the chaos of it all.
Family situation: Parents are alive but rarely around. Calls come irregularly, usually when something needs fixing. “Comfortably lonesome,” as she calls it — quiet, manageable, not tragic.
Education: PhD in Data Science — or as she puts it, “proof I spent too long staring at glowing rectangles.” She’s a systems researcher by trade, freelancing for some high-end Japanese tech conglomerate.
General world skills: Knows her way around the basics — cooking, cleaning, managing her own schedule — but her real strengths lie in perception and pattern recognition.
Special skills: Programming (both front-end and systems-level), basic hardware tinkering, a knack for debugging almost anything digital — and, oddly enough, brewing beer. It started as a data project involving fermentation patterns and got out of hand.
Personal history: Siobhán’s philosophy: “If you have to ask, don’t.” That about sums her up. No tragic backstory, no hidden royalty. Just a Dublin girl raised by decent parents, with a stubborn streak and a good head for numbers. She took every opportunity that came her way, and when the chance to work abroad appeared, she didn’t think twice. The world is vast, data is infinite, and she’s got questions.
Positive character traits: Perceptive, inventive, calm under pressure, quietly resilient.
Negative character traits: Antagonistic (if you’re being a hard ass, she’ll feed the flames), socially skeptical, stubborn, emotionally guarded beneath the sarcasm.
Likes and hobbies: Programming (obviously), brewing beer, chiptune music, late-night coding sessions, dry humor, the sound of rain, and the satisfying click of a bug finally fixed.
Dislikes and fears: Sprouts (culinary evil), bees (allergic), dogs (one bit her once, she remembers), people who take themselves too seriously, losing control of a situation, being condescended to.
Digidestined's motivation: Her analytical knack must’ve tripped some flag in the system, because if anyone fits in a world made of data, it’s her. Still, she’s not here out of duty — she’s here because curiosity got the better of her, and honestly, she’s fine with that. Understanding the Digital World feels like solving the most fascinating bug report imaginable.
General Notes: Siobhán isn’t distant so much as deflective — she hides sincerity behind a smirk and lets humour fill the spaces where sentiment might otherwise live. She’s sharp, occasionally infuriating, but never cruel. Get past the sarcasm, and you’ll find someone who genuinely listens — even if she’ll deny it later.
There’s a steady warmth under her irony, the sort that slips through in the smallest gestures: remembering what someone said three days ago, fixing something without being asked, sharing a joke when tension starts to choke the room. She doesn’t wear her care openly — it leaks out sideways, disguised as mockery or offhand wit.
Siobhán is an observer by nature, a thinker first and speaker second, but when she does talk, she means every word (even the biting ones). Her humour can sting, sure, but it’s rarely aimless — it’s how she filters chaos, how she stays grounded when the world, digital or otherwise, starts to tilt. Beneath all that dry commentary lies a quiet optimism she won’t admit to — the belief that things can make sense if you look at them long enough, and that people, for all their mess, are usually worth the patience.
Optional mechanic for tamer type characters, list which four digi-modify cards they start with. Each card can only be used once in a single battle. Digivolution cards are not permitted.
(Might work on this when partners have been decided. Feels a bit weird pre-emptively picking cards)
Misc:
Voice: Cait (Fallout 4) — dry Irish lilt, soft-spoken but biting when she wants to be.
Soundtrack
Main Theme: Everybody Wants to Be an Astronaut – Royal Republic
Serene / Reflective: 1,000 Light Years Away – Slime Rancher OST
Energetic / Analytical: Technologic – Daft Punk
Happy / Lighthearted: Starlane Stroll - Gooseworx
Fighting / Defiant: The Cabin – Irish Moutarde
Frantic / Desperate: Tracer Rising - Axiom Verge OST
Determined: Get to the Gone - Static-X
Loss / Quiet Moments: Passing Afternoon - Iron & Wine
Bossfight / Climax: Elimination - Overkill
Dialogue Color:
Atomic Tangerine (#FF9966)
Species: Vigilemon
Nickname: Often her kind is simply referred to as whisps
Type: Data
Age: Young, apparently. Her behaviour is in line with a baby-stage digimon, yet her appearance and size suggests she is a Rookie.
Outstanding details: Nothing overtly different from her peers, the only real difference is her inability to speak - which seems a lacking feature unique to her.
Body language: Playful, energetic, bashful. Vigilemon’s inability to speak is instead woven into her body language. The slight tilt of her helmet, a quick flicker or colour change of her flame-like body. Beady eyes blinking in a rhythm. She is a child playing at being a knight. Courageous, yet cautious and fragile.
Partner: Shogo Tastugami (Fish of Oblivion)
Why were they partnered: Vigilemon’s curious about all of the human visitors, but Shogo stood out as a man who hides a dutiful nature behind a tired facade.
Origin: An old battlefield, yet she can’t truly claim a home
Role in Digital World: A wanderer that apes the knights of old and is keen to protect and serve
General skills: Vigilemon is oddly… unskilled. She’s a good listener and observant. Can be used as a glorified desk lamp. That’s about it, really.
Special skills: Keen sense of reading people and other digimon - a skill picked up more out of necessity than want.
Personal history: Vigilemon is the manifestation of valiant knights and warriors who served, defended, fought and bled for their vows and causes. Her memory is foggy at the best of times, not that she could actually say anything if she wanted to. The truth of the matter is, Vigilemon wandered the Digiworld seeking purpose; searching for something to protect and defend with all her might.
Positive character traits: Caring, warm (figuratively and literally), persistent
Negative character traits: Naïve, shy, lack of self preservation
Likes and hobbies: People singing, heroic tales, people warming themselves on her natural warmth, plucking flowers (or asking someone to do it for her), playing hide-n-seek, knights (it’s her goal in life)
Dislikes and fears: Water/rain (She is noticeably skittish about getting wet), being considered weak, spiders (yes, seriously), screeching noises, people phasing through her deliberately.
Motivation: Vigilemon is but a small drop in an enormous bucket of hope, and while she’s not as strong as the others. She’s equally determined.
General notes: Vigilemon may not be capable of talking, but is nevertheless animated and able to express herself in other ways. A flicker here, a change of colour there. Hovering around excitedly or peaking from around a corner in both fear and curiosity.
Rookie: Vigilemon
Details: Vigilemon is a small orb of bluish spectral flame wearing an oversized, dented knight’s helmet that tilts with each movement. Two faint sapphire eyes glow behind the visor, their light shifting with her mood. She drifts through the air in silence, timid yet steadfast—a shy wisp of courage waiting to become a knight.
Moveset
Radiant Flicker – Emits a burst of bluish flame that dazzles and repels attackers. Weak offensively, but blinds or startles foes for a moment.
Wisp Guard (Durability: 3 rookie attacks, 1 champion attack) – Creates a small hovering barrier of flame to protect an ally from minor harm.
Heartglow – The warmth of her flame gently heals or comforts another Digimon, mending small wounds and easing pain.
Phantom Dash – A quick dart in any direction, leaving a brief afterimage of blue fire.
Soundtrack
Main Theme: Courage – Manowar
Serene / Reflective: Time - Pink Floyd
Happy / Lighthearted: You’ve Got A Friend In Me - Toy Story
Fighting / Defiant: Invincible Shield - Judas Priest
Frantic / Desperate: Holding Out For A Hero - Bonnie Tyler
Determined: Fighting With All Of Our Might - Shovel Knight OST
Loss / Quiet Moments: I Will Go On - Jim van der Zee
Bossfight / Climax: Sisters of Battle - Hollow Knight OST
Dialogue Color: Blue Steel (#4682B4)
Siobhán O'Riley
"Everybody wants to be an astronaut, and take the long tall trail into the stars." - Royal RepublicGeneral information
Nickname: Usually at the mercy of everyone else’s creativity, failing that: Shiv or Riley.
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Nationality: Irish (You don’t say?)
Defining trait: Inquisitiveness — a need to understand how and why everything works, people and programs alike.
Partner: Vemmon (Psyker Landshark)
Why were they partnered: She’s the only idiot who didn’t flinch when the poor thing appeared, falling apart at the seams. Just saw data begging to be debugged and gave it a go—talked it through stabilizing, and it stuck. Now she’s responsible for mothering it, apparently. Grand.
Digivice appearance: A compact, hexagonal device resembling a digital wristwatch clipped to her belt. The white-green casing emits a soft data pulse when active, its face displaying shifting lines of code instead of static icons.
Appearance
Weight: 140 lbs
Build: Long-limbed and lanky — “a walking stick,” as she puts it, though her appetite could fool you.
Skin tone: Pale and freckled. Sunbathing sits comfortably at the very bottom of her life goals, cheers.
Facial structure: Neck-length curly ginger hair, bright green eyes, soft round face — and no facial hair, you mad person.
Outstanding details: Square-rimmed glasses, a small piercing on her left brow, two in her left ear, and a barcode tattoo on the inside of her right wrist made entirely of 1s and 0s.
Clothing preferences: Jeans, sneakers, and her signature duo-tone hoodie — one side washed grey, the other deep red. Loose, comfy, and well-worn. She dresses for function, not fashion, and has the audacity to be fine with that.
Body language: Relaxed and slouched by default, usually wearing an easy smile. Pushes her glasses up when she’s thinking too much. She’s not exactly “laid-back” — just quietly entertained by the chaos of it all.
Biography
Education: PhD in Data Science — or as she puts it, “proof I spent too long staring at glowing rectangles.” She’s a systems researcher by trade, freelancing for some high-end Japanese tech conglomerate.
General world skills: Knows her way around the basics — cooking, cleaning, managing her own schedule — but her real strengths lie in perception and pattern recognition.
Special skills: Programming (both front-end and systems-level), basic hardware tinkering, a knack for debugging almost anything digital — and, oddly enough, brewing beer. It started as a data project involving fermentation patterns and got out of hand.
Personal history: Siobhán’s philosophy: “If you have to ask, don’t.” That about sums her up. No tragic backstory, no hidden royalty. Just a Dublin girl raised by decent parents, with a stubborn streak and a good head for numbers. She took every opportunity that came her way, and when the chance to work abroad appeared, she didn’t think twice. The world is vast, data is infinite, and she’s got questions.
Personality
Negative character traits: Antagonistic (if you’re being a hard ass, she’ll feed the flames), socially skeptical, stubborn, emotionally guarded beneath the sarcasm.
Likes and hobbies: Programming (obviously), brewing beer, chiptune music, late-night coding sessions, dry humor, the sound of rain, and the satisfying click of a bug finally fixed.
Dislikes and fears: Sprouts (culinary evil), bees (allergic), dogs (one bit her once, she remembers), people who take themselves too seriously, losing control of a situation, being condescended to.
Digidestined's motivation: Her analytical knack must’ve tripped some flag in the system, because if anyone fits in a world made of data, it’s her. Still, she’s not here out of duty — she’s here because curiosity got the better of her, and honestly, she’s fine with that. Understanding the Digital World feels like solving the most fascinating bug report imaginable.
General Notes: Siobhán isn’t distant so much as deflective — she hides sincerity behind a smirk and lets humour fill the spaces where sentiment might otherwise live. She’s sharp, occasionally infuriating, but never cruel. Get past the sarcasm, and you’ll find someone who genuinely listens — even if she’ll deny it later.
There’s a steady warmth under her irony, the sort that slips through in the smallest gestures: remembering what someone said three days ago, fixing something without being asked, sharing a joke when tension starts to choke the room. She doesn’t wear her care openly — it leaks out sideways, disguised as mockery or offhand wit.
Siobhán is an observer by nature, a thinker first and speaker second, but when she does talk, she means every word (even the biting ones). Her humour can sting, sure, but it’s rarely aimless — it’s how she filters chaos, how she stays grounded when the world, digital or otherwise, starts to tilt. Beneath all that dry commentary lies a quiet optimism she won’t admit to — the belief that things can make sense if you look at them long enough, and that people, for all their mess, are usually worth the patience.
Tamer equipment
Optional mechanic for tamer type characters, list which four digi-modify cards they start with. Each card can only be used once in a single battle. Digivolution cards are not permitted.
(Might work on this when partners have been decided. Feels a bit weird pre-emptively picking cards)
- Card 1 - Effect description
- Card 2 - Effect description
- Card 3 - Effect description
- Card 4 - Effect description
Personal touches
Voice: Cait (Fallout 4) — dry Irish lilt, soft-spoken but biting when she wants to be.
Soundtrack
Main Theme: Everybody Wants to Be an Astronaut – Royal Republic
Serene / Reflective: 1,000 Light Years Away – Slime Rancher OST
Energetic / Analytical: Technologic – Daft Punk
Happy / Lighthearted: Starlane Stroll - Gooseworx
Fighting / Defiant: The Cabin – Irish Moutarde
Frantic / Desperate: Tracer Rising - Axiom Verge OST
Determined: Get to the Gone - Static-X
Loss / Quiet Moments: Passing Afternoon - Iron & Wine
Bossfight / Climax: Elimination - Overkill
Dialogue Color:
Atomic Tangerine (#FF9966)
Character image, if you want to use them.
Vigilemon
Lift your wings up high my friend, fearless to the end.” - ManowarGeneral information
Species: Vigilemon
Nickname: Often her kind is simply referred to as whisps
Type: Data
Age: Young, apparently. Her behaviour is in line with a baby-stage digimon, yet her appearance and size suggests she is a Rookie.
Outstanding details: Nothing overtly different from her peers, the only real difference is her inability to speak - which seems a lacking feature unique to her.
Body language: Playful, energetic, bashful. Vigilemon’s inability to speak is instead woven into her body language. The slight tilt of her helmet, a quick flicker or colour change of her flame-like body. Beady eyes blinking in a rhythm. She is a child playing at being a knight. Courageous, yet cautious and fragile.
Partner: Shogo Tastugami (Fish of Oblivion)
Why were they partnered: Vigilemon’s curious about all of the human visitors, but Shogo stood out as a man who hides a dutiful nature behind a tired facade.
Space for an optional image
Biography
Origin: An old battlefield, yet she can’t truly claim a home
Role in Digital World: A wanderer that apes the knights of old and is keen to protect and serve
General skills: Vigilemon is oddly… unskilled. She’s a good listener and observant. Can be used as a glorified desk lamp. That’s about it, really.
Special skills: Keen sense of reading people and other digimon - a skill picked up more out of necessity than want.
Personal history: Vigilemon is the manifestation of valiant knights and warriors who served, defended, fought and bled for their vows and causes. Her memory is foggy at the best of times, not that she could actually say anything if she wanted to. The truth of the matter is, Vigilemon wandered the Digiworld seeking purpose; searching for something to protect and defend with all her might.
Space for an optional image
Personality
Positive character traits: Caring, warm (figuratively and literally), persistent
Negative character traits: Naïve, shy, lack of self preservation
Likes and hobbies: People singing, heroic tales, people warming themselves on her natural warmth, plucking flowers (or asking someone to do it for her), playing hide-n-seek, knights (it’s her goal in life)
Dislikes and fears: Water/rain (She is noticeably skittish about getting wet), being considered weak, spiders (yes, seriously), screeching noises, people phasing through her deliberately.
Motivation: Vigilemon is but a small drop in an enormous bucket of hope, and while she’s not as strong as the others. She’s equally determined.
General notes: Vigilemon may not be capable of talking, but is nevertheless animated and able to express herself in other ways. A flicker here, a change of colour there. Hovering around excitedly or peaking from around a corner in both fear and curiosity.
Space for an optional image
Digivolution line
Rookie: Vigilemon
Details: Vigilemon is a small orb of bluish spectral flame wearing an oversized, dented knight’s helmet that tilts with each movement. Two faint sapphire eyes glow behind the visor, their light shifting with her mood. She drifts through the air in silence, timid yet steadfast—a shy wisp of courage waiting to become a knight.
Moveset
Radiant Flicker – Emits a burst of bluish flame that dazzles and repels attackers. Weak offensively, but blinds or startles foes for a moment.
Wisp Guard (Durability: 3 rookie attacks, 1 champion attack) – Creates a small hovering barrier of flame to protect an ally from minor harm.
Heartglow – The warmth of her flame gently heals or comforts another Digimon, mending small wounds and easing pain.
Phantom Dash – A quick dart in any direction, leaving a brief afterimage of blue fire.
Champion: Resolumon
Dark Champion suggestion: Obstinamon
Obstinamon is a flickering wisp of red-black flame, her once gentle light now seething with restless energy beneath a cracked fragment of skull worn like a helm. Two skeletal hands drift at her side. One bare, the other encased in a jagged, spiked gauntlet gripping a corroded dagger of darkened data. The flame that forms her body licks upward through the empty sockets of the helm, eyes glowing a deep crimson whenever she stirs. Drifting in uneasy silence, she watches all who approach, neither dead nor living, a sentinel born of vigilance twisted into fixation, guarding her vow long after reason has gone cold.
Details: Resolumon is a spectral, flame-bodied Digimon taking her first true shape, a hovering wisp of blue fire now trailing faint, smoke-like limbs. Two detached hands float at her side, one still half-formed, the other clad in a ghostly gauntlet gripping a round, spectral shield. The knight’s helmet has straightened but remains slightly too large, the visor lifted enough for her bright eyes to show. The fire around flickers in rhythmic pulses, steadying whenever danger nears. Neither fully ghost nor fully knight, Resolumon embodies resolve in motion—the moment a timid flame chooses to stand guard.
Moveset
Resolute Aegis (Durability: 5 rookie attacks, 3 champion attacks, 1 ultimate attack) – Raises her spectral shield, manifesting a barrier of azure light that absorbs incoming damage for allies behind it.
Spirit Thrust – A direct charge attack, her gauntleted hand and flame-body forming a piercing lance of light.
Will-o-Ward – Summons faint motes of guiding flame that intercept projectiles or distract foes.
Pulse of Valor – Releases a rhythmic surge from her core, bolstering nearby allies’ morale and defenses.
Ultimate: Devotimon
Evolution method: With Shogo's careful and stead guidance, she could find the courage and determination to hone her strength and digivolve to her Ultimate.
Dark Ultimate suggestion: Vinculimon
Vinculimon is a headless suit of jagged, blackened armor wreathed in chains, the hollow interior blazing with violent red-black fire that spills through the cracks like molten blood. The flames within thrash and roar, pulsing in time with her movements; each step a quake of unrestrained fury. The armor is torn and dented from countless battles, bound tight by heavy chains that clatter as she moves. In one hand wields a massive cleaver-like blade chipped and darkened by heat; in the other, the shattered remnants of a shield, used more as a bludgeon than defense. The space where her head should be, burns with a storm of fire, flaring brighter when she rages. Vinculimon is the vow made monster — a protector turned berserker, driven not by thought or faith but by a single, burning command: “Nothing will touch what is mine to guard.”
Details: Devotimon has taken full shape at last: a spectral knight clad in silvered armor from which faint tongues of bluish-white flame flicker through every seam. Her helmet is missing, the fire within her armor forming only a faint, faceless glow where a head should be. In one hand she bears a long kite shield etched with fading runes; in the other, a gleaming lance that hums softly with restrained power. The air around her shimmers with small, orbiting motes of pale flame—the remnants of her former self, now serving as watchful sentinels. Calm, steadfast, and wordless, Devotimon stands as a knight born of pure will—devotion given form and steel.
Moveset
Lance of Conviction – Channels pure light into her lance and thrusts forward, striking both corporeal and data-based foes alike.
Guardian’s Oath (Durability: 5 rookie attacks, 3 champion attacks, 1 Ultimate or Mega attacks) – Creates a radiant dome that shields allies, the intensity reflecting her remaining energy.
Echo of Vigilance – The small motes orbiting her armor rush outward to intercept attacks or swarm foes.
Silent Benediction – Restores an ally’s strength or removes negative effects; the flames dim briefly as the blessing passes.
Mega: Veladimon
Evolution method: Potentially unreachable for now, which suggests it requires a deeper connection and bond with her partner.
Dark Mega: Persequimon
Persequimon is a towering figure in dark, iron-grey armor streaked with crimson fissures of light, a tattered cloak burned at the edges. Her helm’s wing-motif has become jagged, horn-like blades; her silhouette is all intent and mass. She carries no shield — instead she wields a single colossal executioner’s weapon: a two-handed poleaxe/maul hybrid whose head is equal parts crushing weight and cleaving blade, its runic edge glowing hot when it hunts. Each step drags ash and the echo of a tolling bell; when she strikes the runes flare and the air seems to go still. Persequimon is mercy turned verdict — the relentless hand that ends threats rather than sheltering against them.
Details: Valedimon stands as a radiant paladin clad in immaculate silver armor inlaid with gold filigree, each plate etched with soft, luminous runes. A sweeping white cape flows from her shoulders, its edges faintly shimmering with spectral light. Her helm is crowned with winglike crests that arc backward like the feathers of a seraph, framing the steady glow that burns within the visor. In one hand she bears a tower shield almost as tall as herself, engraved with the sigil of her vow; in the other, a massive warhammer whose head gleams with restrained power. When she moves, the air hums with quiet reverence and the faint chime of distant bells. Valedimon is the embodiment of duty fulfilled—an unshakable guardian whose every strike is an act of benediction and whose shield shelters all who stand behind her.
Moveset
Hammer of Benediction – Strikes with a radiant warhammer, releasing waves of light that smite evil and heal allies.
Seraphic Bulwark (Durability: Impervious to rookie attacks, 5 champion attacks, 3 Ultimate attacks, 1 Mega attack) – Raises her tower shield, projecting a shimmering barrier large enough to cover multiple allies.
Courage Resonance – Allies within her aura gain boosted strength and resolve, their own attacks imbued with light.
Bell of Deliverance – The faint chime that follows her blows dispels illusions, curses, or fear-based effects.
Super Mega: Viritumon
Dark Super Mega: Zelusimon
Zelusimon stands as a towering valkyrie of flame and fury, her spectral form solidified into a warrior’s perfection. Her once-flowing hair has become a thick, wild mane of embered light, crowned with a feathered band that glows like smoldering gold. The delicate armor of her counterpart is replaced by heavy, fur-lined mail and layered chain, each ring burning faintly with crimson light. Her gauntlets and boots are plated for battle, her tunic marked with runic scars of countless wars. In her grasp she wields a massive double-bladed war axe nearly twice her height, its edges alive with roaring flame and static. Every swing cleaves the air like thunder, every step leaves scorched ground in her wake. Zelusimon is the war-goddess incarnate—the protector through destruction, the embodiment of devotion without restraint, and the eternal flame that guards through wrath when faith alone no longer suffices.
Details: Viritumon appears as a spectral maiden-knight, her form refined and luminous, a harmony of armor and spirit. The heavy plate of Valedimon has softened into elegant, silver-white mail traced with gold filigree, each piece moving like silk over light. Her helm is gone, revealing a serene, ghostly visage framed by long, flowing strands of luminous hair that ripple like pale fire. Upon her brow rests a slender crown wrought of light itself—a symbol of grace rather than rule. In one hand she bears a slender kite shield engraved with a radiant sigil; in the other, a slim, shining longsword that hums with calm energy. Her movements are weightless, her steps leaving trails of gentle brilliance in the air. The air around her glows softly, neither searing nor blinding, but warm and steady—courage made visible. Viritumon is the knight transcended, the saint of guardianship, a living ideal of virtue who protects not through might, but through presence.
Moveset
Ethereal Grace – Moves faster than the eye can follow, her blade tracing lines of light that both strike and sanctify.
Sanctum Aeterna (Durability: Impervious to rookie and champion attacks, 5 Ultimate attacks, 1 Mega attack or Supermega attack) – Creates a vast, calm field of light where allies are shielded and healed — the flame of courage made sanctuary.
Virtue’s Reprise – When an ally would fall, her flame flickers and restores them once, sacrificing a fragment of her own essence.
Serenity’s Edge – Her sword gleams with tranquil fire; its cuts erase malice, purging corruption rather than rending flesh.
Dark Champion suggestion: Obstinamon
Obstinamon is a flickering wisp of red-black flame, her once gentle light now seething with restless energy beneath a cracked fragment of skull worn like a helm. Two skeletal hands drift at her side. One bare, the other encased in a jagged, spiked gauntlet gripping a corroded dagger of darkened data. The flame that forms her body licks upward through the empty sockets of the helm, eyes glowing a deep crimson whenever she stirs. Drifting in uneasy silence, she watches all who approach, neither dead nor living, a sentinel born of vigilance twisted into fixation, guarding her vow long after reason has gone cold.
Details: Resolumon is a spectral, flame-bodied Digimon taking her first true shape, a hovering wisp of blue fire now trailing faint, smoke-like limbs. Two detached hands float at her side, one still half-formed, the other clad in a ghostly gauntlet gripping a round, spectral shield. The knight’s helmet has straightened but remains slightly too large, the visor lifted enough for her bright eyes to show. The fire around flickers in rhythmic pulses, steadying whenever danger nears. Neither fully ghost nor fully knight, Resolumon embodies resolve in motion—the moment a timid flame chooses to stand guard.
Moveset
Resolute Aegis (Durability: 5 rookie attacks, 3 champion attacks, 1 ultimate attack) – Raises her spectral shield, manifesting a barrier of azure light that absorbs incoming damage for allies behind it.
Spirit Thrust – A direct charge attack, her gauntleted hand and flame-body forming a piercing lance of light.
Will-o-Ward – Summons faint motes of guiding flame that intercept projectiles or distract foes.
Pulse of Valor – Releases a rhythmic surge from her core, bolstering nearby allies’ morale and defenses.
Ultimate: Devotimon
Evolution method: With Shogo's careful and stead guidance, she could find the courage and determination to hone her strength and digivolve to her Ultimate.
Dark Ultimate suggestion: Vinculimon
Vinculimon is a headless suit of jagged, blackened armor wreathed in chains, the hollow interior blazing with violent red-black fire that spills through the cracks like molten blood. The flames within thrash and roar, pulsing in time with her movements; each step a quake of unrestrained fury. The armor is torn and dented from countless battles, bound tight by heavy chains that clatter as she moves. In one hand wields a massive cleaver-like blade chipped and darkened by heat; in the other, the shattered remnants of a shield, used more as a bludgeon than defense. The space where her head should be, burns with a storm of fire, flaring brighter when she rages. Vinculimon is the vow made monster — a protector turned berserker, driven not by thought or faith but by a single, burning command: “Nothing will touch what is mine to guard.”
Details: Devotimon has taken full shape at last: a spectral knight clad in silvered armor from which faint tongues of bluish-white flame flicker through every seam. Her helmet is missing, the fire within her armor forming only a faint, faceless glow where a head should be. In one hand she bears a long kite shield etched with fading runes; in the other, a gleaming lance that hums softly with restrained power. The air around her shimmers with small, orbiting motes of pale flame—the remnants of her former self, now serving as watchful sentinels. Calm, steadfast, and wordless, Devotimon stands as a knight born of pure will—devotion given form and steel.
Moveset
Lance of Conviction – Channels pure light into her lance and thrusts forward, striking both corporeal and data-based foes alike.
Guardian’s Oath (Durability: 5 rookie attacks, 3 champion attacks, 1 Ultimate or Mega attacks) – Creates a radiant dome that shields allies, the intensity reflecting her remaining energy.
Echo of Vigilance – The small motes orbiting her armor rush outward to intercept attacks or swarm foes.
Silent Benediction – Restores an ally’s strength or removes negative effects; the flames dim briefly as the blessing passes.
Mega: Veladimon
Evolution method: Potentially unreachable for now, which suggests it requires a deeper connection and bond with her partner.
Dark Mega: Persequimon
Persequimon is a towering figure in dark, iron-grey armor streaked with crimson fissures of light, a tattered cloak burned at the edges. Her helm’s wing-motif has become jagged, horn-like blades; her silhouette is all intent and mass. She carries no shield — instead she wields a single colossal executioner’s weapon: a two-handed poleaxe/maul hybrid whose head is equal parts crushing weight and cleaving blade, its runic edge glowing hot when it hunts. Each step drags ash and the echo of a tolling bell; when she strikes the runes flare and the air seems to go still. Persequimon is mercy turned verdict — the relentless hand that ends threats rather than sheltering against them.
Details: Valedimon stands as a radiant paladin clad in immaculate silver armor inlaid with gold filigree, each plate etched with soft, luminous runes. A sweeping white cape flows from her shoulders, its edges faintly shimmering with spectral light. Her helm is crowned with winglike crests that arc backward like the feathers of a seraph, framing the steady glow that burns within the visor. In one hand she bears a tower shield almost as tall as herself, engraved with the sigil of her vow; in the other, a massive warhammer whose head gleams with restrained power. When she moves, the air hums with quiet reverence and the faint chime of distant bells. Valedimon is the embodiment of duty fulfilled—an unshakable guardian whose every strike is an act of benediction and whose shield shelters all who stand behind her.
Moveset
Hammer of Benediction – Strikes with a radiant warhammer, releasing waves of light that smite evil and heal allies.
Seraphic Bulwark (Durability: Impervious to rookie attacks, 5 champion attacks, 3 Ultimate attacks, 1 Mega attack) – Raises her tower shield, projecting a shimmering barrier large enough to cover multiple allies.
Courage Resonance – Allies within her aura gain boosted strength and resolve, their own attacks imbued with light.
Bell of Deliverance – The faint chime that follows her blows dispels illusions, curses, or fear-based effects.
Super Mega: Viritumon
Dark Super Mega: Zelusimon
Zelusimon stands as a towering valkyrie of flame and fury, her spectral form solidified into a warrior’s perfection. Her once-flowing hair has become a thick, wild mane of embered light, crowned with a feathered band that glows like smoldering gold. The delicate armor of her counterpart is replaced by heavy, fur-lined mail and layered chain, each ring burning faintly with crimson light. Her gauntlets and boots are plated for battle, her tunic marked with runic scars of countless wars. In her grasp she wields a massive double-bladed war axe nearly twice her height, its edges alive with roaring flame and static. Every swing cleaves the air like thunder, every step leaves scorched ground in her wake. Zelusimon is the war-goddess incarnate—the protector through destruction, the embodiment of devotion without restraint, and the eternal flame that guards through wrath when faith alone no longer suffices.
Details: Viritumon appears as a spectral maiden-knight, her form refined and luminous, a harmony of armor and spirit. The heavy plate of Valedimon has softened into elegant, silver-white mail traced with gold filigree, each piece moving like silk over light. Her helm is gone, revealing a serene, ghostly visage framed by long, flowing strands of luminous hair that ripple like pale fire. Upon her brow rests a slender crown wrought of light itself—a symbol of grace rather than rule. In one hand she bears a slender kite shield engraved with a radiant sigil; in the other, a slim, shining longsword that hums with calm energy. Her movements are weightless, her steps leaving trails of gentle brilliance in the air. The air around her glows softly, neither searing nor blinding, but warm and steady—courage made visible. Viritumon is the knight transcended, the saint of guardianship, a living ideal of virtue who protects not through might, but through presence.
Moveset
Ethereal Grace – Moves faster than the eye can follow, her blade tracing lines of light that both strike and sanctify.
Sanctum Aeterna (Durability: Impervious to rookie and champion attacks, 5 Ultimate attacks, 1 Mega attack or Supermega attack) – Creates a vast, calm field of light where allies are shielded and healed — the flame of courage made sanctuary.
Virtue’s Reprise – When an ally would fall, her flame flickers and restores them once, sacrificing a fragment of her own essence.
Serenity’s Edge – Her sword gleams with tranquil fire; its cuts erase malice, purging corruption rather than rending flesh.
Space for an optional image
Personal touches
Soundtrack
Main Theme: Courage – Manowar
Serene / Reflective: Time - Pink Floyd
Happy / Lighthearted: You’ve Got A Friend In Me - Toy Story
Fighting / Defiant: Invincible Shield - Judas Priest
Frantic / Desperate: Holding Out For A Hero - Bonnie Tyler
Determined: Fighting With All Of Our Might - Shovel Knight OST
Loss / Quiet Moments: I Will Go On - Jim van der Zee
Bossfight / Climax: Sisters of Battle - Hollow Knight OST
Dialogue Color: Blue Steel (#4682B4)
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Chronicles of Minadra
Name: Oddveig; Mainly Fig, sometimes (don’t) Odd or Vei
Species: Gundrukan
Race/Nationality: Fjallborg
Gender: Female
Age: 41
Languages: Gundrukanian, Arventian, North Sylpharimese
Appearance:
By Gundrukan standards Fig is but a sprout in age and stature. She’s not the typical burly cave dweller associated with her kind; and while she is somewhat broad-shouldered, it’s more genetics than physical training with Fig’s frame noticeably leaner when standing next to a fellow shin-kicker (not that she cares).
Personal Effects:
A journal she’s affectionately called “Small observations by tiny people”, charcoal because she’s a cheapskate “Ink ‘n quill, you daft bastards think I’m made of coppers?”, some excavation tools like a small pickaxe, chisel and hammer - Oh, and a dagger on the off chance someone - or something - is within jabbing range.
Role: Archivist, the world is vast and its historical secrets infinite.
Backstory:
As a Gundrukan you either smith steel or live long enough to see yourself wield it. Fig was more infatuated with the natural wonders of Mindara and chose neither. She longed to write her own findings - not that rubbish any of the teachers back home forced down her skeptical little noggin. So once she got her parents to stop nagging to find a real job, Fig set off into the world with a grin bolted on her face and an empty journal ready to be defaced with several inappropriate doodles.
She’s wandered since. Across mountains and plains, through caves, forests, and ruins, chasing whatever caught her eye and curiosity.
Somewhere between the vines and half-collapsed archways of an old Mindaran ruin, Fig ran into Elenor, quite literally, if you count a lantern to the elbow. The Sylpharim was there to map the terrain; Fig was there to make sense of the stones. Their introductions weren’t exactly warm. But mutual wariness turned to shared theories soon enough, and between the two of them the ruins didn’t stand a chance. They’ve been wandering together on and off since.
Character Intro:
Character Description
Name: Oddveig; Mainly Fig, sometimes (don’t) Odd or Vei
Species: Gundrukan
Race/Nationality: Fjallborg
Gender: Female
Age: 41
Languages: Gundrukanian, Arventian, North Sylpharimese
Appearance:
By Gundrukan standards Fig is but a sprout in age and stature. She’s not the typical burly cave dweller associated with her kind; and while she is somewhat broad-shouldered, it’s more genetics than physical training with Fig’s frame noticeably leaner when standing next to a fellow shin-kicker (not that she cares).
Personal Effects:
A journal she’s affectionately called “Small observations by tiny people”, charcoal because she’s a cheapskate “Ink ‘n quill, you daft bastards think I’m made of coppers?”, some excavation tools like a small pickaxe, chisel and hammer - Oh, and a dagger on the off chance someone - or something - is within jabbing range.
Background
Role: Archivist, the world is vast and its historical secrets infinite.
Backstory:
As a Gundrukan you either smith steel or live long enough to see yourself wield it. Fig was more infatuated with the natural wonders of Mindara and chose neither. She longed to write her own findings - not that rubbish any of the teachers back home forced down her skeptical little noggin. So once she got her parents to stop nagging to find a real job, Fig set off into the world with a grin bolted on her face and an empty journal ready to be defaced with several inappropriate doodles.
She’s wandered since. Across mountains and plains, through caves, forests, and ruins, chasing whatever caught her eye and curiosity.
Somewhere between the vines and half-collapsed archways of an old Mindaran ruin, Fig ran into Elenor, quite literally, if you count a lantern to the elbow. The Sylpharim was there to map the terrain; Fig was there to make sense of the stones. Their introductions weren’t exactly warm. But mutual wariness turned to shared theories soon enough, and between the two of them the ruins didn’t stand a chance. They’ve been wandering together on and off since.
Character Intro:
“Ma’am, I’d be more than ha-”
A hand fluttered erratically, waving at the bespectacled man whose brow furrowed with each book added to the pyramid stack that his new customer had decided was a better alternative than asking for someone with greater reach.
Fig fumbled with her balance and settled her hands on the oaken beams of the bookcase. “Whew!” She breathed out of relief. “‘Near the ground, tumble sound’ me papa would’ve said.” She muttered to nobody in particular, shifting her weight so the flimsy stack wouldn’t shift any further.
The owner of the bookstore grumbled something indecipherable, shaking his head at the sorry state of the second hand books. A travesty.
“Oh, pshaw! Everyone and their dog’s got at least one edition of ‘Grimvelt’s guide to edible tree bark’.” She offered with a mock apology. “It’s comedic gold, that one. Step one, season elm strips with crusted leaves.” Fig cackled under her breath, pale eyes glancing upward at the top shelves.
Of course the volume she needed was up there somewhere. Always her bloody luck that nobody ever thought of bookish Gundrukan, right?
Under normal circumstances, a certain winged companion could have given a quick hand in retrieving what she needed. Fig however had decided not to argue the point of a cool sea breeze messing with Elenor’s plumage, and instead let the Sylpharim doodle her precious map of the coastal city from up high. She couldn’t judge. The view was quite breathtaking, if not a little salty.
With a grunt and a half-hop that would’ve made any self-respecting Gundrukan tut in disapproval, Fig snagged the elusive volume by its spine and eased it free without toppling the rest. “Ha! See? Grace incarnate,” she declared, clutching her prize like a trophy.
The stack wobbled ominously, the shopkeeper winced, and Fig shot both a warning glance. “Don’t even think about it.” With her quarry secured and dignity mostly intact, Fig flashed a satisfied grin. A small victory, perhaps, but a victory all the same; and a great amount of hair loss from the man behind the counter.
A hand fluttered erratically, waving at the bespectacled man whose brow furrowed with each book added to the pyramid stack that his new customer had decided was a better alternative than asking for someone with greater reach.
Fig fumbled with her balance and settled her hands on the oaken beams of the bookcase. “Whew!” She breathed out of relief. “‘Near the ground, tumble sound’ me papa would’ve said.” She muttered to nobody in particular, shifting her weight so the flimsy stack wouldn’t shift any further.
The owner of the bookstore grumbled something indecipherable, shaking his head at the sorry state of the second hand books. A travesty.
“Oh, pshaw! Everyone and their dog’s got at least one edition of ‘Grimvelt’s guide to edible tree bark’.” She offered with a mock apology. “It’s comedic gold, that one. Step one, season elm strips with crusted leaves.” Fig cackled under her breath, pale eyes glancing upward at the top shelves.
Of course the volume she needed was up there somewhere. Always her bloody luck that nobody ever thought of bookish Gundrukan, right?
Under normal circumstances, a certain winged companion could have given a quick hand in retrieving what she needed. Fig however had decided not to argue the point of a cool sea breeze messing with Elenor’s plumage, and instead let the Sylpharim doodle her precious map of the coastal city from up high. She couldn’t judge. The view was quite breathtaking, if not a little salty.
With a grunt and a half-hop that would’ve made any self-respecting Gundrukan tut in disapproval, Fig snagged the elusive volume by its spine and eased it free without toppling the rest. “Ha! See? Grace incarnate,” she declared, clutching her prize like a trophy.
The stack wobbled ominously, the shopkeeper winced, and Fig shot both a warning glance. “Don’t even think about it.” With her quarry secured and dignity mostly intact, Fig flashed a satisfied grin. A small victory, perhaps, but a victory all the same; and a great amount of hair loss from the man behind the counter.
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Fairy Tail: Fenix Tear - A Crimson Song Upon Azure Skies
R e n d i t i o n :
Dolores is the noble beauty many a suitor has tried to conquer, the queen clad in blood and armour; gentle but strong-willed. A long mane of fiery red hair - her bloodline’s trademark heritage - falls down to just below her shoulders, and violet eyes burn with a strong, dutiful passion. To be honest, Dolores is not a picky woman and has a very practical appearance about her. Someone who's grown accustomed to the harsher parts of mercenary work, and as such Dolores is relatively fit and toned compared to the average mage (and scars to prove her worth as well).
Dolores is a creature of habit and does not like to break out of any routines she's been taught over the years, comfortably sitting in her own bubble and careful not to pop it by mistake. A stiff upper lip mentality mixed with an upbringing that of royalty, the woman is unnaturally rigid and formal in the face of strangers and close relatives alike. Difficult one to thaw out to be sure, despite trying to be less high-strung. She's typically well-mannered and friendly, just not fond of small talk.
A d v e n t u r e :
It's difficult to hide the grimace on her face when people casually mention her family name - De La Fuente, a branch of the Le Lendard clan. A volume of sneers encompass just how much Dolores resents what should've been the perfect fairytale "happy ever after". So much so that she sought extreme measures to stick it to the big man of the family, and when father's precious princess had been sighted among less favourable members of Crèmisi's society, Dolores was abruptly scrapped from the De La Fuente history books. Good-fucking-riddance if you'd ask her. At least, that's the official story, and Dolores is nothing if not happily referring to that everytime someone asks what her deal is.
Whatever the reason (or reasons), Dolores took to the company of several criminal circuits and, in a rebellious tantrum, joined up with a dark guild the likes of which were fairly common across Crèmisi. Typical thieves and assassins, anything for a quick buck. Not a major threat, but enough of a nuisance to attract the odd guild mage or two. She'd proven a reliable member and had managed a deadly streak, and an even bigger following from the Magic Council and several ambitious proper little mages who'd thought her head a nice gateway to everlasting fame. Usually it was the other way around, another head to mount on the wall of her guild's hideout and an increase in bounty.
For several years Dolores had indulged in reaving and stealing and stone-cold murder. She had damned the consequences. And, hey, if she ever did get caught? Well, fucked if she hadn't lived her life the way she wanted. Only the truth tasted more like a sour apple than it did a sweet honey...
Her actions had soon caught on with the bigger fishes in the pond, and Dolores found herself outmatched in single combat by the strongest mage she'd ever met. Barely a fight, she found herself at the mercy of some nobody with a crest she'd never seen. She thought her life forfeit at that moment, but instead she was offered to come see their tavern. Whether she stood on the doorstep by choice or out of kindness, Dolores had relinquished her darker lifestyle some time later and marked herself a member of Phoenix Tear since that faithful day.
Six months passed since her initiation into the guild, and Dolores has found herself contemplating her current position and that perhaps she could pursue bigger ambitions...
_________________________________________________________________________
Dragon Lacrima : Through certain procedures Dolores was implanted with a lacrima that has bestowed her with Dragon Slayer magic, which manifests itself in a smoke-like element; effectively dubbing her a "Smoke Dragon". While Dolores is hesitant to use this power on a whim, she's mastered it that all but the subtle differences, such as her immunity and ability to devour her element, are indistinguishable from plain regular smoke magic. The flashier parts of her slayer magic are usually withheld; not out of restrained, but because “You don’t hunt rabbits with a cannon”. Like her bladed staff, her magic is a tool - used precise and deliberate.
✧ Smoke Dragon's Roar: A Dragon Slayer's signature roar. Dolores lets out a raging whirlwind of ashen smoke that blows away anyone in its path.
✧ Smoke Dragon's Nails: An assassination technique devised by Dolores in which she morphs her fingers to resemble smoke-like knives that puncture on contact.
✧ Ashwalk: A spell that morphs Dolores's body into thin vapours, providing complete stealth for infiltration and assasination.
_________________________________________________________________________
A Lady Dragon’s Refuge : Smelling faintly of smoke and ash, Dolores’ workshop is a disgraced noble’s private quarters; a corner room dimly lit by ever-burning candles on chandeliers and wall torches. Bookcases stand crooked, creaking from the weight of leatherbound manuals and guides, scrolls neatly folded in between containing valuable information on trade routes, underground deals and even private affairs. A desk sits on the opposite wall, littered with half-written notes and stained with ink. For the guild, she deals in favours; brokers information and gathers knowledge on potential guild jobs.
_________________________________________________________________________
B e s t o w m e n t : T.B.D.
'Dolores De La Fuente'
'Dolores De La Fuente'
'Dolores De La Fuente'
A g e: 30 | R a n k: First Class
R e n d i t i o n :
Dolores is the noble beauty many a suitor has tried to conquer, the queen clad in blood and armour; gentle but strong-willed. A long mane of fiery red hair - her bloodline’s trademark heritage - falls down to just below her shoulders, and violet eyes burn with a strong, dutiful passion. To be honest, Dolores is not a picky woman and has a very practical appearance about her. Someone who's grown accustomed to the harsher parts of mercenary work, and as such Dolores is relatively fit and toned compared to the average mage (and scars to prove her worth as well).
Dolores is a creature of habit and does not like to break out of any routines she's been taught over the years, comfortably sitting in her own bubble and careful not to pop it by mistake. A stiff upper lip mentality mixed with an upbringing that of royalty, the woman is unnaturally rigid and formal in the face of strangers and close relatives alike. Difficult one to thaw out to be sure, despite trying to be less high-strung. She's typically well-mannered and friendly, just not fond of small talk.
A d v e n t u r e :
It's difficult to hide the grimace on her face when people casually mention her family name - De La Fuente, a branch of the Le Lendard clan. A volume of sneers encompass just how much Dolores resents what should've been the perfect fairytale "happy ever after". So much so that she sought extreme measures to stick it to the big man of the family, and when father's precious princess had been sighted among less favourable members of Crèmisi's society, Dolores was abruptly scrapped from the De La Fuente history books. Good-fucking-riddance if you'd ask her. At least, that's the official story, and Dolores is nothing if not happily referring to that everytime someone asks what her deal is.
Whatever the reason (or reasons), Dolores took to the company of several criminal circuits and, in a rebellious tantrum, joined up with a dark guild the likes of which were fairly common across Crèmisi. Typical thieves and assassins, anything for a quick buck. Not a major threat, but enough of a nuisance to attract the odd guild mage or two. She'd proven a reliable member and had managed a deadly streak, and an even bigger following from the Magic Council and several ambitious proper little mages who'd thought her head a nice gateway to everlasting fame. Usually it was the other way around, another head to mount on the wall of her guild's hideout and an increase in bounty.
For several years Dolores had indulged in reaving and stealing and stone-cold murder. She had damned the consequences. And, hey, if she ever did get caught? Well, fucked if she hadn't lived her life the way she wanted. Only the truth tasted more like a sour apple than it did a sweet honey...
Her actions had soon caught on with the bigger fishes in the pond, and Dolores found herself outmatched in single combat by the strongest mage she'd ever met. Barely a fight, she found herself at the mercy of some nobody with a crest she'd never seen. She thought her life forfeit at that moment, but instead she was offered to come see their tavern. Whether she stood on the doorstep by choice or out of kindness, Dolores had relinquished her darker lifestyle some time later and marked herself a member of Phoenix Tear since that faithful day.
Six months passed since her initiation into the guild, and Dolores has found herself contemplating her current position and that perhaps she could pursue bigger ambitions...
_________________________________________________________________________
'M a g i c'
'M a g i c'
'M a g i c'
Dragon Lacrima : Through certain procedures Dolores was implanted with a lacrima that has bestowed her with Dragon Slayer magic, which manifests itself in a smoke-like element; effectively dubbing her a "Smoke Dragon". While Dolores is hesitant to use this power on a whim, she's mastered it that all but the subtle differences, such as her immunity and ability to devour her element, are indistinguishable from plain regular smoke magic. The flashier parts of her slayer magic are usually withheld; not out of restrained, but because “You don’t hunt rabbits with a cannon”. Like her bladed staff, her magic is a tool - used precise and deliberate.
✧ Smoke Dragon's Roar: A Dragon Slayer's signature roar. Dolores lets out a raging whirlwind of ashen smoke that blows away anyone in its path.
✧ Smoke Dragon's Nails: An assassination technique devised by Dolores in which she morphs her fingers to resemble smoke-like knives that puncture on contact.
✧ Ashwalk: A spell that morphs Dolores's body into thin vapours, providing complete stealth for infiltration and assasination.
_________________________________________________________________________
'W o r k s h o p'
'W o r k s h o p'
'W o r k s h o p'
A Lady Dragon’s Refuge : Smelling faintly of smoke and ash, Dolores’ workshop is a disgraced noble’s private quarters; a corner room dimly lit by ever-burning candles on chandeliers and wall torches. Bookcases stand crooked, creaking from the weight of leatherbound manuals and guides, scrolls neatly folded in between containing valuable information on trade routes, underground deals and even private affairs. A desk sits on the opposite wall, littered with half-written notes and stained with ink. For the guild, she deals in favours; brokers information and gathers knowledge on potential guild jobs.
_________________________________________________________________________
B e s t o w m e n t : T.B.D.
OP
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Discovery: A Broken Galaxy
Gender
Age
Appearance
Personality
Role
Skills
Personal Belongings/Equipment
Background
Miscellaneous
Anna Kayleigh Rauss
Gender
Female
Age
33
Appearance
Anna stands at an unimpressed six-foot-two — not imposing by intention, just by the simple fact that she keeps forgetting to slouch. Her build is long, lean, and efficient, the kind you get from years of standing over operating tables instead of gym memberships.
Her black hair is usually yanked into a ponytail that says, “I gave up trying today.” Same story with her eyes: equally black, equally done with everyone's nonsense. Makeup is minimal, applied more out of habit than vanity — a swipe here, a bit of color there, just enough to look awake in dim medbay lighting (even if she isn’t).
Uniform regs are technically followed, but only in the sense that she doesn’t openly break them. When she can get away with it, she swaps into a button-up shirt and jeans because “if Command wants fashion, they can stitch it themselves.” Square-rimmed reading glasses perch on her nose whenever she’s writing notes or recalibrating a prosthetic, lending her an air of reluctant academic professionalism she does not appreciate being teased about.
Her black hair is usually yanked into a ponytail that says, “I gave up trying today.” Same story with her eyes: equally black, equally done with everyone's nonsense. Makeup is minimal, applied more out of habit than vanity — a swipe here, a bit of color there, just enough to look awake in dim medbay lighting (even if she isn’t).
Uniform regs are technically followed, but only in the sense that she doesn’t openly break them. When she can get away with it, she swaps into a button-up shirt and jeans because “if Command wants fashion, they can stitch it themselves.” Square-rimmed reading glasses perch on her nose whenever she’s writing notes or recalibrating a prosthetic, lending her an air of reluctant academic professionalism she does not appreciate being teased about.
Personality
“If ye’re here complainin’ bout some papercut, put a bandaid on and fock off.”
Anna is not the warm glow of bedside manner — she is the cold fluorescent light above it. She’s blunt, dry, and very selective about what she considers worth her time. Pretence annoys her. Whining annoys her. People who insist on narrating their symptoms in excruciating detail? Deeply annoying.
She’s not cruel — just practical. Pain is part of the equation; she’ll fix you, but she won’t coddle you. Her compassion shows in sutures that are neat, prosthetics that are meticulously calibrated, and painkillers dispensed before you’ve even managed to finish complaining.
In short, not the most nurturing presence in the medbay. And why should she? “Ain’t makin’ it hurt less, hun.”, probably.
Underneath the exhaustion and deadpan remarks, she genuinely cares — she just expresses it through competence rather than comfort. If Anna is nice to you, even once, congratulations: you’re either dying or she secretly likes you.
Anna is not the warm glow of bedside manner — she is the cold fluorescent light above it. She’s blunt, dry, and very selective about what she considers worth her time. Pretence annoys her. Whining annoys her. People who insist on narrating their symptoms in excruciating detail? Deeply annoying.
She’s not cruel — just practical. Pain is part of the equation; she’ll fix you, but she won’t coddle you. Her compassion shows in sutures that are neat, prosthetics that are meticulously calibrated, and painkillers dispensed before you’ve even managed to finish complaining.
In short, not the most nurturing presence in the medbay. And why should she? “Ain’t makin’ it hurt less, hun.”, probably.
Underneath the exhaustion and deadpan remarks, she genuinely cares — she just expresses it through competence rather than comfort. If Anna is nice to you, even once, congratulations: you’re either dying or she secretly likes you.
Role
Medical staff, prostheticist
Skills
Prosthetic engineering - Sure! She doesn’t build the damn things from scratch, but she won’t take some techie’s “Latest model” mumbo-jumbo at face value either. Better know exactly what you’re (re-)attaching, right?
Surgeon - A robotic arm may be accurate on the 0.01 mm, but she trusts her own steady hands more. Although happily relies on AI tech to calculate dosages or handle menial tasks (Because if she has to wrap one more bandage, so help her God).
Rudimentary Mechanical Knowledge - Because those motor joints sure are an arse to recalibrate and she guesses you don’t learn that without also being taught how to rewire the communications systems to prevent someone intercepting. Still, means maintenance has one fewer crew member nagging them for basic shit, right?
Surgeon - A robotic arm may be accurate on the 0.01 mm, but she trusts her own steady hands more. Although happily relies on AI tech to calculate dosages or handle menial tasks (Because if she has to wrap one more bandage, so help her God).
Rudimentary Mechanical Knowledge - Because those motor joints sure are an arse to recalibrate and she guesses you don’t learn that without also being taught how to rewire the communications systems to prevent someone intercepting. Still, means maintenance has one fewer crew member nagging them for basic shit, right?
Personal Belongings/Equipment
Standard medical equipment, a plushie bunny (kept reasonably out of sight) she’s called Senior Lucius for no better reason than “It’s what my youngest brother named it.”, some generic family photo and an empty packet of smokes because she liked the label art.
Background
Anna is from a family of dimwits, burly muscles and shouting orders into a comms mic. So it’s not surprising that she’s disciplined, maintained and orderly - probably has to be when you’re dealing with a family of four brothers and a militant father, grandfather and great-great grandfather.
Not that it amounted to much beyond a medical degree and several signed documents that agree she’s some medical revolutionary. Not really, of course, otherwise she’d be sitting comfortably sipping champagne and not serving an explorer’s vessel sipping cheap wine and talking to crew too dumb to tie their own shoelaces.
Not their fault, obviously, and Anna is glad for the opportunity to discover the stars aboard the Arcadian.
Not that it amounted to much beyond a medical degree and several signed documents that agree she’s some medical revolutionary. Not really, of course, otherwise she’d be sitting comfortably sipping champagne and not serving an explorer’s vessel sipping cheap wine and talking to crew too dumb to tie their own shoelaces.
Not their fault, obviously, and Anna is glad for the opportunity to discover the stars aboard the Arcadian.
Miscellaneous
- While she's knowledgeable on cybernetics, Anna would much rather go through life limbless or basic prosthetics than contribute to the rise of the machines. It's also why she's likely to file forms with actual pen and paper, “They won’t reboot or update mid-filin’.”
- Enjoys reading smutty romance novels. Not because they're genuinely good - God no, they're awful - but it's something that helps her relax after a stressful week applying sutures and icepacks.
- Will vehemently defend that pineapple does not belong on pizza, or spinach for that matter. An absolute travesty.
- Secretly enjoys competitive sports, always tries to keep up to date with the latest matches.
- Enjoys reading smutty romance novels. Not because they're genuinely good - God no, they're awful - but it's something that helps her relax after a stressful week applying sutures and icepacks.
- Will vehemently defend that pineapple does not belong on pizza, or spinach for that matter. An absolute travesty.
- Secretly enjoys competitive sports, always tries to keep up to date with the latest matches.
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
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Heroes, Defend the City!
Name: Annika Lindholm
Alias: Intel (Both named for the brand and being the group’s intelligence processor)
Age: Twenty-eight
Gender: Female
Family:
Mother; Leana Mitchford-Lindholm, IC nurse
Father; Bjorn Lindholm “Teccit”; ex-hero, freelance IT consultant
Appearance: Annika is tall, lanky, and almost skeletal in build; a body shaped more by long hours of stillness than physical exertion. Her Scandinavian heritage is unmistakable: pale skin, sharp facial features, long blonde hair usually tied back in a loose, utilitarian ponytail, and piercing blue eyes that peer out from behind square-rimmed glasses with unnerving focus.
Her everyday clothing reflects her priorities: comfort and function over presentation. Hoodies, jeans, sneakers. Nothing decorative, nothing impractical. At her own insistence, her costume is little more than a streamlined version of this wardrobe, subtly adapted to fit the League’s visual aesthetic while obscuring her identity just enough to not be obvious.
Superpower: Annika possesses a perfect, total memory. Every sight, sound, conversation, document, and data point she encounters is stored with absolute clarity. She can rapidly parse, filter, and cross-reference this information, making her an unparalleled intelligence asset.
However, retention does not equal comprehension. Understanding, contextual judgment, and emotional interpretation still require conscious effort, and sometimes, fail entirely.
Strengths: Perfect recall and long-term data retention, Rapid information parsing and pattern recognition, Exceptional attention to detail, Strategic planning and operational foresight
Weaknesses: Difficulty translating stored information into emotional or social understanding, Profound emotional detachment; grudges linger indefinitely due to perfect recall, Chronic migraines since childhood (which she strongly suspects are linked to her abilities), Social isolation and difficulty forming meaningful interpersonal bonds
Skills: Planning and strategy, mechanical know-how of computers and similar hardware, origami (helps her focus), ambidextrous
Equipment: Annika isn’t completely helpless; always making sure she carries a taser just in case and several support tools such as a datapad for easier data parsing and some experimental binoculars/scanner that the league had been ecstatic about and insisted Annika uses during missions. Which, she’s not going to lie, have been tremendously helpful to keep a proper overview of the battlefield. Since her powers lack any offensive measures, she’s taken to building assistant tech support; combat drones, scouting units, traps ranging from explosive to simple electric charges and remote hacking devices to mess with enemy comms and information.
I/O drone: Two flying combat drones, one equipped with a simple ESD discharge and sound wave for disorientation, the other with a charged laser and a grappling arm to fling surrounding debris and objects. She’s affectionately named them Ike and Omar (God knows why).
Trap charges: Various charges ranging from explosive, electric and smoke bombs with PIR sensors. Not necessarily just for placement, she can even use these like hand grenades by pulling a trigger and tossing them.
Scramblers: Simple comms blockers that scramble audio and visual aids. Even other minimal wireless signals.
Personality: Annika is emotionally detached, blunt, and highly literal. Not by choice, but by nature. From birth, her eidetic memory shaped the way her mind developed, prioritizing retention, structure, and factual clarity over emotional nuance. In any formal psychological evaluation, she would be diagnosed as autistic without hesitation.
She does not instinctively process social cues, emotional subtext, or interpersonal ambiguity. Feelings - both her own and those of others - exist, but arrive muted, delayed, or stripped of the intuitive meaning most people rely on. This often causes her to appear cold or robotic, particularly to those who expect emotional feedback or reassurance.
Annika does not “put up walls,” nor does she consciously shield herself from others. There is no mask to drop. Objectivity and detachment are simply her default state of being. As a consequence of her perfect memory, emotional impressions never fade; slights, awkward moments, and painful interactions remain as vivid as the day they occurred, which makes forgiveness difficult and emotional closure rare.
Biography: Annika’s abilities were evident from birth, and with them came developmental challenges that followed her into adulthood. While her father’s super-intelligence allowed him to innovate and adapt, Annika’s eidetic memory reshaped her cognition at a more fundamental level. Her mind learned to catalog the world perfectly, but not always to interpret it.
This led to persistent difficulties throughout her schooling and professional life. Emotional bonds were rare, misunderstandings frequent, and expectations often mismatched. Outside of her parents - particularly her father - few people remained in her life long enough to bridge that gap.
Joining the League of Good was a pragmatic decision, not an emotional one. It provided structure, clear expectations, and a role in which her abilities were both understood and valued. While others may hope the League will help her “open up,” Annika herself views this as unrealistic. She is not broken, and she does not believe she needs fixing.
Relationships: T.B.A.
Extra:
Alias: Intel (Both named for the brand and being the group’s intelligence processor)
Age: Twenty-eight
Gender: Female
Family:
Mother; Leana Mitchford-Lindholm, IC nurse
Father; Bjorn Lindholm “Teccit”; ex-hero, freelance IT consultant
Appearance: Annika is tall, lanky, and almost skeletal in build; a body shaped more by long hours of stillness than physical exertion. Her Scandinavian heritage is unmistakable: pale skin, sharp facial features, long blonde hair usually tied back in a loose, utilitarian ponytail, and piercing blue eyes that peer out from behind square-rimmed glasses with unnerving focus.
Her everyday clothing reflects her priorities: comfort and function over presentation. Hoodies, jeans, sneakers. Nothing decorative, nothing impractical. At her own insistence, her costume is little more than a streamlined version of this wardrobe, subtly adapted to fit the League’s visual aesthetic while obscuring her identity just enough to not be obvious.
Superpower: Annika possesses a perfect, total memory. Every sight, sound, conversation, document, and data point she encounters is stored with absolute clarity. She can rapidly parse, filter, and cross-reference this information, making her an unparalleled intelligence asset.
However, retention does not equal comprehension. Understanding, contextual judgment, and emotional interpretation still require conscious effort, and sometimes, fail entirely.
Strengths: Perfect recall and long-term data retention, Rapid information parsing and pattern recognition, Exceptional attention to detail, Strategic planning and operational foresight
Weaknesses: Difficulty translating stored information into emotional or social understanding, Profound emotional detachment; grudges linger indefinitely due to perfect recall, Chronic migraines since childhood (which she strongly suspects are linked to her abilities), Social isolation and difficulty forming meaningful interpersonal bonds
Skills: Planning and strategy, mechanical know-how of computers and similar hardware, origami (helps her focus), ambidextrous
Equipment: Annika isn’t completely helpless; always making sure she carries a taser just in case and several support tools such as a datapad for easier data parsing and some experimental binoculars/scanner that the league had been ecstatic about and insisted Annika uses during missions. Which, she’s not going to lie, have been tremendously helpful to keep a proper overview of the battlefield. Since her powers lack any offensive measures, she’s taken to building assistant tech support; combat drones, scouting units, traps ranging from explosive to simple electric charges and remote hacking devices to mess with enemy comms and information.
I/O drone: Two flying combat drones, one equipped with a simple ESD discharge and sound wave for disorientation, the other with a charged laser and a grappling arm to fling surrounding debris and objects. She’s affectionately named them Ike and Omar (God knows why).
Trap charges: Various charges ranging from explosive, electric and smoke bombs with PIR sensors. Not necessarily just for placement, she can even use these like hand grenades by pulling a trigger and tossing them.
Scramblers: Simple comms blockers that scramble audio and visual aids. Even other minimal wireless signals.
Personality: Annika is emotionally detached, blunt, and highly literal. Not by choice, but by nature. From birth, her eidetic memory shaped the way her mind developed, prioritizing retention, structure, and factual clarity over emotional nuance. In any formal psychological evaluation, she would be diagnosed as autistic without hesitation.
She does not instinctively process social cues, emotional subtext, or interpersonal ambiguity. Feelings - both her own and those of others - exist, but arrive muted, delayed, or stripped of the intuitive meaning most people rely on. This often causes her to appear cold or robotic, particularly to those who expect emotional feedback or reassurance.
Annika does not “put up walls,” nor does she consciously shield herself from others. There is no mask to drop. Objectivity and detachment are simply her default state of being. As a consequence of her perfect memory, emotional impressions never fade; slights, awkward moments, and painful interactions remain as vivid as the day they occurred, which makes forgiveness difficult and emotional closure rare.
Biography: Annika’s abilities were evident from birth, and with them came developmental challenges that followed her into adulthood. While her father’s super-intelligence allowed him to innovate and adapt, Annika’s eidetic memory reshaped her cognition at a more fundamental level. Her mind learned to catalog the world perfectly, but not always to interpret it.
This led to persistent difficulties throughout her schooling and professional life. Emotional bonds were rare, misunderstandings frequent, and expectations often mismatched. Outside of her parents - particularly her father - few people remained in her life long enough to bridge that gap.
Joining the League of Good was a pragmatic decision, not an emotional one. It provided structure, clear expectations, and a role in which her abilities were both understood and valued. While others may hope the League will help her “open up,” Annika herself views this as unrealistic. She is not broken, and she does not believe she needs fixing.
Relationships: T.B.A.
Extra:
OP
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0-24 hrs ago
Rogue Row - The Fall From Disgrace
_______________________________________
• R O G U E R O W I N T E R V I E W •
_________________________________
• F A C E C L A I M •
Aimee-Ffion Edwards
_________________________________
Government Name: Elinor Price
Known As: Dr. Ellie “Sweetpie” Price
Age: Thirty-three
Height & Build: 5’6”, slim, unassuming build; practical posture rather than imposing
Credentials:
GMC-registered forensic pathologist; postgraduate qualifications in forensic pathology and injury pattern analysis; Home Office–approved consultant for sensitive and intelligence-adjacent post-mortems
Employment History:
NHS Forensic Pathology Services
Home Office Consultant (custody deaths, sensitive fatalities)
Intelligence and Counter-Terror advisory post-mortems
Job Title @ Rogue Row: Forensic Pathologist & Victimology Consultant
Desirable Traits:
Approachable, optimistic, meticulous, emotionally steady, quietly principled, excellent communicator under pressure
Undesirable Traits:
Refuses to soften conclusions, struggles with institutional compromise, carries moral fatigue beneath a pleasant exterior
Known As: Dr. Ellie “Sweetpie” Price
Age: Thirty-three
Height & Build: 5’6”, slim, unassuming build; practical posture rather than imposing
Credentials:
GMC-registered forensic pathologist; postgraduate qualifications in forensic pathology and injury pattern analysis; Home Office–approved consultant for sensitive and intelligence-adjacent post-mortems
Employment History:
NHS Forensic Pathology Services
Home Office Consultant (custody deaths, sensitive fatalities)
Intelligence and Counter-Terror advisory post-mortems
Job Title @ Rogue Row: Forensic Pathologist & Victimology Consultant
Desirable Traits:
Approachable, optimistic, meticulous, emotionally steady, quietly principled, excellent communicator under pressure
Undesirable Traits:
Refuses to soften conclusions, struggles with institutional compromise, carries moral fatigue beneath a pleasant exterior
_______________________________________
• R O G U E R O W I N T E R V I E W •
Dear Dr. Elinor Price,
Congratulations, you are formally invited to attend a face-to-face interview with RR branch Director Erin Delaney-Rayner. Upon careful review of each prospective candidate, you’ve been hand-picked and selected for the final interview stage.
Please attend the below location @ 13:00, 15/01/26.
27 Seymour Street, London, W1H 7EJ.
Please note this email will be unavailable to view exactly 60 seconds post monitored viewing. We encourage candidates to memorise the aforementioned address.
Your discretion is both advised and appreciated.
We look forward to meeting you,
RR Administrative
Congratulations, you are formally invited to attend a face-to-face interview with RR branch Director Erin Delaney-Rayner. Upon careful review of each prospective candidate, you’ve been hand-picked and selected for the final interview stage.
Please attend the below location @ 13:00, 15/01/26.
27 Seymour Street, London, W1H 7EJ.
Please note this email will be unavailable to view exactly 60 seconds post monitored viewing. We encourage candidates to memorise the aforementioned address.
Your discretion is both advised and appreciated.
We look forward to meeting you,
RR Administrative
“Afternoon. Director Erin Delaney-Rayner. Pleasure’s all mine. I won’t waste our time with pleasantries nor will I be wasting breath on company benefits, bleating some brainwashing bullshit about how this is your second chance... We both know there’s no dental insurance or gym memberships for Rogue Row Recruits. Frankly, we’ve barely got a functioning Nespresso Machine.
I’ll start by thanking you for your time and consideration, Agent. It’s not easy for any of us being here. Deputy General and I spent an unnerving amount of time scouring the database for… Well… Agents like you.
The brief is simple. MET’s in the shit. Deeply. We’re the rescue squad. Buck stops with us now. Guess the squeaky clean ain’t cleaning up. Funny that… We’ll be working entirely out of this miserable office building with no access to MI5 resources nor staff nor a working boiler. It’s just us. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And anyway, you read the Info Pack we couriered, right? Disposed of it as instructed, yes? Good.
Let’s start with the elephant in the room, shall we? Tell me about why you’re at Rogue Row and not at HQ?
- Because I submitted a post-mortem report that didn’t change when the surrounding circumstances became uncomfortable. I was asked to review it. I did. I was asked to reframe it. I couldn’t. The findings were accurate. That didn’t stop being true.
Alright. That tracks with what I’ve got on file… Want to tell me why you’re willing to drop back into the Field? Sure you’ve got the minerals this time?
- I don’t think the work was ever the issue. I liked the work. I still do. What I struggled with was being asked to treat evidence as negotiable. Rogue Row sounds like it values function over appearances. That matters to me.
When you were based at MI5, what was your speciality? And when in your career did it transpire that this was where your talents would reside?
- Custody deaths and sensitive post-mortems cases that arrived with explanations already attached. I became very familiar with separating what the body demonstrated from what people hoped it would suggest.
Alright. That’s what I thought. Your file speaks volumes but I really like to hear straight from the horses mouth. Now… This branch is going to be a fucked-up hybrid of Major Crimes, Anti-Terrorism and Specialised Surveillance/Reconnaissance… Are you prepared to be spread so thin you can barely sleep? Barely eat? We’re going to be living and breathing this, this shit right here. Are you prepared to make the sacrifices necessary for the assignment?
- I won’t pretend that’s ideal. But I’ve learned that tiredness fades. Compromise tends to linger.
Says here you were one of MI5s most coveted agents… Seems everyone at HQ wanted a slice of you then no one would touch you with a fucking barge pole. What’s going to hold you back from being the biggest regret they’ve ever had?
- Nothing, if you’re expecting me to lie. Everything, if you aren’t.
Great. Perfect. Thanks so much for your time today. That’ll be all. I’ll be in touch. Fix the Nespresso Machine on your way out, if you can.
- I did notice the Nespresso machine on the way in. If it’s the descaling light, that’s an easy fix.
I’ll start by thanking you for your time and consideration, Agent. It’s not easy for any of us being here. Deputy General and I spent an unnerving amount of time scouring the database for… Well… Agents like you.
The brief is simple. MET’s in the shit. Deeply. We’re the rescue squad. Buck stops with us now. Guess the squeaky clean ain’t cleaning up. Funny that… We’ll be working entirely out of this miserable office building with no access to MI5 resources nor staff nor a working boiler. It’s just us. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And anyway, you read the Info Pack we couriered, right? Disposed of it as instructed, yes? Good.
Let’s start with the elephant in the room, shall we? Tell me about why you’re at Rogue Row and not at HQ?
- Because I submitted a post-mortem report that didn’t change when the surrounding circumstances became uncomfortable. I was asked to review it. I did. I was asked to reframe it. I couldn’t. The findings were accurate. That didn’t stop being true.
Alright. That tracks with what I’ve got on file… Want to tell me why you’re willing to drop back into the Field? Sure you’ve got the minerals this time?
- I don’t think the work was ever the issue. I liked the work. I still do. What I struggled with was being asked to treat evidence as negotiable. Rogue Row sounds like it values function over appearances. That matters to me.
When you were based at MI5, what was your speciality? And when in your career did it transpire that this was where your talents would reside?
- Custody deaths and sensitive post-mortems cases that arrived with explanations already attached. I became very familiar with separating what the body demonstrated from what people hoped it would suggest.
Alright. That’s what I thought. Your file speaks volumes but I really like to hear straight from the horses mouth. Now… This branch is going to be a fucked-up hybrid of Major Crimes, Anti-Terrorism and Specialised Surveillance/Reconnaissance… Are you prepared to be spread so thin you can barely sleep? Barely eat? We’re going to be living and breathing this, this shit right here. Are you prepared to make the sacrifices necessary for the assignment?
- I won’t pretend that’s ideal. But I’ve learned that tiredness fades. Compromise tends to linger.
Says here you were one of MI5s most coveted agents… Seems everyone at HQ wanted a slice of you then no one would touch you with a fucking barge pole. What’s going to hold you back from being the biggest regret they’ve ever had?
- Nothing, if you’re expecting me to lie. Everything, if you aren’t.
Great. Perfect. Thanks so much for your time today. That’ll be all. I’ll be in touch. Fix the Nespresso Machine on your way out, if you can.
- I did notice the Nespresso machine on the way in. If it’s the descaling light, that’s an easy fix.
_________________________________
• F A C E C L A I M •
Aimee-Ffion Edwards
_________________________________
Government Name: Richard Ferdinand Armitage
Known As: Spot, Spotty
Age: Twenty-six
Height & Build: 6’2”, slim, lanky, a true computer nerd giant
Credentials:
MSc Data Science and Network Security
Postgraduate certifications in Cybersecurity Architecture and Incident Response
Programming in C++, COBOL (legacy systems), JavaScript, PHP
Employment History:
Independent cybersecurity consultant for transport, finance, and municipal infrastructure systems
Exposed a critical authentication flaw in a regional airport boarding network, preventing a mass credential leak
Freelance incident-response analyst for several government-adjacent contractors
Job Title @ Rogue Row: Independent Cyber-Forensics Analyst
Desirable Traits:
Earnest, collaborative, observant of patterns others miss, patient explainer when calm, resilient under pressure, quietly loyal to colleagues
Undesirable Traits:
Talks too much when nervous, misses sarcasm entirely, forgets to eat or sleep during cases, naïve about politics inside organisations, tends to assume people are acting in good faith
_________________________________
• F A C E C L A I M •
_________________________________
Known As: Spot, Spotty
Age: Twenty-six
Height & Build: 6’2”, slim, lanky, a true computer nerd giant
Credentials:
MSc Data Science and Network Security
Postgraduate certifications in Cybersecurity Architecture and Incident Response
Programming in C++, COBOL (legacy systems), JavaScript, PHP
Employment History:
Independent cybersecurity consultant for transport, finance, and municipal infrastructure systems
Exposed a critical authentication flaw in a regional airport boarding network, preventing a mass credential leak
Freelance incident-response analyst for several government-adjacent contractors
Job Title @ Rogue Row: Independent Cyber-Forensics Analyst
Desirable Traits:
Earnest, collaborative, observant of patterns others miss, patient explainer when calm, resilient under pressure, quietly loyal to colleagues
Undesirable Traits:
Talks too much when nervous, misses sarcasm entirely, forgets to eat or sleep during cases, naïve about politics inside organisations, tends to assume people are acting in good faith
_________________________________
• F A C E C L A I M •
_________________________________
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
Member
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0-24 hrs ago
Charmed, I'm sure
“Volatile witch? Yeah, the irony wasn't lost on me either.”
A newly awakened Phoenix Witch whose Magika manifests as uncontrolled, emotionally driven ignition. Fire responds instinctively to stress, fear, and anger rather than ritual or intent, making containment a constant challenge. Her power is raw, visible, and deeply inconvenient.
...especially in a world that survives by staying hidden.
Beatrice, or Trish to anyone who fucking knows better, is volatile in the way live wires are: reactive, dangerous when mishandled, and impossible to ignore once sparked. A hell-on-wheels punk-gal by nature and choice. She bristles at authority, pushes back against expectation, and has a tongue that sizzles with scathing wit. She feels deeply and immediately, with little patience for introspection in the moment. Tends to act first, rationalise later; or never, preferably. For all the heat she throws off, there is a surprising soft simmer beneath all the Alt bravado and middlefingers. She’s protective of those she cares about, deeply uncomfortable with being idolised, and far more afraid of losing control than she ever admits.
She hates being managed. Being told what she is meant to be. Being asked about her favourite breakfast cereal. The mythology surrounding Phoenix Witches irritates her on principle; she didn’t ask to be reborn, purified, or symbolic. She just wants the fire to stop ruining her life. Humour is her pressure valve, dry, often sharp, and occasionally threatening. When cornered emotionally, she lashes out. When overwhelmed, she burns.
Her Witchhood announced itself violently and without permission. The first ignition wasn’t kind. It was panic, heat, scorched skin, and the realisation that this wasn’t going away. Small incidents followed; flames flaring during arguments, objects igniting when her emotions spiked, the smell of smoke clinging to her clothes no matter how carefully she pretended and scrubbed. Any attempt to suppress it only made things worse.
Trish is a high-risk Initiate, inducted quickly and with little ceremony under the guise of safety rather than belief. Training focuses exclusively on containment, grounding, and damage control. A fact she resents even as she recognises the necessity. She clashes frequently with structure-heavy instruction and responds poorly to being treated as a symbol of the Resurgence, or worse - a temperamental teen, pushing back against anyone who tries to romanticise or belittle her volatility.
๑ Beatrice "Trish" Olivia McKinley ๑
☾ Burns bright. Talks back. The Misfits can’t keep up. ☽
“Volatile witch? Yeah, the irony wasn't lost on me either.”
۞ Phoenix Witch ۞
A newly awakened Phoenix Witch whose Magika manifests as uncontrolled, emotionally driven ignition. Fire responds instinctively to stress, fear, and anger rather than ritual or intent, making containment a constant challenge. Her power is raw, visible, and deeply inconvenient.
...especially in a world that survives by staying hidden.
❦ Personality & History ❦
Beatrice, or Trish to anyone who fucking knows better, is volatile in the way live wires are: reactive, dangerous when mishandled, and impossible to ignore once sparked. A hell-on-wheels punk-gal by nature and choice. She bristles at authority, pushes back against expectation, and has a tongue that sizzles with scathing wit. She feels deeply and immediately, with little patience for introspection in the moment. Tends to act first, rationalise later; or never, preferably. For all the heat she throws off, there is a surprising soft simmer beneath all the Alt bravado and middlefingers. She’s protective of those she cares about, deeply uncomfortable with being idolised, and far more afraid of losing control than she ever admits.
She hates being managed. Being told what she is meant to be. Being asked about her favourite breakfast cereal. The mythology surrounding Phoenix Witches irritates her on principle; she didn’t ask to be reborn, purified, or symbolic. She just wants the fire to stop ruining her life. Humour is her pressure valve, dry, often sharp, and occasionally threatening. When cornered emotionally, she lashes out. When overwhelmed, she burns.
Her Witchhood announced itself violently and without permission. The first ignition wasn’t kind. It was panic, heat, scorched skin, and the realisation that this wasn’t going away. Small incidents followed; flames flaring during arguments, objects igniting when her emotions spiked, the smell of smoke clinging to her clothes no matter how carefully she pretended and scrubbed. Any attempt to suppress it only made things worse.
❦ Corinthia Initiate ❦
Trish is a high-risk Initiate, inducted quickly and with little ceremony under the guise of safety rather than belief. Training focuses exclusively on containment, grounding, and damage control. A fact she resents even as she recognises the necessity. She clashes frequently with structure-heavy instruction and responds poorly to being treated as a symbol of the Resurgence, or worse - a temperamental teen, pushing back against anyone who tries to romanticise or belittle her volatility.
⊱ 
⊰
⊰Fun facts:
Plays acoustic guitar; owns a steel-stringed black-painted one. Stickers of various Punk band logos, tipex-drawn slurs, scrapes from sprung strings and worn nails decorate the black base. Likes the sound better than plugged-variants, makes punk music feel more raw.
Pet ferret; not a familiar, but owns a young female ferret named Fig. Typically in her cage, but can often be found peeking out of collars, pockets and occasionally sleeping curled under tufts of Trish’s misty rose dyed hair.
Hates coriander and mint; whoever decided adding those in dishes is a monster and deserves Trish’s ire. Same goes for sprouts and cauliflower.
Loves plushies; Guilty pleasure, and denies they ever exist. Yet displays them eagerly on her bed or top of a wardrobe if she can.
Amateur botanist; Enjoys keeping a few plants, favourites include orchids, sunflowers and has gotten her hands on a bonsai tree off an old classmate.
Plays acoustic guitar; owns a steel-stringed black-painted one. Stickers of various Punk band logos, tipex-drawn slurs, scrapes from sprung strings and worn nails decorate the black base. Likes the sound better than plugged-variants, makes punk music feel more raw.
Pet ferret; not a familiar, but owns a young female ferret named Fig. Typically in her cage, but can often be found peeking out of collars, pockets and occasionally sleeping curled under tufts of Trish’s misty rose dyed hair.
Hates coriander and mint; whoever decided adding those in dishes is a monster and deserves Trish’s ire. Same goes for sprouts and cauliflower.
Loves plushies; Guilty pleasure, and denies they ever exist. Yet displays them eagerly on her bed or top of a wardrobe if she can.
Amateur botanist; Enjoys keeping a few plants, favourites include orchids, sunflowers and has gotten her hands on a bonsai tree off an old classmate.
Let Us Hear Your Voice - Pennywise
Do What I Say - Clawfinger
I Don’t Wanna Be A Superhero - Roadrunner United
I’m The Problem With Society - Frenzal Rhomb
Angel’s Wings - Social Distortion
Providence - Poor Man’s Poison
Mysanthropic Drunken Loner - Days N Daze
Bastard’s Way - Far From Finished
Photosynthesis - Frank Turner
Tommy-Gun - Royal Republic
Do What I Say - Clawfinger
I Don’t Wanna Be A Superhero - Roadrunner United
I’m The Problem With Society - Frenzal Rhomb
Angel’s Wings - Social Distortion
Providence - Poor Man’s Poison
Mysanthropic Drunken Loner - Days N Daze
Bastard’s Way - Far From Finished
Photosynthesis - Frank Turner
Tommy-Gun - Royal Republic
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
Member
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0-24 hrs ago
Shadow's Vigil
Name: Ophelia Margrave
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Role: Hunter
Appearance: Tall, lanky, bookish and overall the opposite of what the church’s hunters typically embody. Ophelia’s expertise is purely theoretical despite having been with the church for well over 20 years. She’s therefore of a nervous disposition intermingled with an insatiable curiosity for the secrets of the Ichor. A raven-black bob cut frames her rounded, relatively unblemished face. Dark grey eyes peering through thin round glasses. A large gash sits just under her eye; a reminder of where she came from and what it’s cost her. She’s typically dressed in the church’s hunter garb. Plated boots, vambraces and white gold-trimmed silks. A thick fur-lined cape draped over a hardened breast plate.
Personality: Analytical, but socially withdrawn. Ophelia is hardly the model scholar or hunter. She’s shy, though has a hunger for solving the Ichor mysteries. Knows how to fight, though has little in the way of actual experience. She’s the bookish nerd dragged from her desk because the organization was spread thin at the moment - and her superior figured it was high time she got some field experience in. Words are clipped and safe, laced with a hint of warmth underneath all the technical jargon she expulses. Friends call her awkward, colleagues deem her an obsessed weirdo and her superiors are quite keen with her studious nature.
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Role: Hunter
Appearance: Tall, lanky, bookish and overall the opposite of what the church’s hunters typically embody. Ophelia’s expertise is purely theoretical despite having been with the church for well over 20 years. She’s therefore of a nervous disposition intermingled with an insatiable curiosity for the secrets of the Ichor. A raven-black bob cut frames her rounded, relatively unblemished face. Dark grey eyes peering through thin round glasses. A large gash sits just under her eye; a reminder of where she came from and what it’s cost her. She’s typically dressed in the church’s hunter garb. Plated boots, vambraces and white gold-trimmed silks. A thick fur-lined cape draped over a hardened breast plate.
Personality: Analytical, but socially withdrawn. Ophelia is hardly the model scholar or hunter. She’s shy, though has a hunger for solving the Ichor mysteries. Knows how to fight, though has little in the way of actual experience. She’s the bookish nerd dragged from her desk because the organization was spread thin at the moment - and her superior figured it was high time she got some field experience in. Words are clipped and safe, laced with a hint of warmth underneath all the technical jargon she expulses. Friends call her awkward, colleagues deem her an obsessed weirdo and her superiors are quite keen with her studious nature.
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
Summons - The Untold Story of Mages
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Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir was born into a raven-banner house sworn to the Antarctic throne generations ago. Her father was a war-captain and omen-reader both, a quiet man who taught her how to read wind on snow and intent in a rival’s eyes. Their clan lived along frozen fjords. Where longships were hauled onto ice and wolves were both threat and teacher.
Her magic surfaced early, during a winter raid. She struck a raider with a wood axe and the wound froze solid before blood could fall. The Crown’s riders arrived within a week. She was taken politely, firmly, permanently. Her mother kissed her brow and told her to be strong enough to survive kings.
The day she was branded Brunhildr, her birth name was not spoken aloud again in the hall.
Ylfa is controlled before she is kind. Years of discipline have sanded down impulsiveness into something sharp and deliberate. She speaks little, watches much, and remembers everything. Around strangers she is iron. Courteous, distant, immovable.
Around soldiers she is practical, even protective, because she knows exactly what war takes from them. Beneath that restraint lives a restless doubt. She believes in duty, but she cannot ignore the children hunted for the same gift she bears openly. She carries a quiet guilt like an old scar. She tells herself that if someone must hold the axe for the Crown, it is better that it be someone who still questions.
In rare private moments she laughs dryly, enjoys strong drink, and listens to skalds recite old sagas of warriors who chose their own fate. Those stories linger.
Friendship is possible but slow. She trusts those who survive battle beside her or who speak plainly without fear. Court intrigue bores her; loyalty proven in cold and blood matters more.
Romance is nearly impossible while she wears the Brunhildr mantle. She believes attachments are liabilities the Crown would exploit or destroy. She allows herself affection only in thoughts she never speaks.
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
ąɬ ą ɠƖąŋƈɛ:
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir
Epithet: Brunhildr, the Valkyrie
34
The Antarctik, Yrskald
Ylfa’s magic centers around the manifestations of frost runes around her body enhancing her physical prowess. At a moment’s notice she can activate specific marks to push past the limitations of the human body. Strength, endurance and even speed enhanced to superhuman level.
It’s not without consequence, as these enhancements do not account for fatique and strain. Tendons tear, bones potentially break and nerves snap if Ylfa pushes hard enough. It’s not invincibility, it’s breaking human limitations without accounting for the natural restraint that prevents bodily damage.
Ylfa’s runes are not cumulative powers. Each one forces a single bodily system beyond its limits. Even brief use risks injury; prolonged use guarantees it.
Beyond that she’s dabbled in general frost magic, using it to trip or surprise opponents in combat. A frozen spike here, a touch of cold there, the sudden lurge of a pillar jutting from the ground just enough to push someone off balance.
She respects the monarch personally and believes in the necessity of order in a land where famine and raiders can erase villages overnight. But she sees clearly what the Crown does to unregistered mages, and she knows she survives only because she serves. Their protection is a leash wrapped in velvet. She does not pretend otherwise.
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
◊ ŋąɱɛ ◊
Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir
Epithet: Brunhildr, the Valkyrie
◊ Aɠҽ ◊
34
◊ ❝ The Crown names me Brunhildr. My kin still call me Ylfa. The she-wolf mage. ❞ ◊
◊ Cσɳƚιɳҽɳƚ σϝ Oɾιɠιɳ ◊
◊ Cσɳƚιɳҽɳƚ σϝ Oɾιɠιɳ ◊
The Antarctik, Yrskald
◊ Pɾαƈƚιƈҽԃ Mαɠιƈ: Lιɠԋƚ ◊
Ylfa’s magic centers around the manifestations of frost runes around her body enhancing her physical prowess. At a moment’s notice she can activate specific marks to push past the limitations of the human body. Strength, endurance and even speed enhanced to superhuman level.
It’s not without consequence, as these enhancements do not account for fatique and strain. Tendons tear, bones potentially break and nerves snap if Ylfa pushes hard enough. It’s not invincibility, it’s breaking human limitations without accounting for the natural restraint that prevents bodily damage.
Ylfa’s runes are not cumulative powers. Each one forces a single bodily system beyond its limits. Even brief use risks injury; prolonged use guarantees it.
Beyond that she’s dabbled in general frost magic, using it to trip or surprise opponents in combat. A frozen spike here, a touch of cold there, the sudden lurge of a pillar jutting from the ground just enough to push someone off balance.
◊ Rҽʅαƚισɳʂԋιρ ɯιƚԋ Rσყαʅƚყ ◊
Loyal in deed, conflicted in conscience
She respects the monarch personally and believes in the necessity of order in a land where famine and raiders can erase villages overnight. But she sees clearly what the Crown does to unregistered mages, and she knows she survives only because she serves. Their protection is a leash wrapped in velvet. She does not pretend otherwise.
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
ą ɖɛɛ℘ɛཞ ɖı۷ɛ
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
◊ ƈɧıƖɖɧơơɖ ◊
Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir was born into a raven-banner house sworn to the Antarctic throne generations ago. Her father was a war-captain and omen-reader both, a quiet man who taught her how to read wind on snow and intent in a rival’s eyes. Their clan lived along frozen fjords. Where longships were hauled onto ice and wolves were both threat and teacher.
Her magic surfaced early, during a winter raid. She struck a raider with a wood axe and the wound froze solid before blood could fall. The Crown’s riders arrived within a week. She was taken politely, firmly, permanently. Her mother kissed her brow and told her to be strong enough to survive kings.
The day she was branded Brunhildr, her birth name was not spoken aloud again in the hall.
◊ ℘ɛཞʂơŋąƖıɬყ ◊
Ylfa is controlled before she is kind. Years of discipline have sanded down impulsiveness into something sharp and deliberate. She speaks little, watches much, and remembers everything. Around strangers she is iron. Courteous, distant, immovable.
Around soldiers she is practical, even protective, because she knows exactly what war takes from them. Beneath that restraint lives a restless doubt. She believes in duty, but she cannot ignore the children hunted for the same gift she bears openly. She carries a quiet guilt like an old scar. She tells herself that if someone must hold the axe for the Crown, it is better that it be someone who still questions.
In rare private moments she laughs dryly, enjoys strong drink, and listens to skalds recite old sagas of warriors who chose their own fate. Those stories linger.
◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ʄཞıɛŋɖʂɧı℘: 2 ◊
◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ཞơɱąŋƈɛ: 1 ◊
◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ཞơɱąŋƈɛ: 1 ◊
Friendship is possible but slow. She trusts those who survive battle beside her or who speak plainly without fear. Court intrigue bores her; loyalty proven in cold and blood matters more.
Romance is nearly impossible while she wears the Brunhildr mantle. She believes attachments are liabilities the Crown would exploit or destroy. She allows herself affection only in thoughts she never speaks.
◊ Aρρҽαɾαɳƈҽ ◊
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
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0-24 hrs ago
Intriguingly's
Character Name: Alyson “Allie” Wright
Personality:
Bright, jovial and energetic. Alyson is the devil-may-care behind a toothy grin and a voice that has no business being that smooth. Optimistic to a degree that occasionally baffles people around her, she has a talent for finding the interesting angle in a bad situation and running with it. She's flirty when the mood strikes, though anyone who's tried to actually pin her down on that front has discovered she becomes suddenly, cheerfully, and thoroughly unavailable. Thrills are her currency. Locked doors, unfamiliar rooftops, places she probably shouldn't be entering but nobody ever told her off for. Not out of rebellion, but genuine curiosity. She just always wants to see what’s on the other side.
Background:
Local gal doing local things. Not much to say beyond a general thrillseeker who preferred digging through mud and supposedly haunted buildings over gossiping and fancy parties. A troublemaker Alyson isn’t, but that doesn’t mean she’s got a squeaky-clean record either; Most likely the odd smudge of a misdemeanour here and there. Works at a local skateboard store as a clerk and mechanic while spending her free time getting into technically legal trouble that cops wouldn’t look twice at.
Skills:
Skating - Has been rolling on wheels ever since she could stand on her own two feet. She’s not Tony Hawk, but genuinely decent at clearing a ramp if she has to.
Parkour - Why walk the steps when you can climb/walk/jump every available surface and get into places you’re definitely not supposed to be?
Lock-picking - Weeks of YouTube tutorials and sheer determination to sneak into her brother’s room for snacks. Seriously, she’s not a fucking criminal. Mostly.
Practical repairs - Working at the local skateshop has given Alyson ample time to know which way a screw tightens or how to wire a plug.
Physical resilience - Years of falls and getting back up have made her genuinely hard to rattle. Or at least difficult to make her wince at every little bump.
Items:
Skateboard, a small lock-pick roll tucked in her jacket, phone, a flat-head multitool and probably several specks of dust in a pocket somewhere if she’d count those.
Character Name: Alyson “Allie” Wright
Personality:
Bright, jovial and energetic. Alyson is the devil-may-care behind a toothy grin and a voice that has no business being that smooth. Optimistic to a degree that occasionally baffles people around her, she has a talent for finding the interesting angle in a bad situation and running with it. She's flirty when the mood strikes, though anyone who's tried to actually pin her down on that front has discovered she becomes suddenly, cheerfully, and thoroughly unavailable. Thrills are her currency. Locked doors, unfamiliar rooftops, places she probably shouldn't be entering but nobody ever told her off for. Not out of rebellion, but genuine curiosity. She just always wants to see what’s on the other side.
Background:
Local gal doing local things. Not much to say beyond a general thrillseeker who preferred digging through mud and supposedly haunted buildings over gossiping and fancy parties. A troublemaker Alyson isn’t, but that doesn’t mean she’s got a squeaky-clean record either; Most likely the odd smudge of a misdemeanour here and there. Works at a local skateboard store as a clerk and mechanic while spending her free time getting into technically legal trouble that cops wouldn’t look twice at.
Skills:
Skating - Has been rolling on wheels ever since she could stand on her own two feet. She’s not Tony Hawk, but genuinely decent at clearing a ramp if she has to.
Parkour - Why walk the steps when you can climb/walk/jump every available surface and get into places you’re definitely not supposed to be?
Lock-picking - Weeks of YouTube tutorials and sheer determination to sneak into her brother’s room for snacks. Seriously, she’s not a fucking criminal. Mostly.
Practical repairs - Working at the local skateshop has given Alyson ample time to know which way a screw tightens or how to wire a plug.
Physical resilience - Years of falls and getting back up have made her genuinely hard to rattle. Or at least difficult to make her wince at every little bump.
Items:
Skateboard, a small lock-pick roll tucked in her jacket, phone, a flat-head multitool and probably several specks of dust in a pocket somewhere if she’d count those.
OP
Byte Composed of 8 bits, probably
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0-24 hrs ago
On The Wings of Dragons
Name: Nimethel
Age: 28
Description:
Coiled muscle and a lithe frame. As a Beastkin, Nimethel is built for long chases and longer stillness. Not exactly a strong arm, but fast and limber. Short for her kind, which she feels is an advantage in her typical line of work. Black-spotted grey fur and yellow cat’s eyes. Wears leathers and cloaks, tight fits, silver mane of hair done up in braids she once learned from the Dwarves.
Nimethel is curt before she is kind. Direct before she shows emotion. Not grumpy, but generally unfamiliar with immediate kindness and kinship. Formality serves her better, and is more honest when responding to hostility and caution than openness.
Race: Beastkin - Mountain lion
Nation: Feros-born
Magic type: Mana - Nimethel’s abilities are more obfuscation than grand displays of roaring storms and raging waters. She uses stealth, and enjoys the minimalist nature of proving that mana doesn’t need to be thrown like a weight in boxing matches.
Abilities:
Nimethel’s abilities center around hiding in plain sight. Flickers of light refracted to cover tracks, shadows curled where they didn't provide enough cover. If necessary Nimethel can use it offensively as well. Shadow-y tendrils to restrain or cut opponents. Illusions to distract and give her opportunity to strike in stealth. Owns an enchanted bow that allows her to fire magically conjured light arrows.
Background:
A beastkin with no tribe, Nimethel has survived the majority of Feros life stealing, reaving and particularly never staying in one place for far too long. Perhaps expected given Beastkin nomadic ways, but hers were always frequent. Leaving when the footing got too hot and her face was drawn on a wanted poster. She didn’t become a dragon rider by choice. Rather, Nimethel bonded with the only creature she ever could. A dragon who, much like herself, decidedly avoided the light and refused to be bound by pack or clan. The choice to actually join the alliance, however? That was a cruel proposition by government officials when Nimethel was finally in cuffs. Be sentenced or serve in an effort to fight a greater threat. That Nirri was implied a not-so-merciful end made the Beastkin clench her teeth and accept the terms. Not out of love or hate for something that may well be an unstoppable force, but because they might've hurt Nirri.
And that... Was enough.
Dragon name: Nyrrimae “Niri”
Type: Ferosi Bonepale Wyrm
Description:
A young female dragon of the Feros deserts where it roamed underground and endured warmth and cold alike. Nyrrimae is a Wyrmling that has lived her life in darkness and shadow. Effectively blind and senses by smell, hearing and a special membrane along her limbs, neck and tail to detect vibrations. Bonepale scales, paler eyes, frills along her spine. Three-toed claws on short legs mostly meant for digging through rough stone and dense dirt. The typical dragon's breath is a powerful echolocation that doubles as a sonic scream to disorient foes. Her wings are sturdy yet small, making travel for more than one rider an impossible task. She’s big, but not necessarily a giant. Relatively small and dense compared to many other dragons. Bulky in order to survive the land and endurance to withstand potential hazards. Nyrrimae isn’t fast, her kind never is.
Name: Nimethel
Age: 28
Description:
Coiled muscle and a lithe frame. As a Beastkin, Nimethel is built for long chases and longer stillness. Not exactly a strong arm, but fast and limber. Short for her kind, which she feels is an advantage in her typical line of work. Black-spotted grey fur and yellow cat’s eyes. Wears leathers and cloaks, tight fits, silver mane of hair done up in braids she once learned from the Dwarves.
Nimethel is curt before she is kind. Direct before she shows emotion. Not grumpy, but generally unfamiliar with immediate kindness and kinship. Formality serves her better, and is more honest when responding to hostility and caution than openness.
Race: Beastkin - Mountain lion
Nation: Feros-born
Magic type: Mana - Nimethel’s abilities are more obfuscation than grand displays of roaring storms and raging waters. She uses stealth, and enjoys the minimalist nature of proving that mana doesn’t need to be thrown like a weight in boxing matches.
Abilities:
Nimethel’s abilities center around hiding in plain sight. Flickers of light refracted to cover tracks, shadows curled where they didn't provide enough cover. If necessary Nimethel can use it offensively as well. Shadow-y tendrils to restrain or cut opponents. Illusions to distract and give her opportunity to strike in stealth. Owns an enchanted bow that allows her to fire magically conjured light arrows.
Background:
A beastkin with no tribe, Nimethel has survived the majority of Feros life stealing, reaving and particularly never staying in one place for far too long. Perhaps expected given Beastkin nomadic ways, but hers were always frequent. Leaving when the footing got too hot and her face was drawn on a wanted poster. She didn’t become a dragon rider by choice. Rather, Nimethel bonded with the only creature she ever could. A dragon who, much like herself, decidedly avoided the light and refused to be bound by pack or clan. The choice to actually join the alliance, however? That was a cruel proposition by government officials when Nimethel was finally in cuffs. Be sentenced or serve in an effort to fight a greater threat. That Nirri was implied a not-so-merciful end made the Beastkin clench her teeth and accept the terms. Not out of love or hate for something that may well be an unstoppable force, but because they might've hurt Nirri.
And that... Was enough.
Dragon name: Nyrrimae “Niri”
Type: Ferosi Bonepale Wyrm
Description:
A young female dragon of the Feros deserts where it roamed underground and endured warmth and cold alike. Nyrrimae is a Wyrmling that has lived her life in darkness and shadow. Effectively blind and senses by smell, hearing and a special membrane along her limbs, neck and tail to detect vibrations. Bonepale scales, paler eyes, frills along her spine. Three-toed claws on short legs mostly meant for digging through rough stone and dense dirt. The typical dragon's breath is a powerful echolocation that doubles as a sonic scream to disorient foes. Her wings are sturdy yet small, making travel for more than one rider an impossible task. She’s big, but not necessarily a giant. Relatively small and dense compared to many other dragons. Bulky in order to survive the land and endurance to withstand potential hazards. Nyrrimae isn’t fast, her kind never is.
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