Cohors

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Yeah I'm really walled in any posts ideas so I'll just wait for GM's post to start kickin' the bucket.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Academic conference week over, will cook up something to post in the next four days or so!

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Honestly I'm very bad at introduction posts (personally, I always hate the introduction to any piece of fiction, so there's that), so I'll just lazily sit here and wait for you guys to warm up the crowd before trying to toss anything myself... hehe.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

"The Barbar"

No face claim :( ________________________________________ Khyzyr Ğäbdelxaliq, alias The Barbar Male | Mercenary | Aspected _______________________________________________ // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Resilient Khyzyr is a tough-as-nails sunovagun who can take a lot of mental and physical stress before breaking. A bond never broken As one of the Rojyari people, a tribal nomadic group reliant on kinship to survive, camaraderie is implicitly agiven between the Barbar and those he, for whichever reason, have to work with. Just like treachery is explicitly shunned. Chill Having seen as much violence, destruction and death as the Barbar did - and having done aplenty of that oneself - Khyzyr has grown very dull to stress inducing situations, and it takes a good dose of offense to get genuinely angered. Along that, he's prone to laugh way more often and merrily than one with his looks and history would hint. Adrenaline junkie Khyzyr biggest shortcoming is, by far, his hedonist, thrill-seeking nature. He often volunteers to partake dangerous and unsavory situations just for the kick of it, 'cause nothing in life feels as good as that adrenaline rush when your life is on the line. Warmonger Whenever there's room for violence, war, or conquest, he will opt for those choices. And when there are none, he'll create them. Impulsive In a one-to-one combat there is no room for hesitance or meticulous planning, you either do something or you is left to respond to your adversary's doing. Khyzyr prefers to be the first, both in the battlefield and in his personal life, and as such he doesn't tend to think of his actions nor his words thoroughly. Half-faced The scar that crosses his face left him one ear deaf and partially blind. It's not that his eyesight doesn't work - he still retains some depth perception when using both eyes - but it's a blurry, unreliable one, to the point he prefers to simply block it with an eyepatch. Unsightly A man with a horrific scar such as his is no nice sight to see, especially if a man looked like Khyzyr before being scarred... Easily swayed Wondrous imageries can really marvel Khyzyr. With extraordinary claims and a bit of charm, it wouldn't be difficult to convince, or at least sway, the Barbar into a specific line of thought. A pawn rather than a leader Some men are born to command; some, to be commanded. Artyr is definitely the last. He's not fit to be nor interesting in being a commandant, a diplomat, and much less an administrator. Too much responsibility, bureaucracy, and too little fun. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Equinacious His experience in horseback riding makes him a highly skilled and deadly horseman, no different from the average Rojyari. One with the arrow Just like his father and his forefather before him, Khyzyr's aptitude with the bow was something marveled upon from a young age, and years upon years of training and thousand upon thousands of arrows fired made his gift even more significant. There's something about the Barbar that makes him intrinsically good in archery. Maybe it's his rudimentary and intuitive notion of weight balance and distribution, aerodynamics, force liberation, pattern recognition to predict his target's movement or - most likely - something running in his the Ğäbdelxaliq clan's blood. It wouldn't be a stretch to call him the finest Rojyari archer ever since his father passed away [REDACTED] years ago. Gymnast Strength is certainly important, but not the only factor in combat. Being able to move your body swift and efficiently are equally relevant aspects which are often overlooked in professionalized armies, but on tribal, ritualistic groups as the nomads often are they're considered key elements as much as being buff. With a lot of training, pain and injuries along the way, Khyzyr learnt the ways to acquire an enviable overall mobility and strength. Along the imposed demands of being a horseman, his general physical aptitude wouldn't stray far from a modern day gymnast. Spatially located Mercenaries are, to a certain degree, nomads, constantly migrating from a battlefield to another. As such, they are naturally attuned to be good at identifying where things are at, distance, and having a general acute sense of geolocation and observation. Actual nomads then, even more so. Swordsguy The overwhelming momentum and galloping rush of a wheezing shaft in the chaos of a battlefield are The Barbar's usual tactics. And, as far as he's concerned, they have worked well over the course of a few less than two decades of stipendiary carnage. This had led Khyzyr to be indulgent with his swordsmanship, and unless he's handling a curved steel atop a 400 kg equine beast, odds are he'll fare no better than your average city guard. (He's got way more slick and treacherous street smart than any ill trained law enforcer though, that's for sure).

Physical Description Standing just ten centimeters short of two full meters, Khyzyr's presence is hard to come unnoticed. Equally difficult to miss is his far-stretching keloid burn scar that smithed most of his left face, from his nose up to his ear, some say the toll the Gods took in exchange for his extraordinary skills, as well as his leathery eyepatch that hides his blinded eye. A lean, built and tall man, Khyzyr could be charming if not for his considerably receding hairline - at the young age of 37! - and unremarkable facial structure. Motivation Khyzyr's fellow Rojyari people always considered his appetite for adventure rather... exarcebated. He was an avid and daring hunter even at prepubescent ages, and only managed to live to his adulthood thanks to his extraordinary marksmanship. Hoping to seek a name of his own rather than being another Ğäbdelxaliq, Khyzyr left the steppes, venturing to the southern Warring Lands. There, he found paradise: a warntorn hellscape that constantly stimulated his thrill seeking impulses. Quickly carving a name for himself, joining a band of respected but awful mercenaries, and infamously being dubbed The Barbar in reference to his hazy accent and backstory and... war crime practises, Khyzyr could drown his restlessness in the lifestyle of constant warfare. Now, as a hired hand protecting the caravans heade to Ssanjuu, The Barbar hopes everything goes south at once so he can finally exchange terrifying worry with fun again. Other Information Maaaaaaybe his horrible appearance and terrible mental health is the price for his gifted archery. Maybe.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Alright, sounds good. Glad to hear! I actually intended to make two characters, but because of time constraints yesterday I was only able to produce one. Any chance I might slip with another face here? So long it doesn't ruin your plans for a small group, that is.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

"The Barbar"

No face claim :( ________________________________________ Khyzyr Ğäbdelxaliq, alias The Barbar Male | Mercenary | Aspected _______________________________________________ // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Resilient Khyzyr is a tough-as-nails sunovagun who can take a lot of mental and physical stress before breaking. A bond never broken As one of the Rojyari people, a tribal nomadic group reliant on kinship to survive, camaraderie is implicitly agiven between the Barbar and those he, for whichever reason, have to work with. Just like treachery is explicitly shunned. Chill Having seen as much violence, destruction and death as the Barbar did - and having done aplenty of that oneself - Khyzyr has grown very dull to stress inducing situations, and it takes a good dose of offense to get genuinely angered. Along that, he's prone to laugh way more often and merrily than one with his looks and history would hint. Adrenaline junkie Khyzyr biggest shortcoming is, by far, his hedonist, thrill-seeking nature. He often volunteers to partake dangerous and unsavory situations just for the kick of it, 'cause nothing in life feels as good as that adrenaline rush when your life is on the line. Warmonger Whenever there's room for violence, war, or conquest, he will opt for those choices. And when there are none, he'll create them. Impulsive In a one-to-one combat there is no room for hesitance or meticulous planning, you either do something or you is left to respond to your adversary's doing. Khyzyr prefers to be the first, both in the battlefield and in his personal life, and as such he doesn't tend to think of his actions nor his words thoroughly. Half-faced The scar that crosses his face left him one ear deaf and partially blind. It's not that his eyesight doesn't work - he still retains some depth perception when using both eyes - but it's a blurry, unreliable one, to the point he prefers to simply block it with an eyepatch. Unsightly A man with a horrific scar such as his is no nice sight to see, especially if a man looked like Khyzyr before being scarred... Easily swayed Wondrous imageries can really marvel Khyzyr. With extraordinary claims and a bit of charm, it wouldn't be difficult to convince, or at least sway, the Barbar into a specific line of thought. A pawn rather than a leader Some men are born to command; some, to be commanded. Artyr is definitely the last. He's not fit to be nor interesting in being a commandant, a diplomat, and much less an administrator. Too much responsibility, bureaucracy, and too little fun. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Equinacious His experience in horseback riding makes him a highly skilled and deadly horseman, no different from the average Rojyari. One with the arrow Just like his father and his forefather before him, Khyzyr's aptitude with the bow was something marveled upon from a young age, and years upon years of training and thousand upon thousands of arrows fired made his gift even more significant. There's something about the Barbar that makes him intrinsically good in archery. Maybe it's his rudimentary and intuitive notion of weight balance and distribution, aerodynamics, force liberation, pattern recognition to predict his target's movement or - most likely - something running in his the Ğäbdelxaliq clan's blood. It wouldn't be a stretch to call him the finest Rojyari archer ever since his father passed away [REDACTED] years ago. Gymnast Strength is certainly important, but not the only factor in combat. Being able to move your body swift and efficiently are equally relevant aspects which are often overlooked in professionalized armies, but on tribal, ritualistic groups as the nomads often are they're considered key elements as much as being buff. With a lot of training, pain and injuries along the way, Khyzyr learnt the ways to acquire an enviable overall mobility and strength. Along the imposed demands of being a horseman, his general physical aptitude wouldn't stray far from a modern day gymnast. Spatially located Mercenaries are, to a certain degree, nomads, constantly migrating from a battlefield to another. As such, they are naturally attuned to be good at identifying where things are at, distance, and having a general acute sense of geolocation and observation. Actual nomads then, even more so. Swordsguy The overwhelming momentum and galloping rush of a wheezing shaft in the chaos of a battlefield are The Barbar's usual tactics. And, as far as he's concerned, they have worked well over the course of a few less than two decades of stipendiary carnage. This had led Khyzyr to be indulgent with his swordsmanship, and unless he's handling a curved steel atop a 400 kg equine beast, odds are he'll fare no better than your average city guard. (He's got way more slick and treacherous street smart than any ill trained law enforcer though, that's for sure).

Physical Description Standing just ten centimeters short of two full meters, Khyzyr's presence is hard to come unnoticed. Equally difficult to miss is his far-stretching keloid burn scar that smithed most of his left face, from his nose up to his ear, some say the toll the Gods took in exchange for his extraordinary skills, as well as his leathery eyepatch that hides his blinded eye. A lean, built and tall man, Khyzur could be charming if not for his considerably receding hairline - at the young age of 37! - and unremarkable facial structure. Motivation Khyzyr's fellow Rojyari people always considered his appetite for adventure rather... exarcebated. He was an avid and daring hunter even at prepubescent ages, and only managed to live to his adulthood thanks to his extraordinary marksmanship. Hoping to seek a name of his own rather than being another Ğäbdelxaliq, Khyzyr left the steppes, venturing to the southern Warring Lands. There, he found paradise: a warntorn hellscape that constantly stimulated his thrill seeking impulses. Quickly carving a name for himself, joining a band of respected but awful mercenaries, and infamously being dubbed The Barbar in reference to his hazy accent and backstory and... war crime practises, Khyzyr could drown his restlessness in the lifestyle of constant warfare. Now, as a hired hand protecting the caravans heade to Ssanjuu, The Barbar hopes everything goes south at once so he can finally exchange terrifying worry with fun again. Other Information Maaaaaaybe his horrible appearance and terrible mental health is the price for his gifted archery. Maybe.

((I can sum up the descriptors for personality/skill traits if you'd rather me as in the current form they seem a bit off, although I prefer the full story as it is).

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Question!

Is the Chinese elements of the world just an inspiration or is it actually expected to be populated (at least almost) exclusively by Chinese or East Asian folks with East Asian appearance, traits and names (as you'd expect in medieval China)?

Also, do you mind recycling old roleplay sheets? I've made a couple of characters that are piling up dust and it's such a shame.

The Sunday Group

I reckon this is closed for new folks, yes?

Kingmakers: The Throne Alone (A Medieval Fantasy Succession Crisis)

Lady Elay Mythricane; Marcher Lord Artyr III Mythricane; and Lord Erik Krast, Archduke of Westmarch

A collab between moi @Cohors and @sly13

---

Kays Maron was a bit like a mule: docile, submissive, reliable and, if appreciated's too strong of an adjective to describe his presence, then bearable better fits the bill. Elay's long-term predictions tend to unravel in unexpected twists but marrying Kays was a decision she hit the bullseye. The man's as loyal and enamored of the coveted Lily of Mythricane as he was when they first met years ago, in great part thanks to how well she manages to constantly woo him, his wealthy lineage is an excellent tool for legitimacy to House Mythricane, and his austere competence is a very welcome contrast to Artyr's unpredictability. So it was natural when the Marcher Lord and the Lady went to Coronation to pay respects in their lieges' funeral, there was an implicit but collective sigh of relief when they realized a stable temporary regency under Kays would reign, even if for a short while.

In Coronation, things were a bit less formal and jejune than Elay expected.

While Artyr prayed solemnly in behalf of the admirable Daymian, a warrior of valiance and fierceness he deemed surpassing even his own, and had a flame of zeal kindled with Anyamara's masterful expression of respect, Elay saw two people who seemed keen - far too keen - to garner attention and support. And with the throne vacant, she soon guessed their cause. The question she started to wonder about was... a king, or a queen?

A queen. That way, my claim can have a contemporaneous precedent.

Besides, Anyamara seemed to be fairly more eloquent and functional than Sharles, whose subtlety was left at the door with his fervorous speech.

Elay knew she had to make a move quickly. She saw from Artyr's gleaming eyes Anyamara had already won her brother's heart, so her next obvious step was to check on her liege, Erik. She had two plans in mind: should the Warden's choice converge with hers, they would form an alliance of some kind; should it not, she would quickly prompt Artyr to storm Edoras. Artyr's Partitavan levies could not hold a candle to the force of an entire Archduchy, but they were an elite squad and Elay had full faith they could capture Castle Drachenfel in a surprise blitzkrieg.

After the funeral, she explained her plans to Artyr, who simply replied,

"Yeah, I'm on it. Can't wait to see if Erik's really that good."

Artyr preferred the second choice of action, regardless of the possibilities. But he felt he should trust Elay on this one.

And like that, they set motion to Edoras, with a raven dispatched beforehand to let the Warden know of their visit.

Artyr arrived in Drachenfel two days earlier than Elay. Accompanied by four or so equally veteran horsemen, he rode his own horse, like a true son of the steppe. "I ain't a pompous, ratty bastard", he claimed, to be carried around in an escorted carriage. Her sister could barely swing a sword, so fair enough in her case, but a Westmarch Lord worrying about scrawny Eastern highwaymen? Certainly deserves to die for being a coward.

Erik stood leaning over the map sprawled across the large table. Various wooden pieces were placed around the board symbolizing the various keeps and troop locations around Adanion. His gaze first looked over the border to the great steppes before looking at the north of his lands. Just on the Northern side of the border stood a long line of keeps signaling the end of Eriks lands and the start of the Mistlands under Lord Engelhardt.

“I always did hate those damned keeps.”

The other attendants within the room nodded in agreement as they looked over the map. Regardless of the steel they wielded or the skill of their warriors, they were not well suited for a siege. That wasn't including the fact that in order to make up for that weakness he would need to pull men from the steppe. Something he refused to do for a variety of reasons.

The declaration of the Northern Alliance had the potential to be quite worrisome. Best case was they were simply trying to support Sharles and had no intention of actually doing anything more drastic. Of course letting the boy Sharles be in charge was definitely not what Erik had in mind. Anyarama on the other had what it took to become the queen that could keep Adanion together and orderly once again.

Erik's thoughts were cut short as the door swung open revealing a young boy who bowed quickly in both respect and apology for interrupting the meeting. “Apologies my lord, but lord Mythricane has arrived.”

“Very well then. Shouldn't keep him waiting should we? Ensure that he is brought to the throne room”.

As the boy left the room in a hurry Erik turned once more to the map and the several men in the room. “We’ll continue this later. For now keep your ears to the ground and see what other news comes out. But do nothing else, the steppes are still the first priority.” receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the men Erik left the room making his way to the Throne room.

Compared to the pale fortifications scattered in Western Westmarch, Edoras’ walls were a sight to behold. The scale of the bastion would always woo Artyr and this time it was no different. Still amazing this whole Drachenfel concept, he thought, with its castle inside a castle premise. Erik’s a fine host. Artyr was impressed by the courteous treatment he received from the Warden. Had a vassal of his visited him in Partitava, he certainly wouldn’t be so kind as to send a subject to escort them to the throne room. And my throne is not… this interesting. In fact, his was a dimly lit chamber with a few glittering trinkets here and there, and not a respectfully large hall with wondrous decorations enhanced by natural lightning and a two meters wide skull of a literal dragon staring right at the front door. I should put some horse skulls next to my throne as well. But they wouldn’t be as cool as this. No, they wouldn’t. Perhaps Erik would have some fossils lying around.

“The Archduke of Westmarch will arrive shortly”. The young escort made a hurried bow gesture before making his way outside the room.

Remember, Artyr: be subtle. I know you like to be straight to the point, I know you don’t care for talking, but these people do, and if you’re too crass in your ways, they won’t listen to you.

Artyr didn’t like his mission too much, but the possible outcome of having to assault Edoras was an exciting one. His speciality strayed far off sieges, let alone double sieges, so it would be quite a novel experience. He felt his tongue tingling to antagonize Erik and make it happen, but he felt if he was going to completely ignore Elay’s plans he should at least do it to her face. So, no matter how disappointingly, the better thing to do was feign diplomatic interest.

As he wondered about his course of action and was wondered by the mesmerizing gallery, he heard echoing footsteps growing closer. Until, soon enough, entered the gallant Archduke.

Etiquette. Please.

Ugh, fine.

Artyr begrudgingly reverenced Erik the moment he entered the room, muttering, “Milord.”

“Ah yes, lord Mythricane, welcome to Edoras.” Erik studied Artyr for a second as he took his seat on the throne. “So what is it you wanted to speak about? I assume it was something important given our face to face meeting.” Erik kept his eyes steady as he spoke, doing his best to gauge the lord before him. The last thing he needed now was more bad news coming to his ears.

“Thank you, Erik.” Artyr replied. Oh, shit, I’m not supposed to call him by his first name. He clearly broke etiquette. Eh, at this point, the hell with it. Not needed in a warrior-to-warrior chat.

“Straight to the point. Good. Well, my babbling sister ain’t around, so I’ll be short also. I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed the whole shtick during Daymian’s funeral. Y’now, the throne is vacant, and both Anyamara and Sharles want it.” Up to this point, his voice was serene and calm, but it suddenly changed to a graver, stark tone. Almost like it dropped an octave. “Who would you rather see on it?”.

Erik snorted a bit under his breath at the question. “Ah yes. The question on everyone's lips it seems. Who will sit on the throne and call themselves king?” Erik looked around the throne room for a moment. “I Still support Anyamara as I always have and have said so publicly.” Erik gave a pause before leaning forward a bit more. “Still though, we are called to defend the pass from raiders and that is what we shall do. The other lands are of no concern to us.” Erik returned to leaning back on his throne with a more relaxed posture. “We will not be involved in any squabble that does not affect us, should anyone deem it necessary to challenge us, then they will be met with the might of dragon steel.”

Artyr smirked shyly at the corner of his mouth. “Good sense, it seems. I don’t mind the petty Eastern problem either. My sister does, however. I’ll apologize in advance because she’ll still bother you… and me… about this.”

Still, Artyr had a fantasy he had to entertain. “Although I assume should a full blown war break lose, we shall ride in support of Anymara, correct?”. His smile turned into a grin. “There would be no point in protecting the East if the East has no legitimacy.”

“Should our ruler call us to march then we will have no choice. Until then we shall remain here and continue our job as our forefathers before us.” Erik stood from his seat and descended the steps towards Artyr. Reaching the older lord Erik placed a hand on his shoulder as his demeanor became more friendly. “But enough of this talk for now, you should rest after the journey.” Erik lifted his hand off the shoulder and stepped past him motioning for a servant to step forward. “Young Erwin here will show you to your room.”

“Aye”, Artyr replied, hastily adding, “... um, milord. … Thank you”.

On the corridor out, he whispered to the young boy, “Kid, where do you folks usually go for a hunt around these parts?”. Erwin remained silent before reluctantly muttering usually the northeast has plenty of antelopes. Since Erik seemed in no mood for war games, Artyr figured he should entertain himself. “Get me someone to accompany me there, yeah?”

TL;DR

The two lords of Mythre, Artyr and Elay, pay a visit to their liege Archduke Erik Krast of Westmarch to gauge which pretender he supports. Erik himself is concerned with news of the Northern Alliance, analyzing strategically the situation, but when questioned by Artyr of his allegiance, reiterates his support for Anyamara and brushes aside any further conversation on the topic, affirming a neutral attack only if attacked stance. Artyr then goes hunting and Elay is expected to arrive two days later.

Kingmakers: The Throne Alone (A Medieval Fantasy Succession Crisis)

Marcher Lord Artyr III Mythricane

Name: Marcher Lord Artyr III Mythricane, "the Barbar"
Titles:
Description: Standing just ten centimeters short of two full meters, Artyr's presence is hard to come unnoticed. Equally difficult to miss is his far-stretching keloid scar that runs from his nose up to his left ear, a reminder of the damages a nomad can do to an Adanian man, as well as his leathery eyepatch that hides his blinded eye. A lean, built and tall man, Artyr could be charming if not for his receding hairline - at the young age of 37! - and unremarkable facial structure. The Sun gifts men with strength and the Moon, women with grace, but never the opposite, as they say, and for the Mythrian siblings that seems to be the case. Well, at least he can crack a fine smile.

Claimant: Anyamara. She's strong and action-oriented.

House Mythricane
The Borders, our Duty"

Reputation: A reckless, fierce, and highly respected warrior. But as a Marcher Lord, Mythrian nobles think lowly of him - faceless whispers roam Mythre a man as ugly and savage as him has to be a barbarian by blood, illegitimate and unfit to be a ruler; he's a puppet of the cunning Lily; he belongs in the steppes killing barbarians and not ruling the civilized people, et cetera. Artyr views those rumours with sarcastic contempt, as he often sees things in life, but he makes his point very clear that the mere thought of insubordination will be met with a scimitar slash to the throat. His words, not mine... a bit too straightforward, wouldn't you say? Mythrians are known to be frank, but even them are shocked with Artyr's candidness from time to time.

Ambitions: Artyr has always expressed his admiration for King Adendum, and he desires to emulate, if not downright surpass, his legendary campaign by conquering by fire the endless barbaric West, although it wouldn't be unfair to interpret his megalomaniac intentions as an excuse for a never-ending life within the anxiety, excitement and chaos of the battlefield.

Aptitudes:

The Western school of war - Used to the sea of grass of the Timeless Steppes and the vicious horsemen that therein inhabits, time taught Artyr the ways of the nomads. He's well versed in common nomadic raiding techniques and maneuvers, cues and tweaks on how to kill atop a horse, how to aim mid-gallop, swinging curved blades, the general geographic characteristics and influences of the plain grasslands biome that may affect a battle, and many other minute details that makes him a barbarian in all but blood (... and sedentary lifestyle. And manners).

Equinacious - His experience in horseback riding makes him a highly skilled and deadly horseman, capable of confronting nomads as an equal. Certainly the best cavalryman in Mythre, considering he's the only one that was attacked by a barbarian and managed to return home and live to tell the story.

One with the arrow - From a young age his aptitude with the bow was something marveled upon, and years upon years of training and thousand upon thousands of arrows fired made his gift even more significant. There's something about Artyr that makes him intrinsically good in archery. Maybe it's his rudimentary and intuitive notion of weight balance and distribution, aerodynamics, force liberation, pattern recognition to predict his target's movement, the intense emphasis of archery on Mythrian culture or maybe - most likely - all those combined.

Gymnast - Strength is certainly important, but not the only factor in combat. Being able to move your body swift and efficiently are equally relevant aspects which are often overlooked in professionalized armies, but on tribal, ritualistic groups as the nomads often are they're considered key elements as much as being buff. With a lot of training, pain and injuries along the way, Artyr overcame his typically Eastern stiffness and acquired an enviable overall mobility. Along the natural imposed demands of being a horseman, his general physical aptitude wouldn't stray far from a modern day's gymnast.

Spatially located - Men who trek through the endless grasslands west of Adanion either end up lost, missing, hunted, killed and flayed, or back, safe and sound. There is hardly any exception. And the only way to be the latter is to be very, very good in identifying where things are at, distance, and a general acute sense of geolocation and observation. Whether this is a skill or a talent is anyone's guess, but Artyr certainly has it.

Resilient - Artyr is a tough-as-nails sunovagun who can take a lot of mental and physical stress before breaking.

Vulnerabilities:

Adrenaline Junkie - Artyr's biggest shortcoming is, by far, his hedonist, thrill-seeking nature. He often volunteers to partake dangerous and unsavory situations just for the kick of it, 'cause nothing in life feels as good as that adrenaline rush when your life is on the line.

Warmonger - Whenever there's room for violence, war, or conquest, he will opt for those choices. And when there are none, he'll create them.

Impulsive - In a one-to-one combat there is no room for hesitance or meticulous planning, you either do something or you is left to respond to your adversary's doing. Artyr prefers to be the first, both in the battlefield and in his personal life, and as such he doesn't tend to think of his actions nor his words thoroughly.

Half-faced - The slash that scarred his face left him one ear deaf and partially blind. It's not that his eyesight doesn't work - he still retains some depth perception when using both eyes - but it's a blurry, unreliable one, to the point he prefers to simply block it with an eyepatch.

Unsightly - A man with a horrific scar such as his is no nice sight to see, especially if a man looked like Artyr before being scarred...

The Eastern school of war - Hilly terrains, dense forestry, straight bladed swords, swordfight in confined spaces, sword-and-shield approach to combat, and all your typical Adenian military tactics are things diametrically opposite to everything Artyr trained for, and as such, he's no better than an average Eastern infantryman.

Easily swayed - Wondrous imageries can really marvel Artyr. With extraordinary claims and a bit of charm, it wouldn't be difficult to convince, or at least sway, the Barbar into a specific line of thought.

A pawn rather than a leader - Some men are born to command; some, to be commanded. Artyr is definitely the last. He's not fit to be nor interesting in being a commandant, a diplomat, and much less an administrator. Too much responsibility, bureaucracy, and too little fun.

Additional Info: Inherited the march two years ago.

Domain Info: Mythre (informal) / March of Mythricane.

Considered the "last bastion of civilization before the ocean of barbarians", Mythre stands as the westernmost region of Westmarch. Towns are rather equidistantly scattered apart, usually garrisoned by pikemen and a few archers, and are intertwined to the capital, Partitava, through well-guarded supply lines (usually patrolled by cavalry), a large fortress where the bulk of Mythrian ranged and mounted forces sit. Lacking adequate communication from the rest of Westmarch's resource-rich regions, and lacking the purchasing power to even acquire such resources to begin with, Mythre scrapped armory and the famed winged Westmarch adornments for a much more mobile horseback archery specialization, to the point they can face toe-to-toe the nomads. (A dozen or so of cavalrymen opts to go heavy, and they're usually members of the most endowed families after Mythricane). And since hunting is still a primordial form of subsistence, archery is a tradition, and it's hard to find a marcher peasant who can't kill someone or something with a bow. Another notable characteristic is the employment of pikemen in choke points such as gorges and city entrances, human chevaux de frise that are an impregnable obstacle when used correctly. One of the few hamlets in Mythre, Argimpasa, is in essence a conglomerate of various stud farms, home of the reputably enduring and agile Argimpasan breed that makes up a large chunk of Mythrian armies.

Lady Elay Mythricane, the Lily of Mythre

Name: Lady Elay Mithricane, "the Lily of Mythricane"
Titles:
Description: As tall as the average Mythrian man and as lean as her brother, pale skin, black, voluminous hair in a spectrum french bob bitter tongues would call tomboyish, delicate lips, cheekbones starting to get prominent, round face and a penetrating green gaze, Elay could pass as being a decade younger and garner strangers' sympathy with her unassuming and innocent semblance. Let it be stated that she's a few years younger than his brother, believe it or not. However, a perceptive eye - a very attentive one indeed - could probably notice the emptiness in her stare. A rather shocking revelation, most likely, how could someone so adorable play such a manipulative façade?

Claimant: Anyamara. Her iron fist is admirable.

House Mythricane
The Borders, our Duty"

Reputation: The fairest lady of Mythre. Well such claims are hardly objectively accurate, so take it as you will. She's also known to be charming, kind, well spoken - a Charismatic Negotiator - and to know how to push's one buttons.

But...

Elay knows it. She hard heard them before. Figures in the dark. Shadowy voices say she's a farce. They claim to see beyond her amicable mask and stare at an evil spirit that is anything but lovely. A perfidious and perverse demon willing to do anything and ruthlessly shatter anyone in her path to whatever are her objectives. They say her brother either knows it and shares her malevolence, or is a clueless, naive bastard - not to different from Elay's husband, who is most definitely a cuck at this point - and another mere pawn at her sickening game.

Ambitions: Peace. To rest her arms on the topstone of the impervious Partitavan walls and watch the tall grasslands extent as far as her eyes can see, without having to check her shoulder for a spy of some sort sneakily approaching her for a swift backstab. And the only way to do that, naturally, is to control others. No freedom to plot. And who controls more than the Loyce? Whose throne is as powerful as theirs? She needs that.

Aptitudes:

Gift of Gab - It is difficult not to be enthralled by Elay's eloquence and charm. She has a way for words and dealing with people that never ceases to spellbind the candid people of Mythre.

Diligent - An obsessive, goal-oriented mind never ceases until the job is done. Many things may not make sense for her, and she will work her ass off until they do.

Cue observant - Restless legs often indicate stress. Avoiding eye contact, discomfort. Repeating oneself in a more stark throne, impatience. Gleaming eyes, hope. A barbaric horde charging at a pace far slower than usual, a diversion attempt to buy time. Elay is overly perspective and frequently notice untold details in everyday interactions.

Good tactician... - It is on moments of stark pressure that Elay exhibits her ingenuity and reflexes. Cornering her is challenge as she always seem to have a perfectly plausible reaction to perfectly implausible situations.

Vulnerabilities:

... and terrible strategist - Elay just can't see past the carrot in the stick. She hardly ever comprehends the bigger picture and her long-term plans are poorly stitched and schemed.

Hardly the sharpest tool in the shed - While she can observe details and gather more non-verbal information than most, Elay doesn't process them nearly as well. It takes time for her to comprehend elaborate schemes, and the world in general seems a hazy, illogical place, which also helps to exacerbate her paranoia, and make her predictions not exactly reliable.

Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's coming to get me... - Distrustful of people's intentions, seeing ulterior motives in every action, the overwhelming sensation of being persecuted and spied upon... Elay just can't get a break.

Tangible apathy - How good of an actor can an actor be? She may swindle most with her charisma, but very observant eyes are capable of noticing a rather empty dissimulation in... pretty much everything about her.

Additional Info: The only person she doesn't mistrust is her brother, Artyr. She knows the man is as transparent as glass.

Domain Info: Also the March of Mythricane.