The Dreamwalker's words did not bother Nemeia, his caution was merited and there was wisdom in his warning. His concern for their safety was touching and the tiefling could not help but smile. She cast a quick eye at the motely crew gathered outside the tomb, two had turned to three and then five in a short time. Five was a good number, certainly when confronting unknown numbers of undead. Still, she nursed other hopes, and her heart fluttered with unbridled joy as she desperately latched onto Knossos' suggestion that talking remained an alternative.
Taking a step closer to the elderly occultist, Nemeia nodded energetically, "YES! Let us parley with the poor, wretched creatures that lurk in this no doubt cursed tomb. Not all undead are evil creatures hellbent on spreading death and disease, some are simply weary souls seeking to return to the long, peaceful sleep that they have been promised. It would be right to offer them kindness."
She gestured towards Galaxor's axe, Ivraan's spear, and Ilyana's cutlass,"I feel great confidence in our abilities, but we needn't dispense with good manners and good will...at least to start?"
Nemeia did not doubt that the others could feel the wrongness that poured forth from the entrance of the tomb. Standing outside she felt cold, as cold as she had on a cold winter night in Morenia. A decidedly unnatural phenomenon, standing in the daylight as she was. Nemeia knew better than to expect a peaceful resolution. But she had hope. She wanted to think that things could go well. She had decided to try.
Galaxor's song warmed her still. There was a cheer to the giant that comforted. Ivraan's person too shone with a pleasing light. She knew little of the cutlass wielding woman, but she seemed the capable sort. Nemeia was not alone. The pilgrims could do great things together. She believed it with all of her heart.
"Haha, yes! Kill these bastards!" Ziska hissed, cackling loudly to herself as she watched Ingrid pop out of the snow and launch her attack on the lance of misfit toys.
Her amusement turned to outright loud laughter, laughter that shook her to her very core, and hurt with all the wounds she had collected, as Marit launched her own impromptu attack. She had always hated plans anyways. Her instructors had been right. The grizzled old drill sergeants back on Canopus knew the game. There was only one mistake. There was only one sin. The only mortal sin was to hesitate. Everyone knew that. All the way down to the lowest-ranking enlisted infantryman. To seize the initiative and act was the primary imperative. There was no priority higher than that of achieving the mission, of accomplishing the objectives the Colonel had given them.
Ingrid had acted. Marit had acted. And now, she, Ziska, would act.
Death, the old man wanted death, and he would get it, one way or another. Orders didn't matter. The rules didn't matter. Not anymore. Not as long as they accomplished the mission. Overkill was the only answer.
Slamming the throttle of the RVN-3L until she felt the familiar thud of metal on metal, Ziska felt herself pushed back into her seat as the BattleMech leapt up from the crouching position she had left it in. Bursting into a full speed run as the ECM began to scream, sending lines of burning chrome, all the signal noise that Reya had harnessed, smashing into the sensors of the enemy lance. Ziska wasn't going to keep Ingrid waiting. She wasn't going to miss out on any of the party. Speed was what she wanted Speed was what she needed. Speed was what would keep her safe. And if not...then she'd at least die quickly.
Thundering over the packed snow, across the fragile bridge of rock and ice, Ziska race through grid T6, taking aim and firing the entirety of the RVN-3L's payload at the Firestarter. Ingrid had made it clear, whoever the pilot was, he was going to be the first to die. Pulling the trigger, Ziska smiled, her eyes calm, and her heart cold.
Beams of green, two brilliant rays of light, burned ozone, and slashed at the light mech, as Ziska pulled her crosshairs over the Firestarter. As one medium laser dug a deep molten trench into the leg of the Firestarter, the pilot reacted, lurching to the side, and avoiding the burn of the other medium laser.
"Fuck you, you shifty bastard," Ziska shouted to herself, sweeping to keep her TAG center mass on the dodging light mech. Her SRM-6 missiles peppered the Firestarter. Slamming into metal slag, crumbling armor, and stripping the enemy mech down to the internals at several locations. It was a good start, but it wasn't enough. Ziska wanted to see limbs falling off. She wanted to see critical components explode outwards in maelstroms of fire. She wanted to see the fucker die.
Hit with everything the RVN-3L could throw at it, the Firestarter somehow kept going, it kept dancing, and didn't seem like it was gonna stop. The light mech was hurt, that much was obvious. Still, the pilot didn't stumble and didn't fall, much to Ziska's disappointment. The pilot was good, he was real good, and Ziska hated him for it. Even more than she had shorts moments before.
The NARC missile symbology that appeared on her HUD and blinked a pleasant green was her only consolation. Someone would have one hell of a shot. And if they didn't take it, then she intended to finish the job.
Dominika Kovač Pignatelli Female | 23 | Lorenzia Scion of Metal
_______________________________________________ "She's quiet for a Scion, a bit plain, more than a little strange, but she's nice, she's reliable, and she doesn't cause much trouble." ________________________________________
"Each metal has a certain power, which is different from metal to metal, just like people, just like Scions, I suppose."
Holy Sigil Location
Dom bears the holy sigil, the mark of the goddess on the back of her left shoulder.
Appearance
A coiled spring of muscle hidden beneath loose garments, Dom cuts an assuming figure. Measuring at the lower end of average, she rarely stands at her full height, hunching over one project or another. Pragmatic to her very core, she keeps her black hair short, never letting it reach much further than the top of her shoulders. Were it not for the gentle advice of her mother, her priestly mother, she'd cut it shorter still. Her eyes are the grey of carefully worked metal, steel orbs that shine brightly with curiosity and bursts of nervous energy. Left to her own devices, Dom has a habit of acquiring fresh cuts, modest bruises, and minor burns as she plies her craft. Touched by the sun and grime in equal measure, her skin is a pale shade typical for those Lorenzians hailing from the north.
Even under the careful care of her new minders, Dom has only allowed herself to be gently nudged away from her favored fashion of oil stained overalls to tasteful suits and the exceedingly occasional dress.
Personality
Quiet, introspective, and with a head full of metal, Dom is a young woman caught in a strong current that she has found herself utterly unprepared for and that she is struggling to navigate. She is no blue-blooded aristocrat raised to inherit a position of power and full of grace. She is no wealthy merchant's daughter steeped in privilege and carrying the knowledge of an upper-class education. She is no brilliant socialite poised to take over the world with charm alone. She is no hero, no great warrior or powerful mage threatening reality.
Dom would say she that she was, still is, a nobody, another busy worker bee. Once she toiled away in the shipyards of Lorenzia, earning a a days worth of wages, and trying to keep tight deadlines. And now she works for the people of Gaia, for the Church, and most importantly for the Goddess. An artisan, of the decidedly industrial sort, Dom is hardworking. She's kind. And she is the right person for the job if it comes to building a ship. She could be the right person for the job of Scion. She hopes. Not all the stories are about impressive and mighty figures, surely sometimes the world just needs a commoner like her?
Dutifully religious, Dom is an orthodox believer, steeped in the traditions, venerations, and superstitions of old. Few would accuse her of being a great theologian or particularly inspired when it comes to matters of faith, but she is no fool, she simply prefers not to ask difficult questions. She is unwaveringly obedient to her religious advisors, particularly the templar assigned to her.
Despite being grateful and incredibly honored that she has been chosen by the goddess as the scion of metal, Dom cannot help but feel more than a little overwhelmed by her new station. She is anxious to please. Desperate to do the right thing. And terrified of making a mistake. Under pressure, chiefly when acting in her capacity as scion, she feels great doubts and is painfully unsure of herself. In such moments, to her own great shame, she finds herself wishing for her old, simpler life.
Still, Dom is not one to give up. She holds to the view that her own feelings are not important. She feels that the dark fears that assail her must be faced with an open heart. And she believes, she wants to believe, that it is her duty as a Scion to overcome the challenges placed before her.
Biography
Dom was born in Pogona, a bustling coastal city in Lorenzia, known as the Shipyard of Estora.
The oldest child in a struggling artisan family, Dom inherited a long legacy of labor claimed by untold generations of shipbuilders. Her ancestors, near and far, were artificers said to have built the ships that sailed across the world since before the age of sail.
Times had changed by her birth, her family had fallen on hard times, and Dom grew up in a household on the verge of constant financial ruin. It was only through the largess of a wealthy Lorenzian merchant, Madame Agnelli, that Dom reviewed an education. Among the other impoverished children of the docks, she learned reading, writing, and her numbers.
Guided by her grandmother, a wizened artificer, Dom was taught simple, utilitarian magic, the sort of pragmatic spellcasting vital to shaping metal. She started small, bending small bits of metal, mere trinkets. She progressed to smashing respectably sized pieces of metal into bigger pieces of metal and then what could pass as vaguely useful shapes.
In her eighth year, she was apprenticed to a friend of her father, and sent to live in his small workshop. There she flourished under his kind tutelage and after years of hard work proudly attained the rank of journeyman shipwright. Encouraged by her relatives, she joined the metalworking guild, Mythril, led by Ilya Nicolov.
Leaving behind her childhood, she found her teenage years and early adulthood to be pleasant. She grew into her form, her hands became nimble and strong. She relished her work. She held no great aspirations. Simply to earn enough money and approval to be received in the guild as a master craftsman. Her dream was to one day rise to the lofty position of chief shipwright of a reputable shipyard. She wanted to build great ships that would sail the seas. And then she would retire to enjoy the pension due to a senior member of the guild. Her humble plans, her lazy daydreams about her future were dashed by an unexpected event far beyond her control. She had heard, of course, of the regretful passing of the Scion of Metal, but like most she did not trouble herself with such great matters.
Dom had more pressing concerns to occupy herself with. She had a ship to finish building. The first in a new line of high speed transport ships that were to be powered elusively by mana. A ship so novel that the Doumercians had forcefully insisted on providing their own engineers to ensure that the Lorenzian workers did not skimp on the quality of their work. A new, horrible deadline loomed over Dom and her small crew. She could feel the master shipwright breathing down on her neck at every moment. The shipyard had no desire to pay the hefty late fees the Doumercian lawyer had skillfully woven into the contract that owners had signed. And so she pressed on.
Disaster struck on the third day of the sea trials, when a bank of experimental mana batteries, installed by the Doumercian engineers exploded without warning. The shattered metal should have cut her to ribbons, should have left her nothing more than an ugly scattering of red paste and unrecognizable pieces on the engine room floor. Instead the metal fragments reformed in front of her, forming a half sphere that shielded her from the metal and flames that hurtled across the compartment.
Dom emerged unscathed. She didn't understand it. She knew she shouldn't have survived, but she was live, somehow, improbably she was live. Trying to find any other survivors she did not notice the mark on her shoulder. How could she? It was one of her subordinates that spotted it. Mistaking the still glowing symbol for flames, he half drowned her with a torrent of water before he realized his mistake.
Accompanied by the few survivors and a retinue of esteemed shipwrights, Dom journeyed to the nearby Cathedral of Sargosia to seek answers. There a priestess examined her and solemnly declared that Dom's survival was no lucky accident and no strange twist of fate. No, the priestess confidently declared, it was the Goddess herself that had blessed Dominika Kovač Rebula and who had mercifully saved her with her own hands. In a loud ringing voice, she proclaimed that Dominika was the new Scion of Metal. Honored beyond words, Dom nonetheless felt her heart lurch with a sudden pang of fear at the woman's words, she kneeled . Hours and days passed in a whirlwind of activity and religious fervor. She received a visit from the High Cardinal. She met the templar she soon learned had been assigned to protect her. And she was initiated in the mysteries and knowledge of the Goddess required from a Scion. There was much to learn. There were manners and social skills to master in record time, a difficult task even with the help of several stern matrons. There were functions to attend, more functions than Dom cared to imagine. There were rituals to observe, rites to perform, and media to talk to. And there was more to do still.
Months passed quickly and Dom found her life much changed for the better. She exchanged an old name for a new one, leaving her paternal surname Rebula behind, taking instead the celebrated name of her adoptive father, the Baron Giovanni Pugnatelli, a sharp man keen to cement his legacy by ensuring that the people of Lorenzia did not lose claim to their scion. She joined her new father in Ornell, residing with him in his lavish manor. She was presented with fine clothes. She was given free reign to purchase whatever materials she desired. She was handed the keys to a large workshop, her own workshop, full of excellent tools, and staffed by a steadfast assistant. And she never had to go to bed hungry.
For all the joys of her new existence, Dom found herself full of doubt. She would not have dreamed of questioning the Goddess. She would not presume to dare to challenge the Incepta’s wisdom. Still, by her own measure, Dom viewed herself as an odd choice for a Scion. Wracked by anxiety, she has buried her fears in her metal work, fighting sleep consumed by new fears of failing to live up to the grand stories she has heard of her saintly predecessors.
Finding herself a poor tool for the Goddess, Dom wishes only to do what she can, the small good she can truly accomplish, paltry as such feats might be.
Weapon of Choice
Dom carries a corrosion resistant and weatherproofed multi-tool on her person that she could conceivably use as a weapon. However, at the urging of her templar, she has also begun to carry a revolver chambered in a large caliber. Lacking any particular firearms training, Dom's chief strategy in combat is simply to drive off any attackers with a series of ear-shattering bangs, aiming and hitting is for templars.
Misc.
Dom is nominally a member of the musical collective known only as the "Arcane Tricksters."
Dom is ambidextrous.
Dom loves cats.
Dominika has been the Scion of Metal for a cool six months.
Anxious mutterings had reached Nemeia like ill omens traveling on a cold wind. Word had spread quickly concerning the luckless strangers that had emerged from the woods surrounding the Pilgrim’s Caravan. Hoogarth, the hooman, the owl man in the common parlor, had told her. He had shared grimmer news still, relating what little the strangers had hoarsely breathed about haunted tombs and wandering undead that had assailed the strangers with cursed words.
She had listened quietly, tending as she saw to the sick. Hoogarth had departed, leaving her with a seasoned strip of jerky that staved off the hunger that had accompanied her since morning. She would remember his kindness.
A week on the road had passed far too quickly by her measure. Ministering to the sick, attempting to stave off the strange illness that afflicted more and more of the caravan had filled her days and nights traveling through the sea of boundless green. The sickness had proved resistant to mundane treatments and magical healing. It was only by a small mercy that it appeared to not yet have charted a fatal course in one of the afflicted pilgrims. The aberrant nature of the mysterious illness troubled her and she had begun to suspect a supernatural origin. Something in the forest. Something far beyond the merely mortal.
The caravan navigator, Athulwin had said as much. He could name the illness no more than she could, but he had suggested that it almost seemed like a curse. The Dreamwalker, the old man, had told her they had to discover how the disease was spread. They had found no common cause. She could divine no easy answer. He counseled that they would have to uncover such facts in order to counter any powerful magic. She would have to continue seeking, to find answers, and to find a cure.
Beneath the broad canopy of the ancient forest, the moon and stars seemed far away. To see the moon more clearly would have been preferable, but Nemeia was not afraid, she knew that even in the darkness the moonlight was shining down on her. She did not need to see the sky, she knew that Valradun walked with her, she could feel it in her heart. Others were with her as well. Those that could help. Those that were willing to risk infection. Two carriages had been repurposed into infirmaries. Full of suffering travelers, they had become a necessity as the caravan’s pace slowed and the number of sick pilgrims grew. And yet, the work continued, as it had to. It was a bright light of compassion in the foreboding forest that filled Nemeia’s heart with much needed warmth.
Replacing yet another strip of thick cloth burned dry by fever from the head of an ailing wayfarer, Nemeia felt something stirring deep within her. She knew she could sit idly by no longer. Action was required. Great action! As Valradun would have wanted. As she wanted. The terrible disease that had overwhelmed the caravan had to be tackled head on. It was not unheard of for a sickness to stem from an undead barrow, given life by the proximity to the undead or whatever power had raised them.
Nemeia heard a commotion as she stepped into the shrouded daylight. She listened to a voice that boomed like a boulder thundering down a mountain. Extermination, the concept was not unfamiliar to her, although she viewed the undead with greater kindness. She felt no hatred, only sympathy for the misguided and misled spirits. Wretched beings that she suspected had been reanimated, most probably against their will, and cruelly torn from their deserved rest.
"Allow me to join you, Sir Stoneclaw," Nemeia said, her singsong voice ringing out pleasantly across the clearing as she approached the large man, the giant painted in shades of stone, "You speak of handling the undead, yes? I will help you bring peace to the unfortunate souls scattered in the nearby barrows."
I dig the different vibe of this RP and I am always fond of intrigue, so if there's still space, I am more than a little bit interested.
Edit: I'll have a Character Sheet up in the immediate future for an application for the Scion of Metal.
Dom
________________________________________
Dominika Kovač Pignatelli Female | 23 | Lorenzia Scion of Metal
_______________________________________________ "She's quiet for a Scion, a bit plain, more than a little strange, but she's nice, she's reliable, and she doesn't cause much trouble." ________________________________________
"Each metal has a certain power, which is different from metal to metal, just like people, just like Scions, I suppose."
Holy Sigil Location
Dom bears the holy sigil, the mark of the goddess on the back of her left shoulder.
Appearance
A coiled spring of muscle hidden beneath loose garments, Dom cuts an assuming figure. Measuring at the lower end of average, she rarely stands at her full height, hunching over one project or another. Pragmatic to her very core, she keeps her black hair short, never letting it reach much further than the top of her shoulders. Were it not for the gentle advice of her mother, her priestly mother, she'd cut it shorter still. Her eyes are the grey of carefully worked metal, steel orbs that shine brightly with curiosity and bursts of nervous energy. Left to her own devices, Dom has a habit of acquiring fresh cuts, modest bruises, and minor burns as she plies her craft. Touched by the sun and grime in equal measure, her skin is a pale shade typical for those Lorenzians hailing from the north.
Even under the careful care of her new minders, Dom has only allowed herself to be gently nudged away from her favored fashion of oil stained overalls to tasteful suits and the exceedingly occasional dress.
Personality
Quiet, introspective, and with a head full of metal, Dom is a young woman caught in a strong current that she has found herself utterly unprepared for and that she is struggling to navigate. She is no blue-blooded aristocrat raised to inherit a position of power and full of grace. She is no wealthy merchant's daughter steeped in privilege and carrying the knowledge of an upper-class education. She is no brilliant socialite poised to take over the world with charm alone. She is no hero, no great warrior or powerful mage threatening reality.
Dom would say she that she was, still is, a nobody, another busy worker bee. Once she toiled away in the shipyards of Lorenzia, earning a a days worth of wages, and trying to keep tight deadlines. And now she works for the people of Gaia, for the Church, and most importantly for the Goddess. An artisan, of the decidedly industrial sort, Dom is hardworking. She's kind. And she is the right person for the job if it comes to building a ship. She could be the right person for the job of Scion. She hopes. Not all the stories are about impressive and mighty figures, surely sometimes the world just needs a commoner like her?
Dutifully religious, Dom is an orthodox believer, steeped in the traditions, venerations, and superstitions of old. Few would accuse her of being a great theologian or particularly inspired when it comes to matters of faith, but she is no fool, she simply prefers not to ask difficult questions. She is unwaveringly obedient to her religious advisors, particularly the templar assigned to her.
Despite being grateful and incredibly honored that she has been chosen by the goddess as the scion of metal, Dom cannot help but feel more than a little overwhelmed by her new station. She is anxious to please. Desperate to do the right thing. And terrified of making a mistake. Under pressure, chiefly when acting in her capacity as scion, she feels great doubts and is painfully unsure of herself. In such moments, to her own great shame, she finds herself wishing for her old, simpler life.
Still, Dom is not one to give up. She holds to the view that her own feelings are not important. She feels that the dark fears that assail her must be faced with an open heart. And she believes, she wants to believe, that it is her duty as a Scion to overcome the challenges placed before her.
Biography
Dom was born in Pogona, a bustling coastal city in Lorenzia, known as the Shipyard of Estora.
The oldest child in a struggling artisan family, Dom inherited a long legacy of labor claimed by untold generations of shipbuilders. Her ancestors, near and far, were artificers said to have built the ships that sailed across the world since before the age of sail.
Times had changed by her birth, her family had fallen on hard times, and Dom grew up in a household on the verge of constant financial ruin. It was only through the largess of a wealthy Lorenzian merchant, Madame Agnelli, that Dom reviewed an education. Among the other impoverished children of the docks, she learned reading, writing, and her numbers.
Guided by her grandmother, a wizened artificer, Dom was taught simple, utilitarian magic, the sort of pragmatic spellcasting vital to shaping metal. She started small, bending small bits of metal, mere trinkets. She progressed to smashing respectably sized pieces of metal into bigger pieces of metal and then what could pass as vaguely useful shapes.
In her eighth year, she was apprenticed to a friend of her father, and sent to live in his small workshop. There she flourished under his kind tutelage and after years of hard work proudly attained the rank of journeyman shipwright. Encouraged by her relatives, she joined the metalworking guild, Mythril, led by Ilya Nicolov.
Leaving behind her childhood, she found her teenage years and early adulthood to be pleasant. She grew into her form, her hands became nimble and strong. She relished her work. She held no great aspirations. Simply to earn enough money and approval to be received in the guild as a master craftsman. Her dream was to one day rise to the lofty position of chief shipwright of a reputable shipyard. She wanted to build great ships that would sail the seas. And then she would retire to enjoy the pension due to a senior member of the guild. Her humble plans, her lazy daydreams about her future were dashed by an unexpected event far beyond her control. She had heard, of course, of the regretful passing of the Scion of Metal, but like most she did not trouble herself with such great matters.
Dom had more pressing concerns to occupy herself with. She had a ship to finish building. The first in a new line of high speed transport ships that were to be powered elusively by mana. A ship so novel that the Doumercians had forcefully insisted on providing their own engineers to ensure that the Lorenzian workers did not skimp on the quality of their work. A new, horrible deadline loomed over Dom and her small crew. She could feel the master shipwright breathing down on her neck at every moment. The shipyard had no desire to pay the hefty late fees the Doumercian lawyer had skillfully woven into the contract that owners had signed. And so she pressed on.
Disaster struck on the third day of the sea trials, when a bank of experimental mana batteries, installed by the Doumercian engineers exploded without warning. The shattered metal should have cut her to ribbons, should have left her nothing more than an ugly scattering of red paste and unrecognizable pieces on the engine room floor. Instead the metal fragments reformed in front of her, forming a half sphere that shielded her from the metal and flames that hurtled across the compartment.
Dom emerged unscathed. She didn't understand it. She knew she shouldn't have survived, but she was live, somehow, improbably she was live. Trying to find any other survivors she did not notice the mark on her shoulder. How could she? It was one of her subordinates that spotted it. Mistaking the still glowing symbol for flames, he half drowned her with a torrent of water before he realized his mistake.
Accompanied by the few survivors and a retinue of esteemed shipwrights, Dom journeyed to the nearby Cathedral of Sargosia to seek answers. There a priestess examined her and solemnly declared that Dom's survival was no lucky accident and no strange twist of fate. No, the priestess confidently declared, it was the Goddess herself that had blessed Dominika Kovač Rebula and who had mercifully saved her with her own hands. In a loud ringing voice, she proclaimed that Dominika was the new Scion of Metal. Honored beyond words, Dom nonetheless felt her heart lurch with a sudden pang of fear at the woman's words, she kneeled . Hours and days passed in a whirlwind of activity and religious fervor. She received a visit from the High Cardinal. She met the templar she soon learned had been assigned to protect her. And she was initiated in the mysteries and knowledge of the Goddess required from a Scion. There was much to learn. There were manners and social skills to master in record time, a difficult task even with the help of several stern matrons. There were functions to attend, more functions than Dom cared to imagine. There were rituals to observe, rites to perform, and media to talk to. And there was more to do still.
Months passed quickly and Dom found her life much changed for the better. She exchanged an old name for a new one, leaving her paternal surname Rebula behind, taking instead the celebrated name of her adoptive father, the Baron Giovanni Pugnatelli, a sharp man keen to cement his legacy by ensuring that the people of Lorenzia did not lose claim to their scion. She joined her new father in Ornell, residing with him in his lavish manor. She was presented with fine clothes. She was given free reign to purchase whatever materials she desired. She was handed the keys to a large workshop, her own workshop, full of excellent tools, and staffed by a steadfast assistant. And she never had to go to bed hungry.
For all the joys of her new existence, Dom found herself full of doubt. She would not have dreamed of questioning the Goddess. She would not presume to dare to challenge the Incepta’s wisdom. Still, by her own measure, Dom viewed herself as an odd choice for a Scion. Wracked by anxiety, she has buried her fears in her metal work, fighting sleep consumed by new fears of failing to live up to the grand stories she has heard of her saintly predecessors.
Finding herself a poor tool for the Goddess, Dom wishes only to do what she can, the small good she can truly accomplish, paltry as such feats might be.
Weapon of Choice
Dom carries a corrosion resistant and weatherproofed multi-tool on her person that she could conceivably use as a weapon. However, at the urging of her templar, she has also begun to carry a revolver chambered in a large caliber. Lacking any particular firearms training, Dom's chief strategy in combat is simply to drive off any attackers with a series of ear-shattering bangs, aiming and hitting is for templars.
Misc.
Dom is nominally a member of the musical collective known only as the "Arcane Tricksters."
Dom is ambidextrous.
Dom loves cats.
Dominika has been the Scion of Metal for a cool six months.
Half-buried in snow with a snow covered tarp carefully covering the top of her BattleMech, Ziska lounged pleasantly in her RVN-3L. Cat napping, she listened with well-practiced relaxation to the sound of the mountains that surrounded the Green Knights. She had taken care to nestle her BattleMech between two large rocks in the grid so drolly named L8. The two frozen boulders would only have reached up to the shoulders of her BattleMech had she not left the already small mech crouching. Peeking from between the geological formation, she had shielded all but the right side of her light mech. The less of your BattleMech an enemy could see or target the better.
Once more Ziska felt happy. And once more she felt at ease. She had grown tired of all the talking. Of all the orders. Of all the wishful thinking. Now things felt serious again. And now they were real. Death was nearby and she was an old friend.
An ambush felt good. An ambush felt right. Smash and grab. No words. No mercy. Just revenge. A message for the Crimson Fists. And a message just for the Firewitch. She didn't care about mercy. She certainly didn't care about honor. She was no stranger to battles with flexible rules of engagement. Mercy was not something pirates often offered...or received. Either you won or it was someone else's problem. The dead didn't care, they were dead. Salvage went to the living.
Ingrid's plan pleased Ziska. She smiled hearing it. It amused her. She would have toasted Ingrid had the doctor not confiscated her alcohol before they sortied. Bait was good. Bait was better when she wasn't the bait. She wasn't going to leave Ingrid alone for long though. She had her own game plan. ECM on, powered to full capacity, more than enough to make sure the Crimson Fists fell for the diminutive noble's gambit. And then she'd go in for a lightening quick attack, a "blitz" as the Lyrans called it, not that they understood anything about hit and run tactics. The RVN-3L was fast enough. The ECM Reya had souped up was good enough. It would buy her some time. It would hopefully keep the Crimson Fists guessing for a moment longer. If she could manage a TAG lock or NARC hit, well then, Marit could bring down some thunder. At least she would give Ingrid a chance.
Ziska hoped that Ingrid would survive. She knew there were no guarantees, especially for the brave, but she was going to do what she could to make it happen. It would be very boring if the threat of an honorable duel was no loner having over her. She wasn't sure what she would do if she didn't have such amusing violence close at hand. She might have to turn to reading or something equally tragic like playing chess with Sergeant Dalton.
I've got to shut the game down. I've got too much going on IRL to GM this right now. It's a real shame because I liked this game, and I liked our characters. Maybe I'll pick it up some time down the line and try again.
Thank you all for playing, you've been great. See you around!
Sorry to hear, it's been fun so far, and I've enjoyed the lore/setting/characters you provided as well as the posts of other players.
But such is life, thanks, and hopefully we'll all meet again!
Tiefling, 23 years old, six months in the Pilgrim's Caravan.
Appearance:
Illuminated by pale moonlight, Nemeia is a young woman touched by the abyss and unmistakably marked by her infernal heritage. Taller than most, she moves with grace, and stands with poise beyond her years. Fearful stares follow her, meeting eyes somehow still full of kindhearted cheer, brilliant orbs of gold. Two large horns sit atop her head and curve stylishly backwards. Long blue hair cascades past her horns, resting freely at the whims of her movements and the wind. Her skin is the color of cool sapphire and a gentle smile is spoiled only by pointed canine teeth that have a frightful effect on the unprepared. Nemeia has a thick, long tail that reaches some five feet in length. She has bat-like wings sprouting from her shoulders, politely kept neatly folded against her back so as to avoid frightening strangers.
History:
"In the frozen hell of Morenia, the devils rule with an iron hand. Bound to unholy laws, these cruel creatures deliver creative justice beyond the comprehension of mortals." - Lofyr the Traveler
Born at the stroke of midnight, beneath the dark embrace of a lunar eclipse, Nemeia is a tiefling full of strange destiny. She hails from the distant land of Morenia, far to the north, past the fallen Kingdom of Undast, and across the Sea of Bitter Tears. Said to be ruled by the archdevil Ixelja, remembered by masters of the High Art as the merchant of souls, a fell creature known for offering bargains to those faced with inescapable doom. Whether such forgotten recollections are true, is hard to discern, and some explorers maintain that Morenia is simply a particularly inhospitable kingdom.
Nemeia makes no effort to dispel such horrific notions and cheerfully explains that she is indeed from a land ruled by fiends. Mentioned in a scattering of forbidden tomes thought lost to the ages, Morenia is reputed to be a realm of law and evil, once named by the Sage Belynia as one of the uncountable circles of hell. Questioned about her homeland, Nemeia disagrees, confidentially explaining that Morenia is the fifth hell of a nine, producing infernal mathematics and cartography that fills any observers with a sense of unwelcome dread. While it is clear that the young tiefling is unmistakably and undoubtedly honest in her beliefs about her homeland, the veracity of such claims are difficult to establish. In truth, little consensus can be found in the few remaining records that concern the accused lands of Morenia.
The youngest of seven siblings, Nemeia was born to a happy household. Her father, Etzilal, a dark elf, was a powerful warlock, sworn to a hellish patron. Her mother, Tseyaqa, a devil, was a hell knight, an unholy warrior oathbound to enforce the laws of Morenia. Her siblings were great and terrible fiends, creatures of immeasurable evil, operating in strict adherence to the law. The roots of her family were buried deep in the frozen ground and the branches had grown heavy with the crushing weight of wretched horrors had family had inflicted on others over the ages. Her ancestors were no lesser evils and no middling fiends, but rather monstrous malefactors. An infamous warlord or two, responsible for untold suffering across Alwyne. An infernal crusader noted to have burned the Holy Library of Kinirrak to the ground no less than three times. And a mad sorcerer remembered for the kingdom she sank beneath the cold waves.
For all the purported evil of her family, Nemeia describes a suprisingly loving relationship with her beloved siblings and parents. Her early years were pleasant and full of learning. A promising career as a hell knight was interrupted by a series of divine visions Nemeia experienced in her tenth year. Nemeia joyously recalls that she was visited by Valradun, goddess of Syashkal, the silver moon that shines down on Alwyne, a deity of merciful kindness much hated by damned denizens of Morenia. Forever changed by these encounters, Nemeia turned away from the cruel beliefs of her people, embracing the compassionate faith taught by Valradun. Nemeia admits that she caused her parents grief and heartache with her conversion. Steadfast in her faith, Nemeia dedicated herself to serving Valradun soon after. Her respected siblings expressed confusion and horror at her chosen vocation.
Of course, Faithful fiends were not unheard of, even in Morenia, but to worship a goddess of good was held to be an unacceptable act of rebellion. Despairing for her future prospects and fearing for her life, her parents encouraged Nemeia to travel, to spread the teachings of her kind goddess in lands more receptive to the offer of such gentle benedictions. The price of her passage from Morenia was a deal made with Ixelja herself. An unspoken contract that Nemeia ruefully refuses to elaborate on.
Leaving Morenia behind her, Nemeia traveled to Kyeth Thalore, the jeweled city found in the heart of the Kingdom of Aranthnor. There she made her way to the House of the Brilliant Moon, the greatest and most magnificent temple dedicated to Valradun, and asked to be received as a novice into the Order of the Silver Moon. Although they were sympathetic to her earnest desire, even the open-minded clerics beheld the young tielfing with unrestrained curiosity and notable uncertainty. Undeterred, Nemeia told the clerics about her visions. When this did little to quell the well-intentioned concern of the kindly preachers, Nemeia declared herself ready to submit to an examination on all the points of doctrine so beloved by Valradun and the purity of her devotion.
It was the famed Priestess of the Sacred Chalice, Quillathe Amastacia, who broke the theological stalemate, accepting the spirited infernal youth as her apprentice. Initiated in the mysteries and rituals of Valradun, Nemeia blossomed. Through Quillathe her connection to Valradun grew stronger. She could feel the power of Valradun coursing through her. Invocation came easily to her. The teachings of the order strengthened her. She found comfort in the compassion of Valradun. She found colleagues. She found friends. She found a place where she belonged. And she found unknown happiness.
In time, Nemeia grew into an able student, showing a gift for healing and protective magic. Her temper, fueled only by innocent intentions for good, was a source of occasional concern, and for all her soft admonishments, even Quillathe could not manage to quench the fire that burned deep within Nemeia. Concerned at her increasingly brash behavior, Quillathe saw that Nemeia began to train with the master-at-arms of the order. Among the paladins, the holy warriors, Nemeia found a new calling, a higher calling as she sometimes said. Hers was not the path of quiet contemplation. Hers was not long hours of peaceful reflection. Her way was action. Her purpose was to protect. As the moon traveled across the sky, waxing and waning, she too would travel, and she too would change.
With the blessing of Quillathe and her religious brethren, Nemeia became one of the wandering soldier-priestesses of Valradun. She would set forth from the temples, seeking out those in need of the help, the weak and the oppressed, all those that Valradun wished to help.
Stepping out into the world, wearing the full garb of a priestess, Nemeia encountered the prejudice she had long managed to avoid among the faithful, the bitter hatred held over the heads of tieflings. She heard insults, cruel words and unkind mockery that was hurled at her with evil relish. She listened to ceaseless threats, tireless promises of violence to her person, to her purity, and to her very soul. She suffered undeserved acts of violence, strikes aimed to hurt, blows meant to maim, and deadly attacks intended to kill. Nemeia did not cower. She did not beg. Guided by Valradun's wisdom Nemeia did not struggle to defend herself. Yet, she forgave, treating those who mistreated her with compassion, provided they posed no further danger to her. Through such experiences, Nemeia came to realize that there was much she would have to learn about the Alwyne in order to accomplish her holy mission.
Nemeia does not like to dwell on such sorrowful moments, but there is obvious sadness in her eyes when she is judged by her blood alone, leaving deep wounds that even Valradun cannot easily heal. However, Nemeia chooses to look forward, accompanied by the moonlight she does not fear the long, dark nights, certain that a more radiant dawn awaits.
Driven by such hopes, Nemeia excelled in the tasks that she had been charged with. She felt the gentle hand of Valradun guiding her ever onwards and followed the visions that she was graced with. Far stories speak of a moon maiden, an outsider, a figure emerging from the darkness, and a creature adorned with the vestments of a distant hell. A bright light in the darkness, a winged being bearing the words of Valradun. If such stories are ever mentioned in her presence, Nemeia is quick to explain that there are many devoted seekers of Valradun, and assuredly such tales speak of one of her esteemed colleagues.
As the years unfolded, Nemeia continued her questing, always returning to the House of the Brilliant Moon to reacquaint herself with the others of her order and Quillathe. Convalescing after a long, but ultimately successful campaign to secure peace between a colony of werebats and the Queen of Boryn, a mountain kingdom ruled by strangely tall dwarfs, Nemeia experienced a strange new vision.
She saw countless paths illuminated with bright ink as if by some unseen cartographer. She saw an endless pattern of crossroads. She saw beasts, monsters, and species beyond description. She saw wagons, draft horses, pack animals, and ingenious vehicles that bristled with creative thought. But most importantly she saw people. Strangers she could not name. Travelers of the infinite roads. Beams of light that shone through the darkness.
Nemeia did not need to consult her teachers. She did not need to ask Quillathe for advice. A new journey awaited. More places. More people. More chances to do good. It was the will of Valradun and her own intimate desire. Following the scattered signs, Nemeia found the Pilgrim's Caravan, offering her services as a healer, and keeping her tools of war carefully hidden.
A relative newcomer to the Pilgrim's Caravan, Nemeia has nonetheless found a place among the intriguing collection of merchants and travelers that make up the caravan. Most have come to see her as a benevolent figure, a much appreciated cleric unwaveringly willing to offer her aid and to help those in need. Still, some wayfarers continue to view her with suspicion, finding it unbelievable that someone so touched, so shaped by evil can be so firmly dedicated to the cause of good.
Personality:
Nemeia is a creature of contradictions. She is a devil with religion. She is a being formed in no small part from chaos and evil, yet dedicated wholeheartedly to good. She is a devoted cleric, with not an ounce of regard for chastity. She is a true believer, unbound by orthodoxy. She is a humble servant of moon goddess, held in great favor by her mistress. She overflows with compassion. She is quick to accept and quicker to forgive. She dances in the moonlight, following the inescapable tides of life, bending to the waxing and waning of her reality, recognizing the unmistakable ebb and flow of all forces.
She has a serene and peaceful nature and is slow to anger. She will not fight if she can help it, but will not hold back if she must. She is joyous and good humored, although she reacts with righteous fury whenever she encounters evil. She remains uncorrupted by the far reaching influence of her native land. She is untouched by the constant machinations of her infernal kin. She is kind, friendly, and for all the ill treatment she has suffered, Nemiea possess little of the bitterness that afflicts many other tieflings.
Despite her obvious infernal heritage, Nemeia pursues no evil schemes, and hides no true darkness deep within her. Her heart is kind and her soul is pure, protected by the brilliant light of the moon.
Her heaviest sorrows stem from the poor treatment that she has experienced as a tiefling. Such wounds, run deep, painful injuries of her spirit healing slowly, infected by lingering doubts, and disappointment. Calling out to Valradun, Nemeia fights this sadness with charity and love.
Motivation:
Desiring to do good and much more of good at that, Nemeia has joined the Pilgrim's Caravan in order to more easily travel to new lands and help souls in need of aid that might otherwise be far beyond her reach.
Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Skills:
Priestess of the Faint Moonlight
Nemeia is a priestess of the moon goddess Valradun. Imbued with divine magic, she commands lunar energy and powers of the moon granted to her by her deep connection to Valradun. Arising from her belief and trust in Valradun, her magic does not depend on formulaic prayers, ancient rites, or any arcane scholarship. Nemeia is a gifted healer, mending injuries and curing diseases through the manifestation of miracles brought forth by her steadfast faith. She weaves powerful protective spells, affording the blessings of the silver moon to those in need. Dedicated to preserving the natural order of life, Nemeia can channel the radiant light of Valradun to drive away the undead or harm evil creatures.
Dutiful as she is, Nemeia is no sedentary priestess, called to a simple life of temple service. She does not reside within the comfortable safety of temple walls. Her prayers are few and her sacrifices seldom. Instead, she carries out Valradun's will out in the wide world, through acts of faith, divine magic, and her own strength of arms. Although some would call her a soldier-priestess, Nemeia prefers to avoid any such distinction. However, she has been trained by the master-at-arms of her order and her skills have been sharpened through her travels.
Strengths & Weaknesses:
+ Of Fire and Ice: Nemeia is resistant to fire & ice + Forged in Darkness: Part elf and part devil, Nemeia has the superior vision in dark and dim conditions ascribed to both of her bloodlines. + Infernal Linguistics: As a result of her particular familial constellation, Nemeia is a comfortable conversing in the common tongue of the lands, the Elvish of the High Elves, and the black speech of the Infernal domains. + Infernal Magic: Cursed with infernal blood, Nemeia can summon base magic associated with the beings that inhabit the hells that spawned her. + Wings: Decidedly inhuman in her appearance, Nemeia has a pair of pale, bat-like wings that allow her to fly at a modest pace.
- Fanatical Idealist: Nemeia would happily die for her beliefs, certain that she can do nothing else but fight for what is right, to convince her to deviate from her wholeheartedly carried principles is an act of hopelessness. Nemeia will stubbornly refuse any and all entreaties to be pragmatic. - Reckless: Stemming from her faith and idealism, Nemeia is loathe to acknowledge risk and when she does she pays it little mind, especially if the task in question is noble in purpose. - Poorly Perceived and Received: Few readily or easily trust tieflings, convinced that they are no different than their demonic progenitors. At times, mistrust morphs into hatred and Nemeia has experienced no small amount of poor treatment. In some lands, Nemeia has found that even undeserved acts of violence directed towards her very person are to be expected from strangers.
Tools:
* Holy Symbol: Nemeia carries a silver pendent depicting the holy symbol of Valradun (a pale crescent moon adorned with seven stars). * Staff: the symbol of her high office, Nemeia possesses a wooden staff wrapped with silver, including silver flowers and vines, and topped with a moonstone * Robes: For religious ceremony, Nemeia has a meticulously maintained set of white robes embroidered with silver and decorated with moonstones. * Circlet: Before each service, Nemeia will create a circlet of woven flowers that she wears around her head. * Traveling Clothes: Nemeia owns a set of clothes well-suited for travel. Thick boots, a wool skirt reaching past her knees, a sturdy belt, a shirt with a jacket and an ample cloak with hood. * Traveling Pack: Owning only a steady draft horse, Nemeia has a leather backpack containing a blanket, 10 candles, a tinder box, an alms box, 2 blocks of incense, a censer, vestments, several days worth of rations, and waterskin. * Heavy Mace: Although seldom seen in her hand, Nemeia keeps a four-flanged heavy mace hanging from her belt. * Scale Mail: Carefully wrapped in weather proof material, Nemeia hides a suit of armor. Consisting of perfectly circular scales of opalescent appearance that glow faintly with silver light this scale mail armor is clearly of excellent make. * Horse: To ease her travels, Nemeia has used some of her collected alms to purchase a calm draft horse that she has named Sir Thomas.
What They Most Want: Nemeia wants to be good, she wants to do good, and she wants to change the world for the better. She wants to atone for the uncountable sins of her ancestors, she wants to be kinder than her kin, and she wants to be a merciful light in the dark winter of the endless nights.
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: Chaotic Good
Three Likes: + A social creature, Nemeia enjoys good food and good company in equal measure. + Steeped in religion, Nemeia appreciates encountering new stories, be they written, spoken, or even sung. + Nemeia is immensely fond of all animals, she absolutely adores cats and other fuzzy creatures.
Three Dislikes: - Violence: Nemeia regards violence with great disdain - Cruelty: Having seen and experienced the cruelty of the abyss, Nemeia has had more than her fill of cruelty and seeks only to spread kindness in the world. - Laziness: Nemeia believes in action, she likes to do things, many things, probably too many things, and she does not take kindly to those predisposed to overzealous inactivity.
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Nemeia unwaveringly and unhesitatingly follows her heart.
Worst Fear: The greatest fear that Nemeia has is that she will one day succumb to the base and cruel desires associated with her infernal heritage.
Favorite Color: Blue
Most Like The Animal: Capybara
Favorite Time of Day: Nemeia has a shifting favoritism towards the ever changing time of day that matches the phases of the moon. She is most fond of the hour, usually late at night, when the moon shines the brightest in the sky.
How They Dress: Traveling Nemeia dresses pragmatically, wearing clothes suitable for long, arduous journeys (thick boots, a wool skirt reaching past her knees, a sturdy belt, a shirt with a jacket and an ample cloak with hood). Performing ritual or ceremony, she dons a white robe embroidered with silver and decorated with moonstones, a circlet of woven flowers worn around her head, and embraces a distinct lack of shoes. Regardless of the context, she wears silver and gold jewelry decorated with brilliant moonstones.
In times of great danger, when violence is expected near and soon, Nemeia will wear her suit of scale armor and wield her heavy mace.
Favorite Season: Nemeia holds Winter as her favorite season. Cold days and colder nights, long hours painted with snow and ice remind her of her distant home.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Nemeia worships Valradun, serving goddess of the moon, and fervently striving to accomplish her benevolent aims.
A greater goddess, worshiped since the ancient days of Alriel, Valradun is a powerful goddess said to hold sway over the moon and celestial bodies that shine in the sky of Alwyne. Over the ages, the domains she is believed to control have grown in number, and at present she is recognized as influencing a wide range of areas. Valradun's nature, appearance, and mood all change in turn with the phases of the moon. She is generous and freely bestowed gifts and blessings on mortals. She also makes few demands of her followers. When beseeched by her clergy, she is said to readily respond.
Drawn by teachings that emphasize compassion and gentle guidance, her faithful are a diverse group, and come from many walks of life. According to words of Valradun, all on whom the moonlight falls are welcome to join her.
Valradun is believed to control the ebb and flow of the tides. She is said to bring comfort and safety to those in need during the night. She shines light over the darkness, holding evil at bay through moonlight. Some learned scholars argue that Valradun has become the moon itself, infusing the moon of Alwyne with her very spirit, so that she can eternally watch over the world. Through the moon, she is thought to control the powers of lycanthropes.
Those who seek her help and favor are many. She is called by those who are lost, aiding travelers lost in the wild and ships drifting aimlessly at sea. Sailors, navigators, and travelers are known to ask for her guidance. Her protection is sought out by those about to embark on dangerous journey. Ever changing, Valradun is venerated by shapeshifters, especially lycanthropes. Regardless of the quality of their heart or their view of their condition, many of those afflicted with such curses see her as the mistress of their nature. Observing the guidance she graciously offers, some engaged in the endeavor of predicting the future, have come to the conclusion that Valradun might rule fate itself.
Although she cares little for the gender of her followers, Valradun is commonly worshipped by women, who look to her for guidance, courage, and strength. A being concerned with life, Valradun is said to love all those touched by her radiant light. She is believed to be able to deliver love to those who seek it honestly and to bless marriages entered in good faith. She is said to intercede during births to ensure the safety of parent and child. Finding beauty in many places, Valradun blesses all things that she finds beautiful, recognizing that sometimes pleasing the senses can be kindness enough. Conventional as she may seem, Valradun encourages her followers to be self-reliant and to discover their own path. She is therefore popular with adventurers, all those who stand apart from others, and chart their own course.
It has even been said that she is one of the few gods worshiped by non-wicked tieflings. Driven by her dedication to the protecting life and confronting evil, Valradun is known to grant visions to people who desired them for good purposes. As such, even those not dedicated to Valradun will often pay their respects to her, in hopes of gaining her favor and aid.
Finally, those born during the full moon are said to be blessed by Valradun and are often encouraged, if not expected, to worship the moon goddess.
Unlike many gods, Valradun does not chain her followers with heavy ultimatums. She is lenient on issues of alignment and religious observe. To her faithful, to follow one's heart and to do the right thing is viewed as more important than uninspired theological musing or the strict performance of rituals. Her worshipers are encouraged to be compassionate and tolerant of others. They are urged to be humble and self-reliant, to use common sense and practicality.
Followers of Valradun seek out her guidance through observations of the heavens and rituals conducted under the moonlit night sky. They believe that life changes like the moon, waxing and waning with each passing moment. Her clergy suggest that there is a natural cycle to all of existence, arguing that there is an unavoidable ebb and flow to every force found in the world. Valradun and her followers view the undead and evil creatures mournfully, believing that while such unnatural forces must be swiftly opposed and defeated, they are not always beyond redemption.
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