Tortoise

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

For those wondering, yes, dwarves of all genders and sexes have beards. At least the Dinnin kind.

@Enigmatik

I like to imagine they're born with stubble.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Made a few edits, so want a quick thumbs up before I go ahead and slap these back in the character section.

Malleck

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Malleck belongs to the Ainok- a race of humanoid canines indigenous to Alywne's savannahs and deserts, with significant variety between individual specimens. A quick way to irritate almost all of them is to mistake them for Gnolls, their bitter enemies. He's young for most races, at 20, but reached maturity five years prior, and has been travelling with the caravan for three years.

Appearance:
Malleck has dusty fur, blotched with natural camouflage in hues that range from sandy khakis to deep blacks, with a noticeable cross pattern that stretches from his muzzle to his nose, the crossbar reaching to the ends of his brows. He has a shaggy plume of hair that's been braided and tied with baubles and other accessories in an attempt to tame it, and bright amber eyes with black sclera. He stands at around 5'5", a normal height for Ainoks, with the typical tight-wound muscle. His fur serves double duty to both cool him in warm environments and warm him in cool ones, meaning he usually eschews more clothing than a simple tunic, covered in straps and bags to help him carry anything he needs on the road.

History & Personality:
The Ainok are a semi-nomadic people who live as a periphery ally of the desert's great Dinnin kingdoms. Travelling throughout the dry seasons, Ainok clans, usually made from extended family units settle into temporary pastoral settlements during the wet season to reap the benefits of nature's sudden flourishing. A true-blood Ainok through and through, Malleck has grown up with this cycle- from his time as a pup on his mother's back to an adult of fifteen, expected to be able to hunt and provide for his family.

But, Malleck always sought out more than this. He was born under the light of Otota the dancing star, his paws always itched during the wet season, eager to be on the road again, eating up the dusty miles. He bid farewell to his family when he was sixteen, departing alongside a merchant caravan returning from trade with one of the Great Clans deeper into the desert. Although he had had brief interactions with outsiders before- the Ainok are no strangers to traders, caravaners, hunters and even the occasional hostile band, this was the first time he had been truly exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking, and he loved it.

He drank in the diversity and the uniqueness, adding their tales sand stories to his own mind, and whenever he could take the opportunity to tell them and retell them at the fire, enhancing his own tales as he did so. It is one thing to have a firm grasp of a single method of storytelling- quite another to begin to understand the universal traits that sapient species use in their myths and legends, and to weave them together.

Soon after the caravan arrived in settled lands however, one of the guards informed him that there was an even better option out there. The Pilgrim's Caravan was, coincidentally, in the same city they were, and with thanks to his previous travelling companions, he joined up, bringing with him his stories, while being always eager to learn more.

Motivation:
Malleck is a classic example of someone filled with wanderlust, and travels both out of a desire to see the world and to imitate the passage the Dancing Star of Otota makes across the skies. He knows not when his wandering will end, or if it even will at all, but is more than happy to stick with the Pilgrim's Caravan for as long as it stops his feet from itching.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
As an open and gleeful follower of Otota, Malleck is expected to be able to bring cheer wherever he wanders. to this end, he has immersed himself in the entertaining arts- music, singing, storytelling and dance. He can work his magic with only a willing audience, but any instrument is obviously a boon. A not-insignificant part of his memory is dedicated to the countless tales he's heard and repeated across his pilgrimage, but for all this knowledge, he is undoubtably rather 'book dumb.' Coming from an oral culture, Malleck can neither read nor write, and he has neither inclination nor patience to dedicate himself to learning how to do so. He also cannot swim and easily and violently becomes motion sick, preferring to walk if at all possible over sitting in a caravan or boat.

As with most long time travellers, Malleck can defend himself- after all, he comes from a community of hunters and herdsmen, frequently in conflict, but fighting against other sapients always sat ill with him. It felt wrong- dirty, almost undivine in a way, and so instead he much prefers to laugh off an insult than to take a swing. For self-defence, he prefers anything that can extend his reach and put some distance between himself and his foe- be that a spear, stave or simply a sufficiently long and durable stick. When it comes to magic, Malleck's powers are extremely limited- he is neither a shaman nor wizard- although he practices the Ainok's typical astronomical fortune-telling and can produce a few minor illusions, mend a broken rope or help seal a small cut, anything greater than this is beyond his abilities.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
They'll figure it out at some point!

If They Had a D&D Alignment, It Would Be:
Chaotic Good

Three Likes:
The sound of laughter, a well-cooked meal, a new story to learn.

Three Dislikes:
Gnolls, betraying his trust, being unable to see the stars at night.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Heart! Part of the job, honestly.

Worst Fear:
Forgetting

Favourite Color:
All of them!

Most Like The Animal:
'Dog' would be pretty stereotypical, but also wrong. Malleck's more like a songbird of some kind.

Favourite Time of Day:
Deepest night- where the stars shine the clearest, and the fire seems that much brighter.

How They Dress:
As minimally as possible so other peoples aren't offended. He has fur for a reason.

Favourite Season:
The dry season! What do you mean most places don't count a 'wet' and 'dry' season?

What Gods/Spirits/Whatever They Worship (If Any):
The Ainoks of the savannah worship the stars- which come into view so brightly and clearly each night when the sun sets. They believe that these stars are each Gods in their own right, and that those born under the light and influence of various celestial bodies are favoured or disfavoured by these Gods. Malleck was born under the light of the so-called 'Dancing Star,' otherwise known as the Goddess Otota. One of the brightest stars in the sky, Otota is also unusual in that it is never stationary, swaying across the sky from night to night. Because of this, Otota holds a special place within the Ainok pantheon as the Goddess of gaiety, enjoyment, fertility, pleasure, and so on and so forth. Malleck considers himself a staunch follower of Otota's light, and it is under her auspex that he travels.

Notes/Worldbuilding:

Ainok do not traditionally use last names, as by and large they stay within small familial groups, and even during interactions between groups, misunderstandings are easily avoided. 'Freepaw' is a rough translation of the Ainok term for a wanderer who has willingly left their family, distinguishing Malleck from a banished and disgraced Ainok.

Gadri Abzan

Gadri Abzan

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Dwarf, 237 years old, caravaneer for some 70-odd years.

Appearance:

Gadri stands at a squat and broad 4'6", with the powerful muscles and roughened hands of a craftsdwarf. They complete the look with a heavy toolbelt and many of their own crafts dotting their appearance. To accompany this, they usually don a padded and reinforced turban, covering up short-cropped hair. As with all dwarves, they lovingly take care of their beard, which is carefully braided and knotted around silver rings. In the forge they don a thick apron, heavy duty gloves and sturdy boots, which they trade for finer robes and heavy khohl when out and abour.

Many of the intricacies of Dinnin-dwarvish appearance can easily be missed by those who are not used to the desert-dwelling branch of the race, from how they braid their facial hair to the precise location of jewllery and clothing folds. To those in the know, the braiding of their beard and the cut and manufacture of their clothes tell that Gadri is a tetra- a 'third gender' that Dinnin-dwarves recognise, believing some to be closer to the stone that formed the race than others. Additionally, they are clearly not only a craftsman, but one of the rare scriptsmiths, a unique dwarven trade- as evidenced by the words intricately woven across much of their jewellery.

History:

Gadri's story begins in one of the holds of the Great Clans that litter the desert who settle within valleys and crevasses among great mountains in order to minimise the effects of the ancient Covenant made between the Dinnin and their God. The dwarves who lived in these territories were slowly incorporated into the Clans, being neither strictly Dinnin, nor exactly Kaffin, much as the Ainok are.

It was here, as part of Clan Abzan, that Gadri was born. Apprenticed as a smith at a young age, they grew up in the hold, working with steel and flames, directing the kaffin that laboured under the watchful gaze of their betters, and being brought up in all the ways a true dwarf was supposed to behave. Their skill with smithing earned them the attention of a scriptsmith (what other dwarves would consider 'runesmithing,' although using the Dinnin script rather than an indiginous dwarvish one, lending it certain unique attributes.) This was no small thing- becoming a scriptsmith takes a significant portion of a dwarves young life- lasting almost a century, including several decades of their dwarvish adolescence.

Hard, delicate and precise toil forged a dwarf meticulous over details and extremely proficient in their craft, but alas, Gadri was not destined to bring honour to their clan and forge great crafts for the emir. Instead, fate took a different path. As so often happens with the delicate web of politics that make up the Holds, skullduggery and backstabbing reared its ugly head up, and as the mess settled, Gadri's hammer was stained with the blood of a fellow Abzan.

Kinslaying, regardless of reason, is a dire crime within the Holds, and although their skill as a scriptsmith was enough to save their life, Gadri could no longer stay in the holds. The back of their right hand was marked with a heavy brand and they were cast out of the hold.

Personality:

Gadri is a dwarf. A rather dwarfish sort of dwarf, although one tinged by their Dinnin faith and life experiences on the road. They abstain from intoxicants (other than coffee and nutmeg, both of which are rare to encounter on the road,) dedicate themselves to their craft, and are generally rather taciturn and stoic. Despite this, they've travelled with the caravan and had a long enough life to be a valuable source of information.

As any craftsdwarf ought to, Gadri is protective of the unique skills that their species have developed, but eager to share the fundementals of working with steel and silver. When in the forge they are strict, serious and focused, expecting orders to be followed quickly and correctly, and harsh on those that dissapoint them, although they'd argue this is the best way to learn.

Motivation:
An exile from their people, Gadri has no real home to turn to. For them, the almost seventy years they've spent within the caravan makes it as good as their home. One day, perhaps, they would like to wash the blood from their hands and return to their homeland... But until that day comes, they serve as the caravan's premiere smith and metalworker.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

A dwarven smith is always in high demand no matter where they go, and Gadri happily serves as the Caravan's main arificer. Most of the time, this is little more than mending wagons or repairing old tools, but they also tinker with some of the metals purchased along the road, turning them into new crafts that can fetch a higher profit than just their base ingredients. In addition, they take great pride in maintaining any weapons or armour entrusted to them, and those willing to pay the dwarf's (sometimes extortionate) fees can find themselves with some truly beautiful pieces of art. In order to facilitate this work, Gadri's wagon has been extensively personalised and customised to turn it into a true rolling smithy, able to be set up and taken down in only a few hours, less if others assist them with it.

Even with all this though, Gadri is still falliable. Most obviously is their position as an exile - something they've kept carefully disguised from all but a tiny minority among the caravan. Then there is the natural peccadillos of dwarves - slow over long distances (but natural sprinters) water-averse and prone to nurture grudges for decades.

Scriptsmithing

Like all dwarves, Gadri is unusually magically resistant- both to the hostile effects of magic cast upon them, and for the purposes of channeling magic themselves. Dwarves are not immune from magical effects- a fireball still scorches them and some can indeed channel arcane power, but dwarves as a whole have instead developed their own system of bending the immaterial to their will- Scriptsmithing. Known by several other names- runesmithing, glyphcrafting, and so on and so forth, the core of scriptsmithing is the same. With strike of hammer and bloom of flame, dwarves can imbue items, thereafter elevated to 'artifacts' with potent magical power. Each scriptsmith goes through decades of their life training in scriptsmithing- from days as a journeyman apprentice, writing and reciting the words, to a proficient student, capable of wielding the hammer themselves, to finally a fully qualified smith, each hammerblow pulling from sources beyond to fill their crafts with power.

By now, Gadri is a more than competent scriptsmith, capable of forging great artifacts for others, should they have the time and ingredients to do so. The very finest of scriptsmith crafts are made from the legendary 'starmetal,' believed to be leftover fragments of ancient Gods that came before the Light. In its raw form, starmetal is fantastically magically unstable, throwing out wayward energies that sicken and even kill those handling it unprotected- but the dwarves, with their natural resistances, are able to forge and refine it, creating artifacts with a beautiful damascene finish. Fantastically rare, Gadri has only three precious artifacts made from this stuff- their hammer, chisel, and a single ring, each one with its script woven with their own hands.

Scriptsmithing's potential, in the hands of a master smith, is almost unlimited. So long as one knows the words with which to express their intent, a scriptsmith can create anything from wondrous automata to staves capable of stopping a rampaging oliphaunt dead in its tracks. Alas, such a thing requires a dwarf far more ancient and far more competent than Gadri, whose crafts, while still potent, are greatly limited by not only their resources but also their age. One simply does not become a master scriptsmith in a century or two.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
A grand piece of starmetal, to return home.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
True Neutral.

Three Likes:
Nutmeg-infused coffee, a roaring forge, a well-made craft.

Three Dislikes:
Politics, their beard being mussed, the biting cold.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Once, their heart. Once.

Worst Fear:
Never returning home.

Favorite Color:
The damascene sheen of starmetal.

Most Like The Animal:
The humble termite. Hardworking, fastidious, and capable of raising crafts that will long outlive themselves.

Favorite Time of Day:
The early morning, with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, and a freshly-awoken forge, a day of work stretching ahead.

How They Dress:
Like the merchant that they are.

Favorite Season:
Autumn - before the nights become freezing in the desert, but where the midday sun is cool enough to allow forgework.

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Although the dwarves of the Dinnin mountains traditionally worshipped their own pantheon, increasingly they've turned to the way of the Concord, and the faith of the Light.

@Enigmatik

You spin off characters effortlessly, as always. Malleck is approved. Gadri is double-approved: a desert dwarf, outcast from their clan, with a mobile forge and a unique way of working runes? I love all those things.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise, I have no time, sadly.

@Letter Bee

Sad to hear it! Well, we're here if things clear up.

I'm happy to hear that you've recovered. The original RP had a lot of promise and garnered a lot of interest, and you disappearing was a heartbreaker. I find myself in a busier than usual season for RPing, since I'm currently in two extra RPs compared to my usual none, but I'll like to give this another shot. However, I would not be applying as Hoogarth if so. As much as I liked that idea, I'm already playing several fools in other RPs, and I've recently had a better idea cooking that I wanted to put into practice somewhere.

@Lugubrious

I look forward to it.

And yeah, it was always a heartbreaker for me, too. I'm really glad I'm giving it another shot.

@Tortoise'Alas, she's not coming back but GALAXOR is.

Galaxor Stoneclaw

Galaxor Stoneclaw

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
_{Stoneclaw Giant, 78, 0.3 years in the Pilgrim's Caravan.}

Appearance:
_{Galaxor is smaller in comparison to most other Stoneclaw Giants, standing at 3 metres in height. His skin has a grey-ish, stone-like texture, and his hair is a rugged auburn. He bears tribal tattoos across his arms and chest, a mark of his clan. Galaxor's eyes are a piercing shade of grey, and he often wears rugged, grey-toned clothing adorned with furs and bone ornaments.}

History:
_{Galaxor hails from the remote Giant's Spire, a high mountainous region. He is a member of the Stoneheart Clan, known for their affinity with mining precious gems from the depths of the Giant's Spire mountains. The Stoneclaw tribe has always lived in relative isolation, focusing on their mining operations and the protection of their mountain home. Galaxor, however, felt a deep curiosity about the world beyond the Spire. He yearned to explore the world and gather knowledge that could potentially aid the Stoneclaw tribe as they considered opening their borders to foreign traders. With the blessings of his clan, he embarked on a journey with the Pilgrim's Caravan to achieve this goal.}

Personality:
_{Galaxor is a cheerful giant, known for his boisterous nature and kind heart. Despite his imposing size, he is jovial and friendly, often the life of the party among the caravan travelers. He has a deep connection to the earth and nature and values the sharing of stories and experiences. Galaxor's words are loud and lively, his actions adventurous, and he carries himself with a spirit of curiosity and exploration.}

Motivation:
_{Galaxor's motivation in joining the Pilgrim's Caravan is to explore the world, experience its wonders, and learn more about its people and cultures. He wants to bring back this knowledge to his Stoneclaw tribe, which is considering opening its borders to foreign traders. Galaxor's journey is driven by a deep desire for exploration and expanding the horizons of his people, ultimately aiding them in their transition to a more open and diverse society.}

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
_{Galaxor's giant heritage grants him immense physical strength and resilience, making him a formidable protector. He’s also a born miner and knows his stones quite well. His size and strength make him an ideal guardian in perilous situations. However, his sheer size can sometimes be a hindrance in more delicate or confined spaces. Galaxor wields no traditional tools but relies on his natural abilities and, occasionally, a massive stone-tipped club as a last resort.}

What They Most Want:
_{To explore the world and bring back knowledge to the Stoneclaw tribe, helping them consider opening their borders to foreign traders and embracing the diversity of the outside world.}

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
_{Neutral Good}

Three Likes:
_{1. Drinking and celebrating with fellow travelers. 2. Stories of legendary heroes and guardian spirits. 3. Being the life of the party and embracing the joy of adventure.}

Glad you're feeling better, Tort!

@Timemaster

Approved! Drop him in the Char tab whenevers

The Old Man, Dreamwalker, and Occultist Extraordinaire!

Knossos Dreamwalker

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:

Human, 72, 17 years with the Pilgrim's Caravan

History:

Long History Warning (@_@)

Knossos is a man who was born to a small village family in the humble farming village of Aktí within the Kingdom of Ordos, a coastal nation with a large eastern coastline and access to the sea since seemingly time immemorial. A kingdom that had little access to the outside by land, save for a pair of crucial northern and western mountain passes respectively dubbed the "Chióni" (Greek for "ice", aka the 'northern pass' out from the nation's northern border) and the "Fiume" (Italian for "river", named such due to the great river flowing alongside the pass down a steep cliff as one passes through it), it had been in the middle of various issues or conflicts over the years as well as notably involved at sea. Yet even with having the sea so accessible, the growing of crops and rearing of livestock was still very much important. Indeed, this would be the task the family of young Knossos had taken up for many generations within the inner land region of the kingdom proper.

At birth Knossos's surname, as was his family's already, continued on in the same old local tradition of one's surname being taken from the work and job they had. However, this surname was not without nuance either. Farmers would add differentiating spellings or emphasis in their surname to separate themselves, or even use different words related to their occupation that by tradition made their heritage clear. Likewise, this made record keeping in the kingdom easier and more accessible, though it also brought about legal cases of 'who claimed what surname idea first' at times as well (inevitably). Yet with this all in mind it would make the 'easier' or more straightforward surnames that much harder to get ahold of...usually only held by nobility or very old family lines indeed. In the case of Knossos' family of birth, Faermer (a corruption of "farmer") was their particular surname and made them one of the oldest families to live in their area. A family that, indeed, had stuck about stubbornly as mules and long tilled the land and lived in the same spot in the central region of the kingdom since before the kingdom itself had even been born into existence.

So long had they been around they were among those in the kingdom's population who still possessed what is called an "Ancestor Stone", a practice from even pre-kingdom times that saw family members were buried around or underneath a great stone or boulder rolled down from the mountains to one's home. Such a stone marked one's place of settlement and the center of their property, and the effort of getting one was seen as a labor that showed respect to one's ancestors and the land itself. The larger it was, the more awe-inspiring and respectable it was seen to be. In that vein the Faermer Family was known more notably...having the largest one in their region of the kingdom, rumored to have been brought down by an ancestor granted strength by a spirit living within the boulder to help him on his way. From this, it is said the family was ever bound to this spirit that watched over the bodies of their dead and the land of their descendants. Further, upon Ancestor stones the names of the dead ancestors would be etched, and burials would continue to radiate out from the stone at the 'center' of this impromptu graveyard but would always remain pointed back at it...to point the dead back to those who came before so their spirits may join them in the afterlife.

Meanwhile, Knossos' first name was selected for the constellation he was born under. Whilst the first names of children would originate from anything ranging from figures in legend, to places they were born, to those who the family or parents wished to honor in their lives or pay respects to, and so forth, trends in this naming structure trended toward certain lines of things depending on one's place and status of birth. Farmers and Woodcutters and such would usually use more land and terrain-focused names, whilst those such as scholars and magic users might get names based on famous authors or constellations or other phenomena that sounded fancy and sophisticated to use as a name, etc. So in this vein Knossos' own name was something of an oddity, only chosen when a passing magic scholar was hosted by the family on a journey to the north and assisted in his birth when one of the local midwives or the village doctor would not be able to make it in time. So grateful were Knossos' parents that the traveling magic scholar was given the chance to name him out of respect. No small honor to be sure, no matter one's class! Thus the newborn was named for the constellation locals called 'Knossos', which looked like a king sitting on a throne, named for a great and wise king who once ruled the region in legend and solved a series of 'unsolvable riddles'. Indeed a great warlord of the Minotaur species, an army in tow, had arrived from across the sea and balked at the strength of the inhabitants of the region. The future king of the region then approached him boldly, despite others holding back in fear as the enemy raided the coast, said that, "what we have not in arms, we have yet in wisdom". Amused at this, the monster challenged this young man to a game. Three divine riddles, handed down by the gods of the warlord's homeland, would be given to the young man. None had ever solved them, but any who did would be granted great fortune and blessing on their bloodline forever for their wit and wisdom.

...Safe to say, the future king would win this contest and a divine revelation would come down upon the assembled group present at the contest. It was such that the warlord would withdraw from the region to attack another place out of respect for the gods of his own people. This future king would then become a greater leader, possessing almost supernatural wisdom and gifts in whatever he put his mind to. He would thus be named the "many-gifted", or "Knossos", and eventually gain enough influence and power to found a capital in the same place on the coast he'd won the contest with the warlord. It would be in this same place the very throne of his future palace, and the throne of all future kings that would rise even when the Kingdom of Ordos formed, would be reverently placed...and where the constellation of Knossos, said to be the king's immortalized spirit in the stars, watches over and grants wisdom to rulers of the land on the same day each year that the contest was won by the original Knossos. Even with the fact the Kingdom of Ordos' line was once invaders who blended in with locals, they would outright forcibly marry into them the last of the old king's bloodline and keep the tradition in order to assert authority as well as gain the seemingly palpable supernatural benefits gained from it (which is actually real tbh).

With all of this in mind, Knossos seemed poised merely to inherit the family farm and land in life. He had nothing going for him otherwise, and he felt a restlessness within him from a young age. Indeed his young mind would wander to things greater than himself and the old stories, and his parents were often sore with him or given myriad headaches simply trying to deal with him. In the end they would not need to worry, however, as the new village doctor to arrive at the village when Knossos was just five would begin to influence the boy in a different direction. Secretly a member of a cult dedicated to an alien being from a far-flung dimension/plane dubbed "iL'Thris the Deep Lord", whose home was a warped and corrupted ocean that spanned seemingly across infinity and whose true form was imperceptible to mortals and caused them to descend into madness. This cult's founder was the one mortal the Deep Lord had shown its true and aberrant form to, being curious about mortals after a one in a billion chance it would ever take notice of another dimension/plane at all, but the chain reaction resulting from this had led the maddened cult leader to form and cult and begin spreading it in secret...with maddened plans to one day overthrow the kingdom and summon a great monster to ravage the land. Said cult would influence Knossos until he was ten, after which he was taken away and assumed dead in the woods by his home as the cult prepared him more rigorously for adulthood in their ranks after faking his death. By the time he turned twenty one, he had learned all the magic of the cult that he could absorb (acquired from iL'Thris) and reached the upper ranks of the cult and then been infused with part of iL'Thris as other upper-ranks had (iL'Thris taking pity on their 'fragile mortal lives', thinking this was their request for help in that sense and it seeking to be merciful to help the seemingly 'good friends' of the one it had made contact with). All went according to plan, though, at least until the time when the long-foretold "Day of Summoning" came along.

The ritual kicked off, and disaster came, but a brave band of heroes that had formed and begun to rise amidst the pre-ritual period would take the fight to the cult before destroying them in a climactic final battle. Neighbors of the Kingdom of Ordos had even sent in reinforcements to help in order to avoid the spread of chaos deeper into their lands. Such was how terrifying and drastic the effect and impact of this all was. What would follow is the lead hero of the group of heroes marrying the kingdom's princess, who was about his age, and the Kingdom of Ordos rebuilding as it bloodily purged out the remnants of the cult. Among the scant few people, able to be counted on one hand at the very most, Knossos managed to survive and flee by land to a land far away. Somehow. Even he questioned harshly how many died and how his escape happened to work out despite the odds...yet in the end the reasons did not matter. He had lived and survived another day, but the cult had not.

But what of the enlightenment the cult had promised? What of the power, the truth, everything? Something like the cult, yes, it had to be true. But if this route to truth did not manifest for them, perhaps the next would? Yes! Another had to work! It had to. There was no other way, it was all he'd ever known. So he would have to find another route! Yes! Truth lied beyond the veil of any of this, it had to, and he would find it for the benefit of all this time!

Thus Knossos would desperately claw his way to a land far away from his own, that being of the desert Kingdom of Khamsin in the vast and expensive Khamsin Desert. An ancient land that had begun as a cradle of civilization on the far northwestern coast of its continent, placed right on the equator, it had been inhabited at first only by the ancient Iwiw (a jackal-like canine beastman race) who had built up the origina Kingdom of Uat there between the fertile Nilei and Ma'at rivers coming in from the northwestern coast to build up a civilization of their own. The Uat civilization lasted over three and a half thousand years before it would be broken and put under the yoke, though some such foreign-conquering rulers would maintain some of the land's practices and such to help maintain power, and the land saw civilization there going from fledgling kingdom in super ancient times to ancient empire to being subjugated by others and breaking free each a few times over each. Yet ultimately the Khamsin region itself would go about being shattered quite catastrophically into fragments and five centuries of disasterous chaos by a short-term but vast expanding empire from the far north (as punishment for involvement in a certain foreign war). It saw the region vastly depopulated *but not entirely mind) of its usual natives, scattered in diaspora due to disaster or slavery or the like, many sub-races go literally extinct, and then eventually a group who had controlled areas of land around the capital rising back up to found the new "Kingdom of Khasmin". This kingdom has persisted until now as a modest but notable kingdom by current times, a growing power with a great strength in its wealth and trade without a doubt. A kingdom known for its mix of ancient ways and modern innovations and so forth, and a melting pot of trade and harsh landscape and so forth, the Kingdom of Khasmin was a pale call of the original Kingdom of Uat in ways to be sure. Even so, it was more stable, advanced, and enduring than it had ever been before as a 'breadbasket' of past nations.

Yet it was within this new Kingdom of Khamsin proved to be where a new cult was found by Knossos, a group dedicating themselves to an Ancient Great Demon Lord named Ashtara who sought to take the region and transform it into a microcosm of where she had come from: A ravaged, demonic plane that to her and her followers would be transformed into a paradise. Or at least such a 'paradise' is what she promised. A paradise free of struggle, war, and turmoil. Nothing but the best pleasures of life and beyond, and for all eternity. Despite his former affiliation, he did join the cult and manage to rise the ranks to an extent once more as he pursued things with a new zeal. From Ashtara, he as well as other mid-rank and higher-up members would be granted to drink of some of her blood (and the higher-ups took in some of her essence to boot). Yet for how Knossos was concerned, only partaking of her blood infused him and others with a demonic dark magical power that allowed them to partake of certain magics. Conjuring/summoning demons, making use of curses, casting red energy attacks of tainted demonic magical energy, and conducting blood rituals would become the things he could do using this 'gift'. Yet it would be when this cult tried to rise up and cast their big 'summoning ritual' to bring forth their patron that things would eventually turn as they locals and a plucky band of mercenaries-turned-heroes would rise up and smite them back. Barely manifesting an arm of their patron to try to crush the heroes, Ashtara could see the writing on the wall and merely withdrew after it was clear the cult could not keep it up. The higher-ups who had absorbed her essence binding them to her in a way drinking her blood did not, would be sucked up by her alongside the dead bodies of deceased cult members as 'reparations' for her plan not succeeding. Those living members left behind, Knossos included, were pursued and killed and slain and put to the sword. Knossos was only thirty three years old at the time, and barely scraped through the desert with his life before collapsing at an oasis.

His strength in convictions was beginning to waver, but despite it all his desperation to find what he sought pushed him to travel far away once more as he sought another group. One more shot. Another route to truth, before he got old enough and died where he stood. He had to. By all the powers that were, he...he...if he didn't, then what would all of this be worth? The deaths, all in vain? Sacrifices, all falling on empty ears? No. No, he could not let it be. And thus he traveled to find the final group he'd end up joining.

In a land far in the northern hemisphere, farther north than he'd ever been in his life before, he came across a group seeking the power of an ancient civilization called the Vilkyn. Once a people who in rather ancient times owned the territory the group has set up in, in fact having originated from there in days long gone, the Vilkyn race and civilization had collapsed over a series of centuries and disasters and such that had brought them down into extinction. Yet according to some of their old records, something of great value lied where their capital had once been. Formulae to create unique crystalized mana gems, a unique creation differing from 'crytalized mana' or the like, and devices as well as magically-wrought constructs which were made to be powered and even partly shaped by these magical power sources...among which was one meant to revive the race from the dead that hadn't been able to be activated in time during the capital's fall over two thousand years ago. The group having been funded by a wealthy noble of a nearby kingdom, one who sought this power to use it for himself, they plucked away at things as Knossos joined on at first as a simple 'expert in obscure magical arts'. Then as the group became more obsessed and cultic, driven by a desire for power and made promises by the noble of becoming immortal, Knossos would see himself more and more involved as he sought to study the Vilkyn magical arts and records. He would gain the magical knowledge the group sought, at least, before eventually the group was caught by the kingdom the noble came from as the noble himself was outed by some means. The group lost all funding, an attempted half-activation of the great Vilkyn device saw a botched raising of undead that now inhabit the Vilkyn ruins and surrounding wastes there, those who were in the same kingdom as the noble were killed, and Knossos barely escaped with his life by braving the undead and making his way out in a different direction than most took.

...Even so, he could collapse on the ground of a vast northern forest to the southwest of where the group had been set up at the old Vilkyn capital's ruins. An old path merchants on rare occasion took was right before him, and yet his strength gave out seeking to make it onto the road itself. Collapsed in a bush next to it, his vision blurred, his wounds continued to worsen, and he would pass out expecting to finally die. His resolve to find 'truth' in the only way he'd known how, so indoctrinated into it he had become blind, would too finally break as his body did. Truth? He sought truth, but this path was not it. This way was not the one. And what had he done? Run about seeking all of this like a fool for decades of life? He, a fifty-four year old, was going to die here. He would not see the power of the Deep Lord transform the world into a utopia as the first cult had promised. He would not see a glorious paradise form as the second cult had promised. He would not see power and riches and glory in mortality as promised by the third and final cult he'd joined. Nothing. And so as he felt himself drift, the aging man would scoff at himself and allow himself to drift away.

But this was not to be his fate, it seemed.

Waking up in a shrine to the god Drothur (God of Travelers, Merchants, Wanderers, Transients, Homeless, and Foreigners), Knossos found himself cheating death once more. At least, this time it was so without his own choice in the matter. A passing cleric of Drothur had found him, the clothes on his back, and his magical satchel containing all his things, and brought them to the shrine. Telling the confused and utterly depressed man they had been guided by a dream to take that road, in particular even seeing the location they had found Knossos in, the cleric said that the had felt the hand of their patron deity upon him. But why? Knossos would wonder this and ask as he was forced to heal up for some time, talking about everything to the cleric as they tended to him personally, but wasn't handed over to anyone else in the meantime as Drothur's will was seemingly to help him recover. The same cleric who had helped him would leave, returning to travel as was their calling, but would leave him with a parting message when he asked one last time the question that burned so brightly in his mind: "Why?" "Why save me? Why care for me despite all the things I've done?". The cleric merely responded, with a smile, that:

"My lord Drothur saw fit to save you, even one who seems to have long lost his way in life and done much in pursuit of many self-blinding and destructive paths. Most do not survive this sort of life, among those who have been in such a place as yourself that is. And yet you have come to see your own folly. The veil of ignorance has come up from your eyes, and this is a most precious gift indeed.

I believe...you are being given a chance. A great rebirth of purpose. An opportunity to take a new path, to pave a new road, now that you have been able to realize what so few like yourself have ever been able to.

Eh? As for my own personal reasons? Heh. I would not dare leave a lost wayfarer such as yourself to die in the wilderness...never again. I have made my own mistakes in the past, but I seek them not ever again.

So for forth, oh man named Knossos! Oh walker of dreams long broken! Go with my lord's blessing upon you, and see your new path to its very end without regrets! I shall see you there at the very end, my friend."

And so the cleric left.

Once a year had passed since Knossos having been brought to recover at the shrine, he would remove himself from the shrine and local area. Indeed, he would find himself joining the Pilgrim's Caravan as it was preparing to leave the location around where he'd been cared for throughout the prior year. Claiming to be a magical scholar of sorts, he would take his occult expertise and magic and skills and set about to make the world a better place in any way he could. He would also seek to gather knowledge along the way to this end. Ultimately on the road, and for the next fifteen years, Knossos would peddle his knowledge to assist others as an 'occult expert'. He would care for those dealing with haunted places or cursed items. He would be hired by nobles to investigate ruins, examine eclectic and rather niche 'magic items' for them, or try to assist with afflictions and issues caused by non-standard magical sources or origins. Such was his purpose. He would even buy up cursed items or such to 'contain' them safely, and for that he gained some reputation of a good but also wary sort. He even assisted areas with more 'zealous' beliefs investigate certain matters relating to his expertise and skills, if only to work with the law and try to form an amicable relationship with such groups to avoid trouble on his part. At the same time, however, it isn't as if he is without potential to get into trouble due to what he is skilled in dealing with. His skills have been of use to the Pilgrim's Caravan itself at times as well, making him a staple of the last decade and a half in regards to certain matters if nothing else, and yet to date he knows the danger never goes away. The next plot, the next oddity, the next obscure magical issue, the next place that could potentially be where he runs into his past again, whatever it may be...

...but he will see his new chosen path to the end, no matter what!

Personality:

An older man usually of a calm, jovial, or relaxed type of mentality and way he holds himself. Even so, he inherently possesses a sober patience and calm in or outside of his work as well. He is generally well-spoken, and is well-read to a sometimes troubling extent when it comes to his area of expertise, but one won't find him being usually unfriendly to others unless they seriously manage to tap into his anger r get him to really not like them to a notable enough extent. Knossos is very meticulous about his work and frankly passionate and serious about it to boot when it comes down to it. Attempting to snatch anything of his is something he will more than sternly lecture someone else on, at the very least, though he truly loathes those who fumble about with the occult or such things with no regards for their lives or others’. Outside of his work, one can find him willing to share a hot meal or drink with others and even have a laugh and talk and such...or a shoulder to rest on if they need to unload something painful or so forth onto someone else. At his heart children do have a soft spot with him as well, due to what happened to him in his own childhood (or lack thereof to an extent due to what happened in his own childhood), and at his heart he truly is a kind man who seeks to do the best he can in regards to himself and others with nothing but sincerity. Yet it is also that same sincerity that sees his anger and other negative emotions being that much more hot, poignant, and fierce whenever they manage to peek out from behind the veil of his usual demeanor.

Whilst he is not of the mind that he knows everything, he’ll amidst that as bluntly as possible with a laugh if asked, he is still a very much knowledgeable man whose talents go as deep as the years of his life have gone on long.

"What is better? To be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

-Paarthunax, Skyim (2011) ((And this is a quote that IC would be something Knossos would actually think to say to be honest)

Motivation:

To assist others regarding matters of the occult.....in a sense, be a ‘guiding light’ to help them understand or deal with or even avoid danger from such things. De-cursing items, storing away dangerous occult objects/relics, advising or counseling people on how to deal with occult matters, keeping tomes of occult knowledge and scrolls of otherworldly wisdom away from others by taking them himself, etc. Admittedly he does charge for his services, mostly so he can afford to get supplies and materials for his work along the way, though based on the client he has been known to adjust his running prices at certain times based on what the client can actually afford to pay him in the first place.

Likewise in this main goal he gets to travel and see the world, something he’s come to enjoy raiding along with the Caravan over the last decade and a half. Perhaps his goal is also evidence of seeking redemption of some kind for the years of woes and miseries he created or participated in prior, to atone for his once-evil life by seeking to do good with what he knows and can do, though he’d deny such a thing if asked about it or it was implied toward him or such.

Skills/Strengths:

-Occult Expertise (Occult Magic/Occult Knowledge): To be more specific about this area, his whole thing here and in general runs on the premise that even in a world of fantasy and magic and monsters and so forth existing there are ‘outliers’ even within the realm of magic itself. Obscure or unique magical arts/practices, forbidden or frankly taboo spells that were spells developed or discovered, magics tied to beings from abnormal otherworlds mages don't usually or haven't made contact with as a standard practice, socially/culturally unacceptable magical practices/arts, etc, along those lines. This realm of things is where Knossos’ expertise falls into the lines of, though even he admits he doesn’t know everything. How could he? He is just one man. What he does know has come from decades of experience and personal study, both during his cult-joining days and since then afterward, and his travels with the Pilgrim’s Caravan has assisted him in this by exposing him to new places and things to study and acquire and so forth along the way.

In terms of applications, his capabilities are more varied than they are specific. He can summon and command tentacled or oceanic-like beings from the space iL'Thris comes from, as well as summon and command demons from wherever Lady Ashtara came from. He can conjure unique magical/twisted alien waters from an alternate dimension to use to attack others, doing so in things like water jets and barriers and so forth, and unleash/conjure unusual black demonic fire that it would take magical means (or a lot more buckets of water than should be required normally for a fire) to put out. He is further steeped in curses and the mechanics of them and things such as cursed objects/items, and has knowledge of some tribal or obtuse/obscure/fringe magics from across the area’s he’s traveled through or learned from in the last one and a half decades.

In terms of outright skill and experience and self-discipline he's akin to a veteran old wizard working up in a tower or at some prestigious magical school somewhere in the world, but this is also his one greatest strengths to boot.

-Magic-Infused Body: His body has aged outwardly to the point he looks to be an old man in his 60s before stopping, but internally the quality of his body is still easily at the level of a prime 20-to-30-something year old due to what it has been infused with. He, in other words, isn't as old inside as he is outside. His mind is still rather sharp, his body can handle the exertion, and so forth that a human in their 20-to-30-something prime could without a doubt. That and some minor regeneration capabilities that allow him to heal from a wider range of things than normally is possible and slightly increases his passive natural healing rate to boot.

His durability isn't beyond that of a normal human being, he isn't Wolverine in terms of healing speed or anything ridiculous like that (heck no), and so forth. But whilst his lifespan will be inevitably extended by an unknown amount of time, an extent even he has no idea of the length of, he will eventually in the longer term die of old age with everything just giving out due to the raw amount of time that has passed. Even then it isn't 'eternal youth' that he has either...really just slowed aging in regards to the quality of his body (but not his aesthetic appearance).

-General Survival Skills: Cooking, cleaning, foraging, handling weather, making a fire, creating basic or functioning shelter, fishing, and similar things are array of generalist survival skills he’s refined from necessity over the decades and years before and even during his caravan years. He’s a very well-seasoned hand in this regard without a doubt.

Weaknesses:

-He has no armor to speak of, and his physical capabilities are still very much human. He is just as mortal as anyone else to boot when it comes to being able to be killed.

-No weapons skills to speak of. Best he could use is maybe his knife, but eve then that is just for survival and travel and such general-use purposes.

-Whilst some of his magical capabilities and occult knowledge do overlap with actual standard magical practices or categorizations, don't expect him to know standard magic stuff and standard-type spells and so forth. His knowledge is nuanced and eclectic and frankly niche in nature, so whilst some overlap in how things are categorized and work can occur he is no scholastic wizard who got a proper magical education from some magic university or so forth. He can probably identify some things from being on the road for so long, and doing his own research, but he's no wizard. He's just your friendly caravan-traveling occult expert and magic user.

-Removing his Magic Ring. Knossos' body was fused with part of an alien being and outright demonic power it now produces and can tap into. To any sort of zealous paladin, trained mage trying to detect magical sources, and the like, he stands out like a gigantic bonfire being lit up in the middle of total darkness. It is impossible not to notice him, as in being among the sorest of sore thumbs in terms of standing out in this way.

To this end, he commissioned and purchased said Magical Ring (see "Tools") that hides his magical presence/energy from detection by others. Second to the magical bag he carries his things in, it is the second most expensive item he openly wears or carries on himself. Despite obsessively wearing it all the time on his right hand, no matter what he is doing or in the middle of, it also isn't a perfect thing. High-tier, high-level, and top-tier types of magical detections spells or magics can see past his protection and pick up on him. Likewise, again, if one manages to get the ring off of him that is not good news either for him.

Of course in some areas, this ring might not be needed if no one can detect magic there. But especially in major cities or capitals or areas with magical schooling he has to keep this ring on.

-Due to the above weakness, he also has an inherent weakness to specifically holy magic(s). Healing magic of a holy sort still works on him, he isn't some full demonic being or so forth, but it leaves him feeling odd and lightheaded as an end result. Meanwhile offensive holy magic does hurt him extra to a distinctly noticeable extent. Barriers of holy magic that protect from monsters or demons or such, etc, do not keep him out since he's not fully anything of the sort. On the other hand such things, depending on potency, do make him anywhere from uncomfortable to feeling a sense of passively-throbbing pain or potentially worse depending.

Tools:

-Traveling/Professional Work Clothes (see the appearance picture at the top of his app)

-Water Skin (not seen in picture but he wears it around normally)

-Knife (for cutting rations and food and such, or whittling, or whatever general use thing it could be used for)

-Magical Ring (Hides the magical energies and such within him from being noticed by magical detection methods. This works all the way up to even a moderately strong sort of magical detection capability at most.)

-A Bag of Holding expy type object, one he has had enchanted and reinforced and put more money into than anything else he wears or the like. It stands out like a sore thumb with him, made to last beyond a lifetime and then some, but does look about as well-traveled with all the work done to it. He can withdraw whatever he wishes out of the bag, but if damaged badly enough he has to get it repaired to access his things again. At the same time, between enchantments and runes and materials used to reinforce and augment it, this magical bag can be returned to his person or even into his hands with a thought and is harder to break than most things in the world. This is because he has put a lot of money into it over the years from his mercantile pursuits, as well as some back when he was in cults due to having had this bag as far back as then when he bought it for himself after fleeing the destruction of the first cult he was in.

It took all he had to get the back itself back then, in its original condition no less, but since then it has been a literal staple he even keeps on his person at all times even when bathing and sleeping and otherwise...maybe he's a tad too careful about the thing actually. He is touchy about this thing, and the investment he's made into it alone is, ah, not exactly normal for a person to do.

With this it contains: Food rations, regular clothing, a backup water skin, myriad occult-related magical tomes/scolls, various mundane books related to both the occult and other subjects, clothing from when he was in those three cults in the past, magically-contained cursed items or other such dangerous objects, and all of his money.

Other:

-His surname, "Dreamwalker", was self-appointed and has stuck since. Inspired by the clerics parting words to him and his own reflection back on his own life. A poetic touch, as it were, which also makes him sound rther fancy and well-versed in what he knows (which he is well-versed in regardless of name anywho).

-NOTE: As far as the caravan knows at most, he's a roaming magical scholar who got experience on the road over many decades and is specialized in the occult. Was interested in such magic, and left his hometown to pursue his interest on the road. Wants to help people. Never said where he comes from, told his life story, etc.

-Yes, Knossos' homeland is based in some 'rough' part on Italy/Greece/the Mediterranean in terms of naming and such. No, I have not worked this all out. No, as of submitting Knossos' app I cannot say more than that at the moment.

-His height is 5'10". Height for the height chart, stats for the stat throne. Or something. Idk I am ripping a 40k meme quote here. XD

@Crusader Lord

As approved as before, of course. He's a really good character: someone who has some dark deeds in his past and has come out of them, but not unscathed.

As for how Athulwin will feel about him...

@Tortoise I get the feeling our characters have some kind of dynamic or enmity

@Crusader Lord

"The stars spoke to me the night I first met him. Their words were unclear, as always they are, being such a confusing hum in my skull, but there was one phrase that I heard as clear as a bell: 'Watch, O Cursed One' the stars said to me, 'for today darkness again reaches out its hand towards you. Something old and strange comes your way, older and stranger even than our own pale light, and dripping blackly wicked.'

I had been in the caravan only a few days then, and I knew not all the characters yet, and so it was that night that I was introduced to Dreamwalker. Sitting by a camp fire, he reached his old hand out to shake mine, and the moment our palms touched I felt a chill. Why, I cannot explain. There was a sharpness in his eyes, something that warns of dark knowledge and eldritch power, and it reminded me far too much of the eyes of Alder. When he told me -in such a happy, calm sort of way- that he was our occult expert, I knew that I had met the darkness the stars had warned me of.

I was wrong.

Six years hence have passed, and many more times I have shared a fire or a meal with the Dreamwalker, and one thing has become clear: though a shadow follows him, the shadow is not him. I have not asked him about it. I do not wish to ask him about it. But I feel now that there is something evil swirling about him, something 'old and strange' that has not yet let him go, but yet the man himself is not the evil. I have seen him help others, try to steer them away from the darkest forces of occultism. I have seen him warn young practitioners of the dangers they are walking into. I have watched him struggle to use his bad knowledge to some good ends.

I have since then become the Caravan's Navigator, a position of some repute. And- against my better instincts- I have not tried to have him removed from the Caravan. I believe, however odd it may seem, that he is at heart a gentle man, though something black and demonic knows his name. Nonetheless, I watch him. Closely. I am sure he knows this. And I hope he knows another thing also: that if he ever does use his powers towards an evil ends, if ever again this old warlock gives into the true darkness of his magics, I will stand ready with Moiling Chain and Breath of Fire to whip or to burn that foul madness back out of him."

-A page from the journal of Athulwin of Queensrock, describing his views on Knossos Dreamwalker

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Jason

Jason Miller

Human, 24, Less than a year:

Appearance:
<sub>Jason is tall and lean, standing at exactly six feet tall. He does a lot of time doing physical labor on his family’s farm, and while he is not as big as his dad is, he still has a slender build with defined muscles that he is proud to show off. He spends plenty of time out in the sun, and thus has a tanned skin complexion. He has a boyish face, though he still possesses a firm jaw. He has a small nose, and large, expressive almond shaped eyes, which are a bright electric blue color. He has short dirty blonde hair which is always a mess, and frankly he likes it that way.

He dresses fairly simply. His family isn’t rich, so they don’t have nice clothes. Besides, fancy outfits are impractical for farmers anyway. To be honest, he spends most of his time shirtless. He’s seen books with pictures of how mages dress, and adapted the style to suit his own tastes. He wears a sleeveless light blue hooded cloak. He leaves it open all the time revealing his chest and abs. As bottoms he wears a pair of matching blue pants, that are held up by a beige belt. As footwear he wears a pair of sturdy beige boots that are comfortable to walk around and work in.</sub>

History:
<sub>Jason was born into an average family. The family worked on a farm. His father did all the physical labor that running a farm involves, his mother sold the stuff they produced on the farm at the market as well as ran the home, and Jason and his twin brother, William were expected to help out around the farm. They lived a fairly average life. Jason and his twin brother were very close. The two played together all the time, and got along great. They rarely fought, and when they did have a disagreement, they made up fairly quickly. Jason’s parents hated magic. They believed that relying on a dangerous and unpredictable force could lead to nothing but trouble. For a while, the brothers shared those feelings.

One day, while the boys were playing one day, away from the eyes of their parents. In their playing, William got hurt. He tried diving into a lake, and ended up cutting himself on a rock. Jason panicked. His brother was hurt, he had no idea how to make him not hurt anymore, and more importantly he didn’t want to have to tell his parents that his sibling got hurt on his watch. Fortunately for them, an older gentleman happened to be passing through. He saw what happened, and helped out. The man was a doctor. He used mysterious magic and his own medical knowledge to fix the boy right up. After that, the boy’s opinions on magic changed.

Life continued on after that, but now something was different. Now Jason was fascinated with magic. It had saved his brother, and now he was curious about what other things it could do. Whenever he had free time away from doing farm chores, Jason did all he could to learn about magic. He read every book on the subject he could get his hands on, and at night would practice spells. He wanted to learn the mysterious magic that man used, but at some point discovered he had more of an affinity for lightning magic, and soon changed course. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with this power, but it was still cool all the same.

At some point, William left to go on his own journey. He wanted to become a knight, and help out his country. Jason stayed behind to help out on the farm. For a while the brothers exchanged letters. Then, the communication stopped. Now, Jason is going on an adventure to find out what happened to his brother, and possibly learn more about magic in the process.</sub>

Personality:
<sub>Jason is a farmer. He is often seen selling stuff at the local market, and does plenty of work on his family’s farm. He actually doesn’t hate farm work. It’s exhausting work yes, but at the end of the day there is nothing more satisfying than a job well done.

Jason has a fascination with magic. He greatly appreciates good displays of magical power. It started as a curiosity about the subject. Ever since the disappearance of his brother, grew into a desire to gain power for his own needs.

Jason is brave, daring, and extremely determined. He can be very impatient, wanting to get stuff done as soon as possible. As such, he will often charge straight into danger, and often prefers to zap first and ask questions later. As such, he can be reckless and get himself into danger if he thinks he is right. Jason is also very blunt. He says exactly what he thinks no matter who he hurts. He lacks patience for people he deems to be slow.

Jason can be very stubborn, and it’s difficult to get him to admit when he’s wrong about something. He can also be hostile to people who have different opinions than him. He doesn’t like to accept help for things he knows he can do on his own. He’s confident in his own skills, and believes he can handle his own problems himself. The upside to this though, he doesn’t give up easily when things get hard. He also has no problems giving help to others when they need it.</sub>

Motivation:
_{3 things. To find out what happened to his brother, Learn more about magic, and find his own adventure.}

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
<sub>Lightning Magic: Jason has an affinity for Lightning magic. He can summon lightning for various purposes. Including shooting electricity out of his hands, and delivering lightning punches. That’s pretty much the extent of his magic.

Farmer Skills: Jason is familar with all the ins and outs of running a farm. Planting and tending to crops, raising livestock, etc.

Cooking: Jason has learned how to prepare the food he grows on the farm.

Hoe: When magic doesn’t work, Jason whacks enemies with his trusty farming hoe. Not as potent as an actual weapon, but it does hurt!</sub>

@Crimson Flame

Approved. I will be using him as an opportunity to make many lightning puns, so don't be shocked

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Tagging those who had an approved character in the first iteration.

Birch "Cricket" Oakenstorm (@OddnessApproved)
Jason Miller (@Crimson Flame)
Myra (@lotusthevoid)
Ilyana the Half-Human (@Expendable)
Jormon Bjarg (@Sanity43217)
Scrapheap Metalmaster (@XoXKieroBombXoX)
Mergoux (@Overlord Thraka)
Kurama (@Timemaster)

And, because I seem to write nothing without them, I'm of course tagging:

@Enigmatik
@Lady Lascivious
@Crusader Lord

@Tortoise

Oh snap, I forgot a few! More tags of those with already approved characters:

@MagusDream@Lugubrious@Letter Bee@astrifer0us@TruthHurts22@DracoLunaris

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Hi Tort! How goes things, oh tortly one?

@Crusader Lord

Things go very well!

@TortoiseYou're BACK! <3

@Timemaster

Indeedingtons, yes yes! Is ole Kurama making a return as well?

@Tortoise - glad you're feeling better.

Ilyana the Half-Human

Ilyana the Half-Human

Ilyana

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Half-elf, 29, 2 months

Appearance:
Ilyana is below average height for a half-elf, standing at 5' 3" with short-cropped sandy blonde hair and dark tanned skin from her time at sea. She's thin and wiry, but looks youthful, so sometimes mistaken for a boy. One cannot help but notice the pink scar that divides her left eyebrow and travels down on an inward slope to her cheek. The artificial eye she wears on the left has an amber iris that contrasts with her natural jade green right iris. She has an eye patch she wears to hide the socket when its out.

One looking closer can see signs of other scars, and perhaps a peep at her skull tattoo on her chest neatly transected by another scar running from her right shoulder to her left hip. Few would ever see what looks like a second naval just under the ribs is actually a scar from a puncture wound, but anyone who rubs her back may feel the raised ridges of the scars from her flogging. Her right palm has an "L" branded there for "Leshere (thief)".

History

Born on the 13th of Uktar in a brothel, where her mother took shelter. Unfortunately she died shortly afterward, so nothing is known of her human father. She was raised by the the staff of her Aunt Pol and Uncle Glyberos' house, largely ignored by the family, including their eldest daughter Sylna and their youngest son Keras.

Many visitors assumed the young girl was a child of one of the staff, as she would be frequently seen doing various servant chores. But when Marquis Muleho, friend to the judge and frequent visitor, discovered she was their neice, her Aunt and Uncle, deeply embarrassed, moved her to a private room and forbade her from doing any more domestic work. They also hired a private tutor to address her neglected education.

Marquis Muleho showed up one day with a spell book that he brought for Aunt Pol to examine, leaving it in the library. Later, when it was discovered missing, her uncle, his face burning red, went to her room first and found the burned out cover in her fireplace. Keras, who'd been checking her chest of drawers, turned around and presented the jewels that had adorned the cover. Glyberos flogged her until she confessed to taking the spell book (she hadn't), then used his authority as a judge to have her branded and imprisoned for five years.

It was in prison that she learned how to be a thief, a necessary skill to survive in that place. During her third year, diseased ravaged the prison and she spent long hours tending to both guards and prisoners before finally succumbing to illness herself. While she couldn't say for sure, there were times afterward that guards and the other inmates gave her some grudging respect and the ocassional blind eye.

On her release, now fully an adult, she was immediately pressganged into the Royal Navy as a sailor, handed over to the crew of galleon The Golden Falcon. The next four years were spent in hard labor. Crew were not permitted ashore except in the company of an officer, who was authorized to execute them on the spot should they attempt to desert.

Her five years in prison had already inured her to the lack of privacy under close quarters. When Ilyana slung her hammock, it was in the middle of the group, rather than on the edges. She also realized that the thief mark on her palm would make others reluctant to trust her, while others would use it as an excuse to rob her blind by claiming she stole their things. Ilyana therefore kept most of her money on the ship's books, avoided gambling, taking care to mark her few possessions and to keep careful receipts with witness signatures.

In her fourth year at sea, the Golden Falcon was one of a squadron of ships whose job was to blockade the harbor entrance to contain the ships of the Pretender. Under cover of darkness, the enemy launched some of their ships with skeleton crews to go out with the evening tide, creeping up unaware on the blockading ships before setting them alight before escaping as the fireships, drawn out by the tide, smashed into the blockading ships. In the confusion, the Pretender and the remainder of his fleet made their escape. Ilyana was the only survivor from the Golden Falcon.

Desperate to pull some sign of victory from this disaster, Ilyana was hailed as a hero for her survival - but instead of being released from service, her wounds were treated and she was transferred aboard the galleon The West Wind. Because of her 'lucky' status, she was given the 'honor' of leading the boarding crews - which led to the loss of her left eye in battle. It was the first of many battle scars she'd earn aboard the West Wind.

An arrow wound messed up her stomach - and wasn't helped much by the diluted healing potions they'd been supplied with, which made her very queasy and sick all over the place at the least sign of stress. They finally decided to discharge her from service in the Royal Navy, giving her a handful of medals, her silvered cutlass and dagger, the scarred leather cuirass she'd wear in battle, and all of her back pay on the books.

Personality:
Ilyana is always wary and reserved, keeping a weather eye not just on the horizon but the other pilgrims as well. In an open room, she prefers to have her back in a corner. A bit of a loner, she can be quick to anger, especially if pressed. Her speech is often blunt and profane, much to the dismay of others.

She works hard at being self-reliant - at sea, it's hard to find something left ashore. She's always ready to lend a hand, but Ilyana avoids seeking help from others. Many assume it's her pride holding her back, but really it's to avoid debts as not everyone seeks repayment in coin. She knows well the reputation that half-human girls have among her people.

Ilyana is also aware what people will say about a known thief in their midst, so she keeps a careful inventory on her ledgers, recording each sale or purchase to fight any claims on her purse or property.

Motivation:
Finally free, she decided to join the pilgrimage, since that would mean crossing over wide stretches of dry land that didn't pitch and roll from the sea and the wind, and allow her to see something other than a lot of water from horizon to horizon.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

Skills

Animal Handling - good with donkeys, ponies, horses.
Archer - average skill with shooting a bow and arrow. Works best with a bow and arrows.
First aid - experienced in the basic treatment of wounds and illness. Needs bandages and medicinal herbs.
Lockpicking - some experience in the opening of locks without using a key. Usually reqires lockpicks, although some tools can be improvised on the scene.
Navigation - sufficient ability to navigate using a map, compass, and/or sextant to get to their destination. Maps, compass, sextant required.
Rigger - Experienced with ropes, knots, blocks and tackle, and rigging. Requires rope, fid, sail twine, pully blocks, serving mallets, etc.
Sailing - experienced in the basics of sailing. Requires a boat with sails.
Sailmaking - skilled in the crafting of sails and other articles of canvas work. Requires canvas, sail twine, needles, and rope.
Swimming - allows them to cross bodies of water.
Swordswoman - above average skill with her cutlass, especially in close quarters. Requires a bladed weapon.

Strengths
- Right eye can see in the dark like it was dim light
- Right eye can see in dim light like it was bright daylight
- Speaks Elvish middle-tongue, thieves' cant, a few human languages.
- long lifespan (just shy of two centuries)

Weaknesses
- Trust issues
- Bears a thief mark
- blind in one eye when not wearing her prosthesis
- Visibly scarred
- Mixed race with reputation of promiscuity (they grow up faster than elves, so many think they're older than they are)
- Underdeveloped body

tools

Vrudius' Eye

An artificial eye that carries an enchantment that allows the wearer to see through it as if it was their own natural eye. Does not work in mana-depleted zones.

Ditty Bag

a canvas bag with a wooden bottom and several interior pockets that hold various rigger tools - sewing palm, needles in a needle case, sail twine, serving mallet, fids, wood rasp, metal file, whetstone, various hanks of cords, bundles of oakum, screw eye auger, small hatchet. This also holds her lockpicks, a pouch of tobacco, and a smoking pipe.

Donkey & cart

A gray donkey harnessed to a small cart carrying her few possessions for the trip. Barrels of water, grain, & flour. A chest containing cooking gear, mess gear, lantern, a few flasks of oil, a small tea chest, and few spices. A sea chest holding spare clothes, bedroll, 50' of rope, hammock, some ledgers, a wooden comb, a lockbox with some gold and silver, and a few well-wrapped bottles of her medicine. A couple small casks of rum. A canvas tarp to cover it all while traveling. This also holds her bow, quiver of arrows and her armor while traveling.

Pen Holder

a bronze stem that unscrews at one end to reveal a dipping pen inside, while a small covered pot on the opposite end has a length of silk wadded inside, soaked in black ink so that it will not spill. It can be tucked into a pocket in the interior of her jerkin or slipped onto the belt.

Bosun's Pipe

A whistle that makes a shrill sound when blown, can be heard over high winds and far distances. A trained user can make a variety of sounds with one.

Healers kit

leather belt pouch holding two rolled bandages, two bundles of dried herbs to use as a poultice, other medicinal herbs.

-----
Optional Details

What They Most Want:
Freedom

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
Chaotic Good

Three Likes:

• A sharp blade
• Rum
• A good smoke

Three Dislikes:

• A dull blade
• Storms
• Hardtack

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Their mind. Heart's been betrayed too often

Worst Fear:
Imprisonment

Favorite Color:
Sky blue

Most Like The Animal:
A fox

Favorite Time of Day:
Daybreak and the promise of a new day, the sun shining warm on her face.

How They Dress

• Brown tricorne hat
• Red bandana covering her hair
• Cream-colored peasant's shirt
• white bandana tied loosely around her neck
• Lined Brown leather jerkin with her medals stitched on the left breast, a dolphin embroyered in aquamarine beads on the right breast.
• Brown breeches
• Green Hose
• Brown leather boots with the tops folded down
• Wide brown leather belt
• [Nested]
  
  • knife with a broken tip (keeps from punching holes in sails and officers) in a leather sheath
  • Fid in sheath
  • Belaying pin tucked into belt
  • Belt pouch with some coins, flint, small pouch of pipe tobacco.
  • Flask containing medicine for her stomach
  • Cutlass with a silvered blade and scabbard.
• knotted lanyard that holds a bosun's pipe
• Leather cuirass
• Leather Bracers

Favorite Season:
Summer

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Deep Sashelas - an Elvish god of the oceans who likes to tinker and create new creatures, somewhat flighty. One hears tales about him having affairs with mermaids and land dwellers. Popular deity among Elvish sailors. His symbol is of a dolphin.

I may want to bring in a second character, a wandering priest who's also a cobbler (a not uncommon secondary occupation for this sect)

@Expendable

Approved, as before! It'll be interesting to have such a sailor on our land journey.

And of course, a second character would be welcome- I always like wandering priests and holy men. My own character has a little bit of that vibe himself.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

At this point, I do not care if this RP continues or not. I'm hoping that Tortoise is doing alright. After medical and health issues, Tortoise just disappeared and that has been a reoccurring concern in the back of my mind.

@OddnessApproved

I really appreciate that.

As Lady mentioned, I resurface after some time. Although I will be frank with you: this most recent disappearance was indeed because of my health issues. We got it mostly figured out, and I'm recovering now- enough to do stuff like this again.

In fact, everyone: I've restarted the RP. If anyone from here wants to try again, all your characters are pre-approved.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Tagging those who had an approved character in the first iteration.

Birch "Cricket" Oakenstorm (@OddnessApproved)
Jason Miller (@Crimson Flame)
Myra (@lotusthevoid)
Ilyana the Half-Human (@Expendable)
Jormon Bjarg (@Sanity43217)
Scrapheap Metalmaster (@XoXKieroBombXoX)
Mergoux (@Overlord Thraka)
Kurama (@Timemaster)

And, because I seem to write nothing without them, I'm of course tagging:

@Enigmatik
@Lady Lascivious
@Crusader Lord

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Athulwin of Queensrock

Athulwin of Queensrock

Caravan Navigator, Former Monk

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Human, 37, 8 years in the Caravan

Appearance:
At 37, Athulwin looks older than he should. He knows it. People already take him to be in his forties, early fifties, with the lines around the mouth and that star-silver hair. It used to be blonde, he swears. He thinks himself lucky to be on the tall side. His back, stomach and most of his lower body is marked up with faded old burn scars, like stretched-thin fabric. Up above them, between the shoulder blades, are dozens of thin, white stripes- ancient whip-scars.

History:

History

Vampires of the Old Marshes rarely take prey. They are like their marshland home: calm, silent creatures, who do not often lust for blood. Nor does the sun much bother them, if they can stay to the twilight hours. An Old Marshes vampire can often be sighted lurking at sunset, sunrise, unbothered by the half-light. And though they are masters of powerful and cruel Curses, they do little magic besides. They are only true vampires in that they can neither eat nor die- for they are not among the living- and that sometimes, on bright nights when the midnight moon speaks to them, they do crave the Red Drink.

On a very clear night, that craving awoke in one Gareth of Queensrock, a man who died twelve months earlier and was still trying to live like he hadn't. He had fought off his new, awful desire for blood as long as he could, distracted himself from it with anything he could think of; but still, the part of him that was now a vampire demanded satiation. It took over him as tried to lay in bed with his human wife, Renalda, one night. She was pregnant, he didn't want to drain her, but the craving-

Three days before Athulwin was due to be born, his mother Renalda stabbed through his father Gareth's heart. She had awoke just as he had gone for her neck.

He was buried that night, in an empty funeral attended only by Renalda and three Uttering Monks. The monks did not know him; their order considers it a duty to arrive for the funerals of the unloved. At least someone, they say, should mark the end of a life. They closed Gareth's eyes and lowered him into the soaking, marshland earth. Renalda wept. Then they begin to talk to her, and revealed another purpose in their coming: that they knew Athulwin would be born a half-vampire, would carry some of his father's curse all his life with none of his power.

A wretched existence, they said. No life at all, they said. But the Uttering Monks, in their dark, private monasteries, know a great many strange things, they assured Renalda, for they spend their days speaking fire and their nights talking to the stars. They knew of a ritual to cure him. Her son would be a man- not half of a man, not an almost vampire, but a whole and mortal and pure man, accepted in the eyes of the world. Their price was only this: that he would be their man. That soon as he was old enough to be weaned off of his mother's breast, she would give her firstborn son to them, and they would raise him in their monastery according to their own traditions.

An awful trade? No doubt. But... Renalda was a widow twice over, with no craft of her own. In a village the size of a bloated thumb. Her nightmares were already filling with fears on how she could possibly care for this son-to-come so, with tears, she agreed. They sealed the promise in the way men of the Old Marshes do, by carving it in stone. A small but heavy stone was stuck, struck deeply, with ancient symbols to represent that weighty price. Renalda has it in her home to this day.

The sun rose and set two more times; Athulwin came into the world. He was a boy born into fire. Literally: the ritual of the Uttering Monks, to cleanse a child of vampirism, was to set a pyre burning, and to let the child be birthed right onto the flames. The child would not burn alive, a nun named Sister Alyn promised Renalda, for the monk's sisters too can speak to fire, and they will teach the flames how to only burn away that which is evil in her young son. His self will be untouched.

It was a half-truth; the burn scars Athulwin still has testify to that. But it calmed her enough to let the monks and nuns do what was needed. The infant screamed. It was a dark scene. We should not dwell on this subject-

Suffice to say, Renalda's baby was alive, all human, left to her until such a time as he could be weaned safely. Came and went. Athulwin was taken up into the Monastery at Queensrock before he was old enough to remember his mother. There he was raised, there is where he thinks of when he hears someone ask him about home. Those stone walls, those cramped passageways.

The aura of an Uttering Monks monastery is hard to describe. They are one of three monastic orders native to the Old Marshland, a land already filled with history and deep tradition. They are the oldest of the orders- and the strictest. Silence is kept at meal time, silence for the first hour after waking, silence for the first three hours before bed. All the space between is filled with a deep, growl-like muttering: the sound of the monks practicing their art. In a monastery of a hundred souls, like Queensrock's was, every corridor and common room and walled-in garden is filled with men's muttering, so that it bounces off the stones and becomes the background noise of the entire monastery. It is a bit like the sound of a distant ocean or a dying fire. It'll get into your bones.

They aren't speaking to each other, of course, of course. They'd raise their voices for that. They are speaking, if you can believe it, to the raw elements of nature: the sacred art of the Uttering Monks is to learn the natural languages of things like stone, wind, thunder and fire, and to spend their lives practicing those strange tongues. In the meantime, they study much philosophy, much history, much religion, so that they form the spiritual and academic backbone of Old Marshes culture. Everyone outside those dark walls was uneducated, agricultural- but within them? There shown all the knowledge of the greater world.

This academia was learned before magic, for new students; by the age of four, Athulwin was already reciting religious history, between his dragging classes on writing, reading, languages. There was little arithmetic, and that was the one thing to be grateful for.

Many long years would pass this way. So many so that it would be better not to cover them all. One pattern emerged: Athulwin was a brilliant pupil, but only when he applied himself. He did not, as a rule, apply himself. Sister Alyn joked that they should have told the flames to burn out all his laziness, too. Nobody guessed at the true cause. It was that same thing which caused his straw pillow to come to the cleaners wet with tears, which caused other children to complain that he never laughed along with them. Young Athulwin had the condition which the people of Sinverland might have called "chronic melancholia," or what other cultures in other places might have deemed Depression- but what was here, in the Monastery at Queensrock, just a stark lack of work ethic.

He was flogged often.

It was perhaps inherited from his mother; it did not improve with age. He would've been outcast from the order altogether, if it weren't for his saving grace: Athulwin truly is a prodigy with languages. Monks learn mortal languages before magical ones, to prepare the mind. It was with an uncharacteristic eagerness that he tackled the words of the Wandering Elves, the rumblings of the Forrestal Dwarves, and the odd language of the Eld Fae- fairy folks who lived in the Old Marshes before humanity drove them out. He'd only been required to learn one.

Soon, with the blessing of the order, he was speaking to the stars. Now when he went wandering the swamps alone at night, he had a good excuse to be doing it.

And that was how he met Alder.

Alder, a man who only seemed to live at night and twilight. He appeared out of the fog to speak to the young monk whenever the swamp was dark and lonely- he claimed to be a Lord, but one without any land, and claimed that he had known Athulwin's father.

Athulwin knew he was a vampire. Alder knew that Athulwin knew, but why he kept coming out so late for conversations with a blood-sucker- that was the mystery. Still, they talked. The night hours were passed together. Alder never once tried to drink from him. It became a kind of unspoken alliance, this secret friendship between a vampire and a monk.

Their friendship formed over common interests. Language, history, philosophy. Alder always knew more than he should; it made you wonder how old he was. Athulwin learned secrets from the stars- he tried to impress Alder with them. Years passed, and they knew everything about one another.

Uttering Monks will temporarily take Vows of Silence, to meditate on the natural elements. Alder bore that time with patience, filling the air with only his words, while the dutiful monk nodded along. Something about the chatter made Athulwin's constant sorrow part, if only for a while. Time would be passed the same way as he prepared himself to learn to speak to fire, then to wind. He was becoming a true Sayer.

Alder asked often how his studies came. In the times where he was not shackled by a vow, Athulwin answered, never wondering why his friend would ask so much. It only became clear when, on a clear night with the moon swaying over their words, Alder made his proposal.

He wanted Athulwin to become a vampire, like his father, and of the same clan. It made sense now why he would play so long at friendship; vampires cannot participate in the monastery, so none ever learn Utterance except by turning a monk, and learning it from them. He promised Athulwin a very high position in the clan, for his part.

But he, perhaps drawing on something of his mother, was repulsed. He spat at the suggestion, almost literally. He demanded that the vampire unhand him- for he had now grabbed him by the wrist, and was tugging him closer. The moon was singing to Alder, he was going to turn him, he would try to drink from him as Gareth had tried from his mother, and-

In rare cases, a gifted Sayer who speaks the language of fire can go further than only talking to fire; they can breathe fire, like a fairytale dragon. That's what Athulwin did then. For the first time. Alder was left with half his body burnt from the flames; he staggered backwards. He wasn't dead, thankfully- but then Athulwin heard the words that would change his life.

Alder, with that kind of bitter, dripping rage that only vampires have, pronounced a Curse on Athulwin. The words of the spell were not in any tongue men could recognize. Hearing it felt like a hearing Utterance in reverse, upside-down; there was nothing natural about it. And though it was incomprehensible and unnatural, Athulwin found that he instinctively knew what it meant: that he was cursed to die. That the sorrow and sadness which has always been inside him would gradually work its way outwards, graying his hair and aging him too fast, working in him until it rotted his bones and brought him to a young death.

There was a possible release from this curse- if he would become a vampire. If he would one day embrace the gift Alder tried to give him, the Curse would break. Until then, he was doomed to grow weaker, and weaker, and then die.

With those words ringing in his skull, he fled.

The next two years at the monastery passed too slowly. Every day, it seemed, Athulwin found another gray hair in his head, felt his body seeming a little heavier even as he lost weight. He knew what was taking hold. One day, without warning, he ran for good from the monastery, leaving his vows behind him. It was an impulse decision, probably the only one he's ever made. All he knew- that he had to see the world before his ended.

That was how he found the Caravan. He has stayed for eight years, never knowing how long he has left before Alder's curse finally comes due. With his power to speak to the stars, he's become the official navigator, and so a kind of leader. It put more responsibility on him, more than he would normally like, but he doesn't altogether mind. It lets him leave a mark. Before the Curse comes due.

Personality:
Still and calm. A contemplator. A hearer, not a talker.

Through his long time in the Caravan, Athulwin has gained a reputation as someone you come to when you need someone to talk to. He is the one who will actually listen to you speak, pouring out whatever is on your mind, and only answer back once you've said all you need. He'll look you in the eye, tilt his head towards you; he really cares. And, a true Uttering Monk, his words back towards you are chosen carefully, with a surgical kind of precision. A habit coming from the Vows of Silence that he once held. Words are precious.

When he's not charting out the Caravan's next course or hearing out caravanners problems, Athulwin is usually somewhere silent, deep in meditation or reading or simply thinking. There is a flaw here: he almost never helps with the physical work of the caravan. Nobody has ever seen him chop wood. Maybe it's because of weakness from his curse, some say. Or maybe got used to trying to skip out on work back in the monasteries, and avoiding it like the plague became a habit.

Motivation:
What is he looking for, life? But he's given up on that. Instead, Athulwin most wants to seek knowledge before his death. Not knowledge of the world, of things. But spiritual wisdom. All this journeying is only a path to that greater goal. He hopes that, by experiencing and seeing all that creation is filled with, he can glimpse something of the hand of the creator.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

Skills:

Magic: Utterance

Utterance has been described as a kind of cross-breed between druidism and elemental magic. It is a form of language, allowing one to speak (literally, with their voices) to the non-living aspects of nature, like stone, or sunlight. The obvious use for such a power would be to control natural elements; to tell a fire to cook or to burn down, to teach ice to freeze itself around a threat, to call on rain for the crops. It can do those things, though not so often or effectively as a true wizard might. (Reason being: the elements can say "no" to one using Utterance.)

Instead, the main reason the Uttering Monks study it is for learning from nature. Nature, after all, witnesses and knows many things mankind does not. One who speaks to the stars may learn from them the correct paths to travel, may hear of ancient history those stars' eyes have seen, may be told of great and secret things that happen in the heavens. Those who whisper to the wind may hear it whisper back, telling them of news from far-off lands, of secrets said in a king's chambers while the window was open and the night breeze whistling by. They cannot control the elements with the same precision as a mage, maybe, but a Sayer (that is, one who practices Utterance) knows far more.

And this learning goes deeper than head-knowledge, too. Finally, a Sayer has an Aura. Their Aura is based on the elements of nature they most often speak too, because as you commune with something such as fire, you will find that burning power seeping into your own soul. The Aura a Sayer has is felt almost tangibly around them, and heard in their voice, giving most of them a kind of unnatural charisma. One who speaks to stone seems strong and unbreakable, one who speaks to ice becomes coldly intellectual. All of them feel impossible to argue with. A good Sayer tends to get their way in conversations. Their voice carries much weight.

As a last note: Utterance isn't one language, it's many. Each part of nature speaks its own tongue, after its own form. All these things have a secret language; twilight, shadows, thunder, time. But these tongues are not like the languages of men, that anyone can learn them if they just study enough. They are stranger.

Take the language of the stars, for one example: to hear it spoken feels like fire, like a burning light, full of wisdom and cold fury. It feels like you're hearing something from another world, something straight from the cold void of space. It is so much more than just sounds. So when someone speaks it, they do indeed form actual words with their tongue, but there's something deeper happening that everyone who hears it can sense.

That's no accident. Before one can speak the language of, say, water, they must spend months or years in silent and intense meditation, learning to think like water. The same goes for any other natural language. Someone who wishes to speak to the wind must think as quick and surely as the wind. And during this time, the student must take a vow of total silence; they cannot speak a word in any language, even an ordinary one. This can take much focus. Only after a long time has passed is the student ready for a proper Sayer-Teacher to be brought in, who will finally show them the real words and syntax of the language that they wished to learn. After that, their vow of silence can be broken, and it becomes like learning any mortal language.

Each natural language is different, so this process has to be repeated for every Utterance one learns. You may already know how to speak to lightning, but if you want to speak to thunder, you still have to go back and start your meditations from scratch. So only the very old or very dedicated can know more than a few Utterance languages.

Athulwin is a Sayer; one who uses Utterance. Specifically, he speaks the languages of Fire, Wind and Starlight.

Starlight teaches him many things, though it has no use beyond that. As it says above, "one who speaks to the stars may learn from them the correct paths to travel, may hear of ancient history those stars' eyes have seen, may be told of great and secret things that happen in the heavens." He uses this knowledge to aide the Caravan on its journey, keeping them away from places where the stars speak of danger. The knowledge is not always perfect; stars are not like you and me, and their words are like riddles born from an alien's mind. Much of what Athulwin hears from them has to be... interpreted.

Fire is an opposite to starlight, having little to say but much it can do. There's not a lot a fire can tell you; its spirit, if it has one, cares for nothing but to burn. But then, that is the use. Speaking fire is good for a fight, good for removing obstacle's in the caravan's path, or even just good for cooking a meal and warming you on cold nights. Like many Sayers who have spoken this tongue a long time, Athulwin is not harmed by fire, and can breathe it as a dragon does.

Wind is somewhere between the two, having some practical use and sharing some knowledge. A Sayer can speak wind to push things and people out of the way, or speed sail-boats along. It can also carry messages across long distances, so that Athulwin is able to speak something into the wind, and another Pilgrim will hear it a mile off as clear as if he were standing beside them. Among the people of the Old Marshes, the language of the wind is associated with spy-work, because of the way Sayers use it to hear other people speaking from far away. In the Marsh, they say never to speak a secret when the wind is blowing, because it will carry your precious words to a Sayer, who might turn and use it against you. Before the Pilgrimage visits a new city, Athulwin will always stop to listen, to hear what sort of people live there- and to guess if the Caravan will be welcomed.

Outside of Utterance, Athulwin has little physical or practical skills, and relies on his charisma to get through situations that can't be burned or blown away.

Strengths:
Knowledgeable: A strong knowledge of philosophy, history, geography and- of course- theology was drilled into Athulwin from a young age, and his own caravan has as many books and scrolls as it can practically store. He also hears news via the wind, and receives cryptic messages and esoteric knowledge from the words of the stars.
Unnatural Charisma: Although not the most outgoing fellow on his own, Athulwin's connection to the raw elements of the world gives him a constant feeling of power and authority that clings to him. His tongue is as if it's enchanted; he gets his way in conversations even when his words are plain.
Fights with Fire and Wind: Although not a pyromancer in the arcane sense, Athulwin's connection to fire allows him to control it. He can walk through fire with only moderate pain, wrap himself within flames like a cloak, and command fireballs to leap at foes. But, unlike a true wizard, he cannot summon flames from nothing, except for when he breathes them. So before a fight, you'll likely see Athulwin spit fire onto his own hands, and command the flames out from there; and this is still painful for him. He can also push the bad guys around with gusts of wind, or hover himself a few feet over the ground.

Weaknesses:
Cursed: The Curse that is on Athulwin makes him age faster, and makes his body both weak and heavy. He is very frail. To boot, one who has lived long under a curse such as this one has a way of becoming more vulnerable to dark energies. Foul magics and other curses hurt him even more than they would hurt others, and he can resist them less.
Impractical: Athulwin scorns physical labor, both because of his weakness and because of his own personality, and he rarely cares for the day-to-day necessities of life. If he had to fully look after himself for a month, he'd be a beggar by the second week. His head is always in the clouds, you might say. Or, as it were, in the stars.
Melancholic, Impersonal: Few things bring joy to Athulwin. Even those things that should make a man happy can scarcely bring a smile to his face, and this impacts his relationships with others. He is hard to befriend. And, because of the impractical mindset mentioned above, he doesn't care to talk about 'ordinary' things with ordinary people. All conversations with him somehow end up being about magic and nature and the gods, or else they end up being about nothing at all. He has few friends among the less educated of the caravan, who cannot follow his meandering thoughts.

Tools:
-Maps, quills and scrolls, various cartography equipment
-The Eld Breviary, a book of chants that focus the mind before Utterance.
-The Moiling Chain. A heavy, iron chain given to Uttering Monks who serve in a monastery for ten years, reminding them of the weight and burden of their holy duty. It is enchanted never to rust, and each link is engraved with shockingly detailed images of religious history. In a pinch, it can be used as a whip.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
Wisdom. Knowledge. Insight.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
Lawful Neutral.

Three Likes:
Utterance, wisdom, crisp air that clears the mind.

Three Dislikes:
Dark and occult magics, those who live without a code, and vampires.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
He used to follow his heart. But somewhere, in all those silent and contemplative years in the monastery, re-reading scriptures and philosophical texts again and again and again for new interpretations, the mind took dominance.

Worst Fear:
That he will break, and become a vampire.

Favorite Color:
Silver.

Most Like The Animal:
Raven.

Favorite Time of Day:
Deep dusk, when the stars are just coming out, and the last rays of sunlight sinking down below the horizon.

How They Dress:
Back home, a brown robe was the standard. Sometimes spruced up with a small hat, or- for festivals and other such rare occasions- a necklace.

But after eight years of travel, Athulwin keeps a variety of clothes stuffed into his caravan, ready for most any environment. He's learned that, when he has the choice, he likes softer and neutral colors: grays, off-whites, almost-blacks. It goes with his hair. Robes, cloaks and other flowy, wizard-y fare is the usual ensemble.

Favorite Season:
Winter. Crisp air, chill wind, early sunset.

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
The Uttering Monks, and those marshlanders whose villages are sprinkled amidst their monasteries, worship the ancient god Eld Frowen. They teach that it was him who Spoke all things into being at the beginning of time, and their practice of Utterance is but a pale imitation of that great act. Eld Frowen sits in the Unseeable Throne at the center of the earth, far underneath the sunlit lands, and He is still Speaking today. Every word that He says keeps the world in motion, keeps the sun rising every morning and breath in our lungs. All the universe is like a story told by Eld Frowen. (In fact, Uttering Monks often call the world of Alwyne "The Great Story.")

Other gods and deities are seen as Echoes of Eld Frowen's words, which form when the words He says echo off the walls of the great cavern that is his throne room, being changed and distorted in the process. So, in Authwin's eyes, every other god is an echo or a perversion of something Eld Frowen once said. He tries to keep that opinion to himself.

In art, Eld Frowen is often depicted as half man, half fae, and either blind or eyeless. Blind, because the monks teach that He is a bit of an absent creator, "an unmovable mover," who keeps the universe in motion but does not otherwise interfere in people's lives or the events of history. In a sense, He is a god both blind and deaf, neither watching over the world nor much hearing prayers- only speaking His great story, ad perpetuam.

Terilu

Terilu

Ascendant of the Third Caste and Called by the Reaching Hand, in Form of Baítudatu-Thumilie, of New Dawnlit

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Eratie, Nineteen, Two Weeks in the Caravan.

Eratie

The Eratie are considered a beastrace: humanoid creatures that bear some of the features of animals, or else (depending on who you ask) animals that speak and walk on two legs. For Eratie, the animal they take after is undeniably the bat. They have all the expected features: chiropteran faces ending in a snout, with dark eyes for seeing at night, black and light fur covering their bodies, and huge ears for picking up on echolocation. And, of course, there's that huge set of huge leathery wings sprouting from their shoulders- hard to miss that one.

At least, that's the stereotypical Eratie. The way an Eratie looks varies much depending not upon their genetics, but upon the mystical energies in the air when they are born. An Eratie may or may not be born with wings; they may or may not have fur; their faces may resemble that of a common fruit bat, or may be more that of an ugly Natalidae. It varies by the stars that are overhead, and by the poorly understood Powers that swirl around them when first they come into this world. Even the time of day plays a role: Eratie born at the stroke midnight often have tiefling-esque horns. They call these variations in their bodies their "Forms," and as they are a people who categorize everything, they of course have a name for each. The most common form is the one they call "Baítudatu-Thumilie," and that is the stereotypical one described above.

Most of the world population of Eratie exists in the land of Tureiamú, which is considered their homeland: it is a small peninsula that stretches out somewhere south of the lands of the Old Marshes and Trist, almost approaching towards the coastal kingdom of Ordos. But, historically, the Eratie who live there have had little traffick or trade with the humans, who they consider a brutish and dangerous bunch, and their culture shows this. Over thousands of years living in the same places and rarely varying their way of life, the Eratie-Tureiamú have been built into a complex, strict culture that prioritizes tradition and orderly behavior. Their caste system is enforced, and unquestioned. Their houses and clans are maintained by blood and by ritual. The lives of those who are born under Tureiamú's sun are set out both by the station of their birth and by their astrological signs. Even the shoes that an Eratie puts on in the morning may as well have been pre-planned according to three thousand years of tradition. Who is there to argue with it?

Each Eratie is meant to behave after their own kind, after all, following their destiny as their Form, Calling and House would dictate it, and this is the only way. Those who break from their destinies are shamed or outcasts. They have walked the Unsteady Path, that winding road which leads to decay, and cannot be made clean again.

Appearance:

Terilu is a rather common kind of bat, and this has always irked him. He wishes that he had the horns of the Detiastu-Tiatietu Form, something all dark and imposing to frighten the bigger races. But, alas, he does not. He is in every way what the human imagines when he thinks of an Eratie: something small, maybe three or four feet tall, with a cute fruit bat's face. His fur's all black except for a ring of brown around his shoulders, worn just like you'd wear a scarf.

His eyes are young, and full of burning potential.

History:

Part 1: Plague

Terilu's path to necromancy began with a plague. He was less than eight years of age, and some vile disease was sweeping through New Dawnlit- the stone, crumbling old city where he was raised.

Like most Eratie, the young Terilu was living deep within a crowded "nest-" a single massive home where dozens of Eratie (all of the same caste, of course) reside communally under one roof- when the sickness began. In a normal year, a nest is meant to be a warm, busy place, where every child has as many mothers as there are women, and has as many fathers as there are men.

All the children of the same age were Terilu's nest-siblings, and he shared meals and jokes and conversation with them all throughout the nights. All in the nest were related, all of the honorable Third Caste, and this made them as good as brothers and sisters. Each of them would be one day trained in the approved professions for ones such as they: meaning that for most of them, they would have educated, upper-middle class jobs. The Third Caste was considered the caste of the artists, the writers, the scribes, the wizards, the architects, the scientists; the thinkers and the feelers of their world. Young Terilu and his nest-siblings were lesser gentry, the lower part of the aristocracy- wealthy and privileged, though not in charge.

But, in a year like this, with this strange plague in the city, their crowded nest became a vector of disease.

The women of the nest, the mothers, were struck the hardest. Nobody understood why. The disease made them shrivel and rot, losing weight while they vomited up their meals. It was rabidly infectious; a nest that caught the plague could be hollowed out in a matter of weeks. It killed fast, and that was the only mercy. The first to fall in Terilu's nest was an old woman he knew as Mother Deatta. As is Eratie custom, the nests' many children were brought in to see the body- to say their last goodbyes.

Little Terilu looked down at the Mother's corpse. Staring at this skull-like face, shrunken down to nothing by this starving, blind plague, the young child was struck with something. He was too young and not bright enough to articulate just what he was feeling, but suddenly he was aware that this is how all life ends. Plague or no plague. He was understanding for the first time, that this is what will eventually happen to the rest of his mothers, and to his fathers, and his friends, and then to him. They will all one day be like the body laying on the table.

Tears rolled down his face. They thought he was crying for Mother Deatta. He wasn't.

It was the next morning that he declared to everyone in the nest, with the confidence that only children have of the future, that he was going to become a powerful necromancer. This, he said, was his chosen path. The nests' elders did not much question it. Necromancy was indeed an acceptable profession for the Third Caste by the ancient laws of their people, and the child had certainly seen enough death in his life that it was no great mystery why his mind should be on this track. They assented. The lad was to be trained in the ways of undeath. When the disease had passed from the city, they assured him that they'd search for proper tutors and dig up the proper spellscrolls for his study.

But the plague, meanwhile, tore on through the nest like a flame through paper. Half of them died, especially the mothers. Terilu almost became numb to all the funerals, to watching his sisters and teachers and mothers pass away. Until six months later, he lost the one- Mother Terria.

Mother Terria was his birth-giver: the very one he came from. Unlike the other women of the nest, he came out of her. That made her death feel... different. When the messenger boy came sprinting through the narrow, long little stone halls of the nest to tell him that she'd died, he began to shout and scream. He isn't even sure if the shout was one of grief or anger. He could not distinguish which emotion this was. It was simply wrong: wrong for another one, and this one, of all, to be taken from him. He cursed and he spit, something that would've gotten him in real trouble if the wrong adult overheard. (The messenger boy, in sympathy, swore himself to silence.) He declared aloud to a room of fellow mourners, when they took him to see her body, that he'd see her rise again. By the necromantic power that he was going to learn. Nobody took it seriously- he hadn't even been trained yet- but the uncomfortable silence that followed was real enough.

It was later that afternoon when he found out that the nests' elders were having the corpse cremated. There would be no resurrecting her.

Little Terilu was heartbroken, and confused. He thought this move a random, mean injustice to him, and to his mother. Only later did one of the fathers sit him down and explain. There's no real bringing someone back from the dead, he told him. The dead rise when a necromancer tells them to, yes, but it's not the whole person. It's either just the body, hollow and rotting, or just the soul, ethereal and tormented. Either way, there is no having Mother Terria back, whole and healthy and herself. That time has now passed.

It nearly killed young Terilu's desire to become a necromancer, hearing that. But changing course is extraordinarily hard in the uncompromising Eratie culture. Already his name has been marked down as a future necromancer. Already, here come the tutors assigned to teach him this sacred art, and here are the relatives bringing gifts of dried bones for their favorite youngling to practice on. The many mothers and fathers of Terilu's nest forbid him from changing course. It would be embarrassing for the family. So he continued.

Part 2: Student

His first tutor in the art of necromancy was an old, wrinkled bat named Master Earídu, a fellow member of the Third Caste but who came from some far-off nest in a city that Terilu had never heard of.

The lad instantly disliked him. He never appreciated the young lad's jokes and jests, for one thing. Just looked at him with that ancient face. "He looks as much like a dead body as the ones he brings back," young Terilu said to his friends. It was funny, because resurrecting the dead seems to be the one thing the aged necromancer was unable to teach. Terilu has many blurry memories of long hours wasted listening to Master Earídu talk about the theory and philosophies behind necromancy. There was much he had to say about the symbolic meaning of a person who is kept both alive and dead, and why this is important to their culture. When he didn't feel like talking (that was rare, but did- occasionally- happen), he'd sentence Terilu to many long nights of drawing out body charts and complicated diagrams of rituals. He'd review the drawings, mark where Terilu had made a mistake, and send him back to rework the entire thing.

But only rarely would he let the young pupil put any of this into practice. Perhaps it was because of the Master's failing health: he was nearing sixty, an incredible age for an Eratie, and seemed to have no more energy for real spellcraft. The grave was drawing near to him. During a particularly dry lecture on the nature of arcane energies, he once lamented aloud that he wished he had learned more when he'd been Terilu's age. Then, maybe, he could've ascended into something like lichdom, and kept himself alive for centuries more, as some few of the greatest Third Caste necromancers indeed have.

Terilu whined to him that he wouldn't achieve lichdom either- or anything else- if he wasn't shown some real magic soon, but the master would not hear of it. When he predictably died of old age some five years later, Terilu felt more annoyed about it than anything else. This dotting academic had wasted his entire education! In a fit of irritation, he snuck into the Mausoleum with a necromantic spellbook snuck under his arm, and found where they had buried the master.

He probably would have failed if, ironically, it weren't for the excellent theory and form he'd learned from all those lessons. Dragging out the man's casket with both hands, he cast the most powerful Resurrection Spell he could find on Earídu's own corpse. And it rose to life as his slave. Laughing with genuine delight, he made Earidu's body dance and juggle for him. It was the first thing he'd ever brought to life bigger than a rabbit! It was the eve of his 13th birthday.

And that is, of course, the age of adulthood for Eratie.

He decided now that the Art of Necromancy really was the path for him. If, for no other reason, so that he could escape the fate of so many others in his young life: so that he could use this dark power to stop himself from dying. He wouldn't allow himself to just be another funeral. But he had also decided that his homeland was not the place to learn. The necromancers here were all like Earídu: academic scholars concerned with getting their names on books, not with achieving real things. He is utterly repulsed by them.

So it was that he had many tearful goodbyes with his family and friends. The now adult bat was going to venture out into the "Wilder World," as Eratie called the savage universe outside their safe little peninsula of culture and knowledge. His mothers were convinced he would get himself killed. There, they warned him, necromancy was hated as an evil and black art, and any who discovered what he was would murder him. But no, he reassured them: he would follow the rumors of wicked necromancers in distant lands until he came upon one himself, and there he would beg to be their apprentice. He would learn all they had to teach. If he came back, it would not be in a casket, but as a lord of the dead. Powerful, wise, and ascendent.

Part 3: Necromancer

It took three years of hard, long travelling and searching, but he did find his teacher. She was an elven woman, Aryyna. Oh, he loved her. She was the opposite of the old bat. The image of a classic necromancer, complete with an undead army and plans to conquer the world. Sensing the presence of her many undead servants from afar off, he had tracked her to her hideout in an abandoned watchtower mounted just at the mouth of a bloody and forsaken old battlefield. Many wars were fought in that land in ages long past and, cleverly, she was raising the corpses that had fallen in battle to build an army of her very own. She was preparing herself for an all-out invasion against the local villages- there was some petty grievance that she had against them; Terilu didn't care what it was. When she saw that he was ready to serve her no matter the cost, Arynna gladly took him under her wing. It helped that he proved to be rather magically gifted. He learned from her how to raise skeletons and ghouls to follow one into battle, and how to seek wisdom from the spirits of those long gone. In time, he was the lieutenant of her dark forces. Just her, him, and a few hundred sword-wielding corpses.

He stayed with her for several more years. It was, he would have to say, the most valuable time of his life. There is nothing like being shown the tricks of the trade by a true expert. He never came close to her power, but she assisted him where he was lacking. She helped him create an undead slave to bathe him every morning and clothe him every night. She had the ghouls bring him wine on a platter. She showed him how one communicates with the undead telepathically, only thinking and having your will accomplished. He could soon sit on the balcony of the tower and watch the dead go out to war at his unspoken command, raiding the villages by night until the powerless peasants were forced to offer tribute. He and her took the very best of their goods: their wines and fabrics, clothes and foodstuffs, their gold and oil. He felt like a warlord.

He was lonely, that was the only thing. In his crowded nest back home, he never wanted for company, and so he never realized how much he relied on it. But now Terilu was beginning to know himself better. He looked back with fondness on the many hours of conversation that he had with his nest-siblings, and the ways that they laughed at his jokes. He tried conversing with Arynna, but she was cold. And her dead weren't for talking.

But he could have continued in this way. Being the second-in-command. He still could have kept on until they conquered a small kingdom's worth, gladly, even though the occasional bloodshed made him chafe. He did not know he could be a killer- but then, it wasn't him doing the killing, he told himself. And the villagers were only hurt if they fought back. Nobody made them fight back, he told himself. And his magic was growing so much! And so, still, he would have continued. But, alas.

He found Aryyna dead one night at the hands of an assassin. To this day, Terilu still doesn't know exactly who it was who did it, or how they got past her undead guards. The best guess: that someone from the villages climbed in through the window. The assassin killed her while she was in the bath, whoever it was. They got a knife in her throat before she could rise to throw a spell at him, or call for help. Even the greatest mage can be taken down by someone quick and suicidal enough.

The blood ran down her body turned the bathwaters red. It reminded Terilu, in a funny sort of way, like wine. It was a disgusting comparison, but that's what it looked like. He's not sure how long he spent looking at her body. He felt grief, of a kind, but it wasn't only that. His steady life here had just been pulled out from under him. Without her, he knew with a sinking feeling in his gut, he wasn't strong enough to keep command of the undead servants. He was not a true master, not yet. Most of the undead soldiers would just crumble apart, becoming immobile corpses again. But some of them, the ones who did not just return to the grave...

With only a few bags of needful things strapped around himself, he fled. He flew out the window, escaping from the old tower before the dead could realize that his magical hold on them was gone. He did not want to discover what kind of vengeance they could bring onto him. For all he knows, they still haunt that old battlefield, restless.

He joined the Caravan not long after. At first, it was just to lay low for a while. With the Caravan's endless roving, it's a place where anyone who knows his recent past as a necromancer's apprentice might have trouble finding him. But after only a few days aboard, he realized that he's going to stay. It's not just that it's the perfect hiding spot. It's that... well, he was lonely under Arynna, and the Caravan has many souls. He's dearly missed belonging to a nest.

Plus, its adventures give him many opportunities to practice his magic. If he is to be as accomplished as his beloved teacher one day, he needs practice.

Personality:

Bubbly. Humorous. Outgoing, bright and immature.

Were these the words you were expecting?

It has seemed strange to many of those who have known Terilu that he seems so... unbothered. So completely unbothered. He does not have the spirit you would expect of a necromancer. There is no edge to him. Or if there is, it's so deep inside that one can rarely find it. He flies down to you with a smile, ready to jest and talk about nothing at all. For him, conversation is a great pleasure in and of itself.

He does tend to show that more aristocratic side of himself: he takes most everything for granted, and gently assumes the service of those around him. The kind who will get the room to laugh with a joke, and then make you the butt of his next joke, and never consider that it could have hurt you. If you held a grudge about it, he'd be genuinely shocked. He's just a rich, laughing boy. He likes having power, and he likes it when people do what he says; but he also likes company, the thing he was most lacking under Arynna's tutelage.

So you wouldn't think that he practices a school of magic as stereotypically dark as he does. That's probably because, in Terilu's mind, it isn't dark. The other necromancers that Terilu previously studied under were all of a kind: brooding, crushed, and weighted down with hate. Of the world, of their victims, of- at least a little- themselves. But there is no such guilt on Terilu's conscience. He sees his form of necromancy as being perfectly fine, after all, and he's still quite young and energetic, so he maintains something of the charisma of a puppy dog even while he may blackly defile the rotting bodies of the dead. Why should they care, anyway? They're dead already.

Perhaps due to his dark nature, he also has an unfortunate love of puns.

Motivation:
Impatient from a lack of progress under his many tutors, and believing there is no more he can learn from the lectures of old men, Terilu has turned to the Caravan. He does not imagine there is anyone in such a place who can teach him necromancy- but then, he has learned all the theory that he can stomach. The young bat now seeks to gain experience. To put his knowledge into practice, and to hone his power by using it. To do that, he reasons, one must live.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

Strengths:

Bat Traits: As a winged, bat-esque creature, Terilu can fly, has excellent vision in the dark, and- when vision proves not enough- uses echolocation. The echolocation is too high for human hearing, but another Eratie (or anything else with above-average hearing) can pick up on it, making for a kind of secret signal. Eratie talk in ultrasonic sounds when they don't want the lesser races overhearing them.

Necromancy: This one is obvious. Terilu can raise the dead, and bend them to his own will. He can sense and communicate with any undead, even if they aren't his, and he can take command of the weaker-willed ones. He knows how to reach beyond the veil, tampering and communicating with the souls of those who have left their mortal coils, to various ends. If he's pulled into a fight, he can rip and tear at his enemies' soul, torturing it with dark magic. He can even try to pull a soul wholly away from a person's body, capturing their disembodied spirit as his servant and living their body a husk.

Aspiring Lich: Although he still has a very long way to go, Terilu has begun learning how to become a form of lich. He has a connection to the forces of undeath that lets him sometimes act as if he were already a corpse himself: he can stop breathing for a while when he needs to, and survive things that should kill a living creature because, in a sense, he is not fully a living creature anymore. He's partially on his path to lichdom. As a rule of thumb: if an undead could do it, Terilu might be able to as well.

Weaknesses:

Bat Traits: It's not all good being a bat. He's half-blind during the day, when his nocturnal eyes can't adjust to the sunlight. But most people would've guessed that much. No, the real disadvantage is actually his body type. He's made for flying, but getting a humanoid form off the ground is no easy feat. An Eratie is therefore incredibly small and light. He's only 3 and a half feet tall, his bones are hollow, his whole form is designed to be as weightless as it can possibly be. It's shocking how little he weighs: coming in at only 35 pounds on the scale. He's therefore weaker than a human child, and if any strong man so much as shoves him, he'd go flying. Literally!

Prejudiced: In spite of his studies under a bright elf, and though he has made the acquaintance of many races through his journeys across the Wilder World, Terilu has always found them all to be very simple compared to the shining order and complexity of his own people. Anything non-Eratie is a bit of a barbarian in his mind. They're too often unlettered, backwards, and ignorant of deeper truths. He's (pleasantly) surprised when a human can read.

Dark Connections: Terilu counts his brand of necromancy as, if not ethical, at least Not So Bad. He avoids torturing souls and tries to avoid harming innocents. Nonetheless, he touches on many dark magics and things that very much are bad, and it's impossible to escape the consequences of messing with these forces. He's been tainted by it. Magics meant to drive out evil creatures, demons and undead and the like, bother him more than they rightfully should. He is a little beacon for evil things. There are abominations from beyond the veil who know his name.

Tools:
Aside from basic survival, living and cooking supplies, Terilu has a special collection of prizes given to him by his family, before the outset of his journey. Most of them are a little magic, to be sure, but the real benefit is that they keep him from forgetting his true home, and his true purpose.

Mother Terria's Ring: A silver ring he stole out of his natural mother's urn after her passing. He fished it right out of her ashes. It has a slight bit of magic to it that helps out in the tougher moments of spellcasting, but Terilu mostly keeps it out of sentiment.

Mother Haula's Earring: Ear piercing has a significance in Eratie culture. The ring you wear is a way of marking yourself. The earring Mother Haula gave him is a hollow silver circle that hangs from Terilu's left ear on a short, golden chain. This is, to those who understand the meaning of such things, the mark of a necromancer. He has a bad habit of tugging at it when he's nervous.

Father Siámie's Staff: Once a walking staff that eased his birth father's hurting joints, Terilu has carved and enchanted this family heirloom into a conduit for magical powers. Unlike the ring, when he wields it, he's truly more powerful.

Grandmother Hal'teura's Recipe Scroll: Look, no self-respecting Eratie is going on a long journey without a taste of his grandmother's fruit pie. You might say this one isn't magic, but Terilu would ask you to try saying that after you've tasted some.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
To escape the cycle. To Reach Beyond.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
Lawful Evil

Three Likes:
Poetry, fun, and necromancy.

Three Dislikes:
Disorder, aging, ignorance.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Mind.

Worst Fear:
Sinking down into the same kind of base, meaningless life that most others beings already live. Becoming caught up in the degrading cycle of animal instincts and desires, until he grows old and unachieved.

Favorite Color:
The color of dawn and dusk.

Most Like The Animal:
Bat. Not only because of his appearance, but because of his nocturnal habits, his love of moonlit flight and his hunting at night.

Favorite Time of Day:
Deep dawn, when the stars are fading out from the sky, and the first rays of sunlight crowning over the horizon.

How They Dress:

Clothing among the Eratie is rather complex, dictated highly by class, sex and age, not to mention the natural limiting factors of one's Form, and it's shameful to deviate from the traditional style of dress.

For one such as Terilu, expected clothing is an all-leather robe that flows long in the back, down to the ankles, but is cut short in the front, revealing trousers and black shoes. There's a high, stiff leather collar to the robe, giving the ensemble an official if slightly dramatic air. There are slits for ones wings.

Through the last two years of travelling, Terilu has refused to give up this manner of dress. He left home with several outfits of this kind, and has learned to mend them when they are damaged so that he can keep on rotating through them even as he travels through hot summers and freezing winters. It's become a point of pride that he still dresses like a proper Ascendent of the Third Caste. Even if, by now, the robes are both torn and beaten down by the weather, and his shoes worn as old rat's skin.

Favorite Season:
Winter. He likes the feel of flying through cold air. And besides, Winter is the season of death for many lesser creatures, so he can gather up his forms to work with. There is something very apropos about a necromancer descending on black wings out of a cold winter morn, harvesting up a body from the chilled earth. The ice keeps the corpses fresh.

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
The 8th Person and the Diviner.

The 8th Person is one of the nine aspects of Ad'itie, Goddess of Twilight, and the ancient patron deity of the Eratie people. Each aspect of Ad'itie represents a part of Eratie culture, has a different name and form, and corresponds to a different hour of either dusk or dawn. The 8th Person is called Eru-atie, and is the one most associated with necromancy and the darker forms of magic.

The Diviner is the emperor of the Tiatietu peninsula, and is worshipped as a mortal vessel of Ad-itie.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Pilgrim's Caravan

_{You see that city? You can go to that city! But also like the mountains or whatever.}

The caravan starts rolling at dawn today, through a forest so green that the locals call it Emerald. People here say that the trees drop gems rather than seeds, and the flowers have flakes of gold for petals. The children and the naïve of the Pilgrimage are already running alongside the caravans- hunting for their fortune in the grass. Everyone in the Pilgrim's Caravan, one way or another, is hunting their fortune. For some it isn't treasure. Some are here to find knowledge, a new life, new experiences.

Whatever the pilgrims seek, this long and ancient caravan will bring them to more places than only this forest. It has led them each already through shifting deserts and into cities vile with chymical odor, through lands lived-in by elves that only speak secrets and across marshes where the splashing water murmurs your name, through valleys where the sun turns black overhead and over mountains made from the bodies of sleeping giants. The caravan has no destination. And it doesn't have a home. It only exists to roam, from one place to another, trading what it needs to keep itself going, but always, always going. Always finding something new and strange and miraculous.

And if you join the caravan tonight- what will you find?

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General Idea

So, the point of this RP is to create a fantasy game where the setting changes regularly. It's episodic, in a way. We can explore an ancient and imperialistic city one week, and then move to a magical jungle the next. There's no set time for how long we'll spend in each Destination- we'll just stay however long feels natural, fill out any stories/plots that arise, and then move on when the players start getting bored.

In-universe, the Pilgrim's Caravan is a large group of travelers, most of whom really do stay in caravans. They travel all across this world called Alwyne, bringing news and merchandise and spices from far-off places to whomever they visit. Travel in Alwyne is a bit dangerous- with the bandits, the goblins, the haunted roads and whatnot- and so the caravan is useful for people who do need to get around. It's big enough to be heavily guarded, but just quick enough to get out of dodge when something shows up that the guards can't beat.

The Caravan has been around for years, for centuries, so much so that nobody even remembers how it got started. Most people go for the obvious guess, that some old merchant company must have commissioned it long ago. But others with more active imaginations say that it was formed by criminal exiles, cast out from their home city and yet denied refuge in any other, or that a great goddess cursed her enemies to roam eternally, or that a child's game of "follow the leader" simply got way out of hand. Whatever the cause, the pilgrims continue on, traveling from one strange place (they call them Destinations) to another.

I'll be playing with you all, as a character who navigates for the Pilgrim's Caravan. But it won't be me picking our Destinations, because...

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Worldbuilding(!)

The Destinations is where the "Worldbuilding" aspect of this game really comes into play. When it comes time for us to go from one place to the next, I'll pick a player to make up our next location. You can come up with anything, as long as it fits the fantasy genre- the world of Alwyne is massive. A goblin city underground where we find kidnapped elves under interrogation, a forest that comes alive with spirits at night. You are encouraged to come up with plots/stories that could take place in your Destination, but reminded that players do not necessarily have to partake in them.

Either way, whatever you think of becomes canon, and I'll record it in the Lore of Alwyne, a log that I will keep of every place, magic, creature and race that we come up with. Because the Destinations aren't the only Worldbuilding element I want to bring in here: if you casually mention (IC) that there's a race of five-eared orcs who live on the other side of the Uftagarish Mountains, and you feel that should be included in our canon, just lemme know. I'll jot it down in the Lore. If this RP goes on a while, future players will see it, and know that someone thought of that. Maybe they'll add to it.

It isn't only about places. I want to flesh out Alwyne with you all!

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On Joining and Leaving

This RP is intentionally set up to handle losses more easily. Because the caravan has people constantly coming and going, if a player drops the RP or goes MIA, we can just say their character left the caravan at our last stop. Likewise, whenever someone new wants to join, we'll say the caravan has just picked them up. This way we can accept new players whenever, and survive losses without grinding down.

(Plus, I'm hoping that our moving to new Destinations can help prevent the RP from dying too quickly. If people are getting bored and posting is slowing to a halt, we can just move on to a new, exciting place to breathe some fresh life back into things.)

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Interested?

If you've read along this far, you might be interested in joining. Character sheet below. My own character sheet is in the Char tab, and can serve as an example.

P.S. I have an unfortunate fondness for long sheets that ask you about things like your character's favorite color, and their worst fear, and other nonsense. Most people are wiser than me, and so do not care about these things. If you, like me, are a fool, I've included an optional "extra details" hider within the CS that asks such questions. (At the least, it might help you develop your character a bit!)

Character Sheet

Name

_{(If you've got a picture you're using, right here would be the place to drop it.)}

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
_{If you're playing a human, or a more familiar fantasy race, you can just write something like "Dwarf, 54, 3 years in the Pilgrim's Caravan." But if you're playing a rarer or custom race, some description of the species would also be warranted.}

Appearance:
_{(You can skip this description if you've got a pic, but it is a nice chance to show off your writing.)}

History:
_{As long or short as you like; just try to give us an idea of who they are.}

Personality:
_{Try to think of how it ties into their history, and into the next section:}

Motivation:
_{What's their motivation for joining the Pilgrim's Caravan? Are they looking for adventure, are they escaping a criminal life, do they have a specific place they're trying to get to?}

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
_{Tell me what your character is good at and what they need to do it, as well as any flaws or deficiencies they might have. If they can do magic, it'll go here. If you have a really unique type of magic (or anything similar), you might want to create a hider that explains how said magic works.}

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:

Three Likes:

Three Dislikes:

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:

Worst Fear:

Favorite Color:

Most Like The Animal:
_{That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.}

Favorite Time of Day:

How They Dress:

Favorite Season:

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):

Also, if you're working on a character, don't forget to join our Discord. It's the best place to keep up with the community around this RP and discuss arcs/drama/whatevers together: discord.gg/5y9EkWyFCW

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Having Déjà Vu?

Psst, hey. Does any of this feel familiar to you?

About a year ago, I made this RP for the first time, but due to sudden health issues, I had to drop it before the IC could kick off. That was always a big disappointment for me, so now that I'm feeling better, we're going for round two. If you're one of the players who was with me before- welcome back! You may drop the same CS as before in the OOC, and I'll guarantee your approval. If it was greenlit before, it'll be greenlit again. Or, if you're new, welcome aboard! Some fine print before we wrap things up:

Worldbuilding/Destination Guidelines

Hopefully none!

I'd rather not make any real "rules" for what/how to worldbuild here. I want it to be a free space. But most roleplays that I've ran have, at some point or another, had at least one player think of some insane stuff that I couldn't have possibly anticipated when I wrote the rules out. Then I have to choose between allowing said insanity or adding more rules to the game.

So, if we end up needing to make guidelines for the worldbuilding, it'll go here.

Rules

1.) No godmodding, no controlling other player's characters.
A basic rule in any RP. You know it, you love it.

2.) Cannot kill or otherwise disable another player's character without permission.
Obvious, yeah, but I like having it written out.

3.) IC, magical means of teleportation/transportation are rare.
This is so that there's still a purpose for the caravan. If it were possible for people to teleport from one locale to another, we probably wouldn't be walkin' and ridin' all slow-like. (Some limited teleportation, of a few meters or in very rare circumstances, can be allowed.)

4.) If conflicts cannot be decided, the GM will arbitrate.
This goes for IC and OOC conflicts. I always prefer for people to work things out mutually. Ideally, everyone can agree about who wins/loses potential fights between characters, or who has the upper hand in a negotiation, or so on. But if you can't, I'll step in to try playing judge fairly.

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Lore Sheets

Originally, the idea for the Lore of Alwyne was that players would mention stuff IC, and I would write it down in the Lore. But between work, other RPs and the large volume of ideas that a player group of this size can create, it has proven difficult for me to keep up. So, as a better system, I have created Lore Sheets that one fills out as they fill out a Character Sheet. Approved sheets will count as Alwyne canon.

You can submit one lore sheet for every two IC posts that you make, at most. So, if you have the itch to worldbuild- get to writing!

Lore Sheet Templates

Race

Race Name

Appearance:
A picture can work, although a neato written description will also function. If you are going to write it out, I recommend emphasizing clarity over style; other players will need a clear picture of what your creature looks like if they are to interact with and write about them.

Description:
Just a general description of the race; you can include, for example, what they're like, what they do, how they act, what god(s) created them, whatever. There's no actual rules for what to put here, I'm just asking you to tell me what they are in broad terms. More specific questions are asked in the following sections.

Inhabited Areas:
Where do they live?

Cultural/Customs:
What do they live like? Remember that a more spread-out and populous race likely has a lot of variation here.

Perception:
How do other races tend to perceive and react to this one? For example, if this were a sheet for orcs, you might talk about how they're seen as brutal and barbaric.

Language(s):
Presuming they talk.

Magic (and other powers) Sheet

Magic Name

Description:
Tell me on the whole about the magic and what it can do.

Practitioners:
Who tends to use this magic? Is it limited to a particular area, race or culture. Perhaps it is only practiced by a single shadowy cabal hidden underground. Or, on the other hand, maybe it is a common magic, simple and practiced by anyone.

Source (if any):
Often, a form of magic in a fantasy setting will be fueled by a particular thing. Mana, divine power, a pact with Cthuhlu, the inner strength of the practitioner, or what have you. Assuming your magic comes from something- what is it?

Perception:
How is this magic perceived by others and the world at large? Is it seen as evil, holy, cryptic, academic? Or perhaps it is not known by many at all?

Culture/Nation

Note: This is for both nations and for large regions/cultures that we may encounter as the Caravan.

Other Note: Notice that, despite the various questions, this is a very light sheet template by NS standards; that is intentional. Please keep in mind that this is not an NRP. We are describing places our characters might encounter. If your itch is to describe an entire nation-state in detail, this is the wrong RP to do that. I may reject overlarge sheets of this kind.

Culture/Nation Name

(If you have a flag or other symbol representing this culture/nation, this would be a good place to drop it.)

Description:
In broad terms, describe this land. If some of the information is redundant with later questions, that's okay. This is just the intro.

Demographics:
What races, groups, religions and so forth tend to inhabit this area? If it makes mention of races and deities already approved in other sheets, consider that bonus points.

Culture and Society:
How do the people here live?

History:
How did this land come to be?

Governance:
Easy to assume they're a kingdom, given the setting, but they don't have to be. If this is a land so different that they don't even have a form of governance, this would also be the place to note that.

Perception:

How Might They React To A Visit From The Caravan?

Deity Sheet

Note: This sheet can be used for both individual gods and also for describing a pantheon of gods as a whole.

Deity/Pantheon Name

Appearance:
A picture can work, although a neato written description will also function. If your god is so conceptual that they don't have an appearance/form, you may note that here. And, of course, a god might have many forms they appear in.

Domain:
What are they the god of? Multiple things can be listed here, of course.

Behavior/Persona:
This is essentially the "personality" section, but for gods. Tell me how they act. Are they wrathful and punishing? Merciful, stern, unpredictable? Do they have a fascination with cheese?

Worship:
Not who worships them, but rather, how are they worshipped? Through services at a church or similar institution? Meditation? Dark rituals performed at midnight? Through simply the lives and actions of the individual worshipper?

Worshippers:
*Now* tell me who worships them ;P

Perception:
How do people and the world at large tend to perceive this god and their followers?

Symbols, Artefacts, Icons:
If any.

Events

Event Name

Note: This means any large-scale historical or magical event that you believe should be included in the Lore of Alwyne. It might be a meteor crash. It might be a lich those rose up five eons ago and tried to conquer the world. It doesn't mean smaller things, since this would be events of a historic scale.

What:
Describe the event to me, please. What happened? As this is an overview of the whole thing, it's okay if some of the information you include here is a little redundant with questions asked later on in this sheet.

When:
When did it happen?

Where:
Where, roughly speaking?

Why:
Presumably, something caused or lead up to the event.

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The Lore of Alwyne

Races

Note: The more generic fantasy races- such as elves, half-elves, dwarves, goblings and orcs- are not described here purely because most people already know what they are

Dinnin-dwarves

A race of desert-dwelling dwarves who live in a society of Great Clans built within the valleys and crevices of desert-borne mountains, having much to do with the nearby Dinnin culture. They have, in fact, largely adopted the Dinnin faith. They are seen by the Dinnin proper as being neither truly Dinnin nor merely Kaffin; their culture has therefore gradually been accepted into the desert people's way of life. They are known for "scriptsmithing," a form of runesmithing that uses Dinnin script instead of traditional dwarvish runes.

The Dinnin-dwarvish culture was created by Enigmatik

Stoneclaw Giant

Hailing from the Giant's Spire mountains, the Stoneclaw Giants are- as their name would imply- a huge, towering race of humanoids. They're known to be generally isolationist, choosing to ignore the outside world in favor of simply protecting their mountain home and the valuable mines they dig there.

The Stone Clans -
They are giant clans which resides on the tallest mountains in the North. Each clans is made up of 6 tribes that have their own leadership. The clans are all specialized in different crafts and trades. Some are great Earth magic users. Some are miners. Some are traders.
The Clans are lead by the Giant King, a legendary being that is 20 metres tall and it's said to be older than most races. The tribes are all lead individually by tribe chieftains but all answer to one Clan Chief which is chosen from within the tribes that make up the Clan.

Q&A
1. What are the names of the six tribes within each clan, and what are their distinct specialties or crafts?

The Clans are as follows:

The Stoneclaw Clan - They are all warriors of high demand. Some join up as mercenaries while others serve as the military arm of the Clans.
The Stoneheart Clan - They're the miner of the Clans. They live deep within mountains mining different minerals or making space for other giants.
The Stonehand Clan - The Earth Magic masters of the clans.
The Stonefeet Clan - This Clan is composed of smaller giants. They're the trading arm of the Clans.
The Stonemind Clan - They are the thinkers, the inventors, the smart giants.
The Stonemouth Clan- They are the farmers, the caretakers of the Clans. Great Yao Guai sheep and Yao Guai goats are being herded, bred, milked and slaughtered for the clans.

2. How do the clans interact with one another? Are there any alliances or conflicts between specific clans?

The clans all answer to the King and his laws. If there's a dispute between tribes, the Clan leader can be petitioned to resolve the issue. If there is an issue between Clans, it'll be up to the King.

3. Tell me about the unique Earth magic abilities of some clans. What can they do with this magic?

The Stone Shapers model mountains to fit their needs. Rituals lasting decades can be done to raise new mountains or rocks can be shaped in any form they wish.

4. How do the clans obtain the resources they need, considering some are miners and traders? Do they trade with outsiders?

Everything done by the Clans is meant to be used by all clans. The traders only deal with their own unless caravans from the other races reach their lands.

5. What's the history behind the origin of the Stone Clans, and why do they live in isolation?

Ancient Conflict: Many centuries ago, the Stone Clans faced a devastating conflict with a powerful neighbouring civilization. This conflict, known as the "War of the Peaks," led to immense loss of life and resources. This combined with their size made them to be seen with suspicion and fear.

6. How do outsiders view the Stone Clans, and do they have any interactions with smaller communities?

Most nations don't know about the existence of the Stone Clans as they live far from most nations. Those that know of them, prefer to let them be than face their wrath.

= - Lore Contributed by TimeMaster

The Stoneclaw Giants were created by TimeMaster

Human

You know what a human is.

Homunculus

A homunculus is less a race than it is a constructed being. It's a creature made of clay, just like a sculpture, but magically brought to life by its creators to serve some purpose or other. It's not at all unlike a golem, with the key difference being that a homunculus has a mind and will of its own.

Homunculus were added by twannyman

Tiefling

A mixed race, "Tiefling" is a term for a person born with some devilish or otherwise darkly supernatural heritage, but who is not fully a devil themselves. They're often human or elven in the face and in the overall form, but still marked by the undeniable memoirs of the more abysmal side of their family tree: horns, bat wings, tails. It's hard for the common folk not to fear and mistrust a person who looks like such an evil creature; a Tiefling is rarely welcomed among others.

Tieflings were added by Abstract Proxy

Ainok (beastrace)

The Ainok are a dog-like beastrace, native to dry savannahs and scorching deserts. They live a semi-nomadic, clan-based lifestyle, travelling during the dry seasons of the year but settling in for more permeant homes during the wet season. They are shorter, more lithe than humans, and covered in a blotched, multihued fur, earning them the nickname "the Painted Folk."

Although an ally of the Dinnin kingdoms, the Ainok have stayed true to their own form of astronomical spirituality and believe in predicting ones fortunes through study of the night sky. As most never learn to read nor write, they also cling to a strong oral tradition.

The Ainok race was created by Enigmatik

Eratie (beastrace)

The Eratie are a bat-like beastrace, complete with bat wings, snouts and fur, and lightweight bodies made for flying. At least, that's the typical Eratie: unlike most races, an Eratie's physical form varies greatly depending on the circumstantial "Powers" surrounding their birth. Things such as the time of day that an Eratie is born on, the ambient magic in the air, the stars overhead, and even the lighting in the room will all affect both how an Eratie looks at birth, and what they grow up into. Some are more bat-like, some more human-like or elf-like, and some have completely unexpected features such as horns.

Eratie are native to a small peninsula they name as Tureiamú, and there they have a complicated, strict culture heavily regulated by a caste system. They have little interaction with humans or other "ignorant" races.

Eratie were created by Tortoise

Magics (and other powers)

Orphic

Orphic, as it is practiced today, is a form of magic that uses Mana to power its spells and imbue items. Due to persecutions now passed, there's a tradition that this style is taught in semi-secrecy, from masters to just a single apprentice at a time. There was once another form of Orphic magic- that appeared not to rely on Mana- but that "High Path" is now lost to history.

Orphic was the style of magic practiced by the Oscana kingdom, and was split into two disciplines - the High Path, and the Low Path.

The High Path is now lost to us, all that remains is the Low Path.

Orphic teaches that there are little known currents of energy flowing in and around this world - in the sky, in the land, in fire, and the sea - and are known as ley lines, that only those with the mage sight can see. Depending on their size and nearness, they can provide a slow trickle or an immense flow of power. In Oscana, many important buildings would be constructed either on a ley line, or where two or more ley lines cross to take advantage of these flows.

A side-effect of this flow of power is that books of magic would often needed to be chained to the shelves - to prevent their escape.

For those on the Low Path, in order to access this power, they needed to convert it into a more stable, usable form, known as Mana. To aid them in this, they would borrow power from a mana reservoir to imbue their staves, then use their staves to draw power from the ley lines to refill the reservoir.

It is very important for the one who takes power from the reservoir to return it, lest it leaches off of them to restore its balance. They, in turn, may try to leach off of others, but this only temporarily quenches their thirst.

Those on the Low Path could then use the mana they collected to power their spells, or imbue items with abilities beyond their simple appearance that almost anyone could use.

The Roulon Empire viewed magic to be reserved for their aristocrat class, and resented this "commoner magic." This, more than anything, lead to their invasion of Oscana. Books were burned, reservors broken. Practitioners of Orphic were declared witches or warlocks, not unlike their own bastard children who showed any sign of magic, and were burned at the stake. In an act of cruelty, the nobles would prolong their victims' agonies by providing them with air so they wouldn't die from breathing the smoke before their flesh began to burn.

Orphic practioners of the Low Path hid themselves, shaving their staves into wands that could be hidden up sleeves. One woman, it is said, hid her stave as the shaft of her parasol, all the while working as a nanny to hide from the empire's witchfinders.

The spells were shuffled into smaller, more specialized books, so that if you knew what line they belonged to, you knew the spells they could cast. Instead of teaching in groups, there would be one master and one apprentice, working in secret. The apprentice's first task would be to copy the contents of their master's book. They would then study them in secret after their master had left to learn how to cast those spells. Later, they would take an apprentice and train them before moving on themselves.

Orphic line mages soon aquired apprentices in other lands, some in which their apprentices could work openly, like some of the Elvish kingdoms. However, most of the Orphic continue this practice of training one apprentice at a time before moving on, even though the Roulon empire has collapsed.

- Lore Contributed by Expendable

Orphic magic was created by Expendable

Utterance

Utterance is a brand of magic that allows practitioners to speak to the elements of nature, such as wood, stone, wind, and so forth. Those who practice this gradually gain an affinity for the elements they most often speak to, and exert some power over them.

Its practice has been refined especially by the Uttering Monks of the Eld Marshes, who have tied it into their religion and consider it a form of spirituality.

Utterance has been described as a kind of cross-breed between druidism and elemental magic. It is a form of language, allowing one to speak (literally, with their voices) to the non-living aspects of nature, like stone, or sunlight. The obvious use for such a power would be to control natural elements; to tell a fire to cook or to burn down, to teach ice to freeze itself around a threat, to call on rain for the crops. It can do those things, though not so often or effectively as a true wizard might. (Reason being: the elements can say "no" to one using Utterance.)

Instead, the main reason the Uttering Monks study it is for learning from nature. Nature, after all, witnesses and knows many things mankind does not. One who speaks to the stars may learn from them the correct paths to travel, may hear of ancient history those stars' eyes have seen, may be told of great and secret things that happen in the heavens. Those who whisper to the wind may hear it whisper back, telling them of news from far-off lands, of secrets said in a king's chambers while the window was open and the night breeze whistling by. They cannot control the elements with the same precision as a mage, maybe, but a Sayer (that is, one who practices Utterance) knows far more.

And this learning goes deeper than head-knowledge, too. Finally, a Sayer has an Aura. Their Aura is based on the elements of nature they most often speak too, because as you commune with something such as fire, you will find that burning power seeping into your own soul. The Aura a Sayer has is felt almost tangibly around them, and heard in their voice, giving most of them a kind of unnatural charisma. One who speaks to stone seems strong and unbreakable, one who speaks to ice becomes coldly intellectual. All of them feel impossible to argue with. A good Sayer tends to get their way in conversations. Their voice carries much weight.

- Lore contributed by Tortoise

Utterance was created by Tortoise

Scriptsmithing

Scriptsmithing (also known as Runesmithing, and by a few other such names) is an artform that allows a specially trained smith to imbue items with magical powers- thus creating powerful, magical artifacts out of the fires of their forge. Scriptsmithing is most often practiced by those of the dwarven race.

Known by several other names- runesmithing, glyphcrafting, and so on and so forth, the core of scriptsmithing is the same. With strike of hammer and bloom of flame, dwarves can imbue items, thereafter elevated to 'artifacts' with potent magical power. Each scriptsmith goes through decades of their life training in scriptsmithing- from days as a journeyman apprentice, writing and reciting the words, to a proficient student, capable of wielding the hammer themselves, to finally a fully qualified smith, each hammerblow pulling from sources beyond to fill their crafts with power.

A competent scriptsmith is capable of forging great artifacts for others, should they have the time and ingredients to do so. The very finest of scriptsmith crafts are made from the legendary 'starmetal,' believed by the Dinnin Dwarves to be leftover fragments of ancient Gods that came before the Light. In its raw form, starmetal is fantastically magically unstable, throwing out wayward energies that sicken and even kill those handling it unprotected- but the dwarves, with their natural resistances, are able to forge and refine it, creating artifacts with a beautiful damascene finish.

Scriptsmithing's potential, in the hands of a master smith, is almost unlimited. So long as one knows the words with which to express their intent, a scriptsmith can create anything from wondrous automata to staves capable of stopping a rampaging oliphaunt dead in its tracks. Alas, such a thing requires a dwarf ancient and competent. One simply does not become a master scriptsmith in a century or two.

Lore contributed by Enigmatik (edited)

Scriptsmithing was created by Enigmatik

Mycomancy

Mycomancy is a dark form of magic involving fungi and mold. It is used to manipulate and control molds, whether this be simply speeding up the process of fermentation or the breaking down of dead matter, or generating entire lifeforms out of mold that are under the caster's command. Terrifyingly, a mycomancer can also infest living creatures with mold, slowing and weakening them.

Mycomancy was created by Lugubrious

Vitae

Vitae is an energy that flows through all creatures, and there are some who are able to harness this energy to empower their own bodies.

Vitae, also known as the energy of life is a universal force that dwells within every living being. To use it and train in it, you need to unlock it via meditation, training, and often a life-altering event. In general, the use of Vitae is simple, it enhances the body. Be that it's agility, strength, recovery speed or train of thought. It might make you jump higher, run faster, think faster or recover faster. As a source, it is not unlimited and should not be used for prolonged periods of time, if a being fully runs out of Vitae, they cannot access it for at the very least a month.

The way one trains Vitae is mostly by meditation, by transferring and absorbing the Vitae in the surrounding area one's source can grow. However if one kills a being by draining it's Vitae, the energy gets corrupted, turning poisonous unless repelled or extracted.

- Lore contributed by twannyman

Vitae was created by Twannyman

Divine Magic (of Valradun)

Although there are no doubt many different breeds of divine-infused magic, practiced by different faithful across the wide lands of Alwyne, the goddess Valradun's magic in particular is worth noting for its connection to lunar energy.

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.

- Lore Contributed by Abstract Proxy

Valradun's Divine Magic was created by Abstract Proxy

Divine Magic (Oblitarchy)

The Oblitarchy are an old, lost pantheon of primordial deities. Those who worship them believe that they existed before all else- even the gods themselves. Although the Oblitarchs themselves are a group of deities, their followers have access to a form of magic unique to those who follow them.

There are ten "essences" (called, naturally, the Tenfold Essences) within Oblitarchy, each derived from one of the ten Oblitarch deities, and each grants different powers to a practioner.

In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the Oblitarchy, and the Tenfold Essences that Obliturges categorise. Morvanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the Threshold, associated with the essence of Hypist. This is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the Threshold is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in twilight.

Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the Threshold, she also dabbles in the essences of Syis and Senopy: Change and Silence. Her lucky escapes and the sudden sickness that took her employer have not been entirely happenstance or accident.

To call upon these powers Morvanne must conduct rituals: long-winded things requiring careful preparation, the right ingredients, and potentially hours of tongue-twisting work to complete. Calling upon an essence requires items, people, times or places strong in that essence: A bloody knife for Ravume, a lover’s assistance for Percus or the deep midwinter for Senopy. For more complex rituals other, occasionally conflicting essences must be called upon and the more powerful the ritual, the more intense the essences going into it must be. A small Hypist ritual might only require twilight, but for the greater rituals… Well, a city on wheels is rather liminal, is it not?

- Lore Contributed by Enigmatik

Oblitarch Magic was created by Enigmatik

Deities/Religions

The Oblitarchy

The Oblitarchy are an old, lost pantheon of primordial deities. Those who worship them believe that they existed before all else- even the gods themselves. There are ten of them, created through a great struggle beginning with the first two, and each champion some aspect of the mortal world.

And look, this one comes with a graph!

The ‘Gods Before Gods,’ the Oblitarchy are a lost pantheon of deities who have, according to their believers, existed before anything else. Before there was Alwyne there were two of them: The Nowhere and The Glory, consisting of existence and everything outside of it, locked in an eternal dance which neither could overcome. The Nothing however, begot The Sunderer, and living up to their name they slew The The Glory and usurped The Nowhere, and from this calamitous beginning, all other Oblitarchs would rise, each one domineering an aspect of the mortal world that had formed with their struggles.

The Ten Oblitarchs and their Essences are typically depicted around a ten-pointed star, showing their relation to the other Oblitarchs. Clockwise, from the top:

The Sun Divided is the truest form of the slain Glory, heading the triarchy known as the Gods ex Solari. It is the rising sun – a peerless, wrathful, and unforgiving deity that seeks to bring forth the hours of The Glory once again and to gather all other essences within itself, to remake the universe as it once was. Its essence is Ejas, and it consists of the waking mind – higher intelligence, the drive of knowledge for knowledge’s sake, and the unrelenting progress of mortals.

The Chalice is the second of the Gods ex Solari: Once the warmth and comfort of the sun that nurtured life, the Chalice still holds that benevolent spirit. Its essence, Prist, is the only of the ten essences that can be physically touched, for it consists of the physical body – bones, muscle, sinew and blood.

The Threshold heads the diarchy of the Gods Obsucras. The Threshold is twilight – it is soft and dimly lit, existing between day and night, and holds dominion over all that is liminal. Its essence is Hypist, and where Ejas is the waking mind, Hypist is the dreaming mind. It is a master of irrationality and illogic. It holds memories and recognition, half-truths and lies, and shares freely, although not without cost.

The Prism is the other of the Gods Obscuras and one of the more esoteric of an already esoteric lot. Shunning one form, the Prism is ever-changing and ever-formless, refusing to be neatly categorised or pinned down. Much like itself, its essence, Syis, is the constant drive for change and evolution, although it cares little for the direction that this change takes.

The Nowhere is the oldest of the Gods ex Nihi, and is the only of the Oblitarchs to have lasted unchanged from the dawn of nothingness. If the Oblitarchs can indeed dwell in our reality, The Nowhere holds itself somewhere far beyond the comfort of Alwyn, out in the unforgiving darkness where nothing dwells and nothing can ever dwell. It exists in contrary to anything else, and has created only once – its greatest mistake. The Nowhere’s essence is Nihi, and it is true illogicality. Things which must not be known and cannot be known, places where life itself has been banished, never to return, - these are where Nihi is strongest. Those few mortals brave enough to try to master Nihi are known as apocalypsists and almost inevitably meet untimely demises.

The Sunderer heads the Gods ex Nihi, having overthrown its parent and shattered the Glory. It measures itself not on its own merits, but on how effectively it contrasts the Sun Divided, the pair locked in eternal enmity just as the Glory and the Nowhere once were, long ago. The Sunderer’s essence is Ravume, and although often categorised as nothing more than hatred, jealousy, ego and anarchic rage, is far more about contest and competition, thriving where there is conflict, and quick to raise a blade when offended or challenged.

The Silence is an oft-forgotten member of the Gods ex Nihi, which is ironic, for it is the ultimate fate of all mortal life. The Silence reigns in the ice of deepest winter, at the bottom of the darkest caves and in the endless abyss deep beneath the ocean’s surface. Its essence, Senopy, is the quiet death that comes to all mortals not slain in piques of Ravume – old age, sickness, cancer and frailty, those things that linger deep within the bones of mortals that comes out one day to claim them – this is Senopy.

The Constant is the lesser of the diarchy known as the Gods Exertus, and is as much a contrast of the Prism as the Sunderer is the Sun Divided. It not static, but instead driving ever-forward, an unrelenting force that refuses to allow others to slow or divert it. Its essence, Effiv, is willpower and fortitude, and sheer dogged determination – the drive to climb the highest peaks and cross the deepest valleys for no other reason than that they are there, and therefore should be conquered.

The Flame heads the diarchy of the Gods Exertus, and is one of the most intimately mortal of all the Oblitarchs. The Flame is ingenuity and skill, progress not for progress’ sake, but for improvement and inspiration. Its essence, Emiv, was there when mortalkind first learnt to make sparks to tame the flames, and has been there for every subsequent step of the way. It is technology, learned skills and craftwork, and it will only grow stronger.

The Delight is the last of the Gods Ex Solari, and is the rawest form of the Glory – its explosive force, its pulsing rhythm, its undulating colours. Its essence, Percus, is lust and gluttony, sloth and pride, but also delight, love, happiness and all the other of the myriad emotions that swell a mortal’s heart.

- Lore Contributed by Enigmatik

The Oblitarchy was created by Enigmatik

Eld Frowen

Eld Frowen is a monotheistic god honored by the Uttering Monks of the Old Marshes, who affirm that He alone created the world and all other deities are but broken reflections of Him.

The Uttering Monks, and those marshlanders whose villages are sprinkled amidst their monasteries, worship the ancient god Eld Frowen. They teach that it was him who Spoke all things into being at the beginning of time, and their practice of Utterance is but a pale imitation of that great act. Eld Frowen sits in the Unseeable Throne at the center of the earth, far underneath the sunlit lands, and He is still Speaking today. Every word that He says keeps the world in motion, keeps the sun rising every morning and breath in our lungs. All the universe is like a story told by Eld Frowen. (In fact, Uttering Monks often call the world of Alwyne "The Great Story.")

Other gods and deities are seen as Echoes of Eld Frowen's words, which form when the words He says echo off the walls of the great cavern that is his throne room, being changed and distorted in the process. Every other god is therefore an echo or a perversion of something Eld Frowen once said.

In art, Eld Frowen is often depicted as half man, half fae, and either blind or eyeless. Blind, because the monks teach that He is a bit of an absent creator, "an unmovable mover," who keeps the universe in motion but does not otherwise interfere in people's lives or the events of history. In a sense, He is a god both blind and deaf, neither watching over the world nor much hearing prayers- only speaking His great story, ad perpetuam.

- Lore Contributed by Tortoise

Eld Frowen was created by Tortoise

Ad'itie

Ad'itie is a Goddess of Twilight, Lies and Shadows. She's the patron deity and believed creator of the Eratie, a bat-like beastrace, and all throughout the world of Alwyne they are the only creatures who truly worship her. This is not surprising, as she's held not to be a native god of Alwyne at all, but a powerful, alien being who originates from a far-away liminal plane entirely of shadows, half-truths, and almost-reals.

Ad'itie was created by Tortoise

Fãrryn

A sea-goddess, Fãrryn is a known deity among sailors.

Fãrryn, goddess of the sea. She appears as a young elvish woman with wavy blue hair who reminds you of a playful dolphin. She has deep-set eyes the color of milk. She has an Amazonian build. Her skin is white. She has thick eyebrows and small hands. Their icon is a conch shell.

Fãrryn possesses two powerful items - a magical conch shell that allows her to control sea creatures; and Kŷiriŏn - a magic boat that can go anywhere at command (it is actually her son from a drunken trysk with a sailor, her father Ievis of the Forest thought her son was a degenerate and transformed him).

- Lore Contributed by Expendable

Valrudun

Valrudun is a powerful goddess, one worshipped for quite some time, who is most closely connected with the moon that shines over Alwyne each night. There are a few who go as far as to even claim that she has become the moon itself.

She's a gentle, giving sort of goddess. Her followers are not overburdened with strict rules, and her clergy are good people who treat few as being beyond redemption.

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.

- Lore Contributed by Abstract Proxy

Valradun was created by Abstract Proxy

The Wanderer

The Guardian of Travelers. The Wanderer stands out amongst deities for having no temples or priesthood, and belonging to no pantheon of other deities. He focuses instead on protecting those who travel, and- apropos to his domain- those clerics who serve The Wanderer are very much wanderers themselves, travelling throughout the world.

This god of travelers takes the form of a young man. He has a graceful build, with straw-like hair and silver eyes. He has tan skin. He's usually depicted wearing a green cloak, a tan tunic, dark breeches, and sandals. He carries a sack on a pole resting on his shoulder, while the other holds a walking staff.

His icon is a sandal.

He has no temples or priests as such, his clerics travel as he does. When their sandals wear out, they mark the spot with a pile of stones with the sandal pinned on top. Later, the Wanderer's clerics will leave a box with a digging trowel inside, and start building a roadside shelter using the materials around them.

The rule of the box is if you take a useful item from the box, you must replace it with another useful item. Misfortune will dog the steps of those who take from the box without leaving anything in its place.

Clerics learn how to tend to wounds and sickness using herbs, childbirth, and can be called to officiate weddings, births, funerals, or to settle disputes. Each carries with them two lexicons, the Way of the Road, and a personal journal.

- Lore Contributed by Expendable

The Wanderer was created by Expendable

Places/Cultures

The Old Marshes

The Old Marshes are a marshland country not far from Trist, known for its ancient monasteries, gloomy weather, the practice of Utterance magic, and the persistent presence of vampires.

The Old Marshes were created by Tortoise

Trist

Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth, and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down.

-Lore Contributed by Enigmatik

The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasant folk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over. Although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine.

Trist has wytch-hunters.

Trist was created by Enigmatik

Giant's Spire

A rocky and mountainous region, home to the Stoneclaw Giants and their six tribes.

Giant's Spire was created by TimeMaster

Morenia

Morenia, a somewhat poorly-understood kingdom rumored to be a place of lawful evil. It's so far to the north, however, that many in the more southern lands of Alwyne debate whether the rumored words about it are true at all.

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.

-Lore Contributed by Abstract Proxy

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

-Lore Contributed by Abstract Proxy

Morenia was created by Abstract Proxy

Tureiamú

Tureiamú is a small western peninsula, a wooded area known as the homeland to the Eratie race. It is isolationistic and full of Eratie tradition.

Important People (NPCs only)

Important Pilgrims

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