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Author Topic: Character Descriptions / Contact Information  (Read 3532 times)
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Lythania So Mephgour
New Santharian

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Posts: 42

« on: February 17, 2006, 02:46:23 PM »

Pretty stragihtforward. Post your CD here once you are approved. ADD HISTORY, NO MATTER THE LENGTH.

above it, put your contact information (email, messengers, social security number, etc etc :p  )

Split the contact information with the CD by pressing the little [-hr-] button in ezcodes.

Nobody is beyond redemption.

- Lythánia

Edited by: Lythania So Mephgour at: 2/17/06 6:47
Lythania So Mephgour
New Santharian

Offline Offline

Posts: 42

« Reply #1 on: February 17, 2006, 03:50:23 PM »

EMAIL/MSN =Hendrix42013@msn.com
AIM = TenorWhitey
YAHOO = Derek_Plays_Tenor
ICQ = 229600973

Name - Lythánia Só Meph'guóur

Gender - Female

Age - 403

Race - Elf

Tribe - Ahrhim

Occupation - Bard

Title - Bound by Love

Overview - Lythánia is a beautiful bard who, unfortunately, is also on the verge of obsession. When she was young, she fell in love with a fellow elf. However, the man she fell in love with went mad, and has been killing people all over the continent. Lythánia is trying to catch up to him to show him the errors of his ways, and bring him from his path of darkness.

Appearance - Lythánia is about 1.8 peds tall and weighs about 1.3 pygges. She is beautiful and what's more, she knows it, although she is not arrogant. Her styruine(green) eyes show her emotions quite clearly. Her cinnabrown hair falls to just past her buttocks when let down. It is usually put into many thing braids. Her hair is shorter than many of her tribe at her age, and this is because of the large amount of traveling that she does. Her body is exceedingly frail, but that is common amongst her tribe, as is her pale skin. She must cover up her skin while in the hot sun, for fear of burning. Her smile is rare, but radiant.

Clothing - Lythánia wears form fitting eophran brown pants and a loose elken brown blouse. Over the blouse she wears a adlemiren brown vest. Her Charcoal boots, which are stained with many miles of travel, rise to about mid-calf. She wears a Herne Green cloak when traveling.

For performances she usually changes into a different garb. She wears a flowing Teki red skirt with a fyrite pink blouse. She rarely wears footwear during performances.

Personality - Lythánia's personality is defined by her love for the man named Yggrasillas Tanalian. She has followed him across the continent in hopes of turning him from his path. She is madly in love with him, or the man he used to be, and hopes to bring that man back into being. This is her goal, and it is close to being an obsession.

Lythánia is a girl with alot of sadness in her. She has spent three hundred years attempting to find her loved one, and has thus far been unsuccessful. She has not been able to catch up with him and tell him of her love. Most people who see her see a sadness in the back of her eyes. She embodies this sadness in her music. She never plays upbeat or happy songs, only those of love and pain.

She is quiet in the extreme. She rarely talks to people unless spoken to first, which happens quite often in taverns. After all, she IS a beautiful elf all by herself. Being hit on by all sorts of tavern occupants is bound to happen (and yes....ALL sorts). She will usually talk to these people, although she never, ever leads them on, or goes any further than a firendly conversation. Her love for Yggrasillas prevents that.

There is an exception to all this. When she is speaking to someone who may know the whereabouts of Yggrassilas, or someone who can lead her to someone with information, she is charismatic, talkative, and sometimes (although rarely) a flirt. She has determined this is the best way to get information, and she will use any means necessary to find her beloved.

Beauty - Lythánia is a beautiful woman, something that is always advantageous when trying to get your way. A little look here, a small giggle here, and a wee bit of huskiness to her voice, and she can get most men to tell her anything she wants, and this is always a good thing.

Singing Voice - Lythánia has a beautiful singing voice, which is how she earns her money. She almost always sings in minor keys, about sadness and pain. However, she sometiems sings of love, but again these are usually sad. She pays for her travels with the money she makes with her singing.

Combat - Lythánia has trained long and hard in the use of her salen pins, and can throw one with deadly accuracy at up to 7 peds. At maximum, she can throw four, but the accuracy is diminished, as is the range, but the area is quadrupled. She uses this if one of her dealings goes bad. Throw these at eyes or throat then run away. Her dagger she rarely uses, and then only to defend herself in the most desperate of situations.

Love for the undeserving - Lythánia is in love with one of the most atrocious elves to ever be born of the almatrar. He has commited rape, murder, arson, and thousands of other sins, without a single bit of remorse. Despite this, Lythánia is convinced that he is a good man on the inside, and that he can be brought to the light. She is so convinced of this, she has spent the majority of her life living in poverty, traveling from town to town trying to find him. If she is wrong about this man, she is in for alot of pain.

Female - Lythánia has alot of contact with people of less than honorable intentions towards her. In fact, she is often in contact with people who would have no problem whatsoever taking advantage of her body. Thus, she must always be careful and watch teh intentions of the less reputable characters around her.

Combat - Lythánia often works with criminals to find the information on Yggrasillas that she wants. This can sometimes lead to being on teh wrong side of criminals. Lythánia can sometimes avert this with her Pins, but if that surprise tactic does not work, then she is in alot of trouble.

Possessions - Other than her clothes, what money she has, and her weapons, Lythánia carries nothing on her.

Weapons - Carries a Dagger in one of her boots, and a dozen Salen pins in a 3 pouches on her belt, 4 pins to a pouch.

History - Lythánia's childhood can be summed up in one word: Rivalry. She was in constant friendly competition with her older sister, Seneslia. They tried to see who danced the best, looked the best, wrote the best poetry, or who could get the best looking man. As one can undoubtedly see, both girls were fairly superficial at this point of their lives.

When they were in their thirties, they met the ultimate cause of rivalry. A handsome albino man named Yggrasillas Tanalian. They both instantly fell in love with the man, and both made their attempts to woo him. It is in these attempts that their competition become unfriendly. Each sister would lie about the other, and tell Yggrasillas not to be with the other. The sisters had a falling out, and never made up.

Seneslia won this particular competition, later getting married to Yggrasillas. Lythánia became insanely Jealous, for she bore an honest love for Yggrasillas, and thought that Seneslia did not truly love him, but merely married him to win out over Lythánia. Lythánia of course could not tell Yggrasillas of this, for fear of sounding like a jealous, shunned little girl. So she just watched them, and sank into a deep depression.

Decades later, Yggrasillas disappeared. Seneslia had been murdered, as well as Lythánia's nephew, and Yggrasillas went out looking for revenge. Lythánia immediately went in search of him, and found him fairly quickly, for he was homeless and angry. Lythánia let him stay with her until he could get over Seneslia's death. Lythánia also hoped to show toYggrasillas that she loved him.

Lythánia soon found that the man she knew was not the man staying with her. The man she knew was kind and gentle. This man was filled with anger, and an unimaginable amount of hatred. Lythánia feared for his future, and hoped to help him get better. Unfortunately this was to to come to pass.

Yggrasillas again disappeared. This time leaving the Almatrar. In his wake, he left a prominent member of the community, Tenechlon, who was reputedly involved in all sorts of crimes, mutilated in his wake. Once again, Lythánia went in search of Yggrasillas. Searching for him outside the forest, in the town of Yorick. He soon heard news of him, most horrendous news indeed. He had killed children, and was executed.

This put Lythánia in a deep depression. She wandered the town of Yorick for months, in a haze. No longer caring about the world. It was as if she had lost everything important, and to her, she had. Then, while in town, she started seeing posters, with the name "The Ghost" on them. Looking at the picture, it was obviously Yggrasillas. This put a renewed vitality in Lythánia. She immediately began searching for him, but to no avail.

Then one day, she was in town and learned a horrifying piece of news. Somebody had started a fire in her home village in the Almatrar. Temporarily giving up her search for Yggrasillas, Lythánia leaves to help out her family. When she reaches her village, she helps put out what remains of the fires, and learns something most disturbing. Yggrasillas had returned to the almatrar, and he was the cause of the fires. Finding out news from scouts as to which direction he went. Lythánia followed him, hoping to free him from the darkness that had enshrouded him.

She has yet to catch up with him, after two centuries, she still hasn't seen her beloved. In order to track him, Lythánia has had to learn to deal with the criminal underworld. and she spends most of her time witht hem, getting information by any means necessary, traveling after Yggrasillas, or spending time alone, fighting the urge to cry, but inevitably failing....

Nobody is beyond redemption.

- Lythánia

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Gender: Female
Posts: 59

Half-elf Diorye’oleal / Erpheronian

« Reply #2 on: February 17, 2006, 05:04:23 PM »

email: blessed.elysia@gmail.com

Name: Elysia (known as Elysia the Blessed to the priests of Queprur)
Gender: Female
Age: 51 (appears 22)
Race: Half-elf
Tribes: Diorye’oleal/Erpheronian
Occupation: Cleric of Queprur
Title: Priestess

Description: With the grace associated with one of her heritage, Elysia stands on the cusp of death, seemingly only moments away from uniting with her mistress. Pallid skin gauntly stretches over her emaciated frame, emphasizing her high cheek bones. Eyes possessing the hue of pale ice glare out upon the world with a cold slow burning anger, appearing large and expressive in comparison to her gaunt countenance. Untamed, crimson locks flow to her waist, reminiscent of a blazing wildfire in hue. Long bangs occasionally obscure her icy stare, only to be briskly tucked behind an ear. As her ears are only slightly pointed, often it is her height that reveals her elven heritage to strangers. Standing half a fore beneath two peds, she towers over most women and even some men.

Those not frightened by her appearance perceive an exotic beauty in her every movement. Thick eyelashes frame her azure eyes, and for a moment one might believe that by batting her eyelashes she flirts with them. Never does the fires of desire burn within her eyes as they remain eternally dead, seemingly without emotion. Her rosy lips may curl into a slight smile, yet one can only wonder as to what could make such a woman smile. Perhaps she is laughing at the ironies of life or finding pleasure in the misery of others. Only one thing is certain: her smile remains as expressionless as her unforgiving eyes. Even more disturbing than her smile is the hollow sound emerging from her lips as she laughs. If the dead could laugh, then one would not be surprised to hear similar sounds from their rotting mouths. Instead of instilling mirth in those around her, such a laugh pervades the very bones of those listening, seeming to convey a fear not easily dispelled.

As one’s gaze leaves the chiseled features of her face, assuming that it is not captivated by her enchanting eyes, one would see a slender neck extending from bare shoulders. Curving across half her throat and white with age is a slender scar, only noticeable when one is close to the half elf. Clasped about her fair throat is a black cloak, held there by a simple silver clasp as it descends to the top of her boots. Often she will wrap the cloak around her slender frame, protecting herself from the elements. Pale blue eyes glare from within the cowl of its hood as a few crimson tresses fall across her face. With not a stitch to cover her delicate shoulders, more traditional women view her apparel as demeaning and provocative. The round collar of her black dress fits snugly around her torso as it stretches over her firm breasts, low enough to reveal pale cleavage. Sleeves appearing more transparent than the rest of the dress sheathe her arms, flaring at the wrists as her slender fingers emerge from the fabric. Despite the dress being tight around the hips, displaying each seductive curve, a thin silver belt is clasped around her waist. Descending to her knees with a slit up one side extending to a point a palmspan beneath her waist, the skirt of the dress is quite provocative with a glimpse of her curvaceous hips and silky thighs offered with each stride. Black leather boots extend slightly beyond her ankles, slightly worn from years of pacing the stone floors of the High Temple of Queprur.

Personality: As a priestess of Queprur, Elysia has learned to be indifferent to the sufferings of other mortals. She cares naught for their sufferings nor their jubilations. The only exception to such indifference is when she finds humor in the misery of others, as her sense of humor is incredibly twisted. With her lips curling into a faint smile, she will watch as others injure themselves through their mishaps, relishing in their pain. Even more humorous is the emotional distress of others, often she will laugh aloud at such, her laugh being hollow and mirthless.  

She knows nothing of the art of flirtation and will not even realize it when a man is flirting with her. Often she will unknowingly tease men by leaning forward to reveal pale cleavage or by showing more leg than is demure as she sits. The stares of men often lustfully follow her backside as she walks, taking note of each seductive sway of her hips, yet such stares only puzzle her and neither insult nor flatter her as they might other women.

Elysia does not fear death as many mortals do, knowing she will reunite with her mistress upon her death. Nor does she seek to end her life prematurely as she would better serve Queprur as a living cleric than she would a spirit. However, she does fear the agony of a painful death as she is aware that her body is exceptionally frail. She attempts to avoid physical confrontations whenever possible as she lacks the strength to properly defend herself. Only when a man attempts to take that which she will not freely give, her virginity, will she fight, lashing out with tooth and nail much as her mother did decades ago.

All mortals are equal in her eyes, just as they are equal in death. Race, gender, nor class matter to her as all will feel the embrace of her mistress regardless of their heritage. With disdain she looks upon the few nobles foolish enough to attempt to bribe a priestess for a few more years upon this world, for in death material possessions do not matter. Only dark elves truly fascinate her as she seeks to learn of their way of life and thus learn about herself and her heritage. Oddly enough, she does not hate the entire race and instead focuses her hatred upon the one individual responsible for her unholy conception.

Religion: As a faithful cleric of Queprur, her loyalty belongs only to her mistress. The belief in the other eleven gods exists within her, yet it is the Iron Mistress to whom she has devoted her life. Devoutly she believes that death is the ultimate achievement of order, a belief reaffirmed by her experiences with other mortals. Others may consider Queprur to be dark and unforgiving, yet she believes that the gift of death is an act of mercy, one that should be appreciated by those not worthy of her mistress’s touch. Uttering the notion that the Goddess of Death is a servant of Coor, the Shadow Himself, is unwise in the presence of the half elf as the chaos of Coor is the antithesis of the balance maintained by the deaths of mortals and the order her mistress seeks to instill upon the world. Nor does she believe that her mistress dwells in the twisted Netherworlds, believing instead that death is eternally present in the world of Caelereth.

Clerical Abilities: Rumors persist of Elysia being a necromancer. Never would she even attempt to grant life to the dead as only the Goddess herself may decry that someone return from the grave though it is beyond the ken of any mortal to comprehend the motives of the divine. To attempt such a heinous act would be to risk the wrath of her mistress.

Her abilities, bestowed upon her by Queprur, do pertain to the deceased. She is not nearly as skilled as the aged priests who have dedicated their entire lives to the Goddess, yet she is quite skilled for someone with her age and heritage. Often someone will die in a violent manner or pass from this world without expressing their emotions to those they loved, and these restless spirits roam the world of Caelereth, perceivable only to the gifted such as Elysia. They appear much as they did in life, the only difference being that they now appear faded and one can even see through them. The wounds with which they died are evident upon their ethereal forms, and sometimes a spirit of the deceased will indeed be a grisly sight. Peace is unattainable to them until the circumstances of their deaths are resolved, whether by the demise of a murderer or by speaking to those left behind. The common man has nothing to fear from such spirits, yet those close to death may be possessed by them, a message rising from the lips of the dying from beyond the grave. As she is close to Queprur, Elysia is also vulnerable to possession yet decades of training have bestowed upon her the skills with which to defend her corporal body. Despite the risk of losing her body to the undead, she will often allow the more benevolent among them to possess her for only a moment, long enough to speak the words they dared not to say during their lives. Without any recollection of the possession other than the vague knowledge that someone else spoke through her lips, she is dependent upon those around her to reveal the nature of the message.

Not only does she possess the knowledge to welcome a spirit within her body, she has been trained to cast chaotic spirits or even demons out of others. With a strength granted from their very insanity, such spirits can possess anyone. Exorcism is not a practice she takes lightly, as it is often the cleric that is possessed by the fleeing apparition. The battle that entails exists on the spiritual level with only the slightest of physical signs to reveal that all is not well. Tales abound of clerics wreaking havoc upon those around them, surprising everyone as they realize too late the outcome of the exorcism.

With meditation Elysia is able to free her spirit from its corporal form, to walk upon this world as a spirit, passing through objects and people equally. As with any prayer to her mistress, an attempt to separate her spirit from its corporal form is as likely to fail as it is to succeed. Only with the slightest chill does someone notice her passing through them, a shiver felt both physically and spiritually. As a spirit, she has only to focus her mind upon her desired destination, arriving instantly. Other spirits are seen with more clarity, as though they possessed living bodies, as the people that are truly alive and the world they live in seems to fade, appearing as wisps of smoke only half seen. Every word spoken by the living seems as nothing more than whispers whereas the wails of the dead echo in her ears. As she is absent from her body, it is nothing more than an empty shell, at the mercy of anyone intent upon harming her. This ability is used solely for the obtainment of knowledge, scouting ahead, spying on others, or communicating with other clerics of Queprur. In truth, it is only other gifted such as herself that would be able to perceive her ethereal form.

Those only days away from dying possess an aura of death, a dark mist surrounding them, perceivable only by clerics of Queprur. With such an ability Elysia is aware of someone’s imminent death even before they are, aware that her mistress will soon claim another soul. As the hour of death approaches, the mist darkens, swirling around the limbs of its victim as though it were truly alive. Anything as mundane as herbs cannot save them and only by divine intervention will they live.

Weapons: Sheathed upon her hip within a black scabbard opposite the slit in her skirt is a dagger, its silver hilt wrapped in black leather. With its short blade, it is not particularly suited for combat nor would she ever use it in such a manner. The dagger is sacred to her, being tied into her faith in Queprur, and it is only used to end the lives of those already dying. Some quail at the sight of such a blade, believing it to be part of a dark ritual, yet her intentions are entirely pure, bestowing the mercy of death upon those suffering from various ailments.

Clerical Magic- As a cleric of Queprur, she possesses abilities that allow her to obtain knowledge beyond that of the common mortal. By communing with the dead, she learns of past events, the more recent ones being the easiest to discern. Even without spirits nearby to aid her, she is able to separate her spirit from its corporal form and travel to any place within the world of Caelereth in an instant, learning of events that are occurring several strals away. With her spirit she is also able to communicate with other clerics of Queprur, ensuring that she is aware of the current news in any town so long as a fellow cleric dwells there. Lesser demons have reason to fear her as she possesses the knowledge and skill to cast them out of their hosts.

Vision- As a half elf, her vision surpasses that of an ordinary human. She is able to perceive someone approaching long before a human would notice them. Her vision is especially perceptive at night as she requires only the slightest light to see in the dark, the light of the stars is usually sufficient.

Appearance- With her fiery locks, she is not recognizable as the ill begotten offspring of a dark elf. Indeed, only by noticing her slightly pointed ears and exceptional height for a female will one realize her elven heritage, yet her appearance is such that she could be the daughter of a wood elf.

Education- As she was raised within a temple, she has been properly educated. By studying the holy mantras she learned to read and write. Indeed, her writing is fair enough that she often aided the priests in the copying of the mantras into new books for newly raised clerics.

Indifference- Her indifference toward the affairs of other mortals ensures that she cannot be taken advantage of emotionally, as she would never even consider being infatuated with a man. Nor can she be duped into pursuing a foolish quest as she truly does not care about the sufferings of others nor material possessions.

Clerical Magic- As with any magic, the use of her abilities tires her, the extent of her weariness depending upon how much she has exerted herself and whether or not she slept well the night before. The knowledge she obtains from the dead is often difficult to decipher as their memories of their former life fade, leaving gaps in what they do remember. As her spirit leaves her body, it is vulnerable to any wishing to harm her as it becomes corpse like in its lack of movement, only her shallow breaths reveal that she yet lives. The exorcism of any demon is not easily accomplished, and often she becomes its next victim, forcing her to struggle with it on a spiritual level for control of her body.

Weakness- Even for a female half elf she is weak and frail, not even able to wield a weapon heavier than a dagger. Her bones are prone to breaking, and it is with great care that she avoids falling as even a fall of only a few fores is enough to injure her. With great care she avoids physical confrontations, as they will most likely result in her injury. Not all confrontations can be avoided as there are those that would use her body for their foul deeds, and it is then that she must rely upon others to save her. She does not lack the will to defend herself against a rapist but instead lacks the strength to do so successfully.

Naivete- Having spent her entire life within the temple, her only experience with men consists of her days spent among the priests. Never has she been around men who would perceive her beauty as an object of lust, and she is truly unaware of the motives behind their lustful stares. Nor does she realize the dangers associated with a beautiful woman traveling alone and will walk into the foulest tavern, not understanding the nature of its patrons.

Reputation- Within the city of Nyermersys she has a reputation of being an abomination as she is known as Elysia the Cursed to its citizens. Those old enough to remember the night of her birth pass the tale onto younger generations. Never will she be welcome within the city except within the temple itself.

Apparent Insanity- As she is often visited by restless spirits and even allows them to speak through her lips, Elysia appears insane to anyone unfamiliar to her unique talents. None care to speak to a woman whose very sanity is doubted. Men with less noble intentions perceive her as easy prey, unable to resist their unwanted advances.

Indifference- Her cool indifference ensures that she will never truly befriend someone and any kindness displayed toward them is for her own reasons and not because she cares for them. With such an indifference, it is often that she has only the dead as company.

History: Only the constant strike of rain drops upon the cobbled streets disturbed the silence of the night. Seemingly an eternity later, the spluttering of torches could be heard as footsteps pounded upon bare stone. Not without purpose did one visit the High Temple of Queprur at night. With bestial snarls and malicious glares, none could mistake this group as those visiting their loved ones now gone from this world. Nor did they bring offerings to the goddess, though they were not empty handed. A stretcher fashioned from blankets and planks of wood was held by several of the men, their faces turned away from the gore and blood that had once been a woman, one of their own, wife to one of the local merchants. Worse even than the corpse was the baby lying in a pool of her mother’s blood, painted crimson despite the constant rain. Eerily the child remained silent, and only by noticing her tiny chest heaving with each breath did they know that she yet lived.

The tale of her conception was whispered among the townsfolk, believed by all to be true. As Kyra bathed in a local stream, washing her gorgeous fiery locks, she was set upon a figure dressed in black with cold blue eyes glaring at her from beneath his hood. She had indeed been lucky to find such a secluded stream away from the lustful gazes of men or so she thought. With tooth and nail she defended herself, tearing his robes to shreds as the water swirled around their struggling bodies. Even as they fought, he laughed, a hollow sound deprived of mirth. He towered over her, easily exceeding her height by a fore, and used his greater strength to subdue the object of his lust. With another bone chilling laugh he tossed her nude body over his shoulder, not seeming to notice the futile kicking of her shapely legs. In less than a moment, his body was pinning hers to the rocky ground of the riverbank, using her to sate his unholy lust. Her screams only excited him and did not bring the aid she so needed. In her desperation, she prayed to each of the gods, imploring them for aid, yet they stirred not as his foul seed corrupted her body. Once sated, he no longer cared whether she lived or died and left her prone seemingly lifeless body to be found by her own people. Indeed, she was found and restored to health as her body began to quicken with the child she carried. With desperation she clung to the belief that it was her husband’s child and did not abort the pregnancy. Such hope was soon proved to be false as her very body was torn asunder by the birth of an unholy child.

Moonlight gleamed upon cold steel as it was pressed against the child’s throat as the group stood in the graveyard. Upon the blessed soil they would spill her blood, trusting to Queprur to protect them from her demonic soul. The mother lay upon the ground appearing serene despite being drenched in blood and rain. Each townsman gathered round, yet only one man could hold the dagger, only one man could prove that he had the courage to kill the abomination. To the eldest and supposedly wisest of them this task fell, his hair white with age yet the fever of zealotry burned within his ancient gaze. Slowly the knife cut, mingling the child’s blood with that of her mother. In a flash of lightning a figure could be seen, standing aloof from them with his dark eyes alight with rage. As he approached the crowd slowly backed away, leaving the one man standing alone, the dagger in his hand seemingly forgotten as it fell from his hand.

“Give me the child and bury your dead. The dead do not deserve such disgrace.” The words of the priest were spoken quietly yet a sense of power emanated from his very presence.

“I give this demon to Death and not her servant. Halt me not for my actions are holy.” Without fear the old man spoke, not fearing death as he knew the end of his life to be near.

“It is not for you nor any mortal to decide whom Death shall take. The Iron Mistress takes whom she pleases without concern for mortal affairs.” The gaze of the priest seemed to soften as if he pitied the man standing before him. “It is well that you do not fear your own death, yet the embrace of the mistress looms near even so. You will die this very night without a single wound upon your body.” He stepped forward, arms outstretched to receive the child. “It is unwise to contend with the gods or their servants. This child is blessed by Queprur and must not be harmed.”

The old man had not lived so long without learning to recognize wisdom when it reached his ears, reluctantly handing the child to the priest. He feared not for himself but for the generations yet to come, those that would know the child as an abomination and half breed. Silently, he rejoined his fellows, aiding them as they swiftly dug a grave, none wishing to linger there longer than necessary. For a few moments the priest watched, cradling the child in his arms. As the woman, mother to the abomination, was laid to rest the priest turned his back and proceeded toward the temple. A scream echoed off the walls as the old man slipped into the grave, his aged heart bursting in its fright as he stared into the dead eyes of a corpse. For the first time that night, truly the first time in her short life, the child laughed.

The sun rose and set on many days as the years passed, the child growing as she was raised in the temple itself. Whereas other girls played with dolls and raced along the city streets, Elysia frolicked among tombstones and statues of demons, fearing neither the dead nor demons. With a mischievous glint shining within azure eyes, she would climb the statue of Ghelgath, Demon Lord of Ice, using the pale marble spikes, meant to resemble shards of ice, protruding from the statue as handholds. Fear was unknown to her, yet she soon experienced hatred, not understanding it as the mind of a child cannot comprehend the darkest of emotions. Visitors of the graveyard, come to bestow flowers upon the graves of their loved ones, would cower at the sight of her, some even daring to curse at her as they called her Elysia the Cursed, glancing about first to ensure that no priest was nearby. With tears streaking her fair cheeks, she would run to her room, a simple room intended for apprentices and not befitting a young girl, curling up on her pallet as she wept. Only Wes, the priest to whom she owed her life, showed any compassion for the girl, raising her as he would a daughter. He would sit with her as she cried, gently stroking her hair as he asked what had upset her. Vainly he tried to explain the hatred men feel for anything they do not understand, telling her that she was blessed by Queprur and not cursed, yet it was years later before she finally understood.

At the age of sixteen, her apprenticeship began. It was her desire nay her destiny to become a priestess of Queprur, to be a cleric as Wes was. She loved him as dearly as she would her own father, if she were ever to meet him or even become aware of his identity. Questions about her father were deftly avoided by Wes as he swiftly sought to change the subject, not wanting the knowledge of whom her father truly was to corrupt this fair child. The tales of her birth told upon the streets of Nyermersys were known to him, only one reason of several why the child was not allowed to leave the temple. As an apprentice, her duties were those of a servant as often as they were actual classes, as only by learning discipline may one become close to the Goddess. Her sojourns within the graveyard became something more as she learned to perceive the ethereal forms of the restless dead. Each night she would listen to their despairing wails as they were echoed within her own soul, their sorrow akin to her own. Never would she know the life of a normal girl, and it was that realization that drove her to study with a grim determination that both surprised and pleased her teachers. Her relationships to other apprentices and even to her teachers were nonexistent, as she cared naught for the emotions of others. No matter how emotionless she became, the bond between her and Wes was ever strong, and only he knew the toll her determination was taking upon her once free spirit.

After twenty years, the day she would become a priestess approached. Others had already ascended beyond their apprenticeships as Elysia seemed to learn slower yet much more in depth than the other apprentices. In truth, her elven heritage was responsible for this though she was yet unaware that she was anything but human. At midnight within the Shrine of Queprur, surrounded by graves, she stood as the priests gathered around her. None truly know the details of the ascension ceremony wherein the apprentice eternally binds herself to the service of Queprur, and Elysia herself will not speak of it. After hours had passed, she emerged from the shrine a full priestess, now garbed in all black instead of the white dress of an apprentice. Elegantly she passed through the gathered priests and entered the temple as a respected priestess instead of an abomination.

For fifteen more years she remained among the priests, performing the duties and everyday rituals associated with worshiping Queprur. The populace of Nyermersys yet feared her for her heritage, yet none dared to express their anger and hatred against one favored by Queprur, fearing the wrath of the Goddess. Nor did Elysia express her disdain of the living, performing her duties with an indifferent silence. As a priestess of Queprur, her only concern was the deceased and their care, the concerns of the living meant nothing to her. Her indifference was absolute as the deaths of mortals could not affect her, or so she believed. She was first among the clerics to see the dark aura surrounding Wes, indicating that his death was near. At the age of eighty four, he was well aware of his limited mortality and welcomed the embrace of his Goddess. Despite her upbringing as a cleric, Elysia wept for the only man kind enough to show her compassion, crying as she had not since her youth. Queprur claimed him in the middle of the night as the half elf slept in a nearby chair. None other than Elysia wept for him, and contempt over such a display of sorrow was evident in the eyes of each priest as they ceremoniously carried the corpse to the graveyard, the body shrouded in the finest black silk. As in her childhood, no one cared to console her, and she remained long after the others had left, her tears falling to the freshly turned soil of his grave. The tears continued for hours, seemingly having been built up within her over the decades. As if the tears themselves summoned him, she found herself gazing upon the ethereal form of her mentor, in the same way she perceived the restless dead of the graveyard.

“Weep not for me, child. I am with the Iron Mistress now and know bliss beyond that of my days among the living.” The spirit moved to stand beside her as his flowing robes seemed to rustle with the slightest sound, akin to that of golden leaves falling to the forest floor in autumn.

“Only those with issues yet unresolved walk upon this world as spirits, unable to pass beyond for they remain entangled in the threads of their former life. Tell me, Wes, what is it that holds you here? You died in your sleep as the aged often do and have none to blame for your death.” Her tears had ceased as she spoke with the dead, her teachings having reaffirmed themselves within her mind. As a priestess, she was accustomed to speaking with the dead and was not frightened as many would have been.

“As you say, I was not murdered nor do I bear any living now any ill will. It is you that should resent me, as I have never told you the truth of your birth, knowledge you deserve to have. Speak not until I have finished, for the tale is best said as quickly as possible.” Tears did not return to her eyes as he spoke of the tales told by the populace of Nyermersys so many years ago, as she listened with a determination akin to that which drove her during her years as an apprentice. As a spirit his knowledge exceeded that of any mortal and was subtly different in how he knew such things. Even so, he knew only that her true father was a dark elf, one whose atrocious crimes against humanity were enough to make even the stoutest warrior blanch with fear. After what seemed to be an eternity, the spirit finally fell silent as he awaited the reaction of his most favored pupil.

“I do not fear death nor should any mortal. With only my ceremonial dagger, I will seek this dark elf, if only to look upon the face of my sire.” Without another word she stalked out of the graveyard, not turning back as the spirit of her mentor dissipated as if it were a fine mist. Only taking time to gather her few possessions from her room, she passed through the gate of the temple as she left the only home she had ever known, seeking the elf that had condemned her to this life of solitude.

Belongings: Within the leather pack worn upon her back, borrowed from an apprentice, are her few material possessions.
- Several black dresses, all identical.
- A small amount of silver.
- Ink and parchment.
- Book of holy mantras bound in worn leather.

Elysia the Blessed


Lady Lost
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Posts: 45

« Reply #3 on: February 17, 2006, 07:23:23 PM »

Mail:  grunok@santharia.com
MSN:  o_josie@hotmail.com

Name: Ciosina (CHI-oh-SEE-nah, or CHO-see-nah)
Age: 16
Race: Human
Tribe: Avennorian, with part Stratanian.
Height: One ped, one fore, one palmspan.
Weight: 1 pygge, 1 heb.
Sex: Female
Hair: Dark brown, long
Eyes: Grey-blue
Title: Lady Lost

Overview: Educated at the Goutonch School for Ladies in Bardavos, Ciosina is a beautiful, but prejudiced young woman destined to marry into nobility.

Appearance: Ciosina has light skin, warm dark brown hair and grey-blue eyes. She wears her hair long and loose during the day, or dressed for more formal occasions.
She is short and slim but not at all skinny, with a full bust and behind. Her face is a smooth oval shape with a petite jaw and high, but not prominent cheekbones which are flushed a delicate shade.

Her eyes, as with all her features, are petite. Their grey-blue gaze is solemn, and can be quite steely. Her eyebrows are finely drawn but are woefully straight, arching only slightly. They sit high on her smooth, unblemished brow. Her nose is small and slightly too button-nosed for her taste. Her lips are small, but highly bowed and plump and are a beautiful deep rose-pink in colour. They are often parted as she was shown to seem demurely attractive. However when she is displeased they may be pressed into a line or a moue of disappointment.

Her voice is a controlled and melodious light alto, pleasant to listen to whether speaking or singing. Her laugh is polite (read: quiet, and often held behind one hand) but usually genuine. She never shouts, as ladies do not shout, although she would be quite likely to speak in a low hissing forceful tone instead when displeased with someone, and she may possibly scream in the extremity of fear, although knowing corsets, she'd be more likely to faint.

Personality: Ciosina is quite a serious girl, although she prefers to think of herself as responsible and mature and would protest that she is quite capable of having fun - when it is appropriate. She takes her studies very seriously, and only in the most extreme situation would one ever see her behave as anything other than a lady. She is polite and gracious with those of her social milieu, and firm but kindly with servants. She has rarely met a common person and when she has they have frightened and disgusted her with their coarse and often boorish ways.

When in her element Ciosina is as charming, graceful and poised as one would expect from a graduate of the Goutonch School for Ladies. However, when she is out of her comfort zone she can quickly become haughty, arrogant, critical, and also somewhat jumpy. As she was taught, these qualities are not expressed verbally unless she is under severe stress, but are more apt to be expressed through posture (i.e. nose-in-the-air) and gesture (i.e. wiping her hands after handling something she considers dirty or inferior, or eyeing something, e.g. food, critically and avoiding eating it.)

Clothing: Ciosina wears the typical clothes for nobility: corseted dresses, covered when necessary with fine woolen cloaks or robes. She favours strong colours, mostly reds and blues, and occasionally greens. While at the school, the Madame very often had dresses made for Ciosina which incorporated the Avennorian style of decorating with crushed oyster shells. It could be argued that this was not in fact due to the Madame's professed fascination with Avennorian culture, but more to do with shell being much cheaper to procure than other dress ornaments. Nevertheless, Ciosina has come to like them herself, as it was one of the few things which made her different from the other girls.

Strengths: Ciosina can read, write, and do sums; she can sew, entertain with charm and sophistication, and is possessed of great poise. She can sing, ride a horse, and can play both the lute and the flute with some skill. She is also quite naturally beautiful, and knows how to maintain and compliment this. She also has a somewhat imperfect knowledge of healing herbs.

Weaknesses: Ciosina has no offensive or defensive skills other than those granted her in a social situation (i.e. posture and gesture, as described above). She has never witnessed violence, and will probably faint or run if she does. She professes appreciation of the lower classes as she understands their role in the feudal system of Santharia, but in reality she is prejudiced against them, feeling that they are inferior, dirty, and usually disgusting, as do most of the girls of the school. They are taught to be kind to servants, but are never told to think of them as equals.

Weapons: none.

Familiar: A northern Sarvonian draught mare called Eghana. Eghana is a big horse, having originally been a carriage horse. She is five fores high at the withers and well built, as draught horses are; she is very dark grey with a white blaze at her forhead, and the tufts around her hooves would also be white if she were to be as impeccably groomed as Cio would like, were circumstances otherwise.

It was during the chill hour before daybreak in the month of Earth Awakening, 1650 a.S., when a strident squalling woke the Matron of the famous Bardavosian Goutonch School for Ladies. She rose, donning a cloak and went to investigate the disturbance. As she opened her front door the source of the noise was revealed. There, on her very doorstep, lay a small child tightly wrapped in fine blue wool.

The girl child was pudgy with a shock of dark hair and a light complexion which suggested an Avennorian heritage, and very small half-furled ears. She looked well-fed and quite healthy, except for the fact that at present her face was a rather alarming shade of puce as the small one vented her frustrations to the night air. Seemingly unsurprised, the Matron took the child in, placing her in the care of the staff at the school. She named the child Ciosina in honour of her Avennorian heritage.

Years later, Ciosina is one of the most refined graduates of the school. She still knows nothing of her birth, although she does not know that the same might not be said of her patroness. School life has been easy and for the most part enjoyable for Ciosina. Friendships and rivalries, classes and society events and the day-to-day life of the privileged are what has so far been her life, all within the close confines of the school.

At the age of fifteen Ciosina graduated. Graduations at the school are a lavish affair, designed to introduce the new Ladies to their prospective husbands. Nobility from all over the Kingdom attend these events, both male and female. It is all very tastefully done, and any registrations of interest are made strictly by post at a date after the event.

Ciosina was quite popular at her graduation (despite the beady eye of the matron which seemed constantly to be upon her) and just less than a month later she was lucky enough to be one of those who had a bid for her hand. Her suitor was one Baron Hordunn of the house of Essus, an ancient Voldarian line. He lived not far outside of Voldar, in the province of Vardynn, far to the north of the city which until then had been her home. The Matron advised her to accept his offer as he was not overly aged, nor cruel by reputation. After only a short deliberation (this was, after all, what she had been being prepared for through all the years of her schooling), she acquiesced.

Two months later the deal was sealed and Ciosina bid farewell to her schoolmates, and took a closed carriage to Vardynn.

She traveled for weeks with only books, a surly driver and a Shendar woman - her temporary bodyguard - for company, reading and thinking of the new life which awaited her at journey's end. Her new life, however, was not to be. Three weeks into the journey, a flash flood hit a bridge that they were crossing, sweeping them away into the rain-gorged river.

Ciosina survived, coming to rest on a riverbank somewhere in mid- to northern Santharia. The coach was upstream a way but there was no sign of driver, bodyguard, or horses. She assumed that as she had survived, the driver and guard also had, and that they would be on their way to meet her as soon as they could, so she found herself a change of clothes, cleaned the mud from her person as best she could, and waited. Days passed and the river subsided. The coach was by then above water, and Ciosina was living inside the coach, surviving on travel rations and awaiting her rescuer.

The Matron sits in her home awaiting news of Ciosina, her latest success and the payment that will surely come with it. The girls’ educations are paid for by the school until they are married when the school is reimbursed by the family they marry into. There is a base fee, or "asking price" which is the same for each girl and then the suitors offer more than that as a sign of their affluence, and so as to be the preferred suitor. These bids are made by post after the Graduation. Of course, none of this is said in such plain terms - it is said instead that "Viscount such-and-such has offered a generous donation to the school", or "The Thane has paid for your schooling fees". This situation explains why critics call the Goutonch School for Ladies “nothing more than a sophisticated house of tempt”: not because the girls are women of anything less than perfect virtue, but because they are available for purchase.

As the Matron waits she thinks back, to when she knew the girl's mother. What a waste that was, she recalls, and slips into reverie…

A beautiful full-blooded Avennorian woman from a noble house, Amorala had finally made it to her Graduation night. Dressed resplendently in her tribal colours, her manner had been perfect as she received the guests. Until, that was, a young local Lord - and a married one, at that - kissed her hand, and stole her heart.

She had spent the whole evening with him, and in private conversation, he had offered to make her his mistress. “Foolish girl!” admonished the Matron when Amorala told her of her decision. “Why this, when you could have it all? Marriage to a Thane, riches, respect, and you wish to throw it all away on a minor noble with a pretty face! I thought I'd taught you better than that. If you go with him, he will give you nothing. Yes, you will have his love,” she spat “but you will never have respect. Think of your children, if nothing else will sway you!” But her mind was made. Love had her heart, and her head was forfeit.

Months later, rumour told that the young Lord's mistress had fallen pregnant, and then days later, that she had disappeared. Poor girl, mused the matron, it would seem that you had not even his love, after all. And then, almost inevitably, the child arrived on her doorstep. The Matron needed no note to discern who her parents were, wrapped as it was in its mother's favourite blue woolen cloak, the one embroidered with oyster shells. A substantial sum of money was concealed inside which the Matron took, for her silence.

Coming out of her reverie she shakes her head ruefully. Ah well, she thinks. At least Ciosina will have what her mother did not...

Nearly a full week went by before Cio accepted that no-one would come for her. Over that week she had gone from resolutely hopeful to worried, to angry, to desperately afraid. On the morning of the fifth day she woke from her exhausted sleep in the ruins of the carriage with a new resolve: to find her way north by herself. She did what she had so far been unable to do and walked away from the wrecked coach, searching for supplies and the horses. She found both, although not enough of either to her way of thinking. She found one of the horses grazing across the river, but the other was nowhere to be found. Judging by the wounds on this beast the other had not survived.

A day's worth of foraging and applying her small amount of healing craft to the horse put her in a position from which to depart the muddy, damp wreck which had briefly been her home. She packed as much food, money and other supplies as she could into canvas sacks which she tied to serve as saddlebags and rigged up a makeshift halter for the big grey draught horse. She named the mare Eghana after the ancient Voldarian guardswoman of that name, in the half-serious hope that the horse could carry some of the spirit of that great woman and protect her from whatever lay ahead. Climbing awkwardly on to the big mare with the help of a nearby tree stump, Cio managed to keep her seat without a saddle despite having to ride side-saddle in her beautiful, but totally impractical dresses.

She travelled west, having no way of finding her direction and eventually ended up at a small village on the edge of the Aerelian lakes after a week and a half of hungry, dirty, dangerous travel to which she was not at all accustomed. She asked at a farmsteading for aid and was directed to the son of another farmer who offered to escort her to Voldar, even to the very doors of Baron Hordunn's estate. The farmers were very kind to her, offering her provisions the same as they gave to the son in exchange for one of the less damaged dresses she had carried with her from the coach. And so, three days later, she set off again.

The son, Bragatt, was quiet and did not speak much to Ciosina that whole journey. This was a mixed blessing - she was half upset, and half heartened by this behaviour. She wished that he would speak with her to make the journey more bearable, but on the few occasions she had tried to converse with him, she was at a loss as to what to say. He did not seem to want to talk about anything she knew about - composers or writers, philosophy or the sciences. In fact, he met these attempts at conversation with ridicule and rudeness, which upset the young Bardavosian. On the other hand, he also did not try to talk about the crude and frightening things which she had heard talked about by this class of person before in markets, or worse, to touch her in a manner which would deny her betrothal. So, in this fashion of awkward, distant companionship they made the journey to Voldar.

Bragatt bid her a kind, if curt, farewell at the edge of the Essus estate and she rode up the long drive alone. It was a long ride past fields and woods which changed eventually into gardens and she had a long time to contemplate how she must look. Riding alone, bareback, on a rather mangy looking cart horse, with dirt covering her pale and careworn face and tattered, stained gown. She gathered her training and sat straight upon Eghana as she approached the building which she would soon be mistress of. Mounting the stairs to the front door, she knocked. Moments passed and she waited, eager for her first sight inside the beautiful place. Eventually the door opened. "Yes?" asked the butler, impatiently looking down his nose. "My name is Ciosina of Barvados. I am here for Baron Hordunn," she said, projecting a confidence she did not feel. After a long moment's indecision from the butler, she was allowed in.

She waited in a beautiful sitting room for the Baron. It was an hour before he arrived, but Ciosina was still as gracious as ever, smiling in pleasure at seeing her intended for the first time since the graduation, and also at the fact that her long journey was finally over. The Baron was formal as befitted one of his rank as she told her story. Once she had finished he nodded gravely and asked her to meet with him after she had had an opportunity to bathe and change into clean clothing. She did so, and a servant led her back to the sitting room again, this time dressed in a beautiful new blue gown which had been laid out for her. The Baron was waiting.

"Dear lady, it is good to see you refreshed", he said, with no trace of pleasure in his eyes. "I can have no doubt now that you are the woman I met this spring. Alas, for I cannot fulfil our promise." Ciosina was, understandably, shocked to hear these words, and begged an explanation from Hordunn. He said that he could not mary one who had travelled as she had, with a man unescorted. It seemed that the Baron was a jealous man who would not marry any whom he could not be assured was his entirely. With little further comment he sent her away. She stayed that night in a small guestroom and in the morning was taken down to the stableyard. She was, the Baron said, to return to the school with his apologies to the Matron.

When she arrived in the courtyard no carriage awaited her. She was given a proper side-saddle and bridle for Eghana, proper saddlebags and provisions, and some somewhat more servicable dresses before being sent on her way. Devastated, Ciosina realised that she could not go back to the school - if she had been rejected once, who would have her? Not to mention the vast distance between her and the only home she had ever known. Autumn had turned the trees to red and gold a month before, and in Vardynn it was already becoming very cold. Tears in her eyes, she turned the big grey mare up the drive and rode away into a cold, dark future.

Edited by: Erian Melor at: 1/14/06 7:31

Monty Leadfist
New Santharian

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Posts: 11

« Reply #4 on: February 18, 2006, 10:28:23 AM »

E-mail faye_004@yahoo.ca
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AIM: faye4070
Frequently in the IRC under Luca_

Name: Montgomery Leadfist

Age: 206

Race: Dwarven

Tribe: Kurakim

Title: Marauding Linguist

Monty is a fully certified nut job. More or less outcast by his tribe, if not society as a whole, he appears as a fearsome brand of misfit and speaks such a fluent dialect of gibberish and incoherent babble that few dare question his rabblings. Regardless, the dwarf is a cheerful man with a love of ale and a good, solid beating… assuming of course he’s on the winning side.

Monty stands just shy (which, it should be noted, is the only context in which shy can be used to describe him) of a ped and a half; tall for a dwarf though nothing especially out the norm from his tribe. He had always been larger among his kin, with a wide girth, but it was during his travels that it has all been toned into a solid mass of muscle and bones of steel. His skin is tanned and leathery from days under the sun, with a few battle scars he is most proud of, particularly a thick white streak running from just below his right eye in a crescent shape around to his right ear. Monty is quick to grin, a big smile of crooked and occasionally missing teeth. Strange for his race, Monty’s beard has been trimmed all around to about four nailsbreadths, causing the coarse black strands, save for the characteristic streak of grey just to the right of his chin, to bristle out from his face, contour to his features and wrap around a large, pointy and wide nose. Though a shameful maneuver in the eyes of his kin, he found this to be most practical since he’s had his beard grabbed at by one too many foes and had one too many pieces of food stuck in it. Monty’s hair is most peculiar, inspired by the time he spent sailing and fishing with the Sanhorrhim, and twisted into long, tight dreadlocks. His mess of black hair falls over Monty’s shoulders to just past his shoulders. Sometimes he manages to tie it back up behind in head in a thick tail with a coarse piece of cord, but more often than not just tries to press it back with his helm.

Montgomery wears a puzzling ensemble of armor in which he is most comfortable in. The pieces, each made of thick, boiled leather of varying colors, are ‘sewn’ together by rings of steel, like that of chain mail. He dons a breastplate, dented, scratched and worn to a polish, that secures under his arms and at his waist with thick, leather buckles. On his elbows and knees, Monty has acquired a set of pads that are strapped securely on by similar buckles. The gauntlets he owns are really just heavy woolen gloves with pieces of leather attached anywhere there isn’t a joint, including small strips along each finger. The forearms are reinforced with steel, as are a pair of plated boots with steel-bolted toes.

Over all his armor, Monty bears a unique piece of attire. It begins as a long strip of heavy, woolen cloth dyed deep green. It is then wrapped around the dwarf’s waist, buckled with a dark brown, heavy leather belt. The large amount of excess material is then thrown over his shoulder and fastened under the belt, half covering his prized breastplate. This method of dress, though somewhat strange looking, is very practical and, despite appearances, very manly. Should one so much as suggest to Monty that he is wearing a skirt or dress, they will find themselves quite incapable of suggesting much of anything else for a very long time.

The final, and possibly most vital and treasured piece of Monty’s outfit, is his helm. It is of obvious dwarven craft (any other make would be obscene) made of good, strong steel with a relieved etching of a gruesome, dwarven battle around the rim. It depicts a memorable moment in Leadfist history where members of the family slaughtered a band of marauding orcs. Down the sides of the battle helmet is a pair of metal slabs put in place to protect the wearer’s temples, but also double as a pair of blinders. Because of this, Monty has no peripheral vision while wearing it (which he almost always is). On the top of the helmet is a hole for a plume, which once held a magnificent, blue bird feather. Having long lost the feather, Monty has re-equipped his helm with a bouncing tail of a shir. The bushel of fur, having once belonged to a very unfortunate fox whom Monty found the sport in hunting, trails behind him and occasionally, much to his annoyance, slides around to tickle at the dwarf’s nose. Still, oddly enough, the fox tail is one of the few things that Montgomery sees the point in grooming on a regular basis, rather specific about keeping it free of grime.


Depending on the unfolding events that leads a person to come into contact with Monty, one of two things will be the first to grab their attention. And, should hearing be their first notice of him as opposed to sight, then it is Monty’s accent that will hold them. Monty’s life has been filled to the brim with adventures, friends and enemies, all of which he’s had a great amount of fun with all over the land. And because of this constant travelling and swapping of different companions, Montgomery has acquired a unique, unheard and completely incoherent way of speech. It starts off thick enough, heavy and hard to understand, but should the dwarf get excited, all resemblance to language is thrown to the wind. The slur, reduced to a fluctuating murmuring if drunk, is almost comical to hear, unless of course Monty is the bearer of important information. It can prove frustrating to all parties, particularly since Monty hasn’t the faintest idea that he has it.

When it comes to other people, Monty is, more or less, a friendly man. He enjoys good jokes, good company and better ale. That is, of course, if the company in question can hold a conversation long enough for Montgomery not to take something as a threat or challenge. He’s incredibly defensive, particularly about his heritage and lifestyle and, should he make a friend, loyalty. He believes strongly in revenge and has a powerful, if not deranged, opinion of honor. He believes that women not capable of protecting themselves (which he believes is bad form, because what kind of wife would she make if she couldn’t slap some decent sense into the kids?) should be defended, but a man not prepared to fight for himself, his land or his family, shouldn’t even deserve the decency of a fair fight. Monty has a small fondness for kids, or at least those capable enough not to flee in terror, but believes in a strong discipline and father figure for young boys. Despite his obvious pride in his heritage, Monty has come to have some disdain for his kinsmen from the more southern mountains, more because of their disapproval of himself.

Montgomery possesses a slightly beserker quality in battle though he is, technically, in control. It is just something about the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the blood lust in his soul that fires up the maniacal dwarf. Monty does not possess a subtle or stealthy bone in his body. If he’s going to fight, he’s going to fight. And if he’s going down, it’s kicking and screaming.


- Possibly one of Monty’s greatest weapons is his sheer intimidation factor. Nobody can doubt that he’s quite the sight to see, with his bedraggled dread-locks and bristling black beard. With an arsenal of weaponry and the muscle to swing it around, just seeing his beserker like rage in battle is enough to strike fear in the spine of the most battle-hardened men. In addition to this, Monty is also incredibly confident and, meant in the best of terms, headstrong. He will charge into any situation, eager and optimistic, despite the odds.

- Not only does Montgomery look like a blood thirsty, battle hardened warrior with no sense or sanity to guide him in battle, it helps that he is one. Spending nearly a century focused on battle, war and his maces as well as traveling from region to region, adversary to adversary, pub to unsuspecting pub, his skill and sheer brute strength is enough to down more than his share of men in a brawl. He was trained in the basics with the mace and axe as a young dwarf by his father, but it was through years of heavy use that he has truly developed them to this level. Though he doesn’t possess any resemblance of grace or form, Monty knows the most basic rules: where it hurts, how to hit it and how to protect it. He is better with his maces than his axe. The double handed, double bladed beast of a chopper is probably most useful when being swung wildly (which, according to him, is different than what he does with his maces, but everybody thinks that’s a load of bullocks) and he carries it more for it’s sentimental value than anything else.

- Monty, though perhaps not the most personable of fellows, is incredibly loyal to any friends he does make. To add to it, despite what it may look like from the exterior, the dwarf is an excellent judge of character. He appreciates hard work and personal sacrifice for the sake of others, unless done for him (any man who’ll risk his life for Monty’s is a “damn pissard of a fool”).

- Monty’s boars, though dim-witted (even for boars) and prepared to eat anything the get their snouts to, are ferocious little buggers, to put it kindly. Heavily muscled from pulling Monty and his wagon and equipped with nasty sets of tusks, the little beasts are a frightful force to deal with if they’re angry.

- Despite being confident and optimistic, Monty is also big-headed and stubborn. He believes quite firmly that he can do anything at all and when he can’t, it’s messy. He gets very upset at his own failure and is quick to lash out at anybody who may have gotten in his way. He never admits he’s wrong and will go through with a nonsensical plan if it means to prove somebody else wrong.

- Monty’s “accent” is sheer gibberish once he’s excited. Hard enough to understand from the start, if one manages to get the dwarf riled up while talking, it will slur into one incomprehensible string of nonsense. Monty has no idea he has this accent and nothing makes him fume more than somebody asking him to repeat something. It makes it hard for Monty to get a point across at all and occasionally for somebody to even take him seriously.

- Monty will never give up or back down in a fight. The only way to drag the dwarf away from a battle requires just that because he won’t leave the field conscious. Highly wound up and defensive, Monty’ll never back down from a threat or challenge, even if it was never meant as one. His temper is legendary and his patience nearly nonexistent. Though he isn’t about to go down easily, even the hardened dwarf has yet to successfully take on an entire crowd unscathed. With a tendency to take off more than he can chew, Monty’s helmet has well earned the dents and scratches that cover it.

- Monty is not the young, adventuring dwarf he had once been despite what he would so like to believe. His bones are old, with a sore grip and rattling knees. And despite it all, Monty’ll never admit to being sore or tired. He’ll tough it out through a storm, a fight or under a heavy load, without so much as a word or a grunt no matter the pain he may be in. On a few accounts, the dwarf has actually passed out from exhaustion, though stands by the claim that he was hit over the head.

- Montgomery is restless by nature. He has a wanderlust lodged deep in his soul and never stays in one place for long. Despite his loyalty, the dwarf will never tie himself down for too long just for somebody else. He comes and goes as he pleases and somebody has yet to convince him to settle down. It has a tendency to give him an almost untrustworthy

- Monty likes to drink. A lot. Nothing relaxes his old bones like a tankard or two or five of ale. He can get rather rowdy when drunk, but it should be noted that he has yet to be drunk under the table. He can hold his liquor better than any mug, and to risk a spill is all the more reason to get it in him! Though he couldn’t be classified as an alcoholic (the dwarf’s too tough for such a weakness in spirit), he does loosen up something wonderful with flushed cheeks. Of course, it doesn’t help the communication barrier any.

- Monty is obliged to care for his boars and wagon wherever he goes. He would never leave them unattended for too long, except perhaps for the occasional stay in a spacious stable (if he absolutely had to). The boars must be fed and the wagon repaired… often. The old, squeaking pile of good dwarven milled lumber (better than any elvish twigs, no doubt) falls apart frequently; in the mud, the side of the road, middle of a crowded street. Anywhere it pleases, putting Monty off track for anywhere from a few hours to a few days.


The dwarf’s most treasured possession, other than his weapons and armor, is his wagon. He’s had his wagon since he’s left his homeland and would die before it was taken away. Made from thick planks of Tulmine core from his northern home, it’s built to last, and it has. The two, large wheels were once made of similar materials, but have long since been repaired and replaced so many times that they differ in color from passing weeks. The wagon itself is roughly box shaped with high sides and a tiered bench in the back with Monty’s gear piled up at his feet. Around the front of the wagon the heavy leather reins for Angus and Nanny are threaded through two iron enforced holes burrowed in the wood which then attach to the boars’ heavy yokes. Across the back of the wagon, scrawled in thick red paint, is a warning written in clear Thergerim: KEEP AWAY.

With the advantage of having a wagon and boars to pull him around, Monty is capable of travelling with more gear than most adventurers would. His skill repairs, whether for his weapons, armor or wagon, are standard and he carries with him a sturdy set of tools. In addition, Montgomery carries with him the basics, such as an extra blanket he’s rarely ever used, some cooking bare essentials and a few odds and ends he’s picked up along the way. The wagon comes in handy in another aspect, as he never has to set up a tent. With a grunt and a heave, the upturned buggy serves quite nicely against the elements of the wet and windy sort. As well as a mode of transportation and a makeshift roof, Monty’s wagon has served on occasion as a supply of income. One would be surprised at how much somebody would be willing to pay to not have to carry their things on their back for once.


The dwarf carries with him a large battle axe, the ornate iron shaft about a ped long with the heavy butterfly blade on the end. The iron shaft is inlaid with gleaming, red copper design that spiral and coil up and around the handle with both precision and beauty. About the shaft are a few small, near nondescript amber stones imbedded against the dark metal. Fanning out from the shaft as it branches out into the double heads of the axe the copper inlay becomes an ornate whorl of flame and what appear to be wasps. Centered here is a large amber stone, a rich brown-red with a wasp long frozen within. The blade itself is kept at a precise edge on either side and Monty makes a point of keeping his prized blade relatively clean (at least of blood, if nothing else) should it get dirty. Granted, the unliklehood of this is high considering that the dwarf is awkward, in comparison to his maces, with the large weapon.

Though the axe is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, his maces are by far Monty’s favorite and most prized weapons in both skill and “style”. The twin maces are of a considerable heft, not that the aging dwarf really notices anymore, and carry a wicked amount of momentum with them when wielded. The iron shafts are relatively nondescript, with well worn handles and their fair share of dents and kinks. The flanged, identical heads weigh about three od each, and possess seven main points with two smaller dips branching out above and below. At either tip is spiked stub encircled by a heavy iron ring.

Perhaps the only relationships Monty’s ever had for more than a week are between him and his woolly boars. A pair of male and female wild pigs, Angus and Nanny respectively, are his best friends. Angus is a massive boar, standing over two fores in height at the peak of his shoulders, and weighing over 2 pygges. His coat is charcoal black, long and shaggy so the dragging strands along his tummy are perpetually muddy. Nanny on the other hand is a soft snowy white and manages to keep herself relatively clean somehow. Both twins, harvested from their den after the mother was eaten with a side of tubers, have a menacingly wicked set of tusks. Angus’ are slightly less than a fore in length, one curved down and the other oddly protruding straight out. Nanny’s tusks are slightly shorter and the left is cracked lengthwise and missing a half.

Angus and Nanny are fiendishly protective of Monty’s well being, but it should be noted that they know their master well enough to know when he truly is in trouble. The two are not unknown to graze nonchalantly as the dwarf faces three men unarmed, but will charge in at the first sign of real trouble. In turn, Montgomery takes careful care of his boars. He lets them sleep alongside him under the wagon in a rough storm (not stemming the stench from either of the three of them) and would probably roast up anybody daring enough to try and pull something on his little piggies.


Montgomery was born and raised in a more southern cavern along the Prominent Mountains to his father, Rauderick, and mother, Clementine, along with his dear twin brother, Gastov. Clementine was a good natured dwarfmatron and head Brewmistress of their cavern. She was calm and polite as far as dwarven standards go and was one of the only people in existence capable of calming Monty. Rauderick, on the other, very other, hand, was a short tempered, demanding sort of man. He was a very well respected smith, the only in his cavern to craft weaponry with such skill, and was proud of his boys as children. Montgomery and Gastov were strong, intelligent and got along well with the others, working hard and honestly at any task given to them. The brothers got along well aside from the expected rivalry here and there, and were the best of friends. It was when Gastov, the slightly older of the twins, took to smithing that things were slightly upset.

Monty’s skill lay with the maces, the weapon he finally took to call his own, and he excelled as a fighter. But his father was blind to his proficiency, living in the shadow of Gastov’s ability at the forge. The older brother was quickly becoming the apple of his father’s eye. Likely to his personality, Rauderick quickly began to raise Gastov onto a pedestal, and punished Monty for what he believed to be his laziness. He accused his son of taking the easy way out, becoming a mindless man of slaughter instead of a craftsman like his father and brother.

Crushed, the dwarf delved deep into his training, excelling marvelously with both the maces and the double headed axe and becoming a formidable warrior in both strength and strategy. It was as Monty and Gastov came of age that the real trouble began. Gastov’s Wirrurt was a basic task which turned out marvelously: a stunning display of craftsmanship in the form of a double headed axe, ornate to the finest detailing along the blade. Montgomery’s on the other hand, was slightly more complicated. There had been sightings of Ashz-Oc scouts around the time, and it was Rauderick’s suggestion that his son finally do something worth doing and lead a troop out to quell any unrest on their lands. Everybody else was rather tentative to this decision, but Rauderick pressed and one simply did not say no to him.

So it was that Monty led a small group of dwarves, all around his same age, out to find the orc party that had been suggested existed. A few days passed with nothing but some old remnants of a single orc’s camp, long abandoned, until finally there was an attack. The troop was ambushed in the middle of the night by a formidable force of roughly the same size. The battle raged and there were losses on either side, but the orcs were far more experienced. When it began to look bleak, Monty ordered the retreat, personally staying back to take down the persistent orcs that dared pursue. Upon their returns, Monty’s men recounted the tale with respect. It was agreed throughout the community that Monty was a great warrior and leader, and he was congratulated and respected. But still, his father was not pleased. Away from prying eyes, Rauderick shamed his son. He claimed that the young Montgomery was a failure and a coward in his eyes, and that he should have stayed and died with honor. Rauderick’s harsh words stung and bit into Monty’s soul deeper than he could have imagined, and the dwarf was left scarred, lost and angry.

It was in his brother that Monty confided in and, to his shock, Gastov urged Monty to leave. He told him to forget their father and to go into the world where he can truly be appreciated. It could be suggested that perhaps Gastov was jealous of Monty’s newfound attention from the rest of the community, but any motive could never be determined. As a parting gift, the smith gave his only brother the beautiful double headed axe before Montgomery slipped out unknown into the night with a heavy set wagon from a friend and an ox to pull the load. Monty travelled north and spent a few months among the people of Eight Winds Bay. He had then been recieved as a trader, though as his legacy grew as a friendly enough man, Montgomery was more accepted as a traveller and a friend. But the time on the road had stirred something within the dwarf, and the wanderlust bloomed into something undeniable within his soul. Bidding farewell to those he had grown acquaintence with, Monty sold the ox and packed in his wagon, setting sail to the south with a transport route, some of whom belonged to the Sanhorrhim tribe. He travelled with the troupe for months on the open sea, learning and meeting new races and new cultures, soaking it up eagerly. Upon reaching land and having grown weary of steady company and horizon, Monty thrust himself back onto the land. The dwarf purchased a set of boars and their line has always served true to pull the identifiable wagon and the parents appreciated for a good meal when their use for labor was through

For a century Monty has wandered, and grown. His memories of home and loved ones grow foggy as they are clouded and shadowed by adventure after adventure, battle after battle and the plain price of age. He recalls his father, though only with anger now, and vaguely his brother as a long departed comrade among seas of many others. Still, he holds strong to his axe and his roots, however much his lifestyle has evolved. Monty’s spirit burns just as bright as it ever has, and through the mask of unbridled madness  

Synder Nytefall
« Reply #5 on: February 18, 2006, 02:04:23 PM »

Mail: pherryn_feybranche@yahoo.com
Messenger: Yahoo/ pherryn_feybranche

Name: Synder Nytefall Nickname among Crimson Blade Pirates: Deadeye Synder

Type: Rogue/Pirate

Gender: Female

Age: 115 Approximate lifespan: 400

Height: 1.8 Ped (A bit small for her heritage 5’9”)

Weight: 120 Od

Race: Elf (Jhehellrhim-father/ Ahrhim-Mother)

Tribe: Black Butterfly Rovers/Crimson Blade Pirates

Title: Jovial Buccaneer (F/Elf)

Synder looks to be about 24 years old in human years. Her time in the midst of the Rovers as a dancer and practitioner of acrobatics made her toned and in exceptional physical condition. Synders life amongst the Crimson Blade Pirates climbing rigging and such has kept her in peek condition over the decades as well. Her bearing is elegant, agile and to some seductive, more a part learned from the Rovers when performing for the public. She has full lips, often painted ginger or black in color, with an affectionate and cheerful beam always upon her face. An aura of happiness and lightheartedness usually follows Synder and frequently spreads to those about her. Her hair is the color of dancing flames on a placid summer’s night, trimmed to near shoulder length, a style of cut she used too conceal her gender in the early days with the Crimson Blades. Synders eyes are the albino red so commonly found amongst her mothers tribe, the Ahrhim. Her agile hands are calloused and scarred from years of hard labor coupled with the brine of the oceans.

A form fitting pair of light tan buckskin breeches covers her muscular yet slender legs. A white and elegant blouse is tucked into the breeches and buttoned low, revealing her opulently bronzed skin beneath. The sleeves often times rolled up to elbow level, for she is accustomed to working with her hands, allowing her freedom of movement. A burgundy sash with flaming golden squares is wrapped about her tiny waist, it is attached in a knot on her right hip and the loose ends flow liberally to her knees. A sturdy rawhide belt is also wrapped about her waist; a brass belt buckle holds it fastened in the front. She wears a tan bandanna with a golden floral design upon her brow, yet she also wears a buccaneer’s hat with lengthy flowing white feathers at times. A pair of thigh high buckskin boots covers her feet, the tops of which are folded over and studded with brass adornments.

Two large golden hoop earrings dangle from her earlobes, the right ear having 4 smaller hoops also golden in color, descending in size to the tip of her elfin ears. A navel piercing has a dumbbell style stud with a black butterfly on one end with a pair of crossed cutlasses on the other. Yet she will wear almost any jewelry that she can beg, borrow or steal for a short time, yet what is listed here are staples that she constantly has on her. A tattoo of a great black butterfly covers much of her lower back its wings outlined in a silhouette of flames. The tattoo is exceedingly detailed and appears to be the labor of a grand artisan. A collar of leather with numerous beads mostly fiery burgundy and orange in color rides elevated on Synders petite neck.

A shamshir pirate sword that has a sculpted metal handle and pommel, with an antique brass finish hand guard and a sailing ship on a rough sea artwork overlaying the entire guard and hilt (Handle length: 17.2 nailsbreadth/ Blade length: 75 nailsbreadth/ Blade width: 3.5 nailsbreadth/ Overall length: 92.2 nailsbreadth). Rests in a black scabbard upon her left hip, the same motif found on the sword is also designed into the scabbard. She has 9 throwing knives all of them well balanced, sleek and intricately designed, each handmade by Synder. One is hidden in each boot, two in sheaths on her belt and the remaining in a bandolier over her right shoulder.

Synders demeanor is brimming with poise, combined with her mischievous smile and radiant eyes divulge much about her. She enjoys a first-class tale or joke, and often times will be the instigator in these dealings. There is little she takes seriously outside of the acts of cruel or violent people. She “knows” that freedom as well as the right to live ones life free from tyranny, oppression and violence is a birthright of all. If confronted by these things she can be very cunning and treacherous to relieve the tyrant of wealth and life if necessary. She is not well educated which can easily be noted by her speech. It is often filled with slang and tinge of sarcasm but is usually kind and caring words for those she meets.

Synder is at ease hanging about in sleazy sections of the ports and lands she has traveled and has seen a great deal of the horrid side civilization brings about in men. She protects herself from these places by hiding behind a veil of sarcasm, trickery or just a feigned show of force. Such is her life and this defense she has set about herself has kept her breathing even over the decades about scallywags and cutthroats. She knows many a ditty and melody, often times singing them for coin in inns and festivals across the lands.

She drinks rather often and numerous times to excess, her undersized stature not helping matters in this area. Synder can become loud, boisterous and flirtatious during these times; she has many times awoken not remembering the events of the night before or only bits and pieces in clouded memories.

Born on the second Halfday, in the seventh month (Falling Leaf) in the year 1545 A.S. Synder is the only daughter of Ginilharc Nytefall (father) a Black Butterfly Rover acrobat and Eryalith Cometsinger (mother) a fortuneteller amongst the Rovers as well. The first few decades of her life were spent traveling across vast expanses of the world with other Rovers. She learned pilfering and thievery from the older children she played with. Many long hours were spent playing games of stealth and trickery upon merchants and caravans they came across. Much of these times are the most peaceful and loving memory filled times of Synders life.

1577 A.S. Synder began being taught all the skills of a professional gymnast and exhibited great dexterity and skill in this area. She became a common staple in her fathers act and often times would steal the show with amazing stunts of agility. Often practicing with her friend Craic, a human male that was surprisingly strong and could hold Synders weight simply, their act containing many wondrous displays, such as back flips into Craics waiting hands or somersaults from Craics shoulders landing on tightropes.

1620 A.S. Synder met a group of young children in the port town of Strata, spending much of her free time with these vagrants committing acts of thievery and cons on the population of Strata. These games continued on and off for near two years until the unforeseen happened. The gang of hoodlums was arrested when they committed a petty theft from a food stand in the markets. Synder was taken in as well, not because she committed the crime but because she was known to be friends with the other children and her necklace of a black butterfly identified her with the Black Butterfly Rovers. Incarcerated for about two months Synder and her friends were “bought” out of the jails by a young boy named Arkan Delath.

She did not know the juvenile man that had helped them yet a few of her other friends knew him from business deals about town. Synder wished to rejoin her family but there was no trace of them when she was freed. The scattered remnants of the Rovers that were in the town of Strata knew little to naught of where Synders band of Rovers had wandered off to. So she stayed on the streets of the city with Arkan and the other homeless children committing more brazen acts of criminal activity. She often played lookout or scout for these criminal heists since she had a fantastic ability to spot the minutest details of a crime. This went on for about three summers until finally Arkan came up with the most shameless of all his ideas.

1625 A.S. The gang, the Crimsons, of Arkans slipped onto the docks of Strata, Synder swam out to an anchored ship. A few of the other gang members stayed behind and set multiple fires on the docks. This caused much of the crew, on the soon to be heisted ship to rush off deck, to battle the flames. Synder kept a close eye on the deck of the ship and let Arkan know when most of the crew had fled; Synder, Arkan and the others from their motley band slipped onboard the trading vessel. She led a small group into the sleeping quarters below deck and silently slit the throats of the remaining crew. While Arkan and his band went to the officers’ quarters and quickly took control of those that remained, keeping only the navigator and a few trained sailors alive. The band of newly formed pirates then sailed from port to make names for them selves.

1629 A.S. The name of the Crimsons began to spread fear along small port towns about Strata. Synder spent much of her time in the crows’ nest of the ship, keeping an ever watchful eye out for boats to be raided, small towns to be plundered and the continually present threat of military ships hunting pirates. Small skirmishes were often at these times yet even these became more frequent and grander in scale. Soon they had enough crew members that the taking of another ship was in order.

1631 A.S. Synder led a small group on rowboats just out of sight of a galley class frigate, the waters calm and the sky almost moonless from cloud cover, leading a small convoy of merchant ships. The crew members and Synder swam to the galley and climbed the rigging. Stealth fully climbing onto the deck she spread out with the other buccaneers and slit the throats of the guards on duty. The rest of the pirates slipped below deck and finished off the remaining gang. Arkan took the helm of the vessel and Synder took again her rightful place in the crows nest, as they turned the ship on those it once protected.

1638 A.S. In this time Synder came to one of the most horrific events of her life. The Battle of the Crimson Blades, here Synder and the motley band of pirates that Arkan now led, faced a fleet of twelve military ships, ten galleons and two galley class vessels. Arkans fleet consisted of only four galley class ships, yet superior tactics on his part and the keen eyes of Synder carried them through the blood soaked day. She had boarded two enemy ships and fought like a she-devil for the sake of survival. Much of that day is clouded in streams of blood and the awful screams of the dieing. So began her slow decent into alcoholism as she attempted to drink away the horrors of that day.

1650 A.S. Synder was traveling on the sister ship to Arkans, The Howling Knave. She was to take the vessel to shore in Strata sell goods from pirated ships and return the spoils to Arkan. At dusk just before they reached sight of the shoreline a raging storm struck the ship causing it to overturn and spill all of the crew into the sea. To this day Synder swears the storm to be magical in nature yet she has no proof, for such a tempest to have hit with such violence with little forewarning she had not seen in all her days at sea.

The taste of salt upon parched lips was her first memories after the gale, which mingled with the sounds of seagulls all about her. Raising up to a kneeling position her red eyes scanned the remnants of the once glorious vessel she once had captained. The seabirds picking the bones of her once glorious band of pirates, she gathered what few items she could and wandered the coastline until finally coming to Strata many weeks after she should have.

After coming to the seaport she joined up once again with a band of Black Butterfly Rovers and has since returned to participating in festivals and some travel. She tends to stay near the city of Strata in hopes of finding Arkan or her parents once more. So it has remained for her over the last 5 years.

Her greatest strength is the regime she has followed most of her life. Through dance, acrobatics and the nimbleness required in a pirate’s life, she is highly agile. She could easily be on par with a world class gymnast; a backwards cartwheel into a handstand would be child’s play for her. This agility also helps her in climbing surfaces very well, a common thing when stealing into a person’s home to “acquire” items that interest her.

The nickname given to her by the Crimson Blades, Deadeye, stems from Synders ability to see clearly at long distances, a feat that has on more than one occasion steered a ship from danger. This correlates into an uncanny accuracy with her throwing knives, due to her great depth perception. Against a stationary target she could easily pin a loose part of a persons clothing to a wall or knock an item from a resting place, at distances of about 20 peds.

The Black Butterfly Rovers taught her many skills in the arts of stealth and infiltration. This allows Synder to sneak among the shadows of the night and strike unwary opponents from hiding. She could simply pass a person not paying attention within two peds on a dimly lit street, with little fear of being heard. This skill has been used in sneaking aboard other vessels at sea and committing sabotage.

Skills of Note
Synder is a fantastic swimmer and use to diving for pearls in many ports. Amongst the Crimson Blades she could dive further than all men aboard which gained her much respect. She has a great sense of direction and can read almost all navigational equipment. Many a moonlit night she has spent in a crows nest watching the stars and guiding the ship by them. She recognizes the majority of the constellations yet only knows the names sailors have given them. To an astronomer she would be hard to understand, for her terminology of the stars is completely slanged.

Her ability to pick elaborate locks and the pockets of others is phenomenal; her agility and hand eye coordination makes such things almost second nature. This has left many enemies, patrons and merchants light in the purse after meeting Synder. She does not steal from those that could not afford such a loss and has been notorious to give such ill-gotten gains to charity and churches.

Alcoholism is one of Synders greatest weaknesses, she goes through long periods of withdrawal when forced to be without it. She sometimes becomes violent towards those that keep her from a drink. Even then she returns to it wholeheartedly when it is about, leaving her a prisoner when there is revelry and merriment to be had. As of present she is a functioning alcoholic yet she slides deeper and deeper into the sickness as the decades pass.

She is illiterate to an extreme and can only recognize places by name that she has been to often. This has affected her speech and manners, causing others to view her as dim-witted or uncouth at times. Anything outside of an informal gathering often times leaves her far from fitting in.

Her free spirit has caused Synder to move about much of her life. She has numerous times moved on when people got close to her. Leaving her without many friends and hurting more than a few scorned lovers. Often taking the valuables from the upper class just before departure, in more than a few seaport cities there are those that would take her life for what she has done. Wanted posters have been posted for Synder for near two decades and a few bounty hunters would joyfully collect on such a prize.

Synder openly exhibits the tattoo of the Black Butterfly Rovers, causing many others to distrust her and even more often than not to be accused of evil acts she did not commit.

She is an addicted gambler often times squandering away any wealth she has acquired. The decades of thievery and piracy would usually make a person extremely wealthy, yet Synder gambles it away like it were in endless supply.

Fighting Style
She does not fair well in close styles of combat, she is only decent with the shamshir upon her tiny hip. She uses the blade and agility more to retreat and strike from a distance with knives, using cartwheels and back springs to put distance from her opponents. Synder could fight a fair opponent with a blade but would be easily overcome by a knight or others well trained in the martial skills.

Many times she hurls knives when in an acrobatic maneuver throwing off an opponent in the heat of battle. This coupled with her agile style of combat usually causes an opponent to be caught by surprise when facing the elfess.

But most of all her preferred style of fighting is swift and from behind. This leaves diminutive chances for an opponent to retaliate and harm Synder, amongst the crowds she has associated with over the decades she is renowned for striking and moving silently into the night.

9 Knives hidden about her person, each of them crafted by Synder and her most prized possessions. One in each boot, two on her belt about her waist, the remaining five in a bandolier over her shoulder.
The clothes noted in her descryption are always with her.
A set of bone dice and a pack of playing cards are in small pouches on her waist.
A large rucksack containing a change of clothes and near a weeks rations.
A set of lock picks is concealed in her right boot.
A small jewelry box in the shape of a pirate’s chest containing some old coins, a few trinkets of jewelry and a map of her homeland is also in the aforementioned rucksack.
A full length leather trench coat, light tan in color, with brass buttons and a large cowl is worn in colder climates.
Two bottles of Mil'no Fire a very potent alcohol. (This is often mixed with water to dilute the potency. But a good shot of it now and then is in order.)

She rarely has the need for a mount and has never truly had a pet. Synder will purchase or “borrow” a horse as needed but she prefers walking to riding.

She performs acrobatics in many festivals with fellow Butterfly Rovers. Sometimes signing onto ships as a sea hand or a navigator, her time at sea has spread her name widely amongst the less than savory fellows of the oceans.

(¯`•."If there's a man among ye, ye'll come out and fight like the men ye are.".•´¯)-Synder's CD

Edited by: Synder Nytefall  at: 2/18/06 6:09
Drystan M
New Santharian

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Posts: 29

« Reply #6 on: February 20, 2006, 11:39:23 AM »

Mail: Cswatek@simla.colostate.edu
AIM: Discipleothunder

Name: Drystan Mórefer
Age: 325
Height: a little under 2 peds
Weight: about 1 Pygge, 4 Hebs
Race: Halfelf
Tribe: Quaelhoirhim / Avennorian
Title: Insane Mage
Occupation:  Wandering, he usually is given food by friends that he travels with.

Overview: Drystan would be a tormented soul, if he could remember any of his past, or see that he is insane.  But, because of this, Drystan is a fairly happy old mage who’s only flaw is accidentally blowing up a wagon or two.

Physical Appearance: Drystan is an old mage.  His face is covered with wrinkles.  He has green eyes, and his golden hair turned while long ago.  All he has left are a few strands, maybe a clump or two of gold left.  He has a long white beard, assuming he doesn’t set it on fire again, with a few golden strands in it.  He is very frail, and has a golden skin.

Clothes: Drystan wears mouse-grey robes and a mouse-grey hat that used to be pointy, but has lost all shape.  All of his clothes are singed.

Personality: Drystan is a friendly old mage.  He gets along with just about everyone…but the same be said about him.  Most find him annoying, troublesome, or just plain odd.  He mumbles about dragons most of the time, and, from time to time, throws fireballs at the dragon.  But he really means well, and when people can stand him, they find him a welcome addition to any adventuring party

Strengths: His fireball.  He can throw a fireball about the size of a head instantly, and any bigger only takes a few moments.  He also can change the size, and range as he pleases.  But he prefers fist – head sized fireballs.  Only when someone (or his dragon) really angers him will he make it bigger.

Weaknesses: Drystan is insane.  He can’t remember his past, and sometimes he won’t remember who he is with.  He follows the guidance of the ‘dragon’ but that is also part of his insanity, so most of the time it complicates things.  Also, Drystan is nearing the end of his life, so he is weak and frail.  Also, from time to time he even forgets his fireball spell, and it happens at the worst of times.  

History: Drystan’s father, a relatively well off trader, was having problems.  He knew he was being cheated, but some how everything added up just right.  After some time, he went to an elven scholar and asked her to look over his papers and records.  A few days later, she discovered a small flaw in his math, and showed him that he was in fact being cheated.  During this time, Drystan’s father fell in love with the elven scholar.  After a year, they got married and a little while later had a little child they named Drystan.  

Drystan’s parents ran a rather successful trading company, not worthy of noting in the history books, but they became quite wealthy.  From an early age Drystan was good with magic.  He had almost a natural talent for fire magic, for some unknown reason.  A little before the age of 13, his parents sent him off to Ximax to study fire magic.  Drystan had been studying for about twenty years learning various spells and he appeared to be the makings of a grand wizard, when suddenly he was struck down by a stage of forgetfulness, nothing too big, but enough to hurt his studies.  Drystan’s mother was worried that he might have the Efer'Avél disease.  But before she could convince his father that he may have it, it cleared up, and Drystan was as good as new.  By this time he had already reached the 3rd level and he learned a fireball spell.  This was beyond his favorite spell, and he not only memorized it, but he has become so adept in using it that he long since needed to say the formula.  He now only uses sulfur to ease the casting a bit.

        When Drystan was 48, his father died.  Drystan was shook with sorrow halted his studies for some time.  After a little while though, Drystan recovered, with immense help from his mother, and he returned to his studies, more determined than ever.

Then another tragedy occurred when Drystan was about 295 years old.  Drystan’s mother was killed in a horrible accident when she was returning from a customer in Nybelmar.  Drystan was once again struck with sorrow.  This time though it lasted for years.  Around when Drystan was 300 years old, the disease afflicted him once more.  It was rather sudden; it went from minor forgetfulness to the full-blown effects in a matter of days.  Drystan doesn’t mind though, he can’t remember much of his past life any way, and sadly enough, he cannot remember the death of his mother.  He is on an ever-getting-sidetracked quest to reach a little village at the foot of the Norong‘Sorno volcano.  There is rumored to be a well that can cure his disease.  Unfortunately Drystan doesn’t remember he is on a quest too often.  Drystan accompanies people he finds friendly until they kick him out or he remembers that he needs to travel south and his company is going north.  

Then, around ten years later, Drystan had a rather odd encounter with a Shapechanger Dragon.  The dragon appeared in front of Drystan and started talking to him.  The dragon was in need of a pet, it had eaten it’s last one, and it wanted to take Drystan as it’s pet.  Drystan gladly accepted the offer.  Unbeknownst to Drystan however, the dragon was entirely a figment of his crazed imagination.  But Drystan still sees the dragon, and constantly blames everything on it.  The dragon often appears to him as a man dressed in black tights with white cuffs, this silky thing that ties around his neck, and a black over coat.  

Now Drystan wanders Santharia, getting no nearer to completing his quest.  The dragon taunts him, and his disease will continue to make him insane, but this generally happy mage wanders about, making life hard for those who encounter him.  

Magic: Drystan is a level 8 mage, having studied at Ximax for 287 years (the equivalence of 55 human years), but only can cast Fireball (santharia.com/magic/fire_...reball.htm ), it’s the only thing he can remember to cast.  The Fireball is fairly potent, and he can cast it in a moment since he is such a high level mage.  But he rarely uses it, and when he does it is usually to attack his ‘dragon’.

Weapons:  Just a walking stick that he has had for a long time.

Belongings:  aside from food, only he staff, and his clothes, and a pouch of sulfer

Familiars: His Dragon.  One day, he ran into a shapechanger dragon.  It just appeared in front of Drystan and started talking to him.  The dragon was in need of a pet, it had eaten it’s last one, and it wanted to take Drystan as it’s pet.  Drystan gladly accepted the offer.  Unbeknownst to Drystan however, the dragon was entirely a figment of his crazed imagination.  But Drystan still sees the dragon, and constantly blames everything on it.  The dragon often appears to him as a man dressed in black tights with white cuffs, this silky thing that ties around his neck, and a black over coat.  

Kain Cristar
Divine Aspect
Approved Character
Offline Offline

Gender: Male
Posts: 588

Elf, Co'orhem Kayrrhem

« Reply #7 on: February 21, 2006, 03:13:23 PM »

To contact James, simply search into the most rancid and desolate corner of your own soul. If you are without such dark and sinfull inhabitions, and find yourself to be pure of intent and heart, you will have to e-mail me @ Kain572@graffiti.net OR leave an EZmail in any of my character's inboxes.

Kain, The Divine Aspect

Weight:1 pygge 8 hebs

Eyes:Pale Cerubell and Ithild
Hair:Cyhalloi Snow with Sor’inyt Orange highlights
Skin:Pallid with Karikrimson tattoos

Title:Aspect of Divinity


Kain Cristar is a Mage of confused intentions. He expresses his rage for all life by changing it to his will. In this he finds a vastly superior poetry. The basis of Kain's being is that he is driven by an inner darkness. A darkness which urges him to destroy all other darknesses. He hates himself and yet covets his pitiful existance. He hangs onto life with an iron will and scorns all that tries to snuff his raging life force. Kain is certainly not a heroic man, yet he his only purpose is destroying all evil around him.


Kain is tall and striking in appearance, with pale flesh covered in Karikrimson tattoos. Most noteable are areas around his eyes,  The symbol for Static Bolt on the palm of his left hand, and the incantation for Clap of thunder across his chest. Most tattoos are  different spells that he has memorized, bled onto his chest with pain and ink, though some are merely dark symbols that frothed up from the raging storm of his mentality. In relation to human standards, he seems to be in his late twenties.

Kain's body is thin and lanky, sporting soft muscles and no hair. His gracefully long arms lead to spider like fingers, which seem to always be poised, at the brink of unleasing furious death on all around him. He is unkempt and wild, yet dashing in a windswept and chaotic way.  

His face is dark and sharp. Kain's eyes are Ithild around the pupil, and pale Cerubell at the edge of the iris. Like a blue sun surrounded in a storm of snowy grey. They are always focused on something, always fiery and intent. His nose is sharp and points downwards, toward his thin and sneering lips. Thin sor’inyt hair rests raggedly atop his head, which is covered by a light cloak's hood.

His expression is that of a storm. He carries himself with its chill wrath and moves with the grace of the western wind. He explodes into action with the force of the hurricane and speaks with the rage of thunder.

Kain almost always wears his cloak, which ranges in shade from deep nor'sidain to pale barsha dusk. This garmet is unique in many ways, first of all the cloak stops at his midrift, giving him ample room to manuever. Also instead of being open at the front, Kain's cloak is slit open at the left side, with a large triangular opening. The inner lining is filled with hidden pockets, which hold all of Kain's reagents, runes, spell book, and spell scrolls. Lastly, the cloak is crafted so that it hides half of his face. The tailorship is hard to describe, and it is best to discern specific details from the portrait provided.

Under the cloak Kain wears a strange one piece outfit. The suit is form fitting, and is held together with a series of brass rings attached to white strips of cloth. Once again it is best to just consult the provided portrait. This outfit has sections of thick boiled leather at the chest, groin, outer thieghs, shins and boots that absorb damage. There are no arms, and the leather sections are small enough that all of his key joints are given ample flexabilty. His abdomen, knees, inner legs, and ankles, are covered by thin nor'sidain cloth. He also wears a belt with a large circular brass ring at one end, which he uses as a pressure clasp to hold it together. The belt holds his heavy short sword. Kain carries this more for the appearance of capability than anything else. He is far to weak to wield it effectively in battle, and without any formal training. Kain will also use it as a focus point for the casting of intense spells, though he is more likely to use Moh'epher for such a task.


Kain is an evil being, yet acts much like a hero. He is driven by dark lusts and psychotic ambition, yet he desires for little other than the complete erradication of that which he believes to be wrong. This makes him heroic in a twisted sort of way,  yet he does not follow any of the archtypical conceptions of classical heros. He wants to stop evil, he wants to fight the shadow and he is driven to decimate all darkness. At the same time, he hates the common man, he yearns for power beyond the imagination, and draws his greatest powers from the shadow itself. The only things Kain respects are beauty, knowledge and power. He finds most other races distastefully ignorant, and distrusts most people.

In the classic hypothetical situation, if Kain is to hear a call for help, he is less likely to rush in, slaughter the minions of hell that have entrapped the maiden in distress, and ride into the sunset; then he is to run in, slaugher all the minions of hell that have entrapped the maiden, then suck her dry of power so that he may challenge the evil lord who rules the minions of hell who he just slaughtered. The main deciding point is an equation which involves the beauty of the maiden and her repulsion to himself. Thus Kain has problems. He dispises all that is not pure, yet he himself is the cess that most cess stays away from. Born of rape and murder, raised by Co'orhem elves, and weighted down by thousands of sinful acts, Kain is disgusted with himself in every concieveable way.

This loathing shines through when he interacts with other people. He keeps to himself in most situations. When he does talk, it is usualy either to condemn himself, defend himself, or condemn annother. Kain believes that all, even and especially Avá the beautiful, are corrupted and twisted. Each has a potential to do good acts, and each will always convert to evil in the end. He is suspicious of everybody and has never trusted anyone in his life. He is more fluent in words in books than actual speech, and so his speech has an archaic flair.

The aspect of Kain that sets him apart from any of his elven breatheren is lust. His lust makes him more human than elvish in some ways. Because of the complete isolation of his youth, Kain yearns for all that he has never had. Deepest of all he yearns to be loved.

He wants control and power, things that were denied him, he was the lowest of the low, the weakest and the dejected. This is usually more of a human trait, to want to be the best, and isolates Kain further from his own people, he likes riches, power, and knowledge. He covets personal gain.

Yet more than that, he wants to be loved. He does not know that he wants this, he does not even understand the concept of love. He understand betrayal, hate, and pain, but love is completely foriegn to him. Having never felt it, Kain does not recognize when he does love something, and simply associates the feeling with sexual lust. Were he to think that a female actually cared for him, he would grow confused and bewildered. He would feel almost, accepted. If he felt something back, he might even express it. He might even begin to bond with them, and trust them! Thankfully, such a vile thing has never happened, and probably never will.

One last aspect of life that Kain covets is beauty. Kain despises all that would harm the beautiful, and protects what he finds to be especially beautiful. Thus, the beautiful have sway over his mind, and are the only things that could use his trust. Kain is no weak judge of beauty, having lived for nearly three centuries, he is only striken by people or things of divine beauty. Far above any sort of norm. Yet these oddities have a certain control of his being.


Kain carries with him an extremely potent sword that he calls Móh'efér. This blade is thousands of years old and originally wielded by the bone queen, then later dubbed the midnight blade and used by one of the Chosen. This weapon enhances his magical spells in truely gruesome ways. Wind spells are known for their healing of the soul and the body. Kain uses them to deal justice upon those deserving it, giving them a taste of their own torturous medicine. The weapon warps the effects of his spells, making them more powerful, and much more malicious. Usually this means that when he casts a violent spell, it gives him some of his target's life force. Sometimes the blade makes a spell more deadly by imbueing it with vile powers. With this weapon Kain's already formitable spells become utterly devastating. A blast from Kain can easily rend powerful enemies to peices. When Kain attempts to heal others with spells such as enlightenment, the effects are both good and bad. On one hand, the person will indeed find themselves cured of what had ailed them, and Mo'epher will instensify Kain's abilities. On the other  Kain is often burdened with some of the wounds that he heals (mental or physical or spirtual), and the weapon taints the very person Kain is trying to save with its dark malevolence.

Such a powerful tool comes at a terrible price. The physical effects of this soul drain show in his eyes, which appear to be washed out and faded. Also his body is physically weakened. While using the blade to cast spells, he is physically damaged. This damage ranges from sore muscles, bloody noses, and burnt fingertips to broken bones, large lacerations, third degree burns, and internal bleeding. Each different wound is of course granted with its own ingenuitive form of pain. Each wracks is body with more horrible pain than even an elven mind can handle. A spell with a longer casting time usually means more damage, as his wounds grow over that period of time. The basis of the wound, or its beginging, is determined by the power of the spell. He must concentrate through the pain in order to finish casting the spell. This, in addition to the chaos of battle, is a daunting task indeed. When over exerting himself, Kain can black out due to the pain and damage his body has taken; this can lead to disasterous effects, like spell fizzling. If he can stay awake through the a powerful spell, then he will invariably black out just after the spell is finnished.

His body is not the only aspect that the sword thrists for. His mind is slowly maddened by its power. Each moment that he holds the blade in his hands, it urges him to do evil acts. Casting his spells for nefarious purposes, slaughtering the innocent, rape, pillage, murder, and the pursuit of chaos. Each day his will is broken more and more, until it brings him to do its bidding. About once a month, Kain is driven mad by Moh'epher's dark intentions, he remembers everything he has done, he watches himself do it in Co'or's vile name; yet he cannot stop himself. By the time he regains control, it is absolute. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes it takes days. Every time, however, he once again has complete control of himself, only for the cycle to begin again. As the time of his breaking comes closer, his mind can lose control at vital moments, such as the directing of one of his powerfull spells. This usually leads to him scorching one of his team mates rather than the monster they are facing off against.

Kain's soul is also drained by the weapon's power. This cycle is guided by the light of the sun. At any time where the sun is comming onto the blade, Kain grows weaker. By high noon on a sunny day Kain could more more cast a spell than you or I, as the blade needs his spirit to defend itself. He feels frail and weak, as he indeed is. His body is more suseptable to damage, as is his mind. He is much slower and the world seems to be a blur rushing ahead of him. But by Midnight he is rejuvinated and all the life that he had lost surges back into him, with the additional boost granted by the sword's might. He feels like he could crush stones with his bare hands and can feel his magical potential pulseing in his ears and fingertips.

Lastly, Móh'efér's influence on Kain's spells wanes by daylight. If Kain could summon the energy to cast any spell in pure sunlight, without a cloud in the sky, which he can't, it would be as pure as any good wind mage's. But by midnight, or on a stormy day, the spell is more the sword's than his own.

For these reasons, Kain is mainly a nocturnal person. He tries to sleep through the day, though it makes him much more vulnerable. When he is adventuring with other hero's this is a difficult thing to do. Most adventurers are awake in the day and sleeping at night. Therefore Kain is not nearly as useful a party member as he would seem to be, if the party leader met him at dusk or during the night.

A blade of this power was not built this century and surely not in the century before that. Many years ago, when the "midnight-blade" was well known and feared (being in the hands of a powerhungry mad man, Whom the blade eventually slew.) sages debated the blade's origin. Some clerics stated that the blade was built for Lokath by Kahlkaroth, citing its ability to corrupt wind magic, other mages were sure that the blade had been forged for use in the war of the chosen, and others decided that the blade was much older, created for the Bone Queen. No body knows why it harms its wielder so, some say it is because the weapon is ment to be handled by a Demon Lord, and uses the godly powers of such a master to enable much more powerfull effects, others assume that the mortal creator of the weapon was mad. The only two written accounts of Móh'efér supposedly originated in a piece of literature that escaped the ruins of Fa'av'calar, and much later, an ancient tome in the Aellenrhim Library. The writtings are broken into two very differant time periods, One is old beyond dating, and the other is dated around 8000- b.S. Both are now lost, due to a devistating orcish raid. That is all beside the point however. Within these newest papers it is stated that the blade was mended within massive forges of pure liquid flame (this is assumed to be taken as within the heart of a volcanoe.) and cooled within a pool of an elven slave's blood. The smith of the weapon is not clearly stated, though it is said that he had powers of demonic origins. The Tome's subect is centered around the times of 9000 b.S., which is about the same time as the war of the chosen. This leads to the belief that the blade may have been created by one of the Archmages to be used in the battle of the winds. The coloration of the blade being a deep crimson black seems to suggest that it might even have been hammered within the bloody forges of Tak'Dinal. Yet it is noted that the entry specifically used the word mended, which infers that the blade had already been forged, and was simply being reshapen. The first and elder document is far older than the first and its origins alone truely date the Midnight Blade. The scroll tells the tale of the bone queen and her battle with the orcish general, Us’gar Loc’um’rak. It clearly states that she is armed with a gigantic blade with devestating magical powers, which is broken in the heat of battle. Whether or not any of this is true is up to the reader.

Though it would expain why Kain found the blade where he did. The battle that ended the War of the fallen took place near the castle of Tak'Dinal, where there now resides the Eight Winds Bay. In this battle a massive spell was cast the destroyed the surrounding area and all of the warriors in it, including four of the Choosen. Considering the proximity to The Archmage Eckra The Cruel's (who was master of Tak'Dinal) homeland Kain assumes that the blade was carried by him into the final battle, which he fought to the bitter end.

The tome calls the weapon "The Midnight Blade" goes on to further detail about the blade's creation and uses. Many of the powers that the book speaks of seem unlikely to really have been inbued within the weapon. Such as the notion that the blade eventually mutates the wielder into a demonic apperation. The book literature in stating that the blade was last taken into a great battle of wrongful death, and where no man lived. "With the twelves will, the blade was burried beneath sand and water for all of eternity. Let us all hope it shall never touch mortal hands again."

Moh'epher is a heavy two handed sword, with an oddly pocked and pitted blade, making it resemble volcanic rock. The sharp edge of the weapon is deep Karikrimson, and the fuller is a void of Nor'sidian. This makes the blade look like it is perminatly stained with blood. The hilt has an intricate design, though it is unknown just what the design depicts. Because of what seem to be horns acting as the hand gaurd, it is usually assumed to be a very stylized representation of Kahrlkaroth. The actual hilt is wrapped in supple Ilthid leather and easy to hold, with a light pommel which does little to balance the weapon. No one is quite sure what the weapon is made of, though it is easily stronger than good steel, and seemingly impervious to rust.


A helpful list full of links of spells most commonly used: Kain is a level six Ximaxian mage

I. Vanish
II. Confusion
II. Enlightenment
II. Wind Walking
III. Reign of Dakness
III. Insubstantial Shield
V. Dark Bolt
VI. Fist of Thunder

Kain began to learn the ways of wind magic when he was 33 years old. At this age he came to Ximax. He was tired from his escape from Nybelmar and yet eager for knowlege. Many of his teachers took kindly to his will to learn magic for the helping of others, and his urge to destroy the minions of the shadow.

His ability to easily focus in on the world around him and to quiet his mind became useful assets for the two centuries of his life, in which he learned to master wind magic. He moved up the ranks by his own speed, assuring himself that he was a master of each aspect of a spell before he moved onto the next, studying each sphere with obsessive accuracy. He did not move quickly up the levels, but he did move thoroughly.

Kain became devoted in nothing but the ways of the Car'all and rarely did anything other than study and train. His already haggard and thin body became starved as he prepared himself for a deadly reunion with his father, and the evils which he represented. Kain would practice the accuracy, stamina, and distance of his destructive spells outside the city walls on anything that he could find. He would unleash his might until he was drained of all power, then do it again the next day. Slowly he built up his will to resist fatigue and also the accuracy with which he could hit his foes. His obsessive personality and eagerness to magnify the prowess of his will have paid off with his mastery of wind magic.

His mentors became concerned with his increasing intrest in spells like Clap of Thunder, Confusion, Touch of Fate, and Static Bolt. They told him that he must seek balance, yet left him mostly to his own.

As he rose in level and was granted access to more of the Ximaxian Library, he found a new intrest. The War of the Chosen. The power of the ancient mages astounded him, as did their greed and corruption. He read everything that he could get his hands on, and discovered quite a few referances to a blade of dark powers.

He spent more and more time researching this blade, and soom was obsessed. He had to have it. His mentors grew disturbed and as he was on the verge of graduating from the academy they informed him that he must change his ways before they allowed him access to such power. He debated with them to no avial, they thought he was unfit for the power of a full seventh level mage. He fumed and raged and after six days of intence planning, left for the northern lands.

Some of Kain's spells have been modified by Mo'epher's influence. The two most changed are static bolt (dark bolt) and Clap of thunder (reign of darkness).

When Kain casts Static bolt, he unleashes and thick black stream of energy from his outstreched palms. The writhing blast connects him and one opponent for a few seconds, frying his foe to a charred husk, and feeding Kain his life force. The bolt can be manuvered with Kain's palms, as the normal static bolt. The rush he feels is like falling off of a mountain. He feels alive as it drains his foes. The target feels a burning sensation, much like being hit with lightning. They can sense their flesh boiling for as long as they stay concious. Also they should feel their nerves spasm as they are overloaded, a sharp pain that roils across their body. Much like being struck with actual lightning. More hearty foes, who can ignore the pain to a degree, sense something like a river flowing down form them, along the center of the black energy, and into Kain. They can feel their strength leaving their body, and a sensation much like having large amounts of your blood pulled from your body.

When casting Clap of thunder, for instance, the weapon summons a Nor'sidian cloud into existance, which forms into the shape of a fanged skull. Then black lightning bursts from its open maw, slashing down Kain's foes. After the spell's effects damaging are complete, Kain gains some of the energy that his enemy lost, making him stronger, healing his wounds, and granting him unholy virtility. His foes feel a pain similar to that of Dark Bolt.


Kain is suprisingly well armed for somebody who knows almost nothing about swordplay. The pointy end goes in the other person, and not in you. That would sum up Kain's skill with the two swords he carries. While his short blade is much smaller than Moh'epher, its broad blade gives it alot of wieght, and he is slow to the draw to say the least. While Kain could theoretically fight an unarmed and untrained foe with some hope of a living outcome, such theory is not advisable. He has slit quite a few throats, and uses the blade to disembowl unsuspecting foes, but if it comes to actual combat, Kain will simply fry his foes. The blade is also used for various non violent tasks.

Moh'epher is always carried upon his back, With its sheath strapped to a leather strap that swings from his shoulder. The blade is so long, almost 2 peds in length, that it cannot be worn at the hip, and is almost useless in combat. The blade takes a long while to draw, being longer than most men are tall! Since Kain must be holding the blade to use its postive enhancements (if they could be called such a thing) he usually just reaches behind his back and holds the hilt while casting. When he needs both hands he will pull the weapon off of his back and spear it into the earth, and then begin his incantations. Sometimes he just holds the blade, but because of its immense weight this is very tiring and done sparingly.


Kain is battle hardened and experienced in the ways of killing. He can keep his cool while wading in pools of blood and mutilated bodies. He is couragous and does not psyche out easily, having lived through some of the worst terrors imaginable.

Cunning is one of Kain's most over looked abilities. He is devious and quick of thought, he formulates intricicies and  has the time to alow such longminded planes to work themselves out. Kain is intelligent not at all unimaginative.

His ability to focus on one thing not only makes him a powerful mage, it also allows him to singlemindedly persue a task with all of his powers. Whether it be kill that man, or get that sword, Kain is very good at single tasks.

Will is Kains strength of spirit, which has few bounds. Kain is willing to die for what he believes in, and to go down with a fight. Kain will not give up, and will give his dying breath to a battlecry. His force of will, his will to survive, has stayed him during the worst of times, under the worst of tortures. Where full grown men would perish, Kain has thrived as a child. Now Kain has faced the twisted north, were few ventured, and scorns that which has tried to end his life.

Kain learns about his foes before assaulting them. Thus any criminal that is well known, Kain knows of, and understands their most basic weaknesses. Characters such as Darien Gulath, and The Ghost, have been studied carefully by Kain's stormy eyes.

Kain is a powerful mage. His ability to destroy is awesome to behold, he wields the power of lightning and wind. He smashes his foes and blasts them to oblivion. His quick focus and flexible car'rall both give him an edge, as does his centuries of experience in the ways of magic and his devotion to its ways.

Mo'epher is an artifact with few peers. Wrought many millenia for the use of a blood thristy elvish queen, then brought back to use for one of the Choosen, its history alone is impressive. Its capabiltiy to corrupt, torture, and defile both its master ands his foes are both terrible and beautiful in a dark way. Kain wields its powers uncaring of the damage he does to himself, so long as it does greater or even equal damage to the forces of the shadow.


Kain is frail, his body is starved from his long journey and he is very weak. His very being is twisted by the evil places he as resided for the past fourty years, and his capacity to take damage is greatly reduced. Where his spirit is strong his body is weak. He would have a hard time lifting half of his body weight, and grows weary easily. Long treks and prolonged battle are hellish for this elf.

Single mindedness. Once Kain has his mind on something, it is nearly impossible for him to see the outside his tunnel. Not only is this bad when facing situations with multiple factors which must be faced at once, it is also disaterous to what little people skills he may possess. He is right, and he will not reason with his rightousness. There is only black and white, good and evil. Anyone who thinks otherwise can burn.

He is burdened with dysmal people skills. Companions are not a luxury that Kain can afford. He lacks the gold to pay them off, and the charisma to keep them on his side. Kain usually works alone, or at least outside the main body of the group. This is usually a bad idea in battle, since Kain has now way of defending himself when his considerable skills in magic are not an option.

Kain's mind is fractured. His childhood and his recent years in the northlands have ravaged his sanity. He is unstable and cannot be trusted. He cannot have friends, he trusts no man, he fears love and caring. The closest things he has felt to these abstracts are admiration and respect, which he could care less about. With the added effects of Mo'epher, one can never be sure who Kain might strike down with a rain of vile lighting.

Mo'epher has many down sides, and has driven him more than slightly insane. When it holds sway, Kain is a blood thirsty ravager. He consumes innocence and spits out death. The sins that the Midnight Blade has caused him to unleash upon the world are too terrible to speak of. Kain hates himself with the same fervor that he hates all other evil, and is almost as likely to vaporize a friend as a foe. Kain can black out due to the damage that Mo'epher inflicts upon him, and has a hard time casting his most intensive spells.

Kain respects few things, and most of all, he respects things of great and wonderous beauty. Those things, or people, he will try to protect and associate with, as they strike within him a rare awe. Thus beautiful people, or people possessing especially beautiful things, could potentially use him.


Kain was born of rape and lust. He never knew his mother, who was a young Kayrrhem woman with ideals of peace and harmony. She died giving birth, as is all to common. He would rather not know his father, an older Co'orhem filled with a need to fuel hate, chaos, and greed. Kain grew up lonely and despised for his lesser breeding and his half blood status. Yet, we jump far ahead of ourselves, it all began in a cool dark night...

The stars shone down with a twinkling embrace, wrapping their adoration about S'ishay. She walked confidently under their gaze and within their arms. It was late and she was still far from home, but she was not afraid. Nothing had ever happened on this route back. Insects chirped and the air was clean. She moved slowly and beheld the beauty about her. Birds cooed their last songs, before falling into peaceful slumber.

Shadows shifted behind her and an icy breeze clutched about her neck. Suddenly she could feel razors race down her veins and her heart clench tight in terror. She did not know why she was so afraid, but something within her told her that evil actions were afoot.

She spun around, eyes wide and eyes darting in every which way, fearing what she might find. The path was clear, naught but a leaf swirled across its dusty surface. The trees about her cackled mightily, and what was once a beautiful nightscape was now a nightmare. The stars were hidden in malicious clouds and the moon was a sliver of hateful yellow light looming in the horizon.

Hot breath slid down her back, and a deep voice spoke vile words. Before she could act she was held within arms like crushed the air out of her lungs. She could do nothing, she couldn't even plead for her life.

By the morning she had staggered back to her village. Tear streamed down her face, and cuts and bruises adorned her body. Her beautiful dress was stained with blood and dirt, and her mind was nearly broken. She had not even seen her assailant, a dirty piece of cloth had been wrapped around her face as he did his dark deed.

Her family cared for her as she regressed in health and mentality, she would not eat nor drink by herself. In her mind she was forced to relive that night every moment for the rest of her life. She would scream some nights, and others she would be silent as death. As the months passed, it became apparent that she was pregnant, and a great debate arose as the whether or not the child should be slain. On the day of Kain's birth S'ishay made not a scream of pain, nor a groan of agony. Despite this, it was apparent that something had gone wrong, as she began bleeding profusely. As the midwife held the child in her arms, and prepared to end it's short life, a whisper arose from the deathly pale girl, "Let him live." The midwife, who happened to be the S'ishay's sister, slowly lowered the knife who's purpose was to slay the infant. Those words gave Kain a long life to live, and fueled a vehement vengeance within him.

Kain grew up with his mother's family, though he was always kept away from the other children, and never allowed to eat at the same table as the rest of the family. Other adults would whisper about him, spreading rumors of his heritage. The most popular belief was that he was born of a Co'orhem father, though some when as far as to say he was spawned of Co'or himself.

Needless to say, Kain was given much alone time. With this time Kain would study himself, he would sit for hours concentrating on the objects of life around him, he would write sad poetry about everything he saw and heard. He felt that he could imprint some of his being into the things he wrote about, and strove to make himself and those things one. Most fascinating of to him was the wind. It's freedom and power bewildered him.

Because of his outcast nature, Kain was rarely found within the village limits, and preferred to sit in the midst of a thick grove of trees and bask in the filtered radiance of the sun and the wind licked his cheeks and hair. He would speak to the wind, though it never said a word back. He would tell it how the others hurt him and shunned him, and would whisper his deepest darkest secrets.

Though the other elves scorned him mostly because he was the spawn of his father, he would fantasize about who his real father was. Most often he was a daring seaman, who braved monsters and evil mages to get sad people to a happy place, or a powerful mage himself, who studied arcane knowledge and healed the dying. Once, when he told his grandmother of his daydreams, she slapped him with a cold glare, telling him never to mention his father again. This just agitated Kain more then ever. Maybe he was being hunted by the village for some injustice or another. Kain would write stories about being rescued from the village by his father, and living in a great palace and becoming a powerful mage. Most of them ended up in the fireplace.

As the years passed, Kain grew closer to the wind. He was able to feel its touch in ways that he could not explain, and he could touch it, not in the usual way, he could really touch it. He was only able to do simple things, he would shape it and move it to his whim. Now the wind spoke back. And as Kain neared his twenty ninth birthday, it began to speak ill oaths. Dark brooding was carried by the winds words, carried by the swaying of the giant trees that surrounded Kain's home.

He was out in the forest, in one of his favorite tree groves, and brooding in the cool shade. He was falling in love with one of the village girls, but she would never pay him any heed. He grumbled to himself and scratched hateful words into the soft dirt. The deep gray clouds above him carried the scent of his hatred, like cinder and fire. The roiled with screams as he growled at his misfortune, and they glowed with an eerie orange light as he fumed and beat the huge oaken trunks around him. He rested for a short while after he had worn himself out, he rested and wondered where the sun had gone.

As Kain walked back to the village, a horrible rot took root at the pit of his belly. He could smell the stench of burning and he could now see the thinning smoke in the sky. He feared for his family and for himself. There was no place to hide. Marauders were not so uncommon in these parts, Co'orhem with cruel knives and torches would attack small villages like Kain's own and decimate them. Yet Kain had never imagined that something like that could happen to him.

As he neared the village, the stench of seared flesh assailed his nostrils, and the weeping cries of the wounded called out to him for aid, aid which he was eager to give. Kain spent the day and night healing and comforting those who had shunned him all of his life, and felt at ease by his bloody task. He felt accepted and at ease, he felt like this was the kind of thing his father would do, this was a hero's task. Only a handful of his fellows lived through the night, and each owed it to him that they did, and knew it. They were grateful and two even apologized gently. Kain vowed that he would find the men who brought such pain to the world and destroy them by any means possible.

After four weeks of obsessive nursing, many of the elves were able to take care of themselves, and the others who were wounded with broken bones. Kain found a heavy bladed shortsword under the soot of one of the charred houses, and left to complete his vow.

The boy had no way of finding the assailants, and was not sure of what he would do when he did find them, yet none the less spent every waking minute searching for tracks. In the end, they found him, not the other way around. A lucky thing too, if he had found them first he would be dead.

Kain was soon lost in the wild and starving for food. He had never strayed more than a strall from his home village and had never slept a night alone in the thick forest. As dusk came on the youth began to grow worried. His shortsword was heavy in his hands and his eyelids felt even heavier, he wanted to return to the village but he had no idea were to go. Eventually, the weary elf curled up under the protective branches of a large tree and fell asleep.

He awoke to quiet voices and started up to his feet, grumbling something about killing him after sun up, or at least in his sleep. He reached for his sword and felt a sharp pain on the back of his head. He did not wake for some hours after the blackness settled from around the edges.

When he did awaken, it was to the same raspy voice. His head hurt, his wrists hurt, his mouth hurt, and his ankles hurt. After a few moments of self inspection he discovered that his wrists and ankles were bound, and his lips were cracked and bleeding in several places. He was in a large cage and two sinister looking elves, with pale skin and nor'sidian hair were studying him carefully. They seemed to be debating whether or not it was worth it work to keep him alive for use as a slave. At this point Kain would have agreed with the shorter one, he was starving and weak and not worth the labor. But the taller one, who was easily two and a quarter peds tall disagreed. He said he saw something in the child. Something familiar. Kain saw it too. This tall elf looked like him. Some kind of good was exchanged between the two men, and the cage was opened.

Obviously the short Co'orhem had not noticed the relation, it was hard to see. Kain's father had black hair and pallid flesh, a twisted smile and a lanky body, which was adorned with cruel peircings. He had mutilated himself several times and was missing his left eye. Yet in that other eye there was a certain spark, this man was certainly Kain's true father. The young elf might have been disappointed, but was far too scared for his life to feel anything but terror. For one, his father was wearing a sacred necklace from one of Kain's village elder's necks, and for two, was splattered with specks of blood. Kain was unsure whether his father realized his role in Kain's life, and never found out, but felt deep down inside that the man was too seeped in his own evil to see anything but the next vile task at hand. He bought Kain out of his own egotism, he realized that there was something similar about he and the child and saw a little bit of himself. Also he purchased Kain because he was thin and frail, scared and dirty. Kain was perfect for his various needs.

The father, who's name was Vraal, lived with a group of Co'orhem raiders, who survived by sacking near by Kayrrhem villages. Vraal was their leader, and lead by example and pain. Kain became a servant for the other men, and a source of amusement. He grew to hate their evil with a soul burning passion and schemed secretly about killing them in their sleep. When he was not called upon, he would practice impressing his own spirit into the wind, hoping to merge with it and be wisked away to a wonderful paradise. At these times Kain found a semblance to happiness, and his connection with the wind slowly grew. At all other times, Kain feel more and more into brooding hate. He hated the people who the Co'orhem attacked for not killing the Co'orhem, for being weak and defenseless. He hated the Co'orhem for being evil and weak to their crude lusts.

He hated everything and more than all else, he hated those sinister and evil beings that had ruined his life. He did not hate them because they hurt other people, those other people had hurt him to the point that they were beyond redemption. He hated them because his father was one of them. Evil had taken what little he had to live for and shattered it. Because evil had taken his last chance at acceptance. Evil had taken his mother and evil had swallowed his father. He was alone in this world because evil had taken all the people who might have loved him, before he even had a chance to show them how wonderful he was.

For eleven years he lived like this. Obeying the rule of the mighty, starving and scarred. He grew tall and his intellect rose with his height. He was witty and quick, cruel and cunning. His rage cleared his mind, and he could focus all of his intentions upon single entities at a moments notice, planning and calculating. Most of all he wanted to take his sword, which one of the men, called Histhar, had kept for himself, and slit the raider's throats. He wanted them to look into his eyes in horror as their blood burbled forth onto his rusty blade. His eyes grew intense and cruel as the rest of him withered from lack of compassion and nutrition. But the aspect of him that grew the most was his hatred. Kain learned to hate as other men learn to breath. He hated without thought nor discrimination, he hated to survive. He existed to hate. Every night they would lock him in a small cage. Four years into his entry to hell he had learned to pick the lock with a pin he had swiped from a smoldering woman's hands. He had hidden the actoin by kicking her as she screamed. The men had laughed and not noticed as he swiped the tool.

It took him five years to raise the courage, or build up the blind hatred. Yet nine years after Histhar had come upon a Kain's heavy shortsword, it mysteriously slew him. When the other raiders awoke to find the blade shoved into his spine from his gapping throat, most of them took it as an omen. There were no signs of struggle, yet the body was badly mutilated, The sentries reported that a lizard could not have crept past their watch, much less an assassin. And Histhar was coming into bad luck anyways, he had nothing valuable to steal. Evil men sometimes die in evil ways. Vraal had intoned, then pulled the blade out from his partner's neck. The leader dropped the sword onto the leaf strewn earth, gave a glance to the securely locked cage in which Kain slept.

"Check it."

The cage was locked, and after a thorough search, Kain was found to have nothing but the rags upon his back. The men then beat him and used him in the ways the usually did, then left him bleeding in his cage. After they had left Kain reached into his hair and pulled the pin from his scalp, wincing with pain and tears. Five men died in the next two years, and Vraal told his men that they would move, he told them that he feared that the villages had banned together and paid for skilled assassins to pick his men off one by one. He had the war band travel south and east, the prosperous human harbors, were he decided they would raid farms to escape the threat of assassination.

It was only a matter of days before the men raided a profiable Farm. They used what they stole to buy drink and women, then partied and satisfied their carnal lusts. Kain was beaten worse than he had ever been beaten before, and survived horrible attrocities that were commited against his mind and body. That night Kain escaped once again and slit annother man's throat, Yet this time, Vraal was waiting. Vraal had suspected his slave of the bloody handywork that had been taking place, he had seen the hate filled eyes. He had senced the blood lust. Yet his sinister and cruel whims willed him to wait and watch in the darkness. To watch the child coldly slit the mans throat with one hand over his mouth, then cut the body just so, slicing off key body parts and placing them inside the man's mouth. He watched in facination as Kain took a ring from the man's finger as a trophey then raise that old rusted blade, the one that had always been found burried deep in the victims neck. Then Vraal strode out of the darkness. He never spoke much, especially to a lowly slave, yet this one was so depraved, that he deserved special attention. "Why do you do it?" Kain, lept up startled and scared, Yet he kept quiet, the men may have fallen into druken slumber, but Kain was always weary. Vrall was expecting a snide remark or at least a challenge, as he would have put forth. Yet, his son was a much more direct creature. In a moment of fear and rage he lept forward and swung the dagger, Catching his father's head with the hilt with a sickening crack. The other man crumpled without a sound, His eyes turned upwards in suprise. Kain chuckled quietly at his newfound luck. He grabbed all the money he could off of his father's unconcious body, then crept out of the camp.

Kain soon found himself in a large port city, and after scorning his rags, he threatened a tailor with his knife, ordering the terrified man to give him his best made clothes. Thus Kain aquired his cloak and suit. The set of archane looking clothes and odd cloak that appealed to his wild interests. Quickly, so as not to be captured and imprisoned by the town gaurd, he purchused himself passage to Santharia, were he had heard there was a school for those gifted with strange talents. By this time Kain could effectively move wind to his will and with great concentration cause sparks to eroupt from his fingertips. The trip to Caelereth was calm and swift, and by his 33rd birthday he had come to harbour in Milkengrad. From there he traveled south, toward Ximax.

Every day he worked on his magical abilities, by now he had learned what they really were. His outlook changed for the better, though the scars of his days on Nymblar still haunted him. The change was so dramatic that he even stoped constantly thinking about rape and pillage every once and a while. Whenever he had a chance to stop evil he took it. He still distained most people, but he no longer wished to kill them in horrific ways. Now he just wanted them to leave him alone so that he could prepare himself to exact revenge on that entity that hat wrought so much wrong upon his life. By the time he reached Ximax, he was speaking Thranian fluently and had enhanced his limited magical powers enough that the instructors who met him were mildly impressed. They allowed him to stay, and sent him to the tower of wind. Kain had a thrist for knowledge, which many of his peer's lacked. While they stared at pretty girls he practiced night and day, though his constant obsession with offencive spells sometimes put his instructors off, they simply atributed it to his youth and boyhood. He never showed any signs of instability, when he did talk it was about heroism and stoping evil and cruel beings. He was accepted in the wind tower, His appearence was not so odd to people who delt with esoteric magics every day, and his lust for knowledge and introvertive personality were not very odd either. Ximax was the closest Kain ever came to home.

Kain left the academy without having become a full fledged wind mage, though he was very powerfull in the ways of wind magic. He traveled up through the Sarvorian continent toward the old ruins of Tak'Dinal searching the northern wasteland of Caereleth for the blade which would give him the power to crush his foes. After ten harrowing years in which he grew skilled in using his magic in battle situations and honed what spells he had mastered, He could see the terrible ruins in the distance. Many a strange unearthly beast had he fought, and many times had he almost lost his life, yet his spirit still screamed with the strength of a lingra as he set out to find his weapon.

The books had agreed that after the great battle in which water had swallowed all, the blade had gone missing. Kain theorized that the artifact would be found at the bottom of some large body of water, and thought he knew just which battle the tomes were refering to. He spent his time in and near the ruins studying wind magic and began to develop the spell that he would need to retreive the blade. A spell that would surround him with a protective bubble of air as he decended into the watery depths in search of his blade. Insubstantial shield seemed like it would work, and with but a few failed trails and some quick modifications, Kain could slip into water with air to breathe, though if he stayed under to long the increased intensity of the water car'all would dissapate his spell, and if he ever lost concentration while he was too deep, he was doomed.

His years in the north changed him, he grew dark and even paler, he tattooed himself with arcane and esoteric symbols which represented his prowess as a mage and the destructive spells which he would gladly unleash upon evil foes. In a night of insane machosism, he tatooed the flesh around his eyes and his eyelids with a needle and dye made from the blood of an orc he had killed with clap of thunder. Kain recognized that the area was twisting him, changing him and maybe even driving him insane. But he knew he was so close to obtaining Mo'epher, and so pressed on, that morning he began his journey to the bay of eight winds.

After living life in the horrid northernlands for fifteen years he finally came to the resting place of the sacred Mo'epher. He meditated for a day, not eating and cleansing his mind for the journey he was about to partake in. He had no idea how deep the lake was, and less of an idea as to where he might find the blade. He thought that he would search around the center, as Eckra seemed to be the kind that would appreciate blood splatting across his battle armor. He make a make shift camp on the next day, and readied himself for a prolonged stay. He would not leave this place until he had the weapon within his grasp.

It took annother five years for Kain to reach the bottom of the lake, and what he saw amazed him, though he would never speak of it. Nothing grew at the bottom, and the earth was still hard and blasted. There were no skeletons, the battle had taken place far to long ago. No fish ventured this far down, which was good for Kain, as he had had to escape from to many hungry sharks to appreciate their destructive beauty. He only had a few seconds to wonder though, as he had not yet become adept at keeping the spell stable at such depths, and was growing weary.

Five years later, Kain was still searching, his will was failing, his sanity gone, his body a wraith of its former self. he was covered in bloody tattoos, which gave further testimate to his power, he grew more and more powerful, from his terrible experiances underneath the waves he became hardened to fear and death. He accepted that there were times when his life was in the hands of fate, and that at times there was nothing he could do but his best. He had found a few mundane artifacts at the bottom of the lake, and would sell them for what little moneys he needed to survive.

Then, he found it. Struck into the muddied earth like a crusifix, seeming to glow with darkness. It called to him to set it free. Beside it was a set of ancient armor, which he was carefull not to touch. He grasped its mighty hilt and pulled, but it was at least a ped deep in the ground and would not budge. He studied it and wondered what to do, then marked the earth around the blade so that it would not be so hard to find.

It took annother six years to move the blade from its home. Coaxing it with magic and what little muscle he had, it grew to trust him, and it marked its vile mark upon him. His eyes grew deathly pale as his flesh. When he finally pulled the blade from the home it had kept for tens of thousands of years, he brought it to the surface and rejoiced.

It was the next morning that he began to realize that the blade might be as evil as the tomes had suggested. He awoke amidst the charred and mutilated bodies of five humans. He was just outside of a farmstead, and could remember everything. He just could not stop himself. He wanted their innocence, their joy. He wanted them to feel his pain. The things he had done, just like his father, worse. And so did Kain realize the evil he had unleashed from his own dark soul, he also realized that he could never end his own evil, that his only hope was to redeem himself by destroying all the corruption of Co'or that he encountered.

You have lived a life of cruelty and atrocity, you have bathed in the blood of the innocent, you have considered every act of depravity and your corruption knows no bounds. I am the angel of justice, I am the accumulation of all of your sins. Prepare for your redemption.

-Kain Cristar, Divine Aspect

Edited by: Kain Cristar  at: 2/24/06 4:43

You have lived a life of cruelty and atrocity, you have bathed in the blood of the innocent, you have considered every act of depravity and your corruption knows no bounds. I am the angel of justice, I am the accumulation of all of your sins. Prepare for your redemption.

-Kain Cristar, Divine Aspect
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