Eudicia Sign-Ups

Effervescent · Feb 10, 2017

Please use this thread only for CS submissions. If you have any questions, you may PM me or ask in the OOC thread.

Be sure to read through the two links titled LORE and ESTWYND to get an understanding of the setting.

Be advised: due to lore reasons, red heads will not be allowed. You may read about why in this thread.

All submissions must have a picture despite asking for a written description of appearance. Absolutely no anime. Photographs preferred but I will allow realistic artwork if it conforms to realism.

Please submit the SHORT FORM CS first for preliminary vetting. Once approved you may submit the LONG FORM CS.

All characters must be non magical humans unless pre approved by me.

Moderators @Elle Joyner and @Red Thunder will also be able to assist should I be momentarily unavailable.

I operate under the EST time zone.

CODES

Short Form Code

Code:

[div=width: 98%; background-color: #CCB797; border: 4px solid #5A3E2C; padding: 5px;]
[div=display: flex;][div=float: right; right: -483px; background-color: #5A3E2C; z-index: 2; height: 251px; width: 15px;][/div][div=background-color: #FBF9FA; height: 250px; width: 55%; border: 1px solid #5A3E2C; float: left; left: 17px; overflow-y: scroll;][div=padding: 10px;]
[FONT=Garamond][SIZE=7][COLOR=#9D532C]CHARACTER NAME[/COLOR][/SIZE][hr="border: 2px solid #5A3E2C;"][/hr][color=black][SIZE=3][B]AGE[/B] || Number
[B]PROFESSION[/B] || Job

[B]HISTORY[/B] || Purus aptent, odio ligula orci. Aliquam porttitor erat. Lacus tempus neque, metus varius a quam purus fermentum, a voluptatibus dolor turpis turpis, sed malesuada varius nunc lobortis ligula vel. Pulvinar ut libero ut nonummy quisque ultrices, sodales tellus porta felis ac, non sapien feugiat, vel eget eleifend tortor condimentum, mollis accumsan id porttitor odio.

Eget nulla mi sem ullamcorper mollis eu, commodo odio nec, convallis tortor, vestibulum volutpat arcu fringilla pretium elementum sed. Eros suscipit rutrum vitae suspendisse pede duis, quam blandit donec, leo suspendisse massa sed integer, lectus sed, odio quis per nunc leo est. Donec magna fames nisl mus, dolor urna turpis donec arcu sagittis, fermentum metus platea sociosqu, mollis mollis enim.[/SIZE][/color][/FONT][/div][/div][div=float: right; right: -35px; background-color: transparent; width: 40%; height: 250px;][div=background-color: transparent; background-image: url(https://placeholdit.imgix.net/~text?txtsize=33&txt=300%C3%97300&w=300&h=300); border-radius: 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position: center; background-size: contain; height: 250px; width: 250px; opacity: 0.9;][COLOR=transparent].[/COLOR][/div]
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Long Form Code

Code:

[div=width: 850px; background-color: #CCB797; border: 4px solid #5A3E2C; padding: 5px;]
[center][img]https://placeholdit.imgix.net/~text?txtsize=33&txt=450%C3%97250&w=450&h=250[/img][/center]

[div=width: 88%; margin: auto;][hr=border: 4px solid #5A3E2C][/hr][/div]


[div=background-color: #e1e1e1; margin: auto; width: 710px; height: 200px;][div=top: -10px;display: inline-block; top: -50px; background-color: #9D532C; width: 710px; height: 50px;][div=font-family: GARAMOND; font-size: 36px; text-align: right; right: 20px; color: WHITE;]HISTORY[/div][/div][div=display: inline-block; background-color: WHITE; width: 710px; height: 200px; margin: auto; top: -50px;overflow-y: scroll;][div=font-family: ARIAL; font-size: 10px; text-transform: UPPERCASE; text-align: left; padding: 10px; color: #434343;] Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, quam vestibulum risus nec donec non cursus, volutpat posuere turpis aliquam nibh. Turpis mauris a eros libero. Auctor senectus. Curabitur ut tristique non ut non mauris, nascetur sapien, pretium augue mauris lobortis egestas risus aliquam, elit mattis maecenas integer veritatis sit. Viverra elementum est in quam nemo placerat, sed lectus mi at tristique massa, urna eros lacinia. Quam malesuada eros ornare malesuada ut nisl, et lorem feugiat qui, nibh pulvinar. Wisi vehicula a sed, non vestibulum lacus in, consectetuer erat, lectus lectus arcu mi interdum, rhoncus varius senectus ornare mollis mi.

Feugiat nunc tortor, volutpat id mauris, interdum eget nam. Erat sit ante mus eu purus, elit vehicula eleifend quam nascetur dui, mi ac sed. Lacinia ut proin pulvinar, sem pede, hendrerit elementum. Porta lacus, leo et tellus eu massa maecenas. Vehicula vel a velit rutrum cras, cursus ligula elit consequat scelerisque. Amet non habitant tincidunt, sit praesent enim sociis, nec tortor sit arcu massa, cum id, vestibulum est. Eget sit amet faucibus interdum aliquam, auctor lobortis proin orci phasellus lacus odio.

Nonummy mi, vivamus semper consectetuer ante tortor, mi bibendum orci cupidatat, dignissim est dictum condimentum. Nulla egestas sit bibendum nisl, et pede vehicula non, vitae in ac dictum vel integer integer, sapien bibendum torquent consequat hendrerit, elit hymenaeos adipiscing in ut ut. Condimentum tellus, ut porttitor enim, viverra nec sodales in aliquet, dui laoreet quam eget. Ut euismod nisl elit, vulputate vivamus pellentesque, aliquam sem aut turpis massa. Ut laoreet amet et eu, dolor risus consequat nulla vitae mattis vel, praesent quis nunc duis nunc urna odio, nascetur euismod lorem tellus wisi, mauris a sodales. Id nam vitae ultricies, et mauris mollis ullamcorper volutpat urna, libero a sociis, nihil lacus ornare lobortis beatae varius. Pede quam suspendisse cursus, quo elit placerat ut nec suspendisse. Nunc vestibulum, tellus ut dictum neque felis luctus, dui diam nisl fringilla elit, et curabitur augue, mi felis pede. Ante quis. Praesent quam in, augue porta donec phasellus, interdum congue facilisis quam vulputate nec, lacus quam wisi dolor velit. Volutpat phasellus mauris interdum, dapibus sed at, justo sit quam vitae, porttitor per.
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[div=width: 88%; margin: auto;][hr=border: 4px solid #5A3E2C][/hr][/div][div=margin: auto; overflow-x: scroll; height: 575px; width: 800px; white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px;][div=width: 250px; height: 250px; display: inline-block; vertical-align: top; top: 15px; margin: 5px;][div=z-index: 2; background:url(http://eskipaper.com/images/brown-background-9.jpg); background-position: 30% 70%; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb; width: 230px; height: 50px; display: inline-block; left: 10px;][div=font-family: ANDALE MONO; text-transform: UPPERCASE; font-size: 25px; color: WHITE; text-align: center; padding: 8px; letter-spacing: 1px;]GENERAL[/div][/div][div=top: -20px; background-color: WHITE; width: 250px; height: 475px; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb;]
[div=font-family: ARIAL; font-size: 10px; color: BLACK; text-align: left; padding: 5px;][div=white-space: normal;]Name || 
Nickname || 
Age || 
Species || 
Occupation || 

[div= 
   float: left; 
   left: 30px; 
top: 45px;
   height: 150px; 
   width: 180px; 
   border: 3px solid #A38C63;  
   font-family: Cambria; 
   font-size: 11px;
   text-align: center;][div=
   padding-top: 15px;]"QUOTE."[/div][/div][/div]
[/div]
[/div][/div][div=width: 250px; height: 250px; display: inline-block; vertical-align: top; top: 15px; margin: 5px;][div=z-index: 2; background:url(http://eskipaper.com/images/brown-background-9.jpg); background-position: 30% 25%; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb; width: 230px; height: 50px; display: inline-block; left: 10px;][div=font-family: ANDALE MONO; text-transform: UPPERCASE; font-size: 25px; color: WHITE; text-align: center; padding: 8px; letter-spacing: 1px;]APPEARANCE[/div][/div][div=top: -20px; background-color: WHITE; width: 250px; height: 475px; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb;]
[div=font-family: ARIAL; font-size: 10px; color: BLACK; text-align: left; padding: 5px;][div=white-space: normal;]Eye Color || 
Hair Color || 
Height || 
Weight || 

Written Appearance ||  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, quam vestibulum risus nec donec non cursus, volutpat posuere turpis aliquam nibh. Turpis mauris a eros libero. Auctor senectus. 

Curabitur ut tristique non ut non mauris, nascetur sapien, pretium augue mauris lobortis egestas risus aliquam, elit mattis maecenas integer veritatis sit. Viverra elementum est in quam nemo placerat, sed lectus mi at tristique massa, urna eros lacinia. 

Quam malesuada eros ornare malesuada ut nisl, et lorem feugiat qui, nibh pulvinar. Wisi vehicula a sed, non vestibulum lacus in, consectetuer erat, lectus lectus arcu mi interdum, rhoncus varius senectus ornare mollis mi.
[/div][/div][/div][/div][div=width: 250px; height: 250px; display: inline-block; vertical-align: top; top: 15px; margin: 5px;][div=z-index: 2; background:url(http://eskipaper.com/images/brown-background-9.jpg); background-position: 50% 30%; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb; width: 230px; height: 50px; display: inline-block; left: 10px;][div=font-family: ANDALE MONO; text-transform: UPPERCASE; font-size: 25px; color: WHITE; text-align: center; padding: 8px; letter-spacing: 1px;]PERSONALITY[/div][/div][div=top: -20px; background-color: WHITE; width: 250px; height: 475px; border: 1px solid #cbc0bb;]
[div=font-family: ARIAL; font-size: 10px; color: BLACK; text-align: left; padding: 5px;][div=white-space: normal;][url=http://ideonomy.mit.edu/essays/traits.html]Personality Traits[/url] ||

✥ 
✥ 
✥ 
✥ 

Strengths || 
+
+
+

Weaknesses || 
_
_
_

Quirks || 
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[div=background-color: #e1e1e1; margin: auto; width: 710px; height: 200px;][div=top: -10px;display: inline-block; top: -50px; background-color: #9D532C; width: 710px; height: 50px;][div=font-family: GARAMOND; font-size: 36px; text-align: right; right: 20px; color: WHITE;]WRITING SAMPLE[/div][/div][div=display: inline-block; background-color: WHITE; width: 710px; height: 200px; margin: auto; top: -50px;overflow-y: scroll;][div=font-family: ARIAL; font-size: 10px; text-transform: UPPERCASE; text-align: left; padding: 10px; color: #434343;]Writing sample goes here. Please use 3rd person, past tense, from THIS specific character. 
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[size=1][right]Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code[/right][/size]
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Tags

@CloudyBlueDay @Elle Joyner @Red Thunder @SaiVermillion @rissa @Doctor Jax @BearEnthusiast @★Under The Stars★ @Toogee @Oryu @Melancholy @izscha @PersonaWolf @Joan

Elle Joyner · Feb 10, 2017

ARABELLA DANE

AGE || Twenty
PROFESSION || Servant

HISTORY || Arabella Dane was born the only child of Merry Dane - a village blacksmith, taken by the lusts of youth and a whore gone by the name of Eliana. Their romance was brief and ended in a child, left to Merry in a basket. Despite this hardship, never did a father love his child more than Merry loved Arabella. Her childhood was a happy one, and though they never had much, her life was full.

While work was good, their fortune was not, and in time, Arabella was forced to take up employment as a servant, earning a meager but sufficient keep. Three months before her eighteenth birthday, while assisting her father in his shop, Arabella was propositioned by a nobleman. Outraged, Merry sent the nobleman away, but the man returned shortly thereafter and murdered the blacksmith in his sleep, a fate Arabella escaped only after due to the interference of a stranger.

Despondent, Arabella blamed herself, sinking deep down into herself, her focus fixed with near obsessive control on her work. Now, three years later, Arabella continues to struggle with the guilt of her father's death and surviving on her own. Eventually, through hard work and dedication, she came upon employment within the royal household - a servants position, a pittance... but better than her previous jobs.

Then the letter arrived...

✾

.

Effervescent · Feb 10, 2017

Elle Joyner said:
ARABELLA DANE
AGE || Twenty
PROFESSION || Servant

HISTORY || Arabella Dane was born the only child of Merry Dane - a village blacksmith, taken by the lusts of youth and a whore gone by the name of Eliana. Their romance was brief and ended in a child, left to Merry in a basket. Despite this hardship, never did a father love his child more than Merry loved Arabella. Her childhood was a happy one, and though they never had much, her life was full.

While work was good, their fortune was not, and in time, Arabella was forced to take up employment as a servant, earning a meager but sufficient keep. Three months before her eighteenth birthday, while assisting her father in his shop, Arabella was propositioned by a nobleman. Outraged, Merry sent the nobleman away, but the man returned shortly thereafter and murdered the blacksmith in his sleep, a fate Arabella escaped only after due to the interference of a stranger.

Despondent, Arabella blamed herself, sinking deep down into herself, her focus fixed with near obsessive control on her work. Now, three years later, Arabella continues to struggle with the guilt of her father's death and surviving on her own. Eventually, through hard work and dedication, she came upon employment within the royal household - a servants position, a pittance... but better than her previous jobs.

Then the letter arrived...

✾
.

Prelim CS accepted! Please fill out the Long Form CS :D

Elle Joyner · Feb 10, 2017

HISTORY

Arabella Dane was born the only child of Merry Dane - a village blacksmith, taken by the lusts of youth and a whore gone by the name of Eliana. Their romance was brief and ended in a child, left to Merry in a basket. Despite this hardship, never did a father love his child more than Merry loved Arabella. Her childhood was a happy one, and though they never had much, her life was full.

While work was good, their fortune was not, and in time, Arabella was forced to take up employment as a servant, earning a meager but sufficient keep. Three months before her eighteenth birthday, while assisting her father in his shop, Arabella was propositioned by a nobleman. Outraged, Merry sent the nobleman away, but the man returned shortly thereafter and murdered the blacksmith in his sleep, a fate Arabella escaped only after due to the interference of a stranger.

Despondent, Arabella blamed herself, sinking deep down into herself, her focus fixed with near obsessive control on her work. Now, three years later, Arabella continues to struggle with the guilt of her father's death and surviving on her own. Eventually, through hard work and dedication, she came upon employment within the royal household - a servants position, a pittance... but better than her previous jobs.

Then the letter arrived...

✾

GENERAL

Name || Arabella Dane
Nickname || Bell/Bells/Bella
Age || Twenty
Species || Human
Occupation || Servant

"I have long since stopped expecting life to be kind. Life is cruel and cold and takes far more than it gives... but that does not mean that I must behave likewise. Little is born from bitterness, and I will not disgrace his memory by forgetting all he taught me - Most important of all, to love."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Brown
Hair Color || Dark Brown
Height || 5'4"
Weight || 110lbs.

Written Appearance || Oft times overlooked, and no wonder why, Bell Dane is a ghostly creature of insubstantial regard. Pale skin, a near sickly pallor the canvas upon which are painted features of delicate, though nondescript property.

However plain, she is not ugly, but rather sensibly made unattractive by the dirt and grime covered lifestyle of a servant girl and the meek disposition of someone who has lost much at very little gain. Still, prettiness presides beneath the unscrubbed skin and unconscious twinge of sadness.

Hair, dark bronze and eyes forged steel she is the blend of mother and father, elegance and grace, strength and fire.

Her form is that of one less than well fed, but where most who share her position are string and bone, she possesses some strength, fortified in the day before her father's demise. Her wardrobe is typically a simple linen dress and apron, and occasionally a cap or kerchief to cover her head, with thin hide boots one size too big. While traveling, she wears a dark green woolen mantle and hood.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Diligent | Arabella is nothing, if not hard working. Her performance, however, is not driven by ambition, so much as it is a source of distraction.
✥ Submissive | She is not one to argue, if it can be avoided. This has both benefit and detriment, as it makes her an effective and efficient servant, but also rather predisposed to accepting ill-treatment.
✥ Kindly | Arabella thinks very little of herself, and often of others. She has a strong sense of compassion and will often times go out of her way to ensure the needs of those around her are met before her own.
✥ Broken | Her past has greatly hindered her ability to form close relationships, as fear of loss nearly consumes her.

Strengths || Resilient, empathetic, a fast learner, even-tempered, loyal

Weaknesses || Weak-willed, self-critical, passive, insecure

Quirks || Arabella typically doesn't like being touched. While to some degree this can make her appear standoffish, she's generally polite about it, and rarely makes note of it, vocally.

Through training with her father, Arabella learned the use of a bow, as well as a sword - though she is significantly less proficient with the latter.

WRITING SAMPLE

"You aren't concentrating, Bell... You'll never get it, if you don't concentrate!"

Arabelle woke to the sound of her father's voice, the commanding baritone as deep, as real as the day he'd spoken those words to her. She could feel it still, the grip of the hilt in her hand, still warm from his own grasp, the weight of the steel remarkably light. She'd been at it for an hour, now, sweat glistening across her brow, dripping down the nape of her long, narrow neck.

"I can't!" She'd cried, and known then it was the wrong thing to say. Strong hands, Blacksmith's hands gripped her shoulders with a bruising force as her father spun her to face him.

"Arabella Dane. I don't ever want to hear those words from you again, you hear? There is nothing you can't do. Not anything..."

But it wasn't true. She couldn't save him. No matter how hard she'd tried, she couldn't bring him back.

Tears collected in her lashes, pooled and fell in rivulets along her ghastly cheeks into the hay beneath her head. Beside her, the dying light cracked and popped in the hearth, embers glowing amber in the pale light streaming in from a crack in the wooden shutters of the window.

Dawn crept across the floorboards, pale and sickly light murdering shade and stinging sleep-worn eyes. Swinging gingerly upright, Arabella touched toe to the cold ground and shivered. It was painfully early, but work would be good... work would distract.

Rising to her height, she slid an apron over beige linen and shod her feet. It would be a cold morning, mist clinging to the air, leaving everything damp and chilly. Autumn. An anniversary of sorts. It had been three years since she'd lost him, but the dreams came every night. A vivid reminder of her own failures and of his.

Every year that passed she swore it would be different. Maybe this time she'd get it right. Maybe this time she could figure out how to forgive. How to forgive him. But more importantly, how to forgive herself.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Doctor Jax · Feb 10, 2017

Marnia Belhund

AGE || 18
PROFESSION || Squire

HISTORY || Marnie Belhund's family was once a rich family with a Senator, the effect of an incredibly clever grandfather with an exceptional ability to lock up the worst dissidents in his jails. However, as time as passed, her family has slowly slid into decline due to waning funds and a gambling problem. At first, they attempted to curry favor through sending their boys into the army, but tragedy struck when Marnia's two older brothers disappeared, while her older male cousins either died or became lieutenants. Meanwhile, the family was still swimming in debt. Marnie was one of several girl-cousins slated to marry richer, more economically sound men to help with the family fortune, but an illness soon robbed her of her looks, leaving a mouthy, incorrigible girl with no prospects.

Devastated and unsure of what to do, Marnie was pushed towards becoming a squire. She was a fair hunter from the T'ousand Rivers region in Neunyor, with enough skill to perhaps work her way into knighthood, but that was not at all a sure bet. Their gamble paid off, and an Aegis willingly took her on as his squire. Marnia is still struggling with the transition, and two years in, she has become somewhat capable as a Aegis' assistant, becoming proficient in work with a spear and bow, though not at all with a sword.

.

Red Thunder · Feb 10, 2017

Maes Harrow

AGE || 25
PROFESSION || Farmer

HISTORY || Maes Harrow was the son of a poor farmer, descending from a line of farmers going back farther than was said there were records for. The eldest surviving child of four other children, Maes inherited his father Kenwith Rissle's land and trade when he married in his eighteenth year, his parents living the rest of their lives with little care in their own home, aiding and training their son. For before marrying or indeed even proposing, Maes had built him and his bride to be a small cottage; quiant and warm, the two room building was furnished well.

For when Maes Rissle married Anora Harrow, he entered into a far more prominent family than his, one with a far reaching and heroic history. She left behind much in the way of easy future behind, but she was devoted to him, and he to her. Together they brought a child into the world after a year, and she was their Joy.

But it was not to last. A year after young Joy entered the world, she left it, victim to a season of strange and bitter cold. He sickness took her quickly, but it was small comfort to her father, and none to her mother. Anora did not linger long after her daughter, and not three years after they had been married, Anora left Maes to wander the shadowy paths of death, seeking Joy.

Little was left for Maes, save for work. And for the lute his wife had left behind. He took to playing it, first as a way to reconnect with his family, but eventually for the sheer enjoyment of the act. It brought him some small happiness back into his life, and he would often sing to himself or those who happened by his front porch where he sat the lullabies Anora had sang to young Joy.

For four years, Maes fell into routine: work the land, play the lute. He needed something to change, for something to happen. It was only a matter of time before it did...

.

Bears · Feb 11, 2017

GEIROLF WOLFF

AGE || Twenty-nine
PROFESSION || Ex-Army / Outlaw

HISTORY || Disgraced, dishonored, bitter. Geirolf is all these things and more. He was an orphan who grew up on the streets of Sabletyn and early on many told him that his father was an Aegis who fell into an ill-fated affair with a brothel whore. Allegedly, Gierolf's birth killed his mother, and his father, who had intended to bring his love and child out of poverty, abandoned the new born out of spite.

Regardless of his origins or the thoughts he had of what could have been, Geirolf played the game with the cards he was dealt. As a youth he lead a pack of children like him and stole what they could to survive. They took everything from food to cloth and for the most part anything was game. He was later apprehended and abandoned by his friends however at the end of his teens when the juvenile teenager foolishly tried to steal from a city visitor of the very same rank his father was believed to have been.

Young Geirolf begged for mercy and lucky for him, the Aegis granted it. Instead of having him punished like any other petty thief Geirolf was made to join the army. He was no stranger to combat despite his age; at that time the young man was just as likely to beat you blind as he was to take your money if you looked at him the wrong way. But ultimately his lack of discipline led to a tumultuous first year in Fort Gilliam and despite being recognized for his athleticism and natural inclination towards battle his pompous attitude made finishing training an extended task.

It was only when the Aegis returned did someone manage to tame Geirolf who was beginning to be commonly referred to as his surname due to his fiery disposition. Under the older man's guidance Geirolf matured and moved past his rebellious adolescent mindset. He became a fine soldier and an even finer man.

During his time in the army he impressed and was even rumored to be tested for a position among the Aegis until tragedy struck. While on break from his tour Geirolf went to go and visit the man who had turned his life around -- the very same man who admitted on the evening of Geirolf's graduation that he was indeed the father who abandoned him all those years ago.

Eleven months have passed since Geirolf arrived to find his father dead at the hands of an assassin and himself framed of the crime. With little choice he fled the scene and hid away in the valleys and mountains that surrounded his childhood home, killing any man woman or beast who tried to subdue him. He lost what honor his late father helped him find and the very fact tormented his soul.

He no longer trusted anyone and had grown incredibly proficient at remaining hidden; so when someone managed to leave him a mysterious letter at the foot of his camp in the wilderness he was shocked and completely oblivious of what was to come as a result...

.

Effervescent · Feb 11, 2017

Elle Joyner said:
HISTORY
Arabella Dane was born the only child of Merry Dane - a village blacksmith, taken by the lusts of youth and a whore gone by the name of Eliana. Their romance was brief and ended in a child, left to Merry in a basket. Despite this hardship, never did a father love his child more than Merry loved Arabella. Her childhood was a happy one, and though they never had much, her life was full.

While work was good, their fortune was not, and in time, Arabella was forced to take up employment as a servant, earning a meager but sufficient keep. Three months before her eighteenth birthday, while assisting her father in his shop, Arabella was propositioned by a nobleman. Outraged, Merry sent the nobleman away, but the man returned shortly thereafter and murdered the blacksmith in his sleep, a fate Arabella escaped only after due to the interference of a stranger.

Despondent, Arabella blamed herself, sinking deep down into herself, her focus fixed with near obsessive control on her work. Now, three years later, Arabella continues to struggle with the guilt of her father's death and surviving on her own. Eventually, through hard work and dedication, she came upon employment within the royal household - a servants position, a pittance... but better than her previous jobs.

Then the letter arrived...

✾

GENERAL

Name || Arabella Dane
Nickname || Bell/Bells/Bella
Age || Twenty
Species || Human
Occupation || Servant

"I have long since stopped expecting life to be kind. Life is cruel and cold and takes far more than it gives... but that does not mean that I must behave likewise. Little is born from bitterness, and I will not disgrace his memory by forgetting all he taught me - Most important of all, to love."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Brown
Hair Color || Dark Brown
Height || 5'4"
Weight || 110lbs.

Written Appearance || Oft times overlooked, and no wonder why, Bell Dane is a ghostly creature of insubstantial regard. Pale skin, a near sickly pallor the canvas upon which are painted features of delicate, though nondescript property.

However plain, she is not ugly, but rather sensibly made unattractive by the dirt and grime covered lifestyle of a servant girl and the meek disposition of someone who has lost much at very little gain. Still, prettiness presides beneath the unscrubbed skin and unconscious twinge of sadness.

Hair, dark bronze and eyes forged steel she is the blend of mother and father, elegance and grace, strength and fire.

Her form is that of one less than well fed, but where most who share her position are string and bone, she possesses some strength, fortified in the day before her father's demise. Her wardrobe is typically a simple linen dress and apron, and occasionally a cap or kerchief to cover her head, with thin hide boots one size too big. While traveling, she wears a dark green woolen mantle and hood.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Diligent | Arabella is nothing, if not hard working. Her performance, however, is not driven by ambition, so much as it is a source of distraction.
✥ Submissive | She is not one to argue, if it can be avoided. This has both benefit and detriment, as it makes her an effective and efficient servant, but also rather predisposed to accepting ill-treatment.
✥ Kindly | Arabella thinks very little of herself, and often of others. She has a strong sense of compassion and will often times go out of her way to ensure the needs of those around her are met before her own.
✥ Broken | Her past has greatly hindered her ability to form close relationships, as fear of loss nearly consumes her.

Strengths || Resilient, empathetic, a fast learner, even-tempered, loyal

Weaknesses || Weak-willed, self-critical, passive, insecure

Quirks || Arabella typically doesn't like being touched. While to some degree this can make her appear standoffish, she's generally polite about it, and rarely makes note of it, vocally.

Through training with her father, Arabella learned the use of a bow, as well as a sword - though she is significantly less proficient with the latter.

WRITING SAMPLE
"You aren't concentrating, Bell... You'll never get it, if you don't concentrate!"

Arabelle woke to the sound of her father's voice, the commanding baritone as deep, as real as the day he'd spoken those words to her. She could feel it still, the grip of the hilt in her hand, still warm from his own grasp, the weight of the steel remarkably light. She'd been at it for an hour, now, sweat glistening across her brow, dripping down the nape of her long, narrow neck.

"I can't!" She'd cried, and known then it was the wrong thing to say. Strong hands, Blacksmith's hands gripped her shoulders with a bruising force as her father spun her to face him.

"Arabella Dane. I don't ever want to hear those words from you again, you hear? There is nothing you can't do. Not anything..."

But it wasn't true. She couldn't save him. No matter how hard she'd tried, she couldn't bring him back.

Tears collected in her lashes, pooled and fell in rivulets along her ghastly cheeks into the hay beneath her head. Beside her, the dying light cracked and popped in the hearth, embers glowing amber in the pale light streaming in from a crack in the wooden shutters of the window.

Dawn crept across the floorboards, pale and sickly light murdering shade and stinging sleep-worn eyes. Swinging gingerly upright, Arabella touched toe to the cold ground and shivered. It was painfully early, but work would be good... work would distract.

Rising to her height, she slid an apron over beige linen and shod her feet. It would be a cold morning, mist clinging to the air, leaving everything damp and chilly. Autumn. An anniversary of sorts. It had been three years since she'd lost him, but the dreams came every night. A vivid reminder of her own failures and of his.

Every year that passed she swore it would be different. Maybe this time she'd get it right. Maybe this time she could figure out how to forgive. How to forgive him. But more importantly, how to forgive herself.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Character approved! Welcome aboard!

Doctor Jax said:
Marnia Belhund
AGE || 18
PROFESSION || Squire

HISTORY || Marnie Belhund's family was once a rich family with a Senator, the effect of an incredibly clever grandfather with an exceptional ability to lock up the worst dissidents in his jails. However, as time as passed, her family has slowly slid into decline due to waning funds and a gambling problem. At first, they attempted to curry favor through sending their boys into the army, but tragedy struck when Marnia's two older brothers disappeared, while her older male cousins either died or became lieutenants. Meanwhile, the family was still swimming in debt. Marnie was one of several girl-cousins slated to marry richer, more economically sound men to help with the family fortune, but an illness soon robbed her of her looks, leaving a mouthy, incorrigible girl with no prospects.

Devastated and unsure of what to do, Marnie was pushed towards becoming a squire. She was a fair hunter from the T'ousand Rivers region in Neunyor, with enough skill to perhaps work her way into knighthood, but that was not at all a sure bet. Their gamble paid off, and an Aegis willingly took her on as his squire. Marnia is still struggling with the transition, and two years in, she has become somewhat capable as a Aegis' assistant, becoming proficient in work with a spear and bow, though not at all with a sword.

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Prelim approved! You may now start your long form CS!

Red Thunder said:
Maes Harrow
AGE || 25
PROFESSION || Farmer

HISTORY || Maes Harrow was the son of a poor farmer, descending from a line of farmers going back farther than was said there were records for. The eldest surviving child of four other children, Maes inherited his father Kenwith Rissle's land and trade when he married in his eighteenth year, his parents living the rest of their lives with little care in their own home, aiding and training their son. For before marrying or indeed even proposing, Maes had built him and his bride to be a small cottage; quiant and warm, the two room building was furnished well.

For when Maes Rissle married Anora Harrow, he entered into a far more prominent family than his, one with a far reaching and heroic history. She left behind much in the way of easy future behind, but she was devoted to him, and he to her. Together they brought a child into the world after a year, and she was their Joy.

But it was not to last. A year after young Joy entered the world, she left it, victim to a season of strange and bitter cold. He sickness took her quickly, but it was small comfort to her father, and none to her mother. Anora did not linger long after her daughter, and not three years after they had been married, Anora left Maes to wander the shadowy paths of death, seeking Joy.

Little was left for Maes, save for work. And for the lute his wife had left behind. He took to playing it, first as a way to reconnect with his family, but eventually for the sheer enjoyment of the act. It brought him some small happiness back into his life, and he would often sing to himself or those who happened by his front porch where he sat the lullabies Anora had sang to young Joy.

For four years, Maes fell into routine: work the land, play the lute. He needed something to change, for something to happen. It was only a matter of time before it did...

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Prelim approved! You can start filling out your long form CS!

BearEnthusiast said:
GEIROLF WOLFF
AGE || Twenty-nine
PROFESSION || Ex-Army / Outlaw

HISTORY || Disgraced, dishonored, bitter. Geirolf is all these things and more. He was an orphan who grew up on the streets of Sabletyn and early on many told him that his father was an Aegis who fell into an ill-fated affair with a brothel whore. Allegedly, Gierolf's birth killed his mother, and his father, who had intended to bring his love and child out of poverty, abandoned the new born out of spite.

Regardless of his origins or the thoughts he had of what could have been, Geirolf played the game with the cards he was dealt. As a youth he lead a pack of children like him and stole what they could to survive. They took everything from food to cloth and for the most part anything was game. He was later apprehended and abandoned by his friends however at the end of his teens when the juvenile teenager foolishly tried to steal from a city visitor of the very same rank his father was believed to have been.

Young Geirolf begged for mercy and lucky for him, the Aegis granted it. Instead of having him punished like any other petty thief Geirolf was made to join the army. He was no stranger to combat despite his age; at that time the young man was just as likely to beat you blind as he was to take your money if you looked at him the wrong way. But ultimately his lack of discipline led to a tumultuous first year in Fort Gilliam and despite being recognized for his athleticism and natural inclination towards battle his pompous attitude made finishing training an extended task.

It was only when the Aegis returned did someone manage to tame Geirolf who was beginning to be commonly referred to as his surname due to his fiery disposition. Under the older man's guidance Geirolf matured and moved past his rebellious adolescent mindset. He became a fine soldier and an even finer man.

During his time in the army he impressed and was even rumored to be tested for a position among the Aegis until tragedy struck. While on break from his tour Geirolf went to go and visit the man who had turned his life around -- the very same man who admitted on the evening of Geirolf's graduation that he was indeed the father who abandoned him all those years ago.

Eleven months have passed since Geirolf arrived to find his father dead at the hands of an assassin and himself framed of the crime. With little choice he fled the scene and hid away in the valleys and mountains that surrounded his childhood home, killing any man woman or beast who tried to subdue him. He lost what honor his late father helped him find and the very fact tormented his soul.

He no longer trusted anyone and had grown incredibly proficient at remaining hidden; so when someone managed to leave him a mysterious letter at the foot of his camp in the wilderness he was shocked and completely oblivious of what was to come as a result...

.

Prelim approved! You can go ahead and start filling out the long form CS.

Bears · Feb 11, 2017

HISTORY

Disgraced, dishonored, bitter. Geirolf is all these things and more. He was an orphan who grew up on the streets of Sabletyn and early on many told him that his father was an Aegis who fell into an ill-fated affair with a brothel whore. Allegedly Gierolf's birth killed his mother, and his father, who had intended to bring his love and child out of poverty, abandoned the new born out of spite.

Regardless of his origins or the thoughts he had of what could have been, Geirolf played the game with the cards he was dealt. As a youth he lead a pack of children like him and stole what they could to survive. They took everything from food to cloth and for the most part anything was game. He was later apprehended and abandoned by his friends at the end of his teens when the juvenile young man foolishly tried to steal from a city visitor of the very same rank his father was believed to have been.

Young Geirolf begged for mercy and lucky for him, the Aegis granted it. Instead of having him punished like any other petty thief Geirolf was made to join the army. He was no stranger to combat despite his age; at that time the young man was just as likely to beat you blind as he was to take your money if you looked at him the wrong way. But ultimately his lack of discipline led to a tumultuous first year in Fort Gilliam and despite being recognized for his athleticism and natural inclination towards battle his pompous attitude made finishing training an extended task.

It was only when the Aegis returned did someone manage to tame Geirolf who took up the mantle "Wolf" in part due to his surname but also his confident and fiery disposition. Under the older man's guidance Geirolf matured and moved past his rebellious adolescent mindset and he became a fine soldier and later on, an even finer man.

During his time in the army he impressed and was even rumored to be tested for a position among the Aegis until tragedy struck. While on break from his tour he went to go and visit the man who had turned his life around -- the very same Aegis who admitted on the evening of Geirolf's graduation into the army that he was the father who abandoned him all those years ago.

Eleven months have passed since Geirolf arrived to find his father dead at the hands of an assassin and he himself framed of the crime. With little choice he fled the scene and hid away in the valleys and mountains that surrounded his childhood home, killing any man woman or beast who tried to subdue him. He lost what honor his late father helped him find and the very fact tormented his soul. He became the Wolf of the Valley.

GENERAL

Name || Geirolf Wolff
Nickname || Wolf of the Valley, Wolf
Age || Twenty-nine
Species || Human
Occupation || Military Criminal

"Fate is a cruel mistress. You are caught in her current and it's stronger than you are; struggle against it and you'll drown not just yourself but those who care for you. Swim with it and you'll survive, but be prepared to make the difficult choices that follow or else the draft will come back to bite you in the ass."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Light Blue
Hair Color || Chestnut Brown
Height || 6'0"
Weight || 167.5 lbs

Written Appearance || Geirolf has the features of a handsome man and holds them with the stature and posture expected from a soldier. His shoulders are broad and his jaw is handsomely defined, all the while his face, as naturally rugged as it is, possesses a stunning icy blue gaze that cemented him as nothing short of a lady's man during his younger years.

But time has done its course and has worn away at Geirolf, leaving behind more than just a few rough edges. Now he appears older than he truly is and his gaze is more brooding and intimidating than it is charming. His brow seems to be permanently fixated into an intense glare while his face is covered in dirt and dried specks of blood. The only time he cracks a smile anymore is when he's dead drunk.

His body shows his story in the form of permanent scars and marks scattered across his masculine physique, the most prominent of markings being a long jagged slash across the length of his right upper chest; a parting gift he received as he fought tooth and nail to get away from his father's murder scene.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Observant | Despite how drastically his circumstances changed throughout life, Geirolf possesses a subtle but undeniably analytical eye that has served him well.
✥ Tough | Wolff holds the mental fortitude of a man who has faced both physical and mental trials.
✥ Uninhibited | Geirolf had always been fiery and full of life if not a bit abrasive. He calmed down following his enlistment but has since completely delved back into his blunt, direct ways.
✥ Brutal | Hand in hand with his lack of subtlety, Geirolf has casted away most if not all the discipline his time in the army had taught him. He's as vicious and unforgiving as the valley he resides in.

Strengths || Grit, battle-tested, self sufficient

Weaknesses || Barbaric, quick tempered, hard-hearted, slightly mentally unsound

Quirks || Thanks to his youth as a thieving con Geirolf is quite agile and limber for a warrior. He's a tad bit reckless in battle and is willing to trade a new scar for the death of his enemy if need be.

Oddly enough he still manages to retain a sense of humor as crude as it might be. This could be attributed to the fact that his time living by whatever means necessary has led to problems regarding his sanity.

WRITING SAMPLE

He pressed his back against the cliff side and attempted to catch his staggered breath. Underneath the light armor he wore, his clothes were drenched in a sweat that chilled him to his bones. The back of his head ached something fierce and his cheek was on fire; he desperately needed water and rest but Geirolf knew he would not have it.

The dampness surrounding his gut and shoulder were different than the rest, the warmth and rate in which it spread told him that he was losing blood fast. He attempted movement but his body his refused him and so, as morbid as the months in the wilds have made him, Geirolf began to laugh hysterically in the face of what he had just done.

He dropped the bloodied blade and hatchet to the ground around him but made no attempt to clean the blood that stained his hands, instead his eyes simply watched as they shook erratically. Seven more soldiers were dead because it had been their job to find him and Geirolf knew that no amount of fervent scrubbing would clean him of that sin.

This latest band of had been smarter than the last at the very least. They chose to ambush him while he rested as it made sense after all -- the common wolf was most vulnerable while it slept. It was a logical assumption that that truth applied to the Wolf of the Valley as well. In reality, their plan might have worked better had Geirolf not noticed them trailing him a few hours prior to dusk. Still, he failed to determine how many lied in wait for him and that was ultimately his downfall.

As night took the valley he stomped out the embers of the fire he used to cook dinner and found an opening where he could lie his head. On his side he held his axe close and took a breath in preparation before closing his eyes and feigning a light snore. It took the soldiers awhile until they were certain he had fallen asleep but soon enough they quietly joined him in the clearing.

They approached him cautiously and slow, but like the wild animal cornered and fighting for its life, Geirolf unexpectedly lashed into action the moment one of the bastards was close enough. He lodged his hatchet into the first soldier's skull and with a quickness to his movements that none of the soldiers expected, he disarmed and killed the second.

"COME ON THEN!" He shrieked before viciously charging head first into the lot of them with the sword and axe in hand. Geirolf fought the next one, and the one that followed, and then the one after that. He fought as they surrounded him and fought until there was no more soldiers left to attempt him. At one point he took the blunt of the pommel from behind and at many he felt metal slicing through his flesh. He didn't care how much they hurt him; so long as he had both hands Geirolf did not stop until he was the only thing left alive in the opening.

He got what he wanted, but not for long. With his back against the wall and his limbs as stiff as wood he watched as more soldiers took the place of the ones he had just killed. He couldn't tell if the numbers in which they poured out of the treeline was due to Eudicia growing truly tired of his survival or if it was due to his vision beginning to fail him.

Regardless, the Wolf mustered enough energy to strike the first man that tried to chain him. He was met with a kick to the jaw that left him bruised and his mouth bloodied. They clasped metal around his wrists and forced him to his feet while he cursed them in every way possible. He cursed their mothers and fathers, cursed their children, and cursed the very nation that had had its back turned on him from the very start.

As they bound his mouth to prevent further headaches, Geirolf felt the last of his consciousness fade away. In those final moments he wished for nothing but to not wake come the next morning but he would not have his way. They had a local Sabletyn doctor dress his wounds and sustained him long enough to survive the march back to the capital.

By the time he was thrown into the depths of Thol's prison he had found comfort knowing that at the very least, his execution would finally be the end. But fate, the wicked the mistress it had been to him his entire life, had different plans for the disgraced solider in the form of a single letter placed neatly at the front of his cell.

Blessed be Jihae for the base of this rad code

Aero Blue · Feb 11, 2017

Abrecan Scand

AGE || 31
PROFESSION || Con-Artist

HISTORY || Abrecan Scand was born of Thol to a pair of ambitious, intelligent, self-made entrepreneurs, held in high esteem for their talent and ethical adherence to the rules of the Guilds. His father had been a prodigy of wires, levers and cogs, and made his living as a well-regarded Engineer. Abrecan's mother was an artisan of foods, as adept at conjuring up a meal as she was at sculpture, and found herself combining the two to form a niche; baskets of sculpted fruit, fit as a gift for nobility. These were men and women who believed in an honest day's work, of focus, of constant improvement, and of success as a measure of intellect and trained dexterity.

Abrecan would prove himself to be none of these things, for he could only see the fruits of his family's labor, not the effort that the procuring required. All he knew was of entitlement, of receiving something for nothing, of sustaining himself from the teat of his betters. To their credit, father and mother alike would have none of it once Abrecan reached his twenty's, depriving him of unearned pleasures. One could not justifiably be a glutton, they recognized, if they were not also a workhorse – and so they sent him out in the terrifying world of labor to begin his transformation.

He, in turn, was not accepting. And while Abrecan had little in the way of real talent, he had an intrinsic knack for navigating the path of least difficulty, utilizing his facility for lies and deception as the compass. His final gift had been a small stipend from his beloved family, meant for food and drink. He would, however, appropriate this sum to enable a variety of 'confidence' tricks. With the assistance of equally unsavory friends, tall tales of fertility charms, exorbitantly valuable gems, and treasured artifacts were spun, enhanced by Abrecan's one natural gift; the heart and tongue of a schemer.

The trick, he found, was to make implications that the wares were something like magic, but to never say the word itself.

Of course, confidence tricks deceive but for the moment, and are inevitably found out. This earned Abrecan many a vengeful enemy in Thol, Redden alike, and caused his migration to Ecksoh. Here – in this mire of corruption - his knack for lies could find better purchase, yet harsher consequences, given the violent nature of his marks. And so, his father and mother's attempts did not go entirely in vain; by the grace of so many a close call and shave, he became an adept at a craft, just not one of their liking; he became an adept of the con. A natural when it came to subverting the laws of karma.

Or so he thought, until his eyes glimpsed that forsaken insignia.

.

Effervescent · Feb 11, 2017

Shizuochan said:
Abrecan Scand
AGE || 31
PROFESSION || Con-Artist

HISTORY || Abrecan Scand was born of Thol to a pair of ambitious, intelligent, self-made entrepreneurs, held in high esteem for their talent and ethical adherence to the rules of the Guilds. His father had been a prodigy of wires, levers and cogs, and made his living as a well-regarded Engineer. Abrecan's mother was an artisan of foods, as adept at conjuring up a meal as she was at sculpture, and found herself combining the two to form a niche; baskets of sculpted fruit, fit as a gift for nobility. These were men and women who believed in an honest day's work, of focus, of constant improvement, and of success as a measure of intellect and trained dexterity.

Abrecan would prove himself to be none of these things, for he could only see the fruits of his family's labor, not the effort that the procuring required. All he knew was of entitlement, of receiving something for nothing, of sustaining himself from the teat of his betters. To their credit, father and mother alike would have none of it once Abrecan reached his twenty's, depriving him of unearned pleasures. One could not justifiably be a glutton, they recognized, if they were not also a workhorse – and so they sent him out in the terrifying world of labor to begin his transformation.

He, in turn, was not accepting. And while Abrecan had little in the way of real talent, he had an intrinsic knack for navigating the path of least difficulty, utilizing his facility for lies and deception as the compass. His final gift had been a small stipend from his beloved family, meant for food and drink. He would, however, appropriate this sum to enable a variety of 'confidence' tricks. With the assistance of equally unsavory friends, tall tales of fertility charms, exorbitantly valuable gems, and treasured artifacts were spun, enhanced by Abrecan's one natural gift; the heart and tongue of a schemer.

The trick, he found, was to make implications that the wares were something like magic, but to never say the word itself.

Of course, confidence tricks deceive but for the moment, and are inevitably found out. This earned Abrecan many a vengeful enemy in Thol, Redden alike, and caused his migration to Ecksoh. Here – in this mire of corruption - his knack for lies could find better purchase, yet harsher consequences, given the violent nature of his marks. And so, his father and mother's attempts did not go entirely in vain; by the grace of so many a close call and shave, he became an adept at a craft, just not one of their liking; he became an adept of the con. A natural when it came to subverting the laws of karma.

Or so he thought, until his eyes glimpsed that forsaken insignia.

.

Prelim CS approved! You can begin to work on your Long Form CS!

Aero Blue · Feb 11, 2017

HISTORY

Abrecan Scand was born of Thol to a pair of ambitious, intelligent, self-made entrepreneurs, held in high esteem for their talent and ethical adherence to the rules of the Guilds. His father had been a prodigy of wires, levers and cogs, and made his living as a well-regarded Engineer. Abrecan's mother was an artisan of foods, as adept at conjuring up a meal as she was at sculpture, and found herself combining the two to form a niche; baskets of sculpted fruit, fit as a gift for nobility. These were men and women who believed in an honest day's work, of focus, of constant improvement, and of success as a measure of intellect and trained dexterity.

Abrecan would prove himself to be none of these things, for he could only see the fruits of his family's labor, not the effort that the procuring required. All he knew was of entitlement, of receiving something for nothing, of sustaining himself from the teat of his betters. To their credit, father and mother alike would have none of it once Abrecan reached his twenty's, depriving him of unearned pleasures. One could not justifiably be a glutton, they recognized, if they were not also a workhorse – and so they sent him out in the terrifying world of labor to begin his transformation.

He, in turn, was not accepting. And while Abrecan had little in the way of real talent, he had an intrinsic knack for navigating the path of least difficulty, utilizing his facility for lies and deception as the compass. His final gift had been a small stipend from his beloved family, meant for food and drink. He would, however, appropriate this sum to enable a variety of 'confidence' tricks. With the assistance of equally unsavory friends, tall tales of fertility charms, exorbitantly valuable gems, and treasured artifacts were spun, enhanced by Abrecan's one natural gift; the heart and tongue of a schemer.

The trick, he found, was to make implications that the wares were something like magic, but to never say the word itself.

Of course, confidence tricks deceive but for the moment, and are inevitably found out. This earned Abrecan many a vengeful enemy in Thol, Redden alike, and caused his migration to Ecksoh. Here – in this mire of corruption - his knack for lies could find better purchase, yet harsher consequences, given the violent nature of his marks. And so, his father and mother's attempts did not go entirely in vain; by the grace of so many a close call and shave, he became an adept at a craft, just not one of their liking; he became an adept of the con. A natural when it came to subverting the laws of karma.

Or so he thought, until his eyes glimpsed that forsaken insignia.

GENERAL

Name || Abrecan Scand
Nickname || Scand
Age || 31
Species || Human
Occupation || Con-Artist, Thief

"Everything you take is earned."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Hazel
Hair Color || Black
Height || 6'1
Weight || 234lbs

Written Appearance || A man defined by both two decades of decadence, as well as his recent years of harsh living, Abrecan is of a sturdy, stout constitution. What was once layer upon layer of both adipose and hirsute mass has been hardened and given structural integrity, albeit not aesthetically pleasing definition.

One would expect a man of such proportions to walk heavily, as befitting his well-muscled and thickened limbs. Abrecan moves, however, with the easy grace of an ice-dancer, prancing swiftly and effortlessly upon the tips of his toes. He is a weighty individual, who holds himself like a wraith – innocuous for his stature, as if consciously attempting to make himself small.

His countenance is sun-tanned, adorned with severe features to match his strong jaw. A large forehead gives way to narrowed hazel eyes beneath furrowed brows. His nose is crooked, bent in such a way that one can almost make out the indent of the knuckles responsible. A beard, unkempt and unshaved, gives him the look of a stern hooligan, at times a boon in harsh Ecksoh.

Abrecan dresses in light linens that breathe easy, draped softly upon his form. Although removed from wealth, he's retained a liking for extravagant patterns, favoring outfits that intersperse the bright colors of berries with more earthen tones. He is also known to bathe himself in scents and oils, and his aura permeates the smells of honey and oats.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Dishonest ~ Abrecan's penchant for lies has moved on from being a simple means to an end to full blown pathology. He will lie to get his way, and he will lie just because it amuses him.
✥ Greedy ~ He has known the taste of luxury, and will not allow himself to remain far-removed. Full of entitlement, Abrecan is a man who wants more for the sake of more.
✥ Selfish ~ Abrecan knows only of his pleasure, and is very much a consummate hedonist. The greater good is simply what's good for him, and Abrecan will gladly bring detriment to the whole if it means benefitting himself.
✥ Unfocused ~ Never one for hard work or devotion, Abrecan has a short attention span, and finds his focus drifting from whim to whim. He enjoys schemes that conclude quickly, plans that unfold like lightning, and moving from mark to mark, pleasure to pleasure.

Strengths || Cunning, observant, adaptable, personable

Weaknesses || Weak-willed, cowardly, petty, lackadaisical

Quirks || Abrecan prides himself on never forgetting a name or face. Indeed, he has an impressive memory that retains the details of even the most innocuous encounter. An otherwise deplorable person, such an attention to detail is helpful in creating the illusion of cordiality when meeting a person for a second time.

Although loathe to pick up any real skills, is actually deft of finger, and a naturally skilled carver and sculptor.

WRITING SAMPLE

"Do you know what manner of man it is that waits, impotently, beneath the shadow of his impending demise?"

Abrecan's facility with language was residual, his father had been a master of jargon, and his mother had dabbled in prose and poetry alike. What was more important to his purpose, however, was the voice. His tone was low, a natural gravelly rumbling that stopped short of being hoarse, with an inflection crafted to mirror eager, curious youths. The goal was to appear in-control, yet not imposing. A man fit to steer, yet not a manipulator. A savior, and not the con that he was.

The mark had been set-up from the very start. Abrecan and his associate had little issue breaking through the Halloway Mundo's abode in the dead of night. His safe, however, was a different story. Abrecan's father may have understood the machinations and components that composed it, but he was not versed in such matters. Nor did he need to be. An upturning of furniture here and there, and esoteric symbols engraved into the walls were the implements necessary to make Halloway Mundo believe that he was the victim of magic, particularly of the outlawed – and therefore ever more so frightening - variety.

It was not such a leap of the imagination, Halloway was a paranoid, fidgety sort, with many an enemy. All Abrecan needed was a word, strategically placed – his associate had taken care of that matter, cluing the poor mark into the existence of some 'Anti-Magister', one who could counteract outlawed magic through legitimate means.

That 'Anti-Magister' was one Abrecan Scand.

"Sheep, Halloway. Sheep. And you've no wool to part with, which makes you infinitely less useful. You've need of precaution, and I can provide such measures."

Abrecan appropriated some expression that he associated with earnestness – namely, a slight widening of the eyes, and a subtle smile. Halloway had much to say, worries, concerns, talks of legality. These did not even begin to register in Abrecan's consciousness. He knew the score; Halloway was scared, believed he was targeted by illicit forms of magic, and not at all eager for more legitimate authorities to meddle in his affairs. Halloway was rotten after all, not at all uncommon in corrupt Ecksoh.

The con-artist reached into the folds of his robes, procuring a glass sphere, a red helix embedded into its center. "Look here, Halloway. A talisman, provided by an expert Hemomancer. Look at the shape of the blood, contorting in itself. It is symbolic, it will twist and rend the influence of negative magics upon your household. This, placed at your bedside, will protect you and all you own, for but a week."

An intricate construction of dye and sand, encased in glass. A tricky feat of art, yes, but a talisman it was not.

"This one, I give you free. The rest, you come to me, and you buy, and you will know safety from the unknown."

After a week of peace, Halloway Mundo would either come back and make his purchase, or he wouldn't. In the latter case, Abrecan would simply pay his household another visit in the night. And if he did come back, coin in hand…

Abrecan smiled; cunning was currency all by itself.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Effervescent · Feb 11, 2017

Shizuochan said:
HISTORY
Abrecan Scand was born of Thol to a pair of ambitious, intelligent, self-made entrepreneurs, held in high esteem for their talent and ethical adherence to the rules of the Guilds. His father had been a prodigy of wires, levers and cogs, and made his living as a well-regarded Engineer. Abrecan's mother was an artisan of foods, as adept at conjuring up a meal as she was at sculpture, and found herself combining the two to form a niche; baskets of sculpted fruit, fit as a gift for nobility. These were men and women who believed in an honest day's work, of focus, of constant improvement, and of success as a measure of intellect and trained dexterity.

Abrecan would prove himself to be none of these things, for he could only see the fruits of his family's labor, not the effort that the procuring required. All he knew was of entitlement, of receiving something for nothing, of sustaining himself from the teat of his betters. To their credit, father and mother alike would have none of it once Abrecan reached his twenty's, depriving him of unearned pleasures. One could not justifiably be a glutton, they recognized, if they were not also a workhorse – and so they sent him out in the terrifying world of labor to begin his transformation.

He, in turn, was not accepting. And while Abrecan had little in the way of real talent, he had an intrinsic knack for navigating the path of least difficulty, utilizing his facility for lies and deception as the compass. His final gift had been a small stipend from his beloved family, meant for food and drink. He would, however, appropriate this sum to enable a variety of 'confidence' tricks. With the assistance of equally unsavory friends, tall tales of fertility charms, exorbitantly valuable gems, and treasured artifacts were spun, enhanced by Abrecan's one natural gift; the heart and tongue of a schemer.

The trick, he found, was to make implications that the wares were something like magic, but to never say the word itself.

Of course, confidence tricks deceive but for the moment, and are inevitably found out. This earned Abrecan many a vengeful enemy in Thol, Redden alike, and caused his migration to Ecksoh. Here – in this mire of corruption - his knack for lies could find better purchase, yet harsher consequences, given the violent nature of his marks. And so, his father and mother's attempts did not go entirely in vain; by the grace of so many a close call and shave, he became an adept at a craft, just not one of their liking; he became an adept of the con. A natural when it came to subverting the laws of karma.

Or so he thought, until his eyes glimpsed that forsaken insignia.

GENERAL

Name || Abrecan Scand
Nickname || Scand
Age || 31
Species || Human
Occupation || Con-Artist, Thief

"Everything you take is earned."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Hazel
Hair Color || Black
Height || 6'1
Weight || 234lbs

Written Appearance || A man defined by both two decades of decadence, as well as his recent years of harsh living, Abrecan is of a sturdy, stout constitution. What was once layer upon layer of both adipose and hirsute mass has been hardened and given structural integrity, albeit not aesthetically pleasing definition.

One would expect a man of such proportions to walk heavily, as befitting his well-muscled and thickened limbs. Abrecan moves, however, with the easy grace of an ice-dancer, prancing swiftly and effortlessly upon the tips of his toes. He is a weighty individual, who holds himself like a wraith – innocuous for his stature, as if consciously attempting to make himself small.

His countenance is sun-tanned, adorned with severe features to match his strong jaw. A large forehead gives way to narrowed hazel eyes beneath furrowed brows. His nose is crooked, bent in such a way that one can almost make out the indent of the knuckles responsible. A beard, unkempt and unshaved, gives him the look of a stern hooligan, at times a boon in harsh Ecksoh.

Abrecan dresses in light linens that breathe easy, draped softly upon his form. Although removed from wealth, he's retained a liking for extravagant patterns, favoring outfits that intersperse the bright colors of berries with more earthen tones. He is also known to bathe himself in scents and oils, and his aura permeates the smells of honey and oats.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Dishonest ~ Abrecan's penchant for lies has moved on from being a simple means to an end to full blown pathology. He will lie to get his way, and he will lie just because it amuses him.
✥ Greedy ~ He has known the taste of luxury, and will not allow himself to remain far-removed. Full of entitlement, Abrecan is a man who wants more for the sake of more.
✥ Selfish ~ Abrecan knows only of his pleasure, and is very much a consummate hedonist. The greater good is simply what's good for him, and Abrecan will gladly bring detriment to the whole if it means benefitting himself.
✥ Unfocused ~ Never one for hard work or devotion, Abrecan has a short attention span, and finds his focus drifting from whim to whim. He enjoys schemes that conclude quickly, plans that unfold like lightning, and moving from mark to mark, pleasure to pleasure.

Strengths || Cunning, observant, adaptable, personable

Weaknesses || Weak-willed, cowardly, petty, lackadaisical

Quirks || Abrecan prides himself on never forgetting a name or face. Indeed, he has an impressive memory that retains the details of even the most innocuous encounter. An otherwise deplorable person, such an attention to detail is helpful in creating the illusion of cordiality when meeting a person for a second time.

Although loathe to pick up any real skills, is actually deft of finger, and a naturally skilled carver and sculptor.

WRITING SAMPLE
"Do you know what manner of man it is that waits, impotently, beneath the shadow of his impending demise?"

Abrecan's facility with language was residual, his father had been a master of jargon, and his mother had dabbled in prose and poetry alike. What was more important to his purpose, however, was the voice. His tone was low, a natural gravelly rumbling that stopped short of being hoarse, with an inflection crafted to mirror eager, curious youths. The goal was to appear in-control, yet not imposing. A man fit to steer, yet not a manipulator. A savior, and not the con that he was.

The mark had been set-up from the very start. Abrecan and his associate had little issue breaking through the Halloway Mundo's abode in the dead of night. His safe, however, was a different story. Abrecan's father may have understood the machinations and components that composed it, but he was not versed in such matters. Nor did he need to be. An upturning of furniture here and there, and esoteric symbols engraved into the walls were the implements necessary to make Halloway Mundo believe that he was the victim of magic, particularly of the outlawed – and therefore ever more so frightening - variety.

It was not such a leap of the imagination, Halloway was a paranoid, fidgety sort, with many an enemy. All Abrecan needed was a word, strategically placed – his associate had taken care of that matter, cluing the poor mark into the existence of some 'Anti-Magister', one who could counteract outlawed magic through legitimate means.

That 'Anti-Magister' was one Abrecan Scand.

"Sheep, Halloway. Sheep. And you've no wool to part with, which makes you infinitely less useful. You've need of precaution, and I can provide such measures."

Abrecan appropriated some expression that he associated with earnestness – namely, a slight widening of the eyes, and a subtle smile. Halloway had much to say, worries, concerns, talks of legality. These did not even begin to register in Abrecan's consciousness. He knew the score; Halloway was scared, believed he was targeted by illicit forms of magic, and not at all eager for more legitimate authorities to meddle in his affairs. Halloway was rotten after all, not at all uncommon in corrupt Ecksoh.

The con-artist reached into the folds of his robes, procuring a glass sphere, a red helix embedded into its center. "Look here, Halloway. A talisman, provided by an expert Hemomancer. Look at the shape of the blood, contorting in itself. It is symbolic, it will twist and rend the influence of negative magics upon your household. This, placed at your bedside, will protect you and all you own, for but a week."

An intricate construction of dye and sand, encased in glass. A tricky feat of art, yes, but a talisman it was not.

"This one, I give you free. The rest, you come to me, and you buy, and you will know safety from the unknown."

After a week of peace, Halloway Mundo would either come back and make his purchase, or he wouldn't. In the latter case, Abrecan would simply pay his household another visit in the night. And if he did come back, coin in hand…

Abrecan smiled; cunning was currency all by itself.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Character approved! Welcome aboard!

izscha · Feb 11, 2017

CHAHUA CROW

AGE || Twenty-one years old
PROFESSION || Assassin

HISTORY || Chahua Crow was the daughter of an Aegis who was assigned to serve his duty in Thol. Because of her father's heroic acts as well as impressive combat skills, it influenced Chahua to be more like her father one day when she's grown. Seeing the determination in his daughter's eyes, her father knew that she had potential of becoming a fine Aegis one day. So, by the time she was old enough to pick up a sword, he started training her into swordsmanship as an early preparation for her to join the army at some point of her life.

However, by the time Chahua turned seventeen, her father was brutally killed by a group of bandits when conducting an investigation on their suspicious activities. Enraged by her father's death, she swore vengeance to seek those who were responsible for it and punish them with the same fate as her father did. As anger clouded up her mind, she forgotten about the promise she made with her father; to become a great Aegis one day. Instead, she devoted the rest of her life as an assassin who lurks in the shadows, seeking those who have wronged her.

Until one day, she receives an ominous letter at her doorstep.

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rissa · Feb 11, 2017

ZAHARIN MALGATH BELANOR

AGE || 46
PROFESSION || Scholar

HISTORY || Zaharin was born and raised in Emalnahar, within the Allied Kingdoms, to loving parents who would go on to have five children. As the third child, Zahar felt the need to prove himself and throughout his life has done everything in his power to do so. When his youngest and only sister, Inara, was born, he helped his mother raise her whereas his two oldest brothers hunted with their father. His father was a tanner and though he was interested in the profession, his interest laid in the enchantments he placed on the leather. This interest would lead him to beg his parents to attend the Academy of Magic.

Shortly after his twenty fifth birthday, he convinced his parents to let him attend the Academy residing in Syth. It took years but his mother finally relented with only one concession: he must take his sister Inara. And so the pair went, one sullen and one excited, to the ancient sprawling city. For seven and a half years he and his sister studied and honed their craft until one day Zaharin received a letter from his father. His younger brother was dying from the Sickness and they needed to return home as soon as possible. They left immediately, though Zaharin never told Inara about the letter, and when they returned home they were welcomed with a funeral. Years passed before he left Emalnahar once more to return to the Academy, where he'd found his calling in the scholarly arts.

Tragedy struck... multiple times within the next few years when he lost the entirety of his family, save Inara. First, his two older brothers were mysteriously killed during a hunting accident. Then, a few years later, his mother contracted the Sickness and died shortly thereafter. His father too, died of the Sickness, a few years after her. When his father died, he and Inara had a falling out after a vicious argument that began of talk of Shadow Magic, and the two have been estranged ever since.

Six months ago, Zahar left Syth and ventured by boat to Lahlo. Only he didn't reach his desired location and instead ended up stranded on the island off Estwynd's coast. For a month he wandered, finding odd jobs here and there while he spent any remaining times studying the local culture. A few months later, instead of boarding another vessel to head for his intended destination, Zahar sailed to Estwynd, curious of what he'd heard of the Winded Woods. It's been a little less than three months since his arrival and he's been roaming the landscape ever since, studying as he goes, as well as hiding his pointy ears...

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Red Thunder · Feb 11, 2017

HISTORY

Maes Harrow was the son of a poor farmer of east Neunyor, descending from a line of farmers going back farther than was said there were records for. The eldest surviving child of four other children, Maes inherited his father Kenwith Rissle's land and trade when he married in his eighteenth year, his parents living the rest of their lives with little care in their own home, aiding and training their son. For before marrying or indeed even proposing, Maes had built him and his bride to be a small cottage; quiant and warm, the two room building was furnished well.

For when Maes Rissle married Anora Harrow, he entered into a far more prominent family than his, one with a far reaching and heroic history. She left behind much in the way of easy future behind, but she was devoted to him, and he to her. Together they brought a child into the world after a year, and she was their Joy.

But it was not to last. A year after young Joy entered the world, her mother left it. A sickness took her quickly and with little pain, but it was small comfort to her husband, and he was left to mourn her. The grief had to end too soon, however, for young Joy still needed care, and a grandmother can only give so much. She needed her father, and Maes attended his child dutifully. And in her care there was a certain amount of self forgetfulness, and Joy helped him forget his grief.

His work did as well. While not as productive or successful as other farms like it, the Harrow-Rissle farm was well recognized for the quality of its produce, and even with his father's help, maintaining that quality kept him busy.

The little free time he had he spent learning to play the lute. Strumming its strings had been a favorite pastime of Anora, and even in sickness she had played and sang for Joy regularly. So Maes took that role, too, eventually being comfortably and reasonably skilled. As Joy grew, he would often sing to her or those who happened by his front porch where he sat the lullabies Anora used to sing.

For four years, Maes fell into routine: work the land, care for Joy, play the lute. It was a good life, and with the help of his mother in the care of Joy, they managed along. Yet he sometimes felt a loneliness that even his daughter could not assuage, and would become downcast. It was in one such mood that he found a strange letter bearing a stranger insignia on the steps of his home...

GENERAL

Name || Maes Harrow
Nickname || None
Age || Tweny-five
Species || Human
Occupation || Farmer

"Lay down your head
My lovely dear
The day comes to an end
Your gentle bed
Awaits you near
To Lands of Dreams will send
Leave here your dread
Abandon fear
Your parents will them tend
And so be lead
Back to us here
By morning's shining friend"

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Brown
Hair Color || Dark Brown
Height || 6'1"
Weight || 225lbs.

Written Appearance || Years of hard farmer labor under a harsh sun has given Maes a sturdy build and a bronze tone, both of which compliment his slightly above average height well enough. Longish hair and ill-kept stubble perhaps encourages the look of the farmer that he has acquired: a man too busy to keep himself cared for. But beneath his bangs are a pair of shining eyes, reminiscent of a cut and polished gem, and they shine with a light and contentment that only past sorrow can instill.

Maes wears a perpetual weary look upon his face, though it's accompanied by a cheerful smile. Care lines have already begun to fold his brow, but his mouth is more often turned up than down. His shoulders, sturdy and strong, are nevertheless bowed, as if never rested. His gait reflects the same: slow and considered, the farmer never travels anywhere quickly, his tread ponderous and considered. His arms, powerful from laborious seasons, are gentle and careful, from years that the care of Joy and the play of his lute has maintained, and his calloused hands are dexterous beyond measure.

A man of utilitarian means born of a poor family, he wears little in the way of decor, the light blue cloth of his tunic an indulgence he allows himself. Over this Maes wears a leather vest for warmth. Tan cloth breeches ending in mud-caked leather boots round out his ensemble. But around his neck he bears a gift from Anora's father when he married into the family: a tooth that Anora's father himself had worn, passed down through the ages as a link to the Harrow family honor. On it is inscribed a rune, though neither Maes nor any before him could ever say what it meant.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Pensive | Maes does little without first considering the details of it. The man considers all options before proceeding, a habit which has been both frustration and boon to him in the care of the farm as well as his loving parents.

✥ Isolationist | If a thing does not concern him, Maes stays out of it. Though not an unkind soul, he nevertheless finds that farm and family is burden enough, and spares little time actively seeking to help others.

✥ Charitable | This is not to say he is a selfish man. Indeed, when Maes is asked to give of time or even resource, he gives freely and without thought of repayment, having first considered whether it was the best way to help at all.

✥ Preoccupied | Maes regularly thinks about Joy, sometimes to distraction, and it can inhibit his work. For a year or two his preoccupation also concerned Anova and the lack of her in his life. That has dwindled to non-existence since, replaced with more thoughts of Joy.

Strengths || Patient, mature, focused, responsible, kind

Weaknesses || Complacent, standoffish, controlling, prideful

Quirks || Maes finds any hint of sickness distressing, having developed an association of it with death. He is therefore something of a germaphobe, if not exactly in those terms in Estwynd, and avoids any sign of a sick person.

Life on the farm has made Maes strong, significantly so, but it has also rendered him little help in combat. Besides using a bow for hunting, he has absolutely no training in weapons whatsoever.

WRITING SAMPLE

The sky was gray today, and a breeze swept the green banners of the ground like a lady caressing her child's hair. Maes knelt beside the freshly turn soil, one hand on her grave and another clutching the pendent round his neck. What now? The question ran over and over in his head, refusing to slow down to be considered, leaving the man to only mourn in silence. His eyes held the marking stone in their gaze, drinking in her name as a parched man does water. Already he missed her. And it seemed the sky did, too.

The influx of rain had yielded a bountiful harvest. He had been delighted at the time, and he had tried sharing his happiness with Anora. And she had tried her best to share his happiness. But the sickness left her weak. And now, with her gone, Maes felt the same. It was strange, that such weakness could be so heavy. Hhe lacked the power to move, to do... anything. No effort seemed worth it. Anora was gone; what else was there to live for?

A sudden pressure, slight but insistent, pressed down on his shoulder. Maes didn't look up.

"You'll do her no good here, son, nor Joy." His father, worried, gave Maes a small shake. "Go inside; weep for her there, and let the sky weep for her out here. We'll take care of the little one while you mourn."

As if to punctuate the old farmer's words, first one then several drops of cold wetness fell across Maes' bare head. Nodding numbly, he stood, and without acknowledging his father or mother, or even his infant daughter, shuffled to the cottage.

The hearth was dead. It fit, in a way. The embers lay as he had last left them, unhappily useless against the inevitable tide. She was gone; what need was there of fire? Softly a rain began to pitter-pat against the wooden shingles, giving an ambience that allowed him to focus on something else. His eyes shifted about the room, remembering his dear Anora. But then his gaze fell across her lute. It hung by the cradle as it always did. Approaching it, Maes ran his hands across its wooden surface carefully, as of it were made of delicate paper. A note slipped quietly to life as a finger brushed a string. At an impulse, he removed it from its hanging peg upon the wall, and sitting down on their bed, he strummed it. She had kept it well tuned, for even with his lack of training, the chord that sprang from the instrument was harmonious and beautiful. And with the chord came his tears, unleashed with the voice of the lute, and placing his head in his hands, Maes wept for the loss of his beloved wife.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Effervescent · Feb 12, 2017

BearEnthusiast said:
HISTORY
Disgraced, dishonored, bitter. Geirolf is all these things and more. He was an orphan who grew up on the streets of Sabletyn and early on many told him that his father was an Aegis who fell into an ill-fated affair with a brothel whore. Allegedly Gierolf's birth killed his mother, and his father, who had intended to bring his love and child out of poverty, abandoned the new born out of spite.

Regardless of his origins or the thoughts he had of what could have been, Geirolf played the game with the cards he was dealt. As a youth he lead a pack of children like him and stole what they could to survive. They took everything from food to cloth and for the most part anything was game. He was later apprehended and abandoned by his friends at the end of his teens when the juvenile young man foolishly tried to steal from a city visitor of the very same rank his father was believed to have been.

Young Geirolf begged for mercy and lucky for him, the Aegis granted it. Instead of having him punished like any other petty thief Geirolf was made to join the army. He was no stranger to combat despite his age; at that time the young man was just as likely to beat you blind as he was to take your money if you looked at him the wrong way. But ultimately his lack of discipline led to a tumultuous first year in Fort Gilliam and despite being recognized for his athleticism and natural inclination towards battle his pompous attitude made finishing training an extended task.

It was only when the Aegis returned did someone manage to tame Geirolf who took up the mantle "Wolf" in part due to his surname but also his confident and fiery disposition. Under the older man's guidance Geirolf matured and moved past his rebellious adolescent mindset and he became a fine soldier and later on, an even finer man.

During his time in the army he impressed and was even rumored to be tested for a position among the Aegis until tragedy struck. While on break from his tour he went to go and visit the man who had turned his life around -- the very same Aegis who admitted on the evening of Geirolf's graduation into the army that he was the father who abandoned him all those years ago.

Eleven months have passed since Geirolf arrived to find his father dead at the hands of an assassin and he himself framed of the crime. With little choice he fled the scene and hid away in the valleys and mountains that surrounded his childhood home, killing any man woman or beast who tried to subdue him. He lost what honor his late father helped him find and the very fact tormented his soul. He became the Wolf of the Valley.

GENERAL

Name || Geirolf Wolff
Nickname || Wolf of the Valley, Wolf
Age || Twenty-nine
Species || Human
Occupation || Military Criminal

"Fate is a cruel mistress. You are caught in her current and it's stronger than you are; struggle against it and you'll drown not just yourself but those who care for you. Swim with it and you'll survive, but be prepared to make the difficult choices that follow or else the draft will come back to bite you in the ass."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Light Blue
Hair Color || Chestnut Brown
Height || 6'0"
Weight || 167.5 lbs

Written Appearance || Geirolf has the features of a handsome man and holds them with the stature and posture expected from a soldier. His shoulders are broad and his jaw is handsomely defined, all the while his face, as naturally rugged as it is, possesses a stunning icy blue gaze that cemented him as nothing short of a lady's man during his younger years.

But time has done its course and has worn away at Geirolf, leaving behind more than just a few rough edges. Now he appears older than he truly is and his gaze is more brooding and intimidating than it is charming. His brow seems to be permanently fixated into an intense glare while his face is covered in dirt and dried specks of blood. The only time he cracks a smile anymore is when he's dead drunk.

His body shows his story in the form of permanent scars and marks scattered across his masculine physique, the most prominent of markings being a long jagged slash across the length of his right upper chest; a parting gift he received as he fought tooth and nail to get away from his father's murder scene.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Observant | Despite how drastically his circumstances changed throughout life, Geirolf possesses a subtle but undeniably analytical eye that has served him well.
✥ Tough | Wolff holds the mental fortitude of a man who has faced both physical and mental trials.
✥ Uninhibited | Geirolf had always been fiery and full of life if not a bit abrasive. He calmed down following his enlistment but has since completely delved back into his blunt, direct ways.
✥ Brutal | Hand in hand with his lack of subtlety, Geirolf has casted away most if not all the discipline his time in the army had taught him. He's as vicious and unforgiving as the valley he resides in.

Strengths || Grit, battle-tested, self sufficient

Weaknesses || Barbaric, quick tempered, hard-hearted, slightly mentally unsound

Quirks || Thanks to his youth as a thieving con Geirolf is quite agile and limber for a warrior. He's a tad bit reckless in battle and is willing to trade a new scar for the death of his enemy if need be.

Oddly enough he still manages to retain a sense of humor as crude as it might be. This could be attributed to the fact that his time living by whatever means necessary has led to problems regarding his sanity.

WRITING SAMPLE

He pressed his back against the cliff side and attempted to catch his staggered breath. Underneath the light armor he wore, his clothes were drenched in a sweat that chilled him to his bones. The back of his head ached something fierce and his cheek was on fire; he desperately needed water and rest but Geirolf knew he would not have it.

The dampness surrounding his gut and shoulder were different than the rest, the warmth and rate in which it spread told him that he was losing blood fast. He attempted movement but his body his refused him and so, as morbid as the months in the wilds have made him, Geirolf began to laugh hysterically in the face of what he had just done.

He dropped the bloodied blade and hatchet to the ground around him but made no attempt to clean the blood that stained his hands, instead his eyes simply watched as they shook erratically. Seven more soldiers were dead because it had been their job to find him and Geirolf knew that no amount of fervent scrubbing would clean him of that sin.

This latest band of had been smarter than the last at the very least. They chose to ambush him while he rested as it made sense after all -- the common wolf was most vulnerable while it slept. It was a logical assumption that that truth applied to the Wolf of the Valley as well. In reality, their plan might have worked better had Geirolf not noticed them trailing him a few hours prior to dusk. Still, he failed to determine how many lied in wait for him and that was ultimately his downfall.

As night took the valley he stomped out the embers of the fire he used to cook dinner and found an opening where he could lie his head. On his side he held his axe close and took a breath in preparation before closing his eyes and feigning a light snore. It took the soldiers awhile until they were certain he had fallen asleep but soon enough they quietly joined him in the clearing.

They approached him cautiously and slow, but like the wild animal cornered and fighting for its life, Geirolf unexpectedly lashed into action the moment one of the bastards was close enough. He lodged his hatchet into the first soldier's skull and with a quickness to his movements that none of the soldiers expected, he disarmed and killed the second.

"COME ON THEN!" He shrieked before viciously charging head first into the lot of them with the sword and axe in hand. Geirolf fought the next one, and the one that followed, and then the one after that. He fought as they surrounded him and fought until there was no more soldiers left to attempt him. At one point he took the blunt of the pommel from behind and at many he felt metal slicing through his flesh. He didn't care how much they hurt him; so long as he had both hands Geirolf did not stop until he was the only thing left alive in the opening.

He got what he wanted, but not for long. With his back against the wall and his limbs as stiff as wood he watched as more soldiers took the place of the ones he had just killed. He couldn't tell if the numbers in which they poured out of the treeline was due to Eudicia growing truly tired of his survival or if it was due to his vision beginning to fail him.

Regardless, the Wolf mustered enough energy to strike the first man that tried to chain him. He was met with a kick to the jaw that left him bruised and his mouth bloodied. They clasped metal around his wrists and forced him to his feet while he cursed them in every way possible. He cursed their mothers and fathers, cursed their children, and cursed the very nation that had had its back turned on him from the very start.

As they bound his mouth to prevent further headaches, Geirolf felt the last of his consciousness fade away. In those final moments he wished for nothing but to not wake come the next morning but he would not have his way. They had a local Sabletyn doctor dress his wounds and sustained him long enough to survive the march back to the capital.

By the time he was thrown into the depths of Thol's prison he had found comfort knowing that at the very least, his execution would finally be the end. But fate, the wicked the mistress it had been to him his entire life, had different plans for the disgraced solider in the form of a single letter placed neatly at the front of his cell.

Blessed be Jihae for the base of this rad code

Character approved! Welcome aboard!

Effervescent · Feb 12, 2017

rissa said:
ZAHARIN MALGATH BELANOR
AGE || 46
PROFESSION || Scholar

HISTORY || Zaharin was born and raised in Emalnahar, within the Allied Kingdoms, to loving parents who would go on to have five children. As the third child, Zahar felt the need to prove himself and throughout his life has done everything in his power to do so. When his youngest and only sister, Inara, was born, he helped his mother raise her whereas his two oldest brothers hunted with their father. His father was a tanner and though he was interested in the profession, his interest laid in the enchantments he placed on the leather. This interest would lead him to beg his parents to attend the Academy of Magic.

Shortly after his twenty fifth birthday, he convinced his parents to let him attend the Academy residing in Syth. It took years but his mother finally relented with only one concession: he must take his sister Inara. And so the pair went, one sullen and one excited, to the ancient sprawling city. For seven and a half years he and his sister studied and honed their craft until one day Zaharin received a letter from his father. His younger brother was dying from the Sickness and they needed to return home as soon as possible. They left immediately, though Zaharin never told Inara about the letter, and when they returned home they were welcomed with a funeral. Years passed before he left Emalnahar once more to return to the Academy, where he'd found his calling in the scholarly arts.

Tragedy struck... multiple times within the next few years when he lost the entirety of his family, save Inara. First, his two older brothers were mysteriously killed during a hunting accident. Then, a few years later, his mother contracted the Sickness and died shortly thereafter. His father too, died of the Sickness, a few years after her. When his father died, he and Inara had a falling out after a vicious argument that began of talk of Shadow Magic, and the two have been estranged ever since.

Six months ago, Zahar left Syth and ventured by boat to Lahlo. Only he didn't reach his desired location and instead ended up stranded on the island off Estwynd's coast. For a month he wandered, finding odd jobs here and there while he spent any remaining times studying the local culture. A few months later, instead of boarding another vessel to head for his intended destination, Zahar sailed to Estwynd, curious of what he'd heard of the Winded Woods. It's been a little less than three months since his arrival and he's been roaming the landscape ever since, studying as he goes, as well as hiding his pointy ears...

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Prelim approved! You can start working on your long form CS :D

Red Thunder said:
HISTORY
Maes Harrow was the son of a poor farmer, descending from a line of farmers going back farther than was said there were records for. The eldest surviving child of four other children, Maes inherited his father Kenwith Rissle's land and trade when he married in his eighteenth year, his parents living the rest of their lives with little care in their own home, aiding and training their son. For before marrying or indeed even proposing, Maes had built him and his bride to be a small cottage; quiant and warm, the two room building was furnished well.

For when Maes Rissle married Anora Harrow, he entered into a far more prominent family than his, one with a far reaching and heroic history. She left behind much in the way of easy future behind, but she was devoted to him, and he to her. Together they brought a child into the world after a year, and she was their Joy.

But it was not to last. A year after young Joy entered the world, she left it, victim to a season of strange and bitter cold. He sickness took her quickly, but it was small comfort to her father, and none to her mother. Anora did not linger long after her daughter, and not three years after they had been married, Anora left Maes to wander the shadowy paths of death, seeking Joy.

Little was left for Maes, save for work. And for the lute his wife had left behind. He took to playing it, first as a way to reconnect with his family, but eventually for the sheer enjoyment of the act. It brought him some small happiness back into his life, and he would often sing to himself or those who happened by his front porch where he sat the lullabies Anora had sang to young Joy.

For four years, Maes fell into routine: work the land, play the lute. He needed something to change, for something to happen. It was only a matter of time before it did, and it started with an insignificant letter bearing an insignificant insignia...

GENERAL

Name || Maes Harrow
Nickname || None
Age || Tweny-five
Species || Human
Occupation || Farmer

"Lay down your head
My lovely dear
The day comes to an end
Your gentle bed
Awaits you near
To Lands of Dreams will send
Leave here your dread
Abandon fear
Your parents will them tend
And so be lead
Back to us here
By morning's shining friend"

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Brown
Hair Color || Dark Brown
Height || 6'1"
Weight || 205lbs.

Written Appearance || Years of hard farmer labor under a harsh sun has given Maes a sturdy build and a bronze tone, both of which compliment his slightly above average height well enough. Longish hair and ill-kept stubble perhaps encourages the look of the farmer that he has acquired: a man too busy to keep himself cared for. By all accounts he would be just that, but there is a sadness in his gaze and a dullness to his eyes that shows perhaps that there are other reasons.

Maes wears a perpetual weary look upon his face, try though he might to hide it. Care lines have already begun to fold his brow, and his mouth is more apt to turn down than up. His shoulders, sturdy and strong, and nevertheless bowed, as if straining under an unending weight. His gait reflects the same: slow and considered, the farmer never travels anywhere quickly, his tread heavy to almost shuffling. His arms, powerful from laborious seasons, are gentle and careful, a holdover from his time with Joy that the care and play of his lute has maintained, and his calloused hands are dexterous beyond measure.

A man of utilitarian means born of a poor family, he wears little in the way of decor, the light blue cloth of his tunic an indulgence he allows himself. Over this Maes wears a leather vest for warmth. Tan cloth breeches ending in mud-caked leather boots round out his ensemble. But around his neck he bears a gift from Anora's father when he married into the family: a tooth that Anora's father himself had worn, passed down through the ages as a link to the Harrow family honor. On it is inscribed a rune, though neither Maes nor any before him could ever say what it meant.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||

✥ Pensive | Maes does little without first considering the details of it. The man considers all options before proceeding, a habit which has been both frustration and boon to him in the care of the farm as well as his loving parents.

✥ Isolationist | If a thing does not concern him, Maes stays out of it. Though not an unkind soul, he nevertheless finds that the farm is burden enough, and spares little time actively seeking to help others.

✥ Charitable | This is not to say he is a selfish man. Indeed, when Maes is asked to give of time or even resource, he gives freely and without thought of repayment, having first considered whether it was the best way to help at all.

✥ Preoccupied | Maes regularly if unintentionally brings up memories of his past, when his family still lived, and though he actively tries to move on, as yet he has found little reason to. The past brings him solace, even if pain accompanies it, for it is familiar.

Strengths || Patient, mature, focused, responsible, kind

Weaknesses || Complacent, standoffish, controlling, prideful

Quirks || Maes finds any hint of sickness distressing, having developed an association of it with death. He is therefore something of a germaphobe, if not exactly in those terms in Estwynd, and avoids any sign of a sick person.

Life on the farm has made Maes strong, significantly so, but it has also rendered him little help in combat. Besides using a bow for hunting, he has absolutely no training in weapons whatsoever.

WRITING SAMPLE
The sky was gray today, and a breeze swept the green banners of the ground like a lady caressing her child's hair. Maes knelt beside the freshly turn soil, one hand on her grave and another clutching the pendent round his neck. What now? The question ran over and over in his head, refusing to slow down to be considered, leaving the man to only mourn in silence. His eyes held the marking stone in their gaze, drinking in her name as a parched man does water. It was, perhaps, how Anora had felt as they stood over Joy's own marker. He shifted, turning his gaze to glance at their child's grave. Grass now covered the earth where she lay, and the marker was showing signs of weathering. It had been a particularly wet year.

The influx of rain had yielded a bountiful harvest. He had been delighted at the time, and he had tried sharing his happiness with Anora. But his wife had been unmoved, consumed with the emptiness she felt at Joy's loss. And now, with her gone, Maes felt the same. It was strnage, that's such emptiness could be so heavy. Yet he lacked the power to move, to do... anything. No effort seemed worth it. Anora was gone; what else was there to live for?

A sudden pressure, slight but insistent, pressed down on his shoulder. Maes didn't look up.

"You'll do her no good here, son." His father, worried, gave Maes a small shake. "Go inside; weep for her there, and let the sky weep for her out here."

As if to punctuate the old farmer's words, first one then several drops of cold wetness fell across Maes' bare head. Nodding numbly, he stood, and without acknowledging his father or mother, shuffled to the cottage.

The hearth was dead. It fit, in a way. The embers lay as he had last left them, unhappily useless against the inevitable tide. She was gone; what need was there of fire? Softly a rain began to pitter-pat against the wooden shingles, giving an ambience that allowed him to focus on something else. His eyes shifted about the room, remembering his dear Anora. But then his gaze fell across her lute. It hung by the cradle; she had refused to allow him to remove it, and now he was glad of it. Approaching it, Maes ran his hands across its wooden surface carefully, as of it were made of delicate paper. A note slipped quietly to life as a finger brushed a string. At an impulse, he removed it from its hanging peg upon the wall, and sitting down on their bed, he strummed it. She had kept it well tuned, for even with his lack of training, the chord that sprang from the instrument was harmonious and beautiful. And with the chord came his tears, unleashed with the voice of the lute, and placing his head in his hands, Maes wept for the loss of his wife and child.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

Character approved! Welcome aboard!

Effervescent · Feb 12, 2017

HISTORY

Born of the noble house Vallane, Aegis Alexander Esthund Vallane, named after his great grandfather and notable Aegis in Estwynd history, has always lived in the shadow of his family name. His great grandfather, Esthund Vallane, had taken part in the Orcish Invasion of the Year 1433 leading a flanking attack that garnered a considerable victory for Estwynd. It was so long ago, and yet the name Vallane still carries its weight and its burden. Alexander felt pressured to pursue a profession in the Armies and to garner the interest of the High Queen to become an Aegis, for his father failed to do so.

He grew up on the Vallane estate in Thol with his younger brother Colton, both of which were competitive with everything they did. But as Alexander grew older, even in his younger years, he found less enjoyment in the play. Competitions were unfavorable, yet his younger brother still desired them, possibly a little too much. He would often run away, sometimes for weeks at a time just for the thrill of adventure. But when he turned thirteen his parents decided enough was enough and he was presented with his new life. He became the squire to Aegis Dormond Morous to start his training. It was daunting for the young boy, and there were many days he questioned if this was the only life he was led to live.

While a squire as a boy, he served Morous diligently until he was of age to join the Armies. From there, his training delved into battles and other forms of combat, and due to his experience as a squire he was ahead of most. Though on top of his duties as a soldier, he still had his duties of a squire until the High Queen gave approval or denial for him to become an Aegis himself. Alexander pressed on and continued his pursuit, giving it his best despite his quiet desires for something a little less grand. It is true, he may not be considered the best Aegis of his generation, but he still takes his job serioiusly and respectfully. To be an Aegis is a privilege despite his birthright, and to have passed the trials to such a status speaks not only of his skills in combat, but of his loyalty and admiration to Estwynd. Estwynd is his home, and he feels honored to be able to protect and serve the High Queen.

There is conflict within this Aegis. On one hand he wishes to perservere and serve Estwynd and the High Queen honorably to help in continuing prosperity, and on the other hand he wishes to disappear entirely. His family name and the pressure to uphold its status weighs heavily on Alexander. Any mistake he made since birth was met with harsh reprimand, and the strict punishment lingers in his mentality. While he may not be outwardly admitting, he berates himself internally for any infraction however major or minor or noticed it may be. The mental punishment results in his quiet and reserved nature that lashes out fervently in combat and makes for rather unpleasant company all around.

GENERAL

Name || Alexander Esthund Vallane
Nickname || Alex
Age || 34
Species || Human
Occupation || Aegis

"What truly measures a man? Is it his own merits, or is it his name? All my achievements are mine, and yet I cannot tell if it is that which defines me or if it is still my name."

APPEARANCE

Eye Color || Brown
Hair Color || Dark Brown
Height || 6'0"
Weight || 198 lbs
Written Appearance || Dark brown hair falls thickly around his slender face that gently curls at the tips that provides body to his constantly disheveled locks. His brown eyes are set under a heavy lid and a naturally furrowed brow, and his nose is narrow and prominent. The rugged look upon his facial features is completed by a short-trimmed beard that looks to be a result of reluctance to shave and an unwillingness to let it grow too long and too thickly. He stands just at six feet, and when not in his knightly armor, he wears simple clothes and light leather.

His years as a squire, soldier, and now Aegis have honed his musculature into the practical build of a fighter who wields primarily a sword and shield. The armor of an Aegis is that of silver plate and bright chainmail and a deep blue cloak. He has the look of a man comfortable in the attire, and strange without it. Without the bulk of the armor he reads somewhat lanky, even with his musculature. There is also a significant change in the way he carries himself. When in his armor his posture is straight and confident, and when without he holds himself more closed.

PERSONALITY

Personality Traits ||
✥ Dutiful – He is obedient and follows the laws and rules by the book.
✥ Empathetic – His heart is worn on his sleeve and dictates his decisions within the confines of the law.
✥ Self-absorbed – He thinks a lot about himself, yet not in a vain way. It's more that he believes his life has a greater impact than it really does.
✥ Dreamer – His mind tends to wander through his unspoken daydreams and whimsies.
Strengths || Loyal, intelligent, skilled
Weaknesses || Unfocused, worrisome, metaphorical bleeding heart
Quirks || He tends to avoid confrontation if he has the means to do so. This makes him rather socially awkward around the people he intended to miss, which for anyone who knows him it's essentially a dead giveaway and brings about the confrontation to which he was so desperately attempting to dodge. His persona while working versus how he is outside of it is like day and night. While on duty he is diligent, focused, confident, and commanding, of course up until someone or something manages to tug at his heartstrings, to which the bastion of a façade slowly chips away. When off duty he is less social and far more quiet for he allows himself in these hours to indulge in his daydreams and wandering mind.

WRITING SAMPLE

The rush of Redden's waterfalls was an ever constant noise in the background of the expansive city. He stood within the Aegis Stronghold awaiting his orders from the man across the grand hall. At this distance he could only hear their voices in converging murmurs. He couldn't read their lips, nor did he think it polite to do so, though he wondered what they were talking about with how serious they seemed to carry themselves. It did not help that they were two of the highest ranking Aegis. Whatever it was, it was important, and Alexander straightened his posture as the elder Aegis turned to walk towards him.

"Aegis Vallane," he said formally.

"Aegis Regold," Alexander said in return. Regold wasted no more time in pleasantries, and instead handed over a sealed envelope. The wax held the High Queen's seal, unbroken and meant only for him. It was a strange order to receive something directly from the High Queen, and as Alexander took it he looked to Regold for further explanation. Hopefully the man was briefed.

"You are to report to the High Queen immediately," Regold informed.

"Do you know why?" Alexander asked as he brushed a finger over the hardened seal.

"With the damned kidnappings on the rise, my guess is it's something to do with that," he said. "Speculation isn't my forte. This could be your in for a promotion. I remember when I received my first letter from the Late High Queen, God rest her soul. That'll be the start of many direct orders, Vallane. Are you ready for that responsibility?"

"Of course," Alexander said as he brought the letter down to his side under the fabric of his cloak. Regold looked a bit skeptical, but said nothing. "I'd better go, sir."

With a salute, the two men parted ways, and Alexander headed for the Stronghold Roost. This was, indeed, a promotion since the letter bore the High Queen's seal. What circumstance would lead him to such a means? The times were dark, and with it came many foreboding instances that had him question the nature and morality of his society. Whatever the case, he would take it humbly and honorably and hope that he could see it through.

Bless Jihae for the starting base behind this code

CloudyBlueDay · Feb 12, 2017

AVELINE EIBHLIN

AGE || 22
PROFESSION || Blood Mage

HISTORY || Aveline was born to a small family on an even smaller farm. She was the eldest of three, with a sister named Leia and their youngest brother named Jeremiah. Their father had passed shortly after Jeremiah's birth, and as the eldest, Aveline took it upon herself to help her mother as much as possible, with her siblings, the chores, and the upkeep of the farm, their only way of making any sort of living. The hard work did not bother Aveline, in fact, she reveled in knowing that she was doing all she could to support those she loved. She cared deeply for her family, and even though she was just a simple farmer's daughter, she was a proud young lady.

At the age of fifteen, the call of the Blood Mage took Aveline. In just a fraction of a moment, the girl had disappeared, leaving everything behind suddenly, the bag of chicken seed she had just been dispersing suddenly abandoned. The Afterlife is not a realm someone is meant to describe, especially not a fifteen year old girl. She does not know how much time passed in this realm when she was other. For all Ava knows, she could be a year older than she thinks she is now. Ava returned a few miles out from the farm in which she had called home, in the pond she knew to travel to with her brother and sister on hot summer days to play in. Pulling herself out, soaking wet, she saw in the water's reflection not the same person. Her eyes glowed a strange blue hue and she dared not go back home. Aveline, the self-proclaimed protector of her family, would not bring this upon them. They didn't deserve it.

Aveline stumbled into Thol, blinded by the inability to tell who was dead and who was alive. Though the people knew what she was, and it was clear she was not any type of threat, as Aveline struggled to get her bearings the people of the city only scurried away. Word was passed around quickly; a fresh, new blood mage had returned from the Afterlife, and after mere days, the High Queen had fetched for her. Aveline was found cowering in the corner of a dark alleyway, head between her knees, telling the voices and the faces and the brightness to leave her alone.

She trained under the High Ruler from that point on. With constant practice, Aveline learned to control the whispers of the souls that had not quite passed on. She never quite believed in the High Ruler with all of her heart; something seemed to hold her back from trusting her entirely, despite the fact she had practically saved her from herself. But Aveline was and is a sturdy worker, one who does not question and gets the job done. She slowly became one of the Queen's favored, for her prowess in battle, her strength in her magic, and her diligence.

She is loyal, or so she believes she is. Her life is comfortable enough. She is content.

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Eudicia Sign-Ups

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Moop.

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Moop.

Disease Empress

A Warrior in a Garden

Bears

Guest

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Bears

Guest

he hears his master's voice

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he hears his master's voice

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izscha

Guest

the clairvoyant pterodactyl

A Warrior in a Garden

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consistently inconsistent