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Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)


Artis Port

Reinold looked up at the sky as he rolled onto his back. The glaring sun still beat down on him; baking him in his own armor. With a pained groan, the Templar managed to stand up. Bruises and cuts aside, he was still in one piece. While he would certainly be sore once he had time to rest, he did not plan to recover in a cell. He left his sword, and walked over to Jameson, folding his arms over his chest. While the Templar’s wounds were unaffected by Yy’Sil’s healing, the city guard would need her to mend what she could. If they were arrested, this poor sod was the closest thing to an alibi that they had.

"Hopefully it'll be fixed. I just hope he doesn't dare strain himself...It could re-open.."

Just get him well enough to see tomorrow.” Once he was sure that Sil was done healing, Reinold lifted the city guard with a grunt. Whether it was Jameson being heavy, or the Templar was growing weak, carrying the body was difficult. As if on queue, the barking of orders resounded through the air. “I know you saved my life, ” Reinold said, “and that we just saved yours, but I’ll snap your neck in a heartbeat if you so much as whimper to give us away. ” He walked back into the inn at a brisk pace. Though they committed no crime, he knew that he and Yy’Sil would be questioned for some time. At the end of that, prison was still possible.

As he walked through the inn, he looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil. “If you had any other plans for us here, they will have to wait for another day. ” Once he emerged from the inn, he was the center of attention for the crowded streets. Screaming and explosions had a penchant for stealing attention. Muttering an oath under-breath, Reinold walked quickly through the crowd. He was not so bothered by the looks of panic, confusion and anger. He could only hope that Yy’Sil was not, either.

“What are you doing with that guard?” one man asked, stepping in front of Reinold – a poor mistake. The Templar cocked his head back and slammed it into the obstructor’s nose. The man was knocked onto his ass, and he crawled out of the way without another word. So much for slipping away into the crowd. As Reinold moved as quickly as the crowd parted for a man with blood splattered on his face – carrying a city guard – several other guards emerged from the inn in the trio’s wake.

The Templar stopped as a pair of guards moved in front of them. No words were needed. Reinold remained still as Artis’ finest surrounded him. They did not seem particularly interested in Yy’Sil – the them, there was only one culprit to apprehend.

“Put Jameson down,” one guard demanded.

You’re going to arrest me.

“Did you think you could come here, blow things up and leave?” The guard scoffed. “Of course you’re under arrest, you dimwit. Now, put Jameson down or I’ll kill you where you –“

Reinold walked up to the guard, and let the blade rest at his throat. “Try me.
Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)


Artis Port


The Husk had cut off Reinold’s air passage, seemingly enthralled by the Templar’s struggle to breathe. It made some sort of guttural growl, before a city guard’s sword stabbed trhough one of its lungs. Instead osmashing Reinold’s skull, the Husk staggered back and wheezed, the lung deflating like a balloon. It looked at the sword, before reaching to rip it free. Before it could, Reinold pushed the blade further with a kick. The Husk whined and trembled as an ink-like fluid gushed out over the Templar and its nearby surroundigns. The rancid stench would have made Reinold vomit, if his neck was not being crushed. Then, the Husk dropped him, using both hands to rip the blade free.

“You whoreson!” one of the Artificers raised a crossbow and fired at the city guard turned hero. The bolt caught the guard by the shoulder, the sheer force behind it enough to bore a hole through his flesh and shoulder. The Artificer loaded another bolt, and took aim.

Fire.

The husk turned into a ball of fire; stumbling as it tried in vain to put out the flames. On the ground, Reinold looked up at Yy’Sil as he approached. However, rather than looking thankful in the slightest, there was this look of sheer disbelief. He tried to gesture for her to run away, but lacked the strength as she placed her hand on his neck. His entire body went limp, as he existed between a state of healing and rotting. Every attempt to mend his damaged tissues would only be counteracted by the damage reoccurring. His blessing and curse.
The sound of one Artificer approaching filled Reinold with a burst of energy. It was enough for him to force himself to his feet and shove away Yy’Sil. He reached for his sword, before the Artificer took aim. They locked eyes; both knowing that death was a breath away.

Before the Artificer could fire, the Husk grew into a towering inferno. The intensity forced the man to step away, before the flames suddenly collapsed in on the Husk’s figure. While to the plain eye it appeared that the flames were being sucked away, those attuned to the magic knew far better. The flames were not vanishing. They were condensing . Reinold motioned for Yy’Sil to stay back.


It was too late. The fire released into an explosion; sending Reinold and the Artificers flying back. The Templar crashed through the window of a building; a symphony of crash, bang, snap, and boom. The stench in the air was replaced with the smell of spent sulphur, while smoke obscured everyone’s vision. When the flames died down – along with the smoke – two of the Artificers were nowhere to be seen. In the Husk’s place was a single, large crater. Next to it was the remaining portion of the Artificer that closed in on them.

Reinold groaned, sitting amidst the shards of countless pots and heirlooms. The shop owner could only look at him with a mixed expression of fury and horror. Sitting up, the Templar brushed himself off. Somehow he had avoided getting carved up by all of the broken pieces, not to mention the window. He own luck never ceased to amaze him. However, to say he was untouched was far from the truth. The entirety of Reinold’s back was a hotbed of pain; one that would not subside anytime soon. He looked at the shop owner. “Sorry about the damages,” he croaked, his windpipe barely able to force out the words. “I’m sure I could compensate you, but I’m needed elsewhere.

He climbed through the window, before hitting the ground. He was stricken with a serious case of vertigo. Down was left. Up was forward. Everything hurt. Opting to stay on the ground, he crawled towards Yy’Sil, before raising a hand. “I’m alright,” he said, rolling onto his side. He pointed to the guard on the ground, not far away from them. “Tend to his injuries. If he dies, our word won’t hold much weight in a trial. And, I’d rather not hang for nothing short of terrorism in Praelium.

Reinold knew little of Praelium’s laws, but something told him that having some semblance of an official word in their favor may be what it takes to leave Artis alive. He chuckled, before rolling onto his front. Whatever luck he had been keeping in reserve for the past few years was spent on killing the Husk. Those infernal abominations had seen entire armies laid to waste. Something he had the displeasure of witnessing only once before. He glanced over at Yy’Sil, remaining silent. While he would never admit it, it was thanks to her that they survived the encounter. Of course, it was her fault that he had to fight the Artifice to begin with. The Templar frowned. This would be far from the last they saw of the Artificers. A mage that beat one of their acquisition teams? That blew up a Husk? There was no way they would ever let her be now.

He glanced over at his sword; now embedded in the wall of another building, sent flying by the explosion. So much for that simple contract.
Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)


Artis Port


"If you were given a letter, I am the one you are to protect."

Reinold’s grunt was the closest to a sound of approval as Yy’Sil was going to get. Sitting down, the Templar set the letter on the table, so that she could see the signature. “My name is Reinold Sul’athar. I’m a hired sword, and there’s not much else to say. ” Remaining calm despite the commotion from outside, he leaned back into his chair in a bid to get comfortable before continuing. “I have questions of my own, when the time for them comes. ” He frowned. The way her sister was able to find him left him uncomfortable. He looked her over carefully, his eyes cold and calculating. “I don’t see a weapon, and you don’t have that ‘look’ in your eyes. The kind you get from splitting a man open. Wherever you’ve planned to go, I hope it’s nowhere risky.

With each thunk of steel stabbing into the wooden door, he maintained eye contact with the woman. He had to get a feel for how she held up under pressure. “Here is my proposal. ” Reinold drew his sword and set it on the table. The sound of it being set ever so gently betrayed its heavy weight. “I’ll be your bodyguard for the time being. If someone so much as threatens you, I’ll see them choking on their own teeth or worse. If your sister doesn’t compensate me after the end of this job, I’ll see you pay for it.

Once the door fell into splinters, Reinold stood up, sword in hand. There was silence as he watched the men enter the room, crossbows in hand. Their appearance sent the hairs on his neck stiff; a sensation he had felt only once before when his eyes fell upon the brown robes with gold trimmings. That alone was once too many for his lifetime. “You wouldn’t happen to know a little magic, would you?

“Don’t you move a muscle,” one of the men growled. Weapons aside, they were far from intimidating. They robes they wore betrayed them as scholars rather than soldiers. In fact, they lacked any armor. Yet Reinold knew better. He slowly sheathed his blade, and raised his hands.

I’m not a mage, ” he said as they approached. “The girl, maybe, but I’m as plain as they get.

“Shut up!” The trio drew close, as one pulled a strange device from his satchel. When he pointed it at Yy’Sil, it glowed at let out a shrill ringing. One of the Artificers fired a bolt, prompting Reinold to duck As the fireball flew from his charge’s hand, he grabbed the table and flipped it towards the men; pinning them underneath. In the same breath, he pulled Yy’sil along as he ran out the back.

A bloody mage, ” he muttered under his breath. “Why couldn’t you just be normal? ” As they back door opened, sunlight poured into the inn. Shielding his eyes, the Templar led the way into the back alleys. They were nearly as crowded as the main streets, yet he made quick work of clearing the way. Not many stood in front of an armor-clad juggernaut.

The Artificers rushed out the door in purist, and it did not take long for the remaining bystanders to draw accurate assumptions. As a bolt flew by Reinold’s head and caught the skull of a street performer, panic spread through the streets. Many cried for help as they surged out of the alley; blocking the exits. Muttering a curse under his breath, Reinold turned around to face the Artificers.

If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, don’t use them yet. ” His face was pale. While many things could not break his calm exterior, the Templar lacked any real confidence in the confrontation. It was not the men who worked that fear into him.

From the inn emerged a tall, hooded figure. Its height would have indicated half-giant roots, but something was off. The way it walked as unnatural and forced. If one listened carefully, it could hear a slight wheezing from under that hood. Moving in front of the Artificers, it pulled down the hood to reveal a head made of steel; a crude mask lacking anything but eyes hiding away any shred of humanity. One who was sensitive to magic would be as repulsed by the abomination as one would if they stepped in excrement. It was an affront to nature, and reeked of rotting flesh and oil. As the hood fell, so did its cloak; revealing nothing but metal plating, as if it was a suit of armor.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the Artificers said, “or we’ll fit them down your throat.”

Reinold stepped in front of Yy’Sil, and grunted. “We’re lucky, this time. Husks rely on the braindead hosts within to regulate its magic intake. Listen to me carefully.

“HALT!” City guards squeezed their way into the alley, surrounding Reinold, Yy’Sil, the Artificers and the one thing no sane man would confront. “Drop your weapons! You’re under arrest!” One of them moved towards the Artificers. The Husk – in a startling display of speed – whirled around and grabbed the guard by the throat; lifting him up like a doll. Nothing but wheezes came from the guard as the others stepped back.

Cover your eyes, ” Reinold muttered.

The guard kicked and tried to try the hands free, before the Husk threw its fist into his face. With a loud crunch the bloodied fist emerged from the back of the guard’s skull; covered in blood, matter and bone fragments. The Husk let go of the corpse’s throat, before using its bloodied arm to throw it through the wall of the inn. The Artificers raised their crossbows to the city guard.

“Interfere, and the rest of you will die far worse deaths,” one said, as the Husk turned to face Reinold and Yy’Sil again.

The Templar rushed forth, swinging his blade to get the Husk’s attention. With a swing of its arm, the construct met his blade and sent him stumbling back and his blade to the ground, before reaching for his throat as well. Lifting him up, its metal fingers closed around his windpipe. His face quickly turned red, and the veins started to protrude from his skin. However, Reinold remained calm. Swinging his legs, he caught one of his boots on the Husk’s chest. The other boot lined up with it before he extended his body into a plank.

The sound of chains breaking came from the Husk’s chest before the metal plate opened to reveal an exposed chest cavity. The heart was pumping erratically, and what skin that could be seen was green in color. The Husk raised its fist to do the Templar in, much like the guard. Reinold looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil.


Fire, ” he croaked, “now!
The General-Kings. (SIDES)


Inside the Ministry of Okeluiso, Capital of On’hino


Inside the Ministry, there was not a single peep as the eyes of every Minister were fixed on the podium at the center. Amid the house of nobility and politicians stood a single man; plastered in mud and dirt, his clothes torn to rags. He shook under the glare of Galedrith, who gestured for him to begin.

“I- we didn’t think they were telling the truth, sires,” the man began, running a thumb over the back of his left hand. “Figured that we would go out to the island, maybe find a bit of metals in the shaft and be on our way. But when we got there, somethin’ was off ‘bout the land. The trip was easy, but there was nobody else there. No buildings, or people.”

“We are aware of Blackreach’s conditions in terms of population,” Galedrith interjected. He frowned, glaring at the man. “You were part of the excavation crew. That is the part we want to hear.”

“Aye, sir.” The man paused, looking around the room as he trembled softly.

“Quit your shaking and speak!” Thibault boomed, before Galedrith raised a hand to halt him.

“Th-the mine was all we found,” the man continued, “for the most part intact. Nobody else in sight. There was plenty to haul, so the captain put us to work. The boat was loaded to the brim with fine ores, and as it sailed away…”

“As it sailed away, one of the crew found the Door.” Galedrith shuffled a few papers on his podium. In the past few years, Blackreach had been nothing but a nuisance to him. Even if he wanted to investigate the ‘Island that ate Men’, the rest of the Ministry was quick to become a pain in his side. But, with the way things were now, he could throw as many boatloads of men as he pleased into the Abyss and not a single Minister had the stones to bring the matter up. And with reports of similar doors being found by scouting teams in their search around Lerem, perhaps there was more to the Island than men being consumed. “You’re in a rare position,” he said, sitting up. “The first to have ever left Blackreach. I want to know what you saw before you left, and how you escaped.”

“Aye sir.” The man shambled idly in his place at the center of the Ministry. “We found a stone door at the end of the mines the same day that the boat left. The captain had left with the boat, so we took it upon ourselves to dictate our next move. We opted not to touch the door, and to wait for the captain’s return.”

“According to the captain’s reports,” Val stated, “which are corroborated by logs taken by officers in Perona, he was sent off to return to the island within the week.”

“That’s wrong,” the man said, looking at the Minister. “We were stuck on that rock for months. We did what we could to survive, but each day we found less and less to eat. One of our grew so crazed by hunger, he destroyed what water supply we had left. With death awaiting us on the beach, we decided to open the door. Figured, there was no point in waiting around if we’re going to die anyways.”

“What did you find beyond the door?” Galedrith asked.

“Something… something…” the man muttered, before looking around himself again. “I’d rather have died on that beach from hunger again, and again, and again…”

“Is he right in the mind?” Thibault asked.

“I swam to get away from that place,” the man continued, sweat beading on his skin. “No man is ready for what lays within that place. It reeked of the air surrounding Lerem.”

***

“That was a waste,” Thibault muttered as he, Galedrith and Val walked through a hall in the King’s Palace. “Man was clearly deranged. It’s likely that there’s something in the air that drove him out of his right mind, and perhaps he killed the rest of his crew.”

“Perhaps.” Galedrith furrowed his brow. “Yet the captain found no signs of carnage.”

“It’s not the only place to not abide by the natural laws,” Val interjected, “with Stal and its eternal Frost being the closest example.”

“This isn’t about seasons,” Galedrith replied. “This is an island that wants us to delve into it.”

Thibault scoffed at Galedrith. “Us?”

“Yes. Do you not think it strange, how it let one single man escape?” Galedrith stopped as Thibault took a seat on a bench. He grinned as the older man groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re growing soft, Thibault.”

“I’m about as soft as a stone.” Thibault smirked, before gesturing him to go on, leaning back in his seat.

“Yes. This has never happened, not until we secured control over the Ministry.” Galedrith clasped his hands together. “But now that we decide what happens with On’hino, Blackreach spares a man to draw us in with a mystery.”

“Be careful, Galedrith,” Val said. “Remember that Alnharte is still out there, and this may just suit to fan his flames-“

“Or extinguish them.” Galedrith turned to Val. “What kind of monsters are we if our labors provide us with artifacts to match Kalold in power?” Grinning, he began to walk, leaving both ministers behind. “Yes, I think I know what course we shall take. Send out a notice across the realm, and let the most daring of explorers root through Blackreach; those who find anything of worth will be handsomely rewarded.” Looking over his shoulder, he dragged a finger over his neck. Thibault’s fit of laughter wrought a grin on his face.
Reinold Sul'athar,

Gods' Fury and unfailing warrior,

I charge with the protection of a woman, with whom the fate of Erelith rests upon. Upon completion of your contract, you will find your price more than satisfied.

Find your charge in the Burning Mare Inn.


Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)


Artis Port


Reinold groaned as the port of Artis came into view. Perhaps he spent too long in the cold climates, but the warm air cut through him. It sapped his energy, and made him sweat in his armor. He had longsince abandoned his coat. Many aboard the ship had complained about the sunlight shining off of his mail, but between overheating or being an eyesore, there was little choice.

“Can’t y’find somethin’ elsewhat to wear?” one of the crew asked. When he received nothing in response, he set down what he was doing and approached the Templar. “Did y’hear me? Or’re ye deaf?” He chuckled, and reached out to give Reinold’s shoulder a shove. “So you’re-“ the sailor was cut short by his own tongue as the Templar turned around.

Sod off.” Reinold towered over the man; his glare far more intense than the sun. He flicked his eyes to the rest of the crew, which sent them busy into their own work. Turning around again, he looked at the oncoming port. He had plenty to think over, and the letter in his hand did little to quell his thoughts. It had found him by name alone; he had no true home, and few his name or whereabouts. For him to be tracked down… the thought baffled him. Perhaps he had let something slip.

The ship reached port, and Reinold stepped off. The boards creaked underneath his boots; prompting him to move quickly. The port was not a far cry from Perona, spare that there were not as many walls. Life bustled through the streets. Merchants shouted over one another in a bid to garner interest. Urchins raced through the crowds to prey upon unattended coinpurses.

Stepping into the crowds, Reinold looked around at the buildings that lined the streets. The letter described one named ‘the Burning Mare Inn.’ It was there that he would find the beginning of his contract. A woman. While ambiguous, the letter detailed the job of protecting her, no matter where they went. But, why go through the trouble of finding him? Why not anyone else? He was always hired to kill, often discreetly. Bandits were akin to business competitors. His price was not so cheap, but he had yet to fail an agreement. Perhaps that was his draw.

Reinold stopped as he found the Burning Mare; a building indistinguishable from the others. The place was well-kept to the eye, and there was little to suggest elsewise. There he was, yet something left him hesitant. This was no ordinary job. Resting his hand on the grip of his sword, the Templar pushed open the door. There was nothing but silence to greet him. Stepping inside, he found nobody else, spare at a table in center of the room. Though hidden away under a hood, the figure sitting at the table was clearly a woman; her figure gave it away.
Who are you?” Reinold asked, stepping inside. The door closed behind him; muffling the noises in the streets. He approached the table, yet stopped a couple paces away. “If this is a trap, don’t leave me in suspense.
@Ryunte
Ah my freind you haven't told me this has started!


D'oh! I thought you joined the discord! I am a fool..

Yes, the roleplay has started!
Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)


Somewhere in the Cutthroat’s Abode, On’hino


“It’s all I have left!” the woman pleaded, clutching onto a copper pendant. “No merchant would pay you good coin over this thing, just-“ Her eyes widened as one of the highwaymen surrounding her drew a knife. It was an effective signal to shut up, though it only stifled her whimpering; which was barely audible through the heavy rain.

The knife-wielding man knelt in front of her, and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening.” In a sudden motion, he gripped her hair and yanked it back; exposing her throat. Cold steel met the warmth of the woman’s skin. The man’s voice turned sour. “We’re takin’ everything. I dun’ care if’s the most precious trinket in your cart, or some worthless scrap. As long as that lard-pot Garethul doesn’t pay for our protection, he’ll see his shipments and carts go disappearin’. What you do have a say in, love, is whether or not his merchants turn up dead or alive. Are we clear?” As the woman sank to her knees in the mud, she held up the pendant, and cringed as it was swiped.

The other outlaws turned their attention to the horse-drawn cart she had brought along the way. One of them stroked the horse’s mane, before giving a shrill whistle. The cart was cut free, the horse kept in place. The group dragged the cart off the road and into the forest. Only the knife-wielding man and the merchant remained.

“I did what you asked,” she said, “please let me go.”

“Well you did, but not without giving me a little trouble.” The man grinned, leaning in to look her in the eye. “’haps you should do something for my troubles.” There was a pause, before the woman got up and tried to run before slipping in the mud. The man scambled overtop of her, and pinned her down with a hearty laugh. “Go on, love, I like when they struggle!” He gripped the collar of her shirt, and dragged the knife through the cloth; splitting it in two to reveal her bare back. No sooner had he started to pry further with his barehands than he stopped. Blood gushed down his face, and poured onto the woman as the bandit gave way to a violent spasm; his hands reaching up at the spike through the top of his skull. The woman screamed as she looked over her shoulder to find another man driving the sharp handguard further.

With a sharp twist, the bandit stopped moving, and the stranger ripped his blade free before grabbing it by the handle. Pushing the bandit off of the woman and into the mud, the man planted his blade into the ground. The woman started to crawl away again, before a cloak fell over her body. She paused – wrapping herself up – and looked at the armor adorning her rescuer’s form. It was filthy; grime in some parts, broken chain in others.

Sir Garethul hired me to investigate matters on this route,” the man explained, surveying his surroundings. He knelt beside the bandit, and turned the corpse over. “What was in your cart?

“Jewelry,” the woman replied, standing up. She held the cloak tight around her form, and approached the man. “I owe you a debt,” she said, managing a sheepish smile. It was plain to see that her terrors were far from gone; there was no chill in the air strong enough to take credit for her shaking. “What is your name?”

It won't be hard to track.” The man stood up and handed the copper pendant to the woman. “I’ll return with your cart. Stay warm.” With that, he grabbed his sword and strode off in the direction of the other outlaws. Their footprints were well defined in the mud. From what he could tell, there was at least five or six others. The canopy above sheltered his body from the rain as he followed the trail. Rain in On’hino made it difficult for thieves to get away with robbing merchants. Not only because it left tracks for anyone to follow, but because-

A loud crash resounded through the rain. The man grinned, and picked up his pace. It was easy for someone to wreck a cart in the woods when the ground is muck. He climbed up a hill to find a sharp decline ahead. The cart must have fallen down. Peering down, he found the group of bandits circling the cart, trying to pluck their take from the earth. Tightening the grip on his blade, the man walked down the decline and approached the bandits. They were nothing special; all of rather average builds, wearing little armor aside from studded leather.

I have a message from Sir Garethul,” he said, gathering their attention. Raising his sword over his head, he threw it at one of the highwaymen. It caught one of them by the throat; the sheer force pulling him to the ground and pinning him in the mud. The rest of them drew their weapons; ranging from crudely-formed swords to axes. The man stopped, and raised his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to him?

As the bandits charged towards him, the man curled his hand into a fist and struck the first one to come in the jaw; a snapping noise in reward to the blow. Before the foe could stagger back, the man pulled him to take the business end of an axe in motion. The force behind the blow sent both the man and his meatshield back, but he remained balanced. However, he grimaced as the bandit he held vomited a torrent of warm blood into his mail.

Thanks,” he muttered before throwing the body to the ground; liberating a blade free from its dead owner’s clutch. As the axe-wielding outlaw readied an overhead swing to cut the man in half, the man leaned in and jammed his shoulder into the opponent’s core. His strength was enough to lift the cutthroat off of his feet.

The bandit tried to pry the man off of him, before he was slammed into a tree; impaled on a broken branch. The man stepped back before hot pain dragged like a nail through his side. Recoiling and turning around, he narrowly caught the next swing of another attacker with his steel. With one hand free, the man grabbed his assailant by the back of the head, and pulled his face into the back of his blade; eliciting a pained scream that made the last two step back. The scream only stopped as the man grunted and pulled even harder; pushing the metal past the skull.

There was a deadly silence, aside from the thud of a fresh-made corpse falling to the ground. The man stared at the two remaining outlaws. As one sank to his knees and dropped his weapon, the other turned and ran.

“W-we were just doing what was needed to get by,” the last criminal said, “we did what we were told.”

I believe you.” The man approached him, and smiled. “Offer your hand.

The criminal hesitated, before lifting his hand. With a single motion, the man released an agonized scream from the criminal. They both stared at the severed hand on the ground; an occasional twitch still coming from the fingers.

Find your friend,” the man said, “and kill him. Then let everyone else know what happens to anyone who so much as points a sharp stick at Sir Garethul’s employs.” Dropping the sword, he walked over and ripped his own blade free from its flesh scabbard. “If they don’t believe you, show them the bodies.” With that, he left the remaining outlaw in the blood-saturated mud.

***


“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re lying,” Garethul said as he and the man walked through the streets of Perona. The amount of years the businessman had spent in the harbor-city had left him adept at weaving through the busy streets, despite his portly figure. The cries of vendors from their stalls fell deaf on his ears. “But I do know better, Reinold Sul’athar. Do you think we’ll hear anything more concerning my carts being stopped in the Abode?”

Your carts will remain untouched, at least until the Frost sets in.” Reinold held his side, as if his hand would soothe the pain of his bandaged wound. “I’m certain that another pack will take their place, eventually.

“Well I’d rather pay you to kill them off every now and then over being extorted.” Garethul chuckled, and patted Reinold’s shoulder. “I’ve seen to it that your reward is aboard the vessel you requested, along with a little ‘bonus’ for saving me the trouble of another dead worker.”

Bonus?

“Trust me, you’ll like it.” Garethul stopped in front of a store; the building itself dwarfing the houses that filled Perona. He gave a bow towards Reinold, and then opened the door. “I’ll see you when the Frost arrives, Sul’athar.”
Holden d'Alnharte, the Exile. (SIDE)




Some call him a war hero.

Others call him a murderer.

Holden served as a marine in the navy of On'hino. His job was to scout for the main forces, report enemy massings, and kill enemy scouts and targets of opportunity. What none expected was his excellence in his tasks. Throughout the war, he was considered a certainty to victory for whichever army he had scouted the battlefield for. It was even reported that after being spotted by lookouts from the rebel armies, they had retreated from a vital control point. However, it could be a myth.

Holden's capabilities of blending in were remarkable. After slipping into the chain of command of the rebel armies, he had not only intercepted vital information, but killed off multiple officials without detection. The result left him with the monicker "Ghost of the Sea". Though his stealth was noteworthy, he did not come up short in the field of combat. Having spent the majority of his time on the field, various battles and skirmishes left him to favor a longsword of unknown descent -- Yusil.

The only thing to outdo his swordsmanship is his marksmanship. A popular story among soldiers of the Royal Army: "When given the task to eliminate the commander of a rebel battalion in a fortified position, he snatched a longbow from an archer's hands. Before he returned, white flags were being raised from the rebels, who explained that 'the gods had struck down their commander with a single arrow to the throat.'"

The Betrayal


After being recognized for his bravery, dedication and effectiveness on the battlefield, Holden was recalled home, to the capital city of On'hino, Okeluiso. He became a war hero. One night, he was called into the king's castle for a celebration over their nation's clear victory over the rebels residing in their northern coast. However, the events that had taken place in the castle are not known, aside from two things: The murder of the king's son, and the exiling of Holden.

When asked, the king could not say whether or not the death of the only heir to the throne was at the hands of Holden, nor would he explain why he banished the war hero. The anarchy that swept the land was over the questionable innocence of Holden. Had he killed the prince? If that is the case, then why did the king let him leave alive? Such questions baffled either side, until a coup arranged by On'hino's generals overthrew the king, and left him to rot in a prison.

The men to replace the king promised an end to the controversy by summoning Holden to trial in On'hino. But, a large problem came to a head then. If exiled from the lands, then where would Holden go? With his vast array of skills, combined with the possibility of him being anywhere in Erelith, the war hero and possible killer could not be called upon so easily.

Having not the manpower to waste over this controversy, the men in charge came up with another solution. If Holden is to come home, his innocence would be redeemed, and he would be exempt of murder charges. However, until Holden comes home, the lump sum of coin on his head stands more than enough for one to build their own nation.

After a year of being hunted, Holden has yet to return to On'hino. However, in his wake over the world is a trail of bodies belonging to those searching for their claim to fame and fortune. One would barely be able to recognize him from his years in service, however his tale is not one to mistake for another's -- nor is his ability.

Age: 32.
Place of birth: On'hino.
Occupation: Scout, Ranger, Freelance.
Physique-
Hair: Chestnut brown, ungroomed, full beard.
Eyes: Stone grey.
Fitness: Strong and lean, resilient.
Morals: "The taking of a life is not a simple task, but one I will not hesitate to complete should I feel mine threatened."
The General-Kings. (SIDES)


The General-Kings are a ruthless trio of men who usurped power in times of political turmoil. Where a thousand words could not pass, the stroke of a blade carved through. When a Major Holden d’Alnharte was accused with the murder of Prince Hraesyl d’Nale, he was brought before His Majesty King Torin for trial. The king spared Holden’s life, and sentenced him to Exile instead of execution.

What some saw as a display of restraint, others saw of a sign of weakness. With popular support among the upper echelons of society – as well as full control over the Royal Army, the Royal Navy and the Aegis’ Battalion – the General-Kings were able to relieve King Torin “to provide On’hino with the leadership she needs to survive.” King Torin was never heard from again.







These three men intend to keep On’hino’s war machine well-oiled for aeons to come. Fathers will pass their blades and armor down to their sons. Those who will not bend their knee to the new-born empire will open their throats instead.

"Do what I say, and you'll die a king. Disobey, and you'll die a rodent."




Alon d'Trilith (SIDE)


A lieutenant of the Royal Navy, Alon is a veteran of several conflicts. Even though he is not as old as some of his peers, his career is lined with spectacular accolades. He is a scout, much like Holden d'Alnharte, however pushes himself far harder to achieve perfection. Anything he can do to improve his performance, he does. He is devoted to the On'hinian cause - even if he does not understand why, sometimes. The greatsword he carries -- Shieldsmasher -- has seen him through long, bloody battles.

He is quick to anger, and even quicker to make the offender regret it. Both officers and Sea Tigers alike know better than to challenge his authority. While he is not always the smartest of tacticians, he is not to ever be underestimated. He chooses to wear less armor in combat not just to be agile, but to terrify his opponents.

He cares little for honor, nor formalities. He was born, trained and honed to get the job done. All means are justified by the end.

Age: 25.
Place of birth: On'hino.
Occupation: Scout, Ranger, Lieutenant (ORN).
Physique-
Hair: Chestnut brown, ungroomed, full beard.
Eyes: Auburn.
Fitness: Strong and muscular, resilient.
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